standing up

I have a confession to make: when I was a kid, I was bullied. Funny it should be that I feel like saying so is a "confession," and I don't mean the ha-ha kind of funny. Why should I feel as though being bullied is something that should be hidden? Why do I feel as though it diminishes the strength I have now? Today's headstrong woman is not related much to that beaten down girl. Not really.

What happened back then? Specifics, I cannot tell you. I have simply chosen for so long not to remember the details, that I really, truly don't know them. What I can tell you is that for at least one school year, "J" called me fat. On a regular basis. The fact is, I was fat. Not babyfat chubby, but more on the round side. The thing is, though, that was around 2nd or 3rd grade, and by the time she started saying it, I was dancing twice a week, and had thinned out quite a bit. I do remember that when I saw a picture of myself wearing my new green knit dress, I was horrified at the little girl I had been. And between that and "J" saying it over and over, I was convinced.

Somehow, though, I think there must have been more to the story, though maybe not. Our neighborhood was a circle, and my sister and I would usually walk to the corner to catch the bus before it went around picking up kids; when we first started school, we were ostracized because we went to a parochial school and wore uniforms--the only ones on the morning bus. It was hell. There were never any seats for kids "like us." Finally, the bus driver got fed up and assigned seats to the other kids so there would be an empty seat when we got on. Soon after that, we started walking to the corner, although the route had changed slightly by then, the bus less crowded, and things started to look up.

Yet I remember clearly the day I stood at our front door, straining to see the bus lights around the circle, hoping against hope that my mother would wave the bus on when it got to our driveway. I, the kid who loved school, books, classes, even homework, did not want to go to school. I didn't want to face "J" or the other kids who would stare, or worse, laugh, when "J" would call me fat names. I wanted to stay home, curl up in a corner, and hide forever. When I told my mother that morning, through tears of fear and frustration, all she said to me was, "She's just jealous. Now stop crying, don't let her get to you, and go to school." Even now I'm stunned. Jealous of what?

"J's" bullying affected me for a very, very long time. Through the rest of Junior High, High School, and into college, I was unable to handle (read: trust) more than one or two friends at a time. Every time I left the room, I was sure someone was talking about me. I never knew what to do or say to fit in. Until I bought my Senior Ball gown, with my own money, and heard the saleswoman tell me that it "fit like a glove," I honestly thought I was fat. (I still fight that self-image, and have a very hard time accepting when people tell me I "look great.") My first boyfriend dragged my heart through the mud--repeatedly--because I had no idea that it wasn't right. More than once, I berated myself for not having the guts to run away from home.

A few months ago, while visiting with one of my oldest friends, I learned that she, too, had been bullied by "J," as well as another dear friend of ours. In fact, she told me that just about everyone she had mentioned it to in our class had been. I was amazed. And wondered what the deal was.

When my son, who enjoyed school as much for the social aspect as the educational, refused to get out of bed one morning, and told me he'd rather die than go to school again, I panicked. He told me about a classmate verbally jabbing at him, daily. I felt like a failure for not picking up on it, for not nipping it in the bud. He was in elementary school--younger than I had been. I stormed into school, and demanded to see the principal and the guidance counselor, both of whom proceeded to tell me they just couldn't see that boy doing something like that. They reassured me that they did not think my son was lying, but again said that it couldn't have been that bad, because someone would have seen or heard something. I felt like a helpless 13-year-old again: no one had seen or heard anything "J" said, except me--and her other victims, or potential victims. Nothing of significance was done, and between that incident and what I now think was bullying by the teacher he had that year, it took a good three years before he really wanted to go to school again.

The other day, someone asked a friend why bullying is considered a crisis now, after all, it's been around forever. After quite a bit of what I think was really good discussion, someone pointed out that it's not that there is more prevalence today; rather, our tolerance has reached its limit, as it had with other social "norms" that are now considered other than normal. I think that's a very good way to concisely say what so many of us who deal with kids are feeling. The causes, in my opinion, are very involved, but he was exactly right: I, for one, am fed up.



College saved me. I finally learned to be someone I could be proud of, ironically related to an incident of a teacher bullying a classmate, and she stood up to the teacher. When I later took a class in which the instructor tried to intimidate me, I proudly stood up to him, and came out with both my pride and an A.

