Comfortably Ever After

If you could put any three people in a room together (along with yourself), who would they be and why?

This is a conversation that I recently listened to but did not participate in, primarily because at the time I was busy dying of pneumonia and completely unconcerned with anything other than the small chuck of lung I’d just coughed up.  The responses were interesting and varied -

James Garrison, Lee Harvey Oswald, and Jackie O ['she had to know something!']

Abe Lincoln, Ronald Reagan, and Barack Obama

Barbra Streisand, Liza Minnelli, Bette Midler

Yes, there was a gay man in on this conversation, and no, he didn’t pick the three you’re thinking.

Later, as I lay on the sofa barely clinging to life, I thought about this question and realized that as much as I might enjoy talking to these people individually [well ok, some of these people], the group convo didn’t really interest me.

Yesterday, I realized what three people I’d like to bring together. None famous – yet, anyway. None rich and powerful. Just three dear friends that have never met, but need each other.

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Bob is a friend I’ve had for more than half of my life, and I love him dearly. He’s in his late 30′s, good job, relatively debt-free, and a real catch. He’s good looking, he’s smart, he’s funny… and he might just marry a woman for all the wrong reasons. When he told me a few weeks ago that he was thinking of proposing I was stunned. We’d just talked about how she was ‘fine’. Comfortable. Easy to be around. You know, all the ‘good enough for right now’ phrases you could use to describe someone you’d date for a while, until someone better came along.

Bob would tell you that he doesn’t care about love – he’s perfectly content to fly solo. He’s not interested in romance. He’s practical, and he doesn’t get emotional – he makes decisions with his head. I disagree. If Bob were really happy on his own and he didn’t care about love, he wouldn’t be proposing. He’d be hanging out.

Instead, he’s willing to live comfortably ever after with a woman who is… ‘nice’.

And there’s a lot to be said about companionship, for sure. But a marriage that is solely based on it? I wish he could talk to Jen.

Jen is currently living in that ‘comfortable’ state, having married her college boyfriend when it was time to get married. He was nice enough, everyone expected it, she really did want to marry and have kids… So 15 years later, Jen has the kids… and a roommate.

They live separate lives, which is understandable since they had no passion to connect them in the first place. They even watch tv in separate rooms, so you can imagine where they’re sleeping. They’re like ships passing in the night, with nothing more to say to one another than information exchange.

‘Sam got an A on his history test’

‘Kelly needs to be picked up from dance at 4′

‘Did you pay the water bill?’

All of their time is spent separately, and Jen deeply regrets her decision to settle for ‘good enough’. She tells me there is no pain more deep than being lonely when you’re not alone. And I’d imagine her husband might feel the same… if he cared enough to talk about it. Whereas she is devastated and wants to make her marriage better, he is fine with what they have, miserable or not. He doesn’t care enough to work on improving it, and he shows no signs of leaving. So there they are… stuck.

I wish Jen could talk to Lisa, who has been there and done that. She too once married Mr. Right-on-Paper, only to find out several years and 2 kids down the road that what’s right on paper doesn’t translate well to what works in life. Mr. Right started feeling very wrong, especially after he left her and the kids for someone ‘better’. [No surprise, that someone better has been replaced a couple of times over by now]

Lisa was destroyed. A twenty-something young woman with 2 small children, a ‘career’ as a stay-at-home mom, and a sudden need to be the sole support for 3 people…she was overwhelmed. Terrified. And absolutely certain that the rest of her life would suck.

But God had another plan for Lisa, and along came Bill. A man who loved her and her children as if they were his own. A man who treated her like a princess, who adored her every quirk, who loved her in a deep and meaningful way. She was stunned to know that men like this even existed, and as the cliched song goes, she thanked God for the broken road it took to get her there. Lisa and Bill married of course, and have added two more children (and a cat) to their brood, and today have one of the happiest, most solid marriages I have ever seen.

Three people. One similar decision.

