Hippotherapy

I’m not as flowery and deep of a writer as Andie is.   If she were writing this post, I’m sure she’d be giving you a history and background of hippotherapy and the documented cases and results and so on and so forth.  I’m going to stick to the basics.  What I know, what I observed, and what I learned.

First off, I learned that hippotherapy is not, in fact, a counseling session for a hippopotamus.  So right off the bat, you are going into this with more knowledge than I had.

Tonight, I drove Gabriel out to a small ranch outside of Buffalo Gap called Camp Able.  It is secluded behind miles of trees, along an old dirt road at the base of a small mountain.  Farm cats and old sleepy dogs all over.  Baby goats and screaming donkeys, and of course, horses. It could not have been more Texas if it tried.  Right off the bat, it was very welcoming.  For me, anyways. Gabriel was a little more antsy about being there.  From the moment we got out of the car, he was upset.  He did not know this place, and he did not want to be there.

We get out of the car and walk up to the home.  I knocked on the door and asked for Renee.  We waited outside for Renee to join us.  All the while, Gabriel is very agitated.  He sees a small baby swing hanging from a tree branch and desperately wants to swing in it, even though his little seven-year-old bottom would not possibly fit in there.  So he’s pulling and yelling and plugging his ears, trying to run off and yank my arm out of socket.

After a moment, Renee comes out to join us.  Right away, I knew she would get along with Gabriel.  Every positive stereotype of a strong Texas grandmother wrapped up in one woman.  She introduced herself to Gabriel and kept a steady conversation with him, despite the fact that Gabriel was not exactly in a conversational mood. I resorted to hooking my hands under his armpits to try and keep him with us as we walked around for a while.

 She introduced him to one of the baby goats, and we stood and pet the little guy for a while.  Under normal circumstance, I believe Gabriel would have enjoyed this, but he was already in a crabby mood and wanted nothing more than to be out of the heat.  After a moment, Renee handed me a clipboard of paperwork to fill out asked if she could take Gabriel on her own for a while.

I must have appeared hesitant, because she immediately said, “I know you think I can’t handle it, but trust me, we’ll be just fine.”  Flustered, and amid visions of Gabriel yanking this poor woman to the ground and sprinting away, I reluctantly agreed.  I sat down and started filling out the basic informational papers while watching these two out of the corner of my eye.

She led Gabriel to an enclosed arena and shut the gate behind them.  She called out for me not to worry because it was a secure area and Gabriel would be free to wander.  On the far side of the fence, there was a small pond filled with turtles and frogs.  Gabriel immediately ran for the fence, kicked off his socks and shoes, and started attempting to climb the fence, intent on a swimming lesson.  Renee quickly took his hand and guided him down, walking along the fence with him.  I could not hear what they were talking about, but Gabriel seemed to enjoy it as he stopped yelling for a moment and started walking along the fence with her.

I finished the paperwork and followed them into the arena, where we sat Gabriel down and got his socks and shoes back on.  He was starting to get frustrated again, and Renee remarked that we probably got a daily workout trying to take care of him.  

One of Renee’s assistants came out with a small white-and-gray speckled horse named Lightning. I was having second thoughts, as Gabriel had resumed tugging on my arms and dead-weighting me whenever I tried to move him anywhere, to say nothing of the yelling and screaming that Andie and I have grown accustomed to when Gabriel was not getting his way.  

Lightning was adorned with a simple bareback saddle, little more than a blanket with straps to hold onto.  Renee took her place on the horse and then gestured for Gabriel to join her.  I gave Gabriel a 1-2-3-jump and placed him on Lightning.

And the most amazing thing happened.

It took no more than five seconds before a complete transformation took place.  Gabriel, only seconds before an agitated, screaming child; now calm, quiet, his eyes focusing on the horse below him, reflecting on what was happening.  Renee asked me to walk alongside them while they walked, just in case he started to freak out and needed to be let down.  And so, we began to walk.

Renee spoke in very soft, hushed tones to Gabriel.  She told him about the horse they were riding, about her assistants and family who helped out around the ranch.  She told him how proud she was of him, such a sweet little boy, and how much she enjoyed getting the chance to meet him.

