Beast Brain

I was texting with my BFF, and she sent me a link about Monkey Brain.

Ironically, a monk was explaining how to tame monkey brain, which is basically just a million thoughts running through your head. So many thoughts that you can't complete one because you are already thinking of the next.

Monkey brain is very similar to the conversations I have with my mom. She will be talking about an obituary and somehow seamlessly transition to a discussion about sweet potato fries.

The Monkey Brain texting thread arose from an email, a text, and a conversation where three people gave me extraordinary compliments. They went out of their way to tell me something that I did right, or something that I said that made them feel loved, or even someone saying I was incredible.

And I didn't believe any of them.

I do believe my mind races itself into knots, but not with a cute little monkey. Mine is a doubt beast and a really scary creature. She doesn't scurry about. She stops and slams and makes herself known.

This beast is pretty intelligent too. She took each of the compliments and created a pretty convincing case as to why they were false.

One: I did something right at work.

The beast's response is that it was just a fluke, and I happened to do the right thing at the right time, and somebody just happened to notice.

Two: I made a friend feel special and loved.

Well, I was just being nice. If they feel that way, maybe they are just having a bad day, and my niceties came at a perfect moment.

And three: I'm incredible.

The beast reminded me that person may just be saying that because they don't see the real me, only what I write, so they feel like they know me, but they really don't...

Oh, and the other day someone called me beautiful, and the beast immediately thought they needed to get their eyes checked.

When Don and I were first married, we had his parents visit our new grown-up house, and I made strawberry shortcake.

Or I made what I thought was strawberry shortcake.

I was so proud of it, but they all giggled because it wasn't what they had thought was the right way to make strawberry shortcake.

Don said something like, "His mom could teach you the right way to make it."

The beast whispered in my ear that I will never cook or bake like his mom.

If I suck at strawberry fricking shortcake, I could assume I suck at pretty much everything else, so what is the point of even trying?

I may also mention that this was about 20 years ago, and I have never forgotten it.

And even more, I believed it as if it were carved in stone somewhere on a testament slab or something.

That I, Noelle, cannot and will never be able to cook or bake anything edible.

Anything that his parents may have said about how our house was decorated, or how happy they were to have me as a daughter-in-law, was completely disregarded and not believed because the doubt beast is just so loud.

I wrote a great article that was shared more than anything I had ever written.

People loved it. I got emails from all over the world thanking me. Even today, I still get messages about it.

Letters explaining how this article changed their life.

In one case, a woman told me it saved hers.

Which is amazing, and I do believe it.

However, that same article was posted on a well-known site, and as I was riding this wave of self-achievement, a tiny little comment caught my eye.

It said, "Good article, but she is a terrible writer."

This person must have been talking to my beast because they knew exactly what to say to drop a pin into my bubble and burst it into pieces.

Now, whenever I think about this article, that is all I see.

So today, for whatever reason, it occurred to me that I have to tame this annoying beast.

Because she is not only hurting me, but now the people who love me.

And I may not protect myself, but if anyone threatens my family, well, game on.

When I compliment a loved one, I mean it.

When they do the same thing, I brush it off.

How I tame this beast of doubt seems impossible.

I have tried and tried over the course of my entire life.

So I decided to try a new tactic.

What if I follow this beast?

Follow it and find out where her home is. Find out where she nestles and where she originates her hunger to make me feel bad.

It might be a scary place.

I might discover something that makes me feel uncomfortable.

But the truth is, I'm tired.

I'm tired of trying to tame this constant chatter of doubt.

It is not welcome anymore.

I want a truce, and I want to try and work things out.

I had my first opportunity when I was sitting in a meeting and I tried to say something and was talked over.

The beast whispered in my ear, "Stop trying, you don't have anything interesting to say."

But I do.

So a little while later, I tried again.

Granted, I had to raise my hand and practically wave it around, but I said what I needed to, and by God, they heard me.

I followed the beast's thought.

You don't have anything interesting to say.

Ouch.

I wouldn't say that to anyone that I love.

But I do recall a time that I felt that way, and it was way back in elementary school.

Not those words exactly, but a teacher told me I was wrong when I tried to explain why I wanted to have a polar bear as a pet.

The class laughed.

My seven-year-old heart broke.

(BTW, my parents got me a subscription to a World Wildlife Foundation magazine after that.)

Which is rock-star parenting, in my opinion.

But even so, decades later, that teacher is dead, but her words are very much alive in my head.

This doubt beast is persistent, but not unbeatable.

It will be a work in progress.

I plan on writing out these doubts and finding out where they originated because once I do, I can acknowledge them, face them, and let them go.

I remember my mom saying, "You are what you eat," and laughing that she was a Twinkie.

But I think the same thing could be true:

"You are what you think."

Be mindful of what you think about yourself.

Be kind.

