EverAfterLand

The Week End - Such Is Life

I found this quote earlier today. It is exactly what I needed and what I am focusing on right now.

Thought I would jazz it up before sharing with all of you.

Enjoy!

 

 

A Little Bit Giddy...

The Elvis Duran Radio Show told me my day would rank as a 10 (the best you can get) when they scrolled through the horoscopes this morning.

Boy, oh boy, they weren't kidding! 

All day long I have received many positive comments and several FaceBook shares of my Mother's Day post from yesterday.  And all of that is reflected in the stats on my blog, which is showing a record number of pageviews in one day (at least for me, anyway!)

My day is way more than a 10.  It's like a 10 bigillion-zillion!

And it's all thanks to my tremendous friends and family and all of their wonderfully kind words!!

But here's the kicker of having a post that garners me so much positive attention...

What am I supposed to write now???

If you recall, I'm still in the throws of the 31-Day Blogging Challenge (Day 12, actually, not even half-way through!)

Posts like yesterday's are tough for me.  It's difficult to put myself in a place of such vulnerability, always worried that what I see as deep or spiritual, others will see as corny or just plain wrong....and then tell me so.  Such an incident has never occurred (thank goodness), which is why I think I've become more confident about writing these sorts of meatier posts. 

So, OK, I get the post written and put it out there for all the world to see, and get some good feedback from friends and family, and here's what usually happens next....

Nothing.

When I write something that is meaningful to me, I find it difficult to switch gears and knock out some other post that can't be at the same caliber as that last one.

Let's face it, I can't write these types of posts all the time for always.  I am just not that deep!

Which is why, normally, I would head for the hills.  Like a seller of snake oil, I'd pack up all my things into a beat-up old suitcase and high-tail it outta here before anyone would have a chance to discover that my Elixir of Life was just sugar water and dye.

OK, that's maybe a touch melodramatic (I may not be deep, but I've got imagination!)  The point I'm getting at (wait, there was a point?) is that, in the past, a post like yesterday's would have left me struck dumb, probably for a week or more, scared speechless that whatever I posted on this blog next would be such an enormous let-down to anyone who came back to read more.

Which is why I SO needed this challenge!  My type of "writer's block" never had to do with a lack of words to put on paper...er, computer screen.  The thing that has held me back from being a writer - a REAL writer - was plain, old-fashioned fear.  Fear of failure.  Fear of success.  Fear of failing after a success.  You name it, I've been scared of it.

Part of this challenge was to conquer, once and for all, these silly little fears.  Pack them up in that old, beat-up suitcase and throw them in a river.

So, that's it.  The "Day-After" post is complete, and I'm still standing!  My fears may not be completely dissipated, but I definitely took a big chunk out of 'em.

But just in case, I'd better take a spoonful of that snake oil, you know, for good measure.

The Gifts of a Mother - Lessons in Strength

“I never think of myself as strong,” she told me over a frosty mug of A&W Rootbeer.  “People tell me I’m strong all the time, but, I don’t know.  I don’t really believe that.”

I was stunned.  Speechless. 

How could my mom not see herself as strong?  After a lifetime of struggles great and small, how did she not understand that strength for herself?

The more we talked, though, the more I wondered – What exactly does it mean to “be strong?”

I think “strength” is often confused with “stoicism.”  The ability to remain unemotional during immensely sad, scary or confusing times. 

I see that less as “strength” and more as “compartmentalizing.”  Many people, myself included, when faced with a crisis (and especially when other loved ones are involved and looking for guidance) can lock away that part of themselves that is completely freaking out, opening it only after the crisis has passed or they have a quiet moment to themselves.

This, to me, is not strength, but a survival mechanism.

So what is real strength?  What is that inherent quality of a person that makes people say “Wow!  She is really strong!”

Being an avid fan of NBC’s Today Show, I have seen many Regular Joes and Joans come through, interviewed for surviving cancer, having a special needs child, or living through a terrible tragedy.

Many times, the host will say to that person, “What incredible strength you have!”

And many times, that person will look at them completely dumbfounded. 

After all, what was the alternative?  To stop fighting?  To give up on their child?  To curl up into a ball and cry until they just wasted away?

There have been times in the last few years that I, too, have felt just as dumbfounded.  People commenting about my supposed “strength” in the face of one adversity or another, when all I felt I had done is put one foot in front of the other and took care of what I considered to be my responsibilities.

I never set out to be “strong.”  Never considered myself any “stronger” for having done it. 

But that’s the funny thing about “strength.” It’s a muscle you can’t see developing yourself, it only looks like something to everybody else.

I returned home to Honduras, but the question still floated in and out of my consciousness.  What is real “strength?”

