Confidence Mama

It sneaks up on me, the fear.  I can go weeks, sometimes even months before it hits.  But when it appears it isn’t gentle and it isn’t kind.  It is a silent, oily cloud that snakes around my ankles and up my body until it reaches my head and I am helpless. It already has me.  I can no longer do anything to fight it off, I just have to wait until it is done with me.

An inkling snuck through this morning when I dropped Addie off at school.  We had to drive because of the rain and as I watched her walk the thirty feet from the car into the school I wanted to cry.  I hate saying goodbye to her every single day…what if its the last time I ever get to see her?  My perfect, vivacious, genius daughter holding her pink umbrella high above her head as that long, blonde hair swings across her back; what if someone were to get past the security?  Past the locks?  Past the Police Officers that roam the halls?  What if I never got to hear her voice again? How would I live?

But that one, that was just an inkling, a familiar, passing breeze of fear.  I never like to let my children out of my warm, protective arms and out into the word – that is just being a parent.  It was at Starbucks that I almost drowned.

I dropped William off at his school, another building where you have to be buzzed in and cannot enter the area where the children play and learn.  He hopped over to circle time and I left to work at Starbucks one block away, as I do frequently.  An hour and a half passed without incident; a headphone in one ear and my hands drawing card after greeting card for the upcoming Holiday Fair.  I sipped chai, I placed finished cards at the edge of the table so those around me would see them, I listened to music, all was calm.

Then they walked in.  Two teenage boys, dressed as though they stepped straight out of 1998 in their mixed plaids and long, floppy hair.  They were perfectly nice, waiting patiently behind two people they thought were in line.  They were quiet as they perched at a table near me and waited politely for their orders.  It was when they sat down that it hit me.

The fear.

The certaintly that these two boys were hiding guns in their layers of flannel.

The awareness that this was going to be the day that I die.  Rushing water filled my ears as I watched their every move, waiting for them to reach for the guns that I knew they had, that I knew they were going to turn on me and pull the trigger and end my life.

I couldn’t take a full breath. I fought back tears but couldn’t move or leave because they were in between me and the door.  Could I leave a note on my papers in front of me so Chris would know how much I love him, and how badly I never wanted this to happen?  Could I fit enough words on a blank card that my babies would know that they are my absolute everything?  Would the police allow them to have my words if they were covered with my blood? DId I have enough time?

I could see every step as it would happen, how they would hold the weapons and where they would point them.  What it would feel like to look down the barrel and know that this is my last moment.  I already know what it would sound like, I’ve heard it before.

The boys picked up their drinks with quiet ‘thank you’s’ and turned to leave.

My hands shook.  I watched them leave.  I waited for them to come back, guns pulled and ready.

They didn’t.  Because they were just two nice, normal boys who wanted coffee with too many pumps of syrup.

And I lowered my eyes to my artwork the cloud wrapped around my brain started to clear.  The rushing sound in my ears faded and I could take a nice, steady breath.  It doesn’t make any sense why it happens, the onset of fear – in Starbucks or in traffic or in my own neighborhood grocery store.  But I have seen enough to know that it could be more than just my fear, it could happen for real.  Someone could walk into a coffee shop or my kids’ schools and they could end it all.  Just like that.

What’s the point.  Why in the world would I let you into the darkest part of what happens in my head?  Because I am strong and confident and happy.  Because you know that I choose to look at the bright side of everything, I make sure my glass is always full and that I believe the best about everyone. This is the me you know.

Even with daily intention of positivity and happiness I can be brought to my knees by imagined fears.  I can be left begging for ignorance and blindness to what actually happens in the world. I want to be the kind of person who believes that bad things can never happen to them.

I let you in because I want you to be kind.  To everyone.  All the time.  Because there are battles being fought behind every set of eyes that you avoid on your daily errands.  A smile and a kind gesture could be all it takes to pull that person out of their depths.  Be kind because you show your children that kindness is the right path and maybe when they are adults they won’t be afraid of getting shot in a coffee shop.  Because if everyone tried harder to be kind then the pain, anger and aggression that threaten every single one of our lives would slowly fade out.

