Help! My Daughter’s In A Friendship Triangle

Before my daughter started school, I prayed (literally, said prayers) that she would find her way socially with ease and joy.  “Please let her be like her father– easy-going, adaptable, friendly, confident.”  When I got really desperate, I begged God to spare her the dark sides of my personality and keep her from being too insecure, desperate, dramatic, histrionic, low self-esteemy.

I was pleased when my prayers were answered and she seemed to be “in the flow” socially and found a great group of friends.  Actually, she found two best friends, darling little girls who share her abiding love of coloring and exercising executive leadership skills. 

Two.  There’s two of them.  And you know what that means, right?

My daughter’s in a friendship triangle.  Kindergarteners, ya’ll.   Already I’m having to navigate my daughter (and myself) through the gauntlet of a threesome.  Someone’s always left out.  When it’s my kid, we spend the ride home talking about how unfair it is that she’s stuck with me while her two other friends are together, having great adventures WITHOUT MY DAUGHTER.  When my kid is on the upside of the friendship seesaw, I breath a tenuous sigh of relief.  Because it’s only a matter of time before she’s crying again.  Left out again.

Friendship’s hard, ya’ll.

It’s been massively triggering.  It brings up every relic of my own friendship triangles, a configuration I carried into my 30’s.  It’s been an opportunity to look back at my own past, relive some hurts and ultimately heal.  I like to think that revisiting my own friendship struggles will help my daughter work through her own feelings.  I found that engraved into my cells is the exhausting experience of trying to keep up with two other friends.  Trying to be sure I’m still “in.”  Scrambling, chasing, clawing at every opportunity to keep a toehold in the relationship.

I don’t want this for either of my kids.  I realize there is no way to spare them their own experiences, but God, I sure want to.  How much is it going to suck when one day she comes home with a heartbreak over a friendship’s end?  It’s going to happen.  Even when it’s for the best, it hurts in a way that’s as deep as death and as immediate as a broken bone.

But then again, it’s the failed friendships that taught me what I most value in friends: humor, emotional availability, loyalty, honesty.

When the day comes that either of my kids arrives at the Heartbreak Hotel– Friendship Edition, I’m going to hand them this book.  It’s written by women who survived and thrived through the vicissitudes of relationships with friends.  These authors survived and so will my kids.

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Order the book: My Other Ex: Women’s True Stories of Losing and Leaving Friends by clicking here.

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Sick of Hearing Myself Say “No Thanks, I’m Fine”

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By 9:10 AM I’d already turned down an offer for water, one for breakfast, one for an extra napkin and one for company on my five-block walk to work.  Pretty curious behavior for someone who purportedly wants capital M more out of life.

If I can’t even accept a fistful of napkins from a friend, how exactly do I expect to take in the big ticket items? (An agent, a publisher, a pension, a Disney vacation)

I watched myself systematically and reflexively say “no, no, I’m fine” repeatedly yesterday.  It was the same “no” that keeps me from accepting hot tea from the lady who trims my hair or my neighbor’s offer to watch the kids while I make dinner when Jeff’s out of town.  It’s my knee-jerk, my go-to, my happy place.  This “no” broadcasts to the world my essential and subconscious mission statement: I’m not a person who can take in unbidden offers of kindness, help or pleasure; I’ve got everything taken care of thankyouverymuch.

But here’s the deal.  I actually was thirsty that day when Anna was cutting my hair, but I couldn’t take her up on the offer for hot tea.  And when my friend offered to buy me a yogurt parfait for breakfast? I was fucking starving– I’d just been to spin class.  But I thought, no, I have a Clif bar in my purse so … so … I’ll just say no and watch her eat.  When my neighbor offered to watch the kids so I could put my cauliflower concoction in the oven, it would have been so much better to say yes.  Had I said yes, the kids and I would have had dinner before 7:30 PM, before the epic meltdowns, before the power struggles over who has to wear a pull-up to bed, before I resorted to sneak-eating ice cream in the downstairs bathroom.

It would have been so much better to say yes.

I gave “yes” a spin today.  I let someone hold the gym door open for me while I swiveled my double BOB stroller through it.  I’ve done that move 50 times and never accepted help.  It took three seconds out of this guy’s life to help me out.  I said yes.  I didn’t die.  I simply got through the door without trying to half-heave the stroller and 85 lbs of my own flesh & blood through a three-foot opening.

