Tag Archives: life lessons

My Mother, My Hero

18581815_10210594503636521_5233969730884670004_n[1]I’ve been working on this piece for a while. I meant to post this yesterday, because it was  the 43rd anniversary of my mom’s 36th birthday*, but Life had other plans

A while ago  I talked about how I always wanted to be a superhero.

My aunt responded with this:

You are a superhero … Doing the right thing is not easy sometimes. You’re so like your mother. I wish Mom or Dad was here to tell me the specifics of this story because I was a kid and can’t remember the details.  Anyway It involved your Mom and race relations in the 50’s.  The local newspaper was interviewing students to get their opinions and they interviewed Karen.  I remember Mom and Dad being so proud of her, but concerned for her safety.  So you see…you’re a chip off the old block.  I’m enjoying your writing. Keep it up!

Love, Aunt Sally

I remember that story very well, but I’m not sure where I heard it. My mom was not one to brag. I probably heard it from my grandfather, who loved sharing family stories (I wish I’d been willing to listen). Or maybe mom told me the story when we had one of our many discussions about racism (I would say that I was raised to be colorblind, but evidently colorblindness is the new racism). I couldn’t understand why we were still struggling with racial inequality in the 70’s. It pissed me off, and I frequently came home, ranting and raving about something I’d seen/heard/read. My mother, who grew up in the Deep South in the 50’s and 60’s, would laugh.

This is the way she told the story –

I went to school at the height of the fight for integration. My father  (who was superintendent for the Oklahoma City school district) met with President Kennedy regarding the issue (I wish I had that picture/newspaper clipping, because it was REALLY cool), but I can’t say for certain that that’s why they chose to interview me. They asked me “What do you think of busing/integration?”. I told them “People should be allowed to attend whatever school they’d like to. They should be allowed to come here or stay at their old school, if that’s what they prefer.”

Needless to say, the newspaper quote did not go over well with some (most) of her neighbors in Tecumseh. My mom never knew about the backlash. My grandmother and grandfather handled the calls calmly, responding to suggestions that they “beat some sense into (her)” with “Thank you. We’re taking care of it.” I love this example of “creative truth telling”. They didn’t LIE, exactly. They just never said how they were “taking care of it”.

This, then, was the woman who raised me. My mother. My hero. Don’t get me wrong – my mother wasn’t perfect. She battled inner demons, she smoked and drank too much, she talked too loudly and snorted when she laughed. She didn’t fit in with the Perfect PTA Parents and Suburban Soccer Moms**.  She may not have been perfect, but she taught me many things. My mother taught me:

  • to be kind to everyone you meet.  (well, she tried to, at least. There are some days when the best I can manage is “not hateful”).
  • that there is no such thing as a stranger. She believed that strangers are just friends you haven’t yet met.
  • the importance of family, and showed me that “family” includes both family by blood and family of heart.
  • the value of shared grief (I used to mock her for crying when a friend suffered a loss because I was a lousy know-it-all teen, but I get it now).
  • and the value of shared joy.
  • the importance of keeping a secret
  • and the destructive power of gossip
  • when to speak up when necessary
  • and when to keep quiet
  • to respect others – that I didn’t have to agree with them, but that everyone is entitled to their own opinion (and that yes, opinions are like assholes)

Most importantly, she taught me that (almost) everything about anyone else is “Noneya”. Race, religious belief, sexual orientation – it really is “noneya business” – as long as it doesn’t harm anyone else (An it harm none. I never realized that my mom was a Wiccan).

In a world that’s becoming increasingly divisive, with hate crimes on the rise and people attacking each other for differing opinions, we need more people like her. She may have been “just” a housewife, but she was as much a superhero as any caped crusader.

*While most women remain 27, my mother was eternally 36. “I can’t be 37 yet, because I swore I would get my ears pierced when I turned 37.”

**Holy crap. I AM my mother’s daughter. <shrug> There are worse things I could be.

My other hero was my grandfather, who always reminded me of Atticus Finch

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I’m curious – who is YOUR hero?

On Love, Loss, and Laughter

images71V16YFPI know what you’re thinking – “Where the hell has Tracey been and what kind of writer doesn’t write?” (or, as my EIC would say, “If a writer isn’t writing, doesn’t that mean they’re not a writer?”)

In Hell. Literally (Ok, maybe not literally). A stuck writer. That’s what kind.

Grief has eaten my brain, and stolen my creativity.

