Dear 15-year old me . . .

Dear Fifteen Year Old Self:

Stop worrying about boys.  When everyone says that girls mature a lot faster than boys, they are not kidding.  The boys you wish would talk to you are utterly incapable of it.  Don’t take it personally.  Cultivate friendships with your girlfriends.  Ignore the boys or regard them as cute decor, but don’t expect anything from them.  Find your interests, pursue them, read a lot and enjoy being a girl.

Falling in love is less about falling and more about choosing.  Love isn’t supposed to hurt or make you cry.  There’s plenty of time for love later.  Meanwhile, learn to appreciate and love yourself.  You are cuter than you think, smarter than you know and funny, too.  Don’t be so hard on yourself.  Stop comparing yourself to other girls and wondering why your family can’t be like other families.  Everything you experience will be valuable later, so embrace it, pay attention and take good notes.

Speaking of notes . . . don’t destroy your journals and diaries.  You’ll regret it.

Don’t let anyone derail you from pursuing your dreams and your interests.  The college you will choose is really, really important.  Don’t be swayed.  Use your brain.  Your emotions are valid, but they should not steer your life.  Think.  Trust yourself but find adults who can give you good advice.

Finally . . . you are not fat.  Knock it off with the self-loathing.  Ride your bike!  Feel the wind in your hair!  You will never again feel quite as healthy as you do now.  Eat lunch!  Stop trying to quit eating entirely.  Food is not an enemy.  Neither is the body God gave you.

Enjoy the summer.  You have so few teenage summers left and you should savor every second.  Summertime when you’re an adult is just not the same.

Love,
Melodee

Shoo shoes, don’t bother me

The last thing I want to do is be taller.  This desire to avoid tallness causes me to recoil in horror from the shoes currently in fashion.

Because, seriously.

They are cute but I don’t want to be six feet fall.  Ever.

And I cannot–I will not–tolerate suffering for beauty.  I don’t want my feet to hurt.  Perhaps this is a sign of old age.  I have almost certainly turned into a fuddy-duddy, but I don’t want to hobble around with aching feet.

I have yet to reach that age when I wear only white athletic shoes, however.

I just want to wear my Chuck Taylors.

Now, that’s a shoe.

I do apologize to young whippersnappers for lowering the cool quotient of said shoes.  When junior high kids see a woman my age wearing the same style of shoes, they must question their judgment.

Then again, what am I saying?  I am utterly invisible to junior high kids.

Raining, pouring, old man snoring, etc.

Well, that weekend went by fast.

Saturday found me and Grace at a baby shower.  Fun times.  I won both baby shower games because deep down inside this unassuming housewife exterior is a fierce competitor who does not truly know how to play for fun.  I play to win.  Which is mostly why I avoid playing at all.  I do hate to lose.  So, to avoid losing, I don’t play.  Well, I do play baby shower games, but I don’t play other games, including competitions that are not exactly games but that leave someone standing there feeling like a loser.  (“Someone” meaning me.)

Anyway, after the baby shower, Grace and I drove ten minutes up to Wild Waves where we spent our first day this season at the waterpark.  Thank God I brought along a wool blanket and wore a sweater and jeans because it was cold.  Cold, as in fifty-five degrees.  Where, oh where is summer?

Grace didn’t care, though.  She frolicked and hurried from area to area to jump and slide and swim and float.  She possesses boundless energy.  After two hours, I convinced her to leave because I was cold.  And bored.  But mostly cold.

After returning home, I drove my teenagers to spend the night at their friend’s house.

Sunday morning, we went back to Wild Waves, this time with Zach and my husband.  The three of them wore swimsuits and swam and floating and slid into the warmish water, but I sat and huddled in my fleece, happy not to be underwater.  I did ride a rollercoaster twice and then let Zach ride it six more times by himself because I am too old to ride a rollercoaster eight times in a row.

The temperature reached 60 degrees on our way home.  Sixty degrees!  And it was raining pretty good, too, by the time we left.

Today we went shopping.  Someone (not me) got new suits.  Someone (not me) got new dollies.  Then someone (me) whipped up a German Potato Salad to take to a barbecue.  Someone (not me) went to the movies.

At the barbecue, lo and behold, the sun came out!  We sat in the sun, squinting in our sunglasses at each other, visiting and shocked at the appearance of the sunshine.  I think it might have reached seventy degrees.

The rain is expected to return.

We have two more weeks of school.  I can’t believe another school year is ending.

I also can’t believe I said this phrase today to one of my children:  “You really need to shave before you go.”

Life is getting weird.

Dance Dance Anti-Revolution

Do you ever watch “Regis and Kelly”?  When I return from taking my 7-year old to school, I crawl right back into bed, ignoring the shame of my slothfulness, and watch the first fifteen minutes of the show.  I like to hear them talk about their lives.

Right before their trivia contest, sometimes they have an audience member dance.

That, my friends, is my Worst Nightmare.

I don’t dance.

