21 Days: Day 19

Do any of you have that friend who repeats herself…maybe after she’s had a few too many cocktails? And you’re all, “yeah yeah yeah,” but you love her so you listen anyway? I’m that person lately. I appreciate those of you who are still here saying, “yeah yeah yeah” and loving me anyway.

Also, this has been so deep into my every day life that my friends are asking, “Was that me you were talking about when you said ______?” Even Brad Bell said, “Was it me that advised saying bff was petty and immature?” It was. He was trying to wrap his head around some girl drama. I’m grateful for self-aware people.

1. I slept like a rock. I snoozed the 5:30 alarm. No one else gets up til close to 7 so I had plenty of time to clean up dog poop and be grateful for, among other things, a house that smells fantastic–despite the dog poop–thanks to some new PartyLite aroma melts.

2. A few years ago, Brad started having half-day Fridays. Since I worked from home at the time, and the kids were in school, we turned those half-days into dates. Sometimes we went to lunch or watched a movie. Sometimes we took a nap. It didn’t really matter; it was a few hours of uninterrupted time together, which is super duper rare.

With holiday and work and travel and snow days, we haven’t had a Friday date in close to forever. But today, we got one. It consisted of tool shopping and lunch, which was fantabulous. My usual–and only–date request is food or coffee or both. I’ve told you how gleefully I react to the mere suggestion of coffee, so you can imagine when you combine it with food, one of my other favorite things.

What makes me happier than food and even coffee is that after all these years, my man and I still have fun hanging out no matter what we are doing. We laugh at our own jokes. We have entire conversations that consist of nothing but Anchorman quotes. We talk about other things in addition to our kids. And that’s good. Because these kids have a bad habit of growing up, and sooner rather than later, we are going to be spending a lot of time alone together. Thank goodness, he is my favorite.

3. I got a thank you from someone I wrote a thank you to in the mail. Love. Love. Love.

Yesterday two of my loyal fasting friends told me they cheated. I ate pizza in commiseration. Hey, I’m not trying to get in the Daniel Fast hall of fame. I’ve learned way more through the gratitude portion than I did by restricting food. Because guess what being hungry makes me? A. N. G. R. Y.

I’m only clarifying because I’ve gotten a few eye rolls from some Judgey McJudgersons re: my “modifications” of the fast. Well, the fast, kinda like life, is between you and God. So, when we are keeping tabs on what and how someone else is doing, then we’re kinda missing the point. You know, the whole plank in the eye thing.

Guess what else? It’s the freaking weekend, baby. Any fun plans?

If you have about 10 minutes and aren’t offended by the “f” word, read this article; it’s f#$%ing brilliant.

Two. More. Days.

xoxo

And this…

I have a lot of stuff rumbling around in my head, so if you’re here, be warned: My mind is a crazy place. I often share too much, but in my family of origin no one talked about anything unpleasant. Everyone pretended everything was fine. You know how effed up fine is, right? Well, then people did drugs and killed themselves and manifested that bad stuff they didn’t talk about in worse ways. So…I talk about stuff. Awkward, painful, personal stuff. Really, I write about it because I can barely speak a coherent sentence.

That brings me to a point I’ve been ruminating on for oh, um, a few days. I realize that in sharing this a lot of you may think that I need mental help. True story: I just read two books about people who are far less crazy than I am spending time in mental institutions. Given that knowledge, I’m pretty sure on any given day, I would be a perfect candidate for commitment, but I digress. The main reason I’m sharing my neurosis is that I think (or hope) others suffer this malady and don’t want to tell anyone. Therefore, I’m going to tell you how crazy I am so you can feel less crazy. Ready? Here we go.

Whenever I have a conversation with someone, I spend a lot of time after analyzing (or criticizing mercilessly) everything I said. It sounds a lot like this: “Wow, that was so stupid. Why did you say that? Why did you talk so much when you should have been listening? What on earth made you tell that story? Really? Why would you divulge THAT in a five minute exchange of pleasantries? You’re an idiot.”

I feel as if I should keep a stack of cards in my purse for such occasions when I have to interact further than, “Hi, how are you?” with people. Then, rather than trip over my tongue and then spend the next week beating myself up over all the things I said or didn’t say or should have said differently, I could hand each person a card wherein they would find my sentiments expressed in thoughtful and genuine, if unimpressive, prose.

Would that be weird? Because I really think I’m going to go with that.

