I love you Dad and you're ugly

I married a man who grew up to be a great father. This is the truth. Not that I ever doubted it would happen, but it’s nice to know. Hopefully he and I will raise our children in such a way that they will grow up and fill cards and blogs and rooms full of people with beautiful, well thought out words that tell him exactly what they think of him. Right now though, I’m pretty sure he’s content with “You’re the best dad in the whole world” as he should be.

Today is Father’s Day, though, not husband’s day, so I’m thinking that’s the direction I’ll take instead.

People tell me all of the time that I look like my father. It’s a compliment, I think, even though we jokingly use it as an insult in my family. We use it that way between the two of us, as well, like when he tells me, “You’re Ugly.” And I say, “I know, it’s because I look just like you.” The truth is I don’t think he’s ugly and he doesn’t think I’m ugly. In fact, we both think we look alright, which is what makes it funny.

My dad and I have more similarities that the physical ones. We are both artists who often manage to feel completely alone in a room full of people. We spend too much time in our own heads and too much money on things we don’t need. We have no patience and thrive on instant gratification. We both smoke too much, him cigars, me cigarettes, and we often enjoy each other’s company the most when we’re smoking too much and not saying anything at all.

We don’t know much about politics or current events. We don’t know much about discipline. We do know that people are worth loving and things are worth laughing about. The world is a pretty funny place to us both. It’s a beautiful place and we try not to pay much attention to people who tell us it’s not. We make the rules up as we go, we always have. We change our minds a lot.   

My father doesn’t make a habit of telling me how to live my life. I used to think it was because he didn’t care. Now I’m pretty sure it’s because he knows I’m going to do whatever I want and there is no point in wasting his breath. I dig that. It’s nice to know that he actually gets me and doesn’t try to pretend I’m someone I’m not. He knows that I, like him, will eventually come to the right decision all on my own and he believes in the process of that, even if he doesn’t know it. 

My father says that out of all his children, I’m the only one who scares him. I didn’t always know what that meant. I’m still trying to figure out the whole of it, but I’m pretty sure it’s like this. We are too much alike. This roughly equates to him being scared for me because he, more than anyone else, knows what it’s like to have a brain and a heart and a soul like the one I have and he wants things to be easier for me than they are for him. I get that. I feel the same way about him. This is what makes us, us. It also means that I don’t buy his bologna anymore than he buys mine. We see through one another. We see crystal clear. That scares him. It scares me too.

I can’t buy the Father’s day cards that say: “Thanks for teaching me to ride a bike and tie my shoes and slow dance.” That’s not how my father and I work. He didn’t teach me to drive and he didn’t teach me about sex and he didn’t teach me how to change a tire. I used to think that I was upset about those things, and maybe I was, but today I wish they made a card that said this:

Thanks for sharing your DNA with me. I like who I am even when I drive other people crazy, even when I drive myself crazy. You are half-responsible for that. Thanks for never expecting more of me than I am capable of and for always expecting that I can figure things out on my own. I know that it isn’t lack of caring but an overabundance of confidence. I never feel like I’ve disappointed you and that’s important. You believe in me for the real reasons and not because you think I’m supposed to be someone better than I am. Thank you for looking at me through the eyes of a father who trusts in God and trusts in me. I love you for that. Thanks for always allowing me to sit quietly in your garage or on your back porch and never trying to make unnecessary small talk to fill up the quiet space. I like the quiet space and so do you. That’s why we work. I love that you walked me down the aisle and pretended to give me away. You looked really handsome in your tuxedo. I love that you have grown up to be a great Pops and that my sons can look to you as a leader, a teacher and a silly playmate.

You have always been the dad you were supposed to be, even when I didn’t know that. That’s the funny thing about life, sometimes we want more, when what we have is Just Right.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you and you’re ugly.

Almost the same, just in a less generic form.

"Repression is not the way to virtue. When people restrain themselves out of fear, their lives are by necessity diminished. Only through freely chosen discipline can life be enjoyed and still kept within the bounds of reason." -- Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi

So, here’s what happened.

A very good friend of mine started a blog, a pretty damn good one. I read it and was immediately inspired. She was smart, she was funny, she was real and she was taking time for herself.

She was taking time to write.

I wanted to write one, too. So I did.

Well, I started to…

It happens. Especially to me.