Shortly before I left for college, looking through my old pictures, I realized that all that time when "J" was telling me how fat I was, she was always much heavier than I was. If only that realization could have erased the damage done, perhaps having been a victim wouldn't feel so dirty. Maybe it's because I know people who have been through much worse at the hands of someone else; I don't feel worthy or something. All I know is that a part of me did run away, I just didn't know it.

personal connections

Lately I've been wondering why things have been getting to me as much as they have. It's frustrating to me to be frustrated--I prefer to take life one day at a time, and look at the bright side. Instead, I've been feeling rather cold and prickly every day. I've come to the conclusion that in addition to needing more warm fuzzies, I have become seriously deprived of adult interaction. I guess a few minutes here and there at work, and contact via email and/or text message is NOT ENOUGH!!

People who know me, or have looked at my profile, know that I am not one to go out of my way to be with people. For reasons I don't understand in the least, the thought of being around people fills me with some emotion related to dread, but nowhere near as strong--and yet, once I am in the company of people, I feel so much better. Parties, games, gatherings of all kinds are a bit of an effort to attend. In all honesty, I've wondered if I'm alone in feeling that way, or if everyone thinks they'd rather just stay home, despite enjoying the outcome of social interaction.

There are points, though, when I realize I have been avoiding social situations longer than is good for me. I start to feel the world closing in on me, and my thoughts start to crowd together. I do sleep well, though, and start every day refreshed and ready to go, so please don't worry about me! :) From experience, I know that I can survive quite happily for a month or more at a time as a solitary entity, surrounded by no more than my wonderful family. Mixed into my latest need for a 'hit' is having to really absorb the fact that the dynamic of my family is about to face its biggest shake-up. When our oldest goes off to college, nothing about our family will be the same. Being happy about that does not change the fact that it stresses my psyche--whether I'm thinking about it or not.

So, for the first time in a long time, I'm faced with the decision to make a huge effort for me. The last time I had to do this so consciously was when our oldest was born and I joined a New Moms group. Too bad there is no "New College Family" support group where I can go and meet people who understand what no one else can. (read: what I don't really know how to talk about with the people I already know because I don't just want reassurances or to be told how great my kid is and that he'll do great. I want to talk to people who are also scared to death that the past 18 years have not worked, and that no matter how happy I am about his happiness, I'm still scared to death.) I love my friends dearly, and know that every single one of them would gladly listen to my fears, laugh and cry with me. I'm just plain scared to share some fears, hopes, even successes.

Tonight, we're having dinner with some great friends (ironically, friends we met when I was taking college classes!), and I know the visit will energize me, and bring me back to me. I also know that under normal circumstances, I would allow myself to think it would be enough to sustain me. Thankfully, I have the most wonderful friends, and have a grown-up evening planned with another amazingly warm friend on Sunday.

Taking care of me so I can take care of them is something I've always known is necessary. What I had forgotten, or maybe not even realized, is that what I need to do to take care of me is not a static thing. At times, exercise and diet are the keys to well-being. At others, as now, the extroverted part of myself needs nourishing so that the more comfortable introvert does not become a speck. Life is good. :)

oh, what a night

We spent the evening in the ER last night. I wasn't sure it was entirely necessary to go in the first place, and I would have played the whole sequence differently, but I was a joiner, and that's not the point. What is the point? I muffed it up, I think, in my frustration. Everyone is fine, and the final diagnosis was "pain," which I didn't even know they could put on the discharge papers as a diagnosis.

But it broke my heart when I heard, at 11:45 last night, "I'm sorry I wasted 6 hours of your life." While there wasn't a minute of the time we were there that I thought it was truly necessary, I did know that there was the slight possibility that it was, especially since your tolerance for pain is at least as high as mine (except for emotional pain--but then again, you are also exceptionally sensitive, and more afraid than I am to show it). I'm sorry if you meant that apology, and if you really thought I felt that way. In all honesty, we kinda had a good time, if you don't dwell on the huge container of whatever that was you had to drink, the ever-tighter cuff, the IV, the CT scan....You are a delightful companion, and if ever I need to sit around with very little to do, I always, without fail, hope and pray that I will get to spend that time with you.

What I'm trying to say is this: I love you. I'm glad you are okay. And all I want is to do right by you.

one of those days....again

An hour ago, I was working very hard at not getting frustrated. Again. Over one of those "usual" things.

I love my kids, and I would do anything (within reason) for them. Sometimes I really wish they could see that. I really wish they would see the imbalance between the times they want or need something, and the times when I ask them to do something for me.

