Here We Grow…again…

I feel like I’ve written about this so many times, but if the issue continues to rear its ugly head, I’ll keep swatting at it. Yesterday, my little peanut told some girls at school had been mean to her. Ughhhhh…can you envision my head erupting and lava pouring down my body onto the kitchen floor? Cause that’s pretty much what happens when my kids tell me someone was mean to them.

Now, these particular transgressions were mild. Passive-aggressive. Nothing outright mean. Also, let’s consider that this tiny kitten is my virtual clone, and one of my biggest shortcomings is reading stuff into what people say and do. It is possible she is overreacting.

Here are the facts: No one was blatantly mean to her, but there was undercover, shady mean stuff. She picks up on that nonsense though, and it’s my job to help her navigate through these issues no matter how big or small because they’re all big to her.

More facts: For the life of me, I do not understand this bullshit any better having dealt with it for more than 40 years than I did when I was her age. My girlfriend said we should write a book about it. Sure, I could write a book about how annoying and stupid and hurtful and damaging it is, but could I offer any insight about how to make it less so? I don’t know.

But today I saw an eagle at the lake, and that encouraged me to be courageous and stretch beyond my limits and pull together some advice people have given me, and I’ve given my girls over the years re: mean girls. Maybe something helpful will emerge.

Facts about Mean Girls
1. They are sneaky and sometimes snarky.
2. They bully people–overtly or covertly.
3. They are often jealous and insecure.
4. They sometimes grow up to be mean women who spawn the next generation of mean girls.
5. They probably just want love and acceptance and have a twisted way of seeking it.

Once you break them down into little pieces, it’s easier to find tactics to deal with them. And it’s fun to break mean people into little pieces. My mother’s advice re: mean girls? Just ignore them. I used to tell my girls the same thing. Just ignore them. I never could though. And last night, after hashing through this stuff with my itty bitty girl, I realized that ignoring isn’t always a valid coping mechanism. We had to come up with something better.

Here’s what we threw together:

1. Be kind. You don’t have to be everyone’s friend, but it feels better to be kind even when someone is mean to you. People who feel loved on the inside don’t treat others unkindly, so when a person treats you badly, it’s probably because she feels bad on the inside.

2. Don’t play with people who are mean. One of your “friends” always insists that you play the game she chooses. That’s okay. Play with someone else. But all your friends are playing with her? Make new friends. You don’t have to fight about it, simply remove yourself from the situation.

3. Speak up. The last thing passive-aggressive meanies want is for their behavior to be called out. “It’s not kind to whisper about people.” “I don’t want to play with you because you are bossy to me and our other friends.” “It’s mean when you threaten not to be my friend or to tell on me just because I don’t want to play this game.” This works for all ages with minor modifications. Try it. It’s empowering. And it’s almost as fun as breaking mean people into little pieces 🙂

4. My favorite advice is from my Queen Mother Maya: When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time. I’m not saying that people can’t change, but when someone is mean to you, pay attention. When you see a “friend” being mean to someone else, remember, tomorrow that someone could be you. Notice the person who gossips about everyone. What does she say about you when you aren’t around? Watch how people treat waitresses, fast food employees, bank tellers…people they believe to be…inferior. Trust me. It tells you a lot about a person. How do people act when they think no one’s looking? I can tell you with absolute certainty: The same people who were mean to me 20, 30, 40 years ago are still mean to me today. Even the ones who smile and hug me.

5. Finally, give people grace. Mean girls included. You don’t have to hang out with them, be their friend or even speak to them. But we don’t know what’s going on in someone’s life that makes them act the way they do. We don’t have to try to understand or figure them out. We don’t have to read into their actions. We can give them grace…freely…and maybe from a safe distance.

At this point, I’ve cut all the mean girls and people and even a few cats–cause some of them are just assholes–out of my life. I’m no longer trying to make people like me. I’m not interested in being the homecoming queen. And I have zero energy to give people who don’t bring joy to me and to our family.

Fortunately I am extravagantly blessed and grateful to be surrounded by smart, kind, compassionate people who love me for who I am while challenging me to learn and grow. And I’m trying my damnedest to be kind, compassionate, loving and forgiving while raising 3–or 2, is Chloe raised? gulp–people who will be the good…the change I want to see in the world.

