Wordless Wednesday: Walkin’ With My Baby

I took a long walk yesterday for the first time in ages, and my youngest went with me. Her 11-year-old legs had a hard time maintaining my adult pace, so she jogged a little here and there to stay by my side. I know I’ll soon be struggling to keep up with her as she grows into a teenager and then a young woman. Our relationship will change, and so will the moments we have together. Some will be bad, some will be good. All will be different.

I will remember that walk yesterday, her innocence, her curiosity, her laugh, and those little legs trying to keep up with mine.

Laugh and the World Laughs With You

Johnny Depp in "Cry Baby": I've been looking for a good excuse to post his pic.

In case you haven’t been here for the past few days, I’ve been scurrying frantically (not really) to check off items from my “Pre-Apocalyptic Bucket List for the Soul” before the world ends on Dec. 21. My challenge — and I extend it to you as well — was to write a list of the top 10 things I wish I could change about or accomplish for myself before I die.

Today I’m taking on No. 3 on my list:

Quit being an easy target. I wear my heart on my sleeve and always have. I don’t think this is necessarily a bad thing, but I never learned how to fight back verbally or physically. Melting into a pool of emotional mush doesn’t work out so well. Take my word for it.

There’s no way to put this nicely: I was a crybaby as a kid. My dad and my aunt (who raised me after my mom died) used to tell me, “Laugh and the world laughs with you. Cry and you cry alone.” What they should have told me was, “Cry and you’re likely to get beaten up or at least teased mercilessly.”

As an adult, my emotional skin still isn’t very thick, but I’ve learned to fake it pretty well. When someone teases me I can usually laugh along — until I reach the nearest restroom anyway.

The thing I’m still working on is how to stop taking it so personally. Some people just think it’s funny to rip on others. Is it because they are insecure themselves? Maybe. Do they really do it to be hurtful? I hope not.

Either way, I choose how their words affect me. And I’m ready to laugh.

“The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.”  ~ Samuel Beckett, “Waiting for Godot”

The Woman in the Mirror

It’s time to check off another item from my “A Pre-Apocalyptic Bucket List for the Soul.” In case you missed it last week, my challenge to you was to create a list of the top 10 things you would like to change about or accomplish for yourself before you die — a sort of bucket list for the psyche.

Here’s my item No. 2:

Love and be proud of my body. I’ve spent 45 years on this one so far, and I haven’t made much progress. I’d like to learn to look in the mirror and at photographs of myself and see the good parts instead of the bad. (Disclaimer: I don’t voice my body image issues in front of my daughter. It’s not healthy for me to force my saddle — I mean, emotional — baggage on her, and I recognize that.)

Do you remember the moment when you first became self-conscious about your body? I do. I was 10 years old and already had curvy hips and was wearing a bra. Frankly, the bra was far more embarrassing to me than the hips — until a boy teased me about them on the bus, that is. From that moment on, they became all I saw.

As a teenager, I tried dieting, but the weight never disappeared from my problem areas. I wasn’t overweight; I was just proportioned like a bowling pin. I never worked out back then, aside from an occasional ill-fated aerobics class, but my weight stayed pretty much the same into my mid-twenties.

When my metabolism slowed down and I packed on 20 pounds, I knew I had to start exercising. That was right before my 30th birthday, and I never stopped. These days I run and I strength train with Jillian Michaels DVDs (“Extreme Shed and Shred” is my current favorite). I try to work out 45 to 60 minutes a day, five or six days a week.

My body may not be perfect, but whose is? I am proud of how hard I work to stay (relatively) fit, and I think I am sending a positive message to my daughter about the importance of exercise. This is the body I was given; how I see it is up to me.

I Am Lovable and Capable…Right?

Image source: ThingLink.com

Earlier this week I challenged you guys to write “A Pre-Apocalyptic Bucket List for the Soul.” The idea was to figure out the top 10 things you would like to change about or accomplish for yourself before you die — a sort of bucket list for the psyche.

So did you start your list yet? The clock is ticking here, folks. According to the Mayan calendar (or the people who misread when it ends, at least), we only have 34 more days left. I don’t know about you, but I figure I should get cracking on checking off stuff. I stupidly knowingly wrote a pretty tough list, so I’m going to take it one item at a time. Let’s start with No. 1:

Let go of past hurts. I can forgive, but I have a lot of trouble with the forgetting part. Dwelling on things doesn’t hurt anyone but me … and my husband, who gets stuck listening to me obsess.