It took no more than a minute before Gabriel was leaning back into Renee’s embrace, looking up at the sky and babbling softly and affectionately at her.  As his father, I was dumbfounded.  Never, ever, had I ever seen anything have such a direct and immediate affect on him.   We walked around that arena for fifteen minutes or so.  I watched as Gabriel calmly and sweetly enjoyed the movement of the ride, leaning into Renee and babbling sweetly at her as she spoke softly and gently to him in his ear.  

As the ride wound down and we approached the gate, no one told Gabriel that the ride was over and that he needed to say goodbye.  Nevertheless, as we approached the gate, Gabriel leaned over and gave Lightning a sweet kiss on the mane, and then wrapped his arms around her and pressed his face against her neck, giving her a gentle hug.  I had to take a second to compose myself.  Gabriel can be a very sweet and affectionate little boy, but it takes time.  Even when saying goodbye to family, getting a hug and a kiss out of him can take some cajoling.  And yet Gabriel connected with this animal the moment they made contact with each other, and established enough of a connection that Gabriel wanted Lightning to know how much he appreciated her.

It was a very touching moment.

We spoke for a moment about setting up another session for the same time next week, and then loaded up in the car and headed home.

I don’t know what it is about this experience that resonated with him, but I’ve never seen such a complete and immediate transformation in him before.  It is a bit early to tell, but I have a hunch that he is going to sleep very well tonight.

Me?  I find myself in awe.  It is easy, raising a child with a disability such as this, to become disillusioned with many of the things that other families might enjoy doing together.  Going to the movies, eating out a fancy restaurant, even walking around the park.  These are difficult or downright impossible for a family with a child like Gabriel.  We find other ways to grow closer together as a family, and for the most part we are happy and content.

To find a little piece of magic in an activity such as this, it is a humbling and sobering experience.

I’m looking forward to next week.

~Michael

Meant for Great Things

So let's talk a little bit about Andie.

Let’s get the obvious out of the way first.  This is not how Andie imagined living her life.  Oh no.  Try to imagine little girl Andie, reading her mother’s medical textbooks and dreaming of being a brain surgeon, that kid all bright eyed and hopeful.  Now imagine her dreaming of a life where she has to suplex a kid to get some peace and quiet.  Not really her style, is it?   

No doubt about it.  That kid was meant for great things.

She keeps her head down, stays out of trouble for the most part, ends up enrolling in a little Christian school in Lubbock, Texas.  Supposedly it has a really good pre-med program, and it will be a great springboard for her to get the basics out of the way before launching into medical school, specializing in some obscure field, and going on to cure AIDS, all forms of cancer, and that tingly feeling you get in your legs when you sit on the toilet for too long.   

She’d be a world-wide hero, a household name. Showing up to the hospital amongst rounds of applause, treating the rarest and most fascinating of diseases, and then driving her fancy sports car back to her mansion full of cats and domesticated bears wearing butler costumes.

Yes indeed, that kid had some plans.

Of course, if there is one thing we Weardens are good at, it’s changing other people’s plans.

Enter Stage Right: A skeevy older boy with too much chest hair poking out the top of his shirt and a smile that somehow manages to say both “You want to make out?”  and “Can I borrow $5?”.

My recollection of events may be a little hazy, but I would venture a guess to say she pursued me relentlessly until I finally gave in and agreed to date her.  Yeah.  That’s what happened alright.

Fast forward a couple of years, and I’m squeezing a few extra pounds of flab into a tux to marry the funniest, most intelligent, and most beautiful woman I have ever met.

But of course, you all know that story.  And I’d venture a guess that you know most of the rest of it, judging by how Andie’s readership numbers have been soaring through the roof lately.  No no, I’m not here to offer you a retelling.  I’m here to tell you about the woman you all know and love, and the parts that she is too modest to tell you herself.

So, as I implied earlier, not many people would peg Andie as the ‘motherly’ type.  Like myself, Andie is a big fan of peace and quiet.  Her perfect day would consist of toast and hot chocolate for breakfast, and then wrapping up in a giant blanket in a silent room to read a big stack of books until nightfall.  It’s a good fantasy.  Might throw in another of those butler Bears in for good measure.

Of course, I use the word ‘fantasy’ deliberately.  It is a known fact of parenthood that the standing decibel level of the household increases exponentially as the number of children increases.  This number can be compounded the closer in age the children happen to be.  With that in mind, I am honestly surprised that we haven’t had the police come by to ‘check in on us’, as walking past our home on an average afternoon must be akin to passing the home of the Addams Family on Banshee Karaoke night.

