In Training... Confession to Wandee.

So, I'm training for a triathlon.  It's a sprint triathlon.  1/4 mile swim, 13 mile bike, and 5K run. Nothing huge to many who are much crazier than I am, but a ridiculous idea to someone like my dad.  But then again, he thinks that the 24 hour workout is a great idea.  What's the 24 hour workout?  Well, that's easy.  You figure out how many days it would take you to get into great shape by working out one hour every day.  Let's say that you're in need of 6 months to get into great shape, well, then you just work out for 180 hours straight, and you'll be in perfect condition in 7 1/2 days instead of 6 months.

I think his philosophy is flawed, so I have been training for this September triathlon for a couple of months.

Now, I love the biking part.  It's great.  And the running... Even running feels good if I can hit my stride, but the swimming.  Ugh.

The swimming.

First of all, there is the problem of breathing.  You can't just breathe when you need to breathe, taking a full breath and, you know, letting it out and taking another one.  No.  You have to do this whole bilateral breathing and breath control thing.

Then there's the hours.  Lap swim where there are actually lanes available occurs at 5-7:30am.  Now I don't know about you, but the idea purposefully waking up that early to jump into a pool to not breathe enough and flail through the water for a while does not sound like a great idea.  My friend, Wandee, claims that it is "refreshing."  I think that she is confusing "refreshing" with "torture."

It might be cool if I could breathe underwater like Aquawoman or something.  Or if I had been born part fish like my hubby or something, but I am merely a normal mammal who flails around in the water.

So I find myself not waking up early to swim on principle of "I am not a stupid person, and waking up at 6am to jump into a cold pool and torture myself is stupid."  So I wait until later in the day when there are water aerobics classes happening in the lap swim area and one lane open for swimming and 5 people in the lane begging to kick me in the face and make me feel like I'm drowning anyway.  So... I sit in the hot tub for the amount of time I was supposed to be swimming, enjoy my kid-free time, and leave telling myself, there was really nothing I could do.  The pool was just too busy. I'll just get my swim in tomorrow after my run.  


But guess what.  I don't wake up to run at 6am, and the pool is closed for lap swim at 9.  Which means that I don't swim.

I would wake up early to swim, but it's just too stupid.  And I am not stupid.

Research and Espresso

On Sunday, Jeff and I were driving along in the car drinking scalding coffee on a disgusting 94 degree day. We were still sweating with the AC cranked because of the ridiculous Colorado sun beating down through the window, and I kept taking sips of the molten liquid wanting to die because of the heat but knowing that I would surely perish if there was no caffeine in my system... which really makes no sense if you think about it, but don't think about it.

So I think aloud and say, "You know, I really need to figure out how to do an iced coffee properly.  I've tried and tried, but I just can't seem to get it right."

"Well," he said, "have you researched it at all, honey?"

"I think it has to have that syrup stuff to get it right."

"Maybe you should look it up when we get home."

We sat in happy (well, as happy as one can be in nasty heat drinking super hot coffee) silence for a few moments while I concocted iced coffee drinks in my mind and he, I'm sure, went to the baseball place in his.  And suddenly I thought, how cool that he just encouraged me to learn about this iced coffee thing.  I love it when he's supportive like that and wants me to learn about the stuff I want to learn about.

So I said, "That's really neat that you are so supportive about me wanting to make good coffee."

"Really?" he said, "because what I was really thinking was why haven't you looked it up yet, you idiot?  You know you can find out anything you need to know in about 30 seconds on the internet."

Which, of course, I found hilarious, but not quite as sweet.  Jeff tried to convince me that it was even sweeter since he thought that but didn't say it out loud.

But you know what?  It never even occurred to me to look up how to make an iced espresso drink without an espresso machine on the internet.  I was content to just keep concocting things until the sweltering heat/ coffee combined with Jeff's oh so loving encouragement inspired me to research.  Sure I know that if it was super important for me to get it right, I would've looked it up and gotten it right, but it wasn't important.  I was just playing.  And I love thinking that way... by playing.  What would happen if I add a little of this or mixed in a lot of that?

