Go Ahead and Get Your Hair Wet

A couple weeks ago my 10 year old son and I decided to spend a few hours at an indoor pool. Within seconds, he had already jumped into the water. After he came up for air he asked me, "Well, aren't you coming in, too?"
For a minute I hesitated, like most women do at the thought of standing there in a swimsuit.
"Why not," I shrugged, stepping out of my swimsuit cover up. I figured my son wouldn't give two sh*ts what his mother looked like in a suit, much less notice any imperfections.
He gave a slight smirk and said, "You have wrinkles on your legs."
"Ha!" I laughed. "You mean you could see the wrinkles more than the cellulite and stretch marks?" I figured he needed to know most grown women don't look like an airbrushed Kardashian in a swimsuit. It was about time he faced the cold, hard truth.
But something pretty cool happened once I realized I didn't care what I looked like either that afternoon. Once I got over my wrinkly legs and realized that I was going to get my hair wet.... I had a really, really good time.
For the next hour and a half, my son and I played hard and furious in that pool. We staged various races - sometimes I let him win, sometimes he let me win. We came up with our own games, like Search & Rescue, and Mama Dolphin (where he had to hold onto my neck and stay on my back while I swam underwater).
The last time we came up for air, Wyatt announced "I could feel your butt muscles jiggle when you were kicking your legs underwater."
I rolled my eyes. "Trust me, kid. That's not the only thing that jiggles on me. A muscled hard body, your mom does NOT have."
"Yeah," he agreed. "More squishy."
We both pondered the idea for oh, a nano-second, then proceeded to play some more. By the time we pulled ourselves out of the pool, we were wiped out. We decided to go down to the old fashioned candy store so he could pick out some treats. It's not too often that I'll walk into a store with no make up on, wet hair plastered to my head and smelling like chlorine. But I didn't really care that day. We had had too much fun, and I wasn't going to ruin it by saying "Let's go home first so I can dry my hair and put my makeup on."
So we walked into the store and WHAM, we were instantly hit with a blast of air conditioning. Within a couple seconds, my son looked at me with raised eyebrows and slowly pointed at my chest with his index finger. Confused, I looked down until I realized what he was trying to bring to my attention.
"What, my nipples?" I asked. "Sorry, your mother IS a mammal after all. There's not much I can do about 'em."
Horrified, he started walking away from me.
"Wait," I said, laughing, while I walked behind him. "Am I embarrassing you?"
He wouldn't make eye contact with me, so I decided to end the torture. "Fine," I whispered to him. "Me and my nipples will go sit down and wait for you until you're done looking around."
So Nipple-gate aside, it was truly a wonderful afternoon. And it got me thinking that night... look how much fun we can have in life when we don't care what we look like, and we get our hair wet and let our wrinkly, jiggly legs show. I don't think our kids will remember what their moms looked like in a swimsuit, but they'll remember if we swam with them.
They may see images of Kim Kardashian on Instagram looking flawless in the water, but hopefully they'll smile more thinking of their made-up game of Search & Rescue, regardless how squishy we are.

Estrogen Overload

They say a mother is only as happy as her unhappiest child.

Sometimes I think no truer words have been spoken. Just when you think all is well... the kids are happy, well adjusted, no one has had their feelings hurt over a friend's passive aggressive Facebook post... just when I think it's fine to exhale and just enjoy the fact the everyone is in a good place... just when I think it's safe to go back into the water...

WHAM.

Some one's pissed.
Some one's crying.
Some one's yelling.
And always, inevitably, somewhere a door is being slammed.
I don't know why they get upset half the time. And I'll be honest... 99% of the time it's one of my three teenage daughters. My son's bad moods are as quick and fleeting as one of my New Year's resolutions. Over before you know it. But my girls' moods, not so much.
Sometimes I can tell that it's not worth it to get involved. Like when they come home from school, raging on about the indignities of some social injustice at the lunch table. I try to gauge within the first minute if this is something they just want to vent about, or if they actually want to hear my opinion. Oh, who am I kidding. They NEVER want to hear my opinion. My advice is considered out-of-touch and woefully inadequate, at best.
When they tell me how their best friend told them what someone else said about them, I hold up my hand and stop them.
"Whoa. Why is YOUR best friend telling you bad things about you that someone else said? You need to ask your bestie why do others feel so comfortable talking about YOU around HER? Hmmmm?"
My daughter will look at me like I suggested she gargle with toilet water. "Because Mom, she is my BEST. FRIEND. and I have a right to know who is talking smack about me."
At this point my right eye begins to twitch and any semblance of open and engaging dialogue between us has vanished. Because these are the dramas that don't cause me too much concern. I've been dealing with various levels of girl drama since the late 90s. It started out as toy sharing issues at day care and progressed to broken hearts and betrayal in high school.
Some girl drama I know exactly what to do. And that is nothing. It gets resolved on its own and requires no interference from my behalf. In case there was a doubt, that is my favorite kind.
However, the older they get, the more ambiguous of my level of involvement. And sure, I feel good and accomplished and all mom-of-the-year-like when I can help them navigate the tricky waters of middle school or give them advice that they actually (GASP) take and appreciate when it comes to a boy. Again - in case there's any doubt - that doesn't happen all that often.
But by far the most helpless feeling is when there is nothing I can do to help.
I feel powerless.
I feel desperate.
It reminds me when my daughter Sophie was about 18 months old and developed a fever. It lasted several days, and no matter how much Tylenol or Motrin I gave her, nothing would seem to break the fever longer than an hour. I don't know what it is about a child having a fever, but I felt very much like I was in a surreal episode of "Little House on the Prairie". I wanted to throw her in a tub of ice and beg Pa Ingalls to fetch Doc Baker. However, it was the year 2000 so I did the next best thing. I drove her to the hospital, carried her in my arms and literally KICKED open the door to the ER and told the nurses, "Someone has to help my baby!" Turns out it was just a virus and she eventually turned the corner, but I remember sitting in the exam room, thinking I could smell my own fear. In hindsight, I probably just needed a shower.
Fast forward several years, and I still feel that fear sometimes. I feel it when one of my kids is vulnerable and hurt and scared and angry. I'm afraid I won't know what to say to make them feel better. I'm even more afraid that there's nothing I can do to make things better.
Because isn't that what mothers are supposed to do? Whether it's a metaphorical band aid or the real deal... moms are supposed to know what to do. And let me let you in on a secret... half the time I'm wingin' it. I have the whole dinner, doctor, school responsibility thing down... but when it comes to making sure I'm raising them to be confident, secure and well adjusted??? Shit, that involves nothing but a lot of gut instincts and a weekly prayer.
I have stood outside a bedroom door at night and listened to a daughter wail. Cry so hard I'm convinced she's being murdered. I've rested my forehead against the door, and listened to make sure the rhythmic sobs eventually subside. And when they haven't... I've gone into her room, crawled into bed with her, and just curled up behind her. I don't have a plan. I don't know what to say, and I certainly don't know what to do.
But I just have to be there. That I do know.
Because the truth is - sometimes just being there and saying nothing, is way better than my initial desire. And that is to pull into the school parking lot, grab the hair of some snotty little teen, shove her up against a locker and hiss in her ear with a vicious voice, "Listen here you little bitch. If you don't leave my daughter alone, I will CHOKE YOU." And her eyes will grow wide with fear and she'll nod meekly and never bother any of my children again.
But alas, that plan would probably result in a restraining order and other criminal charges. So for now, I stand outside the bedroom door and hope I'll figure out this parenting thing of teen daughters.
Because once they're all happy, then this momma is very, very happy.
And that's when I can truly exhale.

