I Effing Love You, Bruh!

I Effing Love You, Bruh*! 

NOTE: This post rocks to I'm a Mother by the Pretenders. 

"I understand time and it isn't on my side..." 

~Chrissie Hynde

My baby boy** is 14. Almost 15. How is that possible. Just yesterday, he was so tiny I carried him around in a cute little pack on my back. 

Now he is taller than me. He has a job (at McDonald's, which was the place I had my first job too...we are twins!*** Fer cute!) 

He is the president of freshman student council. He plays too many sports. He spends waaaaaay too much time alone in his room. 

He is growing up and I have mixed feelings about that.

Hard Work and Heartache

Yesterday the boy and I were talking about his goals as a football player. He has been working his ass off all summer practicing being a "kicker". 

Now hold-up... a "kicker"? 

I don't really know what that means other than he kicks the ball, which I thought was just a part of what everyone did in all sports. Is there more to it than that? Is it an important part of the football team? 

Don't tell me. I don't care. It's not the point. 

This "sports mom" ain't no sports mom. 

Anyway, it occurred to me that if he wasn't picked for kicker it would disappoint him and might even make him feel bad about himself. And that notion hit me like a stab to the heart with a hot poker. 

Ack. 

Seeing him sad? 

I cannot. No. I can't. Please. 

Don't make me see it. 

Tough Mom

It was a weird reaction for me. My kids will tell you that I am tough. I let them take their hits and work to help them learn from those times when "life knocks ya in the teeth". 

Take this for example:

When my boy was three we were at a neighborhood park. The kid LOVED sticks (actually he still does.) He had found a great one. You know, a totally "just-right" stick. It was thick, but not too thick. Long but not too long. Great for digging, throwing like a javelin or hefting him like a pole vault. And, man-oh-man, it was  PERFECT for your basic ninja type stuff. He was totally grooving on that stick. 

Well, guess what happened? A BIG KID took his stick! 

My boy came running to me tears in his eyes and sputtered, "A big boy took my stick!" Now, if you know me even a little bit, you probably know what I said to him. 

"Wipe off those tears, kid and go get your stick back!" 

The point? I don't rescue my babies when they can and should rescue themselves.

And, he got his stick back. BOOM! Take that ya mean-ass big kid!  

Cry-Baby Mom

So..... 

Why all the hot-poker-in-the-heart cry-baby feelings about the whole kicker thing? What happened to Tough Mom? Who is this new Bleeding Heart Mom? 

I don't like her. Not at all. 

But, shit, my boy is almost 15! That means, legally I can only boss him around for three more years! I know that I'll likely get more than that. But, I left "home"**** at 17 and NEVER looked back. What if he's like me and yearns for that type of freedom? ONLY THREE MORE YEARS!!?!?!! 

No wonder I am a cry-baby. 

Well, after our heartbreaking conversation on those football goals, my boy went back downstairs to his room (of course) and I was left to reflect. 

Note: I use the term "reflect" loosely, what with the ADHD and all, my idea of "reflection" is to just spill my guts in an email and push send with no prior thought or rereading of the message. I know for a FACT I'm not the only one so don't judge me! 

Anyhoo, I "reflected" and wrote my kid an email.***** 

The Email

Dear Kid, 

There are some things I want to tell you but I know you won't want me to say them to your face and I get that. 

1. I truly believe that there is no way any kid on earth is a better son than you are. I am so proud of your responsibility, your kindness, and the way you pursue your goals and think about your future. I love the friends you pick and think you're SUPER funny (you know how much I appreciate funny!) I am grateful every single day that you are my child. 

2. No matter what, I am proud of you. Kicker. Not kicker. Big muscles. Small muscles. Level 3 in math. Level 2 in math. But, don't get a Level 1 in math. That means you didn't even try. Come on, man. At least try, right?!?! I think we're on the same page here. Whatever. I love you to the moon and back. Then. Now. Always. 

