Looking back

Wow.  That was one hell of a ride.  365 days of a lot of "wait....what?" mixed with a heaping pile of "you have got to be kidding me" stirred together with a swizzle stick of "no effing way" and topped off with a large dollop of "what did I do to deserve this?!".  2013 was nothing short of the most difficult span of time in a long line of ferocious years.  And, I almost didn't survive it.

No, really.  I almost didn't make it to 2014.  More than once, I had the exit pass in my hands.  More than once, I wrote the notes and got out the vital information.  More than once, I said my goodbyes.  But, each time, I had to remember the girls would be back in a few hours.  They would be running through the door looking for the only thing they've ever relied on.  Me.  So, I put them first.  Regardless of how much I was failing as their mama, they depended on me to be there.  So, there I stayed.

I got my heart broken.  By someone I didn't trust and didn't even invite in.  I can't explain how it happened, really.  Just, one day, the last little piece of me was gone.  And I couldn't smile anymore.  And, while I mourned that last spark I had, I admit to a little relief.  If anything, this new way is so much easier.  Nothing left to break means nothing is broken.  Everything hurts so much less now.

I let my kids grow up a little bit.  As their mama, I have always prided myself on what I could do for them.  As my kids, they needed to learn that they are strong and resilient on their own.  So what if they destroyed my house in the process?  They figured out how to come together as sisters until I got home from work.  And, they're all still breathing, so it all worked out just fine.

I let go of that last little piece of me that cared what people think.  Don't like my clothes?  K.  Don't like my sense of humor?  Cool.  Don't like my profile pic?  Perfect.  Don't like my parenting style?  Keep your brat away from my girls.  Don't like what I have to say?  I wasn't talking to you anyway.  Do I want to offend people?  Not even a little.  Do I want to change who I am so that people will like me?  Not even a little.  This is me.  I wear what I like, I crack myself up frequently, I don't care if my cleavage offends you, I'm a pretty big fan of the way my girls are turning out; and, being a parent, I know that I speak just to hear the sound of my own voice - I'm used to being ignored.

I learned about true friendship.  I don't ask people for help.  I don't open myself up to people.  And, as a rule, I try very hard not to whine about the rain when so many people are basking in the sun.  I know too well what it's like behind the curtain.  Just because someone else seems to be smoothly sailing doesn't mean they aren't huffing and puffing though the same storms as you.  So, when you gladly watch my girls while I go to work, I know it's a gift.  When you let me take forever to pay you back for a bag of Christmas gifts, I know it's out of love.  When you don't try to justify the latest mountain of melodrama left on my doorstep, I know it's with the last bit of your patience.  And, when you quietly remind me that it's ok to fall apart, I know it's because you believe in my ability to pull myself together in time for kid exchange.   So many people stepped up and did the things I couldn't do on my own.  And, I will always remember the year I was reminded what sincerity means.

It may take a village to raise children, but it takes so much more to deal with loss.  And, I had almost all I needed in 2013.  I had enough real friends, enough sense of self, and enough little faces looking to me.  I may have been drowning, but I kept kicking toward the surface.  My only hope for next year is that I catch sight of the shore.

I'm not one for resolutions.  I won't start going to the gym today or make promises that I'll forget by February.  I can't even muster up a wish for 2014.  Today has all the same hours that yesterday had.  The same 365 days lay ahead as lie behind.  The only thing different is me.  And, this time next year, I plan on saying "well, that wasn't quite so bad".  

For everyone who put up with me in 2013:  I appreciate you and promise to lean less this year.

For everyone who rejoiced in my drowning:  sorry about that whole survival thing, you may want to avert your eyes this year too.

For my girls:  I love you and promise to carry us a little further this year.

For me:  it has to get easier at some point, just keep swimming.

Love.

Please

Let them see beyond the presents.  Let this be the year they look back and remember how we spent all day in the kitchen together.  Let the couch time, snuggled up watching a movie count more this year.  Let the hot chocolate-filled Christmas mugs and dinner in pajamas outrank everything else.

Let them not remember the cool kid socks or the big new tv or the countless other things they opened on Christmas Eve when they look back on the end of 2013.  Please.

Not because I'm not happy for them.  Not because I begrudge the gifts they deserve.  Not even because I lost another competition I didn't even enter.  Just because I did my best.

Let me remember that these are my kids.  These are the same kids who get excited over a simple peppermint candy or a block of cream cheese.  The same kids who have never questioned my loyalty to them.  These are the kids who just know that I am doing the best I can.

Let me remember that, regardless of what's under the tree, I have so much to be thankful for.  Let me remember all of the people who stepped up to help me provide gifts for the girls this year.  Let me look back on this difficult year as the time right before I got my feet under me.

Not because I made a series of grand decisions.  Not because I hit the lottery.  Not even because I didn't give up.  In fact I did give up for a few minutes this morning.  I did sit down and fall apart when I hung up the phone.  Just because I pulled it together for the only three people who matter.

And, please, let tomorrow morning pass without a single moment of feeling sorry for us.  Let the three faces lit up by our Christmas tree continue to be enough for me.  Let me keep the focus on the little things that keep us going.  Let me give them enough love to make them remember long after the socks are lost and the tv broken.

Please.

Let’s talk about the Elf on the Shelf, shall we?

 A few years ago, a whole new trend hit my Mama radar.  A super cute little guy, all dressed in red, that came with a book and symbolized all that was right about the holidays:  fun, hijinks, selective honesty, morals, the sweet naiveté of childhood.  Yep, I raced right into the local bookstore and forked over the over-priced charge for my seat on the bandwagon.

That’s how they get you… the promise of a little piece of the excitement that can only come when you’re young enough to believe the unbelievable.

The girls named him Robert.  Yes, it could’ve been something creative or significant (Lala or Snitch or Creepy Stalker with the cold stare); but my girls went for boring and basic.  If only their expectations for the little elf were the same.

It seemed so simple at first.  Move the little thing every night after they go to sleep.  They believe he visits Santa to report how good they are.  Bingo, Bango… pleasant children….”extra” presents from Santa.

You think… oh, it’s just a new tradition, a sweet thing they’ll mention in your long, heartfelt eulogy.  No.  Tradition is turkey on Thanksgiving or baskets on Easter – not pulling all of your brain cells together at 4 in the morning to remember where you’ve hidden the stupid thing the last 22 days because heaven forbid he shows up in the same place twice.  Tradition is the salad my grandma always made for me on special occasions.  It is not the annual dreading that, while unpacking our holiday decorations, I’ll accidentally open the box with the elf shoved in it and have to explain to my distraught children that Robert prefers hibernating for eleven months out of the year rather than baking cookies with Mrs. Claus.  And, tradition is certainly not accusing your sweet children of the absolute no-no (laying a finger on the magical sprite) because you forgot to move the darn thing before they woke up extra early on a Tuesday.  I like my guilt trips spur of the moment, thank you very much.