And you know what? It’s working. My big girl excelled through three years at a women’s college. She met amazing people who encouraged and inspired, believed in, challenged, taught and learned with her. She didn’t have hardly any mean girl nonsense. It’s a slow process, but it’s working.

Pro-Choice

A lot of energy is focused on what women wear. People have very strong opinions about what is or is not appropriate for certain body shapes or ages. I cut my hair off at 30 because my mom told me it was inappropriate for women over 30 to have long hair. For real. It’s since grown back, and I have no plans for another age or shame-based shearing. I don’t care what other people wear or what people think of what I wear. Still…

Awhile back a woman took to the internet saying that “she wasn’t judging anyone else,”–BUT, there’s always a but (butt), right??–she wasn’t going to wear leggings or yoga pants anymore because her husband told her he had a hard time not looking at women in yoga pants. I believe she might have also claimed Jesus’ involvement. Okay, if my husband told me that, I’d think he needed to keep his eyes in his own business not that I needed to wear looser pants so that other women’s husbands weren’t tempted to look at my ass. Maybe that’s just me.

Let me address one little thing: While yoga pants, leggings and other articles of women’s apparel are hotly debated, men walk around in speedos, and no one blinks. Seriously? Men are distracted by the curve of a woman’s butt, but everyone can ignore the outline of a penis and testicles? Mind. Blown.

In all honesty, I couldn’t care less about this debate. I will wear leggings all day every day. However, it came to my attention that Lakeview Middle School recently instituted a “No Leggings” rule. My little peanut, who will attend this school next year, is distraught because her wardrobe is 98% leggings.

I’m not sure how to approach this.

I am not advocating clothing anarchy. Dress codes certainly serve a purpose, and boys and girls alike should dress appropriately for school. But before someone jumps down my throat, let me say this: If my son cannot concentrate on math because a girl in his class is wearing yoga pants, that is HIS problem. Not hers.

Can you say rape culture?

Before I went to public school in 8th grade, my dad gave me a rather unconventional birds and bees talk. Basically, he told me all kinds of different lines boys would use to try to coerce me into sex. He then pointed out that each and every line was bullshit. He said, “Boys CAN control themselves. Don’t let them convince you that they can’t. It’s a choice.”

I have explained to my daughters and my son that our bodies are our personal property as are other people’s. What you wear is your business. And what other people wear is theirs. You can never touch someone without their permission, and no one should ever touch you without yours. If I wear a short skirt, it is because I chose to wear a short skirt. If a man looks at me wearing a short skirt, it is because he chose to look at me wearing a short skirt. If my husband looks at woman in yoga pants, he chose to. The woman in yoga pants didn’t make him do it. It’s a choice. It’s a choice. It’s. A. Choice.

I promise you, if I see a man in a speedo, I’ll choose to look away.

Unfortunately, circling back to my point, now, my teeny girl doesn’t have a choice. She can’t wear what is most comfortable to her because someone in a position of authority decided that girls (even teeny ones) wearing leggings are inappropriate. That kinda infuriates me. In fact, this whole demonization of women’s clothing seems to be a smoke screen preventing genuine issues from being addressed in schools and in life. How about if we actually start raising our children to be kind, considerate and compassionate adults rather than finding lame excuses for why they’re not?

One of my girlfriends tells her son, “It’s your job to be kind and help people.” She is right, and her son is a darling child, who I’m confident will grow up to be a kind and compassionate man. What if we took that approach to life? What if we woke up every day striving to learn to live and love wholeheartedly? To forgive, accept, and be kind to ourselves and one another? Every day I try. And I fall short. Especially on days when people make a big deal about leggings. For real. But, I get up and try again the next day. Usually in leggings.

Being Here Now

With school starting for my little and medium children and my oldest babe fixin’ to graduate from college, I’ve been dealing with this nagging feeling of, “Should I be doing more?” For the past few years, I’ve settled comfortably into being a full-time mom and wife. I’ve found my best self in encouraging my people to be theirs. But as their physical need for me lessens, I feel this pull…get a job, finish grad school, do something…more.

