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.

How do you know?

"Mama, how do you know if a boy likes you?"

It's Sofia, my twelve year old, and this is clearly a conversation she's been waiting to have.  Her sisters are both getting ready for bed and she's looking at me with the expectancy one can only have when they believe they're speaking to a wise person.

My first response, because I am who I am, was a sarcastic one.

When they remove their wedding ring before they approach you.

When they gently smack your behind rather than maul it.

When they respond to your texts within the first three hours of receipt.

When they pay for more than just your vodka.

Thankfully, my filter was engaged so none of that made it out of my mouth.  Instead, I managed, "sweetie, if I knew that answer, I'd be rich."

Short of a boy just outright declaring his feelings, it's a maze of subtle clues.  

Does he pick on you relentlessly?  Than he might like you...or he could be a typical preteen jerk.

Do you catch him looking at you?  Than he's either infatuated or you have something stuck to your face.

Does he find reasons to talk to you?  Than he either likes you or wants to cheat off of you on a test.

Boys are simple messes.  And, they are usually unaware of this.  They are basically very cut and dry in most matters.  Sports - yes.  Obnoxious behavior - yes.  Noxious odors - yes.  Deep conversations - no.  Boy bands - no.  Salad - no.  Girls - I dunno, maybe, gross, well.. maybe not super gross, but kind of.

"But if he has any sense, taste, or eyesight at all - yes, he likes you."

And, if it helps at all, boys don't know a thing about girls either.  And, that's just the way we like it.

hidden / displayed

On my hipbones.  In my ears.  Behind my knees.  Beneath my finger nails.  Between my shoulder blades.

I carry the kind of pain that only echoes through a broken heart.  It's in all the places no one can see.

In the arch of my left eyebrow.  The tang of my sarcasm.  The exaggerated swing of my hips.  The slow and steady beat of my step.

I throw the flagrant breeze of a cold heart.  It's in all the trophies on my display shelf.

You don't need to know that I've been hurt.  No one wants to hear that someone had the power to break me... more than one someone.  They don't need to see the damage they wrought.

So I emptied out the center of my chest.  Packed up my breakables and threw away the key.  

Empty means nothing can be broken.

Nothing broken means nothing to fear.

Fearless means keeping the power to myself.

It means the last person who broke me is the last person to break me.

So, there - just behind the blank stare, between the full lips, in the center of the warm palms.

I keep the unmendable heart that is no longer up for grabs.  

Pain is hidden.  Strength is displayed.  And, love is off limits.  

Yes, I have moments where I desperately miss looking up.  There are so many times when, even if the view was different, I'd give anything to tiptoe again.  Then I remember where that got me, and I arch my brow and settle down again.  

I have nothing to be scared of.  There's nothing left to steal.  All I have is on display, and you don't want any of that.

Effortless.

Know what takes nothing?

Absurdity.  It's effortless.  You can trip over your own unabashed tongue with the slightest of giggles.  Make a face, go ahead, do it.  Cross your eyes or fish-face your lips or wiggle your brows.  See... Easy.  Being silly is not just for children, stop letting them have all the fun.  They're too young to appreciate it anyway.

Honesty.  Effortless, unfiltered, by the light of the moon truth.  Try it....go on.  Stop worrying about what he'll say or what she'll think or what they'll throw back at you.  Speak.  Tell him he's adorable.  Tell her she's selfish.  Put yourself on the line - your own line on your own terms.  See.... You survived and your shoulders are lighter for it.

Mistakes.  Huge errors in judgement, momentary lapses in self control, even life altering cluserf*cks can come as easy as your next breath.  Around every corner is another chance to mess up.  Do it...it's alright.  Problems slide into your passenger seat with the ease of ice cream dripping down your cone.  Clean up the mess and move on.  It may take a minute, but you'll round the next corner with the same ease.  Find a new map and keep walking.

Love.  That's right, I said it.  Falling in love is effortless.  It takes no more than a sideways glance to land head first in adoration.  The weight of a strong hand on your lower back guiding you through a crowd.  The silent breaths held waiting for your turn to tell your story.  The gentle flutter of eyelids the first time you awaken in arms not your own.  The subtle change of temperature in long gazes and unspoken secrets.  Yes, falling is easy.  Staying - a different story, so land as many times as you can.

So much of life is made complicated.  So many pieces of ourselves would fit together perfectly, if not for our need to force backwards, upside down and turned around moves into holes left empty for reasons known too well.  Be easy.  Save the effort for the true trials.  Let it come.  Whether it be joy or sorrow, love or loss, beginnings or ends - it's coming either way.  So, let it.  Be easy.  You don't have to fight every struggle.  It's ok to lose sometimes, there are so many lessons in defeat.  Find them.  

Embrace the effortless.  Try it.  Absurd, honest, mistaken love.  It's easy.