Look, as a mama, I accept that some traditions are less than ideal.  Yes, Santa gets some credit for gifts I scraped together loose change to buy.  Sure, a giant bunny came through and hid the baskets I stayed up all night arranging just so.  And, ok, a miniscule fairy alights on your pillow instead of your exhausted mama who had to hold her breath rather than screaming in pain when she stepped on the abandoned Lego on your floor.  Traditions – I get it.  However, this Elf on the Shelf has gone too far.

And, whatever you do, do not… I repeat DO NOT fall into the trap of ridiculousness that is being laid by the Wonder Women on Pinterest.  No, our Robert doesn’t make snow angels on my counter in sugar or have pool parties with Barbie all over my kitchen table.  Because, excuse me Super Mommies, but if we are teaching the children to follow the rules here:  it starts with you.  So, no my elf can’t be bathing in marshmallows in the bathroom sink.  Because rule #1 is no touchy the elfy.  And, I’d like my children to brush their teeth so that we don’t put the Tooth Fairy out of business.  Also, I’m no fan of bugs; so, I refuse to leave powdered sugar out on my counter for 24 hours… or 48 if I forget to clean it up and move on to the next ridiculously crafty position.  Personally, I am convinced that the creators of these high brow elf tricks are non-child bearing evil dictators who just laugh and laugh at the real world imitators’ vain attempts at their mind blowing feats.

Look, the holiday season is overflowing with opportunities to amaze your kids.  Build the supertallest snowman the world has ever seen.  Make so many mountains of cookies that no one could possibly scale them.  Go from three packages to a gazillion while they sleep Christmas Eve night.  Heck, buy the darn elf and move him from one mundane spot to the next each time you stumble upon him.  Just don’t make one more reason to stress traditional.

Oh, and please don’t let your kids find the Santa wrapping paper in the storage closet…. Or blame it on the elf.

No idle threat

This was what the tree looked like at bedtime last night.  Ornamented and grounded with presents, all ready for the coming holiday.

This is what they woke up to this morning.  Ornamented, but stripped clean of the gifts they had carefully searched.  The gifts I had scraped and struggled to buy.  The gifts I lovingly and thoughtfully chose for the children I love more than, well, more than anything.

I love them so much that I patiently waited for them to pick up their room.... For months now.  I'm not exaggerating, months I've been waiting.

I love them so much that I dropped to my knees and begged them (again, not exaggerating, I was on my creaky knees) to put their laundry away.

I love them so much that I grounded her for letting her grades drop, but gave in and let her go to the Girl Scouts fall party because I didn't want her to be left out.

I love them so much that I added 7 dozen marshmallows to my workload yesterday so that they could give them as teacher gifts.  Yet, when I had finished fluffing the bows, all they could say was "but you didn't make the hot chocolate.  I can't give it to her without the hot chocolate.  Why can't you just make that too?".

I love them so much that it was always an empty threat.  "Fine!  I'm canceling Christmas!"  "I'm taking back all of the gifts."  "I'm donating all of the gifts to kids who will appreciate them."

Until last night when I sat, defeated, on the couch staring at this tree.  This tree which we decorated (while arguing) and I wrapped presents for (while worrying that they wouldn't be excited at what was inside) and they crawled under (to check for the elf I moved every night in an attempt to keep the magic alive).  This tree, I decided, was mocking me.  

You won't do it.

It was just another idle threat.

You don't want to be the mean parent again.

Just go to bed, lady.  You're never going to actually take those presents.

And, I slumped off to a restless night.

Drinking my coffee at stupid o'clock this morning, I looked to my right at the presents and the tree and the threat of them waking up to one more day of me giving in.

And I grabbed some bags, loaded up the presents, took down the stockings, and quietly took away Christmas.

I don't want them to be the spoiled ungrateful kids I've seen stomping little feet and rolling preteen eyes around my house.  I don't want that more than I don't want to be the mean lady again.

They didn't know what to say this morning when they awoke to the new tree.  But they sure knew I wasn't idle anymore.  And that, oh judgemental people, was the price I lovingly paid my children this morning.

21 Christmases

She was Christmas.

Santa hat wearing, chain smoking, coffee refill break taking, big silly grin smattered all over her face, Grandma.

She addressed presents:  To:  Sarah  From: Claude.  Claude was her evil, obese cat who attacked my feet whenever I made the mistake of sitting on the couch.

She swore she knew exactly who touched the presents under the tree, even if we only flipped them to read the tags.

She waited up for me every Christmas Eve so that I would have a happy face greet me when I got back from my dad's.

She made me sit at the top of the stairs until my mother woke up on Christmas morning in an attempt to include her in my astonished surprise at the miracles Grandma created every December 25th.

I still remember the year I came home on Christmas Eve to discover she had already stuffed the stockings.  Years after I knew Santa wasn't real, I was still heartbroken that Grandma had given up waiting until I fell asleep.  She wouldn't let me peek though, just patted me on my head and sent me to my room.

I had her for 21 Christmases.  I woke up 21 years in a row to the most overwhelming feeling I've ever felt.  Grandma loved me like no one else ever could.  And, I didn't know it by the money she spent.  I knew it by the free perfume samples she stuffed into the stocking she knit for me when I was born.  I knew it by the way she spent all year gathering tiny pieces of my life, just to shower me with them beside the tree.  I knew it by the indescribable joy she spread with her own laughter.  I knew it 21 bright and early Christmas mornings in a row.

And, I selfishly pouted when she traveled for two Decembers.  She had other grandchildren she loved just as much as me.  She had other children who deserved to spend that magical time with her.  I hoarded her for so long that I forgot how to share.  I tried not to show it, but I didn't want a holiday that didn't include my Gma.  So, for those two years, I woke up alone in my apartment and vowed to cancel Christmas.  It simply didn't come without her.  

My Christmas was never stuffed in a box or with ribbon and bows, as Dr. Seuss once taught us: my Christmas was so much more.  It was one woman in a Santa hat, cigarette in hand passing out love to little old me.

Two years after our last morning by the tree, Grandma was gone.  A year after that,  I woke up early to wait for my eight month old daughter to enjoy her first Christmas.  Eleven years later, I stuff the stockings of three people who never met the woman who knit the one I still hang alongside of theirs.  And, as I wait for them to fall asleep before dropping perfume samples and propping Santa presents under the tree, I can almost smell her coffee.  I almost see her joy in their excitement at the first sight of the Christmas morning sky.  I almost feel her laughter when they unwrap the socks.  

My Grandma was Christmas.  Now, somewhere high above me, she sits chain smoking, coffee sipping, and smiling.  And, beside her is an obese angry cat that gave great presents.

People don't like real

This isn't new information, I know.  Most people like to hear what they want to hear.  They want you to repeat the lies they tell themselves.  They want that sugar coating, and they will accept nothing less.  And, not just for their own lives.  Most people want you to lie about you for them too.  

Don't make them uncomfortable with your struggles.

Don't make them feign compassion for the obstacles you're facing.

Don't humanize yourself for someone who wants to make you a stone.

These are the people who go on and on and on and on and on about how great their marriage is...on Facebook.  But text you three times a week about what a jerk he is.

