The Mythology of The South: A history that will not be erased

So, over the last couple of years, I have been thinking about racism a lot, and even more so since last November. I thought about racism before, but it never felt so much like a rabid dog standing outside our door as much as it has in the last couple of years. Frankly, I know why I thought it wasn't outside my own door--it's because I'm white. 

With the exception of my childhood history, and occasional brushes with misogyny as a woman, I have led a very comfortable life. When I've been pulled over for speeding, I've never feared for my life. No one goes to lock their door when they see me walk down the street. I worry about things my child might face, because I know rape culture is real, and I know I can't protect her at every moment. But I'm not worried that she will be mistaken for a criminal just because she's walking along the sidewalk in her own skin.

A lot of people say that we fought the war over racism over 100 years ago. Some say we fought it about 50 years ago. The reality? The war has never ended, especially in the minds of those who still feel that it wasn't slavery, but their way of life that was under attack. Sadly, slavery and their "way of life" were one in the same. If you cannot let go of one, you cannot deny the other. 

Up until the last four years, the concept of "The South" was about as real to me as any other moment in history. It was in a book, in a movie, in a documentary, at a roadside van selling cheap tapestries. And even when I first moved to Northwest Arkansas, I believed I was living in "The South Lite." 

It wasn't until a night out with my husband a little over a year ago that we actually looked at the statue in the middle of a nearby town square, as we walked through, that I realized where I live. I had never been face to stone with a statue honoring the Confederacy. 

I immediately felt "out of place." I immediately heard an inner voice saying 'Oh my god, how can I live here?' And yet, I do. The discomfort and shock I felt in that moment was real. But I still don't want to believe it. I felt these things, and I am white. 

When I say that, I'm not asking for some kind of badge or reward for caring. I am acknowledging that if I felt those things, I cannot even begin to imagine what people of color feel when they see it. 

I understand that lives were lost those many years ago, and that people loved those who were lost on both sides. But that doesn't make the motives behind both sides equivalently just. It also doesn't mean there weren't wrongs on both sides. At the same time, the reality is that if these monuments had been erected immediately following the Civil War, they may not be met with the feelings that so many have about them. 

The South lost the Civil War. They lost the state's right to continue owning other human beings. But even to this day, plenty of Southerners and sympathizers believe they were in the right. The narrative of the Southern culture and tradition has been romanticized, and reworked. Two things that haven't changed are the sincere, and passionate feelings of superiority and righteousness that allow many to shun outsiders, or those who see the cracks in the narrative, and as before--people of color. 

It's easy to fall into the Antebellum trap. Growing up, I remember watching "The North and the South" miniseries. I swooned over Patrick Swayze as Orry Main. I also watched "The Blue and the Grey." I was in love with the femininity of the fashion, the gentility of the menfolk, and the deep sense of honor portrayed in these television snapshots of the South. 

Of course, these "snapshots" didn't bring the true horrors of the era to light. But they weren't intended to. And that's one thing that these romanticized versions of the Southern reality have in common with the true Southern reality. Those who perpetuate the mythology of the honorable South never seem to embrace the truth about the horrors of slavery, and racism. They never acknowledge the dehumanization that allowed millions of people to be stolen from their homelands, bought and sold away from their families, denied the right to practice their own cultures and beliefs, beaten, tortured, raped and murdered. It seems like it's just not polite Southern culture to own these horrors as surely as the victims of this culture were "owned."

And that's what makes these statues and memorials even more problematic. In most cases, they weren't erected immediately following the Civil War. They weren't erected to memorialize the losses, or to honor the valor on the Southern side. They were erected for a more malicious purpose--one far less polite. They were erected during the Jim Crow era and the Civil Rights movement. They were erected to remind the "uppity negro" who deigned to remain in the South, of their place. And they were reaffirmation to the current and future generations of Southerners that their "way of life" had been attacked, and they had been "done wrong."

For some, the war never ended. Even for generations long beyond the original surrender, there has never been any surrender. 

Two days after last week's protests in Charlottesville, Virginia, I stood in line at a children's museum with my daughter. The man in front of us was wearing a t-shirt with a woman bending over in "Daisy Dukes" on the back. And right beside her were the words 'The South will rise again.' He was also sporting a Rebel Flag hat. Because it was a children's museum, it might go without saying, he was there with his child. This man was probably half my age. 

