Passion and Posting

I love The Facebook- it allows me to keep friends in all corners of the globe. Let's face it- most of us are lazy and self centered and really only have interest in what's right in front of us. Occasionally, we miss that friend, who, once upon a time, raced us down the isles of Target in a shopping cart; Or that sassy gal who danced with us in the rain at midnight. Or EVEN that girl you hated who you had a bio class with. We wonder where life took them. Now, we can be all voyeuristic and find out! It is comforting to know that you aren't the ONLY one who has gained 40lbs since high school, and that Bio Class Cow may still be thin, but her children are highly unattractive in comparison with yours (AND she's still doing the sausage roll bangs! OH PA-Leeze!)
It also allows us to connect in some way with family members we DO genuinely care about, but with whom we share little to nothing in common with except unpleasant memories. And when weddings and funerals force us to be together, we always have Farmville to help us avoid the awkward silence. When we wouldn’t know what to say in a phone call or letter, nothing says “Hey, I'm thinking of ya” better than a gifted virtual chicken.
I do observe the Facebook pleasantries. I lob a “Happy Birthday” on the walls of those I may have only met briefly through a friend at the supermarket. I don't go spamming messages, nor “invite” people to fictional events ( sorry, I'm “not attending” WORLD SMELL THE FLOWERS DAY). I try not to be so attention seeking as to cryptically post “OMG, I CAN'T BELIVE IT!!!!” or the like in order to manipulate others into perusing me for information.
The custom marketing is pretty awesome. I do find stuff I like, and if I get tired of seeing annoying pictures of Toby Mac (just because I classify myself as a Christian, does not mean I like crap music) on the right of my screen everyday, I have the power to close the windows marking them as uninteresting, repetitive or offensive. I DO like the “Groupon”, in spite of the recent controversial commercials, and will repost a link if I am totally excited about something (I AM a bit of a coupon whore). 20 bucks for 5 admissions to The Magic House? I am IN. “Like” Chipotle for a buy one get one free coupon? OH YEAH!
When someone posts something with which I find general favor, but have really nothing to say about it, there’s the bless-ed “like” button, used to both affirm the statement that means enough to someone to spout it to the world, and register my valuable opinion without having to go to much effort. And you know what 'they' say, “opinions are like [backsides], everybody's got one”, and something I have in abundance (both in the opinion and [backside] department).
Though most of my personal posts are just random statements to say “hello, world! I'm here!” or images I find amusing enough to share, Facebook is a place where we sometimes register our rather passionate feelings about certain things and spark dialog among people who may have very different viewpoints. While I have seen lengthy comments bantering back and forth about “OMG! Did you see what so and so was wearing at the Grammy's?”many people use Facebook as a platform to make public statements regarding polygamy, human rights, religion, politics, etc... This format of “conversation” is rather dependent on people having the ability to accurately communicate or interperate opinions and ideas in their comments. A lot of the time, I'm just not hip with the cool kids' lingo. Does FB mean 'facebook' or 'fat bastard'? Is 'lol' really 'lame old loser'? I have to figure out if I'm being insulted and don't even know it.
I don't know about you, but I have been actually speaking to someone, where they can hear my inflections and see my body language, and they still took what I had to say as something I never intended to communicate. How many of us when reading an off the wall statement from one of our friends we completely disagreed with, commented or messaged back, “I'm not sure I understand your post. Can you elaborate on what you mean?”. Not me. I look at it and go “Huh?” and just dismiss it, or, if it is one of my 'hot button' issues, I passive/aggressively post the contrary point of view in my own status with a huge obnoxious graphic. Most people are just braver than I am and will comment back how wrong the other person is and give a three point essay why. I, being averse to confrontation- even in written form, prefer my passive/aggressive method.
One of the things I am personally trying to work on is being more compassionate and sympathetic to others. Once upon a time, I took comfort in my Southern Baptist upbringing and whatever the popular christian culture opinion was, was good enough for me. If a pastor was saying it, it had to be the right way to go. If it was on a christian t-shirt, it was gospel and there was no questioning it. There was no other way to look at it, and no grace for those who didn't see things through the same glasses. Frankly, it's just easier to conform and not have to think. But as I have gotten older and faced a few disappointments, owing to my unfair fantasy that people who identify themselves as 'christian leaders' are perfect, I have been forced to think for myself.
Where I would, at one time, only read the headline, form, then declare my ready-made 'conservative wisdom' and PROVE my ignorance, I now read the whole story, and usually have to look between the lines. I am trying to remember to ask myself, “Why would a person do this?” or “What is in their experience that would cause them to make such a statement?” or “Why does this grown woman in 2011 still have sausage roll bangs?” Sometimes, I just get it wrong. I simply misunderstand or make incorrect assumptions- typically based on prejudices I don't even realize I have. I also need to remember that 'tongue-in-cheek' weirdo stuff I mindlessly post on Facebook, just may ignite the fire under someone else's passion and light me up.
SO, if you happen to see me post a link for a coupon to the 'Satanist's R Us' on line store, check to see if it's just spam, my poor attempt at humor, or feel free to ask me “why?”