They are the ones who can't stop telling you about all the unbelievable accomplishments their children couldn't have actually completed because you know they're really just average little kids who pick their noses and trip over their own feet.

The people who buy, buy, buy knowing they can't really afford, afford, afford.

I disappoint these people.  I'm simply not that good of an actress.  

Why does my Facebook profile pic rarely show the region north of my neck?  Because I'm no fan of that area and I refuse to photoshop a bright smile or smaller bags under my eyes.

Why do I joke about my ornery children in 3 out of 5 status updates?  Because my girls aren't perfect.  They do some impressive things, but there is definitely some stupidity mixed in there too.

Why do I blog about sadness or anger or humiliation?  Because I am sad and angry and humiliated.  I tell the truth.  It ain't pretty sometimes, sure; but honesty is always my first language.  If I logged on and wrote an essay about the joys of divorce or the ease of single parenting, I'd have to chew my own tongue off first.  And, frankly, I don't need the calories.

This is me.  Sometimes, I'm not as strong as everyone believes I am.  Sometimes, a feeling sneaks in before I have a chance to stomp it back down.  And, every once in awhile, I fall on my behind.  If those things never happen to you, congratulations!  Make sure you Facebook/twitter/blog/Instagram/snapchat all about your perfection.  Meanwhile, I'll be over here...not highlighting lies.  Feel free to dislike me for my reality because, I assure you, I'm no fan of your imagination.

I forgot to mention

But wait!  I forgot to tell you that I love you.

And I miss you.

And you are important.

I didn't mention how I still remember the way your eyes found me in a crowded room.

Your arm around my waist lead me home.

The warmth of your hand set me on fire.

I needed you to know that your name doesn't fall from my lips anymore.

But your voice is still on my phone.

I can't bring myself to delete that last picture from my gallery.

I wanted you to hear it from my lips, just once.

Not to change anything or to walk backwards through our mess.

Not to break my heart again or to listen to your whispered excuses.

I love you.  Not permanently or catastrophically.

Just, I love you.  Softly and quietly.

I forgot to tell you when you were mine.

I miss you still, though not all the time.

You are important still, though not so much anymore.

But we've already said our goodbyes again.  Already hung up, promising to keep our distance.  Already turned back toward our present, separate and defined.

So, to the emptiness on my right - I love you.  And, I miss you.  And, you are important. 

And, I hope that passes before we meet again.

Nights like these

It's nights like these that scare me.

Nights when it's drink or cry.

Nights when I check in with people in an attempt to forget everything I should be fixing.

Nights when I won't let the girls leave me alone in the kitchen - in fear that I'll open the bottle.

Nights when it's a lot of sinking, with very little swimming.

Nights when I'm falling back into hurting myself to make everyone else ok.

These are the nights when the holes feel deeper and the scars more fresh.

These are the nights when my mother is staring through the mirror.

I feel like I ran out of road hundreds of miles before the skid marks stop.

And I just want to get off of this ride.

But there are bills to be paid and lunches to be packed and hair to be combed.  I don't have the luxury of checking out.  I don't have the benefit of a time out.

No strength for another inch and no extra set of shoulders to shovel this onto.

No choice but to keep going.  Tomorrow is another day and all of that.

Really, that scares me even more than tonight: another tomorrow.

I'm so far behind in this marathon that I think I've lapped myself.

It's almost their bedtime, and I'm clinging to that thread of hope.  I hope I won't break before the last good night kiss.  I hope I can muster a genuine smile when they wrap their arms around my waist.  I hope they can't see how hard I'm trying.

Yes, nights like these scare me.  But, I didn't drink and the tears were dry before I pulled into the driveway.  So, I won again.  And, tomorrow could be different.  Tomorrow, I could be brave.

Either way, every breath I draw is another fear conquered.  Soon, this night will be one more survival story.

And I will be less afraid.

I needed that

It's been a crazy hectic few weeks around here, and I feel like I haven't put any energy into my girls.  You know those days where you fight with them for an hour, drop them at school, race around doing housework, fill orders for one job, race to the other job, race home, force feed vegetables to children barely done with homework, pack them back in the car for some prescheduled event, race back home to throw them in the bath, hastily kiss a still wet forehead and lay them down before collapsing in a heap?  Yeah, that was me for the last toomanydaystocount.  So, while almost all of the energy I can muster is spent on them, it doesn't feel quality enough.  I haven't spent those few minutes focusing on the story they're repeating or singing along while they practice for their programs.  It has not been a stellar mama showing lately, for sure.

And, yesterday was no different - until I found a story Eva's been writing.  She had left it for me in the only place she knew I would find it - on top of my order book.  As I came across the paper, I remembered her asking me to read it.  But I was busy finishing dinner and practicing spelling words with Maya, so I told her to just wait a minute, please.  Well, that minute turned into hours turned into the next day after she was at school.

I won't reveal the entire story, she may be a famous writer one day and want to release it to the highest bidder, but I will quote the lines that got me.

"Alice likes doing fancy moves her mama once told her she was born to be a soccer pro.  Alice wanted to believe her but when Alice played soccer games everybody would think she was the best player on the field everybody except Alice.  Her mama was her biggest fan she could cheer for her so loud that the parents who were cheering for the other team were afraid to cheer."

***************************************

This is the story of Alice Crater, The Soccer -Pro.  Alice is a nine year old girl who is serious about sports.  This Alice girl has a mama that makes her feel proud and confident in herself.  This Alice girl loves her mama so much that Alice believes what she says, even if she doubts herself.  That mama is doing something right.

Some days, I really miss the little moments.  I don't kneel down and kiss every minuscule scrape or concentrate on every detail of the latest middle school drama.  Some nights, I cannot wait for them to just go to sleep already so that I can have ten minutes of silence.  Sometimes, I wish away the little moments in favor of the sweet bliss of sleep.  Sometimes, I am failing miserably at the only thing I really cannot afford to fail.  And, at those times, it feels like I am drowning in mistakes.

Then, my kid throws me a lifeline.  You're doing something right, mama.  Look, this is how I see you.  Don't overlook these times, mama, because we aren't.  

Thank you, Alice.  

Manbashing, party of one.

It's not "man bashing" if I'm only talking about you.  I don't hate all men if I'm only having a semi-conversation with one member of the male species.  I've lived too much life to generalize an entire group of people based on the actions of one sub-par representative.

In fact, I really really love men.  My best friend is a man among boys.  Almost all of the people I have the most fun with are men.  I've met some really sweet ones lately, and I've been friends with a couple of awesome guys for quite some time.  I have always been more attracted to friendships with non-women.  And, in general, I much prefer the company of beer drinking, football watching, beard sporting, 5-second-rule following, penis owners.

So, as an exception to the "don't take it personally rule", I encourage you to accept it when I say....nope, it's just you.

You who can't figure out how to complete a sentence, so you stop halfway through and say "nevermind that may be too complicated for you.".

You who says "women WANT to think they provide the shelter and the food and pay the taxes etc etc. it's easy to throw stones when you don't have to pick them up baby" side note... Women don't like to be called baby by anyone other than their grandma or the man who rubs their feet when they've been busy eating bonbons all day.

