Give Ourselves Credit

I watched "Fame" the other day.  Not the old one, the re-make.  It's not a great movie by any stretch of the imagination, but it did start me thinking.

It's not a new topic for me to ponder.  I have always been that kid that wasn't very good at anything, so I sit and watch people that are talented with a kind of melancholy.  How does it come so easily to some people?

I was raised up in a house where everyone else seemed so brilliantly and innately talented and that didn't help my inferiority complex any.  My mother is one of those annoying creatures that's good at just about everything she tries.  She's a fantastic athlete and an amazing artist.  She could create anything out of anything: a piece of wood, or clay, some paints, sand or snow (I need to dig up a photo of her snow elephant).  My father was the more emotional of the pair and you could feel that emotion through him whenever he played the piano.  Further, he had a most extraordinary eye for photography and his singing voice was just perfect really.  Then my brother, while he wasn't athletic or particularly artistic, was the super-student and so obviously gifted in that arena it was humbling even to this kid that coasted through school with near straight-As.  His grades weren't necessarily as good as mine were, but he attended a tough private school to my no-brainer public school and he, to this day, can retain everything he ever learned.  Me?  I got to test day, regurgitated the facts and *bam* it was gone.  To this day I'm like a freakin' goldfish that way.

So, back to the movie.  I was watching these real kids - the actors, I mean - dancing and singing and acting.  They were playing instruments like pros.  Well, I guess because they ARE pros.  And I wondered ... do they know how amazing that is?

When Tim was in high school, he was involved in a robotics program.  At the end of the year, they had a party to celebrate their accomplishments.  I remember so clearly watching these happy, silly kids having a great time just doing their thing and I felt a most strange sense of bittersweet pride.  These young men and women had such talent.  From their own minds and without the use of a recipe or instructions, they created, planned and produced a remote-controlled robot that even shot baskets!  At that moment, celebrating like that, I knew they were pleased with themselves but I couldn't help thinking:  Did they know what amazing talent they had?  

Do YOU know what amazing talent YOU have?  This isn't to bash on myself and certainly isn't meant to elicit compliments, but my life is nothing about being good at anything.  I lead a life of moderation and that certainly includes being moderately talented and only at the things I really work at.  I can run for a long time if my foot will let me, but I run it slowly.  I will never be competitive there.  I can't do yoga worth a 'namaste' but I like the feeling I get when I try.  I can carry a tune and I have no stage fright whatsoever but I'm not good.  I work very, very hard to learn one piece on the piano and even then can't really play it all that well.  Shoot, I even wrote a fairly simple piece of music and I don't believe I've ever even played that flawlessly.

I cook often, but nothing other than maybe my turkey is worth calling in a food critic over.  You'd think I'd get better and better at the things I work at like that, but I just kind of stay at average.   That seems to be my peak.  Even when I was a rebellious teen running around on my bike constantly with kids that were amazing on their bikes, the best I ever got was one day when I decided to ride no-handed on a racing bike across town.  I was pretty stoked that I did it honestly, but I never flew ten feet in the air above a quarter pipe like my peers.

You guys... my friends and I'll bet the few strangers that read this ... probably are thinking "well, I'm not that good at anything either."  Certainly I don't have any movie stars in my rolodex.  The one really famous singer I knew has most unfortunately left this world.  I was once friends with a professional basketball player, but we've lost touch.  So, I suppose, I'm talking to a bunch of amateurs or, at the most, some on-the-poorer-side pros.  But whether you get paid to do it is NOT the sum of your talent. In just my small circle of friends, there is a truly talented actress and tap-dancer; piano players of the concert pianist level; geniuses and great chefs; brilliant writers and fantastic photographers.  I know athletes that never give themselves credit for their feats.  I am thrilled to own several pieces of art from a most unique and accomplished artist and I know closet artists that are as good as any that are selling their works out there.  I know guitar players and drummers, singers and song-writers that never cease to amaze me with their creativity.  I stand in awe of all of you.

Even as I was writing this, I started feeling 'that way' again.  You know the way: the old "why them, not me" thing?  But then I started thinking about some of my friends whose talent can't really be defined in the things I describe above.  When I thought of them specifically, I instantly thought of how they are brilliant business people or comedians, or how they manage to never tire of being there for others, or how they have an innate ability to inspire and hold up and encourage.  These sorts of talents are every bit as unique and admirable as any other, if not more so.  Then I began, slowly ... and truthfuly I'm not quite there yet... but I began to see that maybe I do have a bit of this alternative talent.  I'm really good at reading people.  I'm an excellent mom. I'm an above average listener (when you can get me to shut up).  I'm unusually gifted at stopping and smelling the roses and am intensely appreciative of this life we have.  So, maybe, after all these years of wishing I could sing, or dance, or act, or draw, or play sports ... maybe I can finally give myself credit for the talent I hold.