So.....Not........Fair.

“She's such a smart girl. I can't believe she would walk in front of a train.” A tragic epitaph to a young lady who was beautiful, intelligent and driven.
There have been two occasions in my life that I truly believed I was going to die. Yes, I admittedly am a bit dramatic, but these were not one of my lame pleas for attention. I did indeed 100% think death was here for me. Both of these times were during illness.
The first, I was 19years old. I was living in Houston. I had some really terrible virus that left me with a fever, nasty stomach bug, bronchitis, a double ear infection, strep throat and an acute sinus infection. One of the older ladies I worked with had taken me to a clinic. I remember the doctor had his cold fingers on the side of my neck, looking down my throat and said, “Boy, you sure do feel bad, don't you?”. He then shot me up with penicillin and gave me a fifteen day regimen of Augmenten. Later, I was alone, laying on an itchy sofa, with hot tears stinging the outer corners of my eyes streaming into my hair. I had the words to an old song playing in my head, “Going Home, I am Going Home. There is nothing to hold me here. I caught a glimpse of that Heavenly Land. Praise God, I am going home.” Like I said, dramatic, but at the time very real. I vividly remember telling myself that once I fell asleep, I probably would not wake up. I was at peace with it, so I drifted off. Imagine my slight confusion as my next vision was of a friend throwing my stuff on top of a laundry basket on her hip. She guided me down the stairs and into her car out to her parents home so her mom could take care of me. I was drifting in and out of sleep all the way there. As we merged onto the 288 freeway, I realized I was going to live. I am still grateful (but in my sick way, was peeved about gaining back the 19 pounds I had lost.)
When I was 23, I was less at peace with the idea of dying. My husband and I lived in Riverside with our beautiful 14 month old daughter. She was (and is) the joy and beauty of my life. I had been sick off and on, and must have done something to my neck, because I got to where I couldn't turn my head at all. I came home from work crying in pain, with the worst headache you could imagine, and a fever of 104. I became violently sick and started to break out in hives. My husband called his mother to come get our baby so he could take me to the ER. I was in SO much pain. Our darling girl came over to me to ask if I was okay. I must have frightened her. I was so angry and scared, I couldn't even look at her. I thought, “God, why NOW? When I have a husband who loves me and this beautiful child? Why would you take me now?”. Yes, again dramatic, but, again-at the time- real. My mother in law was in a fender bender on the way to our apartment. We didn't have cell phones in those days, so we didn't know what was taking forever. As soon as she got there, my beloved carried me out to he car and to the hospital, where I was immediately cared for. I must have been having such a fit, they didn't want me in the waiting room. I was quickly administered an IV, and then given Morphine. I could taste it, and my throat started to burn. I felt it closing up and I began gasping for air. In a dimly lit emergency room cubicle, unable to breathe with a sea of activity around me, everything got dimmer. I was rolled onto my side and felt a sharp, electric pain from the middle of my back down into my legs, as fluid was taken from my spine. I reflected back to the time on that itchy sofa, but no peaceful resignation or hymn of comfort came now. This was death, and I was pissed about it.
But, it wasn't death, just a “simple” case of meningitis coupled with an anxiety attack and a bad reaction to Morphine. Some time quarantined in the hospital and two years of fatigue and raging headaches, and I would be good as new.
