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.

Just Don’t be a Jerk

It’s the most wonderful time of the year. We are fresh off a month of giving thanks and the kids and I are headed for our annual pilgrimage to Camp Mowana to Make Room for Jesus. So, I’m gonna need to get this off my chest real quick.

I’m going to blame my sister-in-law–who posted this article and got me all stirred up–for my angst. It’s been simmering for a long time ready to boil over though … so … I have to let it out. And by the way, that list doesn’t mention the standard mom uniform: Uggs, Miss Me jeans, NorthFace and designer purse. Come on now; is that just Cortland?

What people wear isn’t my business or concern though. And lots of my friends wear that uniform. I love you girls; you’re fabulous!

Here’s what bothers me: drop off and pick up. This might be a universal issue, as certainly entitlement and lack of empathy are symptoms of the global selfishness epidemic, but I can only address the Lakeview schools.

Recently, I have adopted the mindset of talking to my problems rather than about them, and it is in that spirit that I have compiled a list of tips re: drop-off and pick up protocol. Since there is no suggestion box, here you go:

1. The speed limit in front of the school is 20. Even when you’re running late. If your kid is tardy, it isn’t the end of the world. By the way, it’s still 20 when you pull out of the parking lot. You don’t get to run someone else’s kid over just because yours is safely in the building, which leads me to #2.

2. Slow down in the parking lot. There are people everywhere. If you run someone over, that will be far worse than being late for work. Everyone has bad mornings sometimes, but reckless disregard for other people is unacceptable. Slow down. Pay attention. If you are going to just idle there by the entrance while your big kid walks in, at least look before you pull away. Lots of people are actually walking their little kids to the door. Don’t run them over, you jerk.

3. Park in a parking spot. Just one. 40 other people also need to park to pick up their children so be mindful. Driving a giant SUV does not give you the right to park wherever you want. Park in an actual space–they are indicated by lines. You and your children are not handicapped and do not deserve special privileges. Thank God for your healthy working legs and then use them to walk to your car. Jerk.

4. That line of people? They’re all waiting to pick their kids up too. So don’t walk past them all and then yank on the door handle. It’s not gonna open, bro. Did you think we were all just standing here because we like the cold? That’s right; go to the back of the line. Yes, we are all laughing at you. Jerk.

5. When the door opens and you push through to make sure your kid is the first one into class, remember that there are 20+ little kids coming right behind yours. Don’t let the door slam in their faces. That’s terrible. And guess what: Their parents think that they’re the most important kid in the world too. Also, if someone holds the door for you? Thank them and then hold the door for the next person. Don’t just leave that guy standing there holding the door for everyone. That’s not cool. He was trying to be nice. He has to go to work too. Next time he might let it slam on your kid. All because you were a jerk!

6. We’re all busily heading somewhere, but it literally takes 35 seconds for the buses to exit the parking lot. I timed it. Just be patient. Trust me: They will be out of the parking lot before you can tweet about how annoyed you are or how the jerk in front of you held up people exiting the parking lot to let the stupid buses go. I let the buses out. I see you flipping me off. It’s okay. I like your purse. Even if you think I’m a jerk.

7. Finally, let me reiterate: If someone is looking at their phone, it is probably because they don’t want to talk to anyone. It’s not rocket science. Leave them alone. Surely there is another dad somewhere…

Some days I leave the school feeling very sad for humanity, wondering if anyone is capable of empathy and compassion anymore. Fortunately, I quickly realize that for every person who lets the door slam on someone else’s kid, there are 5 who hold the door. For every person who parks where there isn’t a space, there are 5 who walk farther in the rain rather than inconvenience others. For every person who nearly runs you over to get out 3 seconds quicker, there are 2 or 3 who wave you on ahead of them.

It’s kind of like life, right? There are people who are just out for themselves, but there are others (hopefully more) who are concerned with humanity as a whole. I can’t change anyone, but I can be kind and thoughtful, and I can raise people who hold doors, say thank you, park in parking spots and think about others and not just themselves. I can try not to be a jerk or raise jerks.

Thanks for listening, friends. I feel way better.

This Is Not My Home.

After my dad died, I cried every morning in the shower. It is safe to cry in the shower. No one hears you. You’re wet everywhere so no little hands reach up to wipe tears. The tears mix in with the rest of the water. Your eyes are red because you got shampoo in them. So careless. I could cry without anyone trying to care for me, feel sorry for me, pity me, fix me.

