What I Learn from my Children

heart beachI write a lot of tongue-in-cheek stuff about what a pain in the ass my kids are, and I know that you know it’s not all tongue-in-cheek ’cause sometimes they really are a pain.  In reality, I can’t imagine my life without them.  (I can imagine days without them, and even weeks.  Occasionally a month.  Two at the most. But not my whole life.)

This morning as I was tweezing my eyebrows, I found myself thinking “Katie and Amber are the ones who made me realize how important a good brow is.”

And that’s deep, deep, philosophical stuff, or maybe not.  It’s just eyebrows, after all.  Eyebrows are very important to looking good, in my opinion, but in the greater scheme of life, perhaps a good brow line doesn’t rate very highly.

The lessons I’ve gotten from these girls go way beyond brow lines, though, to shoes and purses.  And to real life.

We see ourselves in our kids, and sometimes this makes us proud and sometimes it scares the bejeezus out of us.  It wasn’t until recently that I realized it is a mechanism for self-love, too.  When we see that thing in our kid that we dislike in ourselves, we see it differently – we see it in a very likable way.  And if that trait (whatever that trait is) can be so cute and likable in our child, then maybe we should go a little easier on ourselves where it is concerned.  Maybe if we can accept it in them, we can accept it in ourselves.

I always say that I’m the most confident insecure person out there.  Most people perceive me as confident, and I march around in this world wearing my confident disguise.  But you’d barely need to scratch to get to that anxiety that underlies everything.

My body is made up of all the normal things, skin and blood and bones, but I’m pretty sure that 78% of me consists of AM-I-GOOD-ENOUGH.  My life is an ongoing quest to validate whether I’m good enough, likable, lovable, worthwhile.  And the rational side of my head knows how ridiculous this is, but the other side (she’s a friggin’ mess) just wants you to love me, the real me, all of me, every flaw.  And over and over again, I want to drag out new flaws.  “Oh, yeah? You still think you love me? Well take a look at THIS!  Ha!  NOW do you love me? Huh? Huh?”

I know we’re all flawed, I embrace it.

There is a monster that lives deep within me that thinks she is (I am) unlovable.  She constantly wants validation, and when you give it to her, she will up the ante.  She will do whatever she can to get you to confess that you don’t love her and if and when that happens, she’ll celebrate with “Ha!  I KNEW IT!  I am unlovable.”

This isn’t just me. I read stuff; books and articles, blogs, tweets, between the lines, and your eyes, some of you,  and I know there are others like me out there, those who have the NOT-GOOD-ENOUGH monster dwelling within them.

I’m not sure how to vanquish it.  I think peaceful coexistence is the best I can hope for.  When I look at my daughters, with all their perfections and imperfections, when I see some of me in them, and I know how perfect I think they are, it makes the monster in me go a little quiet for a time.

Perhaps the greatest lesson I’ve learned from my children is how to love myself.

By |November 2nd, 2012|Indiscriminate Drivel|1 Comment
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Gender Offender

It’s soccer season!

In my memory, soccer season took place in the dregs of winter, under 7′ of snow in the brutal cold.  (My memory likes to exaggerate and leans toward the dramatic.)

My kids’ soccer games take place in September and October, with a few going into November.  Most of the games are quite pleasant, weather-wise.  They’re quite pleasant in most ways, really.   Well, there was a little unpleasantness at the last one, though.

We actually had 2 kids with games at the exact same time, of course at 2 different fields.  Bill took Rae and I took Jadie.  It was a gorgeous Sunday afternoon and I set my little folding camp chair up right next to the bleachers.  The game was well-attended and quite a few people were watching from the bleachers, including one pregnant woman.

She was chit-chatting with another mom sitting near her.  They were talking about kids and pregnancy.  I was only half listening as I read my Kindle watched the game.  The pregnant woman said “My oldest is 16.  By the time this one is born, there will be 17 years between them.”  The other woman replied “My oldest is 22 and my youngest is 4 so there is an 18 year range here.”

