...RiSiNg fROm tHe AsHeS...

I'm a passionate person. I don't always express my thoughts or show them outwardly in an obvious way...but I always feel them intensely. When I like something...whether it's food, a person, or an idea...whatever...I really like it...love it...think it is the best. When I don't like something...I really don't like it...I have no tolerance for it...and there is not much anyone can do to change my mind. Consequently, my emotions can swing pretty far in either direction depending on the day and circumstance. When I am sad or hurt...when I fail...when I am disappointed...it is so difficult for me to overcome. I always succeed in overcoming eventually. It's just that I feel like it's almost impossible to right my wrongs...to forgive...to start over. So, I struggle and get "stuck".

I think sometimes I get stuck waiting...waiting for someone to help me...to save me. I'm not the kinda girl that gets "saved". I've never been good at being a damsel in distress. I don't wait in the tower for my prince. I usually try to find a way to get myself out. Sometimes it makes me feel sad, like I'm not worthy of saving...so I've never really given anyone the chance to save me. I always assume that he doesn't, but if the prince ever shows up...I'm already gone. I wonder if it's because I'm not pretty enough...or maybe it's because I'm not likeable...or as good as all the other "princesses". Sometimes, I wish things were different. Sometimes I am glad.

I read a quote once that said, "You save yourself or you remain unsaved." and that's how I've always tried to live...like a phoenix. The phoenix was a mythical bird that lived for 500 years. There was only one phoenix at a time...all the phoenix had was itself. It was thought to be able to restore itself when it was hurt or wounded. I find it interesting that it was considered invincible...NOT because it couldn't get hurt...but because it could repair itself when it was hurt...even the phoenix could get wounded. After 500 years, it was said to build a nest that it would ignite in flames. The nest and the bird would burn so intensely that they would both be reduced to ashes. Out of the ashes, a new phoenix would be born. The phoenix is a symbol of rebirth and renewal, but not only was the phoenix thought to be reborn...it was thought to come back stronger than it was before.

I've had some things going on in my life in the last week that have felt a bit out of my control. Some days, I feel stuck and I get mad...mad because I wonder why I always have to deal with this kind of stuff...mad because my perception is that somehow I am different or less fortunate...mad because it's not fair. The fact is that even if I am unlucky...even if it isn't fair, I can't change it. That's how life is. We take the cards we are dealt and try to make the best hand possible. You win some and you lose some. Life is a journey...a test...a time of growth...a trial. We should all want to become better than we are, but it doesn't happen overnight...it's a process. Our trials can make us stronger, but it's not easy...or quick...or painless. It takes effort. We learn from our mistakes. I am no where near being able to compare myself to a phoenix, but I'm trying. I'm trying to take things one day at a time...and when I'm consumed by the "flames" of life...I will try to rise from the ashes...a little stronger each time...like a phoenix starting a new life.

...holding my breath...

I do it all the time. I do it when I'm scared..when I'm surprised...when I'm in pain...when I'm worried...unsure. Sometimes I don't even know I'm doing it until I hear someone say, "Breathe!". I don't realize how uncomfortable I am until I draw in the first breath and the feeling of relief washes over me. A few days ago I experienced that relief.

My friend has been gone. He still is. I knew I would miss him when he left, but I underestimated how much. He was so many things to me...a coach...a friend...a running buddy...a sounding board...a student...a teacher...a confidante...and more. I laughed with him. I cried in front of him. I learned from him. I succeeded because of him. He made me happy many times and even made me sad a few times. He helped me realize my potential and changed me for the better.

I was sad when he left, but more than anything I was worried. I was worried that he wouldn't find what he was looking for...worried that he would never come back to train me...worried that he would forget me. In a sense, I've been holding my breath since September 14th. When my friend called me a couple of days ago, I felt relief...I took a breath. I don't think he'll ever be back, but I am learning to accept that. He's my friend and if he's happy, then who am I to tell him to do something different. I just have to keep breathing and be thankful for what I have...my memories...the things I've learned...no one can take those things away from me. I should be grateful and aware of every breath I take. Buddha once said, " "Let us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn't learn alot today, at least we learned a little, and if we didn't learn a little, at least we didn't get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn't die; so, let us be thankful."

It's time for me to stop holding my breath. It's time to breathe so I can live.

...bAd mOmmY...

I wasn't a little girl that carried dolls around. In fact, I never remember having a specific doll that I especially liked or played with. I never get "baby hungry" when I hold someone else's newborn. I love to hold them and see their tiny features. I love to cuddle them...and smell their necks...and kiss their cheeks...and then give them back when they start to cry. I've sat in circles of women that talked about how after they gave birth, all they could think was..I want to be pregnant again...I want more babies. After I had my babies...I always thought...I'm glad that's over and I'm not doing that again any time soon. I just smile and quietly wonder. I've always wondered if I am...somehow...less of a woman...a worse mother because I don't feel like most other women .

Being a mom can be one continual guilt trip for me, if I'm not careful. I always worry...am I doing enough?...am I really cut out for this? I remember when my kids were so little...5, 2, and newborn...I was so overwhelmed some days. I couldn't wait for the day when they would get older...the day that I didn't have to change diapers...the day that I could go to the mall without a stroller...the day that I could carry a purse again...a real purse, rather than a diaper bag that doubled as my purse. The list goes on. I foolishly thought it would get easier, and before I knew it, the day came...my kids aren't babies anymore.

As my children get older, the day to day challenges haven't gotten easier...they have just changed. We don't have tantrums in the grocery checkout because they want candy anymore, but when I make them turn off video games to do homework or tell them to go to bed or to set the table...we have tantrums. I use to hate the glares from strangers when my kids would cry in stores, but I would gladly welcome those glares to never have to hear "I hate you. You're the meanest Mom in the world.". My kids don't cry when they are hungry anymore, but I have had to endure tears and complaining when I make them eat one bite of their vegetables. I wanted "a break" when they were little. I was always so tired. Sometimes, these days I wonder if they even need me and I miss the way it felt to hold them in my arms and rock them to sleep.

I wonder if I am a bad mommy because I didn't dream of babies when I was a girl. I wonder if I am a failure because I'm always late. I wonder if I am worthy of this job when I lose my temper. I am ashamed to admit that some days, I want to give up. I'm ashamed because good moms don't give up...they keep trying...no matter what...and I want more than anything to be a good mom. I want to teach my children well. I want to make lasting memories with them. I want them to be proud to introduce me to their friends. I want my children to know that I mean what I say. I want them to know that even if I'm late, I will ALWAYS be there. I want them to know that even though it's hard to hear hurtful words said in anger, that I will always forgive them...again and again...as many times as I need to. Mostly, I want my children to grow up never questioning the depth of my love for them...so even when I am tired and frustrated...defeated and floundering...I will never give up. I will never walk away. I will never stop trying to be a better mom...and I pray that when my children are grown they won't think I was a bad mommy.

...It's time to drop the anchor...

I'm not a person with alot of collections in my house. I don't collect figurines or snow globes or anything like that...it's never been "my thing". The only thing I really collect is quotes. Whether they are poems...or movie lines...or quotes from famous people...whenever I come across a quote that is inspirational to me...I write it down and add it to my "list". I've even been known to pull out my cell phone in a movie to type in a quote or a line that I like...one that is worthy of my collection. Yeah, it's weird, but it's what I do.

In the movie "The Guardian", there was a line that I thought of as I sat down to write today. Kevin Costner's character, Ben Randall, is teaching the young men that are in the Coast Guard about how to be good "rescue swimmers" and this is one of the things he tells them: "There will come a time when you might have to decide who lives and dies out there. It's a terrible responsibility but it's one you will have to make as a rescue swimmer. The bigger reality is, its also something you are going to have to live with as a human being. There will come a time when you will have to say no. The most important person to keep alive is yourself."

I've been thinking about letting go...letting go of the things in my life that are drowning me...the things that will kill me in a sense if I continue to hold on to them. "The most important person to keep alive is yourself." I heard that line in my mind as I thought about some of the people and things that are like an anchor around me. Sometimes it's easy to let go...and sometimes it takes the feeling of struggling to tread water before I realize that I have a decision to make.

I don't let go or give up easily...especially when it comes to the people that I care about...but there's only so long that a person...even a strong person...can tread water before they drown. I can't control other people. I've learned that the hard way. The only thing I can control is myself. I have to make my own decisions. I have to know when to walk away...when it's time to save myself...because the fact is that these so called anchors in my life that are dragging me down are not chained to me...I am holding onto them...I have to let go...I have to drop the anchor or I will drown. It's hard to walk away before you're ready. It hurts to mourn someone that is still alive. Sometimes, we have to choose ourselves over others in order to live.

..."FERGALICIOUS!"...

