On Anger

I’m a Nice Person. Which means I stick with that “kinder than necessary” adage. Which means I see it as my job to see other people’s feelings when I consider my own. Before I consider my own. Instead of considering my own.

Niceness, one would think, is a good thing. But I will tell you, and I’d imagine other Nice People out there will tell you, that it isn’t always a good thing. You see, Nice People don’t act out of anger. But we still get upset. You just don’t know it, because we won’t tell you. And if (but hopefully WHEN), you sense you did something wrong and apologize to a Nice Person, we’ll say, “Oh, that’s okay.”

Because Nice People? We MAKE it okay for ourselves. We tell ourselves that you meant well when you accepted our invitation, then forgot about it. That you were just being snappy with us because things aren’t going well for you in your life. We tell ourselves that you cut us off in line at the supermarket because you just weren’t thinking.

Sometimes, Nice People get brave. Which means that we really are angry and frustrated, but we’ll try and let you know in our Nice way. We’ll communicate that we’re not totally happy about things, but we’ll try and make sure you feel okay about yourself too.

The problem is, Nice People expect that same treatment in return. And when we don’t get that same treatment, it surprises us. Shocks us. Saddens us. And yes, angers us.

The other day, I got angry. I mean really angry. I mean, I-can’t-believe-I’m-this-upset-and-are-my-hands-actually-shaking?-angry.

Well, I figured it was about time to really BE angry. I figured, I’ve borne the brunt of so many other people’s feelings, insecurities and misgivings. Isn’t it my turn to let somebody else carry that weight? Time to share the wealth.

So I responded in anger. To tell you the truth, if I read the transcript of what I said, it probably wasn’t all that venomous. It’s like the do-gooder who thinks she’s swearing when she says “underwear.” I used my “I-feel” statements. There was no profanity, no name-calling. And it was a sentiment whose time, truly, had come.

Yet I had a pit in my stomach all day long. It felt completely out of character for me, and felt incredibly wrong. If bad behavior from others shocks me, bad behavior from myself shocks me even more.

Here’s the catch. Who’s to say I behaved badly? Who’s to say I was doing anything more than being honest? And who’s to say I’m better off absorbing all that anger and pretending things were still okay?

A Nice Person would apologize. And believe me, I thought about it. After all, I’m a Nice Person. I’m supposed to make things better. Problem is, I’ve BEEN making it better, and I’ve been making it better at a cost to my own well-being.

So guess what? This time, I won’t apologize for airing my feelings, even if things get messy. Even if, in this situation, I don’t feel Nice.

As scary as it sounds, maybe it’s time to redefine Nice.

Are there other Nice People out there always making things okay, but not really? Other Nice People who have found a balance between consideration for others and kindness to self? Any Not-So-Nice, or Mostly-Nice People who see things differently? Have you learned something today, as I have? Share your thoughts and ideas in the comments below.

Yeah…that would be Nice.

‘Tis the Season

This weekend, Thing 1 and I made two big batches of cookies – snickerdoodles and chocolate chip pumpkin cookies (OK, so I left out the pumpkin, but the cookies were surprisingly tasty). Most of them went towards a charity bake sale at school, and the others went to the kids’ Sunday school teachers this morning. As we were walking in, I thought to myself that I should have brought in more cookies: for the school administrator and office staff. For the crossing guard who braves the cold every week. For the custodial staff who really keep the place running. For the police officer who directs traffic on Tuesdays. For the clergy.

And then I thought, holy cow. I have a lot of people to bake cookies for:

-My neighbors, who make where we live a real, true NEIGHBORHOOD
-Our family doctors and dentists, who keep us healthy (yes, I do see the irony in sending them cookies, but c’mon – everybody loves cookies).
-The storytelling friends I have, who offer support, friendship, and the occasional kick in the pants to get creative.
-My kids’ school teachers.
-The art teacher. The music teacher. The computer lab specialist. The PE teacher (again, dripping with irony. I get it). The office staff. The amazing custodial staff. The before / after care staff.
-The kids’ instrumental music teachers (who, after listening to beginning players play with the patience they do, can skip the cookies and go for the rum balls).
-My colleagues: the neighbors who check on me in my hobbit-hole. The office staff. The custodial staff. (see a pattern here?)
-My students, who work so hard every day and make it worth getting out of bed each morning.
-The coaches who work with the kids in swimming and hockey.
-The team parents, who are so great to get along with and feel like extended family.
-My local friends and family, who could always benefit from a spare rum ball.
-My not-so-local friends and family, who continually offer kind words and a chuckle right when I’m needing them.

and and and and.

I’m realizing that’s a lot of cookies. Even if I were conservative and went 6 cookies a pop, that’s still more dozens of cookies than I care to count. I’m realizing that I’d be up a lot of nights with a lot of cookie dough and rum balls. I’m not so sure that I will make it. Even though the rum ball thing is tempting.

So, it will just have to suffice that I’ll bake what I can, and do what’s in my power to make sure all of you in my life know how grateful I am to have you, in whatever role or purpose you serve.

Thank you for supporting me.
Thank you for grounding me.
Thank you for inspiring me.
Thank you for keeping me healthy: physically, spiritually, emotionally.
Thank you for helping my children see their talents and strengths.
Thank you for asking me how I’m feeling and meaning it.
Thank you for giving my kids rides when I can’t clone myself.
Thank you for making the places I have to be, places I want to be.
Thank you for the unique gifts you bring, to me and to the world.

Coming Home

Today has been a surprisingly productive day.

I have NO papers in my “work to grade” pile.
I was an even better teacher than I expected to be, for the Monday after Thanksgiving.
I cleared my inbox from over 1,000 to 7. Yeah. S-e-v-e-n.
I caught up on my favorite mindless TV show.
I finished a book I was reading.

