Plank Pullin': I'm sick. And I'm bad at it.

It’s Plank Pullin’ time! The one day a week that we strongly resolve to ignore the multitude of specks and sawdust around us and pull one bona fide plank from our own eye. Matthew 7:3-5, style.

I'm not sick very often (weird, random ER visits aside), and when I feel myself getting sick, I can generally fight it off with a little extra Vitamin C and a few more hours of extra sleep. I don't like to let things slow me down, and I sort of pride myself on plowing through. When the kids are sick - also not very often, but it happens - I immediately go into ultra nurturing Supermom mode. When husband is sick, I lovingly take his temperature and bring him Tylenol and tea and remote control.

But when it's me? I have been fighting something off for an entire month now. First it was a sore throat, then the fatigue, then the cough. Oh the cough!!! It goes away for a few days, then comes back with a vengeance. Today came a migraine that left me nauseous and shaky. And it makes me.... mad almost. I don't like being sick. It makes me grumpy. And frustrated. And scattered. And I'm well aware of the fact that if I perhaps gave myself the same patience and care that I give my kids when they are sick, that I'd get well a whole lot sooner (a realization that makes me even more grumpy and frustrated and scattered.)

I know I don't need a doctor... my gut tells me it's nothing more than a lingering virus. But yuck. Have I mentioned that I'm grumpy and frustrated and scattered? Tonight I'm going to bed early, and tomorrow I'm going to start taking care of myself as well as I'd take care of the kids.





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Plank Pullin': It's not you, it's me...

It’s Plank Pullin’ time! The one day a week that we strongly resolve to ignore the multitude of specks and sawdust around us and pull one bona fide plank from our own eye. Matthew 7:3-5, style. 

I have a smart phone. I don't have an iPhone (I tend to be anti-Apple in general). I have an Android, and I love it. I don't actually need a smart phone, but it's one of my very few splurges, and I do like to be able to read my emails, check my Facebook, have access to my Googlemaps, etc etc when I'm on the go.

The one condition - which I put on myself - was that when I got a smart phone, I wouldn't become one of "those" people. The people who choose their phone over actual interactions with the people around them. The people who get so wrapped up in their phones that they are being rude to the waitress who's just trying to give them the daily specials, that they are ignoring their kids who only want a minute of their time, that they are missing out on being present for anything because their relationship with their phone comes first.

I vowed I would never become one of those people, and I haven't. I use my phone, I enjoy my phone... but never at the expense of real-life interactions. I use it, and put it away, sometimes not to look at it again for several hours. And it's oh so easy for me to look down my nose at those attached-at-the-hip smart phone users. Pssssh, I'm not so glad I'm not like that with my phone.

But. Um. I also have a laptop.

My laptop is open all day.  Every day. I am on it - off and on - all day.  Every day.  And it doesn't matter what I logged on to do, whether it's respond to an email or look something up or work on a blog post..... I always end up at the same darn place........

A word about Facebook, if I may:

I think it's invaluable.  I do.  Especially for someone like me, who (partly by design and partly by circumstance) has very, very few "real life" friends who really GET me.   Someone like me, whose default mode of operation is to withdraw from everyone when I'm feeling off.  Someone like me who  - thanks in large part to sites like Facebook - has found the importance of a tribe, and the importance of meaningful interactions with other people.   Through mediums like Facebook, I have been supported, uplifted, and challenged.  I am continually meeting interesting people and reading thought-provoking things.   Especially now that I've brought my blog to Facebook, I am often overwhelmed with gratitude for all the amazing people that it's allowing me to come in contact with. 

But (and seriously, grab this plank with me.  It's a big one)  It is a huge distraction for me.  Huge.  I spend a lot of time - not long periods of time, but three minute here and ten minutes there, that ADD UP - that could be much better spent.  And it's not all sunlight and roses either.  Much of it is, if I'm being honest, time-wasting drivel.  For every good article, interesting blog post, and enlightening video is an inane and off-color Obama joke.  Or another person re-posting the same, "99% of you won't repost this" status update.  Or a request for boards to build your barn, or money to fund your mafia, or coins to unlock your secret wonders of the universe. (Disclaimer:  I have nothing against games, or the people who play them)  It's all just a reminder that, despite my best intentions, I have become one of those people.  It just wasn't with my phone. 

