Tell me I'm pretty

I go through phases where I think I suck at everything. I feel inferior and ugly and inadequate and small (and not in like a size zero sort of way because, well, I birthed some babies and these hips ain't ever gonnna be a size zero. Ever). And when that happens, even an entire gallon of Chubby Hubby (about that size zero-hmmm?) and an 80's movie marathon can't fix it.

But you know what can? This memory I have from umpteen years ago. It was my freshman year of college and I was a dorky hostess at a popular chain restaurant. It had been a long day. My feet were sore and my pants were too tight and I missed my momma. I was having one of those "I suck" days.

I was positioned at the hostess stand when a girl of maybe 8 walked by searching for the bathroom. She asked, I answered and she continued on her way. Then she paused and doubled back. She walked right up to me and said, "you are very pretty." And then promptly walked away.

I wanted to hug her and never let her go. She was my favorite person on earth. Sometimes, she still is.

Because she made me feel pretty.

I think I glowed for the rest of my shift. And then I made it a point for the next few days to compliment strangers. I told a cashier at Basket Robbins (anyone else noticing a pattern here) that she had beautiful eyes. She told me no one had ever told her that before. She probably thought I went to bat for the other team, because who says that? Seriously. Is it even socially acceptable to go up to complete strangers and compliment them?

Well it should be. Because it made me feel like a million bucks and I wanted someone else to know how that felt.  I should really do it more often. And so should you. Tomorrow, go out and compliment 5 strangers and see what happens. I'm not kidding. Try it. Let me know how it goes. Did you feel like a dork? A stalker? A saint?

My guess is that regardless of how it made you feel, the person on the other end, the person that just might be feeling inferior and ugly and inadequate and small will always remember you. Because you made them feel pretty.

Do Unto Others

My 5-year-old turned on the TV while I was in the shower the other day. As were most channels in the days after Haiti's tragic earthquake, the channel she flipped to was showing scenes of horrific devastation. Devastation my 5-year-old will likely not know in her lifetime. Devastation she had no words to describe. So she came to get me. She said there had been a bad accident on the TV. I should come quick.

When I realized what she was seeing, I tried to use it as a teaching opportunity. I told her all about Haiti and what children her age were experiencing. I had just received a flier from her school asking students to bring in coin donations. Cora has quite the collection of change gathered from pockets, couch cushions and purse bottoms. I explained to her how much donating her change could help those suffering.

She was hesitant at first. She only wanted to give up half. Then I turned the tables and asked if she would appreciate the kindness of others if we were ever in a bad situation. If we lost our house, wouldn't it be nice if others who were able to help did? She agreed and we loaded up the coins in her backpack.

I was pleased. I want nothing more than kind children. I hope they grow up to be givers, servers, helpers. I want them to have tender hearts and put others first.

Then I overheard the conversation Cora had with Claire and felt like a complete failure.


Claire: Why do you have quarters in your backpack?

Cora: Because there was an earthquake in Haiti and now they want to take all my money.

And while it did make me laugh for a second, the fact that our entire lesson on giving went right out the window was concerning to me. I began to have a slight panic attack.

Children learn by example. And sometimes I am not kind. If we are being honest, sometimes I am downright mean. And sometimes I get so caught up in my daily struggles that I forget to serve others. And sometimes, when my savings account begins to grow cobwebs, I am stingy with my money. And sometimes I am so busy trying to keep up with the Jones' that I forget to look around and cherish all I have, and give give give.  Sometimes I am a pretty selfish person.

And I think a little bit of that has rubbed off on my daughter. And that makes me sad.

But also aware. And resolute to shift my behavior and stop being such a punk sometimes.

Because I want my daughter to be the one who takes the smaller half of a split piece of gum while offering up the larger half without being asked. Am I crazy for thinking I can raise a daughter of that caliber in such a selfish world?

Claire Revisited

A friend emailed me recently asking about an older Claire-at-her-finest post. She had looked through my archives but had trouble finding it. She had a friend with a Claire-like child and she wanted to forward the post on as a way to comfort her friend. Hoping that by sharing, her friend would realize there are others in the world struggling to raise a Claire. And while there was the how-much-of-Claire's-poster-child-for-disaster-was-caused-by-my-parenting-missteps thought, I was ultimately glad to be of some comfort to another weary mother.

I found the post she was referring to. It still makes me crazy. I'll re-post below for your, um, amusement?

The Road Less Traveled

Originally posted May 6, 2009

Years ago, after Mark had gone through all of his training and was officially a sworn officer ready to hit the streets, I asked him what he was most nervous about. His answer made me realize he was a perfect fit for the job. Instead of saying one of the many fears tumbling around in my head (say for instance, getting killed in the line of duty), he said he was afraid he would get lost while responding to a call. Because he was a transplant from Alabama, it was a challenge to work the streets of a city he had lived in less than 2 years.

