The Inner Bitch

She's a nasty one, my inner voice. She squats inside my sub-conscious and nags. I picture her as a heavy-set Jewish/Italian/Eastern European mother-type, Aqua-Net keeps her helmet hair frozen in place. She has long, red fingernails and she chain smokes, a bottle of Scotch on the end table beside her. Her voice is deep and scratchy and she sits in a haze of smoke on an old, dirty, "Harvest Gold" La-Z-Boy. She has a thick New York accent and she's not very nice.

"You're only a stay-at-home mutha? What a lazy girl! Look at this lazy girl! She stays at home! WHY AREN'T YOU WORKING?!?"

"You're gonna clean the toilets like that?!? Who cleans toilets like that?! NOT ME!"

"REALLY?!?! That shirt? You gotta be kiddin' me. IN PUBLIC?!? Change. NOW!"

"You can't write this manual. What a joke. They hired a fake. YOU'RE A FAKE! You're not a writer. GIVE UP!"

"I can't believe it. You misspelled 'judging'! You left out the 'g'! AND OVER 200 PEOPLE HAVE SEEN THIS!!! And you call yourself a writer?!?"

This bitch nags and hassles and ridicules me every day. And I let her.

She's been living in my head ever since I can remember. Her appearance has changed over the years. She used to be a blonde, perky, beautiful, snotty cheerleader. When I suffered through fertility treatments, she was a pregnant, hippie, Earth-mother type who could have children with no effort. Now? She's a nasty, old woman.

And she's the reason I don't take criticism well. I have been accused in the past of taking constructive criticism very poorly and I admit that I HATE it when I make a mistake and I DESPISE it when someone corrects me or tries to offer advice or help. Probably because my inner bitch has been advising me and criticizing me and hassling me for almost my entire life. When someone tries to offer me advice, I don't want to hear it, because I've already been hearing it, for months, and in the most negative way possible. When I hear the criticism externally, I expect it to be the worst, to be offered to me in the same way I give it to myself, and why are you telling me I'm wrong when this bitch has already been screaming at me? Can't you see I'm suffering?

I'm trying. I'm really trying to understand that all of you can't see or hear this awful woman, the inner me, who is so very critical. And I'm learning that you just want to help me see and correct any mistakes I make, because you care.

In addition to this daily censure making me feel inadequate, it also makes me feel like a failure and a fraud. When I hear that my father-in-law is proud to have me be part of the family company's team (as a tech writer) and that he feels I'll do a great job, the quiet, meek inner me shakes her head and thinks, "He doesn't know. I'm a fake. I just muddle through and barely squeak by. I'm a fraud." When someone commends me on a job well done? I don't believe it. And it makes me feel uncomfortable. I've heard this is actually a psychological condition known as Imposter Syndrome. Believe me, when I say, I've got Imposter Syndrome in spades.

I'm telling you all of this because when you compliment me and I shake my head and mumble excuses, you'll understand. And if you offer help or constructive criticism and I snap at you, you'll understand. That inner bitch, who never allows me a second's rest, makes me feel less than worthy of anything.

Maybe, someday, I'll find the duct tape and shut her the hell up.

Eight

Eight years ago, I was a bewildered, scared brand-new mother. My family had lurched from two individuals to a family of four. In math terms, that's two-squared. In psychological terms that's too-scared.

I briefly held my twins, just a few scant minutes, and then they were taken to the NICU. Weighing in at just 4 lbs. 6 oz. (Amelia) and 4 lbs. 10 oz (Heath), my sweet twins were tiny and not yet ready to go home. It took them 20 days to gain weight and learn how to take in eight bottles a day. Even then, when given the OK to come home, they were still wearing preemie clothes and diapers.

Amelia at just 21 hours old.

Sweet Heath, also 21 hours old.

During those 20 days, I was panicked that I wasn't spending enough time with them. I had convinced myself that just a two-hour daily visit wasn't enough and I knew that they wouldn't recognize me, my voice, or my scent. I had brainwashed myself into thinking that these precious twins would come home and not want me.

OK, seriously? Somebody should have knocked me over the head and told my inner drama queen to shut the hell up. Because these are the sweetest, most loveable kids and those 20 days? Smaller than a blip in the grand scheme of their lives.