After that, I decided I’d accept any offers to receive for the next two hours.  Lucky for this old creature of habit, none were lobbed my way.  But, I’m putting “yes” on notice: I’m coming to get you.  I’m coming to grab you with my own sticky paws.  I’m going to hold you up to the light and examine you from every single angle.  In a few months, I’m going to be all Yes! to napkins! Yes! to babysitting! Yes! to free scalding hot beverages!

Yes! to help and pleasure and kindness and attention.

Because the price of “no thanks, I’m fine” is too high to ignore.

This entry was posted on September 17, 2014. 29 Comments

On Setting a Ceiling and a Personal Record (“PR”)

I’m fond of posing rhetorical questions to myself.  Lately, my favorite: Who put this ceiling up?  By ceiling, I mean limitations, and I’ve got an answer to my question.

 

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On August 11, 2005, I ran a 5K race really fucking fast.  Blazing speed, huffing lungs, endorphin rush– the whole damn deal.  The race was a charity event for Chicago Volunteer Legal Services and because we lawyers are fucking hilarious it was called “Race Judicata.” FN 1.  On the way home from the race, my boyfriend summer fling broke up with me with the piercing line: “You’re not The One.”

I took it exactly as you’d expect.  I hurled my favorite Tag fruit bowl on the floor and cabbed it to my best friend’s house where I slept cried on her guest bed all night long.  The next morning at work I kept my door shut and informed my secretary that I was not accepting visitors.  I was busy waiting for my therapist to call me and tell me it would be okay.

In my grief, I checked my official time for the race. 24:44 (7:57 minutes per mile), a PR.

My time was a small consolation for the heartache.  “At least I ran faster than I ever had before.”

It was fun to set a PR.  I was 32– single (suddenly), childless and fast.  I was sure I’d never beat that time.  How could I possibly?

Every year I would see the sign-up sheets for the annual Race Judicata, and I’d sneer.  As much as I loved my PR, I didn’t like the memory of my post-race dump.  I swore I’d never run that blasted race again.

And while I am a woman of high integrity who keeps her word 99% of the time, I retracted here.  When folks from my office organized a group to run this year’s race, I relented.  After all, my story had a happy ending– I met and married someone exceedingly better for me than Race Dumper, and we have two beautiful children.  I was done with the ghosts of Race Judicata past.

“Sign me up,” I cried, fist to the air.

It wasn’t in my plan to set a PR.  Impossible.  For God’s sake, I’m 41, I’ve got a 10-inch scar on my lower abdomen from my children’s births, and breasts that are still nursing.  The last thing I need is a PR.

Maybe it was the perfectly ripe banana I ate right before the race.  Or the Amy’s enchiladas frozen entrée I ate for lunch.  Maybe it was the breeze off the Lake that evening or the fact that I wanted to go home and eat dinner with my family.  I don’t know, but I did it: I PR’ed the goddamned Race Judicata, clocking in at 24:37.  Not by much, obviously.  Though, I’d argue that 7 seconds is significant in a wide range of important contexts.

Like this one.

This one where I said over and over (to myself), “Your PR days are over.  You’re middle-aged.  Your’re a mother.  You’re probably closer to an artificial hip than a PR.”

Folks, none of that was true.  None of the bullshitty, limiting things I said to myself about this 5K race were accurate.  My C-section scars and my unevenly shaped breasts didn’t keep me from besting my 32-year-old self’s best time.

Absolutely nothing physical keeps me from reaching any finish line I choose.  It’s the thoughts, each one a brick creating a ceiling above my head that requires me to crouch and stoop and, more importantly, hides the limitless sky from view.

So, who put up the ceiling?

I did.

FN1: Race judicata is a play on words.  It refers to the legal principle “res judicata,” which shares its pronunciation with “race judicata” and is Latin for “a matter already judged.”   In both civil law and common law legal systems, a case in which there has been a final judgment and is no longer subject to appeal; and the legal doctrine bars (or precludes) continued litigation of a case on same issues between the same parties. In this latter usage, the term is synonymous with “preclusion”.  In the case of res judicata, the matter cannot be raised again, either in the same court or in a different court. A court will use res judicata to deny reconsideration of a matter.

