Have you ever had something happen in your life that you thought you REALLY wanted only to discover later that it led you face-to-face with something you would rather have plucked out every last hair on your body one-by-one with a set of tweezers than face? Ever been dealt a horrible card that justified viewing the world from behind a high wall of righteous anger until, further down the road, it dawned on you that without that card and the path it put you on, you never would have reached the much better place you eventually found yourself? Ah yes, nothing quite like being shoved kicking and screaming out of the comfort zone and just plain having to deal with it! How do we know whether the thousand little things that happen in our lives every day can be classified as "good" or "bad"? It's such a temptation to judge something definitively when it's happening, especially if it fits into our "bad" category, rather than to try and talk ourselves off the ledge and slow down our hyperventilating long enough to see what will come next.
In terms of how people size up a situation, I think there are "black and white" people in the world and there are "shades of gray" people. I definitely fall into the latter camp (probably why I almost went to law school), though I'm still working on learning to talk myself down from that ledge quicker these days than in the past. Thank goodness for time and the clarity that comes with hindsight. I believe the ability to see both the good and the bad of a situation or a person is what allows us to live civilly and to maintain some level of compassion and humility in a situation that we don't otherwise truly understand.
A while back I was listening to one of the podcasts that I follow, NPR's Planet Money. Between February and July, Planet Money did several episodes that followed a Haitian businesswoman named Yvrose Jean Baptiste. Her story is, I think, a tidy example of why it's tricky to conclude that something is "good" or "bad" in the moment. (For the record, I am summarizing the excellent reporting done by Adam Davidson, Chana Joffe-Walt, and Caitlin Kenney.) It goes like this: Yvrose, a married mother with four children, was introduced to podcast listeners in a Haitian marketplace. She was carrying a big tub of chicken necks on her head and selling them for pennies in the local marketplace shortly after the earthquake. Before the earthquake, she'd had a stable business as a small level wholesaler, which depended on her obtaining regular microloans at a certain rate, purchasing inventory (food items), and extending credit to small retailers under terms that racked up a modest profit for her as she fronted them items to sell at the retail level, and then collected her money a couple of weeks later. This was certainly a sound business model. It's what US bankers do every day, with the difference being that Yvrose operated with such a thin margin of error, that it was essential that everything go right, always. And for a time in her life, it did. She was able to help purchase a home for her family and send her children to school - rather serious success for a women with only a fifth grade education. And then the earthquake hit.
Not only did Yvrose's house collapse, but all of the homes of her 10 small retailers were destroyed (a few died in the quake), along with every last bit of the $500 U. S. dollars worth of goods she had distributed to them on the day before the earthquake. But the bank survived, and as she still owed approximately $100 U. S. dollars, payment was expected. So in an act of what I imagine must have been desperate optimism, Yvrose borrowed from a loan shark at a much higher interest rate to buy the chicken necks to sell in hopes of making enough money over time to pay back the microloan, and stay ahead of the loan shark.
The podcast aired and some listeners wanted to help her. An account was set up in her name through a microlending institute in Haiti, and $3,860.00 was donated to her. In March, she withdrew it all (several years' worth of wages), more money than she had ever seen or held in her hands. She immediately paid off her debt, put some in the bank, refused to buy anything she considered non-essential, and paid for her four children to go live in the countryside with relatives and attend school. The rest of the money she invested in her business.
As a result, Yvrose now has a tin-roofed, semi-permanent stand in a local marketplace where she maintains a broad selection of items. She currently makes $20 to $30 per day, which is life changing money for her and her children. If affords her the ability to access medical care when necessary. Her goal is to get her children through high school, and she no longer has to interrupt their education because she can't pay the school fees. Her cash flow has stabilized and debt no longer hangs over her head.
It sounds like everything had turned around for Yvrose, and that life was on a good course, except for one dark spot in her story. Shortly after receiving the money and paying off her debts and re-establishing her business, Yvrose's husband left her. Turns out that the power shift in their household was too much for him to take. Now she worries that she has no man in her tent (she still lives in temporary shelter) to protect her from potential thugs who might want to steal from her, or worse. Despite this, she said that she is generally optimistic about her future for the first time in her life, and who knows, even her husband leaving may prove to be a good thing eventually.
I think the twists and turns of this story are a prime example of why it is a seductive misstep to conclude that something is "good" or "bad" in the moment. Every situation contains what appears to be "good" and "bad" in varying measures, but even those we judge one way or the other, when viewed from some distance may end up looking like the exact opposite of what we initially thought them to be.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Friday, September 3, 2010
Cuts Like a Knife
I have a bit of a hard edge to me. Typically I think of it as providing me with that special little something that keeps me from rolling over and completely taking it when life presents me with a rough situation. I'll show you, world! I won't politely stand by when I think an offense has been committed against me.
I've always liked this part of me, at least to some degree, when I keep it reigned in - a tool rather than a character defect. Ever since I left the somewhat cutthroat world of lobbying and began staying home with children, I've had to fight to keep myself from feeling like I've become a complete grass eater since the world of stay-at-home Moms that I navigate daily is fronted by a nicer facade and is much less confrontational than lobbying. (Perhaps it just requires a different subset of my diplomatic skills.) That's not necessarily a bad thing, but I like knowing that I have this tool I can employ to keep people from viewing me as a pushover. Unfortunately, like all personalty traits that work when meted out in reasonable doses, my edge turns into something more ominous and revealing about me at times, like one morning last May.
I seemed to have rolled out of bed with foul mood fully intact that morning. I yelled at the kids for the better part of an hour as they thwarted my efforts to hustle them off to school with anything resembling efficiency, and finally dropped them at carpool. Oh, sweet relief. On my way back home during morning rush hour, I was sitting at a stop sign of a five-way intersection waiting for another car to turn left in front of me. Because this intersection is a little funky, harried drivers often get impatient while waiting for each other to figure out whose turn it is to go, resulting in horn honking or bad-mouthing from behind the perceived safety of rolled up windows. I let the car make its turn, which required a few extra seconds of waiting to those cars behind me, and just as I began to make my own turn, the car directly behind me gave a longish honk. I did what any edgy person does and lifted my hand and gave a big, fat "up yours" to the honking driver, which I regretted about two seconds afterward when I noticed a hand waving to me from the unfamiliar car.
About half a minute later, my cell phone rang and my friend Mack (who is seriously one of the nicest people I know) asked if I was the irritated, not-yet-fully-caffeinated, carpool Mom who had just given him the finger at the intersection. Yep, the honker behind me was my friend and husband's co-worker merely trying to wave "hello" to me while on his way to work. In fact, he'd been on the phone with my husband as the whole thing went down, so Steve got to hear all about it in real time.
