A 7 yr. old in a 29 yr. old's body

https://youtu.be/X-7K2ElrI4o

"Just because you have an excuse for your behavior, it doesn't erase the fact that you behaved badly." I said to my 7 yr. old.  He was justifying why he threw a fit when he was told no.

I flashed back to the previous day where my boyfriend and I had a similar discussion.  I was explaining my behavior to him, and he responded with a disinterest in hearing my justification.

"I am not justifying it.  I am merely explaining it.  I understand that what I did was wrong."  I said, annoyed.

He loves it when I tell him he's right.

People always have reasons behind their actions.  We behave in certain ways because of a multitude of pre-programmed responses.  We get hurt when someone says a trigger word.  We lash out when someone presses on our insecurities.  We shut down when our fear kicks in.  The current situation perhaps has nothing to do with how these first became a part of our emotional make-up, but we still respond as if it is the original trespass.

And there are always consequences to our behavior.

The most infuriating part to me, as an incredibly (often uncomfortably so) direct person is when I am misunderstood.  I am emotionally repressed (sigh), so my logical brain is usually in control.  I can explain all of my behaviors...whether they are right or not.  And am usually greeted with a curiosity that I can foster into understanding.

Those who don't know me, however, don't have my endless explanations for my behavior.  They, rightly so, have only the action to base their judgement on.

Actions speak louder than words...as I have been known to say often.

As a Type 8 on the Enneagram, I am quick to think that emotions are stupid.  I act quickly and from my gut without taking time to think about how something makes me feel.  It takes me quite a while to acknowledge my feelings.  It takes me quite a while to even admit I have them.  But one of my besties is a Type 2 on the Enneagram.  She's a feeler.  So my lack of emotional knowledge is an enjoyable challenge for her.  She pushes me out of my area of comfortability from the land of action and into the vulnerable land of feeling.  This is thoroughly uncomfortable for me.  If I didn't trust and respect her, this exercise would be one in futility and angst.  And we likely would not be friends for long.

My intellectual mind knows that emotions are crucial.   I have read enough solid research to know that emotions are the landscape behind our actions.  They drive what we say and do.  To resist understanding them is to resist growth.  Because emotions are great deceivers.  They are masters at keeping us unhealthy.

And everyone's emotional lies are different.

(Side Note: I had to google "List of Emotions" ... this is how emotionally retarded I am.)

My Emotion:  Sadness
My Lie:  I am unloveable.

My Emotion:  Anger
My Lie:  I am helpless.

My Emotion:  Fear
My Lie:  I am alone.

 My Emotion:  Disgust
My Lie:  I am better than you.

If I did not grow past reacting to my unknown emotion, I would behave as my 7 yr. old did.  I would throw an adult tantrum and refuse to stop screaming.

Though this may sound tempting as an adult to just let it all hang out, it is a behavior that would not entice people to hang around you.  The emotional lies that you have told yourself will manifest and you would indeed end up being unloveable, helpless, alone, and arrogant.

So as much as it pains me to say, I am finding it necessary to pay attention to my emotion.  Without acknowledging them, I am a 7 yr. old in the body of a 29 yr. old.

You. Are. Good. So, So, So Good.

Purpose yourself to become perfect at failing.  
So you can remember that you are never actually any of your own names.  
So you can remember that you are free.  
You are no more and no less 
than every single one of your rebirths, 
and you can't be afraid to light it all on fire. 
-- Jamie Lee Finch

I listened with intensity.  My palms started sweating.  My heart beat a bit faster.  Warmth enveloped me.  Every word she spoke landed in a place I hadn't nurtured for fear of total obliteration.

But she spoke them.  And I was home.

Being a Southern Baptist has never sat right with me.  The narrowness of the ideals, the convoluted messages, the judgment of ourselves and others was something I could not sign up for.  I always felt disconnected and estranged.  I was living something I did not believe.  But my questions remained dormant.

Enter Nadia Bolz-Weber.  My friend introduced her to me. Little did she know she had just started a nuclear war in my soul.

From the time I was little, I was told I was a sinner.  I was given the message loud and clear that I was inherently bad and needed to confess repeatedly for my shortcomings.  I was told the world was lost, save our small religious group.  I was encouraged to witness to my "lost" friends.  I memorized scripture.  I prayed without ceasing.  I denied myself.  By all accounts, I was a Christian who was saved from the fiery furnace because I prayed the Sinner's Prayer.  I had this under lock.

I married a man who "became a Christian" while we were dating.  That box was checked, so surely our marriage would be wonderful.  When he slept on the couch the night of our honeymoon and I cried myself to sleep, the nagging feeling that I had made a grave error became my companion.  For three long years I read the Bible.  I wept.  I memorized scripture.  I read books about being a Christian wife.  I did Bible Studies about being a virtuous woman.

And filled my journals with anguish.

I prayed consistently that God would give me a clear sign...that I was to stay or I was to go.  I lived in limbo for three years until one morning I woke up and clearly saw that the door was open.  I walked through it and shot up my middle finger to the words in the Bible that some saw fit to repeat to me...

"God hates divorce."

Being a twice divorced daughter of a Southern Baptist preacher who got pregnant with my beautiful boy out of wedlock is a hilarious combination.  Not only was I a woman, but now I was divorced.  My chances of rising in leadership in my church were pathetically fantastical.  So I took my sad, scorned soul and sat in the back.  Mostly seething.

Nadia opened the box of the dormant questions.  They flooded my soul and carried away all my maddeningly damaging narratives.  How radically life changing would it have been for me had I been given the message that I was inherently good from the beginning?  How life changing it would have been if I had been told that I didn't need a Savior to make me good...I only needed a Savior to save me from the false story I told myself...that I was bad, broken, incomplete, crippled, damaged, flawed, unlovable, lacking, feeble. 

The truth is..

You are good.   You have always been good.  Right from the beginning.  
And I'm sorry if anyone told you otherwise.
This breath, these hands, those feet, that smile, those ears, that heart, this heart, this beating heart, this breath...it's good.  It's all good.  So so so good.
You are loved.  You are so loved.  You are lovable.  
You have been working so hard.  I don't have to know how to know that it's true.
You are precious.  You are not a mistake.
You are very on purpose.
You are not broken.  You never were.
I'm sorry that you might've thought that.
I'm sorry anyone made you think that.
That wasn't about you.  
But you, you are enough.
You are totally enough.
You don't have to earn your enoughness.
You don't have to grovel for value, for love, for goodness.
You already have it.
You already are it.
You are loved.
You. Are. Loved.
And you ... you are good.  So, so good.
Hilary McBride
The Liturgist Podcast

Woes of a Single Mom

"Get up, Rebekah.  Silence doesn't always visit."

I looked at the clock.  5:18 a.m.

I wrapped myself in my Game of Thrones robe and grabbed my phone.  Once I safely padded to the kitchen without killing myself or waking my children in the dark, I looked at my phone.

4:19 a.m.

Big sigh.  Time change is not my friend.  I padded back to my bedroom, de-robed and crawled back into bed.

"Get up, Rebekah.  Silence doesn't always visit."

After wrestling with myself for a few minutes, Healthy Rebekah won.  She was surprised by this.  She doesn't win often.

Healthy and Disagreeable Rebekah padded back to the kitchen and turned the kettle on.  After the the two girls made their peace, I sat down to write.

