Something I found in a folder from college. I have been coming across a lot of blogs/posts about self-image lately, and it made me think about this posting. So here it is.
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In the story, when the ugly duckling grew up, he became a beautiful swan, the most beautiful swan, loved and admired by all the other swans. But before he attained that undreamed-of status, he spent half his lifetime being taunted and bullied because of his ugliness. I always held dear the story of the ugly duckling, feeling a sense of empathy—even unity—with that poor, unaccepted creature.
As I was growing up, the other kids left me in no doubt about my attractiveness—or lack thereof. I endured years of being laughed at for my awkwardness, and even at times being physically attacked, all unjustifiably, I thought. And when in sixth grade I began to wear glasses, the teasing became even worse and lasted well into my high school years.
As a teenager, I never had the succession of boyfriends—or even dates—that other girls seemed to have. I didn’t have parties or go to them (I was never invited). I never kissed up to the in-crowd. Why waste the time and energy, I figured; they would never accept me anyway. So except for a few friends who weren’t part of the in-crowd either, I was pretty much a loner. As a result, I always felt pathetic, rejected, like the ugly duckling no one wanted around.
By the time I was a senior in high school, however, many of the taunts that had been aimed at me had stopped. Apparently the fun had gone out of picking on me because, as parents the world over advise their children, I had refused to act out when teased, and so my schoolmates had had to find another victim to harass. Then just before graduation, when yearbook signing became the favorite pastime, I finally began to receive some of the acceptance I had sought for so long. My yearbook began to fill up with praises regarding the nice person I was for never losing my temper when I was picked on, and kind remarks about the brave, confident person I was for being able to stand alone and never giving in to peer pressure.
In the time that has elapsed since those adolescent days, I have often wondered what those seemingly admiring classmates would have said if they could have seen inside my heart during those years. They all assumed the teasing didn’t bother me because I didn’t let on that it did; I was always able to come back with a funny wisecrack or a good-natured statement of agreement with what they had said. Little did they know that when I was agreeing with them, I was silently acknowledging that they were right. I was ugly. I was someone that no one would want to date. As for their taunts not bothering me, well, that wasn’t true either. I was just good at hiding how much it hurt. Not even my best friend or my family knew of the hundreds of silent tears that soaked my pillow at night. Tears of humiliation, pain, loneliness. Bitter tears that didn’t heal the broken heart within. Would my schoolmates have thought so highly of the girl I knew and didn’t love?
At times now, anger at their unfairness boils up within me. If they had indeed thought I was such a wonderful person, then why didn’t they show it? Why did they spend years taunting and teasing, never saying a kind word to me? Why was I never invited to parties or included in the in-crowd fun?
Now, when I run into these same people on the street during one of my short visits to the hometown, they strike up conversations with as though in high school we had been the best of friends. Of course, nice person that I am, I speak nicely, if a bit coolly, to them before going on my way. Still wishing, of course, that I possessed the confidence and satisfaction with life that I hoped I put forward.
It’s at these times that the Ugly Duckling Syndrome returns and I recall my adolescent dreams of fairy tale justice. Throughout middle school and high school, and even into college, I fervently hoped that some hand of magic or twist of fate would render me a striking beauty overnight so that by the time my class reunions rolled around I would be beautiful, as well as rich and famous—the envy of everyone in my class. Like most unrealistic fantasies, that dream has not come true. Ugly ducklings of the animal world might transform almost magically into swans, butterflies or other lovely, graceful creatures, but ugly ducklings of the human variety don’t seem to do so. At least I didn’t. At least not in my eyes.
There have been men in my life, including my wonderful husband, who have assured me time and again that I am “pretty,” “beautiful,” “gorgeous,” even “sexy” and “hot.” As much as I longed to hear those words from a man, I always uncomfortably wondered if they needed glasses or a psychiatrist, or suspected them of toying with me, laughing behind my back. What any of them saw in me—or believed they saw in me—I can’t imagine. I still look in the mirror each day and see the same plain face, plain hair and spectacled eyes tat have stared back at me since sixth grade. Sure, the baby fat is gone, and a few laugh lines have taken up residence in the corners of my eyes, but it’s still the same face.
Now that I am older and somewhat wiser than I was in high school, having earned a Master’s degree and digested countless self-help books, I have at last begun to grudgingly accept who I am and what I am not. I have found a career that I want to pursue when the kids are older, and I’m trying to carve myself a niche in this world. For the most part, I have stopped trying to look like the popular models or movie stars who are currently “in vogue” and have begun to work on enhancing the qualities I do have rather than trying to create qualities I wish I had. Of course, everything my parents told me about looks not being as important as inner qualities and about in-crowd acceptance not guaranteeing happiness has proven true. And I have found that the key to inner happiness, as preached by countless psychiatrists, psychologists and other experts, does indeed lie in accepting myself for who I am.