Laughing uncomfortably, I tried to explain myself and rationalize my behavior with weak excuses - that I thought I was being honked at by some impatient jerk who couldn't stand to wait a few extra seconds at a stop sign, that I didn't know what his new car looked like, etc. I sheepishly tripped all over myself apologizing for having been the only jerk at the intersection that day. He chuckled and said it was alright. I told him I was really glad that he had been the person on the receiving end of my digitus impudicus rather than someone who would be less amused by my rude driving antics, such as one of the parents I barely knew from my kids' school (did I mention I was the PTA President last year?)
I exhaled loudly as I hung up the phone and then proceeded to spend the better part of that day unable to shake how truly awful I felt about my behavior. I couldn't get out of my mind what an almost-instantaneous reaction it had been for me to flip someone off in traffic when they honked at me, just because I was in a crappy mood. What the hell was wrong with me? What did that mean about what really lives in me at the deep core and drives my so-called "edgy" behavior? Why was I so mad? Why was I so reactionary? Why can't I just be calmer and be the "bigger person"? At 41, why haven't I cultivated a more reasonable perspective about what's worth responding to and what's worth shrugging off? Moreover, why do I choose to respond to things that I actually know I should shrug off?
And that angst-riddled, internal questioning sums up my life-long spiritual struggle of forever trying to get to the peaceful place that I know resides somewhere in me so I can wrap myself in it and quiet the cacophony of harsh voices yelling at me that I am broken and need to do and be better. When I imagine what that peaceful place would look like were it a physical presence, I can't help but think of Mohandas Ghandi - slight and unassuming, easily underestimated but undeniably powerful, exuding calm knowing, and standing silently with a welcoming smile and arms open just waiting for me to choose to come to it. And when I do, the world goes quiet for just a little while, and somehow I find a way, for that short period of time, to be okay with who I am, warts and all.
Over the past few years I've found myself drawn to Buddhist philosophy, mostly because it says that we are who we are, and that suffering in this world comes from wishing that reality was something other than it is, or wishing that I would be someone at my core other than who I actually am. When I embrace this notion, I find that I can adjust my behaviors in ways I feel good about. But to do that, I have to pause for just a tic, and shift my thinking slightly so I move beyond habitually reacting to having one of my buttons pushed. I don't know if I will ever get to the point where I can truly be peace and project that out into the world with any reliability, but I do know that I haven't flipped off anyone in traffic since last May.
I've always liked this part of me, at least to some degree, when I keep it reigned in - a tool rather than a character defect. Ever since I left the somewhat cutthroat world of lobbying and began staying home with children, I've had to fight to keep myself from feeling like I've become a complete grass eater since the world of stay-at-home Moms that I navigate daily is fronted by a nicer facade and is much less confrontational than lobbying. (Perhaps it just requires a different subset of my diplomatic skills.) That's not necessarily a bad thing, but I like knowing that I have this tool I can employ to keep people from viewing me as a pushover. Unfortunately, like all personalty traits that work when meted out in reasonable doses, my edge turns into something more ominous and revealing about me at times, like one morning last May.
I seemed to have rolled out of bed with foul mood fully intact that morning. I yelled at the kids for the better part of an hour as they thwarted my efforts to hustle them off to school with anything resembling efficiency, and finally dropped them at carpool. Oh, sweet relief. On my way back home during morning rush hour, I was sitting at a stop sign of a five-way intersection waiting for another car to turn left in front of me. Because this intersection is a little funky, harried drivers often get impatient while waiting for each other to figure out whose turn it is to go, resulting in horn honking or bad-mouthing from behind the perceived safety of rolled up windows. I let the car make its turn, which required a few extra seconds of waiting to those cars behind me, and just as I began to make my own turn, the car directly behind me gave a longish honk. I did what any edgy person does and lifted my hand and gave a big, fat "up yours" to the honking driver, which I regretted about two seconds afterward when I noticed a hand waving to me from the unfamiliar car.
About half a minute later, my cell phone rang and my friend Mack (who is seriously one of the nicest people I know) asked if I was the irritated, not-yet-fully-caffeinated, carpool Mom who had just given him the finger at the intersection. Yep, the honker behind me was my friend and husband's co-worker merely trying to wave "hello" to me while on his way to work. In fact, he'd been on the phone with my husband as the whole thing went down, so Steve got to hear all about it in real time.
Laughing uncomfortably, I tried to explain myself and rationalize my behavior with weak excuses - that I thought I was being honked at by some impatient jerk who couldn't stand to wait a few extra seconds at a stop sign, that I didn't know what his new car looked like, etc. I sheepishly tripped all over myself apologizing for having been the only jerk at the intersection that day. He chuckled and said it was alright. I told him I was really glad that he had been the person on the receiving end of my digitus impudicus rather than someone who would be less amused by my rude driving antics, such as one of the parents I barely knew from my kids' school (did I mention I was the PTA President last year?)
I exhaled loudly as I hung up the phone and then proceeded to spend the better part of that day unable to shake how truly awful I felt about my behavior. I couldn't get out of my mind what an almost-instantaneous reaction it had been for me to flip someone off in traffic when they honked at me, just because I was in a crappy mood. What the hell was wrong with me? What did that mean about what really lives in me at the deep core and drives my so-called "edgy" behavior? Why was I so mad? Why was I so reactionary? Why can't I just be calmer and be the "bigger person"? At 41, why haven't I cultivated a more reasonable perspective about what's worth responding to and what's worth shrugging off? Moreover, why do I choose to respond to things that I actually know I should shrug off?
And that angst-riddled, internal questioning sums up my life-long spiritual struggle of forever trying to get to the peaceful place that I know resides somewhere in me so I can wrap myself in it and quiet the cacophony of harsh voices yelling at me that I am broken and need to do and be better. When I imagine what that peaceful place would look like were it a physical presence, I can't help but think of Mohandas Ghandi - slight and unassuming, easily underestimated but undeniably powerful, exuding calm knowing, and standing silently with a welcoming smile and arms open just waiting for me to choose to come to it. And when I do, the world goes quiet for just a little while, and somehow I find a way, for that short period of time, to be okay with who I am, warts and all.
Over the past few years I've found myself drawn to Buddhist philosophy, mostly because it says that we are who we are, and that suffering in this world comes from wishing that reality was something other than it is, or wishing that I would be someone at my core other than who I actually am. When I embrace this notion, I find that I can adjust my behaviors in ways I feel good about. But to do that, I have to pause for just a tic, and shift my thinking slightly so I move beyond habitually reacting to having one of my buttons pushed. I don't know if I will ever get to the point where I can truly be peace and project that out into the world with any reliability, but I do know that I haven't flipped off anyone in traffic since last May.