I have a long history of not dancing.  I remember being a very small child, hanging out in the lower level of a neighborhood friend’s split level (I think her name was Cindy).  The televisi0n was tuned to The Jackson Five (a cartoon?  I can’t remember) and Cindy directed me and the others to stand on the couch’s armrests and dance.

Dance!

I don’t dance.  I didn’t then and I don’t now.

The only dancing I’ve ever successfully managed was square-dancing during that mortifying unit in Junior High gym class.  The last thing in the world I wanted to do as a tall teenager was clasp the sweaty hands of boys.  But I did and I skipped around and doe-see-doed (phonetic spelling, you’re welcome) and generally moved as stiffly as possible while dancing.  My grade depended on following the directions, so I did.  But I did not enjoy it.

Fortunately, I grew up in a religious tradition that forbade dancing.  Some of the girls even skipped that square dancing unit in gym class, claiming a religious exemption.  I think dancing was forbidden because it might tempt us to throw off our clothes and have illicit relations with the opposite sex, thus resulting in an unplanned pregnancy, but I don’t know.

All I know is that I don’t dance.

I can clap my hands.

I can play a passable sonata on the piano, counting carefully (“one and two and three and four and”).

But I don’t dance and I never will.  I can sway.  I can tap.  I can nod my head.

But do not ask me to shake my booty or moon-walk or accept an invitation to appear on “Dancing with the Stars.”

Other things I do not do:
Hop.
High-five.
Raise my hand in group settings.
Sit in the front row.
The splits.

Vapor

Sometimes, I look at the painted flowers on my daughter’s bedroom wall and feel the world ending.

One day, those flowers will be a memory and the very thought of the end of all this makes me want to stomp my feet and cry.  I don’t want things to change!  I don’t want her to grow up and go to college and meet a boy and get married and move to another state.  Or house.

Sometimes, I look at my 12-year old son’s soft cheeks and his freckled nose and his green eyes and want the whole world to stop. I want to hold his face and touch each freckle but if I did he’d roll his eyes, jerk from my hands and think I’d gone crazy.

Can’t we just take a time out?  Can we pause on twelve for a few more years?  I don’t want him to grow whiskers and fall in love with girls and choose a career path and stop laughing at things that aren’t funny unless you’re twelve.

I spy the distant Mt. Rainier in its white-covered glory and I feel frantic.  We haven’t sojourned to the mountain in two years.  What if that time was the last time we’d stomp its snowy sides?  What if we don’t venture back up the mountain?  Will the kids even remember the delicate alpine flowers and the pure thin air?

Just moments ago, my teenagers were little kids, wandering the back yard waving sticks and throwing balls over the roof of the house to the front yard.  They refused to eat vegetables and only drank apple juice.  Those mundane days already glow in the fading hazy light of memory.  The past seems sweet compared to the reality of uneven facial hair and loud music and their uniform of black t-shirts and baggy jeans.

I hate my kitchen counters.  They’re old, pale yellow formica.  I don’t have enough cupboard space.  The sink is a ghastly gold.  And yet, sometimes I’m already nostalgic for it.  When I’m an old woman and I think about raising kids, this is the kitchen that I will remember.  This homely, inadequate kitchen is like a friend I miss already, even while we’re still holding hands.

Sometimes, I just want to press the pause button.  I want to appreciate this moment, to breathe it in, to gather it all in my arms and sit and rock, rock, rock in a peaceful rhythm before it all scatters, never to be assembled again in quite the same way.

But there is no pause button.  The children won’t stop growing.  I keep getting older and grayer.

The whole thing, when I consider it, makes my heart hurt.

Nothing stays the same and there’s a peculiar pain in noticing the fleeting days for what they are–a vapor, here today and gone tomorrow.

Book Review: Life, In Spite of Me

Recently, I received a free review copy of Life, In Spite of Me:  Extraordinary Hope After a Fatal Choice.

I remember seeing Kristen Anderson on an Oprah show about people who survived suicide.  This book (written with Tricia Goyer) tells the story of how Kristen survived her suicide attempt.  She lost both of her legs in the attempt and went on to live a life of happiness and purpose.

I was fascinated by this book and couldn’t put it down.  I put myself in her situation–how would I go on in that situation?  Kristen eventually finds hope in her faith in Christ.

Here’s more information, provided by the publicist:

ABOUT THE BOOK:
After her fatal choice… extraordinary hope.

Why does my life have to be so painful?
What’s wrong with me?
It’s not going to get better.
It could all be over soon, and then I won’t hurt anymore.

Kristen Anderson thought she had the picture perfect life until strokes of gray dimmed her outlook on life. Once a happy child, Kristen’s world darkened after three friends and her grandmother died within two years. Still reeling from these losses, she was raped by a friend she thought she could trust. She soon spiraled into a depression that didn’t seem to have a bottom.

One January night, the seventeen-year-old made a decision: She no longer wanted to deal with the emotional pain that smothered her. She lay down on a set of cold railroad tracks and waited-for a freight train to send her to heaven…and peace.

