Everyone warned me of teenage daughters.
Maybe they forgot that I used to be one.
I’m not afraid of the road I’ve already traveled,
Even if it looks different, these days.
It’s hard,
But our needs are the same.
Recognition, empathy and encouragement.
I love that my tweenage daughter appreciates music and novels.
I love that my tweenage daughter cares about matters outside of herself.
I love my tweenage daughter’s courage and fearlessness.
And yes, I love knowing I fostered that.
She’s a badass.
“Do we need a holiday to celebrate motherhood and friendship?” she asked.
Our friendship group had spent weeks back and forth, trying to find a date to connect.
“Not at all,” I explained “just a good excuse to force us to make plans!”
And here I am tonight.
Six months since my last date with my husband.
It seems silly to leave the house when we spend the majority of each day with one other.
Why pay a sitter and restaurant when we can cook at home for less?
But tonight, when we passed the new Wave Park development at the oceanfront, I gasped at the change.
Then, we guffawed at a palm tree clearly reaching for the sunlight.
I settled and exhaled.
So this is what it was like to fall in love.
17 years this May we bonded over beach volleyball and fish tacos at this very dive bar.
I remembered.
And I felt alive.
No, we don’t need a holiday.
But it sure is a good excuse to make plans.
I am not a winning Coach.
The loss this weekend shattered me when, with good intention, my husband commented of the other team, “They were coached well.”
They were. It was the God’s-to-honest truth.
Their coach was intentional, level-minded and strategic.
His girls performed to his expectations without much fanfare.
Meanwhile, I’m looking my worst player in her eyes and telling her I see her.
I see her insecurities, worry and anxiety.
I know she doesn’t feel good enough and at the end of the day, I want her to feel, she’s more than good-enough. She’s her best.
It’s me.
I see me.
I was never good enough and all I ever wanted was for someone to tell me I was.
I am not a winning coach.
But to someone, I matter.
They matter.
“You’re not LISTENING to me!” she exclaimed.
The light switch went off.
I remember feeling that way, too, when I was her age.
Misunderstood.
Her father and I reviewed our game plan and saw no error.
And yet, that’s the funny thing about plans.
They’re just that.
Plans.
We had good intentions.
But so is the path to hell.
I showed my hands.
“Ok.” I said.
“Really?” she replied, in disbelief.
“Yea. We’re just here to support you.”
And maybe that’s all we ever need to hear.
What do you say to the woman strong enough to stand alone?
Honestly, it doesn’t matter because
She still stands.
A dangerous woman.
“I’m not going to lie to you. It’s a little dangerous to live a life in which you do what you want to do, behave in a way that feels authentic, pay attention to things you find of interest, and direct your passions in any way you see fit. You are now a woman who can’t be controlled by mass media and consumer culture. Congratulations, sister.”- Karbo
A dangerous woman, indeed.
It has taken my entire life and the help of this book to become the woman I am today, but I guess that’s the point. There’s no substitute for experience.
I’ve learned to let go of the woulda, coulda shouldas and instead, focus on the here and now.
Instead of regret, I channel my energy into encouraging my daughters to embrace their unique selves, while still pursuing my own.
I wake.
Karbo, Karen. Yea, No. Not Happening. How I found Happiness Swearing Off Self Improvement and Saying F*ck it All- and How You Can Too. 2020.
Counting down the hours, I could not wait to leave.
A break from cooking, boo-boos and bedtime.
Time to eat where and when we wanted.
Time to sleep in, time with my friend.
We decorated, wined and dined.
We puzzled, visited the spa and stayed up late to watch movies.
It was everything I wanted and yet . . .
Counting down the hours, I could not wait to leave.
I missed my husband and children.
The grass is always greener.
It’s just three words so why are they the hardest to say aloud?
“I. Need. Help.”
Her teachers were shocked: “She is so happy and helpful in class. She has friends and is on honor roll. I never saw this coming.”
How many times have we heard this same story of surprise?
At what point do we not wait until it becomes irreversible regret and start paying attention to the little signs?
Depression is not sudden.
It’s gradual.
We know this but we don’t want to label it so we look for other explanations.
Meanwhile, they continue drowning.
Not my child.
“But if I tell her what’s wrong, I’ll cry!” She laments.
It’s better than crying in the bathroom, I remind her.
School therapists are like life guards; on the side ready to offer help when needed.
Our struggles may be a part of our story but they don’t have to be the end.
But first, we must take the hardest, most important step.
Admit that we are struggling and ask for help.
It’s just three words.
Y’all. They cute but let’s be real.
This is the most thankless job I’ve ever signed up for.
I guess this is what the mid-life crisis is? When you’re too far to turn around and make a different choice?
I was almost a screenwriter. An actress. Famous.
Instead, I’m a mom. A coach. A teacher. A writer.
Oh, wait.
My life isn’t over just because I chose differently.
It’s different, yes. Richer, yes. Harder, yes.
But I’m not done.
I’m just getting started.
This is the most thankless job I’ve ever signed up for.
But I’ll be damned if I don’t embrace the choice I made and inspire children to follow their own dreams.
Let’s be real.
They cute, ya’ll.
I try.
I keep trying to see that little face amongst the venom that spews from her mouth.
But she’s not my little girl anymore.
No, she is her own.
And boy, does she have a lot to say.
How do I tell her?
How can she know, I am the mother I never had?
Oh, but wait.
This is her story, not mine.
I was 30 hours into labor when my midwife dropped that truth bomb on me.
“This is not your story, Lauren. It’s hers.”
Good God.
Nice to know, now.
I gave birth to a new human.
Not a continuation.
Instead, our contribution.
We try.
We listen.
We recognize.
She has a lot to say.
This is her story.
Not ours.
Nice to know.
Always.
New Leaf Parenting 