My morning routine started by slathering Preparation H around my eyes to conceal the shower crying. Friends, here’s an awesome beauty tip: Hemorrhoid cream does wonders for eyes puffy from crying, not sleeping, drinking, allergies…whatever. For real.

I have been through tragedies, but this time, I had three people who were relying on me not to fall apart. When my first brother died, I completely fell apart. I could. I was 16. No one relied on me. The people around me held me and worried about me and picked me up. Unexpectedly losing someone you think is invincible makes you feel really small and vulnerable.

When my good friend died of cancer, it wasn’t as bad. I am not minimizing her death, but I had months to get used to the idea that she was going to die. I could say goodbye. I told her I loved her a million times. We talked about how bad it sucked and how unfair life could be sometimes. And we cried and we laughed, but we prepared.

When my second brother died, it was the worst. Suicide is the worst. No preparation. No conspiracy theories. Nothing left but a big pile of regret and guilt and questions. People said that I would be mad at him. How could I be mad at him for being in so much pain? I was mad at lots of people, but he wasn’t one of them.

For a long time, I felt a sense of safety in pain. Well, at least it can’t get any worse. But don’t say that or think that or God forbid allow yourself to believe that because it can. It can get worse. It couldn’t get any worse than my brother dying unexpectedly until my other brother chose to die. Well, it couldn’t get any worse than…Yes. Yes, it could.

I have dealt with the pain and the questions and the stages of grief more times than I can count. Grief, pain, tragedy have become like my hometown. I don’t live there anymore, but I visit from time to time. I remember the streets and can still find my way around. Lots of things look the same. Some places have changed. Some people have moved away, but some still live there.

It’s a choice. It’s my choice. It’s your choice. You can stay in your hometown. You can give in to grief. You can let abuse or neglect or grief that you suffered stunt your growth and keep you mired in shame, regret, and self-pity. Or you can move. It doesn’t mean you forget. It doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. It just means that you are choosing not to let what happened to you dictate who you become.

I have a big family. People are gonna die. My mom is 82–today. I’m gonna have to visit that place many more times. But I’m not moving back home.

Food Revelations

Last week I read Women Food and God. Have you read? Seriously, it changed my life. I LOVE Geneen Roth as if she were one of my people. After the first few chapters, when I sat down to graze in front of the kids’ snack cupboard as is my habit, I literally stopped and thought, “Wait, am I hungry?” It was revolutionary.

For those of you who are wondering, it’s a lot about Women and Food, but not a lot about God. The God part is more light spirituality and less Bible-based eating plan, but it forced me to sit down and have a long overdue discussion with myself about why and how I eat.

If you ever saw my mom and sister, you’d understand some of my food issues. They are tiny little waifs. So is my daughter. I am not a particularly big person, but they are really, really small. My mom always told me that I was big-boned and didn’t “have the eating habits of a thin person,” and I have always held a pretty distorted image of my 5′ 2″ 125 pound self. Yep, I just said my weight out loud to the whole internet. The absolute true weight I saw on that dang-blasted scale this morning. Have I mentioned how much this book helped me?

So one of my biggest food issues is that when I was growing up, food was my mom’s main expression of love. Whatever was going on, good or bad, could be remedied with food. Sick? Chicken soup. Sad? Cookies. Celebrating? Cake. And since that was pretty much my mom’s only expression of love, when she cooked for you, you ate. And the more you ate, the more you were loved. To this day, her favorite people in life are the people she can control with cookies. I’m kidding. A little.

Additionally, I realized that my happiest memories were wrapped up with food. Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays, milestones celebrated by going out to dinner, goals met and rewarded with food. In many ways, I had grown to equate food with happiness. Unfortunately, in many other ways, I also equated skinniness with happiness. That crazy combination cannot possibly add up to happiness. I mean maybe when I was 20 and had a pretty fast metabolism, but now it is kind of a problem.

So for the past few weeks, I’ve had a lot of conversations with myself about food, why I’m eating, when I’m eating, what I’m eating and so forth. Turns out it’s not particularly healthy to sit on the floor and eat from the snack cupboard at 10:30 p.m. Huh. Also turns out that eating an m&m every time you walk past the m&m jar until it’s empty is not a great habit. Go figure. And one of the most important lessons I learned is that I really didn’t even know how hungry felt anymore.

