Tag: daughters

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An INFJ’s Take on Trust and Optimism

How about those holidays? Raise your hand if you’re glad they are over. Reminds me of a quote I ran across a couple years ago: Tradition is our ancestors’ way of controlling us. Then I think of all the traditions I’ve created that my kids will probably feel like they have to perpetuate – the Advent Calendar for one. What was I thinking?

Anyway, I’d gotten Will a nice shirt for Christmas. After opening it, he held it up and Jen and I both said, “Oh! A date shirt!” He didn’t respond. Never mentioned it at all until a couple nights ago. (Often our best chats happen in a text stream.) While he was out with friends, he sent me a text saying that he wasn’t ignoring our comment about it being a date shirt, but that he doesn’t want to disappoint me by not dating.

We back-and-forth texted for quite a while. At one point I told him that I didn’t care if he dated or not but that I wanted him to be happy. If dating is part of what makes him happy, then I’d be thrilled for him. More importantly, I’m not disappointed either way! He explained that he’s still hesitant after his last attempt – 3 years ago. (I wonder where he gets it.)

Then I texted something about how trust is certainly an issue, but that I really think the bigger issue is trusting yourself. “Trust yourself to not get in too deep with a wrong person. If you can trust yourself, you can navigate anything. By now you’ve certainly learned that you can recuperate from a broken heart.”

I reminded Will (myself?) that all “the experts” say that the real learning happens within a relationship. (Excuse me?! Have I not been learning a ton about how to be a happy, functioning, fulfilled, capable single person? How many of these so-called experts are in happy, committed relationships?)

I talk a big game.

I sound pretty optimistic for someone who is still hesitant to get out there after not having tried for almost 7 years.

I laugh at myself for developing this side story with Hank. Where do I think this could go, knowing all my reservations and my lack of trust? Still, my inner optimist wants to think there could be someone out there, even if he’s fictitious and I’m the one who made him up! Hell, maybe that’s the best kind of partner. He’d be there when I need him, but there wouldn’t be any of the messy stuff like schedule conflicts, lack of alone time or having to sleep together. Ick. Hank is the guy to go out to dinner with, have the deep conversations with, go for walks with and catch a movie with. He’s also the guy who doesn’t get bent out of shape if I don’t want him to spend the night, or move in, or co-mingle bank accounts. He’s a travel partner and ski partner who is like-minded when it comes to politics and open-minded about philosophy, reading and art.

Yeah. He’s definitely a unicorn, but he’s my unicorn.

But, wait?! Aren’t I also describing a best girlfriend? Wouldn’t she check all the boxes?

As I write this, I realize that there’s this tiny part of me that still wants to be attracted to – and attractive to – a guy. Is it my age (mortality?) telling me I’m running out of time? Is this a Crone’s Relationship Biological Clock? Hell, no! The little I’ve read about Crones tells me they wouldn’t give a shit about whether they are attractive to anyone. They are too busy inhabiting their skin and being glorious in their own Crone-y way to worry about whether a relationship would fulfill them or not!

Unicorn Hank isn’t going to expect me to pick up his socks, cook his dinner (and complain about the food), demand back rubs and be too busy to go to a movie with me. But history tells me (at least my history) that an IRL Hank comes with expectations. Thoughts of those expectations start the stress and the physical manifestations of that stress. That’s when I know I can’t really be an optimist, that I do have trust issues (even with myself), and that relationships are fine for other people, and I’m fine NOT being in one.

When Will asks me why I don’t take my own advice and trust myself, or why I don’t get back out there and try again, I’ll explain that I’m really busy with projects. I’ve got to finish recovering the couch because Pansy “loved” it up too much. (Clearly, I’m an optimist if I’m taking the time to recover the couch without attempting to discourage Pansy’s fondness for scratching.) Oh, and I’ve got to get the shelves up in the new bathroom. I’m sure Jen will be coming home soon, so I better plan menus and bake her favorite things. I should really get some seeds ordered and figure out what I’ll be planting where, come May. I’ve got some blog housekeeping to do, and I’m still ruminating on that novel I pretend to be writing. Doesn’t the popcorn on the ceiling in the hallway need to come down? There’s always work and meetings and classes.

