Those Four Little Words... TBT (poem originally posted on 11/21/10)

I wrote this a while back after the first time Daniel sass-mouthed me.  

A Mother's Love...

He looks at me with those gorgeous blue eyes

The ones I fell in love with

As I held him, newly born and smelling sweet
And he says to me disgustedly,
“Why should I clean my room?”

Wwwwhhhhhyyyyy….?
My eyes roll back into my head so far I fear I will be blinded by the nerve of this precious child.

Why should you clean your room?
You should clean your room because I carried you INSIDE my body for 9 long months
Vomiting DAILY for 6 of those.
Before laboring without drugs for 24 hours fearing that an epidural would do harm to your dear brain..
After which you screamed for 6 weeks straight.
And spit up for 30

You should clean your room because I wiped up YOUR s*@#, YOUR vomit, YOUR snot….
I cleaned the messes you made every day, whether I liked it or not…

I did your laundry,
Cut your fingernails
Held you when you were scared
Told you I loved you when no one else cared.
I sang to you and stroked your hair.
told you I would always always be there…
And I meant it.  Still do.

I read to you every night.
Held you very very tight…

Taught you how to make friends
And how to keep them
Cried when you cried from pain
Kept you going again and again….

I quit my job, which I loved because I loved you more
Held my head high when you threw a temper tantrum in the department store…
Even though I have never ever been more embarrassed
in my entire life.

I did my best to teach you courage, honesty, truth
Forgiveness and kindness and wisdom in youth…

You should clean your room because
I have tried to do what’s best for you every single day of your life.
So when I say, “It’s time to clean your room.”
It’s time to clean your effing room.

And you’ll do it because I said so.


Then I thought about it when I was pray/whine/grumbling to God while trying to get out of the door on time this morning... Whhhhhhhyyyyyy does it have to be so stinkin difficult to leave the stinkin house?!  Whhhhhyyyy can't they just listen to me?!  Whhhhhhhyyy is there so much stuff and so many delays?  Why is everything about being a parent so hard?  Why do I have to do all of the things?  Why do I have to do the laundrying, dishing, cleaning, cooking, poop-cleaning, vomit-catching, and the pick-things-up-a-million-times-ing...?

And I wonder if maybe God's up there feeling the same thing I do when one of my kids whines about not getting enough ipad time or throws a fit about eating broccoli or doing homework or cleaning his room...

And maybe I should be spending more time focusing on the fact that I have clothes to clean and fold.  I have food to make the dishes dirty.  I have kids who poop and vomit because their immune systems are working properly.  Our family has things that need to be picked up a million times...

And maybe God, like my mother, has four little words for me in times like these: because I said so.

Being a parent is hard because God says so.  And maybe I should trust the fact that He, you know, made the universe and aligned everything just so I could be a mom and live that dream... among other things.  Cause, you know, getting 4 sets of socks and shoes on and lunches packed and kids pottied, etc. is sooo much harder than like running the whole universe and stuff.

Guess I was wrong when I told myself I would "never tell my kids 'because I said so.'"

It's actually a really good reason to do something when the one saying it is someone who really really loves you and wants what's best for you.


Wait. What am I Doing?

So about a week ago, Jen Hatmaker tweeted, "Join My For the Love  Launch Team!" So I applied. Then I had an emergency appendectomy.  Then while I was hopped up on pain meds, trying not to laugh or cough, I got an email that said, "You are on Jen Hatmaker's Launch Team!"  And I said, "cool. wow.  that's exciting.  I don't know what this says I should be doing now, but I'll do that when I...zzzzzzzzzz..."

I went back to that email a couple of days later.  It said, "Join the Launch Team Facebook Page."  So I did.  And then I looked at the posts.  And they, well, resembled the first half of Jessie Spano's infamous freakout on Saved by the Bell. "I'm so excited! I'm so excited!!!"  While my thoughts were more representing the latter half, "I'm so... scared!"

