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Transgender

I had a dream last night. When I woke up, I had some thoughts brewing in my brain, but as I always do, I asked my son if he would allow me to write about his story.

I’m hyper aware that Lee’s story is not mine to tell. The topic is sensitive and personal, and while my son isn’t ‘stealth,’ there are times when he’d rather ‘just be a boy.’ As this is a luxury that eludes many trans people, I like to enable him to access it whenever he feels it’s necessary.

Anyway. It’s been over two years since I started parenting another son instead of the daughter I thought I knew. It’s been two years of seeking resources, finding support groups, researching legalities, and delving in to this community that I never knew existed.

Throughout our journey, we’ve encountered an amazing amount of support and love. Lee has shared his story with other kids, with teens, and with professionals who wanted to learn more about his transition. He has been welcomed and supported in school, in church, at camp, and in the wider community. We’ve been in this little bubble of support and love; for that, I am incredibly grateful.

We made our announcement to family just about two years ago, and I was raised very much in a, “If you don’t have anything nice to say… “ kind of environment. When I shared our experience on Facebook, I asked that our friends and family commit to learning on this journey with us or “quickly and quietly unfriend.” The urge to check was intense, but I never did look to see if anyone ‘unfriended’ me. I guess I didn’t really want to know.

But if I say I didn’t notice a change, I’d be lying. While many of our loved ones expressed support and concern, there were a number of others who responded with radio silence. I choose to interpret this silence as, “We love you. We don’t understand, but we’ll hang around to see how this plays out.” And I respect that. I certainly didn’t ‘get it’ at first. I had to do a lot of reading and a lot of research and a lot of reaching out to learn about the lived experience of others like my child.

Like so many others, I had other pressing issues. I had causes and concerns and fears and they didn’t include the fate or lived experience of transgender people. In all honesty, I don’t think I would’ve sought to educate myself until it became necessary. I don’t know that I would’ve been that concerned or interested in this unique life experience that didn’t seem to connect to my life. I’m ashamed to admit this, and I’m sorry to those who were inherently impacted by my indifference.

Last night, I dreamt I was sitting at a large oak dining table with the family members who have been silent about the topic. They were asking questions and I was so relieved. When people ask questions, they share a vulnerability. I have friends who acknowledge that, “I might say this wrong…” or family members who start an inquiry with, “I hope this question doesn’t offend you…” and I LOVE IT.

There is such a beautiful power to awkward conversations. Sometimes, we’re so afraid of offending people that we bite our tongues, or we hold our thoughts, and consequently, we miss the opportunity to connect with and understand each other. These connections are a blessing, and these awkward conversations are the conduit for them.

So back to my dream. I sat at the table, and I answered questions. I answered them honestly and vulnerably and, at times, I got angry. In this dream, these family members often referred to my child with the wrong pronouns, and I want to explain my reaction.

In the trans* community, there’s a lot of concern and conversation about ‘misgendering.’ When someone refers to another person using the wrong pronouns, parents filter our response through a hierarchy of intent. A supportive person who is legitimately trying and made a mistake is easily forgiven. A loved one who doesn’t quite understand and feels that the pronouns are ‘no big deal’ will likely get a talking to in private. Someone who is openly hostile and dismissive will most likely get the ‘we will not allow you to treat our child with such disrespect’ talk just before the ‘we don’t need that kind of negativity in our lives’ talk. Hell hath no fury like a parent protecting their child.

So, in my dream, I corrected their pronouns. I hoped that my passion and my love for my child would help them to understand the importance of getting this right. And then, in my dream, I endured a series of overtly personal questions. Questions about my child’s genitals. Questions about his sexuality. Questions about his hormones and his pubertal development and our medical decisions. Please, hear me out. I’m an over-sharer by nature. I understand and appreciate curiosity. So if you’re asking me private, personal, deeply emotionally-laden questions about my child’s adolescent development, I will do one of two things. If I trust your sincerity, if I’m convinced of your support; if I have no doubt about your intentions toward my child, I will answer honestly and openly.

If I question your sincerity, your support, or your intentions, and you ask a question about my child’s genitalia, please expect the answer to be, “Would you be comfortable talking with me about your child’s genitals? Would you ask about any other child’s sexual preferences?” If you are about to ask a question that would be inappropriate in the context of talking about any other child of the same age, then please assume it is doubly inappropriate to ask in regards to my transgender child.