I wish they could talk to one another and really hear. Really listen.

But that rarely happens, right? We have our reasons and we justify them.

It’s good to marry for practical reasons and not passionate ones, because passion fades!

I’m 38 years old and I want to get married. I want to have kids. It’s now or never!

Of course we won’t always have intense feelings – that’s normal! Comfortable is a good thing!

Until it isn’t.

Oh Bob.

I wish you could understand that once hindsight becomes 20/20, it’s too late.

I wish you could feel what it’s like to walk in Jen’s shoes.

I wish you knew how incredibly rare it is to find an ending like Lisa’s.

Comfortable doesn’t cut it, my friend.

I hope you see that before it’s too late.

Don’t settle.

You deserve more… and so does she.

Recovery

It is said that life is a series of peaks and valleys.  Writer Spencer Johnson takes this a step farther and speaks of plateaus, as well.

“Like a healthy heartbeat, your personal Peaks and Valleys are an essential part of a normal, healthy life. So are the Plateaus, if they are times of healthy rest when you take stock of what is happening and pause to think about what to do next. Peaks and Valleys are not just the good and bad times that happen to you. They are also how you feel inside and respond to outside events.”

I am on such a  plateau in life right now.  It’s a low one.

Nothing horrible is happening, but there have been many setbacks in life.

My spirit is not disheartened, exactly…but it’s tired. Exhausted.

In need of rest, both physical and mental. And emotional too, I suppose.

I cried last Sunday, which is very unlike me.  I haven’t decided yet if that is a good or a bad thing.

And so today I realized that I am in recovery.  Trying to find the new normal.

~ Recovering from family issues which have shaken everything I believed to be true.

~Recovering from my husband’s diagnosis, which changed everything about the present and greatly shapes the future.

~Recovering from the financial sting of said diagnosis.

Sting sounds so tiny, doesn’t it? Gun shot? Cannon ball?  The financial atomic bomb?

~Recovering from the loss of a life planned.

That one is a life-long recovery, I’ve learned. As my dad would say, “If you want to make God laugh tell Him your plans.”

~Recovering from a torn calf muscle, and grateful to be able to climb stairs without crawling again!

~Recovering from a wild sleepover this weekend. I don’t know how people with 6 kids do it!

~Recovering from a vomit-inducing Steelers loss to the Patriots last night.  I have no more polite words about that.

~Recovering from a very upsetting scene I witnessed yesterday afternoon, where I did not react and have been kicking myself for ever since.

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And I know that I’m not alone in my quest.  Many of those in my life are recovering right now as well.

~Friends are recovering from the sudden loss of their father/father-in-law.  Prayers for the Williams family would be much appreciated.

~A childhood friend continues to struggle with recovery from drug addiction.

~The developer of my neighborhood is recovering damages for the sign that the drunk driver took out.  I hear we might have a replacement this week.  I’m not holding my breath.

~Hopefully the drunk driver is recovering somewhere as well.

~Many of our newly-elected leaders are promising economic recovery.  Again, I’m not holding my breath.

Don’t panic – it’s just a joke.  When you Google ‘recovery’ images you mainly get computer screen shots and they don’t make me chuckle.  This did.  And no, I actually do not think that the next President will be able to fix this mess any more than I believe Obama will. Politics – the only area of life where I’m a cynic. An equal-opportunity cynic, thankyouverymuch.

~ It looks like the Pirates are considering recovery.  After 18 years of suck.  Good luck, very-appropriately-named Clint Hurdle.  We’ve made sure to keep the bar very low for you.

~And Demi Lovato is in recovery as well.  I’m saddened by how many young people in Hollywood go this route, and I blame their parents.  There, I’ve said it.  I blame the parents for not recognizing the dangers of a young, impressionable life lived under public scrutiny, and for not loving their children enough to know that sometimes it’s ok to say no.  Some dreams should wait.