I have been failing as a mother lately.  I spoke these same words to my son one night recently, except the insult was aimed at him.  I actually told my son that he kept failing.  He had missed a homework assignment and my anxiety would not stay silent.  I immediately held him on my lap and apologized.  "I'm so sorry, honey.  That was a terrible thing to say.  You are wonderful.  I'm the one who keeps failing."

The weight of my plight as a single mother had firmly sat on my shoulders and forced me to feel it.  After days of me being taut with stress, my brain was tired of the battle and laid down his armor.  I'm an expert at avoiding feelings.  I am an Enneagram Type 8, Self-Preserving Subtype.  I act, then think, then feel.  You would think with all the knowledge that I have about myself, I'd be more aware of my innate ability to ignore feelings.  But I'm just not.   I stuff those things right down and pick up a Swiffer.  Daily.   (Except for anger...I have that down pat.)

"Because it doesn't f***ing matter!  Nothing will change!"  My feelings decided to surface in a phone call with my friend in response to her asking why I didn't talk to her when she knew I wasn't OK.

Fear, Loneliness, Hopelessness, Worry, Anger (my old pal), Sadness...all feelings I unsuccessfully tried to mask in that phone call.

She got it.  She's a single mom.

I get tired of using that excuse.  I compare myself to my mom and other moms constantly.  Most of them, however, are still married to their baby daddy.

So let me just go ahead and use that excuse.  I'm a single mom.

It blankets every area of my life.  I have to be aware of every penny that I spend.  I have to have a large resource of energy.  I have to be physically and mentally sharp.  I cannot fail.  I work eight hours a day scrubbing toilets and dusting blinds.  My physical body cannot fail.  I make doctor's appointments, calls to teachers, calls to bill collectors, calls to clients on my earphones while I mop.  My life is a flurry of activity.  I use my going out money to buy school uniforms.  I use my savings to buy them shoes.  (Every. Three. Months. Homeboys will not stop growing.)  I have a special calendar for them, filled with due dates, test dates, appointments, and of course their visitation with dad.

Co-parenting with someone who is hostile towards you is not fun.  Sometimes I wish I had stayed in my marriage just to save me from this nightmare.  Please, Tiny Baby Jesus, help my head not to explode.

I have recently been doing the "Let it Be" meditation.  This requires no action on my part.  It isn't the "Letting Go" meditation, which is action oriented.  This is just leaving things as they are.

And for a doer...this is quite the challenge.

I have recently discovered, in my failed attempt yet again at romance, that a romantic companion does little to ease the angst of single motherhood.  If anything, it adds a layer of even more difficult things to balance...your time becomes a commodity.  Something that you have to bargain with and sacrifice.  Planning becomes essential.  I'm not a planner.  Rebekah the Planner is not my gig.  Those words don't even sound good together.  Emotions start peeking out from their hiding place.  It's altogether a precarious event.

Opening your heart just enough for someone to sneak a toe in is treacherous.  There are many pitfalls to this.  And if you miss a beat, you fall in the swamp.  With the alligators.  And snakes.  And insects that look strange.  It's quite the risk.

Failure is almost inevitable.

As is true for most of us, I carry a deep sadness in my soul.  One that has no sick or vacation days.  It's always at work.  Equipped and ready to ride along with me. Every. Damn. Day. 24/7.

The beauty of being an Enneagram 8 is that I typically believe emotions are a waste of time.  With the help of my Type 2 friends, however, I am trying to give them the air time they deserve.  They carry a secret to your soul that only they know.  And ignoring their wisdom just prolongs the pain.

So when they surfaced yesterday, I just let them have the day.  I didn't stop crying.  I took my son to the doctor with puffy eyes and carried on an adult conversation about his health.  I went to the grocery store and checked out while the cashier eyed me curiously.  I cleaned two houses and talked to clients in a professional manner while they were left to wonder if my eyes were always that red and they just never noticed.  I helped my son with his homework and cried.  I made dinner and cried.  I tucked them into bed and cried.   I put away laundry and cried.  I did the dishes and cried.  I made myself just FEEL all the feelings.  And hated every minute of it.

But my brain needed the information that only my emotions could unlock.  So I let those suckers run amuck.

And the secret they revealed was this...my fear of being weak has dominated my life.  As a result, I have closed more doors than I should have.

Disagreeable Rebekah has had the first part of my life.  It's time for Healthy Rebekah to take over.  But we'll see who wins that battle.

Sleeping at Last
Eight

https://youtu.be/K99i5GF65to

I remember the minute

It was like a switch was flipped

I was just a kid who grew up strong enough

To pick this armor up

And suddenly it fit

God, that was so long ago, long ago, long ago

I was little, I was weak, perfectly naive

And I grew up too quick

Now you won’t see all that I have to lose

And all I've lost in the fight to protect it

I won’t let you in, I swore never again

I can't afford, no, I refuse to be rejected

I want to break these bones 'til they're better

I want to break them right and feel alive

You were wrong, you were wrong, you were wrong

My healing needed more than time

When I see fragile things, helpless things, broken things

I see the familiar

I was little, I was weak, I was perfect too

Now I’m a broken mirror

But I can't let you see all that I have to lose

All I’ve lost in the fight to protect it

I can't let you in, I swore never again

I can't afford to let myself be blindsided

I'm standing guard, I'm falling apart

And all I want is to trust you

Show me how to lay my sword down

For long enough to let you through

Here I am, pry me open

What do you want to know?

I’m just a kid who grew up scared enough

To hold the door shut

And bury my innocence

But here's a map, here's a shovel

Here’s my Achilles' heel

I’m all in, palms out, I’m at your mercy now and I'm ready to begin

I am strong, I am strong, I am strong enough to let you in

I’ll shake the ground with all my might

I will pull my whole heart up to the surface

For the innocent, for the vulnerable

I'll show up on the front lines with a purpose

And I’ll give all I have, i'll give my blood, I'll give my sweat

An ocean of tears will spill for what is broken

I’m shattered porcelain, glued back together again

Invincible like I've never been

I am their Mother

I closed the door and allowed the tears to fall.  I hugged my son and went quickly to my bedroom so my emotions could be unbridled without fear of affect.

 "I'm a better mother to the boys than you ever have been."

Words of their now step-mother sitting heavily, encompassing all the free space in my brain. 

I know it's not true.  I know it was said in anger and frustration and from someone who feels threatened by me.  I know this.  But there is always that small part, the dark part, the contrary part that confirms the false.

I recently made a difficult decision concerning my youngest.  After multiple events of obvious stress, I removed my son from his school.  He will not be going back.

I have brought him to that school and watched him walk in, fear prickling my soul.  I have felt uneasy with his attendance there from the beginning.

I should have fought harder.

Graham has had enough to contend with in his short life.  He died but was given back to us.  He has undergone multiple therapies.  Multiple doctors.  Multiple tests and analysis.  He has been poked and prodded and put on display.  His brain has suffered the consequences of his stressful existence.  And school has added to his stress.  A place that should provide comfort and encouragement instead became just another obstacle in his recovery.

I have laid awake at night, mulling over this decision.  I have cried many tears and allowed myself to be vulnerable in situations I typically master.  I have let my boyfriend hold me as my body trembled with grief.  I wake up with anxiety and go to bed with anxiety.  My dreams are full of conflict and disturbances.

This level of despair calls for more than my earthly mind can handle.

So I prayed.

And in the midst of my wrestling with the Almighty, He whispered to me.