Still, in the moments of weakness or self-pity that still erupt from time to time, I find myself thinking back to that favorite fairy tale and wondering what really happened beyond that particular happily-ever-after. Did the ugly-duckling-turned-beautiful-swan truly live happily ever after, or did he look back on those days of his ugly youth and feel that the ugly duckling of old still existed, just as I continue to see in the mirror the unattractive, unpopular girl who still lurks beneath this confident outer shell?
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Unfinished Business
I just read a post from a friend on Facebook saying that one of our friends from high school died today. Well, I can't exactly say that she was *my* friend; in fact, she and I couldn't stand each other. From 5th grade on, she and some of her friends picked on me almost incessantly. Most of it was the name-calling and nasty remarks typical of childhood and teenage days, but occasionally it escalated into threats, and once or twice it got physical. She lived the next street over from me, so she rode the same bus. More than once I wound up sitting towards the back of the bus on the way home, and I remember once she and one of her friends cornered me in the seat and wouldn't let me move towards the front. I thought about getting off a stop early, but she told me that if I did, she would get off too, follow me home, and beat me up. I didn't know if she really would have or not, but the threat scared me enough that I decided not to push my luck.
I don't remember what year she dropped out of school, but I really didn't hear much from her or about her after that. I did run into her at a yard sale some time after she left school. She was holding her newborn daughter and talking to the woman who was holding the yard sale. I thought about making a quick exit, but I decided against it and browsed around till she was done talking to the homeowner. For whatever reason, I then went over and uttered a tentative, "Hi, Christine," fully expecting her to make a nasty remark as she had so many times in the past. I was completely taken aback when she gave me a sheepish smile and said, "Hi" back to me. In fact, I was so taken aback that I couldn't think of anything else to say. I admired her baby, smiled at her again, and left. That was the last time I saw her.
Fast forward 20+ years to today, when I saw this friend's post on Facebook. I can't say that Christine hasn't crossed my mind at all since then--I have thought about her from time to tiime--but I certainly don't have pleasant memories of her. So why, when I read this post, did I suddenly dissolve in tears as though she had been a close companion?
Well, I think a lot of it may have to do with the stage of my life journey that I'm in right now. Since my last semester of seminary, I have spent a lot of time coming to terms with who I am and with the things that have happened in my past. I think for me, much of the issue has to do with forgiveness and with lost opportunities to put things right. I am still working thrugh issues and hurts from my parents, and I find that I am having to deal with not being able to work things out with them because they're both gone. While I feel that I have forgiven them for many of the things they said or did that hurt me, I realize that I will never have the chance to tell them how I felt, to clear the air.
Hearing about Christine's death today has made me realize that I still have unresolved issues, unfinished business, with others from my past, including people like Christine who made my life a living hell, whether for a short time or a long time. Maybe these folks didn't know that they had hurt me so deeply, or maybe they knew and didn't care. I've heard the old adage, "Forgive and Forget," but I must admit that this is something I have a hard time doing. People may think I have forgiven those who have hurt me, or they may think I'm not easily hurt, because I am not a confrontational person. I'm one who tries to swallow the hurt instead of dealing with it. I guess I try to forget without forgiving. The problem is, I don't actually forget the hurt. It may lie buried for awhile, but eventually it surfaces again, sometimes in unexpected times or situations. I can almost hear Dr. Phil asking, "How's that workin' for ya?" Well, Dr. Phil, it ain't workin' for me.
So where am I going with this rambling? Honestly, I'm not sure. I just know there's a lot of hurt rising to the top of my heart right now. I know I am realizing that I will never have the chance to say to Christine the things I wish I could have, things like, Why did you pick on me for all those years? Did you know, or care, that you were hurting me? Did you hate me, or was I just an easy target? If you did hate me, what did I do to make you hate me? I have to accept the fact that she cannot answer those questions now, and I just have to let that part of it go. And I know that she can't hear me say this, or read this on Facebook, but in order that I may heal from those past hurts, I need to say, "I forgive you, Christine. I release you, and I wish you peace. And if I ever did or said anything to hurt you, I hope that I have your forgiveness as well."
I am a firm believer in the idea that God uses the difficult experiences in our lives to help us learn and grow. So what I'm sensing the lesson is in this one, for me, is the fact that there are still people from my past with whom I have unfinished business. It may not be possible, or in some cases even advisable, to seek out these people and confront them. However, I do need to unbury those hurts from my past and be honest about my feelings regarding those hurts and the people who caused them so that I can work towards forgiveness and healing. Even more importantly, I am aware that I have some recent hurts caused by people with whom I still have the possibility of coming in contact. As is my way, I have tried to cut ties with these people and move ahead without actually confronting them. As in the past, or maybe even moreso now that I am aware of it, I am finding it hard to move on without resolving the issues, or at least making it clear how I feel about a given situation. Even as I write this, I have in mind some of the people I need to confront, and I don;t want to do it. But I know I must. My life is full of unfinished business--the business of the future--but I cannot tackle that business until I finish some business from the past.
