I’d begun a fledgling friendship here in our new town. Coffee dates, common interests, laughter, possibility. We were planning a family cook-out together, a pool party.

And a short while back, my 15-year-old came home and said my new friend, while driving him home, had called his 17-year-old brother an asshole and a douche. “It was kind of said in jest,” Gus explained. “She laughed when she said it, but I don’t think she was really kidding. I kind of think she meant it.”

I was stunned. Seriously taken aback. I asked Gus to repeat the story over and over, certain that he’d misunderstood, convinced that the story was being misrepresented. He is, after all, a 15-year-old boy, and I’d only heard his interpretation of the story.

Gus reiterated: “She said we all needed to come over for dinner soon but that Sam wasn’t invited because he’s an asshole. She said he’d been a real douche lately.”

And then I panicked. What had Sam done? Was he disrespectful to my friend? To her husband? I mean, I love my kid and he’s generally a trustworthy, polite, fun-loving teenager, but as Chris always said about the high schoolers he was responsible for, given the opportunity, good kids can make bad decisions.

And none of us are above hurting others.

Of course Sam can be an asshole. I can be an asshole, too. So can Chris (although he might disagree). So can the rest of our kids. So can every single human being on this planet. Chris and I are the first ones to call Sam out when his behavior dips into assholeness (as it often does in the early morning hours). But that doesn’t mean Sam is an asshole.

As a worst case scenario girl, I was convinced, though, that my boy was at fault, and I was ready to make him right his wrong, to repair what he might have broken.

But as the story unfolded, this is what I discovered from both sides… nothing happened. Sam simply wasn’t paying enough attention to my friend’s daughter. According to my friend, Sam used to hang out with her daughter, but he doesn’t anymore. Sam’s friends talk to her daughter, but he remains silent. No harsh words had been spoken, no altercations had occurred, no throw-downs had taken place in the junior locker bay.

I asked Sam why he and this girl weren’t friends and he shrugged and said, “Because she creates a lot of drama. I don’t want to be a part of it.”

That was it. That was his grievous crime.

I’m never, ever okay with my kids being mean to other kids (or any other humans or animals, for that matter). I’m not a fan or cliques or exclusivity or “you’re invited, you’re not.” But I’m totally on board with my kids deciding who they want to interact with on a daily basis. I’ve been involved in enough unhealthy relationships to understand that choosing who gets to be an integral part of your life is a sacred step, not one to be taken lightly. And I also trust my kids enough to be able to make those decisions, to have the skills to determine who is good for them… and who is not. It’s part of growing up, part of navigating relationships, part of learning how to advocate for yourself.

Could Sam have handled the situation better? Maybe. I don’t know because I wasn’t there. It was Sam’s situation to handle, not mine. My job was to walk him through the kindness factor again, to make sure he wasn’t being mean or nasty or dismissive, to remind him that common courtesies (such as a hello or a goodbye or a thank you) should always be part of his repertoire, to reiterate that he should treat others — always — as he wants to be treated.

After all was said and done, my friend apologized for the name-calling. She knew she spoke in haste and without thought and expressed her remorse. I appreciated her apology, and I accepted her apology. Heaven knows I’ve often wished I could shove reckless words back into my mouth… numerous times.

But what was blossoming between us is no longer. Not because I am angry or unforgiving, but because I am unwilling to intimately open my life to her knowing how she feels about my son, understanding how easily he was thrown under the bus in the name of defending her own. And it makes me sad, this knowledge. She’s not a bad human being, and I had looked forward to what might have been. But what’s vital to me in any friendship is that I feel safe and loved, that I feel my family is safe and loved. Of course conflict occurs in any relationship. It’s how we choose to navigate that space that matters. This did not, in any way, from any angle, feel safe. It felt like a driver’s side T-bone at 40 miles an hour when your eyes are focused squarely on the road ahead. I’m not ready to get back in that car.