This child is amazing. He is brave and strong and funny and smart. He is observant and loving and enthusiastic and positive. He is kind and loving. I have no doubt that this kid will change the world.

A unique life experience means that my child will always have to defend himself in ways that should be unnecessary. It is my hope that each one of these intensely personal, often inappropriate conversations will make him stronger and more self-aware. It is my hope that each of these conversations will provide him with an opportunity to define himself more clearly, to point out hypocrisy, and to demonstrate patience and kindness and love to those who may be hesitant to do the same for him.

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Melancholy

I read voraciously. I inhale books like some people devour popcorn or sunflower seeds; quickly, by the fistful and without stopping until each tiny morsel is gone.

I don’t recall the first time I came across the word ‘melancholy’ in print. I do know that I didn’t look it up. I used context clues to make a reasonable guess and kept reading. Over the next few years, I encountered it enough to feel confident that I knew its meaning, and it became one of my favorite words.

Not too long ago, I had cause to look up the actual dictionary definition of melancholy, and I was shocked. This word did not mean what I had always thought. The dictionary tells me that it means ‘depression’ or ‘sorrow’ or ‘intense sadness.’ I had always understood that the word described a certain type of sadness, but another definition; ‘a pensive sadness,’ was a bit closer to how I had always thought of it. In my mind, melancholy has always been a beautiful sort of sadness.

It’s a ‘sitting on the floor surrounded by old photos that make your heart ache’ kind of feeling.

It’s the beauty and release of a long, ugly cry into the soft fur of a beloved pet.

It’s the scent of grandma’s meatballs, bringing a shocking swell of grief in the back of your throat where the taste of the garlic should be.

It’s your child hugging you through his tears when his best friend finds a new best friend.

It’s a sadness that understands its own value.

I’m not sure if it’s our culture or our human nature that compels us to escape pain as quickly as possible. We don’t often allow ourselves to sit with our sorrow. And it’s even more unusual for us to dwell in the pain long enough to find peace there; to bask in melancholy.

I don’t even care that I’ve had it wrong for all these years.  In my mind, melancholy will always be sadness clothed in wisdom and patience and beauty and peace. It’s not a sadness to avoid; it’s a sadness to embrace.

 

 

 

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Rockstar

It is 3:40 pm. I’m out of my work clothes, into my yoga pants and drinking my first glass of wine. Don’t judge. It’s been a rough week. Here are the highlights:

– Broken oil burner. No hot water. Luckily I know a guy, so this one could’ve been worse.

– Progress reports come home. At least one kid is an asshole. Others are questionable.

– Parent teacher conferences. This is different from any other evening because I have to continue working late into the evening WITHOUT wine and yoga pants.

– Mom wants me to pay her back the money I owe her. (I know you’re reading this… I’m working on it, Ma.)

– My kid showered without prompting… because the other kids told him he stinks. I’m not sure whether to be embarrassed that I have the smelly kid, or relieved that someone finally got through to him.

– The underwire broke on my favorite bra. Only the ladies will understand the enormity of this.

– Hubs’ truck has no brakes, no air conditioning, no tread on the tires, no power steering, and basically no value. Time to finance a new truck we can’t afford.

– Halloween is four days away. Children have planned costumes that require wigs. Need I say more?

– The kids were told to clean their room. They rearranged instead (I am blaming Nana for this gene). For three days, it’s been a disaster area in there. Last night, their dad threatened to give away all the pets if it’s not cleaned by the time he gets home. Tears have given way to frantic cleaning, and I’m hopeful….

– I tore my last contact lens and I’ve been in glasses for two days. I trip every time I walk down stairs.

 

I realize we’re not dealing with any sort of tragedy here.   But I’m going to gripe and sip chardonnay for a little while. Then I’m going to meet up with my friends for pot luck and movie night. And wine. Duh.

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Bring on the Rain

Is there anything as soothing as the sound of rain outside your open bedroom window as you fall asleep?

Call me crazy, but I love the rain. Today, a friend and co-worker was griping about the terrible weather. Typically, I agree wholeheartedly with this amazing woman’s perceptions and insights. But this ‘rotten weather’ comment had me sheepishly admitting, “I kinda like it.”

Hear me out.

