Getting the Message

I’m not going to lie; parenting is a tough business. I’m constantly wondering if I said the right thing at the right time or if there are enough fruits or veggies in their lunches. I worry that they’ll never ever learn to do their own laundry if I keep doing it and that if I refuse to clean it, they’ll let dried toothpaste build up in the sink like a carapace. I worry that the only time they aren’t fussing with one another is when they’re sitting, glassy-eyed in front of the TV. Oh, the fussing! The bickering! The crying — them, not me. And it’s over mundane, trivial things like, who finished the last swallow of apple juice, who gets to sit in the front seat, and whose turn it is to change the toilet paper roll. Honestly, I think they would let themselves air dry rather than take the initiative to replace the roll.

It feels like there’s always some squabble going on. Each time, I’ve tried a different way to squash it before it gets to DEFCON 1. I’ve talked about walking away when someone starts to get on your nerves. I’ve used the get-a-long shirt. I’ve had them hug-it-out. I’ve had them hold hands while they tell each other what they love about one another. I’ve had them use I-messages.

An I-message is statement to express a problem without assigning blame. It’s called an I-message because they start with “I feel [felt]” and makes it about the speaker, rather than about someone else. This approach has hits and misses, primarily because when one of the girls uses an I-message, the recipient fires back with an I-message of her own about the first I-message. Then we’re back to where we started. To combat that, I’ve been having the girls write out their I-messages and exchange them. They can’t reply to what they’ve received and some sort of detente is reached.

It’s a work in progress, as is the work I do with V after school. We’re practicing ABCs and 123s, we’re working on shape identification, and letter sounds. I’m reinforcing concepts that she’s getting at school and she gets to feel like she’s a big girl doing homework just like her sisters.

The other day, she will made a worksheet of her own and asked me to complete it. Since we’re still working on penmanship and math facts, her numbers were backwards and her most of her sums were incorrect. Still, she ~~demanded~~ really wanted me to do the sheet with her.

Yes, I wanted to encourage her to practice writing her numbers and learning her sums, BUT, she can’t learn them if she’s practicing incorrectly. Made sense to me. Did not go over well with her. I drew upon my reserves of patience to show her what I meant. I tried not to say that she was wrong or incorrect. I heard myself saying, “Look at how it looks in the book and look at how you’ve done it. Let’s make it look like the one in the book.”

She refused.

I suggested we copy it over together.

Nope, again.

I started to re-copy it, adding little triangles, stars, and hearts to give her visual representation for each group of numbers. She angrily pushed her pencil across the table. I began to cajole her into at least trying to mimic what she saw, explaining why we’re doing this. She reached deep into her guts, and blew out a “No!” so deep, so throaty, so completely and utterly fed up and frustrated, it left my feelings checking themselves for injuries.

With fingersnap quickness, I said, “Alright, we’re done. You cool out in your room until dinner.” I gathered up the papers, the pencils, the workbook. I put them away. She started sinking further and further down in her chair, kicking her heels against the legs before hurling herself away from the table to stomp up the stairs as heavily as her size 12 feet could manage.

Later, when she came down for dinner, her face twisted into a pucker to keep herself from smiling, she handed me a folded piece of notebook paper. “This is for you.”

“I don’t like it when you be mean to me.”

She’s on the left with the downturned mouth and single, Denzel tear.

I’m on the right looking like Jaws (the shark or the baddie from the Bond films, take your pick). Apparently, when I’m mean, my hair goes straight.

While I really wanted to roll my eyes at this, I have to give it to V. At five years of age, she got a grip on the tantrum that was threatening to blow the beads off her hair and instead, chose to send me an I-message, complete with visual aid. That’s a skill some adults can’t even master.

Parenting is a tough business, but every now and then, there are these gold star moments that remind you that you’re doing just fine.

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IN: projects & DIY ON: October 25, 2017 TAGS: honesty, my girls, writing BY: Hilary

introspection

That Time I Didn’t Interfere

I’m twelve years and three kids in on this parenting gig. I’m still adding arrows to my quiver when it comes to best practices on how to raise well adjusted, highly functioning human beings.

If I’m being honest, I’d say my style of parenting is a hodgepodge of what I remember my parents doing with me, what I’ve read from assorted books and magazines throughout the years, and what I’ve observed others doing on playgrounds, in the middle of the grocery store, and in the dressing room at the mall while trying to wrangle a child with one hand and button a blouse with the other. Add a little bit of flying by the seat of my pants, and here we are.

http://gph.is/2iUaL8y

Me, adding new parenting hacks into the rotation.