There have been other times- when passing a gall stone and suffering, was was termed “slow burn appendicitis”- that I WANTED to die, but the grim reaper didn't even hint at showing up to relieve me of the pain then. At least with the pain of childbirth, it's over in twenty hours or so and you end up with a baby!
I think the problem is we have a hard time seeing anything but what is immediately in front of us. Ill and alone, I could see no earthly relief from the attack of the infection on my body. Overwhelmed by a wall of pain and fear, I thought the only thing other side of it could be death. But I was very conscious and afraid of what I didn’t know. There are other times when we think we absolutely KNOW what is in front if us and how to handle it, that we don't heed any precaution. We don't know what we don't know. So much so, we take for granted that there ISN'T anything we don't know. Sometimes, we may see what is, or may be, coming. We either accept it, peacefully or unpeacefully, or deny it. Other times, we are oblivious to even look for it, secure in our routine and ignorance.
Such was the plight of the daughter of a dear friend.
Alana was walking home from school, as she did every day. She had transferred to a high school that offered an International Baccalaureate Program, so every day, she had to take the city bus to and from school. And every day, Alana would cross a set of train tracks to get from her bus stop to her home. Some days, there would be no train and the barriers would be raised dormant. Other days, she would have heard the bells and scurried across before the the barriers would lower and the train would come. And other days she would wait for the 100plus freight cars to slowly make their way across the street, and when finally the last car of the train would pass, she would go around the still lowered barrier to get home and get on with all the things she had left to do that day. On Tuesday, she would follow the same routine she had every other day. This time, focused on the hundred-car-long freighter and the things that occupy the mind of a fifteen year-old girl, accustomed to the sounds of the train and the bells, what Alana didn't see was the commuter train speeding from the other direction.
Alana was a creative 15 year old girl with dreams and typical teen worries and a kind heart. She had been a cheerleader, was an Honers Student with strong convictions, a Humane Society Volunteer, a Compassionate Sister to her brother with Asberger's Syndrome, and a Devoted daughter. She did not come from a family with a lot of means, so she knew in order to achieve her goals, she had to be willing to work hard. With such drive and determination and talent and promise, why would God just snatch her from our hands?
All of us dodge the barriers and close our ears to what's around us. Not considering anything other than what we can see in front of us. All of us take for granted that we know all there is to know. And though Alana's consequences are plain to see, what consequences do the rest of us have that we refuse to acknowledge? Those of us with less drive, less determination, less promise, less compassion? Why isn't it fair?
My own teenage daughter will occasionally sleep over at a friend's house. When she does, we trust she is safe and having a good time, but, when we go to bed, we feel it in the air that she isn' t here. We feel she is missing, but she comes home the next day, and we ask if she had fun, and she tells us “yes”. It is a horrifying thought, that my friend will go to bed tonight, with the feeling her daughter is missing, but she's not coming home tomorrow.
A family friend was quoted in the newspaper article about Alana's death, “She was such a smart girl, I can't believe she would walk in front of a train.”. Perhaps more remarkable is the fact that the rest of THINK we are so smart, it's a wonder more of us DON'T walk in front of trains.