Crappy weather is forgiving in a way that sunshiny days just aren’t. Sunshine screams, “Come out and play. Bring the kids to the park and the beach. Walk the dog. ENJOY EVERYTHING!” Rain gently whispers, “Sit down for a while. Relax. Don’t be in such a hurry.”

Rain makes it permissible to sit in your car, long after you’ve parked and turned off the engine. You’re just waiting for the rain to let up, after all.

Rain allows you to throw your hair in a ponytail. Because it’s just going to get ruined anyway.

Rainy days turn comfort foods from an indulgence to an expectation.

Rainy days are the perfect excuse for a good book or a cup of tea or a long nap. Throw in a good thunderstorm, and I’m in heaven. There’s nothing better.

Until our first snow day, of course.

 

 

 

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Panic

I’ve been having panic attacks since I was eleven years old. At first, I didn’t know what was happening. My mom took me to lots of different doctors, who administered lots of different tests. I went through x-rays, an EEG, a visit with a gastroenterologist, and countless chats with my pediatrician and then a therapist. The ultimate diagnosis was “free-floating anxiety.” Which sounded like an oxymoron to me. Anxiety is crippling, stifling, painful. Whoever paired the words “free” and “floating” with ‘anxiety’ had obviously never experienced it.

Since I was a pre-teen, I’ve learned a lot about my body and how it reacts to stress. My anxiety is still ‘free-floating’ which basically just means it’s unpredictable. While I don’t always know the triggers, I do now recognize the signs in my body. It starts with a knot at the base of my left shoulder-blade. Then there’s an achy tension right where my shoulders meet my neck. I feel a pit in my stomach, and it starts to grow until it becomes painful to take a deep breath.

At that point, I have a few choices. I’m about 8 minutes away from a full-fledged panic attack. If I focus on that, I will wind up in a heap on the floor, or in the back of an ambulance. If I try to figure out what’s triggering the anxiety, I’ll speed up the process.

I have medication that helps. If I wake up with that feeling (like I did this morning), I know it’s going to be a two-Ativan kind of day. But if it sneaks up on me, and I don’t have any chemical assistance available, I have to have some other tools. Oddly, taking deep breaths makes it worse. Deep breaths are painful and the more I feel like I can’t breathe, the more anxious I get. I need to breathe calmly, but using shallow breaths. I count the breaths. I wiggle my toes, because it takes my focus off of all the places that are tight and constrained in my upper body.

I read recently that anxiety and gratitude can’t exist in the same space.   Maybe it seems over-simplified, but there’s a ton of research on the power of gratitude, and I for one, am a believer. If I can shift my attention to all the things I’m grateful for, I can push away the panic, slowly but surely. I start with the big things; my family, my husband, my health, my home… but it’s more effective when I shift my focus to the small things. Early morning coffee. The warmth of wool socks. The feel of book pages between my thumb and forefinger. The smell of rain. The rhythm of my children’s breath as they sleep.

It doesn’t always work. But I’m grateful for the times that it does… and also for Ativan.

 

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What the actual *#$&@*

I apologize in advance.  There is no grace in this post; inhaled, exhaled, or otherwise.

I was driving down the road in my minivan with my eleven year old son riding shotgun. We were on our way back from an appointment with his therapist, and we were enjoying each other’s company. We were singing in the car.

We weren’t just singing along; we were rocking out. We were laughing and gesturing and enjoying ourselves. It was a two lane road, and a silver pickup passed us on the left. I made brief eye contact with the driver, and I smiled, a little embarrassed to be ‘caught’ singing like that.

We kept driving. But I could feel the truck hovering right next to me on the left. He wasn’t passing. He wasn’t slipping behind. He was matching my speed, which seemed a little odd. For a moment, I resisted the temptation to look over.   I didn’t really want to make eye contact again. But his truck continued to travel parallel to my minivan, and I eventually glanced over to try to figure out what was going on.

It was a blur, and it took me a moment to realize what was happening. The look on his face was the first indicator. He was making one of those creepy come-on faces, with big eyes and wiggly eyebrows and his mouth a little open. He gestured to his phone screen. He was trying to show me something, but all I saw was a blur… a flesh-colored blur. Then he gestured again; more explicitly this time. This creep saw the shocked look on my face as I realized what he was showing me, and he laughed. I sped up and turned down a side street, praying that he didn’t follow me, and that my kid didn’t realize what had just happened.

