We all have our own “it,” that something or someone in our lives that threatens to suck the living right out of us. Whether it’s a rotten boss, a surly spouse, a wild child, an unfulfilled passion, health issues, or debt coming out the wazoo.
For my first 43 years, I felt apologetic that I was “it-free” when everyone I knew was either full of “it” or involved in a daily duel to keep “it” at bay. I felt compassion for the friends and family members who shared their struggles, but also grateful to not fully understand them. If I’m really being honest, there were even moments that I felt smug about the harmony of my relationships and general lack of suffering. I now know this was an invitation to karma to come in and teach me a lesson or two.
The “it” that now resides in my head comes from an intense fear of raising a headstrong and curious teenager from the age of 14 to 18. It pains me to realize that I’m actually celebrating both her birthdays and her half birthdays these days to remind myself that there will be an end to my responsibility in her decision making.
When my wise elders remind me that maternal worry is for a lifetime, I understand that my profound love for her and her sister means that I will always feel concern for their wellbeing. But right now, I’m feeling the weight of the responsibility on us as parents to be the common sense that her still-developing frontal lobe isn’t ready to take on. After 18, this responsibility will have made its complete transfer to her shoulders and she will live under our roof by invitation only. This probably sounds cool and detached, but I assure you that it is anything but that.
This newfound “it” of mine robs me of sleep and makes me feel the presence of internal organs that used to just take care of their business without me having to notice their machinations. It also strips the sunny right out of my disposition and paralyzes me from moving forward with my own goals and ambitions. It actually risks changing who I am as a person by affecting my health and outlook.
When I let it.
I write this blog today out of resolve to persevere. To keep “it” an important piece of my life, but not let its presence define every waking thought and every interaction.
The rub for me now – as the writer of a blog called Sunnyside Communications – is how to write a blog that aspires to inspire when my own personal skies start clouding over. So I write this today acknowledging that, some days, inspiration has to look more like determination.
I am determined not to let my “it” define me. And I hope the same for you.
I took a break from my blog to focus on finishing a manuscript that's been dying to travel from my own internal hard drive and out into my computer's. I just sent a proposal to a literary agent and now hold the wonderful feeling of "hopecitement" that some new adventure might come of it. It makes me realize that my most dynamic phases in life are when I've put myself in a position to dream big. Sure, many of them fizzled out, but once I accepted the fact that not every scheme I had would turn out, I discovered that the periods of exciting possibilities outweigh any of the letdown.
I'm hoping you might put yourself out there in a way that brings you some "hopecitement." What can you start working on today that might make you more excited to get out of bed tomorrow morning? It may feel like a selfish pursuit at first, but the payoff comes not only for you but also your family and friends who get to spend time with a more dynamic version of you. Do them and yourself a favor by taking that first step... TODAY.
People are often shocked that there’s no licensing requirement for prospective parents. And who can blame them? There’s no other job that lasts longer, requires more sacrifice of self, or makes an otherwise stable adult want to bang her head against the kitchen table.
What I now know – as my husband and I hit the midway mark in raising two teenagers – is that the proponents of licensing either have very young children, or have raised children who are now safely in their 30s.
Those of us currently raising sixteen-year olds know all too well that a license requires a specific course of study. And if there’s anything you want to be ignorant about it is how difficult it is to be a parent. The mere existence of the human race actually depends upon this lack of information. Seriously.
Imagine if we were required to watch graphic videos of raising kids through colic, teething, rigor-mortis tantrums in toy stores, blowout diapers, bad-day slips from pre-school, state reports, un-made sports teams, social angst and p-u-b-e-r-t-y.
I’d be willing to wager that such information would ensure that an egg and a sperm would never again meet. Ever. There would be no one left to study whether we silly extinct humans were herbivores or omnivores.