I write a lot of serious...sometimes sad stuff, but I'm not a sad person. I want to write about something that brightens my day and makes me giggle when it comes to mind. There's a proverb that says, "Laughter is the best medicine." Years ago, I wouldn't have believed that, but today I know that is true. It makes me sad when I realize that I have gone through an entire day without laughing. I used to laugh all the time. I don't know why or what was so funny, but my friend used to make me laugh almost everyday that I trained with him...sometimes it was a giggle...sometimes it was long, loud laughter. Consequently, when something funny happened to me, I loved to tell him about it, because he appreciated the humor and usually had an equally funny retort. There's one particular "funny" that is my favorite.

I remember one day, my oldest daughter and I were stopping by Target. I don't know what for, but she wasn't exactly thrilled. You see, she's almost 12, she hates to shop, and I am the most embarrassing Mom ever! She was complaining as we walked in and I was trying to bite my tongue and ignore it. We got what we needed and waited in the "10 items or less" line. You couldn't help but notice the cashier right away. He was kind of a goofy lookin guy with an outgoing personality and a quick wit. I started to watch him closely because I noticed that even if they resisted at first, every customer..old or young...cranky or cheerful...left his line smiling at the very least..most left laughing. As we approached our turn, I noticed a man behind me. He was hard not to notice. He was a big, muscular guy, mid 20s, Corona tshirt, camo shorts, and backwards baseball cap. He looked like a manly man. He was holding something under his arm. I noticed that it was almost as if he were hiding something, but turned around to pay for my purchase and take my turn at a laugh. I don't remember what the cashier joked with me about, but he did and I laughed...not a roll on the floor laugh, but a small giggle. As I turned to walk away with my daughter, I heard the cashier say in a really loud volume..."FERGALICIOUS! DUDE, AWESOME FERGIE!" Surprised...me and my daughter turned to see that what this guy was hiding was a Fergie CD!!! The guy was not finding this funny...in fact he looked VERY embarrassed...and that just egged this funny cashier on. My daughter and I continued towards the door and our car. As soon as we got outside, we simultaneously looked right at each other and broke into hysterical laughter. My daughter's response through laughter was, "COME ON! A guy buying Fergie?!?" I immediately texted my friend whose reply was something like, "OMG did you ask him if he wanted to borrow some panties?" Again more laughter. My reply, "Nah, I think he already has his own!" My friend and I texted back and forth and my daughter and I would burst into laughter any time we thought about what had just happened.

Now, if we want to laugh or we're feeling silly, all my daughter and I have to do is look over and yell "FERGALICIOUS!!!" and it brings immediate laughter. Laughter can fix so many things. Laughter can bring people together and create memories. That day, laughter helped me go from "the most embarrassing Mom in the world" to someone that wasn't so bad to be around. I dare to say it brought us closer. It changed the entire mood of our trip. So, Corona man...thanks!...Your embarrassing moment created laughter and fun and memories for me and my daughter!

I'm the BIGGEST LOSER!

I sat on my bed and cried off and on for two hours. I had a good day today. I wasn't sad when I sat down on my bed to relax and watch TV, but I get so emotional every time. I can't disconnect myself from people that I don't even know. When other people see me, they automatically assume that I have nothing in common with the people that I cry for...that I couldn't possibly understand their pain. They have no idea that some days when I look in the mirror...I don't see me...strong...thin...healthy me... I see those people looking back at me.

Four years ago, I weighed 200 pounds. I decided that I was ready for a change. I don't know why the number 200 "woke me up". I don't know why 180 or 197 didn't. I just know that I opened my eyes and made a decision. I decided that I didn't want to be out of breath at the top of my stairs anymore. I decided that I didn't want to hate my reflection in the mirror. I decided that I couldn't remain a prisoner in a body that felt uncomfortable and foreign to me. It took me several months to figure out what worked for me and in the end it took me over a year to lose 70 pounds. I didn't go to a doctor. I didn't take pills or starve. I ate better and I ate less and I started working my body. I NEVER thought I could go from a size 18 to a size 2/4. I've never been strong. I've yo-yoed between being fairly thin and being slightly chubby off and on throughout my life, but even when I lost weight, I was never fit...never this small.

My body has changed, but sometimes I think that my mind has not. I struggle to see what others see. That is why I cried tonight while I watched "The Biggest Loser". I cry just thinking about it now. When I see those men and women on the television, I feel their pain and struggle. I KNOW how hard it is...everyday...even now. I know what it feels like to be ignored in stores. I know how it feels to see people's faces when they haven't seen you...in a while...since you gained weight...the disappointment and the shock that can't be masked with kind lies and fake smiles. I know how it feels to wake up hopeless.

My life is totally different today. Today when I walk in a store, sales people look me in the eyes. They speak to me. They help me. Today when I walk in the gym, I feel like I belong there. Today I run to the top of the stairs and back down again and hardly notice it. Today I enjoy shopping and trying on clothing. Today I notice men noticing me..and they no longer have a look of pity or disgust on their faces. Today I am no longer ashamed, but I am proud...proud of how far I've come...proud of the sacrifices that I have made and the lessons that I have learned.

I am not a fat girl anymore, but the fat girl that I once was still lives inside me. Sometimes she's barely noticeable...sometimes she overpowers me. She overpowers me with fear...she tells me that what I see in the mirror is just an illusion...that I am ugly and fat...that it will not last. I'm trying to learn to quiet her, but she is an important part of who I was...who I am. When I see a fat person, I do not judge. I do not make fun. I do not make assumptions. I hope. I hope that one day that person will "wake up" like I did and be reborn. The fat girl that I used to be has made me...kinder...stronger...more grateful. She motivates me to get up every day and work hard...rain or shine...cold or hot...sick or well. So while I will never totally abandon her, I need to ignore her when she lies to me and puts me down. I need to teach the "old me" to accept and love "the new me"...to not be embarrassed by the stares...to believe the compliments...and to accept my beauty.

...wHy cAn'T i bEliEvE?...

Why can't I believe that I am worthy of being loved? Why can't I believe that I am beautiful?...worthwhile? Why can't I believe that dreams really do come true? Why can't I believe what I am told?...that I am loved...that I am capable and strong? Why can't I believe the ones I love?...friends...family...It seems that no matter how many times I am told, I NEVER believe. I doubt. I question. I rationalize and eventually...I reject...sometimes out loud, but mostly in silence with a nod and a fake smile. When I receive a compliment, I wonder if it is a cruel joke or simply given to me out of pity or even duty.

One day a couple of months back, I walked in my bathroom and looked at myself in the mirrors that surround the room. All I could see were flaws...wrinkles on my face...imperfections in my body...the list goes on. I decided to get ready for the day, go out dressed well, and try to carry myself with confidence. I was hoping that I could convince myself that I'm okay through my interaction with other people. So, I put on my cute, tight size 2 jeans, my pink, expensive 3/4 length sleeve jacket, my perfectly matching pink high heels, and I headed out for the day. All day...everyone stared...all day...I was worried...worried about what they were thinking. I created what I fear. I wanted people to see me...to think I looked better than everyone else...and they saw me...but I didn't feel better...I felt...different...strange...bad. I walked through Target at the end of the day before going home. I acted confident, but I felt scared. I caught a man staring. It embarrassed me. I pushed my basket faster in the opposite direction and I looked away. I had to go back to get something I forgot and there he was again...the same man. He had a kind face and he smiled at me. Before I could escape like I had before, he walked towards me...he wouldn't take his eyes off me. He said, "Has anyone told you that you look pretty today?" Shocked and at a loss for words, I spit out one word..."No." He said, "Well, you do. You look pretty." Dumbfounded again, I said one more word..."Thanks." and I walked away. I didn't feel better. I didn't feel good, because I didn't believe. My first thought was, "Do I look so pathetic...so desperate that a stranger felt that he HAD to pay me a compliment?" I know that was not the case, but I told myself that it was. I would not allow myself to believe what he said.

I don't ever remember a time in my life that I felt differently. I'm never...enough. I've always felt second rate. I've always felt "almost" good enough...but not quite. I've always felt like a consolation prize. I'm not sure why..I have a few ideas, but I guess I'll never really know. It has made me seem...hard...tough...and uncaring, but I'm really not. I am soft and fragile...scared and worried...all the time. I want to believe...I just don't know how.

...grandma's swing...

Almost all of my relatives and immediate family were born in San Antonio, Texas. I am no exception. There is one difference though. While all of my relatives lived in San Antonio, my family moved to Arlington, and that's where I grew up. Every year, or even twice a year, my family would drive to San Antonio as our vacation. My mom would stay at her parent's house, and me and my sisters would stay with my Dad at my Grandpa and Grandma's house. We would visit my mom's family, but because we stayed with my dad's parents, most of my memories are there.