I don't remember what year she dropped out of school, but I really didn't hear much from her or about her after that. I did run into her at a yard sale some time after she left school. She was holding her newborn daughter and talking to the woman who was holding the yard sale. I thought about making a quick exit, but I decided against it and browsed around till she was done talking to the homeowner. For whatever reason, I then went over and uttered a tentative, "Hi, Christine," fully expecting her to make a nasty remark as she had so many times in the past. I was completely taken aback when she gave me a sheepish smile and said, "Hi" back to me. In fact, I was so taken aback that I couldn't think of anything else to say. I admired her baby, smiled at her again, and left. That was the last time I saw her.
Fast forward 20+ years to today, when I saw this friend's post on Facebook. I can't say that Christine hasn't crossed my mind at all since then--I have thought about her from time to tiime--but I certainly don't have pleasant memories of her. So why, when I read this post, did I suddenly dissolve in tears as though she had been a close companion?
Well, I think a lot of it may have to do with the stage of my life journey that I'm in right now. Since my last semester of seminary, I have spent a lot of time coming to terms with who I am and with the things that have happened in my past. I think for me, much of the issue has to do with forgiveness and with lost opportunities to put things right. I am still working thrugh issues and hurts from my parents, and I find that I am having to deal with not being able to work things out with them because they're both gone. While I feel that I have forgiven them for many of the things they said or did that hurt me, I realize that I will never have the chance to tell them how I felt, to clear the air.
Hearing about Christine's death today has made me realize that I still have unresolved issues, unfinished business, with others from my past, including people like Christine who made my life a living hell, whether for a short time or a long time. Maybe these folks didn't know that they had hurt me so deeply, or maybe they knew and didn't care. I've heard the old adage, "Forgive and Forget," but I must admit that this is something I have a hard time doing. People may think I have forgiven those who have hurt me, or they may think I'm not easily hurt, because I am not a confrontational person. I'm one who tries to swallow the hurt instead of dealing with it. I guess I try to forget without forgiving. The problem is, I don't actually forget the hurt. It may lie buried for awhile, but eventually it surfaces again, sometimes in unexpected times or situations. I can almost hear Dr. Phil asking, "How's that workin' for ya?" Well, Dr. Phil, it ain't workin' for me.
So where am I going with this rambling? Honestly, I'm not sure. I just know there's a lot of hurt rising to the top of my heart right now. I know I am realizing that I will never have the chance to say to Christine the things I wish I could have, things like, Why did you pick on me for all those years? Did you know, or care, that you were hurting me? Did you hate me, or was I just an easy target? If you did hate me, what did I do to make you hate me? I have to accept the fact that she cannot answer those questions now, and I just have to let that part of it go. And I know that she can't hear me say this, or read this on Facebook, but in order that I may heal from those past hurts, I need to say, "I forgive you, Christine. I release you, and I wish you peace. And if I ever did or said anything to hurt you, I hope that I have your forgiveness as well."
I am a firm believer in the idea that God uses the difficult experiences in our lives to help us learn and grow. So what I'm sensing the lesson is in this one, for me, is the fact that there are still people from my past with whom I have unfinished business. It may not be possible, or in some cases even advisable, to seek out these people and confront them. However, I do need to unbury those hurts from my past and be honest about my feelings regarding those hurts and the people who caused them so that I can work towards forgiveness and healing. Even more importantly, I am aware that I have some recent hurts caused by people with whom I still have the possibility of coming in contact. As is my way, I have tried to cut ties with these people and move ahead without actually confronting them. As in the past, or maybe even moreso now that I am aware of it, I am finding it hard to move on without resolving the issues, or at least making it clear how I feel about a given situation. Even as I write this, I have in mind some of the people I need to confront, and I don;t want to do it. But I know I must. My life is full of unfinished business--the business of the future--but I cannot tackle that business until I finish some business from the past.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
A Forgettable 4th
July
4, 2012, a day that will live in infamy. Well, maybe not, but it was definitely
a day I won’t soon forget. As much as I’d like to.
It started off just like many other mornings in our crazy household. I was awakened out of a semi-deep sleep by my older son Wesley before 7AM. His urgent voice reached into my subconscious, and I pried my eyes open to see him standing next to my bed, just a silhouette in the early-morning sunlight streaming through the window. “What…?” I asked thickly, my mouth trying to form words my mind was hardly awake enough to think.
“I just heard something big hit the deck, like a bird or a big fish,” he replied in all earnestness.
I rolled over to peer bleary-eyed at my husband, who was now also awake. He shoved his pillow out of the way to look at the clock, then groaned and grunted and got out of bed to check it out. I really wasn’t very concerned, so I let Mike look into it. Honestly, if a big fish had hit the deck, I figured we were in more trouble than I could remedy anyway, since we live nowhere near enough water to hold fish. In any case, most of the bumps and bangs the kids or I hear turn out to be nothing. At least once a week one of us is startled by a bird slamming into one of the windows or against the siding, so Wes’ first suggestion was the most likely scenario. A quick check revealed nothing amiss, so the incident was soon forgotten.