We were childless back then and had ample free time (which was taken for granted and never realized until AFTER we had children. Ah, hindsight). We used that time to drive the streets for hours, trying to familiarize him with Boise's layout. He has been on the force almost 8 years now, and those days of aimlessly driving the streets of Boise are a distant memory. He now knows the streets like the back of his hand.

Or he did, until yet another subdivision popped up. You see, Boise is ever changing. Constantly growing. New houses being built on newly paved roads. Just when he thinks he has been to a call on every street in the city, he is summoned to a house on a street that Map Quest has never heard of, and his trusty map book can't guide him to. You can never master a changing city.

The same can be said about parenting. I have been a mother for almost 5 years now (seems like just yesterday I was carrying my little bambino in my womb for 43 horrible, exhausting weeks-no me and pregnancy do NOT get along). I have changed incalculable amounts of poopy diapers, had my REM cycle interrupted a ridiculous number of times and made hundreds of boxes of mac and cheese. And just when I think I have it all figured out. Just when I am beginning to have hope that my children might make it to see kindergarten. Just when I have memorized every street on this journey through parenthood, Claire goes and eats toilet paper. After she has wiped with it. And she swallows it. While I throw up a little in my mouth.

Off

We are a together family. It's how we function. Minus a few classes taught at the gym (for sanity's sake), I am lucky enough to be a stay at home mom. My husband works 4 nights in a row and then has 3 days off. Graveyards might not be the ideal shift for most families, but because my freak of a husband chooses that shift, we make it work. He is home to see the girls off to school in the morning and tucks them in every night before he leaves for work.

We have dinner as a family most nights, date nights and family nights once a week, and the occasional guy's poker night or girl's night out gets sprinkled in the mix. And aside from prelims, jury trials and rifle qualifications, our weekly schedule remains consistent. Predictable.

We spend a lot of time together. And we like it like that.

While I have the utmost respect for military wives, single parents and spouses of work-related frequent fliers, I'm not built that way. I can't function for long (or even short) periods of time without my side-kick husband. I know it makes me needy. Pathetic, really. But it's who I am.

My girls are the same way. They miss their daddy something fierce when he's gone. Like he has been. For two days now. Because he's a punk and ditched us to go snowboarding with the guys. I know, rude, right?

So I've been flying solo. And I just can't get it together. The house is trashed. The girls have been living on cold cereal and hot dogs (gag). I've been screaming. A lot. Like scary monster mommy screams. And I'm at the end of my wits.


But my daughters didn't care. They still felt I needed to hug them and play Candyland with them and refold the 7 loads of already folded laundry that they unfolded. And feed them. I know, demanding, right?

So I tried. I made their lunch. And not from a box. And then I opened the fridge to grab the milk. The milk that had been there at breakfast. The gallon that was still half full (the grump in me is screaming HALF EMPTY, HALF EMPTY). The milk that could not have vanished into thin air. The milk that I found here:

Uncle. Uncle. UNCLE.

Hello lover

I love this cake. And the praline sauce, well, I want to marry it.

It has been an odd day for me. I'll explain later.

For now, I am going to slide into my elastic waist pants and indulge.

She's Genius

I have this friend. Her name is Amber (so obviously I would like her). We go way back. Like to when I met my husband back. Like to when she and my not-yet-husband had a Phil-fling back (that is the terminology used to describe summer relationships at the camp where we all met. Hopefully that doesn't make you uncomfortable, Amber. But I guess if it does I should also apologize to Alisa. And Cat. And ohmygoodness my husband was a man whore). You get the point. We go way back.

We had some good times together. We climbed some tough mountains together. We laughed A LOT together. And then we grew up. We got married. We started families. We had babies. I started getting dumber. But Amber, she stayed smart. And creative (this here blog redesign was 100% her doing-as was the last one as well. She rocks. Am I right?).

And she realized that most of her friends from the past had started losing all of their marbles. So she came up with a solution. She would create a blog where we could pose questions. Gather ideas. Bounce parenting tips and suggestions off of other moms (and dads). She figured that since most of us had lost our smarts when we pushed those babies out, perhaps if we put our minds together, we might just make it in this world. And Collectively Genius was born.

You should go there. You can gather ideas on how to potty train, what mascara is top notch, or join in the No-Poo debate (not as disgusting as it sounds. Promise).

See she IS genius.

And now for your viewing pleasure, a couple of pictures of our old school climbing adventures.