I landed on an answer this morning.  Not in any sort of formal way.  Not touched on by anything I had heard or read.  All-of-a-sudden, as I was scrambling eggs for breakfast, thinking about my mom and my sister and maybe a Mother’s Day post, I was struck with the definition I needed.

True “strength” goes beyond the ability to stay level-headed in a crisis.  It’s the ability to be knee-deep in disaster and still find a way to laugh.  To be at the heart of a tragedy and still hold onto the hope that, eventually, it will all be OK.  “Strength” is that amazing quality in a person that can be rattled and banged up and bruised and still get out of bed in the morning and do something for somebody else.  “Strong” people can be hit with more than anyone should ever have to bear and come out the other side still seeing the beauty in life.  The strong do cry.  They have breakdowns and deal with depression.  But “strength” is the ability to keep that horrible, traumatic thing from causing you to stall out on your own life.  The Strong keep moving forward with the hope that joy can live their hearts again. 

All of the “strength” that I am credited for can be attributed to the strength my mother demonstrated to my sister and me throughout our lives.

Through her, I learned that change is inevitable, but no matter how much everything changes, there will always be the love of family to support you.

That in life you don’t always get what you want.  But you always make do with what you have.  And you are grateful for it.

I learned the very valuable lesson early-on that people do not change, no matter how badly you want them to. 

And more importantly, to never be afraid to walk away from a person or situation that is hurting you more than helping you.

There will be times when the world is just unfair.  Go ahead and cry, don’t deny your feelings.  Then let it go and focus on the good parts of your life (and there are always good parts).

Don’t depend on anyone to save you.  Figure out a way to save yourself.

And don’t depend on somebody to support you.  Make yourself capable so you have the ability to support yourself.

Always find a reason to laugh.

Life will throw you some crazy curve balls, but you will always, ALWAYS survive it.

And no matter what, keep your head held high, and keep. moving. forward.

My mother has two daughters living lives that are just outside of normal, in ways that make other people say, “I just don’t think I could do something like that.”

But we do. 

And we have the ability, flexibility, mental clarity, and yes, even some strength to tackle each new day, every new challenge, all the shifts and turns that life throws at us, and come through it all with joy still in our hearts, knowing that tomorrow will be a new day. 

Because my mother’s strength showed us how.

The Challenge of Existing - Brené Brown and Conquering Comparisons

As I rounded the staircase, the screams could be heard bouncing off of walls and echoing through the hall.

There was no mistaking it:  it was our four-year-old Little Miss Sunshine in a very less-than-sunshiney mood.

Again.

My foot releasing from the last step at the top of the staircase, I breathed a hard sigh and turned into the girls' bedroom to investigate.

"What is going on in here?" I asked, in that Mom-Tone that says it had better be something of importance....or else.

Between wails, I barely made out the answer.

"Daddy only made these for PRISSY!!!!  He didn't make ANY for ME!!!!!!!" 

Sunny was clutching a couple of wooden coat hooks, one in the shape of a heart, the other, a butterfly.  The pair were two of four that Hubby had lovingly purchased from a craft store years before and hand-painted with acrylic paints.  Back then, we were in the midst of yet-another move, and he was preparing a bedroom for a tiny, brand-spanking new, two-month-old Miss Priss before she and I were due to arrive at our new home.  Instantly, I realized the source of my youngest child's despair.

"Oh, Sweetheart," I soothed, crouching down to rub her back, "Prissy had been born first, that's all.  Daddy painted these when she was a little bitty baby.  We already knew we wanted to have you, but we didn't know when, or even if you'd be a boy or a girl."

By then, Hubby had appeared from whatever dark shadow he had been hiding inside of.  In the small space of calm, a pause as Sunny took in a deep breath of air while contemplating what I had told her, Hubs added cheerfully, "See, I told you.  You just didn't exist yet!"

Her face twisted.

Then her head rotated a slow 360 degrees around her neck.  As she levitated off the floor, lightning flashing in the suddenly darkened sky, toys began hurling themselves across the room.

"DADDY SAYS THAT I DON'T EXIST!!!!!!" alighted the top of the shrill scream emanating from my freshly oxygenated preschooler, at a decibel that I was sure caused the neighbors to stop mid-stride in their hallways and kitchens and ponder as to the source of this strange new sound in the city.

My poor little baby.  The younger of a set of two little girls that we have been blessed with.  Who spends much of her waking life attempting to do, be and have everything her sister, three years her senior, does, is and has.

I wish I could say to her that "this, too, shall pass."  But the truth is, no matter how old we get, no matter how much we've achieved, there is always that part of ourselves that wishes to do, be or have something that someone else does, is or has first.

