Play ball!

An outgoing and persuasive girlfriend asked me to join her for pickleball one evening last month. I’ve been invited to sleepovers and themed parties as an adult that have pushed me right out of my comfort zone, but never to this extent. Everyone I know knows me better.

But I agreed. Because I’d actually played an impromptu game with our older neighbors one evening. And because I’ve wanted to take up tennis again. And because I/we need hobbies. And friends. And because I want to be the kind of person who says yes to invitations whenever possible. But I honestly had no context for what it would be like, moms getting together in an athletic setting? What would it feel like, how would this work, how bad would I be, how awkward would this all end up?

I realized I had no idea what people wear to activities like this. Back in the day it would’ve been short tennis shorts or sweats pushed up to our knees. I ended up with a painting shirt, leggings, and old beat-up running shoes, a far cry from a tennis skirt and cute polo and tennis shoes. But I was saying yes, I was showing up, I was venturing out of my comfort zone. I know that sounds dramatic, but this really was completely new territory for me, playing like this with other women.

I couldn’t get jr. high p.e. out of my head. I hated our uniforms. And how pale I was. We were always sharing lotion in the locker room, the least I could do for my scaly white skin, but it was still bad. Just like my skill level in every single sport we had to try. The idea was to expose us to all sorts of sports: softball, soccer, basketball, running. I have a girl’s words etched in my memory as I was assigned to her basketball team, “Why do you have to be on our team?” Every p.e. period was honestly a nightmare, and it was even worse when we combined with the boys. The only thing I was good at was running the fire lane back to the locker room and getting a check mark for having walked through the showers.

High school was no better. More of the same, except we added swimming in the outdoor pools to the mix. Refusing to dive and swim across the pool, I was relegated to the small shallow pool with a blond cheerleader/swimmer as my personal trainer. I thought jr. high was bad, but this really was the worst. As a sophomore I finally had a choice; and even now, I count the decision to do racquet sports as one of the best of my life. I abandoned any hope of hanging out with the cool kids at the gym and followed my own inclination. I didn’t know any other kids in the class, but I loved learning racquetball, badminton, and tennis and even played with friends on the weekends and in the evenings both in high school and college. I never became any good, but I’m still so glad I did it.

Fast forward to finding myself with a racquet in hand after all those years. Some of the moms were like me, but some had played before and some are just naturally athletic. I tried to focus on the rules as she explained them and took a deep breath. I couldn’t back out, there wasn’t a big enough group, they needed all of us.

And I was bad. Of course I was bad. I wonder if being teased when I was younger and telling myself I’m not athletic played into it.

But the watercolored summer evening was enchanting. I felt at home on the court and with these women. Sure, we’d socialized and served together for years, but this was different. And so refreshing, moms taking some time away from our usual duties to do something just for ourselves, with our only goal being to have some fun.

Surprising my family, I ordered my own pickleball racquets after that. When the package came, I had an almost reverent feeling undoing the tape; this was something of my very own. Clean yellow whiffle balls. Brand new racquets wrapped in plastic. The perfect black zippered bag to hold everything, reminding me of my ballet box from elementary school. I took it to my room, but I had no context for it. Our garage sale badminton and tennis racquets live in the shop, but this was special. New. Just mine. I didn’t want it to get dusty and full of cobwebs. So it just sat against the bedroom wall all week, waiting for a place. As I left the next week (this time in cut-off sweats), I grabbed it as if I’ve always had an athletic bag, feeling slightly like a fraud. I’m not an athlete by any definition. But I liked carrying it. My very own, brand new hobby equipment. Because it symbolized something for me. Independence. Being proactive. Courage even. I’m proud of myself for saying yes. And saying yes again. For sticking with it even though I’ve got no natural inclination for sports whatsoever. I’m grateful for friends who will laugh with me and who accept me and who, despite my being a weak link, continue to include me.

We all know that play is one of the best connectors. Which is why businesses have retreats and Escape Room parties and rope courses. I remember cross country skiing a couple years back as a family and how awkward it was at first but how it was a fertile ground for creating closeness. Same thing when we’ve played Spike Ball, croquet, or badminton as a family. Games around the table are common for us, but the ones outside where we’re using our bodies and moving and jumping and laughing together feel even better. As much as I love conversation, even I will admit there is nothing better to make connections than play.

