Small Talk

Sometimes I wonder if I have Aspergers.  I am not trying to make light of what I know can be a devastating condition which people struggle with daily.  However, my social ineptitude occasionally causes me to wonder if I fall somewhere on the barely discernible end of the Aspergers spectrum.  Or, perhaps it's just that I'm a writer.  Writers tend to be hermits; great at observing and analyzing human behavior, but often completely incapable of joining in human conversations or interactions. Just call me Emily Dickinson.......ok........Emily Dickinson with a tiny fraction of the talent.  I can usually think of witty, meaningful, entertaining and relatable things to say when I have a pen or keyboard at hand.  However, when I am standing face to face with another person, there is often a gaping, awkward silence at my end of the conversation.  Large groups of women frankly terrify me.  I tend to stand in a corner and listen to the conversation unfolding while I try to wipe the clammy sweat off my hands and make sure my breath doesn't smell like the onions from my dinner.  I attempt to laugh when everyone else laughs, and try to look, for all intents and purposes, normal.  I try to fit in.  But that's the thing......I am constantly trying.  I have always envied those women who seem to have charming, witty anecdotes about a myriad of topics, which roll off their tongue in an effortless manner.  I am a deep thinker.  I believe this goes hand in hand with being a writer.  I know this may sound odd, but I would be perfectly happy to do nothing but stare at a wall and think all day long.  I usually have thoughts about the meaning of life, the duality of human nature, the state of the economy, the decaying world in which I am supposed to raise my children, or any number of other topics, rambling around in the recesses of my mind.  But more often than not, when I try to strike up a conversation with someone, I end up talking about.........the weather.  Seriously.  I cannot begin to tell you how many conversations I have begun using phrases like, "How about that sunshine", or ,"Do you think it will actually rain one of these days?"  Pathetic, isn't it?  But weather is something we all relate to. It is something we are all familiar with and deal with on a daily basis.  Plus, the few times I have tried to bring up the state of the economy or the duality of human nature with a group of women, I have been greeted with blank stares and a quick change of topic to Victoria Beckham's latest hairstyle.  Apparently large groups of women don't like to have deep discussions.  I have a few friends with whom I can discuss meaningful topics.  They don't look at me like I'm Rain Man when I tell them I was just wondering about Newton's third law of motion or that I just read the most interesting article about the unintentional war on boys in America.  They are genuinely curious to know what I think, and they add their own unique and much appreciated perspective to the conversation.

     I love that I have friends whom I can really talk to, not just talk at.  I hate small talk.  I have discovered, as a mother, however, that I really enjoy talking to small people.  This is a form of "small talk" I actually enjoy.  I think it is because children are naturally curious about the world around them.  My children have so many questions about how the world works that it brings out my own natural curiosity and thirst for learning.  When you're with kids, it's not nerdy to learn about outer space and dinosaurs.  It puts you right up there on the coolest mom list......or so my kids tell me.  Now, I'm not saying that I don't occasionally (occasionally meaning anywhere from 1 to 100 times daily) get tired of the relentless questions.  But, by the time my five-year-old asks me for the tenth time how large a pteranodon's average wing span was or  how much bigger a mastodon would be than an elephant (see- boys are obsessed with size from a very young age), I begin to wonder myself just how big those things were.  Then, like any good mom, I Google it.  I think I have learned more (perhaps useless) facts as a mother than I ever did when I was in school.  As I sit with my children and look at art history books or read about customs of countries around the world, it can be a learning experience for all of us.  Talking to kids all day forces you to think and to discover.  Another reason I love talking to kids is because they don't put up any false pretences, so I don't feel like I need to.  There's no filter there.  Kids don't fret about whether or not their question is going to make them appear ignorant.  They just ask it.  And children are rarely opinionated.  There are some adults I can barely talk to, not because I am socially inept, but because these certain adults happen to know everything about everything and they are determined to make sure everyone knows it.  These conversations, if I am unfortunate enough to get trapped in one, involve a whole different kind of desperate silence, a lot of glances around the room to try and discern the quickest escape route, and enough head nodding to cause a small case of whiplash.  Children usually aren't know it alls.  But they want to know it all.  And I love trying to learn it all with them.  I like to get out with friends, and sometimes I honestly need a break from the little people.  But, many of my memories with groups of friends bring back feelings of anxiety (with occasional bouts of nausea) over what to wear, what to say, how to laugh, how to sneeze, how to breathe, how to fit in.........thoughts of , "don't blow it this time,Shannon."  On the contrary, many of my happiest memories involve days at home with sweat pants and wet frizzy hair, stacks of library books and two curious learners on either side of me, waiting with wide eyes for what I will read next.  I am definitely not swearing off my girl's nights out, here.  And perhaps I can even try to improve my conversational skills to the point where I can move to topics somewhere in between the weather and the meaning of life.  But, I am grateful to know that there will always be at least three people who will laugh at my jokes, who are just as curious as I am about that big world out there, and who always keep me entertained with their very own form of small talk.