The Potty Rant

Once I saw on Oprah that the least used stall in a public restroom is the first one. I guess, as women, we walk in and naturally overlook the first option. “Nah, I'm sure there's something better down the line”. We don't like to commit- we keep our options open as long as possible. Sort of like, it's the high school dance and the first guy who asks us to go is nice and handsome, but we say no or don't give an answer because we don't want to sell ourselves short . And if they're available, the high school quarterback of stalls is the big handicap cubicle. It's spacious, and if you've overindulged in dairy products the day before and are having a hard time getting things going, you have those nice bars for leverage.(I know, TMI. Sorry). But if the big one is occupied or, unflushed, or there is someone who LEGITAMTELY needs the handicap stall, we go ahead and settle for the closest one. As we've gone down the line, we are suddenly less picky and are at the point when we just need a stall- preferably a clean one.
Now I go into a restroom and think, “well, now that the “first stall” information was on The Oprah Show, is the first stall now the MOST used?” When the anti-germ expert gave her this information, Oprah looked so elated! As though, now she is equipped to avoid all manner of communicable diseases, and was like, “Thank You. You have saved my life”. Then I remembered that she is an Academy Award nominated actress. Knowing this is not going to change her life or habits in any way. Really, when was the last time THE Oprah- Oprah Winfrey had to use a public toilet? Could you imagine, being at the mall, sitting in your cubicle, minding your business, when this hand reaches under the stall and it's OPRAH- “can you spare a square?”. I would be so excited and overwhelmed, I wouldn't even be able to think! I would just grab my stuff and run out – wouldn't zip or wash up or anything. I would be all out of breath and tell my girlfriends, “It's Oprah! She's stranded in the bathroom with no toilet paper! What do I do?”
But that could never happen. Number one, like I'd be in the restroom without my girlfriends! Women like wolves- we prefer to mate for life and travel in packs. Number two, When you hit that level of success Oprah is at, do you even have to use the bathroom anymore? Isn't there some super secret procedure you can pay some exorbitant amount to have someone else take care of that for you? Some type of bodily waste teleportation device?
If it DID happen, you can be sure it would be at Nordstom's because, even if you're not shopping there, they do have the nicest bathrooms. They always have a lounge with magazines, where you can sit and wait for your friends to be done. And the baby changing stations are so well equipped. I was a really young mother- I was married at 21 and had our daughter eleven months later, so I was clueless about baby things. I was so happy that universally ladies rooms even had changing stations. Because if they didn't, what would I have done? Just let her sit chaffing in her diaper until I got home? Certainly not! I'd have to go to the car or something.
When our young family would be out and the need would arise to go to the ladies room, my husband would go on and on about how lucky women were to have such posh restrooms. He made it sound as though men's rooms had a just concrete slab with a drain in the middle of the room, and a communal bucket they all had to use.
Disneyland Park has a FANTASTIC place for babies and young children with several nice changing stations, little preschool sized potty's, private nursing stations, and a section with microwaves and high chairs to feed older babies. Little old ladies in turn of the century costumes could sell you diapers, wipes, formula or binkey's should you need them. We were on a Disney visit in the company of a friend of my husband's who's young wife tragically died, leaving him with two very young children. I thought, “Thank God the park has this facility, because what would this poor man do, otherwise?” I was being so helpful, giving our friend the 411 on the little Potty Place. He looked at me like I was nuts. He said, “I just change them in the men's room” I was appalled! I asked, what does he do, “put a mat on the FLOOR?”. He then informed me, “No, they have changing tables in men's bathroom”.
SO! The secret was out! I was under the impression that amenities in a men's restroom were limited to paper towels, at BEST! I sharply turned to my husband, who was looking at his friend with eyes as big as dinner plates shaking his head. I then asked this friend if ALL men's rooms had changing facilities. He said, yes, malls and restaurants and, yes, theme parks were all equipped with changing tables. My husband then cast his face down in shame. BUSTED!
He was able to pay his friend back for arming me with this information later in the day when we stopped for a snack. Although his friend is good enough to change his kid's own poopies instead of using his charm on an older woman to do it for him, he DID NOT like cleaning up food mess. After telling his children the French Fry Cart was “out of ketchup”, my husband heroically exclaimed, “No, there's PLENTY of ketchup! I'll bring you some. They've got TONS!”
Which leaves me with the comfort that in this world, the bathroom is the great equalizer. Whether you are Oprah, a young mom, or a widowed father, we all appreciate nice restrooms.

