Relics

"Mom, I need your help," my kid said to me the other day.

She's twenty-one and getting ready to move out into her own place. I felt pretty great that she was asking me for help. I mean, that's kind of the goal of good parenting, right?

We want our kids to be independent but we'd like to remain relevant in their lives.

"The dishwasher that we have is from the 60's and we can't figure out how to operate it. I thought you'd know how."

The realization of what she said washed over me in a three part wave:

~ She thought I was from the 60's just like the dinosaur of a dishwasher she couldn't operate

~ Her need of me had nothing to do with my competency so much as my knowledge of old things

~ Of all the people she knew, she figured I was the best to operate a relic

I looked at my friend Lynnette who was suppressing a grin behind her hand.

"Your mom is not from the sixties!" she said and we all burst out laughing.

I'm going to really consider helping with this dishwasher, but first I'm going to figure out how to use it as leverage.

Kids don't see their parents as young.

I know this. I remember this. There is a distinct memory lodged in the corners of my brain when I realized my parents were born in the 1940's.

My mind was blown thinking about the world they grew up in. Every time I watched old tv shows I inserted my parents in various roles.

A few weeks ago Liam found a penny, and he noticed right away that the year was 1983.

"Whoa! This is from the '80's mom!" his joy was overwhelming, "Can you believe it?"

I was staring off into space not quite listening when he asked, "How much do you think it's worth?"

Sharing with him that it was worth one cent disappointed him.

"Liam, the 80's weren't that long ago. I was ten years old in 1983."

He lost his mind. "YOU WERE ALIVE IN THE 80'S?" he exclaimed.

I rolled my eyes. For goodness sakes, I'm not from the 40's.

"What was it like back then?" he asked, genuine curiosity sparkling in his little eyes. "Did you have televisions?"

"Yes, we had televisions. We had to use our fingers to change the channel, though."

Horror filled his small face.

"We had telephones, but they were connected by a cord to the wall. You couldn't go very far while you talked."

His jaw dropped in amazement.

"Also, not many people had cell phones because they were expensive and the size of a small suitcase. We used something called a payphone if we were out. It took a quarter to make a phone call."

Liam reached out and took my hand, maybe in consolation?

I was kind of getting into this. I even thought I was seeing reverence in his eyes. Maybe this would be a way get my last born to respect me a little.

"The only thing we used for money was cash, coins and checks. We had to fill out the checks at the store with a pen. We had to write the date and sign our names." I told him somberly.

Recalling the extreme hardship of the '80's was helping me to see how much I'd come through in my life time, how far we had come since that time.

"We had microwaves the size of our television set. We could only listen to the song the radio played or that we had recorded on a cassette tape. We had to rewind these cassette tapes, Liam, and it was very, very hard to find the beginning or end of a song and sometimes we had to start listening in the middle just to get to the right place."

I shared one of the songs that played constantly during that long ago era:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lcOxhH8N3Bo

What in the actual heck is happening in this video?

Once I began reliving my archaic childhood I couldn't stop. I told him there were no seatbelt laws. Heck, there were not even car seats. We kept my little brother in some kind of plastic thing in the back seat. The seatbelts were used to keep sibling territories separate.

"Mom, was air conditioning a thing?"

Oh, yeah. Air conditioning.

"Liam, it would blow some cold air out but not enough to keep you cold in the summer. Just enough to help you feel that the heat wouldn't kill you. Your legs still stuck to the furniture. In the car we had to use the windows."

Honestly, he had me wondering how we had even survived the 80's.

I mean, how did we survive the 80's?

Me, surviving the 80's.

The clothes, the music, the microwaved food. Not to mention the curling irons, hair spray, and the Cold War.

But, survive we did! As will this generation and the ones to come after them.

Even if they are wearing acid washed jeans and scrunchies AGAIN.

Be brave, misfits! Don't stop believin', collaborate and listen, and don't have a total eclipse of the heart.

Getting Busy

I wonder what people who live in regions without a big shift in seasons do. Here in Kentucky we have four tidy seasons (well, spring here is always wonky but at least that's consistent). As soon as my horrid case of laryngitis clears up I'm going to ask my pal Sarah about this very thing.