Oh! I have to finish those slacks I found at Goodwill. I let the hem out and now there’s a faded line where the old hem used to be. I found a Prismacolor – Light Umber. It’s a close match. (Luckily, Jen didn’t take all her art supplies with her.) After applying the Light Umber, I’ll sketch over top a bit with a black Sharpie to blend it and … Who am I kidding? I don’t let anyone close enough to see a faded hemline on my slacks.

Anyway, I’m entirely too busy. Besides, why would I want to mess up this good thing I’ve got going.

p.s. Will says the couch looks like the 70s – in a good way. Pansy won’t go near it. Yet.

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My Second Saturn Return

I’m smack dab in the middle of my Second Saturn Return.

While I may read about astrology and refer to it to try to make sense of things, I don’t know a lot about it. I discovered this second return business a few months ago and it was a light-bulb moment. I had been blaming a lot on the pandemic, but the pandemic ended up being the framework for me to become more myself, which, it turns out, is very much a part of this Saturn Return thing.

As a person who has spent her life wondering why she doesn’t fit in, when she’ll be in the right place, or why she can’t comfortably do things like others or feel the way others do, I’ve finally gotten to the point where I can quit wondering about that. At least that’s what Saturn says.

Don’t all of us struggle with wondering where we fit in, if we fit in, and why it’s so difficult to feel a sense of belonging? I know it’s the hallmark of an INFJ to feel that, but would we (those lucky enough to live long enough) even have a Second Saturn Return if it wasn’t necessary (for all of us) to come to a point where the stars shout out, “It’s okay to be you and it’s about damn time!”

The stars aren’t up there for only those who believe in Saturn Returns. They are up there for all of us.

Perhaps you are thinking that I’ve lost it during my second return. I’ve turned into a recluse who is angry at white men and politicians and laziness and entitlement and apathy. Maybe you’ve noticed that I’m over here screaming that we need to care more, when clearly I have work to do on caring for established white men. Yes! I am a conflicted, complicated, messy, contradictory woman in her Second Saturn Return. I am all of those things and more.

I GET TO BE ALL THOSE THINGS BECAUSE THE STARS SAY SO!

I’m turning 60 next month and when my kids ask me what I want (and what I want to do) for my birthday, I wince.

I Googled “60th birthday present” and promptly told them NOT to get me some commemorative bauble that will sit in a box in my sock drawer. I Googled vacation spots and remembered that we would most likely be in the middle of a BA.2 (or whatever variant we’ll be on by then) cloud wherever we landed. I decided I’d rather put money toward the new bathroom we’ve been needing for 5 years.

In lieu of a shiny trinket or a trip to a place I can’t afford, I requested that Jen draw something that commemorates this auspicious (?) day, and Will take a picture of the three of us on the day. That way they can both use their talents creating something I’ll cherish, and it’s crossed off their lists.

Here’s what else I want from them:

I want them to try to circumvent the astrological system and see if they can learn to be okay with who they are, long before I did. Just because the stars give permission when you turn 58, couldn’t my kids be mavericks and get there a little sooner?

Being okay with who they are requires that they make their mental health a priority. (Being okay with who they are doesn’t mean they just sit back and say, “This is it. Take me as I am.”)

I want them to pay attention to how they feel. For years, I’ve wanted to see a therapist, but either I didn’t have the money, or something else was more important. The library provided therapy for me – that and the internet. I want them to know they have options. We live in a time when there is much less stigma about getting help. Because of all the resources available, there is no excuse for not seeking help. Yes, money is a factor, insurance is a thing, and trying to get an actual appointment during a time when absolutely everyone is faced with challenges may make getting help seem impossible, but help is out there. Reading (and writing) can fill the gap until money, insurance and an appointment can be worked out. For many of us, reading and writing are all we have.

Attention to mental health paves the way for us to accept ourselves.

It’s hard. Many days it just plain sucks. It requires work. I want them to understand that mental health is something they will work on their whole lives. As they grow and change, new issues will come up, and other issues will fade or be resolved. Mental health is not a project that gets crossed off the list, but an ongoing journey that could culminate in them being the best possible versions of who they can be. We’re all works in progress. (Putting in the effort also prepares us for whatever is in store in the next go-round.)

Also, I want them to take a good hard look at who they let into their lives. Are they surrounded by people who lift them up, or are they surrounded by those who want to bring them down? One of my aunt’s favorite quotes was from William Gibson: “Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem, first make sure that you are not, in fact, just surrounded by assholes.” Are they surrounded by assholes? Or worse, are they assholes? Some days we all are. That’s when we have extra work to do.