My Grandma's house was very old. My great grandfather built it himself. It was a unique house because of it's age. There was a bathtub that stood on feet, tall ceilings, and even a bathroom that had an old toilet with a chain up high that you had to pull to flush it. My grandparents were German. Sometimes my Grandma would speak to my Grandpa in German, especially if she didn't want us listening. She also gave prayers in German. Grandma raised Dachsunds. Her favorite one's name was Schatze, which is German for sweet heart.

My Grandma had lots of costume jewelry in lots of old, fancy jewelry boxes. My sisters and I would sneak them open and look at her jewelry. If she caught us, she'd say, "Uhhh, Uhhh!" in a deep growly voice, and we would close it up quickly. Oh we wanted to try it all on so bad, but we knew we better not. It was special to Grandma.

We had to be creative or it could get boring at Grandma's house. My grandparents had a detached garage and a big open, square drive way behind their house. Grandpa would go out to his shop and get down an old, red wagon and we would take turns pulling each other around the driveway. Our favorite thing about Grandma's was the swing that hung from the ceiling of her front porch. My sisters and I would sit on that swing and just go back and forth, back and forth for hours. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the warm, humid air and hear the way that the chain creaked every time we swung back and forth. My grand parents had that swing there the whole time they lived there. After Grandpa died, Grandma moved to a townhouse to be closer to my aunt and to be in a safer neighborhood. The swing stayed behind.

A few years later, my grandma moved here, closer to my parents, because her health had started to decline and she needed help on a daily basis. She was not ready to give up her independence so my parents got her an apartment within five minutes of their house. They helped her pay bills, took her to doctor's appointments, and took her dinner every night. They basically did anything she needed because she could no longer drive. One of the highlights of Grandma's week was Sunday dinner at my parents' house. She loved to see my three children. They also loved her dearly. Over the years, Grandma's health got worse, and a few years ago she passed away in a hospice home...right before Christmas. I made some precious memories in the last years of my grandmother's life. As I helped care for her and enjoyed her, I grew to love her in a different way. When Grandma died, my sisters and I got to split up her costume jewelry and jewelry boxes to keep as a special memory of her. It was the first time we got to really see all of her precious things that she had protected all those years. I keep it on my bedside table and it reminds me of her.

As I think about all the things I remember, her dogs, the old wagon, my grandma's jewelry, my mind always returns to that creaky, old swing. I cried on that swing, and I laughed on that swing. I talked to my sisters on that swing, and I sat alone and rocked back and forth...back and forth. Over the years, I grew up. I outgrew the old red wagon, but no matter how I changed during the years we visited my grandparents, young or old, I never outgrew grandma's swing.

...LiaR, LiaR paNts oN FiRe!...

It's always kinda funny to me that when you ask a woman what qualities she is looking for in a man, she'll usually always have honesty in the top three. Honesty is important and I do believe that it is a worthy attribute to look for in a relationship for obvious reasons. It's interesting though...I always wonder how many "honest" guys never get a chance because they are not attractive...or rich...or funny...or successful...in addition to their honesty. People are ashamed to say, "I want a good looking guy." or "I want a great kisser." We think it seems shallow, but is it not true? There HAS to be some sort of attraction to get things started. We want honesty, but we are afraid to be completely honest. In a sense, we are all liars.

When I was in college, my best friend Kiem used to say "96% of all jokes are true". Me and Kiem had a...funny relationship...almost like the boy and girl that like each other...only the boy pulls the girl's hair and the girl pretends to be disgusted. We were never anything other than friends...inseparable friends. We had a funny quick witted relationship filled with lots of playful banter, so of course I had to argue and disagree with this philosophy the first time I heard it. A joke is a joke. Jokes aren't true...or are they?

How many times do you say something that gets a reaction that is unexpected, only to say "Oh, I was JUST kidding!"? As I think about this, I realize that this happens ALL the time. Sometimes we are afraid to be honest, so we jokingly say what we mean. Then, if there is any sign of upset or confrontation, we can always say we were "just kidding". I went through a whole day....conciously paying attention to what I said...when I was "just joking". Many times...I wasn't joking.

No one wants to be considered a liar. I know I don't. Maybe my friend WAS right...maybe we should "joke" less and just say what we mean.

...sHaTTereD gLAss aNd sUpeRglUe…

The memory is so vivid…so clear…I remember what the classroom looked like…the other kids’ faces…especially his. Mostly, I remember the way I felt…the painful lump in my throat…the flush of my cheeks…the surprise…the way I held back the tears and masked the pain with a confident shrug. I remember hearing those 2 words, over and over and over again that entire day. I’ve heard those words in my mind at various times in my life for the last 25 years. I was 13 years old and in 7th grade. I was insecure and I never felt pretty, so when those words confronted me…in front of the entire class…they shattered what little self-esteem I had. 2 words…that’s all it took…”YOU’RE UGLY!”

His name was Scott Coppinger. He wasn’t good looking. He lived in a small run down house on a street near mine. He was skinny. He wasn’t popular or looked up to, but it didn’t matter. In fact, those facts made the situation worse, because if a skinny, ugly, nerdy guy thought that, I could only wonder what other people…people that “mattered” thought. I remember walking in the classroom and hearing someone teasing him. I laughed as I walked in, and then everything went in to slow motion as he turned and shouted those two words at me…loudly…in front of everyone. I remember the way I felt. I remember taking my chair, but I can’t remember the rest of that day. I do remember that I did not go home and tell my parents. I was too ashamed.

Childhood and adolescence is brutal. It’s almost like wild animals or a primitive culture…eat or be eaten…kill or be killed. Most everyone has had an embarrassing moment in school or been put down. It’s what people do with those words that help define them. Some people use the torments or unkind words to excel…to succeed or to become better than they were. Some people choose not to believe…to forget...to ignore. Some people cling to the hurt and feed it and nurture it until it has become a part of who they are. I haven’t been called “ugly” in a long time, but I still feel that way sometimes. Some people would be surprised to hear that…think I’m lying even.

It’s like going to a thrift store and seeing a beautiful crystal vase from a distance. You are drawn to it…can’t believe it’s not taken…that it’s in a thrift store. You turn it over to find that it’s Waterford crystal and it’s being sold for pocket change. How can that be? Don’t they know what this is worth? And then…you see it. You see that this vase has been broken and glued back together. It is no longer perfect. What was once an expensive, fine piece of crystal, has no real worth any more. Sometimes I feel like a shattered vase that has been carefully super glued back together. If you don’t pay attention or look closely enough, you won’t notice the cracks…the hurt…the disappointment…the pieces of my heart that have been shattered over time.

It seems like a depressing thing to say, but it’s true. Until I sat to write this, I always felt worthless, because I am broken…damaged…from all the times I was dropped…shattered. As I remembered that terrible day…the one that had a real impact on my life and the way I see myself…I realized that if I treated myself, the way I treat others, my life would be so much better. I would never in a million years think of my children as worthless just because they make mistakes and they are not “perfect”. I would never turn my back on a friend, because of bad choices they made in the past. If someone told my daughter, what I was told, I would tell her not to listen to hurtful lies. I would tell her about all the wonderful qualities she possesses. I wonder why I can’t…won’t do that for myself.

Today, I am saying goodbye to Scott Coppinger, once and for all. I have chosen to carry his mean words and the hurtful memories of that day around with me for 25 years. I don’t want to lug them around anymore. Yeah, I’m a mess…broken…no where near perfect, but I’m not alone. I haven’t cornered the market on pain. There’s no such thing as a perfect person…one that has never been hurt…or damaged in some way. We are ALL full of cracks hidden by superglue and we are all probably stronger because of it.

...hUrTs So gOOd...

From the time my kids were old enough to crawl, I've taught them to be careful. It's for their safety; their protection. I gave them plastic utensils with rounded edges. I "kid-proofed" my house. I was there to catch them when they fell taking their first steps. I taught them not to touch a hot stove, and to be careful not to shut their fingers in the door. I taught them just like my mom taught me and her mom taught her. No matter how careful a parent is, accidents happen. Bones get broken. Eyes get poked. Knees get scraped. Hands get burned, and fingers get smashed. It's a part of life that all parents try to protect their kids from for as long as they possibly can, but in the end, all kids get hurt and feel pain.

By the time we're adults, it's an accepted fact of life. We know that we will get hurt and feel physical pain somehow...somewhere...sometime, but we are programmed from an early age to avoid pain...at all costs...just like I programmed my children when they were babies. We are taught that pain is bad. Pain is scary. When we feel pain, we do everything we can to numb it...bandaids...ice packs...medicine. We want the pain to go away...fast, and we are careful never to repeat the action that caused the pain in the first place.