Not Jeff, no sir.  By golly, you want to know something or be able to do something, you find out how to do it right and you follow every single direction and if you miss something, no matter how important or unimportant, you take it all apart and start over.

And this, to me, is hilarious and weird.

I guess the fact that Jeff approaches life with a completely different and many times opposite viewpoint is what has always fascinated me about him, made him such a challenge to me... and we all know how I need to be challenged.

The other part of that is while I am busy trying to conquer this challenge of understanding the way that this mysterious man thinks, I forget how great it works to be with an opposite.  You see, I am sitting here drinking a very tasty homemade caramel macchiato.  This never would have happened if I had not been encouraged to research by my handsome data-driven husband.

Guess it will always "challenge" him that I want to play to solve problems.  And I'm sure it will continue to make me shake my head when everything he does, buys, builds, or creates is scrupulously researched prior to  making the first move.

Maybe that's why he was staring at me so much the night we met.... Research.

“The wai-aiting is the hardest part…” -Tom Petty

 Note:  So sorry to have kept you waiting on this, the next Ugly Tree Blog Post.  I have been hosting a family reunion for my in-laws for the past few days and thus drinking more margaritas than usual.   These two things combined with two children to care for and a husband who worked 80+ hours Sunday to Sunday last week made for not a spare minute to blog.  If you have been waiting for a Mattie update, she is still doing awesome.  If all continues to go well this week, she will be getting her chest tube out and heading home soon!  Hooray!

There is something that my dad has been doing for the past 17 years.  Waiting.  And finally, the wait, for him, is over. 

It all started with me.  Well, sort of.  I was playing Little League Softball.  My mom was coaching our team.  It was awful.  I don’t know if anyone else has observed this, but a 12 year old girl and her mother are not usually a pretty sight to behold.  Mostly, they are at each other’s throats.  My mom and I were no different at this age, so you can imagine the frustration that ensued with her as my coach.  I’m sure that it had much to do with the fact that she throws like a girl.  Don’t say that to her.   She’ll argue with you about it.  And that’s not to say that she’s not tough.  She definitely is to be feared, but… she throws like a girl.  And as a 12 year old girl, I wouldn’t listen to her as my coach.

So…my dad stepped in, thinking, at first, that he did not want to coach girls.  Coaching girls was silly.  Or  some other adjective.  Regardless, he was reluctant.  So he was only going to coach my teams until I was in high school.  Well, then I was a freshman in high school and the Varsity coach died tragically and unexpectedly.  So, my dad started coaching the Varsity team.  And he was only going to coach until I graduated.  But that first year, his first team made it to the State Semi-finals.  We lost.  And the next year, back to the Semi-finals.  Lost again.  Back this time to the State Finals.  And we lost again. This process was repeated like that for 17 years.

My dad does not know how to do this losing thing.  He doesn’t.  Failure isn’t an option.  He’s never had a losing season.  Never.  I don’t even know what his worst season’s record is, but I’m sure it probably includes about 30 or so wins in a 38ish game season.  (If you do well in the playoffs, which his team inevitably does.) 

The point is, he finally won the State Title.  Finally.  After 17 years of coaching high school softball and a ton of State Quarter-Final, Semi-Final, and State Final appearances.

Now, softball and baseball players and coaches are notoriously superstitious.  Don’t talk about a no-hitter or perfect game until it’s over.  Don’t wash your socks during a winning streak.  Wear your pants a certain way if you’re on a hitting streak.  The people of Clinton Softball are no different, saying things like, “the mustache must’ve been holding you back,” since after a lifetime (my entire lifetime) of a mustached face, he finally shaved it in the off-season.

But I know the truth.  The truth is that my dad is getting old.  And his whole life, he’s been coaching, parenting, living with closed fists pointing out the way that he wants things to go.  He’s been grabbing on to the steering wheel with white knuckles his whole life, trying to pave the road with the wheels of his car, climb over rocks and through small rivers while driving an escort. 