Heath, P., Amelia, B., and Jarrod. PARTY TIME!

They play hard, love fully, laugh loudly, and drive us crazy. But we wouldn't have it any other way.

We love you, Heath and Amelia! And, no, I'm not at all freaking out how fast these eight years have flown by and that it's only another eight years until you're both driving. Nope, I'm cool.

(Please? Someone? Get me a drink!)

Old Fart

Presbyopia - noun \ˌprez-bē-ˈō-pē-ə, ˌpres-\ - a visual condition which becomes apparent especially in middle age and in which loss of elasticity of the lens of the eye causes defective accommodation and inability to focus sharply for near vision.

I remember first hearing that word as a child and thinking, But I'm Presbyterian. Why would anyone have a phobia of Presbyterians? We're boring! We eat casseroles! When I finally looked up the meaning of the word, the lightbulb went off in my head and I realized, yeah so not having anything to do with Presbyterians, but everything to do with old people looking at their menus at either arm's length or with glasses they couldn't find because said glasses were perched on top of their bald heads.

A few years ago, I discussed with my eye doctor the possibility of surgery to correct my extreme myopia (near-sightedness), present since age seven. I already was a bit squirrely about letting someone poke around my cornea WHILE I'M AWAKE AND REMEMBERING THE WHOLE THING and when Dr. G said, "Well, we can correct the myopia and the astigmatism, but you'll need glasses again in a few years when you hit 40 and need reading glasses." that was all the excuse I needed to back away from mental images of a maniacal eye doctor coming at my eyeballs with a really large scalpel.

(Yeah, I know, the surgery isn't like that. I KNOW! Just let me have my horror show fantasies, m'kay?)

One of my favorite hobbies is cross-stitching and blackwork embroidery and since age 10, I have thoroughly enjoyed finding a quiet corner and stitching anything and everything possible. The more skilled I became, the smaller the weave on my aida cloth became. The smaller the weave, the neater and tighter the embroidery becomes. And the harder it is to see the holes. That's never been a problem in the past but in the last couple of years I find that I'm squinting more and more and getting really pissed about it.

After my doctor appointment, and to kill time before picking the kids up from school, I stopped off into my favorite mall store and roamed around, touching the clothing fabrics, admiring the teapots, and wincing at the price tags. As I tried on a pair of sunglasses I didn't need, I saw reading glasses of all shapes and colors. And there, on the top, was a purple pair, magnification +1.50.

What the hell, I thought, I might as well give this try and do it in style with a pair of glasses that matches my hair.

And so now, I am the proud, but annoyed, owner of a pair of reading glasses. Yes, I am 41. Yes, technically, according to American life span charts, I am middle-aged. But, dammit, if I'm going to be afraid of Presbyterians, then I'm going to do it with a bit of sass.

If you happen to stop by Casa de CMG, and you come up to my office/craft room/hang out, you will find me thus:

Just call me "Ms. Cross-Bitch" if you're nasty!

Lighting a Candle for Mohammed Shajahan

Twelve years ago, American Airlines flight 11 crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center at 8:46 AM. When this happened, it took out the 93rd and 99th floors and all those in between. Marsh & McLennan occupied the 93rd through the 100th floors of the North Tower.

On that morning, all 295 employees and 63 contractors of Marsh & McLennan Companies, an insurance brokerage and risk management firm, lost their lives.

In a matter of milliseconds, a group of cowards murdered those wives, husbands, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, and cherished ones. Mohammed Shajahan was one of them.

I first heard about Project 2,996 three years ago. This project is a way to help memorialize those who died on September 11, 2001, and for us to learn about those people who lost their lives. I wrote about Mohammed during a time of social upset in our country. The news media was working everyone up into a frenzy over a mosque near the site of the World Trade Center attacks and some idiot pastor in Florida was threatening to burn a pile of Qur'ans. So I chose to memorialize Mohammed Shajahan as a way of showing people that it wasn't nearly 3,000 white, American Christians who were murdered that day. The people murdered were of many backgrounds, including Muslim.

