Saturday morning I found myself standing in my kitchen staring at my full cupboards…crying. I had just gone and picked up our weekly online order from Hy-Vee, unloaded and put away all our groceries, and was admiring Maisie’s little neatly organized packages of baby food and our fridge full of fresh veggies when memories of mom’s monthly shopping list, always written in beautiful purple cursive, came flooding over me…
I remember when Bone Thugs ‘1st of tha Month’ first came out I watched as all the white, privileged, middle class kids sporting their Doc Martins, Tommy sweaters, and Lucky Jeans sang along to a song about welfare checks and weed. They thought they were so damn cool, yet…they didn’t have a fucking clue. I was 13 years old, hitting puberty, living in a shitty low-rent apartment on the southside and filled with so much rage at their ignorance and care free attitude toward something that hit so close to home. Had they ever really waited out on their front steps for a welfare check? Or stood in line to get food stamps?! Or even watched their mom blow money on a dime bag while they wondered why they couldn’t have money to go to the movies?! I was sure they hadn’t. Posers.
My mom would start budgeting before the check even arrived for how to cover the upcoming month. Food, utility bills, gas, paper products. I remember even seeing pads on her list and not realizing at the time how crazy that is…having to budget for pads. We would do our monthly shopping in one trip, mom stressing the whole time about how it had to last us a month so not to go eating everything in one week. She would get me a jar of pickles and package of those frozen Toaster Strudels as a treat, warning me again to make them stretch; I’d get all annoyed and say “I knooooooow” and then they’d be gone in two days. I didn’t understand at the time how hard that must have been for her – to have to warn me, for me not to listen, and then to have to deal with me complaining and lecturing for the next 3 weeks about how we didn’t have any food. That’s probably why that dime bag was always in her budget…I bet being a single, poor mother of a know-it-all teenager was stressful.
I had just budgeted for and bought 1 weeks worth of groceries that my mom would have likely had to spread out over a couple weeks. And we actively chose to purchase produce, which is more expensive, in an effort to eat healthier rather than the boxes of mac ‘n cheese, Hamburger and Tuna Helper, or cans of Spaghetti-Os my mom bought that were cheap and would last longer. It was a little overwhelming…the feelings of gratitude and pride, regret and admiration, guilt. The older I get, the more I seem to see my mother as less of ‘mom’ and more of a woman and human being. I was so judgmental and impatient and snotty toward her in those times she fell short. I thought I knew what she should be doing and how she should be doing it. I was constantly comparing her to other parents and our family to other families. I wish I would have hugged her more and snapped less. I wish I would have parented less and been a friend more. I wish I wouldn’t have eaten all those Toaster Strudels in one day and then lashed out at her when they were gone. But then I have moments where I wonder: had I not parented her at times, where would we have been?! Had I not cried and yelled at her about her 3rd bottle of Purple Passion when we didn’t have gas money…would we have had gas the next week to get to and from school? Memories become blurry and dark…like my eyes and emotions. I’m betting if she were still here my thoughts would be different, but…she’s not, so it’s that old shoulda, coulda, woulda again.
So I stood there in my kitchen staring at my full cupboards crying. I wandered around our cozy home reminding myself of all the amazing things I have to be thankful for…including the two beautiful girls upstairs playing, and my husband working away in his office. We can go buy Cadence Ego Waffles and not have to lecture her about making it stretch. We can enjoy a beer without worrying if it will fit in our budget, or whether our daughter will worry how that beer will impact her.
I remember watching my mom buy a bag of pot or case of beer and wondering: what is that going to take away from me? Because I knew it would somehow come out of my pocket too or that I would have to care for her in some way. And I remember when it got real bad, and she’d come home strung out on a meth or crack binge wondering if she was going to make it, if we were going to make it? And while it still bothers me and while I still feel justified in some of the times I lost it on her, as an adult now I also understand all her burdens and demons and struggles…and I understand why some struggle so badly with wanting to escape into their addictions. When you’re already battling depression, are a single parent living off a welfare budget, and can’t seem to find a man who won’t beat on or leach off you…I’m betting feeling numb sounds pretty good. Sigh.
It makes me think of that Tupac song “Dear mama” that my brother and I find ourselves choking up over every time it comes on…”and even as a crack fiend, mama, ya always was a black queen, mama.” Because despite all her shit…we loved her so much it hurt, literally; she was our mama. And some don’t get it, and some think it’s weird that a song like that or Bone Thugs would make us all sentimental or have any form of reference for two white kids from the Junction or Southside…but they do. I can relate on so many levels, I sometimes laugh-cry at the irony of it all. Just like filling up my gas tank or seeing a bottle of purple passion in the liquor aisle can always spark the strangest of emotions and memories. This time it was a cupboard full of baby food and drawer full of broccoli…
I will forever be that girl trying to come to terms with her past while reconciling it with the present; one foot on the southside and the other in Falcon Ridge…tearing up over Frozen and Bone Thugs…fresh parsley and ego waffles…reminiscing about my “badass”, beat-up mama making it the whole night in the ER with a crack rock hidden in her lip while also cherishing that time at Camp Sacajawea when Cadence and I took CPR classes and learned how to use a slingshot…it’s weird hahahahaha It’s SO WEIRD! But I wouldn’t have it any other way. I can’t have it any other way. This is Nicole and that’s where I came from and this is where I am now and…it’s brutiful. It makes my heart happy and sad all at once. I’m so thankful….for every last bit of it. Especially my mama…”you are appreciated…don’t you know I love ya sweet lady….place no one above ya.”
Southside suburbia Nicole…it has a nice ring to it.
“So much present, inside my present
Inside my present so, so much past
Inside my present, inside my present
Inside my present so, so”
Let me preface this by saying: If you read this, and know my girl, please don’t approach her about what I’ve shared with you here. This has happened before. I know it was likely with good intentions but…please don’t. This is my safe space that I have allowed you into, as an adult to discuss adult/parental topics. I don’t want her to be embarrassed or discouraged to continue sharing openly with me. I plan to keep my promise of not sharing “bubble talk” here and while this wasn’t “bubble talk” this is still a sensitive subject for little people regardless. Thank you. Please carry on 🙂
So I am mother to a pretty fantastic 10 year old. I may be a little bias, but I also think I know a good soul when I meet one, and regardless of her literally being a part of me…I really, honestly think she’s good stuff.
My girl is in 5th grade this year and we started having these “bubble” talks after finding out I was pregnant with my second daughter (last May) as a way to make sure big sister still not only feels special, but also so she knows she has a safe space to talk openly about all the stuff ahead as she approaches puberty. The “bubble” is a place where she can tell me anything and I have to promise not to share it with anyone else, including dad; with the exception of it being something I deem as MUST SHARE, then I can inform her of that, we can talk through how and what I’ll share, who I share it with, and she gives the final stamp of approval to share. An example: her period. When she gets her period daddy must know so he can be her “wing man”. We giggled for a bit over that fun little nickname, because this is quite punny, as he may very well have to run and get her some little winged pads…but also cause that’s what the men in our lives do, especially daddy’s and husbands: they support us and have our backs. So anyway, these “bubble talks” have been great. They allow us to share special time, one on one, no distractions, no judgement, where we truly listen and feel heard, and just get to forget about our days and the world and the hard moments I have to nag…and we’re reminded how much love there is and how we truly are a tribe and home-base for one another.
Well the other night we were having our snuggle time, which typically turns into chatter and giggle time, which is kinda like “bubble talks” but without the guidelines and promise of keeping things secret. And my girl brought up how anxious she and all the other kids were about having to watch “the videos”. So there are two videos they watched last year in 4th grade, one for boys and one for girls, talking about the changes each will go through during puberty. They also talk about personal hygiene and all that fun stuff. Well last year apparently the girls only watched the girl video, and the boys only watched the boys. This year, the girls will watch the boy video, and the boys will watch the girl video (or so I’m told). And this has everyone all weirded out and squirmy and uncomfortable and embarrassed and giggly…
My girl was saying how she doesn’t like that they have to do this so I asked her why. She proceeded to say how embarrassing it is that boys will know about the girls’ periods and how she doesn’t want to know about boy parts. And besides “girls have it harder! We go through WAY MORE and are WAY TOUGHER than boys have to be!” I listened and paused and thought for a few moments to myself about how I wanted to approach this. This was an opportunity, and I needed to tread carefully and choose my words and message wisely.
I started off explaining why I personally think it’s AWESOME that they are having them ALL watch BOTH videos. 1) It helps them understand EVERYONE experiences some weird, awkward, kind of embarrassing stuff. 2) It shows them they aren’t alone in these changes. And 3) it sets them up to be better friends and allies to one another through these changes. We talked about how when she starts her period, the only person around to help her may be a boy, like daddy. Would she rather that boy know what a period is and maybe be prepared to help by giving her his sweatshirt to tie around her waist and run to the nurses office or even get her a pad or tampon? Or would she rather he NOT know, FREAK OUT at the site of the blood, or maybe even make fun of her for it? A little light bulb lit behind her eyes.
