Student of You Badge

You know those moments when you've been thinking about something – processing, analyzing, chewing on it – but you don't know how to describe it, how to say it. It's not clear in your mind. You can't seem to say it just right.

So, you start babbling about it (for the hundredth time) and it's not coming out right (for the hundredth time). And then the kind and patient person listening to you share about it (for the hundredth time) sums up your thoughts so clearly, so flawlessly, you just can't help but gasp from the sudden burst of clarity, "Yes. That is it. That is exactly it."

I had one of those moments this week. Ahhhhh. I love those moments. They're like a breath of fresh air, aren't they? You feel so understood, so clear.

Here's how it happened for me.

I started going to a counselor a few months ago. I was craving a space to just be, a space where I could focus on me. I noticed earlier this Fall that I was feeling sad a lot. Everything in my life was going well, but I still just felt sad. That's always a sign to me that I need an intervention. That and the fact that my mom took me out to lunch and began our conversation with, "Honey, you know your dad and I love you. But, we think you might need some help."

I thought about going on medication, which has helped me in the past. But this time the sad feelings weren't as strong, so I decided I might try some other things first (diet, mood journal, exercise, counseling). I still eat pretty terribly. I just try to throw in an occasional green smoothie and keep my daily grape intake higher than my cheetoh count. The mood journal is helpful. Exercise, bleh. Trying. But give me an hour every couple of weeks where I just get to sit and talk. Um, hello! Counseling is a perfect fit for me! Anyway. All that to say, so far so good. One day at a time, folks.

Back to my moment.

I was verbally barfing on my counselor this week about how I never feel good enough. I'm never a good enough wife, a good enough mom, a good enough friend, a good enough anything. I'm overwhelmed. I look at books and magazines and Facebook and Pinterest and I watch my superstar mom friends and I am overwhelmed. Why can't I get my sh*t together? Sounds ridic, I know. But it's my thing. We all have our things, right?

After several minutes of, well, everything you just read, here's what she said. Are you ready? This is the moment, my moment.

"Lauren, it sounds to me like you spend so much time studying other people's lives. You've neglected to study yourself. You've become a student of other people instead of becoming a student of you."

A student of you.

I have to write it just one more time. A student of you.

She's so right. It's so true. I am a good student. At least once I got to college I was. When I decide to study something, I'm all in. I work hard at it. And I've been working really hard at studying other people and their lives. How can I/we help it? I log in to Facebook and I study my friends' lives. I study how others decorate and craft and eat and exercise on Pinterest. I study the daily lives and thoughts of bloggers. I study the lives of celebrities on TMZ or in magazines at the checkout aisle. I study my friends. I study moms at the library, the grocery store, the doctor's office.

I study, study, study. And then I compare, compare, compare. And then I never, ever, ever measure up.

I've spent so much time studying other people that I've started trying to make my life look like theirs, not mine. It seems like other people have it so much more together or they're so much cooler or their life is so much better. I try to do it their way. But I'm finding it just never works.

Yes, there is a mulititude of insight and wisdom and strength we can glean from others. That's what makes community so valuable, right? Not doing life alone, learning from the experience of others. But then there's a point where we have to recognize that their life is their life. It's not my life. My life is my life. My life is uniquely my life. My life is my gift. I am called to be a student of my life.

Some words of wisdom from Barbie. Who knew?

What is best for me? What is my purpose? What have I been especially made for?

What is best for my husband? What does being partners in marriage look like for us?

What is best for my family? How have I been uniquely designed to be a mom to Jack, Evelyn, Ella and Henry? A daughter to my parents? A sister?

What is best for my friends? How can I be a blessing to them? A gift? An encouragement?

What is best for my relationship with God? What is He calling me to? What gifts do I have to better this world?

That's what I want to spend my time thinking about, where I want to exert my energy.

I want to be an expert on my life.

A student of you. (There, the third and final time I'll say it...at least in this post.)

I Want to be Like Kate Badge

You would think after birthing four kids that I should know better.