You who says "my dad always used to say 'don't bite the hand that feeds you'. Women don't play by the same rules, do they?"

You.  

So, as I carry on with my day, I promise to keep in mind all of the powerful insights you spewed onto my screen last night.  I promise to really consider exactly how my disinterest in your multiple advances turned me from "HOT" to a manbasher.  I even swear to spend at least thirty seven seconds contemplating your theory that women are lined up just waiting for a chance to get at the pinnacle of manhood that is you.

Then, I will forget all about you and go back to loving men.  The grown kind, of course.

Proud mama moment #47653956

"Mama, today was kind of a sad day.  Can we talk when you get home?"

At this age and with this particular kid, I wasn't sure whether to take it seriously.  Honestly, I thought she was going to tell me something happened to a book character.  Or, maybe, someone didn't like the new shirt she was wearing.  But she came with me while I got ready for my movie date with her sister so we could have a "private" talk.

"Do you remember M.  that I said used to be a good friend?"

"Yes, as of this morning she was one of your best friends....what happened?"

"Have you ever heard of the 'salt and pepper factor'?"

"I think so, but you tell me what you think it means."

"A. told me today that it's when black people and white people have babies."

"Yep.  Why? Did you use that term?"

"No.  I don't like it.  But M. is a racist. She said she doesn't like salt & peppers."

"Ok.  Well, we can't help ignorant people."

"She said I was a jerk."

"Why?"

"Because I told her she shouldn't say that."

"Well, I think you and I can agree which one of you is the jerk here.  Right? Is that why you're sad?  Because she called you that?"

"No, it's sad because I can't be her friend anymore because she is a racist."

"It's sad that you lost a friend, but it's good that you get to choose what kind of people you want to be around.  And you're choosing not to hang with people who are stupid."

"Yeah."

My Sofia took a stand yesterday.  In the often land mine-filled halls of the middle school, my kid chose a side.  At an age when kids just want to be accepted and liked, my preteen girl gave up one of her best friends because she knows what is right.  And she did it on her own.  She didn't come home and ask what she should do.  She didn't waffle about whether this would be good for her image.  She didn't even care that this kid wasn't directly insulting her.  Sofia drew a line in the sand and didn't waver a bit.

I hate that the girls are surrounded by the ignorance and blind hatred that many think disappeared long ago.  It infuriates me that my kid was introduced to a term that should be reserved for the hair of distinguished men and superfluous table shakers.  But, my oh my, how proud I am of her backbone.  Strong and secure, she leads the way.  And, I would follow her anywhere. 

All I want for Christmas is you

So, I've been working outside the house for about six weeks now.  Six weeks of raising the girls, running my little business, and working six day weeks at the new job.  Six weeks of "wait...where am I supposed to be right now?".  Six weeks of "how did these bags under my eyes go from overnights to no way that'll fit in the overhead compartments?".  Six weeks of making this our new normal.  Six weeks of ithinkwecanithinkwecanithinkwecan.  

Each day, I leave the girls a note on the table welcoming them home and/or reminding them of the rules.  At the end of each note, I tell them: I love you more than.....  Could be coffee, or sleep, or clouds in the sky.  They get a giggle out of it and it softens the blow of "don't get into the cookies" or "don't go through my closet".  About two weeks ago, this started: 

That's my bedroom door.  Covered with "you can't understand how much I love you mama!!!!!!" and "smuch smuch I love you" and "I love you more than all the stars in the whole wide galaxy".  Maya started this all on her own and they now add to it every day.  Kind of makes the whole raising kids thing seem worth it.

Anyway, last week, I left a note telling them to write down their Christmas lists for me.  Knowing there is almost no chance I'll be able to fulfill any of their wishes this year, I was a nervous wreck when I got home that night.  We are still getting on our feet, and the idea of letting them down breaks my spirit like nothing else.

More than half of Sofia's list is books.  I love my little book nerd!  The iPod touch isn't going to happen, but I applaud the nerve it took to include it on her list.

I love that Eva's is so polite.  All those thank you's makes the list more bearable.  And, the "saftey stuff" request with the skateboard is adorable.  Maybe if she had spelled please correctly she would've gotten the dog.....nah,  but it was worth a shot, I suppose.

Then I read my Maya's.

This kid is breaking my heart.  Six weeks and she is no closer to accepting the new job than she was the day we sat down and cried about it.  Six weeks and she still begs every single day for me to come get her from school.  Six weeks and she still "forgets" her glasses almost every day so that I have to make a special trip back to her classroom.   Six weeks and she still hates my new boss.  Six weeks and all she wants for Christmas is for it not to get to seven weeks.

"I don't want to go either, love; but you have to eat.  So, I have to earn the money to buy food!"

"I want you more than food!!!"

"You like sleeping inside, right?  I have to earn the money to pay for our house."

"I want you more than our house!!"

So, I guess I'll be buying a cotton candy machine with the money I earn not fulfilling the rest of her Christmas list.

10,000

I've wanted to be  a writer my whole life.  From the first sentence I ever put on paper, I knew words were my thing.  I don't think or even really dream in pictures... It's prose.  The silly teenage poetry about boys and boys and boys that made Taylor Swift a gazillionaire filled notebook after notebook in the little room I used to hide away in.  The journals filled with the confusion and pain and loss of my early twenties still sit on a shelf in the slightly bigger room I call my refuge now.

I even went to college to study journalism, thinking I could make a career out of the words that come relatively easily to me.  Then I realized you can't really make a living like that, so I became a mama instead.  Hahaha.  Joke's on me....there's not a dime to be made raising human beings either.  So, for a long time, the only thing I wrote was my name on class mom rosters and recipes on the back of grocery lists.

And my soul died.  The loss of words was really the loss of me.

So, I started this little blog.  In a moment of sheer desperation and more than a little twinge of embarrassment, I wrote the first words I could let go of in years.

I didn't really think anyone would read them, and it felt so egotistical to post them at all; but, the release was overwhelming.  Since that day, I have written about everything and nothing.  My children, my fears, my failures, their wonders, my insecurities.  The rants, the tirades, the confessions, the questions.  I've been silly, and introspective, and sad, and angry.  I've been all the things I am in real life.  Those who know me know my voice.  This blog has been my voice.

And, today, my words have been read 10,000 times.  Seriously.  I logged on today to find that my count was at 10,002.  

I know that isn't really anything when you really think about it.  There are real writers who are read by that many in a day.  There are blogs that see that in a morning.

But, to little old me and my silly little ramblings,  ten thousand views is a lot.  I don't have sponsors or giveaways or recipes or crafting tips.  I just have this life and these words that mean everything to me.  It's truly humbling to think that anyone read even one post, so the fact that there were thousands...wow.

I am profoundly grateful for the time you gave up to me.  And, I am moved past the words that have always come so easily.

Thank you.  Ten thousand times over.

I might be a little over it...

Try being original.

Try not shouting things out of your car window....or worse, from the passenger seat of someone else's.