This is the point I reminded her: boys go through some stuff too, and while it may not seem as big to her as her period, it’s big and scary to them. Body hair, smelly armpits, not knowing the right thing to say and when. I asked her if she knew of anything boys go through that girls don’t that might be embarrassing. She hid her face and giggled. I pressed. She said “like what happens to Bob.” Bob is our dog. I wasn’t quite sure what she meant at first, and then…”when he gets excited.” Ooooohhhhhhh. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Well, since we’re here. “Exactly! And did you know that happens to them sometimes for no reason at all and they can’t control it?!” She was SHOCKED. She thought for sure they did it on purpose and could summon this thing whenever. “Noooo no no. Sometimes they will just be sitting there and it will happen and…it’s super duper embarrassing and scary. The bell might ring and they may have to figure out how they are going to get to their next class with that thing.” Seriously, I’m so proud of her face at this moment – it was a look of compassion and understanding and just…I was so proud she GOT IT. So I circled back to the whole sweatshirt scenario. “So maybe YOU might be the one offering a sweatshirt to tie around his waist sometime. Maybe YOU might have to be that ally or friend that helps him through something he can’t control that is scary and embarrassing…”
I reminded her of how she said girls have it harder, and girls are tougher. And then pointed out how girls actually have it pretty good in some senses. We can be open about our emotions and feelings, while boys are often taught to “be tough” and “man up” and told “boys don’t cry”. They aren’t encouraged to talk about this stuff openly like we naturally are and do. I asked her how often she saw boys cry at school and she said hardly ever, while she admitted she sees girlfriends cry and hug and share their feelings all the time. And then she reminded me of how the boys have to do more pull ups than the girls and how their pushed harder and held to higher standards and goals to meet in gym class. “I always thought that didn’t seem fair to us but…now it doesn’t seem fair to them” she said with a frown. Oh, my girl ❤ “Exactly. How do you think they feel if they don’t meet that goal or time…in front of all the other boys, and even the girls?” And we talked about the pressure we put on ourselves AND each other. She told me a story about one of the boys in her class being so sore from testing in gym, that when he later went to pull himself up to pose in the back for their class photo his arms gave out and he fell. His eyes got all watery and he squeeeeeezed them shut as tight as he could and whispered “Be a man. Be tough. Don’t cry.” I asked her what everyone did. She said they just tried to ignore it because he looked embarrassed. I asked her if her reaction would have been different if it would have been one of her GIRL friends and she said “Well yeah, I would have asked if she was okay and hugged her.” I asked if she thinks that boy could have used a hug and to be asked the same thing at that moment, and again the look on her little face was just so sweet and understanding, and reassuring that this was a GOOD talk.
By the end of our conversation, she agreed why it was good that they decided the boys and girls should watch each others videos and why it’s important boys and girls know what the other is going through. “Maybe we’re all tough, just in different ways?” Again, I was just so proud. Not all kids will listen much less talk for 45 minutes with their mom about this stuff. Not all kids would go to their parents. And…I felt a little proud of myself, I must be doing SOMETHING right because…she trusted and came to me to talk about it. Man, that’s kind of a big deal. I cried after I tucked her in, out of joy, out of pride, out of relief…cause again, I’m doing something good and I somehow managed to make someONE good and she felt good and…sigh.
Parenting is hard. It’s a huge responsibility. I saw someone post something on Facebook JUST after Cadence and I had this special talk, a post that’s been shared and passed around, about praying for our kids this school year and hoping they find ways to be kind and get through the tough stuff. And I liked the sentiment, but I also thought…we need to do more than pray. We need to TEACH our kids to be kind. We need to TEACH our kids to be compassionate. We need to TEACH our kids to put themselves in that other kids shoes, to be a friend to even those different from us. And so I shared it, but made it my own:
As we begin a new school year, take a moment to speak to your children about looking out for one another; especially for the kids that don’t seem to fit in, or the kids that others call “different”.
Teach them to be kind and reach out to the kids that sit on the buddy bench at recess…some go home crying because even then, after sitting alone on the bench, no one will play with them.
Talk to them about the junior high or high school kids who are insecure but who put on a tough or brave facade to fool their friends, or the girl who hates her body, or the boy who fears the locker room.
Help them to be the good, kind kids these others turn to so they aren’t so easily influenced that they choose to follow not so nice kids that make bad choices.
Remind your children not to judge based on what others have said and perhaps remind the staff and parents of this as well. We all should lead by example, old and young, and recognize that everyone deserves a clean slate and fresh start.
Make sure they know everyone deserves to feel loved, to feel special, and to have a tribe of friends to call their own.
Talk to your children. Teach them to be nice and to always be kind and respectful of one another! Teach your kids to love themselves and connect with others who will in turn love them back. You really never know what these kids are really going through!
When we make these little humans, we play a pretty big part in who they are going to be when we send them off into the world. And how we love them and talk to them and guide them will play a big part in how they are going to let that big world influence who they are. I take that pretty seriously because not only do I remember how hard it was for me, but I also recognize how hard it is STILL as a grown woman. I also think a lot about how while I want my girl to be kind to others, to become a good person with a good heart…I want others to be kind to her, and for her to be strong enough to shake it off when they aren’t.
Bullying is so multifaceted and has so many moving parts. We have to teach our kids not to bully, but also how to not give power to bullies either. We have to teach them to be kind, but not too kind. To be tough, but not too tough. To be friendly, but not too friendly. Ugh. It’s a LOT. But…I love it. It’s part of why I’ve always wanted to be a mama to a little. Because I see where my own mama and teachers and friends and society as a whole fell short, but I also see where my mama and all the others shined a light on the right path and pushed me gently (and sometimes shoved me) in the right direction. Man, it TRULY TRULY takes a VILLAGE. How I raise and love my girl at home has such a domino effect on how she treats others and allows others to treat her. And the same goes for you and yours. We really have to be aware of that and really do some work…for our own families, and our larger community family, and for our global family. Because that’s what this is: a family. You and me, us and we. A family. A village. A tribe.
So talk to your little humans. Listen to them. Feel with them. And remember how imperfectly perfect and brutiful we all are and this all is…and proceed with grace. That’s what I’m gonna do, friends. And I’m just gonna hope I do right by us all.
For those of you who are new here, first of all – welcome to my head and heart. I am going to warn you in advance that I am a very open, honest person and that I will likely overshare and over analyze and talk about things that might make people uncomfortable because…I feel like that’s how it should be (with grace and compassion and love, of course). And frankly, a lot of my own thoughts and worries and crap makes ME uncomfortable so I need some help, or at least company, in dealing with it all 😉 So if you want to continue only skimming the surface of “Scout Mom Nicole” or “Work life Nicole” or “Neighbor Nicole”, I wouldn’t proceed. You ask how I am, and we’ll keep it as “Great!” But if you want to get your hands dirty as they say, and dig in with me into my roots and plant some new seeds and see some things die and new growth start…stick around. You might learn some things about yourself too – I hope.
This blog was actually started back in 2012 when I was going into my second season of figure training – it was a way to share my workout and fitness journey, to work through all the ups and downs that go along with that, and as an open way to track the progress of finding my own sparkle. Over the course of 4 years it somehow changed, a lot like I did; it evolved from a fitness blog into what I like to refer to as “The Couch Sessions” – essentially becoming a therapy session as each post progressed. So, you’re welcome to go back to the beginning if you wish, but just know it may feel different way back when. You may like that or not. I’m going to try to be totally cool with that either way.
But, I think that is all part of why I quit blogging so abruptly – 1) It became less about the workouts and more about my childhood and motherhood and politics and digging through my personal baggage (new and old) and I wasn’t sure how my audience felt about that, or even how I felt about that. 2) Being that vulnerable is scary and hard and kind of maddening for a ‘people pleaser’ like myself. I felt naked. I found myself wondering each time if I had shared too much and regretting having opened up at all. And 3) I felt like I was letting my original followers down who had signed on for the workouts and in the long haul ended up getting my daddy issues. Not to mention, I fell pretty hard off the workout and figure training wagon. Like ‘fell off, hit some bumps, rolled in roadkill, stepped in poop’ kind of ‘fell off’. So, I stopped. That whole “fight or flight” thing came into play and…I fled.
But here we are a couple of years later and…the keyboard is calling. I miss this place. I miss the old “couch” and it’s worn out cushions. I miss those who came and sat with me, ignoring the stains and holes, just enjoying the comfort of my company. I miss having a space to let some of this “stuff” we all carry go. And honestly I just need it. I need to write. I need to think. I need to vent. So, hello old friend. Come, sit. Here’s some popcorn…
This past year has been one of those years that I’m honestly shocked I, WE (my incredible, precious, amazing little family), survived. Like, really. It feels like everything that could happen happened at once and I’m just now waking up from what was supposed to be a short nap wondering “What day is it? Where am I? How long was I asleep?!” I’m going to summarize here because it would take 10+ blog posts and a years worth of therapy (almost literally) just to get you caught up:
We found out we were expecting a second child (do I need to list all the parenting fears, financial concerns, and over all “what in the actual hell are we going to do” panic and life wrangling we went through with that unexpected “surprise”?!)
My husband went back to school and started a new career (he essentially taught himself a trade and moved from one industry to another in just under a year all while juggling working full-time, daddy and household duties, and supporting his mess of a pregnant wife)
I applied for and accepted a promotion on another team in our department
I worked overtime to get us through our ‘busy season’, and accepted the task of handling a large project on my own, while 8 months pregnant. (This is a bullet point of it’s own because I can’t convey how stressful but rewarding, crazy and exhausting but fulfilling and distracting this was for me at the time)
We went to family counseling to address some long brewing issues with extended family over baby #1 prior to the arrival of baby #2 hoping we could all be in a better place for both as our family grew but…it feels like it hurt more than it helped and I am still mending my head and heart, and recovering from the sense of loss that I still feel from it all
Our water heater broke, our garage door broke, we had to find daycare for a 6 week old….
