Tag Archives: Self care

Oct29

Hurricanes, For Real

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Yesterday, after our faith community shared the names and worries and celebrations in their lives, about which we prayed as a congregation, I then closed by delivering a spontaneous closing prayer. Inspired by the impending hurricane, of course.  This was offered at at the church where I conduct my field education in Beverly. It went something like, “God, high winds are coming. We have lifted up to you our hopes and our concerns. And we know that you are the Creator who can calm the waters and create a quiet place in our lives and our hearts, a sanctuary amid the storms. Now we ask you to hold our concerns, the ones we speak aloud and the ones that we share through silence, hold them in your light.”

Today as leaves are torn from their twigs and then branches fly loose, and only tree roots cling tightly, as salty white-capped tides rush up over the causeways, making islands of green-tossed hillocks at the edge of sea and shore, as the world is shaken and blown, I’m inside writing  papers, working on an exam, finishing  deadlines, and hoping we don’t lose power, so I can fit it all in. As if I can outrace, outpace all the storms in my life. Can any of us do so?

Although classes are cancelled and businesses are closed, once the world reopens tomorrow, if enough of it remains in functioning order, we’ll be back on schedule. I won’t be permitted to turn my assignments in late, or say I didn’t have time to read my books. At least that’s how I interpret things … but I did take a break to make tea while there’s still hot water, and put a soup simmering on the stovetop. We have our candles and batteries gathered. Extra water set aside. We’re safe inside. Ready as we can be, I suppose.

So I want to pause a moment, and pay attention to Hurricane Sandy. She’s hitting the Eastern coast of the United States. We have friends and family directly in her path as she comes ashore. And likely our part of the country will experience some of her might and fury. Other parts of the country have felt the edges of her storm, which have created blizzards and snow storms, for instance. Her reach is extensive.

Always, I find comfort in language. This simple stanza by William Carlos Williams certainly speaks to our world’s weary resignation when pummeled one more time.

HURRICANE
by William Carlos Williams

The tree lay down
on the garage roof
and stretched, You
have your heaven,
it said, go to it.

Another blogger named Austen Allen collected some hurricane poetry last year. When I was researching storm poetry, his posting popped up, and I defer to that entry for a nice overview of lyrics about storms. You can find more at poetry.org.

Also, if you want to think more deeply about the words that surround our human responses to loss and disaster, consider visiting Nicole Cooley’s entry at poetry.org about the Poetry of Disaster. She argues that far from being voiceless and speechless at times of crisis, we fill the void of loss with language. We shape it. We reflect on it. We try to make meaning, to fit it into verse, so that is knowable. So we can  scale it down to a proportion we can actually understand: a size that fits in your mouth, or can be swallowed by your eyes, that can spoken and read and shared.

Sometimes the storms that lash out at us, that suddenly topple our lives, uproot our realities, or pick us up and carry us off in new directions, aren’t literal weather patterns. Maybe they’re emotional or mental assaults. Maybe their financial crises. Lost jobs or traumatized relationships. Sudden catastrophic changes. Violence or illness. Events we can’t imagine, over which we have no control, that leave us standing in a torn, flooded and sundered landscape. Where nothing is familiar anymore. All is changed and damaged. Yet we are left to navigate, to rebuild, to name and claim it all over again.

Meanwhile, consider this poet’s viewpoint about what is familiar and beautiful to you, and how it can suddenly become your undoing.

Problems with Hurricanes
by Victor Hernández Cruz

A campesino looked at the air
And told me:
With hurricanes it’s not the wind
or the noise or the water.
I’ll tell you he said:
it’s the mangoes, avocados
Green plantains and bananas
flying into town like projectiles.

How would your family
feel if they had to tell
The generations that you
got killed by a flying
Banana.

Death by drowning has honor
If the wind picked you up
and slammed you
Against a mountain boulder
This would not carry shame
But
to suffer a mango smashing
Your skull
or a plantain hitting your
Temple at 70 miles per hour
is the ultimate disgrace.

The campesino takes off his hat—
As a sign of respect
toward the fury of the wind
And says:
Don’t worry about the noise
Don’t worry about the water
Don’t worry about the wind—
If you are going out
beware of mangoes
And all such beautiful
sweet things.

Oct17

Losing Your Voice, Saying Yes, Making Wishes

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This week, I virtually lost my ‘voice’, but I also made wishes, and reminded myself why I have said YES to so many opportunities.

First of all, it’s been a while since I posted, because I have spent so much time lately writing school assignments, that my hands hurt and my throat is sore. I think I’m losing my voice … my writing voice, that is … ha-ha!

But seriously, I haven’t dared consider blogging for a several days, because I needed every productive hour to meet other obligations. Right now, sleep isn’t always on the agenda! I pulled at least one all-nighter this week and stayed awake until 5am completing a paper for a deadline, since I had two papers due on the same day. In the days leading up to that deadline, I’d also delivered a sermon, facilitated a women’s spirituality group, assisted with an ‘Amazing Race’ youth group activity and launched Jessie’s floating wish lanterns onto the dark Ipswich River as part of Ipswich Illuminated … all in the same few days.

Why didn’t I work on the papers and deadlines sooner, you might ask? Getting fresh, aren’t you? Well, I did prepare in advance. Pages of notes. Re-reading books to analyze them. Creating outlines. If I hadn’t done that much preparation, there wouldn’t have been any ideas to plump up and submit as finished works yesterday.

So in fact, I did prepare. But time just … well … there was just enough time, if I didn’t sleep. Phew.

After all, there’s keeping up with regular class assignments: weekly essays, whole books to read each week, and various other assignments including oral presentations, debates and even (yes, it’s true) occasional art projects.

Plus working freelance. Plus, as some of the activities above will have indicated, field education as a seminarian working at a church in Beverly.

And yes, during the week, I actually sit down with Chris and spend a few hours being a person who is married with a husband. Or I take a walk or sip tea with a pal, and behave like a person with friends.

It was the perfect storm of deadlines and other activities this past weekend. More than usual. And you know what? I loved every part of it, even though I was very tired last night!

What did I do, when I wasn’t writing? I laughed, being with teenagers on a scavenger hunt to learn about community service and social justice organizations all over downtown Beverly, then racing to be first back to their church for a prize. I held my breath, and then delivered a sermon at First Church with just an index card as an outline, and powerful stories alive in my head and heart, waiting to be shared. Read an autumnal Mary Oliver poem and lit candles with a community of women I’m just getting to know. Applauded after watching my husband Chris and other good friends perform in the 16 Elm Street historical play.

