A Boy and His Butter

I took 4 year-old Bennet to Walmart with  me today. Before we left the house, he asked me if he could take Butter with him.  Let me explain "who" Butter is: Butter is a pink stuffed leopard with sparkly eyelids and a pink t-shirt sprinkled with multi-colored rhinestones. He named her Butter because "she's smooth." He adores Butter, and if a stuffed animal has feelings, then surely Butter adores Bennet. He used to tell us that Butter was his girlfriend, but now he tells us that she is his daughter. They do everything together, he talks to her - telling Butter all of his happy thoughts and sad thoughts. She is fond of gymnastics and is a great dancer...according to Bennet. Recently, it was discovered that Butter has lasers in her eyes so that she can take care of any nasty bad guys that might be lurking in dark corners. In a nutshell...Butter is the most awesome stuffed animal to ever have existed!

Back to our trip to Walmart: I told Bennet that Butter was very welcome to join us on our trip to the store as long as she didn't wander off and get lost. He assured me that Butter would be on her best behavior, and off we went.  When we got to the store, we chose our cart and Bennet decided to ride while holding Butter tightly on his lap. He was all smiles and so happy with his little friend close by.

I was finally able to tear my eyes away from my precious son and take a look around me.  What I saw made me feel a little angry - an old woman giving me and my son a look of pure disgust.  And she wasn't the only one to give us that look as we made our way through the store.  The offenders seemed to all be of the older persuasion and I returned each and every look with my biggest and proudest momma smile.

I've gone through times when I was less than tolerant of other human beings, for a whole big variety of reasons. But as I make my way through this life, I'm learning a few things. First of all, I've learned that I usually NEVER have the entire story and that to make any kind of judgement without knowing someone's entire story, is wrong.  Secondly, life's too short to worry about what other people think.  I don't want to decide not to do something that I really want to do because I'm afraid other people might not approve and I don't want my kids to live that way either.  Living honestly and authentically is becoming more and more important to me as time goes by.  I want my kids to feel free to be who they are...because, in my opinion...they (and their stuffed animals) are amazing!

To Complain or Not To Complain...That is the Question

Let me begin with my parents.  My dad was the very definition of stoicism.  Every day, he felt tremendous pain from arthritis and severe discomfort from psoriasis that covered most of his body. The medication he took to help with those made him horribly tired and nauseous. Because of the psoriasis, he also wore long sleeve shirts as he worked long hours as an industrial electrician in the desert heat. Aside from the occasional grimace when he stood up from his recliner or a deep sigh when he thought no one was listening, he never complained.  I only remember him taking a sick day once. Instead of complaining, he was more apt to make jokes about his crooked fingers, such as being able to point around corners with his right index finger which was permanently bent at a 90 degree angle by arthritis.  If ever there was a person who had the right to vent his frustration regarding the disappointment his body was to him, it was my dad...but he never did.  To me, he was the supreme example of pushing through and getting it done.

My mom also had her share of health problems - severely broken bones, head injuries, gall bladder surgery, and cancer - most of it before I was even born (with the exception of the cancer which happened a short year after I was born.)  I never heard any complaints from her regarding those health related issues, instead she spoke of them as things she overcame...and was proud of overcoming.  She also had a rough up-bringing that left it's lingering presence on her soul throughout her life.  Mom was quite a bit more transparent with her emotions and it was clear to everyone around her what she was feeling at any given time. Negative comments would pass her lips, usually directed at herself and her feelings were easily injured. Even though she didn't have an abundance of positive feelings about herself, she was somehow able to make me believe that I was a spectacular person with no equal.

Mom and Dad were different creatures when it came to expressing their emotions.  You might think that two such different approaches to emotions wouldn't be able to exist harmoniously, but in the case of my parents, not only was it harmonious, it was how they both survived.  They successfully faced down any problems that came at them only because they had each other.

Growing up, I wanted to have the best qualities that both of my parents had. I wanted to be brave and stoic, like my dad, and I wanted to be able to make my own kids feel loved beyond comprehension, like they could accomplish anything they wanted to.  As an adult, I find my self with many of the same health problems that my dad had, although, thankfully, not as severe. Am I stoic about them? Maybe to some people, but I don't really see myself being all that stoic when I have thoughts of resentment about having to take medication so that I can lift my 4 year old onto my lap or carry him upstairs to bed when he's fallen asleep in my arms. I'm still haunted by memories of almost dying in the hospital after giving birth to him.  I complained mightily about the endless parade of difficulties we encountered as we dealt with infertility and the challenges of adoption.  After we were finally able to have the children we so desperately wanted, I found myself having thoughts such as "What was I thinking?" and desperately looking forward to solo trips to the grocery store. My emotions are completely transparent, just like Mom's...to the point that I frequently hear my children asking me if I'm ok. The other day, my oldest child asked me if I hate homeschooling...what the heck am I doing that would make him ask that??  These days, I don't usually see myself as the spectacular person my mom told me I was.  In fact, I occasionally see myself as a spectacular failure.  It's so much easier to see the things that I could be doing better with than it is to give myself credit for the good things I'm doing.

I wanted so desperately to be the best of my parents, and in some respects, I guess I am.  However, I think the life lesson here is...I am unique, I am not my parents, I succeed and fail at things every day...just like every other person on the planet.  Despite my failings, my husband and children adore me and the children will probably not turn out to be serial killers.  I am me...some days I'm a train wreck...but some days I really am spectacular!