It's not that I don't see this kind of "image" multiple times a week, but it still confuses and troubles me. This man bothered me particularly, because I know his child sees what his father believes. And I know the families of color I saw that day probably saw him as well. 

These statues, flags, and symbols are reminders to people on both sides that for some, the war over race never truly ended. For some, the outcome was unjust. For some, the mythology of superiority lives on. It may hide under the banners of Southern heritage, pride, family values, or even godliness, but there is no hiding the truth of it. 

Many argue that taking down monuments is an attempt to "erase history." Many argue that people are too easily offended, and that the arguments for taking these monuments down are due to "political correctness." Maybe I could see why people cling to these false idols if they were what they purport to be. Maybe if their symbolism was not intended to be a method of intimidation when people of color started to demand the equality and human rights promised by our constitution, I could sympathize with wanting to hold onto their history.

But you see, when ship-loads of people were stolen from their homes, to be bought, sold, enslaved, beaten, raped, and murdered, their histories were erased, too. Their cultures, beliefs, families and homes were stolen from them. And beyond that, their very humanity was ripped from them. In many cases, the descendants of these people don't know where their ancestors came from. All they have is a continent. 

Even if every monument to the Confederacy was pulled down tomorrow, it would never equivocate to the level of erasure which happened to these human beings, for the sake of a "way of life." 

It is unfathomable to me that there should be any argument over displaying on pedestals these "monuments," which so publicly honor such a true theft and erasure of heritage and humanity. These relics of the Jim Crow era and the Civil Rights Movement are on display in public places are held so dearly, because the beliefs behind them cannot be displayed so publicly--at least not without conflict. 

Slavery and racism can never be extricated from the South or the Civil War. Removing a statue, or pulling down a flag will never erase a history so painfully and tightly woven into the fabric of both our nation and the culture of those who are descended from its victims. 

There is no danger that any of this pain or history will be wiped from our memories any time soon--regardless of the fate of a bunch of stone and metal. As long as one side of history continues to keep the wounds open, the divisions of the past will live on, and we will be doomed to perpetually fight the same battles over basic humanity that have been fought over and over again. 

"A nation divided will not stand." And the attachment to a history, heritage and way of life that dehumanizes people because of their skin color will continue to to be a source of that division. 

The parent trap: there is no net

So, I know that I've written about tough times, and the challenges that sometimes make just working through life feel like the scene with the boulder and the mining cart in "Indiana Jones: Temple of Doom." When one thing doesn't catch up with you, and roll you over, another one is close behind. 

I'm feeling a little grief at this tail end of the week. And I think I am finally able to name it, own it and talk about it. 

At the end of our daughter's first year of preschool, we found ourselves at a crossroads. Our girl was too wild in the classroom, too aggressive with materials, and was hitting teachers. Without some work, she wouldn't be able to return. It stung. It still does. 

It's not that we would ever expect someone else to tolerate behavior that we also find challenging at home, but no matter how you look at the situation, it feels like someone is telling you that you have "a bad kid." And inevitably, and especially, as a mom, you feel like you are to blame. It doesn't matter that I always try to address and correct unacceptable behaviors as they happen. It matters that I have "failed." 

And now, it really feels like failure, because in spite of weeks of play therapy, working to change the way I connect and communicate with her, and encouraging her to be everything I know she can be, my little girl will not be returning to preschool with her friends on Monday. It doesn't even matter that the decision was mutually reached, and I feel the best for her. What does matter is that I know in my heart of hearts that if I let her go back, it would only be a matter of time before we were told she couldn't come back. And I would have that failure on my heart as well.

I didn't manage to help her get back to the school that I unwittingly chose for her, while I sat in a waiting room flipping through a local magazine, just months after she was born. 

She'll be fine. I honestly don't think she cares. In fact, I know she doesn't. She just wants to run around naked, eat cookies and ice cream, and watch her TV. When it's nice out, she wants to take her naked party outside, play with the hose, and dump bottle after bottle of bubbles. When she doesn't get to do these things, she becomes an almost rabid animal, full of rage, and unable to control her hitting hands and kicking feet. 

In those moments, I both don't know who she is, and at the same time feel I might be seeing her in her purest form. It's the form that fights for what she wants. It's why people are always saying that her strong-will is going to serve her well--later. She's a fighter, even if right now what she's just fighting to remain overtired and refuse a nap. It's the form that makes me yell like I swore I never would, cry in fits of helplessness, and even question whether she would respond to a swat on the backside--something I will never do. In those moments, I know I don't know who I am, and I know that I am forgetting who I want to be. 