I want them to find their tribe. Tribe is a big word. There can be two in a tribe – you and one other, but that person has your back, just as you have theirs. You most likely won’t find your tribe in your family or on Facebook. You might find your tribe on Twitter or at the library or in the produce section at Whole Foods. It can happen. Trust in the possibility.

The last thing I want for my 60th birthday is for them (and me) to lighten up a little. I want Jen to stop insisting that every grade has to be an A. I want Will to stop beating himself up for some of the choices he made in the last couple of years. (I plan to forgive myself for some of my choices, too.) I have to wonder, if we all lightened up on ourselves a bit, would we find it easier to be kinder and more caring of others?

I plan to continue to accept myself, while working on myself, up to (and beyond) my Third Saturn Return.

Happy birthday to complicated, caring, messy Me.

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It Always Works Out

I last posted in July. While many words have since tried to coalesce into post ideas, not a one of those potential posts seemed to matter, when looking at the state of the world.

Since my last post, Jen has gone off to college, and Will has left one job and found another. While that doesn’t even make a ripple for all of you, my boat was rocked.

Also, in the months since my last writing, we celebrated an anniversary, of sorts. It’s been 15 years since the kids and I moved out of their dad’s house.

Speaking of rocking boats and the state of the world …

How Do I Know It Works Out?

Recently, with an abundance of time on my hands, I found myself going through digital photos. (Take it from me, if you don’t have a system for organizing digital photos, STOP reading this post and make a system for organizing all your photos. Do it now.)

. . .

I’m assuming you are much more organized than I am, and that you are still reading because you created files on your laptop for years and months and birthdays and Halloween carvings and dying of Easter eggs and first lost tooth. I’m envious of your organizational skills and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you are more disciplined than I, and that makes me worried that we can’t be friends because I’ll always feel that my lack of discipline is disappointing you in some way. (Wait. I think that only applied to my romantic relationships. Never mind.)

Anyway, as I was scrolling through a hard drive full of unorganized digital photos, I noticed a common theme: kinks or bumps along the way always tended to work themselves out.

The pics of Jen before braces present a case in point. I loved that face so much that I didn’t want it to change with braces. Besides, I didn’t know where we would get the money for them. She wanted them so badly, even though she knew it would be tough to find the money. I would tell her, “Don’t worry, honey. It always works out.” Scroll forward a few years, and I love her new face just as much as I loved her before-braces face. It worked out.

More scrolling, and I see a set of photos from Will’s first vehicle. “Mom, where will I get the money to buy a truck? Can we even do something like that?” He and I made lists of lawns he could mow and walks he could shovel. I looked at him and said, “It always works out.” It did. After many lawn mowings and a small loan from his sister, he bought a truck. That was a couple trucks ago.

Then there are the pictures of the kitchen with the old appliances. The old range had quit working right before one of Jen’s birthdays. She wondered how we’d be able to make her cake. “It always works out, honey.” That year we baked her cake at grandma’s house, and found the funds to purchase a new range a few weeks later.

When Jen went off to school, those first few weeks were rough for both of us. We would count down the number of “sleeps” until her next trip home. We both put Post-its on our bathroom mirrors that said, “One day at a time,” because it was clear to both of us that even though this was going to work out, we were going to be muddling through one day at a time, at first.

. . .

I’ve learned that I have to time the delivery of, “It always works out.” In the depths of stress and worry, that can sound trite. No one wants to hear that expression when they are venting about how the Universe seemingly created a roadblock out of thin air. I wait to say it until after we’ve bumped over the roadblock, found the new route, and cruised a bit. Then, it’s safe to remind them that it does always work out. Sometimes I’m met with an eye roll, but they will begrudgingly admit that it does work out.

Back when they were little folk, I could have said, “It always works out, but it might end up looking different than you thought it would.” Or I might have said, “It always works out, and one day you’ll be glad that it looks different from what you were hoping for.” Or, “It always works out but it might beat you up a bit before it does.” My goal, then, was to encourage them, not dash their hopes with realism.

I didn’t consult a crystal ball to know it would work out, and I don’t know how to read tea leaves. Even if the coffee sediment in the bottom of the saucer looks like it means something, I can’t tell you what it means. But the three of us learned to have faith and trust that with a little effort and “some leaving alone” things would always work out, even if sometimes we had to remind each other.