Be kind because there is no reason not to, and it will change our world.

When we lived in Illinois, on cold days I would take Addie to a mall with an awesome indoor play area.  It was always packed and a little hectic but she loved it and it gave us something to do on frigid midwestern days.  There were babies toddling around with spit bubbles bursting through their smiles and older kids zipping around them playing tag or chase or just running because that’s what you do as a kid.  It was not uncommon for a baby or toddler to get knocked down by a runner or a chaser, but it was never done on purpose and no one was ever truly hurt.  I was never far from Addie as she played, watching from the sidelines and letting her do her thing.

One day, in the chaos of the play area, I watched as a wide shouldered, very tall man rush over to his toddler who had just fallen on the cushioned floor.  She wasn’t crying and it was arguable whether she just fell over randomly or if she had been grazed by a running child.  It didn’t matter to the dad, he bore down on the kid he thought had knocked his little girl and yelled at him.  He took it upon himself to yell at someone else’s child.  I was on my feet that instant ready to tell him to back off but the little boy’s mom was there already.  She was five foot nothin’ and asking the man to step away from her child.  He started yelling at her and all of the sudden she was in the dad’s face telling him to back off her child, that he had no right to speak to him at all, let alone try to discipline him.  She tried to stay calm but he wouldn’t back down and they spat ugly words back and forth while I scanned the area for a security guard.  The dad finally picked up his kid and stormed out, anger radiating off of him in waves.  I could feel my blood pumping through my entire body, adrenaline was at top levels and I was so appalled by this father’s behavior I could barely see straight.  I know exactly what I would have said and done had he spoken to, let alone yelled at, MY child.  Mama Bear had come to the surface.

If your kid, or you, cannot handle being in a busy play area or at a park or any place where bodies may accidentally come in contact with one another, then stay away.  Someone is going to get knocked over.  Someone is going to cry.  And unless it was blatently obvious that one child hurt another on purpose, with malice, then stay on the sidelines and mind your business.  If my daughter bumped into your kid and that made you mad then you had better come talk to me about it and not utter a word to my child because I can guarantee you that I can parent my child better than you can.  You will not discipline my kid because you have no right and no idea how my children are used to being spoken to – which is with respect.  You are not in the village that raises my babies, I AM the village and you are not a resident.

If your daughter pushes my son out of the way I will first watch how he handles himself.  Most likely he will stand up and keep playing. If he is upset I will go to him, comfort him and he will stand up and keep playing.  If your daughter continues to mess with him I will pick him up and extract him from the situation, explaining why we’re doing something different as we go.  I won’t give your little girl a dirty look, I will not tell her she is a bad girl, I will not do anything but move my child from another one who is just being a kid.  Because I know that if I speak to your child and tell her that she can’t do that, or shouldn’t do that or that she is being mean, it very well may scare her and scar her and I want no part of that.  She will never look up at me with big, wide eyes brimming with tears because I chastized her for pushing my little boy because that is not my place.  I respect her childhood too much to do that.

I believe the problem exists because adults expect children to automatically know how to act.  I see this in so many situations, in many walks of life.  Some parents forget that it is their job to teach their kids how to do this life thing.  Children are not preloaded knowing how to react to everyday situations.  It is your job to teach them clearly and kindly how to respond in life. They learn from watching you.  When your toddler throws a fit and you respond by yelling at her to calm down ‘or else’, you have just taught her that yelling and threatening are the correct responses. She is going to respond to you the same way.  When your child talks back to you and you spank him you have just taught him that violence is the answer.  When he gets frustrated with a friend and hits her, he learned that from you.

When your son gets knocked over at the play area and you rush to his rescue and yell at another child, or his parent, you have just taught your child that he can’t take care of himself and aggression is an appropriate and acceptable response.