Friday, August 27, 2010
The Accidental Cougar
I was walking and talking with a friend, R, one morning after dropping the rug rats off at school. We were chatting about women we know and telling each other funny stories. Fine, we were gossiping. Anyhow, as I listened, I realized that at one time or another, both she and I had found ourselves embarrassingly associated with a pack of Cougars getting their prowl on. The Urban Dictionary defines a Cougar as "a 35+ year old female who is on the "hunt" for a much younger, energetic, willing-to-do-anything male. The cougar can frequently be seen in a padded bra, cleavage exposed, propped up against a bar... waiting, watching, calculating; gearing up to sink her claws into an innocent young and strapping buck who happens to cross her path."
My Cougar association was unintentional. In R's case, she knew what she was getting into because she gets invited on an annual weekend-long "girls' trip" with a particular group of ladies, and has elected to go on several of them. Though R herself is in no way a Cougar (and neither were a couple of the other women on her trip), she pretty much knew what to expect and was even a little fascinated watching some of these ladies sink fully into their "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" personas, regardless of the fact that they were in Phoenix or Dallas or San Diego.
My story goes like this. One Spring night last year, I found myself suddenly free on a Friday evening when my kids got an impromptu spend-the-night invitation from their Grandma. It's not even really necessary that she ask me whether it's okay that they come over because the answer is an automatic "yes" as far as I'm concerned. So the kids took off, and I started casting about to see what my options for the evening might be. About three calls in, I found myself striking out amongst my friends in the not-so-fast Mom crowd that I run with, spontaneity being nigh on impossible for most of them. But I am nothing if not persistent, and I was determined to find someone to hang out with, because since Steve was already tied up with his own plans, about the last thing I wanted to do was sit around planless and pathetic in my quiet house.
I tried a divorced friend of mine whose kids were with her ex-husband that night to see what she had on tap. She said she was going to go have drinks and dinner with a girlfriend (whom I knew as well, didn't love, but could tolerate) and a couple of her friend's friends (whom I didn't know at all) at a Mexican restaurant in Buckhead, and encouraged me to come along. I had never been there and didn't know anything about the place really, but a margarita and a patio sounded like a good plan to me, so off I went.
I showed up at the appointed hour, and a quick glance toward the packed patio coupled with the fact that it took the sweat-soaked, frantic valet a full five minutes to get to my car so I could hand over the keys as I waited just feet from the door clued me in that this place was clearly a scene for the young singles in the area. See, I'm usually home wrestling my way through the bedtime routine with the kids by seven on a Friday night, so I had no idea that this restaurant was a typical booze-soaked first stop for the young professionals trying to secure that night's hook-up. The bar thing was never my scene when I was young and single, so being in the midst of one as a married 40-year-old left me immediately feeling a little weird. But I pushed through my wariness and met our group at the bar.
Perfunctory introductions were made while we waited for the bartender to notice that we needed drinks and learned from the hostess that it would be at least 45 minutes before a table was likely to open. Here's a thumbnail sketch of our happy little group: me: 40 and married; my friend: 38 and divorced with a serious boyfriend; my acquaintance: 40-plus, aura of bitterness, unmarried and REALLY wanting to change that (I'm fairly sure I know why that hasn't happened yet); her friend #1: 40ish, recently divorced, on a mission to find a replacement; and her friend #2: 40-plus, single and pleasant, and definitely looking for a boyfriend. Aside from my unremarkable outfit, the "uniform" of the group was mostly trendy sandals, tight designer jeans, and clingy shirts with plunging necklines. Mostly I passed the time just talking with my friend while the other ladies talked to each other without making any actual eye contact because they were busy scanning the faces of every guy who walked by.
We finally got to our table, which to the delight of at least sixty percent of our party was directly in the middle of the patio and completely walled in by a sea of people throwing back margaritas and shots and chatting loudly. It was fantastic people watching. I watched the slow turning of the heads of the prowling contingent of ladies at our table as they visually swept the room flashing eager smiles while sipping their drinks, chair-dancing to the beat of the background music, and sizing up the male potential, or avoiding the gaze of those males whose potential they had some history of having already sampled and found lacking. With dawning realization, I felt the blood start to creep up my neck and face as it occurred to me that I had managed to secure myself a seat at what definitely looked like a table full of Cougars. Sweet Jesus!
I mentally smacked myself for not recognizing the situation sooner, and promised to get out of there as quickly as was politely possible after eating, which as it turned out took more than a full hour. Why, you ask, was this making me wish with all my might that I had powers of invisibility that I could invoke at that very moment? I mean, relax, right? Well, if you know anything about Cougars (e.g. any episode of Real Housewives of Wherever), watching women who are past their prime roll up into a bar and try to compete with twenty-somethings for the attention of men is just plain cringe-worthy. Their perfume, a combination of desperation and trying-way-too-hard, swirls around them and announces their presence to the room. And they are almost always oblivious to the fact they are being laughed at rather than laughed with. Oh, and because the younger women usually attract the "prime" quality men in the room, the douchebags are drawn to the older, hungry ladies like a devoted cheapskate to a 1/2 price sale at the dollar store. This night was no exception I realized as I watched one of the women at our table happily being chatted up by this guy that I recognized from high school. He was a d-bag back then, and it certainly appeared that nothing substantive had changed in the 20 years since I'd last seen him.
So, yeah, I was embarrassed because I just didn't want people to look at our table and take me (a happily married, trying-to-age-gracefully, average 40-year-old woman) for a Cougar. When I finally got out of there, I went home and told Steve all about the evening. He laughed and in his typical good-natured way gave me some funny angles from which to view the evening. And in that moment, I thanked my lucky stars that I was married to this great guy and that I didn't have to navigate the tricky waters of dating in my forties. And lest you think I am a complete jerk, let me just say that I felt for my friends and acquaintances that night. I can't believe they really enjoy the effort it takes to try and bag a new guy at that age any more than I imagine I would.
My Cougar association was unintentional. In R's case, she knew what she was getting into because she gets invited on an annual weekend-long "girls' trip" with a particular group of ladies, and has elected to go on several of them. Though R herself is in no way a Cougar (and neither were a couple of the other women on her trip), she pretty much knew what to expect and was even a little fascinated watching some of these ladies sink fully into their "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" personas, regardless of the fact that they were in Phoenix or Dallas or San Diego.
My story goes like this. One Spring night last year, I found myself suddenly free on a Friday evening when my kids got an impromptu spend-the-night invitation from their Grandma. It's not even really necessary that she ask me whether it's okay that they come over because the answer is an automatic "yes" as far as I'm concerned. So the kids took off, and I started casting about to see what my options for the evening might be. About three calls in, I found myself striking out amongst my friends in the not-so-fast Mom crowd that I run with, spontaneity being nigh on impossible for most of them. But I am nothing if not persistent, and I was determined to find someone to hang out with, because since Steve was already tied up with his own plans, about the last thing I wanted to do was sit around planless and pathetic in my quiet house.
