When Trauma is in the Rear-view Mirror

I recently had an opportunity to unpack a current crisis with a friend. Not mine, hers. She's right in the eye of the storm, the time when all you can do is try to feed your kids and fall asleep at night. You're in a holding pattern, survival mode. The vultures are circling. The waves are cresting and all you can do is keep yourself and your children afloat. It's so very simple and yet it is so damn hard. It takes every ounce of strength you have, every pore, every cell is straining to make it moment by moment. It's a lot.

It's very interesting for me to witness, commiserate, empathize and encourage people in trauma now. When I was experiencing such a major trauma (my husband had a psychotic break after our second child was born), I remember wondering if I would ever look back on it and be grateful it happened. I didn't think I would. When your person almost doesn't survive something that you participated in, it is deeply painful and frightening. I would never have willingly made him vulnerable to that all-encompassing power of depression. 

But that was just it. Had I known what was coming, I would have never risked having a second child. But that second child needed to come. I just knew it. And her birth and subsequent existence has forced us to face our shit on a level we may have never gotten to without her. For that, I am very, very grateful. When you're in the midst of the grief, the terror and total exhaustion (that you can in no way give in to) there is a glimmer of hope that maybe all the work will be worth it. And I can say, with the horror of those years behind us, that we are markedly better people because of that trauma. I wouldn't have participated in it willingly (what kind of masochist would?) but when trauma visits, it does not ask permission. It takes. It takes everything. And you have no idea what you will get back.

However, sometimes rather than giving back your regurgitated, broken life, trauma exchanges it for health, boundaries, wisdom, independence and empowerment. My dear ones, there is hope on the horizon. Carry on, wounded friends. No one knows what the future holds. No one can promise you what you will leave on the battlefield and what you will take with you. And shit's gonna get real. There will be blood. You're gonna get torn wide open. But there is beauty in pain. There is hope of resurrection. And I do not mean that in a pat your head sort of way. I actually mean it. I've lived it. No one can say what that future will look like for you, but know that this awful thing may indeed make you the best version of yourself you've ever known. Whether you arrived at this field kicking and screaming or not, I know you will leave it on your own two feet. You're a fighter. I promise.

Ministry - Friend or Foe?

As many of my readers know, I fell head over heels in love with ministry in my youth. It gave me a way to use my talents, honor God and give to the community in a way that fueled me. It compelled me to wake up and hop out of bed every morning. It defined me, in a lot of ways. I was addicted to helping others. It sounds weird and maybe unhealthy to you or maybe really cute and inspiring. It was all of those things. I meant everything I said and did in those days but I also had a real pride issue and an inability to receive what I was doling out. I also was not tuned into my voice and therefore, gave too much power to other people in my life. I lived out of a place that was without healthy boundaries.

I had a weird experience last weekend where I got to unpack our firing from professional ministry trauma a little bit more with someone who had an inside perspective. I have had many talks with people from all sides of that trauma over the years and it has been mostly helpful, though always triggering. This particular conversation centered around my ministry abilities and how that may have affected our firing. What was shared was somehow both infuriating and validating. I will not share the specifics of what was shared, but I do want to share how that information further helped me process how I feel about myself in ministry.

Ministry, in some ways, has felt like the beloved pet who got rabies and became very threatening and unstable not unlike Old Yeller. And so for everyone's sake, you put down the beloved pet and you grieved the loss both of what was and what might have been. But here's the thing, what was a burning fire within me has not been fully snuffed out. I'm not going to lie to you; that scares the shit out of me. How much easier would it be if I could stamp out that little flickering light and walk away? Given a choice, that would be the easier option. And I have in no way fanned that flame. What I do have is a shit-ton of church baggage, confusion about what it means as this new person I've become to use my gifts and also to hold space for healthy boundaries and my pain, and a genuine resistance to risk. Church is a very scary place for me. Miraculously, my new church (I've been there over 2 years but I hesitate to put down roots) is very safe, though moments of triggering come up from time to time. Mostly, when anything is ever asked of me. I'm like a guy who can't commit though he's with a marrying-type of girl. I know what I have there is special but my propensity to run is definitely present. I want everything on my terms. And that's not living in community. I am totally proficient at building community outside of church now, which is an incredible byproduct of our traumatic firing. I didn't know who I was outside of church before and I now I have the opposite problem. How do I use my gifts in a church setting without risking further damage to my soul and fueling the fire that is my ego, the anti-thesis of who I want to be in the world? I DON'T KNOW.

And yet, that little flame keeps burning. An easy way around the official church stuff is to recognize that there is a lot of good I do in my personal life and relationships and if you're looking to label things, you could call that ministry. I don't like to because it feels cheap to me, but you could. Calling something in my personal life "ministry" now feels like I'm using that opportunity, need, relationship as a project. That it's not equal relationship, but some sort of gift I'm bestowing upon the receiver. I don't like it and I find the implications of that insulting to the people I've come to know and love. I don't like the above/below dynamic of ministry. I know there are many humble people in ministry, but I was of the mind that I had something to give others and that that was my purpose. To give. The problem with that is that it stems from a dirty place that I have something others don't. And that can turn into thinking I'm better than other people. Here's the thing - none of that is true. Giving has no value if you cannot recognize that at any point, the tables can and will turn and you will need people to give to you. I do not having anything more than anyone else. Yes, we all have different experiences, talents and personalities. And I do live out of a place that there is work to be done in life by me specifically that would benefit the world. But I also believe that's true of every, single human. Also, I don't own Jesus and I don't dispense him at will. I think he's awesome but I also think there are many people in the world doing good things, living loving lives who do not claim him. And I'm ok with that now. In some ways, their motives are more pure because they're not motivated by heaven. Their reward is doing good because they are compelled to do good. That should and has always been more than enough. And I am definitely not better than anyone else. I'm not more deserving, more kind or more gifted. I am not "other", "special", "set apart" or "different." Yes, I know we're all special in our own ways and I don't say these things to degrade myself. What I mean is, if any of these ideas cause me to think I am better than someone who doesn't believe or live in the way I do, I have lost everything. There is no value in work motivated by pride.

I know what you're thinking - why does it matter what you call it? Ministry? Living your values? Being a decent person? It doesn't matter. Not really. But I'm like a dog with a bone; I can't seem to pry that damn idea from my mind. Ministry is like the harpoon that scarred me irrevocably. I survived the injury, but the imprint it made on me won't release me to deny its potential. Who knows where this processing will lead me. I am confident that the flame will not go out and there is a reason for that. Thanks for walking with me as I experience this crazy thing unfold.  

Resilience

One of the fun things about being self-employed and having no overhead is that I have many other people in my life who provide various services with whom I can trade. One of those people is the gal who does my hair (and the kids). We've been friends for years and she has a son my age so there's a fun inter-generational, sisterhood vibe between us. She's very spiritual and political and we have a great time talking about everything. We had a moment yesterday that cemented another connection between us in my mind that I hadn't quite pieced together in the past. 

She had just finished coloring my hair and I was in the chair. Penny was on my lap having just fallen and cried. Penny was right up against the hair-washing sink with the big cool hose. Of course, she turned it on, full blast. It was a wildly rainy Northwest spring day and I arrived at Lesli's house damp an hour previously. This did not help. Mind you, we were inside Lesli's actual home and my child turned a hose on! You know what we did? We laughed. We turned off the hose. But we laughed. And I went home a little more damp than when I arrived. 

The impulse to laugh when a "stressful", unexpected moment happens could be tied to many things: having a good sense of humor, being too stifled to feel comfortable showing anger; but in this case, I think it highlighted the resilience that she and I both possess. I don't say this to brag, in fact, my resilience has been a source of resentment for me in the past. When you are resilient, life has a way of creating dependence on you in a way that can be unfair. 

But laughing in that chair with a friend who has had her resilience tested many times in her life, thinking about how many times I've laughed rather than cried when my back has been to the wall (crying is ok too and definitely an appropriate response), I recognized our kindred spirit-ness a la Anne of Green Gables and it felt like a moment. Like, the sun came out and shone upon us and reminded me that life is about finding the laughter in the panic, that friends are more important than perfection and that having kids provides a regular opportunity to look in the mirror and see what you're made of. 