I know a lot of people leave Facebook for those very reasons.  I have done it myself for brief periods of time.  I don't think that's the answer (for me) though, because it would be like the proverbial "throwing the baby out with the bath water."  I do think that there's a lot of good to be had from Facebook, to be sure.  But there's a negative too.  I need to tip the scale back to the positive, cut back - waay back - on letting myself get sucked into the drivel, and let the negative fall off the other side. 

And so Facebook, I'm not breaking up with you. But I do think it's time we start seeing other people.







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Plank Pullin': I'm a Mess

It’s Plank Pullin’ time! The one day a week that we strongly resolve to ignore the multitude of specks and sawdust around us and pull one bona fide plank from our own eye. Matthew 7:3-5, style.

Sometimes people ask me for advice.

I like giving advice when I'm asked. There's just something... satisfying... something that feels *right* about being able to look at a situation from the outside, see it clearly, and be able to say, "This is what I see. This is what I think. This is what I've experienced." To believe even for a second that something you said HELPED someone, that something you said MATTERED to someone.

Now, keep in mind that I have no idea if I actually give good advice. Most of the time I don't hear back from the person asking, so for all I know they could be out there thinking, "This chica is waaay off her rocker." (That's a direct quote from my all-time favorite piece of "fan" mail, and the one that handed me the biggest laugh.) But I do get asked from time to time, and I do enjoy giving it.

The scary thing is:

I am the worst person EVER to be giving anyone advice. I'm sort of a mess.

I never sleep. I'm addicted to caffeine. I've had ongoing issues with both anxiety and depression. My husband is always on standby to talk me down from whatever my current freak-out may be, whether it's the anticipation of seeing people that I find stressful, or how we're going to be able to afford t-ball registration, or simply our current state of housekeeping. And inside my head? Have you ever seen a movie where someone is on some sort of drug trip and there are all these rapid-fire flashes of different thoughts and images and movement, one right after the other? That's what it's like to be inside my head (except I don't do drugs, aside from the aforementioned caffeine.) And the fact is, I'm not drawn to things like yoga and meditation and peaceful parenting because I'm a naturally calm person..... but because I'm not.

With the exception of unschooling and parenting (and by extension this blog, where I write about unschooling and parenting), I have no earthly clue what I want to do when I grow up. It's not that I have no ideas; it's that I have oh so many ideas. And because I have a tendency to both jump headlong into whatever interests me at the moment AND get bored quickly before I move on to something else, my house is a mess too. My desk is stacked with books I've yet to read, projects I've yet to finish, and the coursework I'm supposed to be studying to take my personal trainer certification test. My closets are filled with discarded lip balm and craft supplies. There is a huge box containing over 100 DVDs in my living room, because I suddenly decided I really needed to start buying and selling them on Ebay again. I'm still unsure if I'm going to participate in NanoWriMo again this November, or write an e-book (or three), or sign up for yoga teacher training, or enroll to finish my bachelors in Holistic Health. I Just. Don't. Know.

And the thing is, if it were any of my kids with this confusion, I'd answer them confidently and sincerely with reassurance:

You don't have to worry. It'll all work out. Take each day as it comes. The beauty isn't in the figuring it all out (and no one really figures it all out anyway) but in the journey.

I absolutely believe all of the above, and some days, I even think I have a handle on it. But most other days, well, I'm still a mess.







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Plank Pullin': The one where I feel judged

(source)

It’s Plank Pullin’ time! The one day a week that we strongly resolve to ignore the multitude of specks and sawdust around us and pull one bona fide plank from our own eye. Matthew 7:3-5, style. 

Let me start with a general confession:

People bug me.

I mean, I'm as personable and easy to get along with as the next guy when everyone's being nice and reasonable and friendly... and I truly enjoy interacting with others who are happy and open-minded and interesting.  But.  I am an introvert through and through, and I get "peopled out" very easily.  Unfortunately, the internet (which is, of course, an invaluable source of those happy and open-minded and interesting people I do like talking to) also provides a veritable and unending stream of frustration in the form of the rude, the arrogant, and lately, the judgmental.

I have felt a lot of judgment lately.... not judgment aimed at me specifically, but aimed towards people like me:  those of the "more Jesus, less religion" ilk.  People like me who truly love God, but who, for one reason or another have rejected the traditional path of organized religion.  Those who have found freedom in the relationship, even (or especially) outside of church, and those who have eschewed a lifestyle built on rules.