Try not pointing out the size of my chest before you even realize I have ears attached to the northern region of my cleavage.

Try, oh I don't know, not soliciting me for sex before you've even had a real conversation with me.

And, this will seem totally far fetched, but follow me on this one; but, try thinking of me as an entire person - not just a moving target.

Because, I've heard it all.  You're not the first....most days, you're nothing higher than third on the list of tactless, uninspiring, unworthy, unoriginal, not standing a single chance in hell...man to impede my path.

All I really want to know is...no, not your name, or your exaggerated size, or your number, or even your bank account balance...all I really want to know is: what poor excuse for a woman has ever fallen for your "game"?  What line have you ever shouted out that actually got a real life, flesh and blood, non-vegetative state, grown ass woman to take you seriously?

I imagine someone fell for it, right?  I mean why else would you be here, commenting on my ass as though you've never seen one outside of the magazines you still hide in your basement room at your mom's (or wife's) house.  Surely, you think I'm just going to roll right over here in the parking lot and moan while you huff and puff your way through the next ninety seconds because someone else did that for you.  Right?  I mean why else would you be wasting my time insulting my intelligence, my morals, and my prospects in life?

So, yeah, try being original.

Try talking or, better yet, don't.  A real woman isn't impressed by limited vocabulary and crude interpersonal skills.  However unreal it may seem to you, life exists beyond the confines of our jeans and bra size.

Or, maybe, you're right.  Maybe I am just a bitch.

Otherwise, you might have to consider that I am a grown woman with a brain and standards...and heaven knows we can't have those running around loose.

Not naming any names

There are days when I think I've got it almost all together.  Mornings when everyone gets willingly into the car, dressed and ready to go get their learn on.  Afternoons when they all come home, do homework and actually take their backpacks all the way to the hooks.  Evenings that are marked by the sweet sound of closed mouth chewing and pleasant dinner table conversation.  And, nights when they all lay down freshly washed and brushed, falling asleep swiftly and sweetly.

Well, maybe that's never all happened in the same twenty four hour period.

Ok, maybe I've never had two of those time periods in the same week.

Fine, maybe I've had one of those in the last month.... Even if I can't remember it right now.

More often, we are coming apart at the seams.

Someone, and I'm not naming any names, but someone might have been heaving a screaming six year old by a leg and an arm for a block and a half this morning.  It is possible that the unnamed person was seen hysterically laughing the whole time (to keep from crying, cussing, or yelling at the light of her life).  And, it is likely that this anonymous person would've given both kidneys if just one of the people who stopped to stare at the fiasco would've offered to help carry the backpack or water bottle or coat that were being thrown off in an attempt at escape.  Meanwhile, the child was screaming something about wanting to stay home with the suspect.  While, the suspect pleaded that it was not possible since she had to go to work.  To which, the child cried "I hate that!"  At which point, the nameless person may have just sat on the sidewalk and replied "yeah, me too."  

So, if you were a witness to the chaos of this person's morning.... if you were a bystander on the sidewalk of terror.....or an ogler from your nice cozy car, know these three things:

1.  She's a good kid.  She's got only one real parent and that parent is trying her best.  That parent tried every trick in the mothering handbook before she resorted to just scooping her up and forcing education upon her child this morning.  That parent was beyond grateful when the counselor appeared outside to help end everyone's misery.  And, that parent went home and cried for the mess she can't seem to get a hold of.

2.  Halloween should be moved to a non-school night.

3.  There should be an emergency line for liquor stores to open early on days like these....you know....for that person that definitely isn't me.

Why does this exist?

Two days ago, my Eva finally decided on a Halloween costume.  A blueberry pancake.  Yep.  So, while trying to imagine how I'm going to create this walking version of her 16th favorite breakfast treat, I turned to Pinterest.  Color me surprised that my child isn't the first person to think of such a thing!  Scrolling down the page, I found that there are several manufactured versions of a pancake costume and a few ideas for how I can make one myself.  Then, this popped up...

Naughty Nemo.  Why does a naughty nemo costume exist?  Who watched this animated movie and thought, "yeah, I'd totally do that fish!"  Or...

"Know what turns me on?!  A mythical horse with one too many appendages!"  Or...

"Yeah, Harry Potter is sexy!" Or...

"Well. If you're going to hell anyway, might as well go big."  Or...

Mmmmm....Elmo.  Seriously, what kind of freaks are living in the alleys of Sesame Street nowadays?!  Or...

Please remind me to take a closer look at those I invite to my next family barbecue.  Because, if you're eyeballing the corn this closely, you should be on some kind of federal watch list.  Or...and this is probably my favorite...

Yes, my friends, she is a Naughty Bathtub.  A naughty bathtub.  Pretty sure that's one clogged drain away from an overflowing toilet.

Why do these costumes exist?  And, they're not just one creative chick's late night craft idea.  They are mass produced for public consumption.  That means, if you have too much vodka one night and stumble into a Halloween party dressed in your polyester preschool fantasy whore outfit, there's a good (?) chance you won't be the only pedophile tease tossing back Jell-O shots.  Remember the good old days when you could only be a naughty nurse or a French maid?  Ah, the simpler days, when men didn't lust after bathtubs or slices of pizza.  The days when it was less child trafficker and more secretary rendezvous.

So, I will travel the streets this year with my zombie and pancake.  Thankful that no one has found a way to turn these things into street walking rainmakers...

Yes, I googled "naughty pancake costume" and have never been more thankful to google images for chocolate stacks of pancakes.  Give it time, I predict it will be a best seller next year.

 

In the mirror sometimes...

I don't sleep much anymore.  It's really always been a problem, but lately it's gotten worse.  So, by the time I stumble through my bedtime routine, it's well past the hour of humility.  It is on these late nights, that I find myself looking more intently into and upon myself.

This face, smudged with a life even I can't sometimes believe, haunts me from the bathroom mirror.  The dark circles formed by years of self accepted abuse and the genetics of disapproval.  The caverns carved between eyebrows too often cocked in question and mock-disbelief.  The skin damage earned by a childhood spent basking in the sunlight with friends I wish I could still call to come out and play.  The lips full of held back emotion, softened by the loss of passion.  And these eyes that once sparkled for such a short time, but now lie dormant and beaten.

I see the scars I gathered as souvenirs and wonder how I will add to the collection.  I try to imagine all the new pain I will earn and plan where to stow away those memories.  So much of me has been used well past the point of warranty.  So much is beyond repair.

But these hands hold my children when they race in for comfort.  These breasts soak up the tears of innocence and love.  This waist is home base for a girl hiding from the real world.  And, these feet carry me in the circles I'm spinning in the name of progress.

Don't hide the madness, I whisper to my reflection.  It's ok to fall apart tonight.  It will all look different in the morning.

And, in the darkness of the early morning, I gather up my tools to paint a fresh view.  Covering the darkness and the lines and the scars of the night, I submit to the new day's promise.  No longer hopeful, but comfortable in the known.  