So as I’ve spent these evenings on the courts, I’ve realized how much I enjoy being outside moving in a way I haven’t really since I was just a kid myself. It’s still a little uncomfortable, I don’t like being watched or letting my team down. But I didn’t know I could be this kind of person. I thought I’d lost that part of my personality, that I was destined to be a serious church mom, dusty, structured, and boring. But it’s awakened a latent side of me, challenging me to deepen friendships, to try something new, and to be more than what I’ve always told myself I am.

Bathed

I can’t even remember when the last time was. Honestly. I was tempted in a VRBO we were staying in for my son’s wedding a couple years back, but I don’t remember if I actually did or not. If not then, it had been at least six years or more I’ll bet. But we just finished remodeling our bathrooms and added a tub to ours. Our son has used it to ease his aching muscles from track, but I still hadn’t. Until last night. Another son and his wife had sent me a basket of scented items to use for Mother’s Day, Todd was in a long meeting downstairs, and so I was kind of just in my room. I’d worked in the yard all day and wanted to clean up anyway, plus there was my book I was halfway through. I expected to last maybe ten minutes. But I hadn’t anticipated how warm the water would stay. I’m used to porcelain tubs; this one is acrylic and holds the heat way better than anything in my past. I was there for at least an hour. I’d kind of chuckled with my friend a couple weeks back who confessed she saves her HGTV and People magazines for her baths, which she takes all the time. Fascinating, I thought. But here I was. On the same page.

But here’s what I also didn’t anticipate. What being unclothed would feel like. Being alone with myself in this state for an extended stretch of time.

Probably always, but especially since I had my surgery seven years ago and as I’ve aged, I’ve just avoided looking at my body. I don’t have my contacts in early in the morning, so it’s easy to miss myself as I get out of the shower and discretely put on a robe. I don’t really come back till I’m brushing my teeth at night, so there’s no reason to really hang out in front of the mirror or to spend time lamenting how things have changed.

But here I was, faced with myself in the tub with my book. And I did the only natural thing; I found a washcloth, ostensibly to keep myself warm, but knowing I mostly just wanted to cover up. It was still slightly uncomfortable being alone with myself in this vulnerable way, and that surprised me and made me think…

That I believe we’re all a little uncomfortable with our nakedness. Not our bare skin nakedness, but being vulnerable and exposed—definitely with others, but even when we find ourselves alone, just us.

I know people who fall asleep to tv or audio books or sound machines. I’m like that too, listening to music and reading a book till I’m too tired to think anymore. Most teens and perhaps most adults drive listening to something, whether it’s a book, podcast, news, or music. Most people I see out are on their phones or have their earbuds in. Some older people I know have the tv or radio on even when they’re resting. We’ve essentially always got someone with us and are rarely alone with ourselves.

I wonder why that is and tend to think it’s mostly habitual, nearly unconscious. But I think it would be a hard tendency to change. Because what would that feel like to have to face our thoughts and what’s really going on for us? What would come up? Would we feel comfortable acknowledging our insecurities, questions, regrets, and fears? We might have to ask ourselves what we’re living for, what do we value, and are those two answers congruent? What do we believe about people and the future, are we unsettled, searching, pretending, hoping? What do we want, and is the direction we’re heading getting us there? Are we the kind of people we’d want to be a friend with? Are we living true to who we are and what we believe about ourselves? Are we avoiding making amends or taking a risk?

It’s not easy to come up with answers that are authentic and true; it takes courage to be honest with ourselves. It’s brave to turn off the world and contemplate some of the weightier matters. I’m like all of you, and most of the time would rather not deal with the heavy stuff. I’ve always liked to keep busy and plugged in (under the guise of “educating” myself). And yet, the older I get, the more comfortable I am tuning into myself and feeling the quiet. I notice myself carving out time when I refrain from inviting outside voices to have an opinion about my life. I’m recognizing I do want connection. Yes, with others, but also with my own soul and with divinity. But I’ve still got some reservations, I’m holding back in a way I didn’t recognize until last night when the bubbles dissipated. But the sensation of such warm water wrapped around me was soothingly intoxicating. I eventually melted into my nakedness and felt bathed in calm acceptance of where and what and who I am. When I finally emerged, I felt oddly out of sorts. My routine was shaken, I would normally be doing the dishes and streaming a show with Todd, reading with the kids, an everyday evening like all the others. But this zen-like experience had rewarded me with a refreshing and invigorating energy, peace, and perspective I had been missing recently and gratefully accepted. For most, it probably won’t be in a tub, but there will likely be points in life when we’ll unexpectedly find ourselves in some similar way. Will we slink from the opportunity without really seeing what’s in the mirror? Will we quickly clothe in our protective raiment and move on to everyday comfort and routine, hoping no one saw us so vulnerable? Or will we maybe lean back into the warm water and linger a bit, acclimating and eventually succumbing to the sensation of just being?