When your child is upset and you take the time to understand the situation, talk it through with her and then find a solution, you have just been a parent.  A good one.  A parent who is sending someone out into the world who will not react to hard situations with screaming, anger and violence.  When your kid is throwing a fit and you hug him until he calms down and then explain that when he throws a fit he never gets what he wants, but when he is calm he is more likely to have things go his way then you have just done your job.  You addressed the issue and gave him instructions on how to act properly next time.  Boom, parenting.

If my child is at the park and does something that hurts another child or his feelings, you do not need to jump in and teach my kid a lesson.  I will be there to take care of it myself, because that’s my job.  To protect my children, to watch them, to help them learn the important lessons in life by teaching them.  

While I appreciate you wanting to impart the lessons you feel they need to learn, my kids are in good hands, attentive hands, and their eyes will never well with tears because someone who shouldn’t be is disciplining them.  So please, don’t talk to my kids.  Unless you are telling them how awesome they are or complimenting their kind hearts, just focus on you and yours. I’ll do the same and we can all send incredible, thoughtful people out into the world someday.

Hello wonderful people!  When you read the post “You Are What You Eat” that was delivered to your email please disregard the last paragraph.  The final sentence should be the invitation to come over for some creme brûlée…someone failed to notice the undeleted paragraph before publishing the post.  Someone didn’t make sure everything was ship shape before sending her words out to be read.  Sorry ’bout that.  I’ll do a better job next time.

I can’t eat ice cream.

Or cheesecake.  Or creamy soups, creme brûlée, whipped cream or anything else involving heavy cream.  When it comes up in a conversation, usually surrounding everyone else around me eating something creamy, someone inevitably says, “Well, no wonder why you’re so thin!”

As if an intolerance to cream is the secret key the diet industry has been hiding.

I am a healthy eater.

I am a whole grain eating, preservative avoiding, fresh fruit loving person.  I am not on a diet, I don’t believe in cutting any food groups from what I eat and never, ever go too long without eating something.  If I want chocolate I eat it, if I want a burger I make one. I do yoga, ab and leg work with weights after I put the kids to bed, use our elliptical machine and walk rather than drive whenever I can.  My kids know why they eat protein, carbohydrates and that sugar is something they should eat in moderation.  We exercise and move and get fresh air every single day.

Do you feel irritated after reading that?

When did it become bothersome to be healthy?

I have learned over the years to keep my mouth shut about nutrition and exercise unless someone asks me outright for an answer to a question or for my opinion.  People do not want to hear about someone else’s healthy life decisions.  I get made fun of on a regular basis for the way that I eat – and it is very clear when its good natured ribbing and when the teasing has a sharp, defensive edge.  It’s fine if people know that I am a consciously healthy eater or that I do various forms of exercise but it is not acceptable for me to talk about my dedication to either one.

I learned about proper nutrition because I had to.  I needed to learn how my body processes food and what it needs so I could heal from an eating disorder.  I get a pass, it seems, to be healthy and make the decisions I do because I used to stick my finger down my throat and throw up everything that I ate.  It was not an attempt to be thin, it was an emotional reaction to witnessing a horrible tragedy that led me to bulemia, but it was bulemia none the less and I had to recover or end up killing myself with the disease.

So I learned about nutrition, digestion, food as fuel and the healthiest way to heal my body from what turned out to be a rather violent disease.  The more I learned, the easier it became to change from a skinny, fearful kid into a strong and healthy woman.  But before people know anything about my past all they see is a thin woman passing on the treats and snacks and choosing walnuts and greek yogurt.  And they make assumptions.  They see someone who never drinks soda and orders non-fat lattes and translate that into a dieting, calorie counting, weight obsessed woman doing everything I can to stay in my 27″ jeans.  Yes, I usually know the number of calories in certain foods, but I also know about the fiber and protein content as well as if it has refined carbs or whole grains, the amount “good” as well as “bad” fat and how many ingredients were required to make it.  I have no idea how many calories I eat in a day but I know that by the time I go to sleep I fed my body a balanced diet that will allow me to wake up the next morning with energy, a healthy heart and strong muscles to carry me through the day.