What About in Today’s World?

Now, given the threats on women’s rights, voters’ rights, the climate, and our very democracy, can I truly tell my kids, “It always works out?”

Can we put Post-its on our mirrors and hope for the best? Who has the crystal ball that will reveal the future? Will this be a future with women’s rights, opportunities for all to vote, a climate that isn’t taking its last breath and our democracy still intact?

Will it work out for women if we lose bodily autonomy? (Untold numbers of women around the world have never even tasted that freedom, and we could very well lose it.) How do you reassure your daughter, while there are those who want to take away her rights? Will it work out for all those who lose their right to vote? Will it work out if we ignore all the signs telling us that climate change is not just a political talking point, but an inevitability? Has it been able to work out (albeit only for a lucky few), up to this point, because we’ve been navigating the bumps and roadblocks within the framework of this democracy?

More importantly, while it has often worked out for my little family, does that even matter if it doesn’t work out for everyone?

In another 10, 20 or 50 years, when this country looks in the mirror, will it like what it sees? Who will it work out for then?

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They Grow Up So Fast

I see you, Momma Bird.  You flit across the yard with a blade of dried grass in your beak.  The first nest you made still lays in a heap on the patio.  Perhaps a wind gust swept it off the beam? The winds in that recent cold snap were brutal.  I admire your tenacity.  Not even Mother Nature’s mood swings could hamper your determination.  Instead of giving up, you started over in the same spot.  The cover of the metal roof must have come in handy.  Good thinking, to decide to build there with that bit of protection from the elements and the critters.

That day with the endless rain, I peeked out the window to see you hopping from branch to grass.  It must have been difficult to find any building materials that weren’t soggy.  Do you build at night?  How did you get that done so fast?  When do you rest?

I see you, Momma Bird.  I’ve been that kind of tired.

 

When the sun finally came out after those grey days of rain, I sat on the patio with coffee, making sure my lawn chair wasn’t too close to your new home.  I was bundled in a fleece jacket and socks, with a blanket over my lap.  How do you stay warm?  Or is that why you move so fast?  I felt a bit guilty for sitting and sipping coffee instead of working, like you.

You’ve been so patient with us intruding into your space.  We’ve tried to remember to keep a distance.  The taller one is a bit louder.  Sorry about that.  His voice fills the backyard, but he doesn’t mean you any harm.  He did remember to move his chair into the grass.

I watch you watching us.  You keep an eye on us.  I see that you are torn between protecting your nest and keeping yourself out of harms way.  Your instincts tell you to keep your distance.  Your instincts tell you not to trust us, but your obligations need to be fulfilled.

I see you, Momma Bird.  Many times my instincts have been louder than my plans.  Unlike you, though, I often refused to listen to my instincts.

 

The one with the long hair was the first to notice your baby.  She’s the quietest of the three of us, and she tends to be a bit more observant.  She tiptoed around your nest and came into the house to tell me of the new arrival.  When did that happen?  We should have showered you with gifts!  Congratulations!  Nice work, Momma Bird.  Your baby is adorable.  She looks just like you!

Now you are consumed with a new kind of busy.  Does that baby eat all day long?  (I know how that feels, too!)  I hear the little one has found her voice.  I’m impressed that you can hear her above the voices of all the other birds in the yard.  I have heard how excited she gets in anticipation of a feeding.

Yesterday, I saw her head poke up high enough above the nest so that she could stretch her wings.  She’s getting so strong.  You are feeding her well!  Her head was up for quite a spell.  She’s very insistent about getting those worms.  You are keeping up as best you can.  Her little beak is always open and ready to receive.  (Sounds like a human I know.)  I saw when you hopped over into the garden.  I had the sprinkler going and that must have made it easier for you to get the worms.  Look at you!  You are hard at work, sopping wet and keeping that baby alive and healthy!  I’m so proud of you, Momma!

 

I’m waiting for the temperature to get closer to 60 before heading out with my coffee this morning.  I’ll tiptoe.  I promise.  You can trust us, Momma.  There is room for all of us in this backyard.  We want your baby to thrive as much as you do.

But Momma, try to enjoy this time.  I know it often feels like you are too busy or too tired to stop and appreciate it all, but this time is fleeting.