I tried a divorced friend of mine whose kids were with her ex-husband that night to see what she had on tap. She said she was going to go have drinks and dinner with a girlfriend (whom I knew as well, didn't love, but could tolerate) and a couple of her friend's friends (whom I didn't know at all) at a Mexican restaurant in Buckhead, and encouraged me to come along. I had never been there and didn't know anything about the place really, but a margarita and a patio sounded like a good plan to me, so off I went.
I showed up at the appointed hour, and a quick glance toward the packed patio coupled with the fact that it took the sweat-soaked, frantic valet a full five minutes to get to my car so I could hand over the keys as I waited just feet from the door clued me in that this place was clearly a scene for the young singles in the area. See, I'm usually home wrestling my way through the bedtime routine with the kids by seven on a Friday night, so I had no idea that this restaurant was a typical booze-soaked first stop for the young professionals trying to secure that night's hook-up. The bar thing was never my scene when I was young and single, so being in the midst of one as a married 40-year-old left me immediately feeling a little weird. But I pushed through my wariness and met our group at the bar.
Perfunctory introductions were made while we waited for the bartender to notice that we needed drinks and learned from the hostess that it would be at least 45 minutes before a table was likely to open. Here's a thumbnail sketch of our happy little group: me: 40 and married; my friend: 38 and divorced with a serious boyfriend; my acquaintance: 40-plus, aura of bitterness, unmarried and REALLY wanting to change that (I'm fairly sure I know why that hasn't happened yet); her friend #1: 40ish, recently divorced, on a mission to find a replacement; and her friend #2: 40-plus, single and pleasant, and definitely looking for a boyfriend. Aside from my unremarkable outfit, the "uniform" of the group was mostly trendy sandals, tight designer jeans, and clingy shirts with plunging necklines. Mostly I passed the time just talking with my friend while the other ladies talked to each other without making any actual eye contact because they were busy scanning the faces of every guy who walked by.
We finally got to our table, which to the delight of at least sixty percent of our party was directly in the middle of the patio and completely walled in by a sea of people throwing back margaritas and shots and chatting loudly. It was fantastic people watching. I watched the slow turning of the heads of the prowling contingent of ladies at our table as they visually swept the room flashing eager smiles while sipping their drinks, chair-dancing to the beat of the background music, and sizing up the male potential, or avoiding the gaze of those males whose potential they had some history of having already sampled and found lacking. With dawning realization, I felt the blood start to creep up my neck and face as it occurred to me that I had managed to secure myself a seat at what definitely looked like a table full of Cougars. Sweet Jesus!
I mentally smacked myself for not recognizing the situation sooner, and promised to get out of there as quickly as was politely possible after eating, which as it turned out took more than a full hour. Why, you ask, was this making me wish with all my might that I had powers of invisibility that I could invoke at that very moment? I mean, relax, right? Well, if you know anything about Cougars (e.g. any episode of Real Housewives of Wherever), watching women who are past their prime roll up into a bar and try to compete with twenty-somethings for the attention of men is just plain cringe-worthy. Their perfume, a combination of desperation and trying-way-too-hard, swirls around them and announces their presence to the room. And they are almost always oblivious to the fact they are being laughed at rather than laughed with. Oh, and because the younger women usually attract the "prime" quality men in the room, the douchebags are drawn to the older, hungry ladies like a devoted cheapskate to a 1/2 price sale at the dollar store. This night was no exception I realized as I watched one of the women at our table happily being chatted up by this guy that I recognized from high school. He was a d-bag back then, and it certainly appeared that nothing substantive had changed in the 20 years since I'd last seen him.
So, yeah, I was embarrassed because I just didn't want people to look at our table and take me (a happily married, trying-to-age-gracefully, average 40-year-old woman) for a Cougar. When I finally got out of there, I went home and told Steve all about the evening. He laughed and in his typical good-natured way gave me some funny angles from which to view the evening. And in that moment, I thanked my lucky stars that I was married to this great guy and that I didn't have to navigate the tricky waters of dating in my forties. And lest you think I am a complete jerk, let me just say that I felt for my friends and acquaintances that night. I can't believe they really enjoy the effort it takes to try and bag a new guy at that age any more than I imagine I would.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
This One Goes Out To The One I Love (It's mushy. Consider yourself warned.)
On July 1st, my husband Steve and I celebrated 20 years as a couple. He is without a shadow of a doubt the love of my life. I learned long ago that letting go of expectations and efforts to control a situation often leads to a much better outcome than anything I could design. That bore out in 1990 when what started as a reluctant blind date (I only consented after being told it wasn't a date), with a guy who was secretly hoping to meet a tall brunette (I'm a petite blond), turned out to be an essential fork in the road of my life that I have looked back on over the years with shaky relief that I managed not to miss it.
Like any couple two decades in, we've grown used to each others' habits, insecurities, quirks, charms, etc. We've learned to focus attention on the things we like about each other, and to have a reasonable perspective about the things we find irritating. For example, I overlook his habit of almost always dropping his clothes on the floor two feet from the hamper, and focus instead on what a stellar husband, father and all-around great guy he is. I'm not sure exactly how exhaustive the list of things he overlooks in me is, but I will just say that patience is one of his best qualities.
I think our relationship works as well as it does because we really like each other. We also respect each other, give each other room to be individuals, and we talk, about everything. If something is coming between us, we hash it out and listen to what the other has to say. Sometimes one of us grudgingly comes around to the other's point of view. Sometimes, we just maintain our positions while appreciating the fact that we understand each other's rationale or inherent wackiness a little better. We compromise if possible, and adapt and move on when it isn't. All of these seem to be key ingredients to engineering a relationship that's built to last, but there is another really important element, and that is making a concerted effort not to take each other for granted.
With everyone tending to full slates of obligations that require a "divide and conquer" mentality, it's far too easy to slip into phoning it in where a relationship is concerned. Why is it that when everyone says "it's the little things in life that are important", it turns out to be the little things that are the first to go when we get busy? When we mostly see each other at the groggy edges of the day, I sometimes forget to pause, really look at S, appreciate him for all that's wonderful about him, and then to do the most important part, tell him that I noticed. And just as it's important for me to take care of myself, it's equally important that I do my part to take care of us as a couple. I once heard someone say that whatever you focus your attention on becomes the most important thing to you. It's so true.
EVERYONE wants to be adored. I think that all any of us want is a partner who sees us, knows us, understands us, and lets us know from time to time that they took a few minutes out of their day to pay us some small kindness as a nod to the fact that we matter to them. While Steve and I have regular date nights where we can escape being parents for a little while and take time just for us, I wanted to dedicate this post to him because not only is this my small kindness for him today, it's a permanent record of how I love him and how important he is to me. It's my open love letter to him.
