The Friend in the Mirror
“Stop! Don’t go near the road!” I yell after my three-year-old who darts across the grassy area of the park toward the car-filled road. She doesn’t slow until she’s within inches of the asphalt, her Cheetah sneakers skidding to a stop. Then she turns and gives me the “see I listened” smirk.
“JJ!” she shrieks, “No! Stop!” as my two-year-old nephew follows her toward the street.
“You don’t go in the road,” she chides him as she grabs his wrist and drags him back to our picnic area.
***
“Get back from the water!” I shout at my almost five-year-old son. “Just throw the duck food from the grass!” Instead of stopping, he takes three more full speed steps toward the edge of the lake and my heart stutter steps as he shuffle-stops while hurling a handful of nuts and seeds (and miraculously not himself) into the murky water.
He turns and gives the same “whatcha gonna do about it” face as his sister.
Not even a minute later, he’s blocking my nephew from the edge.
“Mom said don’t go near the edge!” he barks in my nephew’s face. My son juts out his chin in an expression of self-righteousness I can only assume he learned directly from me.
“Do as I say, not as I do” starts young, y’all.
***
I am sure I dabble in hypocrisy of all stripes, but today I want to talk about grace. As an Enneagram One, I am quick to extend grace and kindness to my friends, but view that same grace as weakness in myself.
My husband gifted me a two-night solo staycation at a beach cottage in my favorite neighborhood last week for my birthday.
It was as dreamy as it sounds. I woke up to the sound of waves instead of squabbling children. I walked on the beach and scootered around the harbor and treated myself to my favorite restaurants and finished a book I’d been meaning to finish for months (maybe a year?).
The book: “The Lazy Genius Way” by Kendra Adachi. I highly recommend the whole book for life hacks with no pressure and echoes of grace. The chapter that stood out the most to me was titled, “Be kind to yourself.”
Yeah, right. I agree with this in principle but it’s a tall order, indeed. I (often) get told that I should talk to myself like I would talk to a friend (where my Enneagram Ones at?).
I understand, in theory, that I am harder on myself than I would ever be on anyone else. My inner critic is a LOUD and bossy B.
In her chapter, Kendra took the advice a step further. She encourages readers not to treat themselves like a friend, but to remember you are your own friend.
“The Lazy Genius Golden Rule says that you are your own friend.
You’re not a project.
You’re not something to be fixed and sculpted and assessed on a daily basis.
You’re a person of value as you are right now, and that person deserves your kindness because she is your friend.”
For some people, the distinction between “like a friend” and “you are a friend” may be unnecessary, but for me, the difference is critical.
When I try to treat myself like a friend, my inner critic doth protest. “But you know better...But you should have…But you could have...” too many big Buts.
It’s harder to argue with a truth. I am human; therefore, I am my own friend.
Now what does that look like in practice?
I don’t know about you, but I have trouble sitting in silence. The silence is where my inner critic's voice can roar. So I fill the silence with Insta-stories and scrolling and writing to do lists on Post-its and Podcasts and Polos. Anything to fill the space.
Not that any of these are inherently bad. Yet I don’t want to consume or connect as a means of avoidance. I want to be able to leave my phone in the other room. To sit in silence. To pray. To reflect. To just be.
Here’s where the friend metaphor comes in handy. How would I fill the silence with a friend?
I think of those moments during playdates, when the kids are busy scooping sand “ice cream” into leftover cardboard coffee cups or traversing up the slide with gripper shoes. We have a few moments of relative silence as my friend thinks through an answer to a question I just asked.
I think of those lulls in the conversation as a friend sips a cold brew or pinches sushi with chopsticks.
In the silence is kindness, anticipation, not ridicule or critiques. I am quick to
- Assume the best
- Delight in their presence
- Let them be human
What if I did this with myself? What if I could cultivate the comfortable silence of a close friendship?
The silence doesn’t need to be filled with “yeah, but did you think of X” or “what about those errands you still need to run?” Or “Eek, have you thought about those texts you never replied to or the state of your kids’ bathroom, (or bedroom or play area or or or)?”
If I am thinking about follow up questions for a friend, they would be more in the vein of “How did that make you feel?” or “How can I support you?” Most often, I’m thinking something like, “Wow, so-and-so is pretty awesome.”
What would it look like to fill the silence with kindness for myself?
Short answer: I don’t know yet. But I want to try.
Kendra recommends practicing daily acts of kindness. I went to a favorite local shop with hipstery cards and macrame and air plants in glass orbs and monochromatic artisan pots in the trendiest of colors: terracotta, almond, dusty pink. I found a pair of dainty earrings (thanks for the birthday money, Mom!) with five sparkling stones.
I can’t explain why I love them, but I just do. They will add a wholly unnecessary but happy sparkle to my days of school drop offs and lesson planning. I am hoping that when I catch a glimpse of their shine, I will be reminded that I am a friend. Fully worthy of love and delight and joy and grace in this moment. Not when I arrive at _____. Not when I complete my to do list. Not when I (finally) live up to my potential.
As I put on my earrings, I pray to Love:
Please create in me a clean heart, bring me rest, help me to release resentment and shame, make room for joy and wonder and surprise. Delight and whimsy.