And that list doesn’t even include the ultimate challenge of all: parenting teens as they learn how to drive. While all of the other hurdles take their toll on our patience, there’s something about putting our life in the hands of a new driver whose frontal lobe isn’t expected to be fully developed for another 10 years that really constricts our vital ventricles. Are we really supposed to sit calmly by as they attempt there first freeway merge at 65mph?
I promise you that any prospective parent empathetic enough to feel that fear just traded baby’s future college fund for passage on an around-the-world trip.
These feelings are especially true for those of us who are just one blade short of Helicopter Mom status. Our attentive/hovering ways have kept the kids alive and thriving for 15 years, and then we’re expected to go straight to this nonsense?
While I’m being honest, lets admit that not all of the danger a license can bring can be softened by air bags. There’s also the question of where the teens are actually going. If they have internalized our constant stream of helpful hints for the path to success, all should be fine. They will avoid unsupervised parties, strangers and even Big Macs. What I suspect, though, is that 80% of our words translate to teens the same way Charlie Brown’s teacher’s words did. If this is the case, we have plenty to wua-wua-worry about.
Not to date myself too much, but I also know that this independence will lead our kids to find their thrills on Blueberry Hill. The very thought of it makes me want to custom order a bumper sticker that reads: “Does this car have steamy windows? Call 1-800-My Mamma.” Ugh.
To make this pre-parent training video more graphic, it’s important to note that this newfound freedom that brings them the independence they crave (and need) comes exactly when the stakes are highest. Everything counts. And we parents must portray that we have faith that the 20% of our lessons that made it through the Charlie Brown’s teacher translation app will be enough to guide them toward the choices that will keep them smart and safe, in every possible way.
Elitism of any kind has always invoked the gag-me-with-a-spoon reflex. In fact, some displays of snobbery gag me with enough spoons for a State dinner party.
I find the snoots hard enough to stomach when I’m dealing with an isolated individual. A Lone Ranger of pomposity, if you will. But when the “tomsnootery” is sponsored through the forming of clubs, well, someone had better hold my hair back.
It’s no surprise, then, that my discovery of the existence of Mensa, the intellectual society for those whose IQ is in the top 2% of the population, went down like a spoonful of canned peas. As in, not for long.
I’m sure that some of you think that my strong reaction reeks of sour grapes. After all, the only way you could be sure of my conviction would be for me to pass the test and renounce my membership, right? Well, something tells me that you’ll just have to take my word for it.
I admit, though, that my frustration with Mensa can’t necessarily be blamed on its members. It’s really more of an indictment of our society, which values this kind of intelligence so much that an organization like Mensa can be around for 65 years and boast 110,000 members, without a parallel society for other types of intelligence.
Because I think our world would benefit far more from a society comprised of those who have an EQ, or emotional intelligence, in the top 2%.
These people would be our emotional geniuses. They are the kind of people who have the ability to assess the mood of a room. For whatever reason a group could possibly gather, they are the kind of people who make sure that everyone is engaged and invested in the outcome—whether it be for a party, school function, business meeting or volunteer event. These skills allow them to masterfully head off conflict because they possess the levels of empathy that allow them to see all different viewpoints. In short, they make it possible for us humans to coexist peacefully.
Without their skills, frankly, I don’t think it matters how smart people are. Because a single individual, alone, will not discover the next drug that will save lives, the new technology that will save time, or the system that will improve our children’s education. These developments will only be made through the collaborative efforts of people who understand the importance of getting along with others, before they can use their intellectual minds to innovate.
My experience tells me that, these days, we take these social-emotional skills for granted. I see it in our school system, where teachers no longer have the time to teach proactively about emotional wellbeing and, instead, perform punitive triage when conflict arises. And I don’t see this changing until there is a state-mandated standardized test that probes for emotional development. Because there simply isn’t time.
The thing that parents see clearly, though, is that children who don’t have social success become emotionally distraught. And this distress definitely affects academic performance. Children who feel pain – whether it’s physical or emotional – are too distracted by the hurt to focus on reading, writing and arithmetic.