My newsfeed is rife with headlines touting best practices to get your child to bed on time, 10 things your child should know (or do or say or think) by the time they are 10 years old, and how to get your child to eat vegetables without even trying.

Sometimes, I click on them.

Sometimes, I don’t.

Sometimes, I read the article in its entirety.

Sometimes, I just read the bullet points.

More often than not, however, some little gem finds a small corner in my brain in which to burrow itself until I may need it at a future date. I never know when or where that particular parenting gem is going to present itself, but I’m always glad when it does.

Yesterday, I had taken C and V to the library. C worked diligently on her homework, while V pulled and summarily discarded books from the shelves. Small pockets of parents and children came in and out of the children’s area to play with toys and look at books. V spoke to all of them. Before long, she had a little coterie of playmates constructing a fort out of pillows from the book nook. There couldn’t have been more than three or four kindergarten age kiddos fully ensconced in imaginary play, V directing the narrative from her shaky perch of precariously stacked cushions.

Because I always have one ear and one eye perpetually trained on the whereabouts of my children, there was no way I could have missed what happened next. Another child wandered into the area, her father close behind with a pile of books in his arms. She ambled over to V, hand outstretched for whatever toy V was using. Very clearly, and very firmly, V said, “No, thank you.” The child, younger than V, made a noise that drew the attention of her father who said, “What did she say?” The child made the noise again, hand outstretched. V said, “No, thank you.”

Now at this point, in any other situation, I would have said, “V, share [insert name of object], please.” But you know what? I didn’t. Call it parental fatigue. Call it an overwhelming lack of desire to engage in a battle of wills with a five-year old. Call it whatever you like, but guess what?

I didn’t make my kid share.

http://gph.is/13Er7Rs

I know, right?

A few weeks ago, I read an article about a mother who simply opted not to force the issue of sharing with her child. If the child wanted to share with another kid, great. If not, that was okay, too. For the mom in the article, she got her fair share of Judgy McJudgersons staring at her from across the sandbox, but so what. The item in question belonged to her child. He didn’t want to share, and “no”, one of many acceptable responses that could have been given, was the one he chose to use.

Huh. You don’t have to share. Imagine that.

We wouldn’t ask another adult to take a turn on their phone when our runs out of juice because we asked nicely and they have to share? No other adult in the vicinity would force the situation, saying, “C’mon now, you’ve played on your phone long enough.” That’s ridiculous. So is expecting kids to do the same every.single.time they’re asked. I never considered this before and like I said, I’m twelve years and three kids into the game. Trust when I say this article made an impression.

Back to the library. V had one half of a pair of telephone handles that belonged to the library. One of the playmates in her pack of merry maidens had the other. The younger child didn’t ask the owner of the other handle. She repeatedly asked V, who was well within her right to say no.

The gem of the “Not Sharing” article popped up, overpowering the Pavlovian urge to “do the right thing”. Just as I was about to implore V to share, something in my brain shut it down like Dikembe Mutumbo.

http://gph.is/2l3ekKZ

Let me say, thank you to the dad who didn’t force the issue by trying to engage with me or with V. When his daughter was told no, he said, “Well, she said ‘No, thank you,’ so what should you do instead?” And they figured something out, together.

For a split second, I wondered how differently this would have been had it been a mom in this situation? Do we really have to wonder though? She probably would have redirected her child, but not without peppering the situation with a few bon mots like, “I guess she never learned to share” or “Not everyone shares nicely” or something along those lines to let those present know her displeasure that her special snowflake was denied something, while calling into question the parenting skills of the adult present.

That imaginary mom (and many real moms, myself included) could take a note from Katherine Wintsch’s post entitled “Three Lessons I’ve Learned from Dad.” Wintsch says,

“They’re not paranoid about what other parents think.

On a recent family vacation, I spent a lot of time observing the different ways moms and dads interacted with their children in the pool. It was almost the exact same story with every couple — Dad had fun throwing the kids around, splashing and laughing and Mom spent most of her time frenetically fussing at her kids, “Charlie, don’t splash that nice woman next to you!” or “Anne, please watch where you’re swimming, there are people around you.” Or “Conner, lower your voice, you’re being entirely too loud!” There was a clear theme to the mother’s refrain: You are a reflection of me, so please don’t embarrass me.”

Nailed it.

Was I sitting there thinking that if V got out of line, it was going to make me look bad?