You should too. Let's give ourselves credit where credit is due and let's give others an opportunity to applause a job well done.

Free to be Me

I think most of us will agree that our teen years are some of the worst years of our lives.  Terrified not to fit in or, worse, to stand out and be ostracized, we learn to conform to the popular standards at a relatively young age.

We just want to be normal, popular people with average lives, right?

But what does that really mean?  According to Webster’s, it means we really want to be people characterized by average intelligence and development, who are generally liked and approved of and to lead lives deficient in quality.

Yup, me too.  Where do I sign up for that?

Now, most folks would probably argue that we don’t really want average lives.  We want amazing lives!  We want all our dreams to come true.  Certainly the path towards that goal involves following someone else’s standards, dressing fashionably and never speaking out for ourselves, right?  I’m pretty sure all the most successful adults conduct themselves in that manner, don’t you think?

No, actually, I don’t think so.  I live in a pretty non-sexy world so I don’t know any socialites and I'll assume they play by those rules.  Yet, I can assure you the people I do know who stand out, such as some self-made mega-millionaires I know (of which I do now know several), did not get there by following a crowd.

So as an alternative to that dull, unintelligent, unimaginative life where, albeit, we might be generally liked but not particularly self-actualized, may I suggest we say:

“I want to be a unique, outstanding person with an extraordinary life.”

Then what we are really saying is "I want to be a person without an equal, marked by eminence and distinction with a life that is exceptional to a very marked extent."

OK, I realize I just talked over the heads of my target audience.  So here, consider this:

The opposite of normal?  Exceptional, extraordinary
The opposite of popular?  Exceptional, extraordinary (yeah, it is)
The opposite of conformity?  Distinctiveness

We are so busy as teenagers trying to find ourselves apart from our parents.  It’s the time in our lives when we are supposedly rebelling.  Indeed, we would rather become ANYone other than our parents, or teachers, or those old people in our lives that try to guide us (which is code word for boss us around).  Think about how lame your parents were/are and the music they listen to (seriously?) and the way they dress (do they even check themselves in the mirror?) and could they just drop us off a block from school so no one has to see their superior lameness??? 

But in all that angst and rejection and superiority, we go right into that school wearing exactly what Emily, the head cheerleader and homecoming queen, wore last week.  (We begged Lame-O Mom for it for days until she conceded.)  We talk like “them,” we watch the same things “they” do; we listen to the same music and “like” it.  We try to become “them.”  Oh yes we do.  I did it.  I didn’t succeed, but I sure as hell tried.  And if we can’t become them, we rebel against them too by …..wait for it….. wait for it….dressing like the ‘out’ crowd that we are now ‘in’ with.  Now we talk like “them,” we watch the same things “they” do; we listen to the same music and “like” it.  We try to become this “them.”

Where’s the rebellion?  OK, and for that matter, what does that even mean?  Going again to Webster’s, “Rebel” is a person that “rises up against authority or another’s control.”  I’m no control freak – by a far measure – but I have to admit that not being under another’s control sounds very appealing.  I like the idea of controlling my own destiny and I like the idea that it will be extraordinary and I’m pretty sure that no one else is going to create that for me.  So call me a middle-aged rebel.

I’m asking teenagers to consider what they are doing and why instead of just doing it.  Take three seconds and write down your biggest dream for your life.  I don’t care if it’s “be a rock star” or “make a million dollars.”  Just write it down.  Then think about it for three more seconds.  What is it going to take to get you there?  I’m gonna’ guess that it’s not Emily the homecoming queen or even her approval.  My advice?  Live your life for you.  Do what makes you feel happiest.  And then be a real friend and encourage the kids around you to do the same – for them.

And I’m asking parents to stop programming their kids.  I know it’s hard, but find out who they are not who you wish they would be.  I know we all want our child to be loved, to be popular, to be successful, and I don’t think it’s malicious at all.  Certainly some parents actually know the code and can pave the way for their children to be the head cheerleader, or the football captain.  And that’s great.  I’m not going to argue that that doesn’t make things go more smoothly for them.  But high school is a blink and they need to be set for the rest of their lives, not lost on a journey that has no destination.  If all they've learned is how to play the game, they may have a life their neighbors admire, but they won't find the joy of scribbling outside the lines.