This is a tough one. I don’t want to call out anyone specifically and sound like a whiney tattle tale, so I’ll focus on the common theme in most hurtful situations: He/she/they excluded me or said or did something that wounded my self-esteem.

Any of you children of the ’70s remember the IALAC sign classroom experiment? IALAC stands for “I am lovable and capable.” When I was in fourth grade in Southfield, Michigan, my teacher had us make IALAC signs and wear them all day. Each time someone said something that made us feel insecure or hurt us, we had to rip off a piece of the sign.

At the end of the day, I remember looking at what was left of my sign and wondered what I had done to deserve all those torn-off pieces. It had to be my fault. Instead of blaming the people who made me feel bad about myself, I blamed myself. My lack of self-esteem was the reason I couldn’t let go of the emotional pain.

With the apocalypse approaching, I think it’s time to break out the old IALAC sign. After all, I am lovable and capable…right?

I’ll keep you posted on the state of my sign.

A Pre-Apocalyptic Bucket List for the Soul

On the way to school this morning, my 13-year-old son reminded me that the world is going to end Dec. 21. Of course he was kidding, but we decided it might be a good idea to plan a party for Dec. 20 just in case. I don’t know about you, but if the Mayans (or the folks who misinterpreted when their calendar ends) were correct, I have a lot to do in the next 38 days. The good news is we can at least scratch Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa shopping off our lists, right?

Here’s my challenge to you: Write a list of the top 10 things you wish you could change about or accomplish for yourself before you die. I’m not talking about skydiving or mountain climbing here. Let’s call it a bucket list for the psyche.

Here’s mine:

  1. Let go of past hurts. I can forgive, but I have a lot of trouble with the forgetting part. Dwelling on things doesn’t hurt anyone but me … and my husband, who gets stuck listening to me obsess.
  2. Love and be proud of my body. I’ve spent 45 years on this one so far, and I haven’t made much progress. I’d like to learn to look in the mirror and at photographs of myself and see the good parts instead of the bad. (Disclaimer: I don’t voice my body image issues in front of my daughter. It’s not healthy for me to force my saddle — I mean, emotional — baggage on her, and I recognize that.)
  3. Quit being an easy target. I wear my heart on my sleeve and always have. I don’t think this is necessarily a bad thing, but I never learned how to fight back verbally or physically. Melting into a pool of emotional mush doesn’t work out so well. Take my word for it.
  4. Stop yelling at my kids. Strangely, this correlates with No. 3. My kids don’t listen the first three or four times I say something because they don’t take me seriously. Until I yell, that is. Then they get upset with me for raising my voice and shout back. Then I yell louder. It’s a vicious, and headache inducing, circle, and I hate it.
  5. Be a better friend. I have let so many relationships fade over the past 13 or so years. I know it’s a copout to blame it on having kids, but I do, at least to a certain extent. At the end of a crazy, busy day, the last thing I want to do is pick up the phone or even compose an email. I want quiet, peace. And as a result of my lack of effort, I’ve lost track of a lot of people I truly love and miss.
  6. Call my sister more. This goes back to No. 5 and the fact that I despise talking on the phone. But that’s a lame excuse. Our parents are both gone and it’s just us (and our wayward brother; see No. 7). My sister lives alone, and I know she would love to hear from the kids and me more.
  7. Reconnect with my brother. He’s a lost soul who has been in and out of trouble over the years. He has issues I don’t feel comfortable sharing publicly without his permission. But he was always good to me, and I love and miss him like crazy.
  8. Listen more. To my husband, to my kids, to my friends. But most of all to myself. If I listened to my inner voice a little more often, I think No. 1 would be much less of a problem. I tend to overlook bad first instincts about a person, thinking that everyone deserves a chance. Maybe some people don’t, or I just need to learn to give up sooner.
  9. Let people in. I’ve experienced a lot of loss in my life. I hate when people leave me, so I put up walls to keep them out in the first place. I guess that’s why No. 1 is such a problem. When I actually do let someone in and he or she hurts me, I’m emotionally devastated and I can’t let it go. Ugh. This is the thing that drives me the craziest about myself, but I think it’s also one of the hardest to fix. I for sure haven’t had much luck in the past four-and-a-half decades.
  10. Seize the day. It’s been a tough year (death, job loss, etc.). I lost my positive mojo and confidence somewhere along the way, and I need to find it. After all, the clock is ticking.