Absolutely.

Was the urge to get up and intervene an itch that had to be scratched?

Definitely.

Did I stop scrolling through Instagram to intervene?

Nope.

And guess what? The world didn’t end. My subconscious kicked in to preserve the five-minute break I was taking. My kids were safe and accounted for. Nobody was causing a ruckus, so I checked out for a few minutes, diving deep into the social media abyss on my phone.

Turns out, doing nothing at all was the right thing to do. And I’m alright with that.

* Featured Image courtesy of www.studenthandouts.com

IN: introspection ON: September 20, 2017 TAGS: honesty, motherhood, my girls, sharing BY: Hilary

introspection odds and ends writing

That Time I Had Questions

*cover photo by Tomas Rodriguez via bet.com

Often times when I am in the midst of a mundane task, I let my brain wander where it will. It alights on a memory for a moment, before flitting in another direction, drawn to whatever firing neuron first memory sparked. It happens so fast — you’re folding towels, then you’re thinking about that time you were folding towels with your grandma, then you’re wondering what happened to the ring that she used to wear on her pinky finger because when you see that memory in your mind’s eye, you remember how the ring flashed its stones when she snapped the towels in the air, her arms going taught for a split second before she would draw the towel back in towards her, now neatly pressed in two, and how despite her age, she didn’t have those bat wing arms that old ladies get, and man, I really need to make sure I hit the triceps when I go to the gym next week, which will be the first week in April, and. . .

Just like that, you’ve bounced from one thing to another in a blink of an eye. Have you ever had a conversation with someone and their comment triggers a similar trajectory? They say something that has your train of thought pin-balling helter-skelter in a matter of nanoseconds, and all you do is snort because when you’re brain settles down, it landed on something funny? It happens finger snap fast, yet trying to explain how you got from A to B is like trying to explain a dream (See, I was at my house, but it wasn’t my house and you were there, but it wasn’t really you).

I had that experience like the first example the other day. I was putting clean sheets on V’s bed, and as I billowed the flat sheet up and over her mattress, my brain leapt forward, neurons firing like bottle rockets in the sky. Suddenly, I was filling up with questions, inconsequential questions if I’m really honest, that I really need answers to.

Will you indulge me?

It all started with the flat sheet. When making the bed, do you place the flat sheet face up with the print is pointing towards the ceiling or face down, with the print against the fitted sheet? Seriously, I need to know. I learned to put the printed side of the sheet pressed against the fitted sheet so that when you fold the sheets back, you can see the print. The Hubs was taught the ~~wrong~~ other way. Guess which we way we do it now?
Speaking of beds, do you make your bed in the morning? This is a point of contention in some households, I know. Blessedly, we’re bed makers in the house of Hilary with One L. I get up, I make the bed, then start my day. I have heard the argument that there’s no point in making the bed if you are just going to get back into it at the end of the day. I disagree. To me, coming home to an unmade bed is like coming home to dirty dishes on the counter or wet towels on the floor. I just can’t. And to those people who say it’s better to leave the bed unmade so it can air out while you’re gone during the day? Watchu doin’ you gotta be airin’ out the bed?
TFW someone talks about airing out their sheets.
Maybe we’re airing out the bed because of our shower habits. AM or PM Showers? I heard this asked on a radio amongst the morning show hosts and it spiraled into a heated debate. The majority of the hosts were in favor of PM showers because they were “washing off the scuzz of the day”. At first I thought the argument was going to revolve around having to get up early for work and that an evening shower would save her a step. Nope. Repeatedly, one host pointed out that if you get in your bed without washing, you’re just putting all that junk in your sheets and on your pillow. Okay, but wouldn’t it stand to reason that if you shower in the evening and then get up in the morning, you should shower again because you’d just be putting all your nighttime germs into clean clothes?
Do I wash now or later?
And speaking of washing bodies and beds, don’t even get me started on the how often do you change your pjs’/sheets/towels conundrum. If we look back at the PM shower people, you’d be putting a clean body in clean (or maybe slightly used pjs’) on clean or slightly used bed sheets. I’ve heard of people who change their pj’s every night, every three days, every week. Some sheets get changed once a week or once every two weeks. Towels? “I take it on a case by case basis,” one friend told me. Oh, and separate wash cloths for hands and body. Can I be real a second? I’d never heard of that before and it got questioning my whole routine!
Moving away from the bedroom and bathroom, I need to know: Is it possible to get all of your groceries in one store? This a question that I’ve asked some friends and the response has always been a resounding “No”. It can’t be done, they tell me. Brand loyalty, quality of products, or cost/savings trump convenience of one stop shopping or quality of products does. Example: we get our meat and produce from one place, pantry items from another, and specialty items from a third. Could I get it all at a big box store like Wal-Mart? Probably. I don’t though, because I like getting my pantry items from Target and saving 5%. I get my specialty items from Trader Joe’s; they always have something that I fall in love with which can’t be found anywhere else (have you had their Mochi Rice Snacks? ) or things that just taste better than in other stores. Meat and produce? I get from The Fresh Market or Whole ~~Paycheck~~ Foods. I guess I’ve drunk the Kool-Aid since I pick up stuff from there. That’s not to say I won’t pop into a Martin’s or Kroger if I need to. I’ve got a favorite grocery store, which is a statement that a) I never thought I’d make and b) reminds me of how deep into this “adulting” thing I really am.
The rest of my questions are things that I’m just curious about. It’s less “Am I doing this right (or wrong)” and more, “Am I the only one?” For instance, How many times do you hand wash a “Hand-wash Only” item before throwing it in the wash with everything else? I think I may be tattling on myself with this one.
Have you stuck with your New Year’s Resolution? Maybe a better question would be do you remember your New Year’s Resolution (no, no I don’t).
Do you do this?
What do you call a Graphics Interchange Format? You know what I’m talking about. One of these:

Is it “giff” with a hard g or “jiff” with a soft one? The developer of GIFs says it one way (hint, like the peanut butter brand), but some dictionaries use both pronunciations.
This is probably the most pressing of all. Over or Under?
Your choice says a lot about you.

Got questions? Got answers? Leave them for me in the comments!

IN: introspection odds and ends writing ON: April 1, 2017 TAGS: honesty, life, random, sharing, thoughts BY: Hilary

introspection writing

That Time I Finished What I Started

Finished.

I’m finally finished.

Nope, I’m not talking about my latest writing project (one would have to actually start in order to be finished).

I’m talking about this blog post. I’ve been working on this post since February 10th. I wish I could say that it has taken me so long because what you are about to read is an astounding chronicle of intrigue and adventure.

Nope. It’s just a blog post that life kept interrupting, preventing me from finishing in a decent time frame.

Real Simple Magazine had an article in it’s March issue entitled, How to Conquer the Martyr Complex. I read the opening lines, “Overdo. Complain. Repeat.” and sat up a little straighter in my chair. It was like the article had just grabbed me by the chin and said, “You will read me and you will learn to be better.” I read further.

“Welcome to how I roll. Biting off more than I can chew is standard procedure for me. (“Sure, I can volunteer for the spring carnival and make a résumé for my niece and cook multiple options for dinner!”) And so is feeling fried and resentful later on. I’ll corner my husband for a thorough debriefing on my saintliness, hoping he’ll be overcome by a powerful mix of gratitude and admiration (gradmiration, anyone?). Instead, he typically says, “Oh, you didn’t have to do all that.”

I put the magazine down for a minute to collect myself. How did this author know me? I don’t remember doing any interviews.

I picked the magazine back up and read every paragraph. Then I read it again. Then I put the magazine down and chewed on my fingernail while I came to a conclusion.

I think I’ve been acting like a martyr.

Lately, I have been wrestling with feeling as though I am doing the most with respect to childcare and household maintenance and doing the least with respect to writing and photography.

When people ask me what’s new and I honestly tell them, in my mind, it comes across as complaining or seeking affirmation. Fact: I’m doing the heavy lifting on the home front. Fact: That leaves little to no time for the true work that I want to pursue. To my ears, though, it sounds like “Waaa, waaa, waaa.”

This was never more evident to me when I sat down to write this post four weeks ago. Yes, I started this rant back in February. I was in the middle of making lunches and just decided, you know what? I’m not doing this right now. I’m going to write. I left the kitchen, jars of peanut butter and jelly open, bags of chips unsealed.

I went to the dining room table because office and started to type this story:

We’re in the bathroom and I’m doing the girls hair. M is on the stool, looking into the mirror. C is facing her, seated on the counter. V is on the floor, playing with some tampons and whatever else she can find under the sink. Somehow the conversation turns to working parents and C decides, “Daddy works harder than you do, Mom.”

**Insert record scratch noise.**

M is furiously making cutting motions across her throat, her eye bulging wide, and willing her sister to shut it up. C, much like V on the floor, is oblivious.