She's going through a phase right now--a very extended phase--in which she claims to be a puppy a fair sixty percent of the time. It makes me crazy. Our therapist suggested she may be doing it, because she hasn't been successful being "a girl." She doesn't know that for sure, but it's one of the theories she's put forth this week. 

How do I process that? How do I process that my daughter pretends she's a puppy most of the time because she  feels she has failed at being a girl? How at three years old does my daughter feel like a failure at anything? Just thinking those words breaks my heart as much as any time she has pushed us so far that either I or her daddy have unleashed the scary loud voice that immediately reduces her to sobs. And it all reduces me to tears. 

There was never a time I imagined that being a parent would be easy. There was never a time I wanted being a mother to fit into some personal fantasy box that many of us imagine while picking out layettes, and painting nurseries. I just wanted to give someone a life, and to let her become whomever she was meant to be. I just never imagined how inorganic that could feel at times, and especially with the pressure of shoehorning her into someone else's view of what a good three-year-old is. 

I know she will be fine. I know not going back to preschool on Monday will not define her. I know that if she doesn't go back in January, that won't define her either. But I am still sad she won't see her friends everyday. I am still sad that it will be easy to fall out of the community again, because school life, work life, and the rest of the world will spin on. Without her. Without us. 

And then, there is the selfish side that makes me sad. None of this defines her--even if she is a "bad kid." But that doesn't change how harshly I feel about, and judge myself. I think we all believe that we are "better than this"--whatever the situation may be. We were going to get it more right than our parents did. It doesn't matter how little I would have to do to improve on that from my own case. I was going to be the mom who had her shit together, and could hold her shit together. I'm not. 

As I beat myself up, and the random person reading thinks I am just being way too hard in myself, I also admit to feeling sad about losing the little nugget of time I had each day to remind myself that being a mother isn't everything I am. It's the time I used to help keep my head in the game--to give myself strength for all the battles. 

I wish I could say that I am prepared to dig in, and grit my teeth. Of course, prepared or not, I will do both. I just know that it's another period of my life for which I just have no other option than to toughen up. Precisely the opposite thing I ever envisioned doing as a mother. I knew I wouldn't be like my mom. I knew that I would set ground rules. I knew I would be a mother instead of a best friend to her as she grows. I just never imagined her will would be so strong, that I would at times find myself gasping for air, and wandering around in the dark. 

We will be each other's brick wall--that immovable force that we run into, headlong. And when we are bloodied, and panting in the rubble, we will be each other's soft place to land. It's just going to take some getting used to. 

Collecting Life: Living to completion

So, I have a confession to make. I am a pack rat and a collector. Sometimes, it's a problem. 

It started at an early age--probably with my collection of "The Empire Strikes Back" trading cards that I painstakingly accumulated, package by package over the course of months. I think I may be missing one or two cards. Those missing cards still haunt me, all these years later. Very recently, I became obsessed with a Wonder Woman action figure. 

When my husband and I moved for the first time in sixteen years, this "collecting" problem of mine really caused some heartache. I was working a lot, three months pregnant, sickly, and not able to participate in a lot of the packing. I am very particular about my "stuff." 

I grew up in a home with what I can only describe as a "split personality." On the one hand, my things had very little value, and could be discarded with little or no warning, and no negotiation. On the other hand, I was raised understanding that certain items were not just valuable, but could increase in value over time. Such items should be kept in their original packaging, whenever possible, or at least replaced in said packaging if the need to put them away arose. 

Over the course of the weeks that my house was being packed up around me, I was reminded that not everyone understands our personal versions of crazy. Boxes were discarded. Items were precariously wrapped. Nearly four years later, there are still things I can no longer find. Things like that used to happen to me a lot growing up. Belongings would disappear, never to be found again. Stuffed animals would be culled. Things that were precious to me were snatched away, or discarded. 

As crazy as it sounds, I believe this lack of "control," or even just input regarding my "stuff" created an attachment to "things" that isn't always healthy. These days, when I collect something, I often have a strange feeling of being incomplete if I am unable to bring everything together. I have the entire set of Twilight Barbie dolls--including the different versions of Bella and Edward. 