Only you

Our college-aged daughter has been home for just a spell before she heads back out.  With a  sporadic and flexible work schedule, she took the opportunity to go skiing for the day.  The other kids were in school, dad had work, I don’t ski, all her friends have moved away… it was just a day on her own.  Turned out that while she had a pleasant enough time, she returned home a bit early.  “It got a little lonely.”

As a young mom, I remember packing up the van, loading in the kids, and prepping with snacks and rain gear for all kinds of sporting events.  But we’re down to our last two kids in school and there are only a handful of times they have meets here in town each season.  When I go watch my son pole vault, all the families are kind of squished together in their chairs near the pit, so it feels like we’re all there together.  And same thing when I’ve watched cross country at the river.  But last season we were at a park half an hour from home with the race wide open, the course strewn all across the acreage.  Families weren’t all huddled near the finish line because in this scenario it was easy to move about the park and catch your child from different angles.  And also in this scenario it was easy to feel alone.  Most moms and dads had either each other or several kids with them.  Some parents had fellow mom friends from school or the team.  I felt exposed in the wide-open fields, noticeably on my own. Which was fine. But unsettling.  I wondered who I knew, who I would feel comfortable enough with, who wouldn’t mind me tagging along.  I found one friend with her daughter, but she left to follow her son.  I didn’t feel comfortable following her; surely she would’ve indicated if she had wanted that.  I felt excused and isolated in the middle of a crowded park.

It was a late summer evening last year.  A weekend night.  A time when others would have each other.  I’m used to my kids and husband flitting around on weeknights with their activities and meetings, but this felt different.  I imagined families gathered, friends over, people I knew celebrating the lingering summer light.  And almost always, that’s us. We love having friends with us, eating together on the back deck under our twinkly lights, a dreamy and familiar scene.  And if not friends, at least I almost always have Todd to be with.  On this night I was just puttering in the yard and even though I knew the night was arranged, a late work meeting, kids off with their friends, I anticipated their arrival, hoping it would be sooner than expected.  As the light began to fade, I remember noticing how alone in the world I felt.  We have a bit of land around our property, a couple of pastures, large gardens; I felt both cocooned within my fence and swallowed up in the expansiveness of it all: lonely and decidedly longing for company.

These experiences turn out to be so fleeting.  We can take ourselves home off the ski hill.  The race eventually ends and everyone goes back to their houses.  At some point, the family members return and we’re reunited.

Except when we can’t or they don’t.  When it’s more of an everyday reality.

The night in the garden turned my thoughts to my single friends.  I contemplated what it might feel like to always be the one to turn on the outside lights as dusk approaches, to entertain myself day after day, to cook for one, to wonder what everyone else is doing, to want to be invited but to not feel fun enough to be the host, to hear the sounds of the road and neighboring yards but only quiet within my head.  I wondered if they were used to it to the point it had become no big deal.

And yet I know there’s nothing wrong with being alone.  Most of the world might be.  But it’s only been very recently that I’ve started experiencing it firsthand.  I always lived with my growing up family, then roommates, then a husband, and shortly thereafter we started bringing kids in.  It’s only been in the last year or so that I’ve spent the majority of my days and weeks all on my own, many times 12 or 13 hours a day.  Which really is fine.  I lean introvert and can’t fathom being bored.  I love puttering and having my days to myself.  But every now and then I feel it more poignantly, not just the aloneness, but the loneliness.  While the more I’m alone, the more normal it feels, and at the same time, the more I long for association.  “I realize, for the first time, how very lonely I've been in the arena. How comforting the presence of another human being can be” (Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games).