“Really?” I say, crossing my arms over my chest to get a better look at her. “What makes you say that?”

“Well,” she begins, ticking out examples on her fingers, “Daddy gets up early. He works in an office. He goes on business trips. He works long hours.”

“Anything else?”

“Um, sometimes he wears a suit.”

I nod, making sure I’ve picked up all of her points. “Gets up early, works in an office, business trips, long hours, and a suit. Okay.” I look at M’s reflection in the mirror and she is slowly shaking her head from side to side.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask C. “Because I’m about to tell you why you’re wrong.”

And from there, I proceed to read her to filth — in a loving, maternal, and educational way — elucidating on how what I do makes it possible for Daddy to do what he does. All that laundry that gets sorted, washed, folded and put away? Daddy can open his dresser and pluck out what he needs for those business trips. All the groceries, school field trip chaperoning, school function attendance, — I do those because Daddy is on a business trip, or has left early to wear his suit — which I picked up from the dry cleaners.

I was baffled then. I’m baffled now as I write this four weeks from when I first started to tell it, which is umpty-ump weeks from when it initially happened. For as much as I try to instill in the girls, I’ve failed them in that they think that working hard entails this particular set up. What I do enables The Hubs to do what he does because he doesn’t have to worry that they are fed, bathed, and clothed, going to their appointments or what have you, because I’m taking care of it. When he’s ready to go on these business trips, the clothes are clean. He can just pack his bag and go. Those early morning wake-ups and late evening returns home? He can do that because I’m spinning all the other plates. Fact.

On top of the spinning I’m doing, I’m also writing and doing photography. Sometimes. Occasionally. When I get the chance.

At the end of the day, when I’m on my own, scrolling through what didn’t get done, the writing and photography are always on the list. Then I get angry because I let happen (again). Then I try to focus on what did get done, like keeping the children alive one more day, the house didn’t burn down, everyone has clothes, full bellies, and was on time for all of their appointments that I made.

Look at what I have created!

The problem with stopping and starting a post like this is that the initial spark that spurned me from the kitchen to the computer is gone. Despite the repeated re-readings of what I’ve written, I’ve lost the thread of what I was trying to say. I’ve even lost the magazine article that started this all. I’m thisclose to losing my temper with three little girls who keep popping out of their beds like Whack-A-Moles asking for water, the bathroom light on, the bathroom light off, the door open, the door closed, and one more tuck-in because (and I quote) “The last one didn’t count because I didn’t know I’d have to go to the bathroom again.”

So, I dole out water, turn lights on and off, open and close doors, and tuck blankets around little arms and legs one more time. I save what I’ve been working on, publish it, and power down my computer. No more Overdo. Complain. Repeat.

More like Do Your Best. Be Satisfied. Repeat.

Do martyr-like tendencies sneak up on you?

How do you combat them?

Tell me about it in the comments!

IN: introspection writing ON: March 29, 2017 TAGS: honesty, introspection, sharing, venting, writing BY: Hilary

introspection

That Time I Got Down to Business

No more excuses. It’s time to get down to business.

Despite my best intentions, despite my fervent desire, despite my repeated admonitions to myself in the bathroom mirror, I have not looked at my novel since June 15, 2016. I have been a crappy friend to my little blog here, and we all know life’s too short for crappy friends.

No more excuses. It’s time to get down to business. If I can be honest, I haven’t done anything because I’ve got nowhere to work. That’s what I’ve been telling myself. We all know the story — tree falls on house, knocks out workspace, creativity and production grind to a halt as workspace gets rebuilt.

That story seems unfinished, though, right? There should be a few more lines that read “Workspace restored. Creativity and productivity resume. Best selling novels published. Movie rights sold. World peace ensues” — or something like that, I’m spitballing here.

The workspace isn’t finished. Seven months later and I’m able to say I’ve got four walls, two windows, and a roof, but that’s it. No dedicated workplace. No office where I can spread out my papers and notebooks and special pencils. My office is the one place where chaos happens. I let papers erupt from drawers, spill from bookshelves, slide off of precariously stacked towers of books. It’s all very controlled, but chaos nonetheless.

I tried to de-camp to the dining room table. The constant opening and closing of the front door, which is right off the dining room, was not conducive to getting work done, nor was the hammering, drilling, and random noises that sounded like the roof was being torn apart. Oh wait. . . the roof was being torn apart.