3. I will ALWAYS be here for you and believe it or not, you can tell me anything. I will support you. I will listen to you. I will trust that your heart and head are in the right place. 

4. I am your mother. I will correct you and discipline you because you are my world and I want what's best for you. That means you WILL get punished. I WILL swear at you when you need to be reminded that I am your boss. I WILL take you to Slam Town****** when you need to go there. Never forget that. Also never forget that if I didn't love you, I wouldn't care enough to do those things. Except the swearing. I know, I know, that's just weird for a mom. Get over it. 

5. Make good choices. You're getting to be at the age when mothers have to start worrying. If you have a GF, I need to know. You cannot be dumb here. Trust me, I've been around the block and I can help you navigate this shit. Similarly, do NOT do drugs or drink or smoke or do that crazy-ass vaping. Your brain will NOT be fully developed until you're 24. You cannot fuck it up. Be careful, okay? 

Dude, like it or not, you're my baby. I made you. Watching you grow has been amazing but it's also been a hell of a challenge. The very notion that you are going into high school and that all too soon you'll be moving into your adult life makes me cry. I remember when my dad said to me, "Why don't you just live in my basement forever?" I thought he was NUTS (and, as you know, he is...but that's a different thing...) It turns out, he wasn't (well, again, he was but asking me to live in his basement forever was not a sign of the real crazy). 

I LOVE that you are growing up. I HATE that you are growing up. 

Bottom line. I love you, bruh. So fucking much. When you feel bad. I feel bad. When I think about your feelings being hurt it makes me cry real tears. That's stupid. I know that. I also know I have to stand back and watch you move into the world and take your hits like a man should. And, I will. I promise. 

Just know this: 

I FUCKING LOVE YOU! With all of my heart. That will NEVER change. 

Hugs & kisses (even though you don't want them), 

Mother*******

What is Next? 

It's funny. I think lots of new parents think that their kids need them most when they are small. And, sure, they do need you then. But, for my money, my kids have needed me more as they work their way into and through their tweens and teens than ever before. 

I try to remember that.

Today, when I went downstairs to tell the boy good morning and make sure he was getting ready for his shift at McD's, he was looking pretty down. When I asked him what was up he said, "Nothing. Just leave me alone!" He said it kinda mean...actually, no "kinda" about it. He said it like a total asshole! 

But, because (as previously noted) I am a blabbermouth, I ignored that request and rubbed his back and said, "Dude, did you read the email I sent last night?" He said he hadn't (presumably because he feels he already has to listen to me enough without having to now read emails from me too) but he promised me he would read it after work. 

Before I left him I said, "Can I get you some eggs? Big breakie before work and all that?" 

No response. 

Sigh. 

I walked upstairs, cooked up six eggs, and hollered, "There's eggs if you want 'em!" Then, I went to my own room. 

Guess what? He ate the eggs. All six of them. He needed those eggs. He couldn't/wouldn't tell me he did. 

So, what's next? Nothing. Everything. I'm going to keep making eggs because, bruh, I effing love that kid. 

Even when he's an asshole. 

Post Script (PS)

Reader, you may be wondering what my son thinks about me sharing this email with the world (well, not the world, only like three people read my blog and I tell them everything anyway.) Stop wondering. He doesn't think about it because he doesn't know and you're not going to tell him! But, trusies, my family knows I'm a blabbermouth and a writer, they accept that their lives intersect with mine and thus our intertwined stories are mine to tell and theirs too. 

__________________________________________________________________

* See meme in pink. Sigh. 

** He hates it when I call him "baby boy." But, too bad. 

*** He hates it when I say that too. Damn. That boy won't is totally against freedom of speech. 

****My parents were drunks and seriously mentally ill. It was leave or die for me. So I left. My kids have a much better home than I did so maybe they won't be in such a hurry to run off? 