Treadmills

I really hate treadmills. I am infuriated by the feeling of running as fast and as hard as I possibly can and getting absolutely nowhere. Sure, my progress is being measured by a small digital screen, flashing incessantly before me the number of calories I have burned and the number of miles I have "traveled". But, when all is said and done; when I am wheezing like an 80-year-old woman and in serious need of a shower, I am still there, in the same spot I started, staring at the same wall or tv screen. I have often wondered if hamsters feel the same way when they run in their wheels. As a girl, I had a pet hamster, Hamlet (one of my favorite literary pet names of all time). At night, I would drift off to sleep to the sound of his wheel squeaking rhythmically every few seconds. When Hamlet was about three years old, he contracted some sort of hamster dementia. He didn't seem to realize who or where he was. He was skittish and just down right cranky. Looking back now, I'm pretty sure it was the wheel that drove him to madness (although I suppose I did kind of set him up for it by naming him Hamlet). Dirk and I actually owned a treadmill for about a year. Then, one of Dirk's coworkers offered to sell us a top of the line Foosball table for $50. The only spot for the Foosball table happened to be the spot the treadmill was currently residing in. It wasn't a hard decision. My brother-in-law was happy to take the treadmill off our hands.

Being a stay at home mom with young kids is like running on a treadmill. Hold on now......not so fast.....I am not implying that I hate being a stay at home mom. But there are some definite parallels. Laundry is one example. As a mother of three, I now typically do at least one load of laundry every single day but Sunday. Many days I do two or three loads. Given the frequency of the clothing being removed from the hamper for washing, one would think that at some point in time, the bottom of the hamper would be visible. Not so. Far from it. Despite my daily efforts at keeping it at bay, the laundry can often be seen overflowing the top of my little wicker hamper. Many days, the hamper and laundry basket are both full. I have to put away the clothing waiting in the basket before I can wash the ever present clothing in the hamper. Just like a treadmill.......constant exertion of energy, yielding no apparent result. I also exert a great deal of energy trying to keep the floor visible, with similar lack of result. A friend once described it this way to her husband: "Trying to keep a clean house with small children at home is like spending an entire day meticulously placing stakes for a fence, only to have them knocked over and having start from the beginning the next day." Being a stay at home mom can also sometimes feel like being trapped in the movie Groundhog's Day. Days blur together as the same mundane tasks are performed amid the same controlled chaos, day after day, after day after.....well, you get the point. Another reason being a stay at home mom is like running on a treadmill is because it is hard work. Very hard work. To the politician who recently claimed that Anne Romney hadn't worked a day in her life (she only raised five boys while battling breast cancer and MS), I add my voice to the backlash that has already been propelled by thousands of moms. I suppose there are stay at home moms out there who actually may sit and eat bon bons (why bon bons have somehow come to be associated with stay at home mothers, I have no idea. I think I tried one once in high school) and watch Days of Our Lives. I suppose these are the few who give us a bad name. But, I feel safe in presuming that the majority of stay at home moms work their butts off. I know I do. Though I may feel it is the truth many days, I also do not think it is fair to declare that being a stay at home mom is the "hardest job in the world".......most important, perhaps, but hardest? I can't honestly say. It is the only real job I have ever performed, aside from waitressing. I am sure many other jobs are also very physically, mentally, and emotionally taxing. I respect the work others do. Yet, so many times, mothers, like Anne Romney, are disrespected and criticized for "not working". Here is an example of a typical daily schedule in the life of this stay at home mom:

6:00- get up and do yoga to get "centered" for the day

7:00-get Morgan up (like waking a bear)

7:15-fix Morgan's hair

7:30-get breakfast on the table

8:00-clean breakfast up

8:30-depending on what day of the week it is, clean either bathrooms, floors, or dust

9:00-make sure Hyrum is dressed in seasonally appropriate clothing; feed Ryan

9:30 turn on Dinosaur Train for Hyrum; feed Ryan a bottle and put him down for a nap

10:00-shower

10:20-rescue Ryan, who is screaming after a 20 minute cat nap, from his crib.