My body is sore and tired today and my heart hurts. Today, I feel pain, but I guess that's not so unusual for me. I workout...hard..and everyday I feel pain because of this. Sometimes, it's my back. Sometimes, my legs...my butt...my arms. Sometimes, it's my heart; my soul. Sometimes it's hard to tell where it hurts. I just know I feel pain. It hasn't been until recently that I learned to appreciate pain...to like pain. No, I'm not some kinky masochistic freak. I'm someone that has learned to respect pain...to understand it...to work through it...to live in it...to use it for my own benefit rather than fighting against it.

Pain teaches me. It refines me. Sometimes when my muscles ache, and I scramble for the Advil and ice packs, I stop and take a step back. My body is sore...hurting...because today I used it. I worked hard to make myself the best I can be. When it hurt, I didn't stop...I pressed on and grew stronger. When it was hard...I rose to the challenge and built endurance; confidence. The pain, the hurt is an affirmation that I did the best I could. When my heart breaks and my soul is battered, it is because I have been hurt..somehow...by someone...maybe an unkind word or a disagreement...maybe loneliness or disappointment...maybe unrequited love or even betrayal. This pain is much harder for me to embrace. It is very tempting to do whatever I can to ignore this pain...to find a way...any way that I can...to keep from feeling this pain...to stuff it down...to build a wall and shut myself off from the possibility. I've learned that it is important not to push this pain down but to feel it...to acknowledge it...to learn from it, because this pain also teaches me...even makes me better...stronger too. I am learning that it is better to risk this pain than it is to be alone and sacrifice happiness...love...friendship. It may be harder for me to accept the pain of heartache than it is to accept physical pain, but surviving heartache helps me appreciate those that truly love me...that handle my heart and soul with care. It reminds me that the way I treat others really does matter.

Pain is a part of life. It comes whether we invite it or not...embrace it or reject it...work with it or against it. Everyone has experienced the strange phenomenon where pain actually feels good physically. An example being the fact that massaging a sore muscle can hurt so bad and feel so good at the same time. It only takes a moment, but if we jump up at the first touch, afraid to feel the pain, we cheat ourselves out of the pleasure that follows. I will continue to see pain as a positive force in my life; a catalyst for change. I will use it as a gage for progress. I will be patient and brave and wait until the misery subsides and allow the pain to "hurt so good"...again...and again...and again.

...like a hamster on a wheel...

Making beds...washing dishes...doing laundry...taking kids to school...to swim...to soccer...these are just a few of the repetitive tasks that I do almost everyday. They never end. Even if I make beds and do laundry everyday...I'm never really finished, because more clothes get dirtied everyday and those beds get unmade again every night. Many days it is mind numbing. I feel like a hamster on a wheel...feverishly running as fast as I can...around and around and around...not sure where I'm going...never getting any further than I was before...just keeping up.

Sometimes I fantasize about how my life would have been different had I chosen to stay in college...if I had chosen an exciting career path...stayed single...possibly even traveled the world. I try to imagine how different things would be had I chosen this cosmopolitan lifestyle. I imagine a very clean, modern, expensive apartment...with a view...I don't know what the view would include or where it would be...but there would be a view. I envision shiny stainless steel appliances...a fridge with no calendars or hand drawn pictures. I imagine peace and quiet...time to read books uninterrupted...and restful nights of sleep...no nightmares or monsters in closets. I imagine myself in expensive high heels and designer "power suits". I imagine gourmet dinners and lots of parties...glamorous parties full of important people.

Before I know it, my fantasies are interrupted by the cries or demands or giggles of my three children...and I reenter MY world...the one where traveling includes kids that whine and can't carry their own carry on baggage, a beach right here in the US, and days spent doing nothing but lying in the sun reading novels, building sand castles, and breaking up arguments...not hiking the Inca trail or sailing the Mediterranean on a yacht...the one with a comfortable home rather than a modern apartment...the one with a view of the elementary school from my back porch rather than a cityscape...the one that includes jeans and the occasional high heel bought on sale at Macy's rather than Manolo Blahniks and Armani suits...the one that includes McDonald's Happy Meals and Subway sandwiches, not gourmet meals...the one that includes parties, but not glamorous parties...these parties include jump houses, balloons, birthday cakes and squealing children that have had way too much sugar...no fancy hors d'oeuvres or important people. I wonder what I've missed all these years that I've been living as a suburban housewife...and then I realize that I'm looking at my life all wrong.

I have missed out on the glamour and excitement. I have missed out on exotic travel and gourmet meals because of the choices I made...the choice to leave college...to get a minimum wage job and help support my husband while he finished his degrees and accomplished his goals...the choice to have children...to quit my job and stay at home...the choice to spend my days in parks on picnics...in museums...at water parks...and on field trips, not in a board room...or an expensive restaurant for a lunch date...or the first class cabin of an airplane on my way to a business trip. I try to turn my thinking in another direction...I wonder what would I have missed had I chosen the other life I sometimes dream about???

I would have missed out on the miracle of hearing the heartbeat of the life growing inside me for the first time...the surprise of the first kick inside my belly...and the overwhelming feeling of love that washed over me the first time I held my newborn baby in my arms and counted their ten perfect fingers and toes. I would have missed the sweet smell of a baby's neck after a bath...the ability to stop a cry with one kiss...and the feeling of two small hands wrapping around my neck to hug me tight. I would've missed out on the excitement of the Easter Bunny...the thrill of the Tooth Fairy...and the magic of Santa and his elves. I would have missed out the on pictures drawn with crayons that say "I love you, Mom! XOXO" that hang on my white fridge...the one I keep hoping will grow up to be stainless steel someday. I would have missed out on the comfort of my leather couch...the one that I chose, because it was distressed and I knew it wouldn't show the scratches and spills that come with having kids. I would have missed some of the most precious moments of my life...ones worth far more than a pair of Manolos or an apartment with a view.

So, while I still daydream about what could have been...and while I still hate the mundane, repetitive tasks I perform everyday...I am grateful for the choices I have made. What I have is priceless...more valuable than gold. So, I'll continue to get up everyday and wash and clean and do the same tasks that I did the day before, but now maybe I'll stop and be grateful rather than resentful. I'll continue to make the same beds and I'll calm familiar cries. I'll cook out of obligation...not desire...and I'll drive a minivan (the one thing I adamantly said I would NEVER do) to swim and soccer practice...even when I don't want to. I'll be a hamster on a wheel, because the laughter and the hugs and the kisses that come with the job, make it all worthwhile.

tOp tEn fUnNy tHiNgs aBoUt mE...

I've written alot about my fears...my disappointments...and my regrets. It seems that my mind is always working overtime...I probably over analyze everything in my life. Sometimes I think I'm the weirdest person alive. I do strange funny things all the time. I use to be so overly sensitive that I could never laugh at myself or my mistakes. I would get all embarrassed and mad. In the past year, I've learned to laugh at myself, because as strange as these things may be, they really ARE funny. So, I thought it might be a nice change of pace to write something that isn't sad or thought provoking or cynical. I thought it would be fun to make like David Letterman and make my own "top ten" list. Here are the top ten funniest...quirky...possibly annoying things about me:

1. I do "tests" in every dressing room, EVERY time I try an article of clothing on. I turn around to look at my butt in the mirror. I bend over. I sit down in a chair. I sit and THEN cross my legs. To me, this an essential part of the decision to buy or not to buy the clothing. I mean come on, who wants to walk around looking so good in the front only to learn later that those jeans really do make your butt look big!

2. I qualify every statement I say or suggestion I give...with a LOT of words. An example would be that if I were talking to a friend about a relationship issue, I would say something like this," Now I know, I don't know everything about your relationship, and I'm not trying to speak badly of your girlfriend because you know I really like her. I mean I really do. You know that don"t you?...and I know I'm older and I've been married a long time and I'm a girl and you"re a boy and I'm seriously not trying to get in your business or say I'm an expert, because we both know that's not the case. Oh, and even if you ignore my advice, I'll still respect you, but.....I don't think she's right for you." It takes 5 minutes and hundreds of words to preface a sentence with seven words. Hey! I'm just tryin to be nice!

3. I am awkward. I trip and fall off my wedge shoes all the time. My knees bow in. I've been caught doing jumping jacks wrong...YES there is a wrong way to do them...in case you were wondering. I've been told I jump rope "like I'm in third grade". When asked by a store clerk, "Are you sure you have hold of all those bags, before I let go?" (worried look on his kind face) I reply, "Oh yeah! I got it!", turn to walk away and all the bags fall in the floor. The worst part is my awkwardness rubs off on people. The poor man bent over to help me immediately and got stuck and had to struggle to get up...red in the face. I just giggled and thanked him as I turned to walk away...and tripped.