More to Lose

Well, yippee skippy, it's another new year. A time to “start fresh”, get organized, resolve to get healthy and be the best “You” you can be! Yes, it's January- the gym is packed, the supplement isle at WalMart crowded, Carpet cleaners and Space Bags are on sale, Nutri System has had a jump in revenue, and we've all filled our crisper drawers with future decayed vegetables we will be throwing out by Valentines Day.
We WILL Watch more PBS and less E. Quit buying lattes and start buying Money Markets. Clean out the closets and clean up the language. Start Going to Church, Stop Overspending. We are going to drink less, exercise more, stop smoking, and throw out that Cold Stone Frequent Customer punch card (only to curse ourselves by April when we would have earned our free Love It Sized Cake Batter with Reese's-@%$!). I just don't do “resolutions”.
As you can tell, I have fallen off the Wellness Wagon once or twice. My “New Year's Resolution” list had become the painful “Stuff I'll Fail to Accomplish Again” list. I am so NOT in denial! I am all acceptance all the time. But why do we feel the need to change? To be something different than we are? I have a good life. My husband loves me the way I am. I am content the way things are. But am I really Fat and Happy, or am I just Bitter and Beefy? Is it just less painful to accept sucking at weight loss and having chronically clean dresser drawers than to do the work required to truly succeed at change?
This last year, I thought I had actually done rather well as far as my habits went. I was exercising regularly. RUNNING even! The Coke was almost completely OUT. We started cutting down the size of our family dinners. I was in the size ten jeans. All was well. Then, on November 4th, I paid my semi annual visit to my doctor, sure to be praised for all the weight I've lost, only to find I had lost only four pounds in six months! WTF???!! Are you KIDDING ME? And save your “muscle weighs more than fat” B.S., and “you really should look at inches, not pounds” hogwash (even though you're right). I would never let anyone know it, but I was devastated. I told myself the number didn't matter, which is why I don't keep a scale at home, or I would be continually discouraged. But it did matter. AND I wanted not only the weight loss but the recognition. I left with neither.
So I said “Screw it! Bring on the Holidays! Where is that Halloween Candy? Super-size it!” Why do I do that? What comfort does abusing my body actually bring? It must bring something, because I do it every stinking time! I get this attitude like, “I'll show 'em!” when the only one I'm “showing” is ME. “Hello, Universe! If I can't be 135 lbs, then I'll be TWO hundred and thirty five pounds! I'M in control of MY world. I can eat seven cupcakes for breakfast if I want to! NO ONE CAN STOP ME! BWWWAAAHAHHAHAAAA!”
Idiot.
But I'm finding that I have more to lose than just pounds and inches. I have to lose the pseudo “I'm in control” attitude, because I am sooooo NOT, or I wouldn't default to the sugar addiction whenever I get all pouty. But at least I have a “normal” issue. Not like those freaks on A&E who are addicted to wearing furry suits and eating chalk. ( Yes, I also make myself feel better about my poor parenting by watching the stupid mothers on Toddler's and Tiaras”)
I know “how” to live healthy, but I don't think I know how to change. Oh, I can switch up my habits for a while. Like, I'm pretending to be this other person who juices and eats vegetables and measures out buckwheat and rice milk for breakfast, when the REAL me wants two sausage mcMuffins and a large Coke. I have not been successful taking the “Act my way to different thinking” approach, but I don't think I'm having much luck with “thinking my way to different acting” either. My Thinker is busted. So I suppose that's where I start- but with a bit more commitment than I've shown previously by simply paroozing the Self Help section at the public library. It will take “goal setting” and “Planning”(YUCK).
But don't go thinkin' this is some sort of “New Year's Resolution”, because it's NOT!