Help me cultivate an openness to being still, to listen, to not fill the void or the anxiety or the anger with more stimulation to drown out the hurt or the questions or the Inner Critic. Help me to reach out to You, to seek Your presence instead of likes and instagram updates.
***
I look out over the lake as my kids and nephew scream “DUCKS!” scaring away the birds they hope to feed as they fling seeds into the water. My kids are slow to follow life-giving (and saving!) instructions yet quick to impart their wisdom on their younger cousins.
I am the bossy cousin, I know. I am learning to be a friend.
Simone and Swim Lessons
Self-care. Mental health. Setting limits. How do we know when to push through and when to stop? Which choice is braver? How do we decide?
Like many this week, I've been thinking a lot about these ideas.
As a former gymnast, I know both the mental toll and the danger of the sport (although I was never even close to Simone's level or even good at my low level). I know what it's like to form your self-worth and identity around your sport. I know what it's like to get in your head and be unable to perform skills I used to be able to do in my sleep. I experienced mental blocks on every event and my last couple years I competed watered down routines choreographed around the landmines of my fears.
I always thought I was a failure, and my gut response to Simone's withdrawal was that she was a failure as well.
I have spent the week examining my own misbeliefs about self-care and mental health, especially because I consider myself to be a mental health advocate. The last decade I have been learning to discern when my anxiety and depression is lying to me about my limitations and learning when to trust my body cues to rest, recharge, say no.
It’s even more complicated as a parent.
This week my kids started swim lessons. My four-year-old, who previously screamed every time he was splashed in the face, has surprised me with his tenacity and perseverance. With a clenched jaw and squinted eyes, he has let his swim instructor drop him into the pool. He has learned to VOLUNTARILY put his face in the water while humming Paw Patrol. The smile and pride on his face when he reaches the wall has filled my mama heart to bursting.
I was relieved, well actually, shocked, that the first lesson didn’t come with tears or resistance. I’ve been wondering how I as a parent should respond if it did. How do I know how much to push him to face his fears? How can I teach him to listen to his own intuition while forcing him to do something that scares the bejeezus out of him?
How do I balance the competing ideas I want him to learn: he can do hard things, but also to trust his intuition? How can I teach this when I haven’t learned it for myself?
I know this: I am delighted to see him trying, persevering, pushing through, but I would love him just as much if he didn't, if the breakthrough never came. And I’ve told him so, over and over.
And maybe that is what is so radical about Simone's decision (and was so initially grating to me). She modeled the hardest part of self-care, silencing the outside voices and listening to yourSELF, and being okay with the outcome.
Thank you, Simone, for showing that real strength is not in performing “no matter what,” but in choosing to believe your worth is not defined by any external outcome.
It’s a lesson I hope to learn and model as I continue this dance of boundaries and encouragement, prodding and unconditional love, with my kids--and with myself.
Top 10 reasons to send your 4-year-old to preschool during a pandemic
1. Those few hours without the Paw Patrol theme song being belted out at the top of his lungs (oh wait, the two-year-old will still repeat "I'm Callie and you Katie" all day long.)
2. That pep in your step as you fill up a TO GO mug with coffee for preschool drop off. That is, if the memory of going places doesn’t make you depressed.
3. That pride you feel when you ENJOY making small talk with the masked teachers and other parents dropping off their kids. A person! To talk to! Who won't mention Paw Patrol or tell you how you didn't cut their sandwich correctly. You might even give your introverted self a pat on the back for all of your #pandemicgrowth.
4. That realization that there is a 0% chance that you will yell at, want to hit, or give your child an "I just can't even" exasperated sigh if said child is not present to receive this wrath.
5. Actually, there's a good chance this wrath may dissipate almost completely in the child’s absence.
6. The hope that your child might learn how to use a public restroom standing up and that you will not be forever “pointing his penis down” as he pees and then pulling his pants back up. One can dream.
7. The joy when he tells you what he did in class and what the weird, yet endearing artwork with orange and purple painted dots that he brought home means. We have not yet reached this day. He is still punishing us for sending him to school in the first place. “You shouldn’t have gone home,” he still says. “Then you would know what I did.”
8. The day when he complains that it’s NOT a preschool day and you feel absolved from that first blustery drop off when he cried and looked so small and vulnerable in his miniature puffer jacket and mask and whimpered as you left. (Like number 7, this day is still hypothetical, but I am anticipating that it will feel great. So far, we have progressed from not liking preschool at all to “I still don’t like preschool a little bit,” which is actually a big shift for a little boy who operates in extremes and absolutes.)
9. The alone time with Sissy that you realize you’ve never actually had. Girlfriend is smarter and funnier than you knew AND she still takes naps. You would never name favorites, but we all know the future is female.
10. That feeling when you actually MISS him and can’t wait to hear about his day. When the house feels “too quiet” without his singing or his questions and you find yourself wondering what he’s doing this very minute. When resentment blossoms into enjoyment. When you end up better able to love him, and his sister, and yourself.
I struggled with this decision for a long time, then waited on a preschool waiting list even longer. But it might be the greatest act of self-care I've done as a mother so far, and especially in this season. Oh, also he might make friends and not be terrified of TK and actually learn a thing or two, but, hey, that would be icing on the cake.
Written as a response to a Rhthym writing prompt - find other responses by searching #rhythmwriting2021 on Instagram.