Here’s what I learned from the whole scenario… it’s never okay for an adult to stick a hurtful, derogatory, demeaning label on a kid. Never. Especially when it’s done in front of other kids. Especially when one of those other kids is his younger brother. And although he’s tall and his voice is deep and his armpits are hairy, Sam is still a kid. What was said about him can’t be unsaid. What he heard about himself  and his character is part of him now.

“It’s okay, Mom,” he’s since said to me. “I don’t care what she said. It’s no big deal.”

But it is a big deal.

What happened made me think about instances when I’ve said to Chris, “That kid is a jerk,” or “I don’t like that little shit,” or “Get that maniac child out of my house NOW!” And I’ve said those things many times over the course of my 18 years of parenting. But it’s not okay. (To clarify, it’s okay to remove a maniac child from your home, but it’s not okay to call him names in the process.) The kid in question might have been a shit to my kid, but that doesn’t mean he’s A Shit. Labeling someone that way changes how we see them, how we view their possibilities. And if they hear us say it, it changes how they see themselves.

We don’t get to tear other kids down to make our own kids feel better.

We don’t get to tear other humans down to make ourselves feel better.

Ever.

Our choices, instead, exist here:

1. Communicate. Be honest, open, authentic. Resolve the situation… or not. But talk to someone, not about someone.
2. End the relationship. It’s okay to say, “This is not what I want in my life.” Boundaries are healthy; vindictiveness is not.
3. Take a deep breath. Step into someone else’s shoes. Grab a different lens. Look inside. Perhaps the problem is not external.

Words matter. Whether we’re using them to describe ourselves, our friends, our enemies, our loved ones — they stick. Choose wisely. Pick the ones with the soft edges, the ones that don’t leave scars.

Making someone else feel smaller will never, in the end, make you bigger.

 

I cannot deny that these past two years have been hard. Soul-crushing, fetal-position hard at times. Let me begin by saying this, by owning this: I know that if I threw my problems into a pile with all the other problems of the world, I’d grab mine back as quickly as I could. I know that in the big scheme of things, I am blessed beyond belief with abundance and joy and gifts that cannot be measured by miles or with a checkbook.

But I also refuse to minimize the challenges that we’ve faced over the past couple of years. To brush them under the rug is to deny that life hits us — all of us — hard sometimes. Harder than we’d like to admit. I’m here to fess up — for you, for me, for all of us.

There is a great deal of shame in owning our faults, our weaknesses, our failures. When we expose our Achilles heel, it is made even more vulnerable to those who might want to strike it… even if — especially if — that someone is us. But there is no honor in pretending all is well and perfect when it is not. It doesn’t serve you, it doesn’t serve me.

In the past two years, our lives have been turned upside down. At the beginning of our journey, I thought I was going to lose my husband. He was working a job that was slowly bringing him to his knees, that pecked away at his soul one little piece at a time. He was carrying the weight of 1,600 kids and 3,200 parents on his shoulders. Some of those fabulous parents supported and encouraged and lifted him. Others, well… didn’t. On his best days, he might please 50% of those he worked with. On his worst, he stood alone. He is a good man with a good heart who was trying to do the right thing in a world where right and wrong aren’t always so easily defined. By the end of his tenure, he was a man I didn’t recognize — beaten down, angry, defeated. His stress level was through the roof, his physical health in decline. With doctorate in hand, he admitted that he could no longer do it, that he had to find another career path.

And so our journey began.

In Mississippi, I got my husband back — the one who laughs loudly and easily. For that I am eternally grateful. But there were prices to pay, are always prices to pay. I lost my dream home — literally, financially, emotionally. (In all honesty, it was never Chris’s dream home to begin with. He went along for the ride because I loved that house and he loved me.) The beautiful home we built and painted and decorated and planned to raise our children in, gone. I get nostalgic for my double-sided fireplace and my cloffice, but the bills were too high, the income too low. We sacrificed our hometown, the only place our four young children had grown and prospered in for a decade. He needed a change of scenery, could no longer live in the fishbowl. I supported that. We supported that.