These tiny experiences have stayed with me over the past several months, I believe, in an attempt to remind me to not take my people and joys for granted.  They continue to inspire me to reach out beyond myself and the contrived plans I make for my days to notice those on their own.  While I’m only vaguely aware of how many of my friends live, I find myself wanting to make more of an effort to both honor their independence and to join with them. I feel myself awakening to the idea that many around us, even those in the center of the arena, might feel as I have on occasion.  I’ve come to a new understanding of what that might be like and how simply extending myself as a companion can soothe and aid a lonely heart.

You too?

Just a simple interchange, I was getting my feet done for the upcoming wedding. I actually love and hate pedicures with equal strength. Love it all because of the warm water, the gentle scrubbing, getting rid of the hard parts, knowing that things are being handled, sort of the choosing a color part even though it’s kind of stressful, the leg and toes massage, being wrapped up in little plastic wrap shields, the smells, the chair that gently pokes at parts of me I didn’t know needed a little nod, a professional paint job that doesn’t end up all over my cuticles, one that lasts over a week, the Vietnamese decor reminding me of my best friend from 4th grade… what’s not to love? I guess the only things I really hate are the money—I have a problem paying for things I can do myself—and the part where it looks like I’m a princess and someone is serving me like I’m some pampered fancy upscale lady who does this every week, although I guess they can tell by looking at me that I’m not. I just like being on equal footing with people, I want them to know I know how to get my hands dirty (well they’d know that too if I ever went over to the manicure section), that I don’t see myself as “above” them, that this is such a highlight of my life, one of like 4 times I’ve ever had it done and it’s only because my daughter begged for us both to go and I love her and want to respect the quality-time people in my family that I’m here. I want them to know how much I appreciate their art, their travels to a new country, their work ethic, the quality and efficiency they exhibit. I am inspired by them. But a lot of that is lost in translation. And in my throat. I don’t know how to say all that. So I just make small talk and ask how long they’ve been here, what their family is like (even though I can see them all around us), what their aspirations are; I try for a bit until even I run out of things to ask. In preparation for the big day, I remember hearing that we shouldn’t shave our legs right before because there’s a chance of bacteria getting into the tiny cuts. As a result, even though I shave almost every day of my life, I held off today. And so I told my helper I was embarrassed because my legs were poky.

And this is the part that made me love the experience even more and that totally leveled the playing field, “Mine too.”

Isn’t that the truth? She was somewhere around my age, I’m sure she’s like most women and doesn’t always get around to shaving; she’s likely got a million things swimming around in her head and has a full schedule. I always choose to believe we have so much more in common than not, and here it was. This has stayed with me for weeks, I’m still thinking about it.

While I’m not legitimate in the way it was meant, back when we were supposed to write Me too in our feed, and I’ll admit I haven’t experienced the devastation that prompted the movement, I feel the power behind the expression and celebrate the ensuing validation and sisterhood. I felt that connection in this everyday woman’s simple words.

“Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: What! You too? I thought I was the only one” (CS Lewis).

I was at lunch with two girlfriends earlier this week, and they were talking about their older kids. We always seem to end up at the part where we get wistful and nostalgic over it all. At one point one of them mentioned how they’re not into journaling/recording things. I, on the other hand, feel like journaling has saved me and mentioned how I’m regularly getting out my old ones as I share some little anecdotes with my kids in a weekly email. I admitted how fun it is to remember all the cute things they said and all the adventures we had, but I hate it because it reminds me of how mean I was. The one mom brushed it off, “We all were.” No, I told her, I was really mean. Like especially mean. She refused to accept it as anything out of the ordinary. “We all were,” she repeated. “We didn’t know what we were doing, we were so tired, we were overwhelmed, we had no idea how to be moms.”

I was skeptical. She didn’t know me then. The mean me. But the thought of it lingered. Could that possibly be the case?

I had never considered that maybe others felt the same way I did as a young mom. Everyone I was around seemed completely competent and composed. Never did I suspect that these women I hold in such high esteem could ever have had the same rocky start I did. And yet here were two of my most honest, say-it-like-it-is friends; I knew she was telling me the truth.

I know we know this. But here’s me. I easily assume we’re all just doing our best. But from my vantage point, it feels like some have a much higher best than I do. I sometimes wonder if I’m the only one in a world of frenetic, productive energy who feels the way I do.

Are other women my age struggling to know what their purpose is, what’s next? Everyone around me seems to have direction, their something figured out.

Do other women feel lonely and wonder what everyone else is flitting about doing?