The whole thing left me grossly unsettled. What the actual eff?!?!?   I should’ve gotten his license plate number, but I didn’t. Would I have called the cops? I’m not sure. Because I began second guessing myself immediately.

Are you sure of what you saw? Why were you even looking at him? Did you do anything to suggest you might be interested? And that’s the most ridiculous thing of all. I’m programmed to check MYSELF. My first instinct is to question whether MY behavior somehow encouraged this asshole. I was in a minivan. During rush hour. With my son. There was no communication. There was no suggestive language. It didn’t matter what I was wearing, because he couldn’t even see.

And, goddamn it. Even if I was wearing a miniskirt and throwing back tequila shots and flirting with this guy, it STILL would’ve been grossly unacceptable behavior.

I am SO GODDAMNED ANGRY right now.

 

 

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Mom Guilt

Today, I had an eye doctor’s appointment at 4:30. I got out of work around 3pm, stopped for my free coffee from Cumberland Farms (every Friday in October, in case you didn’t know already), and headed home.

I pushed through the door, and the dogs greeted me as if I were the Queen of England herself, come back from a month-long trip. My first instinct was to be pleased; flattered, even. And then I realized that this enthusiastic greeting could only mean that they hadn’t been let out yet. So I let them out. Then I carried my 17 bags and my free coffee into the kitchen, and the smell of beef stew in the crock pot made me breathe deeply and smile. All was well.

I checked in on the two kids who were already home. Both were in their rooms, watching something or other on a screen, but the house was amazingly quiet (and delicious-smelling), so I decided to enjoy a moment of peace and finish reading my book. About 20 minutes later, I started to shift gears. The eye doctor is two towns over, and the traffic at this time of day is unpredictable. I have to get ready to leave.

I glance at the clock. It’s almost 3:30. That’s odd. My youngest usually gets off the bus around 3:20, and I haven’t seen him yet. I checked the house. I checked the yard. No luck. But then I noticed his skateboard was missing and his backpack was in the driveway. He didn’t even come inside; he just took off to his friend’s house.

Now I’m annoyed, but I’m pretty sure I know where he is, so I pack up my things and drive up the road to his friend’s house. I coax him into the car, away from the outdoors and his friend. I feel a little guilty about pulling him away, but I don’t want him roaming the neighborhood while I’m at my appointment. I ask if he wants to come with me, not sure what I’d prefer his answer to be. He declines politely, and agrees to stay on our own property with his siblings while I’m gone.

So I headed to the eye doctor, got my new contacts and ordered new glasses. I got stuck in traffic on the way home, so I didn’t have as much time as I wanted to enjoy my beef stew and chat with the kids before I had to head out again; this time to fulfill my promise to help with the church rummage sale. My husband and I crossed paths on my way out the door. At the rummage sale, I picked up a few great deals, helped a little with organizing and cleaning, and had a lot of laughs with a few of my friends.

Overall, this sounds like a pretty good night, right? But when I got home, the kids were watching Spider Man with their father. At that moment, I rewind the evening in my mind, and I start to fear that they have been in front of screens all afternoon. How much YouTube did they watch while I was gone? When is the last time I checked their history? Their musical.ly accounts? Have they done anything productive today? And the mom guilt sets in. There are a lot of triggers for my mom guilt, but screen time is probably the biggest one. The worry starts to settle in…

And here’s where I need to shift the tone of this story. Because, as it turns out, mom guilt is not what I needed to write about tonight.

I was typing this post… the post about screen time and mom guilt, while the kids were watching Spider Man . I mean, I wasn’t feeling guilty enough to pull them away from movie night with their father. I was just feeling guilty enough to write about it.

I was on top of my bed, lying on my stomach, in the middle of typing a sentence. I felt my son crawl on top of me and snuggle into my neck. “Whatcha doin’?” he asked. I showed him my earlier Facebook post about the miscreant who only eats muffin tops and leaves the uneaten bottoms on the kitchen counter. “Oops. That was me. But the bus was here, and I wasn’t done yet but I only kind of liked the muffins anyway. I mean, they were okay but I didn’t love them and so I couldn’t finish. You get it, right mom?” That was the moment when the story changed. We talked about muffins, and decided to make his favorite this time. At 9:30 at night, we whipped up some blueberry muffins. While we stirred and folded (he’s proud that he knows how to ‘fold in’ the blueberries) and greased the pan, he told me about his day. It turns out he didn’t just play on screens all afternoon. He played with his pets. He thought he lost the hedgehog again, but he found it behind the toy box (phew). He told me about a hedgehog fanny pack (no joke, this is an actual thing) that he wants for Christmas, and as the muffins baked, we looked it up online. He showed me the new kind of food he wants to try for his guinea pig, and demonstrated how he scrutinizes the ingredients to find the best kind. We looked at pictures of marmosets and marveled at how expensive they are.