I have gotten my fair share of eye-rolls when I don’t reach for the pie at get togethers.  I know what the raised eyebrow means when I order lean protein and vegetables for dinner at a restaurant.  But it doesn’t matter.  I know why I eat the way I do and I don’t need anyone’s approval to do so.

Let’s stop with the body shaming.  Whether someone is bigger than you think they should be or thinner than you’d like them to be, let’s just knock it off.  Every time a child hears their parent or aunt or granparent criticizing themselves or someone else for how they look it makes an indelible mark.  Every single time they see their mother skip a meal they notice and remember that being thin is important enough to her that she will starve herself.  And when a kid hears other people laughing at someone who is overweight it is seared into them that it is okay to be cruel.  Or that at five, seven or ten years old they need to go on a diet.

Stop making snarky comments about people who post photos of themselves in yoga positions, stop sneering at the woman who wants a fresh, crisp salad instead of a burger, or the woman who wants a big, juicy burger instead of a salad.  You’re just seeing the cover of the book, not the story inside, and you know what they say about books and their covers.

So let me eat what I wanna eat without wondering which cleanse I must be on.  Let me feed my kids what I know is best for their bodies as well as their childhood memories.  Keep your eyes on the prize, and on your own plate, and let’s just let each other live a little bit.

And come on over for some dessert, I make a ridiculously good creme brûlée….but I can’t eat it so you can have it all.

It was a warm thursday morning and I waltzed into my yoga studio ready to rock.  I stopped at the counter to admire the pretty beads hanging on display.

“Overgard! What’s up?”  sang Bird, my very favorite yoga instructor from behind the counter.

“I’m just checking out these beads, they’re so beautiful.”  They were Mala beads, I learned in the next moment, and Bird has trained with a woman from Nepal how to tie Mala beads the traditional way.  Ah, okay, cool, I didn’t know there was a special way to tie pretty beads, but awesome.

I placed an order with Bird to make me my own Mala necklace – white quartz for balance and nourishment with rainbow thread and a green tassel, because they’re pretty.  Later that night I looked up Mala beads and what I learned caused a curve to appear in my life path that I very willingly followed.  Mala beads are Hindu and Buddist prayer beads, traditionally strung with 108 beads per necklace and meant to slide between fingers to keep track of prayers, chants or mantras in one’s practice.  When worn they serve as a reminder of the mantra, to carry it through daily life.  And it hit me like a lightning bolt.

Without thinking my first notion of my mantra was peace.  It always is – in my marriage, in parenting, in my dealings with family, friends and strangers – I always try to maintain inward and outward peace.  But I have that under control, I’m peaceful.  My next thought was ego.  I want to lose all traces of ego.

Draining one’s life of ego is really, stinkin’ hard.  I mean seriously.  Until I made it my intention to let go of all things egotistical I hadn’t thought about how multifaceted EGO truly is.  It’s not just big headed self love that we often think of – we can tie in confidence, self-awareness, self-obsession, pride, physical awareness, on and on.  Its easy to grasp my beads and repeat “drain my life of ego” 108 times but finding the actual line of what that means, defining it and then erasing it is a whole new challenge.

How in the world am I going to achieve this?  My chosen occupation in itself is rooted in self-promotion, exhibition and pride in my work.  How else does an artist sell art?

I am very aware of my body and appearance and don’t plan on abandoning either; I will continue to eat well and stay fit, I will continue to pat eye cream and serums on my face at night.  How can I care about how I look and claim that I am draining my life of ego?

I am an awesome mother.  Not average, not acceptable.  The thing I am most proud of about myself is that I am the very best mother my kids could ever have.  That is not an awarenesss I want to lose sight of.  I will continue to be proud of Chris’ and my parenting skills.  Can pride be separated from egotism? I’m a pretty great wife, I’m a good daughter to my parents, I try to be the best sister I can be and although maintaining friendships can be a challenge for me I try to do my best there too.

None of these things make a negative impact on my life, why am I actively trying to change any of them? And it hit me, its not EGO that I desire to drain completely from my life, it’s judgment.

