Mean Girls

Last night I asked Neil what he thought my greatest weakness was. While he stalled in his answer, all of the things he might say swirled around in my head. I understand his reticence to answer me, being honestly critical of another person is difficult. And when that person is your wife, it's damn near impossible. So when he finally answered, I wasn't sure what to expect. Would he take the easy road and tell me my greatest weakness was being such a darn good cook? Or would he be truly honest and tell me that I'm a terrible housekeeper or that I don't have enough patience with Sophie. He went the honest route.

His answer: that I don't have enough confidence in myself.

I sputtered and said "I don't have enough confidence? I don't have enough confidence? Meeee?" I wasn't angry, I was surprised. Not because I honestly think I'm brimming over with confidence, but because I generally think I do a fair job of hiding the fact that I'm not.

But then I chewed on what he had said for a moment. While I was waiting for his answer, I had come up with literally dozens of possibilities for what his response would be. The list of things I saw wrong in myself was long and varied. That just doesn't seem like the sign of someone who has a great deal of confidence in themself or their abilities.

Truth is, self-esteem has always been an issue for me. Growing up, we moved a lot. I was always the new kid, forced to make new friends at every stop. Sometimes it was easy, sometimes not. In some places, the kids were so entrenched in their relationships that there simply wasn't room for the new girl and I floundered.

When I hit middle school, the very worst years for all but the most lucky of pre-teens, I struggled extraordinarily. Grotesquely skinny, acne and a nose that had outgrown my face, combined with the hormonal peaks and valleys of puberty to make me a pretty unhappy kid. And while I've grown into my nose, the acne is under control and I've definitely got the curves (and then some, SIGH) I longed for in 7th grade, I honestly don't think I've ever recovered from those years. From starting my first day in a new school and having the kids taunt me with "big nose" and "ugly." From one of my first real boyfriends breaking up with me because his friends told him I wasn't good enough for him. From no dates for dances.

This afternoon, I took Sophie to the park. When we arrived there were three little girls playing on the jungle gym. A year or two older than her, they were involved in a detailed role playing game. From the moment she ran up to them, they were exclusionary and rude. When Sophie attempted to join in their play, they squealed and ran away. When Sophie would follow them, they would say "SHE'S BACK! RUUUUNNN!" and run away. Despite my attempts to direct her towards other kids or playground equipment, she was not to be deterred and continued to follow the girls around. I looked to the girls' mothers, who stood not far from me engrossed in their own conversation, hoping they would tell them to be nice, but they never did.

As I watched this play out, I almost started crying, because suddenly I didn't see her, I saw myself. I saw me timidly approaching kids and being rebuffed or ignored. Right now, my daughter is brimming with confidence. She experiences not a moment's hesitation when approaching someone new. The vast majority of the response to her is great positivity. She is the friendliest, most enthusiastic kid around. She oozes sunshine. But how much will it take to beat that out of her? How many mean little girls will it take to break her confidence? At what point did mine go? How do I ensure that in 5 years, 10 years, 25 years, my daughter will have the confidence to approach any person or goal and know that she is worthy?

I wish I could go back and kick those little girls' asses. But I can't. All I can do is love on my daughter, tell her a hundred times a day how beautiful and wonderful she is, and pray that is enough.

Lost

My parents split up when I was five. The truth of the matter is that I really don't remember much from that age, so I guess it was better than if I had been, say, 15. Whatever hostilities were present have been swept into the cobwebby corners of my brain that house unwanted memories. There are some that lurk around. Some positive: my parents in their Star Wars Halloween costumes, sliding down the stairs on the Naugahyde sofa cushions; and some not quite so happy: getting violently ill from tomato soup (I wasn't able to eat it again until I was 20), hitting my head on a concrete step badly enough to require stitches, the giant, scary tortoise walking down the street. That last one might have been a dream. Anyhoo, I do have one memory from that time that has stuck with me all these years. It has absolutely nothing to do with the divorce, but that sets up the story.

My mom, younger sister and I had just moved to a new town. We had rented one side of a newish duplex in a development of block after block of the exact same buildings. I had begun kindergarten back in our old town, but due to the split, I was starting again in a new school. If I had been more prescient, I would have seen the foreshadowing and realized that this was to be the first of many school changes. They totaled twelve by the time I graduated from high school. But I was just five, so the subtleties were lost on me.