I mean, like I said, if it could happen it did happen – big and small – and frankly I felt like a rusted out Oldsmobile with the wheels falling off and a flaming engine throughout. My body and mind and heart were wrecked. My marriage and family was tested.
I already battle depression as it is, and I really thought I had a good handle on it the last 10+ years – considering myself fairly ‘high functioning’ despite all the trauma and emotional scars. No medication, no counseling – just finding ways to get ahead of it with physical fitness, eating healthy, taking time for myself to read and blog and paint, having a good teammate/partner, recognizing my triggers and not feeding into negative self-talk or behaviors, etc. But throw the hormones and physical changes of growing a life inside of you, at 35, on top of the emotional and physical stress of all of the above, and….the fog of it all and postpartum is lifting, slowly. But it’s revealing all the work I have to do on myself and that’s a bit overwhelming, to say the least.
I’m still struggling to get back into a normal routine of working full time and keeping up with household work, while mothering two, and being a good wife, a lover, a teammate. I know I need it but can’t seem to make the time to workout, or read, or paint, or do my hair…there are dishes to be done, meals to be cooked, laundry to be folded, babies and a honey to be loved on and listened to. Plus work stress and everyday life stresses like traffic and bills. Even the smallest thing can seem overwhelming, when…it’s not, really. And what free time I might find myself having…I’m too drained to do much with besides enjoy the silence and stillness. I am in a constant battle with expectation and reality. What can I get done? What SHOULD I be doing that I’m not? Who needs what from me and when? Am I doing enough? Am I giving enough? I think the real question is: how do I balance being just the right amount of selfless and selfish – of giving just enough of myself to have a little left for me too? It’s hard.
And I’m going to be brutally honest here: there were times over the last 5 months that I wondered if I was worth the fight. That I questioned whether or not my family and friends and co-workers, the lady bagging my groceries…were all better off if I just wasn’t around. I felt like a burden, like a total buzzkill, like a failure who couldn’t do anything right. I didn’t feel like enough. I’m telling you – depression and postpartum are ROUGH. They can really muddy the waters. I had to have some extremely hard talks with my best friend and partner of 20 years, talks you don’t want to have with anyone if you hope to ever have them stick around. I had to watch him watch me fall apart, and…I think that is the hardest part of it all knowing you are making it harder for someone else just by being. Life is hard enough without someone taking their shit and making it yours – and then feeling the burden of being a burden, ugh. A vicious cycle. And honestly, as self-aware and reflective as I think I am…there have been times I can’t tell if it’s me or others thinking or doing or saying or if I’m over correcting or not correcting enough. And being open about your feelings to people, about your fears and doubts and flaws…it feels ugly, and it sometimes feels like you’ve set yourself up to own everything, whether or not that’s the reality of it. It’s your depression. It’s your past trauma. It’s your childhood and daddy issues. And maybe it is. But maybe it isn’t. Or maybe it’s a combination of both? It’s, again, kind of maddening. So I’m navigating these mucky waters with fogged up goggles and a seemingly clogged snorkel but…I’ve got a good guide who is hanging on tight (thank you thank you thank you), and I’m still in it to win it, and that’s a big deal.
I wake up every morning to a warm, fuzzy (dat beard tho), super smart, handsome, loving, devoted, driven, creative, smart mouthed, super funny, good cook of a BFF who is also the best daddy I’ve ever known. He inspires me daily with how he is rocking life – questioning everything, balancing hobbies and work and home life, finding what makes him happy while helping me explore that as well…I have a good teammate who wants to be his best and help me be mine…
I wake up every morning to a beautiful, creative, too smart for her own good, silly, sassy, talented, caring, soon-to-be teenager who makes me a better person just by existing. We have some of the best talks and she gives me such a new perspective every single day. She calls me out on my bullshit (she can’t burp at the table but I can?!), and it sucks and is amazing all at once. Watching her grow into Her, and being her “mama” has been the most brutiful honor I’ve had in my life yet….
I wake up every morning to the most precious, bright, gummy smiled and twinkling blue eyed, joyfilled baby girl. She is excited just to see me and a new day! Her legs get to kicking, she gets to singing and chatting in her little ways and I just burst with love and happy and purpose. And she smells…so good. Both my girls are reminding me of what is most precious about time and life and love and family. Cadence made me a better person, while Maisie is making me a better mother; because with poor Cadence I didn’t have a clue and was just trying so hard to make it that I didn’t really have time to realize what I was missing. That was Cadence’s sacrifice and gift to me – being my first. And Maisie is teaching me to slow down, to have patience, to appreciate all of it…the good, the bad, the stressful…it’s all brutiful and worth it.
And I wake up every morning reminding myself – you have lived through so much – you have survived and overcome and accomplished SO MUCH! As humans it’s in our nature to compare and contrast ourselves to others and to our former selves, but…I’m not perfect and no one else is. And because I’ve seen and heard and felt and been through so much my perspective is a little broader, my judgement a little slower, my tongue and heart a little softer with each passing moment. And I’m still here. I still have so much to be grateful for. I still have so much brutiful to experience. I just need to find…balance. And love myself so I can better love others. I need to find grace.
So yeah, it’s good to see you again. I’m so glad to be back here with you on this old couch. And while all this time has passed, it feels like we’ve picked right back up where we left off, just like we always do. Can we do this again? Maybe next time instead of talking about my mid-life baby crisis, we can talk about the next season of Handmaids Tale, or how Morning View is one of the greatest albums of all time, or why coffee is LIFE…
“Well I just wanted to be sure you knew I didn’t forget your birthday, I just fell asleep”.
I got a text bright and early Friday morning from my big brother wishing me a happy birthday.
My husband wished me a happy birthday still half asleep as he rolled over to spoon and later he and my daughter presented me with handmade cards and gifts of wine. Facebook friends flooded my page with messages of love and happy wishes. My co-workers decorated my cube and bought me doughnuts and made me mimosa’s. My in-laws took us out to dinner and my amazing MIL baked us a cheesecake and showered me with the most thoughtful gifts. And yet I feel so ungrateful because I’m allowing the one person, the one who once again forgot, to eat and gnaw and chip away at that happy; to make me feel like that love isn’t enough or that I’m not enough or that I’m not worth loving. Here it is almost a week later…and I’m still hurt. Here I am, 33, and still that little girl waiting by the door asking her mommy when daddy’s going to be here. “I want to take you out to dinner next Friday or Saturday.”
How does that song go?
“When you coming home, son? I don’t know when, but we’ll get together then, dad. You know we’ll have a good time then.”
I hear people throw the term “daddy issues” around a lot in jest but…damnit if those aren’t a real thing that some grown ass women like myself struggle with their whole lives. And damnit if people don’t lack a good understanding of it. I constantly struggle with feeling worthy, with people pleasing and not standing up for myself, with believing kind words and expressions of love…with love in general, and people don’t always understand that…I don’t always understand that. Damn these “daddy issues”.
But I will tell you this: I’m not sorry for expecting more from him. I’m not sorry for being disappointed and hurt that he let me down. And I’m definitely not sorry that I won’t be going to dinner Friday or Saturday with my “daddy”. If anyone wants to give me any sort of guilt trip or lecture on me only getting one dad, on my mother being gone and how that should be a lesson in making the most of the time we have…tell that to my father who for 33 years has thought he can just drop in and out of my life whenever he damn well pleases. I’m so over feeling bad for feeling bad. I’m over him victimizing himself to others and being portrayed as some heartless bitch of a daughter who can’t just be thankful for having a father in the first place. Sorry but…that’s horse shit. So take that shit advice and feed it to someone who believes it. I don’t.
I’d also like to remind myself that these “issues” don’t make me any less lovable or worthy of care and love and compassion; that my “baggage” doesn’t make me a charity case nor do I owe anyone anything for “putting up with me”. These things shouldn’t qualify me as “difficult to love”. I’m going to write it here and now so I can go back and re-read it to remind myself again and again: Nicole, you are not broken, you are not a charity case, you are worthy.
If you’re a grown as woman with daddy issues…I hope you repeat that to yourself as well, fellow warrior ❤
“I know a girl
She puts the color inside of my world
But she’s just like a maze
Where all of the walls all continually change
And I’ve done all I can
To stand on her steps with my heart in my hands
Now I’m starting to see
Maybe it’s got nothing to do with meFathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
So mothers, be good to your daughters tooOh, you see that skin?
It’s the same she’s been standing in
Since the day she saw him walking away
Now she’s left
Cleaning up the mess he madeSo fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
So mothers, be good to your daughters tooBoys, you can break
You find out how much they can take
Boys will be strong
And boys soldier on
But boys would be gone without the warmth from
A woman’s good, good heartOn behalf of every man
Looking out for every girl
You are the god and the weight of her worldSo fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
So mothers, be good to your daughters too”
Christmas time is bittersweet for such a multitude of reasons…
I miss my family; I miss my Gram and mama who are no longer here, I miss my brother and father who are here but seem so far away, I miss the little traditions we had that didn’t seem like a big deal but now I realize…they were everything. What I wouldn’t give to fight with my big brother and little cousins about who got to be Santa’s helper LAST year or have one of my gram’s pan fried (black) butter cheese burgers. I go through waves of heartache, of frustration, of feeling sentimental…every single year, there’s some internal struggle with all of this.
