Trophy cases.

I'll never forget the day that Jon and I first walked into our house.  I was so excited. It had been on the market for almost a year, it was in our favorite neighborhood, and the price kept getting closer and closer to being a reality for us.  Every week, I'd stalk it on the MLS with a little pit in my stomach as the page loaded.  Would it still be there?  Did someone beat us to it?  But it was always STILL THERE, and it began to make me wonder... why? 

Some months later, our real estate buddy finally convinced us to go take a peek. FINALLY!  I couldn't wait to figure out why in the world was this house still on the market?  Lot's of houses needed updating... and this was sure to be no exception... but the location was perfect.  What was keeping this one from being snatched up?  

It didn't take long to figure IT out.  IT was right there in the entryway, waiting to assault our eyes.  What on earth?  A giant three-sided glass case, built into the wall from floor to 10-foot ceiling.  How could anyone short of a little old lady with a massive spoon collection get past it? 

And it wasn't just that it was obnoxious.  Removing it would be a giant expensive headache, leaving a giant hole to the foundation in between unmatchable antique hardwood and 8 foot slabs of marble.  If we left it there, what would we put in it?  Swim team participation ribbons?  4-H trophies?  A snow bunny collection?  An aquarium?

So now that you've got that picture in your head, remember my post about hiding?  That post has been such a forest from the trees milestone for me... and the even better news is that the forest is getting smaller and smaller, on every level.  Not just in relationships, but in my creative life too.  

I had a great conversation with another fellow creative yesterday.  Towards the end of our chat, I asked if I'd ever told her about the ONE BIG THING that I did where I tried and I FAILED.  To my surprise, because failure is not something I love to talk about, she said... "Yes!  I think so."  Wow, I thought, mommy brain has really gotten the best of me because I don't remember sharing that quite so openly.  And then she reminded me of the details.  She remembered!  Except, it was the OTHER time that I tried and FAILED!

How funny!  Here I've been, stuck in the proverbial moment for what feels like ages and if I'd have had the good sense to pull my head out of the sand, I would have realized, it wasn't the first time, and it most definitely won't be the last!  

But you know what else I've been missing?  How ill-placed the trophies in my life are.  If my trophies of choice are "what" I do rather than "who" I am, then my self-worth is tied to the roller coaster of achievement and failure.  Sure those things sometimes matter, but just how much they matter is due to where I place them in my life.  If I put them in the foyer of my heart, I'm completely and totally susceptible to being elated or shamed based on the latest trophy in my case.  I'd have to pass by them every time I go to start something new.  How stupid is that?

I've come a long way over the last three years in terms of what I consider my trophies.  They're no long statuettes or certificates or plaques.  They're memories of people and places and family and friends.  They're intangible feelings, like reveling in things like reveling in the richness of a day of pouring my energy into my family and my home.  And treasuring the fact that I can still get lost in a song (or a blog.)  But yesterday's conversation revealed to me that I've still got that big empty trophy case hiding just beyond my front door.

It's not that I won't go after big accomplishments anymore... that's part of my nature.  It's just that the prize won't be success or failure.  It'll be knowing that I did the best with what was in front of me every step of the way.  My hope is that, from now on, everything I do will come from moments of excellence rather than just a giant race to the finish.

As for the real trophy case...we did conquer it.  It's now the proud location of a solid wall. On the other side of that wall is a the shell of the trophy case... it's now a bookcase that holds important titles like "The Very Hungry Caterpillar", "Winnie The Pooh", and "Elmo Goes Potty."  We figured out how save this beautiful house from a massive eyesore.  Now if I can just finish the renovation of my heart.

When Genes stare back at you.

When it comes to genepool - the conversation surrounding my daughter goes something like this:

"She's Jon with a wig.  No really, who knew he could be pretty?"  Or "She's acting just like Jon did.. or Uncle George did.. etc, etc."  Or "Cute kid - do we know who her mother is?"  It was only slightly irritating for the first two years, but I KNEW my day would come.  The day that I could stand on the top of a roof and yell, undeniably, "SHE'S MINE!"

Well, here it is.  I finally saw my reflection this morning.  The kid can't make a decision to save her life.  She's got my..... INDECISION!

