I am a two-timer......... I have a MySpace. I've had it for about a year and have only posted one entry. I have it to keep up with friends who have crossed over to the dark side.....

 

For whatever reason, I wanted to post a stream of concsiousness blog over there and felt it only fair to post it here, too........ So, in all of it's unedited glory and free thought format. Oh,and Dane Cook is kinda cute. Employee of the month is stupid, though........

 

 

You Set It Up That Way

I'm not a huge fan of Dr. Phil........ but it occurred to me tonight that he is right about something..... "You set it up that way." Think about it. Outside of a very few incidents and issues out of your control (life and death/illness stuff), go backwards and see.......even when you didn't realize it at the time......you set it up that way. All the quirks about you.....the way you were raised...what you believe.......what you thought you wanted/didn't want.....what you thought you needed/didn't need.....what you thought would help, but didn't help.....what you thought would right wrongs and didn't.......what you thought would make you forget and didn't.......what you thought would change everything and didn't........ All of the steps you took....all of the choices you made.....the things you did.....the things you didn't do.....the things you said.....the things you didn't say.....the things you should have said.......the things you didn't say........the people you shut out.....the people you invited in......the good....the bad......the wrong......the right......the proud moments......the ashamed moments.......the you  that you like....the you that you hate..... You set it up that way. Deny it all you want, but if you go back and trace every step, every impulsive decision, every hurtful word, every selfish gesture, every noble gesture, every stupid thing you did, every smart thing you did......Without you even realizing it, you were building the foundation for what's next. Do you like what you set up? Or are you once again disappointed in yourself?

 

 

 

As I rock my toddler in her soon-to-be-outgrown nursery, I take inventory of my current life situation. I am a living example of a working mother. I look down at my boots—tall, black, skinny heel, and a killer silver buckle. My new black favorite-pants-of-the moment are cropped just enough to show off the coolest parts of the boots. I paired the boots and pants with a black sleeveless sweater I snatched up on sale this summer, knowing it would be great for the winter over a white shirt. And it is. I may look put together on the outside, but on the inside, I’m a mess.

My daughter is drifting off in my arms, jerking every few minutes as her active body gives way to peaceful slumber. I look around her nursery, making mental of notes of what I’ll do with the room as she enters her next phase. I hum the tune to “Crazy,” by Willie Nelson…or Patsy Cline. Choose your favorite. I think about doing some painting in the powder bath. I make more mental notes on other fix-its and improvements I want to do around the house. I think about drawers I hope to organize, closets I want to straighten, laundry, dry cleaning, addressing Valentine’s for my daughter. And, then of course, there’s work. And lots of it.  I can almost feel the room spin. But before all of this, I have more pressing matters at hand.

 Although my youngest daughter showed no signs of feeling sick tonight, she felt a bit hot. I didn’t want to take her temperature. Honestly, I didn’t want to know. No, I’m not a bad mother, at least I don’t think I am, but just an hour before, my oldest daughter’s school called to tell me that I need to pick her up early, as she has a high fever and a sore throat. As I was putting her little sister to sleep, she was downstairs cuddled up and  fighting the onset of what is sure to be a nasty cold. Or worse….the flu.

This area has been hit with Influenza in the worst way. Schools have actually shut down because there aren’t enough students and teachers to warrant keeping the school lights on. Some have shut down to sanitize via fumigation to kill the flu virus. The front doors of schools across this area have been revolving all day, as sick children are sent home. They don’t come alone; they bring the flu virus with them to share with the family.

You see, yesterday I spent the majority of the day in emergency room with my husband. On Sunday afternoon, just as we left a Valentine’s Day concert where my oldest daughter sang, he began coughing. Not just a hack here and there—full on throttle coughing, throwing his body into it. As the hours went on, he got worse. So I did the Sunday night routine alone—bathed the kids, put them to bed, prepared the house and everything else for the busy week ahead. Just as I was headed upstairs to the (hopefully) germ-free guest room to sleep, I remember something…..clay.

I had agreed to make three batches of salt dough clay for my daughter’s art class. I had to shape them into three sets of 24 balls. I wanted to cry as I realized I had about a half of a can of salt and no corn starch. Hubby refused to let me go out that late at night, so sick and all, he went to the store for me to fetch salt and corn starch. I spent the next two hours concocting this gloppy mess of goo and then fell into bed.