Quit being so MEAN!

"Re-examine all that you have been told..dismiss that which insults your soul." ~ Walt Whitman



Not too long ago, a friend of mine mentioned she knew someone I had met a couple years ago. After they got together, my friend came back and told me, "Yes, she definitely remembers you. She said you were really nice."
Of course I smiled when I heard that, because what person doesn't like to be told they're nice? It means that all of those years when our parents told us to show some manners - be respectful to people - be NICE to others - was finally paying off.
But what if our desire to make our children nice individuals does them more harm than good? What if it allows others to walk all over them? There has to be a balance between raising polite children and doormats.
Not too long ago, one of my daughters was shopping for supplements. She was standing in the aisle and checking some products out, alongside a man who was around 48. At least according to her estimate (for all we know he could have been 25 or 62; teenagers really have no clue about ages.) He picked up a bottle of diet pills, then tossed them to my daughter and said, "Here. You need these more than I do."
When my daughter recalled this exchange, I felt like time stood still. Because most adults who have been shamed about their weight at some point in their life have a fairly universal reaction, so I had a pretty good idea of how she felt when that happened.
I bet her cheeks flushed with heat and embarrassment.
I'm sure she could hear her heart beat in her ears.
I wouldn't be surprised if she briefly stopped breathing in that moment.
She most likely stood there, unable to reply, because all her life she's been coached and encouraged to BE NICE.
It's not until we get older that we build up a witty repertoire of comebacks and sarcastic retorts. It's not until we have some experiences that we can whip out a snarky reply to make the other person pause. But to be honest, in moments like that, I can't even be sure that I would have had recovered enough to reply like the situation demanded. And that would have been to tilt my head slightly to the side, give a small smile and say, "Thanks. And just so you know, the penile extenders and erectile dysfunction medicine is in aisle 3. You DEFINITELY need that more than me."
Because seriously, what good did that man possibly think he was doing by saying that to my beautiful daughter? Did he think she's never worried about her weight? Did he think that some metaphorical light bulb was going to go off in her head, and she would drop to the floor in gratitude and weep, "THANK YOU so much for making me aware! I honestly had no idea!"?? Did he not realize that practically every girl on this planet has agonized about her weight at some point? I can remember the doctor in my kindergarten physical patting my five-year old belly and telling me to be careful about the ice-cream.
I was 54 pounds. (Thanks Doc, for starting me on that super fun journey.)
But I digress...
So Mr Clueless with the Diet Pills, I am not sure what you hoped to gain by your comment. The liberal in me believes you said it because you are a broken man. That because of how you were damaged in your childhood, you are now damaged as an adult, and unable to show compassion to others. That's the liberal in me.
The mother in me (or mama bear as my kids prefer to describe me) has another visceral thought. You are a freakin' DICKHEAD. Quit being so god-damn MEAN. You solved NOTHING with your careless remark.
So maybe as parents we should re-think the traits we want our children to exhibit. There is nothing wrong with being nice. I will always encourage my children to be nice... when the situation merits it. Now, however, I will make sure they know they are encouraged to stand up for themselves in the right scenario.
A friend of mine has hired that same daughter to babysit on numerous occasions. One time he was recalling a text message exchange he was having with her, where they were both (kiddingly) giving each other grief back and forth.
"Jesus," he told me. "I told her she was definitely her mother's daughter. She's a smart ass just like you."
I couldn't help but beam. Because THAT type of behavior makes me proud. Don't get me wrong - I'll always be proud of the regular things like good grades, hard work, and yes... even being nice.
But a witty, verbal zinger makes this mama bear sigh with gratitude.