 So what’s on your psyche’s bucket list?

Memories of the Men Who Raised Me

Aunt Thelma and Uncle Lincoln

As a child, I walked next to him with my tiny hand wrapped around his giant index finger. I listened to him chuckle softly at his own jokes. I ran to him when my aunt, the disciplinarian, scolded me, and I sobbed on his shoulder. He was my uncle, but he was also my second dad. He loved me unconditionally, as if I were his own daughter, and he showed me what a father should be.

I went to live with Uncle Lincoln and Aunt Thelma, my father’s older sister, shortly before my mother’s death. They were in their fifties and had already raised their own two children and numerous foster kids. Their decision to take on a toddler at that stage of their lives is just one example of the loving, nurturing, selfless people they both were.

Uncle Linc was my buddy growing up. I adored him. He walked me to the bus stop each morning with our collie, Chipper. I worked with him in his vegetable garden, planting row after row of sweet corn, cucumbers and leaf lettuce. I helped him feed and water our horse, Blue Betty. When a new Disney movie came out, he took me to the Westborn Theater, which he managed, and I sat happily in the back row munching on Raisinets.

When I was 11, my father remarried and I moved in with him and my stepmother. My dad was a stoic, distant man. I knew he loved me, but it was not easy for him to show it. My teen years with my stepmom were tough, and my dad was no Uncle Lincoln.

In my early ’20s, I spent a fair amount of time dating the wrong men. I found myself drawn to troubled, enigmatic types, guys like my dad. That changed when I moved to Chicago and met the rock star (not really, but he is in a band). Our first date lasted 24 hours, and I had never felt more at home with anyone. Within six weeks we were living together, and this year we’ll celebrate our 16th wedding anniversary.

What made him the right guy? After years of dating men like my father, I finally found an Uncle Lincoln. He laughs at his own jokes. He holds me together when I’m falling apart. He loves me unconditionally.

When I took the rock star home to meet my family, my father, a retired Detroit police officer, sat him down in the kitchen with a yellow legal pad and grilled him about his education, employment and family. When we went to visit Uncle Lincoln, he and my future husband sat outside in a couple of lawn chairs and had a casual, quiet conversation. I love both these memories. My two dads looking out for me and making sure I’d found a good guy.

It took time, distance and having my own family to repair my relationship with my dad. I had to become a parent to recognize what he had been through — World War II, being a police officer, losing his wife — and how it had affected him. Both my dads are gone now, and I miss them every day.

As I watch my own little girl unabashedly favor her father over me, it tickles me. I know she is bonding with the most important man in her life, and he is showing her what a father should be. He is her example. I hope she’ll find someone just like him some day, just like him and Uncle Lincoln.

read to be read at yeahwrite.me

Here’s to You, Dad

My hero and me celebrating his 80th birthday

When I was a young girl, about 7, my dad took me to lunch at Carl’s Chop House, the venerable (and now closed) steakhouse on Grand River in Detroit. I remember being extremely excited about my new shoes: denim platform sandals emblazoned with bright red cherries. But I recall being even more thrilled about getting to go on a “date” with my dad.

I worshipped my father, as most little girls do. He was my hero: a handsome, jovial Detroit police officer and World War II veteran, who was loved and revered by most everyone he met. I didn’t get a lot of one-on-one time with him (let’s face it, fatherhood was a whole lot different in the ’70s), so I cherished any opportunity to have his undivided attention.

Although that lunch date is one of my fondest childhood memories, what I can actually recall about it is fleeting. I was wearing my new sandals, of course. I remember watching my dad drink a Manhattan and waiting for him to give me the cherries, as always. I also recall eating what seemed like the biggest shrimp cocktail ever, and watching my dad shake his head when I poured Heinz ketchup all over what was surely an expensive steak.

I don’t remember a thing either of us said, but I do remember how I felt: special, lucky, loved. Over the years our relationship ebbed and flowed as is typical of most parent-child connections. I went from adoring and idolizing him to disliking and rebelling against him as a teenager to respecting and understanding him as an adult.

Tomorrow, May 19, would have been my dad’s 87th birthday, and the next day marks the sixth anniversary of his death. Lots of memories of him have been swirling around in my head for the past few days, but that lunch date is definitely one of the best.

Here’s to you, Dad. If I drank Manhattans, I would certainly pour one in your honor.