Ipswich Illuminated? That was magical. So many people work all year, and then overtime on that weekend, to make it as beautiful as it is.

Each year, I stand boot-deep in cold river water, lighting hundreds of candles and nudging origami wax paper boats filled with wishes out onto the tide (thanks, Aileen Ang, for folding those boats). Again this year, they winked like nearby stars in a night sky: a constellation  spilled down to earth. (Thanks to friends Miri and Sadie and other cohorts who helped again this year, assisting people as they chose candles, wrote notes and gathered up their dreams to set afloat on the river.) Jessie’s Floating Wish Lanterns are the one activity we perform specifically in her memory each year, and I wouldn’t be anywhere else on that night.

Two weeks ago, we had friends Mark and Lesley visiting in our home from England. For a few glorious days, I set aside reading assignments, classwork and deadlines. Put graduate school on hold for one long weekend, to be with friends that I only see every few years. In other words, time for important activities and relationships remains a priority.

Yes, my writing voice is a little tuckered out, from finishing all school papers yesterday. Yet the subjects lit fires in my brain, and sparked questions in my heart. Despite the pace and the tension, I am where I want to be.

And I am making time, regardless all these deadlines, to do what’s important. To be with those I love. And just to be. Be.

My Harvard professors, even the intellectual ones who pile on work, will always say … take care of yourself. Find a balance. Don’t read every assigned page. Pause. Meditate. Get something to eat. Take a walk. Catch a nap in a quiet corner. And talk to someone, if it’s all too much. Always take care of yourself.

So I remind myself, and now I remind you … when you get wound up tight by schedules, deadlines, appointments, and activities … and we all do … the question is whether these are commitments that you have agreed to do … said YES to … because you care about them. Because you are moved by their purpose or use of your time. Because you believe by doing them, you make a difference, and it rekindles a light inside you, or connects you to something bigger than yourself. Or simply because it feels good to do this activity or be with this person, and restores your own internal sense of balance.

Check in with yourself. Can you say YES to those questions? Pay attention to the answer.

Me? I’m tired. I’m run down. But right now, I can still say YES when I ask myself those questions.

Sep25

Packing In, Packing Out

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You know what role you play in life by how you carry your “stuff.” In a purse. In a wallet. In an art folio. In a drawing tube. In a briefcase. In a book bag. In a diaper bag. In a gym bag. In a rolling suitcase small enough to fit overhead on an airplane.

I’ve switched from a small clutch purse and laptop case to a backpack. A heavy backpack. Lots of pockets and compartments for everything from textbooks and computer to student ID and train pass. Plus extra pens, Kleenex, snacks and change of clothes. Yes, I prepare for all possibilities, including being stranded overnight.

I’ve always been known as the bag lady in my family. Now isn’t any different. I usually have necessities for all sorts of emergencies that never arise. But heck, if they come up, I’m ready. Carry around almost everything except a first aid kit!

This also means that I tend to take on burdens and lug them around. Regardless of whether they’re mine to worry about and try to fix or not. It’s just how I’m wired. So I do a lot of work about letting go of issues that I cannot control or change, and trying to be responsible for those things that I can do something about … usually my own stuff. Sounds like a twelve-step recommendation, doesn’t it?

What I bring to campus, even with all the extras, is an editorial process every day. Some books go into the pack, others come out. Depends on the class. Sometimes I add layers like a sweater that I might need later, as the weather changes. Or extra meals, if I’ll be on campus very late.

I try to lighten the load, both physically and metaphorically. Acknowledge which texts I’ll have a chance to read, and give myself permission not to carry an extra stack, just in case I have unexpected blocks of time (usually I have less time than anticipated, rather than more). By minimizing what I need, I take a few pounds off my back, and incidentally off my mind.

To make sure I’m only bringing what I need, I often check my calendar and syllabi, reviewing deadlines for both reading assignments and papers due. Then I pick one project I can work on, using my computer or some time in the library, to keep up with course work. That’s what I’ll complete during my “down times’ for the day.

Staying focused, and one step ahead of my assignments, seems to keep my spirits revived. And that’s another way to lighten the ‘stuff’ that I’m lugging around.

Anyway, today’s journal is simply an acknowledgement that we’re all carrying a lot of burdens. Some of them pack away tidily into our chosen forms of storage and porting. Some spill out. Some just don’t fit at all, and we carry them loose, in our arms, slung over a shoulder, or in some other unexpected ways. Some burdens we try to leave behind. Or put into storage, until we have a chance to cope with them.

Every time you empty your pockets, your purse, your backpack … every time you move your gear from one container to another … it’s a chance to conduct an editorial exercise. Relinquish those things you don’t need. Collect and bring along those items that you find essential (right now). In the same way, it’s an exercise that can also lift the weight of a spiritual load, at least for a little while.

I’ve written, more than once, about the act of taking inventory, holding on to the essentials, and letting of of the rest. In sustainable ways, when possible: donating, recycling or repurposing.

My backpack is heavy. So is my schedule.

But my step? My step is light-hearted. I’m where I want to be, a lot of the time. I’m fortunate to be able to say so.

Sep8

Beyond Appearances

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Did I ever tell you? About my first time getting painted toes, and my misconceptions about the woman getting a pedicure in the next chair?

First of all, I was introduced to pedicures at the age of … I’m calculating … give me a second to do the math … um, age 41. Basically many “salon” grooming experiences such as waxing, massages, hair-coloring, manis and pedis … are relatively new to me. I wasn’t exposed to them growing up.

As an adult, my girlfriends have slowly introduced me to these wonders. Or talked me into having my own firsthand experiences, and deciding for myself whether I want to invest in them regularly as a personal habit, rather than a one-time indulgence

So one of my dear friends took me out for a day of pampering.

There was an extra reason for this outing. It was just a few weeks after my youngest daughter Jessie had died. I was still shell-shocked and trying to cope with loss. My friends were taking turns getting me out of the house in gentle ways. Going to the salon was a chance to let go, let someone else take care of me. To escape and float.

First we ordered frothy chai tea lattes from our favorite coffee shop: Zumi’s. Carried them next door the nail salon. In our flip-flops, because of course you don’t want to ruin your paint job at the end of the session by shoving them into closed-toed shoes. (That’s one of the things I learned.)

The biggest decision of my day was what color to paint my toes. Should I choose something feminine and pink? Something bold and crimson? Something dangerous and midnight dark?