International Women's Day

I spent yesterday trying to figure out how I wanted to participate in the various protests going on around the country on behalf of this very important day and I finally figured it out. I'm going to write this post. Because there's nothing more threatening to patriarchy than an intelligent, confident woman speaking her mind on a platform she created. 

For one, women are physical beasts in the best sense of the word. I think we are so fantastically beautiful, capable and strong. The evolution we go through in a lifetime from menstruation to pregnancy to breastfeeding to menopause is absolutely phenomenal. We are capable of creating and sustaining life. MULTIPLE TIMES. And we can do it while working in fields and with men who are dangerous living in our homes and we survive. (I know sometimes we don't and we shouldn't have to no matter what, but we are still beasts). We go through all the difficulties of high school but we bleed while doing it. Sometimes I think our culture is so picky about women's looks because if we weren't objectified, do you have any idea how powerful we would be? Women work hard and do things no one else wants to do. We don't have to and shouldn't have to unless we want to but we are beasts all the same.

All the changes that our bodies make are just markers for what we've brought forth. So my boobs are saggier. They look that way because I spent nights nurturing my crying infant. Night after night after night. No, I don't need to go under general anesthesia to "correct" them. THEY'RE AMAZING. I'm so pleased with their function and their beauty. I have stretch marks. That's because my firstborn took over and crowded me out. And you know what? That kid is a force to be reckoned with. I'm happy that wherever she goes in life, I will bear the marks of being her mother. I'm proud. There is no shame in your body changing, whether it's because you brought forth life or because you grew too fast as a kid. Your body is your home and loving it might take a lot of mental work because we've been constantly told it's subpar. But it is worth the work to love it, I promise.  

I know we're not just what we're capable of physically. Many women choose not to procreate or want to and are unable. That does not in any way make you less of a woman, nor are those of us who have procreated any more important or valuable. I just think the female body is the most incredible thing. And I refuse to degrade myself because in fulfilling one of its incredible capabilities, it changed. Our culture worships the 19 year old body. And my body was really nice at 19. But 35 rocks too. And I'm planning on 75 rocking as well. We are beautiful. 

We are so much more than our bodies. Many women weren't born women and I don't want to overemphasize our physicality (it just happens to be really cool). I think the female spirit is very resilient. I feel like we bear more longer. And that's not to say "yeah for female suffering!" because we need to end female suffering. In a lot of ways, I think female suffering is about keeping us unaware of how incredible we are. To continue to emphasize our dependence or physical differences (notice I did not say inabilities) is to continue to be in control of us. And so we see so much female suffering in the world. We belittle, degrade, rape and abuse women. And women realizing their incredible-ness doesn't save us from oppression. We have to knock that shit down brick by brick and I'm gonna. You should too, especially on behalf of so many who can't.

One of the ways I love taking power back in my life is in my business. I work for myself. And no one can take my business from me. No one can fire me. No one can limit my income or tell me how to do my job. And I get to use my time as I see fit. I recognize that this is a huge privilege. So I don't really like "bootstraps" talk about women and economic abilities because there are so many things that women do that are not honored or properly compensated. And some women support their families in critical, non-monetary ways. Many of my friends have young children and husbands who are rarely home. So much would not work without their constant presence as the "glue." But it's something I'm really passionate about when I recruit for my business. I LOVE to help people live in a way that gives them more independence. Everyone should have more choices. I hate to see anyone backed into a corner. And if you work for yourself, even if you have an additional job with a boss, it often opens up possibilities you wouldn't otherwise have both in finance and personal development. I love empowering people to take back their life and live however they want to. 

So on this very important day, I want to say, women should do whatever the hell they want to do. Women should have kids if they want to. Women should not have kids if they want to. Women should get married if they want to. Women shouldn't get married if they want to. Women should work traditional jobs if they want to. Women shouldn't work traditional jobs if they don't want to. I think women innately are more aware of how our choices affect our families and our communities at large. And I guess what I'd like to do for women everywhere today is to give you permission to make the choices you actually want to make. Live the life you want. And if that's not possible, try to find a way to get there in time. I know I say this from a place of privilege. I'm in a stable family with a supportive husband. And my kids are getting bigger. But you (women) deserve the best, the most, everything life has to offer. Don't worry about being selfish. Don't worry about taking center stage in your own life. Take it. Own it. It's already yours. 

When Trauma Comes to Visit

Don't you hate it when you've done all you can to process a trauma and it still comes to visit from time to time? I wish there was a way to not be shaped by our traumas. I know that's not possible and probably not even good as terrible things often shape us in somewhat positive ways, if you're in a frame of mind to see it. Though I must admit, that's hard to do in the middle of the night when you wake up from a nightmare sobbing. It's been 5 and a half years since we left professional ministry. We've been through other traumas since that time that were even more severe and yet that one still leaves a mark. I think I must admit to myself that it always will. My ultimate goal is to not let my traumas make me a bitter, hardened person. Unfortunately, sometimes in order to get to that place, you gotta work through a lot of pain and anger.  

I am still connected to our old church through a weekly MOMS group I attend. Most of the women there are unaware of my history and the church has been through a major overhaul in both style and leadership since we left. Yet, I'm still walking those halls, seeing many of the people from our "old life" and everyone acts like nothing ever happened. I guess that's the only way to move forward. It's not like I want to spend my 2 hours of weekly free childcare sussing out old pain with people I don't really trust. And I know I've already had the hard conversations I needed to have way back when. The group has been a great source of fun and friendship for me (I feel I need to justify my attendance since being in that environment is clearly still triggering).  

Perhaps it is the perfectionist in me that wants to check "professional church ministry trauma" off the list and move on. And I have moved on in ways I am really proud of and genuinely grateful for. I know if the trauma had not happened, we would not be the people we are today. And I think we are better people. I am so much more humble, gracious and honest than I was before. I was always a nice person but leaving professional ministry helped me embrace my humanity, give myself grace and become an all-around kinder person. I've found my voice, my values and my own footing having had that formerly precious security blanket ripped from me. And yet, it's still hard. It's still sad. And sometimes, that trauma comes to call. Maybe that's how you know something you lost really meant so much. When that pain knocks, perhaps the healthiest thing to do is open the door, embrace the pain and let the tears flow.

Misplaced Guilt in a New Presidency

I don't really subscribe too much to "mommy guilt." I believe my kids are their own people and it's my job to get them ready for adulthood. I think I'm doing a pretty good job, mostly because I really, really give a shit. So even when people mess up, if they care, that counts for a lot, in my opinion. I read. I listen. I care about my kids. I raise them with intention and I try to do right by them.

And then Penny got her first ear infection. She's 3 and a half, so that's actually really good. But, as I said in my Dirty Little Secret post, I'm in the Health and Wellness business. I've grown up in it and am a big proponent of preventative, natural medicine. Don't worry: I go to the doctor, vaccinate, and still feed my children chicken nuggets. I'm not a robot!!! (Love all my gals who don't do those things too - no judgment here ladies!) But one of the problems with having a natural solution to every problem is that you live in a way where you feel more in control. While that sounds awesome (and it is!) it can be easy to forget that none of us have actual, total control. I don't have control over the cold Penny got a week ago that I just cannot shake. That child has been so dosed with nutrients and essential oils and every possible solution and guess what? She got an ear infection. I'm sad.

And I've done a lot to feel in control of the terrible things happening in the world. I've marched. I've gone to racial justice training and meetings. I've advocated for people. I've read. I'm working on dismantling my blind spots (privilege). But, Donald Trump is still president. And he just cut the EPA's budget by $1 billion. Among A LOT of other HORRIFYING things.

I sell green cleaners. It makes the world a better place. I've been doing that for 12 years, helping families lower their carbon footprint, lower their toxic exposure and save money. But in one fell swoop, with one swipe of that pen, I feel like the environment (and all the humans he's targeting specifically in other news) is going to shit anyway. 