10:30-get dressed

10:45-throw my hair in a ponytail and slap some makeup on my face, while Ryan tries to crawl up my leg

11:00-make lunch for Hyrum and myself

11:15 or 11:30-attempt to eat lunch while feeding Ryan

12:00 clean up the kitchen

12:15 or 12:30-separate laundry and throw a load in the wash

1:00-spend quality time with Hyrum

2:00-fold laundry and put away

2:30-greet Morgan; give the kids after school snack; help Morgan with homework, spelling words

3:00-give Ryan a bottle, get him down for a nap

4:00-help Morgan with piano

4:30-start prepping dinner

5:30-eat dinner

6:30-bathe kids

7:00-read to kids and put them to bed

7:30-give Ryan a bottle; put him to bed

8:00-breathe....and fold a little more laundry

9:00-try to console Morgan, who has apparently developed childhood insomnia, and can't fall asleep yet again

12:00-awake to Ryan's screaming and give him his binky

2:00-awake to Ryan's screaming and give him his binky

4:00-awake to Ryan's screaming and give him a bottle

6:00-get up and do yoga.............

and...........repeat

Nowhere in that schedule can I seem to find a wide open slot for bon bon consumption and Soap Opera viewing. Day after day after day, we stay at home moms work hard. We keep running and running, with no end in sight, staring at the same four walls. Days when children are sick or cranky, or extra loud, can feel like running with the treadmill on a steep incline. We clean and cook, console and chastise until we are emotionally drained. Yet, at the end of the day, when we finally take a moment to sit down and breathe, nothing apparent has changed. If one were to run on a treadmill for thirty minutes a day, every day, over time, you would see a change in that person. It would be almost imperceptible at first. But, after an extended period of daily treadmill running, that individual would not only appear more fit on the outside, but would be on the road to improving the condition of their heart, and their overall health. Looking back at my own childhood, I can see on my mother's face, the same look of blank exhaustion that covers my own many days. Worn out from running on the mommy mill day in and day out, she had to wonder if anything she exerted so much precious energy doing made a difference. Did it even matter? I can answer that. Here I sit, one of the three products of her tireless labor. I have a family of my own now....my own treadmill to run on. I found and married a man who treats me like gold because I felt that was what I deserved. I try to treat others with compassion, and I have an overall contentment with my life. As for the other two products of her labor: My sister is a successful attorney who graduated law school as one of the top in her class. She is kind and strives to do good in the world. My brother is one of the single most compassionate people I have ever met. Over time, the countless loads of laundry, the thousands of meals prepared, the hours upon hours of lost sleep, the stealth binky replacements in the middle of the night, all somehow added up to three individuals who have a relatively firm footing in a world that is spinning out of control. I hope the repetition of my mundane, daily routine will someday show similar results. On days when I wonder if any of it matters, I am reassured by a favorite scripture passage:

Wherefore, be not weary in well-doing, for ye are laying the foundation of a great work. And out of small things proceedeth that which is great.

So, my fellow, stay at home moms, let's keep on running. The result of our efforts may not be immediately apparent, but we are laying the foundation on which our children will build the rest of their lives, one bottle, one lullaby, one story book at a time. One more way motherhood is like running on a treadmill........it's good for your heart.:)