The next morning I went downstairs to find my husband completely passed out, almost unresponsive. I left him alone and did the morning routine on my own, barely making it time to school and work. I head 20 miles north to an interview with a client. I get lost. I’m 30 minutes late and horribly embarrassed. After the interview, I head back down the freeway, trying to drive safely in the pouring rain and fog. I stop off at the Coach outlet to see if the store still had a work satchel I had been admiring for about six months. Yep, sure did. I ignored the price tag and bought it. I drove another 30 minutes downtown to work. I devoured a salad I picked up on the way to the office when my desk phone rang. The caller ID was our home number.

“I need you to come home. I need help.”

Click.

“I need to go to the hospital.”

So I jump back in the car and drive another 20 or so minutes north to our house. My husband can barely get out of bed and into the car. I take him to the ER where we wait about an hour and a half to see a doctor. As expected, the waiting room was full of people with the flu. I bury my mouth and nose in my shirt, fearing every breath I take. An IV, chest X-Ray, various testing, and four prescriptions later, he has the flu. The real deal. He is drifting in and out of consciousness, not really making sense at all due to his high fever.

I get home in just enough time to put hubby to bed, pick up the kids from school, and head to the grocery store. I didn’t make it to the store Sunday, so we have a week’s worth of food to buy, in addition to the oldest child’s Valentine’s cards, and prescriptions filled for hubby.

Three days before Valentine’s day, the shelves of Target are bare of Valentine’s supplies except for boxed candy. Where are the cheap little Valentine’s cards for school parties? Sold out, a man tells me.

Great. I guess every mom in North Texas decided to buy Bratz and Spider Man cards at Super Target on Sunday.

Peace. Quiet. I curl up on the couch and watch a Tivo’d Desperate Housewives. It was almost blissful.

Today was better for awhile. Hubby was feeling better, and the housekeeper was scheduled for Wednesday. I got a lot done at work. On the drive home I learn that my oldest is sick and has to miss school tomorrow….and her Valentine’s day party. The baby, who was sick last week, is now sick again. I already missed two days due to her illness. Now I’ll be home again tomorrow with her. And with the oldest. And with my hubby who is home-bound all week. That’s right. I will be home alone tomorrow, nursing  three sick people--two children and a husband, so make that three sick children. Most likely, they all have the flu—the highly contagious flu. Should we start bets on when I’ll get it?

My house is a wreck. Even so, I called the housekeeper and told her to just wait until next week, as there is no way she can clean with all of us here and she doesn’t need to be exposed to this. My house sounds like a hospital ward—coughing from every corner. The kitchen bar is littered with a vast array of over-the-counter cold medications. The bedroom is scary. It’s almost as if I can sense the germs when I walk in. I already have plans for replacing all of the linens. I don’t know if the tickle in my throat and the slight chill I have are from paranoia about getting sick, or if it means I’m next. And if I am, it’s guaranteed that I will still be the caretaker. That’s just how it goes around here.

As I type this, I can swear I feel my throat getting more sore. Naturally, I have a story due on Monday that I’ve barely started, interviews stacked up for stories all week, and a huge project due in a week. For some weird reason, I keep thinking that if I can get this new satchel organized, then all of the sudden I’ll be organized. I realize how strange that sounds. Maybe I’m desperate. Yes, I’m desperate.

Several nights ago, I was assisting my six-year-old daughter with trimming her nails when she informed me that she is too old now to wear them so short. She wants them to be “pretty.” I remember feeling the same way at about her age. I remember my step-father repeatedly telling me that I need to cut my nails, and I didn’t understand why he cared about such a trivial thing. I mean, I was a girl, and girls had longish nails—preferably painted bubble gum pink.

As we were sitting on her bed, discussing the highs and lows of the day, I made sure to trim her nails just a bit so they weren’t shockingly long for a Kindergartner, but long enough for her to feel like the girly girl she is. She examined my handiwork, held out her ring finger, and said, “Mom, this one needs some work. It looks awkward.”

Awkward. What a word. It can apply to so many things in life, from fingernails, to furniture placement, to a first kiss. More than that, I wondered how she knew this word and what it meant. It seems like such a big word for her. She proceeded to give me a lesson on the word ‘awkward’ after I asked her about it. She said, very matter-of-fact, “Well, that’s how I feel sometimes, awkward.”

