Lessons Learned

Yesterday was my daughter’s first cheerleading competition.  She has been taking cheerleading lessons since January or so, a reward for doing so well in school and leverage for me to get her to clean up her room. (Clean your room or no cheerleading! You know the drill!) Turns out,  she liked it. A lot.

I knew she would.  She is my spun sugar, cotton candy, girlie girl.  She has demanded polished fingernails and toenails since she was 3. Her second sentence ever, in life, was “I’m in the rain, my hair, my hair!”  I wash her clothes and I have entire loads that are pink.  Pale pink, medium pink, dark pink, hot pink. Pink.

So we manned up and bought the uniform (I had already bought her good shoes and the pompoms - you can’t be a cheerleader without pompoms and also, with my family history (knee replacements, ankle fusions, spinal stenosis, hip replacements, etc.) we will be wearing good shoes.)

The night she got her uniform was magical for her.  She was transformed.  She was not just a girl taking cheerleading lessons.

She was a cheerleader.

And yesterday was her first competition.  It was local, and she somehow talked her kindergarten teacher into coming to watch her compete. (How awesome is this woman - spending a sunny May Saturday in an old gym watching group after group after group of little girls cheer. And dance. And stand there and look around and sorta kinda wave pompoms?  As soon as school is out she is SO going to be my BFF!)

Anyway.

My daughter’s group competed in the middle of the herd.  I had noticed that most of the groups didn’t move - they lined up and stayed in their lines throughout their cheers and their dances.  My kid’s group changed position several times, making me think hey, they are pretty good - but what do I know? I was never a cheerleader, and I spent very little time giving a shit about what made a cheer or dance routine good or not good.  Instead, I spent my high school years:

a. Making out with my boyfriend on the band bus (i.e. the rolling den of iniquity)

b. Writing poems about death and fear of birds and the sky. Yes, the sky.

c. Driving around really fast with the windows open and the music up really loud.

d. MAKING FUN OF CHEERLEADERS.

So I had no idea what to expect.

Well we were watching and I’m thinking hey, they might actually have a shot at winning this damn thing, when the pervy old fat way-too-into cheerleading announcer man says “Remember, parents, the top 5 teams today go on to the TRI STATE CHAMPIONSHIPS NEXT WEEKEND!”

The who what?  I turned to my husband. “What did pervy old man just say?”

He looked panicked. “Something about next weekend and Top 5 teams and Tri State something?”

Oh hell.

Should they not have told us that this was a possibility? Shouldn’t SOMEONE SOMEWHERE have said “Hey, yo, once you spend THIS $35, if your kid wins, you get to spend another $35 and travel to another city and do this again IN ONE WEEK NO MATTER WHAT THE HELL YOU HAVE PLANNED!” 

So they start announcing the teams and giving the girls their trophies. And we parents figure out that they are announcing the teams in reverse order. And we keep not hearing her team’s name.  And then they are up to the top 2 and the other team that hasn’t been called is the big team from a nearby slightly more affluent suburb.  Their parents showed up with signs and glitter and cowbells. Cowbells, people. We just knew, since their group of parents were obviously more together than our group of parents, that they must have won.

But our girls, in their innocence and pure love of cheering in a gym on Tuesday nights, had no idea what the hell was going on.  They didn’t know why after every team that the pervy old guy announced, we got more and more excited. They didn’t know why the parent helpers were in tears. They didn’t know why we all had our cameras out and why we were rushing the  mat, wanting to capture this exact moment in time. 

No, they didn’t get that.

All they knew was that they did not have their freaking trophies yet.

Finally, pervy old guy says, “And in second place, from not-too-far-away…..Slightly More Affluent Suburb!”

Which means that our girls won!

Our scrappy little girls, who had to practice on the de-consecrated soccer field last week because the gym was being used for the Primaries, won.

And we are going to the TriState Championships.

And they got their trophies. And their blue first place ribbons.

And when were finally able to explain to them what, exactly, all this meant, they were more excited than I can articulate.  Excitement drummed through them, pulsing, uncontrollable, uncontainable.

And nothing in my entire life has felt as good as seeing her face, an angelic and pink smiling face beaming with pride mixed with joy mixed with that feeling of knowing her team had actually WON.

And what did I learn from all this?

Well, as my friend CV and I have always said - you become what you mock.  Or, if the Universe is being particularly crafty, your children become really good at what you’ve mocked.

And you get over your bullshit and you buy a cowbell and some glitter and you hug your kid and tell her how proud you are of her and you realize - this is what being a mom is all about.

 

Sisterhood

 

So many broken pieces

of friendships

and loves…

so many that I

wear them around my neck

like a strand of

ruined pearls.

I wonder,

briefly,

if I am the only one.