To those who do not know the entire story, Andie can sometimes seem a tad impatient with the children.  It is easy to focus on the hissing whispers and glares of death that she uses to keep them in line.

What most people miss, however, is the fact that the act of getting these kids dressed and out of the house alive involved three broken dishes, a bathtub full of muddy water, an entire bottle of perfume that Emerald had used to make her room smell better, a moldy ham sandwich in Ben’s pajama drawer, two barking dogs, one screeching Gabe, and a partridge in a pear treeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Andie, in fact, has the patience of a saint. Though most saints probably would have tossed in the towel at this point.

Of course, behind her “Do it or I’ll hit you” maternal warmness, there is a fierce Mama bear that loves her children more than anything in the world, and is constantly sacrificing her own time and sanity and well-being in order to give them the best opportunities that she can provide.  She is so proud of her kids, and wants nothing more than to see them succeed.  Looking at the whole picture, Andie embodies the very definition of humility and self-sacrifice, because nobody I know has ever given up more for the benefit of others.

And that’s not even touching on how big of a pain in the ass her husband is!

Picture this, if you will.  It is your average Thursday at the Wearden household, which of course means that the children have already encountered five or six brushes with death, either through their own recklessness, or because of their persistent challenging of their mother.  Nevertheless, despite the fact that she hasn’t gotten to shower, nap, or even pee in 36 hours, Andie is still running frantically around the kitchen putting together an award-winning dinner to be ready when her husband gets home.  Her hair is tangled and ragged, the bags under her eyes have packed their own bags for a vacation in the bahamas, and unbeknownst to her she stepped on a broken shard of glass from a smashed plate an hour ago and is tracking little bloody dots around her kitchen floor.

The front door swings open and in comes ME, everyone’s favorite resident ne’er-do-well.   The kids rush into the living room screaming at the top of their lungs, causing Andie to wince in pain for the 900th time that day.  Oh, everyone is so happy to see the man of the house return, not the least of which his wife, because now she has some relief, someone else who can help watch the kids so that maybe she can take a shower and close her eyes for...

...wait WHY IS HE SITTING DOWN?

“Oh Andie, today was such a long and tiring day at work.  I am sure am looking forward to kicking up my feet and relaxing for the rest of the evening.  Is dinner ready?  Did you have a nice relaxing day ‘working’ from home?”

These are words I do not say, for I value my life.  Instead, I wrap her in my arms and marvel at the fact that after all this time, this amazing, beautiful woman hasn’t murdered us all in our sleep.

You have to understand, none of this comes easy for Andie.  She was never Suzy Homemaker.   That is just not her style. The kid was meant for great things, remember?  Medical degrees and fancy offices and big empty quiet house full of books and furry animals and silence.   Instead, here she is, with a little house full of screaming children and books with torn pages and...well, I guess the furry animals part is still there, but it's not nearly as glamorous as she probably expected.

And yet she still finds time to make my favorite dinner and pour me a drink.   She quietly puts away the laundry she has been doing all day.  She did the dishes (which is MY chore, by the way), because she ‘wanted to do something nice’ for me.   She hugs Ben tightly, despite the fact that being touched is the LAST thing she wants right now, because she knows that he feels ignored.  She clips Gabriel’s fingernails, even though he is pinching and screaming in her face, because she knows how much it bothers him to catch his nails on the fabric of his blankets.  She sits down and answers Emerald’s Eight Hundred Million Gazillion questions, because in her daughter she sees that same spark of intelligence and love of learning that she once had herself.

And through all this, if she gets a chance to take a shower, maybe read a chapter or two before bed, then the day is maybe not so rough.

I’ve never met anyone in my life who so perfectly encapsulates the concept of putting the needs of others over yourself.  I’ve never met anyone who struggles like she has, and still carries herself with a strength and quiet dignity that I am so envious of.  And never in a million years could I ever imagine myself to be deserving of such a funny, intelligent, and beautiful woman.

And yet there she is. Doing what she does, and doing it so well.

I’m telling you guys, I know you all love Andie.  I know you all admire her.  But honestly, you guys don’t even know the half of it. There has never been nor will there ever be another one like her.  She’s a walking, talking Blessing of God, and I am better for having her in my life.