I don’t know a single adult that doesn’t still, to this day, whether they were uber popular or an outcast, whether they had the greatest parents or the worst… I don’t know one that doesn’t at least every once in a while hurt, that doesn’t feel lonely, that doesn’t pray for someone to just ‘get’ them.  It's why we light up around certain people, isn't it?  It's a precious friend that truly gets us and maybe even concurs on our craziest ideas.  Or not, but just loves us for having them. Around those friends we're free to be our very own "me."

Kids?  Try to believe this old person when she tells you your best move is to find what you love and follow that.  Parents?  Smoothing the way for an interim is nice, but let’s give our kids the support to be their extraordinary, unique and outstanding selves for life.

In Hindsight

My mom hired someone to transfer some home movies from 8mm (or 16mm) to DVD.  She has eight reels dated 1961-1970.  Last night, after tucking Dia into bed, we poured some wine and watched the first set that had been completed: 1961-1966. 

It was surreal in a way.  There was the house in Bethesda, the Sunbeam Alpine brand new, the St. Francis statue, Clementine and Peaches (my brother’s and my dog respectively).  My Dad’s profession as a director did not go unnoticed as I watched bits of the world we once knew unfold so beautifully.  His video often panned out to a flowering tree, a painting on the wall, a lit Christmas tree.  I saw, through adult eyes, that he really was so talented at what he did.

Dad really captured my mom's beauty, and my brother, Bruce?  Well, he was a living doll.  It’s not even fair how adorable he was.  I, on the other hand, was Jabba the Baby.  Holy God I had the fattest face ever.  My mom kept cooing over the video, “There’s my beautiful baby girl” but that was a face only a mother could love.  When I was a jealous sibling growing up I couldn’t help but notice how many more photos of Bruce there were than me.  Now I know why.

But fewer than photos of me were photos of Dad.  He was always behind the camera.  Every once in awhile, he’d set a timer and we’d get one of those family poses, but usually he was gazing down at one of us.  The few precious pictures I had of him were destroyed by an evil past boyfriend, so now I’m down to some of his baby pictures and my Mom and Dad’s wedding album.  (Speaking of.  Can we PLEASE bring back the styles from the early sixties? So amazingly flattering.  Guys?  Wear more suits.  They make you look so dapper.)

So when my dad flashed upon the screen trying to learn to ski, I was actually surprised at my reaction.  I laughed – because he had snow stuck to his bum, and there were the skinny legs I inherited and the Tam O’Shanter that he wore every winter – but I didn’t feel sad.  I expected to feel sad or at least have a “Gasp. Oh my God!” moment, but I didn’t.  I’ll admit this was Dad before I was born for the most part.  Definitely before I could remember.  But given that he never updated his outer wear and the fact that he really never changed that much, he looked like the dad I knew.  Perhaps the next few reels will invoke more of a melancholy reaction from me, but this time it was just joy.

The thing that got me was seeing my Great Aunt Brenda.  There she was, relatively young and just as beautiful as I remembered.  I honestly did quietly gasp “Aunt Brenda!” and my heart just broke.  Oh my God how I miss her.  She was everything this world has ever needed.  She had the soul of an angel and carried herself with perfect class and generosity and love for everyone.  She passed away on New Year’s Eve 1994 and, when my mom called with the news, I was devastated.  “She was so old” my mom said trying to console me.  “But Mom, to me, she was always old” was my reply.  Yet she never seemed ‘old.’

I could write a whole book about her – and perhaps that’s exactly what I should do – but that’s not the point of this post.  Seeing her on the screen, alive, walking hand-in-hand with me, I felt an overwhelming sadness.  I wasn’t a good niece.  Oh, when I was little I was great.  I was a sweet little kid.  But after my dad died I was nothing but a Grade A bitch.  I lied incessantly. I committed crimes. I disobeyed everything and everyone.  I was never sober or straight.

Fortunately, I got married at 19 and pregnant 3 short months later and found something worth sobering up for.  I straightened up that part of my life at least, but I was still an awful human.  I was so absolutely desperate for someone to love me – for everyone to love me for that matter – that I was capable of taking from others, often still lying to do so, to get what felt like love and nurturing to me.

Did I mention Aunt Brenda was generous?

