Oh, Dear, I’ve Become a Blessing Southerner

I have been watching my words more closely – really trying to confess and throw out the trash, and replace unrighteousness with truth. Only say what I mean and mean what I say. It’s been going pretty well. I hope to have buried some phrases that really don’t do any good – don’t describe anything well, nor build anyone up.

And

I have had one annoying phrase creep in. It’s REALLY annoying when I say it, because it’s generic and insincere. It’s REALLY annoying because it isn’t truth spoken in love.

Now,

I’m not trying to give Southerners a bad rap. There may be some unsavory habits to be gained by hanging out with a Yankee. (I am a Yankee transplanted to the South). There’s a small bit of the South that has come in, stayed a while, and is time to get out.

Today I caught myself saying this phrase and as soon as it came out of my mouth, I wanted to shove it back in. I wanted to chew up those words and digest them forever, never to choke on them again, unless I actually meant it, purely.

“Bless her heart.” Why? What I really meant and was thinking was “wow, that person and situation is really difficult.” Or “I have a tough time understanding him/her and therefore being around him/her.” Or “I understand how that would be tough for you, maybe that situation will improve in time.”

That’s what I meant. Why do I feel compelled to cast an insincere ‘blessing?’

More ironically, I have tended to use this with people who are not really into God at the moment: they don’t attend church, don’t read the Bible, and don’t really want to hear about it, thank you very much. They certainly, therefore, don’t need from me, an insincere misrepresentation of a phrase that truly is meant to encourage. The last thing people “not into God at the moment” need is a hypocrite. They need truth, love, humility, not some generic conversational fodder.

You could say I was really convicted today.
You could say “Bless Her Heart,” and if you meant it, I’d really appreciate it.

Mommy Malapropism: Hardcore Like Cold Soup

http://www.weheartfood.com/2007/07/gazpacho.html

Malapropism: the use of a word sounding somewhat like the one intended but ludicrously wrong in the context.

Since conception, our oldest child has been a night owl. For her, the day seems to start about 9:30pm. Me? Not so much. I’m kind of like Cinderella, but instead of it being midnight and losing my carriage, it’s past 10, and I am losing my sense of humor.

It was recently one such night. Our sweet angel continued to discuss something in great detail, with great passion. I announced that I needed to go to bed, and more so to my husband than to my pre-Ker, to BEWARE. With the new school year approaching, I will transform into the BEDTIME GAZPACHO. This would sound tough and cool – except my husband was a chef first and has a pretty extensive background of food knowledge.

My daughter looked at me like she may take that into consideration, someday. My husband burst into laughter. “Wow, that is hard core!” He quipped, you are going to be scary- like cold tomato based soup?” (It turns out I meant gestapo, not gazpacho.)

Ironically, I had recently blogged on how our daughter’s word choices often leave others in a wake of confusion. As it turns out, that apple sure doesn’t fall far from the tree!

*This post is dedicated to my Dad who taught me the word malapropism many moons ago 🙂 We now have two generations gaining more and more familiarity with this concept 🙂

I love it. I love it not. The Decision to Edit or Scrap

I’ve been happily married for over 12 years now, but I still have a little book. Not that kind of book. Mine documents the relationships I’ve had with words over the years: book lists, favorite authors, started/halted projects, goals, articles, research, blog entries. Somewhere between 5 and 25, I discovered I love words. Now, in my 30s, I have just enough confidence to think that sometimes they love me back.

I think about writing like a hungry person thinks about their next meal. The anticipation before, the savoring during, and often the heartburn after. I write until I’m full, but let’s be real: I’m never really full; I must have a writer’s tapeworm.

One question always remains, always hovers over me: what to do with what I’ve written? And thus, the “it loves me, it loves me not” flower plucking begins. Something happens to those words once they come out and appear on the paper. It is not entirely as much as if I like them, as it is if they like me. There’s a dance those words and I do: sometimes long, sometimes short, and I try and figure out a next step. Is there anything else there worth looking at, tweaking, growing? What are these words trying to teach me? Or, now that they’ve lived, even for just a brief moment on the page, maybe they ask to be buried?

To the words that want to persevere with me, thank you for the companionship and challenge. To those that have had enough, thanks for the ride, it’s been fun.

Find Your Own Path, Writer

Paint markers are a hot new commodity in our home now. Our 4 year old thinks they are the coolest. Of course, they take a little getting used to, a little practice, and since they gush wet paint, a little supervision. Recently, I demonstrated how to use one – bright, fire engine red. Our daughter patiently observed and then took her turn. “See mom, I’m doing it different than you did, and I’m doing great!” It wasn’t sassy or defiant, simply a statement of fact, almost a gentle warning in case I should be alarmed by her different technique.