And like I said, he’s getting old.  Which means that his hands are starting to cramp up unless he opens them and lets go of the steering wheel a little.  And I think… I think he let go of the steering wheel a little and he might be starting to find out that by golly, there’s a nice smooth paved road over there with a bridge that his escort can easily climb over and maybe he doesn’t need to buy that jeep to get there.

And the thing about getting old is that we start to find out that when we finally get something we’ve been waiting for so long, on the tail of the celebration rides the thought, What’s next? 

Which means that the important thing is really the work and the wait for the celebration, but then again, don’t we need something to work and wait for?  I don’t know.  Maybe I’m not old enough to really get it yet.  I guess I’ll have to go ask my dad.

Mattie 14 Tetrology of Fallot 0

Hey Hey!
Team Mattie Mae scored another big touchdown.  Mattie's out of ICU and into Mama's Arms in Moderate Care.  


Lisa's Blog:
http://ridiculousnesswiththeroberts.blogspot.com/

I'm starting wonder, though about this football game metaphor, though... I'm not sure what will signal Game Over for Tetrology of Fallot.  I'm not sure I really care as long as Mattie's winning;) 

Peculiar Orifice Oozing Problems

My children have orifice oozing problems.  Not sure if it’s allergies or just kid stuff, but their noses are always running, and they are always slobbering all over something. 

One of my least favorite moves both of my boys make is when they are given a treat that they can hold in their hands, they love on that treat.  They savor that treat.  If it is the last M&M they are given, it could last an hour.  Seriously one M&M.  One hour of dripping slobbery brightly-colored chocolaty saliva on sticky hands that touch everything in the house if I am not hovering over that one teeny tiny M&freakinM.

Now, don’t get me wrong, my favorite thing about summertime is watching my little boys outside and filthy.  Blue popsicle that dripped all the way to elbows, then caked in dirt so that there are brown rings of filth all over arms and legs.  That is exactly how a boy should look in the summertime… OUTSIDE.  Maybe that’s why it’s a summertime thing, because you can be outside all summer.

I’m wondering, though, when the oozing will end and when it ends, will I miss it?  I remember wondering when the spit up would stop.  Nolan spit up constantly for about 9 months.  It took him a long time to outgrow that, but he did.  Eventually.  And I miss the itty bitty newborn spitup thing because it was cute and precious and sweet.  But the drooling and the slobbering and the runny nose thing… It seems as though this stage will last forever.

The worst one in this stage, that seems will never end is pee and poop.  Daniel is potty-trained.  He pees and poops in the potty almost all of the time.  Yet… I am still constantly dealing with poop.  Yesterday I was walking around my own home barefoot.

Unbeknownst to me, this hilarious, yet disgusting and loyal mound of wonder was squatting at  the ready on my bedroom floor.  The teeny mound of poo was just waiting for me to walk through to change my clothes when squish.  Ah poo.  The old loyal companion.  Will you ever stay where I expect you to?  Will you always show up where I don’t want you?  Oh, Poo.  Please find your way into the potty.  Every. Single. Time.

I guess this is asking too much.  He tried.  He was doing great.  He pooped in the potty, forgot to wipe, sat on my bedroom floor to put his Handy Manny underoos back on and left his loyal friend for mama’s foot.

Oh poo.  Later that day you closed down the Rec center pool.  Ah yes, my husband’s child had an oops fart (AKA shart) on his way down the waterslide.  I think he was a little nervous.  Nevertheless, poo out of the shorts and into the pool.  Gives the phrase “Droppin the kids off at the pool” new meaning.  I think we need to do some re-teaching on that… So embarrassing.  SO EMBARRASSING.

Oh well.  Poo is a companion who is here to stay for a while.  It’s a good thing, I know.  I just wish he would stay where he belongs.  I know the day will come when I think, remember when the boys drooled all over everything and they used to say, “Snot! Mama, I have snot!”  Remember when Danny pooped in the rec center pool and closed it down?! That was kind of hilarious.  I guess that day will come when the Peculiar Orifice Oozing Problems have been solved, and the oozing is generally contained.

Touchdown Mattie!