It has been following me - and frustrating me - all week.  First was the conversation I happened on about unschooling.  Then it was parenting. Then it was what kind of statuses are inappropriate to post on Facebook. Then it was clothing.  Then it was television. Then it was the proper way to talk to God.  Then it was the proper way to talk ABOUT God.  Then it was the proper kind of church to go to.  "People who know and love God would not xyz.  The bible is clear that we're commanded to xyz.  You are not a good Christian woman if you xyz."  Is it any wonder that when, a few days ago, a non-Christian friend bemoaned how judgmental she found Christians, I could do nothing but commiserate?

I don't fit into a box, Christian or otherwise.

I don't go to church regularly.
I unschool.
I love tattoos.
I put weird colors in my hair.
I sometimes laugh at inappropriate things.
I sometimes SAY inappropriate things.

.....


And I know that God loves me anyway.

I don't like feeling judged. But - and this is the part where I finally get around to pulling my plank - my feeling frustrated or angry towards the ones doing it is really no different than the judgment itself. If I'm all indignantly yelling, "How DARE she judge me?" aren't I judging as well? And how about that... it doesn't feel nice coming or going.

Whatever journey they are on is just that: theirs. And this one is mine. And I can ignore their existence love them and learn to sincerely wish them well, and rest assured in the peace that comes from knowing that nothing anyone else says can affect my own personal relationship with God.






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Plank Pullin': The one I hate to pull

It’s Plank Pullin’ time! The one day a week that we strongly resolve to ignore the multitude of specks and sawdust around us and pull one bona fide plank from our own eye. Matthew 7:3-5, style.



My sweet little girl has a new favorite word. It's not a "bad" word, or a curse word, or an inappropriate word really. It's just a word that sounds... wrong... coming out of an innocent mouth.

The word is "HATE" and she has been experimenting with it for several days now, usually without even meaning it. She hates that shirt, she hates the crust on the toast, she hates this song, she hates the grumpy cashier at the Dollar Store. I know it will pass, but I can't help but cringe just a little each time I hear it. I hate that word. Such a negative, ugly-sounding word.

And where would she have heard it? Her brothers don't say it with any regularly. Her father doesn't say it with any regularity. Her mother... just said it yesterday in reference to a driver's cell-phone-yapping activities that almost got her sideswiped on a busy street. :( And I'm sure it wasn't the first time this week, or even that day. Because for all my outer calm and zen-ness, I have an embarrassingly long list of minor grievances with, well, the world (and sometimes the people that inhabit it). An all too often conversation in the house starts with the following: Me - You know what I hate? Husband - Lots of things?

Sigh.

You know how sometimes when you fill out one of those silly surveys, it will ask you for your biggest pet peeve/s? I always have trouble answering those, because there are just too many to choose from. And I may or may not use the word, 'hate' to describe many of them. I never use it to describe people (I do not hate anyone), but I do use it.

And now my little girl uses it too.

I can't stop her from using it, and I know that in time she'll only use it when she really means it... but I can work on how discriminating I am when I use it myself (or even better, stop using it altogether). Because my daughter is now overly fond of a negative word thanks to me....

and I really hate that.






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Plank Pullin': Who me, stubborn?

It’s Plank Pullin’ time! The one day a week that we strongly resolve to ignore the multitude of specks and sawdust around us and pull one bona fide plank from our own eye. Matthew 7:3-5, style.



My dad is a very stubborn man. Don't get me wrong, he's also a very sweet man. A very kind man. A very funny man. But yes, he's also as stubborn as all get out.

My husband is stubborn too. And it is mind. numbingly. frustrating. to me to talk with either one of them when they've dug in their proverbial heels about something.

So last night, I was laying in bed at 1:00 A.M... tossing, turning, trying to solve all the problems of the world... when I realized,

I'm more stubborn than both of them put together.

I have been a chronic insomniac for most of my adult life, and while - yes - there are multiple reasons for that, a large portion of the blame lands squarely on the fact that I am STUBBORN.

It drives me crazy when people offer unsolicited suggestions, mainly because I have tried them all (and gave up on them probably way too quickly)... but also because I am stubborn.

I don't want to give up my coffee for the length of time needed to see if the lack of caffeine really makes a difference, because I truly need it to function when I'm in a particularly bad patch... but also because I am stubborn.

I watch TV or hop on the computer when I can't sleep - both no-no's in the world of the "get better sleep" tips... because I am stubborn.

I don't enjoy not sleeping. I long for the days that I'll sleep again. But I know that part of me chooses it. I could take more steps to get better, but I don't. I could face the real issues (because I know the real issues) but I don't. It's easy, and safe, and familiar to keep going on as I have been, drinking my coffee, ignoring the elephant in the room, and failing to do the hard work required to face my demons and make things better.