Fear coursed through me. I squeezed my eyes tighter.
It’s going to be over now. The pain is going to end. I’ll be in heaven soon.
As the train whistle blew, the vibration of my body stilled.
The sound stopped. The wind stopped. The train stopped.
Am I dead yet?

Amazingly, Kristen survived her suicide attempt… but the 33 freight cars that ran over her severed her legs. Now she not only had to deal with depression; she also had to face the physical pain and life without legs.

But Kristen’s story didn’t end there. After her darkest days Kristen discovered a real purpose for living. Now, in her compelling book Life, In Spite of Me, Kristen shares her journey from despair to hope.

Includes letters from Kristen that share messages she wishes someone would have told her-when she was depressed and struggling with loss, shame from sexual abuse, and suicidal thoughts.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Tricia Goyer is the author of twenty-four books including Songbird Under a German Moon, The Swiss Courier, and the mommy memoir, Blue Like Play Dough. She won Historical Novel of the Year in 2005 and 2006 from ACFW, and was honored with the Writer of the Year award from Mt. Hermon Writer’s Conference in 2003. Tricia’s book Life Interrupted was a finalist for the Gold Medallion in 2005.

In addition to her novels, Tricia writes non-fiction books and magazine articles for publications like MomSense and Thriving Family. Tricia is a regular speaker at conventions and conferences, and has been a workshop presenter at the MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) International Conventions.  She and her family make their home in Little Rock, Arkansas where they are part of the ministry of FamilyLife. For more info, please visit www.triciagoyer.com

You can find other bloggers talking about this book here.

Paint belongs on a barn, according to my dad

One time when I was fifteen, my dad took me on a rare outing.  We slid the yellow canoe he’d inexplicably purchased into the nearby slough.  As we paddled around, I took a deep breath and asked him the question that had been on my mind for a long time.

“When I turn 16, can I wear make-up?”

“No,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Paint belongs on a barn.”

And that was the end of that.

I have been cursed with dark circles under my eyes and no eye lashes to speak of.  The other girls had been wearing make-up since sixth grade.  Compared to everyone else I was dowdy and ugly, if you asked me.  (My school pictures will confirm this assessment.)

I respected his rules, though.  One time, I performed with two other girls in a public place and my friends put make-up on me.  I was performing, after all.

When I returned home, my dad appeared in my bedroom doorway.  My stepmother had reported to him that I was wearing mascara and she immediately reported this infraction to him.  So I was scolded.

I remember the burning injustice I felt.  I was a straight A student.  I babysat in my spare time to earn extra cash.  I paid for all my own clothes, even my own shampoo.  I never caused a bit of trouble.  I did not drink, I didn’t take drugs and I didn’t date.  For fun, I went to the library and read.  I entertained myself by practicing the piano. I did my own laundry.  I went to church three times a week.

And I was in trouble because I dared to wear make-up for a special occasion.

I never wore it again until the day I arrived at college.  In Missouri.  Far, far, far away from the eyes of my father.

For the record, we never again went canoeing, either.

And frankly, I think if a barn needs painting, you ought to slap some paint on it.

Other people’s parents

All I really wanted when I was a teenager (besides being a size four and for my bangs to feather) was to be of use.  I wanted to be necessary, indispensable, valued for my contributions to the world.

I’m not kidding.

I was a volunteer extraordinaire.

I watched babies in the church nursery.  I helped with a 4-H group.  I taught Sunday School.  I bagged sandbags during a flood.  I scrubbed refrigerated cases in a food co-op.  I sold baked goods at rest stops on the freeway to raise money.  I walked in a Walk-a-thon.

But by far, my favorite volunteer activity was working as a “Volunteen” at the local hospital.

I wore a pink smock and helped out on the “broken bones” floor.  I gave patients cups of cold water.  I ran errands for nurses.  I fed people.

I loved it.

But the problem was that my parents refused to give me rides to any of my activities, no matter how altruistic the cause.  They forced me to take the public bus (which always terrified me, probably for no good reason) or beg for a ride from an acquaintance or friend.  I hated to ask for a ride only slightly less than I hated to wait in the dark for a public bus.

An acquaintance of mine (her name was Mary and she was so blond she had nearly no color at all) also volunteered at the hospital.  Her father was a doctor there.  Her mother picked her up after our shift.

I asked Mary if her mother would mind giving me a ride home, too.  After all, we lived in the same small town.  She agreed on behalf of her mother and that settled that.  Instead of having to stand on the street corner in the dark, waiting for the bus, I could ride the seven or ten miles home in a private car, in safety.

But Mary’s mother could not hide her annoyance with my presence in her car.  I don’t understand it to this day.  She did have to drive probably three miles round-trip out of her way to deliver me to my driveway and perhaps that was just too much to ask.

I still have a sick feeling when I think about how much that woman appeared to resent me.  She probably can’t remember me, but I remember her.

Other people’s parents can be so mean to teenagers.