Fear factor

It's Friday night.
I love Friday next as much as the next twenty-something. Mine just looks a little different.
Because I am forty.

And trying hard to rewrite my definition of fun.

Typical Friday night before 6 days ago:
Hang out with the boy. This likely includes carne asada fries or pizza with a Disney movie (Aladdin last week!MY pick!!!) or something weird like zoo animals turning into zombies (this is a real thing. and also, manchild's pick). After manchild goes to bed, the hubs and I grab a beer (something NOT fancy for him - think Fosters or Mickey's - in a can the size of my face, and a Shocktop Twisted Pretzel for me. Because that is the best beer on the PLANET.)
We go outside, grab our smokes, settle in our chairs and proceed to talk for at least three hours. Minimum. We talk, we plan, we belly laugh, we give kisses, we high-five, and we dream a little more. Then we go to bed.

Friday night as Day 6 of NO SMOKING. What does THAT look like?

Well - we did not go into this decision unprepared. This life change was the topic of conversations many Friday nights.

We planned how we would stop smoking while we smoked our brains out.

You see, we've tried before. Or - Jeff has.
I am the one with the pitchfork and horns in this situation. I am the BAD INFLUENCE. He has done 6 days. He has done TWO WEEKS. And I'm outside like, "No one is making me quit. I'll smoke if I wanna." puff puff flick. puff puff flick.

That plan doesn't work. Not for us. We both had to or it wasn't going to happen. All. Nothing. All. Nothing.

And I didn't want to. I was adamant about it. I would quit when I was ready and you know, I didn't think I ever would be. Even typing this sentence right this second, I feel scared. I feel scared about not smoking.

Jeff wouldn't push me and he'd come back outside and we would continue.
Oh, I'd feel shame. For sure. What kind of WIFE doesn't support her husband when he wants to quit smoking? When he wants to better himself?
I'll tell you,
A selfish one. An addicted one. A struggling one. A scared one.
But I'd rationalize, and he would too, and the shame would crawl back into the mud it came out of. See you next time.
puff puff flick.

I started smoking when I was twelve. It started as pressure, for sure. Not the kind you would think though. I didn't smoke to "be cool." I smoked to disappear. It's a lot easier to disappear when you look like everyone else.
A year later I was living in a group home. We ALL smoked. To disappear. To be outside. To avoid slamming each other's heads against the wall. To not cry out our fear and rage. Instead we sucked it down. We sucked it all down.
puff puff flick.

And that continued for me for the next 27 years. Cigarettes became my bestie. Sure, I knew the dangers, I'm not an idiot, but those seemed far, far removed from me. Like a city on a continent I've only seen pictures of. I know it's real but I don't have plans to go there.

I smoked and I sucked it all down - abandonment, anger, loss, insecurity, fear, and fear, and fear. I inhaled deep and controlled my exhale out. I would not let these things beat me. I would not.

And even as I write this I wonder, who will be my friend? When all is quiet and everyone is asleep and my mind is goinggoinggoing and I am trying to pray and trying to feel and also trying not to, who will be my friend?


But, I can't think about that. I have to focus. I have to remind myself Jeff and I have a plan. We made a plan and part of that plan is, don't think too far ahead. And a second part is, we're going to feel it all and we're going to give grace and love like we're made with it. And another part is, we're going to learn how to talk, like normal people, we will learn how to talk. While doing dishes, and laying in bed, and walking the dogs. And maybe we will gain a little bit of weight but we are going to keep saying, You are BEAUTIFUL and You are STRONG, and so we will smile and keep going. I will do this. We will do this.
We have to.

The thought of losing Jeff scares me frozen. I could not bear it.
He started coughing a while ago. He started coughing and its been so long since I've heard the cough that I can't remember when it started. All I know is that sometimes he hunches over and he coughs so hard it reaches out and squeezes my heart until I think it might shatter. He coughs so hard he can't breathe and I hold my breath and not breathe either until he does again.
I found myself making deals with God, "If you let him be ok, I'll stop. I really will." And then I would light another one. I'm not very good at this deal business. I am good at fear.

