What I wish I could say {Just Write}

If I had it to do over again, I would blog anonymously.

Not even because I care what people think, really. And by people of course I mean women – men couldn’t care less what I say or how I say it. But women? Women are a different animal entirely.

And I find this restrictive.

I can no longer say what I think, because it will be analyzed and internalized and occasionally held against even my young daughters. I have to weigh words very carefully, because there is this presumption that there’s always a deeper, hidden meaning, rather than just taking words at face value.  For someone who is accustomed to calling a spade a spade, these are difficult waters to navigate. And for someone who has always used writing as an outlet, this has removed both the pleasure and the purity of my writing.

I feel as if I can only share the happy shiny moments of our lives, and that’s not a very realistic picture to paint.

I wish I could write about our struggle with the sneaky girl who my daughters describe as being more concerned about her popularity than anything else, and how alarming it is to me that this behavior starts at such a young age. Or the pain of seeing a child you knew and loved turn into someone you don’t even recognize, and how you can’t do anything about it because it’s not even your own child.

I’d like to rail against parents who are oblivious to their children’s flaws, and the damage that this head-in-the-sand parenting does to the rest of the world – or at least the student body.

I want to ask you how you survive the tweens, let alone the teens, because right now I’m not sure I have the strength. Or enough wine.

I’d like to tell you how crazy it makes me when these people I know spout their pop psychology my direction, and how hard I laughed inside the time I randomly asked one, mid-lecture, if she’d ever read the blog People I Want to Punch in the Throat. [Warning: adult language within] She completely missed my humor.

I wish I could write through the heartache of my daughter learning she was excluded from something by a girl she thought was a very good friend – the way she sobbed for an hour and asked me why she wasn’t good enough. The way I held her and told her that her worth would never be determined by anyone else, and the way she looked at me with huge, sad eyes, completely unbelieving.

I’d like to ask for your thoughts on organized religion and denominations. I’m struggling with concerns and frustrated with some things on a macro level, but I’ve learned from experience that when you put it in writing, people interpret it on a micro level…so I can’t. And that’s even more frustrating.

The easy answer would be just to write it anyway, but I’ve learned firsthand that this just invites questions and assumptions and chatter. I’ve been very taken aback by people reading my blog and then questioning me about it when I see them – was that written about them, why did I say that, what does this mean?

Sigh.

And this is the trouble with women to begin with. I’m not shy. If I have something to say to someone, I will say it. But be warned, I’m used to talking to men, where I can say what I please without need to carefully weigh words first. I don’t use flowery language. I don’t really sugar coat. I’m not looking to change that, either.

And if I don’t say it, it’s because there’s nothing that needs to be said. If I write something, I’m writing. Period.

Writing. Thinking. Processing. Not sending out subtle messages – that’s a sneaky, girl thing, and I don’t play those games. {It’s telling when others’ thoughts go there, though}

So I’m not writing here much. Not because I don’t have happy shiny moments to share, but because that’s not all that I have. We are so much more than craft projects and school awards and book reviews, and if we can’t be us, if I can’t be me – all of me – then I’m not sure I want to be here at all.

{Just Write}

Annabelle {Just Write}

What I remember about being almost ten is that it isn’t easy. That it stings when people laugh about your problems, and tell you how great and easy it is to be a kid, because sometimes it doesn’t feel great at all. Sometimes it hurts and it feels very, very hard, and I was grateful to have a mom that understood that. I remember thinking that I wanted to be that same kind of mom one day and I hope that I am baby girl, because she was a great one.

I remember feelings that were big and hard to control, and I remember feeling so helpless and miserable when I couldn’t. I remember telling my mom that I felt like I would never fit in anywhere. I remember almost ten being tough. Unfortunately, completely 10 is tough too…and 11. In fact, let’s not even think about how long your road will be bumpy, because it’s intimidating – for you and me both.

Let’s just think of all the wonderful things that not quite 10 brings, and snuggle here together with a good book. I love that you still love to snuggle with me, and I know these sweet days are numbered. I count them each one as precious, sweet girl – every little one matters.

I kiss your head and drink in the sweet smell of your hair, your delicate features, your slight frame that still curls perfectly into my lap, and I squeeze a little tighter. I think of how foolish I feel trying to give you advice – you who are wise beyond your years. You who has taught me so much. You who gives such good counsel to everyone. I often feel the advice should flow the other way, and I’ve actually asked myself what you would say or do in certain situations.

That’s one comfort in all these changes – I know who you are, beautiful girl, and most importantly you know who you are, too. I love that about you.

I worry less about you. I can’t put finger on exactly what it is, but you’ve always needed me less than your sisters do. It’s this quality you have – independent, sure, but something more, too. I just instinctively know that you’re going to be okay.You make your own way in life, sure and confident. You’re not afraid to challenge anyone – even a grown up, even a teacher, even a stranger – when you know you’re right. And you usually are right. Little twerp.

You were born with muchness.

Smart and resourceful, bold and brave, unfailingly kind and generous. You are never first in line, never take the biggest piece, never choose your friends based on popularity…and more often than not, based on exactly the opposite.  You are friend to the friendless, voice for the meek, champion of all that is good and pure and right in your world. Your heart moves me to tears with regularity, and your momma is not a crier. The beauty that is you, my precious, precious girl – it comes from deep within. Loves shines from you.

I wish I knew how you did it, so I could do it too.

Everything that is you, dear child, is something I love. Even the sticky parts. Even the parts that are hard and the parts that make you nervous. I am right here, loving you through all of them. Always will be.