There's nothing I can do about that. And I'm grieving. Because I really, really care. I care about the planet. I care about my kids. I care about illegal immigrants. I care about people of color and police brutality. I care. I care. I care. And that pen is killing me. 

Okay. Time to sell some more green cleaners. Who's in?

Why I March

I got to participate in the Portland Women's March today and I just want to bottle up this feeling. I liken it to how I felt after Christian summer camp, where you experience a high so intense you just never want to come back down. Inevitably you do, but I want to ride this wave of optimism and hope as long as I can. I've never had the high experience in such a big way politically. I am so moved and grateful and proud that we were 100,000 strong today. For those of you not in this area, that is 10 percent of the city's population. It gives me goosebumps. I don't want to live anywhere else. Ever.

The sense of solidarity. The massive diversity. The signs that made you laugh. The signs that made you think. The sense of hope. The power of numbers. I just wish everyone who wanted to be there could have been. And that's part of why I want to preserve this feeling, to pass it along. I feel like for every person in the 100k today, there were 10 more behind them unable to attend who would have liked to participate. And there are so, so many reasons not to protest. It was pouring rain. It's inconvenient. It's time-consuming. It can be dangerous. There are always other things that need tending to (I ended up with a sick kid at home today who I was so saddened to leave). There are so many reasons to not march. So many people I knew were traveling, working or physically unable to march. 

I just want you to know that protesting matters. That seeing the numbers come in meant something. To me. To the whole world who marched with us today. Not just Americans. People in Antarctica protested, dude. Participating gave me so much hope. I can't tell you how many conversations I overheard on the MAX of people saying how alone they've been feeling and how encouraging and empowering marching was for them. THERE ARE SO MANY OF US. No matter who's in office, we will not abandon our principles. We will not back down from fighting for the rights of every human in this country. And how that plays out in the world has a huge effect as well. We matter. And we will make our voices heard. If you're worried about this new administration revoking your hard-earned rights, your health care, your security, we will fight for you. We will speak up. We are reading and we are chanting and we are marching. This is just the beginning. You are loved. You matter. We want to dismantle privilege and make sure everyone has equal access to resources and human rights. 

I had to leave a sick kid at home today. And I did not get to bring my oldest with me because she had a theater commitment. But I was mothering today in a big way. I mother my own children in marching for their rights as girls, proclaiming that their pussies are their own (not up for grabs, thank you), and that they are so much more than ornamental. I mothered all the people who need an advocate and someone to look out for them today. As someone with white privilege who wants to participate in dismantling systemic racism, I stood up to be counted as an ally. We are women. We are so, so strong. I truly believe women have the capacity to endure so much more shit than any other demographic and we will persevere. We have and we will continue to do so. And we will carry the burdens of others and fight til this is done. 

It was incredible to witness the diversity of the crowd today. Young, old, white, black, brown, male, female, trans, Jew, Christian, atheist...it moved me to tears repeatedly. I saw tiny children and little old couples marching and I just about died of pure joy. We really can make a difference. We really do have hope, tangible, transferable hope. We really do care about our fellow man. And while many today will climb back into their unsupportive communities and feel alone again in time, we know that there are MILLIONS of people willing to get soaked to the bone to remind their fellow woman, child and man that we care. We strengthened each other today and we sent a global message that bigotry will not go unnoticed on our watch. Our eyes are wide open and we will not be quiet. Thank God.

Let the Transition Begin!

Our 2+ weeks with Tim and the kids off from work and school is coming to a close tonight. Everyone is in bed early in hopes that the magical fakeout will result in a good nights rest, but we all know better. That alarm is going to hurt in the morning and we'll be rushed for the first time in weeks. I'm one of those weird people who loves it when my family is home. Don't get me wrong - I love routine and there will be a moment tomorrow after the strangeness of being separated settles that will feel right and normal and good. But this time together also made me realize how glorious it is when my husband isn't working. It's not the same as the weekend where it takes awhile to really check out of office life, sometimes even requiring him to work an extra day. His head isn't fully here sometimes. When you have 2 full weeks at home when no one else is in the office and you're actually expected to hang out with your family (thank you holidays), it is its own deal. And as the quality time person, I could not be more chuffed (as my Irish friends like to say).

When we're in a good place and Tim isn't overwhelmed with work, I am in a special kind of bliss. Everything is easier when he's home. All my responsibilities get cut in half, which makes us both more rested and happy because he's set his aside stuff completely. So we're just hanging out, feeding the kids, taking turns sleeping in and catching up on much needed rest whether that's actual sleep or relaxation (I've probably read 10 books in 14 days and no, I'm not exaggerating). We spend extra money on quality time with the kids (ice skating, movies, sushi) and just get to be together. I know a lot of people love their spouses but also like having separate days. And my introverted husband might be one of those (like I'm dumb enough to ask!) But I could go on like this forever. It's made me want to crank things up a notch with my business and just keep him on hand all the time. 

Savoring this moment for just a bit longer. 

Anticipation is My Favorite

I'm sitting in my living room on Christmas morning. It's almost 6am. Santa has come and my whole household is asleep except for me. I went to bed at 10:30 so I'm not still up from last night dealing with tiny screwdrivers and AAA batteries. I'm awake in the stillness, in the tension of great household anticipation because the quiet calls to me. Drawn out of bed around 4:30 for no other reason than I just want to soak up the magic. It was funny when I pulled up my browser to write because I was processing the value and existence magic in my last post. My feeling was that because there is so much darkness in the world, magic can no longer be truly pure, but lived alongside the dark and though that's more real, it's kinda sad too. And yet why am I awake? I want to soak up the magic.

I'm drinking the instant Peruvian coffee my incredible brother-in-law Sol brought to share. It's sweetened with the homemade (allergen-free!) caramel one of my best friends made me for Christmas. The tree is lit. I can hear the clock ticking behind me, the morn of Christmas just waiting to dawn. It's glorious. This tension. This wonder. The thrill of waiting to see my children experience the magic I was grieving the loss of just a few weeks ago. Maybe that's why parents cling so hard to giving their children magic. It's a way to revisit childhood and carry forward the beauty of a perfect day.  

I love anticipation. I always have. I love surprises. I love waiting (remind me of this next time I'm driving). There's something so beautiful about the tension in creates, like the giving of the gift is more savored when anticipated. Maybe I'm turned off by things that are cheap. If it's worthy, it can wait until the proper time. When something is rushed, it feels squandered, like some sort of distraction from the true value and meaning of things worth waiting for, working for. Maybe this is just my purity culture baggage talking.

I remember a house full of people on Christmas Eve growing up. My parents house is currently full to the brim. But I got to have them here for Thanksgiving so this holiday is about my little family and my sister-in-laws. It's so sweet and simple and fun. Three little girls are currently dreaming of toys and candy canes and the thrill of not knowing but hoping for something wonderful to happen. Maybe that's what's so appealing about this holiday. Hope. I'm obsessed with it (maybe this is a truly appropriate time to say "thanks Obama.") As a child, nothing comes close to the gift haul of the year and time holed up with your extended family. You hope; you wish; you dream. And I know this is speaking from a position of privilege because I have no memories of being disappointed on Christmas and that is a very special gift I was given as a child. But as we grow older, experience Advent and the beauty of counting down, waiting and wonder, that hope becomes something more. Hope in the relief that the birth of Jesus brought. Not in that moment, necessarily. There was so much chaos surrounding Jesus' life from fleeing Egypt all the way to his eventual death. But on a global scale, for all time, this baby brings eternal peace. And I believe not only that He died for all but that all were saved. I don't believe in eternal teams. I believe in peace. Restoration. Grace. I believe all things will be made new, put right, tied up in the end. And because of that, I can look at my little glass baby Jesus figure while I wait for little racing footsteps and truly say THANKS BE TO GOD.