*****Unfortunately, I sent it to his school email address. Also unfortunately, I swear a lot. So, it will be caught by the school filter and I will have to hang my head low as the cussing-est principal in the world. Dammit. 

******Don't call social services. Slam Town is not a real place. It just means I will wrestle with him and he finds that incredibly embarrassing. 

*******Some moms don't like the term "mother" but I like it. It's old-fashioned and funny. I like old-fashioned and funny. 

I Feel Pretty! Wait...Do I?

I Feel Pretty! Wait...Do I?

NOTE: This post pairs well with late Hole. 

Put on Celebrity Skin and feel nouveau* grungy with Courtney & me.  

Am I Pretty?

Check out my picture (below).

Do you think I'm pretty? Clearly I have great boobs, but am I pretty? I've never thought so. I'll bet plenty of other gals question their own beauty, maybe even you? It's totally common. Right? Right. Of course it is. But I fucking hate it.

It started with a Facebook post.**

Today, I was  reflecting on how I never feel pretty and wondering why I had such low self-image and I posted this:

How often do you look in the mirror and think "YUCK!" Do you walk past windows & catch your reflection and shudder? I am ashamed to admit I do that. I just have never felt pretty. I think that's normal for women and it makes me sad. What are your thoughts? Do you have suggestions for increasing body image/self-esteem? I took two pictures recently and when I look at them, I think, "That girl's kinda cute!" But, I NEVER feel that way when I look in the mirror.

<Pause here. I am fine. I am happy. Don't feel sorry for me. I hate it when people feel sorry for me. 

I view emotions from a clinical distance, even when they're my own. 

You have to know that about me or you won't know me at all.>

A Picture Is Worth a 1,000 Words 

(All of them four-letters.)

Buckle up, because here's where shit gets weird. 

In response to my post and accompanying picture, a couple of gals (both of whom I love, BTW***) noted that, if I didn't feel pretty it might be because the picture I shared was "crappy." 

WHAT!?!?! 

Um. No. It is not. I mean, I HOPE it's not because, it is really me. That's how I really look. And, oddly, I am happy with it. That picture captures an essential me-ness that I have come to respect and like. That picture makes me feel pretty and sexy and even beautiful.

So.... it's crappy....

WHAT!?!?! 

I was floored. 

I posted that picture above (you know, the one where I'm Boobs McGee) because I thought I looked good in it! The point I was trying to make was:

Check it out, girls! Even though I feel ugly when I see myself in a mirror, it can't be true because, I look kinda pretty in this picture...and it's me...so, I can't be ugly, right?!?!

I liked the picture. 
The picture was "crappy."

Full disclosure, one of the women is a professional photographer and loves to talk about shit like lighting and angle and exposure. Maybe. I actually don't know what she is talking about, I love her but I totally stop listening when it comes up because, come on, in real life the lighting is rarely right and the angle? I'm 5'3", the angle is NEVER right when people look at me.

I responded to the comments about my crappy picture with this: 

Wow. Here we go deeper into the rabbit hole. I LOVE the picture I shared. I feel like it shows a me that IS pretty. A very real me. It's funny (in a totally WTF way) to hear folks say it is a bad picture. It made me doubt that I am pretty even when I feel pretty! Maybe this is an issue that women can't talk to each other about. It's too fraught with years of societal pressure. I strongly dislike how we photograph. I don't want good lighting that makes me look different...smoother, younger. I want to love how I look...like REALLY look. No glamour. No filter. That does a number on me in really gross ways... No tricks of light for me. I do NOT want the pressure of comparing the well-lit, filtered me to the everyday me. I want to learn to see the beauty in myself that I see in other women. I want to learn to not judge myself against archetypes.

Little Flecks of Wisdom

Where am I going with this? I don't know for sure. But, I found a few wisdom nuggets here. 

1. Beauty is (for reals) in the eye of the beholder. I was raised on punk rock and riot grrrls. I like gritty. I don't like this Courtney:

Well, I do like her. She's pretty. Even in that picture. But, I like this one MUCH better: 

It's gritty. It tells a story. It's her. 