As I have grown, I have also grown to look at experiences in much the same way. 

Along with a lack of control over things, my childhood and teen years also translated to a lack of control over activities in which I wanted to participate, and other things I wanted to do. 

As an adult, I think I have attempted to create a sense of autonomy, and a catalog of experiences that fill the void of those years growing up that were so out of control, filled with fear, and filled with helplessness. Concerts, travel and "doing" have become another sort of collection for me. 

In my case, childhood often wasn't a happy time, but there were, of course, bright spots. I was fortunate enough to have a cousin growing up who has become a lifelong best friend. We've faced ups and downs over the years, and there have been periods during which life placed distance between us. Most of my favorite memories about growing up revolve around things she and I did together. 

This many years later, I think of 4th of July family gatherings, the small town fall festival we went to each year, Halloween themed birthday parties, and music--always music. When I look back on these happy times, I think of what I want to give my daughter. These were the times that kept me afloat, and allowed me to believe that abuse and fear didn't have to be the definition of my existence. These were the moments that kept me alive when I questioned whether I could keep going or not. 

I think we all have experiences like those, that we want to share with our kids. But I would argue that if you didn't have very many, the ones that were special take on even greater importance. Even events that seem silly to us as adults are part of our "collection" of experiences and memories that we are reluctant to let go of. If we don't honor or share them appropriately, we fear that we will perpetuate feelings of incompletion for ourselves, and our children. 

I don't want to be rigid about her "stuff." I know there are plenty of things she has, but cares nothing about. But as she starts to develop attachments to certain things, I am going to have the respect for her that I never received. The goal not being to reinforce the value of "things," but the value of her, and what she loves in her life. I want to give her experiences I never had. I want to encourage her loves and her passions. 

I don't want her to grow up with feelings that her things were always taken away, or that she never got to explore activities and adventures that fulfilled her imagination. 

Ultimately, if she "collects," I want it to be from place of joy, and not a place of possible regret or threat. 

I will make mistakes along the way. And I will make decisions based on my own emotional baggage. I will do things for and with her that she won't care about, because of the empty spaces in my life that I sometimes still try to fill and "fix." No matter how much I learn, in the heat of the moment, I will forget that some things just won't ever be "fixed," or "okay," and they don't have to be for me to be complete, or for my child to be complete. 

My hope is that I will be able to see those moments for what they are, and not fall into a place of living vicariously through my child, and pushing her into a different set of baggage that feels just as bad as all of the suitcases I continue to unpack for myself. 

Starting over is not failing: the battle of the bulge

So, there are times in life when it feels like you fight the same battles over and over. For one reason, or another, you keep finding yourself at square one. You start to question the point of starting over, time after time. 

I could list any number of battles that I have started, lost, and begun again. The most obvious is always my fitness battle. 

From as early as I can remember, my mom was always dieting or trying to find the magic bullet for weight loss. She popped pills, bought devices, joined gyms, and convinced herself that smoking to curb her appetite was the lesser of two evils.

I also remember that from an early age, I worried about my weight, and always hated how thick and heavy my legs and thighs looked. I was already starting to feel uncomfortable in shorts as early as sixth grade. In junior high, I dreaded gym class--especially after our fitness evaluation when I was declared 15 pounds over my ideal body weight. At that point, I weighed in at a hefty 115 pounds.

At age 45, I would still give just about anything to weigh 115 pounds--or even 125! 

I hung steady with my weight for most of my teen years, but depression and problems at home led me way beyond the freshman fifteen during my first year in college. By the time my lackluster grades were in for the spring semester, I was a good forty pounds heavier. 

It was time to take aggressive action. During the year I was forced to sit out of college, I did aerobics with Denise Austin for about two hours a day, and ate just enough to get by. I lost the weight, but I wouldn't say I did it in a healthy way, and I didn't enjoy it. 

This time, I kept the weight monster at bay for about three years. I went back to school, and the busy-ness of college life helped me maintain. But once again, a gym class reared its ugly head and defined me as overweight based on a caliper test. At the time, I was running almost everyday, and taking ballet and dance several times a week. I wasn't anything but inactive. And still, I couldn't defeat the weight monster. 

About two years after college graduation, I found myself staring at the waistline of a white dress, and a scale that told me I had bounced backwards another 20 or so pounds. Time to do battle again. 

I never quite won that time. And there have been plenty of other forays into this battle besides. Looking back, I would say that I have never actually won. 