For a long time I struggled with learning how to be present, but now that I’m living more engaged in the moment, satisfied and grateful for our life, I’m wondering: Is this enough? Am I complacent? Am I using my unique gifts to their fullest potential? Naturally, the answer is often a resounding NO.

Earlier this year, inspired by an amazing friend, I decided to pursue yoga teacher training. I have found great peace and mindfulness through my own yoga and meditation practice, and I absolutely adore and am in awe of the woman who was leading the training. Fueled by ambition, I ran full speed in the direction of, “I’ll be a yoga life coach!”

But you know how sometimes you run full speed in the wrong direction? Is that just me? Anyway, it appears I let my infatuation with someone else’s dream pass as my own. I love practicing yoga, but it is very personal for me. Yoga, in fact, is one of the few gifts I regularly give myself. Don’t we do that too often, as women? Especially as moms. We give our gifts away.

Of course you can have some of my ice cream!

You like this sweater? Here, take it. I rarely wear it.

You can watch something; I wasn’t watching this silly Oprah episode.

Those are just a few top-of-mind examples, but don’t we do that as women? Especially as moms. We give all our goodness away and sometimes forget to save anything for ourselves? That’s not necessarily a bad thing, but it’s okay–in fact it’s healthy–to keep some goodness for ourselves.

My husband travels, and the past month he has been gone a lot. Weird segue way, but we’ll get there. Promise. This month, he was gone for a week, the day he came home, I left for the weekend. The day after I came home, he left for another week. So in the past two weeks, I’ve seen him for about 6 hours. He is my person. His unique love fills my tank in a way nothing and no one else can. So, in this drought, I’ve been running on empty.

That emptiness is reflected in my short-tempered interactions with…well pretty much anyone I’ve interacted with, but specifically, my itty-bitty girl. See, I am her person, and when I’m empty, I have nothing to give. When my kids were little and had fits, I sometimes met their outbursts with, “Did you not get loved enough today?” And then we would cuddle. A kiss, a hug, a long snuggle all have magical healing properties. Sometimes I met their screams with screams of my own too. Just sayin’. But yesterday, when my tiny girl screamed at me, “I DIDN’T GET LOVED ENOUGH TODAY!” shit got real.

The other day I heard Bishop TD Jakes say, “You cannot reap what belongs to others. You have to reap what is yours.” Goodness, that statement will rock your world if you let it. I sometimes get caught up in what society thinks I should be doing…getting a job, finishing grad school, doing. something. more. But maybe that’s not for me? Maybe I’m just supposed to be right where I am. Putting on my own oxygen mask so I can put Lily’s on. Making sure my own love tank is filled so I can pour into my kids. Finding space and following my breath on the mat so I can be fully engaged with the people who count on me.

Perhaps I’m not using my gifts to their fullest potential, but I am using them. I’m always going to aspire for more, but today more is right here.

Your voice DOES sound like that, but it’s okay.

Yesterday, I had a near-death experience. It made me think about a lot of stuff. This is pretty erratic. You’ve been warned.

When I was a kid, my parents were hard on us. They expected certain things that most parents do: respect, good grades, honesty, responsibility. There was another unspoken expectation that no one outwardly acknowledged, but we all knew existed: Perfection. I’m not beating up my parents. They did the best they could with the tools they had to raise us into productive members of society, and I don’t hold them accountable–anymore–for my shortcomings. I beat myself up instead.

As a young mom, I was super hard on Chloe. I didn’t get on her about her weight or hair color, as my mom had done with me, but I pushed her to excel at everything she did. When she was about 15, and I witnessed the crazy high standard of excellence she imposed on herself, I realized that I had instilled in her not only a drive to succeed, but also a drive to be perfect. I really beat myself up about that. I still do sometimes.

Beating myself is something I have excelled at for decades. When I was very little, I was frightened by my dad’s yelling, but I quickly learned that I could be just as mean and scary by yelling and saying mean things. I also learned that when you say mean things to yourself, it doesn’t hurt nearly as much when other people say those things. Since I’d told my 100 pound 13-year-old self how fat I was, my mother’s admonishments that I “didn’t have the eating habits of a thin person,” went in one ear and out the other.