I was thinking back the other day to my last Christmas with my mother, and was torn into a million pieces by the memories and all the things they stirred up. That year she had just gotten out of rehab and was settling back into being home. We were all still raw and she was still on thin ice with everyone, trying to prove she was dedicated to staying clean, and just to being a part of the family (she wasn’t clean, but…she wasn’t using as much; small victories). The last few years we hadn’t really done much on Christmas and I had begun celebrating regularly with Caleb’s family at their annual parties, so I would try to divide my time between the two. I think this bothered my mother for a number of reasons, and it makes me feel a little guilty…I really enjoyed the holidays with my in-laws, their families still celebrated together like ours used to; we’d all settle into grandpa Traviss’ basement family room, tables would be set up with all kinds of little snacky foods and treats, It’s a Wonderful Life or Christmas Story would be playing on the big TV and for one moment we were all a big, happy, goofy family watching each others faces light up as grandma Bert was duped by another “pots and pans” gift that was actually a beautiful ring. They were really special times for me in particular, because home was such a struggle…I think mom saw that, and I’m sure it broke her heart a little. So that Christmas I think mom really wanted to try to make it a good one; not just because of how she saw me drifting away, but because of all the pain and hurt her addiction and demons had caused. Being we didn’t have any money, mom applied for a Sears card using a previous last name knowing she wouldn’t be approved. I have no idea how that worked but she was approved for a pretty good line of credit. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t legal. But I can only imagine the fleeting joy she felt spending a day or two in Sears with that plastic in hand, feeling the power of being able to afford things and buying gifts for those she loved…knowing how much we had all been through. She bought me a beautiful cream knit lace design duvet and then a heavy wool cream bedspread to go beneath it for my room, along with a pretty lace pillow and some other small things. She was excited and proud, even knowing what she had done…it was the thought of being able to give. I remember being angry and frustrated with her, because I knew what she had done and I didn’t understand why we just couldn’t be NORMAL. Why couldn’t she work? Why did she have to lie and steal? What the fuck, mom?! It was just one thing stacked on top of another. She had the best of intentions but…executed them terribly. I accepted the gifts graciously and gushed over how great they were…because I loved my mama and some part of me felt sorry that this is what she felt she had to do to make Christmas special. She also just knew what I liked, and regardless of all the shit we had been through…that was comforting; my mama knew me well. It was a tumultuous mix of love and frustration, disapproval and survival…knowing it’s wrong, knowing it’s not normal but again…feeling comforted in the fact…it’s all we know, it’s our normal.
I have the biggest lump in my throat just reflecting on all of this. It’s a suffocating, overwhelming feeling trying to make sense and comprehend it all. Trying to come to terms with missing dysfunction and not always being comfortable with normal. I love my little family, I love my extended “adopted” family that has welcomed me with open arms all these years…but I miss my crazy, messed up, not normal one…that was/is mine. I do. There’s a hole, there always will be.
I would give anything to have that Christmas back. To take back the eye rolling and looks of disapproval, the lectures on doing things the right way and being a REAL parent. I just wish I hadn’t belittled her so much. I wish I had spent more time at home, no matter how difficult and painful it was…but it’s easy to wish that now knowing then…I didn’t have much time. Then, it was just so unbearable…watching someone slowly destroy themselves and the little family you had left. Inner battles, oy.
I had gotten my mom a purse that Christmas with a matching cigarette case and wallet. It was black with a leopard print inner lining. I thought it looked fancy and that she deserved something fancy. I don’t think it was really even her style but she loved it because it was from me and I had bought it with my own paycheck, and she knew how proud and excited I was to be able to buy her presents on my own. What a weird, fucked up, beautiful irony there in our pride and gift giving. She had a whole stack of my senior pictures in that wallet that she would pull out and show people in the grocery line or at the post office or wherever; if someone would listen, she would tell them about my job and that I was graduating soon and getting my own apartment. She was so proud, so so proud. Oy. I still have that purse. The cigarette case still has a half pack of old Marlboro Menthol’s in it that I used to get out once a year and smoke one…I don’t know why, it just felt comforting. It’s in a tub of her things that I dig through from time to time; it makes me feel like she’s there or like we’re all back in that tiny apartment…her sitting cross legged on the couch in one of her nightgowns, picking nervously at the edge of her thumb, a cigarette burning in between her fingers. I can smell vanilla candles and menthol. I can feel her soft, warm body pressed against mine as we hug. I can hear her cooing to our kitties and laughing boisterously at the TV. I sure do miss her. Even the high NOT her. You mom is your mom. Always will be.
My dad called me out of nowhere yesterday. I had called him on Thanksgiving to let him know I was thinking about him, but we haven’t really spoken much…that’s just how it goes. He wanted to know what to get my daughter for Christmas. It was sweet and frustrating all at once. I remembered being a little girl and hearing my mom yelling at him on our kitchen phone that I would like my dad for Christmas; a similar situation repeating itself now some twenty years later only with my daughter and less yelling. I remember being mad at my mom and wondering why she was so mean to him…boy what time and growth does to perspective. I understand now. I appreciate it now. She was a warrior; she was fighting for me, for us. I also realize this is just my daddy and it is what it is. He ended our call by asking if I was going to call my big brother on Christmas “he sure does like talking to you”. I responded with “He can call me too, so can you. You can both call me anytime, dad.” He said he knows but that I also know how they are. I do. “You know, even if I don’t talk to you much, I think about you everyday and I love you more than anything. You know that, don’t you baby?” I do. I told him the same, because…I do. I think about both of them every day, and I love them tremendously. I know none of us are perfect. We promised to reach out in the next day or so to make plans to get together sometime so he could see my little girl and give her his gift. I wish we could have a big Christmas get together and make dinner and watch Christmas movies but…I don’t think that’s realistic, and I’d probably Clark Griswold the shit out of it with great expectations like I always do…so I’m just happy he called me and comforted to know…he does love me, in his own little way, and that’s just how it is. I’m really just thankful to still have him a phone call away. I’m thankful that even in our random, brief phone calls he finds ways to be my daddy by giving me advice on how to file my taxes 😉 Our normal.
So I guess I’m wishing everyone a merry Christmas, and encouraging you all to embrace your normal, whatever it is. Embrace your totally weird, fucked up, dysfunctional, beautiful families who, no matter how frustrating and crazy they can be…feel like home and fill your heart with warm, fuzzy love. You’re one of them, remember that 😉 Pick up the phone, call someone special even if you’re tired of always being the one to call…because it will make BOTH of your days, whether you like to admit it or not. Just do it. Merry Christmas ❤
I ran today for the first time in what feels like forever. My first day of running in my Hal Higdon Novice 5k training schedule…my first day of trying to get back to feeling good about my health again.
I weigh over 180lbs; more than I weighed when I was in labor with my daughter…the most I have ever weighed in my entire life. Yes, that’s also after two figure training seasons and packing on some muscle but…let’s not kid ourselves, I’m overweight and unhealthy. Over the last year I’ve struggled greatly with falling into bad habits: casual smoking with friends after YEARS of being a proud and successful FORMER smoker, no real workout/nutrition plan or routine, drinking on the weekends and some week nights if the neighbors stopped by, and worst of all just having no motivation, no confidence, no real accountability whatsoever. I have been in a rut.
People, with the best of intentions, always respond “But you’re beautiful inside and out no matter what you weigh” and while that is sweet and I appreciate it…it’s not doing me any favors. It’s really not. Because at this point it isn’t just about my body and appearance; it’s about my mental and physical health. I’m physically unhealthy therefore I’m mentally unhealthy…or…am I physically unhealthy because I’m mentally unhealthy?! I can’t really say, but I know the two are just the best of friends right now and I’m over it. I miss enjoying exercise. I miss looking forward to workouts and posting how great they felt and how proud I am that I completed them. I miss being motivated to DO something…anything. I miss knowing I’m setting a good example for my daughter. I miss knowing I’m making her proud. I miss knowing she looks up to me and thinks I’m amazing. Ugh. I just miss feeling good. And yes, I’m really freaking sick and tired of wearing a tank top when I have sex because I want to cover up my stomach. It’s pitiful and just really destroys the mood. I’m OVER it. But while I’m over it and wanting to make a change, my body is so out of shape, and my mental state so fragile…starting over being hard…is even harder.
I ran 1.5 miles in 24 minutes today. I had to run/walk a mile and a half because my feet and ankles and calves are so sore and tight, I had to fight through sharp, shooting pains in one ankle just to run for 3-4 minutes at a time. Am I pussy? Maybe, but damn if it didn’t hurt, my feet and my ego. I’m not sure what is worse: they physical pain/strain or the mental one. And that’s what makes this so difficult: when I’m literally in a battle with myself over my own health. I’m an intelligent woman, I’m very in tune with myself and my thoughts and behaviors, and while I know what I need to do…I’m struggling to do it, because it fucking hurts and it sucks that it hurts and I’m mad at myself one minute and feeling sorry for myself the next…and it’s a mess. I’m a mess. I need to not be such a goddamn mess.
So anyway. I ran today for the first time in what feels like forever and it really sucked…but I did it and if I keep doing it I will only get stronger…and if I don’t want to feel like this…I need to keep doing it. I need to keep doing it because I need to get out of this rut, mentally and physically. I need to get back to positive, motivated, sparkly Nicole…damnit!!