"It is time to fight for your son."

I have doubted myself as a mother since that fateful day when Graham fell into a bucket.  I was responsible.  I was blamed.  I was whispered about among mothers.  I was shamed.  And I have struggled with that doubt since.  As a result, I have allowed people who don't know my son as well as I do, to make decisions for him.  I have allowed others to have input into my decisions.  I have been swayed incorrectly at times.  I have ignored my gut.

God created us with an innate need for someone else.  We form an attachment as infants immediately out of the womb that cannot be reversed.  I am that someone for my boys.

The legal definition of primary caregiver is: the parent who has the greatest responsibility for the daily care and rearing of a child. It also refers to a person who has had the greatest responsibility for the daily care and rearing of a child. This person can be a non parent also.

Even if there are women out there who discredit my ability as their mother, the fact that I am their safe haven cannot be changed.

So the gloves are on and I am ready to fight for my child.

I am their mother.  Try taking that away from me.  I dare you.

Thanks to all my Exes

I keep a daily journal of things I'm thankful for, and my running list of ten goals.  Rachel Hollis said this is supposed to re-focus you and bring you closer to your goals everyday, so I obeyed and bought her $30 journal.  The interesting thing about journaling daily things that you're thankful for, is that eventually seemingly negative items end up on it.  I journaled the other day that I was thankful for ex-boyfriends.  I have learned a lot from my failed relationships.

I googled one of them out of curiosity and landed on his memorial page.  Bobby was 39 when he passed and left a wife and four kids behind.  He was one of the most amazing humans I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.  He loved people.  Intensely.  He loved them because he loved God.  He was kind and thoughtful.  He was comfortable in his own skin.  He never felt embarrassed by who he was...and sometimes who he was was embarrassing...to me, a 23 yr. old girl who was very UN-OK in her own skin.  He had this crazy red hair and a man bun.  He wore pants from Thailand that were baggy and tied around his waste.  He was always smiling this mischievous smile.  He was gentle and forgiving with me.  I was a complete disaster at that age, yet he loved me so well I felt almost whole.

As an 8 on the Enneagram, I act first when something happens.  So after discovering his death I immediately called my sister, who also knew Bobby.  We talked about it and I shared memories because my next response is to think.  My last response is always to feel.  It didn't hit me until hours later...the tears finally found their way down my cheeks.

Life happens in these small moments.  It was a very small act that I conducted..googling an ex... that triggered years of memories.  I thought about every boyfriend I had ever had.  Those that I loved and those that I didn't.  Those that were there for seasons and those that hung on through many seasons.  I thought about all the things I learned from them...the good, the bad, the confirmed ugly. 

When we learn to start paying attention to our body's responses to events, we learn to embrace the beauty and simplicity of life...and hopefully learn to be grateful.  My tears over Bobby's death meant something.  It wasn't as easy to label as grief because I hadn't known him for years.  So I walked myself through the feelings...a highly uncomfortable thing for this feeling repressed feeling woman to do.  And at the root of it was fear...the fear that I missed out on what could have been an incredible life.

Pause for dramatic effect.  Because my life is pretty incredible.

Our brains are amazingly subtle in their messages.  They have learned to protect us so well that they take cues from small fears and wreak havoc.  This one small fear could have gotten out of control.  It could have destroyed all that I was thankful for presently.  It could have eaten away the memories of other men, the beauty of the heartaches, the impossibility of knowing.  It could have taken away from me my gratitude.

And without gratitude, we are doomed to live a sub-par life.

So my girl Rach, thank you for the $30 journal.  I wonder what seemingly negative thing I will find to be thankful for today.

Self Care -- a Gross Transgression??

I waited for the familiar flip of my stomach, the increase in my heart rate, the reddening of my face.  I anticipated it.  It was an old friend whose company had long been accepted and adjusted to.  He had made himself at home at my dinner table more times than I could count when this thought arose, so I had already set his place.

But this time, homeboy stood me up.

For the first time since Kindergarten when my affections fell on the cutest boy in my class, the familiar physiological cues of anxiety surrounding a boy a.k.a. man did not make an appearance.

I was confused.  Surely I'm still the same little girl whose worth depends upon whether the flavor of the month likes her or not.  Surely, at 42, this hasn't changed.  Perhaps my body didn't get the cues right and is simply delayed in its response.

I waited five minutes and thought about the boy a.k.a. man again.  Still nothing, Jesus.

It settled on me with a heaviness mixed with relief and joy.  I had broken my body's response to what I used to categorize as fear.  I had said enough times in the midst of my unwelcome dinner guest things to combat his presence.

"You are enough."
"You are beautiful."
"You are kind."
"You are intelligent."
"You deserve more."
"You are honest."
"You are worthy."
"You are amazing."
"You are a catch."
"Any man would be lucky to have you."
"You are funny."
"You are successful."

My brain had been programmed for so long to believe the opposite.  When a thought about a man arose, my brain immediately went into protection mode.  My body cleared the way for anxiety to settle in with its physical responses to my negative thoughts.  They went something like this:

"You are not good enough for him."
"Of course he doesn't like you."
"You're too fat for him."
"You're not successful enough."
"You don't work out enough."
"You're not pretty enough."
"You're too much."
"You drink too much."
"You laugh too loudly."
"Your nose is too big."
"You're not clever enough."
"You're too clingy."
"You're not funny."
"He's too good for you."

and so on...

After my two week stint of anticipating news of cancer, I suppose my brain was finally done with the bullshit.  It finally got the clue that my time belonged only to me and to waste it would be foolish.  It finally flipped the script and joined the "We Love Rebekah" camp of positive thoughts.

I had successfully changed my brain.

Our responses to life are controlled by what we have taught our brain to believe.  If we believe that we are worthy, our brain will look for things to reinforce that belief.  If we believe the opposite, it will do the same.

But we are in control of this phenomenon.  We are the ones steering our thoughts.  We are the ones controlling our beliefs.  We, alone, hold the power to changing ourselves.

Along with this beautiful acceptance of myself came the desire to be alone.

I'm not afraid of spending time alone.  I never have been.  I am usually very happily singing to very loud music and cleaning.  I play the piano.  I paint.  I garden.  I cook.  I am not the girl who can't be alone.  But this sense of aloneness that I now crave is different.  I'm always aware of myself and the joy I find in being me.  I'm alone in crowds, just me and my thoughts having interesting conversations.  I'm alone when I work, though I work alongside a helper and the occasional client.

I'm the coolest person I know, so being alone now has this extra edge of beauty and mystery to it.

Growing up in a Southern Baptist environment, the theme was to die to yourself.  Anything about self-love was considered mystical and sinful.  I have first hand experience with this faulty thinking.   (This conversation requires Chopin...please hold while I play the Chopin Pandora station to get the creative juices turned on.)

But if we are to truly love others, we must love ourselves first.  We are incapable of wholly loving if we loathe who we are.  I'm no expert on the Bible anymore, but I vaguely remember a verse about loving others as we love ourselves.  This assumes that we do, in fact, love ourselves.

So where is the disconnect?  Why did the church assume that loving yourself was sinful and evil?  Why is self-care a "mystical" and "Eastern" idea to good, Baptist folk?

I clearly remember sitting in a Sunday School class as an adult when a woman began talking about how she meditates and does Yoga to help her with her anxiety.  The response from the teacher was less than tasteful...it was something like "those practices are not godly because they are self-centered."

