BloPoMo Day 3: Golden Authenticity

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A friend shared this on Facebook and I thought it absurdly appropriate to share here as well. Thank you, Genevieve V. Georget, for your authenticity! Follow her here – https://www.facebook.com/genevievevgeorget?fref=ts

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Genevieve Smyth's photo.

Genevieve Smyth

It was a Wednesday afternoon when I walked into Starbucks that day nearly six years ago. I stood at the bar, waiting for my drink, when the barista politely asked me what I was up to that day. As it turns out, I was en route to the airport at that moment…about to catch a flight to Italy with my husband. After a brief minute of chatting, the barista handed me my coffee and wished me a nice trip. “But then again”, she said “why wouldn’t you…your life is golden!”

I’ll admit…the gold star was nice. But at the same time, the words knocked the wind out of me. She wasn’t being rude. She wasn’t being sarcastic. In fact, she was being totally genuine. And that’s the part that really took my breath away.

Because here’s the thing…

This lovely girl saw me for all of five minutes a day. Usually all dressed up on the way to my full-time job at one of the country’s most prestigious art galleries. Or with my camera in hand to photograph two people in love. Or, yes, on my way to Italy for ten days to celebrate my anniversary. This is what she saw. Therefore, this is what she knew.

And truth be told, there is darkness in this kind of knowledge. Especially now, when so many of our connections happen only five minutes at a time…fully filtered and perfectly hash tagged. In our defense though, it’s not entirely our fault. That battle we’re fighting…those rough days were having…they don’t tend to translate very well when you have twenty people in line behind you for coffee or a hundred and forty characters to spell out your day.

Honestly, what was I going to tell my barista?

“Yes, we’re flying to Europe. I just miscarried our baby…we had a terrifying health scare…I’m suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder…and we’re feeling pretty far from God right now. So, yeah, going to Italy seemed as good a place as any to just run away from our life and justifiably eat gelato twelve times a day.”

No. I wasn’t going to tell her this. Because shocking total strangers into oblivion is a bit harsh and cruel. Especially when she’s the girl in charge of making your coffee every day.

But I did spend the entirety of that flight wondering; about our sense of authenticity…our collective vulnerability…our polished identity. And it made me feel like a total fraud. Because I’m not any of those things that this girl sees on the other side of her coffee bar.

If I showed up one morning, wearing my most ragged and scarred self…it would be a very different girl staring back at her [and she would likely feel inclined to serve me alcohol instead of coffee!]…

Because I was bullied a lot as a teenager.

I’m afraid of thunderstorms.

I spend an absurd amount of time worrying about what other people think of me.

My biggest challenge in life is letting go of people. Even if they hurt me.

I hide behind my humor for fear that people won’t accept me without it.

I feel like I have failed as a daughter.

I try to avoid big groups so that I won’t feel like the invisible one among it.

I’m insanely self-conscious of my smile.

I feel like I’m an easy person to walk away from in life…and it haunts me on a daily basis.

I almost always operate under the assumption that I care more about everyone else than they do about me.

I unfollow people on Instagram if their life seems too perfect because it makes me feel inadequate.

I feel like a terrible mother pretty much all the time.

I hate emptying the dishwasher.

Every day, I’m afraid that my husband is going to wake up and finally realize how much crazy he married.

I thank God for every day that he doesn’t!

I don’t like to try new foods…so I travel with my own jar of peanut butter.

I want to write a book so badly that it hurts. But I’m afraid of people telling me that my life was never worth telling.

I struggle, every single day, with feeling like I’m enough. Skinny enough. Funny enough. Good enough.

And I cry. A lot.

I highly doubt I would get a gold star for any of this. But, now, six years later, I do know one thing for sure; that even with all of my frailty…all of my fears…and all my faults…none of those things make my life any less golden.

Scars tell stories. Scars mean survival. Scars mean you showed up for the fight instead of running from it.

And we’ve all got them…even the sweet girl serving my coffee. She’s fighting her own battle…defending her own front line…struggling in her own way.

And maybe it’s not about collecting gold stars for the perceived reality we give the world on Facebook…but it’s about the purple hearts we get for living bravely among the real one.

Because life requires guts…it requires bravery…and it requires vulnerability.

So, buy your coffee…wear your scars proudly…and carry on, dear soldier…

You’re not in this battle alone.

photo credit: www.richellehunter.com | Richelle Hunter Photography

BloPoMo Day 2, Part 2: Love in Fewer Than Ten Words

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Love is saying “I’m here” and being there.

Love is saying “I will” and doing so.

Love is grasping hands through nightmares and pain.

Love is asking “how are you” and wanting to know.

Love is being the person you needed.