See how hilarious the law is?

WAKE UP! You’ve got to go get the kids and file your expense report!  Get Going!

The Ice Bucket Challenge Meets Body Image Issues

 

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I made the mistake of showing my kids a few of the ice bucket challenges on my Facebook page.  Next thing  I knew, the kids were spending hours in the bathtub pouring water on themselves.  With their clothes on.  Actually, Sadie talked Simon into standing in the tub and while she poured water on him.  When he said it was his turn to pour the water, she said, “Nah, I don’t really want to get wet.”  Then, she poured more water on Simon.

Ad infinitum.

Eventually, I got tagged.  We took the party outside and filled a bucket full of ice and water. (Sorry, Africa, I’m an asshole.)  Sadie put on her raincoat and boots and asked a neighbor to help lift the bucket.  Jeff had me practice my spiel about ALS in a dry run. (Ha! Get it?)

Then, show time!

The ice, it was so cold. My daughter, her laugh was so bubbly. The neighbors, they so gamely joined us.

All good, right? We raised the money.  We went out of our comfort zone. We taught the kids about why raising money and awareness for causes is a valuable use of our time.

Then, I watched the video.

Like a giant eraser smudging out all the joy, all I could see was my stomach.  I zeroed in on my muffin top like a shipwrecked sailer spotting land.  I could no longer hear my daughter’s infectious giggles or remember the thrill of having my breath taken away by the deluge of cold water on my head.  Suddenly, this was no longer about anything except for a strip of my body between my breasts and my hips.

F*ck you, body image issues.

Seriously.  I’ve got them and hate them.  And I’m 41 years old.  I’m supposed to be too busy, too feminist and too enlightened to do this. To fall into an obsession about how my body got this way, what I should do about it, and why didn’t anyone tell me things had gotten so … so … muffiny?

I want to get back to the joy of the afternoon.  I want to crawl back on my hands and knees across the hot pavement of shame and be in that space of time before I saw myself and formed a judgment.

In the 18 hours since Jeff showed me the video, I’ve vacillated between two poles.

Pole one: I wish I had done the challenge standing up, not slumped in a stadium fold-up chair, so my stomach wouldn’t be so smooshed.  I wish that I had just let my kids do the challenge and stayed out of the picture.  I wish that all the desserts I’ve eaten in the past four years had been eaten by someone else.  These wishes roll up into the meta-wish that the circumstances (my body) were different, or at least looked different.

Pole two: I wish I could just accept my 41-year-old body just as it is.  It’s the same body that can run 8-minute miles for six miles.  It’s the same body that housed two small children for nine months.  I wish that when I saw the video I zeroed in on the love between me and Sadie or the look on Jeff’s face when it was his turn.  These wishes roll up into a meta-wish that I didn’t need anything to be different for me to feel okay.

Whether I like it or not, I have a touch of body dysmorphia.  I don’t really know what I look like.  When I was 110 pounds, I remember crying to someone about feeling fat.  She looked at me like I was crazy.  Because I was.  Still, it felt pretty real.  Then and now.

So until this passes, I pray to be too busy parenting or writing or doing my job to spend too much time thinking about me and that strip of my body.   Everytime I look down and see it, I smile and say, “Hi.”  I’ve no idea why I am doing that, except it sounds so much more pleasant then, “Who let you in here? Get the f*ck out!”

I call that making peace until I can reach Pole two.

 

When We Bury Our Mothers

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And so it begins. 

We book our last-minute flights that leave at ungodly hours that require transfers through Atlanta and Detroit on the way to Texas.  We return to the churches where we last stood in matching bridesmaid dresses, clutching multi-colored bouquets and smiling with our arms around each other.  Back then, we were exhausted from staying up too late after the rehearsal dinner—and the lives we returned to after the wedding were the uncomplicated (though we didn’t know it then) lives of single, childless women at the beginning of their careers.  We had car payments, transitional boyfriends, portions of our graduate degrees, and fabulous highlights.  We didn’t have smart phones or birth plans or mini-vans.

We return now full of sorrow, having slammed against the awful reality we vaguely knew was waiting for us in the far away One Day. 

We return to bury one of our mothers.