I’m struggling today reading articles (http://m.nydailynews.com/news/national/king-s-teen-assaulted-deputy-orphan-article-1.2414901) and comments about the South Carolina teenager who was assaulted in class by an on site deputy; a young woman who simply said “No”, refusing to leave, because she likely felt being kicked out was silly, and in turn was dragged across the room, pinned, struck, handcuffed, and charged…for saying “No” to leaving. Too many people are arguing she got what she deserved, raging about entitled, dysfunctional, disrespectful kids these days. It’s gross and scary. She’s 16. My heart bleeds because not only is this young woman growing up in a time where the news is filled with stories about members of her race being brutalized and targeted, not only must she deal with all the internalized emotions that and simply being a black female must bring her, but also because I learned today she just recently lost her mother and is currently living in foster care. Hearing that makes me wonder how she DIDN’T lose her shit and how she managed to only mutter “No” when I see myself at 16 doing far worse…
The year I was arrested for assault at school was also the year I discovered my mother was spending thousands of dollars a week of my grandmothers inheritance money to fuel her crack addiction. We were already broke, living in a shitty apartment on the south side, driving my grandmother’s car that was falling apart from misuse and abuse, struggling to pay bills, scraping by on what food stamps she hadn’t traded for pot/beer/painkillers. I was working part time at the mall to earn my own money and had already begun taking the Metro to/from school and work because mom was so unreliable; she didn’t want to get out of bed in the morning, and I can’t count the number of times she never showed up to give me a ride home, so after waiting an hour I’d finally make the long trek on foot alone or hitch rides with friends who saw me walking along the way. She was blowing through $30,000 that could have really done some good things for us, like bought us a new, reliable car. And not only was she blowing the money, but she was destroying herself and us and all we were in the process. Things had already been rough, she was making them unbearable. I had no control at home so I struggled at school and in the real world. Some teachers didn’t have the patience or compassion to see through my tough, defiant demeanor, some gave zero fucks about me or my problems, but a few others pulled me aside and offered support…those are the ones who saved me countless times from myself and at least made school tolerable.
My Junior year things got so bad I ended up staying at YESS after a huge physical blow out involving mom and I that resulted in the cops getting called. She spent that year prior to her passing bouncing around from in-treatment facility to in-treatment facility; I had to live in our apartment with her boyfriend (who I despised) and pretty much fend for myself on food and making sure utilities didn’t get shut off in her absence. The hardest part was: no one knew what was going on, and if they did, they didn’t know what to say or do and generally didn’t want to get involved…so it was all on me to simply survive and muddle through. I was angry, I was tired, I was depressed and lost and alone.
When mom passed away my Senior year, I missed two straight weeks of school because I just couldn’t function; I kept seeing her lying there dead on her bedroom floor, I kept smelling her room, I had nightmares about her coming into my room at night, dead, angry that I hadn’t saved her; foaming at the mouth, eyes pale and wild, hands hard and cold. It was horrible. I had those dreams for a good year after she passed; it took a lot of self-training to get past those. When I finally did return to school, I had to dive right into talking to teachers about making up work so I could graduate with the rest of my class in two months. I will never forget my gym teacher, Mr. McGivern and what a heartless prick he was to me: “People die everyday. Get over it. You think your special? You think I should make exceptions for only you?” It took everything in me not to lose my shit and pummel him with all the pain and anger that was boiling inside of me. Instead I sobbed uncontrollably and had to be removed from his office by a female coach and friends. “People die everyday. Get over it.” I’m still seething and it’s been over a decade.
Teaching can be a thankless job; we ask so much more of educators than to simply teach the curriculum and go home. It’s not that simple, it’s not that easy, and sometimes educators are more of a parent to their students than even their own parents are. I’m guessing some people don’t sign up for that when they go into teaching, and perhaps that’s something we need to work on: realistic expectations and on-the-job experiences. I’m not sure, I do know though that while I have the utmost respect and appreciation for teachers, I can’t stress enough for them to take a moment to remember: these are children they are working with; children from all different walks of life and backgrounds, children possibly coming from one extreme environment abruptly into another each day when leaving home to come to school. As exhausting as I’m sure a teachers day can be dealing with all those different kids…to those kids, sometimes one teacher can mean everything, sometimes one school day can mean everything…even if it’s spent pushing boundaries and challenging authority. As I said, I encountered my fair share that punched in and punched out as well as those who recognized some of us need more than a curriculum…the ones I remember, the ones that changed my life were the ones that recognized they were more and had more to offer then just an education.
This particular situation is a mess because there are so many factors involved that complicate it and raise concerns, but one is for sure: this young woman, regardless of who she is or where she comes from, didn’t deserve to be treated or man-handled in that manner. She didn’t. Period. Anyone who argues she got what she was asking for needs to do some research on police training and protocol, on what is expected in those situations, not to mention studies on working with youth…I doubt anywhere will you read “Hulk smash them if they say no or don’t cooperate”. I honestly can’t believe I’m watching the same video as some and getting such a varied reaction; you’d think she had pulled out a switchblade or gun judging by some of the responses. But…she only said “No” and didn’t want to leave class. And while they’re quick to say “She deserved it” those same people would be calling DHS if they were in Walmart and witnessed someone flipping shit, verbally or physically assaulting their kid…so give me a fucking break. People are too picky-choosy (ahem, discriminatory and biased) when it comes to what should apply to who. That’s all I’ll say about that.
Bottom line: we need more compassion and empathy. We need more understanding. We need to dig a little deeper and not take everything at face value because there’s usually more to it. There was a lot more to me then many guessed growing up, especially in High School when I made “Fake it till ya make it” my mantra…until I couldn’t even do that and suddenly I was no longer my mother’s mother, but a girl who so desperately needed one.
I am a lot of people with a lot of different responsibilities; I’m a mother, a wife, a friend, an employee, a neighbor, a community member, and so on. I take my role as a mother especially serious, and consider it such a great responsibility, because what I say and do not only impacts my daughter and who she will one day become but who she becomes will then impact the world and the people she will touch throughout her life. I realized this morning while reading an article in my news-feed and reflecting on this that: while I would like to think being a mother is the most important thing I can be, while I’d like to think being a mother is my most important priority and job…being a compassionate, open-minded, empathetic human being actually is far more critical; the person I am influences the way I raise my daughter, and the person she will someday be depends on the type of person, on the type of human being I am today.
While I want my daughter to grow up with her own sense of identity, with the freedom to be who she truly is and to love herself for all that encompasses, to be truly happy and to know real honest to goodness love…I also want her to grow up giving others that same ability and freedom; I want her to be a positive, bright force in whatever she does…I want her to be kind and compassionate, honest and open-minded…I want her to leave a legacy of love behind just as I hope I do for myself.
I am very active on Social Media and the internet. I keep myself pretty up to date on current events and social issues by reading a lot of articles, news stories and personal blogs. In some ways I do this to entertain myself and keep myself informed, but I also do it because I feel a strong obligation (for myself, for my daughter, for the world) to listen, to understand, and to inspire deeper, more critical thinking, in myself and others. This is why I advocate for so many issues, some of which I’ve been directly impacted by or have experience in, some that I just recognize need more voices to make the message louder and clearer; this is why I share so much on my own personal Facebook page and blog. I take my responsibility and my obligation seriously…as a sister of the world, as a human being, as a mother. I want to gain as much perspective as I possibly can. I want to hear and learn and grow as much as I possibly can. I want to use what I gain to make an impact, if even a small one, on the people and world around me.
I have been deeply moved and disturbed by all the stories I’m reading about police brutality and racial profiling of our black brothers and sisters. The events in Ferguson, and those that followed, haunted me and made me question all I grew up knowing and believing when it came to our society and race; these accounts filled me with a need to understand and know more. I started following websites geared toward the African-American community. I started reading articles and blog posts about the Hip-Hop industry, black women’s hair styles, media’s reporting on black crimes, magazines editing skin tones, the fashion and cosmetic industry…I even researched Band-Aids. Did you know there’s only one bandage brand that caters to African-American skin tones and it has to be ordered online? It’s called “UrbanArmour”, google it, I’m not kidding. There were many times in the beginning of my “quest” that I commented on stories…when I should have simply listened. And there were many times I realized that I simply listened…when I should have instead spoken up. I went into it naively thinking “I’m not racist. I love people” only to find myself growing increasingly defensive, frustrated, and sometimes even pissed as some of the things I was reading; things my black brothers and sisters were saying about white people, about me, about society and the way our legal and education system works…that I couldn’t believe to be true. It wasn’t until a friend sent me this that I really had a moment of self-evaluation and clarity: https://thsppl.com/i-racist-538512462265#.2w1o7oute.
I remember sitting on the couch beside my husband reading it on my little phone screen. I remember nodding my head at a few things, while scoffing and feeling outraged by others. I remember asking him to read it and tell me what he thought…because, was I crazy or…what this guy completely WRONG about ME?! I didn’t sleep well at all that night because I just couldn’t stop thinking about what this man was saying and how painful it was to see myself in those lines, through his eyes, as a white person; how painful it was to realize: I AM racist, I AM ignorant…I don’t know or feel what I thought I did at all….I AM part of the problem.