Do other women wonder what God would say if they could just figure out how he talks to them? I feel like I’m the only 50 year old still trying to learn his language.  But I'd jump at any suggestion he'd give me... if only I could hear it.

Does anyone else feel she’s done irreparable damage to her kids, wondering how she can ever make amends, begging for a do-over while at the same time wanting to sweep all the ugly parts completely away and forget about it all?

Do they wonder what the balance is between self-care and selflessness, between serving our families and serving out there? Should we be doing more with our days or continue to be intentional with the quiet we carve out for ourselves? Are we using our resources in productive ways or are we just coasting? Does anyone ever have conversations like these with themselves or is it just me?

And while of course, the specifics vary a bit, the more time I spend engaging with women, the deeper my awareness is that we’re all struggling with and sorting through very similar questions and issues. All the lunches and visits, the walks and the talks, the quieter times one-on-one or within tiny intimate groups, they’ve all reminded me that I’m not alone in any of this. I feel myself calmly exhaling the second someone affirms that she’s felt the same, validated the minute she utters the magic words, Me too.

More questions than answers

My daughter just got home after being gone for several months and faced the herculean task of paring down her closet contents. She brought home two enormous suitcases and enlisted their powerful zippers to expand mightily, allowing room for all her wares. She also had a box shipped, in addition to the one we picked up this summer. Her methodology was straightforward: put everything on the bed, creating a teetering tower of color, pattern, texture, and mood, and then make cuts. It was a fabulous site and a daunting task: decide what to keep, what to purge, and what to think about awhile longer. She lined our stairs with shoes of all kinds streaming into the living room: sandals and hiking boots, dressy shoes from other decades and yesteryear formals, patterned platforms and so many Docs, snow boots and river wading shoes, running shoes and strappy heels. Fascinating how the blend of footwear, bags, clothing, and accessories spelled out her personality with clarity. I was intrigued by what she decided to let go of. But mostly by what she—minimally and very uncharacteristically—decided to keep.

We’ve had a bit of time to talk about not only how her style is morphing but how her thoughts and feelings from the past few months have changed and how she sees things now compared to when she was in high school. I love that we can share what we’ve both been learning throughout the time we’ve been apart. There are so few people we feel we can be especially vulnerable with and with whom we can share our innermost leanings. Absolutely love it.

One thing I told her is how free I feel these days: light and open and at peace. At the same time, I have more questions than I ever have. I think that’s how it usually works, the more we learn, the more we realize how much there is to know. I feel like those earthquake-proof buildings, anchored yet flexible, with my anchor being Christ. He is my rock. My foundation. My one absolute. My truth. My Savior.

I have a firm conviction of the love He, my Heavenly Father and Heavenly Mother have for me. These three are my lifelines. My everything.

A few years back I was like Avery and her bed of clothing. I went through a time when I felt like I needed to know what to do with all the stuff I’d both been given and bought into over a lifetime of collecting. So many different perspectives to consider, I questioned everything I thought I was sure about. And so I laid it all out, wondering what—if anything—I’d decide to keep.

I pared way down. Like those minimalist wardrobes they talk about. Keep a few key pieces and work with those.

I took Christ, God the Father, and God the Mother immediately.

And to be honest, that’s about it. I’m firm, secure, and certain they are real. Regardless of the talk around me, I’ve had too many experiences with them personally to deny their existence and their investment in my life. I know they are aware of me, care for me, and are guiding me. I feel their soft spirits, their strength, their love. I feel my identity in relation to them keenly, guiding every decision I make.

I know Christ came and lived here among people a lot like us, that he died and lives again. He is my one true friend who I count on for everything. I look to Him as my mentor, my safe place, my one ally who understands all the feelings of my heart. He is my go-to, my one sure thing.

As a result, I do believe he taught some things while he lived among his people. I believe he showed us a higher way to live. I believe there is a purpose to my life and to that end, true joy is my ultimate aim. I believe that although I declare that I know him and love him, I show my devotion best by following him.

As for all the other stuff, I have no idea. I have some leanings, I have some beliefs, yet I’m pretty wide open to other perspectives. I could be wrong about all sorts of things. I’m ok with that.

I have pages at the ends of my journals with questions. Every now and then I’ll go back and see if I can fill in any of the blanks. Sometimes I’ll have studied or learned something new in the interim and feel like I have some ideas to add, while at the same time acknowledging even these additional insights or “answers” could possibly change or be wrong.