And Mean Voice in my head said, "What the what have you gotten yourself into?!  And you're already behind!  These girls sound like they all know each other, and you missed two days because of this freak surgery, and they probably know why they are on the launch team and what a launch team does and is supposed to do and you don't know any of that.  You just thought, "cool.  free early copy of book from super cool author whose words I love."  And you applied.  You don't belong here.  Why did you do this?  You don't belong here.  All of these people are smarter than you, thinner than you, prettier than you, better moms than you are, have more money, cuter clothes, bigger houses, more writing/blogging/tweeting experience than you have... Quit!  Quit Now!  You will never be good enough to be on Jen Hatmaker's Launch Team!  Why in the world did you think you should even apply?

And then Nice Voice in my head said, "Emma, these other girls did the same thing you did.  They applied.  Jen said she wanted, "her people,"  people who read her books, and know how to use facebook, pinterest, and twitter.  You do those things.  You are just like these other women. You are excited too. You are the same.  You are the same."

So Mean Voice said, "Noooo!  You're behind!  These other people have read the whole thing already! Plus, you want to be different!  You want to stand out!  You want to be unique and lovable!"

And Nice Voice said, "Will you read the whole thing?  Remember that whole 10 page talk you wrote about not measuring yourself against other people?  Remember that whole Bible thing about letting a hand be a hand and a foot be a foot?  This launch team is like that.  Be what God made you.  Let the other ladies be what God made them."

And then, as I try to do as much as humanly possible, I agreed with nice voice.  I am the same.  I will read it.  I am a people who reads books, uses facebook, twitter, and pinterest.  I am just like these other women.  I am unique and lovable.  I am excited too. I  belong here.  It is not too late.  I am enough. And they are enough.  They are beautiful eyes and mouths and cheeks and ears and elbows and hands, and I am a beautiful foot.

This true story Mean Voice/Nice Voice conversation in my head had me noticing a connection:  I always think other people know each other and are old friends when I come into a group knowing no one.  Also, I always think people who have fun without me don't like me or think I don't belong with them.  Here's the thing:  It's not true.  None of it is true.

There are always people who feel "on the fringe" of a group, no matter how long the group has known each other.  And people are very good at pretending to fit in. And, I do fun things without all of my friends.  I am not trying to make my other friends feel left out.  I like them.  I want them IN my life, which is why we are friends.    So I must remind Nice Voice to remind me that I am not alone, and that I can do fun things with cool people I like, even if I don't know them or what I'm doing yet.

So here I go.  Remind me to be nice to myself and others, Nice Voice.

I Have an R.O.U.S. and Enough.

So, the boys and I returned from Spring Training to find the van with a flat tire.  It was good times helping a kind stranger change my flat tire in the cold while the boys played on their ipads and the toddler blew out his diaper in the middle of the parking lot at the airport.  I was in for more good times when I carried Mt. Laundry down to the basement and found this:

After playing a quick game of "Critter or Kevin?" A deep swelling Get.Out.Of.The.Basement.Now feeling took hold of me and I bravely ran up the stairs, squirmed very bravely and exclaimed, "Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ewwwwwwwww!!!"  

And then I called my husband.  And he told me to call an exterminator, but maybe ask our AMAZING AWESOME neighbor who can help with any home problem ever invented first.  So I did, and he said, "I think you have a squirrel.  I've got a live trap I can bring over after work."

And I tell my son, "Honey, we have an animal in our basement.  I don't know what it is, but it is bigger than a mouse."

To which he replies wide-eyed, "Is it a bear?"

Which makes me laugh and that helps.  So I say, "Bigger than a mouse, smaller than a bear."

So after work my neighbor brings over a) my flat tire that he fixed b) a live trap, and c) says, let's see if we can find where the little guy is getting in and out, and we found this in the wall of my basement:

Seeing as at least one of my children could probably fit through that hole, "little guy," doesn't quite describe whatever was in my basement chewing on our pool noodles.  We've got ourselves an old-fashioned R.O.U.S.  (Rodent Of Unusual Size).  So Awesome Neighbor says, get an apple and some peanut butter, and we'll set the trap.  So as I'm cutting the apple, I'm thinking, I've never purposely fed an R.O.U.S before.  Should I put the peanut butter right on the apple?  Should I put it on a plate? How does an R.O.U.S like his apples?  Sliced?  Halved? Whole?  With the peanut butter on the side for dipping?  