I get excited about things. I make lists and notes and plans and set unrealistic expectations. I go full force and a little compulsive. Then, of course, I find excuses and reasons to resent the damn thing, to hate its guts, and that usually leads to…nothing.  

The reason I resented this one was simple. I didn’t think I could compete.

My old pals, fear and doubt, came waltzing in and were all “you can’t do that as well as she can and you’re boring and you have nothing original to say and everyone hates you.”

I lived with them for awhile. I let them move in, hang ugly pictures on my walls, change the scent of candle I was burning and take the bigger bathroom. I had to stop walking around the living room in my underwear. I was miserable. They were having late night parties and inviting anxiety, jealousy, guilt, and frustration to come and get thay freak on. I hated these new roommates, they made me uncomfortable, and I wanted them out.

Like, right now.

Apparently, booting out a couple of annoying roommates is harder than it looks. There are rules and laws and kicking and cat fights. Doors to get through. Red Tape to cut. I didn’t realize it was going to be so difficult and I’m pretttttty sure they’re still sneaking in and spending the night here. Nevertheless, I’m working on it, and that counts.

Not wanting to be alone, I invited a few, more encouraging, pals to come over and have coffee: creativity, confidence, curiosity and just plain old silliness. It was awkward getting reacquainted at first, but we seem to be enjoying each other’s company on a regular basis now. We’re developing a rather healthy relationship.

My girlfriend’s blog is great, duh. So is she. There is no surprise there. The surprise came in thinking I had to compete. I’m ashamed. This is the woman I tell my secrets to, who encourages me on a daily basis. This is the woman who inspired me in the first place. There is no competition. We both get to write. We both get to be.   

At first, the fear and doubt came from thinking if I didn’t write about my kids, I was a horrible mother. If I wasn’t worried how I was doing as a wife and mom, then I must not be doing very well. Time revealed, as time does, that her blog isn’t about that anyway. It’s more about how she is doing as herself. It doesn’t matter so much what I write about, it matters that I’m writing at all. Sometimes that’ll get messy and I’ll know, for sure, that I am in fact a horrible wife and mother. I guess I’ll just have to deal with that when it comes.

I’ve decided to take whatshisname up there’s advice and stop repressing myself out of fear. It occurred to me that while fear deserves to be validated, I do not have to let it control the whole damn house!

I like to write for no good reason at all. No strict rules or regulations. No expected topic. Some people do golf, some people do yoga, I do writing. It’s good for the flow. I haven’t done writing in a while and I’ve missed it like crazy. My friend teased me, at first, because I told her I thought blogging was a little self-indulgent. Her response? Duh. I guess she's right. Duh.  

So here we are. Blog, take #2. Not so much learning to be happy. More just learning to be. It’s almost the same, just in a less generic form.

And that’s where I’ve been since January…

If Momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy

While I realize making a New Year's Resolution 17 days into the new year seems a little late, I need to justify it by saying that it took me this long to come up with one, (maybe 'Stop Procrastinating' should have been in the top three). 17 days late or not, here it is: This year, I will be happy.

Sounds simple, right? Wonderful husband, two beautiful sons, crazy yet supportive family, amazing girlfriends.

Happy.

Not always. In fact sometimes, although I don't quite know why yet, I actually find myself rather unhappy. I think it might have something to do with that nagging, self-deprecating voice that tries to tell me I'm not doing it right. I'm not a good mom, a good wife, a good daughter, sister, friend, housekeeper, whatever. Well, not this year! This year is about a new beginning, a better outlook and the decision to be happy no matter what.

I know, I know, puking noise. I get it, trust me. But I've decided this: It'll be a good thing, a snow-ball effect. You know that old saying, "If Momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy"? Well, I think it'll apply here. Happiness is contagious. It spreads around like a disease. When you are in the midst of a happy person, you find yourself in turn being happy. Like it or not. So, I figure, if there are those around me that don't catch the disease, they are probably people that aren't supposed to be around anyway.

I have tried this before and it didn't work. I'm not promising results here people. What I am promising is to take you along on an adventure with me that could end up being a really fun one. I have learned one thing, happy for me isn't happy for you. And what I thought happy was supposed to look like hasn't worked either. There is no "one" way to be happy. June Cleaver looked happy and if I had to live her life, I would have ended it a long time ago. Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey looked happy and we all know how that one ended. I just read a list of the top ten happiest countries in the world...America is #17.

Yeah. I'm throwing my old ideas about happiness out the window.