Santa Baby

We have never really done the Santa thing with our kids. I can get really religious and self righteous about the whole thing and say that it's because "Jesus is the Reason for the Season", or, I can be all psychologically pessimistic and practical and say "why would I tell my kids lying is wrong and perpetuate the Santa Clause myth? All that teaches them is that lying is OK for adults, not for kids." But I believe the real reason is rooted in my own bag of disappointment.
I don't remember my parents really hitting the Santa thing that hard. Oh, I had "Breakfast with Santa" when I was three, but it's not like we wrote letters or got our picture taken with him every year. In fact, I don't remember my younger sister ever seeing Santa. But I could be wrong.
I was a child for whom the line between reality and fantasy was a bit blurred. Correction: I was a child for whom the line between reality and fantasy was non-existent. I vividly remember during a large family meal at The Sizzler with all the relatives-you know, one side was a booth bench, the other side were chairs and all the little tables were connected together with those leaf things (why is called a "leaf" anyway?). I stood up in my seat, turned around and did the Nestea plunge directly backward into to table .The table connector leaf things broke apart and I was in the floor showered with Texas Toast, Iced Tea and Sweet&Low packets. I was completely bewildered by the outcome. In my mind, I guess I had gone to my "happy place"- where I spent much of my time while in the company of my mothers family, and just forgot where I was.
Needless to say, I was a daydreamer. I wasn't really taught there was a Santa, I HOPED there was a Santa, I prayed there was a Santa. There had to be real magic somewhere in the world. There had to be more to life than what I was observing life to be. Maybe Santa wasn't real for anyone else in the world, but I pleaded with God to make him real for me. I was so angry the Christmas morning I woke up earlier than anyone in my family and looked at the tags on the presents marked "From Santa" and realized that it was my mothers handwriting. Something in me broke. And there was a bitterness and a resentment I had toward my mother that took root in that moment. Like I blamed HER that Santa was a scam, designed by parents to manipulate their children in to behaving a few weeks out of the year.
There are heartbreaks in this life that you can't shield your children from. I guess I felt like this was one that I could. And, selfishly, I didn't want to be resented by my kids the same way I resented my mother.
I asked my daughter if she felt cheated that we didn't play up the Santa thing. She said no, and she felt sorry for the kids in her class who still believe in Santa. Someone in the store had asked my son, who was then five, what Santa was bringing him for Christmas. He said very matter-of-factly "I don't like Santa Claus". He saw A Christmas Story and Santa has freaked him out ever since (Ho Ho HOOOOOOO).
So, every December, I put on 10 lbs trying to fill the empty hole that "Christmas Magic" used to fill with fudge, peppermint hot chocolate, and an abundance of pork products.
I now sit at my post-reflection crossroads- should I hit the elliptical, or eat some cookie dough?

Dragon Sized Goals

“Fairy tales do not teach children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales teach children the dragons can be destroyed.” G. K. Chesterton