Ultimately I decided on spreading the peanut butter on the halved apple.  Then we put it in the live trap like this:

And this is where I am.  Waiting for this bigger-than-a-mouse-smaller-than-a-bear Squircoon thing to come back to a 4 star dining experience and get trapped in this box so he can Get. Out. Of. My. House. And. Stay. Out.  

While I'm waiting, I read the end of Quitter,  a book about working on your dream job without quitting your day job, by Jon Acuff.  He says that in order to find "enough" when attempting to live our dream, we must define enough so that we don't fall victim to what Pat Riley calls the "Disease of More."  Because we "never reach enough when we chase it."  "You only find enough when you tell enough where to be found."  

And he's mostly right.  We don't reach enough when we chase it.  And we do only find enough when we know where enough is found.  I think he left out two things though: 1. God tells us where enough is.  2.  Enough is always exactly where we are.  

Right now, waiting on this rodent, my life is enough.  I have enough.  I am enough.  Is it everything I want?  Nope.  Is it everything I need.  Yep.  Our home is still warm.  There is no eminent danger to anyone in the house.   

And strangely, where I am in this R.O.U.S. experience is a lot like recognizing enough, being content while simultaneously attempting to live out the dreams that God has given me.  

If I focus on what hasn't been done and what is wrong with my current situation, I become crippled with fear and anxiety.  I become paralyzed.  There is no forward motion. I remain stagnant.  My whole life stops.  

If I try to fix everything all at once, patch the holes and create an impenetrable barrier without addressing what has already happened, making sure there are no critters left in my basement, I could wind up with a dead, bloated, stinky carcass in my crawlspace. 

It's interesting, this enough-ness.  If I run after it, it just gets bigger and bigger and bigger.  If I fear that I will never have it, a looming emptiness is behind me, around me, above me.  I believe I have nothing.  I can do nothing.  

I must say, "This is what I have.  This is what I am.  And it is enough.  I am enough.  What I have and who I am are going this way."  And then I must go that way.  And as I go, who I am and what I have will change.  Even though what I have may become more or less, it will always be enough.  And who I am will always be enough, even if what I have and who I am includes an R.O.U.S. in my basement.

  

Really Real Love

On December 1^st of 2001, I wrote this poem in a journal entry.  I was on my way over to my now husband, then almost ex-boyfriend’s place.  He was forcing me to meet his brother and sister.  I didn’t want to.  It never occurred to him that “meeting the family” might be scary to me or that it might be too soon in our relationship for that…

Tonight I will change.

I will pretend with a

Smile

and the clothes and

the hair—

pretend that there’s

more

than what’s really there.

I will dress the part

And play the role

I will act like it’s mine—

Whose heart that he stole.

so stunning is that performance

I may even convince myself

that I am that woman everyone else sees

Beautiful and strong as

She stands—

The woman he doesn’t really want

And who I can’t be—

The woman who looks at him,

Holding his hand—

The woman who I wish I could be?

The woman that

I am.

We broke up the next day…  For no real reason other than I wanted to live in the mountains/woods, and he loved the city and wanted to live there.  I thought we were doomed!  I could never live in New York City.  Yes, that would be a thorn in our side later, but in the scheme of things, it seems silly in retrospect.

Then, just after we met up again in Los Angeles, where he was living at the time, and we realized we were still in love, on November 26^th of 2003—almost exactly 2 years later, I wrote this:

“I realized/remembered tonight that I really am a ‘shapeshifter.’ I change myself a lot to be what other people want me to be.  I fool them into loving me by becoming what they want and what I’m really afraid of is that he will see that I’m really not the woman he thinks I am because I don’t really know what I am because all that I am is what everyone else wants me to be and I’m afraid of what we will find out if he gets that close to me to know me and see the real me.”