Jack, my first, he was a dream baby. He never cried. He ate whatever we gave him. He took a pacifier. All that dream baby stuff – he mastered it. He was master dream baby. And I attributed his master dream babyness to my master best mom in the worldness. "Of course, he's a good baby because I'm such a good mom." I never said that out loud, but I always thought it when we were around other non dream babies. "Oh, I'm sorry non dream baby. You have master dream baby potential, but your mom just doesn't know what I know." Because, well, let's be honest, it's all about me, right?

Then I had Evelyn. She ruined my master-ness. She was master rude baby. She was so off-putting to the nurses in the hospital that they actually snickered when we left and wished me "good luck with that one." What had I done? How had I gone wrong? Because, remember, it's all about me?

Evelyn used to toddle around during playdates with her mouth open. I guess it was more convenient that way so when she went in to take a bite out of someone, she just had to bear down instead of open and then close again. I was so embarrassed. How could my child have cannibalistic tendencies?

If Jack was a perfect reflection of my perfect parenting skills – because that's what I thought kids were – then what was Evelyn? Did she mean I was a bad mom? Did she mean I was doing something wrong?

For years I've fought this battle – how much of my kids' crazy do I take ownership of? And on the flip side, how much of the good stuff do I pat myself on the back for? It makes every move, every decision, every circumstance loaded with pressure.

I just spent the last four days in the Bahamas. I met some of the most amazing people on my trip, but one woman, one mama, stands out in particular. Her name is Kate. Kate is 46. She's British, which automatically makes everything she says a thousand times funnier, wittier and smarter. She's a wife to Curtis, a super cool ex-Marine turned U.S. Customs and Border Protection mission specialist guy (Jack Bauer stuff). She's a mama to CJ and Jack. And I'm sure she's a ton of other fabulous things. But I mostly saw her in the mom role. And I just had to find a way to write about her.

I met her son Jack, who is 8, before I met Kate. I didn't really meet him so much as I just watched him run around the pool laughing and smiling and shrieking and shaking rubber snakes. He was so energetic and loud and funny. But not in your average 8-year-old boy sort of way. Jack has Autism. So the way he plays and talks and loves is unique. Some people smiled, some stared, some whispered, some looked startled and some just turned away.

Now meet Kate.

Kate loooooooves Jack. Right away she started telling us about his autism and the funny ways it had been presenting on their trip – his obsession with the color orange and his excitement over the fact that they had found candy corn on the island; his daily, nonstop, minute by minute desire to go to Redmonds, their grocery store at home and get a cookie. "Mom, cookie, go to Redmonds, cookie, red cookie, blue cookie, cookie, Redmonds, go to Redmonds." (Reminder, she's telling us all this in a British accent. Way funnier.)

Kate doesn't work outside the home because she can't find a job that will be flexible enough to give her a day off when Jack is having a meltdown. Kate throws carnivals for hundreds of people in her backyard with ponies – like real, live ponies, people. She has raised $50,000 for Autism Speaks. CJ, Jack's older brother, adores Jack and is so playful and lovey (something I'm sure Kate had a part in fostering!). And when Jack says to her for the 50th time in 50 seconds, "Mom, go to the beach, beach, beach, Mom, go to the beach." She kisses his head, rubs his hair and pushes him away to go run around.

And what else is so great about Kate is that Jack totally gets on her nerves and she isn't afraid, self-conscious or embarrassed to show it or shout it (with a drink in her hand, might I add). "Go away, Jack." "Out of my face, Jack." "Quiet, Jack." "Enough, Jack." "Stop it now, Jack."

When Jack is screaming and people are staring, Kate doesn't seem to care (Not the kind of not caring where she just ignores his crazy, but the kind where she's not looking around to see what anyone else thinks of Jack's outburst). When Jack is standing too close to someone at the pool bar or almost whipping someone with his rubber snake or eating the food off his plate with his hands and subsequently dropping a bunch on the ground, Kate isn't cringing. It's like she's totally free of the "this kid is a reflection of me and if he doesn't act just right, it's all on me" thing.