Judgment of others and how they dress, parent, fill their social media accounts, speak to their partner and speak to strangers.  How and when they respond to my emails, texts, invitations and messages. What they eat and drink and how often they get drunk, how often or if they work out or how many people they have slept with, how they speak to children and react to crying babies on airplanes, their vocabulary and etiquette or where they stand on abortion or religion or whether or not they believe in equal rights.

I want to drain my awareness of people’s judgement of me.  What anyone else thinks of how I dress, how I act, parent my children, converse, of how often I do yoga or the fact that I do yoga, what I eat and what I choose to feed my family, where I stand on gun control, gay marriage, people who spank their kids or FDA guidelines – nothing they think is going to change what I believe and the way I get things done.

My judgment of others will never change their lives either.

So I choose to drain my life of judgment, mine and yours.  I willingly choose acceptance and understanding and will teach both to my children every chance I get.  There is always a story behind someone’s actions and beliefs, there is usually a reason why the bully is a bully.  There is most likely pain behind someone’s catty comments and fear behind their intolerance.  The majority of the time the way someone chooses to live their life will never affect how I choose to live mine unless I actively pursue judging them for their decisions. And I just don’t want to do that.

I choose to loosen my grip on all of it and open my hands in an attempt to understand what lies beneath and the reason people tick the way they do.  I cannot make you stop judging me, but I can let it slide right off my back and out of my life.  I can still extend kindness even when I don’t receive it in return.

So continue to do your thing, and I’ll do mine, and I will encourage my kids to wear safari hats on adventure walks and dream about magic and tell them that unicorns and fairies may very well exist as far as I know.  I will show them that everyone has their own path and a right to dance along that path however they choose.

And if you or your kid ever meet me or mine, come hang out, I’ll be the one with one hand on my necklace and a smile on my face. I guarantee you’ll feel right at home.  We accept you just the way you are.

How would you answer when faced with big, innocent blue eyes staring at you while the seven year old owner asks, “What does s-e-x mean?”

When I was a teenager I was the recipient of male attention.  In response I wore shirts that showed my flat belly, pants that highlighted my perky little teenager butt and my shirts were sometimes too low cut for my blossoming figure.  In my memory I jumped rather quickly from wearing big t-shirts printed with Goofy holding a paintbrush to letting my belly button get fresh air at football games.

I wasn’t having sex, I had never been interested in being sexy.  I was silly and funny and artsy.  I wrote moody poetry and read the Odyssey for fun.  Three times.  It wasn’t until I started getting unsolicited attention from boys, and men, that I started to give in to what seemed to be expected of me.  I was a sophomore in high school when I first wore what I thought at the time was a racy outfit: loose black pants and a baby blue v-neck shirt that exposed my clavicles.  That’s right, my collar bones.  But I was growing and blossoming and getting pretty and the opposite sex started to notice.

I have never taken drugs but I assume getting attention for your looks is very much like needing a drug.  When you aren’t noticed it’s like you need a fix. So the spiral started.  The girl who used to wear soccer shorts and sambas was slowly morphing into lipgloss wearing, cleavage sporting flirt.  If I could only go back and talk to her, tell her that although she wasn’t doing anything past flirting with all those boys that the other girls, and boys, were saying otherwise.  I would tell her that the boys who flirted back were not playing games.

I can’t talk to the teenage Katie about what that image of sexiness was projecting.  But I can talk to my little girl, and my little boy, about what sexy should mean to them.

Sexy does not equal skin.  When Addie starts getting attention from boys I want her to think about what kind of boy she is attracting.  Does she want to be associated with someone who is drawn to a girl in short shorts and a crop top, wanting to find out what’s underneath?  Or does she want to draw the attention of a boy who can’t stop laughing at her jokes or can’t look away when the sun makes those blue eyes sparkle.  I want her to be oblivious of the boys who whisper sweet nothings to girls in back seats of cars and instead turn her attention to the boys who challenge her opinion and debate with her because she’s sharp as a tack and it’s fun to spar with someone like her.

