Being A Source Of Embarrassment To Your Kids

BIG post photo here, right? Well, you'd swear that's the size of the embarrassment I make my oldest son feel, just by my breathing and being generally alive.

My beautiful firstborn son, who long ago and in a galaxy far, far away, couldn't get enough of me to the point where my husband had to hold this little 3-month-old baby boy up so he could still see me every time I showered, this little baby of mine who I'd have to hold on my lap when I had to go to the bathroom because his world would fall apart if I was out of his sight ... this same little boy now D.I.E.S. that someone might realize that oh my gawd I am his mother. And how many teens actually DIE of embarrassment anyway? (well, yes, I know I did go out to get the newspaper in my nightgown and boots that one time, but it was only once).

The cause for this knife straight to my heart? Three words: He Is Sixteen.

Sixteen-years-old, when everything is about you. Everyone is talking about you. The whole world only notices you. It all has to do with you.

I am no physical monster. Last time I checked, there was no one-sided hump on my back, my eyes were evenly sized and equally spaced upon my face. As the joke goes, when I walk down the street, people do not hang out of their cars shouting, "Is it Halloween already?"

I have always taken care to not embarrass my children. BUT this? Embarrassing them by just being alive? What can I do with that?

There are so many new rules that are spit out by my son at school drop off time now that he is sixteen. Rules like bullets--they come at me, "don't say good-bye, don't say my name, don't wave, don't get out of the car, don't wait to see that I get in, don't shout at me if I forget something in the car, if I fall down flat on my face and my brains spill out, just.keep. going ..."

It's not like I break into self-choreographed interpretive dance moves upon hearing Adele's Rolling In The Deep -- no matter how much that women slays me -- when my son is with me. I save that for when I'm alone in the mini-van. I may think about swaying my hands all over my head like that, but I don't do it.

Not with him - I try not to think about how he once was my bald-headed dance partner in the kitchen, 3 a.m.

He makes me wince as I remember how much embarrassment I felt about my own mother as a teen. She had come another ther country. I was embarrassed, but there was reason for it, right? Or so I thought. I mean, she had an accent, and dressed funny, and acted like she wasn't even in America. She would try to imitate the movie stars of the time. I knew back then, as a teen, that any children of mine would never be self conscious that I was their mother! I had too much going for me -- I spoke perfect English, I didn't dress in the costume from the old country *blackdressblackdressblackdress,* and I never thought to try and imitate Elizabeth Taylor. What kid wouldn't be proud of me as their mama? I was cool, with it, American, and had no delusions of grandeur.

You can see how knocked off my feet I am by this new role in my life: that of social pariah of the village.

Our morning drives to school now go like this, my son reading to me from his How To Be Invisible Manual: "don't drive right up to the door, mom. Just slow down, and I'll get out and DO NOT say good- bye to me so loud the world hears it. You're so loud. I mean it. I MEAN IT."

To which I meekly ask, "c-c-c-an I look at you? for a minute? can I just l-l-l-l-ook at you? I promise not to make eye contact ..."

"No. See? SEE? This is what I mean. Just drop me off.
Just.
Go.
Home."

He might as well have said, "Go back to your door built into a tree house on the swamp, Fiona, go back from whence you came."

I do as he instructs and drop him off far enough from the school's front doors, per his request. I slowly creeper-drive away, sunglasses covering my eyes, so he can't see that I'm still watching him, watching my handsome, tall boy walk away from me ... without even one glance back in my direction.

He walks away, taking my heart along with him. I breathe deep, and pat myself on the back, congratulating myself on my verbal restraint. How badly I want to screech on the brakes -- good and loud, roll down the window and SHOUT, "embarrassing? you want to see embarrassing? How's this:  "BYE HONEY I LOVE YOU AND DON'T FORGET TO WEAR YOUR CUP AT PRACTICE TODAY BECAUSE IT'S IMPORTANT TO PROTECT YOUR TESTICLES!"

You know, I think I might just call it his nutty buddy, for good measure.

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Remember Those Today

In Loving Memory On every soldier’s tombstone
should be a message of honor, respect and love:
"In loving memory
of one who loved his country,
who fought against evil
to preserve what is right and true and good.
In loving memory
of one who is a cut above the rest of us,
who had the surpassing courage,
the uncommon strength,
to do whatever had to be done,
persevering through hardship and pain.
In loving memory
of one who was brave enough
to give his life, his all,
so that those he cared about
would remain safe and free.
In loving memory
of a unique and treasured soldier
who will never be forgotten." By Joanna Fuchs
 
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Though Memorial Day has become a day of getting caught up with yard work, family picnics, and an extension of a long weekend, I ask that you take a few minutes today, with your family, to remember the 2,500,000 U.S. Soldiers that have died or been wounded in battle for our country, beginning with the Revolutionary War.

Thank you

I Was a #Senior Hottie

Liz, from A belle, a bean, and a chicago dog, has this fun thingy going on: link up with your #seniorhottie pix.

Who can resist, right?

Not me.

Were you the most smokin’ hot  senior year of high school?

In her post, Liz casually asked if anyone was interested in doing a photo link-up to show off their high school hotness.  She was completely overwhelmed by the confidence and awesomeness of her blog friends because more than 50 people said they’d love to do it.

And, so: the first official I Was a Senior Hottie photo link-up kicks off on Wednesday, May 25th!