We uprooted our family, moved four states away, and began a new life in the South. There was adventure, there was excitement, there was promise and possibility, and there was a hole in my heart as big as the Grand Canyon. I cried as I watched our family and friends grow smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror. Cried for days, months. It’s a challenge to traverse relationships across a span of 500 miles. Yes, there’s the phone and the internet, and Facebook. But the gift of proximity is lost. There are no soul-refreshing walk/talks through Eagle Creek Park, no last-minute lunches in Broad Ripple, no impromptu Friday night neighborhood gatherings, no dinners at Amore when spouses are attending board meetings, no one walking in — unannounced and always welcome — through the garage entrance after having punched in our “private” code for entry.

Adjusting to our new income — the one that’s 50% less than the previous one — was also far more challenging that we’d imagined. We cut our expenses, paid off debts, tightened our belts. But ultimately, we still had four kids who needed food and clothing and school supplies and doctor visits and extracurricular activity fees and heat and water and electricity.

Begrudgingly, I went back to work full-time. It was not my dream. It was not my desire. It was my necessity. Writing — the kind that fills my soul, not the kind that pays the bills — had to take a back seat. Instead of being my primary focus, it got to fill in the cracks of what was left after work, after the kids, after my familial responsibilities. Was I bitter? Oh, you betcha. And then came the anger, the resentment, the Why-Do-You-Get-To-Be-Happy-At-My-Expense conversations.

It wasn’t pretty.

I’ve been a reluctant Mississippian, slow to warm, hesitant to make friends, willing only to dip my toes in the South. This was to be my “two-year vacation.” We were going to re-evaluate after that. No reason to make connections when they would most likely be severed again shortly. And so, I set myself up for more loneliness, opened the door and invited it in. I am so very grateful for the few true friendships I’ve made here, those who didn’t allow me to completely go into hiding. (Hiding, after all, is what I do best on my cloudiest days.) These women have sustained me in my Southern town, have given me something to hold on to even while I insisted on looking back.

I’m not easy to love sometimes. As Joni Mitchell so eloquently sings in “The River”…

“I’m so hard to handle, I’m selfish and I’m sad…”

That’s me. All me. I need, I need, and then I need some more. I need more love, more reassurance, more hand-holding than the average bear. I am eternally in fear of being left behind, abandoned, despite all those who have chosen to stay. I’m frantic and unreasonable and over-dramatic. And I get too sad, stay there for too long. The friends who know this and embrace this and honor this are so brave and strong and cherished and special.

And on the flip side, I love hard. I’m a balls-to-the-wall friend. After the leaning, I stand in support. When I’m strong, I’m rock steady. My arms are always open. And I’m great fun at a party. Somehow, in some way, I hope that balance serves those who are forever locked in my heart and in my soul. Extra-salty tears and extra-hard hugs… that’s what I have to offer.

Over the past two years, I’ve been living in limbo — somewhere in between Mississippi and Indiana… but not necessarily in Tennessee. I’ve been trying to maintain two residences, to live two different lives. I’ve yet to figure out how to simply be… and to trust that I’m where I am for a reason. Oh, I know it and believe it in my heart, but living it? That’s an entirely different issue, one that I face every minute of every day.

And what of my writing? That’s been a disappointment, too. It looked promising here and there — a Midwest Writers Fellowship, a Notes & Words contest finalist nod, a few full-manuscript agent reads of “Three of Eva,” a gig with “Indy’s Child” magazine, some blogging accolades. But my vision of supporting my family through my writing? Not yet realized. Yes, I’m supporting them with words about marketing software and ROI, but that’s not exactly the vision I had in mind. (I know. I know. God is up there laughing at me. “YOUR vision?? Ha! Ha! Ha!” I know.)

So, in the glass-half-empty view, it’s been a more-than-challenging couple of years filled with heartbreak and loss and loneliness. There have been far more tears than I would have liked. Too much food, too much wine, too much weight gained, too little balance.