A Love Letter to Yourself

A few weeks ago, I found myself in an apple orchard with a good friend and a new friend who happens to be an amazing photographer who loves taking pictures of women.

She had two dresses. I was wearing the white one, and my friend chose the blue one.

Both dresses were the embodiment of femininity.

Not because they were tight. In fact, it was the opposite. They were long and flowing, with a deep V in the center. The material was thin enough to let sunlight through, but not sheer enough to show everything.

In other words, this was not a situation I find myself in often.

This tapped into my secret fantasy of living on an orchard in an undiscovered town in California, having chickens, and raising the boys all free-range style.

The boys... and the food.

I wouldn't wear makeup and would walk around barefoot all day, read books, listen to music, paint, drink wine for lunch, and wear long, flowy dresses.

My reality is quite different.

This orchard was in Goshen, Indiana, which is about 45 minutes away, and the only reason I go to Goshen is to visit my grandparents' gravesite.

Ironically, this orchard was a stone's throw away from it.

The dress required some strategic undergarments because of its material. In my California fantasy, I'm not taping things to my nipples to cover them up because, in California, nobody cares.

But we were taking photos, after all, and thought it would be a good idea.

As I was walking through the orchard, picking apples, I felt a deep and unequivocal connection to my roots.

Whether it was because I was in nature, because I was near my grandparents, or simply because I slowed down.

Whatever the reason, I felt at peace.

And that is what comes through in these pictures.

I shared the experience with my friend, and she asked me why I had done it.

She couldn't imagine getting photos taken of herself for the sole purpose of having pictures of herself.

First, I told her about a photo I have of my mom.

It was taken when she was a new mother, and it is by far the most beautiful photo I have ever seen.

And not just of my mom, but of anyone.

My heart actually throbs when I see this picture of a woman who was doing exactly what she wanted to do.

I treasure that photo.

Next, I told her that she is worth getting her picture taken.

So many women don't feel that way.

Or they worry about what other people will think, or that people will say they are vain, or even worse, that people won't like what they see.

There is nothing vain about celebrating yourself.

When I was walking through the orchard, I felt radiant.

Not because of my makeup or hair or dress, which were all fantastic and not done by me, but because I was doing something for myself, and I was with girlfriends who were positive, fun, and supportive.

I'm not going to apologize for that.

When she sent me the photos, my first reaction was to find my flaws.

I was worried other people would see them too.

I worried that if my sons saw the pictures, they would be embarrassed.

That is when I had to make a hard stop and ask what in the hell my problem was.

This is who I am.

I am a woman who, for the most part, is comfortable in my body.

There is beauty in that.

Think about the time when you felt the most beautiful.

For me, it was immediately after I gave birth to my first son.

In the photo, I'm laughing through tears and sweat. My hair is a mess and all over the place. I'm 40 pounds heavier, and I'm natural, primal, and gorgeous.

Of course, I can't recreate that every day.

But if you feel most beautiful in sweats and a T-shirt, then celebrate that.

If you feel most beautiful with amazing makeup and your hair done up, then celebrate that.

Because when you feel beautiful, you are beautiful.

When you do things for someone else, like when I cut my hair really short because my boyfriend liked it that way, then you are looking good for someone, but not feeling good.

The point is not to chase beauty, but to be an example of it.

From the inside out.

In college, I learned that when you attach your worth to what other people say about you, you are giving your power away.

So it only feels natural and good to write a love letter to yourself, or just do something that makes you feel really good.

Maybe that is food.

Maybe that is a hike.

Maybe it is sex.

Maybe it is sleep.

Maybe it's spending time with friends.

Maybe it is all of those things combined.

Whatever that is for you, just do it.

In my case, it was doing this.

These photos embodied so much of what makes me feel beautiful, and I don't think hiding my true self from my boys will make them better men.

In fact, I think it would only perpetuate a stereotype of what a woman should or shouldn't be.

At the end of the day, I'm the only one who can give the boys an example of a happy mother who is squeezing the most out of life.

Or at least tries to, on most days.

I won't display the photos above the mantle.

I'll keep them with the rest of our family's pictures.

This entire day was more about celebrating myself, and the pictures are just a result of that.

Someday, I hope my sons will stumble upon these pictures and see me for more than just their mom, but as a woman who loved life even when things weren't easy; a woman who could be a mom, wife, daughter, sister, and friend, but who also owned her sensuality, had a desire to learn, pursued whatever sparked her interest, and took care of the people she loved—including herself.

Believe It Or Not, Kids Are Listening.

Last weekend, we went to a barn party.

Well, it was actually a hog roast, but we called it a barn party because the boys are particularly empathetic to animals. And in this case, they knew the hog and his name.

It was a laid-back, family kind of party where you bring a blanket and take walks around the farm. We feel very comfortable there, and the boys run around and play with their friends while we talk to ours.