Or something else? I plucked through the bottles of color. Chose five pigments. Mentally recited middle school science lessons: ROY G BIV. (Hint: that’s the acronym for the colors of the rainbow.) I gathered up a palette of visible light.

After selecting our polishes, we settled into overstuffed chairs and put our feet into tubs of hot soothing water. Sat side by side with books and magazines. Sipped our tea.

Staff women knelt down and started scrubbing and massaging our feet and talking to us. I tried not to think about issues of class and subservience, of manual labor and contrasts of privilege. Me in a chair, and someone crouched low before me. Me paying money for someone else trained to soften my feet, rub off the callouses, and make me pretty and desirable

It was so different from the hospital. From necessary invasive procedures and toxic drugs introduced into a body by highly trained nurses and doctors to save or extend life.

I didn’t want to talk. I retreated into silence. Used my book as a shield to ward off conversation.

The pedicurist settled down with a brush and file and clippers. I held my breath and tried not to mind having someone else handle my feet. But I couldn’t distract myself by reading.

So I glanced up from a novel to peek around. I looked at the woman fastidiously cleaning my toenails. Glanced left at my girlfriend reading her magazine.

Peeked right at the salon’s other pedicure client. She had sunk comfortably down into the upholstered wingback chair next to me. Relaxed. Chatting with the woman doing her nails.

She’d chosen a bottle of lady-like pearlescent pink polish. It seemed to fit her. She was tidy and trim, the glint of silver and precious stones a subtle wink on fingers, wrists and ears. Her short perky hair, tucked behind shell-like ears, was almost platinum. To hide her grey, I told myself, guessing her age to be least two decades beyond mine.

She wore linen. Kept a designer clutch tucked down into the cushions by her side. Lifted one hand and shook a Tiffany bracelet down over her wristbones.

You get the idea. She came accoutered in labels and brands. Ones I don’t own and may never be able to afford.

I couldn’t read anymore. So I closed my eyes and tried to relax through the filing and clipping of my own toenails.

And eavesdropped on the salon client’s amiable banter with the staff member giving her a pedicure. I learned that the woman on my right lives a few towns away. She likes this salon, however, and comes here regularly. She and the staff members are on a first-name basis. They talk about pets and kids and vacations and doctors. She’s comfortable here.

But she has a lot more money than the ladies that own or work in the salon. Or me.

I made assumptions about her. It’s amazing how catty you can be, even in the midst of grief. I wanted to find fault with her…maybe I was understandably irritable, poised to be annoyed and critical. Maybe my judgments were out-of-proportion, because all of my reactions were extreme right after my child died. Or maybe I’m just a selfish and petty person.

The town this salon client lives in has a noticeably higher tax bracket than ours. More conservative politics. Lots of wealth and generations of breeding.

From my perspective, she comes from a bastion of privilege … and I was predisposed to think poorly of her because of it. Or at least to think that she couldn’t possibly comprehend the depth of my loss, and the great yawning chasm that was broken open inside me, just below the surface of my closed eyes and clean toes.

I assumed she was shallow and spoiled.

After all, she was sitting in a nail salon on a weekday afternoon. Gossiping. (I was in the nail salon at the same time, but I was silent, and we were here for different reasons, right?)

Although we were seated side by side, with women crouched in front of us cleaning our toes, we didn’t really have anything in common. Not like my girlfriend sitting in the lefthand chair, who is a college-educated working mom like me, with kids about the same age, and enough flexibility in her schedule to make a date with me in the middle of a workday. A friend who knew my whole broken family and my deceased daughter and was gently trying to draw me out of the house and back into the light of day.

The woman on my right, talking about Cancun, was not like me at all. Obviously she had plenty of time and resources to indulge herself.

She couldn’t possibly understand why I was in the salon. Or that it was my first-ever pedicure. Or that I was living through hell.

Or what hell even felt like.

I tried to stop listening to their stories: the client and pedicurist. I didn’t want to know more about their plans and their lives. I just didn’t have any tolerance for mundane, everyday experiences. Like which doctor to visit to have a mole removed. What airline to take to Mexico. What yogurt to keep in the fridge.

Behind my closed eyes, didn’t I radiate waves of pain and anguish? Couldn’t everyone just SENSE my grief and loss as I sat in the overstuffed chair?

How could they talk about their normal lives when I was mere inches away, full of turmoil and sorrow and anger?

I was in the salon because I was fresh from the pediatric hospital and its traumas. Recently recovering from the experience of planning my child’s funeral. I had a reason … a good reason … to take a break. What was everyone else’s excuse?

The pedicurist dried my feet, put the foamy separator between my toes to spread them out as she worked. On her worktable were the colors I had chosen. I planned to wear red-orange-green-blue-violet on the tips of my feet.

When the pedicurist saw my array of colors, she hesitated. One on each toe?

Yes, a rainbow. I didn’t explain why. I couldn’t, without weeping. But my girlfriend knew the reason. The colors were selected in celebration of Jessie and her bright spirit and her flare for fashion and her favorite song “What A Wonderful World.”

The smallest toes would be bright red.

I opened my eyes as she uncapped the first bottle and dipped the brush into the sunrise-colored pigment.

The woman on my right was just about to have her color applied, too.

She looked my way. Noticed the rainbow of colors down by my feet … because honestly, during a pedicure, you always want to know what color your neighbor has chosen, and wonder if you’d be brave or foolish enough to wear what they have dared to put on themselves.

She arched a plucked brow. Lifted her left hand, curled her fingers into her palm, and adjusted the silver links on her wrist by waving it gently in the air.

She smiled lopsidedly at me with coral lips. This woman with plans to go to Cancun, and a mole that needed attention, and children off at college. And time for a pedicure on a weekday afternoon.

She wanted to chat. I didn’t want to, but I was curious what she’d say.

“You’re using a lot of colors.”

Her sentence lilted upward at the end. An innocent question. Why so many colors?

I inhaled before replying. The honest answer took an act of will and lots of practice. But I was determined not to back away from the truth, even if it was uncomfortable in casual public and social settings like this one.

“It’s in memory of my daughter. She died recently. Leukemia.”

“Ah.” The woman lifted her eyes to meet mine. Tucked a strand of artificially blonde hair behind her ear. Winced and nodded slightly.

I thought that would be the end of the conversation. Death is often of a conversation-killer.

But her eyes held mine, and she continued. “I started coming here a few years ago. Just to treat myself.”

I nodded back politely. Tried to smile. Nicely.