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Are you in recovery today?  Do you have a need that I could help meet?  I’d love to hear from you.

“Courage consists in the power of self-recovery.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Today’s mission: Face the day with courage!

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” ~Jeremiah 29:11

September 12th

For this country, and for many of our friends around the world, this is a sad day.  September 11th will never be the same.

On 9/11, something was taken from us.

Loved ones.

Peace.

A sense of security.

It was a day that needs no description, because you know exactly how it felt.

And every year on this date, we as a country stop to remember September 11th.

And that inspires us to do good things.  We volunteer.  We pray.  We donate blood.

I’m doing all three today myself.

But as we do these things, we remember September 11, 2001.

And that’s where I part ways with the rest of the nation.  Because I don’t want to think about 9/11, not ever and most especially not today.

I think about September 12th.  The 13th, the 14th, the 17th.

I think about the days that followed this great tragedy, and how we as a nation came together in a way that made me proud to be an American.

Immediately following the terrorist attacks, we were a strong and united front in the face of unspeakable horrors.  We prayed together, cried together, worked together.  We gave of ourselves and we cared about our neighbor in a deep and meaningful way.  We banded together and carried each others burdens.

We were good.

September 12th.  That’s the memory that gets me through September 11th.

May we return to the nation that we lived in on September 12th.

A nation that remembers we are all in this together, regardless of political affiliation.

A nation that respects our common goals, and acknowledges that more binds us together than tears us apart.

A community that works together.  A government that works together.

People – together.

Just like we saw on September 12th.

Weeping may last for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.

~Psalm 30:5

Back in Black

For at least a good year, there exist no pictures of me wearing an actual color.  I lived entirely in black.

I wasn’t one of those goth people.  I didn’t wear black lipstick or white face paint.

I was just in black – always.

School, clubs, dances, church, my sister’s wedding shower and rehearsal dinner – all black.

And all with combat boots.

Again, let me repeat that I wasn’t a goth.

I’m not sure what inspired this.

My love of weird music?  A Sweet Valley High book?

Whatever it was, I was all ‘Hey let’s listen to Jane’s Addiction and dress like we’re funeral bound!’ for way too long.

As you can see, it’s a very flattering color for a girl with my skin tone:

And I look nothing like a mime here:

Oh good – here’s a glimpse of the boots:

That was apparently my favorite dress, because I’m not sure I ever took it off for at least a 6-month span.  I’ve been photographed in it all over the country, from my sister’s wedding rehearsal (where she was none too pleased that my boots made an appearance) to church to dances… it was my little black dress that wasn’t so little.

{You might recognize some of these people. They’re famous now.}

Can barely see eyes…

Even more pathetic unusual is that I appear to be wearing the same necklace with the same dress in all of these pictures.  Not too creative, apparently.

You know, when you find what works and all.  Don’t mess with perfection.

Yeah, black is definitely the way for a milky white girl to go.  A walking study in contrasts.

Especially with an overdose of hair.

You cannot even see detail on my face because I am so pale.  I actually reflect light.

What would really finish this off beautifully would be if I had pictures of some of my other go-to looks.  Like cutoff Daisy Dukes, worn with black fishnets and combat boots (natch).  Or when I dyed green streaks in my hair.  Or the purple, red, and blue ones.  Or when I pulled it all up into a ponytail, and shaved off the lower part.

You know, like this

I was a weird girl.

But not as weird as the guy I dated once, who sported a mohawk like this

And I mean literally once, because when my dad met him.  Well.  That was the end of that.

I believe a direct quote would involve something about ‘ripping that earring right out of your ear, son’ and possibly a shotgun.

Come to think of it, that guy could have gone in my Bad Judgment post too.

I’d like to say that I’m older and wiser now…but somehow I’m afraid I’m just older.

And PS) I still love black. Some things never change.

Edit – last minute addition – I almost forgot about these.  A chorale concert, I think, and my mom tried so hard to get a decent picture of me.

