Monday, September 12, 2011
I vividly remember my last birthday party. I was in 4th or 5th grade.
I had excitedly prepared for the day... invited all my friends, received RSVPs, planned games, picked out favors and decorations and snacks. I even hand-made little place tags for each friend we were expecting. And then, no one came. Well, I think 1 or 2 people came, out of 10 or more that said they would be there. I have this very clear memory of sitting at the table on our back porch surrounded by empty place settings and streamers, looking at the names I had written and decorated on each of those stupid place tags. I vowed to never have another birthday party. It was 15 years ago, but every time I think about it, it still burns the way it did that day. It was a defining moment in my life.
Since then I've had many more situations that seemed to confirm what I felt the day of the failed birthday party: people don't actually like me. In junior high I had another defining moment. My best friend told me she needed to take a week-long break from our friendship. Our group of friends were informed of the break and everyone decided to hang with her, so for a week I sat alone on the bus, alone at lunch, alone in class. If you knew me in junior high you know I was already a weird kid, but my friends were weird too, so it was ok. Now I was weird and alone.
In high school I embraced my new identity and purposefully isolated myself... but that's a subject worthy of several independent posts. The point is, since the birthday party, I've had this crippling lack of self-esteem. I've always seen myself as this awkward, unlikable person. Even now, as an adult, I have an idea in the back of my mind that while I may exchange pleasantries and small talk with my peers, people mostly tolerate me. They talk to me when I'm around but no one really cares. It makes me terrified to reach out to people. It's exactly why I've always been so guarded, so eager to show everyone that I don't need them, and, consequently, how I learned to be such a good listener (by turning conversations away from myself).
Last week, Thursday, was my 26th birthday. Early in the week I was on facebook looking at pictures from a friend's recent surprise birthday party. I thought to myself, "No one has ever thrown me a surprise party. Of course, no one ever will."
Stephen told me to get dressed up for a fancy birthday dinner Friday night. We were to swing by a friend's house because they were giving us a gift certificate to a nice restaurant. The door opened, and standing in the living room were a large group of people... whose faces I recognized... even my sister was there. For a second I honestly wondered whose party we had accidentally crashed. Even after they all yelled "Surprise!" it took me 15 or 20 seconds to process the situation. This is for me? What? Why?
It was a wine and cheese party, so everyone was dressed up. I found out later that Stephen didn't remember to put the party together until the last minute, so these people had less than a week's notice and STILL came. Because, as it turns out, I am NOT a giant inconvenience. In a moment years and years of rejection and abandonment, both real and perceived, just broke off of me. Literally. Gone.
My little girl's heart was broken on a birthday, a day that is supposed to be a celebration of who I am. And that little girl's heart was healed on a birthday. God took this traumatic event and fully redeemed it.
I was telling Stephen all this after I'd had time to process everything, and tearfully asked him, "Did you have any idea this party would be so powerful and significant for me?" He nodded back, started to tear up himself. I just can't get over how amazing my husband is for doing this for me; because of him I will look back on my 26th birthday party as one of the defining moments of my life.
Friday, August 19, 2011
I was so blessed by the response to my last blog post. It felt like a big risk hitting the "publish" button, but it was liberating and I haven't regretted it.
Several people told me that they didn't realize I was having a hard time making the many adjustments to motherhood, and although my post wasn't strictly about those adjustments but more about my own insecurities, it made me think about how these adjustments would have been so much easier if I weren't so self-concious. Of course no one knew what a hard time I was (and sometimes still am) having. I don't tell anyone. Of course, I share things like, "I'm tired," or "You know, it's a big change," or the slightly less vague, "It's amazing how frustrated you can be with a baby in the middle of the night."
I think everyone has an unhealthy way they get validated by people that stems from their secret self-doubts. Two of my biggest insecurities are that I'm stupid and that I'm weak, so it's incredibly important to me that people think I'm intelligent and capable of taking care of everything on my own. Most people who know me would describe me as intelligent and strong... but being smart doesn't mean you have to know everything, and being strong doesn't mean you never need help.
The times I feel most vulnerable are when I'm admitting, "I don't know," or "I can't do it on my own." And anyone who has ever spent any time with a baby knows you spend a lot of time saying these exact things.
It's funny how being pregnant and having a baby somehow make you public property. People touch your pregnant belly and offer up their pregnancy and birth stories. I finally learned to stop people and ask, "Am I going to feel encouraged by this story? No? Then sorry, I don't want to hear it." Carrying around a baby is no different. I've never gone anywhere with Isabella without having multiple strangers stop me to ask about her. Normally it's nice stuff like, "Wow, all that hair!" and "What bright eyes!" Sometimes, though, my response to an inane question (is she sleeping through the night? Is she eating solid food yet? etc.) opens a door for me to receive unsolicited parenting advice.
A few weeks ago a Home Depot employee actually followed me around the store, suggesting that I give Isabella rice cereal before bed because she'll sleep all night. The other day an older lady that goes to my church told me that if Izzy bites while nursing, to flick her foot. ("It just shocks them!") And I can't tell you how many people have suggested some form of "sleep training" to cause my little girl to nap on my schedule and sleep through the night. Well-meaning interluders, the lot of them, but we have informed and specific reasons not to take much of the traditional parenting advice to heart.
I'm realizing though that my problem isn't that people are giving me advice... it's that I feel like it's necessary to tell them why I don't agree with them... essentially, how right I am, how put together I am. It's pride, and that's all there is to it. I could just say, "That's an interesting suggestion, thanks." Or the more direct but still polite, "Thanks, but I'm not sure that method is for me." People really are just trying to be helpful. But instead I shoot people down in order to affirm that I do in fact have my shit together, and I don't need or want your advice.
Motherhood makes you the target of a constant barrage of unsolicited advice... it's not just me. It's like this for everyone. And I need to realize that A) it's no reflection on me personally or my capabilities as a parent, and B) listening politely to someone's suggestions doesn't mean I have to take their advice. Maybe they can go home feeling purposeful because they were a huge help to a new mom, and I can go home and do whatever I intended to do in the first place. And... here's the really scary one: C) Maybe... just maybe... someone out there knows more than I do about this whole baby thing, and I could learn something new if I would just listen once in a while.
It's funny how being pregnant and having a baby somehow make you public property. People touch your pregnant belly and offer up their pregnancy and birth stories. I finally learned to stop people and ask, "Am I going to feel encouraged by this story? No? Then sorry, I don't want to hear it." Carrying around a baby is no different. I've never gone anywhere with Isabella without having multiple strangers stop me to ask about her. Normally it's nice stuff like, "Wow, all that hair!" and "What bright eyes!" Sometimes, though, my response to an inane question (is she sleeping through the night? Is she eating solid food yet? etc.) opens a door for me to receive unsolicited parenting advice.
A few weeks ago a Home Depot employee actually followed me around the store, suggesting that I give Isabella rice cereal before bed because she'll sleep all night. The other day an older lady that goes to my church told me that if Izzy bites while nursing, to flick her foot. ("It just shocks them!") And I can't tell you how many people have suggested some form of "sleep training" to cause my little girl to nap on my schedule and sleep through the night. Well-meaning interluders, the lot of them, but we have informed and specific reasons not to take much of the traditional parenting advice to heart.
I'm realizing though that my problem isn't that people are giving me advice... it's that I feel like it's necessary to tell them why I don't agree with them... essentially, how right I am, how put together I am. It's pride, and that's all there is to it. I could just say, "That's an interesting suggestion, thanks." Or the more direct but still polite, "Thanks, but I'm not sure that method is for me." People really are just trying to be helpful. But instead I shoot people down in order to affirm that I do in fact have my shit together, and I don't need or want your advice.
Motherhood makes you the target of a constant barrage of unsolicited advice... it's not just me. It's like this for everyone. And I need to realize that A) it's no reflection on me personally or my capabilities as a parent, and B) listening politely to someone's suggestions doesn't mean I have to take their advice. Maybe they can go home feeling purposeful because they were a huge help to a new mom, and I can go home and do whatever I intended to do in the first place. And... here's the really scary one: C) Maybe... just maybe... someone out there knows more than I do about this whole baby thing, and I could learn something new if I would just listen once in a while.
Friday, August 12, 2011
The great Mitch Hedberg (may he rest in peace) had a joke about mountain climbing. "I want to climb a mountain- not so I can get to the top- cause I want to hang out at base camp. That seems fun as shit. You sleep in a colorful tent, you grow a beard, you drink hot chocolate, you walk around. People ask you, 'Hey, you goin to the top?' 'Soon.'" (I couldn't find audio of this joke... oh well, enjoy this compilation instead and consider this your warning that while the material is clean Mitch seasons his comedy with plenty of f-bombs.)
I feel like this is how I live my life. Waiting for something to happen. Wasting my time. Making excuses. Missing out. Truthfully, I rarely live in the present moment. I often find myself thinking, "Tomorrow I'll make that change, achieve that goal, deepen that friendship, pursue that dream."
I'm not sure why I'm sitting out on the fringes watching other people live. I think it's because I'm scared. The mountain of life can be a dangerous place. There are real risks involved, like relationships and rejection and failure. Being open, authentic, present, and vulnerable with people... it's just not safe. What if they don't like me? What if I don't fit in? What if people see my weaknesses? What will they think of me? What if I share my heart and they don't care?
In order to preserve myself, I've alienated myself. I don't reach out to people. I don't cultivate relationships very well. I don't share myself unless I'm asked, and even then I give little. I don't ask for help when I need it. As long as I live in this little bubble, I can't get hurt. I watch people who are truly living, who are willing to share their heart and passion, people who are taking risks. I hate watching the real mountaineers setting off up the trail because I'm intimidated by their courage and jealous of their adventure.
Since Isabella was born, I've felt especially isolated and desperately in need of a real support network... of friends who know me deeply and love me, who will celebrate the joys of life with me and help me through the tough times. Friends that I can support and encourage in return.
Normally I would journal all of this and not tell anyone about my life changing resolutions to stop hiding, and then lose my motivation and be disappointed because I failed again. So I guess I'm sharing all of this as a way to say, I'm picking up my pack and taking those first steps up the trail, and I could use a little companionship along the way. Hope to see you on the mountain...
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