Maybe Magic is Overrated

It's been a busy last few weeks with hosting my family for Thanksgiving and cramming in as many possible holiday activities in since then. I've written in the past about how my perfectionism comes out during holidays and I'd venture to say I'm not alone in that. It's not that I tell myself "I want everything to be perfect" but I think the massive amount of effort perfectionists put into the holidays has to do with wanting to feel something. I could be wrong. Perfectionism is most definitely about being in control and having things your way. But I think perhaps the obsessive level of activity and wanting everything to be "just so" also relates to our desperate desire for the holidays to make us feel a certain way. For me, I feel a sense of anxiety as the days race towards December 25th because I want to make sure that at some point before it's all over, it actually "feels" like Christmas. If you're too busy, it's not fun. It's stressful and even if the activities seem festive, your heart is hard as a rock. And if you're not busy enough, it doesn't feel magical, like it's any other busy time, but not Christmas. But the streets are crowded and sometimes annual activities are different than last year and suddenly you wake up and just can't do one more thing. And so you stay home and another day passes on the Advent calendar. Tick. Tock.

I want to feel magic. I want my faith to be rekindled in a way that makes everything right and clear and good. I want to be a child again where you could hear a tale woven from fables and it made sense in a way that unicorns and glitter and rainbows just work. I want something to be pure. Compromise is so overrated. I want hope, desperately. I want to believe we are good and can work together and heal this world. I could use some joy. But most of all, I seek peace. The world needs peace in a big way right now. But my adult brain isn't able to get lost from reality, not really. While I was warm in my car this morning with my kids getting our tree, I was thinking about the freezing cold people at Standing Rock. And when I was in a church surrounded by at least a thousand Christians singing about Jesus, I realized there were exactly 3 black people in the room. THREE. Last week my Reverend reminded us that things weren't so tidy in the world when Jesus came either. The Jews were living in occupied territory. Their king was born in a barn to a teenage girl (who is a total bad ass, BTW). There is something glorious about this time of year for sure (the white people Christmas still made me tear up a few times) but there is alongside it a darkness, a reality that refuses to be glossed over. That people are hurting. Some of us are cold and hungry. And a lot of the joy isn't being passed out freely but with strings attached to belief systems and color and class systems. I know that sounds terrible, like I've become a cynic and the magic has died within me. I don't think that's the case. I think the more we become socially aware (and I know I have a long, long road ahead of me - I was still shocked Trump won so that says something for sure), the more we live in the duality of light alongside dark not light against dark. The world is not the binary system we were raised to live in - clear, tidy, with battle lines drawn. The lines are within me and you and everyone around. We are the light and the dark, not just on the outside but on the inside, deep within. Yes there is beauty and glory and life. But there is greed and darkness and pain as well. 

I think my black and white brain has been wrestling with the gray ever since we lost our ministry work 5 years ago. Now I live in the gray all the time. I think I might be better for it. Maybe magic is overrated. I've had magic sneak in the nooks and crannies of heartbreak. I see it in the beautiful music and my crazy children and in a killer conversation I had with my dad last week (more to come). I see it and feel it around me and within me. But if magic seeks to have us sit on our laurels while others aren't given the same level of escape, maybe it's not really the goal. Perhaps the holiday goal isn't to have the perfect table, but to have a full one, a bigger one, with more diversity, fewer rules and a whole lot of grace.

This P*$&y Has Officially Expired

I have so many ideas for writing today, my 35th birthday. I want to talk about how it feels to be a woman at 35, how much more comfortable I'm becoming with myself and perhaps, ironically, that is one of the reasons women my age and older no longer attract Donald Trump. Confident, comfortable-in-their-own-skin-women turn off misogynists. We're not interested in being defined by our sexuality. We refuse to use our looks as pawns to define our abilities, our potential or our value. We're in a process of becoming more and more ourselves and therefore, less likely to be interested in his opinion or anyone else's, for that matter. It's our own opinions we're coming in touch with, FINALLY. 

I also want to say, I'm not done yet. Not at all. And while that sounds silly (I'm not exactly dying), I have this thing creeping into my psyche that's telling me I better hurry up. That my energy or my health or my vitality are on a timeline that will continue to accelerate and if there are things I want to do or be or live into, I'd better get a move on. A healthy dose of motivation is not a bad thing but most people who know me well know that I am intrinsically motivated and always have been. No one needs to tell me you only live once or to carpe diem. I feel that in my bones. The thing I'm wondering today is do these two realities (that in Hollywood/Trump land I'm officially not viable now that I'm 35 and the fact that I feel pressure to accomplish my goals sooner rather than later) come from the same place? Do all people feel the clock ticking on their dreams now or do women feel that way because our productivity has always come down to our body parts? So as my eggs get older (though I'm done procreating) and my sexuality becomes less in-your-face, I become done? Like, that's it for me. 

I think the big number in my head is 40 and so these thoughts will undoubtedly continue soldiering towards me with increasing force in the next 5 years. In many ways I feel like I'm just emerging. I've been toying with many ideas of my personal potential and where I want to lean towards as my children get older. Do I want to go to grad school, write a book, expand my business or all 3? I don't know. But today, it feels as if I need to know sooner rather than later. And I'm wondering if my gender, if my sexual viability plays into that pressure. It's ridiculous, really, as none of my goals are remotely tied to my fertility or ability to attract someone of the opposite sex and yet, the clock seems to be ticking somewhere in the background whether I listen to it or not.

I feel as if my time is just beginning. Though the world might be likely to tell me I'm almost done because I'm a woman accelerating towards whatever age we define women as past their prime, I am just getting started. I have so many things I want to do. I have so many versions of myself I'm working to uncover, develop, expose. It's thrilling. It makes me hopeful for the future, as I become more and more confident, as I push myself towards personal discomfort to yield growth again and again. Yes, I am a woman. But regardless of the age categories I'll be lucky to find myself in over time, I will always be in a state of becoming. I just know that about me. We already know we never arrive. And maybe 35 year old me is saying, I don't want to.  

Misogyny Hurts All of Us

It comes as no surprise to anyone that Donald J. Trump is a misogynist. With recent recordings of him bragging about sexual assault once again as if he's God's gift to women, there is more than enough proof (there was way before this but ok) to give him this title. And normally, I'm able to distance myself from the horror because I have no intention of voting for this guy and almost every single person I know feels the same way as I do. But for many reasons today, all the crazy made it through my filters and I am genuinely, palpably upset. His statements don't shock me. In fact, I'm sad to admit that when I heard them, I wasn't even all that offended. Not because what he said isn't offensive, but because it's something I've heard before and his voice is typically the worst and loudest in the crowd. I don't put a lot of stock in anything he has to say, especially about me. 

The thing that really upsets me is that no one gives a fuck that this man is who he is. I know that's not true. There are so many people, myself included, who would rather surrender their citizenship than make this guy our leader. And yet, there seems to be no way to knock this guy off the evangelical, conservative pedestal, half of the population be damned. How is it that we don't have a problem with a candidate for presidency who brags about assaulting women? I just don't get it. What makes it personal is that I am in the process of raising two future women and he could be their president. He could be the man they grow up remembering. Giving speeches, representing them, showing them what it means to be an American - I can't handle it. Macy's 8 and Penny's 3. If he's elected and has 2 terms, he will be the leader of their nation until they're 16 and 11, respectively. That is an incredibly formative time in their lives. 

And I know, that just reading this far, someone has brushed him off again because there are people who are worse. There are men who are more sick, more proud, more shocking. And there are women who do horrible things too. I get it. But what does it say about us that we can only justify our vote when we compare our candidates to relatively evil people? I want my children's president to hold his/her head high, show them what leadership, compromise, stewardship and diplomacy look like. I want my children to be proud to be Americans, to work to make this place better than it is now - more tolerant, more diverse, more fair, more stable. Why is it that we don't see a bright future for ourselves? I want a brighter future - for me and for my daughters. I want more. And you should too. 