John Calvin said, "Without knowledge of self, there is no knowledge of God."

I agree heartily with this statement.

Our parents' generation has resisted loving themselves.  They have resisted self-care and self-awareness.  They have hidden from it, like it was a secret holocaust ready to implode.  I have been scoffed at many times for doing things to take care of myself as a mother.  The unspoken words were that they didn't do all of these things and were able to raise us just fine.  The subtle message is that they are stronger than we are because they didn't need such frivolities. 

But the truth was they were stressed out, unhappy mothers who were hanging on by a thread.

What a disservice they suffered...largely the fault of the church and its not-so-subtle message that self-care was wrong.  They must have stayed in high-anxiety mode because the solutions were not only considered selfish and wrong, but considered a gross transgression against God.  Their brains must have stayed stressed out.  They must have been tired.  They were definitely unappreciated.  They must have been alone and fearful.  When perhaps the solution to all their anxiety and stress and exhaustion was just a damn trip to Target by themselves with their favorite coffee.

I believe that we are so convoluted in our ideas of strength that we have shut off the tap that would otherwise freely flow God's love and care.  If strength was instead wholly loving yourself, which would be proven by your acts of self-care, then the world would be a lot less stressed out and much more loving.

If I had not been on a mission to love myself, my brain would have continued on its erroneous path of self-destructive messages.  These thoughts become actions.  And actions have consequences.

I can say without doubt that my actions are mostly the actions of a woman who wholly loves herself.  There are those moments when I eat too much ice cream or drink too much, but I'm in process, okay?????  And Blue Bell and vodka was made to be enjoyed.  I'm just a girl standing in front of a freezer asking it to feed me frozen, creamy goodness.

Thanks to my journey to love myself, my brain and I are now on a positive upswing (Bluebell and vodka are also present).  I no longer have anxiety responses to boys not liking me.  I could care less.  I have more than enough love for myself...men no longer hold the key to the delightful kingdom of Rebekah.

Naked Fear

I was sitting in the waiting room with my Ochsner robe on, flipping through a magazine.  It was drafty in there and I was wishing I had worn my wool-lined Uggs and boot socks to combat the chill...at least on the bottom half of my body.  The small thought that perhaps I would get bad news quickly flitted through my head then was quickly dismissed.  Nothing like that happens to me, I thought to myself.   My body and I are too tight...it wouldn't betray me.

The Radiologist squeezed the cold gel on my chest and started the invasion.  Right breast was quick and easy.  Left breast...he took longer.  Much longer.  The mood in the room went from light and chatty to unnervingly quiet.  He and the nurse fussed over me as they cleaned the gel off and helped me back into my robe.  He sat somberly in his chair and began the explanation of his findings.  He found a mass.  It was concerning.  The words biopsy and cancer hung in the air.  I stopped breathing at some point and fought back tears.  Surely this would not be the moment my life drastically changed.  Surely not in this tiny room with these strangers halfway dressed after being groped would the course of my life screech to a halt.  Surely...

I begged silently for their words to stop so I could escape to my car and release the sobs I was stifling.  The doctor gently shook my hand and left in silence.  The nurse told me to take a deep breath and directed me to the changing room.  Finally, I found myself in my car and the pending sobs collapsed as threatened.

When I was able to squeak out a "hello," I began calling my family.  Their words were expected and comforting:

"We don't know anything yet."
"This is standard procedure."
"It's a very treatable kind of cancer if they caught it early."
And my favorite, by my brother-in-law.... "Don't go to crazy-town, Rebekah."

I am two years past the due date for my mammogram.  I hate making time to go to the doctor.  I'm super healthy, so it seems like a waste of time...so I thought.  But when I had my annual last week, my doctor urged me to go see if there was a spot for a mammogram open that day.  Within minutes, I was waiting, topless, to get my breasts squeezed uncomfortably into a machine.  I was disgruntled and irritated at the seeming waste of time.  Even when I got the call stating there were abnormalities and an ultrasound was needed, I scoffed.  We'll see if I actually make this appointment, I thought to myself.  There is nothing wrong with me.

For two weeks, my family and close friends held their breath.  They called often.  They texted  more.  I walked through the following weeks with an intense amount of anxiety.  Food was not appealing.  I learned to go to sleep and wake with a huge pressure sitting on my chest.  I learned to manage living as a mom and business owner with almost paralyzing stress.

I am thankful the anxiety ended with good news.  The lump was benign.  Not everyone is this lucky.

I did not escape that experience unscathed.  It altered the course of my life.  It changed the chemistry in my brain as my body struggled to stay balanced.  It changed my relationships...it deepened some and gave me permission to release others.  It forced me to be exposed and vulnerable ... to be human.

I said one night to my dear friend during the height of my anxiety that if this experience has done anything for me, it has pushed me to live fearlessly.  Well, even more fearlessly.  (I'm not exactly the girl that hides from experiences out of fear.)

But what does scare me is continuing to evolve as a woman independent of a man.  My fear is that I will scare off any possibility of companionship by being fiercely autonomous.  As a result, I have hesitated in my growth.  I have tiptoed towards it with caution.  I have considered the consequences of my actions through the lens of companionship instead of my own evolution.

Having that word "cancer" uttered by a stranger in relation to my body was enough to release me from this tether.  I will no longer pause in my procession towards greatness.  Life is too short to be shackled.  It's too precious to be stifled.  And should I find myself once again in a drafty room with a robe on to cover my nakedness from sterile strangers, I will be able to rest in the knowledge that I lived fearlessly.

A Star Is Born

I went to see A Star is Born.

Heavy Sigh.

The premise of the movie is two people who immediately have a deep connection.  Their romance is fast and furious, full of emotion and passion, angst and tears.  Lots and lots of tears. 

As I watched it, with a man I've been dating beside me, I found myself incredibly uncomfortable.  I felt like I was supposed to buy into the idea that love looks like that.  I felt like I was suddenly daft and ignorant to how relationships work and what love is.  I felt exactly like the movie wanted me to feel....caught up in the fairy tale and folded into the story line...lost in their beauty and discontent with my own.

I left the theater thinking that I had missed the boat on great love because none of my relationships looked like that.

We walked out silently while I tried to hold it together.  My mind was full of my own failures at romance and the fear that it will never happen again for me.  I was deconstructing all my relationships and all the reasons we shouldn't have dated.  Mostly, it was because we couldn't sing, he doesn't make me cry, and he would never write me a love song. 

Firm eye roll.

I carried these emotions with me into the next day.  And the next day, which was the dreaded court date over custody of my boys.  I sat in that office while my lawyer made my case, across from my ex-husband, and felt overwhelmed with failure and fear.  The result was not in my favor.  I gathered up my large file of why their dad should get less time with them, picked up what dignity I had left, and exited the building where my life had just changed.  Again.

I spent the entire day crying.  Hard, ugly crying.  I had to wear sunglasses to pick my boys up so they, and the rest of the world, wouldn't see my pain.

My friends and family called, but I couldn't hear the disappointment in their voice.  I couldn't hear their "I told you so" tone (that was most likely just in my imagination).  I couldn't hear any encouragement or positivity.  Nothing was going to be received.  I avoided the phone calls.  The one thing I was able to do was Marco Polo (video app) one of my besties who lets me video journal my life.  I talked unhinged.  By the end of the day, my eyes were swollen and painful.