An hour later, everyone was up and about their business. The kids settled in for cartoons and video games, while Mike headed out to wash and wax the car. I set about the futile task of sweeping and mopping the kitchen and dining room floors, wondering as I worked how long my efforts would last this time around. As I knelt down to sweep under the dining room table, I shook my head in amazement that our house hadn’t been completely overrun by ants. There was enough food beneath my younger son Wayde’s seat to feed a small army for a day or two. As I looked at Wayde, I wondered how it was possible for him to look as healthy and well-fed as he did when it seemed that not much food actually made it to his mouth.
After I had swept up Wayde’s stockpile and mopped up all the sticky watermelon footprints and assorted other spots and spills that always seem to grace my floors, I began my next task: preparations for an epic 4th of July feast. Well, maybe not epic—Martha Stewart has absolutely nothing to fear from me—but at least memorable. Actually, given the fussiness of the eaters in my household, I would actually settle for a meal that everyone will eat, whether it’s epic and memorable or not.
I put eggs on to boil for deviled eggs and got out the cake mix (hey, I told you I’m no Martha Stewart), the mixer and the cake pans and got ready to whip up a French vanilla cake that I planned to top with white frosting, strawberries and blueberries.
The first indication I had that my epic feast would fizzle faster than a damp firecracker was when I turned on the mixer to mix up the cake batter. As the eggs, oil, water and cake mix began to blend, I quickly realized there was something not right about the batter. It seemed to have the consistency of taffy. Hm, that had never happened before, so I rechecked the package instructions to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. Three eggs, check. One cup water, check. A half cup vegetable oil, check. Cake mix, check.
I mixed it another thirty seconds, just for good measure, as if an extra half minute under the beaters might remedy whatever was wrong, and then ladled it the best I could into the cake pans. The batter wouldn’t even come out of the ladle on its own; I had to scrape it out with a spatula and then pat it down to get it to reach the edges of the cake pans. If only the biscuit dough I had mixed up awhile back had looked like that…
Hoping for the best, I set the cake pans in the oven and set the timer. In the meantime, I made up the deviled eggs. Thankfully, that task was completed uneventfully, and the eggs came out the way they should. Good, I thought. Maybe the cake will turn out all right too.
The oven timer went off, and I opened the oven door to find two round, very flat vanilla cakes. They hadn’t risen at all. I wailed, “How can someone possibly screw up a cake from a cake mix?” Well, it is possible; just leave it to me.
I took the cakes out of the oven and placed them on the stovetop, looking at them dejectedly. As I stood there with my mismatched oven mitts on my hands and my hands on my hips, I felt more like Payne Stewart than Martha Stewart. Mike and the kids came out to survey the damage. Mike was unphased; he said as long as it tasted all right, who cares what it looked like? The boys were less forgiving. They both stared at the cakes and then poked them several times before declaring they didn’t feel like cakes and probably wouldn’t taste like cake either.
Setting the cakes aside to cool, I turned to the task of putting together the chicken kabobs. As I began alternating the chicken, fruit, and vegetables, Wayde came back out to the kitchen to see what I was doing. When I told him I was making kabobs for dinner, he responded in typical Wayde fashion, “Oh, I hate kabobs! I’m not eating anything but eggs and cake!” As I looked down at his pouty face, I wondered again how this child was not just skin and bones.
With a sudden inspiration and an attempt to make the detestable kabobs more appealing to my five year-old, I told him they were “P-kabobs,” because they were made with potatoes, peppers, pineapples and…Perdue. Or pollo, if you wanted to be bilingual. He wasn’t buying it. He said he still hated kabobs, and he still wasn’t eating them. Suit yourself, Wayde.
Once the kabobs were assembled and placed in the fridge till it was time to cook them, I turned my attention to the cakes. I got out a plate and turned the first cake pan upside down on top of it. Of course, the cake refused to come out of the cake pan. Of course. I put that one aside and tried the other one. Same result. Really? I tapped, I banged, I pounded, I dropped the cake pan onto the plate several times, and I even bent the sides of the metal cake pan trying to coax it out. At last, I ran a knife along the edges to see if that would help. This time when I turned the pan upside down, I felt the cake drop onto the plate. But when I picked up the cake pan, what I found was a mess, some cake pieces lying crumbled on the plate, the rest still clinging to the cake pan. Resigned, I repeated the process with the other cake, with the same results. Obviously, I was not meant to make a layer cake today.