And then my youngest joined us. We lay on the bed together; a big pile of gangly limbs and little smiles and smelly dogs. We had a tickle war. We ate warm muffins. I piggy-backed the little one to bed, and the pain in my lower back is a bittersweet reminder that I should remember that moment.  He’s not so little anymore, and there’s a really good chance that was his last piggy-back ride. I gave them ‘mom cuddles’ and tucked them in tight and kissed them goodnight. And after all that, I don’t have any time left for ‘mom guilt.’   I have to get my rest because tomorrow will be another busy day of actual, joyful, maddening, beautiful mothering.

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I can’t let it go… another post about homework

I met with Cal’s teacher yesterday. I cried in our meeting. I’m so worried about him. Homework consistently devolves into tears. He seems to be struggling so badly. Handwriting, math, spelling… it’s all hard for him. I went into that meeting knowing that we needed to change something about the homework. We made a plan. Instead of a reading log every day during the week, we’ll do his reading on the weekend. Instead of working on cursive letters, he’s going to practice printing legibly. I’ll make a checklist for home. She’ll make a checklist for him at school. It feels like we’ve got a plan, and I left feeling a little less afraid. I went home to help him with his homework.

And wouldn’t you know it? On THAT afternoon? His penmanship was decent. He did EXTRA math problems. He completed all of the homework beautifully. I began to question my sanity. Was I imagining a problem? Creating one? Maybe I don’t need to advocate for changes. Maybe I just needed to give him more time. More structure? His own little bucket of school supplies?

And naively, I was surprised tonight when the tears began. It started predictably. I asked him to take out his homework. “I don’t have any homework,” he replied. And by this, I know he means, “I don’t have a math worksheet tonight.” He does still have daily spelling and math facts practice and a handwriting worksheet and a reading log. So when I reminded him of these things, the moaning began. The moaning evolved into scribbling which prompted a reprimand which prompted full fledged tears. Why do we always end up in this same place?

The biggest problem of all is the way this dynamic impacts us all. Everyone is left feeling like a failure.

His teacher is working hard. She wants to make things better for him. But it’s not working.

Cal wants to be a good student. He wants to sit still and learn but it’s so very hard for him.

I want to be helpful. I want to support him and help him succeed, but I have three kids and a full time job and there are, quite literally, not enough after school hours to sit and provide support to three kids with learning disabilities and ADHD and still FEED them all.

All of us are victims of a system that is pushing higher and higher expectations on younger and younger students. I could go on for days about high stakes testing and developmentally appropriate curriculum. I have a ton of opinions about movement and mindfulness integration in schools. But none of them are helping my kid in the third grade right now.

Of course we want our kids to learn. But even more than that, don’t we want them to LOVE LEARNING? Don’t we want them to find passions and explore them? This kid is writing a book. He assembled a hydraulic arm and a robot hand and a potato clock this summer. He loves skateboarding and football and logic puzzles.

How do we foster these things in a school environment that leaves no time for show and tell or free play or building? How do we help our children to understand that they are beautifully and wonderfully made, that they have unique gifts and talents to share when they all have to complete the same worksheet at the same time?

Is homeschooling the only solution? I hope not, because I love my job. And I’m kind of attached to my paycheck.

As a mom, I know that structure is important for homework time, but as a realist, I’m also aware that each day’s schedule is not the same. So we have a few general guidelines. No screens unless your homework and chores are done.   A parent has to see the agenda or homework folder; you can’t just say you don’t have any.

I’ve tried having all kids at the same table so I can help them. That was a bad plan that usually wound up being a  giggle-fest about farts. In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t all that bad because it got us all laughing.

I’ve tried separating them into different rooms, but that usually just leaves me out of breath with something burning on the stove as they all shout, “I need help!”