One would think I’d let myself go to bed satisfied.

That was until I started reading back over my blog entries. And you know what? I’m actually pretty proud of some of my writing. And you know what else? I’m scratching my head as to why I’m not doing it more.

I know I’ve blogged before about why baking is an easy creative outlet for myself. Still, I’d have to think that writing is a touch healthier, perhaps. So here goes. It’s time for me to dust off my keyboard and get back in there. Stay tuned.

Busted (to be read aloud, giggles optional)

Thing 1: Holly’s a Dooshka. That’s Spanish for a dog.

Me: Actually, the Spanish word for dog is “perro.”

Thing 1: Not a female dog.

Thing 2: Ben almost said a swear word!

Thing 1: What!?

Thing 2: Yeah, without the K-A.

Thing 1: What are you talking about?

Thing 2: Don’t you remember? Dad said it, and then he told us we’d be in big trouble if we said it around Mom.

Me: OK, I think it’s time to stop now.

The Birds (if not the Bees)

Thing 1: So wouldn’t that be weird if you cracked an egg and a chick came out? I bet that’s happened to someone before.

Me: I’m not really sure if it has. People who live where we do get eggs that don’t really have a chance of having chicks. And people who are farmers, I’m guessing, can feel the difference between a regular egg and one that’s got a full-grown chick inside.

Thing 2: How come there aren’t any chicks in the eggs we get?

Me (shifting in my seat): Well, because hens make eggs all the time. It’s just what their bodies do. But in order for there to be a chick, there has to be a rooster.

Thing 2: Oh, because the rooster comes and sprinkles fertilizer on the eggs.

Thing 1 (rolling his eyes): The rooster doesn’t SPRINKLE fertilizer on the eggs, he…

Me: Go to your room.

Thing 1 (in righteous indignation): What did I do!?!?

New Rules

All right kids. Here’s the deal. Quite frankly, you do stuff in public that embarrasses me. That’s including (but not limited to):
Cussing
Hitting
Whining
Teasing
Bragging
Arguing back

If this behavior does not immediately cease and desist, I will inevitably be forced to do stuff in public that embarrasses you. That’s including (but not limited to):
Singing
Hugging
Kissing
Showing people pictures of you
Calling you sweet names

Consider yourself warned.

Heart-to-Heart

It’s 9:20 pm. Thing 2 and I are snuggled down in his bed. I like bedtime. Sometimes we talk about little stuff, like the favorite things we ate at dinnertime. Sometimes we pretend we’re going fishing underneath the blankets.

Sometimes big questions come up from little talks.

Thing 2: Where do babies come from?

Me: From a mom and a dad.

Thing 2: Well how do they get there?

Me: Well, there’s a boy part and a girl part.

Thing 2: What parts?

Me: Well…(oh, #$**! He’s eight! How much do I need to share!?)…the boy part is a sperm and the girl part is called an egg.

Thing 2: So I got born when you laid an egg?

Me: No. Remember when I talked about you growing in my uterus? That’s how I had you.

Thing 2: So how did the parts come together?

Me: <<giggle>>

Thing 2: Is it disgusting?

Me: Yeah.

Thing 2: OK.

What I Learned Today

1. My kids have an interest in fishing.

2. The park district loans out fishing rods at the nearby pond.

3. For free.

4. Free fishing rods, especially those used by kids who seem to have about as much respect for stuff as mine do, are worth what you pay for them.

5. It’s harder to go to a store and find fishing equipment than you think.

6. My children have somehow acquired a case of the “MamacanIhaves,” a particularly nasty case that has been building up over time. Any home remedies would be greatly welcomed in the comment section.

My Day (in images)

7:45. A not-so-early morning run around the retention pond. The red-winged blackbirds and sparrows flit and chant their turf wars all around. Sun burns off the dew. Sweat trickles into my eyes. Young trees provide occasional, much-needed shade. A morning begun in solitude.

11:35. A trip with the boys to the grocery store. I send the two of them off on an adventure while I work my way down the grocery list. I click my tongue at some mom whose kid runs down the aisle with a shopping cart, then consider the hypocrisy of accusing someone else of poor parental supervision.

2:45. An afternoon at the pool. Summer hits in full force. I close my eyes and absorb. My pores drink in the warmth of the sun, the smell of the chlorine, and the sound of splashing and play. My stomach tightens when the boys go off the high dive, as always, yet I keep my poker face.

8:25. The air is still, silent, holding on to the last of the day’s heat yet warning of the storm to come. My eye catches a hint of green in the bushes by the house. I charge into the house, shouting “Fireflies!” The boys, true to their boyhood, leap up from the TV and join me in the first search of the season. Barefoot and full of hope, we tread onto the evening grass. Watching. Waiting. We find a glimmer and chase  it with abandon. We catch two before calling it a night.

8:55. Lights flicker. Tornado sirens sound. Boys 1-2-3 spring into action, gather flashlights, batteries, activate the weather radio. Discussions ensue. Where to hide? The closet? The laundry room? The storm passes, but not one boy’s fear. Hiding in the drawer of the trundle bed, he waits for me to coax him out one finger at a time.

9:35. Distant sirens wail. The boys let loose giggles and shouts from their impromptu sleepover. Drizzle patters on the deck outside. I wait for quiet.

What’s a Mom to Do…

…when she’s worked a full day of a full year, is tired up to her eyeballs, and not up for taking any guff?

…when the plan for the evening’s baseball viewing has changed with the weather, but the menu hasn’t?

…when the men of the house, seeing the contents of dinner, turn their proverbial noses up at the offerings of said dinner?

She packs some chow for herself, gets outta Dodge, and leave the hunters to fend for themselves.

Yeah, that’s what.