Determined to do something special for dessert, I rummaged through the pantry and the fridge, looking for inspiration. I found a package of instant French vanilla pudding and half a tub of cinnamon-flavored Cool Whip. I mixed up the pudding and folded in the Cool Whip, then grabbed a big bowl, cut the demolished cake into cubes, and layered the cake, the pudding and the berries in the bowl—a red-white-and-blue trifle. Perfect! As I set the trifle in the fridge, I smiled proudly at my resourcefulness, thinking there may be a little Martha Stewart in me after all.
The rest of dinner preparations went as they usually do in the Lerew household, laden with interruptions and punctuated by loud disagreements between the boys interspersed with equally-loud disciplinary shouts, mostly from me but occasionally from Mike. Honestly, who needs firecrackers to celebrate the 4th? We have enough explosions around here just between the boys.
Finally, with about five minutes to go before supper, everything seemed to be in place. The table was set, the water was poured, the rice was just about ready, the kabobs were in the oven (okay, so we’re one of the un-American minority who doesn’t own a decent grill), and the eggs and trifle were cooling in the fridge. I looked around the kitchen, feeling like something was missing. Suddenly, I looked at the stove, smacked my forehead and cried out, “Aw, man!” The sweet corn was still lying in the bag, unhusked and obviously uncooked. Mike asked if there was time to get it ready for supper. Nope. Absolutely not. Oh well, I consoled myself. We have more than enough food already, right?
Time to eat. True to his word, Wayde refused to eat the kabobs or the rice—and just for the record, he wouldn’t have eaten the sweet corn either—and he threw a brief but ear-splitting tantrum when Mike removed the deviled eggs from the table, declaring them to be for after supper. Another forehead smack from me as I shook my head over the things that resulted in arguments in this house. I did notice, however, as he carried the plate to the fridge, that there were some eggs missing already, and I wondered who had been sampling them before supper.
After a loud stomp to his room and an ensuing door slam, Wayde soon returned to the kitchen and made himself a ham sandwich. Whatever. At least he’s eating. And getting it into his mouth instead of dropping it under his seat. The rest of us ate kabobs and rice. Wesley only ate one kabob; he preferred kabobs made with only fruit over chicken kabobs. He didn’t complain, bless his heart, but I could tell he was less than impressed.
Dessert time! I brought the trifle to the table and uncovered it, my face glowing like a lit sparkler. It wasn’t as pretty as the ones that graced the covers of women’s magazines, but as Mike had already said, who cares what it looks like, as long as it tastes good?
I scooped out generous servings for Mike, the boys and myself and sat down to evaluate my efforts. The berries were good, although I should have added more. The pudding mixture was at least palatable—I wasn’t entirely sold on the cinnamon-flavored Cool Whip, although the vanilla pudding made it a bit less intense. The cake left a lot to be desired, so it was a good thing it was drowned in pudding, Cool Whip and berries. Mike seemed to enjoy it. Wesley wasn’t too impressed, although he ate most of his helping without complaint. Wayde, however, was the harshest critic, declaring it tasted like soggy shirts. Now before anyone asks, no, I do not serve soggy shirts to my children, even on laundry day. But Wayde does habitually chew on the collars or the hems of his shirts, so he is well-acquainted with the flavor of a soggy T-shirt.
After our less-than-epic holiday feast, I washed all the dishes and got everything put away before giving the boys their baths. Finally, I could relax a bit before the neighbors set off fireworks. Unfortunately, the day of the less-than-memorable feast was about to become a day I’d want to forget.
As I sat at the computer in our bedroom, I heard Wayde go out into the kitchen and open the fridge door; obviously, he hadn’t had enough for supper, as usual. The next thing I heard was a loud THUD followed by Wayde shouting, “Dang it! That stupid dessert just fell on my foot!”
I brought my hand down hard on the computer desk. You have got to be kidding! It was my turn to stomp loudly down the hall and out into the kitchen, where I found Wayde standing next to the open fridge, an indignant expression on his face, holding one pudding-covered foot in the air. I came around the corner to find the trifle bowl upside-down on the floor, with pudding, cake and berries splattered all over the front of the meat and produce drawers, as well as on the freshly-mopped kitchen floor—well, at least that lasted a few hours longer than it usually did.
Well, the fruit of my spirit done got rotten, and I quite lost it at that moment. “Why do I even bother?” I shouted in complete exasperation. “Why do I try to do anything around here? I give up; I just give up!” Wayde stomped back to his bedroom, pudding foot and all, leaving me to clean up by myself.
I used the last of our paper towels to scoop up the remains of my doomed dessert. And of course, when it rains, it pours. As I tossed a handful of trifle-laden paper towels at the garbage can, I missed, and the whole mess splattered over the entryway’s hardwood floor and up onto the wall. Really? REALLY?
With steam pouring from my ears, I yanked out the bucket and filled it with soapy water to scrub the floor—I was way too angry to mop. Hey, some people run or lift weights when they’re torqued-off. Me, I scrub the kitchen floor. Please don’t tell my husband that. He may get it in his head to start ticking me off on a regular basis just to send me on a cleaning frenzy. I scrubbed the floor vehemently, splashing so much soapy water around in the process that the kitchen floor looked like a swimming pool.