"Comparison is all about conformity and competition."  Brené Brown says in her book, The Gifts of Imperfection: Let Go of Who You Think You're Supposed to Be and Embrace Who You Are.  "At first it seems like conforming and competing are mutually exclusive, but they're not.  When we compare, we want to see who or what is best out of a specific collection of "alike things."

For most of my adult life, I have struggled with comparisons.  Comparing myself with people who had higher-paying jobs right out of college.  Young people who successfully run their own companies.  Crafters who create unique and beautiful and useful things.  Bloggers who have lucrative sponsorships or book deals.  Shoot, bloggers who manage to write every. single. DAY! 

"The comparison mandate becomes this crushing paradox of "fit in and stand out!"  It's not cultivate self-acceptance, belonging, and authenticity; it's be just like everyone else, but better."

And while I resisted the urge to throw a temper tantrum after every new story of success by people who are increasingly becoming younger and younger than myself, I have certainly felt frustrated.  Frustrated and defeated and discouraged that I might NEVER do, be or have ANY of these achievements that, I was sure, would magically fill me with a sense of accomplishment and pride and purpose.

That four-year-old inside of us still speaks in such absolutes, doesn't it?  "NEVER going to happen."  "NEVER going to be good enough."  "NEVER going to succeed at ANYTHING!"

That evening, I watched my sweet baby, her face contorted and red, standing, screaming, crying in the middle of a playroom filled with her own dolls and games and princess dresses, enough to open a toy store, ignoring them all, instead her fingers clenched around two wooden coat hooks that she had never paid any mind to in these four short years of her life, but which now stood as the ultimate symbols of every moment of every thing her sister had received that she, herself, had not.

It was a reminder to me.  A reminder of something that I eventually learned to understand in these thirty-odd short years of life on this earth. 

There are times when it is me, standing in the middle of my home filled with my own amazing children and husband and dog, more than I could have ever dreamed or hoped for in my youth, with my mind's eye clenched around another story about another blogger, or youngster, or stay-at-home mom who has a company or readership or monetary gain that, in that moment, stands for all the wants and things that seem so easy for everyone else, but still elude me.

"....many of us have bought into the idea that something has to be extraordinary if it's going to bring us joy. ...We seem to measure the value of people's contributions (and sometimes their entire lives) by their level of public recognition.  In other words, worth is measured by fame and fortune.  Our culture is quick to dismiss the quiet, ordinary, hardworking men and women.  In many instances, we equate ordinary with boring or, even more dangerous, ordinary has become synonymous with meaningless."

But now, when I find myself brooding on comparisons and unfulfilled wishlists, I am reminded of this little pearl of wisdom that I had picked up somewhere along the way that says to me, "That is a fine thing for that other person.  But you don't exist to do that.  That is not the path you were meant to follow.  Here, now, is everything that you exist for.  It is already with you, in you and around you.  Right.  Now."

It is not always the easiest thing to remember.  And it's an even harder thing to explain to a four-year-old with no sense of time and no siblings younger than herself.

Sunny was inconsolable for a good long while.  Hubster, being the source of her agony, removed himself from her sight (a wise move, in this case) and I managed to wrestle the little tirade into some pajamas.  All the while, I attempted to explain how it had been possible for her Father and I to have wanted to have her older sister, alone, first, and why we did not, for the three years before she was born, make sure that a future little sister would have the exact same things the older one did.

"You know, it's true," I said, stroking her hair, "for three years it was just me, daddy and your sister, because you just weren't here yet."  We were laying on her bed, the sunlight sinking away rapidly behind closed curtains.  "But you know what?" I went on, "Someday, Miss Priss will be all grown up, and she'll go to college or move into her own apartment, and then it will be just you, me and daddy for a few years until you graduate high school!"

Suddenly, from a separate bed a few feet away,  a slow sad sob could be heard rising up from under a mound of tangled blankets. 

"Prissy, are you OK?" I tentatively asked.

"YOU JUST WANT ME TO MOVE AWAY!!!!"

Oh, for heaven's sake!

Playing The Shame Game - Brené Brown and Accepting My Imperfections

First, I was startled.

Which then melted into horrified.

"What did she say????"

My friend here in Tegucigalpa, Honduras, where we are now planted, had recounted the words her daughters had quoted from MY daughter's mouth.

My sweet little seven-year-old Miss Priss.

And yes, they were mostly four-letter words.

Poop.  Fart.  Butt.

I.  was.  MORTIFIED.  Mostly because I had already had a talk with her about this exact same behavior over a month ago.  I thought we had moved past this.

Finally.

What is it with some kids that they become obsessed with potty words and toilet humor?  Is it genetic?  Cause if it is, it totally came from my dad!