My first day at the new school, my mom walked me to the bus stop and waited with me, waving goodbye as the bus pulled off. At five, best friends are made over milk and cookies, so I had secured a pal who lived in my same neighborhood by the end of the day. When it came time to take the bus home, I assured the teacher that I knew where I was going and that I had my new buddy to help me. Imagine that sort of thing nowadays. The bus ride home was fun, I laughed with my new friend and we bonded over a discussion of the relative merits of wonder woman vs spider woman underoos. As we came to our development, I began to notice that the streets all looked the same and I got a little scared that I wouldn't know which stop was mine since I didn't even know what our street name was yet, but my new friend assured me that we were okay.

When we came to her stop, I got off with her, because I didn't know what else to do. We said our goodbyes and I looked around at the rows of duplexes that all looked exactly like ours and I had no idea where to go or what to do. The only thing I could think was that my best bet was to stay put and hopefully someone would find me. Meanwhile, my mom was waiting at my bus stop and when I wasn't on the bus, she panicked. She asked the bus driver about me, who, of course, had no recollection of one kid among the many she saw each day and couldn't tell her if I had been on the bus, let alone what stop I had gotten off at. My mom ran back to our house and hopped in her car and started driving around the neighborhood. I honestly don't know how long it took for her to find me, but I know that it felt like an eternity.

When she finally found me, she was fit to be tied. As she jumped out of the car to come over and hug me, she yelled at me for getting off at the wrong stop. That memory has haunted me ever since then. I never understood how my mom could yell at me for such an easy mistake. I think I have always harbored a little resentment about that. I was just a kid. I felt ashamed and hurt. And probably angry.

Now I am a parent in my own right. There have been plenty of times where my daredevil daughter has teetered precariously on the edge of a staircase or toddled faster than seems possible much closer to the street than I am comfortable with. And I have yelled. I yelled not because I was angry, but because I was scared. So scared that I couldn't even think. In those moments, I had a completely visceral response to my child's danger. And I finally understood.

The Obligatory New Year's Ramblings

Here we are at the end of 2009. The end of another year. Another decade. Whew.

I think back to where I was in 1999. That crazy moment when everyone thought the world would end. It didn't. But, oh my the changes I've gone through in these 10 years. Changing career. Twice. Meeting and marrying the man of my dreams. Moving from the city to the 'burbs. Giving birth to the sweetest, most beautiful little girl. Joining a gym and actually going. Yep, big changes.

Meanwhile, there are those that say the decade isn't ending at all, that it doesn't end until 2010. Because there is no zero year. Except that there is. We don't start at 1 year old. It takes a year to get there. Wouldn't the same be true of our calendar? And anyways, symbolically the new decade starts when you change that third digit. So I'm going with it's a new decade.

We'll be celebrating the new year with some of Neil's oldest friends. People that have come to be very special to me as well. We've been up since 5am when Sophie woke us quite unpleasantly with a coughing fit (The same cough that has been plaguing her, and therefore us, for six weeks now - we've been to the doctor three times. Sigh.), so there's a chance we won't make it all the way to midnight. Lame. But that's the life of a parent of young children. I've had more than my share of over the top new year's eves so I'm allowed to coast on a few of these.

No new resolutions. I have the 101 in 1001 that I began last year. I'm doing okay on that. There are a lot of things I need to work on. And I will. I see that as almost more of a new approach to life than a resolution.

Happy new year to each and every one of you. Be safe. Have fun.

See you in 2010!

Nice Place To Visit

I wrote the other day about my struggle with the decision of whether or not to have more children. In the intervening week, I've thought about it on more than one occasion (okay, all the time) and I've come to a realization. I think my increasing awareness of all the babies is less about my possible desire for another child than it is about wanting my current kid back as a baby. It is nostalgia for those early, new days. The awe and wonder every moment brought.

I mean, seriously, how freaking cute is this kid?

















However, as much as I want to revisit those days, I do NOT want to live there again. Strangely, the allure of mood swings, bloody nipples and sleep deprivation so intense I was concerned I might start hallucinating just aren't enough to suck me back in. I know, I'm crazy like that.