Still, I am a world-class champion when it comes to being hard on myself. It makes me laugh sometimes when people say or write derogatory things about me. Sticks and stones, pal; I’ve said way worse to myself.

My quest for self-awareness threatens to be pathological at times. My husband says, “Baby, you’re too hard on yourself.” My girlfriends say, “You’re a good person.” My kids say, “You’re the best mom.” My mental health professional friend says, “Try not to overthink your parenting.” I read and pray and try but still continue the complicated cha-cha of self-acceptance and self-improvement.

Today, however, I had a revelation taking P to school. Revelations often happen in the car, and I hear Anne Lamott advising, “Writers always have a pen and paper handy to write these things down.” And I do, Annie, I do, but I’m driving!! So, I open the notes app, press the little microphone and blurt out my revelation as fast as I can before it gets lost in the great abyss of nonsense I fret about.

Then I come home, make a wonderful cup of coffee and sit down to write an encouraging piece based on this revelation. But I open my notes app and it says: “All of thenthings we thought made us unlocks let.” What the fuck does that mean? Read it again…slower this time… “All of thenthings we thought made us unlocks let.”

You know when you hear your voice on a recording and think I don’t sound like that? Well, I do sound like that (my recorded voice is high-pitched and childlike, not at all sexy and ScarJo as I envision it) and evidently, I don’t speak in complete thoughts but weird fragments of ambiguity instead. That. Just. Figures.

Now, if you’re still here, I promise I’m going to get to the point. Or at least a point. Sometimes, Brad asks me, “What made you think of that?” And I give him a long complicated story such as the dog was dreaming of running and the way her toenails clicked on the floor reminded me of tap dancing which made me think of Chloe in her only dance recital and how she stood in one position tapping her heel in a little purple costume and the sequins scattered all over my car which reminded me that I used to pick up sequins off the floor at Joann Fabrics when I went there with my mom and she took me to the dairy queen after but wouldn’t let me get a peanut buster parfait like I wanted and made me get a small chocolate cone. I hate chocolate cones. It’s so exhausting to be in my head for even one minute, you guys.

Anywayyyyyyy, my revelation was this: Sometimes the people in our lives who are “supposed to” love us fall short. Our parents, siblings, you know…the blood people. When this happens, God, or the Universe, whatever you believe–personally, I think we quibble more on semantics than actual beliefs–provides other people. These people love us not because they are “supposed to” but because they choose to. They look beyond our brokenness and imperfections, our past mistakes and current shortcomings and actually see us. These are the friends who encourage us, the partners who forgive us, the kids who adore us. They are the ones who look at all the things that we thought made us unlovable (that is what the illogical fragment meant, btw) and see instead what made us so special and unique.

This past week, I’ve been on self-help reading overload. I’ve mined my childhood for memories of my mom and dad and found both delightful and disturbing ones. I’ve written personal mission statements and examined what annoys me about other people and how those traits manifest in me. I told Brad this morning that I was really tired, and I’m beginning to realize why. So today, I’m going to smile, relax and be kind to people. Starting with myself. And you too.

You Can Count on Me

I started counting recently. Sometimes counting. Sometimes timing. Just keeping track of the time. For instance, six seconds seems like much longer when you’re rushing out the door. Really? Only six seconds to put your shoes on. When I count, I don’t scream at Lily to HURRY UP. What is six seconds in the grand scheme of this journey?

Now, I haven’t always been a counter. In fact the concept of counting to ten before verbally decapitating someone has always been foreign to me. I scream, feel immediate guilt, apologize and then carry the shame around for…well, I’m working on it.

Anyway, I started counting at the elementary school. At morning drop-off, people zip in and out of that parking lot as if they are rushing a hemorrhaging gunshot victim to the ER. If someone stops, holding up traffic to let the buses exit, said person gets unfriendly hand gestures. People. Lose. Their. Minds: throwing their hands in the air, flipping you off, pounding their steering wheels, etc. Now, I remember what it was like to have to rush to a job, so, one morning, I took out my phone and timed the buses leaving. It took 35 seconds.

Perhaps if you do have a gunshot victim in your backseat, that 35 seconds would be the difference between life and death. If not…1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.9.10…calm down.