Or if,

more likely,

I am one of dozens,

hundreds, thousands

of others

who believe that

by virtue of wearing

one of these strands

of ruined pearls,

we are expected to stand just out of the sun,

to languish just out of the light

and warmth

and just out of reach

of everything we want,

of everything we saw

in crystal balls and tea leaves,

of everything we were promised

by old women reading palms and by second-rate psychics

in silvery airstream trailers or patched and unlikely tents,

transient,

 behind

carnivals and fairs

and fly-by-night circuses,

and just barely out of the range of influence

of the horoscopes we read at a thousand thousand breakfasts,

 unlikely predictions given to us

for the price of the morning paper,

inky and smudged on cheap newsprint.

Six Word Memoir

I don’t want to need you.

Or

I don’t need to want you.

No, the first one.

I don’t want to need you.  (Implied - but I do, and there is not a damn thing I can do about it.)

 

Spun Sugar

You, darling,

you did what no one else in

this whole

wide

beautiful world

could do -

you made me a mom.

And you, even as a little bitty teeny tiny baby, you showed me -

without knowing you were showing me -

my most intense vulnerabilities

and my uncommon strength

and my deepest, darkest

fears and prejudices.

And you also showed me

where to rediscover

the best of me, reminding me

of the silly, kooky, girlie girl

that lives beneath this tense,

task-oriented, utterly grown up exterior;

and I hope that,

somehow,

you will forever maintain

your spun sugar,

pink and fluffy exterior,

and that you will, someday,

discover the beauty

of the strength,

of the steel core

that live within you,

the things I most hope

you got

from me.

 

For my older daughter, just because.

 

Sunshine

Every day when I pick you up

I say “Hey, Sunshine!”

I never meant for it to be your nickname,

but it fits your usually sunny and sweet and very unique personality.

You’re my baby, my youngest, my unexpected twist in the wishing and dreaming and hoping

I went through for years-

and you are amazing.

Your long hair flies behind you as you run,

your rare but true smile shines on me and

makes it all worthwhile.

Your deadpan pronouncements

and dry sense of humor

make me laugh, and cringe (too much like me?)

Your hugs and kisses

and quick declarations, from time to time - “I love you mommy!”

remind me why we went through

all that we went through

and why each day

I wake up

and know that God gave you to me

to be my little impish sunshine

and that His gift to me, in you -

the lessons He has for me, to learn through you -

the love He shows me, in your beautiful brown eyes -

are to be cherished

and held precious

and to last, long after 4 becomes 14 and 24 and 44…

and I am forever indebted to you

for you.

 

Happy Birthday, Little M.  I love you.

Shattered Path

I walk

on broken glass

every day.

I face my fears.

I do things I never imagined I would do.

But in the cobwebs of my mind, I hear myself whispering to me…

Who are you, really?

Are you who they say you are?

Are you what they see?

Do you know how to show them something

different, truer, more real?

Will you let them put you in a little box

or will you expect something better?

Walk on, supergirl.

Stay true to this shattered path, made up of

the detrius of a thousand thousand years

crushed,

by your dreams and lofty goals.

Crushed by your determination

to be something they can’t fathom.

Walk on, supergirl.

Walk this shattered path

and surprise yourself, and find yourself

reflected in the splintered mirror

upon which you tread.

 Walk on, supergirl.

I…

i am:  multi-faceted.
i think:  I’m a great cook.
i know: how lucky I am.
i want: home-grown tomatoes.
i have: pulled my achilles tendon.
i wish:  it would hurry up and heal.
i hate: my relationship with food. Sometimes.                                                                                                   i miss: my brother
i fear: emotional paralysis.
i feel: hungry.
i hear: my kids playing with their Dora toys.
i smell: the aveda conditioner I use in my hair.
i crave: popcorn and chocolate milk.
i search: for answers.
i wonder: how it will all end up.
i regret: not calling back.
i love: life, and the ways I can write about it.                                                                                                    i ache: for authenticity.
i care: about the forgotten and shunned.
i always: thank God for what I have been given.
i am not: a perky girl.
i believe: in my gifts.
i dance:like a drunk stripper. Sometimes.
i sing: loudly and badly and happily.
i cry: more often than I realize.
i don’t always: do the easy thing.
i fight: for the truth
i write: for clarity.
i win: more often than not.
i lose: at all ball sports.
i never: choose to ride an escalator, especially with the kids.
i confuse: people when I talk too fast and don’t finish my thoughts.
i listen: to what you aren’t saying.
i can usually be found: on the phone.
i am scared: that I can’t do it.
i need: Him.
i am happy about: my progress with “me”.

Letting Go of Being Perfect

I have decided that I’ve got to let go of expecting myself to be perfect.

I can be the best I can be, but striving for perfectionism is killing me. And when I look at something I know or fear or assume that I can’t do perfectly, I don’t do it at all. I am paralyzed by fear - fear of success, fear of failure, fear of imperfection.  And that is keeping me from doing and trying and learning and achieving a lot. Weight loss. Novel writing. Photography. Clean house. Work stuff. And on. And on. And on.

There is this song by Suzy Bogguss called “Aces.”  One of the lines in it describes exactly what I’m talking about. “If you can’t deal me the aces/you think I wouldn’t play.”  Yeah. Well. I wouldn’t play. I like to know I am going to win. Or at least I have a better shot at winning than you.