I’m grateful that my own mother is alive and well, recovering from jetlag from a well-deserved summer trip.  My father is well too, having survived his first ever trip to Europe as a septuagenarian.  I’m proud as hell of them for saying yes to the invitation to travel to Spain—for scouring Dallas for the best (but still cute) walking shoes and greeting a new experience with an open-wide yes-ness that took them thousands of miles from their comfort zones, which typically include rounds of iced tea at Corner Bakery and breakfast at a local diner with friends. 

They are tired, but alive, still hurtling through new, pleasurable experiences.  I’ll see them in October, and we’ll let my daughter boss us all around, most likely marching us straight to the American Girl Doll store.  We’ll eat too much dessert, they’ll spoil my kids rotten with adorable (Southern) clothes and Legos, and we’ll sock away new memories.

But not all my friends can say that.  Some of them have been unable to for years.  As I sit here on a plane to Texas where I’m headed to help a dear friend say goodbye to her mother, smooshed between a hygienically-challenged French citizen and a sweet old lady with a gigantic eye mask, I think, “Oh my God, it has begun.”

The new era that’s actually been underway for a few years.  Plenty of my friends’ parents have had health scares, close calls, bad doctors’ visits, scan revealing ominous spots on vital organs.  It’s always gut-wrenching to watch someone grapple with a sick parent.  It’s awful to be the one with a sick parent.

Today is the first day I will bear witness, as an adult and as a mother, to a friend’s final goodbye to her mother.  When my own mother’s mother died, I remember the women from my mother’s sorority and grammar school who showed up.  One sweet, tearful woman (Helen?)  surprised my mom by showing up at the funeral.  When they embraced, Helen kept saying, “Oh, Erin, I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”

I thought that sounded so strange.  It wasn’t like my mom was doing some once-in-a-life-time trick, like jumping from a high diving board into a little bucket.  Helen’s words made what was happening at that cemetery in Baton Rouge sound so exciting. So not-to-be-missed.  A circus trick.  A stunt.  A show-for-the-ages.

But here’s what I know now.  The daughter who buries a beloved mother is jumping from a high diving board into a little bucket.  In that bucket is a new world where the daughter no longer has a mother.  She now has a grieving father to support and a new identity as a woman whose mother no longer walks the Earth.  Eventually, she’ll have closets to clean out, clothes to donate, insurance forms to file, and Christmases and grandparents’ days to get through without her mother.  

Seems like jumping from a high dive into a little bucket is fitting metaphor after all.

In my back-and-forth text exchanges with my friend about the funeral arrangements and travel plans, she thanked me profusely for coming.  I typed out “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”  Then I erased it.  It still sounded so strange.  Too happy.  Too celebratory. Too jaunty.

Then, I typed it again.

Because it’s true.  I wouldn’t miss the chance to bear witness to her crossing over to her life.  The one without her mother.

Because it has begun.

 

 

This entry was posted on August 16, 2014. 22 Comments

What’s So Wrong With Selfishness?

 

Like anyone else active on social media the past two days, I’ve been inundated by coverage of Robin Williams’ death.  It’s my own fault, of course.  I keep scrolling through Facebook, clicking here and there, and absorbing heated emotions from virtual strangers.

In the debate about whether suicide is or is not a selfish act, I’ve seen particularly nuclear reactions.  More than half my feed is incensed at some conservative media personality whose incendiary rant about the inherent selfishness of suicide sent people into the stratosphere.

Here’s my question: What’s so wrong with selfishness?  Why are defenders of “depression is an illness” working so hard to untangle suicide from selfishness?  I believe that depression is an illness.  I also believe that addiction is an illness.  I happen to call it a disease.  I’m fully on Team Disease/Illness.  Selfishness– it’s not pedophilia or murderous rage or sociopathy.  It’s a shrunken worldview that’s focused mainly on the self.  Is that so horrible?

Because here’s the thing.  Addiction is a disease that makes you selfish.  Addicts in recovery agree on this– the whole point of the Twelve Steps of recovery is to move addicts out of selfishness and self-seeking into a world of happy usefulness.  So why do we need to rescue addicts from the truth of their condition: addiction makes you selfish.  Trudging the road to happy destiny means letting go of myopic self-will and joining the world of the living.