So the next time you read a post talking about this family and how we function, about how interesting and fascinating these kids are, about how ruggedly handsome and charming her husband is, just remember:  Those aren’t even the best parts.  Because Andra Renae is the best part of all our lives.  And she deserves a little credit for it.

~Michael

Managing

Is it really time to write again? I feel like I just posted.

We now have two weeks of summer vacation under our belts, and I could not be more ready for the little gremlins to go back to school.

Okay, so that is not entirely fair. I am enjoying having them home, and I am looking forward to all the fun stuff we can do together. All three are taking swimming lessons out at Camp Able. There is the Children’s Art and Literacy Festival, the Friends of the Library book sale, Movies on the Hill, story times and lego clubs, Dream Night, the art walks and free Tuesday nights at the Grace. We have a Zoo pass so we can go anytime we want, and they have some special exhibits coming up. Honestly, this town may be one of the best to have young children in because there is so much to do for families.

I want to do all these fun things with the kids. I want to take them on adventures, engage their minds, exercise their bodies. I want to sleep in a tent in the yard and catch fireflies and have watermelon seed spitting contests.

What? We live in the South; a certain level of country is to be expected.

They deserve to relax and enjoy their summer; spend time with their family and do entertaining things. My heart aches to give them the world, to be more for them.

Our existing schedule is fairly prohibitive as it is. You can only handle what you can handle, gotta know what you have to turn down, which is why I only mop if there is a spill and have never washed the curtains.

It is hard when there is so much that is required though.

As our current schedule stands, every week we have two hours of therapy on Monday, two and a half on Tuesday, two on Wednesday, two and a half on Thursday, and make-ups on Friday. That is necessary--with the nature of Gabriel’s autism, a summer out of school could result in regression, loss of skill. Even if he is not at risk for regression, his current functional level is considerably below that of his physical age.

Physical therapy comes to teach him staying on task, jumping over obstacles or on one leg, throwing and catching a ball, and walking on the whole of his foot instead of his toes, things along those lines.

Occupational therapy addresses his fine motor and sensory skills--right now, he eats in the infant manner of using the entire fist to scoop, then shoving it in his mouth. He can no longer sit in a highchair and eats roughly one and a half the portion Michael eats, a significant portion of it ending up spilled on the couch and floor, which results in food being dragged from one end of the house to the other as he runs. (We are still working on that). The OT works with him to use a spoon to feed. She also works on dressing and undressing, self-care skills, holding a pencil, plus regulatory sensory activities like compressions, rocking, spinning, and brushing.

This summer, as Gabriel is 7 and still has no consistent form of communication, we are adding a Functional Core Vocabulary regimen in with his traditional Speech. Our Speech Language Pathologist works on getting him any manner of expressing himself--picture exchange, communication devices, signs, and spoken word. It is frustrating to him, but not as frustrating as not being able to get what he needs because we can’t understand him.

FCV is based on the Gemiini program which has had some success teaching nonverbal autistic children some spoken language. It is based on live-labeling and video-labeling common objects--home, cup, Mom, brother, car--that the child will see every day with simple, one-to-two syllable words alone so they can connect the image with the name. Gemiini costs about the same as enrolling Gabriel in community college, so it was outside the realm of possibility for us, but we are participating in a research study--all the benefits, none of the cost.

Except more time.

All of this is stress. It means that my house has basically a revolving door. And I love all our therapists--they are funny, engaging, intelligent, wonderful people that have become part of the family (which is good, as they are likely stuck with us for, oh, the next 150 years). It just wears on you over time.

Add that to the round-the-clock care of these goblins, seven medicine times, the aforementioned swim lessons and fiddle lessons, mealtimes, cooking, cleaning, doctor’s visits, bible class and church, and all the joyous minutiae of childcare, every day is beginning to feel like the grainy dregs of a death march.

I warned you I was dramatic.

The work with REACH, I really do for me. Sure, I do it to better the world that Gabe will grow up. But a large part of it is so that I feel mentally engaged, stimulated. It is energizing to get things done and see the result of your hard work. It was a place I made friends who got what I was going through, could laugh about the things that made us want to cry, bitch about the things we couldn’t change and affect the things we could.Working with REACH has made me happy.