The day after our wedding, I told S that marrying him was the best decision I had ever made. That remains true today. I've never met any man that I would rather be with than him. That is the straight up truth, and I hope each of you feel the same way about your current partner or the one you find in the future. When we met, it was immediately obvious that he was different than the guys I had dated. He was sweet and attentive, quick to laugh and funny, polite and well-mannered, and just "good people", if you know what I mean. He was tall, cute, and slightly gawky - a preppy geek. He was such a far cry from the "bad boys" that I was drawn to at the time that he took a little getting used to, but it didn't really take long for me to start appreciating how great it was to be with a capital N nice guy.
Here's what I want you to know about this man. Of all the human beings that I have met in my life thus far, he falls into the extremely rare category of "good to the core". His integrity is beyond reproach. He is honestly one of the nicest people I know (nicer than I am, for sure). If a friend, or even an acquaintance, needs something, Steve is often the first person to step up and offer help. His generosity astonishes me, whether he's giving time, money, a shoulder to cry on, his effort, his labor, he goes all in, again and again and again. He's very comfortable in his own skin, so much so that I've never seen him succumb to the urge to take someone else down a notch to make a point, even when he would be completely justified in doing so. It takes a really big person, emotionally speaking, to operate that way. He is FUNNY and witty, and only growing more so with age. He makes me laugh a lot, and that is a beautiful thing. His humor is never cruel, and he has a gift for telling the unpopular truth in an amusing way so that it can be heard without hurt. And as if that weren't enough, he is really smart. At 42, he still has boyish good looks, but to me, he's more handsome than ever these days, and I think that is because all of these other amazing qualities are what the physical package is wrapped around, and there is no denying how appealing it all is when considered together.
If I've given the impression that the past twenty years have been a complete bed of roses, let me clarify. Much of the time has been great, some of it has been mediocre, some of it has been hard as hell with tears, frustration, and heated arguments. But the thing is that a relationship is the proving ground where you test every supposed enlightened thing about yourself. After all, how enlightened really is the Buddhist monk who can only be peaceful when sitting alone and unprovoked in a cave? And if there is one major lesson I've learned from all of this, it's that anything really worth having, is worth the hard work it takes to get it and to hold on to it.
When I've had a tough day and he showers me with a little of his sticky-sweet adoration, it feels like he's just thrown a life preserver in my direction that lands within arms length just in time. I can barely believe that I am the one he chose to love. The power of having that one person in your life who is completely, dependably, happily in your corner rooting for you can not be underestimated. I hope you have such a person in your life too.
Like any couple two decades in, we've grown used to each others' habits, insecurities, quirks, charms, etc. We've learned to focus attention on the things we like about each other, and to have a reasonable perspective about the things we find irritating. For example, I overlook his habit of almost always dropping his clothes on the floor two feet from the hamper, and focus instead on what a stellar husband, father and all-around great guy he is. I'm not sure exactly how exhaustive the list of things he overlooks in me is, but I will just say that patience is one of his best qualities.
I think our relationship works as well as it does because we really like each other. We also respect each other, give each other room to be individuals, and we talk, about everything. If something is coming between us, we hash it out and listen to what the other has to say. Sometimes one of us grudgingly comes around to the other's point of view. Sometimes, we just maintain our positions while appreciating the fact that we understand each other's rationale or inherent wackiness a little better. We compromise if possible, and adapt and move on when it isn't. All of these seem to be key ingredients to engineering a relationship that's built to last, but there is another really important element, and that is making a concerted effort not to take each other for granted.
With everyone tending to full slates of obligations that require a "divide and conquer" mentality, it's far too easy to slip into phoning it in where a relationship is concerned. Why is it that when everyone says "it's the little things in life that are important", it turns out to be the little things that are the first to go when we get busy? When we mostly see each other at the groggy edges of the day, I sometimes forget to pause, really look at S, appreciate him for all that's wonderful about him, and then to do the most important part, tell him that I noticed. And just as it's important for me to take care of myself, it's equally important that I do my part to take care of us as a couple. I once heard someone say that whatever you focus your attention on becomes the most important thing to you. It's so true.
EVERYONE wants to be adored. I think that all any of us want is a partner who sees us, knows us, understands us, and lets us know from time to time that they took a few minutes out of their day to pay us some small kindness as a nod to the fact that we matter to them. While Steve and I have regular date nights where we can escape being parents for a little while and take time just for us, I wanted to dedicate this post to him because not only is this my small kindness for him today, it's a permanent record of how I love him and how important he is to me. It's my open love letter to him.
The day after our wedding, I told S that marrying him was the best decision I had ever made. That remains true today. I've never met any man that I would rather be with than him. That is the straight up truth, and I hope each of you feel the same way about your current partner or the one you find in the future. When we met, it was immediately obvious that he was different than the guys I had dated. He was sweet and attentive, quick to laugh and funny, polite and well-mannered, and just "good people", if you know what I mean. He was tall, cute, and slightly gawky - a preppy geek. He was such a far cry from the "bad boys" that I was drawn to at the time that he took a little getting used to, but it didn't really take long for me to start appreciating how great it was to be with a capital N nice guy.
Here's what I want you to know about this man. Of all the human beings that I have met in my life thus far, he falls into the extremely rare category of "good to the core". His integrity is beyond reproach. He is honestly one of the nicest people I know (nicer than I am, for sure). If a friend, or even an acquaintance, needs something, Steve is often the first person to step up and offer help. His generosity astonishes me, whether he's giving time, money, a shoulder to cry on, his effort, his labor, he goes all in, again and again and again. He's very comfortable in his own skin, so much so that I've never seen him succumb to the urge to take someone else down a notch to make a point, even when he would be completely justified in doing so. It takes a really big person, emotionally speaking, to operate that way. He is FUNNY and witty, and only growing more so with age. He makes me laugh a lot, and that is a beautiful thing. His humor is never cruel, and he has a gift for telling the unpopular truth in an amusing way so that it can be heard without hurt. And as if that weren't enough, he is really smart. At 42, he still has boyish good looks, but to me, he's more handsome than ever these days, and I think that is because all of these other amazing qualities are what the physical package is wrapped around, and there is no denying how appealing it all is when considered together.
If I've given the impression that the past twenty years have been a complete bed of roses, let me clarify. Much of the time has been great, some of it has been mediocre, some of it has been hard as hell with tears, frustration, and heated arguments. But the thing is that a relationship is the proving ground where you test every supposed enlightened thing about yourself. After all, how enlightened really is the Buddhist monk who can only be peaceful when sitting alone and unprovoked in a cave? And if there is one major lesson I've learned from all of this, it's that anything really worth having, is worth the hard work it takes to get it and to hold on to it.
