I see you my enchanted mermaid astounded by coral evading the seaweed Trust your breath splash in the waves with curiosity wild & free Not all stars live in the sky dive deep for treasures that light your spirit In the depths of the ocean you'll discover the pearl that you seek is found within -Mic
I spent years schlepping my boys from one field to another for sports, tossing paper bags filled with less-than-healthy meals to the back seat. The trunk of my SUV turned locker room on wheels. Housing cleats, Gatorade bottles, muddy socks, folding chairs, and sports bags with horrendous odors. Gag alert, often begging the question, is there a dead body in my car?
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Social media stresses me out—the father’s day posts elevated my blood pressure. ‘You are the best; thanks for all you do; you are always there for me.’ It’s sweet but isn’t that the gig? To provide cheer, support, wipe noses, etc. But that’s neither here nor there.
Scrolling through the feed leaves me conflicted. My internal battle erupts, a push and pull of inadequacy and yearning for more.
Aww, social media, the fuckery of fakery, a bunch of smoke and mirrors, I say. But that is not entirely fair. Sure, there are those that filter and stage all the photos, but the moments are real, right? Friends are getting together; laughs are happening; places are explored; food is served, and opinions are being shared.
So, what’s up with my ambivalence? Honestly, I must reconcile my feelings with social media if I am to continue blogging. Unfortunately, there is no way around this. I need a come to Jesus moment; what the heck is setting me off? So, I take pen to paper and purge…. and then it happens, I see it.
My disconnect lies with the meticulously curated posts that neglect to tell the whole story. We get morsels of fabulous, but I am salivating for the in-betweens. The speed bumps of life are what connect us. Complex and less-than-perfect moments are where we grow together hence why I gravitate towards keeping it real. This means less of, ‘Being a mom fills my cup and brings me eternal joy, look at my perfect kids’ and more of ‘I love being a mom — most days, give or take, depending, sometimes, I don’t, but mostly I do.’
Flipping through family albums, I realized I am a hypocrite. I am whining about the slivers of perfection that don’t tell the whole story. And yet, I have systematically curated photos of my boys that reflect pure bliss, condensing the years to beautifully packaged bounded books filled with flawless images.
Will they look back and think life was a cupcake? At my age, I rely on pictures to tell my childhood stories. The truth is, I can’t differentiate between a real memory and a photo that I have looked at two dozen times. Ah, shit. I want them to reflect on the whole of it, bumps and all.
Perhaps curating is a coping mechanism to protect, survive and carry on. An attempt to forget the not-so-great moments—maybe social media is no different—coping with the environment and adapting by producing images of how we wish to be seen.
Hmm, feeling confused, less judgy, and have more questions than answers.
To Be Continued.
I am obsessed with Wordle, It has been around for a whole year, and I am just now jumping on the party train; how did I miss this? Six chances to guess the day’s secret five-letter word, twenty-six tiles, challenging but not impossible.
Full disclosure, it took me forty-five minutes to solve my first puzzle; I know, embarrassing! My sister stood over me, ‘thanks for showing me what overthinking looks like.” Right, I hear ya, my ridiculous attempt to control the outcome; there must be a trick to this? I became paralyzed; what if I chose the wrong letter or guessed the wrong word? Voices in the background chime in, ‘are you still working on it? Yes, people, what if I run out of chances? I need to think; I can’t lose.
My younger son’s, aka Thing 2, words linger, ‘mom, it is not that deep‘ In my last guess, I finally arrive at the answer–DODGE; the double letter stumped me. Nonetheless, why do you suppose it is so hard to see things right in front of us? The harder I tried, the more challenging it became to solve; the answer was always in plain sight.
Read MoreChew on this, my takeaways after a roller-coaster week…
Period. It’s true; women complicate things. I should know; I am a woman. I am guilty of overthinking, planning, over everything. I reserve this level of crazy for areas in my life outside my boys. I established a no-crazy zone with my kids a long time ago. I gave up trying to control them, what they eat, what they wear, what sports they play. It turns out they are not the type one can control; neither is my husband or anyone else in my life, for that matter. (Looky here, folks, this is me acknowledging that the only person I can control is me, myself, and I) However, I am free to obsess over my pantry, closet, and all non-human-related areas of my life.
Read MoreAnd the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon Little boy blue and the man in the moon "When you coming home, dad?" "I don't know when" But we'll get together then You know we'll have a good time then -Harry Chapin
It occurred to me that I have been lying. It was not my intention, nonetheless a falsehood. Contrary to what I have been saying my whole life, which is that I am one of six kids, the truth is that I am one of seven. My dad has a son from a previous relationship. My brother was not a secret in our family; he came to visit on two occasions. I have not seen him in over thirty-five years; however, recently, we have started to communicate.
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I spent the morning perusing through social media, catching a glimpse of faces I once shared the hallways with. The Chantilly class of 1991 reunited this past weekend for some good ol’ fun, and for a myriad of reasons, I could not attend. However, I would have loved a squeeze or two from a few of the peeps in attendance. From what I gather, a wonderful time was had by all.
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Dear Moms of Daughters,
Yes, I am being particular here. Listen up, ladies, no doubt that many of you are killing it in the mama category. Planting seeds of encouragement, confidence, kindness, inclusion, and compassion. Weaving complicated lessons as you strive to illuminate the path forward for your beautiful girls. Gently guiding them back as mistakes are made and exposing hard truths; social media is smoke and mirrors; beauty is more than a perfect body, designer clothes, and ‘cool’ friends.
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I curl up on the couch, knees to my chest, and listen as she reminisces with such clarity. We laugh easily, remembering all the shenanigans. Finny the crab, the epic tantrums from Thing 2, baby bear; she gives birth to many beautiful memories.
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Rejection is redirection
‘I am sorry to inform you that we cannot offer you admissions….’ and there it is the No. Weeks were devoted to preparing college applications. Editing essays and creating a portfolio to showcase his academic accomplishments and his personality. The rejection was disappointing; I saw his chest deflate. I respond the only way I know – no matter the result- I celebrate. Can I get a WOOT WOOT? High fives for putting yourself out there, for going for it. A parenting decision made early on; applaud the setbacks, the let downs, the disappointments as much as the accomplishments. Remember, kiddo, rejection is a redirection. I immediately get the look. Too soon, I ask? Yes, mom, too soon. He is perplexed. It is not the time to pull out the cheer squad. Message received. I inch away; he needs space to process; I zip it and back off, my Hallmark moment shelved.
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