I can hear it, can’t you?  First touchdown has been scored.  Mattie’s out of surgery, tubes hooked up properly, nestled cozily in the ICU.  She’s up 6-0.  But what’s this?  Goin for 2 extra points?  And the pass is good with rosy cheeks and pink feet.  Mattie Mae 8-Tetrology of the Fallot 0.

And the band plays;)  Touchdown Mattie.

http://www.fightmusic.com/mp3/big10/Michigan__Hail_To_The_Victors.mp3

Now, I don’t know about you, but if I were an icky heart condition, I’d be scared when I looked at Mattie Mae’s team.  First of all, if the sheer number of jerseys along with all the prayers being sent up to The Big Guy isn’t enough to send that Tetrology of the Fallot running, how about the awesome U of M doctors and nurses?  Do I even need to keep going? Grand Daddy Mattie is leading the defense to keep T of F from gaining any yardage, and of course, there is a star running back Daddy who could be superman for all you know, stinkin T of F… and do you really want to even think about Mattie’s Mama?

When I first met Lisa back in high school, it was some sort of Roberts tradition to inform others who carried themselves in a confident manner to inform them that they were “not tough.”  Lisa was one of these confident souls, so Ken and I dutifully informed her that she was, “not tough.”  I think it ticked her off a little, ticked her off enough to stand up to Ken and endure countless trials of her toughness.  She was daring enough for a late-night Denny’s outing, she dished out as much teasing as Ken did to her, and withstood eau de Kenneth… all with a bright beautiful, dimpled smile.  And I know no other woman who could handle graduate school graduation, a move across the country, a new home, a complete remodel of said new home, a new career, a new marriage, and a new baby with a major heart condition all within twoish short years with the grace, style, sense of humor and… toughness of Lisa Roberts.  We were wrong, Lisa (Mattison) Roberts.  You are tough.  Tougher than I hope I’ll ever have to be.

And the one star player that I haven’t yet mentioned… Precious little Mattie Mae with the yellow bow on her head.  And even though I’ve seen her in pink ruffled tights, 

she might prove to be even tougher than her mama.

It is only the end of the first quarter, but she’s leading the team in yards, sacks and interceptions. Oh, Miss Mattie Mae, you make me proud to be a part of your team, even though I’m just standing on the sidelines trying to be a sports writer.

A Little Boy and His Blankie

I have a word for the things in our home that are worn and broken and dirty.  A word for the dog-eared, scribbled on, tatter-covered books.  A word for a 25 year-old noseless teddy bear.  A word for a filthy chewed on, carried everywhere blankie. 

The word is “loved.”

Nolan has a nigh-night  (blankie).  It is adorable and hilarious how much he loves this nigh-night.  And aside from “Mine!” and “Ow!”, it is the most recognizable word he can speak.  Every morning, he stands up in his crib, throws out his nigh-night, and promptly cries and cries, reaching for this most loved comfort object.  “Nigh-Night!” he yells over and over until Mama or Da comes in to pull him out of his crib and reconnect him to his beloved nigh-night.  We lose nigh-night regularly because of Nolan’s Linus-like attachment to it.  But nigh-night always comes back.  It gets stuck between the crib and the wall.  It gets tucked behind the couch, under Danny’s bed, shoved in the toy bin… 

And I started metaphoring, cause that’s what I do lately, and I thought, maybe this is how God treats us.

We are “loved.” Tattered and worn, fraying at the edges.  He cuddles us, holds us.  He carries us around everywhere, through the dirt and mud.  

We hide from Him often.  We think He abandoned us behind the couch.  We think he left us under the bed.  We lay in a heap in a dark bin alone and scared.

We feel like we need to get tossed in the wash and stay away from Him until we are clean.

But the truth is, He wants to carry us no matter how much we stink or how filthy we are.  And when we are hiding behind the couch, or stuck in the dark toy bin, thinking we have been abandoned, thinking we are alone, He can think of nothing but us, nothing but getting us back in His arms where we belong.