I never thought of my daughter as awkward. She has always been very well liked by her class peers, teachers, sitters, adults—most everyone with whom she comes in contact. She’s eager to please, generally happy, and for the most part, follows the rules wherever she is. She’s an all-around good kid. Yet, she feels awkward? She’ll back this up by saying that no one wants to play with her, she doesn’t like school, and that sometimes she just feels all “blechy” inside. She went as far as saying that ever since she started Kindergarten, “my life has been wacko.”

My husband and I have been jumping through hoops since her “awkward” phase began, trying to find a way to get her back to being the kid she was just one year ago—happy, smiling, positive….. Her pediatrician has recommended pediatric therapy. We’ve talked to her school counselor after she called us and recommended that she be tested for gifted and talented (Intense creativity, big highs and lows, agitation, and boredom are often signs.) Essentially, the list goes on and on with what we’ve considered, what we’ll do, and what we’ll not do.

A few days ago, while running errands alone, my daughter’s apparent unhappiness and low self-esteem was weighing heavy on my mind. How can this child be “depressed?”  She lives in such a happy, loving home where laughter fills the air, and the support and encouragement are endless. So many people love her. We’ve made sure she should want for nothing, materially and emotionally. And then I remembered someone else who always felt awkward as a child, even when her mother would continually remind her how “lucky” and “normal” she was.

Me.

I can remember as far back as Kindergarten, wondering why I didn’t know how to open my milk carton when everyone else seemed to know how. Other kids seemed to know games I didn’t know about. Girls were boy-crazy, and I wasn’t. Other kids seemed so confident and outgoing; I didn’t feel that way. There were always girls I wanted to be friends with, but they always seemed to prefer playing with someone else. I remember that I played Barbie dolls long after it was socially acceptable to do so. I would come home from school, play with them quickly, and would hide them under my bed so my siblings wouldn’t find out. I played in my room alone for hours on end and was fine with that. I remember making a “family” of my own with my parakeet, Pretzel; my various hamsters; a house plant I named Fern; and my stuffed pink elephant, Penelope. I even bought them all Christmas presents one year. On Saturdays, I would watch my younger sister be invited to numerous play days, outings, and birthday parties while I played in my front yard, hoping a neighborhood child would ask me to play. I wasn’t picky; I’d even play with kids who were several years younger.

Junior high was the roughest period of all for me. I so wanted to be in the “in” crowd, but just couldn’t break through. My hair was the very definition of awkward—an 80s perm gone horribly wrong. I had braces. Although the girls in my class were already wearing make-up, my mother absolutely refused to have it tarnish my “perfect skin” as she said. I tried out for cheerleader—the golden ticket to popularity in a small, west Texas town. I didn’t make it. One thing stood out, or didn’t, the most though—my chest.

A fact about small schools where each class size is around 20 is that all eyes are on you most of the time. There is nothing else to do but pick apart the person sitting next to you….build them up, break them down. Good grades are an afterthought in a small town, as finding a boyfriend/girlfriend and fitting in is what shows you’ve made it. For girls, popularity had little to do with your personality, and most everything to do with what you could offer the opposite sex. Take one look at a photograph of me in sixth grade and what you see is straight, make that stick-straight. No curves--anywhere. However, all of the girls around me had plenty of curves. They seemed more confident around guys. They dressed in a way that showed off what they had. They wore make-up. They played truth or dare. They loved to kiss and tell. While I was wondering what it would be like to have my first kiss, they were bragging about how far they “let a guy go.” I didn’t fit into this crowd of girls at all because I was so….awkward.

At this time, I was still very much into imagination and creativity and basically created my own world in order to cope. Sure, I was upset on the inside, but I wasn’t going to show it. I kept at my grades and continued to be as nice as I could to everyone, hoping that some day it would be enough. Eventually, I thought it was. Much to my delight, right before seventh grade began, I received an invitation to a slumber party at a very popular girl’s house. This was my first slumber party, and I was so excited to be among the “it” girls.

 Just as I dreaded athletic class every day because we all had to change in front of each other—remember I was severely lacking in ‘maturity’—I dreaded changing at this party, too. As I feared, we had a “chest contest,” and the loser would be pushed outside on the porch with only her undies on. There was another girl in about as poor of shape as me, so I thought maybe I had a chance. Nope. I lost. They pushed me outside where it was dark and cold, and worse, right across the street from where a boy from school lived. I had a sense of humor about it for about a second until I tried to go back inside; they had locked the door. I could hear them laughing hysterically. I wondered, was I invited only to be made fun of?