Through my unfiltered blubberings to my bestie, many things became apparent.
1.  I had bought into the lie that my life was harder than other people's.
2.  I was ill equipped to handle the difficulty.
3.  I would never find great love like Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper.  (Insert a sarcastic, but gravely serious, chuckle.)
4.  I would never love and be loved again.

The beauty in surrounding yourself with people who know and love you...and are themselves incredible people, is that their truths combat your lies.

When I was ready to receive it, my dear friend spoke truth over me.

1.  My life is not unique in that it is filled with difficulty.  Join the freakin' club, sister.
2.  The same God who parted the Red Sea, who tore down the walls of Jericho and who raised Jesus from the dead is the One who is with you.  Nothing is too difficult for Him.
3.  I found great love like Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper, despite the fact that neither one of us could sing.  He was also an alcoholic and it also ended.  (As it should have...but huge, freakin' sigh.)
4.  I may not find love again...but my life is full despite not having someone to share it with.  And for the first time in a long while I'm fine alone.  (Not happy alone...not content alone ... but fine.)

We're all just broken people trying to find our place in the world.  Our place may or may not be in a romantic relationship.   And it certainly doesn't include Bradley Cooper (another huge, freakin' sigh).  But this star, like Lady Gaga, was born out of brokenness.

Eat Up, Girl

I was stress eating last night, which is far better than stress drinking because you wake up without a hangover though you hate yourself a little more than if you had been drinking.  I ate Blue Bell, then I finished off a King Cake I had from the football party.  It was satisfyingly delicious and appeased my need for emotional eating.  I follow the Keto diet mostly, but I do have moments of cheating.  Sometimes these moments stretch into days.  But who's counting.

Every time I eat something I shouldn't, this chorus of voices starts singing loudly that I am weak.  I stuff their mouths with a sandwich and continue consuming my erroneous food choice.

The beauty about being mentally healthy...perhaps as mentally healthy as I will ever be ... is that I no longer allow the thought that I failed in my consumption of large amounts of calories to travel to my self-esteem where it used to make itself at home.  And fix another damn sandwich.  This time, the failure extends only so far as my stomach...that is protruding a little further than it should.  And homegirl moves on.  Because I burn at least 1500 calories a day cleaning houses for a living and I can afford to cheat a little.

I am smugly satisfied at the changes in my perception of myself and the world.  I love myself more.  I can recognize when others aren't loving me and am able to move the heck on.  I respect myself more and can recognize disrespect in others...and move the heck on.  I tolerate much less.  I allow few opinions to seep into my psyche.  I am focused and driven.  I accept that I will have bad days...and move the heck on.  (I would really like to say "move the the f#$% on", but I'm a Southern woman and that is not appropriate vocabulary.  But it is secretly one of my favorite words...forgive me, tiny baby Jesus.)

My dad said to me when I was having a wallow-kind-of-day and in a state of upset while on the phone with him, "honey, let's just move on."  I was a little miffed at his words.  I felt like a ten minute griping session was not even close to satisfying my need to gripe.  But I accepted his lament and moved the heck (or f!**) on.  Later that night, my son was having a total meltdown about not getting a toy at the toy store in the mall.  I found myself repeating my dad's words when I felt he had cried enough tears over the subject, though I said it not as nicely as my dad, "baby, you got to move on!"  (I may have said it shrilly and with much exasperation.  Homegirl is not as smugly satisfied about her patience with her children.)  My son did not obey as well as his mother did when told this by a parent, for the record.  I do act like an obedient adult on occasion and do as I'm told.  But that is more than likely restricted only to instructions by my father.

What is perhaps the most amazing thing about growth is that the healthier you become, the closer you become to the person you were CREATED to be.  God is amazing like that.  He is the epitome of goodness.  He is the epitome of mental health.  He knows that we are better people, more able to love and accept love, when we are the fullness of who we were meant to be.  He knows because He designed us that way.  He is not a champion of weakness or self-hate.  He is the defender of weakness and the abolisher of self-hate.  He is the protector of all things good.  He is the author of self-love and mental health.  None of this is new to Him.  None of this is surprising to Him.  Humans have always hated themselves.  Humans have always left on the table what they should have been consuming in large portions... self-love.  That is the one thing that won't make your stomach protrude or leave you hating yourself a little the next morning.  So eat up, girl.

Slightly Bitter, Single Woman

A few days ago I was scrolling through my favorite app...the Bumble app.  (For all of you who are ignorant about online dating, this is a dating app.)

Insert sarcastic chuckle.

I was having a particularly lonely day and this is the app where single people go when they are lonely.  It is hopeful with its yellow colors and cheerful bee allusions.  It seduces you into believing this is where you will find your hive...and become a Queen.

Its yellow mirage is sneaky.

My favorite profiles go something like this:

"You can find me in the gym or on my boat.  Love traveling, snowboarding, fishing, running, biking, and reading.  I have my s**t together and you should too.  No drama. Am very fit and healthy.  If you do not have your sh#t together, swipe left."

Swiping left = move on, Linda

What exactly does "I have my sh#t together" mean?  You own a house?  A car?  You're gainfully employed?  You invest?  You vote?   Go to church?  Have lots of friends?  Have a great credit score? You wear chinos and dress appropriately at all times?  You go to the gym daily? You floss daily?  Have a money clip?  Wear slippers around the house because you don't want to bring in dirt from the outside?  You properly groom yourself?

Fill a sister in.

In this post-divorce/40ish dating world, the bar is high.  It requires you to have hobbies, a rocking body, an above average IQ, a large bank account, a high credit score, an oversized house, an even temper, be eternally tan, nails always done, clothes always ironed, independent without the slightest need for a man, know how to fish, be ready to camp on a moment's notice, have time to invest in someone whose ego is supremely inflated, properly conduct yourself via text and Snapchat, be anxious to receive and send nude pictures, have little expectation for any kind of intentional dating, and be OK with "Netflix and chill"on a Friday night... AKA..."I'm not spending any money on getting to know you because I will not tolerate anything that requires me to put in any effort." It's a world of filters and fronts where narcissism runs rampant.

Their bar is high, but yours better not be.

Hi, my name is Rebekah and I'm a slightly bitter, single woman.

OK, maybe more than slightly.  I might have crossed that line and arrived fully with everything but a toe on the other side.  My pinky toe.  The most insignificant part of my body is still hanging on, determined to gain super human strength to maneuver my body back to the yellow, hopeful side.

(On a side note, I must give a shout out to the men that I KNOW do not fit in this category.  Keep fighting the good fight, fellas.)

I went to Trader Joe's yesterday and came home with two very inexpensive bottles of wine and a bouquet of lavender roses.  If there was ever a day that called for an indulgent flowers purchase, it was yesterday.  I was emotionally exhausted from legal stresses and needed a pick me up.  I spent $16 on the whole lot and left feeling like an Independent Woman BADASS.  It was money well spent.

Being hopeful as a single woman in her 40s is a dangerous business.  I have found the best approach to maintain your Independent Woman Badass status is Trader Joe's, wine,  and flowers.  And erasing all yellow, hopeful apps that seduce you into believing you will find your hive and be a Queen.