Inside, I ranted at her. So what? Do you think I care? You and me. We don’t really have anything to say to each other. We’re not going to bond over these personal truths that we share in a salon. We have nothing in common.

Yes, I was also here for a break … but our reasons for needing the respite … I could only imagine that they were dramatically different.

Then this woman from a wealthy community a few towns away, from a background of breeding and privilege, and a life that involved tropical destinations and indulgent salon appointments, said, “My older daughter and my husband were diagnosed at the same time. They were both treated. My daughter survived. She’s back in school now, but I had to take time off and go take care of her for a while. My husband didn’t make it. That was a few years ago.”

She looked down at her toes. Wiggled them in the water. She added softly, “I like coming here.”

I swallowed every assumption I’d made about the pampered matron in the chair next to me.

We sat next to each other. Didn’t make eye contact again. Or speak anymore. But we both relaxed, or at least it felt that way to me. As if we were suddenly comrades. With a shared experience that assured that we understood each other on a gut level.

Not strangers anymore, but intimately connected by a common experience. Side by side in the salon, letting someone paint our toes bright colors.

I appreciated – suddenly – that the color of our toes was our warrior’s paint. And the late afternoon moments in the nail salon are a strangely private opportunity, removed from the usual demands of life, to acknowledge sorrow. To breathe and let go. To retreat.

And that this woman, despite all the contrasts between her world and mine, her life and mine, has a lot in common with me.

I was humbled by what I learned that afternoon in the salon.

I realized – all over again, because I had clearly forgotten it — that appearances really don’t tell the whole story. That the woman next to me … whether we meet in a doctor’s office or in a grocery store aisle or on the bus or by the sidelines of a playing field or sitting in a nail salon … has her own story. And each story is worth hearing. And that it’s much more beautiful and colorful and poignant than all the fiction and preconceived narratives I might allow to fill my head.

Her story was right there, waiting to be shared.

Every woman has a story to tell. And we may have more in common than we’d ever guess. If we’ll just listen. Oh, and take the time to sit down and choose some colors and get our nails done.

Never apologize for a good pedicure or “spa day” at the salon. It can change your life. And you deserve it. We all do.

Aug30

Go In to Go Out

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Yes, we all know by now, the seasons are changing, and many of us find ourselves in transition. In the middle of all this change, chaos and bustle, self-care becomes more important than ever.

After all, most of us are responsible to and concerned for other people in our lives. We serve as partners, friends, colleagues, caregivers, guardians or advocates of some kind. We are engaged in relationships with people who need or expect some connection with us.

Yet if I don’t make it a priority to pay attention to my own wellbeing, who will do it for me? Admittedly, I don’t claim to know what that means for everyone else. Probably you know what’s good for you, and what’s not. You know what you want to do, what you should do, and what you’ll do anyway …

I have a well-intentioned debate with myself almost every day. It takes on countless variations. Sleep in or wake up for yoga? Drink caffeine or water? Take the stairs or use the elevator?  Walk or drive?

So this is just another reminder to me … and anyone else who needs it … to make time for what helps maintain equilibrium.

  • Sleep. (It’s the greatest gift we can give our bodies and minds, which are designed to rely on this daily renewal in order to operate at best capacity.)
  • Movement and exercise. (Our bodies work better when we use them. People in recover from joint replacements, for instance, are often supported and encourage to move as soon as possible, especially to reclaim as much function as possible.)
  • Nutrition. (Eat well. Hydrate. Choose healthy meals. Refuel.)
  • Spiritual practice. (Prayer, meditation, reflection, journaling, music, etc.)
  • Pastime or avocation. (Something you love to do, that engages a different part of the brain or different muscles, changes your rhythm and focus, and helps you switch gears. Maybe it’s yoga or running or reading  or crossword puzzles or cooking.)

Today, in a “being well” session during a week-long orientation at Harvard University, we were encouraged to continue our spiritual and physical self-care practices, regardless of how hectic life gets. After all, when we’re the most pressed for time and energy, when we’re pulled in too many directions, when we’re overwhelmed … that’s exactly when we need balance the most.

The reminder was posed as, “We go in, so we can go out.” This was the wisdom offered by Kerry Maloney from the Office of Religious and Spiritual Life at Harvard Divinity School. Her challenge suggested that we take care of ourselves (“go in”) so that we can serve others (“go out”).

By this, she meant that we turn inward … that we engage in self-care at the level of mind, body and spirit … so that all those integrated aspects of ourselves are whole and in good health. By maintaining internal equilibrium, we have resources and energy available to share with our loved ones and our larger community.

It’s a timely reminder, as we hasten toward the next page in the calendar, and enter an autumn humming with appointments, commitments, obligations and activities.

 

 

Aug28

Obstacles as Blessings

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A wise person from my past once made the observation that we grow frustrated by obstacles. Yet if we look again, we might realize these are providential occurrences. Blessings.

For instance, we’re in a hurry to arrive at a destination. We’re driving. Ahead of us, someone is going slowly. Below the speed limit!

We grit our teeth, talk to ourselves, complain out loud, gesticulate and generally grow agitated. The woman making this observation, Rev. Sue Remick, challenged her listeners to reconsider whether the slow driver ahead was a problem or a gift. She suggested that this driver, going slowly and causing us to brake and travel at a more thoughtful pace, even causing us to arrive late, was placed in our paths to keep us safe.

Such situations – like a maddeningly slow driver, or losing your keys so you leave the house later than you’d like, or getting a call just as you’re about to walk out the door — could be read as cautionary signs. Blessings in our travels. Fateful moments that we could interpret as a chance to take a little time. Breathe. Pay attention. Stay safe. Slow down.

Some people call these moments “God winks.”

My kundalini yoga instructor has her class recite a specific chant three times at the beginning of many sessions. She also says the chant to herself three times before she turns on the ignition in her car. She believes that it is the difference between safety and danger …  this discipline that causes her to pause, focus, take a little extra care, and begin her journey with a breath of prayer to bless her way. She thinks those few seconds of repeating sacred words, invoking divine assistance, may have saved her life more than once.

I say this same prayer to slow a wheeling mind at night, or to calm me down when I’m angry or overwhelmed, and need to breathe slowly and deeply.

In any situation, you can be annoyed by the delay. Feel your blood pressure escalating.

Or you can breathe. Say a prayer. And try to be grateful for the frustratingly slow driver, or missing keys, or extra errand that sends you on a detour … and consider it a blessing. You may not know just what fate you have escaped today. Or what fate you have embraced.