I see the impact of a low EQ in the workplace, too. Companies strive to hire the best and the brightest, with little thought over how well these people will play with others; whether they have not just the smarts but the integrity to help grow the company brand; whether they can see the value of the common goal over their own individual needs. The impact is a stressful work environment where bullies manage through fear and colleagues don’t see the value in helping teammates, focusing instead on improving their personal metrics for success.
And, perhaps, where the need for a solid EQ is most evident is in the drive-by interactions we have with others as we commute to work, navigate in and out of shops, or share and adjoining table at a restaurant. It is in these situations where we have no invested sense of community that it is most important to truly perceive the needs of those around us.
If we take the time to notice that someone needs to merge into our lane, could use a shop door held open, or is bothered by the volume of conversation coming from our restaurant table, we will be more likely to coexist without honking our horns, raising our voices and saluting with our middle fingers.
The tricky part is that we can’t look to the top 2% of our emotionally gifted to lead us because anyone with high levels of EQ would shun the title of emotional elite. So it looks like we need to make a secret society with the singular mission of peaceful coexistence, where everyone who plays nice is welcome… no matter their test scores.
There are so many sound bites I absorbed in my youth that I interpret differently as I get older. The one that’s replaying in my mind recently is the much mocked “you like me, you really like me” from Sally Field’s 1984 Oscar acceptance speech.
When she received this award, I was a 16-year old girl who had been raised with the same sugar-and-spice messaging that most girls were, and are. If you are as sweet as a See’s butterscotch square and only as spicy as a dash of cinnamon in a bowl full of oatmeal cookie batter, you are everything nice, which is precisely what little girls are made of.
So Sally’s response made perfect sense to me. After all, who wouldn’t gush with gratitude over being recognized for impressing their peers and fans? To me, she was appropriately humble and excited for the award, and I took this at face value.
As the years progressed, however, I noticed that most adults only quoted this line while rolling their eyes to imply that someone was having a moment of pathetic neediness. I’m sure I nodded in agreement to such gestures to avoid revealing myself as a kindred spirit in need. But I never understood the cynicism.
Nearly three decades later, I think I finally have an inkling. What I’m realizing is that, as we age, the need to charm and please everyone around us starts to feel a lot like a muzzle. I think this is because we’re old enough to have seen and heard plenty of words and data to have developed strong opinions and convictions. And if we choose to take the muzzle off during moments of controversy to speak our mind, we risk sinking our ferocious teeth into someone. Yet if we leave it on, we’re guaranteed to bite our own tongue, again and again and again.
Of course, there are matters of degree here. Speaking our mind doesn’t have to come down like the lock-jaw bite of a Pit Bull, but there’s no denying that disagreeing with the status quo or the majority opinion will be perceived, at a minimum, as a Chihuahua nip. And even that can bring down a girl’s likability factor.
So the decision to disagree out loud becomes a decision to care less about feeling well liked.
I know this for sure after speaking out in my last Times column against teachers who are abusive or incompetent. As I struggled with the should-I-shouldn’t-I question prior to submitting, I knew there would be a price to pay for addressing such a polarizing subject.
One month later and I now know what that price is; one jeopardized friendship, two emotional and awkward school meetings, and a general reduction in friendly hellos on campus.
The stress and hurt I have felt because of these reactions affected me right down to my nerve endings as I recovered from my self-inflicted Sally Field-ectomy. But now that the worst of it appears to be past me, I feel good.
I would even go so far as to say that what I lost in my quest for mass appeal is nothing compared to the personal satisfaction and self respect I have gained by having the courage to speak out on a topic I feel passionately about.
The experience leaves me feeling feisty enough to try on some new sound bites for size. The one that’s resonating the loudest is an ambitious one by Laurel Thatcher Ulrich that says: “Well-behaved women rarely make history.”
Forget the sugar and spice—this is what we grown-up girls need to be made of.
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This column appeared originally in the Times Media, Inc. family of newspapers.