Several times during my clean up, Wayde foolishly tried to venture into the kitchen. Not to help clean up, mind you, but to finish his attempt to get a snack. I felt like a demon dog guarding the gates of hell as I crouched there on all fours, with a scrub brush in my hands and my eyes flashing more sparks than the neighbor’s fireworks display. Even Mike told Wayde he’d be wise to stay in his room for the rest of the night. Of course, Wayde being Wayde, he ignored that advice.
By the time the kitchen floor was cleaned up and the worst of emotional Hurricane Debby had blown over, I was a soaked, sore, emotional wreck, feeling defeated, discouraged, and utterly ready to pack a bag and hitch a ride to some undisclosed destination. I briefly wondered if anyone wanted to trade places with a washed-up Martha Stewart wannabe for a week or six. Somehow I doubted it.
Now a few days later, I’m sitting here reflecting on that day. Had I overreacted to the day’s series of minor mishaps? Probably. Was I blowing things out of proportion and making the proverbial mountain out of a molehill? Most likely. I knew the events of the Forgettable 4th would probably be funny in a decade or two, but right at that moment, I was truly at a low point in my domestic journey. I felt unappreciated. I felt unimportant. I felt as though I were a failure as a wife, a mother, and a homemaker. I felt like one of the losers on those stupid reality shows that are so popular nowadays—hey, there we go! Do they have one yet called Really Bad Housewives or Epic Failures of the Domestic Kind? I might be able to star in one of those.
But really, I know there are worse things that could happen on holidays, and I know that I will face many more disastrous days like this before my kids are grown, and probably even after. I need to remember to keep my wits about me, my sense of humor intact, and all things in perspective. After all, I am well aware that it is family fiascoes like these that often become the memorable stories that are passed down to children and grandchildren. My kids may not remember me as a Martha Stewart clone, but I hope they will remember the things I tried to do to make special memories for them, and I hope they know that I keep trying because I love them.
It started off just like many other mornings in our crazy household. I was awakened out of a semi-deep sleep by my older son Wesley before 7AM. His urgent voice reached into my subconscious, and I pried my eyes open to see him standing next to my bed, just a silhouette in the early-morning sunlight streaming through the window. “What…?” I asked thickly, my mouth trying to form words my mind was hardly awake enough to think.
“I just heard something big hit the deck, like a bird or a big fish,” he replied in all earnestness.
I rolled over to peer bleary-eyed at my husband, who was now also awake. He shoved his pillow out of the way to look at the clock, then groaned and grunted and got out of bed to check it out. I really wasn’t very concerned, so I let Mike look into it. Honestly, if a big fish had hit the deck, I figured we were in more trouble than I could remedy anyway, since we live nowhere near enough water to hold fish. In any case, most of the bumps and bangs the kids or I hear turn out to be nothing. At least once a week one of us is startled by a bird slamming into one of the windows or against the siding, so Wes’ first suggestion was the most likely scenario. A quick check revealed nothing amiss, so the incident was soon forgotten.
An hour later, everyone was up and about their business. The kids settled in for cartoons and video games, while Mike headed out to wash and wax the car. I set about the futile task of sweeping and mopping the kitchen and dining room floors, wondering as I worked how long my efforts would last this time around. As I knelt down to sweep under the dining room table, I shook my head in amazement that our house hadn’t been completely overrun by ants. There was enough food beneath my younger son Wayde’s seat to feed a small army for a day or two. As I looked at Wayde, I wondered how it was possible for him to look as healthy and well-fed as he did when it seemed that not much food actually made it to his mouth.
After I had swept up Wayde’s stockpile and mopped up all the sticky watermelon footprints and assorted other spots and spills that always seem to grace my floors, I began my next task: preparations for an epic 4th of July feast. Well, maybe not epic—Martha Stewart has absolutely nothing to fear from me—but at least memorable. Actually, given the fussiness of the eaters in my household, I would actually settle for a meal that everyone will eat, whether it’s epic and memorable or not.
I put eggs on to boil for deviled eggs and got out the cake mix (hey, I told you I’m no Martha Stewart), the mixer and the cake pans and got ready to whip up a French vanilla cake that I planned to top with white frosting, strawberries and blueberries.
The first indication I had that my epic feast would fizzle faster than a damp firecracker was when I turned on the mixer to mix up the cake batter. As the eggs, oil, water and cake mix began to blend, I quickly realized there was something not right about the batter. It seemed to have the consistency of taffy. Hm, that had never happened before, so I rechecked the package instructions to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. Three eggs, check. One cup water, check. A half cup vegetable oil, check. Cake mix, check.