I counted to 10 so I didn’t say calm the f#$k down. This counting business WORKS. Let’s take it on the road!

Today, I took my mom grocery shopping. She has been home now for a few weeks and doing much better. Still, I don’t want to just set her loose on the road after our recent scares. She is still moving pretty slowly. Lots of people move slowly at Walmart and not always because they’re 83 and recovering from a hospital stay. Sometimes they are inconsiderate and rude and don’t even realize that they’re standing in the middle of the aisle blocking everyone’s progress while they decide which cereal to buy. 1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8. Not so bad.

In the past, I scooted my mom through the store, apologizing repeatedly to everyone whose hurried progress we impeded. Today, I helped her navigate through uncrowded aisles and gently pulled her cart out of the middle of the aisle.

We made it through without incident.

I guided her to a non-crowded checkout line with a cashier I know–because I’m at Wal-Mart all. the. time–is very sweet and patient. My mom always writes a check, and it takes longer than it takes to swipe a card. Normally, I rush her through this process, “Mom, you can just give your check to the cashier; you don’t have to fill it out.” But today I realized that at 83 having lost her husband of more than 50 years, two sons, most of her hearing, many friends, a lot of her independence, and nearly her life a month ago, she could write a check if she wanted.

Then I counted. 1.2.3.4.5…the woman behind us rolled her eyes. 6.7.8.9.10…she sighed loudly and looked at the person behind her for commiseration. I stared at her and felt my blood pressure rising and angry words catching in my throat. 11.12.13.14.15. the guy in the next line lobbied for my agreement on something, “Isn’t that right, Blondie?” Shut. The. F#$k. Up. Start again: 1.2.3. Oh she’s done.

It took her 18 seconds to write a check. I apologize to the woman behind us in line if she was 18 seconds late for her next important appointment, or if the gunshot victim in her car died during those 18 seconds or the subsequent 6 it took my mom to produce her id. I met her glare with a smile.

I can’t tell you how many times I’m surprised that what seems to be taking so long is often just a few seconds. It’s often something Lily or my mom is doing. I’m trying really hard not to rush them anymore. I feel like I’ve been hurrying Lily since she was born–even before she was born–and the other day I watched her swinging effortlessly across the monkey bars. She no longer needed me to walk beside her or catch her when she jumped down or just “be there.” A big old lump rose up in my throat as I thought…Oh no…I rushed it all away.

So, I’m counting instead rushing today. Because sometimes those seconds seem so long, until you’re on the other side looking back and wishing you had just a few more.

Still not mother of the year

The past few weeks, my life has been a little busier than normal. I’ve felt–quite frequently–like I had a lot of balls in the air, and that one of them was bound to drop sooner or later. I have been talking to myself. A lot. I fit in pretty well at the nursing home. It’s like when I am trying to remember a phone number, I’ll say it over and over again in my mind since I can never find a paper to write it down.

Now, however, I’m saying all these things in my head because I wrote them down somewhere, but I can’t find the damn paper so my inner dialogue is like, “Pick up Peyton at 5 or 7, wait what day is it: Monday, okay 5, I think. Lily has gymnastics. Drop off the recycling. Pick up my mom’s laundry. Bring her insurance card. Did I bring her clean undershirts and the kind of socks she likes? Did I text Chloe good morning? Did I check on Lori? Did I pack lunches this morning or were the kids buying? Did we study spelling words or did Lily really write “whore” instead of “were” anyway?” True story. Good that her teacher is a precious angel who finds humor in my parenting shortcomings.

All of this has made me feel much more compassionate toward those around me as I think most of us probably have way more going on than anyone knows. Since, I’m always trying to work those four agreements and lots of times getting stuck on not taking things personally, this is helping.

I have a really bad habit of sinking into myself. Crawling into my shell and dropping out of every inessential (by inessential, I mean no one will die if I don’t show up) part of my life. That means, I don’t really talk to my friends. I don’t go anywhere with anyone. Often I’m short if I remember to respond at all. All of this is an effort to protect and nourish my spirit, but it can often seem to people who care about me, that I’m mad at them or being a bitch. I’m really so sorry.