I am stubborn. And I haven't slept for the better part of two decades because of it.






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Plank Pullin': Fear

It’s Plank Pullin’ time! The one day a week that we strongly resolve to ignore the multitude of specks and sawdust around us and pull one bona fide plank from our own eye. Matthew 7:3-5, style.

Ever since I decided to start participating in Jessica's Plank Pullin' Thursdays, I've been unable to stop myself from keeping a running list in my head ("Oooh, that'd be a good plank to pull... I'll have to use that for a Plank Pullin' post... Wow, I really need to work on that. Maybe I should write about it...") At any given time, I have no less than half a dozen Plank posts in my drafts folder. And Wednesday night finds me looking through them, ultimately trying to pick the least painful, the least embarrassing, or the least revealing.

This week, I had a really good one. I had thought about it for days, writing it all out in my head. It would be my largest plank to date, and it would be by far the most difficult to get out. It was important, and it was personal.

But when it came time to write it, I froze. I couldn't do it. And the rest of the nuggets that I had saved as drafts? Couldn't write those either. I could give you all kinds of (made up) reasons for why that was the case, but the fact of the matter is, it all came down to one thing:

Fear.

When I write or talk to those who are newcomers to unschooling or gentle parenting, I can talk with such confidence. People tell me their fears and I reassure them. I don't have fears when it comes to myself as a parent. And it's not because I think I'm a perfect parent (I'm not), or because I think I'm not ever going to make mistakes (I will), but because I trust myself as a mother. I trust my instincts, I trust my kids, I trust our relationship. Similarly, I always find myself the odd one out when unschooling discussions turn to fears... fears that they won't learn what they'll need to know, fears that they'll be undisciplined, fears that it's somehow going to screw them up. I don't share those fears either, because I trust unschooling too. It's so easy for me to say, "Let go of your fears," simply because they're not fears I have myself.

But. Outside of parenting and unschooling, outside that one area of comfort? I am afraid of everything. I am afraid of unfamiliar situations. I am afraid of making mistakes. I am afraid of saying the wrong thing. I am afraid of being judged. I am afraid of looking stupid. I am afraid of letting people see the real me. I am afraid of losing people I love. I am afraid of bad things happening to good people. I am afraid of so very many things. Some days, I am still that shy, fearful 16 year old that I was 21 years ago, and I so badly wish I wasn't.

I don't have to be afraid. I shouldn't be afraid, but sometimes it still gets the better of me. My hope and prayer is that someday it won't.

Joshua 1:9 Have I not commanded you? Be strong and of good courage; do not be afraid, nor be dismayed, for the LORD your God is with you wherever you go.

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Plank Pullin': The one where I don't like Oprah

It’s Plank Pullin’ time! The one day a week that we strongly resolve to ignore the multitude of specks and sawdust around us and pull one bona fide plank from our own eye. Matthew 7:3-5, style.

Yesterday, Oprah Winfrey aired her final show after 25 years on the air. I share that just in case you've, well, been living under a rock... or maybe heard the weeping in the streets and wondered what it was all about.

Yes, the era of Oprah is over. And I feel.... sad. Not because I'll miss the show (I hardly ever watched it) and not because I was a fan of Oprah (I pretty much spent the past 25 years disliking her intensely) No, I'm sad because I've been doing the same thing to Oprah that so hurts me when it's done to me: I was judging her without knowing her. I found her arrogant and self-serving, using her show as a platform for HER. Using her jillions of dollars to help other people, yes, but also to show the world how wonderful and giving SHE is.

And then this morning I watched her finale, for no other reason than to scoff and roll my eyes and be glad that it was all over. And I don't know if it was because I went to bed - and subsequently woke up - feeling sad, or if it was because I've been humbled by my own "hate mail" I've received of late, but for what was literally the first time I felt like I truly "got" her. I realized that Oprah and I are not that different (billions of dollars and worldwide fame aside)

And the fact is,
I don't know what kind of person she's like behind closed doors.
I don't know how much giving she does that she *doesn't* share with her audience.
I don't know what insecurities she has, or what she's not proud of, or what kind of mistakes she's made.
I'm not privy to her relationships with her friends, her family, and her loved ones.

I do know that she seems to genuinely want to help people, and is genuinely interested in living an authentic, meaningful life and paving the way for others to do the same. I do know that she seemed humbled, and grateful, and sincere as she thanked her viewers, her staff, and God.