I know there are people in my life who would scoff. They would look at my desk - which is so messy as to be rendered useless - and laugh at my self-proclaimed need for perfection. They would look at my clothes, sitting in piles all over the place - and wonder when, exactly, this perfection thing kicks in.  They would look at my short-lived attempts at weight loss,  my half-finished novel, my messy kitchen, my crappy photographs and ask where I get off thinking I have to be perfect.  The answer is that failure is not an option - and if you don’t try, you can’t fail. My mom knows me pretty well, and she and I were talking about this one day and she said that she gets it - I don’t START cleaning, because I know I would never finish. It would never be good enough. So I just sit there, looking atthe mess, being stressed about the mess, and yet physically and psychologically unable to do anything about the mess.

I have never believed in baby steps. Giant Leaps! Giant Leaps get things done!

I can’t convince myself that something, some progress, is better than no progress.  Perfect is better than nothing! Nothing else is better than nothing!!

I have always been an all-or-nothing person. I have to stop. I have to learn balance.

Furthermore, I am very forgiving with other people - it’s only myself that I expect to be perfect.

So, just like my decision to accept myself, my emotions and my needs as perfectly normal and just STOP saying/thinking/feeling/believing that I am somehow crazy, difficult and needy, I have decided that I can stop thinking perfection.

And I have started to think progress.

I walked 4.1 miles last night. The old me would have expected 4.2 today.  The new me says let’s go to the gym, feel strong, and sweat some. Let’s see how that feels and set a goal at that point. Maybe it will be 4.2 miles. Maybe it will be an hour of swimming, or a few laps around the outdoor track, or maybe I’ll ride the stationary bike. The point is to do something, and to feel a sense of accomplishment afterwards - not a sense of dread that “I’ll never be able to do that tomorrow - might as well skip it.”

No honey, you might as well get your booty in there and move it! Every minute you are moving is a minute you are not sitting at your computer, fighting temptation. Isn’t that better?! YES! SO MOVE YOUR BOOTY!

I can’t let myself get lazy…but I can’t expect myself to be perfect.

Like so many other things in life, it’ a matter of balance. And I am working on it.

 

 

Church Trailer Thief

I was driving down I-85 today when I saw this billboard:

 

My first thought was dude, what?

Then I saw this one:

 (God forgives you - but we need our stuff!)

And I was all, who would steal a trailer from a church? (It’s one of the many mobile churches in our community.)

And then on the way home I saw this one:

 (OMG does a church billboard seriously say BALLSY?)

So when I got home, naturally I had to check it out.  Their very direct and intentional billboard and web campaign was designed to get the thief/thieves/friends of said thief or thieves to pay attention, give their stuff back, and maybe come to church there.

There are two more I didn’t see but are on the pastor’s blog:

                          

(The last one is my favorite. Any church that says “Seriously?” like I do is one cool church.)

I’m not really sure what I hoped to accomplish with this post. I have nothing witty or particularly insightful to say about it, really. I think the billboards, the pastor’s blog and the youtube message say it all.

But I do hope and pray that they get their stuff back. And I hope they are able to continue to focus on their missions and their purpose. From their website, it looks like they are doing good work.  It saddens me that in this world there are people who are able to justify, even to themselves, that stealing, and stealing from church, is ok.  There is nothing they could need that someone wouldn’t have been willing to give them.

 

Breakthroughs

 

I have had breakthroughs before. These were big for me. And I have an announcement to make.

I am JUST FINE.

Worrying about my child? NORMAL

Being stressed about possibly losing my job, about definitely having my job completely change, and interviewing for new jobs I’m not sure I want? NORMAL

(gratuitous Top Chef reference) Being way too happy that Zoi went home? NORMAL

Loving my kids but needing a break from them? NORMAL

Being 36 and taking stock of my life to this point, reassessing choices and wanting to be happy and loved and fulfilled and respected and understood? NORMAL

Needing reassurance and assurance and guidance and support and a kick in the ass and to give and be given to? COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY NORMAL.

I’ve decided that I am not going to buy into the hype - the hype that if you question things, if you are dissatisfied, if you have changed or grown and want to continue to change and grow and maybe that means growing away from what you once were and once needed then you are crazy and you need some therapy and some wellbutrin and to tell everyone hey, I’m crazy!  I am not buying it anymore.

There is nothing about me that is really any crazier than anyone else.  At what point did I decide that if everything isn’t perfect then I am mentally ill?  Or needy? Or ridiculous?

I have no idea. But I know it ends now.

I’m not crazy. And neither are you. We are all doing the best we can do.  And I think it’s high time we all got some credit for that!

***

Also, I have to stop being so self-deprecating. I love myself.  I don’t have to belittle myself just to be funny.

I wouldn’t let anyone do it to my kids. Or my family. Or my friends. I deserve nothing less. You believe what you hear over and over and over.  I have to stop letting myself say and think bad things about myself. 

This, too, ends now.

And there ya go. Breakthrough. Well, two of them. Heather-style.