And when I am being dragged through the mud, I usually think that God hates me and doesn’t want anything good to happen to me.  But maybe I am just being “loved.”  Maybe He’s dragging me through the mud because he wants to keep me close, and He can’t bear the thought of me getting lost again. And maybe each stain, each hole, each thread-bare spot is a beautiful reminder of just how loved we really are.

Mattie Mae's Fight Song.

If you're anything like me and my family, the Michigan Fight Song stirs something in your soul every time you hear it.  "Hail to the Victors" was the first lullabye my husband sang to each of our children, and my 19 month old would fit right in at The Big House because he already pumps his fist with every "Hail!"  

My husband also included it on my workout playlist, and every time it comes on the shuffle, I feel a combination of nostalgia and an intense urge to beat a Buckeye.  But now that my niece, Mattie Mae, has arrived, I think of even more than a house filled with my brothers' football team, Lev's Pretzels, and beating Buckeyes.  I think of Mattie Mae and her heart, and I say a little prayer.

This is my beautiful, precious niece and Goddaughter, Mattison Mae Roberts (along with her daddy, my brother, of course).  She smells of that perfect combination of newborn-ness, spit-up, and baby oil.  She loves to be snuggled,  has the biggest dimples I've ever seen on a 3 month old, and she shows them off every time she farts (at least that's what her proud daddy tells me).  She also has a heart condition called Tetrology of the Fallot that requires open heart surgery on Monday, June 13.  The surgery will be performed by the experts at the University of Michigan.


But you see, there is more of a link to U of M, than these amazing doctors who will be taking great care of my niece.  U of M Football had an awesome defensive coordinator when I was in high school.  His name is Greg Mattison.  He is my sister-in-law's father.  He is affectionately known as "Grand Daddy Mattie" now that his granddaughters (Mattie Mae and Hadlee Louise Mattison) have arrived.  When Greg was at U of M, Lisa,my sister-in-law, played on a summer softball team with me in Ann Arbor.  And so she met her lifetime crush, my brother.  The road was long and winding, but led Ken, Lisa, Grand Daddy Mattie, and of course, the lovely Grannie Annie back to the Ann Arbor area and U of M where Greg is, once again, the Defensive Coordinator.  Little Mattie Mae, before she was even a thought in anyone's mind was saying, Mama, take me back to where it all started.  I think it's amazing when God does that.


So on Monday, join me in helping Mattie fight her fight by playing Mattie Mae's fight song by clicking on the link below and say a little prayer for my sweet, dimpled niece.
http://www.fightmusic.com/mp3/big10/Michigan__Hail_To_The_Victors.mp3


And I pray that this fall, when the Maize and Blue take the field, I'll be singing "Hail to the Victors" for the victory God gives Mattie and the U of M doctors over this crappy heart condition.  

I don't know about you, but I think that's a victory that even a Buckeye would be happy to cheer for.

Update on the Parking Scam

In case anyone cares, after a much more thorough investigation, my suspicions have been confirmed.  Paying for parking and parking tickets are a scam to drain money from busy, working, contributing members of society.  


Let me recap:
1. I paid $1.35 to park in Denver and I received a $25 ticket I did not deserve.
2. I made a phone call to fight it.  I was told to put it in writing.
3. I wrote a letter to fight it. 
4. I did not receive any response to my letter.
5. I received a notice of a doubled fine.
6. I made a phone call to dispute the charges.  I was told to go to the Magistrate's office.
7. I dragged my two toddlers downtown to the Magistrate's office.  Paid $5 to park while I "discussed" the fine. 
8. I was told that they would honor the 'reduced fine of $15' that the invisible letter I was sent had stated.  (Well, 'Whooptie Shit' as my mother says) OR I could set a court date (to which I would either have to again drag my children to and pay another $5 for parking or hire a babysitter to watch them while I take care of this matter) and pay $26.50 for court costs.
9. Hmmm... since I can do math, I decided to just pay the freaking fine and get out of there.


And, guess who wins.


That's right.  Plumperton.  Freaking Plumperton.