And all that mushy-gushy rainbows and unicorn and lets-all-love-one-another stuff she was always talking about? I honestly want that, too. Her platform just happened to be a deeply loved, national talk show... and mine is a little blog. But we're on the same side.

And so, Oprah, it's taken me 25 years, but I am truly sorry for judging you. You have done a great thing with your show, and have touched many people. I am sure that outside of the lights and the cameras and the hoopla, that you are a beautiful person - inside and out - and one who is deeply loved by those who really know you.

Oh, and if you run into Dr Phil, tell him I'm working up to an apology for him too.






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Plank Pullin': Cuz everything little thing's gonna be alright

It’s Plank Pullin’ time! The one day a week that we strongly resolve to ignore the multitude of specks and sawdust around us and pull one bona fide plank from our own eye. Matthew 7:3-5, style.

Two of my four kids have a tendency to worry.  They get caught up in "what ifs", stress out about what's coming the next day, and sometimes forget to live in - and enjoy - the moment.  I often find myself reassuring them... reminding them to take each day as it comes, to not worry, to let each moment take care of itself, to just breathe, to know in their hearts that everything really IS going to be all right. 

And dangit, I'm good at it.  I am.  I'm honest.  I'm convincing.  I'm reassuring.  It's all I can do to keep from patting myself on the back as they tell me, "Thanks Mommy, I feel better now," and happily go off to play. 

But alas, it's nothing more than a sparkling example of my own hypocrisy, because I am a huge worrier.   I hate that I am, and I so very badly wish that I wasn't... but there it is.   And the worst part is not the fact that I have the tendency to worry - which, honestly, is bad enough in and of itself - but the fact that I worry over such undeniably stupid things.  It's not like worrying about, say, walking down a dark deserted alley alone at night.  That would be productive worry that might make one think twice about a possibly dangerous decision. 

No, I worry about very important things like not having time to get the house cleaned before we have somebody over. 

Last Saturday we had a busy day at the end of what was a very stressful (and as a result, a very unproductive) week.  We were out all day off-roading, came home very briefly around dinner time, and then went to a friends house to swim and hang out for the rest of the evening.   It was a great day, and a fun diversion, but that night I came home exhausted and stressed out.   I had to babysit the following morning, and the house was a disaster (and not at all safe for a crawling baby)  We also had someone coming to meet us and talk with us about caring for our chickens while we're away this summer.  Meeting new people in general tends to stress me out anyway, and coupled with the neglected house and babysitting as well, I was nearly rife with anxiety. 

My husband, who never fails to be the voice of reason, basically said "Relax please.  It'll all be fine."

And it was.  We got the house picked up just fine the following morning.  It was not perfect, but neither the chicken sitter nor my ten month old cousin pointed out our flaws.  The day unfolded without a hitch, and I realized - as I often realize - that I'd stressed out for nothing.  I actually wasted entire minutes of my life worrying about... what, exactly?  My house being too dirty?  What on earth is wrong with me? 

It's hard not to stress out and worry when I'm not sleeping, and this particular bout of insomnia has been a long one.  It's a vicious circle too, because the more I stress the less I sleep... and the less I sleep the more I stress.  And the solution is, of course, exactly the same one I so easily dole out to the kids:

Breathe.  Relax.  Appreciate the moment.  Let tomorrow take care of itself.  It's all going to work out.

"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?"
Matthew 6:25-27

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Plank Pullin': The guy who puts up with me

It’s Plank Pullin’ time! The one day a week that we strongly resolve to ignore the multitude of specks and sawdust around us and pull one bona fide plank from our own eye.

I have a husband.  I don't know if you knew that, but I do.

I don't post about him nearly as often as the kids, and if you're my friend on Facebook, you won't find me doing a lot of gushing about him, OR complaining about him in my status updates .... mainly because I think the former is a little weird (I tell him I love him; why would I feel the need to announce it to everyone else?), and I think the latter is just inappropriate, and well... mean... whether the poster is doing it about a spouse, a child, or a friend. 

But I do have one.  And [prepare yourself for some unprecedented gushing] I think he's pretty darn terrific.  Terrific partner, terrific father, terrific friend.  So what I'm wondering, as I pull this enormous plank from my eye, is:

Why don't I appreciate him the way that I should?

Mike and I very rarely fight.  Very. Rarely. But when we do (in our typical, get all grumbly and huffy and pouty with each other fashion, until one of us decides to be a grownup and actually talk about it) it's essentially the same fight dressed in different clothes, over and over.  I feel like you don't appreciate me.  I take care of the kids all day and the house and the laundry and the bathrooms and the floors and the animals and the errands and the appointments and I'm TIRED.... and blah, blah, blah.  I just want to be appreciated. 