There are no easy solutions… but as teachers, and as parents, there have to be things we can do differently.

In my classroom, I started a weekly “guest teacher” practice. The kids give an oral/ visual/ kinesthetic presentation about a subject of their choice. We’ve had kids teach gymnastics, origami, karate, and how to build a house of cards. It’s a variation on show and tell for middle schoolers, and it is undoubtedly their favorite thing to do. Every year, it comes up in teacher evaluations and end of the year surveys and they all ask, “Are we doing guest teacher next year, too?” I can get away with this because I teach English, so they’re writing and speaking and presenting. If I’m honest, I skip it when I’m feeling particularly behind or if I’m worried about my timing in a curriculum unit. But I there’s a reason why it’s so powerful; it’s one of the few times they can showcase their unique interests and talents.

As a parent, it’s harder for me. For each kid, the expectations are a little different. Cal does pull ups or climbs the door frame while he practices spelling. The kid needs to move. Lee has an online checklist because he doesn’t remember what he needs to do. Bea is a perfectionist who often needs to be reminded that she’s overthinking an assignment.

Music sometimes helps; something a little upbeat. When we can joke or add movement to studying, that’s always good. We all work a little better with a snack. And when things totally fall apart, the best fix is usually a good long hug and a fart joke.

I’m always trying to strike a balance between emphasizing the importance of education and becoming a well-rounded person. We do homework. But I try to make sure we do something else each night, too. Maybe that’s playing a board game. Or reading a story together. Sometimes it’s cleaning or chores, and other times it’s cooking or baking. Maybe it’s legos or drawing or storytelling.

I want them to know that their education is valuable… but I want them to understand that THEY are priceless. They are beautifully and wonderfully made and their gifts and talents will make the world a better place.  And that’s true even if they never master dividing fractions or forming a perfect cursive Q.

 

 

 

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The Post about Homework

This one was posted on Facebook not too long ago, and I had some requests to re-post it here.

As a teacher and a mother, I spend a huge amount of time thinking about and dealing with homework. Forget about correcting homework for a moment. Let’s just focus on the role of the parent in this equation. It is common for me to spend 3-4 hours a night on homework between three kids. Asking about homework. Checking the homework folder/agenda/online assignment notebook. Answering questions. Checking for completion. Reminding them to read. Quizzing spelling words. Looking up online passwords for the math game/ google tools/ quizlet that they need to finish. Reading notes from teachers. Writing notes to teachers. Looking up the phone number for the ‘homework buddy’ who can tell them what questions are on the worksheet they left in their cubby/locker/desk. Yelling about the fact that the worksheet is still in the cubby/locker/desk. Texting the mom of the ‘homework buddy’ to thank her because it was really HER who looked up the questions for us. Asking the kids to explain what they have to do and being met by blank stares or tears. Crying because this has been going on for HOURS, and there is no end in sight.

As a teacher, I know that teachers subtly or overtly pass judgement when a kid’s homework doesn’t get done. “Doesn’t the mother CHECK?” It’s a socially acceptable form of mom shaming. And I’ve bought in to it. Somehow, I feel like my kid’s inability to complete homework is a reflection upon my value as a human being. If I could only be more consistent/provide a quieter space/ find the right incentive/ implement a harsher consequence/ be more encouraging/ be stricter/ lower my standards/ have higher expectations…

But seriously?!?!? They’re kids. They’re supposed to mess up. And then learn from it so they can do better next time. When I was a kid, if you didn’t do your homework, you missed recess to do it. You got bad grades. Maybe your parents punished you. But it was YOUR failure. YOUR lesson.

At some point, there was a shift. Homework help got added to the list of parental responsibilities. Most nights, it takes precedence over ‘practice violin’ and ‘walk the dog’ and ‘have a dance party in the kitchen,’ which happen to be things I also deem important. Some nights it takes precedence over ‘feed them’ or ‘cuddle up with a good book,’ which only exacerbates the feeling of parental failure.

I know a lot of school systems are closely examining the value of homework in today’s busy world. As a parent, I also need to examine the role that homework plays in our family dynamic. My success as a parent is not dependent upon perfectly scribed homework agendas and checklists in a folder. I must succeed in something so much more important. I must succeed in raising resilient, persistent, well-rounded children who can take responsibility for their own choices and learn from their failures. And I’m going to try to remember that tomorrow when one of them forgets the agenda again. Wish me luck.