4. I am not stupid, but I'm such an airhead sometimes. Once when I was at a Cowboy's football game with my husband, sisters, and friends, a man approached me at the bar where I was standing with my sister. Mind you...a few minutes before he walked up, he winked and smiled from afar. He said, "What are you drinking?" I replied,"Oh, I don't drink. My sister is just waiting to pay." He then said, " Well (wink-wink), you must be ready to go then. I can get you outta here real quick!" I was excited because the thought never occurred to me that he was picking me up. I thought he had connections and could, in my own words, "expedite our order". Because of my inability to notice that I was being picked up on, the man walked away scratching his head. My sister smiled and said, "You really need to get out more." Another time...Me and my personal trainer were talking and joking about his superhuman, "beast" like strength and abilities. I giggled and got all wide eyed and said all excited, "Yeah. I saw a guy wearing a shirt that said 'HALF MAN. HALF HORSE. and I immediately thought of YOU!" He gave me a kind smile and a shocked look, and replied, "Uhhhh...I don't think that's what it meant!" I was like "What????" and suddenly, moments...days later, I got it. I was so embarrassed and we couldn't quit laughing. Listen...my mind was not in the gutter, it was an honest mistake!

5. I ask a ridiculous amount of questions and say weird stuff like my dad does. I say things like, "I intellectually know Brad Pitt is good looking but I still don't like him." or "I understand the words you're saying, but I don't know what they mean to me." or "I intellectually understand this workout, but I'm not sure how to really do it." What can I say...I like to be sure, and the saying, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree." applies very well here.

6. I am such a fidgety person. Whether I'm going to sleep at night, doing an exercise, or sitting in my car, I fidget until I feel just right. I never just lay down and sleep. I never get on a mat and start working out. I have to adjust my legs, and my butt has to be in the right place, and I have to be in a certain position. It doesn't matter if someone's waiting or trying to sleep...I gotta make sure it feels just right. I rest and work better when I'm comfy...even if it does take hours out of every day to do so.

7. I NEVER go out to my car and leave my house on the first try. It seems that EVERY time I go to get in the car, I've forgotten something. Sometimes it takes 3 or 4 attempts to make it out. Even then, I've been known to make a u turn on my street to go back for my bottle of water or an item I need to return or my cellphone. I am simply trying to multitask with a one task brain!

8. I always think people are staring at me. And, I always think it's because they think I'm weird or gross. You might think I'm paranoid, but they ARE I tell you!

9. I never order a sandwich or burger and then pick it up and eat it. I have to open it up and straighten the ingredients out or "fix" it in some way...ALWAYS. Look, a perfectly good sandwich can be ruined if the ingredients are not centered and in the right order!

10. I never just order off the menu. I am so picky and I don't like to be disappointed so I try to get things made the way I want them (only to rearrange them later). I mean what's wrong with asking for double rice, no beans? Or bacon extra crispy, eggs and bacon on a separate plate from pancakes? Or queso on top of my cheese enchilada instead of the regular sauce? Or ordering everything on my baked potato but ON THE SIDE so I can get it on there like I like it? Or a BLT without the L or mayo? Or gravy on the side of my chicken fried steak instead of on top...so I can dip it in there anyway? The list goes on. I'm a girl that KNOWS what she likes and is not afraid to ask for it!

I could feel bad, but what good would it do? I could change, but then I would not really be myself. Soooo.....I may be picky, and neurotic, and weird, but I can say this...whether people love me or hate me, one thing is true...I am definitely UNFORGETTABLE!

sHiNglEs aNd sEcrEtS...

I found out last week that I have shingles. I have three spots on my face and a sore on my eyelid, but if I keep my bangs hanging just so...carefully apply coverup to my face...and apply my eye makeup just right...no one can tell. I just have to control the intensely overwhelming urge to scratch my scalp and leave my itchy eyebrows alone. If I put on a smile and wear a confident expression...I can go out and no one can tell that I have shingles. No one can tell that I feel ugly...that some days I have literally wanted to tear at my head and face until they bleed because they itch so bad. No one knows that I get random shooting pains on different parts of my head...or that when I do give in to the urge to scratch...it doesn't feel better or bring relief...it just hurts. I think it is so interesting that I can walk around suffering and sick and people can think that I am fine...even those closest to me. It is not because they don't care...it is because I only show people what I want them to see...and when I want to be...I am very good at hiding the way I feel.

I recently came across a blog called "POSTSECRET". I think I might be the last person alive to discover this project, but when I did...I was amazed...disturbed...comforted...and fascinated all at the same time. For years, people from all over the country have been mailing anonymous, homemade postcards with their secrets written on them to an address as part of an ongoing "community art project". Some are silly...some are gross...some are thought provoking...some are sad...many are heart breaking. They are not for young viewers...that is for sure. I read and I laugh. I read and I'm scared. I read and I think. I read and I cry...I cry for strangers...and I cry for me...for the person I am...and the girl that I once was.



I think that what has made the "POSTSECRET" project so successful...so engaging...is that we can all relate, because we all have secrets. We have all been sick...in one way or another. We have all been hurt...and created hurt. We've all done things we wished we hadn't or that we don't tell anyone...things that we didn't realize could change us forever. We all have desires...good desires...and desires that we know we shouldn't have. I'm not sure I could muster the courage to mail off my secrets for the world to see. The thought of having my most private dreams...my most painful memories exposed...put on display...is scary. It's scary because it's anonymous to everyone...everyone except me. I would always wonder what if...fear being recognized...feel vulnerable; naked in front of millions...worry that those people that I care the most about would see me differently if they knew how I really feel sometimes...if they knew my secrets. So, I cover them up with a smile...give people the answers they want rather than the real ones...and try my best to keep my secrets hidden.

Reading other people's "secrets" has made me realize that I am not alone. I am not alone in my suffering or in my ability to keep a secret. It has made me think twice about the way I judge people or react to people based on what I see externally, because sometimes a person can be suffering in the worst way and hide it with a smile. I wonder how many people I walk by everyday that might have a secret or be suffering in a way that I will never know...in a way that is hidden...hidden like the itchy, painful spots on my face.

...waiting...to fail...

Why is it that a NASCAR race is so much more exciting once someone crashes? The Miss Universe pageant has never been so amusing as when Miss USA fell on stage and popped right back up. A hockey game sucks if no one throws a punch...and while we all agree it's sad...we glue ourselves to the screen during the Olympics to watch both great accomplishments, as well as, heartbreaking failures. If we miss one of those tragic events, we turn to the internet so that we can watch "the agony of defeat"...over and over and over again. Why is it human nature to love to see others fail?

We all want to be more...the best. We all want a better car...a bigger house...a more impressive job title...a skinnier waistline...more intelligent children. The desire varies depending on the person...but EVERYONE is always looking for more of something. We hate the people that we perceive are better than us or that have achieved what we want to achieve. We work hard and if we're lucky...we make it too...only to find out that it's not as great as we expected it to be.

It's not as great, because when we are succeeding...there's always someone hoping...watching...waiting for us to fail. People smile and congratulate you to your face, while privately they cut you down and secretly hope you will faiI. I feel that way sometimes. For years, my husband and I were so poor. We worked so hard and went without for so long. The hope of a better, more secure future is what kept us going when we didn't know how we were going to pay the bills or when we had to wear coats inside our house, because we couldn't afford to heat it. I dreamed of the day that I could have a nice purse or drive a nice car...the day that I could be proud to bring people to my home...the day that I didn't cry when it came time to pay the bills. After many years, lots of hard work and sacrifice, and thousands of dollars in student loans...we have achieved a lot of our goals. We are not millionaires, but we are more than comfortable...successful by most people's standards. There are many people that have more, but we have a lot and we appreciate it, because it was not easy to obtain.

There are other successes, besides monetary successes that people resent as well...especially women. We women have to be the meanest, most competitive creatures to ever walk this earth. I know that there were people that were much more likely to approach me and like me when I was beat down and overweight. It was easy, because I was no threat...no competition. I made the person standing next to me look good. When I took control of my life and problems...lost weight...and gained a bit more confidence...everything changed. People stopped approaching me. I went from being invisible to being talked and whispered about. The sad part is...I'm still me. The inside is the same. I'm still nervous and insecure...I still struggle not to over eat...I still have the same worries as every other 30 something mom. I think that's one of the reasons that I'm so scared of gaining weight. I know that there are people that would revel in my failure, because then they could feel good about their own short comings and weaknesses. People don't always see the successes of others as simply a success to cheer for or congratulate, but as a personal failure...a reflection of what they, themselves, did NOT accomplish.