Complete Rant on the Incompetence and Uselessness of the Denver Parking Violations Bureau

Few things piss me off more than undeserved parking tickets.  So, if you share this particular annoyance, feel free to continue reading.  If a complete debacle of a system designed specifically just to drain the pocket of a law-abiding citizen who wants to have dinner with her husband away from her children one time in a hundred years does not bother you, then you'll probably want to stop reading right now.


Writing parking tickets is a job.  Seriously.  It is a job.  This amazes me.  If I had this job, I would feel completely worthless as a human being unless I happened to be doing something, anything to contribute to society.  Are these parking violation writers contributing to society at all?  Maybe.  Maybe 1 out of 100 (yes, I am completely making up this statistic) tickets they write are to actually move some jerk who parked in a handicap spot or move a double parked car or some idiot parked in a fire lane or some other safety hazard.  I get that.  I understand those violations, and if I were an idiot who happened to make the mistake of parking somewhere like that, I would learn my lesson, pay the fine, and move on. 


However, I am not one of these people who parks in handicap spots or the like, and I have a feeling that 99% of these tickets are written for people like me who park in parking spaces and pay (or attempt to pay) the meter the appropriate amount and arrive back to their car to find the poor sucker who has an almost completely worthless (adverbs and adjectives based completely on the previous made up statistic) career putting a ticket on their window.


The worst part is that even if I waste my time going to court for this, I will still pay a fine. And there is really nothing that I can do about it.  I will pay a fine that I do not deserve because the meter was clearly not working properly, ate my money and then I received a ticket when I had paid for more than the amount of time that I actually used.  I have already wasted my time writing a formal dispute (for which I did not receive a response, though there is a record of a response being sent).  And I will go downtown tomorrow and wait my turn with squirming children for however much time, and the thought will cross my mind, I should've just paid the original fine.  But that's not really the issue now, is it?  


The issue is that I expect to live in a society where I actually get what I pay for, and don't get ripped off by a corrupt system that is just out to make a buck.  Silly me.  I must be delusional.  I expect humans to operate intelligently and appropriately and respectfully.  I must be crazy.  I expect humans to act humanely? Call me young and idealistic, I guess, but I still expect people to treat each other appropriately.


I find this system completely unacceptable.  I have no idea what parking violation fines pay for, but whatever it is, I would gladly pay someone directly for my use of it instead of the waste of time, effort, and energy this has caused me.


And you know what else pisses me off?  It pisses me off that I am this angry about this and that makes me want to eat chocolate. And that counteracts the hour of running I did this morning.  I am afraid there is more than one Plumperton.

The Tales of Plumperton

“Are you Plumperton?  Are you Plumperton?” this is my husband’s newest nickname for… well, I’m not even sure whose nickname it is.

He started out asking Nolan if he was Plumperton, then Daniel, then they decided that Plumperton is one of the bunnies that lives in our backyard (or at least visits it regularly).   Immediately after this decision, the boys decided that it would be fun to chase Plumperton around and around the backyard.  The only problem with this is that they were both able to get really really close to Plumperton.  Of course, my Mama Bear instinct went into overdrive thinking, Oh crap, what if they catch Plumperton and he bites one of them and has some crazy rabbit disease and my boys are Plumpertonized for life?!  But I don’t stop them from running around after Plumperton because what toddler can run fast enough to catch a rabbit?  And on top of that, maybe they’ll sleep better later because they ran around so much.  I know I’m being a silly mama, but apparently I am still haunted by the worry of my children being Plumpertonized because later that night I become Plumpertonized in my dreams.  Seriously.  It was horrifying.  Plumperton was in our house.  In the kitchen.  And I chased him around and around the kitchen table.  The worst part was that I CAUGHT HIM.  And then I didn’t know what to do.  I held him up in front of my face and stood there squirming and screaming while all of the boys just stood there. 

It made for a fitful sleep, this being Plumpertonized.  I remember being in this almost awake and panic-stricken phase of sleep at one point during the night.  When I woke up, Jeff brought Nolan into our room and said, “Here’s Plumperton!”

So I said, “I had a dream about Plumperton last night!”

And Jeff burst out laughing. “That’s what that was all about?!”