The thing that scared me about Jeff was not that he wanted to live in the city.  It was not that he was too different from me or that we wanted different things… It was that he was willing to love me unconditionally.  He was willing to know me just as I was.  He was willing to hear my story and accept the truth.  And he wanted the REAL version, not some made-up one that I turned into whenever he was around.  And that just didn’t seem right.  It seemed like all of the other guys had their agendas (like I did); they wanted a certain kind of girl… It was my specialty for awhile, study what they wanted, be that for a little while.  When the pressure to pretend became too much, I would bail.  “Sorry.  I know you think I’m your dream girl.  Just kidding!  I’m totally not that girl.  Oops.  No really.  I’m sorry.  I do feel bad.  I just don’t know any other way.  See you later… or not.”  Jeff didn’t have an  agenda.  Just, “Hey.  I like you.  I’m looking for a wife.  Wanna tell me everything about the real you?” 

I never asked him to love me.  As a matter of fact, I threw every reason at him not to love me, but he just loved me anyway.  

It was like he had a direct line to God and he had been asking for God to send him someone, a perfect match, a beautiful, quiet, meek, good Christian woman to be his soul mate.

So, God looked down at this scared, lonely, messed-up, looking-for-approval-from-any-man, wounded, broken up, brazen, bold, shape-shifting puzzle piece of a heathen called me, pointed and said, “That’s her.”

And Jeff said, “Uh, her?  Are you sure, God?”

And God said, “I AM God, aren’t I?”

And Jeff said, “Okay.  I’m in.  She’s the one.  I’ll love her forever no matter what she does or who she believes she is.  I will believe she is who YOU say she is.”

And so he did.

And I told him not to. Because I didn’t believe he could love me like I am.

But he did anyway.

I'm really glad he did, because if he hadn't, I never would've really known how to know and love the real him.

I think that’s how God loves us.  Like He looks down and says, “You.  I love you.  Lonely, broken, scared, messed-up you.”

And we say, “Me?  You must be pointing to someone else.  You must be mistaken.  I am not nearly enough for You to love me.”

And He says, “I AM God, aren’t I?”

And after we protest and tell Him how we aren’t good enough, eventually, we say, “Okay.  I’m in.  If you're willing to know and love the real me, I'm willing to know and love the real You."

Sorry, Fun Mommy, You Had to Die.

So a while back, I killed Fun Mommy.  You know, "Fun Mommy,"  the one who says, "We are going to do this awesome thing!  It's going to be so much fun, and the kids are going to think they have the coolest mom ever!  Let's go sledding, hiking, boating, to an amusement park, to the aquarium..."

This happened about a year ago on one of those amazingly gorgeous mornings when you wake up to freshly fallen snow, and as the sun comes up it shines through the snowy trees and it just seems magical. Nostalgic Fun Mommy remembers sledding on days like this as a really huge super cool thing and decides that there is enough time to go sledding before afternoon kindergarten starts.

So we look everywhere for matching mittens, 3 pairs of snow pants, boots that fit, scarves, hats… And as this is happening, my frustration level is like one of those applause meter arrows that starts out pointing to “low,” and with every lost mitten, it moves closer and closer to Holy Crap, she’s gonna blow.  So I’ve managed to get one dressed in a full snowsuit, and I’m attempting to get the second one dressed, and you know the drill, right?  “Mooommmy, I’m hot, and I have to go to the bathroom.”  “DAAANNY!  Stop stepping on my mitten!” “ Mommy, Nolan won’t do what I’m saying!” “Danny, You’re being mean!” Meanwhile, the baby is running away every time I attempt to put an article of clothing on him, so he has snowpants and one boot on, and I’m chasing him around the house… I look up at the clock to discover that it is, 11am.  And we are just finally getting out the door.  We get in the garage to get the sled, and Danny, sweet, precious child that he is, says, “Mooommmy, do we HAVE to go sledding?”  And the arrow has gone off the chart.  Fun Mommy blows up.