When I've had a tough day and he showers me with a little of his sticky-sweet adoration, it feels like he's just thrown a life preserver in my direction that lands within arms length just in time. I can barely believe that I am the one he chose to love. The power of having that one person in your life who is completely, dependably, happily in your corner rooting for you can not be underestimated. I hope you have such a person in your life too.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Mirror, mirror on the wall...
Aging sucks. Not the part where I get progressively comfortable with who I really am and stop caring about those who don't like it. That part is fantastic. It's the looking in the mirror part of aging that I don't love so much. I'm 41, and let me just say that I totally appreciate how my sweet husband tells me on a regular basis that I am beautiful, especially, he notes, when compared to the average lady in my peer group. Or the time a friend of mine told me that I look fabulous and am in great shape, and that anyone who saw me from behind would think I was in my twenties. Um, thanks? I couldn't get over feeling like I'd just been told that I was a tall midget.
I came across this website yesterday called formerlyhot.com, and I had to laugh. (Mind you, I was never "hot", but I had my fair share of attention in my younger days.) Clearly, I'm not the only one struggling with the fading flower that was my youth. A lot of women like me have reached this place referred to by Formerly Hot's blogger, Stephanie Dolgoff, as the "adult tween years" - that time when you are within shouting distance of your best physical years, though there's no fooling yourself that you're still in them, but you haven't yet reached old age. Now that I have come to terms with the fact that I fall squarely into this category, clothes shopping has become an annoying foray into a fashion no man's land. I end up walking the razor-thin line between buying stuff that is age appropriate and cute but not matronly, versus succumbing to the siren's song of some (usually young, hot) salesperson in one of the fun stores convincing me that I look great in styles geared toward enhanced, super-skinny young ladies. Few things are as painful as seeing an "adult tween" woman prancing around in an outfit that would be appropriate for her if she were 10 years younger.
It's not that I'm uptight, it's just that I've decided to shoot for aging gracefully. Aside from not buying age-inappropriate clothing, this includes resisting surgical interventions. Plastic surgery is a foot jammed in the doorway of youth, and on the other side of the door is something BIG and determined to close it. Even with the best work, no one is fooled, and unfortunately, the best work seems to be the exception rather than the rule. What I hate most about the proliferation of all this plastic surgery is the implicit message that women aren't allowed to age, or our value diminishes when we do. So, yeah, I'm trying to get used to my crow's feet (I prefer to call them laugh lines), my small, somewhat-saggy breasts (common to women who've birthed children), and my fairly fit body, which could always be better but is a decent representation of a 40-something who works out regularly. Some days I feel pretty Zen about aging, and some days it's more like a slog up a 15% incline in the freezing rain with only the promise of a thin blanket to warm me when I reach the top.
As my favorite podcast host, Dan Savage of the Savage Lovecast, says (I'm paraphrasing here), "enjoy being objectified while you can because there will come a day when you no longer will be, and you'll miss it." I'm not going to lie, I miss it.
I came across this website yesterday called formerlyhot.com, and I had to laugh. (Mind you, I was never "hot", but I had my fair share of attention in my younger days.) Clearly, I'm not the only one struggling with the fading flower that was my youth. A lot of women like me have reached this place referred to by Formerly Hot's blogger, Stephanie Dolgoff, as the "adult tween years" - that time when you are within shouting distance of your best physical years, though there's no fooling yourself that you're still in them, but you haven't yet reached old age. Now that I have come to terms with the fact that I fall squarely into this category, clothes shopping has become an annoying foray into a fashion no man's land. I end up walking the razor-thin line between buying stuff that is age appropriate and cute but not matronly, versus succumbing to the siren's song of some (usually young, hot) salesperson in one of the fun stores convincing me that I look great in styles geared toward enhanced, super-skinny young ladies. Few things are as painful as seeing an "adult tween" woman prancing around in an outfit that would be appropriate for her if she were 10 years younger.
It's not that I'm uptight, it's just that I've decided to shoot for aging gracefully. Aside from not buying age-inappropriate clothing, this includes resisting surgical interventions. Plastic surgery is a foot jammed in the doorway of youth, and on the other side of the door is something BIG and determined to close it. Even with the best work, no one is fooled, and unfortunately, the best work seems to be the exception rather than the rule. What I hate most about the proliferation of all this plastic surgery is the implicit message that women aren't allowed to age, or our value diminishes when we do. So, yeah, I'm trying to get used to my crow's feet (I prefer to call them laugh lines), my small, somewhat-saggy breasts (common to women who've birthed children), and my fairly fit body, which could always be better but is a decent representation of a 40-something who works out regularly. Some days I feel pretty Zen about aging, and some days it's more like a slog up a 15% incline in the freezing rain with only the promise of a thin blanket to warm me when I reach the top.
As my favorite podcast host, Dan Savage of the Savage Lovecast, says (I'm paraphrasing here), "enjoy being objectified while you can because there will come a day when you no longer will be, and you'll miss it." I'm not going to lie, I miss it.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Friends - I Sure Know How to Pick 'Em
I don't have a lot of friends - acquaintances, yes, friends, no. Oh, I can put on my game face, make small talk and navigate a party when necessary, but I much prefer quiet solitude to forcing chatter with an obvious round hole to my square peg. I can count my close friends on two hands, just barely. To my friends reading this, you are of course in that count.
The first blush of a friendship is a little like falling in love for me. There's an undeniable, immediate attraction. We click. I'm fascinated and want to know more. I invest, but make sure to stay this side of "overly eager". I pay special attention. I miss them in between visits. Secretly, I hope that they feel the same way about me.
My closest friends, most of whom could populate the human version of the Island of Misfit Toys (yeah, yeah, I'd be there too), are generally an appealing combination of somewhat damaged, vulnerable and open as a result, scrappy and intuitive, and genuinely trying to make the world and themselves better. They are nice people with an edge. Unflinching honesty delivered with a velvet glove, plus the ability to discern when that's necessary (a skill typically honed by having swallowed wounds and slights, but not the accompanying bitterness) goes a long way with me.
Were they clothes, they would be like the Mad Hatter's ensemble in Tim Burton's version of Alice in Wonderland - comfortable with a cozy fit, well-constructed and tough, slightly frayed around the edges because of wear but holding up well otherwise, and always containing some slightly kooky, delightful flair. Few things thrill me like discovering that some sweetly-exteriored person has a bite to her inner self. Unwrapping a beautiful package and discovering grit and dirt inside only makes me want to know the back story that much more, and those unanticipated revelations keep me wondering what else this person is going to show me. I love a friend who will go to the raw places with me, but who also has figured out how to filter her crude internal self just enough to function in polite society.