They do grow up so fast.

 

Best wishes to all those with graduating baby birds.  Job well done!

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The Boat

That humming sound you hear is coming from the bilge pump on my boat.  The pump has been running a lot lately.

When Jen and I watch TV while eating dinner (go ahead and judge – this is a crucial part of our Pandemic Survival Plan), I will often ask Jen to turn up the volume to drown out the sound of my bilge pump working in overdrive.  For the length of an episode of our current favorite series, I blissfully forget that the pump is running.

 

I once Googled what that humming sound was – the (real, not metaphorical) sound I hear in the middle of the night when sleep is a stranger.  They call it the earth’s hum or the world’s hum.  It’s a thing.  Look it up.

Anyway, last night I noticed the hum.  It’s had a different pitch to it for about a year now.  I’m convinced it was an octave created by all the bilge pumps in all the boats of the world.  They are pumping as fast as they can, as all the boats try to steer through this pandemic.

Can you hear it?

Every single boat must be taking on more water than usual.

 

I’ve charted some rough seas.  I’ve even had to replace the pump.  But lately, I find myself fantasizing about calm waters.  I crave the sound of gentle waves lapping a deserted shoreline.  I see the waves go out and leave a trail of foam.  Maybe a seagull can be heard off in the distance.  There isn’t another “boat” for miles.

Jen likes calm waters, too.

Will?  He likes the rapids.  The rougher the better.  He gets crabby in the calm waters.  Oh, he’ll tell me that he likes things to settle down, but about the time he says that, something in his life creates a tidal wave that inevitably sends a wall of water right for my boat.

Jen and I used to say that things would be too boring without Will’s tidal waves but, with the pandemic and the economic and political strains of late, my boat can’t take on any more water.

I’ve noticed that I am becoming adept at avoiding anything else that looks like a potential storm.  This avoidance skill is also in our Pandemic Survival Plan.  I’m saving my energy for the storms on my immediate radar.  Apparently, there is only enough room for the three of us (and a cat) in my boat.

 

I recently told Will that if he had two married parental units, he’d know which one to go to with a new drama.  You wrap your truck around a pole?  Go to your dad, and he’ll prepare me for the news.  You get your heart broken?  Come to me.  Poor Will is stuck with only me, so he brings me everything.  And I’m grateful for that, even if it doesn’t sound like it.

My boat is on the plains.  Nothing blocks my view.  I can see when a storm is coming.  But Will’s storms seem to come out of nowhere.  Well, not really.  I know where they come from.  (Because I know where they come from, you’d think I’d be better prepared.)  As long as he likes that kind of choppy sea, there will be more coming from that direction.

After he and I (and often times, Jen) finish bailing the water from the most recent storm, we can laugh about it.  I’ll say, “Geez, you’d think that, by now, I might have learned to not over-react.”  He’ll say, “You’d think by now, I’d figure out a better way to tell you this stuff.”  And then I think to myself, “Or you might figure out that life is so much better without all that stuff.”

 

And so the Universe laughs at me while I search for ways to keep a calm center in the midst of these storms.  The Universe laughs harder when I dare to tell Will that life is better without the rough seas.

Look at that!

The Universe left me a note in the sand on that quiet stretch of beach:  “Let him steer his own boat, Jesse.”

And once again, I am reminded that I learn more from Jen and Will than they will ever learn from me.  In the meantime, I’ll prepare myself to have to replace the pump.

 

There’s a meme that says something about, “You don’t know what someone else is dealing with, so just be kind.”  I like that.  Let’s assume that everyone’s boat has taken on too much water, their pump needs to be replaced, and they are doing their best to stay afloat. 

 

 

 

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Independence Is Just Beyond Our Grasp

Warning:  If you have no interest in feminism, stop reading.  Come back when I’m less angry.  Also, I’m not sure when that will be.

 

Jen is heading off to college in the fall.

. . .

She has all her necessary credits to graduate.   She has her driver’s license.  She has work experience, a kick-ass portfolio, and a plan for a course of study.  We didn’t spend any time learning how to balance a checkbook because…

She does know how to file her taxes.  She also has an extensive background in navigating difficult personality types.  Even though there are a million other things she’d rather do than cook, she knows enough to bake a cake, and make a box of mac and cheese.  Weekend nights she makes stove-top popcorn with too much butter and she often whips up smoothies.  Better than that, she knows how to eat well.