Today's frustration actually started two weeks ago. Henry was swimming at the HS District meet. Swimming is a huge part of the identity of our family: Guy coaches, all the boys swim for some portion of the year, and I spend a good portion of my time organizing life around the practice and meet schedule--one of those behind the scenes activities that gets far less recognition than it deserves. Case in point--this District meet. Simply around this day, I got a note in for Henry to be allowed to travel separately from the team, stopped for snacks for him, waited in line for over an hour, sat in a hot, loud and crowded gallery over the pool, and thoroughly enjoyed watching the meet, cheering for our team and the boys' friends from other teams, taking pictures, texting results to Jonathan....and after the meet, in which Henry not only swam a best time, but hit a time he never imagined, I was literally told by another mom, and Henry himself, that I am not the first person he would hug. She actually pushed me away from him. And he let her. No explanation (still), and what's worse, he agreed that she was the one who gets the first hug after the race of his life. It hurt and confused me, but what could I do?

The following week, he was a little less happy with his swim, so he was in no mood to hug anyone. Whatever. This week, Jonathan told me he needed new basketball shoes--every single day--until we ordered them. Joseph and Drew have been asking for new sneakers, too, and when we are going to get them (I was actually planning on today, and have even been telling them so, with the occasional question of why we have to wait so long). Then, last night, after another great swim--this time at the HS State meet-- I stood with my arms open for a hug, and Henry hugged a coach, his girlfriend, and then stood looking at me. Eventually he did hug me, and even told me that the reason he doesn't hug me at those times is because he thinks I might cry (which I do, but I cry when he doesn't, too, so I'm not sure why the happy/proud tears are worse than the hurt/sad tears).

Given all of that, I did get especially frustrated when this morning I declared that everyone needed to take one hour to select a flowerbed and weed it, and was given grief. Jonathan simply could not spare an hour because he has English homework to do and needed to take a shower. (English homework which, by the way, four hours later he has not yet worked on.) Henry definitely did not have an hour to spare because he needed to take a shower and get ready for practice. In the pool. (which I realize is not the same as a shower, but still!) Drew and Joseph headed out without argument, and got to work. After I unsuccessfully tried to conceal my anger and frustration, I went out to weed a flowerbed of my own. They all weeded, but grumbled about the part of the job commonly referred to as "cleaning up after oneself," and honestly weeded far more than I had anticipated in that hour.

Why did I get frustrated? For the same reason parents all over the world get frustrated: they don't understand what we do for them. They don't understand what we sacrifice for them. They don't understand that I would give up shoes for myself, and have. I would give up every minute of my social life for the sake of theirs, and have. I am willing to learn how to grow vegetables (something I've never been able to do successfully), and can or freeze them if necessary so they can have some spending money at college because I will need that much less to buy groceries. I don't think it's too much for them to understand, even with consideration of the "adolescent egocentrism" they all are experiencing. Instead, I figure it's some kind of failing on my own behalf. Rationally, I figure it's normal. I'm a sometimes frazzled mom, so I don't always think rationally, I think emotionally, whether I like it or not.

And today I don't like it. So now that a little weeding is done, and half the family is at one practice or another, I'm going to work on some other projects, and shake this frustration, so I can start the week feeling like I've accomplished something more than the "usual weekend." And later I'll run and sweat out whatever is left of it.

one of those days

There are days when I wonder what on earth I am doing all this for. I go to work, and the day deteriorates as it progresses. I come home, and my timing seems to be all off--dinner isn't ready when we need it; there's no list for the grocery store; no one has any socks. Then the dogs get rambunctious, the kids get demanding, and I start to feel like poo. The truth is, these days are not any more frequent for me than they are for anyone else--or at least the parts that I have any control over--but when they swirl together in one black hole of a day, I sure do feel as though I have never done any of it right.

That's when the bright spots occur, as if on cue. Today, when all the staplers were missing (which, in all honesty, affected me not at all) and I realized I forgot the crackers that were to be half my lunch, a student said something with the sole purpose of making me smile. Later, after one son embarrassed me by being "lippy" with our cashier at the grocery store, another son added a smiley face to a text. Neither my smiley son, nor the student had any idea of what had hit my brain--their timing was simply impeccable.

Truly, I'm a lucky woman. My life is so good. Sure, I have things that bug me about it--our discretionary income leaves a lot to be desired (literally!), and we really could use a new car, our house is drafty, and it's all rather frustrating at times--but I have everything I ever wanted: a wonderful husband, who humors me (laughing with me far more than he laughs at me!), four children, each with their own unique gifts and outlooks, a home to take care of, a job that gives me the time I need to be the mom I always wanted to be, a summer job that pushes me beyond the limits I had imposed upon myself, and good health for all of us. I'm happy.

I'm grateful for my family in my house, my family scattered across the country, my family of choice...all of whom make a difference in my life, whether they realize it or not. On days like today, when so many things feel like they've been dumped into a heap in the middle of the floor, I am most likely to realize that I have it all: the good life.

And tomorrow will not be so bad. I hope.