When the Daughter Becomes the Mommy

It's a running joke in our little family that my oldest daughter, Macy, and I are pretty much the same person. Obviously, I understand that we're not but our temperaments only differ in one area that we can see (I'm organized; she's not). And while being so similar seems like a bomb waiting to explode (who knows), for the most part it's been fun and fine. The weird thing I hadn't quite put together until today was that her difficult experiences would potentially trigger my difficult experiences because she's more likely to process them the same way I did as a child only now I'm the mother. It's giving me a new way to see my own mother and re-process my childhood through the eyes of the mom versus the little girl. So, so strange. And humbling. And sad. And triggering. 

This morning we got to revisit one of my most upsetting childhood memories - when I found out that Santa wasn't real. Most kids are bummed or angry when they find out. I was devastated. I felt betrayed, like I couldn't believe my family willingly deceived me. I found out on Christmas Eve when my older brother wasn't quite thrilled enough about Santa and I could tell he was summoning enthusiasm for my benefit. So I asked the questions and I got the answers. And while I knew in my heart there was doubt lurking there about flying reindeer and black coal, I was honestly totally shocked. It had become a fundamental truth to me that those things existed. And so to find out that the magic of Christmas was basically contrived, the world became a place where sometimes my favorite things are actually charades. 

Macy lost her 7th tooth last night. So I got out the glitter and replied to her note and snuck in her room for the 7th time. And when she woke up, I asked how it went and if she heard back from the Tooth Fairy. This was on the way to school this morning (first Macy, then Penny on preschool days). I had a migraine and had had to get both kids out the door in 30 minutes flat so I wasn't exactly on my A game. I believe this is why it did not occur to me to tell her we should talk about it with Daddy later that evening. And so when she asked me if I was the Tooth Fairy, I asked her if she wanted me to answer that question. Sometimes kids throw questions out there (with devastating answers) but they don't really want to know yet. And Macy, like me, loves fantasy and enjoys the benefits of belief to the highest level. I figured she had suspicions but that at 8, she had chosen to believe this far and maybe didn't want to let go of that. I fully support that as a viable choice with belief. 

Apparently today was the day she wanted to cold hard truth and as I got her consent and verified she really did want to know, I told her. I didn't want to deny her the truth when she said she wanted it and I was unwilling to lie to her. That was always the distinction for me, that I could encourage a fantasy for fun, but that when my kids asked me point blank and it was evident they really wanted the truth for themselves, I would not deny them that. At this point, we were in the car drop off line and the tears started to roll. It was not ideal, to say the least. So we decided to drop Penny off on time and I would bring Macy back to school afterwards so she would be late. That decision afforded us 30 more minutes to process, discuss and get her head and heart in a place where she could go have a good day at school. She's been reading a 150 book series on fairies and for some reason, I thought she already knew that fairies weren't real. Apparently not. So not only did she find out that it was her mother sneaking in her room with glittery money, but she also found out that all the woodland creatures she's fallen in love with through the joy of reading are also not real. Shit. So I stepped in a bit of a landmine there. I felt really bad about that. She was crushed about the Tooth Fairy because that was the only fairy that she knew personally. How sweet is that? 

And so we began a conversation about how technically, I can't definitively say fairies aren't real just because no one has ever seen them, how I'd never lived in the forest, and that maybe humans are shielded from that reality. I was totally on board for that. So she decided she still wanted to believe in the existence of fairies. Cool. She got to keep that one. The other massive fuck-up was that she then came to the question of the Easter Bunny and Santa and while I thought I'd gotten her consent to answer that question honestly, apparently her asking twice was still her version of musing and I answered it when she wasn't ready. Damn. So then we unpacked that and we discussed my experience at her age with finding out. She became angry with me and I told her that was okay. I was willing to be the problem in her process. We talked about her feelings of sadness and her shock that we had all done these things under the guise of it being Santa. She wondered if Santa was in fact real and we were just getting in his way. Maybe. We talked about the inspiration for Santa and that Saint Nick himself was a real person and that what he represents (generosity of spirit, kindness) was still very much real in how we celebrate Christmas. We talked about the magic of childhood and how Dad and I believe in the value of infusing magic into her experience and all the beautiful memories she has of that time of belief (hello church baggage!) And we talked about how she could still choose to believe, pretend to believe, participate, not participate, join us in our role with her sister or any combination of these things. That was her decision and she gets to decide what to do with her new information. We talked about the value of hard conversations and our willingness to pull back that fantasy veil as she gave us her consent to do so. That we believe in sitting in those painful realities and that not every family does that. That's why we talk about sex and changing bodies and death and belief and loss of belief openly. We talked about there being space for her anger and grief. We talked about growing up and the process of lifting veils and how the world becomes bigger and smaller, more real and less fantastic. We talked about her choices and her ability to guard her beliefs as she sees fit. We talked about being stewards of other children and not intercepting their process by shouting these new truths from the rooftops. She talked about her desire to be the one to tell her sister when the time came because "sisters give the best snuggles." And by the time we pulled back into her school parking lot, the tears had dried and she hopped out. 

And that's when mommy called daddy and felt a little teary and decided to write it all out. 

To The Beautiful People in Professional Ministry Being Treated Like Shit

I have a lot of friends in professional ministry. I, of course, used to be in professional ministry both paid and unpaid (spouse). And after a traumatic, unwarranted firing from the ministry, we left ministry for our spiritual and emotional well-being. It's been 5 years and there has been a ton of personal growth. That being said, I am often triggered by the stories of my dear friends who remain in professional ministry. The problem with the eldership model in the churches of Christ is that many of our churches on the west coast are small. We have no oversight outside of the local church (something we take pride in) which means that often elderships have no accountability and total control. Sometimes this power falls into the hands of 2-3 men, one of whom is often bordering on senility because for some reason, we don't know when to boot out the old guys. The elder with the biggest swagger is always wealthy. It's rude. But it's true. So I would like to write an open letter to my dear friends in ministry, who give everything they have to the church in often unhealthy, secretly abusive leadership models. 

Dear Friend,

I see you. I see you putting yourself out there. I see you initiating relationship when you'd rather be in bed watching TV. I see you planning events and hoping people come. I see you getting pulled aside at church to listen to someone who doesn't really know you or care about you as a person criticizing the work you do prayerfully and with the utmost care. I see you nodding while tamping down anger and resentment. I see you being unable to defend yourself because that would be considered threatening. I see you trying to decide if you should cater to the bullies or follow your leader gut that's telling you to go in the direction you've been going. I see your exhaustion. I see you tire of pushing so hard. Pushing yourself to keep going. Dragging the dead horse behind you that is everyone's resistance to change. I see you compromising. I see you questioning yourself - your abilities, your calling, your very worth. I see you stagnating in your faith because it's become a function of your work. I see you towing lines of theology you'd love to leave behind but you can't for risk of losing your income. I see you wondering if anyone around you really loves you. You - the person, not the role. I see you proving your worth with activity, calendars, ministry updates. I see you hustling - greeting new people, trying to be friendly all the time. I see you missing your family, missing bedtime routines, missing sex because you're just too tired at the end of the day. I see you wishing you had the energy to be more present in your neighborhood. There's just nothing left when you get home from church. I see you longing for rest, like poor people long for winning the lottery. 

I'm here to say - you are gifted. You are loved. You matter. Not because of how you perform, what you can accomplish, the numbers you can bring in - you matter because. You matter. If you laid down all this today, you would still matter. Your value does not come from your abilities, your performance, your care of others. You matter. Your soul deserves care. Not just from you, not just from God, but from the people around you. Your body deserves care. You are allowed to sleep, eat, relax and breathe. You are allowed to spend time on things that aren't perceived as spiritual. You are allowed to act your age. If you are young, be young. Don't carry the world on your shoulders like it's up to you to save it. It's not. You can't. What you're doing matters and if you intend to stay in it, you may need some therapy. And if you need to leave to shore up your faith, your psyche, your family - you should. You are worthy of emotional health. You are worthy of being poured into not just out of. Do not cast the pearls of your soul before the swines who feel no remorse for stamping it out. Do not let anyone speak into your soul, question your worthiness, make you feel ashamed of who you are. You are beautiful. You are precious. You do not need to live in shame. Do not pay back a debt of shame by giving service to people who don't appreciate it. Do not serve out of some sort of penance. You are loved. You stand in grace. So stand up. Don't let anyone tell you who you are. 