PS - I've been nominated for a Mobbie! You can vote once a day for one blog in each category (I'm nominated as a Family Blog) as well as for Best Overall Blog so please vote as often as you can.

Also, please vote for my friend John Waire in the Photography category. He is a super cool guy and his photos are absolutely gorgeous.

Booga Booga Revisited

I'm having kind of a crap day, so instead of venting, (which I would REALLY like to do, but won't because it will just turn into a rant and that won't do anyone any good) I'm going to post this little bit of sunshine from when Sophie was about five months old.



Neil shot this video while trying to make her laugh with his booga booga face. Part of what's so hilarious for me about this video is that Neil had no idea he was shaking the camera. Pay attention at the 19 second mark, Sophie does her tree frog imitation.

What's funny is that I look back at this video and I think that this is about the time I thought I was starting to figure things out. The newborn crazy was losing its hold on me. Yet here I am, a year and a half later, and I realize the crazy is still around. It has just changed. Changed many times over these months. And every time, I think "whew, barely made it through that stage" and then the next stage hits and I'm like "Fuuuuuck, there's MORE?"

But I do believe I've finally caught on. It's a daisy chain of experiences and there is no winning, there is only surviving.

Now, I'm going to finish the Antony and the Johnsons CD I'm listening to and then I'm going to bed and read Skinned by Robin Wasserman (which so far is pretty awesome) until I fall asleep. Which hopefully will be soon and lets all pray that tomorrow is a better day.

"Some times you eat the bar, and sometimes, well, he eats you.*"

*Extra points for anyone that knows the quote.

Fall River

When I was growing up, we spent many Fourths of July at my grandparents' lakehouse. Situated in a cluster of other houses, and some distance from the water's edge, it was among a tidy little community of summer dwellers.

My grandparents' lakehouse was basically one large room that was divided into living areas through the strategic placement of furniture. It had a style that was unique and eclectic, part nautical, part British, part garage sale. My grandparents, to be frugal and creative, had carpeted the entire space in samples. I'm not sure if there were two squares that were the same color, something my sister and I delighted in exploring. The place was never anything but spotless, but it had the air of a space that wasn't used often. It's been twenty years since I last set foot in there and I can smell it still.

Each year, everyone from their little lake community would throw in some money or fireworks and they would put on a big display. Unrestricted by city ordinances, they shot them off right in the middle of everything. Probably not the safest, but it made for one hell of a show. As we sat on lawn chairs or blankets, oohing and aahing at the bursts of light, the smoke would wash over us, filling our noses with that sulfuric odor.

Before we went to bed, we would all lay out on lawn chairs and look up at the sky. Removed from the city, under that big Kansas sky, you could see galaxy after galaxy full of stars. We would search for satellites, those slow moving pinpricks of light, bringing up conversations of the vastness of space and our little place in it.

To this day, when I think of my childhood Fourths of July, it is those experiences that call to me. It is because of them that I love fireworks. The big booms that come seconds after the explosion, the little pops, the zingers, the whistles, the hisses, and of course that smoky smell.

We introduced Sophie to the little ones this year. Just the stuff that we could legally (I think) fire off in our backyard. I had worried that she would be scared by the sounds and smell but at the end of our little fireworks show, she clapped. Spontaneously and unprovoked. Watching her renewed my own sense of awe at these wonders.

I hope that we can build on the emotion of those old traditions to create our own.

Memories

The last couple of days have been a mad flurry of activity around here. Shopping, baking and general Christmas preparations are seriously eating into my blog time. Sigh. Hopefully I'll be able to get some bloggy time in tonight after the bean is in bed. Hopefully.

To tide you over, here is a picture of me (on the right) and my beautiful baby sister (not so much a baby) from the day of my high school graduation. First I would like to point out the sheer tininess of my waist. Barely bigger than my arm. Miss it. Also, the fact that for some reason my sister and I decided to wear dresses with the exact same print, albeit in completely different styles and colors. Remember that Pretty Woman dress from the polo scene? I'm pretty sure that inspired both of us. All we needed were a couple of oversized hats and we would have been good to go. Finally, HELLO bangs!

















Ah, good times.

PS - Sorry for the picture quality. The old film days were a difficult time for me. About half of my pictures from those days were double exposed. Thank goodness for digital!