The stress of summer is causing me to buckle just a little. I haven’t been sleeping well, even though Gabriel’s average is higher than historically it has ever been. My temper, already such a fierce beast, is ignited with much less provocation. Worry is gnawing at me constantly.  

After the dinner-out-the window experience of 2009, I was diagnosed with Postpartum Depression and Anxiety; we tried a few different medications before we found the right combination that evened me out enough, a nice tepid Andie.

I’m reading a book right now, “Switched On: A Memoir of Brain Change and Emotional Awakening”. It is about this autistic guy, John Elder Robison, that undergoes Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation which gives him the ability to sense others’ feelings. It is so interesting because it makes you think: would normalizing the brains of individuals fundamentally alter who they are, or diminish what they are capable of doing as neurodivergent?

There is this idea that some of the greatest art was created through the mental illness of the artist--Vincent Van Gogh, Kurt Cobain, Sylvia Plath, Robin Williams. They created these tragically beautiful works that were so impactful because we could glimpse in a small way the pain they were feeling. It emotionally resonated with us, the first time we saw “Old Man in Sorrow”, heard “Heart-Shaped Box”, read “The Bell Jar”, watched “Dead Poets Society”. Our hurt cried out, saying “Yes! I have felt that, too!”

The question that is so often asked is: Would they have been able to create these masterpieces had they either been mentally sound or had they been receiving treatment for their condition? Or was their suffering what made the work what it was?

Many rebel against the thought that it was the mental illness that caused the brilliance; they were geniuses in their own right that also struggled with personal demons. Treating them for their condition would not have hindered their genius, but instead enabled them to work with greater clarity.

I went off my medication a year ago because I didn’t like how I was when I was on it. It stole all my extremes, my happiness as well as my sadness. Activities I had previously enjoyed were things I did out of habit than anything else; I almost completely quit reading, never wrote. Really, all I wanted to do was sleep. That is discounting the numerous side effects--eye twitches, dizziness, weight gain, decreased sex drive, drowsiness. My mind was this yawning void where placidity reigned supreme. I didn’t feel like a person. All my creativity was gone, all my sparkle, all my joy. I was sleeping dormant inside an Andie-suit person.

I was lucky; not everyone has the feasible option of going off their meds. Michael certainly had his doubts; he remembered how I was before. Who I was before was tricky though because so much of it was mired under the postpartum depression.There was every possibility that I was treating a condition I no longer had.

The depression did not come back. There was a time of emotional instability--nothing detrimental, I wasn’t a danger to myself or others. Just periods of melancholy, irrationality, irritability. Feelings I hadn’t had to cope with in a long time, had to retrain myself to navigate.

Over time, most of those emotions tempered out. I became rational, reasonable again, or as much as I had ever been. I remembered what I had used to enjoy--watching cooking shows, laying in the sun, playing Bethesda games, and reading every book within reading distance. I had the energy to take the kids places again, stay awake during the day. My life was beginning to look like my own again.

It left the field wide open for the fear to take over.

The panic attacks began when Emerald was diagnosed with diabetes. I remember calling the nurse because I thought there was something really wrong with me--I couldn’t breathe, my chest hurt. I was shaking and my throat, was I choking?

Since going drug-free, the panic attacks have increased in frequency. Probably a normal physical response to the emotional stressors I face. The worst are the ones that wake me at night, sudden and intense and terrifying, born of nothing and soothed by nothing.

A friend in High School taught me a neat trick for dealing with anxiety: learn about what makes you anxious while calm, and you can argue down some of the more unrealistic thoughts when ruffled. He was apprehensive about weather, so he studied meteorology so he knew the conditions that would result in the different weather events like tsunamis and hurricanes. The trick has helped considerably, which is why I have become a relative bottomless pool of seemingly useless information.

It doesn’t really help when your research turns up, “Oh. Well, crap--maybe you should be concerned about that…”.

Little nothings of nothing can set me off. There is this phenomenon of cluster attacks--you have a panic attack; the inducing stimuli is removed, but you are so anxious about having another panic attack that you induce another one. It becomes cyclical, a difficult carousel to step off of.

Would you believe that there are actually benefits to this disorder though?

People with anxiety have fewer fatal accidents and a stronger memory. They perform better in tests (sometimes), can recognize potential threats quicker than people without anxiety, and are more empathetic, fun friends.  