Ugh!  Do we HAVE to go sledding?!  Yes we have to go sledding!  Did you not just witness how difficult it was to get all of that crap on to get out the door?!  YES WE HAVE TO GO SLEDDING!  IT’S GOING TO BE AMAZING!!!  AND YOU ARE GOING TO LOVE IT AND HAVE FUN WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT!  NOW GET.IN.THE.SLED. 

So, the baby falls in the snow; he’s crying.  I just yelled at Danny; he’s crying.  And kicking the snow.  And pouting.  And not cooperating with anything I’m trying to do.  Nolan is just standing there, waiting to get yelled at or go sledding or… who knows what.

We have 25 minutes to sled and make the 10 minute walk to school.  I do my best to shove the arrow back towards low, put on my fake “Fun Mommy” face, so I attempt to drag them towards the park, but I am not nearly as strong as I think I am, and I can only manage dragging the baby in the sled who is screaming his head off because those crappy mittens are already covered in ice and probably making his hands colder than if he had no mittens.  So, we make it to the park, and I push them down the hill, not recognizing that there’s a cement drainage pipe at the bottom that I can’t see because it’s covered in snow… So they fall off of that and land with a bang on their tailbones.

“Mommy!  Why did you push us down that hill?!  That really hurt!  I hate sledding.  Why are you making us do this?!”

Yep.  You’re right.  We’re done.  Let’s just go to school.  I am never trying to be Fun Mommy again.   Fun Mommy is dead.  You will never see her again.  You will now only have mommy that does what needs to be done.  Daddy can do all of the fun stuff.  I can't take the whining and protesting that they don't even want to do anything fun anyway, then I  ruin anything that I ever try to do that’s remotely “fun.”  I yell and scream and everyone always ends up crying every time I try to do anything fun.  There.Will.Be.No.More.Fun Mommy.

Why did I have to kill Fun Mommy?  Expectations.

When I try to be "Fun Mommy," I expect the kids to stop being kids.  And I expect them to stop being themselves.  And I expect everyone to enjoy whatever activity I have chosen for them because it is a kid-friendly activity because it has to be.  And I expect my temper to disappear because we are doing something fun that the whole family will enjoy!

When I killed Fun Mommy, I really just killed those completely unrealistic expectations... or at least tried to kill them... They're remarkably persistent.

So, now I try to remember that the kids are still kids.  And kids are whiny, needy, and annoying.  I love them, but let's be real.  I expect Danny to fight leaving the house... because he ALWAYS fights leaving the house unless we are going across the country to Grandma's or to a friend's house.  It's just how Danny is.  He likes to be at home, and if he has to leave home, he will fight it.  If Nolan can't do something, he will cry.  He just will.  And Kevin will run away.  And then run away again.  He will think I am done with his coat, diaper, shoes, anything if I stop touching him for a half a second to pick up the diaper or wipes or... and run away.

I teach my children that while hiking might not be their favorite thing to do, Mommy needs to do it in nearly the same way she needs to bathe.  If she doesn't, you will not want to be around her.  And when you love someone, you open-mindedly tolerate your not-so-favorite activity because you love that person.

And I give myself grace when I lose it at my children.  Yes, it may take me an hour and a half's worth of deep breaths, but afterwards, I remind myself that everyone loses it.  Everyone makes mistakes, and then I apologize to whoever I screamed at.

And then my 7 year-old surprises me with his wisdom by saying, "Mommy, I think you should pray about your yelling.  Maybe that would help."  And I do, and it does.

It's funny.  Fun Mommy may be gone, but Regular Mommy can have more fun now without all of these expectations.

Sidelines Are Where It's At.

I got an email from Donald Miller yesterday.  Not like a real email from him, like one that said something along the lines of, "I have a new book coming out tomorrow, order it now and I'll give you free stuff."  It would be super cool to get a real email from him since he's one of my biggest writing heroes, and I want to be like him when I grow up, but that's not the point.  The point is that because I've read every book he's published, I feel like I know him.  I feel like he's my friend.

It IS a weird friendship to be sure.  More like a strange one-sided pen-pal relationship where he keeps writing, and I think, "Yeah!  Me too, Don.  I never thought about it like that, Don."