Here's the thing. I had to decide which fear was bigger - living without my constant of the last 28 years or living without Jeff?
And Jeff wins. Jeff wins every time.

Maybe it's because we're forty now. Maybe its because over the past two months, two people we know have died and left us shaking our heads thinking, "What the fuck is happening? He was SO young!" Maybe it's realizing, this life is pretty damn precious and if I want it, I better live like I want it. Maybe its finally beginning to believe, I am worthy. I am worthy of not just surviving in this life,
but thriving in every second of it too.


And so, come. Come, new Friday night with food and movies and no beer and no smokes.
Come.
I am going to see you. I am going to face you.
And I am going to be OK.

2.85 Days and counting

I haven't smoked a cigarette in three days.
Well, 2.75 days. If I'm being honest, which I am.

The day is not over until I am in bed, eyes closed, and in the throes of REM. The day is not over until I see 12:00 glowing green. Then I can tell myself, "YOU ARE A ROCK-FREAKING-STAR."

I am fighting it. My stomach is aching from too many Hot Tamales. My fingers are nail-less and a few are a little bloody, but I am fighting.
I keep telling myself,
it's ok if you gain a few pounds. It's ok.
It's ok if you gain a few pounds and you have ugly, bloody hands. It's ok.

I try not to wonder too long if it really is ok because that stresses me out and that makes me think about smoking.

Focus on the good, right? RIGHTO!
(I've never said that by the way. Is that even real?)

Here is the good stuff.
I haven't had to wash my hair yet. I know what you are thinking - that's a good thing??
Ummmmm
Have you smelled a smokers' hair the day after?
It's bad. I can't tell if I look like Pigpen from Charlie Brown but I am sure I can sense the swirl of nasty around my head. Saving time and money and fears of being Pigpen. That is also RIGHTO!

But I will wash my hair tomorrow. Just because I like to be CLEAN.

I am getting rest!! Rather than walking to bed like a mummy at 10 or 11pm, I am practically leaping into bed at 8:30. Is this because I have nothing else to do and no conversations to be had with my husband?
NOPE.
It IS because if I don't get under these covers, if I don't shove my toes into the sheet that is tucked tight like a cocoon, if I don't tell myself,"Only crazy people get OUT OF BED to go light up," I will likely run as fast as I can out the back door and shove that skinny little stick into my mouth.

(sigh) This is not a pretty picture. I straight up sound like some kind of addict.

So, it's 8:30. With a book.
Which takes me right into the next BEST THING,
I am READING LIKE A STARVING PERSON.
(current book is LOVE WARRIOR which basically every woman, and man, on the PLANET should read)

Here's a marvelous thing though - I WAKE UP refreshed. Seriously.
AND AND AND
My morning breath has changed. YES. This is a fact.
Now - I have also switched toothpaste so a big shout-out to Thieves and all the essential oil lovers out there, but I am also thinking all the chemicals I typically suck into my lungs are no longer trying to escape through my wide-open (very possibly drooling) mouth while I twitch and slumber.
Do I want to suck face as soon as I open my eyes?
EW. NO.
But the morning breath has definitely gone down a notch.

Sunday was DAY 1.
Sunday night I was rethinking this whole "quitting smoking" business or at least seriously considering putting it off until Monday.
Some serious stuff happened Sunday. Stuff I wanted to talk about, ponder, ease in to - all while smoking.

But here's the thing - ISN'T THERE ALWAYS GOING TO BE SOMETHING??

Life does not wait. Life does not slow down and give us a breather. We have to make our change while we bob and weave. Change does not happen while we stand still.

So here I am. 2.85 days (updated!) I want one with every twitch in my fingers. Can you tell? I've never written with so many CAPS before!
But not today.
Not tonight. I'm going to bed. I'm going for FOUR.

XO

Flat

I couldn't bring myself to go to church today. I could barely bring myself to do life. Jeff knows something is wrong. He stopped doing today so he could sit on the couch with me and watch a movie. I did not ask him too but I think he knew I needed the support in my nothingness.

