A Basket of Happy

Today I received a gift basket.  As I was dropping the girls off for preschool (both girls, as in MOTHER'S MORNING OUT, Oh Happy Day), another preschool mom was waiting for me in the parking lot.  She heads up a Mom's group that meets at the local Methodist church.  I started attending this year on the invitation of a friend, now having a bit more freedom with my time.

This week's meeting topic was "The Mystery of Autism" and I'd missed it.  We had a plumbing issue arise and the repairman's window of time conflicted.  And truly, I wasn't sure how I'd feel in a group of "autism outsiders" discussing this subject as an insider.  I can get a wee bit, erm, defensive about it.  A bit prickly, I'd say.  I'd looked ahead to the week's discussion guide, and it started with an opener that had the moms imagine the limitations of autism, such as only being able to talk about a restricted subject or obsession.  Some part of that bothered me.  I thought about asking the leader to share from my own experience or just to come up with another entry point into the topic, but I didn't and let the impulse pass.  So when my appointment interfered with the meeting, I thought maybe it was just as well.  No need to have a cynic in the room.

When the group leader approached me today, I offered up my apologies and reiterated my conflict when she handed me a basket filled with cards and "little happies" and told me the group had prayed for me and another mom in the group with a child on the spectrum.  I thanked her and we chatted a few more seconds, as I placed the items in the car to take the girls inside.  When I got back to the car and began to unpack the basket, I opened up card after card that just encouraged me-- no "poor you, your life must be so hard"-- just encouraged me.  From one woman to another, with different experiences perhaps, but many in common:  womanhood, motherhood, and following God.

I had to text a friend the unexpected surprise (if something happens and it's not shared and photographed, it didn't happen, right?  This is 2014). In the text, I summed up my unspoken stance towards receiving someone's generosity:  Um, God. I'm supposed to do nice things for others.  I'm too competent to receive in return.

I believe the deep theological word for this is pride.  In the English it's pronounced PRIDE.  I don't know how it's pronounced in the Greek or Hebrew.

These are the dots I've been connecting lately: At some point in our life, we will belong to a sub-group we wouldn't have picked.  Mine's disability.  And when we are not in the company of that group, we don't want to be known by that label, in my case, "Autism Melissa".  No one wants to be Divorced Jane or Almost Bankrupt Mary.  And the trouble with that mentality is if that's how we think we are being perceived, then that will be how we perceive others' treatment of us.  Perception becomes our reality even if it's not the truth at all.  Obviously, I've read enough Personal Growth and Spirituality books to fancy myself quite the psychologist, but go with me here.

What brought me happiness today was that this thoughtful Basket of Happy wasn't addressed to AUTISM MELISSA.  It was addressed to me.

Someone who was cared for by a group of women who don't know me very well, but know God's gracious ways and extended them to me.  I don't attend their church, and I belong to a different denomination, which seemed like a big deal as a child growing up in the bible belt.  (The only time we mentioned our brothers and sisters in Christ who worshipped at the church directly adjacent to ours growing up was to exclaim from the pulpit that our parking lot had more cars.  God Bless Our Southern Baptist Hearts.  I do sincerely love being a part of this denomination.)

All of that to say,  I'll be at the Mom's group next Monday, with or without the clogged plumbing.  And more open to receive the unexpected.

Me and My Bathrobe: Thoughts on Being a Woman

After a rare nap yesterday, I had trouble falling asleep.  For some reason, I began to ruminate on my bathrobe.

I've mentioned it before.  It's like my second skin.  My security blanket.  The next best thing to actually being in bed.

I seem to hoard robes.  I have four hanging in my bathroom and a few pretty ones that rarely leave my closet--those feminine, satin ones I received as a bride-to-be.

Know the robe, know the woman. Probably should make a Pinterest image out of that one.  'Cause I can't stitch it on a pillow.

As a little girl, I had a few robes given to me over the years for Christmas.  I really didn't know what to do with them.  The tv shows I watched showed adults always throwing one on in a panic to answer the door in the middle of the night.  Since I had no reason to do this, the robes went unused.

The first time I needed to use one was to wear as I sprinted down the hall of my girl's dorm as a freshman.  Communal showers, people.  That's real living.  I had my shower caddy stocked with Pantene and Crest toothpaste, my Barbie pink sandals (a shower necessity) and my white terry cloth robe. I still have that one.  I've long lost the belt, but my terry cloth robe still proudly hangs beside my mercifully private shower.

That robe reminds me of my time as an undergraduate living on campus at the University of Florida.  My biggest worries were making to my 10 o'clock class and trying to write a 10 page essay on no sleep.  Really gut wrenching stuff like that.  I made lifelong friends and learned a few helpful things both in and out of the classroom.  I was still basically clueless about life, but I stayed out of trouble thanks to Campus Crusade (read: God), graduated, and had a great time.  That's ages 18-21 in a nutshell.  As Britney says, I was "not a girl...not yet a woman."

Sorry for all the teeny bopper quotes.  Such is my brain.  Sometimes Britney and Miley stumble on some true stuff.