She fell victim to my greed and often bestowed upon me undeserved gifts of money or things that I claimed I desperately needed.  She was wealthy, and I’m quite sure nothing she gave was even slightly unreasonable, but that’s not the point.  The point is I lied to her.  I lied to the best person I have ever known.  And she was so sweet, loving and generous that I never had to.  I could have just said “I’m struggling, my Mom is very appropriately done with me, I’m scared and lonely and I need your help.”  Or I could have just said “I need your help.”  She was that person.  She didn’t need to know why.

What absolutely kills me is that now I am NOTHING like that person she knew.  That aforementioned evil past boyfriend inadvertently taught me a bit about who I really wanted to be or moreover who I didn’t want to be.  With the inspiration from a few incredibly positive friends – some that just touched my life briefly – and the hard fact of facing my imminent death, I was guided toward what was truly important.  My dear children gave me something to aspire to be (who they thought I was) and eventually I became a pretty good Katie.  I’m not done in any way – there are loads still to improve – but how I wish she were here to know me now.   It kills me that she never lived to see me come around.

I did tell her I loved her, but never why.  She was such sheer perfection, she probably didn’t look for me to love her.  For her, it was enough that she loved me.  But I wish, wish, wish I had said why I loved her and how very much I really did – how much I still do.

I thought in watching these forgotten chapters of my life, I’d see the man I lost at 15 and remember my life with him.  Instead, I flashed forward to the woman I am at 46, looked back at the mistakes I made at 23, and saw where it all started at birth.  A lifetime is such a short thing.  Use it wisely.

But Yours is So Beautiful

Dia and I went to a birthday party recently.   It was at a park with which we were very familiar and so Dia took off for the playground equipment immediately upon landing.  I herded her in and guided her toward the host of the party and some children she knew but, while she did participate in the proper social graces, she returned quickly to the jungle gym.

I was feeling sort of concerned that she wasn’t really showing all that much interest in playing with the other girls.  I’ll admit the crew was tight-knit and very much into their own thing, but still.  At one point the other girls asked Dia to come over and play a version of house, but she didn’t think that was much fun and ended up playing in the sand with some of the younger children.

So, as I said, I was feeling concerned and kind of worried that maybe not attending preschool might cause problems for her.  One of the changes I’ve noticed since ‘last time’ I was a parent of young children and ‘this time’ is the opinion that early socialization is crucial.  Mind-boggling crucial.  I have more than one friend that keeps their child in preschool despite feeling the care provided is not in line with how they’d prefer their child be treated.  Still, they feel it’s better to leave them there than have them not get the exposure with and to other children.

Now, Dia has always been kind of different than her peers.  I suppose that we are all very unique if we are allowed to be so and perhaps that’s all that’s really different about her.  I allow it.  And, really, what’s so wrong with being your own person anyway?  Perhaps if more people were allowed to be their true self there wouldn’t be so many problems with teasing, bullying and poor sportsmanship.  But we really aren’t that society, are we?  Dia may indeed find there is a lot wrong with being different.  She may end up an outcast and very lonely.

Or anyway, I was considering that this might happen.  In about an hour I’d thought this all out and had gotten myself completely freaked out about ‘what if’ and ‘maybe’ and then…

There was a little crafts project that everyone participated in.  One of the girls just melted down over something to do with it.  I didn’t know if it was that she didn’t get the color she wanted, or something blew away in the big gusts of wind, or if it didn’t turn out right or what.   Regardless, she could not be consoled.  Her mother did try, but eventually the little girl just went over to a picnic blanket to be alone and cry.  A couple of the other girls were sent over by their mothers, but they lost interest in a few seconds.  Meanwhile Dia and I were looking over our options at the picnic table since her blood sugars were going a little low, and suddenly she just got down and went over to the child.

What I witnessed in that moment was the sweetest, most sincere, most gentle, most nurturing, most empathetic interaction I have ever had the privilege of seeing.  Dia sat gently next to her.  She carefully raised her hand and placed it lightly on her shoulder.  She spoke quietly and sweetly and truly wanted to know what was wrong.  I think she told her, though I couldn’t hear her reply.  Dia stayed with her until she’d calmed down.  And she did calm down due to Dia's kind, sweet words and gentle touch.

I was so moved.