I wanted to spend time with God on my own and sometimes the best place for me there is when I write.There are no secrets for me here, in the written word. I let it all out - even if people decide not to like me anymore. It's the place I find my voice. It is here I can feel safe in the dark that moves inside me.I want people to see it. I invite you in to relate or repel. Pretending is too exhausting for words.

The disappointment I am learning to live with is almost tangible. I can taste it; everything I consume is muted, as if I have a cold. I can feel the heavy, a thick blanket that I wrap tighter rather than throw off. I've never been a person who gets depressed. I think I am too stubborn for it. The thought of something or someone getting the best of me is enough to keep me moving, keep me doing, keep striking a line through the tasks on my list.

Until now.

I am tired, God. I am.
I am tired of smiling when I don't mean it. I am tired of hugging, tired of thinking of an answer, tired of making excuses for other people. I am tired of putting their shoes on my feet when I know they don't fit me anymore. I am tired of walking in them, with them, when they are so tight I cannot breathe, so constricting in where they are taking me, in a life, in a story, I don't want as my own.

I remind myself, God, to love them like I want to be loved.
But here is what I am learning, God, what I have known deep within,
you can't make people love you back. Not even a little.

I remember my ex-husband saying to me one time, a thousand times, screaming;
Why can't you ever have my back? Why can't you take my side?

Those words have remained on me, deep in my skin, a scar that will not ever be unseen.
And now I know exactly what he meant.

It was always with good intentions, God, always with good intentions that I tried to see why people do the jacked up things they do. Maybe they had a fight with their spouse. Maybe their kids are too much today. Maybe they don't know how untangle themselves from the lassos others threw around them. Maybe they like it there because they learned how to walk in ropes.

This feeling, God, this feeling is so unknown and I do not like it here.
But here's the thing,
I don't know how to get out.
My list is not working. Distractions are not working. I listen to your songs, God, but I feel like I don't belong in them so I turn it off. I see the quotes, God, one inspirational word after another and all I can think is,
"Shut up. I'm so sick of your blanketness." I write cards, God. I write cards and I feel so much better for a minute because I do know, in that act, I am saying what I need to hear and I think, maybe someone else needs to hear it too? But then I tape it somewhere and I walk away and I walk away from the words. They have left me.

The tears come in the most unlikely of moments. At the grocery store, driving home from work, in the bathroom while I change to workout, in reading the thoughts of a fictitious twelve year old girl who lives in the pages of a book.

Are you there God? It's me, Shannon.

I walked out on my mother last week while we had dinner. I couldn't do it God. I couldn't sit and listen and nod and smile and pretend that all the words she spoke were true. I couldn't stop myself when I asked, "Oh, is that how it happened, Mom?" Even though I know better, even though I know she doesn't like to be questioned, even though I know it's a mistake to interrupt what she has re-written.
But it came out anyway, God, it did, and I'm not sorry for it because I was there too and I had to remain silent then but I won't remain silent now.

She is demanding too much. She is taking more than I can give out.

And so I warned her. I did. You heard me, right God? You heard me say, "I don't want to talk about this anymore."
But the Carrie-show stops for no one. It never has and she kept right on.

Her proclaimed epiphany was a joke, and not one of those ha-ha-ha ones God, it was more of a, what-the-fuck-is-she-saying-I'm-so-stunned-I-gotta-laugh ones.
But it's when our eyes met, and hers narrowed, and she instructed me to "go ahead and put a smile on my face", that I kind of lost it God. But not in a typical "Shannon" fashion so hey God, that's an improvement right? I didn't curse at her or make a scene or take her face and smash it into the basket of tortilla chips. Instead I stood up, so calm God, did you see how calm I was? And I grabbed my things and said thank you to Steve and I left. I heard Jeff behind me. I heard him stand up too. I heard him say to her, "you should have stopped. She asked you to stop." (unlike me, Jeff can always be counted on for a good back-having moment) and then he was with me, side by side, all the way out.

And still God, there was nothing, no ranting or yelling, nothing more than an occasional, she's fucking crazy, but even that was measured.

I know God.

I know all those "fucks" are unrighteous at best, deep-rooted sin time at worst, but I gotta tell you God, I think just about every one of those "fucks" was earned. I hear people say it all the time, "You can choose better words to express yourself" and hey, I've said it to my own kids.
But if I get right down to it, I really can't think of anything else that fits. So fuck it is.

