Hey You…Gorgeous Lady. I Feel You.

Author note: Six weeks ago, I wrote a post that resonated with many of you.  Today’s post is part two.  If you haven’t read ‘Part One‘, or if you forgot what it was about, I suggest you do that first and then come back to this.  Why?  Well, because it will make more sense.  Duh.  But also, because this is important stuff we’re talking about here.  Messy human, imperfect stuff.

Hey you…Gorgeous Lady.  In September,  I saw you.  Remember that?  Well, today…I felt you.  But before I felt you, I saw you…again.   And I judged you.  Which isn’t cool, because I’m really passionate about Less Judging, More Loving.  But then I’m human and imperfect and messy.

Today, we crossed paths again at the therapist’s office.  Trying to do right by our children. Trying to get support for ourselves.  Trying to find sanity in a world full of chaos.  There we were, my son and I, sitting in the waiting room, doing exactly that, waiting, when you came walking in.  You seemed to be in a hurry or a bit harried once again.

I can’t help but be fascinated by you.  Maybe it’s the writer in me, always looking for a story, looking for the human connection between all of us.  Or maybe, it’s just me comparing myself to you.  I don’t know you, but when I look at you, I see a beautiful camel coat, long luxurious hair, designer sunglasses, matching beautiful daughters, in their blue and green plaid private school uniforms.  You are gorgeous.  Therefore, you seem perfect.  And the story I tell myself is you are better than me.

You sit down behind me and get situated with your girls in the waiting room.  Between your sighs and huffs, you ask them to get their homework out and get started.  You appear flustered again today.  The therapist comes out and gets one of your girls.

“How are you today?” She asks you.  You’re sick and feel miserable, you tell her.  She takes one of your beautiful daughters back to her office and leaves you with the other.  I try to refocus myself on the book I’m reading, when my thoughts are interrupted with the criticism and shaming of your daughter as you help her with her homework.  Your tone is short and punctuated, stressed and firm, cold and uncaring.

“LISTEN to me.  Claire*. Listen.”

“Ugh. No.  Erase that completely.”

“No, no, no, no. no.”

“Answer the question Claire.”

“Get your homework done. I’m not bringing you home until you’re done with this.”

“You’re getting messy.”

“Watch what you’re doing.”

“Good job.”

“Pay attention Claire!”

“UGH! Claire you did the wrong lesson! Oh my gosh. What are you supposed to be doing?”

“How many did you do wrong?”

“You gotta pay attention Claire.”

“Come on!”

“No, you know this! Focus Claire.”

“Ugh.  Erase that more. Completely! You can’t tell if that’s a six or a ‘G’!”

Immediately, after your first few comments to your daughter, I judge you.  I think you are mean.  I think you are overly critical to your daughter.  I think, this…this is why you’re daughters are in therapy.  You are driving at least one, if not both of your daughters mad. You are introducing her to shame and telling her through your comments that she is not worthy, she is not good enough.  She is not loved.

I don’t like you.  I am better than you.  I am mad.  AT YOU.  This is what I think.

And then.  Then.  Then there was this.

I am you.

All of those comments .  All of those negative comments, with one ‘good job’ sandwiched between?  I’ve said them to my son.  I’VE SAID THEM ALL.  In one way or another.  And the shortness in tone.  The sighs and the huffs.  The frustration.  The impatience.  Done that too.

This. Is. Me. She…is me.  The ‘Less Judging, More Loving’ girl is a mean girl.  I never meant to be.  Never set out to be.  But sometimes, I am.  To my son.  And this is devastating.  How did this happen?  How did I get here?

I feel sad, really sad at this realization.  I feel shame.  I feel pain.  I feel anger…at myself. This is unacceptable.  How did I lose this much control?  How did I let it get to this? How could my sweet little boy, with a world of potential at his fingertips, possibly walk away from an interaction with me, like the one I witnessed in the waiting room, and feel accepted?

Do you think that young girl, Claire, possibly heard the one little ‘good job’ between all of those complaints and belittling comments?  Likely not.  But if she did, she probably hung onto it tightly, clinging to hope that someday soon she might get another one from her mother.

That mom.  She is me.  And she provided a mirror today that revealed a reflection I am not proud of.  But one that I am determined to change.  And you know what?  At first I didn’t like her, because she looked perfect and I thought she was better than me.  And then I didn’t like her because I thought she was mean and rude.

But now?  Now, I love her.  Because to love her, is to love myself.  To accept her and her messiness, is to accept mine.

I am flawed.  But I am loved.  I am imperfect AND I’m enough. **

And I am focused on Less Judging, More Loving.  Of her, of my son.  Of myself.

I told you I was passionate about this Judging/Loving business, didn’t I?

*I have changed the name of the little girl in this story to protect her privacy

**I am currently taking an e-course with Brené Brown called The Gifts of Imperfection.  This statement was from an assignment this week in which we had to declare we are imperfect and we are enough.  The timing of this assignment couldn’t have been better.  Deep, profound things are happening inside my little brain.  And lucky you, I’m bound to share them all.