It wasn’t working though – you can barely see a glimpse of my face at the corner of the music stand.

A little closer, but nope, still covered.

But at least she can snap one of me when I walk down the aisle!

Sadly, no – I looked the other way, and I stuck out my tongue.

‘You with the tongue Heather.  Why is your tongue always hanging out?‘

Sorry Mom.  I blame MJ.

And since I know you are wondering, yes, actually I was wearing the black dress [and combat boots] under the black robe. Why wouldn’t I be?

Formals gone wrong

One big area where I’ve consistently embarrassed myself is formal wear.  Part of it was the times, for sure.

{Quick, name me something you wore in 1989 that wasn’t hideous!}

But also, I always made my own dresses.  At least twice a year I set my creativity loose and designed and made my own formal wear.  And let’s just say how very ironic these pictures are, considering I now design children’s clothing.  Clearly, my artistic vision has changed over the years.

Take this monstrosity, for example

Hello, everything red ever made!

I had no ability to edit.  I loved red and I was ready to show the world.

It’s a darn shame this picture doesn’t capture my red earrings, red shoes, and red purse.  I can’t say for sure now because my brain is very old and tired, but something tells me my underwear wasn’t white.

And my date for said prom (who is probably reading this and laughing at me right now…or possibly feeling relieved that his picture isn’t here, forever attaching him to crazy red blob girl) was told specifically to bring all red flowers.  I feel strongly that he also should have sung ‘Lady in Red’ without prompting, but that didn’t happen.

With or without the prompting.

Seriously dude, could I have dropped any more hints?

And what do you think that look on my face is about?  Is it, ‘Mo-om, stop taking pictures of me!  I’m super cool and you’re making me look like a dork here!’

Or was it ‘I know that my former BFF is behind me and she looks sooooo much better in her ruffled cupcake dress than I do in my big red blob. Plus her hair is bigger than mine! Dangit!’

[I'm struck by irony because as I write this, the last song we ever danced to came on Gen X radio.]

The next year I’d like to say I learned something, but, um, not really.

Enter ‘faux sequins’

Oh, and also the first time my hair went brown, though this time it was accidental.  I have to accept responsibility for all future misadventures with a bottle.

Note to self: If you don’t have the patience to hand sew thousands of individual sequins, then pick another style. ‘Sequin-like fabric’ is in fact nothing at all like actual sequins, and very, very tacky.

Lesson learned.

Prom that year went better.  I lightened up on both the color and the bling.  Unfortunately, I lightened up all the way to white, which makes it look like I was a teenage bride.  And judging by my date’s ball cap, I’m thinking this wasn’t the wedding of the century.

White – not a good color for a pale, sickly girl.

Try again – Cinderella Ball, the following year.

Ok, so the color is better.  But the hair?  The hair is not good.  And also, looking back at this and knowing how old I was in this picture, I cannot believe that I wore/my parents let me wear a dress that low cut.  It looks like the see-through fabric stops just shy of my navel.  Klassy.

[And lest you think less of me, the date was just a friend.]

I reverted to my old ways for the next prom, too.  Wedding #2

Two minor changes this time.

1) I wore Ivory instead of white.

2) I knew I’d be shaking my booty all night and had the good sense to wear sneaks.

My only regret here is that they weren’t Chucks.  Or combat boots.  Either would have made for better pictures.

Have I ever told you that I wore tennis shoes under my wedding dress, too?

In college I seemed to learn my lesson.  I looked much better…but had dates that I couldn’t stand to see again, so you won’t be getting pictures there.

{Besides Jen, this is really all for you, and you’ve already seen the worst of that.}

Bad Judgment

In oh-so-many ways.

It started young, when I was sporting a polyester leisure suit at my birthday party

Now this doesn't date me at all...

And it just grew from there.

For example, the date that felt chinos and no socks would be appropriate for a semi-formal.

No socks.