Vulnerability and Records

"You cannot selectively numb emotion.  When we numb the dark emotion, when we numb vulnerability and fear, we by default, numb joy." -- Brene Brown

I recently had conflict with my baby daddy and his woman.  I was so frustrated and angry, I cried...the ugly kind of crying. I had a complete meltdown while driving on River Road.  I'm sure my ugly crying got some curious looks.  Homegirl did not care.  I had some crying to do and my car has always been there for me in these times of need.  So stare on, friends.  I was talking to my close friend in the midst of my ugly crying episode.  She unpacked the pain of what I was feeling with me.  And after lots of blubbering and snot, I found that underneath the anger and frustration was the familiar feelings of dismissal and insignificance.

I'm not sure when I started playing that record to myself, but somewhere along the way it began.  And we became good friends.  It was my most favorite record to play.

I felt dismissed every time I had an event and no one showed up for me.  I felt dismissed every time I cried and no one validated my tears.  I felt dismissed every time I got angry and had no one to be angry with me.  I felt dismissed when I tried to communicate with my husbands and got nothing but blank stares and occasionally laughter at my tears.  I felt dismissed when I tried to connect with my step daughter and was met with anger and silence.  I tried to change the story with behaviors.  I became a boss to multiple employees so someone had to listen to me.  I became an avid runner, running ten miles a day at times, though I hated every mile after mile 3.   My behaviors were all intended to numb me the hell out.  There are multiple ways in which to numb.  All equally effective.  Alcohol, sex, medications, drugs, exercise, staying extremely busy...pick your poison and welcome to the Land of NUMB.

Over the past few months, I have been intentionally interrupting behaviors that cause me to numb out.  It has not been fun, friends.  Ugly crying has ensued.  Years of pain finally caught up with me.  Pain can outrun the fastest runner.  It eventually catches your ass.  And after it caught me, we wrestled.  And I learned the vast importance of knowing the truth about who I am.

Homegirl won that wrestling match.

The truth is that I am worthy.  My worth does not depend on anyone's validation but the One who created me.  I am loved.  I am not alone.  I have an infinite capacity for joy because my Creator is Himself joy.  I have the infinite capacity for gratitude because He Himself is gratitude.  I have the infinite capacity to love others even when they don't reciprocate because He Himself is unreciprocated love.  That's His jam.

I have the infinite capacity to be completely vulnerable because the net beneath me is solid.  And catching me is something He will never tire of.

Vulnerability is not a fun practice.  It demands honesty.  It demands courage.  It demands your whole self, exposed, raw, open to any and all manner of torment.  It leaves you wide open to the elements.  But it also opens up the chambers of your heart to experience raw, unadulterated joy.

I was wholly vulnerable with my friend in the midst of my breakdown.  She met me where I was.  She accepted me for who I was.  She provided me with a safe place for my vulnerability.  She was able to look at me with complete love and acceptance even when I was ugly crying, complete with snot and tears and red splotches.  Without that raw vulnerability that she met so beautifully with love and acceptance, I would not have been able to identify the NEED I was seeking.

I NEEDED to be heard.  I NEEDED my opinion on the subject to be considered.  I NEEDED to speak for my boys as their mother.  I NEEDED their dad and his girlfriend to ask me for advice.  I NEEDED them to tell me I was worthy enough to be heard because I was a great mother. 

Pause for dramatic effect.  Homegirl needed two people who quite possibly hate her more than anyone on the planet to validate her.

Now that I'm in this space of living life without my behaviors that numb me, vulnerability is the gig.  Without my friend who was on the phone with me and who allowed me to wallow in vulnerability,  I would not have been able to understand why I had such an intense reaction.  (Side Note: I hope you have a friend like this...if not, I may be able to put my friend on retainer for you.  She's pretty great at embracing ugly crying homegirls.)   I would not have been able to identify that I was feeling dismissed and unheard.   I would not have been able to see this most favorite record that had been playing all my life.  I would not have been able to identify a false belief that I had about myself and replace it with Truth.

I may have numbed myself for years from feeling fear and pain, but this numbing of the hard emotions also numbed the joy that could have been.  And I'm done missing out on joy.

So vulnerability it is.  In all its scariness and ominousness.  Without it I would not have been able to uncover the lies and replace them with truth.   And finally take the needle off the damn record.


The Price of Invulnerability by Brene Brown

Not your Typical Rebekah

It's Christmas Day and I woke up alone.  I laid in bed for five minutes and contemplated what I would do with this day usually spent with family and loved ones.  I tried to muster up sadness over the situation, but all my emotions could return to me were feelings of gratitude and peace in the solitude.

This is the first Christmas my parents do not live near me.  This is the first Christmas I'm settled in a new home.  This is the first Christmas I have Sadie.  This is the first Christmas I am a fully present mother.

And this is the first Christmas after my divorce that I feel whole in my singleness.

My boys and I did our Christmas with Santa's arrival on Christmas Eve because it is their dad's year to have them on Christmas morning.  We could not have had a better day.  We played all the games they got from Santa.  We ate dips, sweets, and all things junk.  We went on multiple walks.  We went to the park with Sadie.  We watched Christmas movies.  We painted with their new paint sets.  My phone was never close by.  My presence was focused on them.  We had invites to do other things, but we were having too much fun as our little family to venture out and see others.  We were content in our threesome.

When they left that afternoon, I had plans to drink too much and watch Netflix because I was certain I would be sad.  Instead, I cleaned my house top to bottom and went to bed sober at 10 p.m. after reading.  I kept waiting for the sadness to hit me...but nothing, Jesus.  It never arrived.

One of my friends said to me in response to me telling him I was alone on Christmas that the man I was currently dating would not let me be alone for Christmas.  I chewed on that for a bit, then decided he was wrong.  I didn't know my current romantic interest well enough to spend Christmas with him.  I didn't want to spend Christmas with him.  I wanted to be with someone who knew me well and loved me...not someone I was getting to know romantically.

Pause for dramatic effect because this is NOT a typical Rebekah response.

Typically, Rebekah would be upset that the man I was currently spending time with had not made plans with me for Christmas after discovering I was alone.  The typical Rebekah would be waiting by her phone for an invitation.  The typical Rebekah would have found reason to feel shunned and rejected.  The Typical Rebekah would have drank too much and cried herself to sleep because her life is meaningless without a man.

Thank God I'm not the Typical Rebekah any longer.

I did not get him a present and hoped to God he didn't buy me one.  I did not wait for an invitation because I didn't want one.  I didn't feel slighted or rejected.  I had too much to do to waste emotion.  I had two little boys who wanted their momma for Christmas.  That's all.  And this momma was not going to be pulled in a direction that was not towards her kids.  This momma knows better than to seek happiness in a man.  This momma knows that happiness is achieved only within.

I have been walking through a new dating relationship with a friend and am appalled at myself for the advice I'm giving her.  It's the advice I got from healthy and happily single women.  I didn't understand how they could be so strong when they delivered such sound advice.  I didn't understand how they had no emotion over the potential of being alone.  It felt like they had discovered the shut off valve for vulnerability and weakness and desperation. I wanted badly to have also found it, but it always alluded me.

Change sneaks up on you.  It comes in small decisions.  You don't realize it's happened until you are surprised by the emotional response you have to a stimulus.  Our emotions do not lie.  They are the genuine core of who we are.  We can fool ourselves in all manner of foolishness, but we will never fool our emotions.

And my emotions about spending Christmas alone are simply gratitude and peace.  Thank you, Jesus, for change.