Could I have gone elsewhere? Sure, but call me old-fashioned. I was not comfortable leaving the house with the contractors going up and down the stairs all day long and leaving the front door wide open while they did it. Add to that my presence being needed for the various tete-a-tete’s with inspectors and contractors, I wasn’t going to get very far before being summoned back home.

*le sigh* First world problems, amirite?

No more excuses. It’s time to get down to business. I thoroughly enjoyed Christmas 2016. We were in our own home after having been nomads for two weeks while even more work was completed. We did the absolute most — movies, restaurants, visits to grandparents, visits to friends. We ate, we drank, we travelled. We sat an admired the tree when the house was still and the kids dreamt in sugar-coated Technicolor. We opened presents and no one asked, “Is that it?” We had family game nights and no one cried! We saw Hamilton and the children forgave us! Christmas miracles abounded!

No more excuses. It’s time to get down to business.

My last post was about goal setting and putting things in motion in advance of the New Year. What goals (short-term or long-term) did you start working on before January slid into place? What goal have you started on that a week from now or a month from now, you’ll be breaking your own arm patting yourself on the back for having smashed the ever-loving -ish out of it?

Me? You’re reading it. When I sat down at the dining room table (ugh), I had no idea what I was going to write. I didn’t even feel like writing, but I did it (I even proofed before posting-#wondersnevercease).

No more excuses. It’s time to get down to business.

IN: introspection ON: January 4, 2017 TAGS: blogging, honesty, just do it, sharing BY: Hilary

DIY introspection writing

That Time I Talked About Friends

So, when I sat down a few hours ago, I was working on this post about how I’ve become a de facto food critic of sorts, eating at various Richmond restaurants once a month with a group of friends. When I started to get to the back story of how that all came to be –it all started with some coffee talk and a link to a really good article — I ended up going in a totally different direction. Food and friendships, two things that are too important to be to be crappy. Read on and see what I mean . . .

When I moved back to Richmond five years ago, someone told me two very important things about this town:

Richmond is a foodie’s paradise.
Trying to break into established mom groups is like trying to break into the mafia.

When we had lived in Richmond before, it had been as newlyweds with wide eyes. Now we were coming back with two kids (with a third on the horizon) and sleep deprived eyes. The ins and outs of running the household, taking care of myself, working on my writing and photography left me a little depleted in the adult interaction department. The Hubs and I are great friends, but what I really needed was some great girlfriends. The thing is, I’m pretty introverted. I have a hard time making friends; I always have. Once a friendship takes root, it blossoms into something longstanding. Getting to that point, however, ugh. . .I just want to skip that part and go straight to hanging out.

When we’re kids, we can just roll up on a similarly sized person, say our name, our age, and ask if they want to play. Chances are the response will be favorable and we’re on our way to building sand castles or running rag-tag around the playground and sharing gluten-free, peanut-free, organic, Pinterest-worthy snacks. By the time we’re collected to go home, we’re best friend for-ev-ah.

It doesn’t work like that as an adult. Rolling up on someone at Target and saying, “Hey, I like your shirt! Want to have coffee?” or “Hi, I’m Hilary with One L. I’m 38. You look like someone I want to be friends with. Wanna be friends?” might get you side-eyed at best and firmly escorted from the store at worst. So what’s a girl to do?

I relied heavily on my membership in volunteer and social organizations that I had joined years ago. When there were events at school, I went and sidled my way up to moms I didn’t know. I smiled. I introduced myself. I extended and reciprocated playdates. I said yes to things that left my introverted face-palming in disbelief. I put myself out there, not 52 friend dates like Rachel Bertsche, but close. Over time, with a few false starts mixed into the keepers, I’ve developed a core of friends whose company I really enjoy.

(Illustration by Nicholle Kobi)

Friendships ebb and flow, as do most things and life. When you are in the weeds of childrearing, career development, marriage, and the myriad of responsibilities that come with being an adult, you need a solid support system when times get challenging. Just like someone sends a Facebook status update announcing they’re purging their friend list, sometimes you’ve got to do that in real life.

As Anna Lind Thomas says, Life is to short for crappy friends. If you’ve got five minutes, pop over to Babble and read this article. It’s so important. I’m printing it out to share with M because the specter of Middle School Friendships rolling in this direction like angry storm clouds. Yes, Thomas may have intended her words to resonate with the most fickle and fragile of creatures, tweenage girls, but what she says is significant for any woman.