The party girl’s mother realized what happened and opened the door so I could come in. The next part of the party was another contest—a cheerleading contest. Most of the girls at this party had made the squad. Not all, but most. The leader of this gang threw down the rules. Those who didn’t make the squad had to do their cheer from tryouts, and the ones who made it would pick the “honorary cheerleader” and would help them all year so they had a better chance at tryouts next time. I got in line with the other “losers” and awaited my turn at embarrassment. They picked apart our moves, laughed at us, and gave us a score. I don’t remember my score, but I know it was low enough to bring tears to my eyes. I have a faint memory of excusing myself to go to the bathroom, where I stared at myself in the mirror, wiping the tears and asking, “What’s wrong with me? What am I doing wrong?” I felt so….awkward.

I was relieved when the party started to calm down, and everyone staked out a place for their sleeping bag. This was long before I knew about the shaving cream trick at sleepovers or freezing the underwear of the first person to fall asleep. Anxious to get this experience over with, I fell asleep first. Somewhere, in the middle of the night, I got a quick lesson on the shaving cream trick. I headed to the kitchen, in tears, to wash off the mess. A girl followed me and told me to check the freezer. Yep, there they were….my underwear in the initial stages of freezing. While everyone slept, I collected my things and called my mother. She came to get me in the middle of the night. I sat in our freezing cold suburban and cried. She was so frustrated, wondering why I couldn’t make friends and afraid that I’d be made even more fun of for leaving and not sticking it out. I, in turn, got mad at her for not supporting me. Then she explained that some girls feel jealous and inadequate, and you’re just the type of girl who could make someone feel that way…. it’s a mixed blessing, she said. I sort of knew what she meant, but not really. Plus, it didn’t matter. At that age, I’d much rather be popular than morally correct.

It wasn’t long after that hanging out at each other’s houses on Friday nights became the thing to do. We weren’t old enough to drive, but definitely old enough to be interested in the opposite sex and being anywhere other than home on the weekends. Some parents were less protective than others, so their homes were the hot spots. Typically, it was the home of a single mom who had a date that night, or parents who enjoyed their evening cocktails in their own room, leaving the alcohol in plain sight so that we had their “permission” to sneak some in their absence. If they don’t see it, it didn’t happen, right? We would always start the night out with a rented movie, but an hour or so into it, we’d move on to spin the bottle, and then ultimately the game everyone came to play anyway—strip poker.

Did we know how to play poker? Of course not. Did anyone care? Absolutely not. This game was led by the more curvaceous girls, as they had the confidence to lose  based on their assets and the shot at the praise they’d receive from adolescent boys who, most likely, had never been that close to a female’s anatomy since breastfeeding. I can, without hesitation, say that I didn’t mature much from sixth grade to eighth grade. And strip poker was certainly one way to broadcast this fact to the world. With every shedding of clothing from the other guys and girls, I would pray…beg….to the strip poker goddess in the sky to let our curfews arrive before I ran out of socks, shoes, and jewelry. Honestly, it didn’t matter. Because of my assets, or lack thereof, no one was chomping at the bit for it to be my turn, anyway.

I happened to make the cheerleading squad my eighth grade year. As expected, it offered me a glimpse into the world of popularity. I had a best friend. I finally looked older than a fifth grader. But just as things were looking up, they came crashing down again my first two years of high school. Once again, I couldn’t figure it out. Boys teased me and made fun of me. Girls were downright mean. I lost my best friend. I just couldn’t find a place where I felt secure. Even though on paper I looked good—cheerleader, cute clothes, decent appearance, good grades, friendly—I just didn’t feel like I was part of the “it” crowd. At one point, I actually thought that if I could make my 95 pound frame even smaller, the parts that were meant to stick out would do so even more, and boys would pay attention to me. You see, in a small town, having a boyfriend means your “somebody.” So I bought diet pills from the local grocery store to help the pounds disappear. News travels fast in a small town, and my parents quickly put an end to that.