But most of these questions just sit quietly unanswered, blank, waiting, unruffled, patient. And I’m not bothered in the least.

Because it doesn’t matter how many questions I think I need to have answers for. I will never, ever, ever have enough answers to satisfy me if I neglect to ask the right questions.

Did Christ live on the earth? Did he die and does he live? Is he the Son of God? Am I also a child of Heavenly Parents who love me? Does my life have meaning and purpose?

That’s it. Because when I’ve asked with an open heart, I know. And what I do with the answers to these questions makes all the difference in how I view and interact with the world.

Looking at beauty

I was sitting with an unassuming co-worker, a man in his 70s, who caught me completely off-guard by asking me, “Do you feel more beautiful now than you did twenty years ago?”  

I long for this kind of engagement, but so often I’m asked to talk about our farm or our renovations.  And yet, while I love probing questions, he hit on a sensitive topic, probably the one I have the hardest time with.  I couldn’t begin to gather my thoughts in one place or to think how to answer him succinctly.  So I resorted to being straight with him.

I prefaced my response with the obvious: at nearly 50 I’m definitely not getting any better looking, and I’ve never felt like I could possibly relate to the “pretty” people around me. Even as a grown-up I noticed years ago I didn’t feel entitled to have cute hair or fashionable clothes, I just felt that was all for the cool moms. I just figured beauty—in its traditional sense—wasn’t going to be part of my life, like not being an Olympic athlete or trapeze artist or talk show host; it’s just never been a stand-out characteristic of mine, and so I’ve simply tried to focus on other aspects of who I am.

And yet I admitted, in answer to his question, I honestly do feel more beautiful now than I ever have. It has nothing to do with my outsides; I am getting wrinkly and saggy, more rounded in the middle section, and less and less what the world would deem physically attractive.  In fact, as an ordinary middle-aged mom, I feel nearly invisible sometimes, which is actually my dream superpower.

But ironically, I feel more secure about myself now than I did when I was young and in better shape. I feel my heart softening and expanding. I’m calmer. Eager to understand and learn and admit I’m still learning. More relaxed.  Interested in others.  Wiser. More forgiving, accepting, open, vulnerable. Less judgmental.  Less inclined to gossip. Curious. Better able to see another perspective and to recognize pain and fear behind arrogance and brashness.  Not there yet.  Just more aware that this is the kind of person I’m striving to be.

I remember making a list years ago, just a random sampling of skills or characteristics I wanted.  One entry was “to feel beautiful.”  Not that I’d have to necessarily be beautiful, but I wanted to be able to feel it.  Given that I believe a large part of beauty is simply confidence, I realize I am beginning to truly feel that beauty inside.

Interestingly, it was just after this exchange a friend called.  We talked for nearly an hour in the parking lot about the very idea the grandpa and I had just discussed.  She’d posted pictures and thoughts recently and is on a mission to switch up the narrative we women have about our bodies, how we view them, and our outward appearances in general.  Yes, of course, love it, for sure.  But she’s typically beautiful.  Like in a way the world would accept: young, thin, blond, attractive features, just basic good looking for our culture. Easy for her to feel confident and to be a spokeswoman for embracing ourselves as we are.  I told her that and she says that’s what everyone says. :)

This topic comes up frequently between us.  She knows my insecurities, and while she lives in a culturally acceptable and celebrated body, we still talk frankly.  This past week we were texting more about this.  I told her the whole looks/body/beauty thing is so all over the place for me. While I’m game for being vulnerable about nearly every topic she can throw at me, I hate opening up about this because it’s so personal, an area of my life where I’m not completely confident—especially around her. I’m still working on ignoring the advertising and expectations of the world, trying to really figure out how I feel, and reconciling feeling so ugly as an elementary school girl, average in high school, and just meh ever since with wanting to honestly not worry about it.  There have been moments, singular instances or photos where I have felt congruence in how I’ve been portrayed with how I feel inside, but mostly I try to ignore my appearance because there’s not a thing I can do to change it.  It’s very uncomfortable to me when people say my girls look like me.  I have no response, I feel very awkward about acknowledging them; they are cute like in a girl-next-door way, and I have never felt that way ever. 

But I don’t think pretty and beautiful are necessarily synonymous.  While the world elevates and celebrates the handsome and glamorous people based on what is currently acceptable and idealized, not many in the entertainment industry are what I’d consider truly beautiful people.  The definition paraded has to do with youth and body shape, which is so limiting and destructive.