And here we are, three years later, TWELVE years later, still beating our chests in hysterical fear of anything having to do with Islam (Syria, the Million Muslim March, Iran, hijabs, and on and on). And so it will go until our generation, the generation who lived through these attacks or who watched these horrible acts played out on our TV screens, is dead and turned to dust.

From the few bits I've gleaned on line, I've learned that Mohammed, who was a computer administrator for Marsh & McLennan, was also very much a family man. The comments left on the memorial written by his company are heartbreaking. There, you see what his children and friends had to say about him and I cry each time I read them.

im one of his daughter's best friend and they always seem so myserable thinking about thier dad. i feel really bad for them and im always trying to comfort them by anyway. 

I am an ex-employee of Marsh. It is a great company to work for. I used to meet Mr Shahjahan quiet often. I always remember his words. He used offer prayers in his office. May god bless him.  

I know he was well-loved and was a wonderful father, husband, and friend. His children looked up to him and still miss him terribly. I'm sure today will be difficult for them.

Since first writing about Mohammed, I have remembered him every year by lighting a candle. I wait to see his name scroll across the bottom of the morning news shows every September 11th and I cry for his loved ones still left here on Earth. I vow to someday visit the World Trade Center Memorial and place a flower on his name. I think about that awful September day and hope that during my children's lifetimes, those of the Muslim faith will again be embraced with open arms by our countrymen.

Someday, there will be no fear. No sadness. No hatred. No generalizations. Someday, Mohammed's grandchildren and great-grandchildren will practice their faith in America without worry or trepidation.

I wish today was that day.

The Master of Disaster

Being that I like order - strive, live, breathe, and need it like I need air, chocolate, and Richard Chamberlain (not necessarily in that order) - to say that I have, in the past, hated disorder is an understatement.

In the past, if I planned something, I knew it would happen. No ifs, ands, or buts about it, if I had it in my calendar, it was goin' down, ya'll.

I'm fairly certain that if the apocalypse had occurred 12 hours before a hair appointment, past-me would have been pissed, not because the world was ending, but because my plan wasn't going according to plan.

The immature, irresponsible, kidless me of 1972 through 2005 got really pissed if we planned to have dinner and your kid was sick and you backed out. How dare they?!?! I would mentally screech, unbelieving that someone was messing with my plan and my calendar and my expectations. And, usually, I was angry with the kid, not the parent. Yep, I was even that college student who was irritated if the professor didn't show up to class and NOW WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO FOR TWO HOURS?!?

(Go figure those bits of messed-up logic.)

I am such a routine girl. I mentioned that in my last post, but I'm not kidding when I say that if all I had to wear were purple t-shirts and flare jeans from Old Navy I would work that shit 'til the cows came home. Nothing but fried baloney and mayonnaise sandwiches for lunch? Forever? Bring it. I embrace routine like Kanye West embraces Taylor Swift's microphone.

But I'm learning that change will not kill me.

Figuring this out came slowly. When the twins were born in 2005, I still held on to a very regimented routine. Wake up babies. Change their diapers. Feed them. Burp them. Put on their clothes. Entertain them for 30 to 60 minutes until they fall asleep. Rinse. Repeat. And then, then, the little buggars went and grew up and developed Free Will and decided to blow my routine paradise all to Hell.

Mo-om! I don't feel so good!
Well, looks like we're not going to your grandmother's birthday party.

Mo-om! I just fell and hurt myself and I'm bleeding EVERY-WHERE!!!!!!
OK. Guess we're not going to the cook-out. ER, here we come!

Mo-om! I don't want to wear my hair in a braid! I want it DOOOWWWWN!!!!!
Well, there goes 20 minutes of work.

I take a lot of deep, cleansing breaths. And sometimes, I'm not proud to admit, I stomp off in a huff and take a few minutes in my closet, cursing at my purple shirts. But, I'm getting there. I've slowly become the woman who can accept change and not fear it.

For example, I always assumed I would be the mom who stayed at home and did nothing but kids/homework/housework. I planned on that being the norm. I planned on a graduate degree and career after I escorted the kids out the door to their futures. But last year felt so empty and meaningless. I didn't blog, didn't write, didn't create. That was a routine I didn't enjoy. This year, I'm still momming and kidding and cleaning and houseworking and -inging a lot. Add technical writing and that's a change I've been quite happy to suck up and deal with.