I know that almost 10 isn’t easy, but trust me baby, you are rocking it.

I wish I could tell you that one day you will look back and realize that, but you probably won’t. It’s just the way we are wired. I could tell you that one day, many years from now, you will realize that almost 10 isn’t nearly as Big and Bad as it once seemed, but that doesn’t really matter when you are There and it Is and it Does, so I won’t say that.

I will just tell you instead that we will survive it together.

That I will always have your back.

That you are blessed with a Father who has it better than I ever could.

That you are a very bright light in what sometimes seems like a very dark world, and while it isn’t always easy, it is always worth it.

And then we will snuggle, while you’ll still let me.

This is a good thing about not-quite-10.

And today, I think that is enough.

My daughter, my son {Just Write}

She doesn’t know how to be a girl.

She says the words and my heart aches, because I don’t know how to be a girl either.

She doesn’t even want to be a girl, and I nod my head in agreement.

I don’t know how to make her hurt go away and so I throw my arms wide and fold her in, her sobs wet and warm against my shoulder, my tears falling heavy on the top her her freshly washed hair. I came to tuck her in and discover instead that we are having a Moment that I won’t ever forget.

‘Why don’t they like me anymore?’ she asks, and I don’t know what to say. ‘Because they are stupid dumb boys,’ I think in my head, but I can’t say the words because I know they suck and they don’t fix anything and I’m sick of mothers blaming their offsprings’ behavior on a penis, so I can’t bring myself to do the same.

Boys are different.

The words run through my head and make me want to scream. As if boyness makes it okay? As if girls are all the same? I am a girl who has nothing in common with the other girls. I am different too.

She is different like me and I love this about her. The son I never had, in a beautiful girl package. And six months ago these boys were her friends. But now. Now. Something is different. Friendship is conditional. Only if there isn’t another boy around.

She said that she feels like they hate her and I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach. I told her that they don’t hate her, and I knew nothing else to say so I stopped. She felt me falter and she looked at me with wide eyes, sincere and sad. I asked her if she wants me to tell them to include her, and she said no. ‘I want them to want me all on their own,’ she said ‘and they don’t anymore. I don’t know why. I don’t know what I did.’

And probably she did nothing but Be A Girl, and my chest tightens because there is no way to fix that. ‘Well you could play with the girls,’ I told her, and her sister was happy to include her, but she was reluctant. I know that feeling – girls are second best. Now she tells me that it makes her sad to be with the girls, because she doesn’t fit in. She’d rather read a book alone than be with the girls.

I know that feeling too.

I’ve never outgrown it, either, that pain of not belonging. The frustration you feel when you have to play with your own kind, and you’re the only one who seems to recognize that Your Own Kind is actually the other kind.

At recess she’s always played football with the boys, but this year her teacher won’t let them play football. She said it’s because someone could get hurt and I feel sad, because what will hurt worse than a playground injury will be the lost year of being One Of Them, an accepted equal on the playing field. A year removed, I wonder if she will still be part of the club. Will she still be comfortable in her skin, able to hold her own with the boys, or will she then feel that she doesn’t belong? I wonder how long we have before the other girls stop feeling indifferent to my tomboy, and start resenting her. Start gossiping. I don’t want her to lose that precious year of childhood, that fearless confidence.

Her Muchness, even amongst the boys.

I’m lost in all these thoughts, the saddest of which is that this is only the beginning of her adolescent angst and after all my years of living, I’m still not wise enough to give her good counsel. I squeeze her tighter and hope it will make up for her pain. It doesn’t, but she loves me anyway. And this is what gets us through tonight. Hurting together, and holding on tight.

Photo Credit: J&G Photography

Linked to Just Write

Where I am now {Just Write}

It’s quiet here. It’s always quiet here now. The silence that I once longed for seems overwhelming now. Too much. Unavoidable.

I turn the TV on but the chipper voices irritate me. ‘Why do the birds go on singing?’ I hum in my best Skeeter Davis imitation, and then that irritates me too.

Grooveshark. It never fails me. Much better.

I think about the friend who introduced me to Grooveshark, and how we don’t talk anymore. Not because there was a fracture, just because life leads people apart sometimes. Second time we’ve been led apart. This makes me sad too, and I decide that it’s a day full of sad and that the whole entire day will be sucky and sad until I get my babies back.

This picture has nothing to do with anything, really, except I’ve always liked it, and it’s when they were all small enough to be with me always, and it was wonderful. Every moment, even the terrible ones. All wonderful.

But that’s irritating. I’m not a wallower.

So I tug on my running shoes and hit the treadmill, ipod cranked loud to drown out the silence, and I vow to push on until I forget the sad.

Twelve minutes later I’m still sad. I wonder what they are doing. I wonder if Annie is absentmindedly sucking her thumb and if she’s going to need braces because she’s nine-and-a-half and she still can’t break the habit when she reads. I wonder if Catie has found a girlfriend in her class, because she so desperately needs a girl and the only kids she knew going in were boys. I wonder if that little twit is making Lilly cry again today. Mean kid who told her that her handwriting is messy and her hair doesn’t look pretty. I feel angry again and for the hundreth time I remind myself that it is not acceptable for me to kick a five year old and I pray for her instead, the guilty prayer of a mother whose first instinct was to kick a kindergartener.

I have a long way to go.

Linking up with Just Write today, because it seems like everyone I know is doing it and I was never a follower when I was younger and it was socially acceptable so I’m mumble-mumble years late and now I wanna jump off the bridge too.