And now he has a new book out called, Scary Close.  I haven't read it yet because it just came out today, and I, of course, am not his ACTUAL friend, so he did not give me an advanced copy.  (Come on, Don!  We go way back!)  But from what I gather, it's about intimacy and belonging: things he's been chasing after and running away from since his first book.  He's been telling stories of yearning to belong, yearning to be close, yearning for a family.  He's been telling MY story.

It feels like this book is big for him, like he has finally figured out so many things he struggled with for so long.  It feels like... he has arrived.

It is as though he has been running this crazy more-intense-than-an-iron-man race where he has invited me to come watch.  Sometimes he's crying in the first aide tent nursing his wounds, other times he's pushing to the front of the pack with a smile on his face.  Regardless, I show up on these different legs of his journey to stand and wave and clap and allow my eyes to fill with tears as my "friend" crosses the finish line, as he runs all sweaty into the arms of his-- I'm sure very patient and lovely wife while God smiles and says, "Atta boy, Don!"

And while it feels very much like an ending, I know this is just where one race is ending and another is beginning for him, but in every one of his books, I feel like one of many many people standing on the sidelines cheering and wooohooing him towards that next step.

And I want to be like that for every important person in my life.  I want to be the person that always shows up, over and over and over again, in the rain or desert heat... who by just standing there says, "What you're doing is really hard but really worth it, and I believe in you.  I love you whether you're the first to finish or the last and no matter whether you're crying and hyperventilating on the side of the road or smiling out in front of all the other runners, I'll be here.  I'll show up for you."

I want to be that for my kids, my husband, my friends.

But most of the time, I'm more like the obnoxious fan flailing and shouting, "Go faster! Turn here, you moron!  Why on earth would you do that?!"

This is not great parenting or friendshipping or wifing.

These people in my life are running a REALLY hard race, and the race itself has enough hardships and pitfalls and obstacles without having to listen to someone who claims to be supportive tell them how to run a race they only think they know something about... Because I.DON'T.KNOW. their race.  I might know some of it, but I don't REALLY know.

At the same time, I am running my very own race too.  I am pushing hard and crying in the first aide tent, nursing blisters and aching joints-- but when I look over on the sidelines and see my kids, my husband, my friends, my family clapping and woohooing, their eyes welling up with tears of pride at how far I've come, I can push forward.  I can sleep less and power through the stormy days.

But if I'm only running my own race and I'm never on the sidelines, I miss out on something just as cool as accomplishing my own dreams.  When I'm a fan/coach/support staff, I show up.  I watch.  I cheer.  And I let people I care about run their own races.  And as much as I would LOVE to run those races for them, to not watch the tears and the blisters, I must let them run their own races.

My kids, my husband, my friends, they all have their own race to run.  I have my own race to run.  I must both allow them to run their own race... and allow myself to run my own race.  I can't give up on my race or take their race from them.  We will sometimes merge paths and run together, and sometimes I'll pause my race to cheer on my husband or friends or kids.  And sometimes they'll pause their race to cheer me on.

I've been wasting a lot of time being a selfish racer and a bitter washed-up has-been fan lately.  It's time to lace up my shoes and run with my people, but it's also time to recognize the opportunities on the sidelines.  Because supporting someone when they accomplish their dream is just as amazing as surprising yourself by actually accomplishing your own.

Keep running, friends.  Keep on running.

Measuring Stick

Measuring Stick

Here's a little Throw-back Thursday for you all... Inspired by the talk I gave this morning... So here's the blog (from http://mytreesugly.blogspot.com/) that inspired me to dig deeper in today's talk;-) Enjoy!

There is a height chart at the door of Daniel's preschool, and every time we drop Daniel off and pick him up, Nolan has to measure himself.  EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.  Now, I am not sure if it is because I say, "Wow, look how big you are!" each time he measures himself, or if it is because there is just something in us that needs to measure ourselves.

If it's a combination of the two, then that brings up something interesting.  We need to measure ourselves in order to be given the reassurance that we are growing in the right direction.  Now, I've noticed that for some people, it doesn't necessarily matter if we get an external "Look how big you are!"  But we do need to know where we stand.  I do.  I need to know where I am with everything.  Don't you?