She’ll be fine.

The only item left on the list before she *choke* leaves the nest is a self-defense class.  It’s been many moons since I took a class in how to protect myself from a perpetrator.  I figured we’d take one together.  I thought I’d found one until I looked into it further and read the blurb that said, “How to defend yourself when the attack is taken to the ground.”

WTH?!

Neither of us plans on letting an attack get that far, so I searched for the class that stops the attack before it reaches the ground.  It occurred to me that, in my town, anyway, all those classes are still taught by men.

Instead, I purchased  Ladies* Personal Defense gadgets for both of us.  Then I changed the entry on the list to:  “Search for an online self-defense class taught by a female.”

 

When there are so many educational options available online, why are we sending our daughters to college campuses? 

Jen wants the college campus experience.  She knows she has the option to never leave the safety of our home and study online.  After all, that’s what we’ve been doing for the last 10 years.  It’s time to get out into the world.

However, it’s 2020 and our daughters still risk personal safety in pursuit of higher education.

Why are we willingly paying mountains of money to institutions that clearly cannot make the personal safety of college students a priority?  And, yes, I know.  That should be taught at home before young men go off to college.  Will that ever happen?

Should she attend an all-female college?  Is that the best way to tackle the issue?   If we want to be safe, must we avoid all males?

 

Can we avoid all males?  Asking for a friend.

 

And, in the terrifying unlikely event (Gods forbid) that an attack happens, she then must report to the police department, which is largely populated by men.

Do you see how independence is just beyond our grasp?

Do you see the reason for my sleep-deprived, worry-filled nights?

I tried to search online for the manufacturer of the kitty self-defense gadget.  I assume it was designed by a man, because a woman wouldn’t have given it that pathetic moniker.

Do you see the irony?  Men teach self-defense classes to women.  Men design our self-protection gadgets.  Men work to keep us safe… from men.

Are they coming at this problem from the wrong direction?

 

*The name – Ladies Personal Defense – tells us all we need to know.

 

 

 

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An Ode to Costumes

Here’s to costumes – not just the ones we wear to celebrate Halloween.

From the pink costume someone puts us in to prove to the world that we are, indeed, a baby girl, to the “costume” put on us the day of our funeral, life is full of costume changes.

If we’re lucky, we have a trunk full of costumes when we are a kid.  Even eating a bowl of cereal warrants dressing the part.  A kid in a costume isn’t so much hiding from life, as he is tackling life.  He’s Superman or Spiderman.  She’s Princess Leia or a ballerina.  Life is celebrated, and what better way to do that than by wearing a costume?

The school years start and costumes are mostly relegated to October 31st.  One day out of the year we get to pretend to be someone outrageous.  The rest of the year, we pretend that we have life figured out.

We agonize over the different costumes needed to navigate adulthood.  We need a costume for every reinvention along the way because we are told we must,  “Fake it until we make it.”  A good costume helps with the faking.

Here’s to the costumes we wear to prove we are worthy of coupling.  For some that might be fishnet stockings or thigh-high boots.  (Years ago, the perfect mate wore an apron.)  Later, some of us wore a costume (that he most likely picked out) to prove we were a good enough wife.

Here’s to the costume we wear to show the world – and convince ourselves – that we are a good enough mom.

 

To the heels and business suit we never felt smarter in.

To the running shorts that never made running more enjoyable.

To the yoga pants that became the going-to-the-grocery-store pants.

Here’s to make-up that never makes us look younger, hair-color that never completely hides the gray, and perfume that never adequately disguises our own unique scent of fear.

 

Then, blessedly, we get to the point where we don’t give a damn.  Here’s to the bold costumes we wear to celebrate a certain age and to let everyone else know that we are done faking it in order to fit in.  Whether we proudly wear mom jeans, or leggings underneath billowy skirts, purple hats or black from head to toe, at this age, our costumes say we’ve arrived.  Almost.

These might be my favorite costumes, yet.  Although, I was a witch for Halloween 2 years in a row in junior high.  I wore that well.

 

 

 

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The Land of Pink – 3

Middle School

Think of two words that incite more terror.

Now in middle school, her preoccupations with whether to try out for soccer, keep her markers and draw, or bury herself under the covers and pretend to be sick on Monday morning are replaced with a more consistent obsession with appearance.

