Father’s Day Revisited

For the past few weeks, our life has been filled with changes. I’m a big fan of change. I don’t like monotony. My family will tell you I never make the same dinner twice. Sometimes that’s good, but other times, Brad and Peyton exchange glances that say, “I wish she would have written that one down.” Oh well.

One of the biggest changes is Brad’s job. He has been working so hard, adapting to so many new challenges, being stretched reallllllllly farrrrrrrr out of his comfort zone, and homeboy does not like change. With that in mind, I’m hoping that I can make father’s day not suck for him this year.

Especially since he gave me the most amazing mother’s day gift–one of those I-Spy Birdhouses. You know, the one that sticks on your window so you can see the bird making a nest? I. Was. So. Excited. And he bought it while he was out of town and had it shipped so it a surprise. Usually, we walk through a store, I show him what I want, and he makes a clandestine trip to get it. 

I immediately set it up and waited expectantly for birds. For weeks. I had so many big dreams. There are orioles living in the tree next door, maybe them, or a hummingbird, shoot, I’d even be happy with a regular old robin. The other day the kids yell, “MOMMMMMAAAAAA, GUESS WHAT!!!” I run to the window only to hear, “THERE’S A WASP MAKING A NEST IN YOUR BIRDHOUSE.” Really? I got you, Universe.  

So I keep thinking about how to make this father’s day really awesome for him instead of staying in my bed crying all day because my dad is dead, like I’ve done the past few. My heart goes out to a few of my friends who just recently lost their dads. You are in my thoughts and prayers this weekend. More and more people I know have lost a parent; I guess we are kind of getting to that stage of life. On the flip side, lots of my friends are also having grandbabies, and I’m pretty excited about getting to that stage of life. I mean not yet, but soon.

Back to parents. The kids and I were having a great discussion last night. Here’s some context: You know when you are at the playground, and there is always a kid with no parents in sight? The kid who keeps coming up and tugging on your arm saying, “Hey, watch me! Hey, can you push me on the swing? Hey, are you watching?” The kid that follows your kid around, and after everything she does says, “I can do that too. Watch!” Is it just me? Tell me it’s not just me.

We were talking about that kid, and the kids that sit on everyone’s lap, the girls that seek male attention way too early, and the boys that seek female companionship when they should be playing catch. My kids have never really been like that, and I hope it is because we filled their love tanks at home. They don’t have a big extended family involved in their lives, but they have us. And we love them enough for 10 people.

Back to Father’s day. I’m all over the place today, I apologize. I have heard that the best thing a dad can do for his kids is to love their mom, and my husband does that very well. And to some degree, I agree with that. However, the best thing that my dad did for me was to make me feel loved and valued. Granted, it wasn’t until later in life, but better late than never. I knew no matter what other people thought of me or said about me, there was one man who thought I hung the moon, and I will miss him for the rest of my life.

And you know what? My kids know that their dad thinks they hung the moon. He makes our girls feel beautiful and special and deserving of the very best, and he connects with our son intellectually and athletically and gives him a great example of how to be a man, a husband, and a father. He is a perfect mix of playful and serious, and my LORD, he is good looking.

So this year, I vow to spend Father’s day loving my baby daddy and being grateful for a season of being my own daddy’s little girl.

Losing my mind in 4,3,2,1…

I rarely take things for granted. Kindness, goodness, blessings, and the people attached to those sentiments overwhelm me with gratitude. You know that picture circulating on social media, “What if you woke up tomorrow with only what you thanked God for last night”? I’d be solid. I thank Him constantly for the wonderful miracles in my life.

As you’ve probably guessed, that intro is leading up to what I do take for granted. Well, it’s not a what. It’s a who. Ugh…I hate admitting this, but I take my husband for granted sometimes.

Usually when I realize I am doing or have done so, I apologize immediately, write him long, appreciative letters, and make him feel extra loved. And honestly, he’s stereotypically guyish and not super in touch with his emotions, so he doesn’t sitting around whining that he’s not appreciated.

And, he asks for very little. Mostly. Last week, he started a new job and text me 37 million times as I’m the keeper of all important personal information–even his. But as far as emotional support, the scale is definitely shifted in my favor.

I’m a basket case 25-95% of the time depending on what’s going on in our life. A messy house, squabbling kids, writer’s block, or any variety of issues might send me spiraling into a panic. He talks me off proverbial ledges. Unless the ledges are work related, then my boss/friend talks me down–she is my work husband. Also, occasionally, he puts me on the ledge, and for those instances I am fortunate to have the most amazing girlfriends who pull me back in. I don’t spend as much of my life on the edge of sanity as this implies, but there are moments…or weeks.

This is of one of those weeks. I’m very excited for our daughter who will be leaving for an adventure in Brazil on Friday. I’m also a little nervous that our daughter will be leaving for an adventure in Brazil on Friday because I won’t be able to talk to her for two weeks. I have immense faith and am beyond thrilled that she will have this amazing experience, but I’m also her mama. To outsiders, a beautiful, accomplished, bright and eager 20-year-old will be boarding a plane with her professor and classmates, but in my eyes, that person is a tiny blonde baby who was sleeping on my shoulder with my hair twisted around her finger…just a minute ago.

Consequently, I’m a little anxious and when I’m anxious, my person is always next to me, holding my hand, rubbing his thumb along my thumb, twirling my hair, patting my back, and catching me (figuratively and literally on occasion). When we put this same child on the bus to kindergarten 15 years ago, he stood behind me waving and whispering into my hair, “Don’t cry, baby,” until this bus was down the road and our baby girl was out of sight and then caught me up in his arms laughing, “Okay, you can cry now.”