Refrigerator Magnets

You can tell a lot about a person by what is hanging on their fridge. For example, by looking at my refrigerator, you would be able to tell that I have traveled a bit, that I try to be a compassionate person, that I like to inject a little bit of humor into my every day life, that I love my kids, and that I cannot remember anything unless it is written down in a place where I will see it at least three times a day. By looking at my fridge, no one would doubt that I am a mom. At any given time, there are several finger paintings, report cards, crayon drawings, spelling word lists, and reminders for various school/PTA sponsored events plastering the front of my old off-white GE refrigerator. Some of the artwork is held up by magnets boasting sayings such as, "Scribbling is the new........."; underneath there are three possible options with check boxes......"Dadaism, Impressionism, Sign of genius". I have several of these magnets, each with a different snarky comment about children's artwork. Yes, my refrigerator is a small reflection of my personality. But above all, I think it shows that I am a real mom. This post is actually inspired by a conversation I had with a friend a few days ago. I was picking my son up from her house. I began admiring her beautifully framed black and white family photos. Soon, my eyes began searching the rest of the room. I think when we are in someone else's home, we tend to scope it out, whether consciously or subconsciously, to try and find out a little more about them. I also think that we notice when someone in our house is scoping it out to try and find out more about us. And, as women, we begin to apologize for anything they may see that is not perfect, anything that may be slightly out of order. Sometimes these apologies can involve a little truth bending......."That pile of papers is out of control today.....I don't know what the kids threw on there.....that counter is normally spotless." I don't know about you, but I have one counter in my kitchen that is the "catch-all" counter. It is where mail, and well, basically anything else that doesn't make it to an otherwise specified location ends up. About once a week, I go through "the pile". The counter stays uncluttered (and therefore visible) for approximately ten minutes. If I didn't do my weekly catch-all cleanup, I would have no idea what the surface of this counter looked like. I think we all have places in our home like this. Some of us may have deeper junk drawers, and therefore our clutter is less obvious. Anderson Cooper, who is widely known as being somewhat of a neat freak, even admitted to having a clutter closet.

As I scoped out my friend's living room/kitchen area, my eyes fell on the refrigerator. Plastered. Just like mine. I instantly felt a little bit closer to my friend. I then realized we were even more alike, when she followed my gaze and immediately began to apologize for the clutter on her fridge. I then explained to her that it looked almost zen like compared to the explosion that is the front (not to mention sides) of my refrigerator. This seemed to put her at ease. After mentioning one of our more Martha Stewartesque friends, who did not have a single magnet, sticky note, or photo adorning her refrigerator, my friend came to the conclusion that "real moms have refrigerator magnets." In the home I grew up in, the refrigerator was a place of honor for artwork, A papers, and other various kid crafts. We always knew we must have done something well if it got a spot on the fridge! For years, my mom had little plastic flower framed magnets with our pictures in the middle, which we had made at church one year, hanging front and center on our Kenmore. By the time my parents built their new home, complete with an empty nest fridge (these refrigerators tend to boast a lot less clutter than the young family fridge), the photo flower magnets had become so sun-faded, that they looked like they could have been taken a few generations before. I have a similar refrigerator magnet. My daughter made it in preschool. Beneath her picture, are the words "I love you mom", written in big bubble letters and colored in with crayon. It is already becoming faded. I wonder how it will look in twenty years!

I'm pretty sure it will still be there by then. I used to be like my Martha Stewart friend. When Morgan was a baby, I would actually follow her around during the day and clean up after her as she played. When Hyrum came along, we would at least try to keep the toys in the kid's rooms. Since having Ryan, I just let the explosion happen. If I know company is coming over, toys can be seen flying through the hallway in the direction of the children's rooms. But, in general, we clean up before bed. I am not sure if this gradual decline in my cleaning regimen is occurring simply because I am constantly exhausted, or because I am learning to embrace the chaos. I think I was in denial for a few years. I like things organized. I like them in their place. I like order. For a while, I think I was in denial of the fact that my ordered world had been overturned by tiny people and that the best I could now hope for was controlled chaos. My OCD rehab is still a work in progress. There are days (Dirk will tell you, because he has to remind me to breathe on these days) when I turn into a cleaning machine. I think this is an inherited trait from my father. Once I start, I can't stop until everything is in it's place, dust free, polished, sparkling.....well you get the idea. On these days, Martha Stewart could probably walk into my house without being too appalled. There are days, however, and these are becoming more frequent, when I can look around at the clutter, at the fingerprints on the glass, at the empty pudding cups on the table and realize that I am living in the most glorious form of chaos imaginable. My house may never earn a Good Housekeeping seal of approval, but it is a real mom house. It may be full of clutter, but it is also full of laughter. It is a place where my children can feel safe and validated, loved and important. My refrigerator is plastered with proof of that.