What: Link up a post with one or more photos of yourself taken some time during your senior year. It could be from Homecoming, Prom, Graduation, a senior trip, your official senior portrait session or any other time during that year.


When: The Linky opens on Wednesday, May 25th and stays open through the end of Memorial Day (May 30th).

How: Liz will host a linky for the posts.  You can come here, link up and grab a super glamorous #SeniorHottie button for your post and blog.


Please note: It doesn’t matter what year you  graduated as long as you are impressing us with your senior style!  

Hear that? DOESN"T MATTER WHAT YEAR...that means my picture is a shoe-in as an entry:

The Empress Alexandra Goodday, Class of '18

The Best Thing About Blogging

[This post prompted by Motherese  --a fabulous blog. Thanks for the food for thought, sweet lady.]
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I used to think that I had to be what people wanted me to be, in order to have friends.

If I sensed an eyebrow starting to raise, or heard a mouth escaping gasp from someone while I told a story from my life, without missing a beat, I'd change it up so it would become a harmless, less serious tale - one that would lessen the risk of disapproval. One that would keep the silent judging and labels that don't tell the whole story, away.

I learned, from the reaction of others, that opinions are formed quickly. Assumptions are made, and blame is doled out. I'd  see them whisper and nod my story to someone else, as I'd walk away from their small circle. So, I learned.

I learned to not share details of what wasn't pretty, to keep things light and fluffy, and play to what people preferred to hear. I told stories that people liked. Ones that when they'd repeat them, it'd bring more people over, wanting to meet me.

People liked to hear what was happy, funny, and especially what was not different, life lite. 

But, what can happen, when you safeguard your real stories inside, is that though you may end up with 20 friends who like the "safe" you, you may not have a single friend with the "real you", who knows who you truly are.

That's what happened to me.

I was in a life where I had no real friend. To lay no blame on them, they thought they had a real friend in me. They had come to like the woman who was an instant show, always with a way to make them laugh. Someone once said to me, "I tell everyone, when you feel down, call Alexandra. She's always up."

The pretend me was always up. The real me was saying to herself, "just make it through today." Again, all my fault. It was me who had decided to keep things hidden, because I had seen how people don't like the messiness of life.


When you are known only to yourself, it's hard to not see others through the mask you wear. They may not see it there, but it's on. Everything you see and hear and participate in, can feel false. It's not the real you with these people, it's the acceptable you, that they are with.

Then I decided to start blogging last year.

Through the incredible gift of all of you who come here to read, I have--for the first time in my life-- spoken, out loud, of who I am, to you. It was here, on this blog, where I typed words out loud-- truths that make up me: my depression, my PPD, my insane overhovering unbalanced love for my children, my father's suicide when I was six, my mother's emotional neglect to her six children, my hilarious attempts at trying to fit into this small town, my dependence on all of you.

I slowly showed you who I was, through a tale or two here and there, sticking my toes in first to check out the water, and no one turned away. No one left. You came back...it was OK that I did not come with a perfect tidy life.

Yes, I used to think that I had to always provide some welcome diversion, a clever anecdote, a memory that would make people laugh, a charming snippet of life in the flesh, entertainment for overworked, under rested moms and parents and people.

I have opened up my baggage to look through, to be inspected. There is nothing to hide anymore.  What choice do I have? Open my bags, look through them, and see...I am the person here. Basic human curiosity wants to know who writes these posts. It's just me-- no longer hiding behind words that I think you'll like--so that you'll like me.

I used to be entertaining, to try to get you to like me...so I'd have friends. But, like I said, I'm over that now.

I am the woman who writes this blog, who did not come from a sparkly clean beginning, who isn't always up, who is in love with her family, and who is in love with her readers.

I don't need to offer anything further anymore, I've been made to feel safe, by you.

I stand erect now, I can look you in the eye, confident, because I know you know me, fully. You know who you're talking to.

And I laugh with delight inside, in anticipation, because I can't wait to share all  the stories with you that have been waiting inside, finally able to be told.

Stories I've prayed to have someone to tell.

And I can never thank you enough.

I'm Gonna Kill Him

We have a lot going on in our house this week. We had a lot going on in our house last week, too.

I oversighted and undercelebrated our 17th wedding anniversary.

I am determined to bring this part of my life: my marriage, to a Grand Opening Find Out All About It Here This Week type status.

Last week, I ran our engagement story.

Today, we shall spill the tale of The Honeymoon.

But, ours was not made of honey. Why would it have been? The engagement was a tip off, wasn't it?

I almost killed my husband on our honeymoon.

Erin, of I'm Gonna Kill Him, generously offered her space as the site to spread my cautionary tale.

And this couldn't feel more appropriate.

Aside from her obvious slick site that features an ANIMATED HEADER (which is truly a thing of beauty--or envy), and her polished, perfectly chosen words for each post, she is FUNNNNEEEEE.

Erin is brilliantly comedic, obviously in love with her family, and blows off steam with how our favorite people on the planet, can make us go crazy.

Her About Page explains the purpose of her blog: to cover the ugly, the ridiculous, the insane, that can sometimes rear its head in our lives. If we don't laugh about it, we just might take it seriously.  If you can still laugh, then it's all good.

Please join me, at Erin's I'm Gonna Kill Him, and find out how I almost had to kill my husband, to save my own life. I couldn't make these things up.

So good to see you all again!