I think my 73-year-old mom is attractive.  And I have noticed some very striking grandmas with modern gray-white spiky short hair in on-trend classy outfits—I absolutely love this look.  But others are soft and wrinkly and lumpy and sweet, the smiley warm kind with twinkly eyes you just want to cuddle up with while she reads to you, accepting, loving, cookie-making grandmas just oozing beauty.  All very beautiful in their own ways.

I remember in a class years ago the man not much older than me talking about his career as a photographer.  He has captured some of the most “beautiful” people in the world in his photoshoots.  But he mentioned one woman in a leprosy colony.  He emotionally told us, with all sincerity, that she was the most beautiful woman he has ever known.  This impacted me profoundly and has stayed with me through the years, helping me notice true loveliness in people.  I think we just know it when we see it.  To me, it’s light, courage, authenticity, humility, contentment, confidence, resilience, selflessness, humor, and a willingness to engage, listen, and relate with others.

I’ve had several conversations with girlfriends about the incessant nonsense bombarding us and our daughters.  It’s nearly unavoidable, and it takes intense strength to not get sucked into the unrealistic expectations and dramatic pulls, even as an older mom. But in spite of this backdrop, I feel like I’ve been very intentional with my daughters because I know the power of truth. I’ve tried to teach them of our worth, our identity, and how none of that is tied to appearance.  We’ve talked about the purposes of our bodies, the gifts they are, humility, including others, being a true friend, working hard, trying new things, being aware of and kind to others. I love that they feel free to express themselves, that they wear little to no makeup, that while they want to take care of themselves, they embrace their bodies without any kind of degradation or even a sense of worry.  We talk about being healthy, why it’s important to eat well, to sleep, to exercise, to manage stress, to look at the big picture; and I hope they’ve internalized a desire to use their bodies, strength, intellect, personalities, and minds to do good in the world, rather than using their bodies as ornaments or accessories or for attention.  I feel like we’ve talked about true beauty in this sense, not ad naseam, I don’t want it to be a major discussion point, but I feel like they get it.

I love my friend’s pursuit, her quest to help women recognize they are more than what they look like on the outside.  I love that the mannequins and posters in many stores are showcasing regular people with believable bodies like the real people we know and are and that their personalities seem to be the focus rather than a flawless rendition of only a body.  I love that they use models of all types: freckly, petite, full-figured, long kinky hair, short funky hair, mixes and shades of skin and ethnicities from all over the world. Some of the current advertising I applaud is reminiscent of the Benneton ads from the 80s, some of my absolute favorites from my teens, so forward-thinking for the era. I feel like we are making strides in focusing on diversity as beauty, and I’m impressed with the campaigns to fight the onslaught of the counterfeit paraded as real, attainable, normal, and desirable. I love that we are making an effort to look beyond our physical appearances and that we are appreciating intellect, creativity, kindness, boldness, problem-solving, strength, tenacity, and individuality.

As I was talking with Todd on our long fall drive about the mixed messages surrounding beauty, I asked for his perspective and he asked for mine. Unexpectedly, sharing about my physical appearance stirred some very deep emotions for me. As I talked about how I felt about my physical looks I felt weak, less-than, helpless to be anything more than what I was naturally born with, resigned, like hiding.  But then I explained how the older I get, the more confident I feel.  I have lived a long time, and I continue to feel so much stronger and sure of myself. As I shared this perspective, I felt emboldened, calm, secure; I sensed the power of these characteristics parting the fog and cacophony of the world voices. As we continued to wade through the variables, we concluded it’s simply a matter of how we define beauty.  But for us, we are less drawn to perfection and picture-perfect models and more inclined to authentic everyday people who make us laugh, who are regular with flaws and personalities, who are intent on adding their strength and gifts to the world, and who have beautiful hearts and minds.  This is the beauty we believe in.

Leaving the chore chart behind

I was wiping down the oven and made my way to the side of the fridge where my mom lists are.  But after all these years of re-writing it, trying different configurations, making individual lists on sticky notes right there on the kitchen counter, I think I’m just going to be done. I ripped the chore list off the fridge and didn’t just toss it into the trash; I crumpled it ceremoniously.