And on the glass-half-full side, there is an overwhelming abundance of things to be grateful for. My beloved kids. Damn. I am so very, very proud of them and their tenacity and their resilience. They have all made their way, found a place, carved a path. It wasn’t easy for them, either. I’m sure on certain days, it’s still not. But academically, socially, athletically, they’re knocking it out of the park. Chris is so much happier, too. He’s doing work that he loves, despite the dismal pay. (What is it about this country that rewards those involved with athletics substantially more than those involved with academics? How is it that my husband, with his doctorate, tasked with educating our future leaders, can make so very little when the coaching staffs make so damn much?)

In my glass-half-full world, I have beautiful, supportive, cherished friends in both Indiana and Mississippi (and in many other states as well, right California and Tennessee?). I have a job that came knocking at just the right time, that pays well and helps me support my loves during this ongoing transition. I have a healthy family. (And trust that I will never, ever, ever take that for granted.) I’m married to my best friend, the one who gets to ride the roller-coaster every single damn day. The one who, despite the nausea, chooses to get back in that line again and again.

I’m stretching. I’m growing. That’s always a bittersweet endeavor. Change is hard, friends. It’s fucking hard at times. It’s lonely here. Overwhelmingly lonely at times. On certain days, I feel isolated, remote, forgotten. For a girl who’d grown accustomed to activities every night, neighbors at the bus stop in the mornings, impromptu drop-by coffee klatches, parties on the weekends, black tie events, couples’ dates, football parties, poolside gatherings, book club meetings, and firepit soirees, the silence can be daunting. I try to embrace it, but oftentimes, it swallows me whole instead.

Then there are those days that the silence and the slower pace comfort me, and I feel blessed, loved, grateful beyond measure. It’s the biggest sustained challenge I’ve ever faced, this life of change. Staying put would have been easier in so many ways. And staying put would have been harder in many ways, as well. Choosing something safe would probably have been less stressful. But ultimately, the reward is in the journey. I’m learning that. Bit by bit by bit. Step by painful step — blisters and black toenails and all.

There is no growth in standing still. Even the tree, confined to one, solitary space reaches through the dirt with its roots, stretches its branches upward, upward as its leaves bloom, change, fall, and bloom again.

But sometimes I miss the luxury of the known. The home, the yard, the money, the neighborhood, the (perceived) security — the things that don’t really matter in the long run can make life seem a little easier.

Or not.

The choice is always, always ours. Because we are not our homes, our cars, our friends, our family, our successes. We are individuals, finding our solitary paths, contributing to a greater good.

I’m choosing happiness and growth whenever and wherever I can. But I can guarantee it will not be sunshine and roses every day. There are some days, weeks, months, I will still wallow in woe-is-me. It will be ugly and messy and uninspiring. It’s not fun to watch or to participate in. It’s not who I want to be. And yet, it is. I’m okay with that. It would be inauthentic of me to live it any other way. I’m a girl of extremes, and life is made of ups and downs and choices. Sometimes the choices we make are easier than others. Sometimes the choices we’re offered are not the ones we were hoping for. It takes time for me to wrestle with that, to reconcile with it. Good days, bad days, neutral days… all ultimately part of the equation.

The next moment can always be better.

In this particular moment, I choose gratitude. Today, I choose to teach my kids — and anyone else who might be listening — that it’s okay to feel lost and out of sorts with this world, to feel that you don’t really have a space to call your own, to feel like you’re trying to build a house on shifting sand. That they can fall down and still get back up, that skinned knees and skinned hearts eventually heal, even if they do leave a scar. Scars are the tough, pink, jagged-edged, external reminders of our internal strength. Everyone has those battle wounds. No one walks through this world without damaging the perfect physical package he or she was granted at birth. Everyone breaks in different places, at different times, in different ways. The gift is in the healing, the recovery. Standing back up, taking the next step — that’s what’s important. That’s what matters. Giving of yourself, your heart, your time, your beautiful vulnerability — those are gifts that money will never be able to buy. That currency is what’s important. Those are the things that matter most.