I’ve come to realize half of what I say to my kids is more so for my benefit, as opposed to theirs. In reply, I simply smiled, gave her a little nod and told her to find her own path. Who on earth really says that to a 4 year old? Like I said, it was for my benefit. As parents, we do the best we can with what we have -mixing a willingness to give with a surrender to the reality that what we have to offer may or may not be appealing. Because ultimately, the kid will find her own path. She will with paint markers, and with everything else in life. Sure, I can guide, but ultimately the choices are hers.

Several hours later, I heard the writers muse telling me the same. As a writer, I will find my own path. Like the paint marker, my writing takes practice, technique, approach. Sometimes the words merely eek out. Other times, they come, overflowing in big gushy puddles onto the page, messy and abstract. What a colorful blob. I dance with ideas like discipline and writing goals, but I have yet to make a long term commitment.
It’s okay, writer, you will find your own path.
I enjoy connecting with other writers in the writing community, to an extent. And then, in some quick, weird fashion, I get overwhelmed, as if I’m staring at too much color in one spot.
It’s okay, writer, you will find your own path.
I have conversations with myself in constant quandary as to if whatever I am trying to convey could possibly find meaning with anyone else, and in some moments, whether that even matters?
It’s okay, writer, you will find your own path.

The path to writing isn’t set in detailed stone for me. I’m laying each stone as I go, and that’s what makes it special.

Go Ahead and Take That Picture, It’s Not Wierd

We recently rearranged our four year old’s bedroom – and one night, about midnight, I felt a strange twinge of panic. I gazed through the room and couldn’t remember where her crib used to be. How could I forget so easily? It hadn’t been that long since she slept in and outgrew both a crib and a toddler bed. I concentrated, and searched my brain…oh yes, that’s right, I could finally close my eyes and picture the space that used to accommodate our baby.

Thankfully, I also had a picture to confirm it.

I would never think to list photography as a hobby. Fancy cameras intimidate me, and the science behind photography doesn’t really do it for me.

But I do enjoy taking pictures of the kids and our little part of the world. One of my all time favorites is the back of our daughter’s head when she was about 2.5. It had taken her hair so long to grow that I remember being struck by the rich, chunky curls that naturally hung there. Normally, I would find it bizzarre to take a picture of a back of a head. Now, less than two years later, her hair is straight and I am glad that I did.

Ironically, I enjoy writing, but not journaling. I love the concept and I love that other people love it. I can’t seem to love it enough to do it. Instead, I keep a camera nearby and let the pictures chronicle my most personal story – the whole story. This means I have to abandon the control freak within that wants to ensure my kids and home are always “camera ready.” Also, I’ve developed a new parenting rule: don’t care what seems weird and capture the moment.

In looking back over this past year, A LOT of my pictures have our kids and abode in several stages of both order and disorder. One photo has a pair of my husband’s pants in the background, and several others have piles of clothes waiting to be put away. We have pictures of smiling faces and mis-matched furniture, and other items completely out of place. One of my recent favorites holds a sweet sibling moment. Our son is looking up at our daughter in the kitchen, both in pajamas and hair all askew, he’s grinning as she’s drinking juice. It’s precious and love filled. My base boards, on the other hand, look atrocious.

But, that’s my story. Lots of love and a few dirty baseboards. And I’m okay with that. For now, no editing needed.

You Don’t Have to Say Please on the Soccer Field

“We” started soccer recently. I say “we” because it is a family affair – we all go and cheer on our 4 year old at practice. Of course, 4 year olds playing soccer is like herding emotionally unstable cats. Most recently we participated in “4 X4” play, which was really lots of children running up and down the field in rapid succession not completely sure of the purpose. At one point, I heard our daughter tell the coach, “Excuse me, he’s not sharing, I want the ball, please.”

I suddenly realized how much practice I need in learning how to encourage my kid in athletics. How does one reinforce that aggressively taking without asking, interrupting others, and openly striving to be better than the next kid are not typically encouraged in the classroom, but celebrated on the athletic field? I better be flexing my parental muscles, I’m feeling a whole new learning curve approaching!

My husband is very competitive: every activity in life can be strategized, won or lost. Certainly, he is diplomatic, self-controlled, and professional. Yet, when it’s game time, you better get your tail out there – win – or die trying. He is passionate and fiery: defeats are felt deeply and personally. Me, not so much, at least not in the traditional sense. Growing up, I never got into team sports, my competitive nature was fierce, yet always only with myself. I had no desire to be better than others, I just needed to know I did my absolute best. Mentally, I made sure I thoroughly punished myself if I didn’t. It has taken me into my mid-thirties to stop determining my self-worth by how well I think I perform. It’s still a little early to see what direction our daughter is more inclined – though very interesting to watch this unfold.