I mixed it another thirty seconds, just for good measure, as if an extra half minute under the beaters might remedy whatever was wrong, and then ladled it the best I could into the cake pans. The batter wouldn’t even come out of the ladle on its own; I had to scrape it out with a spatula and then pat it down to get it to reach the edges of the cake pans. If only the biscuit dough I had mixed up awhile back had looked like that…
Hoping for the best, I set the cake pans in the oven and set the timer. In the meantime, I made up the deviled eggs. Thankfully, that task was completed uneventfully, and the eggs came out the way they should. Good, I thought. Maybe the cake will turn out all right too.
The oven timer went off, and I opened the oven door to find two round, very flat vanilla cakes. They hadn’t risen at all. I wailed, “How can someone possibly screw up a cake from a cake mix?” Well, it is possible; just leave it to me.
I took the cakes out of the oven and placed them on the stovetop, looking at them dejectedly. As I stood there with my mismatched oven mitts on my hands and my hands on my hips, I felt more like Payne Stewart than Martha Stewart. Mike and the kids came out to survey the damage. Mike was unphased; he said as long as it tasted all right, who cares what it looked like? The boys were less forgiving. They both stared at the cakes and then poked them several times before declaring they didn’t feel like cakes and probably wouldn’t taste like cake either.
Setting the cakes aside to cool, I turned to the task of putting together the chicken kabobs. As I began alternating the chicken, fruit, and vegetables, Wayde came back out to the kitchen to see what I was doing. When I told him I was making kabobs for dinner, he responded in typical Wayde fashion, “Oh, I hate kabobs! I’m not eating anything but eggs and cake!” As I looked down at his pouty face, I wondered again how this child was not just skin and bones.
With a sudden inspiration and an attempt to make the detestable kabobs more appealing to my five year-old, I told him they were “P-kabobs,” because they were made with potatoes, peppers, pineapples and…Perdue. Or pollo, if you wanted to be bilingual. He wasn’t buying it. He said he still hated kabobs, and he still wasn’t eating them. Suit yourself, Wayde.
Once the kabobs were assembled and placed in the fridge till it was time to cook them, I turned my attention to the cakes. I got out a plate and turned the first cake pan upside down on top of it. Of course, the cake refused to come out of the cake pan. Of course. I put that one aside and tried the other one. Same result. Really? I tapped, I banged, I pounded, I dropped the cake pan onto the plate several times, and I even bent the sides of the metal cake pan trying to coax it out. At last, I ran a knife along the edges to see if that would help. This time when I turned the pan upside down, I felt the cake drop onto the plate. But when I picked up the cake pan, what I found was a mess, some cake pieces lying crumbled on the plate, the rest still clinging to the cake pan. Resigned, I repeated the process with the other cake, with the same results. Obviously, I was not meant to make a layer cake today.
Determined to do something special for dessert, I rummaged through the pantry and the fridge, looking for inspiration. I found a package of instant French vanilla pudding and half a tub of cinnamon-flavored Cool Whip. I mixed up the pudding and folded in the Cool Whip, then grabbed a big bowl, cut the demolished cake into cubes, and layered the cake, the pudding and the berries in the bowl—a red-white-and-blue trifle. Perfect! As I set the trifle in the fridge, I smiled proudly at my resourcefulness, thinking there may be a little Martha Stewart in me after all.
The rest of dinner preparations went as they usually do in the Lerew household, laden with interruptions and punctuated by loud disagreements between the boys interspersed with equally-loud disciplinary shouts, mostly from me but occasionally from Mike. Honestly, who needs firecrackers to celebrate the 4th? We have enough explosions around here just between the boys.
Finally, with about five minutes to go before supper, everything seemed to be in place. The table was set, the water was poured, the rice was just about ready, the kabobs were in the oven (okay, so we’re one of the un-American minority who doesn’t own a decent grill), and the eggs and trifle were cooling in the fridge. I looked around the kitchen, feeling like something was missing. Suddenly, I looked at the stove, smacked my forehead and cried out, “Aw, man!” The sweet corn was still lying in the bag, unhusked and obviously uncooked. Mike asked if there was time to get it ready for supper. Nope. Absolutely not. Oh well, I consoled myself. We have more than enough food already, right?
Time to eat. True to his word, Wayde refused to eat the kabobs or the rice—and just for the record, he wouldn’t have eaten the sweet corn either—and he threw a brief but ear-splitting tantrum when Mike removed the deviled eggs from the table, declaring them to be for after supper. Another forehead smack from me as I shook my head over the things that resulted in arguments in this house. I did notice, however, as he carried the plate to the fridge, that there were some eggs missing already, and I wondered who had been sampling them before supper.
After a loud stomp to his room and an ensuing door slam, Wayde soon returned to the kitchen and made himself a ham sandwich. Whatever. At least he’s eating. And getting it into his mouth instead of dropping it under his seat. The rest of us ate kabobs and rice. Wesley only ate one kabob; he preferred kabobs made with only fruit over chicken kabobs. He didn’t complain, bless his heart, but I could tell he was less than impressed.