She can't choose an outfit.  She can't choose a Backyardigans episode.  She can't choose a toy - she wants them ALL OUT and cries when I try to put one back.  No seriously, she's paralyzed when I ask her to make a choice.  

I wouldn't have noticed this, except that I think I've bought every picture frame in the Mobile metropolitan area trying to make a decision for a wall grouping.  And then last night, I changed my mind.  Again.  And then I recognized her panic when it was time to start the DVR.  Is it "Race Around The World?"   Is it "Riding the Range?"  Is it "The Key to the Nile?"  Silence.  For two minutes she stared.  If I could give her any piece of advice it would be... wow, I got nothing.

The only thing that makes me feel better about any of this is to label it as delayed perfectionism.  That sounds so much better than horrific procrastination or delinquent resolve, or even... "AAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!"

The good news is, she came around to "Riding the Range".  After I'd left the room and she felt the pressure.  Yup, she's mine. 

Seasons

I had a great conversation tonight, sitting at a bar. It was an after-dinner girl to girl chat that reverberated in a few places that my mind keeps coming back to.  It hit on topics that bridge past the quarter-life identity crisis and into the haunts of a thirty-something who's really now supposed to be a grown up. 

For the sake of anyone who may not be familiar with the circumstances of my life over the last decade, I'll offer the liner notes.  For eight years I lived out of a suitcase about half of the year somewhere around the United States or the World.  My coworkers became my friends and, many times, filled in for my family.   Long story simplified... things change, and when they change at a record company in Mobile, Alabama, there's no record company across the street to jump to.   People move to another city or they just move on.  And nearly everyone I relied upon for almost 10 years left while I became a mommy.

There's no sob story here... just that I've had to start over in a new city that has roots as deep as the trees are tall and whispers just as loud as the breeze through their twisted limbs.  And as I wade into new relationships... some of them totally new, some of them aquaintances that I can either keep status quo or pull closer... it's more clear to me that friendship is, in fact, a gift.  Among many things, it can be a valuable gift of reflection, and I'm so grateful for the healthy glimpses I've gotten over the past few months.  I've had the chance to recognize that I've been in shock and have been hiding under a pile of diapers for fear of starting all over again.  But start again, I must.

It's true what they say about getting older... you do grow wiser.  And usually that wisdom is incredibly hard won.  But as my soul ages along with this skin I'm in, I've got to choose to see the spots as beauty marks and the scars as experience.  Just as I've had to embrace a the whiplash of moving from the speed of flight to the sometimes tedious speed of an infant, I'm learning to be a more careful study of character over purpose.  And just as I've learned that the uprooting my life sent me into a proverbial shock, if I recognize the roots that matter have been left intact, I know that it's taken time, but I will recover.    

Seasons change, but they always revolve and build upon one other.  For the first time in three years, I can see that I've just been through a long winter, but I see the signals that are only recognized by faith and experience... another spring is just ahead.

Operation Momma Get Your Bootie Back

First things first.  I loathe the word bootie.  And the word momma. They might as well be code words for "My self-esteem is in the toilet and I'm spending waaaay too much time objectifying my physical form." They give me the mental image of girls in the club doing whatever it is that girls in the club do.    

See, it's been a WAAAAAY long time since I've participated in any kind of past 10' o'clock culture unless it involved a deadline or insomnia-driven internet wander. I've long since settled into married introversion bliss where the two of us work really intensely and use it as an excuse to not do anything social. Having a baby was an even better excuse to stay at home and not mingle. Plus, even if I wanted to, I wouldn't have anything to wear with the "baby fat". So I've excused my way out of all but a couple of weddings and odd "events."

This year is not going to play my way.  Mardi Gras Balls (because we've blown them off for three years), Weddings, Vacations (other people bring cameras on those), and I just learned yesterday that Jon is in charge of organizing his 20th high school reunion.  This is me screaming on the inside.

Well, my internet friends... after an inventory of my closet (who am I kidding, all I had to do was look in the mirror), I've taken this homebody thing too far.  It seems there's a balance, and I've allowed us to live on just one side of the teeter totter for too long.  I no longer have anything I can just "throw on", mostly because I would laugh out loud when only my arm would make it through.  Maybe I should have been more vain.  

SO, in celebration of trying to put humpty back together again, I'm using the word bootie.  Cause I gotta find what I did with my old one.