Winter is a time when letting my soul be still is perfectly acceptable. Working puzzles, taking naps, and lots of reading don't need excuses because it's really cold out. What else are you going to do?

Spring, though, encourages me to put forth my efforts. Like the robins hopping about cheerfully I want to get out and dig in the dirt. I want to see what I can find, see what I can do.

Spring is also a time when its easy to recognize the beauty that's already been there.

All the ideas I've been mentally (and physically) pinning on my someday list get to come out now. It can be hard to prioritize because everything feels critical. It can be easy to become paralyzed with all the ideas, in fact, and choose to do nothing.

So how do you get going when your wheels are sluggish?

First, identify your motivation. As I'm in the beginning stages of my tutoring business I'm figuring out that I have to very, very precise. It's not enough to make a broad statement about wanting to teach people to read.

I've had to get very specific: I want to encourage, empower, and equip learners of all ages to take the lead in their learning adventure.

When I begin to lose sight of my goals or feel overwhelmed by all that I feel I need to do I go back to that statement. Slowing down, taking a deep breath and refocusing on that one simple thing helps me to figure out what to do next.

I can thank Emily P. Freeman and The Next Right Thing Podcast for this kind of clarity. She has a book coming out and I'm pre-ordering it ASAP. This is not an ad - Emily's podcast has been more beneficial than I can say in helping me figure out my next right thing.

Second, talk it out with people who can help. It can be my instinct to hold my desires close to my chest. Sometimes it feels like if I say my dream out loud to someone and it doesn't happen then I've failed doubly.

Finding people to trust your dream with can help you figure out what to do next. It's just part of the creative process. The finished product may be different than our original vision, and that's okay, too.

It's part of the creative process.

Figuring out my processing style has been a game changer. It seems silly simple now, but somewhere in the past couple of years I figured out that a lot of my processing happens in my head while I walk, mow the yard, or clean the house. Moving seems to encourage my creativity.

That takes me to step three, which is break the process down into an actionable plan. This is probably the hardest step for me but the most important. I can see the big picture but the details can completely overwhelm me.

When each Harry Potter book was released I would read it in one day. If I decide to declutter I empty every closet in the house. Basically, I like to get everything done all at once even if it leads to my undoing.

Hence, the paralysis when approaching a big project.

After the initial panic of starting a new thing I get out my paper and pen and break that thing down.

My way of processing used to completely stress me out. I wanted to do it the exact way a book or blog or podcast told me to. The thing is, though, individualizing a plan is just fine. Learning how to do something takes making some mistakes along the way.

I listen to the ADHD Rewired podcast, and episode 258 was a literal light bulb going off. The host, Eric Tivers, said that if you find yourself putting off your next step because you're wanting more training, or education, more of anything to put off doing your thing, that you're stuck in a procrastination trap.

If I find myself in the stagnant place all I need is to remember my motivation, and repeat the cycle all over again.

This is not an exact science, so I am giving myself permission to be creative while I figure things out. I'm also trying to take advantage of the season and get my groove on.

I'd love to know how you get in your groove after a season of quiet. Share in the comments or on the Facebook page.

Be brave, misfits! Here's to finding our groove!

Be Seen

Over the last week two super crappy things have happened to me.

First, one of my favorite clerks asked me if I was 55, because that would make me eligible for the senior citizen discount.

"I have ten years to go, actually," I said, smiling. Liam asked if I was laughing or crying when we got into the van. I told him I wasn't sure.

Then, only a few days later, the young woman checking me out at Kroger asked me if I was Liam's grandmother.

WTH???

First, I know my gray hair is confusing. Many women my age are either coloring their gray (which is fine! Color away! Do what makes you happy!) or don't have enough for it to matter. Secondly, I had stayed up two nights in a row until well past 1 a.m. watching Outlander because I signed up for the free 7 day trial and I'm cheap and was going to attempt to watch all 4 available seasons in a week.

All this to say, I may not have been putting my best (read: youngest) face forward.

My vanity was wounded. I couldn't stop looking in the mirror, especially the rear view mirror which is notoriously unkind.