I know I'm not alone. I know I'm not the only person who has looked in the mirror, and felt less because I weigh more. I know that I am not the only one who has pointed my toes while holding my leg up in the air and imagined that my thighs could truly be the size they appear in "aerial view." I know that I am not the only one who grew up being warned about my weight, while being served soda and fried foods. 

And I know that I am not the only one who starts battling, then somehow backslides every time. I know I'm not the only one who wonders how it's worth it to keep starting over. 

I don't know the answer for everyone. I do, however, believe that as with anything in life, you can never win if you don't keep fighting. There is no goal you can accomplish if you don't fight for it. And that is true of everything in life, not just weight loss and management. 

I'm smarter, wiser and stronger than I used to be. I recognize the harm in defining ourselves by the shape of our bodies. I recognize the harm it does to ourselves, and our children. I recognize the powerful message we send to our kids that this failure somehow makes us universal failures. 

I would never want my daughter to look at herself and think the things I thought as a young girl. There was never any adult who encouraged me to believe that I could be or do anything. There was never any adult who tried to counter the negative messages I had received about body image and health. I pay for those deficits every day. The idea of body image and weight as a defining trait was so deeply instilled in me, that I have to be very conscious about the way I speak about myself in my home. I have tried to outlaw the word fat when discussing anything but trimming meat. I have tried to redirect comments about my daughter's appearance, and reinforce her strength, her health and her exuberance. 

For myself, I keep fighting the fight, because if I don't, I am not just giving up on the battle to lose weight and be healthy, I am giving up on myself, and worse, my family. I know being overweight is unhealthy. I know that it can decrease my lifespan, and also impact my quality of life. 

I keep trying, because if I don't, I worry that I am accepting defeat, and I have fought through and survived too many things to accept defeat--even when I feel my lowest. 

There is no shame in starting over a dozen times. Or a hundred. Or a thousand. There is no shame in recognizing that some battles are harder than others, and we need help to fight them. Starting over just means not giving up. 

It's not about a caliper test or a gym class assessment. It's not about a white dress or a pair of jeans in the closet. It's not about how big or little the effort. It's about valuing your life and who you want to be over winning the first time. 

We can be heroes: Lassoing the truth of our scars

So, not unlike a lot of women, I find myself smitten this summer. I am smitten with a comic book hero. I am quietly crushing on Wonder Woman. I even covet one of the really fancy action figures with the deeply jewel-toned armor just like Gal Gadot sports in the movie. 

How can a comic book hero capture the heart of a middle-aged woman? I think it might be scar-tissue. 

Attention to detail is at least part of what makes the Wonder Woman back story so appealing. She is an Amazon--part of an all female warrior race. And warriors are survivors. In Patty Jenkins' film version of the Wonder Woman origin story, one of the details viewers cannot help but notice is that the Amazon warriors have scars. The scars make them no less beautiful, and they are anything but a sign of weakness. 

These scarred women have fought battles, and they have survived. They have survived deep wounds. They have suffered. They have become even stronger and more determined because of their battles. At the same time, they have become protective and guarded. Through the battles they have fought, they have learned to be wary of letting anyone in from the outside.

We don't all have the advantage of being a demigoddess, with super human powers, or the advantage of being trained by Amazonian warriors to do battle. And not all of us have visible scars. That doesn't mean we aren't survivors, and it doesn't mean we aren't warriors. 

I'm sure it's only natural for those of us who have sustained significant and wounds and scars to be drawn to each other. We probably share many coping skills, and we interact with people in similar ways. Even so, I often wonder if somehow, we are drawn into friendships with each other because we can somehow sense the scars that other people don't see. 

Life can leave some pretty significant "marks." Whether they come from being a child of divorce, abuse, or estrangement, or the victim of sexual assault or other violence, many of us have to find ways to battle demons both head on, and when we don't always expect it. 

Some of the coping mechanisms we develop are healthy. Others are not. Sometimes, we are surprised by triggers that we feel shouldn't so easily catch us off guard, so many years down the road. We form relationships and friendships based on what feels familiar and safe. And sometimes, without looking, we find each other and remind each other that we are not alone with our scars. 

With just a few words or even mannerisms, we unwittingly reveal our shared battles, wounds and scars. We become like old soldiers, reuniting over drinks at a fireside. We trade stories of which wounds still give us trouble. We talk about random events that trigger the memories we can't ever bury deeply enough. 