(http://www.spring.org.uk/2014/12/the-8-most-unexpected-advantages-of-anxiety.php

http://thoughtcatalog.com/kim-quindlen/2015/02/12-oddly-helpful-benefits-of-having-anxiety-in-your-twenties/)

God can work all things for good. Mothers of special needs children often experience anxiety, which we sort of need--you have to be poised at any second to intervene. I have had to drop everything and full-out sprint to chase after Gabriel in the mall. With Emerald’s blood sugar, I have to be attentive to her behavior so that I can adjust as need dictates.

When my guard drops, bad things tend to happen. Emerald crashes; Gabriel smears feces on someone’s television while we are at their house, runs out into the street and disappears -poof- instantly into thin air.

No matter how diligent, bad things are going to happen. I can’t prevent it. Can’t protect them from everything.

“Well, you can never let anything happen to him. Then nothing would ever happen to him.”

Great, now I’m taking advice from a amnesic fish. I’m gonna go take a nap. Just a few more things to take care of…

---Andie  

Not So Submissive

I have been avoiding writing, which is why this post is late.

Honestly, I don’t like writing when I am gloomy--it sours the tone, smothering the patented Andie optimism and humor that readers seem to enjoy. Without it, I come off as mopey, whiny, depressing. Who wants to read that? If you need angst-ridden text, there are hundreds of blogs and Tumblrs that will fill your bleak banks to overflowing.

I am dispirited lately, though. The kids have only been out of school for a week and I am already to the point of wanting to stick them in a box and mail them to Uruguay. I hear it is lovely this time of year. Emerald and Benjamin have been bickering nonstop; Gabriel is just fine, but having him here all day long when he is getting into the pantry and dumping food all over the floor is draining. He is a force of pure kinetic energy, a most perfect perpetual motion machine that is exhausting to even look at.

So, I put off writing. I went shopping several times. Made Michael’s breakfast bowls, as well as two types of soup for myself, that I froze. Cleaned the house, washed all the laundry, reorganized my pantry and bookshelves. I even stooped so low as to wash the dishes, which is Michael’s chore.

Having long since run out of excuses, I sit here now, only slightly begrudgingly (as I do all things when I am in a mood) trying to figure out exactly where I am going with all of this.

Not too long ago, I was asked if I believe wives are meant to be submissive to their husbands.

At the time, in the interest of maintaining civility in a situation that was rapidly going to be losing it, I briefly answered, “No.” and made my escape before my pent-up frustrated feminism came spewing out all over my grandmother’s breakfast nook.

I have regretted not elaborating further. Not because I could have used it as a teaching moment--frankly, those questions are rarely asked with a genuine heart of enlightenment, but rather as baiting. It seems to be easier to reduce the rights of a group to a bantering non-debate or a punchline when you sit in the position of privilege.

No, I regretted it because there were innocent eyes on me, pleading with me to say the thoughts she couldn’t put into coherence, defend what she knew was right but couldn’t argue from the easily dismissable perspective of youth. I am hardly older, but God gave me the gift of words not so I could remain silent. I feel like He has been gently tugging on my heart, bringing this issue back again to the fore because it needs to be said.

We have a broken vernacular as Christians when we speak about the rights of women.

The way we are taught and raised, the specific language we use when discussing women as a gender is inadequate and harmful; we have needed for a long time to reevaluate it, to overhaul this defunct system, but we have fallen so far into complacency. In our minds, it has worked thus far. Can’t fix what ain’t broke.

The issue is compounded because much of the language we have inherited by the perfect and infallible word of God, The Holy Bible. Is this harlot saying that GOD IS WRONG?!

The lens through which we read and interpret the English translation of the holy secondhand word of God has been so colored that the original intended meaning has gone awry. Because of that warped interpretation that was taught to our fathers who taught it to us as we are teaching it to our sons, we have adopted it as the ultimate faultless viewpoint of God, and it is reflected in the every interaction men and women have together.

It starts way back in the beginning, when we were created.

“The LORD God said, ‘It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him.’ “ (Gen. 2:18, NIV).

First mention of women, and we are worded as an afterthought. God made MAN, and it was “very good” (1:31); MAN whom He made in his own image (1:26). On a later whim, as gift to ward off his loneliness and alleviate his burden, God formed woman out of the rib of his very good Man.