I had to go back to what the purpose of chores is.  Obvious.  I just want my kids to know how to work.  The last thing I want is to raise slackers who will be a burden to future roommates and spouses.  I want them to recognize what it takes to keep a house running, to know how to take care of their possessions and areas, to notice when there’s something needing to be done.

And yet despite my best intentions, I have felt like a failure in this department in recent years.  When the kids were little and home more, it was easier, matter of fact, routine.

But these days I’m the absolute worst at enforcing chores.  And so is Todd.  He, because he’s never around.  Me, because I am.  And I see their crazy lives.  They leave at 6:30 every weekday morning, and Fridays they usually have work till 7, go out with friends and get home at 11.  Most Saturdays in the summer B has to be downtown by 7 to make/sell crepes at the Farmers’ Market and works the afternoon shift at Great Harvest.  Callum also heads out early in the summer to get his lawns done before he also works the afternoon at Great Harvest.  Until just recently C worked at the gymnastics club and B at a local pizza place on top of their other jobs. They also do cross country and track and have rigorous school schedules.  So I’m seeing all their comings and goings and get it.  They’re hardly ever home. But when we finally gather at night I see B up till 11 with her flashcards, C in bed with his scriptures… I take it all in.

Am I being soft? Perhaps lazy? Should I push harder and be the parent?

Callum was unexpectedly home for maybe 2 hours yesterday afternoon, so I told him now that his mowing was done for the season he could put away the trimmer, mower, etc. that had been sitting on our driveway for the past seven months, which he did.  But then I suggested it would be the perfect time to get his chores done since he’d be leaving at 5:30 the next morning to go hunting with work all afternoon then his fancy dance all night.  He said he should’ve stayed gone.

I remember a similar exchange with an older son many years ago.  I’d be on him to get finish his scouts, to look for scholarships.  Until he confided it was why he stayed away so much.  Which is precisely when I let it go.

So here I am again.  I’m done dealing with a list of chores.

Because here’s what I see happening.  They clean out their vehicles every weekend and go through the car wash regularly, they get their oil changed on their own, they pay for their gas and phones and entertainment and most of their own clothes. Their beds are made every morning, they do their laundry, their rooms are unusually tidy for people their age, their drawers are organized, clothes are hung and folded according to category.  They empty and load the dishwasher, clean up after dinner, mow, plow, and help with yard and house remodeling projects.  They’re never here mostly because they’re working their real jobs, at which they do dishes, bathrooms, floors, trashes, counters, etc.

It occurred to me that they are learning to work.  They’re not exactly slackers.  They’re learning the value of money since they’re earning it themselves and have to buy so much on their own.  They’re noticing what needs to be done partly because their employers have taught them. I know they like to do a good job and take pride in their work because we’ve talked about different work styles.

But I was getting hung up on them not doing their dusting and vacuuming, wiping down the cupboards and appliances, the stuff I actually love to do.  I spent a good chunk of yesterday doing that type of housework and was in my glory.  I actually hated giving those jobs to them because I love them so much, but I was intent on teaching them to work.

But here’s the bottom line. I feel like they’re getting it. And I feel like they’ll continue to learn.  Living with roommates will be a life lesson all of its own.  They’ll have to decide if the person they eventually date to marry will have the same ideas about keeping up a house and whether they’re willing to accept whatever that is.  They’ll have to use their eyes to see what needs to be done when they’re in charge of their own homes.  We’ve all been there; we’ve all adjusted and figured it out.  I’ve just noticed how much easier life is when our homes are orderly and tidy, how good it feels when items have a specific place, how centering and calm it feels when it’s clean, how a good work ethic is possibly one of the most important traits a person can have.  I guess I just want the kids to want that too and to know what to do to achieve it.  I want them to be valuable employees who put in an honest day’s work and who notice what needs to be done without being told.  I want them to appreciate what it takes to keep up a household.  I want them to be responsible and to be hard workers.  I think we all want this for our children.

So even though the chore chart is no more and the formality of a checklist is in the past, I feel ok about it.  Because even though we’re maybe giving up by tossing out a tradition that’s been in place for decades, I feel that it’s time. I feel like it’s been time for a while now actually.  I think in a round-about sort of way they’re learning what we hoped for all along.  Which has been a lesson for me as I think about other parts of life. The past few years I’ve felt more free to let go of prescribed practices that are simply A means to an end rather than the only way to get there.  Loving it.  This feels good.