I watched in awe, with envy, really. Kate wasn't tallying up what Jack did that was good or bad that day – what his decisions around the pool meant for his future, what they indicated about her parenting style or her personhood. She just enjoyed Jack and was annoyed by Jack and laughed at Jack in every new moment.

I'm not saying Kate never has minutes or days or weeks of second-guessing, doubting, crying, analyzing. But I would characterize her as free. Can you imagine? What if we were that free? Free from over-thinking? Free from second-guessing? Free from dissecting the whys of every action our children take? Free to just be in every new moment to love fully, laugh fully, be frustrated fully and then to move on freely and fully to the next new moment.

The Not Doing Badge

She does crafts with her kids.
She does themed dinner nights.
She does homeschooling.
She does Shutterfly books ... every year (a feat of supernatural proportion, might I add).
She does the room parent thing.

She does.

Does, does, does...

Do, do, do...

Moms are almost exclusively praised for what they do. Mom blogs, mom books, mom clubs. This doing thing is what Pinterest-lovers live for. Highest accolades to the moms "doing" the coolest stuff, right?

Do you know what the definition of "do" is? Just to be clear, it means to perform a particular task, to work on something to bring it to completion, to solve, to work out.

Well, I've been thinking lately that maybe we've got it backward. Our focus is askew. Like what if the doing isn't as worthy of our attention as the not doing?

What if what I don't do as a mom is actually more significant, astounding and awe-inspiring than what I do do?

Case and point.

Evelyn slipped getting out of the bathtub last night. No big deal. Oh, wait. Yeah, she's 5. She's a girl. And, there's that little tidbit of her being my daughter (drama runs deep and strong). She howled like she'd been mauled by a vicious animal, all the while pushing bedtime back minute after precious minute.

Here's what I wanted to do people. I wanted to scream at her, "You LIAR. Suck it up, sister. I've seen you fall harder than that like 10 times today. Don't play me. Get up. Go. MMMMOOOOVVVVVEEEEE IT, before I (insert some sort of freakish inappropriate ninja move here)."

That's what I wanted to do.

Here's what I did. Or didn't do, I guess I should say. I didn't yell. I didn't ridicule. I didn't karate chop.

Way harder than the doing, peeps. Praiseworthy? Ummm, yes. Blog worthy? Uh, yeah. Book worthy? I'm hoping after someone reads this they'll think so!

Further proof to support my theory...

Jack didn't want to go to his Odyssey of the Mind meeting yesterday. He actually cried about it. In protest he decided to lock himself in the bathroom and take the longest poop ever. Gross, yes. But I think a necessary detail to set the scene.

What I wanted to do? Well, duh. I wanted to kick down that damn door, toss him over my shoulders and remind him (in a loud, scary drill sergeant voice), "Boys don't cry." I know, I know. A totally damaging thing to say. But I didn't say it, so it doesn't matter. No lectures needed on making a safe place for my little guy to share his emotions BECAUSE I DIDN'T DO IT.

Do you see what I'm saying? I'd take the doing any day. It's the not doing that's so much harder. Do you know how much of my day is spent not doing?

The old woman is counting her pennies out one by one by one in the grocery checkout lane while my kids pull candy off the shelves and point at Jessica Simpson's large breasts on the cover of Us Magazine. I want to jump over my cart, shove that woman aside, rip the wallet out of her hands and shout, "Get on with it, already." But I don't.

The man cutting across the parking lot in his large SUV almost runs into my van (More evidence to support my belief that men stink at driving near any and all shopping centers. That's a post for another day). I want to jump out of my car, slam my fists on the hood of his shiny Escalade and scream, "Slow the (insert something totally offensive here. Or something like 'heck' for my kind-hearted friends. 'Heck' is what I was going to say - promise!!) down." But I don't.

This not doing is not for the faint of heart, I'm telling you. And for an affirmation junky like myself, I have a hard time keeping on, or not keeping on. Not sure which one it is. If you knew how many things I didn't do just this morning, you'd be bowing in reverence!

So, pat yourself on the back today for everything you didn't do. Tell a friend, "You're the best didn't doer I know!"

(Thank you, Matt Gravelle, for being my not doing inspiration!)