Blame it on body changes.  Blame it on pop culture.  Blame it on the way humans are wired.  Whatever you blame it on, there aren’t many humans who skate through life without caring for their appearance.  (Those who tell you they don’t care, dress in a way that makes it clear that they do care.  They dress to make it look like they don’t care.)

Shopping for clothes when we are little is fun.  If our parents let us have a say in what we wear, we pick based on color, or the character on the front of a shirt, or whether it’s itchy or not.

Shopping for clothes in the middle school years is riddled with all the anxiety of choosing a college.  If I buy these jeans, that group won’t let me in.  If I wear these colors, that group won’t accept me.  How do I dress to fit in, but still wear what I like?  Should this shirt be baggier?  Is this top too tight?

 

Boobs.  (Another loaded word.)

Either she has them, or she doesn’t.  Either way, her chest will be noticed.  She can choose to hide them or show them off.  If she hides them, boys will comment that she probably doesn’t have any.  If she shows them off, boys will comment about their size.

What’s a girl to do?

In the beginning, body changes are weird.  Where did this come from?  How come this?  What is going on?

Then, as she starts getting used to the changes, it can be fun to see how clothes fit.  Her walk changes.  She kind of likes the way she looks.

Uh oh.

Is it okay to like her appearance?  How much can she like the way she looks?  Is it a bad thing to like how she looks?  What’s too much?  How many is too many selfies?  Where is that line?  How long will this last?

In a delicate, all-too-brief moment in time, the changes in her appearance make her feel like preening.  She’s a morning glory blossom wanting to smile and dance in the sun.  It’s fun to show off new curves and long legs.  But, she can’t be out in the open long before she gets unwanted glances.

 

Another uh oh…

She’s a polite person.  She smiles when spoken to.  She says, “Thank you,” when the door is held open.  That does not change with the changes in her body.  Politeness coming from this new body gets misread.  Her intentions are the same, but some boys/men read her intentions differently.  She has to learn to rein in her politeness.  She used to be polite to everyone.  Now she has to be on guard and learn to sense a predator.

All too quickly, she’s faced with the realization that it’s safer to hide her beauty.

One day, riding the bus home with friends, she laughs and looks up.  Accidentally, she makes eye contact with the fellow across the aisle.  She smiles because that’s what she does, out of politeness.  But something is different this time.  The hair stands up on the back of her neck.  Something (intuition) tells her to look away.  She wants to warn her friends and tell them that the guy across from them is creepy, but she doesn’t want to be mean.  They reach their stop and exit as a group.  She looks to make sure the guy didn’t follow them.

In the blink of an eye, everything changes.  Forever she will be faced with the choice of celebrating her unique appearance or staying safe.

 

 

To be continued …

 

 

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The Land of Pink – 2

The school environment is exciting and terrifying, all at the same time.  There is so much new to learn.  She gets to experiment!  More importantly, she interacts with people other than her family.  She has (sort of) figured out where she fits in the family dynamic, now she must figure out where she fits, in the school setting.

Quickly, she learns that while being smart is praised at home, being smart gets her a label at school.  “Oh, she’s the teacher’s favorite.”  Certain groups will shun her if she’s too smart.  Even though she may be automatically accepted by the group that values her brains, she knows she’s more than that.  She’s good at other things, too.  She likes to run.  She’s good at drawing, and she loves books.  Does she have to pick only one of her loves to find her tribe?

The athletic group teases her for drawing, “Like a little kid,” so she tucks her markers away.  The brainy kids tease her for hanging with the group that likes soccer.  “Why do you wear those dumb, long red socks?”

Is it enough to be herself?  Why must she hide parts of herself in order to belong to a group?  Slowly, she sees that she is liked more when she displays traits that certain groups prefer, while hiding the parts they belittle.

She draws at home where no one can make fun of her.  If she’s lucky, the brainy kids will never find out that she is trying out for soccer.  She almost hopes she doesn’t make the team.

One school night, while trying to decide what to wear the next day, she hides her long red socks in the back of her drawer.  (A few months later, mom discovers them in the Goodwill pile.  Mom secretly pulls the socks out and hides them in the Keepsake pile.)

At school, if asked, she never reveals her test scores.  She chimes in, with the rest of the class, when they make fun of the one day of the month that they have art class.  Secretly, she wishes they could have art class once a week.