Helena Handbasket

When I was a little girl, I would occasionally hear adult members of my family say, "the world is going to Helena Handbasket." "Who is this Helena Handbasket?", I would think, "and what is so special about her that she deserves the entire world?" I could almost imagine some sort of awards ceremony playing out in my young girl mind......"And the world goes to......... Helena Handbasket!" Of course, now, being much older and perhaps a bit wiser, I have come to learn that the expression my parents and grandparents kept referencing was that the world was going to "hell in a hand basket." I have also come to realize that the Star Spangled Banner is to be seen by the "dawn's early light", as opposed to the "donzerly light". I am sure many children, including Ramona Quimby (who actually thought it was the donzer's lee light) have likewise wondered exactly where and what this donzerly light is. My five-year-old son will tell you very emphatically that a "life saver" is a sword made of light that can kill bad guys. Oh the things kids say.....back to our title faux pas, Helena Handbasket. I can't say that this phrase altogether makes more sense to me now that I know it is "hell in a handbasket" and not "Helena Handbasket." I actually google searched this phrase trying to find it's origin. No one seems to know exactly how it originated. So, I will take a gamble at it. The first half seems self-explanatory. Society's morals are decaying daily. It is clear that the world, in some ways, is "going to hell." The means of conveying the world to said location is the baffling part. Why a handbasket? Is it supposed to be ironic? Did whoever coined the term just really like alliteration? Does it have something to do with Little Red Riding Hood taking her basket of goodies to the big bad wolf?

I'm still not exactly sure. But I think it may have something to do with the fact that the things which are dragging us, as a society, one step closer to the fiery abyss, are often wrapped in pretty packages. Girls are having a nationwide identity crisis because they don't look like the 5'7", size double zero, airbrushed model on the front of Vogue. People's pain and humiliation is on prime time, disguised as entertainment for public viewing. So much about the world we are living in is pretentious, dolled up, tricked out. It's hard to get to the heart of things these days, because there is no heart in hollow, empty shells. Last Friday night, Dirk and I were watching "What Would You Do?" It's a hidden camera show which records actors playing out various scenes exhibiting often the worst of human behavior, and catching people's reactions to it. It is always inspiring to see people stepping up and speaking out for the underdog, or standing for something they believe in firmly. The disheartening part is that the scenarios depicted generally come from real life situations. Often, the people caught on camera are relieved to find out that the awful things they have just been witness to were all part of an act. But the ideas behind the show come from somewhere. They come from real life scenarios that happen all around us every day. I have witnessed a few scenes which have caused me to peer around the corner, just waiting for John Quinones to come waltzing out with his camera crew.........no John, no camera crew......just humans behaving inhumanely.

If you don't think the world is going to Helena, just turn on the news for five minutes and you'll change your mind. Here's the thing, though: I don't think we should just hand the world over to this "Helena Handbasket" without putting up a fight. But what can one person do in the face of so much relentless and discouraging darkness and meanness? It was just this question that I was pondering a few nights ago. I went outside to say my prayers under the stars. Doing this puts me in my place, so to speak. It helps me to realize my own nothingness in the vastness of the universe, while at the same time allowing me to commune with the one who made both myself and the stars. On this night, I prayed for purpose, for some meaning in all the madness. I prayed to know what, if anything, I could do, to make a tiny mend in the ever tearing fabric of society. The answer I felt was strange, and not what I expected........"Don't add to it. Be positive." That was it. No striking revelation about some mass movement I could start or viral video I could make......just "Don't add to it. Be positive." After puzzling over this answer in the past week, it has become sort of a mantra playing over and over in my mind. And I couldn't help but think of my last blog post. It was truth. Women are mean. They can be spiteful. But so was I. I realized that "hating the haters" won't help. Two negatives may make a positive in principles of mathematics, but they do not in principles of morality. With the help of my new mantra, I have decided that from henceforth I will try harder to project positive energy into the world. When I see a story on the news of a child who has been horribly abused or neglected, I will hug my own children that much tighter and give them an extra kiss before bed that night. When I hear a story of a teenage boy facing 10 years in prison for a foolish, thoughtless prank, I will write a note of appreciation to a teenager in my neighborhood for his exemplary behavior. When I hear of war, I will try to find peace within my own heart to love someone who has hurt me. Will any of this delay the hand off of the world to Helena Handbasket? Probably not. But, it is certainly a better solution than sitting idly because I can't save the entire world. And just imagine, if everyone adopted and truly tried to live by the mantra....."Don't add to the negativity. Be positive." Change has to start somewhere. And within the walls of our own homes is a good place to start. You see, Helena Handbasket may think she's got this whole thing wrapped up. What she doesn't realize is there is this underdog waiting in the wings called Hope. Hope is by far the stronger contender. She just needs a little encouragement sometimes. We can help with that. Each smile we give a stranger on the street; each prayer we send up for the fallen soldier; each word of encouragement to the overwhelmed mother in the supermarket, is a lace in Hope's boxing gloves. If we could all just cheer her on, by cheering one another on, she could have Helena up against those ropes in no time.