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Awkward conversations

I don’t have an excellent filter. It’s not unusual for me to find myself in a group of people, realizing that I just made everyone slightly uncomfortable by disclosing something inappropriate. It’s my blessing and my curse. Sometimes I wind up embarrassing myself. Sometimes I end up alienating people. But other times, I end up initiating awkward, powerful, difficult conversations.

Let me back up. I’m aware that it’s generally considered impolite or in poor taste to talk about money. So I usually only bring it up if:

  1. I desperately need a small loan and I finally muster up the courage to ask one of my parents.
  2. I’m making a self-deprecating joke about my inability to manage or hold on to money.
  3. I’m subconsciously panicking about some financial issue and I subsequently have too many glasses of wine.

And it’s that last circumstance that’s led me to an interesting revelation. Every time I’ve brought up money concerns that were probably too personal or too honest or too revealing, somebody in the room approached me afterward to commiserate or share or confess. Someone else was compelled to share something about their financial circumstances that they surely would not have admitted, had I not had that third glass of chardonnay and over-shared to begin with.   What I’ve learned through these interactions is that EVERYONE I KNOW is worried about money.

Some of us are worried about our retirement accounts. Some of us are worried about how to buy a new car when the engine finally goes. Some of us don’t know how we’re going to pay for our kids’ college. Some of us are scraping together quarters for a gallon of milk, or selling jewelery to buy diapers. There are certainly different circumstances… but we’re all worried.

And for some reason, we’re not allowed to talk about it. Why do we do this to ourselves? Ladies, we share recipes and birth stories and work stresses and arguments with our spouses. We talk about our medications and our babies’ bowel movements and that time we tucked our skirt into our nylons at the airport. But money? We can’t talk about this? WHY NOT?!?!?

Well, I have a theory about that. We don’t talk about money because we have so much of our identity wrapped up in it. Are you a “Money doesn’t grow on trees” kind of person? Or a “Save it for a rainy day” kind of person? Were you taught that success was based on finances? Did you grown up without a penny to spare? Are you determined to have more than your parents? Are you determined not to spoil your kids? Do you believe “You can’t take it with you” or do you want to “Leave something for the kids?”

You see… the thing is, it doesn’t even matter; because ALL of those people worry about money. I’ve talked with friends who I consider to be ‘well-off’ who were afraid of losing their homes. I’ve spoken to empty nesters who thought they were prepared for retirement, only to find out that it wasn’t enough. I’ve listened to women who counted on vouchers to feed their families and women who were trying to deliberately expose their children to hardships because they wanted them to understand that their wealth wasn’t something to take for granted. We all worry about this. So why are we so afraid to talk about it?

I guess I can only speak for myself. Personally, I’m afraid to express my financial worries for lots of reasons. Here are three of them:

  1. I’m afraid to be judged. I’m afraid if I admit that I have money concerns, I’m opening myself up to have my priorities questioned. Half the time, I’m questioning my own priorities. I don’t need anyone else to be doing it for me.
  2. I WANT to be grateful for all I have. I want to acknowledge my blessings and remember that I have so much to be thankful for… so it feels somehow ungrateful to worry about something as inconsequential as the car payment.
  3. I don’t want people to think I’m asking for money. What if I complain about the phone bill and my friend offers to pay it? I don’t want to be a charity case. I don’t want to ruin the friendship. I don’t want to owe anyone anything.

Okay, so maybe they’re valid concerns. But certainly, I can find two or three friends who I can trust …

  1. … to not question my judgement. These friends should believe I am a competent adult, capable of making my own decisions (and sometimes mistakes).
  2. … to listen to my concerns without questioning my faith or my gratitude or assuming that this worry is somehow a character flaw.
  3. … to ask thoughtful questions and be supportive in whatever way they can. These friends would never use money as a weapon or a tool for manipulation.

I don’t need to over-share at every dinner party. But I can lighten the load by finding a confidant and simply talking about it. After all, “A burden shared is a burden halved,” right? (Written by T. A. Webb, for those of you who are sticklers about citations).

I guarantee, if you try this, people will confide in you. You’ll find yourself in strange new relationships where it’s not taboo to talk about finances. You might find you have the chance to help someone out. You might find yourself wondering if you should accept help. But you will not be alone. I promise.