Who does that? Blech.

But hey, remember when boxer shorts as attire was popular?

No eyes when I smile. Seriously.

Yeah – me either.  But it certainly helps to make them look cool, the way I have them hiked up to my armpits.

Dear Heather,

Circa-nineteen-whenever-overalls-were-popular

Overalls – not good.

Moving on…

Where to even begin with this one?

Pretzel legs

Oh, I know – how about we start with the pictures of the creep plastered all over the wall behind you? Bad. Judgment.

Also, you are still wearing boxers, and you still have no eyes when you smile.

Oh, and this?

Driving Miss Daisy

You are at least 20 years too young to wear a dress with a matching shirt.  A dress that stops mid-calf, AKA the least flattering length known to man.

And it’s amazing this one didn’t get me arrested

Sullying the good name of Nemo

since quite obviously, I appear to be pants-less in Disney World.

I’m not, for the record.

A – Not fat, just pregnant. I know I say that a lot, but it’s true.

B – Wearing short shorts

C – Wearing my husband’s pullover which is way too big for me

D – Too stupid to look in a mirror

I had that ‘too stupid’ problem here, too.  This is the day I learned that when taking pictures, your neck should be pushed out, not pulled in.

Hello, double chin!

Dear Heather,

Shield your eyes from the glow

Don’t take pictures in the pool unless you’ve discovered the sun.  Or at least a decent self-tanner.

I’ve had several [failed] attempts at hat-wearing

But at least I don't have poodle hair!

Am I playing dress-up here? Why are the clothes hanging off of me?  Gross! Eat a burger, pronto!

Let’s try again

The furry scarf really sets it off, don't you think?

Ok there, fatso. Back off the burgers now.

Maybe feathers would be better?

Practicing my routine for Vegas

As it turns out, no. And where are my darn eyes?

The mortification fun ends here today.  More kicks to the gut laughs tomorrow!

What If, Part Two

When I wrote about the ‘what-ifs’ yesterday I had a couple of particular situations in mind.  Perhaps the saddest of these is my old friend Hyo.

He is the second person I’ve known who committed suicide.  The other was someone who worked for the same company I did.  I had just started working there, he was in a different department – we didn’t really know each other very well.  But Hyo – that was different.  We had dated.  Not seriously, but enough to be friends.  We’d gone through a mutual rough spot together, and I suppose I felt a common bond with him because of that.

The problem is, we didn’t really get through it together.  I got through it.  He hid the fact that he still hurt.  He never got over it, and for years he kept his pain to himself, until one day it became too much to bear.

When I read Mama Kat’s prompt last week, his was the first face that my mind saw.  His soft voice was the first one I heard.

Oh Hyo.  What could I have done differently?

I really do not know the answer to that question, and I never will.  I’ll never be able to go back in time and change something, choose differently, react differently.  I can’t bring him back.

I didn’t realize that this was still weighing on me until I read that prompt, and since then I’ve scarcely stopped thinking about him.  It’s just so horribly, awfully sad.

Two quotes keep coming to mind.

“Painful as it may be, a significant emotional event can be the catalyst for choosing a direction that serves us – and those around us – more effectively. Look for the learning.” -Louisa May Alcott

I’m still looking.

“What you need to know about the past is that no matter what has happened, it has all worked together to bring you to this very moment. And this is the moment you can choose to make everything new. Right now.”

I’m not sure how to make everything new.  I’ve started by making a donation to New Hope, a Christian resource for those who are depressed or suicidal.  But that’s easy, isn’t it?  Hands-off and comfortable, to send a few dollars whilst actively doing…nothing.

I’m looking to do something.  Partly to assuage my own guilt, I admit.  And partly so that I don’t find myself in this position again, having looked the other way and left someone behind.  Sins of omission are sometimes the hardest to deal with.