“What?”

“You were laying there going, “Plumperton.  Plumperton.  Plumperton.” Flailing around like crazy.”

“You didn’t even help me!”

He was laughing at me when I was getting Plumpertonized.  How rude.

I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking, what in the world does this Plumpertonization look like and why are you so afraid of it?  Of course, in my mind, it involves becoming unnecessarily plump, of course.  And what could be more terrifying than being bit by a radioactive plumpness-causing rabbit? There is nothing more terrifying than that. So, now I must go work out before I become Plumperton.

More Sunday Poetry

To My Sons

I hope you’re famous

Like John Breaux’s famous

For smiling at strangers,

Picking up trash,

Being kind to everyone.

I hope you’re famous for serving others

Sharing coffee with the cold,

Food with the hungry

Conversation with the lonely.

I hope you’re friendly

To everyone

Helpful

Encouraging

Kind.

I hope you don’t get everything you want.

I hope many call you friend and yet, you only speak truth.

I hope you bowl or ski or swim or…

I hope you love and give and give

I hope you give more.

I hope you move.

I hope you love.  Deeply.  Fully.

I hope you travel and experience and see.

I hope you love adventure and live boldly.

I hope you hope.

I hope you pray.

I hope you fall sometimes and reach out to others when you do.

I hope you laugh so hard your belly hurts

I hope you do that often over dinner or coffee with good friends, new or old.

I hope you live.

Giving.

Serving.

Holding.

Helping.

Loving.

The People I Know are Not Similes or Metaphors. I Should Stop Comparing Myself.

What is wrong with us?

 

Everyone I know does this to each other intentionally or unintentionally, and we know we do it, we hate it about ourselves, every time we do it we tell ourselves to stop, and yet we continue to do it over and over and over again.  Maybe it’s mostly women, but men do it too (mostly with technology, cars, and home projects).

I’m talking about looking at other people’s lives and thinking that they have it better than we do or that they are so much better at it than we are; looking at others and thinking, she has the perfect hair, butt, body, house, kid… Why can’t my hair, butt, body….look like that, act like that, be like that?

The best answer?  Because Emily, you don’t want to spend more than 3 ½ minutes a day on your hair.  Because, Emily, you don’t want to count calories and give up chocolate.  Because, Emily, if you spent the amount of time cleaning your house every day that she does, you would be a very angry and annoyed person, and you’d yell at your kids every time they threw something on the floor (which means you’d be yelling all day every day!). 

It’s amazing to me that we only see other people’s gifts as our own failures, our own faults, our own deficiencies. And then we give out those jealous compliments, “You always look so pretty.” As we snarl under our breath.  Because it’s infuriating that someone can seemingly so effortlessly look so freaking beautiful.  All. The. Time. And have a tight stomach after kids.  And buy clothes that are really cute….. and…

Why can’t I just be happy that I have trained my children to give me some quiet time every day and even if one precious three year old I know doesn’t actually go to sleep during that time, he won’t even fight me if I tell him he needs to play quietly in his room for an hour?  That is an amazing freaking thing!  And instead of celebrating that I have that, I have to beat myself up with my mother’s voice echoing in my head, “Well, Emily, you have all of this free time right now, why are you putsing around on the computer when I would’ve had the laundry started and a load of dishes in the dishwasher and all of these other clothes put away in the time it took you to just think about what you were going to write about in that silly blog.”

Wouldn’t it be better if I let myself do something I enjoy in the quiet time I have?  Wouldn’t it be better if I enjoyed working on my book while the boys were taking a nap instead of stressing that I’m not doing all that other stuff that I’m “supposed” to do in order to measure “success” on the pretend “being a good stay at home mom” scale? 

Wouldn’t that be easier if I looked at my beautiful friend and enjoyed looking at her?  It sounds weird, but isn’t that why we want to be beautiful?  So that others will enjoy looking at us?