Love is holding out a Kleenex.

Love is pretending not to see the tears.

Love is saying “Talk, I’ll listen” and listening.

Love is 4am texts saying, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Love is a letter amongst the bills.

Love is hearing another’s struggles and admitting “Me, too.”

Love is seeing another’s darkness and sharing some light.

Love is saying “I noticed. Thank you.”

 

Author’s Note: Yes, I think I technically cheated by writing several lines, and I could probably go on and on and on, honestly. Love, in all its forms, is so multi-faceted and deep and wide and high; no wonder Greek has four differing words for it. How would YOU describe what love means to you in fewer than ten words? Feel free to post in the comments. I would love to hear your mind and heart.

BloPoMo Day 1: That Mom? That’s Me.

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Author’s Note: Cross-posted from my motherood blog.

Today, not half an hour ago, I was that mom.

I was the mom who walked into the gas station Subway with a crying toddler, who was angry because we were there instead of on a walk.

I was the mom with the toddler trying to stealthily sneak off because she believed that we didn’t need dinner and wanted to leave the Subway.

I was the mom with the toddler throwing her Lambie around because she was angry that I wanted her to stick with me.

I was the mom with the toddler who gave a scream and went prone on the floor in the middle of the checkout line, right when it was time for us to move forward for our turn.

I was the mom who stepped over her prone toddler to pay for the aforementioned sandwiches for dinner.

I was the mom who, but for the grace and integrity of the hoodie that I was grasping, would have had a toddler who planked herself face first into the asphalt.

I was the mom with the toddler who tried to stalk off through the parking lot, proclaiming she was “going walk”.

I was the mom with the red face. I was the mom with tears threatening. I was the mom trying staunchly to disbelieve that there are other people in the world, much less other people occupying the same commercial space as I was in those moments.

I am the mom with cranky tears still threatening and a mug of room temperature vanilla chai that I never got to enjoy.

I am the mom who, at this very moment, is catching her toddler throwing chips and, probably soon her sandwich as well, out of her high chair and onto the floor.

So, in all honesty today, this is for me. If you get something out of it, great. Really, though, this is for me. But thanks for not judging me.

DISCLAIMER: The linked article below is NOT mine but was posted at Stuff Moms Say.

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                                             Click me to go to the article.

Wonderfully Made

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She wears her body like she is proud of it.

Like it is something fearfully and wonderfully made, and it is.

She holds her chest high, unembarrassed by its perkiness.

She lets her hips sway, honoring their curves.

She works to bless and please the body she has been gifted with.

She eats sumptuous foods and waters her body liberally.

She stretches and challenges her body to make it stronger.

She pampers her body and rests it.

Rather than denying her body’s beauty, she allows the compliments in with gracious acknowledgement.

She wears her body like she is proud of it.

Like she is fearfully and wonderfully made.

Because she is.

I am.

You are.

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Clothed in Him

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She woke with his scent clinging to her like a soft new skin. It covered her arms, hands, belly, and chest. She could taste his kiss on her lips, smell his breath on her cheeks. He was everywhere, his musky scent layered over her body like hedgespun silk. Every time she moved, she caught a whiff of him that made her turn, always expecting him to be right behind her. The smoothness of his cologne coupled with the softness of his shirt brushed through her memory, then the deeper, more pungent musk of his bare skin. It was like touching her own flesh just released more and more of him until she was drowning in him again.

Why on earth would she ever want to get dressed?

Because I love words

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As a friend pointed out, while “fondle” and “caress” are indeed synonyms, the former has taken on more of its erotic connotation through practice and is therefore viewed with more of that color than the other words included in the definition.

And, yes, that is Khaleesi Daenerys Stormborn and Khal Drogo from Game of Thrones.12046563_1119631811397472_5056938008544459704_n

Out of the Mouths (and Lives) of Babes

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When I was in grade school, there was a little girl in the younger grades that had a profound impact upon my life. She was a dear, dainty little thing, gentleness personified. Serena had been born with a hole in her heart and, even with surgery, she was not expected to live past the beginnings of elementary school. She could not run and scream and play like her classmates but seemed content to swing and smile and watch others have such boistrous fun. I remember the way she would sit next to me on one of the benches before school would start, such a quiet presence. I remember the way she would take my hand and ask me to push her in the swing, always answering any question of her well-being with a sweet “yes” or “fine” and acknowledging ANYTHING done for her with a mild “thank you”. I remember her little hugs, her body light and delicate in my arms but the light in her eyes bright and her smile sweet.