Dessert time! I brought the trifle to the table and uncovered it, my face glowing like a lit sparkler. It wasn’t as pretty as the ones that graced the covers of women’s magazines, but as Mike had already said, who cares what it looks like, as long as it tastes good?
I scooped out generous servings for Mike, the boys and myself and sat down to evaluate my efforts. The berries were good, although I should have added more. The pudding mixture was at least palatable—I wasn’t entirely sold on the cinnamon-flavored Cool Whip, although the vanilla pudding made it a bit less intense. The cake left a lot to be desired, so it was a good thing it was drowned in pudding, Cool Whip and berries. Mike seemed to enjoy it. Wesley wasn’t too impressed, although he ate most of his helping without complaint. Wayde, however, was the harshest critic, declaring it tasted like soggy shirts. Now before anyone asks, no, I do not serve soggy shirts to my children, even on laundry day. But Wayde does habitually chew on the collars or the hems of his shirts, so he is well-acquainted with the flavor of a soggy T-shirt.
After our less-than-epic holiday feast, I washed all the dishes and got everything put away before giving the boys their baths. Finally, I could relax a bit before the neighbors set off fireworks. Unfortunately, the day of the less-than-memorable feast was about to become a day I’d want to forget.
As I sat at the computer in our bedroom, I heard Wayde go out into the kitchen and open the fridge door; obviously, he hadn’t had enough for supper, as usual. The next thing I heard was a loud THUD followed by Wayde shouting, “Dang it! That stupid dessert just fell on my foot!”
I brought my hand down hard on the computer desk. You have got to be kidding! It was my turn to stomp loudly down the hall and out into the kitchen, where I found Wayde standing next to the open fridge, an indignant expression on his face, holding one pudding-covered foot in the air. I came around the corner to find the trifle bowl upside-down on the floor, with pudding, cake and berries splattered all over the front of the meat and produce drawers, as well as on the freshly-mopped kitchen floor—well, at least that lasted a few hours longer than it usually did.
Well, the fruit of my spirit done got rotten, and I quite lost it at that moment. “Why do I even bother?” I shouted in complete exasperation. “Why do I try to do anything around here? I give up; I just give up!” Wayde stomped back to his bedroom, pudding foot and all, leaving me to clean up by myself.
I used the last of our paper towels to scoop up the remains of my doomed dessert. And of course, when it rains, it pours. As I tossed a handful of trifle-laden paper towels at the garbage can, I missed, and the whole mess splattered over the entryway’s hardwood floor and up onto the wall. Really? REALLY?
With steam pouring from my ears, I yanked out the bucket and filled it with soapy water to scrub the floor—I was way too angry to mop. Hey, some people run or lift weights when they’re torqued-off. Me, I scrub the kitchen floor. Please don’t tell my husband that. He may get it in his head to start ticking me off on a regular basis just to send me on a cleaning frenzy. I scrubbed the floor vehemently, splashing so much soapy water around in the process that the kitchen floor looked like a swimming pool.
Several times during my clean up, Wayde foolishly tried to venture into the kitchen. Not to help clean up, mind you, but to finish his attempt to get a snack. I felt like a demon dog guarding the gates of hell as I crouched there on all fours, with a scrub brush in my hands and my eyes flashing more sparks than the neighbor’s fireworks display. Even Mike told Wayde he’d be wise to stay in his room for the rest of the night. Of course, Wayde being Wayde, he ignored that advice.
By the time the kitchen floor was cleaned up and the worst of emotional Hurricane Debby had blown over, I was a soaked, sore, emotional wreck, feeling defeated, discouraged, and utterly ready to pack a bag and hitch a ride to some undisclosed destination. I briefly wondered if anyone wanted to trade places with a washed-up Martha Stewart wannabe for a week or six. Somehow I doubted it.
Now a few days later, I’m sitting here reflecting on that day. Had I overreacted to the day’s series of minor mishaps? Probably. Was I blowing things out of proportion and making the proverbial mountain out of a molehill? Most likely. I knew the events of the Forgettable 4th would probably be funny in a decade or two, but right at that moment, I was truly at a low point in my domestic journey. I felt unappreciated. I felt unimportant. I felt as though I were a failure as a wife, a mother, and a homemaker. I felt like one of the losers on those stupid reality shows that are so popular nowadays—hey, there we go! Do they have one yet called Really Bad Housewives or Epic Failures of the Domestic Kind? I might be able to star in one of those.
But really, I know there are worse things that could happen on holidays, and I know that I will face many more disastrous days like this before my kids are grown, and probably even after. I need to remember to keep my wits about me, my sense of humor intact, and all things in perspective. After all, I am well aware that it is family fiascoes like these that often become the memorable stories that are passed down to children and grandchildren. My kids may not remember me as a Martha Stewart clone, but I hope they will remember the things I tried to do to make special memories for them, and I hope they know that I keep trying because I love them.
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