As for my blog, I know this post went a little toward the serious side again, but be assured that future posts will contain plenty more humor and quirkiness. One way I personally like to cheer Hope on is by making other people laugh; at life, at me; at themselves. But, I also vow to try and steer clear of posting anything mean spirited again. I will fight for the underdog by trying to lift him up, not by trying to beat the oppressor down. And now, you must excuse me, to go and grab a late night snack, because, I'm so hungry, I could eat a corpse and chase the mourners..........something my great grandma used to say.......another phrase of unknown origin. So, as my mother would say, "I'm off like a dirty shirt."

Top Dog

Women are dogs. I hate to be so hard on my own sex, but there it is. It is often said that men are dogs and that women cat fight, but society has gotten this all mixed up. I say it is the other way around. First, let's take a look at cats and men. Cats are anti-social. They generally like to do their own thing. There are entire days when they barely leave there favorite spot on the couch except to find food. When cats do have a sudden productive urge, they often express it by hunting down weaker prey and leaving the entrails of said prey for the lady of the house to clean up. And every cat fight which I have been witness to has involved plenty of blood and gore. Also, cats generally go to the litter box by themselves. I have yet to see a group of felines waiting in line for the Fresh Step. Cats and men are both solitary beings.

Now let's take a look at women and dogs. Dogs are needy. They are territorial (if you don't think women are territorial just try to flirt with one of your friend's husbands and see how long you stay friends). They like to antagonize one another. Instead of beating the tar out of one another as cats do, dogs will stand for hours just barking at one another from opposite sides of the fence. Dogs are people pleasers. In fact, it is their main goal in life to please almost every one they meet. And, last but not least, dogs, when in the wild, travel in packs. Where there is a pack, there is always a leader of the pack (where there is a leader of the pack, there is always an irritating eighties song that plays over and over again in your head- maybe that's just me......). We hear so much about the alpha male of society, but the alpha female is scarcely mentioned. Perhaps some of you reading this post are alphas. I myself, am not. But we have all had our fair share of experience with the alpha female. She is the woman in the room whose jokes are always hilarious, who can make snide, jabbing remarks and play them off as charming. There is a threat of retaliation always lurking behind her perfectly set, Crest white teeth, should anything upset the delicate balance that keeps the rest of the pack firmly and fearfully at her flank. Her clothes are the best because she wears them the best. Her husband is the best because he is married to her. Her children are the best because.......hello.....they are the offspring of perfection itself! She will rarely admit these truths in a direct manner, but every body movement, every girlish giggle, every, "Truly darling; you are too kind" conveys that perfectionism is her territory. And if another member of the pack were to dare to endeavor to surpass her in any area, that member would be promptly ousted from the pack and become a lone wolf. The most telling sign that you may be in the presence of the alpha bitch (what?- it's a female dog) is this- whenever you are in her presence, you automatically go into compete mode, whether you are by nature a competitive person or not. I have never had much of a competitive edge myself, but I can always tell when the alpha is near because some deep instinctual urge rises up within me.......some primal drive to acclimate, to follow the lead of the alpha; to do what she is doing only better. I have non-alpha friends whom I feel perfectly comfortable hanging out with in sweats and no makeup. If, however, I know I may be in the presence of an alpha that day, I spend an inordinate amount of time in front of the mirror, and still leave feeling defeated because I do not look like Angelina Jolie, and Angelina Jolie is the only person in the world who could possibly throw off the alpha's game.

For these reasons, I spent most of my time in high school hanging out with guys. There was no drama, no behind the back open-mouthed gapes upon spying a jean label that wasn't designer. As a result of my hanging out with guys to avoid being dominated by the alphas, I was voted "biggest flirt" in my high school senior class.......basically the same thing as "most hated" by all of the other females in the senior class. I naively believed that the female pack mentality would end after high school. Was I ever wrong! The packs are perhaps even more impenetrable when the alphas reach adulthood.