I have been thinking about the concept of Goal Setting lately. I guess it's just what happens when the end of your “early to mid” 30's are but a few short weeks away. I have NEVER been a real goal setter. I HATE lists. I'm great at making them, just not so good at following them (or actually making it from the house to the car and then the car to the store with them at all).
I suppose I have been successful at setting and meeting short term goals: I plan to have had a shower in the next 30 minutes; Dinner will be cooked at some point this evening; I will verify the toilet rim is clean before my guests arrive.
I tend to function more whimsically: I'm going to clean out ALL the closets Right Now!; What a nice paint color on that TV show. I'm going to to Home Depot so I can paint the kitchen today; Let's get ALL 500 pictures from the past two years developed so I can scrap book this afternoon.
But the term “easy come, easy goes” definitely applies when you do things that way. Then it's three in the morning and I'm surrounded in a sea of pictures, paper, and glue sticks when I get bored or tired, so I shove all the stuff in a box for another six months to a year until I get that wild hair again.
There's a lot of risk in sitting down and saying “THIS is my goal”; like, “I will have met my goal if I weigh 130lbs by such and such date(yeah, right)”, “ I will have met my goal if have such and such education by a certain age”; “ I will have met my goal if I have the perfect job in my preferred industry in five years”.
But, because God loves the stupid and blesses the unworthy, I have been the recipient of a life full of all things good and beautiful without really setting or fulfilling any sort of long term goals. If I knew me, I'd sorta hate me. It may appear from the outside as though I haven't had to work toward anything- I fall ass-backward into blessings and I don't think you'd be wrong. I guess that I've been lucky by NOT setting goals so far. I figure, if it ain't broke, don't fix it.(Does that sound really braggy? Because I'm really trying to communicate grateful and undeserving, but it may sound braggy....I hope it doesn't.... Sorry). I am blessed -NO question. I am content......or am I really just complacent?
As a child, I was QUITE the daydreamer. I romanticized EVERYHTING. I was the Micheal Scott of Eaton Elementary. We would have planned a trip to Disney or someplace and I had already imagined the entire experience in my head, and was disappointed when things didn't go according to fantasy. Not that the experience was BAD in any way- just not like I had imagined it. And what could ever live up to the unrealistic expectations of an 8 year old Dreamer? Just because I could control the Barbie World in my bedroom floor I thought I could control everything else.
Then, I think there was a time in my youth when life was so unstable that “rolling with the punches” just became my natural response to anything. I began to get tired of the disappointment. And instead of being realistic, I went to the other extreme and thought “If I don't want or hope for anything, then I won't be disappointed”. So when “Oh my goodness- they gave me a part in the school play” or “wow, they gave me a spot in whatever singing group” happened, I was totally blown away and grateful. But, as a teenager, I had to look cool and act like it was “No biggie” because I was afraid that somehow if I put out there how happy I was, it would be taken away from me. When in reality, I was FLOORED at being given the opportunities.
When it comes to the unpleasant things in life, I have abandoned the “it won't happen to me attitude”, and adopt the “yes, it very well MAY happen to me, and I'll walk that line between Faith and Denial if it does and get through it”. When it comes to the cool stuff....I can just say “WOW”.- and I no longer feel the need to feign the “no biggie” attitude. I am okay with being all nerdy and excited about things now. No one can take away my happiness. I can only give it away. Which is really neat, but I think there may be also something cool to say, THIS is what I want to accomplish, be focused on it and reap, not only the blessing of what you have worked for, but also the satisfaction of taking on a challenge and succeeding. (I know all of you are going “Yeah. So?” but this is a new concept for me so cut me some slack).
The real reason I don't set goals is I assume failure. Assuming Failure is easy. It requires no risk, emotional or otherwise. Setting and working toward a goal requires action and often sacrifice without the guarantee of success- no matter how hard you work or how “good” you think may be at something. Often in order to achieve something you have to deal with people or obstacles you have no control over. (Hello, Excuses! Come sit by me!)
Or just maybe I have this goal setting thing all wrong. Perhaps it's not the “goal” I'm afraid of, but what the goal says to me about feeling validation. “I will be VALID when I weigh 130 lbs”; “I will be VALID when I have such and such education by a certain age”; “I will be VALID if I have the perfect job in my preferred industry in five years”. If actually set the goal, when I fail, I have to recognize that I am not valid. I'm happy now. Why rock the boat?
My favorite movie of ALL time is Sleeping Beauty. As a kid, I wanted to be Briar Rose- beautiful and more than she believed herself to be, and waiting for Once Upon a Dream. As I got older, I wanted to be Maleficent- in control, powerful and Dangerous (I do so LOVE Maleficent). I think now, I need to work on my inner Prince Phillip- work toward “the goal” (did I actually commit that to writing) of slaying the dragons of insecurity, fear, and excuses. Recognizing at the same time I'm going to need a little help from some fairies and a magic sword along the way.