No one's perfect. I get it. Sure, you probably need to work on some stuff. But no one takes the kind of shit people in ministry do. You might not even realize it because you're so entrenched in it right now. Be brave. Don't allow your imperfections to give them a pass. They have imperfections too and you'd never throw it at them like they do with you. Claim your dignity. And be honest with yourself - you'll always be an employee first in the church. So if you are taking more shit than an employee should be taking, know that the ideas of "family" don't really apply to you. That's terrible, but it's honest. So make your peace with that and set your boundaries. Don't delude yourself to thinking you're not expendable. 

I see you. Do you see yourself?

It Happened One Night

Growing up in the churches of Christ as a girl with a passion for God and leadership abilities was not as easy as one might think. Any time I expressed interest in leadership, it always needed to be in tandem with a(n often less enthusiastic) boy, after no boys were willing to do it or only if they couldn't find a tactful way of turning me down. This included leading prayers, reading Scripture in "mixed company", creating or heading any ministry outside of things specifically only for children or women and certainly anything involving extemporaneous speaking (teaching or preaching). I was treated as a threat by my faith community because of my faith. After years of having my motives questioned, I sometimes questioned them as well. Am I full of pride? Do I want to get attention? Who the hell do I think I am that I have any insight to share?It breaks my heart that the voices who spoke these shame-filled statements to me were not from the devil, but in fact, were the voices of the church.

That's not to say that I didn't have any encouragement along the way.  I had a few youth ministers who loved my energy and sought to mentor me. At my Christian high school that was much more egalitarian, I was fully supported in my ministry abilities and was in leadership for most of my high school career. And once I got to college, I was able to lead ministry as a full partner. Then, I married a youth minister. Tim and I were just speaking last night about how much our mutual love for ministry attracted us to each other when we met in 2002. It's ironic as neither of us are in ministry anymore. But the love of God and ministry was a critical piece to our story both as a couple and as individuals. 

I've found myself drawn back to church (my very "liberal" UCC). I've started reading more spiritual memoirs. I'm considering the activity of God in the world and within me. It's a little scary to be wooed. I'm not gonna lie. And yet, there's a certain coyness with which God draws me to himself, like He knows I can't resist. One of the things that has happened to me recently is that I got be ordained (by the internet) in order to perform my best friends wedding. It was such an incredible honor to do. And she and I giggled at the progressiveness of it (she chose me because of our relationship, but we snickered at breaking our childhood rules as an added bonus). It was such an incredible, humbling, heady experience. It just felt right. It makes me wonder if God's not done with me and spiritual leadership (not that I'm not using those gifts now as a "layperson." In some ways, I think Tim and I both feel freer to use our gifts outside of the constraints of an eldership).

She asked me to post the words I wrote for the occasion. In true Becky fashion, it was a very short, simple, sweet, beautiful night. So don't be alarmed - there isn't too much to read. But I thought I would share my words so you can share both in Becky and Ali's joy and also in mine.

Welcome to Ali and Becky’s wedding!

What a wonderful day to celebrate the life these two begin together today. Marriage is the craziest of the traditions I think we hold so dear as humans. It is sacred. It is incredible. It is undoubtedly a crazy undertaking. To willingly choose one person to share your life with, to build a family with, to love and die with FOREVER?!?! It is an absurd risk, this act of getting married. And yet, all the things we really care about require great risk. And that is what makes these things courageous. Because even though getting married is certainly common, it is more than anything - quite daring.

We’re here to celebrate this amazing thing that has happened, these two people who’ve found each other, fallen in love and are committing to being together forever in front of us today. When God made this incredible planet and everything in it, he called us his ultimate creation. I think loving each other in marriage, choosing to give each other grace, appreciating all the idiosyncrasies that make each of us unique and living life alongside each other as partners and as friends is the most incredible way to honor the creation God made. We take each other on as family and we do our best to love each other as we change and grow all our lives alongside each other. I’m warning you both now – you’re going to change. A lot. We’re typically sweeter when we date than after we marry J But we’re also more intimate post-nuptials, as we learn each other in every possible way. We get a sneak peek, we commit forever, and then we really, really get to know each other. It’s an incredible and weird order – how we humans love each other. But I think there’s a certain purpose to it – that we don’t fully reveal ourselves until we are completely safe. It is my desire to see the safety you’ve found in each other grow with each passing year, that it never decreases or remains static over time, but that as you reveal yourselves to each other more and more, your safety in each other only grows.

None of us know what awaits us in the future. Today, as Ali and Becky move forward, they are stating to the world that whatever lies ahead, they plan to face it together. May you cling to each other and to the family you’re making today as life brings you many unknowable challenges and gifts. For we don’t seek a partner to fill us and make us whole. We don’t seek a partner to walk before us or behind us as leader or property. We seek a partner to hold our hand, to walk alongside us and to face whatever comes together. That is what you are getting today – not just a lover or a spouse, but a lifelong friend. There is no greater gift.

My wish for you is that you continue to create space for your differences. For, I think, it’s in our differences that we learn what respect really is. We always talk about love when we talk about marriage and love is indeed, critical for success. But the goal of marriage, or how we claim “success” isn’t really in just “staying married.” What we really want even above love, is acceptance. In my experience, the key ingredient to a happy marriage is a bone-deep appreciation for your partner as “other.” We must make space for the other, whether it be in our closet, in our plans and dreams, in our decisions and life direction. We accommodate. We create space – not just for who your person is right now, but for who they may become. Hopefully all of us will continue to grow and change throughout our lives. Ali, Becky, if you decide to clamp down on each other and try to keep each other as you are now, frozen in time, you will stunt each other. And if you push and prod, trying to make one another into a better version of yourselves, one that you may think you prefer, you will quench each other. True marriage is respecting the other enough to let them evolve as they see fit, respecting their personhood before God, providing your support and encouragement along the way. People who achieve greatness of spirit often have a community behind them. May you be each others teammate through and through. And as your family and friends, may we cheer you on as you face life together from here on out.

While celebrating differences in marriage is important, celebrating your similarities is too. I think when Becky and Ali got together, many of us here focused on the obvious differences between them in culture and religion. But you know what’s funny? After meeting Ali in person and seeing these two together, it felt like the most beautiful surprise to see how incredibly the same they are. They share a love for the world, for travel, for deep conversation, for learning, for peace and kindness, for children and extended family, for exercise and the outdoors, for God and of course, for each other. These are the things that carry us through life’s difficulties – not just finding someone you can live with, but meeting the person you cannot live without. I believe that Becky and Ali have found that person and are just grateful and humbled to stand before you and before God today and make a lifelong commitment to each other.

I couldn’t be more pleased to celebrate your union today. Congratulations!   

And here are the gorgeous vows they wrote to each other:

 "In the Name of God, I, Rebecca, take you, Ali, to be my husband to have and to hold from this day forward. I will be yours in plenty and in want, in sickness and in health, in failure and in triumph. I promise I will laugh with you in times of joy, and comfort you in times of sorrow. I will listen to you with compassion and understanding, and speak to you with encouragement. I promise to learn with you and grow with you, to explore and adventure with you, to respect you in everything as an equal partner. All that I am I give to you, and all that I have I share with you. Whatever the future holds, I will love you and stand by you, until we are parted by death. This is my solemn vow."

When Perfectionism Meets Sentiment

If you haven't already noticed, I'm a perfectionist. My original blog (www.mutteringsfromaperfectionist.blogspot.com) was completely dedicated to this fact. I am also really sentimental. I have been ever since I was a little kid. I grieved the end of the school year. I grieved the end of the summer. Transition was not impossible, but definitely something I was aware of, even as a young child. 