I have found myself actually being embarrassed at times...embarrassed when a fellow PTA board members husband complimented me instead of her...embarrassed when my children's friends come to the house and say, "Wow! You have a nice house! I wish I had this house!"...embarrassed to admit that I have a nanny even though I don't work...embarrassed of the amount of shoes and purses and belts and clothes in mine AND my childrens' closets. Personally, I think that sometimes I am embarrassed and I fear success because I don't feel worthy. Failure is comfortable in some sick, twisted way...familiar. Maybe part of it is in my head...maybe it's me...the dark insecure parts of me...that are waiting for...fearing...expecting failure. It would be easier in some ways...but would I be happy...settling for less?

As I sit and think about the dilemma between "having it all" and being hated for it or being just like anyone else and easy to like, I realize that while it hurts to know that there are people waiting for me to fail...people putting me down in whispers...I could never live with myself knowing that I didn't try to be the best I could be. I realize that deep down people don't really think of me as a jerk or think I'm bad, because if they did...they wouldn't be talking...they wouldn't be competing...they wouldn't care. So, yeah people might love to see other people fall...lose...fail, but personally, I would rather be Miss USA and fall onstage in front of millions, then be the fat girl eating popcorn and laughing from my chair at home. I'd rather be the Olympian that trips and loses the chance to win a medal...the one he has been working for his whole life...than the guy with a spare tire...sitting alone...watching it over and over on youtube. It hurts and it's hard, but I'd rather be the best version of myself, then wonder what could have been. So, I'll keep working while others sit and wait...for failure.

i'M tHe GirL...

I'm the girl that always tries to remember birthdays. I love to buy cards...send a text...give a card or a small gift to celebrate life's little accomplishments or to ease everyday pain. I'm the girl that thinks of the ones I love all the time...everyday. I'm the girl that worries when my loved ones worry...hurts when they hurt. I try not to ask for anything...I demand nothing in return. I say I don't need it...it doesn't matter...but somewhere deep inside it does.

I'm the girl that is forgotten. I'm the girl that only receives cards on her birthday...and even then, it's just a few...it's family...the people that have to remember. I'm the girl that men always looked at with desire...but never asked out or wanted to date. I'm the girl that no one ever worries about, because they think I'm tough and strong. No one asks how I am...and if they do, they assume I'm just fine and don't stick around long enough to hear the real answer. The everyday pain that I try to ease or prevent in others...goes unnoticed in me. I do not ask...and I do not receive.

It seems so ironic...pathetic...so sad, but that's just the way it is and will always be. I have to believe that in order to survive...because when I hope or trust or think things will change...history repeats itself...again. Then, I feel even worse...more alone...invisible. It's like dying a slow death...one disappointment at a time. So, I have to try to look unfazed and perfect...put on a smile...hide when I cry...and say, "It's okay." I have to do this. I have no choice, because I'm the girl...that just wants to survive.

if the SHOE fits...

I LOVE shoes...the higher the heel...the more impractical...the girlier...the fancier...the better. I have over a hundred pair. I actually counted once. I have them arranged by color in my closet...and yes...I have about every color in the rainbow. I can't even begin to describe what it feels like to find a pair of shoes that perfectly matches an outfit. It's almost as if they were meant to be together...and I'm bringing them together...fulfilling destiny. Sometimes I find a pair of shoes that doesn't match anything I own...at all...but these shoes are so special...so fabulous and unique...that I buy them anyway...even if it means I then have to search out and buy an outfit to match them...perfectly. Again, it's almost like destiny...like they were meant for ME. I mean, not many people buy high heels with swirls of blue, green, and black, or hot pink boots, because they are not practical. When it comes to shoes, I am NOT practical.

I ask myself when this love affair with shoes started? Where did it come from? Will I ever be able to walk away...to leave this unhealthy relationship behind? Why don't I just avoid shoe stores or departments? When I put my mind to something, there's no stopping me. When I decide to conquer...I destroy. I guess it's not really such a mystery. I know why. I don't stop buying shoes, because I don't want to overcome this obsession I have. I love it like a junkie loves his drugs. The drugs numb his pain and free his mind of the things that drove him to the drugs in the first place. Just as the drugs change the way he feels as soon as they enter his veins, shoes help me forget and they change the way I feel as soon as I slip them on my feet.

Different shoes make me feel different ways. When I used to wear my pointy toed, black cowboy boots in college, my sister always said I acted tough...and in retrospect...I felt tough. Now...when I wear my green and silver running shoes, I feel fast. When I wear my 300$ Donald Pliner boots, I feel special. When I wear my leopard wedges, I feel stylish. When I wear green 4 inch high heels or my hot pink, pointy toed boots, I feel sexy.

I've been fat and I've been thin. I've been somewhere in between. I've been attractive and I've been average. No matter what I look like or what I weigh...no matter what size my jeans say, shoes ALWAYS fit. The size doesn't vary or disappoint me. If I try on a pair that feels tight or too small...if they just don't look right, I don't feel guilt or regret. I don't tell myself that I'm a failure or that I'm fat. I put them down and move on...walk away...without another thought. I can't say that for jeans.

I think that's when it began...when I was fat. I couldn't wear sexy tops or trendy jeans...but...I could wear fabulous shoes. I could wear the kind of shoes that make people stop me and ask me where I got them...the kind that other women whisper about and point at and admire in the airport (true story). I pretend not to notice, but inside I'm secretly jumping for joy. I know that any obsession is not healthy, but I also know that shoes are the one area of my life that I don't beat myself up over. Shoes make me happy and everyone deserves to be happy...even me. That's why I'll keep shopping for the perfect shoes...and when the shoe fits...I'll buy them and wear them...and be happy...even if it only lasts until I take them off.

What is a SUPER hero?

Wouldn't you like to be faster than a speeding bullet?...more powerful than a locomotive?...able to leap tall buildings in a single bound? Sounds pretty good to me. What about the ability to cling to walls?...or to have superhuman speed, agility, and strength? These things would certainly come in handy most days at my house. I can think of many times in my life where being able to stretch my body into different shapes and lengths, or being able to become invisible, or to fly would've been incredibly helpful. I can't do these things because I am just a human. I am mortal. I walk on the ground. I can be hurt, and one day I will die. I don't possess any of the characteristics of Superman, Spiderman, Mr. Fantastic, The Invisible Woman or any other of a long list of super heroes. I guess that makes me regular...nothing special...nothing super.

Everyone loves super heroes. Men want to be them, and women want to date them. They give us a glimpse of greatness...of what it would be like to be better than everyone else...to make a difference in the world. They make us feel safe and give us hope for a better tomorrow. When Lois Lane falls, Superman is always there to catch her. When she is in trouble, he saves her from the bad guys.

My kids always need a band aid to make them feel better when they're hurt...or think they are. We go through band aids like you wouldn't believe in my house. Whether it's a scratch or a cut...bleeding or barely noticable...a band aid is ALWAYS a neccessity. The only thing that can calm their cries or heal their hurts faster, is a kiss...my kiss. As a Mom, my kisses can dry tears and soothe pain. It's like magic. I started thinking about this one night as I held my daughter in my arms and kissed her stubbed toe. Yes, I really did kiss her toe with my lips. Her crying got quieter until it went away, and soon she was back up and running around. She still had a tear sitting on her cheek, but she had a smile on her face and her toe, the one that was ruined for ever, was working just fine again..free from pain. For a moment in time, I held a super power of sorts...the power to heal...to quiet...to calm. I made her feel safe, just like Lois Lane feels when Superman cradles her in his arms and places her feet carefully back on the ground.

When one makes a list of super heroes, there are certain men that come to mind first. I always think of Superman, Spiderman, and Batman. Those are my top three. Until, I started to think about what powers they each possess, I had never realized that while Superman and Spiderman have numerous and specific superpowers, Batman does not. Batman fought crime and saved people just like the other guys, but he did not use special, super human powers. He made use of what he had. He used his wealth and his intelligence...his love of technology, his detective skills, and his physical abilities to accomplish many of the same things his fellow super heroes did.

This leads me to the thought, that in our own way, we can all be superheroes...to somebody...sometime...in some way. A mother is a super hero to the child that she comforts with her kisses...that she catches as they fall...not from a tall building, but as they take their first steps. The businessman that stops on the highway, rolls up his sleeves, and changes a tire for the woman with a van full of small children, even though it's hot and he's tired, and it will make him late for dinner, is a superhero. The doctor that heals the patient...that saves his life for yet another day, is no less of a hero, than if he were Superman. It doesn't take real superpowers. It takes using the talents that we each have selflessly...to the best of our ability...for the good of others. I can...I am...I will be...a super hero today.

...perfection...a possibility?...or just a perception?...