When I was 19 years old I was a raging bulimic.  All I thought about was food– how to get it, where to get it, where to throw it up and then how to get more once I did.  All through my English class discussion of Beloved, I was thinking about the granola I was going to eat and throw up.  On a date with a lovely Sigma Chi fellow, I couldn’t keep my brain from endlessly turning over what I would binge on when he dropped me off at my dorm (popcorn or pretzels or pizza?).  My sister came to visit at college, and I spent the whole time trying to sneak into the bathroom and purge our meals.  My roommate organized a banquet, but I bailed because I was too deep in my disease/addiction.

Was I selfish? Yes, of course. God, there’s nothing more selfish that blotting out everything in the world so that I could finally and at last be all alone with my beloved, comforting, and ultimately lethal food stash.  Nothing mattered at all.  My heart was suffocating from all the bingeing and purging.  I could no more feel or offer love than crawl to Mars.  My whole world was about me and my drug of choice (food).

Was I sick? Yes.  Oh so sick.  It was over twenty years ago, and I still marvel at how sick I was.  I was definitely depressed, but that was impossible to separate from my potentially fatal behavior around food.

In recovery, I’ve come to understand what my disease will do to me.  I’m promised that if it goes unchecked– my wild bulimic impulses– I will end up either dead or institutionalized.  Would that be selfish?  To throw away all my blessings– my husband, my two kids, my healthy body, my agile brain, my creative impulses, my friendships? Sure.  Would I be powerless over that?  Yes.  That’s the tricky thing….I’d be powerless and it would be selfish and tragic and painful and galling and shocking.  A sad, sad, shame.  If my addiction one day grips me and pulls me back and returns me to the state I was in when I was 19 years old, then the people around me would have every right to be angry and call me selfish.  They’d be right.   I’d never take away from them their perceptions of me in my disease– selfish, emotionally unavailable, shut down, sick.

That’s the thing about addiction: It takes every human impulse and perverts it.  It’s a bomb going off, sending shrapnel flying in every direction.  It unleashes an otherworldly amounts of pain and emotion.  Addicts are selfish, sure.  Of course.  But they are sick and suffering with a fatal disease.  And sometimes the disease wins.

Maybe that’s the difference.  In the case of Mr. Williams, I see him as having died from addiction, not from depression.   I don’t condemn him for being selfish, but I won’t rescue any addict from the truth of the disease.  When encountering addicts in the throes of their addiction, however, I hope my first response is detaching with love from their self-destructiveness.  In that space, I hope I find compassion, loads and loads of compassion.  For them and for myself.

 

No One Told Me Their Wrestling Would Be So … Wrestle-y

There’s a half-moon-shaped bruise on my right calf.  Looks like a four-inch sickle.  I earned it when Sadie’s head slammed into my leg.  At the time I was peacefully reclining on the floor, waiting for her to join me for a little mother-and-child reading before bedtime. She, however, was busy trying to put Jeff in a half-Nelson.

 

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Grabbing my calf, I was all, hey, kiddo, I grew up watching the Von Erichs “wrestle” every Saturday morning.  Every time one died, I cried real tears.  I had consecutive crushes on each of them (never Fritz, come on, I’m not Lolita).  I know wrestling.  My brother used to put me in the stomach claw, and I learned to ka-pow him where it really hurts.  I know from wrestling.

Given my extensive early training in wrestling over the ottoman and in the yellow linoleum floor in our otherwise placid 1970’s household, you’d think I’d be better equipped to embrace my own children’s need to get their rough-and-tumble on.  But I’ve been reluctant.  I’m worried one of them will get hurt.  I’m worried what very few precious items I own (St. Francis statue from my parents, Willie Nelson poster, Ikea lamp) will get ruined in the melee.  So far they are too little to do real damage, but there are boo boos and head bonks.

I did some research and learned that this physical play turns out to be very good for kids.  My instinct to make them sit down and work the crossword puzzle quietly is misguided.  Kids need to rough-house with one another, and I need to let them explore this side of themselves.

Easy? No.  Worthwhile? Science says yes.

Click here to see how I’ve come around on wrestling.  It’s good for kids– builds resilience, physical strength and makes their brains stronger.  So, convert that basement to a rubber room and let ‘em at each other.

 

This entry was posted on August 12, 2014. 4 Comments