Serena never complained, never whined, I never saw her cry, even though one would proclaim her justified in doing so. She knew her condition, she knew her limitations, but even at that young age, she didn’t let them limit her spirit. She showed each and every one of us the meaning of a peaceful spirit, a grateful heart, and a loving life.

The year that Serena passed away, we dedicated the yearbook to her, and I wrote the dedication to this beautiful, delicate, steel-strong little girl. She taught me the truth that softness and gentleness are not weakness but immense courage. Our school world was very different the following year, a bit of light having gone from our lives. But peaceful little Serena has never left my memory or my heart. I miss you, darling, and thank you!

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When a Mom’s Voice is Silent

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Author’s Note: Edited and revised on 9-14-15.

I think I was just called out by a friend. I don’t think she meant to or even realizes that she did but, yes, I feel like I have just been called out, in a good (very good) way, to vulnerability.

Vulnerability is not easy. It’s the proverbial exposing my belly but I also know that some of the best conversations and growth I have had with friends and family is through being vulnerable and exposing those tender, soft parts of my heart and soul. So, here I am and here it is:

I do not ask for help well. I don’t.

When it is emotional support I am in need of, that I can ask for because that can be given at a distance without me having to meet someone’s eyes in what so often feels like my weakness. But when it comes to physical help with the person offering standing there in front of me, that is almost impossible for me to ask for. Most recent example: I had a rough day with my toddler daughter the other day; she and I were at odds all the day long. I was tired; I was frustrated; I was angry. My girl was driving me mad and I had been graceless in response. My husband, bless his heart, asked me point blank if I wanted him to take our daughter for a while so I could have a break. And I couldn’t — could not — make myself say yes. Everything inside me screamed, “Yes! God, yes! I need a break! I need quiet! I need away!” But the words were stuck somewhere far away from my lips and would get nowhere near them. I physically could not force the words out of my mouth. I knew I needed help; moreover, he knew I needed help. But I just could not manage it, could not ask for it. And that is really scary sometimes. Scary that I cannot ask for help. Won’t ask for help. Even when I need it. Especially when I need it. It hurts and I’m sure it hurts the people who try to help me, too.

So why can’t I ask for help with my daughter when I really need it? Bluntly honest? Because I see her as my responsibility. Yes, she is our daughter but I  was the one who wanted to stay home with her. I was the one who put my husband in the position of having to be the sole breadwinner with this desire, allowed that weight to settle on his shoulders alone for the first time since we got married seven years prior. So, as I took on  the roll of SAHM, I often feel like I need to be there and do my job, regardless of what sort of day I have had. Now, I know what just pushing on in such a vein will do: eventually, I will twitch out of my skin and collapse into a puddle of stressed, exhausted tears, most likely after some sort of blowup with my husband that really had no need to become such a mountain-out-of-a-molehill.

I need  time to to care for myself. I need time to recharge and, for me, that requires time alone. “Alone” doesn’t happen with my girl, even though we do have periods of quiet when she is in the mood to do her own thing. But, even so, I am often reticent to call for help because something says, and loudly, “You are her mother! This is your job! You need to do it!”That voice is insistent. It is loud. And it silences me at times when I need t speak. When I need to ask for help.

Now, it isn’t all gloom and doom. I have a great support system, and I get great joy from my daughter, from teaching her, being taught by her, and watching her grow and develop into a little girl. While my difficulty in making full/often use of my support system frustrates me and I despise frustrating others, I am better than I used to be. I am doing better at my self-care and strategies for helping Elizabeth develop more independence.

Asking for help is still hard, very hard sometimes, but I know that it is something I need to do, in whatever way I can manage. Right now, those few ways are: asking the grandparents to take her out to lunch for a few hours, having a friend over to give me an extra set of hands and dose of attention for my energetic girl, or letting her have Daddy-time while I hit the gym for an hour. This is a start.

I know I am not the only one for whom this is true, and it isn’t just mothers either. Many of us, though staunch advocates for others, often have a hard time advocating for ourselves and our own health, care, and soul rest.

Another dear friend of mine commented to me (after reading the first draft of this post): “While I don’t have a daughter to chase after, sometimes having depression and panic attack disorder can feel like I have something to chase around (or be chased by). So, when I’m feeling overwhelmed, people can tell I can lie and tell them that I’m fine. That I don’t need help. Even though I do. And I feel like a hypocrite because if someone else were to do that I’d call them out and insist on trying to help them.”

I appreciate this perspective and his opinion is one that I value very much. Sometimes asking for help for ourselves is one of the hardest things in the world, harder yet to work towards overcoming it. I have made a start, small ways to ask for help when I need it, and I am hoping that it will help me to get one step closer to finding my voice to answer with the specific words, “Yes, I need help.”

Until then, please, keep asking.