As women, we take on the most. We are caregivers, chauffeurs, chefs, cheerleaders, and all manner of jane-of-all-trades. We do it all with precision applied make-up, a smile on our faces and a twinkle in our eyes, even when mascara is smudged, our facial muscles are flagging and what’s really in our eye is glitter dusted up from a craft project from Valentine’s Day. We wear the pants and the cape and we never want to show them slipping.

(source)

We don’t want to say no and we don’t want to quit, even when we realize that it might be in our best interest to do so. We power through, activities, requests, even friendships that deplete us because we’re afraid it will reflect badly on us if we stop.

When it comes to crappy friends,Thomas, gives us permission to stop.

“Sometimes you’ll find that some people just aren’t able to be a good friend to you, even if they want to be. Their traumas, insecurities, anxieties, health issues or life circumstances can make it difficult for them to give you much of anything, let alone a friendship you can rely on. It doesn’t mean they’re nasty or they don’t like you (well, sometimes it does) it simply means they can’t give you what you need — a friendship worth investing time in. So stop investing time in it.”

(source)

Life is too short for crappy friends.

I know that I’ve been a crappy friend. I’m sorry for that. Like everyone else, there are times when I have been too caught up in my own life. Despite my desire to be otherwise, I just couldn’t be the friend someone needed at that time. Good friends will be there when the dust settles, me for you and you for me.

Thomas echoes this by saying, “A good friend worth keeping will support you and what you love to do. They’ll celebrate your talents and they may even share them. . .One good friend who loves you unconditionally is far better than 100 superficial friends who really don’t care all that much about you, trust me.”

Those are the types of people who I want to spend time with. Those are the types of people I want to invest in and I’ve made the active choice to do it. And because I’m an adult, I didn’t tweet about it. I didn’t post a status update detailing how I am about to unfriend people. I didn’t post cryptic IG posts or stop liking Snapstories. I just started being a good friend, sometimes a better friend, to someone else and good things followed.

Is there someone out there you could be a good (or better) friend to? Reach out to them!

IN: DIY introspection writing ON: October 18, 2016 TAGS: honesty, life, sharing, writing BY: Hilary

introspection writing

That Time I Expressed Myself

I almost put a disclaimer on here that the following post is just my semi-organized collection of thoughts and feelings that I need to get off my chest and none of it is an invitation to a Hilary With One L Pity Party or a Hilary With One L Put On Your Big Girl Panties And Deal With It Palooza, but I figured that wouldn’t be necessary because I know that you know that I’ve got an outstanding support system no matter what the situation, but that sometimes, you’ve just got to blow off some steam before you can get down to work. So. . .

It’s been a challenging couple of weeks. That right there in an understatement of epic proportions. I feel like that sentence should have been spoken by Captain Obvious, that’s how ridiculous I feel even typing it. But I have to be honest, my dear readers, I’m starting to feel all my feelings at once and I’ve got to let them out.

illustration by Loryn Brantz for Buzzfeed

I’m keeping my chin up. I wake up, work out. I hug my kiddos and drink my water and weigh the options for the day. Do we go to the movies? Museum? Pool? Library? Sit in front of the TV all day?

I look for the silver linings. The 9 fans and two county trash can sized dehumidifiers that have been blowing 24/7 for the past 6 days are now gone. The silence is priceless. The adjuster has come. The contractor has come. Things are getting done, or at least, we’re in the queue to have things done.

In the quiet times, however, when everyone is occupied and I’m sitting in the dining room that is now serving as the triage for all of the broken bits of our living room, bedroom and office, my heart squeezes and my throat gets thick. I want to cry.

I haven’t cried yet.

It sounds so foolish and so selfish. Goodness, it sounds selfish, but I need a good What About Meeeeee?!?! cry. A good, ugly cry would help. I need that scooped out feeling that a full-bodied, snot running, twisted mouth cry can bring. I need to wail like a siren and whimper like a child. I need the shoulder wracking sobs and the chest thumping cries. I need to cry so long that no sound comes out, that my face contorts into a rictus grin of grief. I need to cry unabashedly, privately so that my upset can go unchecked. When I unleash the combined torrent of my grief, I don’t want to have moderate it to make those around me feel better.

The falling of the tree has set off a domino effect of repercussions that have me constantly reaching for positivity when I’d rather climb into the hot, hard embrace of the negative. When I’m asked about how things are going, I pull back a tiny corner of the curtain of these #firstworldproblems. I’m met with a variety of responses ranging from sympathy for me (oh, no!) to relief for themselves (whew!). For every hug or slow shake of the head with a soft sigh, there are some who try assuage sadness with dollops of “Things happen for a reason” and “God only gives you what you can handle at a time”.