I'm not trying to be disrespectful to you, God. Really I am not. I am being as up front with you as I can. Isn't that when prayer works best? Isn't that when you come in and do your biggest work? When we let it all hang out?

So there it is God. I am letting it hang. I am stuck. Believing in you is not a problem. Believing you is not a problem either.
The problem is me.
The problem is smiling when hey, it's not all alright.
The problem is I just don't have it in me right now to go that extra mile.
I'm having issues crawling.
Steps are kind of out of the question.

I know you God. I know you love me no matter what. I know you are going to stick by me, in all this junk I keep trying to toss out but when my back is turned, it's like someone is refilling the can. I know you are going to help me here, in this place. I know you will wait. I know you will speak.

But here's what I don't know.
Who else?

Everyday People

"I don't have any friends."
She said it drunk. She said it after she laughed so hard she just might pee. She said it after we bonded over pickle juice and whiskey. She said it perched on a stool with laughter coming out of her mouth and sadness making her eyes bright.
They say a drunk never lies.

I knew she meant every single word.

I don't have any friends.

What do you mean, I asked her? Your friends are here.

No. No, these are people I used to know. I don't have any friends now.
I have no one. I'm all alone.

She looked at me, eyes glazed with Christmas red and eyeliner that had given up hours earlier, and asked the same question I have begun to ask myself, "How did this happen?"

And long after we had moved on in conversation, long after I had puked up the trendiest line of shots I've ever done while sitting cross-legged on a bathroom floor, long after we were dropped off at our hotel and I realized I forgot my new beanie in their car, long after more ounces of iced coffee a person should consume in one sitting was drunk in tired desperation, and long after I arrived back home to wash party clothes still clinging to last nights smokes, her words haunted me.

I had no idea a drunken conversation at a Christmas party would stick with me like a shadow. Always at the peripheral, showing itself just enough to let me know, I'm right behind you.

I am almost 40 and I have close to zero friends.

I'm not talking about the life friends that you call if you lose your job, or your husband has an affair, if your mom is dying of cancer, or your kid came home to tell you they are pregnant. We all have these friends, right? When something major starts throwing down on your life, they will suddenly show up,
and shoulder you up.
They will let you cry, and be afraid, and wait for you to settle enough to get in your face with harsh realities and "pull-up-your-big-girl panties-you're-stronger-than-this-shit" lectures, just in time for you to get brave again. Yes.
I have these friends, the Rally-ers. The Charge-ers. The Cheer-ers.
I am grateful for them because guess what folks? These times are coming. They come to all of us.

No. I'm talking about the everyday friend. The one who is there for the ins and the outs of the mundane and the frustrating. The one who meets you for a coffee and a beer.
Preferably at the same time.
The one who calls on a Wednesday to see if you want to get together Friday. The one who doesn't bother to clean their house when you come over because that's just how real it is now. Piles of laundry and dog hair in tufts on the floor be damned. The one you can text while you're at Target to say, "Which doormat? The one with flowers or the bike and flowers?"
The one who sends you a quick text to say, "hey!!! thinking about you. Let's kick some ass today!" The one you can complain to about not getting laid in over a week. The one you can say, "I just don't feel enough today - do you think Jesus is giving up on me?" The one who reminds you Jesus never gives up on you, and hey, neither will I.

Everyday friends are important. Necessary. Breath.

I know. Life has different stretches for all of us. And there's a time and a place for different people as we walk down our roads.
I know. This is true. We grow. We change. I know.

But I also know this is bullshit.
We invite the people we want to walk with us,
and we leave the rest behind.

Have you ever been in the "leave the rest behind" group? (insert hand raised emoji here.)
It sucks ass doesn't it? ( and insert poop emoji here.)

I am so guilty. So guilty of saying, hey! Let's get together soon! And having absolutely no intention of hanging out. In six months. Or maybe even ever.
I'm just being polite. Everyone knows how to play the polite game.