Everyone has seen "that" person. You see her in the grocery store with her beautiful kids, perfectly dressed, shopping cart full of healthy food...every hair in place. She's perfect. You see her at the gym in her matching workout clothes and shoes, tanned skin, freshly highlighted hair in a neat ponytail, and a thin, strong shape. She's perfect, too. You see her in the mall...lots of shopping bags...just the right outfit, matching jewelry, and high heels. Once again...perfection. You quietly say things to yourself like, "Who does she think she is anyway?!?" "She's pretty and I bet she's rich." "She's so skinny. I bet she never eats." "She isn't smiling. I wonder if it's because she thinks she's too good for anyone...for me." "She must be a snob." Your thoughts and opinions vary depending on the circumstance.

You're not perfect like her. You wonder if that's why she's all alone...maybe all her perfect friends are busy...or maybe she hasn't found anyone perfect enough to be her friend. You peel off the label, stick it on, and walk away...hating her. We have ALL done it. I'm ashamed to say that I have; more than once.

My dad has lots of sayings. One of his classics...his favorites is: "Perception is reality." Sounds all new agey, but it is probably more true than any of us want to admit. I know that the way I see things or people has changed and evolved over the years as I have. I've been the stressed out, over worked, under appreciated, overweight, out of control, sloppy, unhappy stay at home Mom. This is not to say that stay at home moms are these things, but I was. I saw "that" person...that perfect person all around me...everywhere I went. I didn't know her, but I hated her, because seeing her made me swell with regret. The way I felt when I saw her, made me not only hate her and look for ways to put her down, but it made me hate myself. It was a twisted, self imposed revenge of sorts. I saw her as perfect and myself as imperfect...her as lucky and me as unlucky...her as in total control while I was completely out of control...her as care free and me feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. She...whoever she was...was the enemy and I was the victim. Poor me...helpless...afraid. My perception became my reality.

One day I realized that I didn't have to be a fat, miserable, unhappy, out of control victim. I didn't have to be trapped in a body; a persona that wasn't really me. I realized slowly as I took control of my life, not all at once, but piece by piece...methodically, that I could be better...stronger...healthier...happier. I never expected or dared to think that I could be thin or strong or beautiful, but I knew that I could be better than I was. It took years, and I'm not sure I'll ever be completely satisfied with who I am, but I am so much better than I ever dreamed I could be. I have become "that" person...just like those people that I hated.

People think how great it must be to have accomplished goals, to have lost weight, to look good, and be in the best shape of my life. It is...sometimes...but I never realized how hard it could be to be "that" person...that seemingly perfect person. I'm the one that people pick apart. I'm the one they hate. Now I know that sometimes that perfect person that you see in the store does have beautiful kids, but they fight and misbehave and get into trouble just like everyone else's kids. I know her cart is full of healthy food, because she feels regret over eating that candy bar earlier in the day...the one that will haunt her until she goes to sleep. I know that that perfect person you see at the gym in matching clothes and shoes...the tan, skinny one...is there at the gym because she is not naturally thin and she is deathly afraid of being fat...fat like she use to be. I now know that the perfect person you see in the mall has lots of bags because she shops to fill a hole...a hole with no bottom. I know she painstakingly chooses the "right" clothes, shoes, and accessories just to feel okay...not great...or perfect...or better than everyone else...but just to feel okay. I know that she is alone because she has no one to go to the mall with...no one to talk to. I know that she does not smile because she is really sad and really lonely. I wish I didn't know those things, but I do.

Sometimes even when the outside appears perfect, the inside isn't. I've learned that no one should ever jump to conclusions or shut someone out or place a label on people we see for a brief moment in time. We shouldn't rely on our perceptions and discount knowledge...knowledge that we could gain by taking the chance to know "that" person. I've learned that perfection is an illusion...a mirage...a perception. Every living thing has a flaw if you look close enough. There really is no such thing as perfection...but still, everyday, I open my eyes and I try. I try knowing that I can never have that which I desire...need...crave. Perfection.

"the hEarT of a LiOn"...

My toes were curled...my hands balled into fists...oh, I was so tense! Every week I tune in to watch one of my favorite shows, "The Contender"...a boxing competition. I'm yelling...hoping...wishing...encouraging someone to win that doesn't know me...will never meet me...and can't hear me. "GET HIM! KNOCK HIM OUT!", I plead with my eyes glued to my TV screen. Then, the bell rings...it's over...the one I was cheering for has lost. I knew it before the referee announced the decision. This man...this boxer...this warrior...lost the fight...but he was certainly not a "loser" in my eyes.

I love to watch boxing and I hated that the fight didn't end in the way I wanted it to. I usually tend to cheer for the underdog...sometimes they pull through and surprise everyone with a win and other times they don't...either way...I express a lot of emotion. I'm either jumping up and down screaming, "YES!" or I'm ranting about how my fighter coulda won. Last week, there were a couple of things that occurred during the show that really got me thinking. This man I was cheering for, was in the worst physical shape of any of the boxers. It was obvious even just by first appearance. Amazingly, when he was called up to fight...to "tow the line"...he did so willingly...without any hesitation or fear. I wondered, "Is he brave...or stupid?".He was determined to give all he had and he did. He fought like a true warrior...as if it were the last fight he would ever have...as if his life depended on it. He was shorter and weaker, but he didn't just fight, he went to battle and gave it all he had. After the fight, one of his fellow "contenders" said to him, "Man, you have the heart of a lion! I'm proud of you. You have NOTHING to be ashamed of.".

Many times, when the losing boxer returns to the locker room to be interviewed, he is sad or frustrated or regretful. Sometimes, they even cry...these big strong men...they cry...they express regret. This man did not. He fought in a way that allowed him to hold his head high and make no excuses. When his children came in to see him, he sat them down and taught them. He didn't cry or ask their forgiveness. He told them that he gave it all he had, and he told them that in life they should always fight for what they want...that they should go after what they want with all they have. They didn't lament his loss or hang their heads...they were so proud of their dad...and rightfully so.

There was one comment this boxer made at the end that made me reflect upon my own defeats in life. He said, "If I had had one more round, I coulda had him." I think about the times when I lose...when things don't go according to plan...when life "knocks me out". How do I react? My first instinct...my natural instinct...is to give up...feel bad...change direction...think of myself as a loser. I'm not there, but I'm trying to learn to have the "heart of a lion". I want to live my life in such a way that even when I am defeated, I can hold my head high with no regrets...knowing I fought...knowing that I gave it all I had and feeling good whether I win or lose.

I sat down to watch my favorite show...to be entertained...but I learned something and gained a new resolve. I made a decision. I want to live as a warrior...with a brave heart...and an open mind. I want to live in such a way that even when I am defeated, others will say of me..."She has the heart of a lion."

saving my life...one day at a time...

I am a mess. I'm awkward. Sometimes I'm a bit neurotic. I truly am a walking contradiction. I'm afraid of being noticed, but I stand out in a crowd because I refuse to go with the flow and be like everyone else. I crave order and stability, but I create chaos. I'm not unhappy, but I don't smile much. I like for everything to have a place, yet I put things in piles and shove them into closets. I hate to be late and stressed, but I always have to do just one more thing before I go and in turn, I am ALWAYS late...everywhere...all the time...and stressed when I get there. I can't stand weakness...hate "wussys"...think people shouldn't take everything so personally, but I am overly sensitive. I like to be in charge...to drive...to make decisions, but I waffle, doubt myself, and constantly worry about making the wrong decision or getting lost. I want to be perfect...to look perfect...to do things perfectly, but I hate it when people fear being around me because they think I'm too perfect...which is funny, because part of the aggravation is that I see myself as so imperfect. I am as they say in one of my favorite movies "Clueless", "a full on Monet". From far away a Monet looks perfect, beautiful...it flows and is pleasant to behold...everything in place... but when you get too close...it's confusing...not at all what it seemed...some would even say, a mess. It takes just the right person to appreciate a Monet both far away and close up.

I've always felt weird...like no one "gets me". Every now and then I find a friend that sticks around long enough to see through the facade I carry around...likes me enough to find my faults charming...and even kinda "gets me". But, that's a rarity...an unexpected bonus...and even then, I am guarded and careful. I hide the parts of myself that I am afraid will taint my image and I keep the secrets that I worry will scare or confuse them to myself. The sad part is that I think every time that I've done that, I kill a little piece of me...a little piece of who I could be.

I've never been stabbed...shot...or terminally ill. I've never been in a life threatening car wreck...never been in danger of dying physically...but my life has been saved...more than once. I met someone that I discounted ...someone that I put a label on. I never thought of this person as someone that could really be a part of my life or even make a difference. He was a distraction...something new...an amusement. I realized that I was wrong within weeks of knowing him. This person became my friend. Every day that I worked with him...I changed. Some days I went in happy and ready to work...some days I went in beat down and broken. When I was happy, I left happier...laughing. When I told him things that I was afraid were weird or that I didn't think anyone would understand...he understood...he "got it". When I was broken...he put me back together with his encouragement. When I had secrets...they stayed with him...safe. When I expressed concerns...he offered hope. When I went in physically hurt...sometimes I actually left pain free. When I was awkward and clumsy...when I tripped or messed up...he laughed...we laughed...and it was OK...safe.