Such an interpretation is entirely yours to make … but if the event is the same, regardless of how you respond to it, you might as well receive the benefit of it, yes?

After all, if you arrive safely at your destination, or even find yourself going someplace else altogether, you are one step further along your journey … wherever it may take you.

 

Aug26

To Swear or Not to Swear

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One of my friends considered not going on a date with a new “guy” because he describes himself as someone who doesn’t swear. She was concerned that he might not be zesty enough for her … as in … too nice, too polite, too banal.

Uh-oh. If we choose not to swear, are we dull? Stuffy? Self-righteous? Repressed?

Is swearing sexy? Hip? In touch? Wordly? Authentic? Real? Daring? Defiant?

Like lots of us, I grew up in a house where cursing was unacceptable. Fortunately or unfortunately, I overcame that early training. I curse. Not lots, but more than some people (though I hope it’s in limited situations) and much less than other people.

Mind you, I have an opinion about this bad habit of mine. (See, I already used the word “bad.”) It’s hard not to sound judgmental of myself, because in general, I think profanity is unnecessary. I have access to an amazing language, and plenty of creative and colorful and insulting ways to express myself without using socially forbidden words.

Yet unsavory words now pepper my vocabulary from time to time. Mostly in private conversation with friends, if I’m very emotional when describing something, or when I’m driving by myself and frustrated over traffic situations, or at home and have a domestic accident (drop or break something or hurt myself).

The problem with swearing, at all, is that it slips out at less desirable moments. In public. In front of the kids. At work. You slip. You swear. Oops.

It happens in places where you’d prefer not to be heard using profanity. For a number of reasons: unprofessional, socially awkward, undesirable role modeling or provocative.

Swearing is a habit, like any other, that can become persistent and sub-conscious. You might not notice how much you do it, unless you start to pay attention (to times when you use it, how often it pops into your conversation, the context in which its more common for you, etc). Even if you think you’re in control of your language, sometimes the wrong words just tumble over your tongue at embarrassing or appropriate times, especially if you’ve gotten into a habit that makes them easier to use than other phrases.

Which of course leads to an argument for the virtue of not swearing at all. And yes, back in the olden days, when my kids were younger, I really cleaned up my vocabulary.

“F*ck!” turned into the exclamation, “Fffffffuuuuhhhhh … Fudge!” or “Frick n’ frack!” (Although some folks prefer the elongated “Fudge-sicles!”) “Sh*t!” became “Sssshhhhhh … shoot!” or “Sssshhhhh … sugar!” I even used crazy ones, like “Tough shnoogies or tough banana peels.” (Eeewww, are you scared yet?)

As a point of reference, feel free to enjoy these creative studies of the many uses of the word f*ck. It’s also available on Youtube. *sigh* Funny and naughty and ticklish.

My family will even argue that “frick” itself is a swear. I don’t think so. I think it’s lifted from something like Looney Tunes, and might be a substitute, but since I’m not using the actual naughty word, it shouldn’t count against me. But since it bothers others, I’ve deleted it (for the most part) from my vocabulary anyway.

Often enough, though, a swear word sneaks into my speech patterns. More often than I’d like to admit. (Usually when I’m very deep into an emotional conversation with close friends. But in other situations, as I admitted earlier.)

It doesn’t surprise me so much when I do it, because I know that I have this bad habit. Yet, I’m still shocked, at times, when I hear it from others. Especially when it seems to be a routine part of vocabulary, and the person who uses the profanity is virtually desensitized to it.

When my child or her friends, for instance, drop the f-bomb, it feels shocking to me. After all, we don’t ever aim swears at or near her. Or her friends. Why would they think it’s okay to use them in our vicinity? Or around each other?

It especially alarms me if profanity is aimed at each other.  Curses flung like missiles, lobbed with the intent to hurt, are danger signs (in my opinion).

If another parent swears near or at their child? I’m horrified. Why teach your child that it’s socially acceptable at all. Really, it’s not.

Or worse, why ever model for your child that it’s okay to call him or her names? Should our children ever think that it’s justifiable for us – or anyone else — to call him a “d*ck” or her a “b*tch?” If we heard a boyfriend or girlfriend calling our child such terms, we’d be alarmed, right? If parents use such terms around children, how can our children ever believe that such treatment or expression is off-limits? (Again, such language regularly aimed like a weapon at children or partners can be a red flag … it’s a cautionary sign.)

No, we’re not saints. Yes, we get angry at each other. Friends. Family members. Strangers. Ideally we don’t let rip with profanities. Occasionally we might cross the line.

But weeding out this habit, like any other that embarrasses you, can pay dividends. If you pay attention, take note and try to change your behaviors around its use, it can effective. Over time you can eventually minimize or eliminate it.

Then you’re less likely to slip up. Do it in the wrong place or time.

In addition to other forms of profanity, there’s also the casual misuse of sacred names. The use of “God or “Jesus Christ” as part of a curse is offensive or insulting to many people. This was taboo in my childhood (my dad was a minister, after all, and we were always aware of our public behavior).

In a way, part of my liberation as a young adult was to start using this forbidden language … even if I never thought it was socially “okay.” I remember experimenting with its unfamiliar, but oddly-satisfying use as a form of cursing, once I was out of the house, beyond hearing range of my parents and the disapproving feedback of my immediate childhood church.

It remains a casual, unconscious part of my vocabulary now. I still don’t think it’s okay, but I do it. Sometimes, when I really pay attention, I manage to convert such a curse into something else. I’ll say, “God bless it!” But I mean the opposite, of course (“God dammit!”) Does it count if you say the right words, but mean the wrong thing?

All in all, I realize that I have allowed a distasteful (to me) habit to creep into my life, and I want to weed it out. I’m about to go to graduate school to study sacred subjects, for goodness sake. I want to be sensitive about this habit, and respectful to others and myself, and eliminate it, because I’ll feel like a better participant in a diverse, multi-faith community if I’m not deliberately offending people with this language.

This also makes me wonder about when people suffer from Alzheimers or dementia. Forbidden curses or sexually explicit expressions appear in their conversation, and yet often these words come from people who would never have sworn or spoken inappropriately to others, before their illness progressed. Why does it happen? An educational article from an Alzheimer’s resource explained this process.