But you know what?  He gets up at 5:30 every morning, while we're all still in bed.  He commutes an hour and a half, twice a day, on public transportation.  To a job that he sometimes likes, but one that leaves him sitting behind a desk all day when he would much rather be outside.   He comes home tired, and knowing that I'm tired too, often makes dinner and does the dishes.   He gets the girl into her pajamas.  He takes care of the yard, and our cars, and takes out the trash.   He deals with the complicated phone calls involving things like insurance claims and interest rates and repairmen because he knows I don't like to do it.

And he does it all because he appreciates us. 

The other morning, I was picking up and wiping down the kitchen.  Mike had made dinner the night before, and he'd run the dishwasher.  But the counters were still covered with... stuff.  They were dirty and cluttered, and there were gooey, un-rinsed black bean cans by the sink.  I instantly went into sighing, huffy, why can't he appreciate me and my time mode and started to rinse out the cans.  And in the span of the 30 seconds it took me to walk them from the kitchen to the pantry to put them in the recycle bin, it hit me.  It hit me in a shame-filled, plank-pullin' epiphany. 

It was not about him, it was about me.  Me and my stubborn, non-appreciative, self-centered stinking thinking.  I was stressing out about a few bean cans that took me all of 18 seconds to rinse out?  When he'd cooked us all a nice dinner, after a long day at work?  What was wrong with me?  Why on earth wouldn't I just rinse them out happily, in appreciation for what he did do - and continues to do - for us, that night and every night.   Maybe, just maybe, the problem isn't that he doesn't appreciate me.... but rather that I could do a whole lot better at appreciating him. 

And now I will. 

Because I really do kind of love him.







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Plank Pullin': I'm a Giant Hypocrite

So my friend Jessica of Bohemian Bowmans does a Plank Pullin' post (try saying that 5 times fast) every Thursday. You know, from the verse "How can you say to your brother, 'Let me take the speck out of your eye,' when all the time there is a plank in your own eye?" I think she's pretty darn cool, and brave, for posting these every week. However, despite her valiant effort to get people to join her, I have resisted - mightily - until now. It's not that I didn't have planks to pull. Oh, no. The problem was that I had so many planks to pull. Where to even start?

So many planks, so little time.

But something's been bothering me lately, so in the interest of "confession's good for the soul" I hereby give you my very first Plank Pull:

I'm a hypocrite.

There, I've done it. Phew! I feel so much better now. Thanks for reading.

Oh, did you want to know how I'm a hypocrite? Well if I must....

I write a lot about staying calm in the moment, about not sweating the small stuff, and about treating kids kindly and respectfully. I write a lot about patience. And while every word I write is authentic (I don't know how to write any other way) I've become increasingly aware of - and uncomfortable with - a dichotomy when I write about patience specifically. Because the fact is,

I am one of the most impatient people I know.

Yes, I'm generally able to maintain patience with my children. But with other adult family members? With myself? With LIFE? Not so much with the patience.

I think it's funny when people say things to me like, "How can you stay home with four kids all day? Don't they drive you crazy?" The truth is, as far as I'm concerned, staying home and dealing with the four people I love more than anyone is exponentially easier than it was to deal with co-workers. Or customers. Or most of the general population. I used to work in retail, and I would inevitably come home mentally and emotionally exhausted every. single. night. People sort of... well, they drive me crazy. "What is wrong with everybody??" is a common lament around here.

I am such an advocate for treating children like people (because they ARE people) but somewhere along the way I think I forgot that adults are people too. I am so impatient and easily frustrated by other people's more... human qualities. Particularly when I'm dealing with friends and family members, I have a tendency to expect them to be perfect. Then when they're not, I internalize it: How could they say that to ME, how could they do that to ME, why are they always so self-absorbed? Ironic, no? The truth is, no matter what color I paint it, it still boils down to one thing: my impatience. My impatience with people who, just like me, are flawed. People who, just like me, are on their own paths to self discovery. People who, just like me, have good days and bad, and who might not always think before they speak. People who, just like me, deserve to be treated gently and kindly and with PATIENCE.

I am too hard on people, and I hate that about myself. I want to be more patient and loving towards everyone, not just my kids. I want to be better about it, and I'm trying to be better about it, but because I'm so impatient with myself, I want to be better about it RIGHT NOW.