I'm not talking about polite. I'm not talking about acquaintance pleasantries.
I'm talking about people who were your people and now they are not. Or you aren't sure.
Which is almost worse.

And our culture right now makes it so hard to say that, doesn't it?
So hard to say,
I miss you.
Why don't we talk anymore?
What happened?
You're my friend and I need you.

We can't say that. It makes us needy. It makes us high-maintenance. It makes us jealous.

When really, we aren't any of those things. Maybe all we are is sad.

These things can get messy and I'm not trying to get messy. Six months ago, a year ago, it would have been real messy. I'm talking fat-tears and snot-river messy. I'm talking emotions stretched and frazzled and waving white flags with middle fingers while screaming and crying "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Why is this happening? I"M SORRY!!!" And you have no idea what you are apologizing for but you just want to make it better and also go away.

Messy.

I'm not messy right now. I am observant. A little bewildered. A lot reflective.

And I am sure I am not the only one.

Here's what I am learning.

I'm doing ok by myself.
Now, we aren't built to be on our own f o r e v e r by any means. Humans are designed for relationship.
But it's good to be alone and work your thoughts and see what you are capable of,
and what you are not.
We all need to know this.

Also, I'm walking in a new way with Jesus. Rather than talking to my everyday friend and then going to Jesus, I am now going to Jesus (or Jeff. I'm not perfect here) and then,
that's it.
There's no everyday friends to bounce it back off of. To clarify. To affirm.
It's Jesus and me. And that can be brutal and beautiful all at once. You know what I mean if you've had to do this. There's a realness in my talk with God. It's so real in fact that sometimes I wonder if I am slipping backwards.
When pretense and "supposed to's" are waved out of the way, when walls are walked around and you're just standing there, all raw and exposed and blinking, it's unsettling. Wobbly.

And in nervousness or conviction or repentance or need,
You get down with the Lord. You let it all hang out because well, there aren't any closets, or any hat racks for that matter. There are only your hands and your heart and you figure what else can you do but open it real wide and just let him see it all?
He's going to keep on loving you or he's a liar.

And also , it's ok to be me.
It's ok to say, "I need this." And it's ok when someone else says, "I can't give that to you."
It's ok to know what makes me feel special and how I like to connect. It's ok when other people are not capable of making that connection.
We all have our own stretch of road.
My fear,
my fear,
my fear though,
is that we will give up too quickly and realize too late,
it was something worth digging for, worth suffering for, worth doing more,
for.

But we'll have told ourselves,
I'm too busy
I'm too hurt
We're too different.

And we'll all become people we used to know.

Interruptions

I am learning sometimes the dream has to wait.
Be put on hold.
Go on a bathroom break.
Clock out for ten minutes. Or maybe even ten days.
Life interrupts.
Or rather, people do. People we love.
Our tribe. Our family. Our friends.
Life is never neat. And no matter how many to-do lists I have or how many items I cross off, it's never as organized as I try to make it either.
I write.
And when I am not writing I am thinking about writing. Feelings become describable and words become life. It's all I can do to scribble them down in my notebook or record it in my iphone as a barely deciphered "note' before I forget. And let's be honest, Siri doesn't get it ya'll. All the updates in the world hasn't fixed the words lost in translation just yet.

Even as I try to write this, my computer has shut down, restarted, and begun to download Windows 10.
Mid-type. Three consonants in.
Interruptions.

(sigh)

I am inspired as much as the next person by all the affirming slogans and handmade signs reminding us to, Be You!, Follow your Happy, and Just Write.
I hang these on my walls,(a lot you guys. Instagram is taking ALL MY MONEY) and would gladly purchase all the buttons and totes and stickers in my feed, if that would make them all come true.
But can I be real here?
For just a sec?

I can't do that all the time. Even if it's penciled in. Even if it's important.

And I'll tell you why.