I lost someone a month ago who was incredibly important to me. Well, I didn’t’ “lose” him. It’s not like he was a set of car keys, or a sock that disappeared from the dryer, or my mind.

Sorry for that. I have a habit of trying to compensate for emotional issues with sarcasm and lame attempts at humor. Let me try again.

My friend died a month ago.

Wow. There it is, in black and white. The phrase I’ve avoided. I know it’s hard to read, but trust me, it’s harder to write and practically impossible to believe. Timothy Leary was right when he said “Death is the last taboo.”  Nobody dies. They “pass on” or “leave us”, “slip away” or “go to a better place”.

I call bullshit.

My friend died.

Three words. So simple and so misleading. Here’s how dictionary.com breaks down the sentence:

My – belonging to or associated with the speaker.

Friend – a person whom one knows and with whom one has a bond of mutual affection, typically exclusive of sexual of family relations

Died – to cease to live; undergo the complete and permanent cessation of all vital functions

The thing is, Mario wasn’t just “my” friend. He was EVERYONE’S friend. Yeah, he was THAT guy. He was charming and funny, smart and kind. No matter where he went, he always ended up surrounded by a group of people who were jostling for position and vying for his attention. Mario, like my mother, seemed to believe that there is no such thing as a stranger. Strangers are simply friends you haven’t yet met.

He was my friend, but he was more than that. There are friends, and then there are people who are so much more than simply friends – we call these people our “family of heart”. We might not be related by blood, but we are joined by a love that is even stronger than family ties. Mario was my friend, my mentor, my brother of heart.

I met Mario when we were young and foolish, hopeful and fearless. He was dating the woman who ran the booth I worked for – the woman who would become one of my very best friends. In a blink of an eye, they were married, and raising 3 kids.

Mario and Virginia were playing house and being Responsible Adults while I was still trying to decide how to style my hair. It took me longer to grow up, but eventually I got married and had a kid of my own. I am incredibly lucky to have had their help in raising my daughter. Mario was a perfect example of a father for my spouse to emulate, and Virginia was the same for me. Their three kids are amazing people, despite the fact that their parents have a twisted sense of humor (It gave me hope that our daughter wouldn’t be Permanently Damaged). The fact that they were still wildly in love with each other even after 35 years together was inspiring – a testimony to the power of True Love.

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Mario’s kids asked us to write down things that we learned from him, to list our favorite sayings or quotes. I couldn’t think of anything at the time. I’m sure people remember a lot of “Mario-isms”, but I can’t remember anything other than him saying “OUTSTANDING!” when things would go less than perfectly, or when someone would do something that was extraordinarily stupid. But here are things that I learned from him:

Be kind. Mario was nice to everyone – no matter what they believed, what they looked like, how they dressed, how much money they made (or didn’t make). He was one of the popular kids, but he wasn’t one of the mean girls (which is not to say that he didn’t enjoy a little CCC* when warranted). He went out of his way to be kind to people who were often overlooked or ignored. He was even nice to the weird kid in the corner (What? No, that wasn’t me, why would you think that?).

Be polite We disagreed about many things (politics, religion, and whether the Three Stooges were funny). As strong minded (or, in my case, hard headed) individuals, we agreed to disagree. Having friends with opinions which differ from one’s own makes life more interesting.

but don’t be a pushover. (does this one really need explaining?)

Keep learning. Mario was always reading, always trying to better himself. As Albert Einstein said “Once you stop learning, you start dying.”

Make people smile Mario would do almost anything to get a laugh (that’s not exactly true. There was no “almost” about it).

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by embracing your inner weirdo – In a world where everyone worries about what others think/we struggle to fit in, to be normal (please note, “normal” is just a setting on the washing machine), Mario stood out as someone who just didn’t give a flying f…

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Don’t whine. (Aka “Suck it up, Buttercup”) The past few years were incredibly hard physically and psychologically, and yet, Mario was always smiling (or maybe it was a grimace). His outlook could best be described this way:

Be strong… Mario was in a lot of pain, but he never let it stop him from doing the things that he needed or wanted to do. Long days at work which required hours of driving? Every day. Trips to Yosemite, to hockey games, to shows and soccer games and even a longa** Christmas parade? NP. The thing that stands out most is the fact that, whenever I came to visit, no matter how much pain he was in, Mario always stood up to say hello.

but don’t be afraid to ask for help when you need it (TBH I never heard Mario ask for help for himself. He was always asking for help for someone else).

and always offer help to those who need it. In a world where people rise above the masses by putting others down, Mario lifted people up.