The lowest point was running around the track during athletics and eyeing the town’s cemetery; I thought it looked peaceful, tranquil….like a nice break from all of the high school angst. Later that morning, I swallowed a fist-full of various pills I found in the medicine cabinet at home and in the coach’s office at school (I was a trainer and had access.) I remember being in typing class, looking at the clock. When would ‘it’ happen, I wondered. Would I just fall over and pass out? Would I die right away or would I be rushed to the hospital? In recent months, two students who were dating and forced apart by their parents tried to take their life. They didn’t die, but they were hospitalized. I assumed my attempt would be similar. I started to feel very dizzy and sick. I panicked and ran to the girls’ restroom and made myself throw up the pills. I didn’t really want to check out; I think I just hoped someone would notice my desperation. I wound up throwing up much of the night. I think my mom didn’t tell her, but I wanted to. I woke up the next day, exhausted. Defeated. Tired of feeling awkward.

That day, something awful and wonderful happened. I stopped caring so much. I realized that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t the one who was awkward. Maybe I was just a genuinely nice, smart, good kid with a great family who other kids wanted to be like and couldn’t. Therefore, they made themselves feel better by making me feel worse. Maybe the boys who teased me just didn’t know how else to get my attention. After all, I still made cheerleader and was active in most every school activity. My grades were good. I was friendly with everyone. For the first time, I realized that I had been comparing myself to the wrong types of people. Within months of adopting this “whatever” attitude, things changed.

Although it turned out horrible, I had a very steady boyfriend I loved very much. I became best friends with a girl I knew since before Kindergarten, and to this day, we are still best friends. I matured emotionally and physically and figured out the mystery of correctly wearing clothes and make-up. I pursued getting into college with a vengeance and kept my eye on the prize—getting out of this pathetic little town. One thing I swore I’d never do, and never did, was be mean to or make fun of other kids. I was, literally, everyone’s friend….particularly a friend to those who I could tell felt awkward.

And even though I won popularity awards in high school and did the homecoming queen and cheerleader thing, I always knew inside that I was different. I was, yes, a little awkward—maybe even weird to an extent. I marched to the beat of my own drum. I wasn’t a follower. In a small town where almost everyone I knew was taking drugs and alcohol by ninth grade, I had side-stepped the majority of it and actually didn’t try drugs until half-way through college. I couldn’t figure out what the big deal was, and I never did it again. When most girls found weekend “love” in the backseat of a guy’s car somewhere out in the boondocks, I made myself a microwave pizza, watched television, or….did homework (gasp!)

Sure, I had my wild moments and did stuff that I still can’t believe I got away with, but it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Once I figured out “me,” I became OK with it and liked who I discovered. This has served me well since then. I have accomplished almost all of my goals in life and am very happy, fulfilled, and surrounded with love and friendship. Most of all, I have learned that high school, junior high, and all of the rest of it really doesn’t matter. You’re supposed to be awkward. It’s a humbling experience. Being insecure and awkward as you enter young adulthood helps you work harder to find out who you really are and not give up just so you can settle on being like the kid sitting next to you. It forces you out of the crowd and hopefully, places you at the front.

Most of all, experiencing ‘awkward’ makes you strong and smart enough to know how to handle this feeling when it happens later on in life—and it will. You learn how to be cool, confident, and tough and how to fight through the status quo in order to stand out. Most of all, you learn how to be comfortable in your own skin.

Back to my daughter….. These memories made me realize something I need to do as a parent—something my own mother did that I wasn’t even aware of growing up. When we had that conversation, I asked her why she didn’t help me be more “mainstream” and why she let me go on about my way, even though it was obviously painful. Her answer? “I didn’t let you know you were different because I didn’t want you to be like everyone else. I wanted you to learn that for yourself and realize that being different was good. I didn’t want you to be like the other girls—exclusive, mean, bratty. I wanted you to think for yourself and find your own path. And you did.”

So now when I see my oldest daughter talking to her imaginary friends, playing contently by herself, brooding about being lonely (even when she’s not), getting frustrated over her less-than-perfect artwork (which I think is beautiful and tell her so), making up elaborate stories and melancholy songs, and performing play after play in our living room while her peers are cheerleading, planning tomorrow’s outfits, kissing boys (yes at 5), and announcing out loud who is and isn’t their friend today, I’ll just let her do her thing….her way. She’s telling me who she is, and I love that person. Some days she’ll feel great about herself; some days she won’t. Most of all, she’s going to feel awkward. I’m OK with that, because she is. And so is everyone else.