I find myself doing the same thing Nolan does at Daniel's preschool.  Every day I assess my home.  Failure.  Ugly window treatments.  Clutter.  Laundry all over the house not put away.  Dishes in the sink.  Not put away.  Goobers and crumbs on the floor.  Toys.  Toys.  Toys... with no place to go.  You are on the very bottom of the "beautiful home" measuring stick, Emily.

I find myself doing this with motherhood.  Daniel was screaming at and beating up Nolan yesterday after Jeff left for work.  When his time out ended and I asked him what was going on, if he was sad because Daddy was gone, he started to cry and said this, "I am sad because I miss Daddy and it makes me feel better to be mean to Nolan."   Talk about a measuring stick.  Talk about my childhood.  I am sure I am to blame for this.

What a weird thing sibling rivalry is too... It's all about establishing a pecking order.  Who is the favorite?  Who is the best at this?  Who is better at that?  Amazing how it develops our personalities and puts up roadblocks for things.  Amazing how there exists a measuring stick there too.

The worst thing about operating with a need for a measuring stick is that often I use other people's comments to be my measuring stick.  Someone gives me a compliment on my shoes, eyes, smile, and suddenly I'm a few notches up on the physical attractiveness measuring stick.

I don't take the time to work out for a week.  I look in the mirror and notice that I have been wearing sweats all week, trying to look like I'm going to work out, but really just wind up looking like a slobby SAHM who has let herself go...  6 notches down on the physical attractiveness measuring stick.

I conduct a training.  Something intelligent somehow comes out of my mouth during the presentation.  A teacher writes down a comment about how great I am as a presenter.  Way up on the measuring stick...

A teacher makes a comment about how I made them feel excluded from the conversation or how the curriculum isn't this or isn't that (something I don't actually have a lot of control over..) but still... WAY down on the measuring stick.

And one part of the problem is that people are a horrible measuring stick.  People are emotional and irrational sometimes.  Not to mention that our opinions are all very different about what is funny or clever or inspirational.   Our expectations of each other are all over the place.  Not to mention that we can't define what makes a good_________, but we sure do judge each other when we think someone else is a bad_________.  Right?

I can't always put into words what makes a good writer, good mother, good wife, good cook, good friend, good teacher, good presenter, and I can't think of myself as a good--any of those things.  Unless someone else says that I am a good_________.  And  I can only try for a repeat performance when other people say, "Wow, you make great carrot soup."  or "I really enjoyed your blog about________ the other day."  And if someone says something good about my writing or my cooking, I keep cooking.  I keep writing.  I keep the things that push me up on the invisible measuring stick.  I don't even attempt the things that push me down on that same invisible measuring stick.  And yet, there are voices in my head pushing me down on that measuring stick.  I don't need anyone else to push me down.  I put myself there...

So... how come I can't just create my own measuring stick for myself and stop relying on what others say or seem to think?

Because I'm my own worst critic?
Because I have completely unrealistic expectations of myself and of others?
Because I'm completely unreliable with what I deem as good writing, good mothering, good... based on my feelings of the day?

How come I can't just get rid of the measuring stick?

How come others can't just raise my stats on the measuring stick?
How come I don't just raise others' stats on their measuring sticks?

I keep trying to do that.  I keep trying to write little notes or say the good things I see in people to raise their invisible measuring stick status.

But then I get in a bad mood.  No one raises my measuring stick status.  I start new birth control and my hormones go crazy and I hate my life.  I scream at my kids and send my own measuring stick status into the toilet.  I get so wrapped up in my own failing plummeting invisible measuring stick status that I stop looking for others' good things to raise them up, and I look for their crap to push them down.  Or I push myself down because I forget to look for their good.  And...

Again, I am an unreliable measuring stick.  What if I had a reliable measuring stick that didn't change?  What if that reliable measuring stick loved me and treasured me despite all of the ways I don't measure up?

Huh... guess I do.  What if I actually accepted at trusted that?