Those are the things I’ve learned from Mario’s life. What did I learn from his death?

That “Only the good die young” is not a meaningless phrase. Neither is “Life’s a Bitch, and then you die.” That we need to find make time for those we love. When I was a kid, I thought nothing of knocking on my friend’s door, and asking if they could come out and play. We lose that ability when we grow up – we get busy with life – with school, with work. We worry that our houses are too messy for guests, or that our friends are too busy for us. We SCHEDULE our lives and our visits, instead of just “popping in to say hello”. We text and skype and send messages via snapchat or twitter. We brag about the fact that Facebook has allowed us to “reconnect” with old friends and family members, but we don’t take make the time to see each other “IRL”. WE NEED TO STOP THAT, RIGHT NOW.

What did I learn from my friend’s death? Life is short, and none of us is guaranteed tomorrow. Mario’s younger daughter got married in November. At the reception, he asked me told me to stop by after work for a “beer and bitch” session, but I assumed it was the whisky talking, and that we would have a chance to catch up “soon”. Please believe me when I say that “SOON” DOESN’T COME SOON ENOUGH.

I know this was a long post, so, in the immortal words of Inygo Montoya “let me sum up”. What did I learn from Mario?

Live fearlessly, love fiercely and laugh at all that life throws your way.

And, oh yeah, always pet the puppies.

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*Catty Corner Commentary

What are you afraid of?

fear2When I was little, I was afraid of the dark. No, not the creatures that lived in the dark closet or the monsters who hid in the darkness under the bed – I was afraid of the lack of light itself. It hung in the corners at bedtime, waiting for my parents to kiss me goodnight and leave my room. As they crossed the threshold, it slid down the walls and crept across the floor until slowly, oh so slowly,  it reached the foot of my bed. I would huddle in a ball by the head of the bed, eyes opened so widely I feared they would fall out, lips pinched tight against screams and tears, until finally the darkness reached out to touch a toe, and I’d let loose with a shriek that “it’s coming to get me!”

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image credit to waxycamera.wordpress.com

I’m not quite sure why it scared me so. Maybe it was because I thought the darkness was a monster – a dark, oily blanket that swallowed everything it touched. Maybe it was because my overactive imagine could hear it whispering (it was just my imagination, wasn’t it?). Whatever the reason, I slept with the hall light on until I left for college (Just kidding. Maybe).

As an adult* I’m proud to say that I’ve outgrown my fear of the dark. What? No, that’s not a nightlight in my room. I mean, it IS a nightlight, but it’s not because I’m afraid – it’s because I’m clumsy. I need a light to help me avoid corners and legos and other little bits of clutter that reach to trip me on my way to the bathroom.

As a mother, I’m no longer afraid of the dark – there are scarier things than monsters that live in the closet or under the bed. Things like dangerous playgrounds filled with too tall ladders, slippery slides and swings without seatbelts and germ-laden ball pits and suburban soccer moms and snack duty and PTA meetings and awards ceremonies and school plays (as the mother to a child who was in a continuous growth spurt, school plays were always accompanied by a muttered prayer please don’t let her fall off the stage, please don’t let her fall of the stage…).

But there’s nothing, in all my years of phobias and fears (rational and irrational), that has scared me more than two little words. Two words that can bring me to my knees, eyes shut and heart pounding. You laugh, but trust me, these two words can send a grown man screaming from the room. I don’t like to speak for other people (I can hear you laughing – stop it!), but I’m pretty sure I can speak for parents everywhere, when I say there’s nothing scarier than these two little words:

“I’m bored”.

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image courtesy of pictures88.com

Every parent responds differently to “I’m bored”. I’ve heard everything from “You have a whole room of toys, how can you be bored?” to “When I was your age, I didn’t have time to be bored”. Evidently some adults have forgotten their childhood – how the days stretched on for hours, and summer seemed endless. On the first day of vacation, my friends and I would race outside after breakfast,  to play tag or ball or hopscotch or ride bikes until the streetlights turned on– and eventually, the newness of summer would morph into endless repetition and we’d be…bored. Please note, I’m referring  to the definition of bored as “To make weary by being dull, repetitive, or tedious“– I don’t want to suggest that, in an attempt to relieve our boredom, we’d bore holes into each other (if only because our dads locked their tools in the garage).