My husband is going gangbusters in his business. And watching him swells my heart and make me wish for a set of pom-poms. That's how stinkin' proud I am.
But guess what it means?
Long nights in the office for him.
Dinner clean up and dishes for me. (or better known as - No writing.)
I have a daughter who is moving out in ONE DAY (sob sob just kidding. I'm happy. But then I'm sobbing too so basically I'm a mess), and if she has a story to tell or if she just wants to sit on the couch and Friends it out - I'm down. Like James Brown. I'm going to sit on that couch with her and not move. Because guess what folks?
The season of Sammi is coming to an end. I know it. She knows it.
The adulting that has started knows it, and once we adult we can't kid again. Not in the same way.
So I'm soaking it up. Every sigh. Every MOM. Every scare as I walk out of the bathroom and she throws the embarrassment up on Snapchat. Every frustration with the utility company and every excitement of a room that almost sits empty.
Next week it will be Jeff's new office. A restart of something we can't even grasp.
But this week,
this week,
it is being hallowed out.
Just like me.

I sat in the middle of her floor after we sold her bed and I tried hard not to cry.

There's always something. I know. I'm pounding this out on my lunch hour instead of walking. So there's that. My writing is done but my exercise and fresh air is taking the hit.
It's ok. One thing is always going to cancel out another.

So here's what I am saying ...
Be You.
Follow your Happy.
Just Write.

But know that some days your happy is going to look different than you expected. It's not going to be written on your list or located in your calendar.
I think these can be some of the best kinds of happy though. Interruptions are God things. It's when He redirects us.
It's when he whispers, "oh no .. you think that's THE most important thing but THIS is...."
I think we can miss it though. I know I can.
I miss it in the midst of my guilt.
The constant chatter.
"You didn't work out. You didn't write. You didn't get the laundry done. You forgot stamps. You need more eggs. You didn't write the card. You didn't call your friend. You didn't spend enough time with Jacob."


and on and on and on and on.

There's a name for this radio station friends. I'll share it with you another day. Just know,
you are not alone,
AND,
turn the station off.

We are all doing the best we can.
Some days I am going to bang out twenty pages of my book.
Other days I'm going to stare at my outline for hours without writing one word. (hellooooo all last week!)

Some days,
you are going to get to each thing on your list. You'll feel accomplished and stretch hard to pat yourself on the back.
Other days,
you are going to wonder who hijacked your life.

But then you'll realize,

it's everyone you really love.

And all the things that make your Happy.

XO

Food-Pushers Unite

My kids call me The Food Pusher. It's true. It's like a drug pusher except without the drugs.
But we say the same things, in hopes of the same goal; they are going to take me up on it and they are going to like it.

"Come on, just try it."
"It's so good. You don't know what you are missing."
"This. This right here? It's a little piece of heaven."
And in desperation only the mom at her wits end of a picky eater knows, the classic, "You'll be cool. I'll think you are the coolest if you just try
one. little. bite."

It makes no difference how old they are either. My kids at home are twenty and sixteen, plenty old enough to fend for themselves if the onset of starvation happens while I am at work.

But I offer anyway. I practically get on my knees and beg them to eat.
Just like I did when they were three.

Oh you only like Circle K rotisserie hot dogs? Let's go!
Frozen burritos that basically look like bandaged diarrhea? SURE!
Frozen pizzas that taste like lost frisbees drizzled in expired tomato sauce? No problem.
Quesadillas at morning, noon. or night? It's on like donkey kong. Or Taco Bell.

Just let me see you eat.

And let's be honest. If you judge me based on the three things my son eats most,and the go-to for my daughter; I sound either sloppy and terrible or the coolest mom ever; depending on who you are asking.

And we really DO want to ask someone, sometimes, don't we?
Grab another Mom's arm like a life preserver and sputter out our need for validation and an "atta girl." Buoy me up for another day please.


I think I am a pretty good mom. On the "will-they-go-to-therapy-scale?" I'd give myself a two. Maybe a four?
I mean, I've got three of them, my oldest and second oldest (NOT middle! AVOID SAYING MIDDLE FOR THE LOVE OF PEACE AND QUIET) are in their early twenties and so far, not any visible damage. Of course, my son is still home for another year and there's still time to screw with his head pretty good but I would say most mistakes were made in the early years.

Hopefully early enough that they have forgotten. Or those memories have been replaced.
Upgraded.
Mommy version VI.

