Smiling Mom

Today is my husband’s and my seventh anniversary.

A lot has hap­pe­ned in seven years.

Year one, we plan­ted an awe­some gar­den at our ren­tal condo and cele­bra­ted Christ­mas in the middle of the night to honor your crazy work schedule.

Year two, we bought a house,  a dog, and I got preg­nant all in the same week.  Good time!! 

Year three, we remo­de­led our house in one month’s time, with a 10 month old and a baby on the way AND our marriage sur­vi­ved!!  How ’bout them apples!!

Year 4, our dar­ling daugh­ter was born.  We had an 18 month old and a new born. Your work sche­dule was horren­dous.  Remem­ber that?  Ya.  Me too!  This was also the year you tes­ted for a pro­mo­tion. 

Year five, you were pro­mo­ted!! That was a HUGE deal but unfor­tu­na­tely we had to miss your pro­mo­tion cere­mony because you had the pla­gue, or Ebola, or the flu.  Wha­te­ver it was, you were down for the count. But as a pro­mo­ted man our life became much easier. For that we were grateful.

Year six was a doozy. You tore year shoul­der and were out of work and at home for seven months… our small home.  But somehow we mana­ged and thri­ved and grew clo­ser all while co-parenting with the best of them.  This was a good year!

Year seven has flown by.  I’ve gone back to school to get my Master’s degree.  But unfor­tu­na­tely, this is the last year I am able to work part time.  Life has been busy, but our hours and days off have coin­ci­ded so we’ve had a lot of time to be together.  Addi­tio­nally, we bought our first tent trai­ler, a purchase that both of us were genui­nely giddy about!

Our eyes have more smile lines, our bellies have more coo­kie lines, and our love is still going strong.

Happy anni­ver­sary baby.  It baf­fles me that you love me so much!

But you should know…I still love you more!

Before I begin and end with part three, I feel com­pe­lled to men­tion that I am actually a very happy, bles­sed, gra­te­ful per­son.  I am in no way cur­led up in the fetal posi­tion suc­king my thumb or stan­ding on a cliff ready to jump.  My last two posts see­med to have promp­ted much con­cern in the form of emails, phone calls (plu­ral), and a batch of deli­cious coo­kies deli­ve­red from my loved ones. Thank you for all your love and concern.

I tend to be an extre­mest, just ask my hus­band!  And when I wrote, “This inter­nal dia­lo­gue haunts me daily,” I may have been over exag­ge­ra­ting… just a tad bit…sorry for that. 

These posts were actually ins­pi­red by an acti­vity we did at church a while back where you had to write down your nega­tive inter­nal dia­lo­gue in hopes to change it into something positive.

I thought it would be a nice acti­vity to turn into a series of posts.

Sigh.  I was wrong.

My mom, who is like the nicest per­son in the entire world, gently sug­ges­ted that I might want to end this post on a bit of a hap­pier note.    That made me laugh!!  But she’s right.
Even though I kinda regret expo­sing my inner demons to my clo­sest family and friends and really feel like craw­ling in a hole and hiding for 6 months, I will finish what I star­ted.  Brace your­self for one more downer…but tomorrow’s post will be way bet­ter, promise!!

Part 3 of 3

Too Young and Naive.

This inter­nal dia­lo­gue haunts me, daily.

Too Young & Naive

I began teaching at twenty one.  I wore my hair in two braids, like Julia Roberts did in The Firm.  My prin­ci­pal fre­quently shook her head at me and said I loo­ked like one of my students.

When I spoke up at team mee­tings, my exci­ted, new, hope­ful ideas and beliefs were quickly dis­coun­ted.  “That’s nice, Nanette.  But here at this school, we do things differently.”

I was too young and not taken seriously.

An inter­nal dia­lo­gue I’ve repea­ted to myself each day since.

Now I’m thirty two.  My hair is big and poofy.  I have wrin­kles and love hand­les.  My vir­tually non-existent breasts actually sag.  I’ve been teaching for over ten years, and somehow still feel that I’m vie­wed as too young and naive.

But then the that begs to be asked, “Who views you this way?  Others?  Or you?”

I think it’s the latter.

And it’s going to change.

**************************

Yeay!!  Yip­pee!!  Whoo Hoo!!  I LOVE pup­pies and but­ter­flies!!  Weee!

How was that?  Happy enough?

No?

How about an ado­ra­ble pic­ture I just took of my fan­tas­tic cho­co­late lab, Kayla!

I knew you’d love that!

Tomo­rrow is my anni­ver­sary.  And I’ve got the grea­test pic­ture of my hus­band.  One you won’t want to miss!!

Thanks for the coo­kies, phone calls, emails, and love.  You guys are the best.

Part 2 of 3

Know It All.

This inter­nal dia­lo­gue haunts me, daily.

Why are you so opinionated?

Nanette, you are such a nag!

Why are you so con­tro­lling?  Bossy?  Why can’t you let it go?

You are so blunt, you need to sof­ten your words!

See, the funny thing is, I am bossy, con­tro­lling, opi­nio­na­ted.  I do speak my mind.

Howe­ver, if I let you behind the brick facade I’ve cons­truc­ted throughout the years, you’d find out that I’m terri­fied–to the core–to find out what peo­ple really think of me.

I fear the truth would con­firm what I’ve said about myself for years.

I’m not terribly easy going.  If I’m mad about something, I let you know.  If I feel that you are not being sin­cere with me, I tell you.

But inside, I cower.  I fear that I’m vie­wed as a con­tro­lling know it all.  Not as Nanette, a clear communicator.

I, as a thirty two year old woman, now believe that one of my grea­test strengths is spea­king truth­fully, directly, clearly, about what I want and need.  I don’t play games, and expect you won’t either.  If I ask your opi­nion.  I want the truth­ful answer.

Like­wise, if you ask mine, I’ll give it.

And even some­ti­mes when you don’t.

I’ve been told to tem­per this.  To ease up.  Be sof­ter, kin­der, ligh­ten the blow.  I’ve been told that my com­mu­ni­ca­tion style is not the right one…

Howe­ver, for me, I’ve deci­ded it is.  But then there’s this nag­ging voice inside, “Nanette, you are such a know it all.  No one really likes you.  They just tole­rate you.”

Part 1 of 3

This inter­nal dia­lo­gue haunts me, daily.

I was a pretty girl.  A pretty blond girl. Blond jokes were a cons­tant from the time I began middle school.  I use to pre­tend they didn’t bother me.  I use to pre­tend to be the girl that others wan­ted me to be.

I use to pre­tend to be dumb.

When I was fif­teen, I remem­ber a cute boy pat­ting me on the head after I said something he though was foo­lish.   “It’s OK Nanette, you’re blond.”

This com­ment, a com­ment that had been said to me hun­dreds of times, hit a chord.

That was the last time I took blond crap from anyone.

That was the day I stop­ped pre­ten­ding to be dumb.

Funny thing hap­pe­ned, I began pre­ten­ding to be smart.

I never for­got the words peo­ple said about me, though.

And at thirty two, I still believe that I am dumb.  I pre­tend I don’t, but I do.

My logi­cal left brain says, “That’s stu­pid.  You are very smart.  You are an inc­re­di­ble teacher, great mom, and a good part­ner.  You are not dumb.”

But then someone pats my head or gives me a look of pity after I spell something inco­rrectly, or say something that wasn’t so smart…and I feel, well, dumb.

My inter­nal dia­lo­gue, “Nanette, you are not smart enough, lucky yes.  Smart, no.”