I know what you’re thinking. We’re a month past winter break and summer is a lifetime away – so why was I reminded of the chill of these two little words?

Because

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As a kid, I was too busy to be bored. As a college student, there weren’t enough hours in the day to get everything done, so boredom was out of the question. As “someone’s wife” I was a hyphenated woman (wife/masseuse/biller/coder/actor/comedian/cook/housekeeper) and much too busy following Cosmo magazine’s challenge to “do it all and do it all well” to be bored. As a pregnant woman (and then new mother), I was too sleep deprived to be anything but tired (which rapidly evolved into being too busy to be bored). Now that I’m the parent of a not-quite 17 year old, my life is becoming my own once again, and I’m bored, bored. B-o-r-e-d.

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Boredom is dangerous, because she usually brings along her friends apathy and despair.  The three friends like to grab you by the hair and drag you down the grey-bricked road to depression.

Because I’m a Virgo, I immediately researched the symptoms to and remedies for boredom. The internet provided a whole slew of images and ideas.

 

This one made me laugh:

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but only because I would follow Boredom all the way down the grey-bricked road to  limbo before doing chores to break her.

And then I got an email from DailyOm.com** telling me that The sense of feeling bored in life can be an indicator that we need to be proactive in creating change” (I love it when the universe/God/the Goddess/the force dumps an answer in my lap). So it looks as though I am looking to change, which is not as easy as looking FOR change. I hate change. It’s hard, but I suppose it’s not as hard as being dragged down a brick road by your hair.

The bad news is that I’m not sure I know who I am, now that I’m not just “someone’s wife” or “someone’s mother”. The good news is that I’m returning to the things I did BM (Before Motherhood) and I still love them. The best news is that I may be bored, but at least nobody’s drilling holes into my abdomen – or my brain.

So tell me – what do you do to combat boredom? And how do you being to change, when your inner child is kicking, screaming and going limp at the very idea?

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*I’ve said it before and I’ve said it again – what is a dult and why would anyone want to be one?

**The DailyOM is amazing. Really and truly. If you’re not following them, you should be.

I Don’t Want to Talk About It

th[9]I spent Saturday morning at a memorial service – my second in less than a month. If you ask me, that’s two too many. I realize that nobody asked me, but it’s my blog, and I’m talking about it anyway (which is HUGE. In many circles, Death is a bigger taboo than sex).

People have different ideas about why we’re here. Some say we come out of dust, and to dust we return. Some say we are spiritual beings having a physical experience. I believe that we are here to learn something. It could be patience, it could be love, or it could be statistics and probabilities (ugh!). Once we’ve learned our lesson, it’s time for us to move on.

I refuse to learn, which means I’ll live forever.*

Here’s what I’ve learned about death and other losses:

Life may be a bitch, but Loss is a nasty, low down, evil snake in the grass (no disrespect to snakes. I like them – they’re like legless lizards). She fights dirty.

Sometimes she carries a sledgehammer – and she will beat you with it until you are nothing but a quivering mass of jelly. The good news is that broken bones heal, scar tissue is stronger than unscarred tissue, and laying around on the ground gives you a good excuse to rest. Plus you can spend the “downtime” observing the cosmos and figuring out why you’re here (see above).

Sometimes she morphs into a pack of howling, snarling fears which chase you through the darkness, snapping at your heels, and nipping your fingers and toes. The good news is that feardogs, like nightmares and vampires, disappear at first light.

Sometimes she whispers to you through the grey haze of despair, leading you gently to the precipice and then poking at you with the sharp pointy stick of self-doubt until you jump. The good news is that it gets better. Tired and cliché, but true. Trust me. I’ve been there. I went through a series of losses (one after another) that left me sobbing on the floor of my car, certain that things would be better if I just gave up and quit.

As strange as it sounds, I owe Loss a debt of gratitude. It’s taken a long time, but I’ve learned from Loss. I’ve learned:

  • to spend more time with loved ones, doing things that I want to do, rather than things that Need Doing. Life is too short to spend your time dusting.
  • to ask for (and accept) help. Asking for help does not mean that you are weak. It means you are smart enough to know that you can’t do it all yourself, all the time, every day.
  • the value of Mother’s Little Helpers. I’m not a huge fan of western medicine, but sometimes they get it right.
  • that talking to a professional can help. No, not just any professional. I don’t think telling the bank teller about your dead mother is very helpful. Talking to a professional therapist is like taking a pill. They don’t help everyone, and they may not help right away, but there are good ones out there.
  • that loss is a part of life, and that healing from any loss (whether the loss of a loved one, or the loss of a job) comes in stages
  • that it gets better, even when it seems like it won’t. Trust me.