Exposed Bum and Floppy Pant Leg

"The purpose of life is to be defeated by greater and greater things."  -- R.M. Rilke

Being a mom is like putting one leg in your jeans and letting the other one just flap around all day...exposing your bum and choice of undergarments in all your glory.  You're almost there...but not quite.  You made an attempt.  A thumbs up emoji is appropriate.  Or the drunk one.

My boys experienced something that was upsetting to them.  Brady was holding the information close because it involved people he loved and told me it wasn't my business to know.

"I'm your mother.  Everything about you is my business."  I responded with emphasis.

He didn't want to tell me because he didn't want me to be angry.  He's a protector and very loyal.

"What would happen if I did get angry?  What does that look like to you?"  I asked.

"I don't know, momma.  I just don't want to you to be angry at them."

We talked through the event eventually that he was reluctant to share.  And I wasn't angry.  I was sad.  I held his hand and told him I was sorry he had to go through that.  He gave me a weak smile in the midst of his sadness.

Putting your children through a divorce is one of the hardest things to do.  It requires constant affirmation that you did indeed make the right choice.  It requires an extra amount of patience for yourself and for others. 

It requires your pant leg and an exposed bum.

The effects are inexhaustible. 

Before I was a mom, I was a step mom.  I had a lot of difficulty with that role.  I wanted so badly to be involved in my step-daughter's life and did so recklessly and without boundaries.  I had an extremely volatile relationship with her mom because of my ignorance about the importance of boundaries.  And I had a great amount of ignorance about the effects of the lack of control over what happens to the most important person in your life when you're a mom...your child.

Allowing your children to flourish in an environment that doesn't involve you is incredibly difficult.  My heart still aches when I watch them walk into school, leaving me behind.  Sending them to another home where they are having experiences that you don't even know about is another level of pain...it's more than an exposed bum/leg combo.  It's a damn completely-nude-in-the-snow kind of vulnerability.  It's unnatural and if you aren't careful, you will lose limbs to frost bite.  Not to mention the unmentionables.

It means allowing them to love people you haven't gotten to vet.  It means encouraging them to bond with others who are strangers to you.  It means sacrificing your own selfish and suffocating love that often comes with motherhood for the sake of your children's hearts.  It means staying uncomfortable.

The beauty of this unknown equation (aka my children living in a different home) is that they are experiencing things that will require them to rise out of adversity and pain.  It means that I am given the incredibly difficult task of letting go and letting God.  It means that my trust cannot be in people or myself if I want to stay sane ... it has to be in the God who loves my boys more than I ever could.  It means that I have to learn to be ok living with an exposed bum while my pant leg flops around nonchalantly.  And occasionally be butt naked in the snow.

"In Over My Head"

https://youtu.be/6mAvt3CxEQM

I have come to this place in my life

I'm full but I've not satisfied

This longing to have more of You

And I can feel it my heart is convinced

I'm thirsty my soul can't be quenched

You already know this but still

Come and do whatever You want to

I'm standing knee deep but I'm out where I've never been

And I feel You coming and I hear Your voice on the wind

Would You come and tear down the boxes that I have tried to put You in

Let love come teach me who You are again

Would You take me back to the place where my heart was only about You

And all I wanted was just to be with You

Come and do whatever You want to

And further and further my heart moves away from the shore

Whatever it looks like, whatever may come I am Yours

And further and further my heart moves away from the shore

Whatever it looks like, whatever may come I am Yours

Then You crash over me and I've lost control but I'm free

I'm going under, I'm in over my head

Then you crash over me, and that's where You want me to be

I'm going under, I'm in over my head

Whether I sink, whether I swim

It makes no difference when I'm beautifully in over my head

Whether I sink, whether I swim

It makes no difference when I'm beautifully in over my head

I'm beautifully in over my head

I'm beautifully in over my head

Naughty and Worried MOMMA

The kids and I have a "Naughty and Nice" list.  For every good deed they do, their action goes on the "nice" side ... and likewise for the "naughty."  I am on the list.  But just on the naughty side for yelling.  Big sigh.

Since Graham's accident, I have largely felt lost in motherhood.  I'm not entirely sure I ever completely trusted my abilities to be a mom.  I questioned my approaches.  I tempered my expectations.  I allowed others dictate how I raised them by involving them in a great number of decisions.  I doubted myself even before the great fall in the bucket.  After his accident, my confidence in that area plummeted to greater depths.

Years of trauma therapy helped me to regain my confidence.  I had to imagine Jesus telling me in the moment when my baby was dead that I was loved and I was a great mother.  I didn't speak it over myself in that moment...nor did anyone else.  So Jesus had to do it after the fact.  He healed my broken heart and I became an even stronger mother than previous to the accident.

But it is still my most insecure area.  I soar with confidence and drive the week they are with their dad.  I feel like I have a handle on my life and I'm actually doing a good job of juggling everything alone.  Even though I miss them almost unbearably at times.  And then...

Enter kids....

The Monday I have them back is glorious.  I hug them tightly and can't stop staring at them.  I don't want to miss a thing.

And then they misbehave like kids do or make a mess like kids do and the beautiful reunion is shattered.  Insert chuckle.

I'm forced to decide on Monday whether I will react like a lunatic or like a pleasant Mary Poppins.  The lunatic usually wins...but there are cameos of Mary sprinkled throughout.

By Tuesday, Mary is on stage more than the lunatic.  I have regained my footing as a mom and my brain remembers how to respond to kid-related stress.

But I'm still a bit raw the week I have them...worry and stress and insecurities are more prevalent than when I don't have them. But the insecurities and worry over my kids aren't restricted to just the weeks I have them...it's an ever present companion in my life.

A guy commented the other day that his biggest pet peeve about parents is when they're on their phone while their kids play at the park.  I could see his point.  But I had "guilty" written all over my body and the emoji of the girl with her hand raised popped into my brain.  I'm that parent. 

I feel relieved when we go to a park and my kids are playing with other kids and they're contained and happily releasing inside energy that does no favors for my white couch.  I feel like I get a tiny break from responsibility.  I feel like my life just got made and I can breathe with untethered breath.  I feel no need to play with them.  I don't always get on my phone.  In fact, I mostly leave it in my pocket.  But I bring a book to read.  Or I just sit and watch them quietly.  Whatever I choose to do in that moment is a gift because my kids do not need me...for one small glimpse of our day.

I don't believe that men feel the same heaviness that mothers do.  I think they compartmentalize so well that they are able to be present in the moment without the weight of parenting squarely on their shoulders.  I believe they are able to function well at work 100%.  I believe they do a better job of divorcing themselves from their parenting responsibilities and the burdens that come with it than women do.

Women incessantly worry.  We can be in the biggest work meeting of our life, conducting the damn meeting, kicking serious butt, and our minds are still obsessing over what to make for dinner for our kids.  We can be on a date and laughing ... and the parent-teacher conference we just had is playing in the background.  We can be getting a massage, pedicure, manicure, exercising, eating, sleeping, showering, shopping, running errands, having drinks with friends ... and our children are with us...asking us to get them milk while we take a stab at relaxation.  Insert another chuckle because moms know relaxation is a mythical creature.  Like a freakin' unicorn.

My single girlfriend who is a mother and a very successful woman told me that she hated to admit it, but she would hire a man any day over a woman with kids.

We both sighed heavily at this revelation.