I know I am coming off as being bitter toward all other women. This truly is not the case. I have some very dear, life long friends who happen to be other ousted pack members who just didn't make the cut. And I think I am finally beginning to realize that most of us leave the pack by choice. We reach a breaking point; then have a moment of clarity when we finally realize that we have been running our whole lives, out of breath, paws bloody, trying desperately to keep up with a pack of wolves, when we were really born to be lionesses.

Hurdles

Names of persons in this blog have been changed so that those persons involved may avoid further humiliation. Last night, I was out with my friend, Petunia. We had met for frozen yogurt, and naturally, had headed to Walmart afterward, since it was after 10:00, and nothing else is open in the city of Idaho Falls at that time. We thought we might even get lucky and be able to snap a few photos to submit to the People of Walmart website. As we headed toward the home decor department, Petunia tripped over a dolly full of palettes, barely avoiding a total face plant. We laughed until our sides ached and then began swapping stories of our clumsiest moments. When it comes to being clumsy, I think I could rival the Three Stooges. We are talking about the girl who blackened her eye with a pair of pliers while canning apples, after all. Petunia and I relate on so many levels. Our aptitude for turning simple every day objects and occurences into potential death traps is just one of the many qualities we share, along with having a total and complete lack of direction. Between our talent for creating slapstick comedy while simply attempting to walk through a supermarket aisle, and a sense of direction that could get us lost in a cul de sac, I don't think my dear Petunia or myself would make it far in a Hunger Games scenario. Petunia and I share everything. I didn't think there were any skeletons in our friendship closet..... until last night, when Petunia shared with me the story of the hurdle....... She was in middle school track. I think she usually ran long distance. One day, with absolutely no prior training, she decided that she would like to try hurdle jumping. How hard could it be? You run, you jump. Simple as that.

Now, keep in mind that we are talking about the same girl who, moments before relating this story, had been inches away from forming a closer acquantance with the Walmart floor, courtesy of a crate dolly......back to middle school, where Petunia is preparing to jump the hurdle.....with the typical determination that Petunia puts forth in everything she does, she began running at a full sprint toward the hurdle. Closer and closer........faster and faster..... until it was there, right in front of her. Petunia had reached the hurdle, but she did not jump. Instead, she stopped dead in her tracks, and screamed. As a circle of concerned onlookers formed around her, she decided she had to try to retrieve whatever shred of dignity she could. She would still jump that hurdle! From a standing position, a few feet from the hurdle, she attempted to do just that. It doesn't take a vivid imagination to visualize the end result. Knees met hurdle, followed by face (as well as sprawled arms and legs) meeting floor. For the remainder of middle school track, any misstep, trip or close encounter with a hurdle was referred to as "pulling a Petunia". Enough years have passed, that Petunia can now look back at this incident with humor. In fact, by the end of her anecdote, both of us were laughing so unabashedly that the guy wearing two flannel shirts and a mullet was glaring at us like we were the strange ones.

To be fair, I must now relate my own recent tale of humiliation. Though I have many stories of nearly landing myself in the E.R. while performing mundane daily tasks, the incident which I will now relate involves a piano and a bad case of nerves. A few weeks ago, I was asked to play a piano solo in church. I decided on a beautiful song and proceeded to practice it until I'm sure my family never cared if they heard it again! The climax of the song was full of runs and chords. I practiced this portion of the song until I could have played it in my sleep, knowing full well that I would be a nervous wreck during the actual performance. When the day arrived, I sat rigid, trying to focus on the words of the speakers. Instead, all I could focus on was the clammy cold sweat covering every inch of my hands. I wiped them on my dress over and over and tried to breath deeply. But I could feel the panic setting in. The moment of truth arrived. The song began beautifully. Then I came to the climax. A wizard must have sneaked out of one of my beloved Harry Potter books, followed me to church, and cast an obliviate spell on me. For at that moment, I, who had been playing the piano since the age of nine, could no more play the piano than fly to the moon! The page was blank, and I couldn't feel my fingers. They fumbled numbly for the right keys, but the resultant sound was less than harmonious. Then, I pulled a Petunia. I stopped dead in the middle of the song. For a few brief seconds, I considered standing and walking off the stage, with an apologetic curtsy. Then I thought of my children sitting in the front pew, and I knew I had to continue. I had to be an example to them of not giving up. I took a deep breath, reoriented myself and finished the piece. I was humiliated.