I want my little boy to grow into the kind of teenager who looks past what a girl has on and values her company because she’s interesting and kind.  I want him to always remember that no matter what a girl chooses to wear that she is someone’s daughter, someone’s sister and that he should treat her the way he would want someone to treat HIS sister.  I want him to have integrity and respect like his daddy.

I still want Addie’s heart to flutter when that special boy looks her way.  I still hope William has those awesome butterflies when he knows that girl is going to be in his next class .  But I want them to respect themselves, and the people they are attracted to, by taking their time.

As it turns out, Addie had noticed that scene in the Lion King where Simba flops down in the grass and dust floats up into the night sky and spells out SEX.  What does it mean mom?

What would you have said?

I chickened out, thought fast and told her that sex was a term we use to differentiate males and females.  A boy dog’s sex is male and a girl dog’s sex is female.

Boom.  Honesty.

C’mon, she’s seven.  We’ll get there, just not quite yet.

I read an article a few days ago about a woman who doesn’t like her child.  I would cite the author but it was anonymous due to the content.

Her daughter was not what she expected.  The mom thought she would have the fat, rosy cheeked baby of the movies that laughed easily and smiled at strangers.  But that’s not what she got.  She was born small and frail and didn’t breastfeed well.  She cried and as she grew she made odd noises and didn’t move like other kids her age.

The mom looked to doctor after doctor to find out what was wrong with her daughter.  They all said she was a normal and healthy little girl.  But that wasn’t good enough, her daughter wasn’t right and the mom wanted to find a reason, any reason, why.

If she had a diagnosis of something she could explain away her child’s odd habits.  Her fears.  Her mannerisms that irritated her mother.

The little girl’s daddy got along with her just fine, beautifully even.  He spoke quietly when noise was overwhelming to her little ears and played in shadows when the light was too bright.  He celebrated her differences and played the way the little girl wanted to play.

The mother wanted the girl to play her way.  The way she imagined playing with her daughter.

When the little girl was afraid she would bypass her mom and go to her dad; he would hold her and tell her she was safe and sound, that he was there for her and that they would figure out the fear together.

The mom would just tell her to stop being afraid.  Just get over it. Just DO it.

I have tried to find a connection to this story, in myself.  I have waited to write this because I have been searching internally for my answer: what did I, and what do I, expect of my children?

I can honestly say that I didn’t imagine traits when I pictured my future kids.  I hoped for healthy, but we all do that.  I imagined situations; painting with my daughter like I did with my mom or helping her learn how to hold a golf club.  But the activities were always interchangeable, it didn’t matter what we were doing, I was imagining the feeling of doing something with my child.

I imagined soft skin, because both Chris and I have really soft skin.  I imagined that one of my kids would have green eyes like me.  I pictured wild curls like mine on one of them.  But I never assigned them personalities.

I just knew I would love being their mommy.

Is your child what you expected them to be?  Is your daughter funny and smart like you had dreamed or is she quiet and intuitive?  Is one a failure and one a success?

I understand what this woman was writing about, I disagree with the way she dealt with it with every cell in my body.  But I can see and sympathize with her struggle.

Her story goes on to say how she had another daughter that was everything she had wanted and imagined.  It validated her that she hadn’t done something wrong with her first born.  It wasn’t until she was sitting with her friend watching their children play when she was critical of her older daughter, again, and her friend called her out on it.

She told her that her job as a mother is to love her child for who she is.  To comfort her fears and make her feel good in her own skin. All she could see was what the girl wasn’t and never celebrated what she was.  She was supposed to be the safety zone.  And she was failing her daughter.

I agree completely.

It was a wake up call for the mom and she started to try for the first time to appreciate her child for who she was.  And it slowly made an impact on both of their lives.

This has been a very long post but I want to leave you with the most important parenting message I have, the core of what I believe every parent should be:

How you speak to your child will stay emblazened on their hearts forever.