This disease damages the formal language centers of the left side of the brain, but doesn’t initially impair the right side of the brain. The right side of the brain stores specialized functions around language and communication:

  • One part  of the right side of the brain handles singing and music, which is why people can sing familiar hymns or lyrics,  but can’t finish a sentence.
  • The second specialized function on the right side is “automated” or involuntary retrieval of social skills involving language. Such as, “Hello.” “Bye.” “Please.” “Thank you.” “How are you?” “Fine” “Okay.” “Oh, yes”. This skills are so engrained that they pop out, even appear as appropriate responses to polite questions, but may not indicate that the speaker actually knows what she or he is saying, or that they understood what was said to elicit this response.
  • The third specialized function of the right side of the brain involves taboo or socially-forbidden words and phrases. Impulse control areas of the brain have been damaged in many situations, so that this taboo language is suddenly accessible without any barriers or filters. As the person’s brain seeks access to language, and cannot use the left side’s formal language center, it may use alternatives, including this stored body of learned words that were once off-limits. They’re substituted without any attachment to a specific meaning, or appropriateness of use. They just emerge, without any editor, since areas that manage impulse control have also been damaged along with the formal language center of the brain.

For the record, let me also say that just because you use clean, polite language doesn’t make you a saint, martyr or even a “good” or “bad” person. All those qualities are inside you. Words are just an external expression.

And as we know from specific illnesses like those described above, certain physical conditions can trigger the use of such speech. So you cannot always read someone’s character or health based on what comes out of his or her mouth.

So should we never curse? Heck. Gee. Blimey.

I think we’re entitled to let loose sometimes. For instance, I happen to like the image on the left.

I’ve mentioned “Book of Job” moments in my life. When I’d hurl invectives, scream primal screams, curse and swear at the ocean or the night sky, because the hurt or anger wouldn’t stop.

Our emotions are valid. Expressing them is normal and healthy. Occasionally doing it with profanity is part of our human condition.

So please understand, this isn’t about suppressing your feelings. You should express yourself. Openly. Honestly. Deeply. Safely.

I’m not suggesting that profanity doesn’t have a place and a role in our world. Just that it’s use has social and cultural weight; so there’s a time and a place to use it. Or not. (Most of the time, it’s probably not necessary.)

If I keep this commitment to myself, and work on this habit, thereby eliminating curses from my conversation, will the absence of swear words make me less zesty as a person? Less appealing? Less authentic? Less in touch? Less?

I don’t think so.

Will my choice to edit swearing out of my vocabulary affect others? Make them self-conscious? Cause others to watch their language and filter themselves around me? Maybe. Although I don’t want people to clean themselves up, change their personal forms of expression or communication in my presence … or to think they have to change …  paying attention to our use of language can’t hurt any of us.

The friend who hesitated to date the new “guy” with the clean language, who won’t swear? She went out with him anyway. Apparently he’s interesting. And a good kisser. He’s got plenty of edginess and opinions … with and without “f*ck” and “sh*t” in his vocabulary. Nice, but not too nice.

I’m tempted to toss out one last swear in this journal. For the road. For old time’s sake.

But I won’t. I’m starting my work on profanity (or its lack) right now.

Fudge.

Aug23

Au Natural?

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I’d call this a confession, except that it’s not a surprise to anyone who knows me. In many ways, I’m not very “girly” in outward appearance and behavior.

  • Can’t stand the sensation of makeup on my face; don’t wear cosmetics.
  • Don’t apply lashes or artificial fingernails.
  • Stopped using any hair color; let it grow out flecked with grey.
  • Just wash ‘n go for the hair styling (don’t even blowdry, curl or brush it).
  • Wear skirts occasionally; and dresses, hardly ever.
  • Don’t pad anything (have enough natural for wherever it’s needed, and then some).
  • Choose to avoid wearing heels (hurt my feet, can’t walk, can’t stand very long, back hurts, knees hurt, lose my balance, sprain ankles, that kind of thing).
  • Refuse to weigh myself. (I am what I am.)
  • Shave legs on an urgent as-needed basis only.

There’s some hope, if you’re feeling concerned about my professed lack of “girliness.” To be clear, I’m discussing this in terms of appearance;  presenting myself or undergoing salon treatments to achieve what we culturally perceive as a feminine style. This is in contrast to talking about “girliness” in reference to biological gender or sexual orientation, which are separate items. (As I was reminded last weekend during OWL / Our Whole Lives training, human sexuality and gender roles and cultural typecasting and body images and our ideas about femininity are all very complex.)

What I do like, that might be considered “girly?”

  • Enjoy wearing bright colors.
  • Enjoy loose, flowy clothing. (Girly?)
  • Recently underwent my first bikini wax. (Wow, that’s an experience all by itself. Do research if you want more details. Otherwise, just imagine a really friendly woman working around your naked nether regions with hot wax, chatting and then giving you a quick warning as she uproots hair follicles. You consent to this procedure, by the way. And you thank her for her expertise.)
  • Enjoy pedicures: relish some aspects of getting my toenails trimmed and polished, though my soles are ticklish and I won’t let salon staff use nail files (can’t stand the sensation).
  • Love massages.
  • Feel naked without a pair of vivid earrings (also collect them from wherever I travel).
  • Fond of henna tattoos.

So there’s a modicum of “girliness” going on in my life and self-care, if that’s how you define “girly.” (And remember, one of my daughters was a princess in style, and I cheered her for that approach to life. So don’t think I’m setting up the pros and cons of this style. I’m not.)

My older daughter Sarah learned to apply makeup without any help from me. Years ago. Maybe friends advised her? At first, her application (mostly around the eyes) was extreme: dark and thick. It made a definite statement; it also suited her age and mood in middle school. Now she wears a more neutral palette: open and confident and attractive in a different way. Like many women, including my friends, she prefers to travel with mascara, eyeliner and lip balm, at a minimum.

Lots of my friends feel that way. Practically naked without some cosmetics. The baseline depends on the person. Some just need lipstick and mascara. Some need foundation, eye liner, mascara, eyeshadow, eyebrow pencils, lipstick, blush and whatever else might go with all those layers. Emergency touch-up supplies packed tidily into compartments and available as needed while on the go.

A few friends have even had their eyes tattooed with eye liner (kohl-style). Or had lashes glued on in a more permanent way. Hair extensions. Or parts of their bodies slowly defoliated with treatments that are relatively permanent.

Everybody feels differently about what they want and like to do to their bodies. Some of it seems like torture to me, and yet we enjoy the results, if not the process. Some of it is easily removed or reversed. Some lasts a while. Some, I suppose, is permanent, but that’s probably in the realm of surgical alteration and not what I’m thinking about right now.

I found a picture of me and our exchange student Chicca. Our feet, actually. With newly painted toenails. We sipped Zumis and finished pedicures, got some White Farms ice cream, and went for a walk on Crane Beach.