Can you find me? How about Amber? No? Well that is because we look like men. Forgive us. We had just finished hiking one of the most kick-your-butt sections of trail EVER. It almost killed me. Perhaps because we started hiking the completely vertical, slippery rock filled trail in 100 degree heat. Okay so maybe I never was genius. ps. Why on earth did no one tell me wearing my husband's ugly hat was not flattering. I mean at 14,000 feet I am trying to dress to impress.

You see that peak in the background. That is Blanca. We conquered that beast. And it was amazing.

Michael

My plan today was to post an entry from an old journal. But it was funny. And I'm not in a funny mood. My little brother Michael (who although younger, is not little anymore) is hurting. He is sad and I can't fix it. And I want to. Badly. I want to make everything right and I can't. And it makes me crazy.Michael is the baby of the family. There is a large age gap between us, but we have always been close. He often wanted to tag along, and I allowed it (although, as this picture shows, there were many times I shouldn't have. Perhaps flirting with the roller coaster attendant to get my way-too-short brother on an illegal ride was not the wisest thing I have ever done. But it sure made for a classic picture). Here he is with my beautiful mother. And while he is not my child, I get how she must be feeling today.

We don't want him to hurt. But sometimes we have to back away and let those we love most figure things out on their own. And we have to have faith that they are strong enough. And that we are strong enough to allow it.

So this day I hope for peace for him. And courage. And comfort. And I hope that with time, the laughter will return.

Still Am

My dear friend Krista let me borrow this wickedly funny book, Cringe. It is a compilation of diary/journal/notebook entries written by now 30-somethings during their awkward teenage years. And it is aptly titled. Many entries were especially awful/fantastic/hilarious because you could have replaced the color of the Gelly Roll pen and it was the story of my high school years.

Which of course caused me to lug out the old boxes and find these bad boys:I have spent a good portion of the last two days pouring over my past. It begins with this entry:(Please forgive this poor excuse for a photo. My camera is on the fritz and would barely turn on, so I snapped as fast as I could with complete disregard for flash/lighting/background/focus.)

My younger sister had just been born and that prompted the first entry in my fancy new journal, and opened a floodgate of misspelled recordings that would serve to document my 7th-9th year on earth (ask me what I had for lunch on any given day between 1986 and 1988 and 9 times out of 10 it was a taco dog. You know, a taco dog. The answer to the culture clash that is Yuma, Arizona. Roll a hot dog in a tortilla, fry it and dip it in salsa. All ethnicities satisfied.). I will post some of the more amusing entries from that journal and the 4 that followed in the next few days. But for tonight I will leave you with a few things those spiral bound beauties helped me rediscover about my life.

As I devoured the pages of my old journals, I was surprised to realize not much has changed. Oh sure I grew boobs (and then watched in awe as they shrunk again-curse you breast-feeding), stopped pining for my drunk of a high school sweetheart and learned how to properly crease a collar. But all of the longing to fit in, the need to feel accepted, the desire to be loved remains.

20 years ago I wanted friends to love me for me. 15 years ago I wanted my parents to love me for me. 10 years ago I wanted a boy to love me for me. Today I struggle to remember to love me for me.

There are many moments I still feel as awkward today as I did while fumbling my way through my first real kiss. Moments when I am afraid of everything. Even the dark.

But the beauty of age is life experiences. And while I might share the fear of rejection and the despair of an uncertain future with 16 year old me, I know now that life goes on. It will pass and I will come out on the other side a bit chewed up on occasion, but somehow wiser. Better.

I'm glad I didn't know that then. Because I needed to get my heart trampled on and I needed to unfriend my best friend and I needed to hate my parents. Most importantly, I'm glad I didn't know that then because I wouldn't have screwed up. Repeatedly. And I would have no fuel for the most melodramatic, whoa-is-me posts to follow. They just might rock your world, as I was certain they did mine.

But before we strap on our LA Gears and spray on some Electric Youth, let's get all mushy shall we? My favorite line from every journal entry ever made was from May 9, 2002, three weeks shy of my first wedding anniversary.

"Everyday I realize more and more how much I need what he is. It's good to love like we love. It's very good."

Dang I sure did love that man. Still do. See, some things never change.

The best medicine

A few days after Christmas I opened the fridge. It was bare. When my crazy Italian family gets together, we eat. And eat. It's not pretty. I'm not gonna lie. My thighs are still suffering.

But back to that fridge.

The weather was crappy. The roads were worse. And my kids were channeling some sort of wild howling beasts. But, a shopping trip was unavoidable.