Or don’t. Trust these people instead:

http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

*JK – I’ve managed to learn a few things (including what “jk” means – yes, I have a teen).

P.S. You people need to stop dying. I know that Neil Gaiman makes Death look like a seductive little goth girl Death_(DC_Comics)[1]

 

 

 

and that Brad Pitt’s Joe Black  made death look tempting (hey, I’d die for him), but all these losses are making me cranky, and it’s all about me.

And for those of you who saw my blog title and were hoping to see a youtube video, here you go:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m Batman*

wp-1456365441728.jpegOk, I’m not REALLY Batman. For one, I drive a Volvo, which is a Good Car, but it is nowhere close to being as cool as the Batmobile. Secondly, I tried saying “I’m Batman” in a gravely voice, but it sounded silly and made me cough. Lastly,  I don’t have a mask or any cool toys. Well, that’s not exactly true. In the spirit of full disclosure (and if I can’t tell strangers all my secrets, who can I tell?) I have toys, but I can’t talk about them on a family friendly blog 😉

I would like to be a superhero, but I am too old and broken to wear the costumes that female superheroes wear. Even if I were younger and in better shape, I find it highly unlikely that I would be able to run, jump, and battle bad guys without having some sort of costume issue (BTW, one of my favorite scenes in Deadpool was Colossus’ reaction to  Angel Dust’s costume malfunction during their battle).

When I was younger, I wanted to be Catwoman. More precisely, I wanted to be Earth Kitt as Catwoman.

 

My dream ended when my mother pointed out that, as a pasty pale blue eyed brunette, my chances of growing up to be a stunning African American woman were slim to none. I have, however, grown up to be a pasty pale redhead, which is almost as good.

Until recently, I thought I was Wonder Woman. I attempted to juggle work, marriage, motherhood,  and social obligations while working 1 1/2 jobs and volunteering as a soccer referee and at school functions. When I wasn’t able to get everything done the way my Inner Perfectionist wanted it done, she told me I’d failed as a human being.  I believed her for a while, but eventually I came to my senses, and decided that Wonder Woman needed a break, or a raise. I also realized that Cosmo magazine has it wrong. You may be able to do/have/be it all, but you can’t do it all at the same time, without giving up sleep, hiring support staff, cloning yourself  or being able to travel through space and time (preferably in the Tardis).

I thought my days of playing superhero were over – and they were, until two weeks ago, when I decided that Enough Was Enough, that ignoring the situation wasn’t making things any better, and that it was time for Someone to speak up. Evidently I am Someone.**

It backfired, of course. It always does. I should have remembered that the person who stands up against evildoers is often misidentified as a criminal (i.e.  Batman, Green Hornet,  or Spiderman). The good news is that, other than for me personally, things have changed for the better. The better news is that I was able to use the situation as a teachable moment for my daughter. I told her that it is important to speak up when injustice is being done, no matter what the repercussions – or that, as Spock told us, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one.

I would like to think that my daughter will learn that you don’t have to be bitten by a spider or doused in radioactive waste to be someone’s superhero. Or maybe she’ll be an antihero instead – they have better costumes and a more interesting backstory 😉

*I’d like to send a very special shout out to Suzie Speaks – she really IS Batman.

**I am intentionally being vague, to protect the other people involved in the situation. Names have been changed removed to protect the innocent (and the guilty)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Writing (or, why I do that thing I do)

th5HHDH7O9A friend asked me why I blog. Fortunately I had just been forced to come up with a reason when I received my Liebster Blog Award, but he made me think. Yes, I write to keep the voices quiet and to keep the EIC at bay, but there’s more to it than that. I write because I have to. It’s something I’ve done for as long as I can remember. I write because my grandmother told me I should (I still hear her telling me “You should write” in her strong Lon Guyland* accent). Mostly I blog because the stresses and losses of the past year(s) didn’t kill me, but they managed to kill my creative spirit. Fortunately, my creativity, like Wesley, was only MOSTLY dead.

My mother introduced me to Erma Bombeck’s column in the newspaper. For those of you too young to remember, a newspaper was something that was delivered to your house by a boy on a bicycle. It had articles on world and local news, local events, coupons, obituaries, advice columns (Ann Landers anyone?) and comics (which were especially fun on Sundays, when they were in color).