I’m learning. We’re learning. About scars and skinned knees and the lovely, human mess of it all. Onward. Always onward. To the next flawed, imperfect, and glorious adventure.


 

As George and I were heading home from basketball practice last night, the one question on his mind was, "What's for dinner?"

Because we had four kids running in five different directions last night (yeah, it really is possible), it was a frozen-pizza, eat-whenever-you're-home night.

"What kind of pizza are we having?" George asked.

"Tombstone," I replied. It is, after all, the cheapest version of the frozen pizza. And my kids eat like vultures when it comes to cheesy carbs, so we always have to stock up.

"I have something to tell you, Mom," he sighed.

"What is it, Geo?" I inquired.

"I don't really like Tombstone pizza."

"What?" I replied. "You all like Tombstone pizza! You've always eaten it! When did you stop liking it?"

"I never really liked it," he admitted. "All these years, I've been fake-liking it."

He's been fake-liking it.

"Why did you fake-like it, George?" I asked. "Why didn't you just tell me you didn't like it?"

"Because I didn't want you to be mad," he said. "And you would have made me eat it, anyway. It was just easier to fake-like it."

"Wow," I said. "Is there anything else you fake-like?"

"Yes," he sighed. "I don't really like that meat that looks like chicken, but it's not chicken, and it's square, and it kind of looks like it's in a cube."

Hmm.

"Do you mean chicken nuggets?"

"No. It's not chicken it just looks like chicken."

Hmm.

"Are you talking about pork chops?"

"Yes! That's it! I fake-like pork chops. Well, I like them when Dad cooks them on the grill and puts sauce on them, but I don't like them when they're cooked in the oven."

"What else?" I asked.

"Salmon."

"You don't like salmon?" I asked. "You always eat salmon."

"You always make me eat salmon," he replied. "But I do really like tilapia. And snow crab. Just not salmon."

"What else?"

"Cheez-Its."

"Why would you fake-like Cheez-Its?" I asked. "I don't make you eat those."

"Sometimes they're the only snacks we have, so I fake-like them when I have to."

"Anything else you fake-like?"

He thought for a moment.

"Nope. That's it."

"Do you fake-like peas?"

"No, I really like peas."

"Do you fake-like me?"

He giggled.

"Or do you just genuinely not like me at all?"

More giggles.

"Sheesh, Mom, I LIKE you for real, okay??"

Thank God for small miracles.

I got really curious about his Korean fast-food restaurant that is sprouting like mushroom here in Davao. I was getting hungry and I want something new to satisfy my taste buds. Since I got tired of eating chicken I tried ordering the crispy fish rice box and a mini KoYo (Korean Yogurt) for my daughter. You can either choose soy-garlic or spicy as your flavor for your chicken and fish and because I like eating spicy foods, I chose spicy.

I forgot that I have my daughter with me and I regret ordering the spicy one. Poor baby, she has to endure her mother’s stupidity. Lucky thing the only spicy part was on the outside cover of the fish, so yeah she can eat it, but my daughter is also stubborn because she really wants to eat the crispy part. I let her taste some and I was laughing because she was begging me for water. She was so cute doing that, and I immediately feed her the yogurt and she was laughing with me. The crispy fish was delicious; I definitely want to try the soy-garlic flavor next time.

Each and everyone of us wants to save money. Some finally found a way on how to save money while others are still trying to find a way on how to save even little by little.

Being a parent, I need to assure that I can give my kid a very nice future and that will be possible if I start saving today. I do not have a regular job and I hope to get one the soonest possible time since it is only I and Lloyd who will pay for all our expenses. We have to be wise in spending and stay away from getting credit cards or rfid credit card. We will not avail any loans and cards unless it is very necessary.

Saving money doesn't have to start with a very big amount of money. You can start saving little by little. Buy your kids their own piggy bank and let them put coins in it everyday. Amount depends on what they can only drop to the piggy bank. When shopping, keep in mind if you really need to buy those things. There is a big difference between need and want.

Start with a small step. Never think that setting aside money for your family’s future is part of your expenses.