Seriously?

I have a minor issue with thinking that people don’t take me seriously, which is funny because I’ve always been an old soul and a pretty serious person.  I just feel like people look at me as if I’m too young to relate to them.  Maybe it’s because I have a pretty young-looking face, which I’ve been told is a compliment, but I swear this has back-fired for me at times.  For example, when I was about 21 years old, I had to have an ultra sound performed on my chest (luckily, I was fine). There was a lady I knew from church sitting in the waiting room, and I swear she was giving me the “oh, you’re that kind of Catholic school girl” look as I nervously waited my turn.  I wanted to say to her, “I’m here for an ultrasound on my boobs, not because I’m pregnant.”  After the procedure (or maybe it was before?  I may look young, but my mind is not as sharp as it once was!), I went to the front desk to take care of paperwork and the receptionist asked to see my driver’s license and then said, “well, that is if you even have one.”  My reply was “yes, not only can I drive, but I can also vote, and get this, I can drink too!”  I’m sure I didn’t say it sarcastically, but that’s what it sounded like in my mind!  Again, I should be so thrilled she thought I was that young and yadda yadda yadda, but I wasn’t.  When were people going to see me for my actual age?

I got engaged a few months after graduating from college and thought perhaps this would be the moment people would take me seriously.  Wrong.  At the time, I had just started working at an entertainment public relations firm.  Most of the people I worked with were older than me, and partly as a result of the grueling work schedule, were single.  So, here I was, a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed 22 year old, newly graduated from college, and engaged.  I knew I was going to get the third degree about being too young to get married so I didn’t wear my engagement ring, or tell anyone I was engaged for about a week.  I felt like I would be rubbing it in the faces of some of the girls who I knew longed for a long-term relationship with something other than their jobs. 

Soon after my wedding, I was offered a job at my former high school.  The position was Director of Development – my position at the PR firm at the time was Assistant.  Talk about a big title jump!  After much thought, I declined the offer because I just didn’t feel comfortable with such a big position that came with a lot of responsibility, including raising approximately $6 million dollars for a new science building at the school.  I imagined being at meetings with super important, and old, people and having them look at me like, “when is the real Director coming?” 

Before I declined the Director position, I had people in my corner encouraging me to accept that offer.  Part of me thought perhaps I was selling myself short by not getting out of my comfort zone and finding out my real potential.  While that may have been true, and I could have tapped into a new side of me, I knew in my heart of hearts that if I couldn’t take myself seriously in that position, how could I expect others to?

Wait a minute - perhaps that’s the real underlying issue!  Could it be that the problem isn’t with other people’s perception of me, but my perception of myself?  Hmm, I may be onto something with that idea, and I’m saving so much money by being my own therapist!  Seriously.  There, I said it. 

Tragedy in Waiting?

I've got a mind to wonder which tragedy is following me
I've got a mind that wanders off in search of something
And I'm gonna get there

-          “Tragedy in Waiting” by O.A.R. (Stories of a Stranger album)

Okay, let me put this disclaimer out – this post is likely going to be a bit melodramatic and, possibly, even a little morbid.  Now, without further ado….

I’ve had it pretty easy.  A loving family, great childhood, great education (paid for by my parents for 17 years), amazing friendships, a husband who loves me unconditionally, and two healthy and thriving children.  I’m blessed. Scratch that – I’m BEYOND blessed.  So, what’s wrong with that?  What’s wrong is I feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, the ship to sail, blah, blah, blah.  Because I’ve “had it easy” the first 30 years of my life, I feel like there’s something nasty in store for me in the future.  Hey, I warned you this was going to be dramatic….

Before I became a stay-at-home mom, I worked full-time at a Catholic high school – my alma mater.  It’s a tradition that the seniors go on a retreat called Kairos, in the mountains in Santa Barbara for about 3-4 days.  It’s a time for them to be open and reflective about their lives, to become closer to themselves, God, and each other.  This is such an important time for these students and I truly believe the world would be a better place if all schools, public and private, offered this, or something similar, for students.  I digress.

I had the opportunity to attend two Kairos retreats as an “adult leader.”  The first year, I was merely an observer, the second year, I was a group leader which meant I had to give a talk.  Remember my post about the public speaking class I took?  Well, in my “adult age,” I found myself regressed and nervous to stand in front of about 30-40 teenagers and open myself up to them.  Beyond that, I felt as if I wasn’t qualified to even be there to begin with.  You see, many of these students opened up about experiences in their young lives that I cannot even imagine having to endure…abuse from family members, suicidal thoughts/attempts, coming out as a gay youth, etc., etc.  I hardly knew these kids, yet after listening to them pour out their hearts and souls, I knew more about them than their families and friends did.  With my cookie-cutter, goody-two-shoes upbringing, how could I even compete, or more importantly, relate to them?