Fast forward to mothering. I've found that when my perfectionism collides with sentiment around transition, I can get into a kind of beast mode, in the craziness, possibly unhealthy way that you can imagine. This has not been more clear to me than this week. This is Macy's last full week of summer. She starts 3rd grade on Wednesday next week. And Penny starts preschool the following week, so the start of school looms large. So naturally, I'm trying to cram in all the fun things we haven't gotten to do this summer in our final week. That seems almost reasonable. But then you throw in that I'm currently coaching 3 people to do a business alongside me. And I have an event in my home this weekend. And my best friend is coming to town. And another friend had a baby, which involves hospital visits, meals to coordinate and food to cook. And Tim got strep over the weekend so as far as co-parenting goes, has been completely useless (reasonably so). He's absolutely miserable and still working because he has an awesome important job. Oh, and I'M DOING A CLEANSE. Which means for the 5 days of this week, I have completely altered my diet. See the crazy? Yes, I see the crazy. 

I'm hoping as I sift through my perfectionism and learn to give myself grace that just the awareness of crazy counts for something. I can see it. I can feel it rising up. Now, the skill I learned in therapy was to give myself permission to stop and/or lighten the load I place on myself so heavily. And all week I've seen that option waiting in the wings. So far, I've opted not to take it. I don't want to take it. And that is my natural response to the ever-present option to pull back. I don't want to. Here's the thing: I don't want to pull back because I actually want to do what I'm doing. Maybe not all the crazy at the same time (some of the timing was beyond my control) but all the things? Yes. I know it's just this week and I'm not willing to give anything up. And so, I take naps and read my book and put wonderful nutrition in my body and laugh at myself. Perhaps the difference between crazy by choice is that this week, I made a deliberate choice rather than that feeling I used to get, like I was on a merry-go-round I could never stop. I know I can stop the crazy. I'm just happy to be crazy. And I know I'm not better or more loved for being this way. That has been the critical piece and actually what helps me enjoy the process, which I could never do before. Valuing process over product is completely the opposite of how a perfectionist mind evaluates activity. And while I'm still product-focused by nature, I know that I don't have to slug through a process I hate to achieve a perfect product or to be loved and accepted by my community. I get to tackle my life Tazmanian Devil style because that's my preference. So I'm here to tell myself this week: crazy on, solider, crazy on.

Vaguebooking

I found myself vaguebooking after a difficult incident this evening and figured that type of behavior in me is indicative of a very real need to write. As a mother, I do a pretty awkward dance with protecting my children's childhood and giving them an appropriate level of street smarts. Growing up in the 80's with a mom who had legitimate fears for her children, I was possibly overly made aware of the dangers of being a vulnerable child in the big, bad world. The 80's seemed to be a time for well-publicized, freak kidnapping stories that terrified mothers nationwide, and for good reason. This is where the "stranger danger" campaign came from as well as the ransacking of your children's Halloween candy for drugs and needles. 

For me, I tend to lean too far the other way, possibly as an overcompensation, and more than likely, because I'm not much of a worrier. I'm really not. I realized recently that I live my life like I expect things to go well. That is what led me to travel all over the world by the time I was 19, largely unattended by "adults" with little to no fear for my safety. Let me tell you - it was awesome. I'm not reckless with what I would have constituted as "moral risks". I was a virgin when I got married (I know!); I've never done drugs or even been drunk. But hop on a train to a foreign company with no place to stay for the night? Sure!

So, I don't spend my days following my children around with band-aids and tissues. I try to evaluate the worst possible outcome of the choices I witness them making, recognize that their likelihood is slim and hope for the best. So far, that's worked for me. Tim is the more reasonable one, sending them to the doctor, not allowing them to climb all over everything, not wanting them to eat snow, etc. So here's my problem: apparently, my oldest has no concept that she is in danger when she has given me the slip in public. She has no idea the sheer terror that courses through my veins when I can't for the life of me find her. Three times this has happened this summer and tonight took the cake.

We were in the 5 story public library when she asked to go ahead of Penny and I down the concrete stairs. I said sure, but you must stay inside the building. She ran down the stairs while Penny carefully took the 3 stories one step at a time. When we got to the bottom, Macy wasn't "hiding" under the stairs like she usually is. The librarian at the bottom hadn't seen her. The story in between the children's floor and the bottom floor is administrative, so I knew she wasn't there. I scoured the bottom floor carrying a very heavy library bag, my purse and bumping into Penny at every turn. We were on our way down the block to the movies so I was also on a time crunch. 

I went to the lobby area to set down the bag and glance outside on the off chance she'd stepped just outside the door. Nothing. Suddenly, I see two men of color and a young boy gesturing me outside. I had seen them when Penny and I were on the stairs. I run out and they ask me, are you looking for your daughter? Yes, I exhale and try to inhale. Purple dress? Yes, she just went down the street and got into a car. Oh shit. Meanwhile, Penny is trapped in that damn circular door, gotta run back and free her while she's screaming. I pick her up and race down the street where I know my car is parked. And what do I see? Macy sitting in her booster seat reading. I thank the men, put Penny in her carseat and just shake. And shake. And shake. With rage. With relief. With terror. With all the curse words I'm not saying but must be screaming from my pores. What the hell were you thinking? I actually say. I pull back up to the 5 min parking at the library to run in and grab the giant pile of books I had discarded. I call Tim frantically. He doesn't pick up the phone. I stop and start angry sentences all the way home at my ignorant child. No, we're not going to the movies. Yes, this isn't fair to your sister who did nothing wrong. No, I was very clear you were not to leave the building. Yes, this is serious and you will be spending the evening in your room. 

I came home, woke up poor sick Tim from his nap and vented all my fears and anger at the situation while he nodded in his poor, sick stupor. He agrees 100%. He's in there to talk to her through his strep throat, swollen vocal chords. I'm trying to calm down. No, I can't see her face until I calm down. Yes, I need to eat so badly. Fattening comfort food ensues. TV turns on as Penny is suddenly very interested in interacting with me. My muscles slowly start to uncurl. And here I am.

Here's the thing: risk-taking is a critical life skill. I feel really strongly that children need to not be afraid of everything, that the best experiences in life involve an element of risk (falling in love, finding personal success, choosing to be vulnerable, starting over...) And yet, my kid has no idea why her lack of listening in these situations puts her at risk. So now my child has shown me that she must be told that while the world is a beautiful place full of incredible people, it also has a lot of really terrible realities of which she knows nothing. Things like kidnapping. That there are people in the world who take pleasure in hurting others, particularly the most vulnerable, innocent people. I hate this. I feel like the loss of innocence is a bad thing. I know when it's torn from someone it is a bad thing. I know that's not what this is. This isn't trauma; it's education. But it feels bad, like I'm losing something and that it's hurting her. Perhaps I am losing something - I'm losing my "little" girl. 

I mentioned in my blog post about "clumsy advocacy" that I recently joined a #blacklivesmatter moms group. And one of the things we're looking to explore as a group is how to expose our children to the racial realities in this country. How do we begin to explain systemic racism, white privilege and the school to prison pipeline? There's a mama bear in me that wants so desperately to keep my little kids little. And yet, how do I raise ethically-minded children unless I mold their developing minds toward these realities? Children understand certain things (like injustice) way more deeply and easily than many adults, so it's a wonderful time to plant moral seeds. I guess as Macy's growing up, I have to incrementally help her grow up, into these difficult realities, whether I want to or not. Because she needs to be aware for her own safety and hopefully, in order to advocate on behalf of others. Sometimes parenting is a punch in the gut.

Chores

I'm not really a "mommy blogger" though I am a mom who blogs. And I think it's cool when people share little tips on how to do things when you're in that season of life. It's just not particularly what I'm interested in doing. Until now. Because I thought of one.

There are a few things I do that work well that I think could be of some interest to fellow moms of young kids. And I'll throw one out there tonight for kicks. Macy and I do chores very well. She and I have the exact same temperament (except that she's disorganized) so while that can cause difficulties in certain situations, it also creates a lot of harmony in others. Anything to do with planning and being a perfectionist, as long as I don't try to be in control of it, turns out to be a great shared venture for us. 