Many times, I believe we're not even really trying to hide our scars from other people so much as we might be trying to hide them from ourselves. I know that for myself, I don't mind if people discover my scars, I just mind the feeling of burdening them with what I perceive as the weakness of still treating old wounds. 

At the end of the day, I am sure that there are more of us with scars--the symbols of survival and doing battle--than we imagine. I welcome my fellow warriors with open arms, but also with sorrow. The sorrow comes from knowing that in spite of time, distance, and whatever salves we find to treat our wounds, some never truly heal, and  some battles roll on forever, touching everyone and everything we love in some way. 

Ultimately, my fellow warriors, know that my scarred soul somehow sees yours, even before we speak the words, and trade our secrets and stories. And remember, we only become super heroes when people find out what battles we have won, not simply because of our power. 

Am I "Futting" it Up?: The secret despair of momming

So, there are days when beyond any reasonable shadow of a doubt, I know I am the worst mom who ever walked the face of the Earth. These are the days that I need no professional to evaluate all of the areas in which my parenting skills are lacking, and miserably failing. They are the days that I feel so sad, so angry, and so plowed under by even the simplest of things.

A request for the stupid YouTube video of people opening surprise eggs can send me through the roof. A request for the sugary fruit snacks I never should have let her have in the first place can chill me to the bone. Her complete lack of interest in potty training, even after we picked out special stickers and made Frozen potty charts fuels all of my feelings of inadequacy. The meeting with her teacher in which we learn my strong-willed little girl is so impulsive and difficult that she may not be welcomed back, sits in the pit of my stomach like a giant rock. The afternoon tantrums that ensue whether I try to get her to nap or not, leave me feeling like I can never actually win, and I have probably already messed up everything.

There are probably a few people ready to pull out the "I told you it wasn't easy" card. Here's the thing--I knew it wasn't going to be easy. I just didn't know which things would be so hard. I thought the "big stuff" would be the hardest. What's even crazier is that I am having to learn a whole new way of defining what the "big things" actually are. 

Who knew you could get up first thing in the morning, and offer to take your kid to a playground, and they would immediately melt down because today they want to stay inside and watch the television you never should have allowed in the first place? Who would have thought that one day she would climb the stairs to the big slide, nearly giving you a heart attack as you watched in quiet awe, and on another day she would refuse to climb even to the medium slide while playing with her precocious best friend? How can it be that you pick up your child at school and she tells you how great it is and how much she loves it, and hours later you learn she struck one of her teachers? 

There are days when nothing make sense, and very little seems to go right. I can't keep her from climbing and jumping all over the furniture, and she refuses to keep her clothes on. She gets angry about something she wants to do, and laughs while she kicks and hits at me. 

There are days I wonder if I am the only one fighting not to lose my shit. And there are days when I sit alone in the universe and ask myself if the expectations I have are really even mine, or the expectations that other people have. Should a three-year-old be cooperative and pliable? Or should she challenge me at every single turn? Would I be as upset with her if I wasn't worried she is "failing" in someone else's eyes? 

I don't know the answers. And even if I did, it would not necessarily make the job or my days easier. I say this, because I know that sometimes, even when you do know things, life isn't any easier. 

Am I a bad mom, with a bad kid? Or am I just a mom who's going through a rough patch--again? Sometimes, I imagine that everyone is a bad mom, with a bad kid, going through a rough patch from time to time. And it doesn't matter how many people tell you they know you're doing the best you can, and that your kid is actually pretty normal. 

In the quicksand of getting through, you tend to look at everything through a set of muddied lenses. You let all of the judgment, evaluation, and guidance feed your own feelings of doubt, uncertainty, and inadequacy. You try to control the uncontrollable, and you forget who you are, who you want to be, and who you want your child to be--which is quite simply, herself. 

Am I trying to control and fix things that are okay? Is all of this analysis just making everything harder for everyone? 

I don't know. Today, I don't know anything. And tomorrow? That's a hundred steps too far to even guess. 

Momming: Hard really doesn't cover it

So, in general, I don't make a habit of dropping a bunch of expletives in my normal day. And frankly, now that I'm a mom, in the moments that life inspires me to swear, I usually just mouth the words, or mutter under my breath--even when I'm alone.