Walking in sand is a natural exfoliation treatment, right? As if I needed a reason to walk there. Or to feel good about myself while doing it.

I don’t. I do.

You? Me? We are beautiful, however we choose to make ourselves up. Or not. To be “girly” or not. To be whomever we are, in whatever ways we want to be. Inside. Outside. Painted. Bare. Perfect. Flawed. Me. You. Just ourselves.

Aug22

Listen for the Music

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This past weekend I finished 25 hours of training in order to teach or facilitate OWL (Our Whole Lives) curriculum for either middle school or high school students. It’s an intense, honest and complex program to present information with the core values of self worth, sexual health, responsibility, justice & inclusivity. It was created as an non-religious approach to this subject by UUA / Unitarian and UCC / Congregational denominations so that it can be used in secular settings; companion books available from UUA or UCC denominations discuss the role of faith in this context.

I attended the training for several reasons. It’s a balanced curriculum that has been taught by many organizations, including my church, and is used nationally by thousands of churches, health programs, schools and military facilities. I wish it had been available to my own children in our town; we had to provide this information through other resources. (Our children need factual and comprehensive information on this topic, but that’s a different conversation, and may be uncomfortable for many families from different faith backgrounds or traditions, yet I cannot apologize for my beliefs, many based on personal experience, around this topic.) At some point I’ll probably be a facilitator for this program in my own faith community. Additionally, the information seems invaluable in the context of graduate classes about hands-on care for different constituents such as teens or trauma victims.

Yet one of the best messages I brought home from the training wasn’t about the content of the curriculum itself. It was about working in teams, respecting different backgrounds and viewpoints, and finding ways to honor each other’s talents, strengths and approaches to facilitation. Especially within this message and value-laden context, we worked to accept variations in “body part” terminology, for instance, in order to appreciate the intention of what we were discussing together.

At the beginning of this long weekend of training, we all wrote up a covenant about how we’d work together. And one of the debates we held was about the use of language … could people use “street words” or “common discourse” for body parts in a class that deals with human sexuality, or should we stick to medical terms? For example, should we avoid “boobs” and only use “breasts?” (There were more colorful examples, but my point here isn’t about shock-value, it’s about getting past shock-value.)  We wondered aloud.

Some people find the more casual or common terms to be vulgar or offensive in origin. Others habitually use them, and it’s hard to talk about those topics or body parts without slipping into vernacular language.

Of course, part of what we discussed was the necessity to be aware of our language. The words we use convey values and messages. On the other hand, we wanted people to speak freely.

In the end, though, we decided that if the words were used to refer respectfully to a body part, and weren’t used in a name-calling connotation, that people should use the words they most comfortably choose. Within this context, for the purposes of our classroom discussions, “boobs” are as okay as “breasts.”

(Note: Please understand that there is a whole educational unit about language, the categories it falls into, and when and where to use it, what’s negative, what’s neutral, what’s positive. We do want facilitators and students to consider their language for its own role conveying cultural and personal messages.)

The final agreement, when we discussed this use of language, was to “listen for the music” of the experience. This idea comes from curriculum around peace-making for younger children. (I want to give full attribution but don’t know the author of this curriculum … it’s used in some UUA / Unitarian and UCC / Congregational churches.)

The metaphor is that many notes, chords, stanzas and instruments comprise music. We don’t all have experience with specific types of music: classical, for instance. Or we’re not experts in it. If we attend such a concert, we don’t always remember all the intricacies within a song, just the sense of the music. We can’t analyze every run of chords, every interplay of wind and string, every nuance and bridge. We have to let it all stir together and form an overall impression. We have to “listen for the music” and what it means to us, what it says to us.

When we remember a classical song later, if we’re lacking an expert’s lexicon to discuss it, we recall the music’s overall impression. We discuss or consider the emotion that comes with the experience. We’re appreciating its intentions.

This also applies to conversations fraught with language and discussions about human sexuality, relationships, etc. We wanted the same level of listening within our classroom conversations.

We sought a similar tolerance and appreciation. We might not remember every word. Or be able to agree with every statement.

We wanted to get past the use of the specific terminology to the larger conversation we’re all trying to hold together, and the information we’re sharing.  We got there, but only after much discussion and agreement to use the standard of “listen for the music.” We spent a whole weekend, preparing presentations on many different units of information, organized and presented by lay teachers from all over the country, with many different professional and personal backgrounds. We all learned from each other. And it stopped being about colloquial uses of specific words, and became all about how to present and share this information so that everyone could safely talk about it and explore it and learn from it. We “listened for the music.” And we heard it.

Aug14

Nominated and Disqualified … Every Day

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I have a friend who frequently says, when something has gone wrong while parenting one of her three kids, “They took away my Mother of the Year award today.”

I guffaw every time. I must lose my “Mom of the Year” award about … oh, nine times daily? Okay, maybe only five times daily. But since I only win it back twice a day, then any way you count, I’m not gonna get that shiny special certified-blue-ribbon-and-gold-engraved-plaque-with-my-name-on-it recognition. (Does anyone actually give out such an award? Hah.)

At least from a child’s perspective, fairly often, our “Parent of the Year” awards ought to be rescinded. Whether you’re wrestling with a toddler in a public place and trying to keep your cool while you listen to “No-no-no!” or try not to throw up your hands in total exasperation when a teen shouts for the umpteenth time that “It’s just not fair! You don’t understand! You ruined my life!” … you’re in a tough no-win situation. As parents, we are often perceived by our children as imposing unjust rules, expectations, duties and standards.

In the end, we are the buffer between our children and the world. And sometimes that means we’re incredibly tender and gentle with them, when no one else would be. And other times, it means we’re tougher on our own offspring than any military officer or high court judge would dare to be.

Meanwhile, I’m sure you’ve been told that everyone else’s mom or dad does “it” differently. Better. Or even worse … better-er-er.

And who will remind you … except a very patient spouse or partner (if you have one), your girlfriends, or yourself (yes, you talking to yourself) … remind you that your own child’s view is a little biased? In this example, tipping toward the negative side. Who will remind you that maybe there’s another frame of reference, a different viewpoint, or an alternative interpretation that actually validates your worth and judgment? (Just give it five minutes, the mood and opinion will swing in the other direction anyway.)

By now, you know that I’ve lost one child to cancer. So yes, I cherish the opportunity to watch my eldest daughter grow up. But we have plenty of differences, skirmishes and challenges as she matures into an independent woman, and I remain a … mom. We’re the same as every other family. Nothing idyllic here, just real and messy.