One of the things I'm working hard on as a mother is teaching my children the idea of consent. This obviously applies directly to anything relating to their bodies. But in this case, I think it applies indirectly as well. People always ask me how I "get" Macy to do her chores. I don't have to. And the reason why is because she agrees to her chores based on a conversation we have every fall and every summer (we change up the chores for school year and summer - longer ones in the summer!) We both make lists of things she'd like to learn or prefers to do along with what I would prefer for her to do or what I would like to teach her that season. Sometimes she chooses chores that I get really excited about teaching her (laundry - she does the entire households once a week now) and other times she selects something that she likes but isn't particularly helpful or interesting to me (dusting). She has one chore a day Monday thru Friday. The idea is to vary it so that by the time she moves out, she's capable of fully caring for herself. And in the meantime, we're teaching her about what it means to be a part of a family: we contribute to the household, we clean up after ourselves, we do things we don't want to do sometimes. 

This afternoon, I needed a pick-me-up so I started watching Julie and Julia (I needed a quirky story about process that ends up great in the end) and later when Macy came home from her play date, I asked her if one day a week this school year she'd be interested in learning to cook something rather than working on cleaning something. She was thrilled. We both started making lists (mainly full of sweets, naturally) and ended up making chocolate pudding tonight because we couldn't help ourselves (I'm currently eating it for dinner...yum). So I guess if I have a "mommy blogger" hat on and I'm giving a succinct tip it is this: let your kid have a say in how they contribute to the family. Have an actual conversation, with give and take, write it down and post it to see both for reminders and accountability. And then schedule it in your daily routine. So it's never a question of if it will happen, but that it's a certain day, so this is the certain chore that is needed. 

If you have to have a consequence, we do not link allowance with chores because I don't get paid to clean and neither does Tim. We clean because it's part of living in a home. But, if a chore is not done by 7pm, she loses the chance to do it that night and has to do it the following day along with the next chore. She also has to pay me a late fee of 50 cents. The idea is that chores don't go away even when you skip them. It's ok to skip them on occasion, but just know that means you'll have more to do later. The other thing we do with chores and consent is that she chooses when she does them (any time before the deadline). This keeps nagging to a minimum. And if gives her authority to learn how to budget her time and balance her needs. She cannot do an undesired task right when she walks in from school. She needs to decompress. These are the things you learn about your kiddo. Now, each kid is totally different and even getting a lot of say in their chores does not ensure peace. But it's always nice to know when something is working for someone, it might work at your house too. 

And I'm sure it goes without saying that when a child is being taught a new skill, it requires one-on-one training. Teaching Macy sorting, loading and unloading machines, knowing what temperature the water should be based on the type of laundry you're doing, etc took awhile. Now, I do nothing. Except fold. That was one of my goals this summer that we only worked on one week. Maybe that'll be one she agrees to for the fall. I'm not betting on it though.

Deciding Who Will Be Your Inner Voice

As many of you know, I was raised in a conservative Christian household. I'm the youngest of 7 in a blended family and the only biological child that my parents share (picture the Brady Bunch but then they accidentally procreated - hollah!) My dad had a 20 year military career that ended in retirement before I was born (he went to the Naval Academy and everything), which I think greatly suited his perfectionist, procedural, cerebral mind. So you can imagine, the type of parenting I was exposed to being the youngest of a military, perfectionist, conservative, religious man. He was also 46 when I was born, so by the time I came around, he was also kind of "too old" to be raising another child, especially one so spirited. 

Sometimes I try to remember what kind of child I was. Chatty to the level of irritating, no doubt. Obedient most of the time, yes. Spirited, yes. But I also think I was pretty easily pleased with things (I didn't even know we didn't have money when I was little. I was very content and my parents were smart enough to not air their dirty laundry financially with their young children - well done). I knew when things weren't right and as I got older, learned to fight those things on my terms. When you're raised by a perfectionist, who loves you dearly, but is not expressive so it's hard to read, you reach a crossroads at some point. Am I going to make decisions based on trying to meet this person's (impossible) expectations or am I going to make decisions based on my own? I met this moment in 8th grade. I don't believe there was a specific impetus for my paradigm shift. It could have been another report card moment gone wrong (why isn't this A- an A type bullshit) but I'm not really sure. It just suddenly dawned on me that I was never going to be able to meet his expectations, not really. 

So the practical side of me clicked on and said, fuck that, what do I feel about say, my report card? I believed an A- was good enough for me. Time to move on. And I did. Yes, self-affirmation skills were a focus even in my adult therapy experiences in recent years. There isn't one moment where all the baggage disappears. But, in that light-dawning moment in 8th grade, my allegiances shifted from my father to myself. (Come to find out years later that he actually thinks I'm awesome...who knew?) The point is, when I realized that I got to decide if I was pleased with myself, satisfied with my performance, or looking to make changes based on what I thought, I became a full, real, separate person from my parents. The people pleasing thing knocks on my door periodically, no doubt. Many of the things I've written in my original blog posts (see www.mutteringsfromaperfectionist.blogspot.com) reflect that. But living by your own standards is such a critical piece of human development. 

This post was prompted by reading an article recently about raising "strong-willed children" and how that's actually kind of a great type of human to raise and maybe we shouldn't be trying to get them to obey so much. I view my childhood self as pretty obedient. But scrolling through my memories, as I grew up into junior high and high school, I started questioning my dad. Respectfully, but basically saying, this decision you made isn't right. It's irrational that you make a point of never changing your mind, that you're incapable of apology. It's fun to trace those lines back. I think that's where my clumsy advocacy stems from. It was always deeply emotional for me to go up against my dad. (I got to experience that again recently when I needed to tell him "I'm a grown-ass woman" when he called to outline the merits of a potential Trump presidency to me knowing that I'm a political progressive). I've learned to hold my own, to stand my ground, to draw my line in the sand. You have to ask for my consent to have these conversations. You get to listen to my ideas if you want me to listen to yours. And you know what? He respects me for it. We had a pretty sweet, albeit impromptu, meeting of the minds I ended up enjoying. But most importantly, regardless of his response, what really matters to me is that I respect myself for it too. I guess it pays to grow up.

Clumsy Advocacy

One of the things about being a perfectionist is that it's very difficult to do anything you're not naturally good at. None of us are naturally good at everything so this is a terribly impractical trait. But perfectionists are only comfortable when they feel like they know what the hell they're doing. Every once in awhile, we stumble upon something worth making an ass of ourselves over. For me, this is advocacy. I've written in the past about my basic comfort level with advocating for gay rights, given my evangelical background. But #blacklivesmatter has been pushing a national conversation on police violence, specifically against people of color, ever since Michael Brown was shot 2 years ago. And this white girl wants to get involved.

The problem is, I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I bought a #blacklivesmatter t-shirt. I've attended a White Allies meeting. I've joined a #blacklivesmatter moms group to determine how we raise our children to understand human dignity among all peoples. I've bought The New Jim Crow (though I'm terrified to read it) and Between the World and Me (just started this one). I've posted many articles on Facebook and moderated conversations advocating for people of color. I've followed a great writer who posts great information multiple times a day (Shawn King of the NY Daily News). As I list this out, it feels like not enough. 

And yet part of this clumsy advocacy process is that it's awkward. I've said stupid stuff trying to advocate for people of color. I've gotten in the way. I've silenced them. I've tried to explain their experiences to them. And here's the grace part - now I know that. And as the beautiful Maya Angelou once said, "When you know better, do better." And that is what I'm doing. I'm learning. I'm stumbling around like a rickety toddler facing my privilege, fearing the truth and trying to learn. It's easy to say that I shouldn't speak until I know the right words. That I shouldn't support a movement when my skin places me as the perpetrator of the oppression. That I need to read more, listen more, learn more. Those things are all true. And yet, there is blood running down our streets. RIGHT NOW. I can't wait to be an expert. And neither can you.