In the two weeks since my colossal piano flub up, I have had countless words of encouragement from members of my church congregation. I have recieved an overall sense that those people love me even more because I am not perfect (something which I have always been painfully aware of, but which was made very visible to them), and because I didn't give up. And I suppose that's the point. When Petunia met her hurdle, she was afraid. But, after only a moment's pause, she decided to try to jump it anyway. In Petunia's post-middle school life, I have personally witnessed her overcoming emotional hurdles which would make the strongest of us back down, with such quiet grace and strength, that "pulling a Petunia" these days would be one of the highest goals any of us could aspire to. We all have our own personal hurdles in our lives. Our children may go astray, but we jump that hurdle. Our husband may lose his job. We don't back down. We find out we have pancreatic cancer. We keep on running full speed ahead. Our spouse is tragically taken from us. But we lift our head, look heavenward and pray to God that we can make it over that hurdle. The hurdles are the moments which define us. My piano mishap was a relatively insignificant incident in the scheme of things. But I have learned important lessons from it; the first being that it's o.k. to not always be perfect (a hard thing for a chronic perfectionist to come to terms with). Secondly, I have learned that it's o.k. to fall flat on your face (literally or in a manner of speaking), as long as you get back up. And thirdly, I have come to realize that we never truly realize the beauty and wonder of the sky until we have had a mouthful of dirt. I have also learned that I am no quitter. From now on, when I come to a hurdle that seems insurmountable, I will stare it down, lace up my running shoes,and think, "It's time to pull a Petunia."

Seriously

As the title suggests, this will most likely be one of the only serious posts I share. I promise with my next post to return to my typical self-deprecating humor. I am sharing this because I felt inspired to. With the controversy surrounding the KONY 2012 movement, I have had the topic of human suffering and injustice constantly stirring in the back of my mind and in the center of my heart. I came across this entry from my "inspiration journal" and realized it describes exactly how I feel about the KONY campaign as well as other related issues. I am not a political activist by any stretch of the imagination. I don't have a solution. Is this journal entry simplistic? Perhaps. But that's kind of the point. Let's strip away the rhetoric and look at this from a basic human level. After all, that is what we are dealing with here: human lives. Lives of children which are being destroyed in the worst ways imaginable. I, for one, would like to raise awareness about it, and this is why:

I first came across this poem in fifth grade. It moved me so deeply that I have remembered it all these years. Coming across it a few months ago, it still moved me to tears. I have now memorized Dunbar's heart-stirring words:

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!

When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;

When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,

And the river flows like a stream of glass;

When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,

And the faint perfume from its chalice steals-

I know how the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing

Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;

For he must fly back to his perch and cling

When he fain would be on the bough a-swing,

And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars

And they pulse again with a keener sting-

I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,

When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,

When he beats his bars and he would be free;

It is not a carol of joy or glee,

But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,

But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings-

I know why the caged bird sings!

This poem inspires me so much because it describes vividly one of the most basic human desires: freedom. During Dunbar's life, in this country, there was an entire race of people who were not granted this God-given, most basic of human rights. Today, through the efforts of many who followed Dunbar's call , blacks enjoy the freedom and equal rights every human being should have. But many people in this world do not. Many people are still caged by fear, oppression, and bigotry. How can this be happening anywhere in the world, whether on a large scale, like the women in Afghanistan, or on a more personal level, like an abused or molested child, who has had their freedom to believe in the goodness of humanity forcefully and brutally taken from them? How are there still cultures who feel the right to oppress hundreds of thousands of human beings? Has not humanity become more enlightened than this? Dunbar's words are so stirring because they are universal. I think everyone has, as some point in in their life, felt trapped or caged by something out of their control. For some, it may be an abusive situation or a debilitating addiction. For me it was a crippling depression. But through all that we endure seeps that primal, yet divine, most basic of human yearnings; to be free. I also believe that this poem is meant to do more than simply cause us to empathize with Dunbar, or the caged bird. It is a call to arms to help all of the other caged birds. As I read it, another great literary work centering around a bird comes to mind; Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird. Atticus Finch plead for the freedom of a wrongly accused black man; a battle which he ultimately lost. I am also reminded of words from one of the greatest fighters for freedom; Martin Luther King Jr., who said, "Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere." The words of Dunbar, Lee and King are a call to action; a cry for justice; an invitation to use the freedom we enjoy to fight for the freedom of the oppressed everywhere. For, if the person living next to us is being oppressed, are we truly free? Or are we all together in one giant cage with bars of hatred, apathy, ignorance and intolerance?