My next point has very little to do with the first point, except to further solidify my kook status. I do not like to be touched when I am sad. In fact, I feel violated when people touch me when I’m sad. I don’t want to be hugged, cuddled, coddled, or patted sympathetically. Normally, I’m a big fan of physical affection, so this is difficult for some people (my husband) to understand.

When I am sad, I go to a different place, by myself, wrap up in the awful yet awfully familiar feelings until I process them. But it is my place, and I don’t take guests there. I will talk to you until my voice expires about my feelings when I’m ready, but please don’t touch me. And if I tell you that I’m okay, just accept that; I’ll tell you how I really am when I’m ready. Now this makes me think of my non-touching friends and how I try to be mindful of their personal space but still invade it sometimes because I love them so much and want to hug them. I’m sorry. And it reminds me of so many times I’ve tried to take my friends deeper rather than just letting them pretend they were okay. It’s a fine line, and I have terrible balance. I’m sorry.

And then this: On Sunday, I got to see my daughter for about 6 hours, and then I had to say goodbye to her again. Last time for two weeks, this time for a month. Yes, these are the opportunities of a lifetime. Yes, she is so blessed. Yes, we are amazingly proud of her. Yes, yes, yes. Except what some people don’t get is this: It feels just as bad to say goodbye to your grown kid as it does to drop your baby off at day care.

It doesn’t get easier. Your kid doesn’t stop being your kid because she grows up and goes to college. You don’t wake up one day and no longer worry about what he’s eating, how she is sleeping, if he is safe, if she is scared. It still rips your heart out when your 20-year-old is homesick as when your toddler cries and reaches for you. When she is sad, I ache. I don’t imagine that is ever going to change.

Now that this is all out there, I would like to apologize if I said anything stupid to you, hugged you when you didn’t want to be touched, revealed inappropriately personal information during an impersonal conversation or pushed you to tell me that you aren’t really okay when you just wanted to pretend you’re okay. I am a work in progress. For those of you who love me anyway, I am outrageously and eternally grateful.

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.

More Martha than Mary

Last week, my husband and I were in a bad place. A rut. We were out of sync. This happens from time to time, sometimes during one of our MEN-strual cycles. I’m just saying. The word MEN in right there. I am fully aware of mine, and the others in the house are alerted to it by an increase in screaming, door slamming, chocolate in the pantry. Because if you can’t climb out of your rut, the next best idea is to fill it with food.

The food doesn’t help, as if I needed to say that out loud. What does help is having a co-conspirator in Pittsburgh who runs on the same cycle. Usually one of us is able to talk the other one down from a ledge with a gentle reminder that this rage could be hormone-related. That reminder, however, is punishable by death if issued from a man’s lips.

Back to the rut. In this rut, I can’t function. Brad, when we are in a rut, doesn’t look at me. It bothers me when people don’t look at me. I think that if I were ever to be tortured for information, withholding eye contact might be an effective technique. Just to clarify, you can pretty much just ask me anything, and I’ll tell you. Unless it’s someone else’s secret, I keep those. But I won’t look at you if I’m keeping a secret. Now, if you’re my husband–or anyone reading this–you now know that if I don’t look at you, I’m protecting something. Sometimes, it’s my heart, but sometimes it’s something that belongs to someone else.

I give so much away through my eyes so if I don’t look at someone, it’s intentional. I might not trust them. I might think they wish me ill. Or I might be afraid to let them see into my soul for fear they might use that information in bad ways. And sometimes, I’m afraid that if someone looks at me, they will see someone else’s secrets that I’m keeping. This happens pretty rarely. Usually, I look so deeply into people’s eyes that they are uncomfortable and look away. Then, I begin to wonder what they have to hide. Because, I assume that like me, if you avoid eye contact you must be hiding something.

All of this brings me back to the same lesson: Just because people don’t do things the same way I do them doesn’t mean that they’re wrong, and I’m right. God reinforces that all the time. Last week, my pastor said to view people as “works in progress,” and that resonated with me not only about others but also about myself. Then, listening to my favorite online preacher, I was reminded of the story of Mary and Martha. (Martha was mad that she was cleaning and cooking, while Mary sat and listened to Jesus. Martha wanted Jesus to make Mary help her, but Jesus told Martha maybe she should check her priorities.) I can identify with Martha, because a lot of times I serve begrudgingly rather than humbly.

Today, we are out of our rut and analyzing how we got there and how not to get there again. Today, I’m cleansing the salt, sugar, and other toxins I overindulged in the last few days. Today, I am asking God to help me see with His eyes. Today, instead of beating myself up, I’m embracing the fact that I am a work in progress.

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.