Of course there are a few that get brought up constantly. Like, "Mom remember when you used to set the timer and you told us if we didn't eat our dinner before it went off you would beat us?"
Yes. Yes I do. I'm SO glad you remember too since it is one of my BEST mommy moments.

On the upside, my grocery bill was low.

Or brought up even more recently,
"Hey MOM. Remember that time Bre did somethingsomethinsomething and you took down her Justin Timberlake poster and hung it up in YOUR room."
Um, Yes. I wish I could remember what it was she did exactly, but maybe I just had a hankering to see JT on my wall?
Possible. Plausible. Whatever.

These, of course, are small examples.
The bigger ones are so much harder to write.
Because secretly we are all hoping we do so much better than our own parents, right?
I mean, I would NEVER .... and then I do.
And everything I value and hold close and wave the white hat of I AM A BETTER MOMMY THAN YOU falls around me in prickly pieces of judgmental glass.

Like the time I called my son an asshole and watched the wound spread slowly across his face like a darkening cloud before a cold rain.
Then I burst into tears.

I started my period two days later. Obviously I was under duress from the emotional hijackers that live inside my body before they give up on anything tangible happening and bleed out.
But that's besides the point.
(ps-I recently purchased a "girl business" zippy pouch that says "oh my bloody hell". I think everyone in the house identifies with the sentiment)

What is the point?
Parenting is hard. And inconvenient.
And scary.
We are all going to make a lot of mistakes.

About fifteen years ago I fell down the stairs outside my apartment. As I skidded down the concrete steps on my knees and landed on all bloody fours, all I could think was,"Oh My GOD. Did anyone SEE that?!"
Not, maybe someone will help me.
Not, someone is going to ask if I'm ok.
But only, did anyone see me practically face plant and make a complete jackass of myself?
That's parenting.
All the time.


We're going to fall asleep on the couch with our baby in the crook of our arm and only wake up because we hear them thunk to the floor.
We're going to be so tired from the complete lack of sleep that we barricade our toddler in the living room with us and "A Whole New World" lulls us to genie land, on the cheerio sprinkled floor.
We're going to wake up late and get our kids to school with nothing more substantial than a pop-tart for breakfast. On test day.
We're going to get lost in the happy zone at Target and then hear our name reverberating over the store intercom. Hi there, mum-of-the-year. You lost your child.
Nice one.

We're going to have our kids give us a fun pop-quiz with super hard questions like, "when's my birthday?" And then watch them look at us in disappointment and horror when it takes longer than five seconds for us to remember which one is theirs.

We're going to buy store-bought cookies and brownies for the bake sale.
Enough said.

We might call our kids a bad name.
We might even enjoy it for just a teeny tiny split of a second when we do because let's face it -
we hold that shit in all the time.

We're still regular people.
We just have other people looking to us for love and acceptance all the time.

No pressure.

We're going to have other parents shake their heads and cluck their tongues and we're going to try really hard to remember we are a contributing member of society and not throat-punch them.
We're going to have strangers yank out their binky in the middle of the mall and coo "oh you sweet little puh puh puh. You don't need that thing stuck in your mouth do you?"
And you're going to remind yourself it isn't ok to push down grandmas.
We're going to overhear someone we trust, someone who's supposed to be in our tribe, talk about us and our lack of parental skills and it's going to sting. We might cry. Just for a second.
And then we might get really pissed and think of all the awful ways THEY parent instead. It's not "nice" but it will make you feel better. Better enough to not claw their eyes out.

We're going to wish for a pedicure by ourselves, for a glass of water that doesn't have floaties in it, for sex that isn't muffled in a pillow, for toilet time with our favorite magazine, for a bra that doesn't smell like breast milk. Or vomit.
We're going to try and learn common core math and feel like the biggest idiot on the planet when we don't get it and realize we can't help our second grader do their homework.
We're going to try not to hate their teacher for sending this crap home.
We're going to breathe deep and not freak out over their room that has exploded with clothes (Are they dirty? Are they clean?)and empty mountain dew cans and a floor littered with pink squiggly wrappers from their maxi-pads.
We are going to give them "space."
And then a week later we're going to say, "Screw this effing space crap!" and yell at them to clean their room before we throw away everything in it except their bed and underwear.
We are going to do our best to not seem psychotic.
We are going to tell ourselves this is normal.
We are going to hope that's true.