The way you respond to their fears, their dreams, their quirks and their mannerisms sets the groundwork for how they will feel about themselves for the rest of their lives.  The next time you criticize your kid for doing something wrong ask yourself, “have I taken the time to teach him this, really teach this? Or do I just expect him to KNOW?”

The next time you yell at your child close your eyes and imagine how she sees you from her viewpoint.  Look up at yourself and imagine what she feels about you as you hover over her and scream, criticize, yell or tell her how bad she is.  Is that the way you want to be remembered?

Take a minute and think about what you are showing your child – how to behave, how to react, how accepted they are in their own parent’s hearts.

Is your child enough?  Or is it not what you expected.

“There’s a laundry list of things no one ever tells you when you have children. One of them is that your child will teach you how to be the parent they need — if you’re willing to listen.”

-anonymous writer after learning how to appreciate her child.

Be willing to listen.

I have days that I don’t like what I see.

Yup, Captain “Feel Good About Yourself” has bad body days.  Sometimes I’m not super happy with how my skin is looking at the grand ol’ age of 34.  Every once in a while I have a bad hair day.

I know it’s normal and that it happens to everyone.  I know in reality that I work hard on health and fitness and that when I look at myself in the mirror in the middle of yoga class I love and appreciate every single muscle that I have.  I appreciate that the line between my eyebrows has nothing to do with age and appeared long before I can remember because my face is so expressive and open.  I appreciate that my calves are carbon copies of my dad’s, even down to the bump on the back that no one else has but us.

But sometimes I look in the mirror when I put on shorts and I hear Travis’ voice in the high school cafeteria telling me I had man legs and that no girl should have muscles.

Still, at 34 years old I hear his voice telling me that how I look isn’t right.

When we found out I was pregnant with a girl one of the things we talked about as she lodged her little feet into my ribs was that we were going to raise her with confidence.  We were going to raise her to know that what she looks like, who she is, how she acts – it is all exactly how she should be.  And we have.  From day one we have taught her self awareness and self acceptance.  We have taught her that what someone looks like has no bearing on who they are.  And we impress upon her that kindness is always the answer, that we never know the story behind someones actions.  She knows, at seven years old, that when someone is unkind it is about them and not about her.

When Travis told me I was too muscular it was about him, not about me.

But it is so hard to make myself believe that some days.

99% of the time I don’t think about it.  I am strong and healthy and look better at 34 than I did in college.  I can do difficult yoga poses without breaking a sweat (I mean, I break a sweat, but its hot in there man) I can keep up with two active, rambunctious monkey children that keep me moving ALL DAY LONG.

How do I find balance in teaching my daughter to hold herself above the standards of others while struggling with the lesson myself?

Well, I don’t ever let her hear me disparage myself.  She only hears positive, loving messages.  I try not to let ME hear me disparage myself.  And I tell my sweet and loving husband that I am having confidence issues today and he says,

“You look better than you have ever looked.  You look strong and healthy and amazing.”

And then I love him even more.

I am not perfect in the eyes of everyone else in the world.  I don’t have super long, pin thin legs.  But I have two legs.  My legs can pedal a bike for miles while pulling 80 pounds of kids behind me on a trailer.  My arms can pick up and cuddle both kids, 2 and 7, without straining.

So to all the Travis-es of the world, please teach your children to be kind with their words because words are very sticky.  They adhere to the inside of someones heart and stay there, no matter how hard you try to peel them away.  I will continue to teach my children that what they think of themselves is much more important than what other people see.  I will continue to teach them that what they say matters, positive and negative.

And I will close my eyes and focus on what is great about me, and that I am proud to resemble my dad in any way I can.  I am enough just the way I am.

She had a mediport and a broviac – not at the same time – both devices surgically implanted into her chest to pump her full of medication without breaking skin with a needle when she needed a dose of something.  They tattooed her skin so they knew where to line up the machines for radiation treatments.  They almost took her life trying to save it.

She was so strong at first, her body got weaker and weaker as they pumped more poison in my sister to get rid of the poison that was already in her blood.  She became frail, so delicate…and I knew that it was my job to protect her.  I was nine years old.