Temporary

When I was in high school, our church had a revival.  A really great evangelist came to speak, though unfortunately now all I can remember is that his name was Tommy.  Tommy the super speaker was really inspirational to me and my favorite thing that I walked away with was the ‘temporary’ stamp.

I ordered one immediately.

Or maybe my parents ordered it for me since I was still sponging off of them at that point.

Either way, we went home and found a stamp-ordering place and ordered a lovely, self-inking rubber stamp.  I still have it to this day (of course I do, since high school was just a few short years ago. Ahem.) It bears only one word.

Tommy said that we should all have a ‘temporary’ stamp, and we should be marking everything we see with it.  Being right in the middle of my angst-y youth, that really had an impact on me.  And I’ve carried that with me into the, um, older years of my youth.  Or adulthood. Whatever.

I think it’s a good reminder that applies to everything in life.  Sort of a ‘this too shall pass’ but more succinct and less annoying.

When Carrie Underwood released her Temporary Home song, I was thrilled.  So glad to know that I’m not the only one with this philosophy.

That’s it – that’s all I’ve got.  Short, sweet, and simple today.

Have a good one.

True Love

My young daughters have already begun to choose their future husbands.  I find it a bit odd since who I was going to marry was pretty much the farthest thing from my mind in  preschool, but this seems to be a common practice now.  I’ve found it doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it might, likely because I breathe a sigh of relief at all of their choices.

Lilly proudly declares, “I get married with Luke.”  Luke being a boy from our church.  He’s a very appropriate 2 years older, one of the cutest little boys I’ve ever seen, and just the right amount of ornery.  He makes me laugh just to look at him, and he comes from a good family.  And it just so happens that the girls are all good friends with his twin sister, so the families could just merge seamlessly.  Good choice Lilly.  Please remember this in high school.

Catie picked Carter, the son of some friends of ours.  Or possibly Isaac, their other son.  Either way, I’m good with it.  Another great family, great kids, super cute.  She & Isaac might be too similar to make it work, but thankfully they have a few years to iron out the details.  Thumbs up.

And then there’s Annie.  She is 7 and going into 2nd grade, and she wants to marry her best friend.  So far, a very solid plan.

What makes Annie’s choice so special is who her best friend is – a little boy from her class who is severely autistic.  They sit beside each other, and from day one Annie has adored him.

She never noticed that their skin is a different color.  She never cared that he is largely non-verbal.  Instead, she began checking books out of the library on sign language.  It wasn’t for 5 months that I realized she was doing this so she could learn to communicate with him.

She never cared that he throws fits of frustration.  She didn’t mind recently when he hit her on one such occasion.  In fact, she dismissed it immediately when I asked her about it, afraid he would get into trouble.  “It’s okay mom, he didn’t mean it!”

She carries tissues in her backpack so that she can use one of those if the need arises, because he doesn’t like everyone to use the tissue box.  He wants it to be his personal tissue box, and Annie is happy to comply.

She’s even gone so far as to re-arrange her bathroom schedule, because he doesn’t like it when she goes to the bathroom right after lunch.  She never questioned why this bothered him, she just accepted it.  And she loves him enough to change even that, just to ensure his happiness.

The first week of school, she told Catie about her new best friend.  “He has autism” I heard her say, and my ears perked up. 

“What’s that?” Catie asked.

“It’s just part of him, like you have blue eyes, and Lilly has big feet.  It’s part of what makes him him.  He’s really cool Catie, I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

And that was all she ever said about it – she’s never mentioned his autism since.  But him?  He gets discussed every day.

Their desks are together.  They line up together.  She holds his hand in the hallway, and she likes to sit with him at lunch so she can open his milk.  Sometimes they make swaps with their food, which works out particularly well for him since Annie eats like a bird.

She loves him with a heart that is pure, and she loves him from a place that is deeper than most adults I know. 

She has a completely normal, ordinary, everyday friendship with him, and I love this about her.  That she overlooks all that is different and notices only what is alike.