The next day, I re-read the article twice, then spent hours watching videos, reading more articles, scrolling through comment sections…listening. I watched several videos documenting Jane Elliott’s exercises on inequality and discrimination (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6MYHBrJIIFU). I forced myself to confront all the things that made me uncomfortable about John’s words and perspective and experiences. I felt obligated to stare myself in the eye and call myself out on all the shit I was scoffing and feeling outraged about. That day spread out into days, weeks, and now months. I came across this video on one of my favorite news sites: https://www.facebook.com/ajplusenglish/videos/608703162604528/. And I was moved to tears, as with many of the things I’ve found. And for the first time in a while I chose to speak, from my heart, about where I was at in my journey:
Pres Kabacoff’s statement “We’ve got lots of people like you that are coming to town…” says it all. He’s not building to house the people already there and in need, he’s building to bring in richer, whiter people from other places…who will broaden the income gap and class divide more than it already is, and take jobs from locals who desperately need them; jobs at places like fancy coffee shops that take business away from other small, local businesses that need the patronage to survive. It’s quite a vicious cycle they are caught up in. “It feels horrible, it makes you feel like you weren’t worth the investment”…very sad, yet very true. As someone else said “Urban Revitalization = Gentrification = Ethnic Cleansing”.
I feel like the struggles I faced growing up living in low-rent housing and being on welfare and accepting medicaid make this easier for myself to somewhat see; but not everyone has experienced that, and being white and living securely for most of one’s life makes that difficult. I’m beginning to better understand, and finding it easier to accept, the comments made by our black brothers and sisters about white privilege and our ignorance toward it. I’m also grasping why my saying how hard of a pill it is to swallow is a bit of a slap in their face, being they actually live it…and don’t just have to read about it. The term “white tears” is taking on a different meaning…
The responses were good, but when one man said “You’re a hero” with the clapping hands emoticon, I felt compelled to clarify a little:
I can’t tell if that’s sincere or condescending but regardless I don’t feel like a hero; I feel stupid and blind. It’s taken me 32 years to finally scratch the surface of understanding the struggle other races have faced throughout history, especially our black brothers and sisters right here in America. And I say “scratch the surface” because there is still so much I have to learn and work on in terms of my own ignorance and insensitivities toward the issues and topic. Commenting on some thread isn’t heroic; I’m safe and secure behind my keyboard at a cushy desk. I’ll go home tonight to my little suburban neighborhood where blacks are still the minority and I will think I know…when I really don’t. A lot of white folks don’t; it takes work and some really brutal self-evaluation, and even some critical inspection of our families and friends. But to complain that it’s hard for me as a white woman to confront racism and white privilege…is pretty laughable…considering what black men and women actually live through on a daily basis. This video…there really are not appropriate words to describe it.
I am coming to realize that the idea of “white privilege” isn’t just an idea, but a harsh reality; something so many are still in denial of but that is blatantly there if we really take the time to look. I also realize that my defensiveness and dismissing of some things is harmful, not only to those experiencing these issues first hand, but to any hope of changing anything. I THINK I know, many of us THINK we know…when we really have NO idea whatsoever…because we haven’t lived it; we can’t live it. We are white.
I am sharing this, not just because I want to be honest and open about my struggles with understanding race and the inequalities and discrimination that comes with it, but also so people understand why I’m so passionate about reading and sharing, and in hopes that perhaps some will recognize these traits or feelings in themselves and too be inspired to do the work that is necessary to unlearn old bad habits and create new ones. And I don’t just say this about the issues that impact our black brothers and sisters, but about issues that impact everyone: the poor, those battling cancer or Alzheimer’s or some other disease, children fighting for an education, Global Warming…there’s so much to be learned, so many to be heard…
I have heard so many times in my life “If it doesn’t effect you, who cares?! Why bother? Worry about yourself and your family.” And comments like that make me physically ill, because they frustrate and worry me beyond belief. If we ONLY worried about ourselves…I just can’t imagine a world like that. I can’t. I don’t want to. I wouldn’t BE here if people had lived by that; many people wouldn’t be here if people actually followed that belief or mindset. “If it doesn’t effect you, who cares?!” Ugh. It’s gross, and it’s so ignorant and selfish I just…it makes me livid. I hope I raise a daughter who knows better than that and does better than that, for her sake and the sake of others. I hope people take this seriously enough, and their jobs as parents or educators or mentors or just PEOPLE, seriously enough to be better than THAT. Because EVERYTHING effects ALL of us. We are all tiny little ripples in the pool of life and everything we say and do impacts someone else…EVERYTHING impacts EVERYONE. How you treat the guy at the drive-thru window not only reflects upon you, but anyone in that car is touched by your tone and words, not to mention the actual guy working the drive-thru who has friends and family and co-workers who will be impacted by the impact your tone and words had on him. Are you still with me here? Do we understand that who we are has an influence on everything and everyone around us, big or small?!
That’s why when people tease me for all the time I spend on reading and commenting and sharing, on caring about things they don’t think I should care about, on being passionate about issues in the world beyond my little housing division or my daughter and our family or even my work…I try to tell them: I should care…and so should you. We should ALL care. It should ALL matter. Sometimes when people say those things, I get a little bitter and judgmental myself about the stuff I see them post and the crap they share…I want to scream about how meaningless it all is, how ignorant they are, how blind and careless they are…but I don’t. Because I don’t want to be THAT asshole…and because I know that…my tone and words and the things I say and do has an impact…on everyone. That’s not to say I’m perfect. That’s not to say I’m always the example I would like to think I am, because I’m not…but I can say that I try and I work at it; I am dedicated to being more than just a mother and a wife and an employee…I’m dedicated to being a good human being. I listen to more than just those in my safe little circle or office or neighborhood…and so should all of us.
I am a 32 year old white mother from the suburbs that shops at Target and drinks pumpkin spice lattes, who wears leggings for pants sometimes and listens to Kendrick Lamar and Taylor Swift, watches movies like the Notebook and Beasts of No Nation…who once was a young girl on welfare living in low-rent housing apartments watching her mom fly high on crack, picking fights with girls in the hallway because I was pissed at the world, wearing second-hand clothes swearing I would never, ever live…in the suburbs. I feel like a walking contradiction sometimes when really…I’m a tie that can bind, a common thread that can reach from one person to another and connect the two…a bridge…a woman with feet on each side of the invisible line…whatever that “line” is. I have a responsibility to not only speak up for myself and others like me…but for those yelling and no one is listening. I’m not just talking about my black brothers and sisters; I’m talking about the refugees fleeing their war-torn homelands, girls fighting to keep their clitoris’ in tact, boys being told to “man up” and not cry, the homeless under the bridge…I’m not a refugee, I’m not a part of a culture that practices female genital mutilation, I’m not a little boy, and I’m not homeless…but I will listen to them and advocate for them and do what I can to make sure they are heard, because that is what I feel is right in my heart; that is what I feel SHOULD be right in EVERONES hearts.
I’m tired of people not taking things seriously and implying that if you do, you’re too sensitive or have some fatal flaw for caring, when…we need more of that shit. We need more caring. I’m all for drinks in the garage, shooting the shit and laughing over silly stuff with friends and neighbors…I’m all for cat videos and Buzzfeed articles and quizzes…but I also put in the work and effort when it comes to the heavier things….we all should; it’s a balance. We could all use a little more balance.
So, here’s to balance and listening and growing…and taking your responsibility as a HUMAN BEING seriously. Let’s start with the small goal of trying not to be an asshole to anyone today. Baby steps 😉
October is leaving me a bit raw. The 26th is my mother’s birthday; she would be 52 years old this year. That number is sad and terrifying to me all at once. It is too young and not enough. It makes me ache and bores a hole in my heart…and my mortality. It is also election season and so many topics are being discussed that are so sensitive and critical and valuable; opinions and views are being shared that hurt. I’m taking it all very personally, whether I should or not.
I’ve been told 3 times in the last two weeks “I can’t believe you turned out the way you did” in response to this or that; nothing in particular, just experiences or perspectives I’ve shared that reflect me and my past and my present self. It is said with respect and admiration and appreciation, I know it is, and I take it as such. Hell, I’ve thought it myself a time or two. How in the hell did I get here, after I’ve been through and done all that shit?! But then…I have a moment of defensiveness in their words and my own. Because I turned out the way I did as a result of all these things, the good, the bad, the difficult and ugly, the blessings and the beautiful, things out of my control and the things I actively chose. I can believe it…because without those things I may lack a whole lot of the perspective and heart and gratitude.
I battle daily with guilt over how I comprehend and view my own upbringing. Daily. When I go to Target I’m torn between indulging in things I don’t need and remembering all the times I needed and went without. Do I spend frivolously now that I can at times (the dollar bin is my kryptonite) or do I recognize I don’t need that shit and save the money for more important things? When I talk about my mother, do I agonize over how frustrated I still find myself with all of her mistakes, all the pain she caused me in making them, in all her flaws and shortcomings and selfish decisions…or do I have empathy for all the shit she endured; in losing her father as a little girl to suicide, in being raped while hitch hiking in her teens, in loving men who abused her because she just wanted to love and be loved, in falling prey to addiction and depression because of it all? Since I met my husband, I have been in a constant state of mental and emotional limbo over seeing things from his perspective and my own. Two very different worlds and experiences colliding…but bringing two people together to learn from one another, to listen to one another, to share and grow and love. My life now and my life then are so completely different…again, guilt in wondering if I’m still honoring it all or taking it for granted…am I bitter towards certain things or empathetic toward the lack of knowledge or experience…a limbo of the heart and soul.