Don’t I hope that my friends enjoy my writing?  Don’t I hope that my friends enjoy the dinner I made or the way my kids behave or the words that come out of my mouth?  Don’t I hope that my participants appreciate that I can learn all 32 of their names in the first 10 minutes I’ve met them?  I do!  I want everyone to like the best parts of me.  I want them to value what I have to say and how I say it.  I want people to like me just the way that I am.

And I’m guessing that those friends that I have with the flat tummies and perfect hair hate the way their hair does this or noses do that, and they look at me and think, I wish I had Emily’s cute squishy nose.  I wish I could pull off that muffin top like Em does. Ha.  Just kidding.  No one thinks that.  Besides I don’t have a muffin top.  My broken scale told me that I lost 16 pounds this week.  I am a hot mama.

This week, I will enjoy my own gifts.  I will write.  I will think.  I will make good coffee.  And I will have a great time with my friends… even the beautiful ones with clean homes.  

Remembering Papa Today

This weekend at a Memorial Day BBQ, I found myself laughing and telling stories about Papa.  Mostly it was all of his old sayings and jokes and one liners, the ‘Why Are Firetrucks Red’ thing and the cute and funny Papisms that this weekend still made people who had never even met Papa laugh belly laughs, and I just sat there thinking, you should’ve heard him tell it.

So, just in case you don’t know Papa, here are a few of them:

1.       “Emmy, the more you stir the shit, the more it stinks.”

2.       “You know I tried that new Viagra, but it turns out that it’s bad for Grandma’s health.”

“Why’s that, Papa?”

“Well, every time I took it, Grandma got a headache.”

3.       “When you’re tellin a story, you just gotta have a good ending.  I always know where I’m going to end up when I stand up to give a talk.  I don’t always know how I’m gonna get there, but I know where I’m going to end up.”

I’m not doing him justice as I type this, and I never do.  I don’t think anything but knowing him can do him justice.  My brother said something at the funeral home that explained it, and I wish I could remember the exact words, but it was something about no matter what relationship you had with him, no matter what background you had come from, if you spent any amount of time with Papa at all, you walked away from that time with him feeling like you were special, knowing that he loved you, knowing that you were special to him.

Papa was a hunter, golfer, inventor, etc., but I don’t really remember him doing all of the stuff he loved to do.  I just remember him sitting, waiting for someone to come along and talk with him.  Everyone else would start a conversation.  We’d be talking and talking.  He would sit there quiet as could be, just like a fisherman or a hunter waits quietly, patiently for the right moment.  The hunter who knows what he’s doing knows that the bait is important, but timing is essential.  There I would be, jabbering on and on to Grandma about school or kids or friends or whatever, when Papa would say something like, “You ever hear of Buster Brown shoes?” 

It would seem misplaced at first and Grandma would say something like, “Jim!  She was talking about her friend in Grand Rapids!”

He would just look at her and smile.  His eyes would twinkle, and he would turn back to me and finish his story connecting Grand Rapids or friendship back to the story of Buster Brown Shoes.

And I would feel like I had been given a nugget of wisdom from Papa, who showed me so much love by taking the time to sit with me and tell stories. 

I didn’t like the part of the funeral where they closed the casket lid (aside from the laughing we all had to do when Grandma tried to slam it shut).  I hated it mostly because I’m claustrophobic, but also because it seemed so… final.  No more twinkle eyes.  No more Santa-like belly laughs.  No more one-liners or flawless comedic timing.  No more simplistic Papa wisdom.  No more Papa hugs.  No more “Oh Emmy.”s 

But then  the priest started talking about how it looked like he was in a turkey blind (his casket was camouflaged) and that made me feel better.  So I started thinking about how Papa’s probably up in heaven holding the baby I miscarried, telling stories to the cousin I lost about some of the silly things his mama did when she was younger.

And I starting trying to picture Papa coming into heaven, and I imagined God to be a lot like Papa.  Content to just sit and listen to you talk and talk and talk about what’s happening and how you feel about it even if you’re angry and scared until the timing is just right for Him to tell a story about something that may or may not seem to be related to what you were talking to Him about, and then you walk away feeling more loved than anyone else has ever felt just because you got to sit with Him and talk for a while.