Recently I accompanied her class on a field trip, and I was pleased to see how kind she was to him.  She didn’t run off and leave him because things were new and exciting and he couldn’t keep up.  She still held his hand.  She still opened his drink.  She still looked after her buddy.

In fact she ditched me on the bus so she could ride with him instead, and she helped him do Mad Libs on the way.  That he didn’t understand ‘adjective’ or ‘adverb’ was no deterrent at all – she just found a way to make it work.  When he got out of his seat, she showed him the sign for ‘sit’.  When he was restless, she gave him my phone to watch cartoons.  And mostly, she gave him hugs.  Lots and lots of hugs.

I was so proud of her, and I told her that evening that I was happy to see how nicely she treated him, and what a good friend she was being.  At this she screwed up her little face, gave me a strange look and said, “I’m not his friend to be nice to him.  I just love him.”

And she does.  She just loves him.

I wonder how many times in his life he will experience that kind of blind, unconditional love.  I wonder how many times I will. 

I wonder how many times I offer that same selfless love to others.  Especially to those who aren’t family, to those who are different, to those who lash out at me in frustration. 

How often do I love purely, without expectation? 

How often do I overlook everything that makes someone different or difficult, and just. love. them.?

My daughter has the most amazing spirit I believe I have ever encountered, and praise God for it, because certainly it comes in spite of all the ways I fail her.  I very often feel she is the one setting the example for me. 

Today, I will strive to love like Annie.  It’s a lofty goal, but I have a great Teacher – in more ways than one.

The one where I go all Mom-crazy

There comes a time in every child’s life when they have to deal with a meanie. A bully. An unpleasant, difficult peer.

An 8-year-old jerkface, if you will.

Apparently for Annie, that time is now.

I. am. not. happy.

I’m kind of a warrior when it comes to my kids.  I can’t help it – I come by this naturally. In high school, our principal referred to my mom as ‘The Big Guns’ on more than one occasion.  Because if anyone so much as looked at one of her babies sideways, she’d have their head on a platter.

You might think that this would be embarrassing to a teenager.  I, however, was not embarrassed.  It felt fantastic to know that my mom had my back.  Also, I had more than one teacher with documented mental illness that seriously needed to find a new career path, so if my mom had to be the one to point that out, so be it.

[I hope that my daughters will appreciate this about me as well, since there's not a chance I'll stop any time soon.]

So enter the little punk that needs a good spanking girl who does not have nice manners. 

Honestly, Annie is a Pollyanna.  And overly dramatic. And often sensitive.

I take full responsibility for the Pollyanna thing. The melodrama comes from her father. Sensitivity? Not a clue.

So she’s never had to deal with a  mean girl before, and she’s ill-equipped.  She’s probably also more easily hurt than your average 7 year old who hasn’t been kicked in the gut before.

<sigh>

It doesn’t help that Annie is off-the-charts small for her age.  And this girl is more than a head taller, and bigger, and intimidating.  And when Annie tries to talk to her, the girl tells her she’s stupid.  She tells her to shut up.  She tells her she doesn’t care about her loose tooth. 

She tells her she doesn’t like her.

I’d like to tell the little girl exactly how I feel about her.  But that would be wrong.  And I’m supposed to be an adult.  And in theory, I should be ‘mature’ and ‘above that kind of behavior.’

I’m working on it.

In the meantime, I have no idea how to deal with this.  I’m torn between:

1. Helping Annie understand that you encounter mean people in life and you have to pray for them and find a way to toughen up and work through it
2. Leaving the extra-curricular activity where we encounter said girl, because Annie shouldn’t have to be anyone’s verbal punching bag in a supposedly fun activity
3. Telling the girl’s parents that they suck and their child is a mean, mean, mean little brat

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. You don’t even need to tell me.

But I still want to.

And frankly, if I don’t get a favorable response from them when I address my concerns, I might just stoop that low.

Hopelessly Flawed – I warned you up front.