Since I still feel as though I am in the eye of the storm, it’s hard to accept those platitudes in particular. My fist is closed in frustration, unable to receive (or ready to cold-cock someone where they stand) and unable to release. Because I am Type A, because I like to be in control, because all of my best laid plans are now slippery shards of what should be happening that are sliding through my fingers, I reach for something solid instead. I reach for the positivity, but sometimes, sometimes, pity pops up. I grab it — huge handfuls of it — and hang on. I bite off chunks and swallow them without chewing until I’m full, full, full. I scrape off pieces into a tiny pile, then bend my face this-close, blowing small puffs of “why me” on the tiny ember of unfairness. It blossoms into gray-tipped black ribbons that lace around my wrists and ankles, binding me to my pity, my anger, my sadness, when I think of cancelled plans, delayed trips, broken beams, splintered desks, unsympathetic adjusters, and water, water, everywhere it shouldn’t be.

I pinch off tiny pieces of pity. Pity pebbles that I lay in front of me and move them around, rank ordering them from bad, worse, and worst. With each move, I chastise myself for being so selfish, for being so childish, for being so caught up in my own shit. But I keep pushing the pity around because I’m in charge, finally. I’m controlling something. Finally.

I’m on the phone with my brother, pity pebbles popping and pulsing in my palm. Rather than hear me arrange and re-arrange pebbles, he asks me to consider something. What if you’re at this point because of one of three things. One of three things you need or need to do:

Strength
Safety
Self-Reflection

Strength

“If God brought you to it, He’ll bring you through it.” — Let me just say that I’m more spiritual than religious. Have you heard that before? What does that even mean? For me, it means that I believe in God. I believe in something bigger than myself. I struggle with the Word and with the ceremony that goes with it. To say that when life sets challenges in your path it is because God is testing you or because God won’t let you fail is hard for me to accept. I want to know why. Why is this happening? Is it because when I prayed for strength and patience and instead of zapping me with virtues, I’ve been given opportunities to demonstrate them? If I believe that, then I should move forward, no questions. Then I think, isn’t that what faith is? Taking the first step without seeing the entire staircase? I could go around and around with myself on this for days. Every experience makes you stronger. Every scar is proof that you lived. There are times when I don’t think I can get any stronger, that there isn’t any more canvas left for scars — the ones you see and the ones you can’t.

Safety

When I was belly-aching about my cancelled plans, a friend suggested that perhaps something bad might have happened to me (or maybe my family) had I gone. My brother danced around this possibility as bit as well, which had me rolling my eyes so hard, my great-great-great grandchildren felt it in their DNA. I have a hard time wrapping my head around the idea of this butterfly effect scenario. Anything could happen at any time, but I still have a family to care for and my own goals to achieve. Not to put too fine a point on it, but me not taking a week-end away would have more likely resulted in something bad happening (#ifmommyainthappyaintnobodyhappy). But guess what? I stayed and we had a nice week-end together as a family.

Self-Reflection

Basically, this is karma. I must have done something that set this chain of events in motion such that I have is to look inward at what that might have been so that I can set it to rights. When my brother dropped this pearl at my feet, I ground my teeth so hard it still tastes like chalk in my mouth. Really? Really. Can I live? Can I just push my pity pebbles around and cry my tears and kick off my big girl panties because I don’t want to deal? I know that we are hardest on ourselves. I am the CEO of my self-doubt and the master composer of my negative self-talk. Turning the mirror on myself? I might implode so spectacularly, there’d be nothing left but a smoking tuft of 3c/4a hair and wrinkle in the space-time continuum. I’m having a good hair day and nobody likes wrinkles.

Shit happens, but we’re alive, we’re okay, it’s just stuff. I will digest that pity, put out that unfairness fire, and pour out the pebbles from my hand. I will grab a new pair of big girl panties and my shirt with an “S” on the chest. There’s work to be done.

IN: introspection writing ON: June 29, 2016 TAGS: honesty, life, sharing BY: Hilary

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Tag: honesty

Getting the Message

That Time I Didn’t Interfere

That Time I Had Questions

*cover photo by Tomas Rodriguez via bet.com

That Time I Finished What I Started

Do martyr-like tendencies sneak up on you?

How do you combat them?

Tell me about it in the comments!

That Time I Got Down to Business

That Time I Talked About Friends

That Time I Expressed Myself