Because, sometimes, staring back at the end of the day is the face of a stranger I once knew.  Sometimes, I still call her out to play.   And, one night, she just might rest in the dreams of a quiet peace.   

Sideline Mama

Orange slices at halftime.  Granola bars and flavored water for post-game treats.... Unless we got assigned the last game, then it is cupcakes.  Hot coffee for early morning games, iced coffee for the rare warm weather games.  Water jugs or Disney bottles for the girls.  

Four different "soccer mama" shirts, emblazoned with my player's name on the back, so there can be no doubt.  Four different buttons (two soccer, one dance, one basketball) weighing down my jacket. Parked at the midfield line - or "my spot", as it is always known.  Proud.

I am that mama.  You know her.  The one who cannot sit still.  The one coaching from the wrong side of the field.  The one giving you a headache, two games away from yours.  The one jumping for joy when her kid scores a goal.  The one who never says two words outside of the soccer fields, but can't shut up about how incredible her kid and her kid's team is.  The one who always looks angry, except...

 

I like sports sometimes.  I never miss a Super Bowl, watched every single game Michael Jordan played from 1996 to when he retired the first time, catch every KU basketball game I can, and used to watch a lot of boxing.  I'm telling you, I can sit and enjoy a good game of almost any kind.  But I live for watching my kids play sports.  

Every Saturday morning...and Wednesday night practice...and Thursday night practice...and Saturday afternoon camp.  Every season.  Indoor and outdoor.  Soccer...tball...volleyball...basketball...cross country...tennis.

You know those crazy ladies who won't chit chat during the games... the ones who aren't there to socialize or make friends...the ones who abandon their chairs to stalk up and down the sidelines shouting encouragement (or directions in Spanish so the other players don't know what they're saying)... the ones who seem to live and die with every touch of the ball?  Yes, we know we look a little crazy.  We know you want us to sit down and shut up.  We see you rolling your eyes and whispering to each other that it's just a game.

And, you're right..it is just a game.  But it's a game that makes our kid feel like a superstar.  It's a game that brought our struggling girl out of her cocoon and into the limelight of accomplishment.  It's a game that we have shivered in the cold through, or bought new cleats for, or woke up extra early to get to, or practiced after school every day to prepare for, or wore the lucky socks to.

Or, maybe it is just a game.  Maybe it's silly that her and I wore out the net in our driveway getting her touch so comfortable she doesn't have to think about it anymore.  Maybe it is ridiculous that I run out onto the field like she won the World Cup when I've watched her play her heart out for an hour on a crisp, October morning.  Maybe you're doing it right in your chair, on your phone, only half watching your child being a kid.

But, last Saturday, I missed the first game since Sofia was in kindergarten.  And, my Eva scored the first goal I ever didn't stand up to cheer for.  She called me at work to tell me all about it:

"I looked at your spot when you weren't yelling, mama.  And then I remembered you weren't there.  It was weird and I missed you."

So, next time you wonder why the crazy lady on the sideline won't treat this like another chore she is forced into by her child....the next time you have to move your chair further down the sidelines because she's cheering louder than you are...the next time you're tired and cranky and cold on a soccer sideline: remember that there's a kid on the field looking for her.

And then remember that she's cheering for your kid too.  She'll race to the bench after the game to make sure she tells every kid on the team what a great job they did.  And she will mean it.  And, at the last practice of the season, when it's kids vs parents, she will whoop up on your kid.  Just to prove she can...just to show there's a reason they should listen to her coaching from the wrong side of the field...just to earn her spot at the midfield line.

"I DON'T WANNA GO TO SCHOOL!!!!!"

"DON'T MAKE ME GO!!!!!"

"I JUST WANNA STAY HOME WITH YOU!!!!"

Every school morning since I started the new job, this is what is yelled at me until we hit the sidewalk outside of the building.

"Please, mama....."

"I'll be good and we can take a nap..."

"No one is nice to me...they make fun of me....they won't play with me...."

"I wanna go home."

Every school morning since I started the new job, this is stuck between big, sad tears and fingers white from squeezing my hand.

She plants her feet like a mule.  I drag her by her backpack straps.  

She turns and walks back toward the car.  I chase her down and carry her while she does the "limp noodle" I thought she had abandoned years ago.  

Every morning, for a week, we have our showdown on the first grade hall.   And, every morning, I claim the empty victory of leaving my baby in tears with relative strangers who can't understand the pain we're feeling.

Yesterday, after completing her reading assignment, Maya decided to read another book to me while I made dinner.

Yeah, she's not one for subtlety.

Mama mama misses Maya too.

Words

I crave words more than I gasp for air.

Hello.

I need you.

I miss you.

Goodbye.

I'm sorry.

Where are you?

I miss you.

I didn't mean to.

I love you.

I'm on my way.

You were it.

I was wrong.

I miss you.

You were wrong.

I miss you.

Again.

I miss you.

I miss you.

I don't need pictures or scents or the empty taste of kisses.  I long for the words formed by voices I've forgotten.  And, my soul reaches for the phrases I held back.

Hello.

I'm sorry.

I love you.

No.

You are right.

One more time.

You are it for me.

Please don't go.

I didn't mean it.

Goodbye.

I need you.

Just go.

The indentation of all the words I refused to say lays on my tongue, a scar marking the place my heart lies broken.  So many words bitten back by fear that my bleeding tongue knows nothing but pain, refuses to let flow any kindness for fear of being hurt again.

Yes, I'm a lover of words - given and received.  Harsh and comforting.  Warm and bitter.  But never held from the ears left begging for more.

Say it like you mean it

Teach your kids to apologize.

From the time they could speak.... Well, really from the time they could do something that required an "I'm sorry" (which for one of them came very soon after her first word), I have taught my children how to apologize.  Because, and pay attention here, it's so much more than a "sorry" mumbled through clenched teeth while staring off into space.

They look you in the eye and they say nice and clearly for all to hear "I'm sorry for ___________".

They take as long as they need to mean it.  If that takes all night, that's ok.  But life, for them, stops until it happens.

If they throw attitude at their mama from the table, they leave the table.  They may not come back to dinner until they look me in the eye and say "I'm sorry, mama, for making a big deal about the steamed carrots.".  

If they roll their eyes and tell their sister that she talks too much when she's trying to tell them something "exciting" about the day, they leave the room.  They may not rejoin the group until they look the sister in the eye and say without a hint of irony, "I'm sorry I was rude.".

I find all of these steps to be very important.  

Leaving the room first gives everyone a chance to calm down.  It also removes the offender from my line of sight so that, if they continue their behavior, I don't see it and they don't get in further trouble.

Looking people in the eye is just good form, but it also makes it harder to hide from the affect you had.  In addition, it forces the person who was wronged to take the apology seriously.  Sometimes it's hard to accept an apology, especially one given as soon as the damage was done.  By making them look you in the eye, you're forcing yourself to take their words.  

Describing what you're apologizing for might be the most important part.  No, you're not sorry that you might have hurt my feelings or that I took what you did wrong or that I left my favorite stuffed animal out for you to kick across the room.  You're sorry that you did something wrong and you are accepting responsibility.  Often, the person who was wronged offers their own apology for whatever part they played.