I would like to think that, as a friend myself, I am a satisfying combination of "what you see is what you get" and "what you get is doled out in a slightly surprising way", because while my brain knows that I fit more neatly into a demographic than I wish I did (as evidenced by the number of times iTunes' Genius nails my song recommendations), the "you're the only snowflake like you in the whole wide world" part of me hopes I'm not completely predictable.
I'm low profile and laid back, and I appreciate the same in others. A few of my friendships died premature deaths when I just couldn't take anymore of the unceasing "Me" show. Turns out that the "Look at me. No, really, look at me" personality is only interesting for about the ten minutes it takes to realize that's all there ever will be there. The older I get, the less willing I am to waste time with the energy vampires. I've taken a lot of steps to live consciously and to let people see me as I really am, and I'm glad I've made the effort to purge relationships from my life that don't work for me. At the same time, I've managed to hold onto people who on the surface may appear ordinary, but contain within them incredibly beautiful and valuable qualities. Sometimes I can scarcely believe I had the good fortune to stumble upon them at all, and even more so that they've allowed me to stake a claim in them.
I have this one friend, for example, who is seriously one of my favorite people in the whole world. Aside from being quirky, funny, and very clever, he has this oh-so-refreshing habit of always telling the truth, to everyone. He's just so utterly charming while doing it that it's easy to swallow even the bitterest pill when it comes from him. Maybe it's because he doesn't feel the need to bludgeon with the truth. Even so, not everyone is interested in being friends with someone who is globally honest. It definitely takes some getting used to, but once you do it's liberating. It works for me because I have discovered that I have no patience for trying to interpret a message, and really, I'm just not very good at it. Whether I like what he's saying to me or not, at least I always know where I stand with him.
The common theme here is that every single one of my close friends brings something to the table that I admire and want to emulate - unwavering honesty, incredible courage and a willingness to walk right up to and confront very uncomfortable situations, wide open minds, the deepest wells of integrity and goodness so pure they couldn't be faked by even the best actor, a hardcore sense of adventure and desire to soak up everything life has to offer. The people dearest to me make me want to dig deep and find the best version of myself, pull it out, breathe life into it, and head off down the path with them to see what lies around the next bend.
The first blush of a friendship is a little like falling in love for me. There's an undeniable, immediate attraction. We click. I'm fascinated and want to know more. I invest, but make sure to stay this side of "overly eager". I pay special attention. I miss them in between visits. Secretly, I hope that they feel the same way about me.
My closest friends, most of whom could populate the human version of the Island of Misfit Toys (yeah, yeah, I'd be there too), are generally an appealing combination of somewhat damaged, vulnerable and open as a result, scrappy and intuitive, and genuinely trying to make the world and themselves better. They are nice people with an edge. Unflinching honesty delivered with a velvet glove, plus the ability to discern when that's necessary (a skill typically honed by having swallowed wounds and slights, but not the accompanying bitterness) goes a long way with me.
Were they clothes, they would be like the Mad Hatter's ensemble in Tim Burton's version of Alice in Wonderland - comfortable with a cozy fit, well-constructed and tough, slightly frayed around the edges because of wear but holding up well otherwise, and always containing some slightly kooky, delightful flair. Few things thrill me like discovering that some sweetly-exteriored person has a bite to her inner self. Unwrapping a beautiful package and discovering grit and dirt inside only makes me want to know the back story that much more, and those unanticipated revelations keep me wondering what else this person is going to show me. I love a friend who will go to the raw places with me, but who also has figured out how to filter her crude internal self just enough to function in polite society.
I would like to think that, as a friend myself, I am a satisfying combination of "what you see is what you get" and "what you get is doled out in a slightly surprising way", because while my brain knows that I fit more neatly into a demographic than I wish I did (as evidenced by the number of times iTunes' Genius nails my song recommendations), the "you're the only snowflake like you in the whole wide world" part of me hopes I'm not completely predictable.
I'm low profile and laid back, and I appreciate the same in others. A few of my friendships died premature deaths when I just couldn't take anymore of the unceasing "Me" show. Turns out that the "Look at me. No, really, look at me" personality is only interesting for about the ten minutes it takes to realize that's all there ever will be there. The older I get, the less willing I am to waste time with the energy vampires. I've taken a lot of steps to live consciously and to let people see me as I really am, and I'm glad I've made the effort to purge relationships from my life that don't work for me. At the same time, I've managed to hold onto people who on the surface may appear ordinary, but contain within them incredibly beautiful and valuable qualities. Sometimes I can scarcely believe I had the good fortune to stumble upon them at all, and even more so that they've allowed me to stake a claim in them.
I have this one friend, for example, who is seriously one of my favorite people in the whole world. Aside from being quirky, funny, and very clever, he has this oh-so-refreshing habit of always telling the truth, to everyone. He's just so utterly charming while doing it that it's easy to swallow even the bitterest pill when it comes from him. Maybe it's because he doesn't feel the need to bludgeon with the truth. Even so, not everyone is interested in being friends with someone who is globally honest. It definitely takes some getting used to, but once you do it's liberating. It works for me because I have discovered that I have no patience for trying to interpret a message, and really, I'm just not very good at it. Whether I like what he's saying to me or not, at least I always know where I stand with him.
The common theme here is that every single one of my close friends brings something to the table that I admire and want to emulate - unwavering honesty, incredible courage and a willingness to walk right up to and confront very uncomfortable situations, wide open minds, the deepest wells of integrity and goodness so pure they couldn't be faked by even the best actor, a hardcore sense of adventure and desire to soak up everything life has to offer. The people dearest to me make me want to dig deep and find the best version of myself, pull it out, breathe life into it, and head off down the path with them to see what lies around the next bend.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Carving Out Some "Me" Time
I've been in a state of a stay-at-home Momhood for almost 8 years now - 2 more than I expected to be working only at home. I say working because make no mistake, I am working, there's just no paycheck involved. I'm not suggesting that it's particularly hard work or that I don't benefit from this arrangement. My basic needs, and even some wants, are more than adequately met in return for my contribution. And I like to think that my staying atop the persistent pile of mundane tasks related to keeping children healthy and ensuring the house doesn't end up as a candidate for "Hoarders" makes it easier for my hubby to go to work and continue to pay for all of this. For the record, I'm married to one of the best guys around. He gets how taxing dealing with children full time can be, and he certainly gets that taking breaks are necessary for good parenting to continue to be possible.