Now let’s be fair. Sometimes we share good stuff. For instance, I hear treasured words such as “Thank you.” “I’m sorry.” “I love you.” “Can you help me?” “I’m so lucky to be in this family; I wouldn’t trade it.”

Sometimes she lets me into her life. And we occasionally have crazy fun together. Just yesterday we spent the day in Boston, after filing her application for a student visa at the Greek consulate. We did things she hasn’t experienced since she was much younger, such as eating Italian ices, riding on the swan boats and wading in the Frog Pond.

Yet these good moments between us continue to seem … more rare than I might wish. Each one is placed like a deposit into my emotional mothering bank account.

Right? Mothers (and fathers) save up positive interactions with daughters and sons. We stockpile them, as one of my girlriends (aka, mom-friends) phrased it. Then we withdraw those memories of good moments again during the difficult interludes (arguments, silences, slammed doors, disappearances, misbehaviors, rolled eyes and all the rest).

Several weeks ago, one of my girlfriends leaned on the kitchen counter and sighed, “Isn’t it sad that we’re grateful every time they show affection? That we hoard these moments, because we need to know they can happen?”

Whether our children are aged three months, three years, or only three months away from legal adulthood … our offspring can be both our biggest fans and also our fiercest critics. Additionally, while they may be unimaginable blessings in our lives, they also represent some of the most challenging relationships we’ll ever know.

We, mothers and fathers, need our collection of good times to offset the hard ones.

Because we – moms in particular, I think – will often be the targets of their wrath or sorrow. In the eyes of our children, we are the “bad guys” — the instigators — the source of much of the unfairness and injustice and petty cruelties in their personal worlds. They have such deep, unfiltered connections to us … such bonds of love and kinship and every other possible emotion … that we’re also the most likely, the most easy target for any troubled moods they might be experiencing.

Of course, as a mom or dad, you don’t set out to ruin your kid’s life. Far from it. You think you’re being supportive.

Do the tally. Meals you prepare. Laundry you wash and dry. Clean-ups you do. Rides you give. Errands you run. Money you loan. Appointments you schedule. Forms you fill out. Games and performances you attend. Negotiations, talks and interventions you undertake.

Or the softer, more emotionally-intimate interactions, which are harder for some families to achieve. Sitting down at the table together. Asking about a child’s day. Listening. Playing a game together. Engaging in an activity such as a book or a workout. Sharing rides and talking in the car. Working on a family calendar and making plans for time together. Maybe daring to reach out and put a hand on her shoulder or draw him into a hug.

Every one of these logistical or content-rich items is an act of love. Each one demonstrates the tangible value of your love for your child in time, energy, focus, commitment and love.

This is your parental love in action. Every day. All day. All week. All month. All year. Every year. From the moment of conception until right this very second.

It all adds up to a whole lot of love.

Unfortunately your child doesn’t measure the same way you do. She’s got her own frame of reference.

Your child is tuned to a whole different range of messages. What you do and say, and what she sees and hears, are very different. She listens for tone of voice. Watches for facial expressions. Body language. Perhaps you believe your words and actions convey affirmation, affection and assurance. Or you think they do. Your child detects something else: frustration, criticism, doubt, worry, disappointment, anger.

Due to the many traumas that have shaped our family, we have worked individually, or in parent-child combinations, and sometimes as a family, with counselors. Before and after Jessie was alive … we worked on these issues.

The professional wisdom that I have received has been specific to girls, not boys, since I raised daughters, not sons, but some may be universally applicable. A few counselors have stated such tidbits as:

  • If your child cares what you think, and engages in fights with you, you’re actually in good shape. It means she (or he, since I assume it could apply to both genders) feels bonded with you, and she’s invested in the relationship. She’s trying to connect, albeit in a tough way.
  • When she stops caring about anything you do or say, that’s when you should worry.
  • It’s okay to express your own emotions. Within reason. It’s instructive for your child to know you have limits. That you can, in fact, be hurt by her words. That you expect to be treated with respect. That you have boundaries, and if she crosses them, you might lose your temper and raise your voice.
  • Listen, listen, listen.

You are, shockingly, human! Where you love, it’s difficult not to be open to pain, too. You can easily inflict damage. You can be bruised in return.

There’s a balancing act. Yes, sometimes being a mom or dad is really rewarding. I can see more and more of the adult our daughter is becoming; I like and admire a lot about who she is, as she grows up.

Other times, we’re both one big knot of hurt. She’s in pain. I can’t seem to “get it right.”  We both feel broken inside.

In such times, I ache down to the marrow and deep into the gut. I’m exhausted. Tapped out.

I’ll bet it’s familiar to other parents, too. Sometimes you want to quit this job. Except there’s no “exit” clause. (Sure, some people have chosen to bow out and disappear anyway … but that’s another topic … and I have been humbled when I dared to have an opinion about such situations, because I cannot be inside someone else’s head or heart, and know what decision is best for anyone else to make regarding their own relationship with their child … what each adult is capable of giving, or losing, or if, indeed the greatest act of love is sometimes to walk away.)

In general, for parents who stay in a familial relationship with children for the long haul, and put in the time to be connected to your offpsring, you hit bottom sometimes. Your can’t seem to connect with your daughter or son. Perhaps for reasons outside anyone’s control.

Whatever the cause, that’s when you may feel as if you just withdrew the very last penny out of your emotional parenting savings-account. We are all, at times, virtually bankrupted (emotionally, if not literally) by the complex and challenging experiences that are still so frequently part of our lives as parents.

That’s when you need a good laugh. A deep breath. And someone to tell you that you’re a good mom. Or a good dad. Assure you that what you’re investing in your child is worth every grey hair and wrinkle, heartache and clenched fist, bitten lip and worn-out pair of soles. Believe that someday she’ll realize it. Or he’ll acknowledge it. Someday.

Who cares if your kid takes away the “Parent of the Year” award that they nominated you for about 12 minutes earlier? You don’t need a medal or a pin or a plaque. That’s not why we do it, right?

But hey, it helps to know that someone believes in you, when you’re in the middle of second-guessing yourself for the gazillionth time, and there’s no voice of reason to tell you differently.

That’s what today is for. I’m putting a deposit back in your parental savings account. Today, I’m going to assure you, “You are the best at raising your child. You are a specialist. No one else can do it better. You are a good mom. You are a good dad.”

Really, you are. (So am I.)