Moms. Mothers. Mums. Ma's. Mommy's.
It is true.
You are doing the best you can.

And if it makes you feel like you're excelling at the mom-job to offer them a mom-made sandwich, an apple and peanut butter, a slice of chocolate cake you just frosted; then go ahead and do it.
Food pushers unite.

XO



-

THINGS that are HARD to SwaLLoW

THINGS that are HARD to SwaLLoW:
Warm milk in the desert, mid-day.
Prenatal Vitamins in your first trimester.
Peanut butter.
The thick outcome of oral sex.
Preachers who sermonize about lust while driving their Cadillacs, staring at hookers.
The smell of period farts.
A mouthful of skittles when you're stoned.
Smiling in spite of hurt feelings with a repeat offender.
Rejection.
Pride.
My words when confronted with your ego.

Let's break up with the idea of us.
I want to unclog my throat.

Difficult people is a mandatory in life. They rub us like sandpaper against a raw sunburn. Like a side cramp in mile five, with two more to go, they cause us to clutch and limp, and for goodness sake, breathe in your nose and out your mouth, and keep that shit even.

But they also challenge us to be our better self.
Rise above.
Whether it's the idea of not wanting to be anything like them, or if we go deeper into some kind of Jesus calling to love thy neighbor;
even if it is with clenched fists and grinding teeth.
We reach out, we "like", we ask for visits, we LOL; knowing each time the response is a haughty, pointed, silence from an impenetrable wall.
Ah.
But is that love I'm really showing?
I'm not sure. Probably not the pure kind.
I can tell you what it is though, it is an effort. And if that kind of effort is being given, there is love somewhere, for someone, motivating it's continuance.

I've reached some sort of self-inflicted rejection limit.
I've never really mastered the social angst of high-school; cowering beneath any type of Queen Bee. I was more of a "here's-my-middle-finger-why-don't-you-suck-it" kind of girl.
I'd like to think I've grown a little. Learned to give a measure of grace.
I mean, there is Jesus.
Although I picture him constantly shaking his head in exasperation, I'd like to think every now and again he gives me a heavenly high-five.
So,
I try to keep my middle fingers to myself.
And I also try to remember, we are walking a path unique to each one of us, and sometimes that path is rocky, steep, and hot damn if I don't keep stumbling over that same freakin' boulder. Someone please give me a leg up or let me learn to go around it already.
And also, maybe I am someone else's boulder too. There is that.

It is asked I turn my cheek. And then the other one,
It is not required I lay down on the floor and allow another human, no matter their position, pass over me as if I don't exist.
We both know I am here.
We both know how hard it's pretended I am not.

I'm going to let us off the hook.
I'm going to make it easier for us to swallow.
I'm not going to entice you to like me anymore. No more auctioning off myself in bewildered bits and placating pieces, to someone who continues to look at me like a garage sale slip of underwear.

Here's a truth that's real for everybody; most certainly a truth I grabbed a hold of at age nine and held it close to my chest as a vigilant shield, or swung it like a bat if someone came pitching at me with their small, teeth-barring, lies.
I decide what I am worth for myself.
If I don't, some asshat struggling with their own value and usefulness is going to decide it for me, and it will always be at a clearance price.
If I don't set a boundary, someone unworthy of my core self, will cross it
every. single. time.

Why?

It can be because they think they are better than you.
It can be because they are intimidated by you.
It can be because they are jealous of you.
It can be because they don't know how to handle you.
Or it can be because they don't know any better. (But come on. Unless they are four years old .... bullshit)
No matter which reason it is, every single one is unacceptable.
Each one is small.

We are ALL worth something. To God. To ourselves. To the ones that love us.
We are NOT always liked. Or appreciated. Or valued.
By our own tribe or the masses.

Choose your people. Choose who speaks into you and over you.
You can't help who speaks about you.
But you, and me, we can choose what we listen to, what takes root, what grows, and what we let go of.

XO