There are circumstances in life though when, if you aren't careful, what was your assuredly solid sense of self can slip unnoticed through your fingers until you hardly recognize what remains in your grasp. Unguarded parenthood - constantly attending to everyone else's needs before your own - is a good example. When the kids are very young, that high level of sacrifice is an essential part of the job. You start out taking care of babies whose needs unquestionably must be met by you if they are to thrive. You gladly put your own desires aside because it is vital that you do so, and because it is absolutely worth the sacrifice, and because it takes almost no time to discover that you love them with a primal fierceness that you had no idea existed before they came along and you want to do whatever it takes to get them off to a good start in life. But as they get older, what was once a necessity can become a crushing habit of ignoring your own need to grow and develop in service to the family. It can be insidious if you've left a career that you don't intend to reenter (and you haven't settled on what you will do professionally in the future), and with each passing day a little of the known quantity of who you were in that role slips away until you realize that you aren't quite sure who you are anymore. The role of being Mom can grow so large that you forget what rounds out the rest of you. At least this is what happened with me.
Parenting is basically a delayed-gratification marathon. Let me be clear, I love my children and being their mother, and I don't regret my decision to be at home with them, but being a mother doesn't complete me. It is simply one dimension of who I am, and I want to continue to hone my other facets. I didn't long for motherhood as my ultimate life's goal, though I am so happy that I opted to take the plunge. Motherhood has been the most rewarding, and the most difficult thing I've done so far. I am not striving for perfection as a parent, but I make a serious effort to do right by my girls, and when I fall short, which happens more than I care to admit, I feel terrible about it and I try to reset myself so I will do better the next time. For me, what that often means is carving out some "me" time and finding some things to do that have absolutely nothing to do with my children.
I'm in the very fortunate position of not having finances require me to work, and about the last thing I want to sound like here is some privileged asshole whining about a life that many women would trade places for in a heartbeat. While I am grateful that I can be so present in my daughters' lives, feeding my own soul and guarding some piece of my independent self is what keeps me tethered to my sanity. So I've been making an effort to figure out what rounds me out in this phase of my life. Not me in relation to my children. Not me in relation to my husband. Not me in a role that is tangential to the family. Just me.
I've started claiming some time for myself, and when I'm not taking care of the kids I volunteer my time and effort for causes that resonate with me. It feeds my soul and my intellectual curiosity at the same time, and I feel like I'm leaving my corner of the world just a little better off than I found it. I am also starting to write - this blog, some essays, letters to my daughters for when they are older. A couple of years ago I started taking guitar lessons, which has been a fun challenge, and I've been pleasantly surprised to discover that I could learn to play music at my relatively advanced age, and that I do have some creative yearnings that want to see the light of day. When I can get away with it, I travel. I know, in the grand scheme these seem like small things, and they are, but every time I do something for me to define a new part of myself and recharge my batteries, I'm a much better Mom. It's also really important to me that my girls understand that I'm not just their Mom, I'm my own person too with hopes, dreams and desires, some of which include them and some of which don't. When I make me one of the priorities in my life, I come away having gained as much as I gave, and then I have something to draw on so I can keep giving to the family.
At the end of any given day, especially the tough ones, my sweet husband reminds me that I'm doing a good job and that when they are 30 and have their own children they are likely to appreciate us. As parents, we are middle-of-the packers, neither incredibly good, but far from neglectful. And as children go, ours are not statistical outliers - they could certainly be better behaved and more well-mannered than they are, but they could also be a hell of a lot worse too. And maybe that's one more good thing to remember about finding balance, that it's okay to be right in the middle of the bell curve where ordinary is just fine.
There are circumstances in life though when, if you aren't careful, what was your assuredly solid sense of self can slip unnoticed through your fingers until you hardly recognize what remains in your grasp. Unguarded parenthood - constantly attending to everyone else's needs before your own - is a good example. When the kids are very young, that high level of sacrifice is an essential part of the job. You start out taking care of babies whose needs unquestionably must be met by you if they are to thrive. You gladly put your own desires aside because it is vital that you do so, and because it is absolutely worth the sacrifice, and because it takes almost no time to discover that you love them with a primal fierceness that you had no idea existed before they came along and you want to do whatever it takes to get them off to a good start in life. But as they get older, what was once a necessity can become a crushing habit of ignoring your own need to grow and develop in service to the family. It can be insidious if you've left a career that you don't intend to reenter (and you haven't settled on what you will do professionally in the future), and with each passing day a little of the known quantity of who you were in that role slips away until you realize that you aren't quite sure who you are anymore. The role of being Mom can grow so large that you forget what rounds out the rest of you. At least this is what happened with me.
Parenting is basically a delayed-gratification marathon. Let me be clear, I love my children and being their mother, and I don't regret my decision to be at home with them, but being a mother doesn't complete me. It is simply one dimension of who I am, and I want to continue to hone my other facets. I didn't long for motherhood as my ultimate life's goal, though I am so happy that I opted to take the plunge. Motherhood has been the most rewarding, and the most difficult thing I've done so far. I am not striving for perfection as a parent, but I make a serious effort to do right by my girls, and when I fall short, which happens more than I care to admit, I feel terrible about it and I try to reset myself so I will do better the next time. For me, what that often means is carving out some "me" time and finding some things to do that have absolutely nothing to do with my children.
I'm in the very fortunate position of not having finances require me to work, and about the last thing I want to sound like here is some privileged asshole whining about a life that many women would trade places for in a heartbeat. While I am grateful that I can be so present in my daughters' lives, feeding my own soul and guarding some piece of my independent self is what keeps me tethered to my sanity. So I've been making an effort to figure out what rounds me out in this phase of my life. Not me in relation to my children. Not me in relation to my husband. Not me in a role that is tangential to the family. Just me.
I've started claiming some time for myself, and when I'm not taking care of the kids I volunteer my time and effort for causes that resonate with me. It feeds my soul and my intellectual curiosity at the same time, and I feel like I'm leaving my corner of the world just a little better off than I found it. I am also starting to write - this blog, some essays, letters to my daughters for when they are older. A couple of years ago I started taking guitar lessons, which has been a fun challenge, and I've been pleasantly surprised to discover that I could learn to play music at my relatively advanced age, and that I do have some creative yearnings that want to see the light of day. When I can get away with it, I travel. I know, in the grand scheme these seem like small things, and they are, but every time I do something for me to define a new part of myself and recharge my batteries, I'm a much better Mom. It's also really important to me that my girls understand that I'm not just their Mom, I'm my own person too with hopes, dreams and desires, some of which include them and some of which don't. When I make me one of the priorities in my life, I come away having gained as much as I gave, and then I have something to draw on so I can keep giving to the family.
At the end of any given day, especially the tough ones, my sweet husband reminds me that I'm doing a good job and that when they are 30 and have their own children they are likely to appreciate us. As parents, we are middle-of-the packers, neither incredibly good, but far from neglectful. And as children go, ours are not statistical outliers - they could certainly be better behaved and more well-mannered than they are, but they could also be a hell of a lot worse too. And maybe that's one more good thing to remember about finding balance, that it's okay to be right in the middle of the bell curve where ordinary is just fine.
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