"I told them that you had invited us over for a playdate on Wednesday," my friend went on, "and they didn't want to come.  They don't like these potty words she keeps saying.  They're embarrassed for her."

And I was embarrassed for me.

We talked for a little while longer, me saying those familiar catchphrases like, "I don't know where she gets this from" and "she really thinks this is funny, but I have no idea why."

After my friend left, I had visions of all the punishments my little princess was going to suffer.  I blamed our cable television, and decided she wouldn't watch anything for a month. 

Make that TWO months!

Feeling deeply unsettled, and with a little time to spare before lunch, I decided open up my Brené Brown book and try not to think about this problem for a while.

Recently, I started an online course called "The Gifts of Imperfection," hosted by the author of the book of the same name, Brené Brown.  Each week has a new chapter to read and tasks for an Art Journal.  So far, I have gained paint brushes, watercolors, 100# paper and a new perspective on the inner workings of my idiosyncrasies. 

Today would prove to be no different.

I cracked open my book (well, truth-be-told, I tapped open my iPad) and picked up where I left off in the chapter "The Things That Get In The Way."

Little did I know where that chapter was going.

I read this passage, but instead of reading it in terms of my own actions, I was reading it in terms of Miss Priss...

"...when we struggle to believe in our worthiness, we hustle for it.  The hustle for worthiness has its own soundtrack....the cacophony of shame tapes and gremlins - those messages that fuel "never good enough."

'What will people think {of my daughter}?'

'You can't really love yourself yet.  Your {daughter} is not {perfect} enough.'

'No one can find out {that my daughter thinks poop is hilarious}.'

'Who do you think you are to put {this child} out in the world?'"

I finally had a word for the way I was feeling.  The way I feel every time somebody points out a flaw in one of my children. 

Shame.

I was ashamed.  Not of my darling little girl, but of myself, for having been so erroneous in my parenting, she would consider a farting contest to be high art.  Where had I gone wrong? 

"Shame is that warm feeling that washes over us, making us feel small, flawed, and never good enough."

Yep, that was me in a nutshell.  Not just about my parenting, but everything.  From my lack of cooking skills, to my constant self-doubt about my writing abilities, despite readers (Hi Mom!) consistently telling me how much they enjoy my musings.  (The same, unfortunately, cannot be claimed for my musings in the kitchen.)

In no way was this caused by my friend, mind you.  I am all ears when it comes to the antics of my children.  It kills me that they already, at just 7 and 4 years old, have lives that are separate from my own.  My shame constituted what I consider a "Personal Problem."

"When we're in shame we're not fit for human consumption."

I had taken things that were said to me as a matter of record, twisted them up in my own mind, and put myself in a Shame Spiral.

"We need to get back on our emotional feet before we do, say, email, or text something that we'll regret."

And the worst part - I was conjuring up all these horrible punishments as a way to release my anxiety, by lashing out at my child and - ultimately - transfer this shame, MY shame, onto her. 

I do thank God that I finished reading that chapter first!

The chapter had been about healing your own shame issues and becoming more resilient.  What I discovered was not only the shame I feel for myself, those terrible maggots of "not enough" that eat away at your self-confidence and soul, but how I also feel shame on behalf of my children.  Children that I had always hoped would not be dragged down by judgemental feelings and a compulsion to be perfect.

I had so badly wanted more for them.

"[Shame] Resilience is often a slow unfolding of understanding.  What did that experience mean to me?  What were the gremlins mumbling?  Not only do we need to own our story and love ourselves in the process, we have to figure out the real story!"

After finishing the chapter and bookmarking my page, I thought more about this particular incident.  I took shame out of the equation and saw only my baby girl again.  A sweet, smart, special kid, with a heart the size of an elephant, a friend to everyone, and loyal to the end.  A creature of my and my husband's making who we've encouraged to think her own thoughts and be her own person.  Yes, she loves her toilet humor, and it took us a lot of lecturing and time-outs and stays in the bathroom to help her understand when it is and is not appropriate to be that type of silly.  The dinner table is not.  The playground is.  And since there have been no complaints from her teachers, no trips to the principal's office, it is safe to reason that all that "talking till we were blue in the face" finally sank in. 

Priss and I still had that discussion, though.  But instead of telling her she was not good enough, I pointed out that there are people, her two little friends included, who do not appreciate her type of humor.  That, in life, there will always people who will not appreciate everything she has to say.  But there will always - always - be people who do. 

It broke her heart (and shattered mine) to learn that not everyone in the world would love and accept her exactly the way she is. 

But the very next day, another friend, Prissy's "Fart-ner In Crime," sent over a request for a playdate.