Smiling Mom

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.”

We recently retur­ned from our ‘mai­den voyage’ in our tent trai­ler.

We finally got one last month! Squee!

This was our first of four plan­ned trips for the sum­mer.  Let me just say that cam­ping in a tent trai­ler beats tent cam­ping by a mile and a half!  Espe­cially when one deci­ded to camp in Northern Cali­for­nia near the beach.

It was cold.

During the day we expo­red local tide pools and in the eve­nings Steve and I pla­yed games as the kids slept away.

The game of choice?  Bog­gle.  A game that I fondly refer to, in my head, as Suck-oogle.  Because I SUCK at that game.

It would be one thing if my mea­ger brain was pit­ted against another mea­ger brain, but unfor­tu­na­tely that’s not the case in my family.  Steve’s super power brain ran men­tal circ­les around me.  It’s pro­bably because he was a spe­lling bee cham­pion in 4^th grade.

DAMN whole lan­guage!!  You cur­sed me!

Any­way, we pretty much came out of the trip uns­cathed minus a few bro­ken pie­ces on the tent trai­ler, and ready for our next adventure.

So I’ve been slowly trying to upgrade my work war­drobe in an attempt to look more pro­fes­sio­nal.  I’ve purcha­sed a few new shoes, shirts, and work pants.  A few weeks ago, I was chec­king myself out in the mirror at work just as I was exi­ting the bath­room and noti­ced something quite horrible.

Panty lines.

Like, as in Granny Panty lines.

Not good.

That was the day that I deci­ded it was time to try out the thong, again.  They’ve never been com­for­ta­ble, yet I seem to remem­ber hea­ring, somewhere, that they could be.

And so I began my mis­sion to find the per­fect thong, for cheap.

My search took me to Kohls where I found signs that said things like, “Barely There.” or “You’ll never know they are on!” and, “No panty lines!”

That soun­ded good to me, so I began to investigate.

The fairly benign loo­king pan­ties loo­ked really thin.

check.

No tag.

check.

Cot­tonish.

check.

Inex­pen­sive.

check.

I was willing to try fork over the cash to these girls out. But just to be sure, I bought a pair that was a size big­ger than I would usually buy.  (THE KEY TO A COMFORTABLE THONG, I dis­co­ve­red!! Trust me girls!)

I got home, washed them, and then tried them out.

The result?  I swear.  It’s like I’m not even wea­ring under­wear.  They are so comfortable.

AND no panty lines!!

I began strut­ting around the house, work, and play with an extra skip in my step and bounce in my errr butt.

Fee­ling good, I began chan­ging out of my work pants and into my sweats as I bent over, barely cove­red with my newly don­ned thong, when my son said, “Wooo Mom, your butt has really got­ten BIG!!”

.…

Um, excuse me?  Oh no you didn’t!!  I tur­ned around and asked for him to repeat himself.

And he did.

So, as any good mom would do, I wal­ked up to him, smac­ked him in the back of his head, and promptly chan­ged back into my granny panties.

Ahem.

Kids.

I’m telling you, he is wrong.  My butt is NOT get­ting big­ger…I think.…I just feel more com­for­ta­ble in a big­ger size panty.… I swear! It’s not my butt… it’s the cut.  I hope.

Des­pite the size of my rear, I’m thri­lled with my new find and my lack of lines.

And there you have it folks… my first post in months, about my booty.  Gotta love that!