I’m working on doing a better job of communicating. And at the same time, I’m going to make some vows to you, my girlfriends, who are doing so much more than anyone knows, often at the expense of taking care of yourself the way you need and deserve to be loved and cared for. If you would, though, please pass it on…

1. If you forget to pick your son up from any sporting event, I will take him home. I will not tell anyone that you forgot or give you any shit about it. We don’t ever have to speak of it.
2. Those pants look good on you. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow too if that is what you choose. I don’t care how often you do laundry or if you gained 10 pounds and they’re the only comfortable thing you have. I promise I didn’t even notice until you told me.
3. Your daughter is beautiful even if her clothes don’t match and are too small. I know that she has a whole wardrobe of matching adorable clothes but it isn’t worth fighting with her in the morning.
4. I don’t judge you for yelling at your kids. Good lord, if someone had a hidden camera in my car or house, child protective services would be at my door daily. I am at times a horrible raving lunatic.
5. I couldn’t care less if your kids valentines aren’t homemade. I force my child to do crafts so we can bond, dammit; she would much rather have store bought ones. We’re all works in progress.

I could go on and on and on. Sometimes we are just so mean to each other. Judging and comparing and competing and gossiping and bleck, bleck, bleck. I promise you all, right now, if you’re reading this: I am never going to judge you, your clothes, your kids, your parenting, your weight, your hair or anything else. I get it. I understand. I feel you. My mantle is still void of a mother of the year trophy. Actually, I don’t even have a mantle! What do you think about that?

Please, let’s be kind to each other. And more than that? Let’s be kind to ourselves.

xoxo

Give a little Grace

I have been reading lately about healing and focusing on deep hurts that cause angry, defensive reactions. Because, I’m really ashamed to admit, I have a bad temper and sometimes have really disproportionate angry reactions to silly things.

For example, I burned my finger on a glue gun while making a banner. I curbed my initial reaction to scream obscenities. However, inside me this huge angry reaction was brewing that had to go somewhere. I picked up the end of the kitchen table and let it slam down. When the table slammed down, the anger released, but the plate that was holding the glue gun broke, and my tiny girlfriend started to cry.

Cue the guilt and shame tape that goes like this, “You’re an asshole. You can’t control your temper. You don’t deserve to have these sweet little kids; you’re a lunatic. Way to go. You’re just like your dad.”

And in about 25 seconds, I had gone from pain to rage to feeling about an inch tall.

I apologized to Lily and explained to her that I had reacted inappropriately to pain with anger, and I was sorry for scaring (and probably scarring) her. We talked about some times that our reactions didn’t exactly match our feelings or the particular situation and then finished making our craft without further incident.

For the rest of the night, shame gripped me pretty tightly. I had to delve into my reaction and the motivation behind it. Once I did that and realized that my reaction was something that had been ingrained in me from childhood–when you get upset about something let your rage out on an inanimate object–I was able to deal with it and remind myself that having a bad reaction didn’t make me a bad person.

Guilt and shame always go together for me–the dynamic duo of damnation–so I was enlightened to read Brene Brown’s definition in The Gifts of Imperfection. She explains that guilt says “You did something bad,” and shame says, “You are bad.” I still think they’re a terrifying team, but now I see them more clearly.

Brown goes on to say that we can steal the power away from this team if we talk about the stuff that makes us feel this way and bring it to light. Just make sure that you share with someone you really trust.

She gives a list of people you don’t want to choose, such as:

• Anyone who makes you feel worse about yourself. They will look at you with shock and judgment and say things like, “Oh…my.”
• One-uppers. You know them. They respond to everything with, “Oh that’s nothing, let me tell you about the time…”
• Those with low self-esteem who will use this as an opportunity to feel superior–think, drowning victims who push others down to get themselves to the surface. “Oh, I never have inappropriate reactions in front of my kids, but that’s just me.”
• Condescending jerks. Pretty much the same as above with a heightened air of superiority.

***Please note that sometimes jerks look and sound and act like friends until you share something like this with them***

So, my week has been a lot of, “Yikes, where did that come from? Why does it bother me when people do a.b.c.d?” and more. This isn’t a huge change. I’m always analyzing and overthinking and trying to do better, but sometimes it’s not in the actual moment. I’m steadily trying to live the Four Agreements, but it’s a lot of trial and error.