It upset me to think that they had to experience such hardships in their young lives when I was still basically sailing through my life.  I felt guilty about coming from a “normal” family and having healthy relationships and being so naïve about the world and the people in it.  If I believed that God had a master plan for these kids – that there was an explanation for the trauma in their lives - then did that also mean that the reverse must be true for me?  That I would have an easy beginning and somehow, at sometime, be thrust into a situation that I would “grow” from?  I don’t know, and I really don’t like to think about it too much.  I’m content with living in my safe little bubble and counting my blessings each day, hoping and praying that my world won’t be shattered one day and if for some God-forsaken reason that should happen, that I would have the strength to get through it.  For now, I’ll just continue to live each day and keep my fingers crossed that God won’t notice that he forgot to give me a dose of “life experience.”  There, I said it. 

Grown Up

I think 2012 might actually be the year I become a grown up!  Well, maybe not completely become a grown up, but at least try to eat like one.  As I write this, I’m eating vegetable soup for lunch…not Kraft macaroni and cheese like my three year old daughter who actually asks to have vegetables with her meals.  That’s a pretty grown up thing to eat, right (the soup, not the mac ‘n cheese)? And, believe it or not, I’m actually eating the vegetables in the soup, not eating around them, or swallowing them whole so I don’t have to taste them, or only eating the noodles in the soup.  Stop the presses!

When we go out to eat, I get a little jealous of the fabulous choices on the kids’ menus – chicken fingers, mac ‘n cheese, grilled cheese sandwiches, pasta with butter sauce.  Mmmm, now we’re talking.  I sometimes make Abby order one of those items just so I can eat it without feeling silly for ordering from that menu.    

Confession: I had to take a break from writing this post in order to deal with a minor “potty issue” with my vegetable-eating daughter.  After cuddling with her on the couch, I decided what would really be nice for our cuddle session was a bowl of popcorn (the chemical infused microwaveable popcorn, of course) with extra melted butter and parmesan cheese on top, because, really, how else are you supposed to eat popcorn?  I really had to convince Miss Vegetables that she should eat some too, even though she didn’t want to because she was still traumatized from some popcorn getting stuck in her teeth the last time I made her eat it with me.  Needless to say, my half-eaten bowl of vegetable soup got dumped down the drain.  It looks like I won’t be eating like a grown up after all, at least not today.  There, I said it.

A Better Person

Way back before my husband was my husband, and up until probably our first couple of years of marriage, I always found the need to correct said husband’s grammar each time he spoke. It began as a random, knee-jerk reaction that soon turned into an addiction for me. It’s like I was hoping he’d misspeak so I could fix him. He would, understandably, get upset and accuse me of thinking he was an idiot. My response was that I was just trying to make him a better person. Seriously, I said that to him. I then followed up with a short rant about if I didn’t correct him, no one would and he would continue to make the same mistakes over and over again and possibly one day really embarrass himself when he finally discovered he was mispronouncing words, or using the word “why” when he really meant “while.” Boy, was he so lucky to have a girlfriend/wife who cared so much about his grammar.

All my attempts to make him a “better person” grammatically overshadowed the fact that he was already a great person and really didn’t need to be better. I became so nit-picky that I lost sight of the fact that he let me make him a “better person,” often in front of others and didn’t really complain about it, at least not much. Who does that? If the roles had been reversed, I think I would have been so mortified and probably would have cried (privately, of course) and yelled at him for humiliating me in front of my friends.

I don’t know why, but I stopped trying to make him a better person. I still correct him every now and then (okay, all the time), but I no longer tell him it’s because I’m making him better. He has accepted me for who I am so shouldn’t I do the same, grammatical errors and all? Of course I should, and I do, at least I really try to! After all, doesn’t that make me a better person? There, I said it.

Señor Fussypants

This is going to make me sound like an awful mother. But, I’ll say it anyway. I’m finally enjoying my son. Yikes. For awhile, I didn’t believe people who said they loved each of their children the same. They clearly must not have had a fussy child. His constant fussiness overshadowed his sweetness, his shy little smile that he didn’t just show to anyone. You really had to work for it, but I’ll be damned that when it appeared, it was worth it. Of course I loved him, but I was exhausted from dealing with his constant state of fuss that I found myself trying to keep him distracted…or sleeping so he’d be content and I could maintain an ounce of sanity.