Leo Tolstoy once wrote, "Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself." I am here to tell you that I will never change the world. I am one woman who prefers the comfort of her routine and her home and her family. To change the world is too much change for me.

But changing me so that I can accept when the world around me changes? Yeah, that I can do just fine.

Dialog, Part 34

J-man: Bubba and Lolli! Sittin' in a tree! K-S-S-S-I-N-G!

(Writer's note: Lolli is a little girl, in Bubba's class, on whom Bubba is crushing. He says he's going to marry her. I say I'm going to have to go talk to this little girl's mother. And have me a stiff drink.)

Me: No, that's K-*I*-S-S-I-N-G.

J-man: I SAID THAT! K-S-S-S-I-N-G.

Me: No. Sweetie. K-*I*-S-S...

J-man: Extremely frustrated. I. SAID. THAT!

Me: No, you didn't. Ksssing isn't a word. You spell kissing with an *i*.

J-man: I know that, Mama! I said *i*! K-S-S-S-I-N-G!

Me: Did you just hear yourself? There aren't three s's in kissing! Just two! And two i's!

J-man: Shaking his head in a condescending manner, much the way Neil deGrasse Tyson does to all the evolution haters. Mama. I spelled it with two i's. You didn't hear me right.

Me: I REALIZE YOU ALL THINK I'M A DAFT COW, BUT I KNOW YOU JUST SPELLED KSSSING! AND THAT DRIVES ME BATTY!

Ya'll, I'm dead serious. If you'd like to get in touch with me, I'll be in the local psych ward, trying to convince myself that ksssing spells kissing and that 2 + 2 really does equal 5.

Blue

I don't take compliments well. I don't know why this is, but they just make me uncomfortable because I never know what to say. Thank you always seems, so, not enough. Usually, I'll reply with an awkward pause and then say "Thank you" with a self-deprecating explanation of why the person shouldn't have complimented me because I'm not worth it.

Nice Person: Heather! I love that necklace!

Me: Oh! insert awkward pause Thanks! insert grimace I found it on Etsy for $13. It's just plastic and gold-toned metal. From China. Nothing special.

And even though I know that was horrible, I can't help myself. I do this all the time. The other thing I do is forget to give out compliments. It's not that I don't notice your new haircut or weight loss or new dress on purpose, but I tend to live in my head. So while you are really excited about your new hair color and are hoping I'll say something about it, I'm about a million miles away, probably thinking about a book I just read or wondering if the Pope is picking his eye boogers.

Yes. I think about crap like this all the time. I wish my brain had a Pause button.

This is me. This is where I live. And I never expect compliments. Ever. When I get them, they always surprise me.

It was last Friday night at the Georgia Academic Decathlon and after running around for the fourth time, collecting score sheets and putting out little fires, I sat down to double-check that the score sheets in my hands had been completely filled out. Two high school volunteers from Berkmar High School were sitting on either side of me, waiting for the next round of decathletes to enter the holding area.

As I was engrossed in my checklist, the high school-aged girl to my left said, You have the most beautiful blue eyes. They're so blue!

I froze. I don't ever notice my eyes because they've been mine for 41 years and you don't really see something you've seen all your life. You no longer notice anything special or beautiful about something that has become a part of your existence. We humans are kind of messed up that way. Not only that, but I couldn't think of something apologetic to use in response. I sometimes feel like the Rainbow Fish and that whenever I receive a nice comment, I should share my attribute about which I've been complimented. Since I couldn't pop my eyes out of their sockets and offer one to her (Honestly, how freaky would THAT have been? Plus? She probably would have screamed.) and since apologizing for my parents' combined genetics that gave me these eyes would have made me sound like such an awful person, I said the only thing I could say after such a long, silent pause.

Thank you!

That was it. For the first time, in, EVER, I responded with just a simple thanks and a smile. I didn't apologize or ruin the compliment with my need to tear myself down. I just thanked her.

And because of her, I've noticed my eyes and how blue they really and truly are all week long. Thank you, nameless Berkmar student. You? Have made me appreciate myself just a bit more.