Every time these things happened, he was in a sense saving my life...one day at a time...one act of kindness and friendship at a time. Neither of us expected to become friends. I wanted to look better...he wanted a client. We got way more than either of us thought we would. He taught me...changed me...built me up...saved me. When I left, I was better...okay...for one more day. I know that I didn't even give him a fraction of what he has given me. All I can do now is do my best to be what he convinced me that I can be...to keep going...to pass on what I've been given...to emulate his example. I want to be the kind of friend that saves a life...one day at a time...just like he did.

"do-overs"...

In golf they call it a "mulligan", but I refer to them as "do overs". There's probably not a single person out there that hasn't wished for a "do over" sometime in their life. I have. In fact, I wish for them all the time. Sometimes I wish I had a "do over" when I make a mistake as a parent...when I let an opportunity pass me by...when I don't have the courage to share how I feel...when I don't react to a situation in a way that I am proud of.

Although l have often wished for "do overs", I have always lived with the knowledge that sometimes...most of the time...they are not possible. I live with the regret. Opportunities pass us by. Words stay in our memories. People move on. Some mistakes cannot be undone. These transgressions can be forgiven, but they cannot ever be totally erased. That's what I think of when I think of a "do over"...the ability to expunge the mistake from my record...erase the poor score...make it all disappear...like it never happened.

I learned a valuable lesson recently. I behaved in a way that I wasn't proud of. I didn't do anything mean or wrong or on purpose. I was overcome with emotion and I ended a situation in a way that left me disappointed...regretful...uncomfortable. As I drove away, all I could think about was how bad I wanted a "do over"; another chance with a different ending...a happy ending. As I wiped my tears and wallowed in my misery and regret, something occurred to me...a thought...an option...a possibility.

I asked. I swallowed my pride and I took a risk. I asked for a second chance. I decided to take charge and do what I could to create a different outcome...a better outcome...an outcome that I could feel good about at the end of the day. I was surprised to find that it wasn't so bad...so hard...so impossible. I got a "do over" of sorts. I realized that most of the time, we can't get a "do over", because we don't ask for one. There are obviously exceptions to every rule. Some things can never be repaired or undone, but many things can...if we ask...if we try.

I was blessed with redemption. My friend gave me a second chance; a "do over"; an opportunity to leave him on a better note...with dignity...with pride...with a sense of relief...a full stomach...and a smile on his face and mine. He thought it was just another goodbye; an apology of sorts, but it was more. It was an epiphany...a revelation...a renewed sense of hope. I'm never going to wish for a "do over" again. I'm going to try. I'm going to ask. I'm going to redo the things that are not right. I'm going to try not to make the same mistake twice. I'm going to start again...as many times as it takes. I'm going to rewrite the ending to my story. I'm going to scratch my poor score and take my mulligan. I'm going to reopen the book and straighten the pages...reset the video game...and allow myself as many "do overs" as I need to soothe the pain, chase away the regret, and enjoy the peace I find therein.

...the power of ONE...

There may be strength in numbers...but I believe in the power of ONE. The power of one hug...one friend...one shoulder...one phone call...one hand...one smile. I cannot fight a war alone and win. I cannot play a symphony by myself. I cannot end world hunger with one meal. There are so many things that I cannot do alone, but I alone can make a difference in the world.

I cannot cure an epidemic...and when the people I love are sick, I cannot heal them...but I can comfort them. I cannot stop natural disasters from occuring...and when someone falls or is hurt, I cannot cushion or stop their fall...but I can lend the hand that helps them up. I cannot make the same noise as a stadium filled with fans...but when a friend has a victory, I can cheer, and when they are defeated, I will not boo...instead I can listen...I can be there...I can be their shoulder to cry on. I cannot stop abuse or take away the hardships that exist in the world...but when I see someone that is discouraged or sad, I can smile...I can care. I know that sometimes these small gestures can mean so much to others, because they mean so much to me.

The other day, I was feeling down...sad...lonely...forgotten. I felt like nobody had any time for me and I was wallowing in self pity. As I walked out to the garage to get in my car to leave, all I could think about was how bad I wanted to go back inside my house, unmake my bed, get in, and sleep away the rest of my presumably miserable day. I fought to continue and not allow myself to succumb to that desire, as I knew it would only make things worse. I left my house, ate lunch alone...feeling invisible. I noticed that the employees told everyone that left the fast food restaurant that I was in, "Goodbye!" and "Have a nice day!". When I left...no one said a word...no one even noticed. I felt as though I could disappear from this earth and not a single soul would notice or even care. I KNOW this is not true, but it was how I was feeling at the time...low and insignificant.

I went and decided to shop. As I ambled around without much of a purpose, my phone rang. I was surprised to hear that sound since it doesn't happen too often these days. I even said out loud, "Uhhh! Somebody loves me!?!" I was so happy to see the name on the screen...the name of one of my favorite people...my friend that I was missing. We didn't talk for too long or about anything too special, but it was amazing how that ONE phone call...from ONE friend...changed my day.

I realized that I wasn't forgotten. I realized that while the people in a fast food restaurant may not notice my coming or going, the people that really matter in my life, DO think about me...DO care...and DO notice whether I leave or not. I snapped out of my negative state and put a quick end to my "pity party" for one. I appreciated that ONE small gesture. It reminded me of how important the "little" things that we don't always take the time to do are...the things that don't really seem to matter. It may take an army to win a war...or many instruments to make up a symphony...but I know it only takes ONE person that cares...that takes the time...to make a real difference in the lives of others...and in turn change the world.

forget me not...

When you love someone, you're supposed to put that person's feelings before your own. Selfish thoughts should never arise. I remember years ago watching a sad, yet inspirational story on Oprah about a woman. She had a young child and a handsome husband that loved her. She had a beautiful home. She had a successful career. She also had cancer...terminal cancer. The story was about how she was creating dozens of video diaries for her daughter. Diaries that would teach her daughter all the things that she couldn't once she was gone...once she was dead. The videos contained advice on everything...from how to put on makeup... to how to survive a broken heart...to how to bake a cake. This woman wasn't concerned with her own feelings. She was all about helping her family survive without her...helping them move on and be happy once she was gone. She even talked of how she had encouraged her husband to find love again once she died. She looked into his eyes and held his hands...frail...sick...sweet...and told him this. People in the audience wiped their tears. How noble...how touching...how loving. When you see these types of stories, you wonder... Could I be so loving?...so selfless?...such a good partner?...such a generous friend?

I never wonder. I never wonder, because I know. I know how I would; how I do feel. I am not generous...or selfless. I'm ashamed, because I want to be...but I'm not. I should be...but I can't. I don't just let people in my heart. I don't easily trust or love, so when I do, I am seriously invested in that relationship. When I care for people, I care with all my heart...with everything that I have. I want my loved ones; my friends to be healthy and happy...free from sadness or pain. Mostly, I want to be cared for and loved and needed in return. I want to be their everything; just as they are mine.

When a friend leaves me, I want that friend to miss me...not just every now and then, or a little, but intensely...all the time. I want the things the we once enjoyed to be a reminder of me. I want the absence of my presence to be noticeable. When I die, I don't want my family...my husband...my children...to be happy. I don't want them to move on with ease. I don't want them to love another...one that takes my place. I want them to be sad. I want them to miss me. I don't want there to anyone that could possibly replace me. These desires make me question my ability to love. Am I too self absorbed?...too needy to truly love? After the questioning, comes the worry.

When I try to figure out how I can love so much...and so little? How I can give so much...and demand more? How I can want nothing but complete happiness...nothing less than exceptional...and nothing but grief and suffering? When I worry, I realize that I don't really want the people I love to be sad and miserable. I want to know that I made a difference. I want to know that I am loved. I am not filled with malice. I am not incapable of loving. I'm just afraid.

I'm afraid of letting go and I'm afraid to be let go of. I guess I equate my letting go with my giving up. I'm afraid that if others let go, that it means they don't care...that maybe they never really did...that I was never really loved in the first place. I feel like it means being forgotten. Letting go is none of these things. Letting go is not an end, it's the beginning of something more. It's the beginning of new found independence, strength, and abilities. It's the ability to stand back and appreciate what I once had. It's the ability to trust...to have faith. It's gaining the ability to believe those that say they love me, that they care...even if I never see them again. Letting go is about love...not for another, but for myself. If I can learn to love myself, it will make it easier to believe that others DO love me. So, now I'm going to try. It won't be easy and I may not be successful at first, but I will say to those that I have to leave or that find it necessary to leave me..."forget me not"...and I will not worry about being forgotten. I will believe and I will be remembered.