Now, I know a mommy competition when I see one, and I thought “Oh-oh-oh – I can WIN this one!”

Not one to back down from a challenge, I smiled and said “My oldest is 29 and my youngest is 8.  Where’s my prize?”  (OK, I didn’t really ask for a prize, but I wore an expression that let them know I expected one.  They didn’t rise to the bait.)

The non-pregnant one who wasn’t me asked the mom-to-be “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?” and she replied “Oh, I hope it’s a boy.  I have 2 boys and 1 girl and I like boys SO much better!”  The first one said “Oh, God, I know!”

I won’t lie – I had always envisioned a mixed-gender brood myself.  But I didn’t want a boy (or boys) instead of girls, I just wanted both.  I didn’t want a boy because I thought males were better or easier.  I wanted a boy because I figured it was the best chance to get my lawn mowed when I got old and feeble.  (Ends up girls can mow lawns just as well as boys, so I’m all set there!)

The two women were still going on with all the reasons that boys were a better option than girls.  Not one to back down from a challenge, I interjected “I have 5 daughters.”  I wore the Where’s my prize? expression again but they still didn’t take the hint.

“FIVE girls?” one of them said, a look of horror on her face.  The other one said “Oh, you poor thing.  How’d you manage that?”

I glanced over to the little girl sitting right near us.  Her parents were watching her sister play soccer, but she was following our conversation with keen interest.  I made eye contact with her, then I turned back to the two women.

“I just got lucky.” I said.

By |September 13th, 2012|Indiscriminate Drivel, The Parent Hood|Comments Off on Gender Offender
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Strength is a clever disguise…

30-03-01/21Last week, I was flying home from my conference and had boarded the plane.  I  settled in my seat and commenced people-watching.  I love people-watching.

There was a woman younger than me and very pretty who started to lift her suitcase to put it into the overhead bin when two men jumped up simultaneously to help her.

I had a deja-vu moment. It wasn’t that someone had jumped up and helped me put my luggage up. No, that had never happened. It was how often I watch people jump up to help others, that was the deja-vu.

When I was pregnant with my 4th child, I worked as a consultant.  The role involved a lot of travel.  I think that child was in 27 cities before she was even born.  I lugged around my suitcase, my laptop bag, and my portable data projector.

Even at my most pregnant, no one ever jumped out of his (or her) seat to help me put my suitcase in the overhead.  I found this rather curious. Maybe it was because I wasn’t a sweet young thing.  (Although, relatively speaking, I was young 11 years ago and I’m always sweet.)

Since then, I’ve become acutely aware of this and I make it a point to observe it.  It’s not about sweet young things – helpers pop up for all sorts of people in need, all ages, genders, and degrees of attractiveness.

What is it then, I wonder?

The best hypothesis I can draw, for which I have a dearth of scientific backing, is it has something to do with a vibe of strength, of capability, of independence. If you seem in need of help, people help. If you give off a different vibe, they don’t make the offer.

I may give off that vibe, independence, capability.  In fact, I think I do.  Probably, pure stubbornness is at the root of it.

Nonetheless, I think people might see me and think I’m one of those people who may be insulted by an offer of help.  I know I have seen people and drawn a similar conclusion.  They seem to communicate with their eyes “I got this.  Don’t you dare insult me by asking if I need help.”

Here’s the thing: when I was pregnant and huge and tired with swollen ankles and three bags to lug around, I did need the help.  I did.  And even though I’m not pregnant now, nor am I on an airplane today, I recognize that I need help.  I cannot do this – any of it – alone.

No one, regardless of how strong, can bear the weight of the world without help.

I guess what I’m saying is this:  don’t be fooled by a disguise of strength.

If you see me on an airplane, I would welcome help with my bag.

I’m going to start practicing my needy look now.  

 

By |September 11th, 2012|Indiscriminate Drivel, Not even a little funny|Comments Off on Strength is a clever disguise…
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