In all this dialoguing about why I’m really eating and what I really want, I haven’t lost one pound–in case you wondered. But, I’ve been eating much healthier foods and much less and I haven’t really had any junk. While I have a long way to go, I have been able to pinpoint some serious issues I have to come to terms with:

• I am almost 40, not 20, so my 20-year-old weight probably shouldn’t be my goal weight. 
• Being skinny doesn’t necessarily make you happy or signify you’re happy.
• Not being skinny doesn’t necessarily make you unhappy or signify that you’re unhappy.
• I have a bread addiction, similar to my nicotine addiction. I cannot eat just one piece of bread.
• Just like my husband is as hot to me today as he was 20 years ago, he looks at me and sees the girl he fell in love with (who was skinny, btw). He literally judges my weight by the size of my boobs, so you can probably guess when he’s happiest.
• Food is an idol, and when I give it this much power in my life, I am putting it before God; that is unacceptable.
• My mom lives with me. I don’t eat her cookies. She still loves me.

 So, if you have a messed up relationship with food, I highly recommend this book. If not? Well, you are a rare breed of fabulosity, and I admire you greatly.

A Christmas Horse

When I was a little girl, every year I asked Santa for a horse. Every year I believed wholeheartedly that he would bring me one. I knew, from the age of 4–thanks to 5 older brothers–that our parents, not Santa, brought gifts. Still, part of me believed there was a Santa, and he would bring me a horse. That part of me still exists, except now it believes when I buy a lottery ticket, I am going to win.

Each Christmas, though I was happy with my toys and clothes, I harbored a secret heartbreak that Santa didn’t bring my horse. One year my dad must have glimpsed my disappointment and asked me why I wasn’t happy. I told him that I must not have been good because Santa didn’t bring my horse. My dad, who could be a scary and intimidating person a lot of the time, pulled me up into his lap and said that Santa couldn’t bring me a horse because we lived in the city, and it was illegal to have a horse in the city. I understood then and was no longer disappointed. In fact, I never asked for a horse again. I didn’t want to break the law.

This was the same dad, who once walked in from work, found my brother’s gym bag lying near the back door, and threw it across the kitchen knocking a boiling pot of chili all over the kitchen floor. Lazy nincompoops just drop their shit wherever they feel like. The dad, who after I had burned my feet on the still-burning-hot charcoal he’d dumped into the driveway, beat me soundly for walking outside without shoes. What kind of idiot goes outside without shoes? A four-year-old. My dad, who beat each of my brothers so consistently and so severely over the years that on many occasions they plotted his death.

That same guy told me Santa couldn’t bring me a horse because we lived in the city. He also went on a mad bee-killing spree, determined to drive bees into extinction, because one stung my brother. And once, when I had a high fever and was hallucinating that there were tigers attacking me, he went to war armed with a pillow and a handkerchief to slay the tigers only I could see. My mom held me and told me the tigers weren’t there, while my dad leaped and swung at them, telling my mom, “You can’t tell her they aren’t there. She SEES them!!”

Over the years I found it difficult to reconcile the two different people my dad was. I spent a lot of years being angry with him. But now, I understand him better because I see in myself the same two people. I love my children so much I would slay imaginary tigers, lie awake worrying about their broken hearts or broken arms, sleep next to them when they’re sick, spend every dollar I make to give them everything they need and want. Yet, last week, after witnessing her boyfriend’s family in a fight, Chloe laughed and said, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure my mom would put all of them to shame.” That’s my claim to fame: My mom’s crazier than yours. And she’s right. On any given day, despite my overwhelming love for them, I am fully capable of throwing a gym bag across the kitchen and knocking the chili off the stove.

I wonder if someday my kids will try to reconcile the crazy mom with the mom who loved and comforted them. I hope they remember the times that I held them and cheered for them and encouraged their dreams more than times I yelled and screamed. I hope they remember the fun we had decorating the cookies more than my cursing and throwing the imperfect ones. I hope that they know that despite my shortcomings I tried not to be good, but to be the best mother. And mostly, I hope that living with and loving a flawed mom helps them to look at people with kindness and empathy. Because I think that everyone is doing the best they can with the tools they have. I’m grateful for my flawed dad. Knowing and loving him help me to look at others–and even on rare occasions myself–with compassion.