My second grown up robe is a to-the-floor creme satin robe lined with fleece. It's warm and pretty.  My sister noted that it's a nod to Katherine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story. (Go watch it if you've missed it.  Classic witty repartee).  That robe took me through my young married, before-babies years to the 1am & 4am graveyard shift of newbornhood with Jeremiah.  The pocket's torn, probably from a bottle being stuffed inside, and it can be obnoxious to climb the stairs as it drags.  But it's special to me.  It marks my passage from girl to young woman to woman.

My third and favorite robe enters here.  I received it when Sarah was born.  It took the lionshare of hard work-- two babies under age 2! And now, three under age 5.  It has literally grown with me and my stomach over the last few years.  While I have an ever-vascilating pant size (as my closet will attest), my pink robe always fits.  My most recent robe is a knee length number, great for spring and summer.  Sarah likes to use the belt as a tug-of-war/tie 'em up/jump rope.

At its best, for me, being a woman means a growing sense of community with fellow believers.  Women I admire and respect, even and especially if we do things differently.  Isn't that a nice change?  As girls, we get so bent out of shape if we aren't  j-u-s-t  like our best friend or the prettiest girl in class. And it turns out that the person we put on a pedestal was just as insecure as we were.

I don't think marriage or children or even age make one a woman.  Biblical womanhood, as I understand it, is a reflection of God's character-- his tenderness, care, and compassion.  Again, while neither marital status nor motherhood define womanhood, those experiences have certainly provided opportunities for me to experience God's heart.

At this point in my life, I'm comfortable enough (most days) in my own skin to compliment myself when I've made an effort to dress up and look nice.  I'm okay to introduce myself to a stranger and try to make them feel welcome.  I don't have to be the "it" girl, the one who has it all figured out, scheduled, color coordinated, and cross referenced.  Though if she exists, I think we'd be friends. I think that's growing up. Women in community.

A community made even better if your friends stay in their robes til 10 a.m. Women who pray for you, unprompted, who text and call, who give hugs when you start snot-crying in public. Secure women. Flawed. Genuine. I'm so glad to wear this new garment.

Deeeep Thoughts...

With Melissa.

1.  I pulled out a college photo album to rob it of 4 x 6 photo pages to put in my coupon binder.  Yup.  I did it.  It's obnoxious. 

2.  Looking at those pictures of me at about age 19 to 20, I cannot believe what a kid I was just a few years ago.  Didn't have a clue.  Or a care.  I wonder what I'll think of myself now when I'm 40?  Shudder. 

3.  Those pictures I pulled out were so precious to me back then and moreso, the people in the pictures.  Most I will never see in person again; a few I exchange emails with, even fewer I pick up the phone to call.  The passage of time never ceases to baffle me.

3. Today, I managed to throw out two passive-agressive judgements on two perfectly nice women without even realizing it.  One on a lady who has her own natural children and it providing foster care for others.  One is getting pets with small children in the home.  Anything wrong with that? No. Not at all.  Yet, I somehow manage to slide in some off-handed comment that implies "You must be crazy to do what you are doing because I never would/could do that."  I am realizing that I do that a lot in an effort to make conversation or an attempt at humor.  Different is different, not better or worse.  When someone does something that I think is out of the norm (all the parenting/schooling/family size debates), that does not mean they are wrong.  Why do I/we do this?  I guess it's insecurity.  Mea culpa.  My bad.

Now I'm going to look in my mirror and say my daily affirmations.  Say it with me, y'all. 

"I'm good enough.  I'm smart enough.  And doggone it, people like me!"

Now,  don't we all feel better?

(Really, I like me.  And you.  Hugs, not drugs!)

I just made myself laugh.

Fitting In

Since Jay's been sick with an earache and an upset stomach due to the anti-biotics, I've stayed in with him this week. Today we were going to the MOPS consignment sale to help set-up, so I would get to be around peers. Even though I tutor during the week, I don't concern myself too much about what I wear or how my "look" is perceived. I only really care for church and my mom's group, MOPS. I mention all this to say that I was completely ridiculous getting ready to head out. I had a cute outfit for Jay thanks to Nana, but I also wanted to spurce up. I did look presentable already: jeans and a black tee. However, I tried on: a magenta top, a striped top, a black and creme blouse, a green top, both black and brown shoes, then khaki pants, then coral top, another coral top (wrinkled), then nicer jeans, back to the black and creme top and black shoes. Now, I did not deem this event "dressy", so I didn't opt for boots. Wouldn't want to seem like I was trying to hard. (Ha.)

Since being an independent adult, I have become more self assured in my looks and wardrobe. I like to look nice and presentable, but really do not obsess about fashion. So after my hiatus from seeing other women, it's comical that I tore up my closet to look nice for a bunch of moms decked out in jeans and tees. Like I was wearing this morning.

Anyway, in the same vein of fashion, I found 3 great buys at the kids' consignment sale. Two Ralph Lauren pants (with the tags on!) and a Ralph Lauren collared shirt for $19. I'm not too brand conscious, but I was pumped with my finds. Boy, a good sale brings out the killer instinct. I was able to shop early before the sale opened up the public. That would have been fun to watch.

Happy Friday!