But, what do you think? Which one is the "crappy" picture? Which one captures her beauty? 

I wonder which picture Courtney likes better. In which shot does she see messy hair and too-much teeth and wrinkles and all the stuff we criticize ourselves for? I wonder which is the one where she sees the parts of herself that she really likes. 

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. The trick is to help my eyes see myself as beautiful. 

2. I need to let go of some baggage, man. I'm 51. I've done amazing things. I am raising children. I've been around the block and back a hundred times. I have wrinkles and fat and blemishes and hair growing where it's not supposed to grow. But, I am fine. I am more than fine. I am fucking pretty. 

My secret lover****, Bruce Springsteen wrote, "You ain't a beauty, buy hey, you're alright." That's how I wanna feel all the time. I don't want to be a cover girl beauty. It doesn't appeal to me. I wanna be a gritty beauty. I am that. I have a tough beauty, hard fought and hard won. I have to get over the notion that I need to look like this girl or that girl. That's a dangerous game and it's unwinnable. 

Sometimes as a thought experiment, I call to mind all of the women I know and ask myself if I think they are beautiful and the answer is always yes. I have rarely met or even seen a woman that I didn't see beauty in. So... rationally, how is it possible that every women on earth is beautiful except me? It's not. That's crazy. That's baggage that I need to throw in the lake. 

3. There are folks who love just my brand of beauty...even when I'm not feeling pretty myself. I know that for sure because men like me. They want to date me and kiss me and be my boyfriend. They always have. Even though my friends have always been much prettier than me. Total objective fact. I'll show you pictures if you want. My friends are super fuckin' pretty in very traditional ways. Sigh.

I remember once, in the early 1990s, I was walking in College Station, TX with my BFF and my boyfriend. It was early evening and as I crossed a street, a stranger looked at me and said, "You are beautiful and I want to kiss you." I looked at my boyfriend and he winked at me and tipped his head in a way that said, "Kiss that poor lovesick fool." So, I did (no slut-shaming please, that's a topic for a different day.) 

My BFF said, "I don't get it, Rita. You're pretty, but not that pretty. You're average, why do men love you so much?" My boyfriend explained to her that men (and women for the record) desire me because they can tell that I really like them even before I know them. He said, "Rita puts out a vibe that men love. She's nice. She's open. She's sexy." 

Despite the fact that I may never consistently think of myself as good-looking or pretty or beautiful or whatever, I think my boyfriend (at the time) was right. I put out a vibe. A vibe that, judging by my current and historic dance-card, is pretty hot. That's beautiful, man. It really is. 

Stepping Up to the Reflection in the Mirror

Well, upon reading those nuggets of wisdom over, they don't seem that wise. But, whatever. Right now, I feel beautiful. So, I've gotta go. I need to look in the mirror and ride this wave and wake up my vibe. 

I'm single you know, I'm dating, I gotta have that juice. 

___________________________________________

*Oh good Lord. Not "nouveau". This record came out in 1998. But it feels newish to me in terms of grunge and Courtney's work. So there. 

**It didn't start with a Facebook post. It started when I was around 10, I think. But, even more to the point, it started when a REALLY cute guy started chatting me up on a dating site and I felt like there was no way on earth I could be pretty enough for that hottie. But, I had sent him pictures that showed me at my filtered, make-up-faced best. So... I took the selfie I shared in this post and sent him this message: Feeling nervous...you are so handsome. I'm totally average at best, like on a good day. Can you please tell me I'm pretty and you won't be disappointed?

***These woman are TOTALLY supportive and wonderful in EVERY way. They did NOT mean to hurt my feelings (and they didn't...remember...I have that clinical view...) 

****It's not a secret. Except to Bruce. He doesn't know. But, you can tell him. Our love affair would be sooooo much better if he knew about it. Maybe. I don't know.