And, finally, say it like you mean it.  No attitude, no sarcasm, no mumbling.  There are certain combinations of words that should always be said loud and clear.  "I'm sorry" is definitely one of them.

So, teach your kids to apologize.  Then teach them to accept an apology and move on.

There's nothing quite like the first words out of your child's mouth after school being "I'm sorry I was mean to you this morning, mama.  I didn't mean to make you sad.  I'll do better tomorrow."  Those simple sentences erased seven hours of unease and worry.  And they get to hear, "That's alright, love.  We all have bad mornings.  Let's forget about it."

Too many people don't know how to be sorry.  Too many people refuse to take responsibility when they make a mistake.  I know three people who are being raised to do better.  I can't stop them from doing wrong; however, I can teach them to recognize a misstep and go back to repair the damage.  And, that's even better.

Day one - done

Before I even got out of the car after my first day at the new job, I was mobbed by my three favorite girls.  Squeezes and smooches gave way to homework and studying with relative ease.  They sat down to dinner, and we did our normal dinnertime question.  It was almost too smooth.  We almost forgot that everything had changed.

Then Maya remembered.  I know this because she had a complete breakdown at the idea of doing it again today.  So, after her bath, we snuggled up together and took deep breaths.  She pressed her baby soft face to my chest and wrapped her tiny little arms around my waist.  And she cried big, sadly quiet tears while her still wet hair hid my own heartbreak.

I love you, mami.  It's all going to be alright.

Ok, mama.

This morning, she was stuck to me like glue.  Just like when she was a toddler, she sat on my feet while I washed the breakfast dishes.  Just like the first day of school, it took a few extra moments to let go of my hand.  Just like every time her papi takes them for the weekend, she came back for another kiss.

I'm sorry I cried, mama.  I know you don't want to leave us.  It'll all be alright.

I'm sorry it has to be like this, love.  But, yes, it will all be just fine.

So, we survived day one.  One small step, one giant leap.

Show up

This isn't about anyone but me.  I'm not comparing my experience/life/status/feelings/failures/thoughts to anyone else's.  I know millions of parents do it every day.  This isn't about those millions...it's about this one.

Since Sofia was three.

In blistering heat, bone chilling cold, pouring down rain, blinding snow, sickness, health, with a newborn, with a toddler, with a newborn and a toddler, in long car lines, through heavy foot traffic, two different preschools, two different elementary schools, and a middle school.

Hours after being released from the hospital with a baby.

On my way to being admitted for emergency surgery.

More than 2,176 afternoons.

Covered in stress sweat from worrying I'd be late.

Covered in flour from working all day in the kitchen.

All done up for date night.

With not a stitch of makeup and sweats.

Without exception.

For more than nine years.

I have always been the first face the youngest sees when the school doors open.  Always.  Not until they were in three different schools did Sofia have to wait for me after school.  Not until just this year did Eva have to walk to me instead of being greeted at her door.  And, not until today will that streak be broken.

I'm the mama who gets to the school more than thirty minutes early to ensure I get to be the smile that welcomes the end of the girls' school day.  And, everyone has always teased me so much over it.  "I'm just anal," I have always replied.  I am,  but that's not the real reason I take my place at the front of the school pickup line.  Here's the truth:  in my whole childhood, I can't remember a single time I was sure my mother would get me when she was supposed to.  I can't count the number of times she forgot me at daycare.  I was always the kid left with the one tired teacher who just wanted to go home but couldn't because my ride wasn't there.  And, by the time I was seven, I was going home to an empty house.  Sometimes my mother would get there before I went to bed, but most of the time she went to the bar instead.  I've never had anyone I could count on to show up.  So, being the first person my girls see when the doors open is my tiny way of trying to show them that they can depend on me.  That they can be secure knowing mama is there.  Always.

Until I break that promise today.

Today, I start a job that takes me away from the school doors every afternoon.  Today, when the bell rings, I won't be smiling at Maya's 1st grade door.  When Eva rounds the corner, she won't see mama walking toward her.  And, Sofia won't wait on the corner for my car.  Today, I will let them down.  Not for the first time, but definitely in a way none of us is ready for.

Eva and Maya cried when I told them.  They worry about things I hadn't even considered.  Who's going to make dinner?  Do we have to do our homework without you?  What about our snacks? Can we still play outside?  Is it every day?  And, I have cried every night since I accepted the job.  My only role every afternoon since Sofia started preschool was to show up.

Today, I won't do that.

Today, they won't find me outside the doors.

Today, I won't hold their hands on the walk home.

Today, everything changes.

Today, I let them down.

Today, I won't show up.

I never wanted to be my mother.  Today, I take a step in that direction.

Identity Crisis

I went out with a group of ladies on Friday night, and I haven't recovered yet.  From the alcohol, yes.  By mid afternoon yesterday, I'm pretty sure I was mostly sober again.  But from the discomfort, no.

See, these were four grown up ladies.  Four employed, beautiful, strong, confident, intelligent, educated, stylish women.  Three of whom are apparently happily married to successful men and all of whom are wildly accomplished on their own.  Then there was me.  I felt like the inner city child who gets to go to the rich kids camp for a weekend.  Or like the 'here is your brain, here is your brain on drugs commercial' (hint: I'm definitely the scrambled egg).  Or like the crumbs at the bottom of the chip sack (you know those are the saltiest).  Or like the bad example of a lady.  Sing it with me....  One of these things is not like the others....one of these things does not belong.

They sat there discussing medical stuff (see my uber technical use of the jargon there) while I sat back, chugging my vodka thinking "ummm...I make mediocre cookies and try real hard to brush Maya's teeth everyday.  Cheers!"

So, all day yesterday while I swam through the post-lots-of-wine-and-vodka haze watching netflix and coming up with reasons to not take a much needed run, I thought about all of the women I know.  And I realized something.  I ain't sh!t.  Every woman I know does everything I do; but they do it while holding down a job, carrying on adult conversations, keeping husbands/boyfriends happy, and always looking flawless.  Meanwhile, in the land of ponytails, raised voices and minimal sanity standards, I'm barely holding it together.  I'm guessing these ladies let me tag along every once in awhile in some sort of immersion therapy session.  Maybe she'll glean some of our power through hand to hand contact when we pass her the bottle!  

Will I ever make something of myself?  I mean, besides a sandwich?  It's looking doubtful.  So, I sit back in awe and watch the women around me setting such fine examples of what could have been...knowing it never will be.

To the ladies in my life:  I tip my glass to you... Not too far though, I don't want to have to do laundry again tomorrow.

Rivalry (sibling and random outsiders)

Having three kids, all girls, comes with some expected challenges.  You can see them coming and prepare, or avoid, as much as possible.  Sometimes, of course, no amount of cushioning softens the blows.

Sibling Rivalry.  