It occurred to me, as I watched her, that anyone witnessing me witnessing that would have seen the face of unadulterated pure love.  Truthfully, I was disappointed that no one did see it.  Not one mom, not one child.  No one was paying any attention to the little girl but Dia and no one was paying any attention to Dia but me.  I suppose it gets to be my special moment, but I really feel that anyone who witnessed it would have been touched in much the way it touched my heart.

To say I’m proud of her would indicate that I had some hand in this and, other than raising her in more love than she knows what to do with, I didn’t do that.  That came from her.  All her.

You know what?  I think she’s gonna’ be OK.

And, by the way, I asked later if the little girl did tell her what was wrong.

“She wanted a yellow one” Dia said.

“What did you say to her that calmed her down like that?” I asked

“I said ‘But yours is SO beautiful.’”

Twitter

One of the side effects of being a single mom of this particular small child is the rare ability to have an uninterrupted conversation. Over the past 4.5 years, I must have started one-thousand stories that never had an end. I’ll start chatting about this or that and, after a number of interruptions, I just lose my way and either the subject gets changed or I forget what I was saying completely. Obviously, nothing all that important is ever being conveyed, but I’ve had so many topics cut short by “Mom? What would my stegosaurus say if he was the Prince of the world?” or something of the sort. Whatever it is, it’s ever so urgent to Dia. Lately I’ve been enduring attempts to stop my chatting with my personal favorite, the one-finger-over-the-mouth-with-the-left-hand/two-fingers-in-the-air-with-the-right-hand gesture lovingly taught to her by a teacher at the Y. I could go my whole life without ever seeing THAT one again….

Now, I know I could discipline or ignore her as many mothers do. I could just keep on chatting or talk over her or demand that she sit and be quiet until I’m done with my story – all things I couldn’t even begin to label as child abuse – but it’s not my style. It’s not that I’m so permissive as it is that I can’t stand noise. I’m pretty sure that there’s a mathematical equation out there that goes something like:
Dia < full attention = vocal objection > Katie’s tolerance.

With Tim and Cheyanne I could place a hand on them, or put my arm around them, and say “just a moment, sweetie, let me finish my story and then we’ll hear what you have to say” and that worked beautifully. But this is Dia. That stuff don’t play. Instead, she persists louder and louder and more and more determined.

My dilemma is twofold:
One – To be effective, I must stifle her every time she speaks when someone else is speaking. Yet she is still at the stage where several times a day she legitimately needs to announce something even if it means interrupting (unfortunately, sometimes that involves my ancient dog pooping in the house…), and because this is Dia, exceptions to the rules mean the rules are pretty much moot. That is how she rolls.
Two – If I keep chatting while she’s yelling, eventually I can’t think any more anyway and have to give her my attention if for no other reason than to get her to hush. This is not as simple as it sounds and therefore ends the conversation I’m trying to have anyway. Also (I fear) that teaches Dia just to yell longer and louder to accomplish her task. You do have to understand that her goal is not necessarily to be heard as much as it is to rule the roost.

OK – you have to understand the mind of a Dia. The other day we went for a walk and she’d kicked her shoes off and then got them back on. She was having trouble walking in them after that.
“Oh” I said “You’ve got them on the wrong feet, sweetheart.”
“Mom” she said “Why are you always telling me what to do?”
OK?

Sewwwwww – anyway – I’ve noticed that I have this tendency to just prattle on every chance I get an unobstructed audience. I feel like an in-person Twitter account. I talk too fast, dominate the conversation and have this tendency to just dump every bit of detail in my life that I can on my poor victim. And, worse, I have stopped listening. Well, I listen just long enough to get a cue for my next launch: “Oh, that reminds me!...”

I’ve become THAT person! You know the one: “Enough about you, let’s talk about me.” Ugh.

For no particular reason, I had a flashback recently to a moment where a great friend of mine said “you are the best listener I have ever known.” I think God might have implanted that sudden memory. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been a chatty Cathy since Day 1. Or anyway since I was 3 years old. Mom reports a time when my dad complained “Isn’t Kate EVER going to learn to talk?” To God’s ears, I suppose, because I really haven’t shut up much since then. Still, I knew how to listen too and I fear I have let that go.

So – dear friends – here is my written oath. I vow to be a better listener. If I really, really need to just spew out stupid stuff – well, perhaps that’s what my blog is for (!) – I’ll try to keep it to a minimum. I’m still going to be the conversation starter 90% of the time, because that’s how I roll, but I vow to let YOU talk and to truly hear you. And I promise to start right now. .... Or, maybe in a year. ....No later than 2012 I promise!
KEC