I finally, recently, came to the realization that his fussiness was likely in part due to the fact that he doesn’t speak yet. After all, he’s only 14 months old. His way of communicating is yelling, usually at the top of his lungs. I seemed to be mistaking his method of communication with the constant fussiness I swore he was afflicted with. In my defense, if he wasn’t yelling, he was usually crying so the lines were blurry. The past couple of weeks he seemed especially fussy. I don’t know if it’s because his sister was on Christmas break from school so he had no relief from her (believe it or not, 3 hours a day, twice a week does make a difference!) or because he had been slightly sick with a cough and minor ear infection, or all of the above.

Last week, I took him to the doctor and she put him on an antibiotic for the ear infection and by God, he became almost like a whole new child! Yes, he still yells but since I’ve identified that as his language for now, I’ve learned to deal with it. Yes, he’s still fussy at times, but not nearly as much. He’s so much more playful and laughs and smiles so much more. And, get this, he finally started to WAVE! He plays peek-a-boo in a ridiculously cute way and is super enthusiastic about giving high fives. He brings books over to my husband and me and gets so excited about being read to! What the heck happened? More importantly, what’s the magic ingredient in the amoxicillin and can I keep him on it indefinitely?

I love him! Of course, I always loved him, but now I love him when he’s awake and look forward to playing with him. Could it be my little Señor Fussypants has finally outgrown the fussy baby stage and has begun to enter into the fun toddler stage? I think so, I hope so, I pray so. Because now I understand people who say they love their children all the same. There, I said it.

I'm a Smart Girl, Really I Am!

So, I’m a college-educated girl (UCLA, thank you!) but sometimes I feel like I come across as a total airhead when I’m around certain people. It’s like I get so intimidated by them that my mind turns to goo and I ask stupid questions and just come across as a total ditz. I feel like I want to scream, “I’m a smart girl, really I am, but you make me seem to not be.” That’s it, place the blame on someone else.

I think this really came to my attention way back when I was interviewing for a new job. I’d leave the interviews completely confused about what just happened. I don’t know if I get nervous and react to it by having diarrhea of the mouth and going off on random tangents and then trying desperately to find my way back to the answer to the seemingly easy question that was asked. There was one job in particular that I’m sure I didn’t really want, but it was better than the job I had (anything at that time was better, trust me!), plus it was located in the same city I lived in so the commute would be laughable compared to the nightmare I faced each day spending at least 45 minutes driving 8 miles. Anyway, I’m not even sure how it came up, but the potential future employer asked me why I was looking for a new job. I really didn’t know how to answer that question and of course didn’t have the proper time to mull it over and write an outline and then a few drafts before turning in the final paper. So, I was honest…probably too honest. I told her I ended up in that current position by way of another girl being promoted and instead of the company hiring a new replacement, they just plopped me over to that area and assigned me as the new assistant to one of the VP’s of the company. In short, I was stuck with a job I never interviewed for, working for a woman I just couldn’t stomach. I then started rambling on and on about my former boss and how she had these adorable little boys but instead of being their mommy, she passed that off to her full time nanny and how I had to step in at times and order their birthday party invitations, etc etc and how I had basically become this woman’s personal assistant. And then, I’m pretty sure I went on a tangent about the struggle of working mom vs. stay-at-home mom and how I was hoping to be the latter while my former boss was the former. The icing on the cake was after I stepped down from my soap box, it was somehow revealed that potential new employer was indeed a mother…a working mother that I basically defamed during my rant. Is it any wonder I never got called back? I’m a smart girl, really I am.

Fast forward years later and I feel that way with my daughter’s preschool teacher. She is great, she really is, but I feel like a total moron anytime I ask her a question. I don’t know what the protocol is when it comes to “checking in” – I don’t want to be the paranoid mom who has to have a conference every day, but I also don’t want to be the super laid back mom who never seems interested in her child’s welfare. So, when I do check in a couple times a month I basically just quickly ask how things are going and the teacher always tells me my daughter is doing really well and then I feel silly for even asking and of course then feel like the teacher must be thinking I’m a crazy nut job who is barely qualified to be my child’s nanny, let alone mother. Of course, this is very likely all in my head and comes from some issues I have with people never taking me seriously (I must write about that sometime). My daughter’s teacher is great at what she does and would let me know if there were a problem. I know this. Yet still I feel the need to ask…like it’s my way of validating my worth as a mother.

I’m a smart girl, really I am. There, I said it.