But the thing about it is, is that parenting is really fucking hard. There's just no way to clean it up. There's no way to make it something all sweet, and pastel colored, with a fabulous bow. At times, it's just a giant sack of extremely smelly shit.

It's such a sack of shit at times, that it completely derails everything else in your life. It thwarts romance with your partner. It dooms your fiftieth attempt at quitting soda--never mind your weight loss goals. It drains your creative energy. It interferes with your social and political activism. It undermines your housekeeping chart. It endlessly fills your dirty laundry basket. And it leaves you permanently disoriented and exhausted.

 When you consider the possibility of bringing a brand new human into the world, your biggest concerns are keeping them alive as they "incubate," and then keeping them alive again for that first year after they arrive. As it turns out, keeping them alive might actually be the easy part. By the time year two rolls around, the ballgame changes substantially.

I knew there would be hard moments--even hard days, weeks and months. I just don't think I ever considered that there would be hard times without a clearly defined time period.

 Just about a year ago, we decided that we should start looking for the right preschool. We had no intentions of enrolling anywhere until this fall. A couple of school tours, a fair amount of mommy frustration, and an opening at our dream facility later, and our original plan was hijacked. Our terrible two-year-old would be starting her first year of preschool just a couple of months later. Mommy would be getting a little bit of a daily break.

 We expected an adjustment phase. We expected tears. We expected tough moments. We didn't expect all of the behavior issues. We didn't expect to feel like we were losing a battle we had just begun. We didn't expect to feel like we were in trouble.

 We wondered if we had started her in preschool too early. We wondered if we had started too late. We wondered if we had picked the wrong one. We wondered if we were taking everything too seriously. Then we wondered if we weren't being serious enough.

 Month after month, I picked her up at the end of her days, and I signed the incident reports: throwing her work, screaming, running in class, not listening, spitting (i.e. blowing raspberries in the air). We talked to her teacher about strategies. I read books. I shared articles with her daddy.

We had brief periods of calm, that became longer periods of stormy uncertainty. When we occasionally found ourselves at her pediatrician's office for whatever new illness she had picked up at school, I would ask if anything that was happening was out of the ordinary, and I would be assured that she was pretty normal.

 Most days are just a maddening combination of defiance and attention seeking. But in the weeks since turning three, our challenging little girl has managed to up the ante. Hitting adults at school and at home, and wild displays of lost self-control are frequent occurrences. Telling beloved family members to go away, and that she doesn't like them are a new means of self-expression.

 One of the many reasons I had struggled with the idea of becoming a parent is because I was parented so poorly. And on a day to day basis, my life struggles revolve around a childhood from which I will always be recovering. I worried that my own baggage and handicaps would make me just as bad at parenting, even if in different ways.

 I never pictured myself yelling and screaming at my child out of desperate frustration, at times feeling certain the person before me is unable to hear any of the words coming out of my mouth. It never occurred to me that someone I love so dearly could drive me to lose my collective shit so quickly.

I had thought that keeping her alive was going to be the tough part. I had no idea that, at times, just maintaining my own sanity was going to be even tougher.

 Since the early days, I have often found myself feeling as though I have been swept away by a tide. One moment, I have my head above water. The next moment, a giant wave comes along to swallow me, and I am paddling furiously to avoid drowning.

 I know that nobody really knows what they are doing, and that everyone just does as well as they can. And I know that even with these challenges that we are so incredibly fortunate.

 She's healthy. I think she is generally happy. We have what seems to be a good partnership with her school, and are on the way to developing more partnerships to tackle this tough time as well. We have a good foundation, and good tools to build an amazing person. I'm trying to learn that when people say she is "strong-willed" that's not necessarily a bad thing. But as much as everyone tells you it's not easy, you never imagine all of the ways in which it can be so hard.

 I know that it's all worth it. We wanted her, and love her more than anything. At times, it can be so easy to forget. When every task, conversation, or activity is a battle, you forget the happy times. You forget when they ask to snuggle. You forget when they dance to crazy karaoke at the farmers market. You forget when they make up songs about playing ball. You forget when they sing "dormez moo" (a.k.a. Frere Jacque) to calm you down when they've just made you crazy. You forget that when you're part of a new family, that everyone is growing and learning, and failing, and succeeding.

But if you're lucky, you all survive, and you all know that you love each other enough to fight all of the battles, and that those battles aren't really with each other, but for each other.

 At least I hope so.