I spent many years feeling broken and damaged because of things that happened to me, but I am realizing in this decade* that labeling myself is not only unnecessary but it is also unkind. Yes, bad things happened to me, but really great things have happened too. By reconciling that I can simultaneously grieve loss and embrace blessings, by realizing that my past doesn’t define me, and by reminding myself that every moment is an opportunity to embrace and extend grace, I’ve cleared my path from lots of tangled roots that tripped me up.

A few weeks ago the super-wise 20-year-old guru I’m blessed to call my daughter said that she felt fortunate that her dad and I hadn’t really f#$%ed her up. We keep it really real. She said she always felt loved and free to express herself. This was such an impactful statement, as I have questioned everything I did as a mother for 20 years. In fact, the only thing I knew for sure was that I loved these little people God let me hold for awhile more than I had ever known was possible.

I’m pretty convinced some days that I’m messing Peyton and Lily up in some significant way. The nasty shrew in my head tells me all the time that I am worthless and have no business raising these amazing kids. I question myself all the time. And then I shhhhhhh them, breathe and keep going. I’m not sharing this because I need reassurance, but because someone else might feel the same. Do you? Let me encourage you: If you worry this much about what kind of person or wife or parent you are, I’m pretty confident that you are already amazing.

Give yourself some grace. And give the people who make different choices grace too. Namaste.

*The jury is still out on 40 because the emotional and spiritual rewards seem to come at the expense of some crazy things like thinning hair and brain fog and achy joints.

Now that you mention it…

Today we moved our 20-year-old daughter into a new dorm room. This is the fourth move since she left for college two years ago. She’s never come back for any extended period of time since that first move, and she’ll probably never live with us again. I still cry every time I have to say good bye to her, which this year has included goodbyes to Brazil and Taiwan in addition to Pittsburgh. You’d think I’d be getting used to it. Me too. I’m not.

On a detour through a familiar neighborhood on our way out of town, we got to visit briefly with two of the most darling women ever to grace the universe. As the lovely mom and I commiserated the whole kids growing up business, she pointed to my 7-year-old and said, “You’re so lucky to have this little one.” I know. Thank you. Right? Wow.

I’ve thought a lot of stuff since getting pregnant unexpectedly 8 1/2 years ago such as: There goes grad school. There goes my body. I’m too old for this. My poor boobs. This baby is gonna kill me. My big kids hate me. How can I be a good mom to all of them? But I never really thought until Chloe went to college that I was really lucky to get this little bonus baby.

From the time she was born, my oldest daughter has been my constant companion, soul mate and best friend. She filled a Chloe-shaped space in my heart, and I felt as if I was made to be her mom. When Peyton joined, answering my prayers and completing our perfectly symmetrical little family, I felt lucky. I have never been so in love with two people. So six years later, when it became apparent that our family wasn’t quite complete, I felt different levels of resistant, afraid, angry, and resentful … but I didn’t feel lucky.

However, in her nearly 8 years, this little chick has challenged me in ways I can’t even begin to explain. She has taught me more about myself than the library of self-help books I’ve read. She can be jarringly direct and achingly compassionate. She strolled out of my womb and wrapped her dad right around her tiny finger. She carries his heart around in a Hello Kitty purse. It’s impressive, really, because he is not that guy.

She can be bossy and whiny and smart-mouthed. And she can be cuddly and dreamy and precious. She’s a little bit like my clone, and I’m a better person for getting to watch and learn from a mini version of myself. She’s growing into a pretty cool person, and it’s interesting to watch her free from the pressure of signing her up for every sport and making sure she’s involved in a million activities.

I’m grateful for another round of prom dresses. I’m grateful for more shoe shopping and hair appointments and manicures and pedicures and even more stupid Ugg boots. I’m lucky to have more opportunities to say the right thing to ease the pain of a broken heart and remind her that other people’s opinions of her are meaningless. I’m lucky that I can remind her that pain builds strength and character. I’m lucky that she has the most amazing role models in her sister and brother. I’m lucky that I get another opportunity to raise a strong, empowered woman who will make a difference in the world.

So thank you for the reminder, my friend. I am so lucky.

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.

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.