 

The whittling away and the accommodating begin at a tender age.

 

It turns out that going to school requires a lot of “pretending,” and it’s not the fun kind.  She pretends she doesn’t like soccer.  She makes fun of art.  She pretends she doesn’t know the math answers, and refuses to raise her hand.

She gets an upset stomach on most Sunday nights.  Mom notices a pattern (not feeling well on Sunday night), but she’s at a loss for what to do about it.  (Mom has no idea that her amazing daughter is a completely different kid on the playground.)  Her grades are good.  She made the soccer team.  She seems to have lots of friends.

Soon, she starts pretending at home, too.  It’s easier to pretend than try to figure out what’s wrong.  Without her even realizing it, she’s stopped doing some of the things she loves so much.

One day, before she heads out the door to go to school, she gathers up all her markers and puts them in her little sisters room.  Maybe her sister will want them, now that she doesn’t draw any more.

 

To be continued …

 

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The Land of Pink

I almost painted my fingernails yesterday.  They are long right now, and they’d look good with some polish.   I can’t remember the last time I painted them.  I have long, masculine fingers – my grandma’s – and they look better (more feminine?) when my nails are longer, but long nails are a distraction.  They get in the way when typing or gardening, which is a bummer, because my nails are hard and they are nice.  I tried to decide what color.  We don’t have a lot of polish in the house.  Jen has a couple favorite colors – white, gold and another white.  I think.

I was wanting a red or a corral.  I don’t know where this came from.  But then I thought, people will notice because I never paint my nails.  And, ugh, they’ll say something, and I’ll feel the need to defend my choice to paint my nails and why I picked the color I picked, and why I don’t normally paint my nails.

I thought of women who change their hair color or handbag or get a tattoo, and don’t seem to have a care in the world about whether anyone comments, and how freeing that must be.  Or, most likely, they do care, but they don’t let that stop them.

And then I got tired, which reminded me of what it’s like to be in The Land of Pink.

 

Look at that sweet baby girl.  Or is it a boy.  Hard to tell when they are new.  They smell the same.  They act the same.  They cry when they are hungry or they need to be changed.  They cry when they are tired.  That’s pretty much it.

Until well-meaning parents get involved and suddenly gender is projected on to this being that only cares about sleeping and eating and being comfortable.  The Big Ones coo and smile and comment on appearance when they change diapers.  “Oh, your soooo cute.”  Their hearts are in the right place, but Bigs start to treat the girls and boys differently.  They can’t help it.  It’s in their genetic coding.

Baby girls are cute for different reasons than baby boys are.

Baby slowly starts to make a connection between her appearance and the mood of the Bigs.

Babies aren’t dumb.  It doesn’t take them long to connect dots.  Happy Big = more squash.  If I coo or smile at Big, Big is happy, then I get squash.

Before she knows it, she has to be careful about not getting mashed peas on her pretty dress.  She mustn’t get squash in her hair.  She doesn’t care about her hair, she cares about fists full of food.   Pretty soon, though, it takes more than a smile to make Big happy.  Big likes it when we are cute or clean or quiet.  If we do those things, we get more squash.

 

Now she’s old enough to toddle around in the yard.  She’s amazed at where her legs will take her.  She doesn’t care what’s on her legs as long as it isn’t itchy.  This Disney Princess dress is itchy.  She reaches for a fistful of mud and attempts to bring it to her mouth, but a Big tells her, “NO!  Don’t eat that!  That’s icky!  Don’t get that on your pretty dress.”

 

It’s the first day of Kindergarten.  Her tummy feels weird and her new clothes are itchy.  She’s wearing a dress and she’s told that she probably better not go on the slide at the playground because the boys might look up her dress.  Why do boys want to look up her dress?  Whose idea was it to make her wear a dress today, anyway?

She’s no dummy.  She can see that the teacher spends more time with certain kids – the cute ones.   She notices that the cute ones are surrounded by more kids on the playground.  What must she do to be cuter?  She ponders this while sitting at a long, cold table, under florescent lights, eating a peanut butter and jelly that has been cut into quarters.  She can’t wait to get home, get out of this dress and away from this need to be cute.

Years later, she’ll learn that the weird feeling in her tummy is called anxiety.  Anxiety will become her life-long companion.

 

To be continued …

 

By the way, I cut my nails.  It’s just easier, and I’m tired.