Thanks to Jhon- my Dancing Nietzsche- for the Chesterton quote

18 year-old Catharsis

Today is one of those milestone type days, and one which I would only typically celebrate in my heart. However, in the interest of being real with myself and working on that part of me which struggles with finding courage, I write and I post. (sighs)
Eighteen years ago today, when I was seventeen years old, I found myself in the surreal position of being a hospital, in pain, giving birth. It is a chapter in my life that has influenced who I am today, in every aspect. A pivotal circumstance with many choices, and the acute awareness, even at that young age, that decisions I had to make would rule the fate of many (oooh, how Lord of the Ringsy of me).
It did not begin in that hospital, or even nine months before, but was the fallout of years of confusion, insecurity and bad choices mixed with a bit of hope, and an even smaller bit of common sense.
I knew pretty much early on that I was pregnant. I knew, but I denied. I tried to push the possibility to the waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay farthest corner or my contentiousness. But when your monthly bill does not arrive and you're consistently late to your first class because your puking your guts out every day, you have to face some realities in your life.
My family, as I had known it, had completely fallen apart months before. It would have been kinder if it had truly “disintegrated”, because then all the pieces would have just vanished rather than writhe around on the floor in pain. My father was holding it together and making the hard choice to simply breathe in and out each day for the sake of his children, and I had to rip out another piece of his broken heart and confess how I had further disappointed him.
I wasn't “out loud and proud” with all the gusto of Juno. I continued the last half senior year, and all the activities that went with it without a word about it, even to my closest friends, save to one or two people. I was quieter, and truthfully, less obnoxious than I previously had been, but it was easier to let people think I was just a bitch than admit the truth. Many knew how my family situation had been, so they just dismissed the fact that I wasn't much fun as having to do with that. My weight had always been up and down, so the fact that I was putting on a few pounds was unremarkable. And if the odd person DID have the balls to ask, I would lie, of coarse.
I was surrounded by a sea of 4000 high school students and felt completely alone. My dad was always there, but I felt I had let him down so terribly that emotionally, I pushed him away. I completely retreated into myself. Just me, the baby inside and God.
I never doubted God was there. And though I knew I had blown it Big Time, I also knew that He loved me and would never leave. I knew I was TOTALLY out of my league and had to let Him take the drivers seat, at least in this situation, because I obviously was completely incapable of handling things myself. God provided not only comfort, but people to guide me during those nine months. And he led me and those who would be this child's parents to each other.
I looked at a binder full of letters and pictures from prospective adoptive parents. I came to a couple who had adopted a little girl three years previously. I loved reading their cheesy love story of how they met in a Roller Disco. They were people of faith, and wanted to live in the country to raise pygmy goats. I had an affection for pygmy goats. Whether or not they every DID move to the country to raise goats does not really matter-it was the “sign” I was looking for. I knew right then and there. I still keep their letter to this day.
So, on October 6th, 1992, I gave birth to an 8lb 11oz baby boy. I held him in my room that night, watching TV bits on the upcoming presidential election and David Letterman. Feeding him and smelling him. Keeping the reality that tomorrow he would go home with someone else out of my mind for the time. Being absolutely 100% present for the first time in my life, for those precious moments.
The next day, his parents came. They were fun people. I had felt very at ease with them. We laughed a lot and I asked if they would like to hold him. And in that moment, something close to magical happened when I handed my son to his mother- the only time in his life the two of us would each have a hand on him- when he physically left my world and entered hers. A forever joining of hearts wrapped up in this tiny creature. Later, when she left room, she looked at me tearfully and said “Thank You”. You see, I wouldn't understand until years later and I had my own children what those tears were about. I never considered that I was giving them anything, but that they were taking him for me. I was only truly grateful that they allowed God to bring them my way so that they would accept and care for my child truly as their own. And I have continued to be grateful all these years.
So, Happy Birthday, wherever you are. I am confident you are well loved and successful and have a wonderful family who have raised you well, physically and spiritually. Because of you I am a better mother to my children and do not take the honor of Motherhood for granted. You will always have a piece of my heart.