These are the same things I feel when I read friends’ political and world views; friends I know to be kind, good, fun people who know me and my past and my heart…who share views that seemingly attack that me of the past, that little girl…my mother and all we went through. It’s very heavy and hard and confusing. I know it’s intent isn’t personal or mean spirited, I know that, but the blissful ignorance and flippancy of it all still hurts.
I always hope that by sharing my experiences and that of my mother and family, I will somehow alter others perspectives, in even the smallest of ways. I hope I will soften them a bit to ideas or impressions they once had, and make them a little more compassionate; make them think a little harder, a little deeper, a little broader. I hope, but I can’t force that or guarantee it. Just as they can’t control the way they are received, neither can I. There’s that “intention” again; intention is everything. The hardest part though is feeling like my sharing that, my giving that part of myself to them…was a gift, and they didn’t value or respect it. If I share that with you and you express compassion and appreciation and even admiration for it…I hope you “pay it forward” and give others the same compassion, the same validation or courtesy of kindness and care. But that is not always how it works, and that makes me very sad; it makes me feel like my sharing was in vain, like my gift had no meaning…like it was wasted words and feelings.
Just because I recognize I wouldn’t be who I am today if I hadn’t experienced the hardships I had, doesn’t mean I want others to have to go through or suffer them as well. I know the shame I felt in standing at the checkout with my mother while she flipped through her foodstamp book or while we had to wait in line to receive utility vouchers to pay our bills. I remember how hard it was to endure the scrutiny and bullying of my peers because I wore hand me downs or clothes that didn’t have brand names on them because we couldn’t afford them…to be called “high water Heinkel” because my legs grew too quickly and we couldn’t afford new pants. I know how sad my mothers eyes were when she knew she was letting me down, when she knew she wasn’t able to be what she needed to be for me…or even for herself. Her depression, her addiction, the abuse she suffered and…dished out; all a part of who she was, and her constant cycle of trying to heal whilst self destructing. And that is what makes me defend her and us and our lives. That is what makes me advocate for government assistance and mental health care and Planned Parenthood and addiction counseling/services…for people who are struggling in one way or another, that I wish they didn’t have to. Whatever reason people are needing help…they need it. Whether it’s money or food or clothing or a job or counseling or medication or even someone to say “I’m sorry you are going through this”…or “I care”. Judgement is why all of these issues are stigmatized and trivialized and why all these people feel so unworthy of help or love. Because to need help is to be weak or to lack value or worth or pride…or so, that is what we are taught, and that is what we preach. I don’t agree. The more we shame people for needing help, the less likely they are to ask for it, and the harder it will be for everyone. The more we empower people by encouraging they take that initiative to say “Hey, I’m fucking struggling here. I need help. Somethings not right”, the more apt they are to seek out that help, to improve their situations, and to get on the right track…mentally, physically, financially.
My husband has said a lot lately that he feels education is the root of so many of our issues in the world today, and while I agree a zillion times over…I also think compassion and empathy are large factors as well. We are greatly lacking humility and care for humanity…for one another, for our brothers and sisters of the world…for little Nicole “High water Heinkel”s. We want so desperately to separate ourselves from the disease of hardship and needing help that we fail to realize…there is no separating ourselves from it, because it is lurking around every corner; no one is immune to it. We could be diagnosed with some life threatening disease or illness tomorrow that would throw our entire lives into a tailspin. A tornado or flood or other natural disaster could rear it’s ugly head and wipe out our entire community leaving us all in need. Our spouse could get ill or we could lose them in an unexpected accident leaving us to fend and provide for ourselves. A fire could take out our house and all our possessions. And this doesn’t even begin to touch on the mental and physical toll these things could take on a person; the chance of falling into a depression or eating disorder or addiction of some kind. We are human, we are flawed…we are vulnerable, we are mortal, we can break. We are imperfect and no one..no one is immune to hardship of any shape or form.
“I can’t believe you turned out the way you did”. I can believe it…because I chose to let it affect me, I chose to open myself up to the pain and joy of it all, to others and their experiences…I chose to let it broaden my perspective and ambitions. We all have that choice. I also chose to ask for and accept help, as hard and embarrassing as that was to me sometimes. I had kind, compassionate, caring, loving people who saw me for more than empty, outstretched hands…for more then the daughter of an addict, for more than a child on welfare, for more than a broken, sad, angry little girl…and some of those same people saw my mother for more than her problems and hardships as well. They saw us as human beings…thank goodness for them. We all have experiences and people who touch our lives that we can allow to affect us or…not. Which will you choose? Will you accept that gift graciously or will you miss out on the opportunity to grow?
This month, my mother would have been 52. I miss her. I love her. I am grateful for all she was and all she ever will be…in her legacy of strength and love and being human. I am grateful for who I am today because of all she was yesterday ❤
Last night on Last Comic Standing there was a comedian named Amy Miller who started out her set by stating “I’m white trash” and essentially chronicled things about her upbringing and family that supported this. An uncle who lived in a trailer with his pet crow, a home full of stray dogs and bugs, a father who explained the amount of bugs by saying “It’s probably because you’re full of crap”. Her jokes were dark and made many uncomfortable, but as the judges pointed out, her fierce fearlessness in making light of heavy things, of taking her past and all the hard stuff and being able to laugh about it, raises awareness and forces us to confront things we might not have on our own. It certainly stirred up some things in me…
I signed on to be a chaperon for Cadence’s summer camp field trip to the Omaha Zoo. I’ve really been looking forward to it, and so has Cadence; excited to feel special and have her mommy there to see her in her element with all her friends and teachers. I had to fill out a background check form and didn’t really even think twice about it…until I received an email reading “We regret to inform you, that at the current time we are unable to clear your background check and are unable to add you to the Omaha Zoo chaperone list.” I emailed back immediately in a frenzy trying to determine what could possibly have come back preventing me from being a chaperone. I’ve only had a few traffic tickets and got in trouble once when I was 19 or 20 for underage drinking but, none of these things prevented me from working for 3+ years in child care both during and after high school; none of these things ever came up as a concern in applying for jobs or other volunteer opportunities. I left a voicemail with the local DHS downtown, I submitted an online inquiry form, the girls at the summer camp provided paper work I could turn in to confirm the cause and contest it; they assured me it could easily be a mix up and not to worry, so I submitted the forms and waited…stewing, racking my brain. And then it hit me, what more than likely is coming back to haunt me…
When I was in late elementary, early Junior High I learned I had an aunt named Linda. Apparently she was my father’s sister who lived with us briefly when I was a baby. I can’t remember how or why that came about but she stayed in our little yellow house on SE 5th on the south side of Des Moines for a short period, until apparently she shoved my older brother, then just a little boy, down some stairs and…my mother took her outside and beat the shit out of her in our driveway. When my mother or father told this story, their eyes narrowed and had a fiery spark to them, their lips became hard lines, their jaws locked, fists clenched…the anger and adrenaline still seemingly fresh, even though it had been many many years.
When I was 5 or 6 I remember a neighbor who lived on that same street had apparently taken it upon themselves to spank either me or my brother; my mother grabbed a frying pan, marched up the steep hill to their house, and proceed to beat the shit out of them with it, making it clear: you don’t fuck with Lorie’s kids or she will come fuck with you.
There are polaroids of me sitting on my mothers lap when I was about two years old, her face pasty white, a large cast on her nose, her eyes empty. My father had gone to “take a nap”, my mother heard a faint ‘ting’ of the rotary phone in our living room and suspicious, picked it up to hear my father whispering “I love you” to another woman. When my mother confronted him, he came out, snatched the phone from her hands, and beat her in the face with it, breaking her nose and blacking her eyes. They divorced a short time after.
A year or so later she started dating a guy named Dean. They fought regularly, mom priding herself in being a “match” for his fists. But one day I stood at the end of our long hallway that led to each of our bedrooms and opened up into the living room, looking on as she lay helpless on the floor, her back and arms pinned against the wall behind her, him choking her, my older brother (still just a boy) jumping on his back and yelling to “leave my mom alone”; Dean, with one strong arm, picked him up by the front of his shirt and flung him toward the opposite end of the hall. I just watched, crying and whimpering for my mama. She kicked him out not long after that…because of what he did to Chad, not her; she was still “in love” but knew it wasn’t safe.
Growing up, this kind of stuff was normal. Dad driving at 90+ miles an hour, chasing someone down who cut him off or tailgated him or did something he didn’t like; them stopping, dad pulling out a baseball bat or wooden chair leg he kept tucked under his front drivers seat, ready for such occasions. At 5 or 6 one of these altercations landed him with a concussion in the hospital, I went to visit him and got to ride on his lap while he wheeled us around the halls in his wheelchair, retelling the story of his epic fight with some asshole, wearing a thick, white wrap around his head. At 10, drunk and enraged over a fight back at a bar, he got in a road rage altercation with an off-duty police officer whom he pulled a gun on; that landed him in prison for a few years. At 14, when I was staying with him and his 2nd wife and her two kids in Winterset, he came home one night with a set of broken ribs, a busted up nose, and a black eye; some fight apparently over money.
Mom tried running over my brothers ex girlfriend in the parking lot of our apartment on the south side when I was in middle school; I can’t remember what for, but she was in the way and mom was on a rampage. At 17 when she and I had gotten in a horrible blow out where she had choked and punched me, Caleb came to pick me up and get me out of there; she spit in and clawed at his face threatening him not to take me. She rammed our barely running vehicles into bar walls and the back of her boyfriends car because he wouldn’t come home, she somehow managed to get a rock of crack without paying up front, hid it in her lip, and when the dealers confronted her, she got in a fight and ended up in the hospital after getting the shit beaten out of her; the rock still in her lip, ready to smoke when she got out of the ER.