Good or bad, we are first and foremost mothers.  I've said it before and here it is again...dating without the presence of my children is a feeble attempt to get to know me.  Because they ARE me.  They are my motivation behind everything I do.  They fill my brain with happiness and worry simultaneously.  I've dated a man on and off for over a year and he has not met my children.  Our relationship will never progress because who I really am has been cut off from him.  He gets only a piece of me...and that piece is sub-par to the motherhood piece.  The men that have met my kids are the ones I am closest to.  They understand my role as a mom.  They know what they are competing against...and that they will likely lose because neither they nor I care enough to overcome this great obstacle of blending our lives.  Not many have the stamina to date a mother.  And mothers don't have patience for someone who doesn't care about their main priority.  (Having said that, you have to stick around a while to meet my kids ... or just be my friend and abandon dating.  Male friends are allowed.  Boyfriends have to serve their time.)

I am appalled at the number of men on dating apps that simply leave out the fact that they have kids.  A microscopic part of me gets it...it's unnatural to date as a parent.  So sometimes it's easier to avoid the anarchy of parenting that is you when dating.  But I do believe that men are not first and foremost dads...as mothers are first and foremost mothers.  Who men are as parents are largely driven by their motivation behind their role...their role as providers.  Mothers are driven by their role...we are mothers.  It is our identity, largely.

Whether we are naturally this way or society has encouraged this in us is a mystery.  But I tend to believe that God in His infinite wisdom gave women the innate consummation to live and breathe with her children.  This is why we are better at multi-tasking, I suppose.  (We have to be multi-taskers if we want to clean up vomit and do it while looking good.)

And why we are not the first choice as employees.

So though it may take me a while to adjust to immediate kid-related stress as Mary Poppins and get to add my name to the "nice" list, or the lunatic who yells on the "naughty" side...sigh..., after getting my kids back, I never have to settle into my role as a mom.  I am MOMMA.  Whether they are asleep in their beds at my house or not. 

So if I need peace for ten minutes while my kids happily play on the playground, you're damn skippy I'm jumping on that. 

And will worry incessantly about whether they will hurt themselves as I pretend to read a book. 

Move Over, Cinderella

"To say "I love you" one must know first how to say the word "I"."

-Ayn Rand, "The Fountainhead"

I first heard the word "Enneagram" from my sister in law Sally.  We were talking about life and changes and she asked if I had heard of it.  I had not, so we went into a full discussion about the personality typing diagram.  I was intrigued.

Then a few days later my dear friend Erin mentioned it.  I didn't need anymore prompting.  I was supposed to explore this.

I ordered the book recommended for discovering the Enneagram and your own type, "The Road Back to You."  It came a few days before my beach trip.  I was excited to dig into the book on a beach with a beverage.

And dig I did.  With a tasty beverage.

I am a self-growth junkie.  I can't get enough of psychology and literature and studies that will teach me more about myself.  However, I shy very far away from anything that is overtly "Christian" in its context.  I find it often lacks intelligence and dismisses hundreds of years of study on the subject of self simply because the authors of such discoveries were "secular".  And "good Christians" aren't selfish and have no use for the secular.

Big sigh.  HUGE freakin' sigh.

This book, however, was different.  Though the foundation to knowing yourself is wrapped up in your Creator, the journey is a task in SELF discovery...and with or without the knowledge of God, the journey is essential.

"Without knowledge of self there is no knowledge of God." -- John Calvin

After a few failed attempts to figure out my type based on some mediocre online tests, I discovered it as I read the book.  And it is indeed a road back to myself.

Ayn Rand is one of my favorite authors.  I devoured her books in college.  I listened to lectures on her.  I read biographies on her.  She made total sense to me.  I also love anything justice related.  Law and Order is one of my favorite shows.  Movies where the bad guys get what they deserve are my favorite.  Books that are direct in their story telling are what entertain me most.  I don't have a lot of patience for detail and chasing white rabbits.  I just want to get to it, Linda.  For the love of all that is holy....talk to me.  I'm aging over here.

I'm a Type 8 Wing 7 ... A Challenger/Enthusiast.  

I'm a truth teller and a truth seeker.  I don't do well with people who don't pull their own weight.  I lack empathy at times and do NOT like to be controlled.  I am not afraid of conflict.  I think a debate is a great way to communicate.  I'm intense and driven.  I'm energetic and bossy.  I am motivated by fear and anger.

All of the Type 8 traits that were trying to surface in me over the course of my life were shut down for one reason or another.  I married and dated men who couldn't handle them.  I had friends who didn't understand them.  I took jobs that required a different set of skills.  Type 8s are largely "un-feminine".  Their personality is not gender appropriate as a woman in society.  I was the daughter of a Southern Baptist minister.  I rest my case.  The list of why I didn't behave who I was created to be is endless.

I've had a difficult few days and I was talking to a good friend about feeling that I lack "togetherness".  I told her I felt like I was a mess. My label of myself to her was because of poor decisions I had made regarding my business and my money.  Her response was surprising. She said to not be too hard on myself because we as women were raised by Disney.  We were taught to believe that a man would rescue us, so women in general were not taught to be self sufficient in many areas that men were.  We were taught that our job was simply to care for others and look good doing it.  Thanks, Walt.  As if we didn't have enough to overcome.

Dating as a Type 8, the Challenger, has been a cluster of obvious failures.  In the past, my goal in dating was simply to enjoy myself. I didn't think much about who they were as people.  If I was attracted to them and we had a good time, that was sufficient.  I never expected them to stimulate me intellectually.  I was playing the part of a girl looking for a relationship, but I didn't really want one.  My Challenger personality and my brainwashed, presumed need to star in a Disney movie were in direct opposition.  The Disney-brainwashed Rebekah usually won.

I suppose I knew that I hadn't yet finished my own self discovery so dating was like gambling.  If I happened to find someone I connected with, score.  But it was by chance that it happened and even then it didn't hold my interest.  The real love affair I was looking for was within.

I was on a date the other night and found that I was able to be forthcoming and honest with my expectations and desires.  I didn't sugar coat them.  I wasn't afraid how he would respond.   How he responded was not my concern.  I was only concerned with communicating what I wanted.  I just said it frankly without emotion ... I could feel my soul sigh with relief.   This is completely opposite from how I used to conduct myself.  I am no longer worried about being chosen by just any man.  I want to choose him AND be chosen by him.  And being the "type" I am, this is no easy task.   I'm not a universal taste for men.  I frighten them away because they can't tame me.  I recently told an ex that attempted to connect again that I was not his girl...he needed someone sweet and submissive and that ain't me, Linda.  All those tears over men now seem silly and wasteful.  I was just playing the part that Disney suggested I play...the part of the damsel in distress who needs a man to make her life complete and without him I was desolate and deficient.  

This picture of the damsel in distress may be true for some.  Some may thrive on being rescued and rescuing.  But it's equivocally untrue for me.  All these erroneous messages about femininity and the supposed need to rely on a man have done for me is kept me from realizing the fullness of my individual self.  And that self is no romantic with a mop singing about when her true love will come.  That self is happily mopping the damn floor and listening to very loud and mostly inappropriate music while planning how she will make life her bitch. (No other word is suited for that statement.)

Fully embracing who God has created me to be will be the challenge of my life.  I won't have arrived until I'm dead and cremated.  (Please don't bury me.  I want to be sprinkled in the Mississippi River.   With a very large party to follow complete with live music and alcohol. And dancing must commence.)

Move over, Cinderella.  Your time has freakin' expired.