Before cancer she had long, thick black hair.  Then she lost it.  She got it back when she beat cancer, it came back in wild curls.  Then she lost it again, the cancer had returned.  They put her on prednisone and her face became so swollen her skin was shiny.  Her wigs made her head itch.

Inside the safe walls of our home we had learned early on that in order to get through this, to get her through this, we had to rally together.  We wrapped our arms and our hearts around her and each other so nothing could get in and hurt any of us.  We laughed as I sat behind her and played with her swollen cheeks, putting expressions on her face she would never make herself.  We cracked up when I tucked my hair under her wigs and did impressions.  She relaxed when I massaged her head, so soft and smooth after all the chemo.

Inside our walls she was safe, she was the sister and daughter that she had always been. She was herself.  But once we left the cocoon we had created no one in the outside world understood.  She looked different and they stared.  Kids didn’t understand why her face was so puffy.  Adults wondered why her skin was so bruised and pale.

I was on high alert all the time.  When someone would look I would stand in front of her until they shifted their gaze.  They would stare and I would stare back.  And they would say things.  Ignorant, hurtful things and I walked around with so much anger at the ready to let loose on anyone who provoked me.  I would not let them hurt her, not without leaving them with their own wound from my sharp words.  I couldn’t protect her from cancer but I could do my best to protect her from the oblivious people she encountered.

We all did it, everyone in our family, we were her shield.  Our young eyes were opened, we learned about fear and disease and pain and death.  We learned about delicate intricacies of a life in the balance before we learned to drive.  I stood with my forehead pressed to the glass of her sealed transplant room waiting to find out if she was going to live.  I stroked her pale cheek while other siblings were fighting over video game controllers.

And she lived.  Thank God she lived.  Because I can look back at all those struggles and remember the laughter and the safety we felt as a family.  I can sit here now and find gratitude for the ability to live my every day with an incredible, deep empathy for everyone around me.  Thayer’s illness gave me the gift of open eyes and an open heart.  I can look past puffy faces and bald heads, filter masks and pain behind eyes.  I can see the person, every time, because of what she went through.

Can I teach this to my kids?  Can it be learned without knowing the intimate, throat closing fear of losing someone you can’t live without? I hope so.  I don’t want them to go through what we endured.  I wouldn’t be the me I am had my childhood been any different, but I never want my children to suffer the way we all did.

Every day I set my intention to teach my kids empathy and kindness.  I want them to treat every single person they meet with respect.  I want it to be as natural as breathing.

My parents took what could have been the worst moments of their lives and they taught their children about goodness and care.  They made sure we knew how to rise above and be the light in the shadows.  As they fought for their daughter’s life they taught us love.

I hope I can do it, to pass these lessons along without the fear, without the fight.  I will do my very best.

She lived.  And I will never stop protecting her.

It’s April 20th.  Again.  It comes every year, although it never feels the same.  Most people in the world don’t notice the date on the calendar as anything significant, just another day.  I’m getting there too.  I want to be there.

My social media accounts are full of rememberance and pictures of flowers, pictures of kids, links to songs, links to articles, messages to one another and to a community in general.  I have decided to abstain.

I thought, ‘you know, I could sit down and write about how different life is now at 34 than it was back then when I had just turned 18.  I could talk about the path and the lessons and the tears and the work.’  But I don’t want to.  I have put in so much work to find my way out of the vaccum of memories and fear and I really don’t want to voluntarily fall back in a rehash everything again.

So I won’t.

I will scroll past the flowers and the sad songs and the old pictures of old friends and the “NEVER FORGETs”.  Not because I’m heartless, but because after 16 years I don’t really want to remember anymore.  For years I relived the day constantly because I felt I owed it to the people who died, that I never let the memory – or their faces – fade.  But its been 16 years of actively moving on with my life and the memories are in there.  They’re not going anywhere.  Whether I like it or not.

So I will wait for April 21st.  And it will come, like it does every year.  And life will go on.