Again, this was normal. So it’s no surprise that in Kindergarten when a little girl stole my crayons, I bit her arm and was told I could no longer be in the school play as the Owl. Or in 2nd grade when my friend teased me about something and pushed me a little that I took my math book and struck her across the head with it. In 3rd grade a boy named Jeremy was walking behind my brother and I on the way home, calling me names and poking me with sticks; my brother told me not to take that shit and get him, so I pinned him down on the sidewalk and punched him repeatedly in the face, one strike after another until Chad told me to stop and the boy ran home crying. In 7th grade when a boy called me a cunt and threatened to take me outside (over what, I don’t remember), I punched him in the face and told him I didn’t need to go outside, and never to call me a cunt again. In 8th grade a girl was making fun of my friend calling her fat so I threw a basketball in her face and we ended up rolling around on the gym floor clawing and kicking and punching.
Not only had I been shown that violence and aggression was normal, that this was how you handled things, that this was the “appropriate” response, but I was praised and celebrated for this behavior. “How did the other kid look when you were done?” And if I said I got some good ones in, “That’s my girl!” Being hard and hot headed, getting knocked down only to stupidly stand back up for more was a badge of honor and proof you were a bad ass. Both my mother and father were known for their thick skulls; capable of taking the worst of beatings. They didn’t take crap from anyone, and if you fucked them over, they would fuck you over twice as hard. I was the apple that didn’t fall far from the tree, and they took pride in that…I took pride in that; it was a sick comfort and bonding and feeling of belonging.
In high school, as things worsened at home (Grammy died, mom’s meth and crack addiction started, lies and fights and money troubles, dad promising to get me out and take me to live in Winterset only for me to realize that wasn’t really a great option either with all the fighting and drug use he and his 3rd wife were doing) I could feel anger growing. I took on the attitude that no one fucked with Nicole, that Nicole didn’t take any shit. So my Junior year, at 16, just two months shy of my 17th birthday, when a sophomore who had been running her mouth about one of my best friends, started running her mouth about me loudly for me to hear outside a math class; I confronted her, we both took a good swing, and we ended up rolling around on the hallway floor with handfuls of each others hair…except I had done this before, and I didn’t just pull hair…I kicked and punched with all my might, even while teachers tried to pry us apart.
I was angry. I was scared. I was bitter about all these “kids” that didn’t know shit about “real life” who ran their mouths about stupid shit that didn’t matter and thought they could get away with it. I didn’t have control at home but I had control there at school and out on the streets at Pete’s Pizzeria. So I puffed up my chest, held my chin and nose high, ran my mouth and threw hard punches. This single incident, this one fight that seemed like nothing at the time…landed me in the principals office where Juvenile Hall came to handcuff me, throw me in the back of a paddy wagon, and hall me off to juvey. Charges of “assault with bodily injury” were pressed by the parents, I was put on probation for one year with a set of terms I had to meet and I also had to attend a release hearing; since I was a juvenile, it was to be expunged from my record upon turning 18 if I was able to prove to the judge I was on my best behavior; which I was and got it cleared.
That’s not to say that single event completely scared me straight. The years following I still found myself in a few fist fights at Loco Joe’s over stupid crap. The first Christmas after my mother passed away I went down to Indianola to spend the day with my dad; the first Christmas we were to spend together in years. When I arrived, his girlfriend was on the couch crying, saying she and my dad had gotten in a fight; they fought regularly and both were instigators. I hated her. I had hated her for years. And I looked at her with her phony tears and bullshit story and I just lost it; I pounced and Caleb had to peel me off of her, dragging me out of the apartment before she sent me to spend Christmas “in jail like your piece of shit father”. That is my “Aunt Linda” story, that still gets my blood boiling just thinking about it; the hurt and anger and emptiness and frustration…it all shot through my body and out my fists and mouth like fire. Right then moms death, dad’s long history of unreliability and bullshit, and his girlfriends manipulative, hypocritical, phony, horrible self…it all the culminated into me losing my shit. Poor Caleb. What a fucking trooper.
I often find myself joking about “south side Nicole”, and moments where hints of her try to come to the surface; where traces of my mother and fathers aggression and volatility cast shadows across my face, filling my own blue eyes with fire, setting my blood a boil…and I joke about it, but really it makes me sad and embarrassed and regretful. And after getting that email denying my application to chaperon the Omaha Zoo field trip…I was forced to look back over all of that and relive that day in 11th grade, where I found myself handcuffed in the back of a police van; the day my mother came to pick me up, asking if I “got that little bitch”. I remember visiting my father in prison, going with my mom to bail my brother out of jail, seeing my mother in the ER not realizing she had crack hiding in her lip; ugh. They say hindsight is twenty-twenty. My late twenties, early thirties have been full of it; reflections and regrets, lessons and confrontations of the past and who I am and who I want to be. Becoming a mother, and even my figure training, put me in places where I really had the opportunity to dig deep…I’m so thankful for that. So. Fucking. Thankful.
I watched a film called Short Term 12 (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2370248/) recently about a group home for troubled teenagers that not only provides perspective on who these teens are and what they are going through, but who the counselors and workers are that are caring for them. At one point in the film one of the characters, Marcus, who is turning 18 and therefore must leave the comfort of the facility that has been the only “home” he has really ever known, shares a song he has written:
I found myself staring at the lyrics, tears streaming down my face, repeating “Look into my eyes so you know what it’s like to live a life not knowing what a normal life’s like”. I have to take a moment to praise this director, the creator, the actors and writers of this film…because it is a priceless gift to the world; the gift of perspective and reflection and confronting ourselves. Marcus and his words cut so deep. I lived many years thinking I knew what “normal” was; thinking broken noses, broken ribs, lovers choking and beating you, road rage altercations that ended in hospitalizations, prison sentences, drug dealing and addiction…was normal. I thought in order to be loved and feel secure and have a place to feel loved and welcomed and where I belonged…I had to act out these same behaviors and be that apple clinging to the broken branches of a weathered apple tree. It took YEARS, and still takes reminders sometimes, for me to break that cycle and understand those behaviors are anything but normal, or healthy, or constructive; that that is not who I am. Screaming, name calling, a constant state of turmoil and tears and anger…that is not normal. Someone doing something that frustrates and upsets you, and you punching them or striking them or running them over with your car…that’s not normal. There’s no pride or honor in being a hot head who acts out their aggressions on innocent bystanders; who uses fists and not words.
I was so upset and frustrated when that report came back saying for some reason I couldn’t be a chaperon, and I felt like a victim, like someone was wronging me by denying me that right when I couldn’t think of anything I had done that could possibly prevent me from doing it…until I remembered that fight in 11th grade, and the assault charges. And while I still don’t agree that it is something that should be held against me now, 16 years later, being that I have no other record of violence or criminal charges…it’s a reminder that once you do something, it can’t be undone, and that sometimes our pasts come back to haunt us…and we can either make ourselves the victim of that or take accountability and use it as a reminder of how far we’ve come, where and how we don’t want to be, and count our blessings for hindsight and growth and maturity…and people who open our eyes to what’s not normal.
My upbringing and past haunt me; there are ghosts of them everywhere, every day, in the smallest, most simple of things…like sitting on the couch with my family and watching Last Comic Standing, or in wanting to chaperon a zoo trip, or even in a smell that wafts in through a window. And while sometimes it’s difficult, because it not only makes me relive those same, raw feelings, but it also makes me reevaluate myself…it makes me more open to the experiences and perspectives of others. It doesn’t make me a saint, or “born-again” or perfect, it doesn’t mean I have all the answers or have it all figured out and know the “right” way; it just means I have come a long way, I’ve seen and been through some shit, I’ve thankfully been blessed to know many different people in my life, and I’m a little softer, whilst stronger, for it all. I look at kids like Marcus and recognize those words and the message translates into so many different emotions and meanings and spans across so many different parts of ourselves and the world. I recognize that our struggles are different, yet the same in some ways; I recognize behaviors and tones and dig harder to try to understand them…because I would want someone to do that for me…to give me the chance to show them there is more than my past, more than my struggle, more than “south side” Nicole. And oy, people have.
I really like my thirties. Even if people call me “ma’am” and it makes me feel old, I am so so appreciative of what age does to the mind and heart. I’m also appreciative of the change I see it bringing in others; the patience and compassion and willingness to put in a good effort. I have people who have loved me, both as “south side Nicole” and as the Nicole I am today; who have seen the “normal” I grew up with and helped dig me out so I can see another version of “normal”, a healthier, more stable, more peaceful one…one I can be proud of and that I can build a brighter legacy from than the one I was passed down. I’m also grateful for my parents, because despite all of their bullshit, they were human and full of love and lessons and perspective…and I wouldn’t be here without it, I wouldn’t; I wouldn’t be me or reflecting the way I am or as passionate and determined and analytical and eccentric without them.
Oy. Last Comic Standing and an email and some film about youth shelters…and the smell of my little girls sleepy head in the morning sun…all the crap these things dug up for me today. It’s good to get your hands dirty once in awhile…covered in your own dirt and sweat ❤
Digging for swag... 