We ventured out into the frigid, snowy yuck. Bad idea. Living on cold cereal would have been a better alternative. That hour at the grocery store was one of the longest in recent memory.

There were tantrums (by them). And meltdowns (by me). And when it was over, we were all sobbing. And starving. So I veered the car into the closest restaurant I could find: Applebees. Given the blizzard-like conditions, most sane people had locked themselves indoors. We were their only customers.

I shoveled food into their mouths as fast as I could, eager to get the check and get back home to enforce mandatory naps for all. As we finished our meal, another couple entered the restaurant, and although every other seat in the place was wide open, they sat them in the booth next to us.

And for some reason my girls thought having "neighbors" was hilarious. They started giggling. They couldn't stop. I was muzzling mouths and using threatening tones. Nothing worked.

They giggled louder. Deep belly laughs. Whole bodies shaking. Uncontrollable.

And then the man in the next booth started laughing. And then his wife. And then all of the servers gathered round the bar as they patiently waited for tip-bearing patrons began to chuckle.

It spread like wildfire. No one knew why they were laughing. But no one could stop it. The man in the booth next to me was in tears. One of the bartenders snorted. And that just added fuel to the fire. We laughed for a good 5 minutes. And looking around that restaurant, I could sense it was the best 5 minutes most of us had experienced in awhile.

When I was able to regain composure, I paid the check and gathered my children. As we passed the booth next to us the man touched my arm and said, "My wife and I are unexpectedly pregnant with our first. Thanks for reassuring us that kids are a blessing."

I paused, tempted to tell him about the worrying and the crying and the lack of sleep and the fighting and the tantrums and the loss of sanity. Instead I smiled, agreed with him and said, "They are the joys of my life."

Because when they giggle, it fixes everything. It erases all the long nights and the struggles to get them to use the big-girl potty and the constant battle to clean the playroom. Their laughter really does make everything better. I needed him to know that. That's the important part of parenting. The rest he will learn along the way.

My Two-timin' Girl

She looks innocent enough, right? Well this was our conversation at dinner last night:

Me: Cora are you excited to get back to school to see all of your friends.

Cora: Yes, and I have to break up with Dylan.

Mark (husband): Who's Dylan?

Cora: My boyfriend. I broke up with Marc (not husband) and now Dylan is my boyfriend (remember Marc?).

Me: Why did you break up with Marc?

Cora: Because he was on the football team and I hate football (kindergartners have a football team?).

Mark: You want to be a cheerleader and you hate football?

Cora: Duh. So now Dylan is my boyfriend, but I have to break up with him. I'm just going to go out with Marc for a few days and then Dylan for a few days. Or maybe both. And we only sometimes kiss.

*Mark promptly falls off of his chair*

So do we lock her in her room now or wait until 1st grade?

2009 went up in smoke

Hey, husband.

Yes, wife?

Remember that time when my sister and I slaved away in the kitchen working on a delicious New Year's treat for the whole family to enjoy. I minced onions and my sister grated cheese. I separated eggs whites and she fluffed them. We sauteed and stirred and coated and preheated in an attempt to make the most magnificent, calorie rich cheese puffs. Ever.

Yes. They smelled awesome.

And remember how I had just turned the oven on broil to put the finishing touch on said treat when my sister called me into the living room because it was my turn on Mario Kart.

Yes. I encouraged you to go because, well, you suck at Mario Kart and I felt you could use the practice.

And remember how you said in your macho I'm-a-man-so-I-can-totally-handle-anything voice that you would keep an eye on them and practically pushed me out of the kitchen.

Yes. I'm macho.

And remember how I made you promise that you wouldn't take your eye off them even for a second because they just needed to brown and get all deliciously crispy and that they were broiling on high and could burn in an instant.

Yes. But everyone has their own opinion on what "brown and deliciously crispy" means.

And remember how you snuck out of the kitchen all stealth-like to go chat it up with the boys in the office and you got to talking about an impending storm front and coyote pelts and shotgun shells and other ridiculous boy nonsense and before you knew it 20 minutes had past.

Yes. I'm stealth-like.

And remember how fast you ran when my sister said she smelled smoke.

Yes. I did play a little football in high school.

And remember how that smoke billowed out into the house and even with every fan/vent/air circulation method on full blast our eyes still stung for hours.

Yes. Good thing I got that fire extinguisher handy in the garage. I was an Eagle Scout you know so the "Be Prepared" motto never dies.

And remember how mouth watering those cheese puffs looked after being flambeed. Hungry? Cause we've got a few left over.

Yes. I'm not picky like you wife. I'll eat anything.

Anything? Really?Here's to a raging 2010.

ps. This is what an un-scorched cheese puff looks like: