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No, You Sign MY Sign Up Genius

"I'd like to be the ideal mother, but I'm too busy raising my kids." - Unknown

I am about one sign up genius away from losing my....mind. This has become the year of bacon wrapped green bean bundles. I have taken them to at least one event per week for the past four weeks. I can roll those babies in my sleep. My kids’ most recent signup genius asked for craft donations, and my computer offered to auto-fill “bacon wrapped green bean bundles.” We don’t even remember a time when my kitchen did not smell like crisp, salted pork, which is not necessarily a bad thing. And why? Because it’s early December!

You see, if you are a college writing teacher, this is NOT the most wonderful time of the year. This is the survival mode, will I ever make it, I’m not paid enough for this, blood shot eyes time of the year. We know there is a light at the end of the tunnel, but there are plagiarized run-ons blocking out any semblance of it. Bah-humbug.

Add to this stress the fact that everyone around you is scurrying about in holiday bliss. Decorate this! Eat that! Please RSVP! Toss in a side of motherhood obligation and every single school celebration known to humankind. There are endless opportunities for disappointing your children. Time should also be allotted for every branch of the family while social media flashes the Christmas countdown. Only 15 shopping days remain! Time is running out!

Meanwhile, I am having trouble remembering to put real shoes on before I leave the house. I have no bandwidth for these menial tasks. My brain is a computer with 52 browser windows open. I am just standing here with a spinning circle waiting to load.

But there is hope. Soon, I will submit my final grades of the semester and jump for joy at the beautiful gift of time - time to slow down and enjoy the finer things in life while eating myself sick with that evil Chex mix peanut butter powdered sugar crack my best friend always makes. Until then, I thought I might make a little sign up genius of my own. I’m sure I could pool some resources to get it all done quickly and efficiently. A girl can dream, right?  

My Early December Life Sign Up Genius

My #nomakeupmovement

“There’s a part of me that likes shoes, and likes dresses, and likes makeup, and likes books, and likes to write. I think that’s the case for many women. But our culture makes us think we have to choose slices of ourselves that we’re comfortable showing the world.” -Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

As often happens, our family dinner conversation took a strange turn. We were discussing cultural grooming practices. “Female shaving has been used historically to keep women in a visually infantile and docile state.” This is the kind of statement I will pick up from my colleagues and deliver to my critical, rowdy audience of three as we dine on soup and applesauce. My eleven year old son immediately slapped palm to forehead. “Geez, Mom! Then you might as well be upset that I can run around without a shirt but Lila can’t.” Clearly, my message was received.

We have heard a great deal about women and feminism in the news of late. The media has highlighted concerns of “how we will explain things to our daughters.” Women have also been making waves in the entertainment industry. In a stunning display of natural beauty, Alicia Keys released a new album with her makeup-free face gracing the cover. Her #nomakeupmovement has taken social media by storm. In “Time to Uncover,” her essay for the website Lenny, she explores her epiphany:

“'Cause I don't want to cover up anymore. Not my face, not my mind, not my soul, not my thoughts, not my dreams, not my struggles, not my emotional growth. Nothing.”

It is a message of empowerment and newfound self-awareness.

I rarely wear makeup myself. It is actually more noteworthy to document days that I do take the time to prep my face for an audience. My hair is only further proof of my unbecoming. My mane is long, unruly and usually in need of a good shampooing but can be pulled together in a big beautiful mess on top of my head. I spend about 80% of my life in workout clothes. If success was based on dress, I would be a sorry disappointment. So, it would be hard to not draw parallels to my life. 

But I don’t think Keys’ message stops at her clean, unfiltered face. She has stripped down her walls of protection and is showing her truth: the good, the bad and the ugly (although I have yet to see anything ugly about her). She has realized the infinite power that comes from learning to listen to herself. She is not going to let society or industry expectations dictate her choices. Her transformation represents ownership and a deliberate seizing of power.

In an article for New York Magazine, Stella Bugbee reflects upon Hillary Clinton’s choice to show her face sans make-up at a post-election press conference after months of wearing a calculated, political mask and hairstyle:

“Obviously, liking lipstick doesn’t disqualify us from participating in feminism or having a career — and it certainly doesn’t distract us from our work or the important issues of the day...But there is no denying the power and freedom in rejecting vanity.”

Power and freedom seem to be an emerging theme. Choice and individual preference rise over societal, cultural or political expectations.

I am not advocating for women to stop shaving or wearing makeup. I am, however, advocating that we stop and consider what drives our choices. Rosie Molinary, friend and author of Beautiful You: A Daily Guide to Radical Self-Acceptance, goes as far as to say, “Beauty standards are a political issue. If you are obsessed, you are oppressed.” When I am rushing to get dressed and groomed for a day at work, and my nine year old daughter says, “Mom, you care too much what people think,” I feel the need to explain myself. How do I show her young, impressionable mind that it is my choice to look a certain way in my career? I choose to dress in a particular manner when teaching in the classroom, but in most of life, or when I coach at our CrossFit affiliate, I choose a natural look. I consider myself to be a multi-faceted person with many roles, and I am okay showing different sides of myself. It does not necessarily imply that I am hiding my true self in my professional life.

It is incredibly tempting to just toss my makeup and throw scarves over my untamed locks in solidarity with Alicia, all the while belting out, “This girl is on FIY-AH,” but personal grooming preferences are just scratching the surface. The ways I choose to execute my power and freedom should be visible in the fabric of my everyday life. “Just because” or “That is how we have always done it,” simply do not suffice as responses for how we live our lives. I must demand more of myself. For now, I will continue to shave my legs and occasionally wear makeup because that is my choice. It is not necessary for my legs to look like my dad’s in order to pull off some grand gesture of feminism. But I will try to be present and pay better attention to the motivations driving my day to day decisions. I can begin by examining the framework surrounding my role as a woman in our current culture. There is no shortage of issues beckoning analysis. I'm with you, Alicia. Let's uncover some truth.

Alicia Keys. Her album "Here" is now available.

Dumbest One in the Room

“Don't be afraid to be confused. Try to remain permanently confused. Anything is possible. Stay open, forever, so open it hurts, and then open up some more, until the day you die, world without end, amen.” ― George Saunders, The Braindead Megaphone

“I love it when I’m the dumbest one in the room!”

My students, who never really know what to expect when I open my mouth, erupted in laughter. I figured I should elaborate. I explained that I enjoy putting myself in situations where I am surrounded by much more informed and intelligent people than myself. It is humbling and empowering at the same time. “You absolutely, positively, have to learn to ask questions,” I pleaded. It is the only way we can grow and figure things out for ourselves.

My younger self was not comfortable being the dumbest person in the room. I needed to play it cool and act like I knew what I was doing. As a young teacher, we were taught that students, like animals, could sense fear. We had to act like we knew what we were doing, even if we did not. It was survival of the fittest. To ask questions was to reveal uncertainty - that you did not hold all the answers. Asking questions was a sign of weakness.

With age and experience, I have come to realize the limits of my own understanding. Admitting when I don’t know something only opens up an opportunity to learn and deepen my knowledge of humanity and the world around me. When I am the dumbest person in the room, I can release the sense of obligation accompanied with being an “expert” or guardian of some absolute truths. The teacher becomes the pupil, and I no longer have to hold all the answers. I listen, question, probe and wrangle with ideas and theories I learn from my surroundings.

In my profession as a college instructor, I am surrounded by colleagues who are experts in their fields. My office is located on a hall filled with faculty who teach history, economics, sociology, English, religion, psychology and anthropology. It is fertile soil for growth and continued education. I engage in conversation with these people almost every day. I am on committees and in clubs with these intellectuals. They are artists, social activists, world travelers, dancers, musicians, poets, writers and so much more. While I have my strengths and areas of expertise, most days I knowingly sit at the table as the dumbest one in the room.

When I first met one of these fellow faculty members, I assumed he was a pretentious, stuffy professor based on the fact that he was very reserved  and seemed to only speak in theoretical  jibber jabber. In time, I began engaging in conversation with him about teaching, art, books and current events. With each conversation, I came away with some new idea or concept on topics ranging from cultural grooming practices to religious theories.  I used to feign understanding and nod when he started talking of Socialism, Marxism or Capitalism, but these days, I have become much more transparent. I am quick to tilt my head in a dumb, labrador retriever manner and ask, “Huh?” He always explains, and with each conversation, I become a little less ignorant.

In other areas of my life, I am also reminded of just how little I know and understand. In her recent interview for NPR’s “Fresh Air,” author Zadie Smith described parenthood as a chance for humiliation. “Humiliation because we have so many ideas about ourselves, and children are here to destroy all of them one by one.” Yes, as a parent I am frequently reminded that there is just so much more to learn. Even what I think I understand often comes tumbling down when I am confronted with questioning or a need to explain my beliefs to an unrelenting eleven year old. In these cases, I do my best to exemplify my dedication to a life of learning. The journey will never be complete, and I can be open in revealing I still have so much more to learn.  

I will admit that I do have my moments of expertise. When my colleagues need to know how to squat, deadlift, make healthy food choices, or rally any kind of enthusiasm, I am their person. But ultimately, I am irresistibly drawn to the moments when I sit back and comfortably assume the role of dumbest person in the room. I often say that if it was feasible, I would stay in school for the rest of my life. I absolutely love being a student, and for now, the world will have to be my classroom. My curriculum is an evolving compilation of books, films, articles and various art forms introduced by the people around me. My book shelves are lined with titles suggested by fellow parents, colleagues, CrossFit community members, friends and online acquaintances. At the heart of my personal development, the critical thinker in me demands that I ask questions and listen. William Butler Yeats said, “Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.” After spending my early years trying to fill that pail, my present self is fully embracing this incendiary phase.

She Knows and Loves Herself

“You may give them your love but not your thoughts, For they have their own thoughts.You may house their bodies but not their souls,For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.”

Khalil Gibran, “On Children” (from The Prophet)

I just finished reading another book by Sarah Addison Allen. She crafts beautiful stories set in the mountains of North Carolina and infuses them with just the right amount of whimsical magical realism. Her characters are endearing and flawed, often on a journey of self-discovery and realizing their true, unique nature. Her novels are a comfortable landing place for me. When I want to get swept up in a story, she always delivers a captivating escape. This latest book was no different. She revisited characters from a previous novel: the Waverly family brimming with thoughtfulness, quirkiness and originality. She writes of two sisters doing their best to raise daughters. “Motherhood is hard enough without judgment from others who don’t know the whole story.” Amen, sisters. I can relate.

It just so happens that this magical storyline came along at exactly the right time. In raising my daughter, I carry the tremendous weight of concern for her big spirit. Lately, I have worried about her loud personality and the fact that she does not have a tight-knit social group. Is she an outcast? Has she brought this on herself with her passionate, dramatic reactions to everything from food to games at recess? And what was I hoping? Do I want her to conform? Follow the crowd? Do I want her to blend in rather than stand out?

Allen shows this complexity when her two characters discuss the teenage daughter, Bay. The rational sister shuts down the mother’s paranoias.

“I think she is doing fine. Bay knows herself. She likes herself. She doesn’t care what other people think...You want her to be popular...She doesn’t want to be popular. She wants to be herself.”

I gasped upon reading these lines. It was as though the character was hurling meteors of parental advice directly at my face. I could sub in my daughter’s name, and the paragraph worked perfectly. Yes, she likes herself. How much time have I spent beating myself up and scraping by with insecurities and harsh personal criticism? My daughter, free as a bird, soars above those painful moments of self-loathing because she knows herself and, most importantly, likes what she knows.

My daughter as Mother Nature for her school's Fairy Tale Ball.

When my children were younger, they were prone to alarmingly high fevers whenever they got sick. A fever of 104-105 was not uncommon with a typical, run of the mill ear infection. The wise, simple advice from our pediatrician talked me down from numerous paranoid, new-mother meltdowns: “Don’t worry so much about the number. Pay attention to their behavior. If they act lethargic and unresponsive, that is more important than a number.” Basically, she told me to trust my gut and pay attention. Perhaps this advice is still relevant and important in other aspects of my kids’ lives.

I cannot get caught up in counting their friends to measure social success, but I can pay attention to their behavior. The number is one indicator, but I can tell far more by seeing the whole child. In my case, the child I see is living a big, full and happy life. I have moments of panic because I just can’t decipher what her true self will look like at 16, 18 or even 21. There is no formula or box she will fit into, but I wouldn’t want her to fit in any box. When I become hyper-sensitive or nervous watching her interact with her peers, I begin to see situations through my motherhood lens. I want to shield her from rejection or ridicule, guard her from situations where she will be the ultimate black sheep, but as my husband candidly reminded me, “Why would you want her to fit in with the crowd? YOU are a black sheep.” My daughter, at nine years old, has figured out that she is unique, and she is perfectly content. If she is too much for some people, she moves on to a new audience or adjusts accordingly. At times, there are natural consequences. She might have to offer up apologies or adjust her tone, occasionally shedding some tears, but ultimately, her identity is found in herself rather than the acceptance or approval of her peers. It has taken me too long to realize this is not a matter of concern but a cause for celebration.

A few weeks ago, my daughter accompanied me to a local health food store for our weekly shopping. There is a man who happens to be there almost every time I go. He wears a vibrant robe, sandals, carries a cross-body purse and flaunts his majestic, silvery striped afro. My daughter immediately spotted him and stopped me. “Mom, look at that man! He is wonderful! He doesn’t care what other people think!” I wanted to scoop her up and twirl her around. She teaches me so much. “Yes. Isn’t it beautiful to see someone so free and comfortable in his own skin?” I responded. Before I knew what was happening, she ran over to the man. “Hey, I LOVE your hair.” His warm smile seemed to say, “The light in me salutes the light in you, little girl.” They were kindred spirits and fast friends.

As a mother, it is crucial that I remember the definition of success and happiness is relative to each individual child, not based on our personal experience. Our children do not need to follow our prescribed paths; furthermore, it is unfair to project our insecurities and fears onto them. Towards the end of Allen’s novel, the teenager’s mother has a realization. “Maybe you don’t have to be led into the future. Maybe you can pick your own path.” Yes!  A hundred times YES! I can lead by example, but my daughter will forge her own unique path that suits the person she knows and loves - herself.

A Pilgrimage from Pouting to Presence

We have this possibility of doing a pilgrimage every single day. Because a pilgrimage implies in meeting different people, in talking to strangers, in paying attention to the omens, and basically being open to life. And, we leave our home to go to work, to go to school, and we have every single day this possibility, this chance of discovering something new. So, the pilgrimage is [for]... people who are open to life.

Paulo Coelho (in an interview with Krista Tippett for Onbeing.org)

In his heartbreakingly beautiful memoir, When Breath Becomes Air, Paul Kalanithi writes, “Human knowledge is never contained in one person. It grows from the relationships we create between each other and the world, and still it is never complete.” I took numerous trinkets of wisdom from his writing, but this phrase struck a major chord. I know I am such a hodge podge mash up of all the people who have passed through or are still present in my life. It would not be fair to say I’m a melting pot because I can still identify who and where I gathered some of the transformational nuggets of knowledge that shape me. To make Kalanithi’s words ring even more true, he emphasizes that the process of patching ourselves together is “never complete.” We are a work in progress.

Each new person I take time to come in contact with has the potential to leave a lasting brick in the wall of me. Likewise, each place I visit and see can take up residence and shape my perspective. Creating myself involves synthesizing everything I see, hear, touch, taste and feel in this big, beautiful world. How do I continue to construct knowledge and build new understanding? By embracing what a wise Instagram hashtag once taught me - #keeplearning. Keep reading. Keep writing. Keep traveling. Keep talking. Keep listening. Keep watching. Keep moving. Keep living.

But there has to be more. Life is not measured in hashtags (I hope). Kalanithi uses the phrase “relationships we create.” It will not suffice to just keep doing stuff. We must commit to actively create. We need to cultivate relationships with people and places in order to gain and appreciate human knowledge. This concept sends me drifting through the pages and pages of my life; all the people I have known and all the places I have been that left me “schooled” for better or for worse. What if I never embraced my life in NYC? What if I never took the time to find and cling to my “mama tribe” when I first became a mother? What if we never answered the call for open space and adventure and moved to Colorado? What if we never started a CrossFit community in our garage? What if I had not taken the time to cultivate deep friendships within my profession of teaching? I shudder to think of the tremendous void and all the human knowledge that would be missing from my life.

When we left Colorado, I was devastated. I left a piece of my heart there and spent the first couple of years here in Charlotte pouting. I thought that life out West had changed me, which it did. It awakened me to adventure and a passion to explore all that this world has to offer. By failing to practice flexible thinking, a term we use to pry my Type A child from his rigid world view, I blatantly dismiss the fact that my life out West was a new beginning and perspective, not one self-contained experience. Living in Colorado left a lasting impression on me, but I have to leave that behind and become fully present in my new life to reap the rewards of a world of opportunity in a different, slightly more humid home on the East Coast.

In a little less than six years, I have grown more as a person since moving back to North Carolina than I ever have in my entire life. I have found friends who show me genuine honesty and encourage me on an inward journey to discovery of my truest self. Neighbors invite me to step outside my comfort zone and push my physical capabilities. Co-workers introduce me to knowledge and ideas that help challenge and shape my world view. Teachers remind me to listen more and talk less.  Colleagues engage me in difficult, soul-searching conversation that rattles me at my core. Each relationship has a vital and unique role in my “chance of discovering something new.” I have to halt the lamenting for what I once had and decide to show up and cultivate human knowledge in a new place and with new people. This shift has literally been life-changing but remains fluid, occasionally slipping from my grasp on days I still mourn for the life we left behind.

Kalanithi was 37 when he lost his battle with cancer. So very young. He was my age with a wife and brand new baby girl. Yet his voice whispers through the pages for us to wake up and take action. Our pilgrimage is never complete. We can’t hold all this life has to offer in one person or one place. We must take the time to cultivate relationships. We can get to know people and have real, life-enriching conversations. Yes, #keeplearning, but that and so much more. Ask questions and really listen to the answers, all the many answers. Then take pause and start building that human knowledge one relationship at a time.

A note about this post…

I wrote this reflection on Kalanithi’s book a couple of months ago. I was saving it for a rainy day because other topics kept popping up. Originally, I had written a blog about my daughter for this week; then, election day happened. I wanted to write about the hurt, sadness and fear engulfing me at the moment, but I am yet to formulate my thoughts and feelings in a communicable way. I am sitting with all of it on my heart and mind, hugging people (weird, I know), and trying to have as many conversations as possible. This reflection on Kalanithi’s book does not reveal my post-election heart; however, it does address one of my goals moving forward. The human knowledge I have built is the very reason I have been so deeply affected emotionally by the events of this week. Presence, awareness and relationships have opened my heart to the painful truths we all face as a nation. As Toni Morrison quite simply states, “Can’t nothing heal without pain, you know.” Thanks for reading.

Giving Myself Permission

“The Work of You”

No one is coming

to save you,

to give you permission,

to choose you,

or validate you.

This has always

been your job.

You must love yourself

so fiercely

and fully

that you have no other choice

but to be strong

for yourself,

to fight for yourself,

to be yourself,

and to build yourself.

-Cara Alwill Leyba

Permission. This word keeps popping up throughout the landscape of my life. It haunts me in the books and articles I am reading and continues to echo in conversations with my peers. Just last week, a friend noted, “Ugh. You said the P word.” If this word is so determined to reveal itself in my psyche, I best wake up and take a deeper look at what is happening right under my nose.

“When are you going to give yourself permission?” This question came from a talented, new friend of mine. She is part of my writing club, and while I have only seen her in person twice, she has already had a profound impact on my thinking and writing. I tend to talk without thinking and spill out all my emotions, but she is gentle and slow to speak. I can see in her face that she is thinking, rolling the words and ideas around in her brain, scanning any situation with a keen artist’s eye. She doesn’t miss a thing. And with one question, she can blow my world wide open, heightening my awareness and understanding of myself. Yes, she is that good.

That evening, we had just read a piece I wrote about motherhood obligations and the natural tendency to seek an occasional escape from the weight of responsibility. There was a line about permission slips needing to be signed. My friend saw something more in my simple prose. When would I give myself permission? What did I need permission to do? How much time had been wasted waiting for this permission? The questions gained momentum in my mind. I needed to pull this issue closer to the surface.

I was born a rule-follower. A straight A student always aiming to please. My life followed a timeline, and I never strayed from the plan. I made people happy. My life deserved a nice, conservative golf clap. But now in my late thirties, that response has become lame and void of true feeling. I desire hooting and hollering, crying, yelling and deep down belly laughing - the kind of response that doesn’t seek permission. I want my life to summon an unsolicited, soulful and boisterous standing ovation.

How can I authentically allow myself to feel and experience life in this grander, uninhibited way? One step must be to wake up and recognize the areas where I am relinquishing control of my life. Thus, the process of unearthing instances of permission-seeking suddenly springs open Pandora’s box. I have sought permission as a parent, questioning my maternal instincts to raise my children the way I best see fit. I have sought societal permission in the manner I dress and groom myself - playing it safe with modest, conservative “teacher clothes,” makeup, and tidy, tame hair. I have sought medical and “expert” permission concerning exercise and caring for the body I inhabit, often to my own detriment. I have sought family permission to follow or abandon certain positions within my career or other job opportunities. I have sought indirect permission from my children for the way I divvy up my time and partake in soul-feeding activities that occasionally infringe upon family time. Most recently, I sought permission from my colleagues to step around to the other side of the desk, back into the role of writer.

The list goes on and on. I have sought unofficial permission from my parents, my husband, my teachers, my coaches, my bosses and even my friends. By seeking the blessing from these people, I have relinquished my own control and power over my life. In Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg explains that writing is “about trusting your own mind and creating a confidence in your experience.” As a writing teacher, I agree and recognize myself in her words, but in my personal life, I falter when opportunities arise to “trust my own mind.” Failing to give myself permission is a direct result of not trusting myself. When I am seeking someone else’s blessing for my actions, I am discrediting my own judgment and ability to make important decisions for myself. Paralyzed by fear and self-doubt, I am dependent upon someone else telling me it’s okay and giving me permission to move forward.

The good news is that the tide is beginning to turn. With every conversation and increased time putting thoughts to paper, I become more awake and in tune with my ability to “create confidence in my experience.” This summer, I got my first tattoo, and while this small word on my forearm is tame by any tattoo standards, it is a grand gesture and symbol of intentionally seizing the reins of my life. I did not seek permission. I wanted it, so I got it. I will forever wear the evidence of this metamorphosis branded on my right arm.

To an outsider, I can see how this phase could be misinterpreted as late onset rebellion. She was good all through her early years, so she is rebelling in her thirties. I get that, and perhaps there is some truth there. I prefer to think that I am finally waking up. I am finally listening to my own voice and trusting my gut; learning to turn an inward eye instead of looking to others for permission. Why should I wait for others to believe in me and edge me forward when I can move along so much faster by cutting out the middleman?

At our last writing club meeting, my perceptive friend suggested that I turn my latest writing into a bigger project. “What about a memoir?” There it was. This simple question tossed out in casual conversation sent my mind spiraling and unlocked a sense of long-awaited relief in my soul. I have ALWAYS wanted to write a memoir. Since early adulthood, it has been my absolute favorite genre to read. Mary Karr describes memoir as “a single person trying to make sense of the past.” I find comfort and great fulfillment in watching a writer unfold their past and draw meaning from their journey and experience. For years, I have wanted to explore my own past through writing but felt that a memoir might be overly ambitious or pretentious. My friend’s question opened up that gate and seemed to be the permission I needed. To think of all the time lost in the waiting, but there is no time like the present. I can write the book I want to write, even if only my husband and a few close friends ever read it. Elizabeth Gilbert writes, “The universe buries strange jewels deep within us all, and then stands back to see if we can find them.” Self discovery and realization are their own rewards. I will continue to pay attention to where and when I am waiting on permission to act and write my own story, but in the meantime, I will get to work on my memoir.  

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Lost in Translation

“Love can be expressed and received in all five languages. However, if you don't speak a person's primary love language, that person will not feel loved, even though you may be speaking the other four. Once you are speaking his or her primary love language fluently, then you can sprinkle in the other four and they will be like icing on the cake.”  - Gary Chapman

I have been married for more than fourteen years. About ten of those have been good years. When people say that marriage is work, they are not kidding. Our marriage has been forged in the fire: challenged by addiction, moves across the country, death and tragedy, and the usual ups and downs of parenthood. Married at 22, I usually tell people we have grown up together. I would say that my husband provides my calm (most of the time) and gives me room to spread my wings and be who I am meant to be  -even though it is an ongoing project to figure out exactly who that might be. I really consider there to be no greater gift. He walks beside me always offering truth, sometimes harshly, in whatever form I need to hear it. And because our partnership was earned, not given, I would fight til the death to maintain what we have built. As open communication is the foundation to almost any relationship, it is interesting to note that my whole family is built upon the shoulders of two people who do not even speak the same language. Many moments and golden opportunities have been lost in translation along the way.

Years ago, we were exposed to Gary Chapman’s idea of the different love languages. The concept opened our eyes to the huge discrepancy in the way we communicate as a couple. Somewhere around this time in our early marriage, perhaps during marital counseling, we were introduced to active listening. We were asked to really listen to each other and repeat things back to one another just as we heard them. We began to notice exchanges such as these:

Me: “I do not feel any love from you.”

Husband: “I came home from work and loaded the dishwasher and did all the laundry.”

OR

Husband: “You do not care that this mess is making me lose my mind.”

Me: “How can you say that? I wrote you a note and planned a date night.”

We were experiencing a failure to communicate. There are only five love languages, and it turns out we have all but one of them covered. I am no math person, but I would say it is fairly unlikely we do not overlap in a single area.

My husband says I love you through “acts of service.” He is a doer. He makes our breakfast and coffee every single morning. He does all of our laundry and folds towels into beautiful, perfectly arranged works of art. He handles the finances, bills and taxes - all things that make me want to run for the hills. He gets stuff done. I know you are thinking that I should just shut up and let the man continue cleaning.  I agree, it is wonderful, and I am so thankful for it, but my nature does not always recognize these amazing things as tokens of his undying love for me.

Here is the problem. My love language is “words of affirmation.”  I am an encourager. I can build him up with words of love, support, and praise like it’s my job. I can pick out the most amazing cards for holidays and special occasions. I have a gift for finding just the right words. Words are my tool of trade. We are a doer and a talker trying to set up a life together. He wants me to surprise him by making up the bed, and I want him to tell me that he believes in me and my abilities.

Our healthy dose of dissonance does not end there. As I mentioned, we speak four of the five languages. Brent’s secondary love language is physical touch (the DUMBEST one). Massaging his hands or feet, shoulders, or playing with his hair make him feel loved and appreciated.  My secondary language is much more practical: quality time. Give me your cell phone-free, undivided attention and time (unless I want to be alone, then just leave me alone). These languages compliment each other a little bit better. We can multi-task by spending time together in close contact. Everyone is loved.  

Part of the purpose behind recognizing the different love languages is that it allows us to see that our partners have been conditioned to give love in a way that they most hope to receive it themselves. Chapman writes, “People tend to criticize their spouse most loudly in the area where they themselves have the deepest emotional need.”  I buy great, thoughtful cards because I want to receive those cards. Brent cleans the kitchen because he hopes I will someday learn to load the dishwasher in the correct manner. Understanding these different languages has allowed us to see that we really weren’t listening to each other or acknowledging the other’s needs. There have been countless times he was showing his love; it just was not in the way I expected or needed to see it.

With practice, I must say, I have learned to embrace both of our languages. I no longer spend time or money on cards for his birthday. Last year, I built him a fire pit - action and service. However, he has also come to expect and appreciate words of encouragement from me, sometimes even words of advice or criticism (yikes!). Afterall, I must still be true to myself, so when his birthday rolled around this year, I might for example, have written a mushy blog about him. Happy Birthday, Babe! I have no problem admitting I am far from perfect and still have moments when I think his love language is stupid and requires too much effort. Other times, I look at his interactions with me and wonder if he even knows me at all, but these moments have become few and far between.  

Thankfully, my husband has also gracefully learned to speak my love language. Offering both words of affirmation and quality attention, he is my coach and the first reader for everything that I write. His native language continues to involve action, and I can’t say that I mind. He shows a selflessness in his willingness to help and do things to make my life easier. If he were to ever cease with the acts of service, I am sure I would be the first to point that out...using a lot of strong words of affirmation.

Our differences have enriched my life and pushed me to grow beyond myself. We now have two children who speak their own dialects of the love languages. My son wants verbal affirmation and quality time (just like his mom), while my daughter prefers physical touch - hugs and cuddles (thanks Brent, I’m sure that won’t cause us any problems in the future). We have our very own familial Tower of Babel. There are moments of complete discord when we are each desperately shouting for our language to be heard and acknowledged, but there are other beautiful episodes that reveal the many forms love can take. Time spent just sitting together, a gentle word, a family hike, a thoughtful gift, or an unrequested favor might be just what one of us needed at that moment. Learning to truly listen to each other makes us more human and open to growth so that as Chapman explains, we do not continue to mess up every new day with yesterday.

Photo by Kristie Hamilton

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Acceptance

“Whoever is present are the right people. Whenever it begins is the right time. Whatever happens is the only thing that could have happened. And when it's over, it's over.”

Anne Lamott, Some Assembly Required: A Journal of My Son's First Son

Remember times in life when you were so happy to gain acceptance? I was accepted to Appalachian State University, New York University, and different internships or programs. It was means for celebration. Then, this week my mom got her final letter of acceptance. Hospice welcomed her into their care. Only this acceptance was an unforeseen, debilitating punch in the gut that doubled me over in instant nausea.

Here I sit trying to process this news. Mom will receive home health care. Dad will get the extra help he needs. She will stop taking her medications. They will provide her medical care and work to keep her comfortable. It should be welcome news at this stage, but I am still working on convincing myself.

I just read yet another amazing book by Anne Lamott. Anyone who knows me knows that I want to be her best friend. I have said it for years. She has practically helped raise me. My advisor and mentor during my under grad gave me her first book. I have read all Lamott’s books at every stage of my life. She helped me when I was a stumbling, paranoid mess as a new mother. She got me. She always knew just what to say. When I started asking the difficult questions in life - there she was trying to figure it all out. Her raw, gorgeous and terrifying vulnerability reverberated and echoed through the chambers of my heart. Through the years her words have been a lighthouse guiding me back to my true self, so it would only make sense that she would show up to offer her unique concoction of humor, experience and naked truth when my mom is dying.

Whoever is present are the right people.

Hospice are the right people for this job even though I am annoyed and angry at the moment that they get to be the ones to “accept” my mom into the last six months of her life. They decided she was close enough to death to deserve their help. According to their website, “At the center of hospice and palliative care is the belief that each of us has the right to die pain-free and with dignity, and that our families will receive the necessary support to allow us to do so.” Ugh.

But I know you are right again, Anne Lamott. They are the right people. My boss, who recently lost a parent and a close family friend, has been a steady source of encouragement. She described Hospice from her recent experience: “They are wonderful people. If we could only begin to see it as representing comfort rather than death.” Comfort, yes we could take some of that right now. The family, specifically my dad, will get some much-needed support.

Whenever it begins is the right time.

Is there ever really a good time for your mom to die? We know the answer to that question. Days like Christmas and Mother’s Day will sting regardless. It won't be easier when I am a year older. Winter cold won't help to numb the pain. Summer heat will not burn away the tears. The time is now, and it will be right.

A close friend sent me this shattering and beautifully haunting text the day mom got her acceptance letter:

“You've been learning to dance with a limp for a while now and it's been a beautifully courageous process to witness. This is your experience and only you can fully appreciate it. But you will not go through it alone. You are never alone. So go vomit, scream, cry, laugh, play and live. Be confused, angry, sad and happy. Lean on your tribe and share your experiences.”

See, Anne Lamott, you were more right than you ever knew. This awful, painful, humbling and piercing moment is exactly right. My quirky and passionate tribe will help me catch the shattering pieces and let me step all over their toes as I stumble to put one foot in front of the other.

Whatever happens is the only thing that could have happened.

What in the world did I expect? Mom is in the final stages of Alzheimer's. It's not like she was going to get better. It has to end, and now we have people trained to help us take the final steps of this closing chapter.

If she could understand, I would tell mom that this ending would make her proud. “Dad gave his all loving you for every single minute, Mom.” He welcomed Hospice because it meant he could have the help he needed for mom to end her life at home with him by her side, not in a nursing facility. In that regard, maybe this is not the only thing that could have happened, but it is our story and how we handled the tattered and torn hand we were dealt.

And when it's over, it's over.

Last week, I told a few of my best friends that I had decided everything was going to be okay. Mom was going to die, and I would be okay. She will let go, and it will be over. I would be lying if I didn't admit I will breathe a huge sigh of relief somewhere in between my sobbing bouts of anguish. There will be relief that she no longer has to exist in this hollow shell. She will be free. Her work here will be done - and it was beautiful work.

Yes, it will be over. The battle will be over. The sickness and deterioration will be over. The balled fists and clenched teeth of frustration will be over. But when one thing ends, another must begin. I will start anew in this world without my mom. Don't they say you are never truly grown until you lose a parent? Alas, I will arrive at the gates of true adulthood.