I did what any forty-something would do in my shoes. I researched the best facials, moisturizers, make-up, and clothing to wear at my age. I've even ordered fancy underpants.

Well, cotton underpants, because I'm old-fashioned at heart.

These little instances have made me think, though, about how I'm seen in the world. Because honestly, I still feel 25. I'm shocked when I see a curvy, gray-haired me in photos.

I could color my hair, and I absolutely consider it. It's not worth the psoriasis or financial cost to me, though.

You can bet, though, that I'll be practicing yoga and taking walks. I'm employing every moisturizing technique out there. I've already begun updating my wardrobe thanks to ThredUp.

Look! I think the moisturizer is taking effect.

---

I've told you before that, for me, my forties have been fraught with introspection. I'm still there. As my children get older I cannot help but wonder what my next steps are, what I can offer to leave my mark. Occasionally I give into the thought that I've missed the boat.

Youth is revered across cultures but American media truly idolizes the young.

To be young, thin, and female is glorious thing in this country. I am one of those three things - though Mom insists that I'm still young.

A couple of years ago when I was still settling into being forty I had a conversation with one of my kids' young friends - eighteen or nineteen years old, I mean. He said that getting old and fat would be the worst.

"No, getting fat really isn't the worst," I assured him.

He felt terrible for saying it, and I know it was not meant to hurt me. He was not telling me that my life was meaningless because I was overweight.

But boy, that message is out there.

That message invades my mind even when I think it hasn't.

I'm not going to pretend its all giggles and kicks to be the curvy one, either. I remember being on an amusement ride a few years ago. I was put in a separate cart from my family, with two thin people. Ugh.

The dude kept pulling the bar down, the bar that we were sharing, and wondering why it wouldn't come down further. My face burned because I was the reason it couldn't come toward his extremely flat belly. Also, he was really hurting my tummy with that dang bar.

Moments like those suck.

Then you move on.

---

So if the worst has happened to me, if my fear of being nearly middle-aged and overweight has happened, shouldn't that empower me?

I think so.

Several of my friends with average sized bodies suffer with chronic health conditions. I know that they would trade a lot of things for my body size that comes with healthy organs.

In some ways I feel I owe it to them to not allow the size of my body or the color of my hair to dictate what I actions I take in this world. There are times when I take a longer walk or choose a steeper hiking path and think, "I'm doing it for my friends who can't." My body melts away in those moments and I'm simply grateful for joints and muscles that cooperate.

Back to my vanity, I have noticed as my daughters have grown into young women men look at me differently, or not at all. They really look at my daughters differently which invokes all kinds of animalistic feelings inside my mama-bear heart.

I read articles like What 50 Looks Like now: The invisibility of middle-aged women and I wonder why this happens and if I should care. My sex appeal has never been a huge focus for me, so I don't think it's that.

I do think this: I still have a lot to offer to the world. I don't want to be invisible.

My kids have always been mortified that I say hello to everyone I pass. This has been my way since I was in my twenties. Life is too short to not be friendly, and God is too good not to adore my fellow humans.

There is this, also, though: I refuse to be invisible. I will be seen for who I am not what I look like. I'm not doing it for male attention, either. There's plenty of that at home. What I want is for the world to see that we, women, are so much more than bodies.

We are beings. Beautiful, glorious, revolutionary beings.

Here's a thing I have really noticed about my forties: my relationship with women is vital to how I feel about myself. Women validating my life, seeing me for who I am, is far more important to me than whether men find me attractive.

I know that I have the luxury of being married for 23 years to prop those feelings up on, but I think it's important.

Recently I was talking with two average sized female friends about my irrational fear of heights. One friend told me that repelling cured that same fear in her. I confessed that I had been considering learning to repel but that I was fearful that my weight would be too much.

I made some more self-deprecating jokes and we all laughed.

"No!" my friend exclaimed, laughing, "You'd be fine!"

What's cool is that she really meant it.

She wasn't laughing at my fear or pretending that I wasn't overweight. She sees me for who I am and believes I can do something hard and scary, and that makes me brave.

Being seen shrinks the fear and grows the brave. We can do anything when we are seen for our authentic self.

Be brave, misfits. May you be seen as you are.