Even with the learning curve, I’m looking forward to this season of learning. It’s fun having kids -combining gene pools and personalities in tiny little beings and watching them grow up. Besides the obvious benefit of giving her an large open space to run, I think this activity will be helpful in teaching important lessons. Plus, it’s incredibly entertaining to watch her mesh diplomacy and manners with a budding athletic acumen. I can just hear her now, “Excuse me, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I am going to score a goal on you. Thanks.”

Metaphorically, I Keep Gestating

I’ve realized a new way to freak out my husband – tell him I am gestating. You see, I feel like I constantly am.

In an eccentric, artsy way. Much of my writing happens in my mind, going about my day to day life. Words, phrases, paragraphs, critiques, doubts, fears, victories, confidences, they all swirl inside my brain, surprisingly so, until their time to come into the light. This is partly by preference and partly by necessity. By preference, it is an intimate dance those words and I construct, throughout our days together. By necessity, it takes such time and energy to physically put words on a page – and allow them to stay there – that I have only mere minutes each day.

So, I write in my head. I get discouraged and encouraged and debate with myself. I pretend that I am being held hostage and my release depends on my ability to shorten and clarify. Such freedom lies in brevity.

But sometimes my brain feels swollen. It feels big, not from brilliance, but from being asked to hold too much.
So, I close the door, take a deep breath, and push….the keyboard.

On Helpmates, Razor Blades & Stuff

Indulge me a few minutes this post to appreciate my hubby. This year we’ll celebrate 12 years, and it does keep getting better and better. In ways I never would have imagined, though.

Take communication. He often makes such an impact with a simple, gentle inquiry, or by saying nothing at all. Recently, he innocently asked, “did you know that the blade in your razor is disposable? Because it doesn’t look like it has been changed….like ever….”
Why, yes, intellectually, I knew that. But it is one of those items that I grasp intellectually, and then stop, not converting that knowledge to action. My morning routine has just enough time for the essentials, the razor doesn’t make the short list. I woke up last weekend to see a new razor greeting me in the shower. No snarky references to sandpaper. No bewildered undulations of “woman, you are hairy.” Just a new razor. An unassuming, tangible proof that he thought of me and literally, wanted my life to be a little bit smoother.

At Christmas, he procured a quirky, small, specialty order book on writing. You know the kind that makes the eccentric small bookstore owner scratch his head, determined to meet his customer’s need.

And most recently, he quietly appeared before me, two ibuprofen in hand, because he overheard me admit to myself, quite dejectedly, that I had a headache. (Both kids were in bed, this was not a time for a headache!)

This is the stuff of helpmates: ever present despite the good and bad, with tangible action that here is love, support, and the occasional razor.

Pheeew, I Didn’t Miss A Parenting Deadline!

I was at a new crossroads. I had worked on a piece of writing for about 8 weeks from the idea to the editing. It is a mere 500 words, but anyone who writes knows that what even 500 words can do to a brain. I mapped it out, planned, and marinated on it from the end of January, through all of February, and into March. I passed the first week, then the second, and decided, “lets do this.” I polished.

I went back to the website to find that in the last couple of weeks, the editorial calendar had been filled, the open submission session closed, but I could try back in June. Bummer. I really didn’t know what emotion to expect next. My, how anti-climatic. Surprisingly, I was actually pretty cool about it – after I took inventory of how I had spent my time the last few weeks. What was I doing with myself if I was not double checking whether the submission timeline had changed?

A couple of fun trips to the library, a memorable mother daughter trip to the ballet, and celebrating our son’s first birthday. Details, major and minor, had gone into planning and enjoying those moments. I was at peace with knowing while writing deserves priority, parenting gets precedence.

Yes, I missed my writing deadline. There will be more. There are only so many deadlines that can be realistically met. I quietly sighed in relief that I hadn’t missed a parenting deadline.

Are There Multiple Solutions?

“Ever feel like the world is pushing at you and you can’t push back?” An associate asked me recently.

“Yes,” I replied. “And in those moments, you kick.”

Interesting. Why did that just come out of my mouth? What does that even mean?

I’ve done the personality tests. I don’t dive into conflict, and at the end of the day, I’m a lover, not a fighter.

Was I inwardly promoting some kind of passive aggressiveness? Was I secretly pining for the lyrics “Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting” to come blaring into our conference room?

I pictured a spontaneous, office-wide dance sequence. Now, that is a fun mental image!

I really don’t dance that well, though. I am rhythmically challenged. But, I do enjoy problem solving. Which got me thinking. When we feel most overwhelmed with life, most squeezed, most tired, and most at our wits end, I think we’ve forgotten that there may be other solutions. We may not like them, and we may have to hurry up and wait.

Emotionally charged people, exhaustion, changes in law and policy – they all have a way of putting blinders on our thoughts so we are left feeling hopeless – left seeing a result we don’t like, but unable to move on to another approach.

The next time you have the thought that you aren’t able to push back, take a deep breath, and come right out of that box kicking.