When I put her on this plane, he will be in another state, so I can’t fall apart. He’ll listen to me cry the whole way home, but it won’t be the same as depositing mascara all over the front of his shirt.

So, I’m anxious, and I would appreciate if you guys could (as my dear friend said one time,) “say a prayer or light a candle or do whatever it is you do” for us on Friday as my heart is scattered all over the world.

Let Me Get That For You…

My daughter is a feminist. She is strong, brilliant, independent, and her writing will knock your socks off. One time she asked my thoughts on feminism, and I wasn’t sure how to respond. I was raised by older traditional parents who looked down on “women’s libbers.” I am passionate about women’s rights, fair treatment, access to education, voting, serving in the military, receiving equal wages and more.

In fact, I spent a greater part of my daughter’s formative years instilling in her exactly how much I did not need her dad. I love, value, and appreciate him and our life. But, I can support myself and live independently, so I don’t neeeeeeed him. My own dad in his trademark hypocritical fashion criticized feminists and pounded into my head that I needed to get as much education as possible so I’d never rely on anyone else. I absorbed that lesson completely and taught it to Chloe as well.

Here’s the gray area: There are certain things that I don’t want to have to worry about. I don’t want to have to change my oil or wonder how much tread my tires have. I don’t want to take the garbage out. I will. I can. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to clean litter boxes and dog poop. I do, but I don’t like it.

I don’t believe in traditional gender roles, but I do believe in gentlemen. I do believe in strong men and am trying so hard to raise one. I don’t want to be the “man of the house.” Sometimes I want my husband to make decisions without asking my input. Sometimes, I want to be surprised, cared for, swept away. Not always in big dramatic fashion like whisking me off to Key Largo–although that was awesome–but in little ways. Coming home to a house that smells clean because he mopped the floors. The random Sundays when he shops, prepares dinner and pours me a glass of wine.

It’s less about a lack of independence and more about a desire to feel cherished; wanting to feel cherished and being a feminist are not mutually exclusive notions.

My love language is acts of service, so you can hug me til I’m breathless, tell me I’m beautiful, and buy me diamonds: I don’t hear it. Fix my cracked phone screen, take out the garbage, replace my worn tires without making me ask 50 times? Now, I feel loved and valued. 

All of this boils down to some lessons I am trying to teach my son. Be a gentleman. Make eye contact. Hold doors. Be gracious. Anticipate needs. When your 82-year-old grandma comes in the door with her arms full of groceries, look up from your phone. Don’t say, “Do you need help?” because she’ll say no (because she is independent.) DOOOOO get up and carry her groceries.

When you get married do the dirty jobs for your wife, not because she is incapable but because you love and value her too much to let her carry garbage and dig in cat poo. Check her tires not because she can’t but because her safety is your primary concern. Just because we’re not damsels in distress doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate a knight in shining armor.

Maybe I’m alone in these sentiments, but I really want to raise my son to be the kind of man I’d want my girls to marry.

What Will the Neighbors Think?

Today, I’m working on two important relationships: the one with my husband and the one with my mom. My marriage is very happy, but I think it’s that way because we are always working to make it better. I’m reading The Respect Dare, a 40-day devotional to a deeper connection with God and your husband.

It has been fun and challenging, especially because I am reading it with a group of women, so we all share our experiences, thoughts, suggestions, and so forth. So along with the deeper connection with God and my husband, there’s the bonus of deepening friendships with some amazing women.

But the other book I’m reading, Making Peace With Your Mom, isn’t such a walk in the park. I think I’ve said about a million times that I have a good relationship with my mom, and what was that? I am not protesting even a little; I’m just saying. Wise guy. Anyway, you can always have a better relationship, right? Especially when your mom moves in with, and you realize, hey, how fun, she still does all those little things that drove you crazy when you lived with her AND MORE.

Anyway, I’ll reiterate, I’m not going to complain about my mom. What I’ve realized from reading this book and delving into the exercises–it goes deep…uncomfortably deep…scraping the recesses of all you’ve repressed deep–is that my relationship with my mom is the basis for every other relationship in my life.

It was from her I learned to love and not love. It was from her I learned what was considered beautiful, acceptable, right, wrong, polite, rude, phony, religious, and God forbid ladylike. It was from watching her and my dad that I got my first glimpse of romance. My dad was a true romantic, but my mom was more like, “Just hand over the diamond, Jack; I don’t care about your poem.” My dad’s name wasn’t Jack; she was channeling her inner Si Robertson.

I learned some good stuff: girlfriends are important, babies need to be held, everyone looks better with a little lipstick on, and there is a pill for nearly anything that ails your body and mind. I learned some other stuff as well: words can hurt worse than fists, silence speaks volumes, never let anybody lay a finger on your kids, and who cares what the neighbors think?

In reading this book, my biggest lesson is that who my mom was in my memory isn’t who she is now. I mean technically she is, but I’m not. Those memories have no power over me. I can journey back in my mind and reframe the experiences. I can choose to show my mom grace and kindness instead of allowing anger and pain to fester and turn into bitterness and resentment, I can go be the mom who loves and protects the little girl in the memory.

One of my favorite verses is Luke 6:37: Judge not, and you will not be judged; Condemn not, and you will not be condemned; Forgive, and you will be forgiven. I also think it’s one of the most difficult to practice, but I keep trying.