Erma Bombeck was my role model. She was smart and funny, and offered important life lessons on surviving suburbia with sanity mostly intact.

She’s the real reason I write. I want to be Erma Bombeck (well, not literally, because she’s dead). I want to help other people survive suburbia. It’s an intimidating task, not only because suburbia is Truly Frightening, but because I am one of many voices. There are many bloggers who post about the perils of the suburbs.  Tracy Beckerman  is one of my favorites – not only because she has a great name, or because she gave me an ego boost (and gift basket) when I talked about becoming an  Accidental Mother. Her posts make me laugh out loud.  I used to let the competition keep me from writing. The EIC tried to convince me that there were already a lot of bloggers out there, and that I couldn’t possibly write as well as they do. He told me that even if I could write as well as they do, I didn’t have anything new to say.

The EIC, was lying, of course. In my personal experience bloggers are not competitive  – at least not the ones I’ve had the privilege to meet. They are warm, welcoming and supportive. They cheer each other on whenever there’s a success, and mourn losses together. They are quick to offer support, advice and constructive criticism. More importantly, I have started to find my own voice. Yes, I am one of many, but I might just have something new to say. I’ve decided that even if I don’t, perhaps I can offer a fresh perspective, or twist suburbia so that it’s not quite as scary (Ha! See what I did there?) .

I’ve been trying to write 2-3 times a week, but just wasn’t up to it this week. This week was a rough one. The triple Ds tried to drag me down. No, not “the girls” (I’m not THAT blessed). I’m talking about Doubt, Despair and Depression. My creative spirit got caught in the fog, but the today the sun is shining through.

I believe that Life is a teacher, and that we are meant to pass along what we’ve learned. This, then, is the real reason I write. I’m not saying that I know everything (please don’t ask me about statistics or string theory), but I’d  like to share I’ve learned so far. It may not stop you from making mistakes, but (hopefully) you can avoid making the same mistakes I’ve made. Avoiding my mistakes will allow you  the freedom to make BRAND NEW MISTAKES. 😉

This week’s life lesson was a reminder that yes, life is a rollercoaster ride. Sometimes it’s important to get out of the car and dance through life instead.

 

*Long Island

So that’s why I write. What brings you here? What drives you to you write/dream/create?

 

Forgiveness, Part Duh!

self-forgiveness[1]Last week I talked about the importance of forgiveness. I was hoping that admitting that I am a work in process/learning to listen to Life the first (ok, third) time she whispers would help me get past this life lesson. Re-runs are annoying (although I never get tired of Young Frankenstein). Repeating life lessons are even worse.

This week my daughter took part in the 79th Annual Student Speakers Contest. The Lion’s Club gives high school students the chance to compete for cash prizes and scholarship money while working on their public speaking skills. I cannot say enough about the program, or the group of women who make up the Amber’s Light Lions Club.

We are not supposed to post any information about the contest results until the statewide completion is over, so I can’t tell you how my daughter did. I CAN tell you (at least I think I can) that I made a mistake.

I hate making mistakes.

I’m not sure if it’s because I’m a perfectionist, or because I have made mistakes that led to serious consequences, but I beat myself up every time. It’s what I’ve always done, and I am very good at it. One could say that when it comes to self-flagellation, I’m a professional.*#

The worst part about Miss Take? She brings along her friends Guilt and Remorse. They are not good houseguests. They come in, make themselves at home, and make a mess of everything. Their negativity chases Self-Confidence away, and she takes Happiness and Joy with her.

I learned this week that the only way to kick the Terrible Trio out of the house is by practicing self-forgiveness. After a lifetime of holding myself to the highest standard, I am learning that it’s important to give myself a break before I break something.

I am learning that Life’s  lessons can be hard, and that the lesson will repeat until I pass the test. Life is a journey, and it’s okay if I make mistakes along the way.  The good news is that, if you listen, you can learn from Miss Take.

I’m trying to listen. I hope you do too.

*One could it, but (since nobody has paid me, yet) it would be a lie

# I am always looking for ways to bring in money that don’t involve MLM. If you know of a way for me to turn pro, let me know (jk)

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P.S. I came across an excellent post on self-forgiveness. Destiny at Practise makes Permanent has a great post on the importance of Self-Compassion. You should take a look.