Obviously I am inflecting a significant amount of tone into the above passage. But when reading that, it is quietly planting the seeds that blossomed into this subservient female interpretation. Especially when evidence would suggest that God always bore intention of making woman, as they are the only vessel by which new life (outside of His one-on-one creation) could occur. Yet the story we tell is that God created man first and woman second, of man, for man.

Later in chapter 3, there is the fall of man….precipitated by that same girly helper God had made for Adam.

Jokingly and not, I have heard that the fall of Man was because of woman. She tempted him. She ate of the fruit first. It is her fault that we were kicked out of the garden, and we have been paying for it ever since. Womanly woes like periods and childbirth? You can blame Eve for that, the temptress.  

No. Not really. It says, “She also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate it.” (3:6). Assuming that this is a true, historical event and not a folk story passed down for generations, dude was standing right there. He heard the argument from the serpent and he made his own decision. It says nothing about him trying to stop her, persuade her otherwise; it makes no mention of her wheedling or sweet talking to him, convincing him that he should do this. She didn’t take the fruit away from the tree to where he was, tricking him into eating something he shouldn’t have. Dude was RIGHT THERE. They fell together, both making the same poor decision to disobey God.

The same decision many of us make every day of our lives, trying or not. Just sayin’.

Aside from this being the first time the rebuttal “if your friends jumped off a bridge” was ever used, it also says nowhere that Adam attempted in anyway to argue with Eve or the serpent, or to prevent Eve from eating of the fruit.

I have often wondered, wording aside, about the “punishments” God doled out for this transgression. When Adam and Eve ate of the fruit, “the eyes of both of them were opened, and they realized they were naked” (3:7). They were naked before, they were just innocent and ignorant of it. Perhaps the hard work in toil and childbirth were of the same nature--God was just informing them, “Hey--now that you did the thing after I told you not to do the thing, you need to know about this stuff, cuz it’s gonna happen.”

Maybe I am wrong on that count. Maybe God was really furious that they did exactly as He knew they would, and these were the consequences. If there is some truth in what I am saying though, then “Your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you” (3:16) is cautionary and not command.

Born out of this mindset of 1) women being an afterthought, created solely as a thing for man, and 2) that the poor decision of woman bringing about the downfall of all of mankind, the natural conclusion is that male be dominant over female.

Right from the get-go, we as women are reduced to the lowest common denominator and forced to convince others of our worth.

Why does this all matter though? How does the language we use affect the rights of women?

“As a man thinks in his heart, so is he.” (Proverbs 23:7)

Our sons are being raised right now to view women as objects. We live in a society where our worth lies in our sexual purity, as that is what is of value to the man who will eventually claim us; a man’s virtue lie in his moral behavior. One is a human being, the other property. We teach our boys through our actions, expectations, and words that women’s bodies are inherently sexual, toys, and their bodies are what is the only thing that matters.

Boys are distracted by the way we dress, so we must cover up.

If we dress in a way that reveals our body, no decent man will want us.

If we choose to wear a hijab or burka, we are oppressed by men.

How is it that there is an exact golden standard of how much we may cover up and how much we must cover up--which no one can exactly agree on--to demonstrate our virtue? How has the sum total of my clothing become equated with my desirability and respectability, so completely to have become almost universal law in our country?

My worth is not determined by whether or not a man desires me.

I am more than a helper, more than a potential spouse, more than a mother, a uterus and vagina and breasts that males do not have. I am more than what you have made me out to be.

I am a daughter of the King, proud and strong and capable of reason, ethics, and greatness equal to that of any man that is or ever was.

Do not discuss me as though I am a thing for you to conquer, to own. I am a human being, I am so much more. It is not dominance over you that I seek. That is a weak dismissive tactic used by individuals that know their stance is crumbling. Women have never sought to control men, they ask for no authority, but respect, partnership, honor.

In my heart of hearts, I do not believe that God ever intended women to be “submissive” to men. Those are Paul’s words, which I will not fight you on (unless I have to; don’t pick a fight unless you are willing to go to the mat over it.) It would seem that those who screech, 1 Peter 3:1 the loudest (“Likewise, wives, be subject to your own husbands”) stopped reading before verse 7, where it says “she is your equal partner in God’s gift of new life.” Husbands are called to “give honor” to her in the same verse.

I don’t know about you, but I do not feel particularly honored when my role is the punchline to a weak joke.

--Andie