Each of the girls has, thankfully, found their own niche.  Sofia is the band kid.  She's the only one who can play an instrument.  So far, I mean, band isn't an option until middle school.  However, for many reasons, I hope she maintains the title of Top Music Kid.  Eva is the sports kid.  She really seems to have been built for it.  She holds two school records and is a certified awesome soccer player.  She was chosen first in the local draft for teams and has been praised by other parents and coaches after she has annihilated their players.  She is undoubtedly our Top Sports Kid.  Maya is the princess.  Not really submitting to any specific category, we will just say she is darn good at whatever she tries.  She is almost as fast as Eva, but not as devoted to sports.  And, she can create some pretty impressive artwork, but doesn't really live for it the way she could.  Mostly, Maya is the Top Confidence Kid.

Now, it's big bad confession time.... Here goes..... I thought I would have one less-than-intelligent child.  Sofia has always had straight A's and been a teacher's pet.  Eva has maintained the A streak and has never met an adult who didn't adore her.  So, I was sure Maya would be my less than stellar student.  Dirty secret: I was pretty sure she couldn't be that gorgeous and smart too.  (Of course, that's my excuse for why I only got one of those two traits myself.)  True to her style, though, my youngest girl is proving me wrong.

This is Maya's current reading assessment.  The green highlighted "I" is where she was at the end of kindergarten.  Already well above where she needed to be.  The highlighted, handwritten, off to the side because it's way off the charts "Q" is where she is at the beginning of 1st grade.  For perspective, 4th graders should be at an "M".  She is so far ahead of the other kids in her class that she is a reading group unto herself.  For her first "group" assignment, she was supposed to read an almost 3rd grade level book for 15 minutes a night until she finished the book, which should've taken her at least three nights.  She finished it the first afternoon in well under 15 minutes.  And, yes, she understands the books.  There has been some discussion that she can't possibly be comprehending the words, just reciting the letters.  I have a set of questions I ask her at the end of each assignment, and she always answers them in that "let's dumb it down for mama" voice that she shouldn't have needed until high school algebra.  So, yeah, she's no dummy.

Anyway, once we got this report, Eva wanted to know what level she was.  So, I emailed her teacher to find out.  Eva is a "U".  Again, at her age, a level "M" is on grade level.  So, Eva is also off the charts.  I was so excited to tell her when she came out of school yesterday that I couldn't wait until we got home.  Holding hands on the way to the car, I made the announcement.  Immediately, her shoulders slumped. 

"What's wrong?!"

"But.....she's almost there!"

"So?!  You're off the charts too!  That's awesome, love!"

"Not as awesome as Maya."

"It's not about comparing you and Maya.  You are accomplished all on your own."

The truth is, she's right.  Maya seems to have taken over a category (at least temporarily) they all shared equally.  A category no one really expected her to be in.  And, it kind of stinks.  In a totally inappropriate way, I think we would all relax a little if this kid would just not be good at something.  But they're all crazy smart.  Not a bad problem to have among a group of pretty girls... Unless those pretty girls insist on constantly trying to beat each other at everything.

Outsider rivalry

So, I posted on Facebook my incredible pride over Maya's achievement.  Because I'm her mama, and I'm allowed to scream from the mountaintops that my kid is awesome.  Because being such an outstanding reader is something for her to be proud of, and I wanted her to see that.  And, because she told me to post it....she is used to being praised and expects it on every level.  Maya and I wanted her to have her daily moment in the sun.

Then the clouds came in.  I will address this only once and as briefly as possible:

This was Maya's moment.  My six year old did something awesome and I wanted her to be recognized for it.  And, there were some people who definitely shared in our celebration.  We are lucky to have so many people who truly care for my children.  Then, there were the.....well, in my cleaned up vocabulary, we will call them the whiners.

The people who can't be happy for someone else's child.  The people who have to rain on other parades.  The people who turn it into some sort of I'm-bashing-your-kid thing when I'm really not even thinking about your kid.

It is not a competition between my kid and yours.  Stop being so self centered.  I don't care if my baby can out-read yours (she can), or out-play yours (she can), or out-score yours (she can).  And, you shouldn't either.  Your kid is good at things too, I'm sure.  And, when you eventually tell me about some great thing they've accomplished, I can assure you that the first thing out of my mouth will not be a comparison to my child.  Because your child will deserve their moment just like mine does.

So, I'm sorry if your child isn't as highly sought after for a soccer team or impressive to their teachers or off the charts at school.  But I am beyond proud that mine are.  And, I won't stop telling you about it just because you want to steal their thunder.  Because, and this fact I am completely secure in, no one can dim my child's light.  I won't allow it, and neither will they.

Another unexpected hurdle

Standing in the bathroom this morning, doing Maya's hair, we had an audience.  Sofia stood in the hallway watching us.  At this age, we don't generally see her face... It's either the top of her head or her back most of the time.  So, I figured she was there for a reason.  I had no idea there was a train headed straight for me.

Why does my belly stick out further than yours?

Say what?!

I don't know, love.  You just ate breakfast.  Why?

When I get older, will my body look more like yours?

Well, the alternative isn't a hugely appealing option, so...lesser of two evils I guess...

Your body will look however you make it look, but you're going to be beautiful regardless.  Why?

Just wondering.

She's been asking a lot of questions lately about physical appearance.  Being a preteen, I knew it was coming.  The pressure that's developed over the last year to be one of the "cool kids" is coming at her from every angle.  We've spent a lot of time talking about how much more important being smart is than being cute.  I thought we were doing pretty well handling her self esteem.  She likes being the "band nerd" and, while I know she has been noticing boys for awhile now, she isn't boy crazy yet.  I know we have only just started this long road, but I thought we were doing alright.  

Until this morning.

It never occurred to me that she would compare herself to me physically.  I cannot remember a single instance of comparing my mother's appearance to my own.  As a friend said this morning when I asked if her daughter had the same concerns, "it's as if she and I are a different species".  So, as my daughter stared at my abs this morning, I didn't know how to respond.  

I spend a lot of time stressing how important brains are.  I remind them over and over how perfect they are in their own ways.  Health and strength trump beauty and flash in our house.  And yet, standing in the bathroom this morning, all my girl could see was a body shape she thinks she'll never have.

I expected peer comparison.  I have all the answers for that one ready and waiting for the first question out of her mouth.  We are all made differently.  All shapes and sizes, colors and textures.  If we all looked the same it would be boring and I wouldn't be able to find them in a crowd.  Blah blah blah.   

I asked a few people with daughters Sofia's age if their kids have made the same comparisons.  It was split almost down the middle.  So, apparently, I'm not alone on this one.  I just hope I handled it half as well as they do.

Before I took her to school, I had a conversation with her where she shared some things that I won't, but the basic ending was satisfactory.

You get to choose what to focus on.  You are a smart, talented, funny girl with everything going for you.  You have so much beauty, some that can be seen and some that can be felt, and that's important too - just not important enough to lose focus of the other stuff.  Your belly doesn't stick out - you are healthy.    And, you have your whole life ahead of you to worry about silly things like what can be seen on the outside.  Go to school and come home smarter this afternoon, that matters so much more than how flat your belly is.

This whole parenting thing is harder than it needs to be sometimes.