It reminds me of summer parties from my childhood. Returning to my parents' house just before it was time to leave, sweaty and tired and tan after playing capture the flag in a Midwestern neighborhood.

There was a band, and Don asked me to dance.

While we danced, Jack and Oscar joined us, and we formed our own little mosh pit.

When the song was over, following what he had witnessed his daddy do, Oscar asked me to dance.

I put my flip-flops back on and headed back to the driveway, which was serving as our dance floor.

He twirled me around until I got dizzy. We held hands and did a Ring Around the Rosie-type dance we made up until the band stopped for the night.

We were sweaty and tired and tan when we returned to our blanket.

On the ride home, Don texted me the picture he had taken while Oscar and I were dancing.

One of those pictures that someday, when I'm old, I'll look at it and won't be able to recall a time when Oscar was shorter than me.

It was a perfect moment frozen in time.

I shared it on social media.

I showed Oscar, and he said it was a cool picture.

All was well in the world.

My cyber friends saw the beauty in the picture too, and a lot of people liked it.

The following day, I viewed the photo again.

The barn-party weekend euphoria had ended, and it was Sunday night.

As I looked at the photo, I said to Don, "This is a horrible picture. I look six months pregnant. I should delete it."

Don didn't respond because after 18 years, he doesn't entertain negative comments I make about my body.

But a low little voice from behind the couch did.

Not only did Oscar hear me say it was a horrible picture, but he also heard that I looked pregnant and that I wanted to delete it.

He asked me why looking pregnant was a bad thing and why I lied about liking the picture yesterday.

In his 8-year-old mind, he thought I wanted to delete dancing with him from my memory.

I felt like someone had punched me in the gut.

Being the only woman in my house, I try so hard, maybe extra hard, to show the boys that I love who I am.

I want them to see me taking care of myself so I can take care of them.

I want them to see me sweaty, with no makeup on, when I come home from the gym.

I want them to see me put on lipstick and heels before I go to work.

Or wear a dress to go out to a concert.

When Jack commented that all I ate was salad, I tried eating a bigger variety so that they wouldn't assume that all women just eat salads.

In public, I make a point to comment on how beautiful pregnant women are.

Yet here I was, saying the opposite.

I mean, in his mind, if pregnant women are beautiful, why would I be complaining about it if I felt I looked pregnant in a photo?

Obviously, as a mother of four large babies, despite my best efforts, there are times and angles when my midsection is not flattering.

How shallow of me to focus on the one thing in the photo that didn't matter.

The one thing that nobody else was thinking about.

The one thing that I shouldn't even care about.

He sat on the couch, and I told him he was right.

That I do love that photo, and I loved dancing with him even more.

That I was wrong to say mean things about anyone, especially myself.

After all, my body is amazing, and it was able to nurture and carry his brothers and him.

But let me be completely honest.

I don't tell my body that on a regular basis.

In fact, if my body were my friend, it would have unfriended me long ago.

I continually look in the mirror and see things I don't like.

In the process, I completely overlook the things I should.

Some of them stem from things that have happened to me when I was a teen.

Other things are my opinion, based on the unrealistic expectations I alone have decided as to what beauty looks like.

I keep those all in my head until I don't, and one of my sons hears me putting down his mommy.

Kids are always watching and listening.

Even when you think they aren't.

When they are engrossed in their Nintendo DS or phones or watching YouTube, they listen.

I know this because I can speak the words "Dinner is ready," and they come running, even when moments earlier I screamed at the top of my lungs asking whose turn it was to empty the dishwasher and nobody responded.

They hear you moan in the mirror.

They see you stuff your body into garments to make you appear as though you take up less space in the world.

They notice when you look yourself straight in the eye and frown.

I don't have daughters.

But I have an important task in raising sons.

I need to let the boys know that women are beautiful because of who they are, what they are capable of doing as human beings, and not what they look like.

And if they don't like something, they change it.

But there is no room for judgment.

Especially in oneself.

The people whom I love know that I love them hard.

And that should include myself too.

All of me.

What Oscar saw in that picture is everything I aspire to be.

He sees his mommy.

The woman he asked to dance, who said yes.

The woman who will dance with him every time he asks, as long as she is able.

That is beauty.

Not the size of my waist.

The fact that I said yes.

Finding Soul-itude

I don't spend a lot of time alone.

Even times that I should be alone, like in the bathroom, I don't have much solitude because just on the other side of our old wooden door is either our dog or a son having a barely audible, one-sided conversation with me about Minecraft.

I recall a time when I felt alone a lot.

I was living in one of the largest cities in the country, and I had never felt more lonely.

I had plenty of friends. But as I drove home from my acting class in Hollywood to my apartment in West Los Angeles, I remember having an overwhelming sense of isolation.

Despite having plenty of connections, I didn't feel like I was actually connecting with anyone.

Now, 18 years later, my only solitude is found between dropping the boys off at various social and extracurricular events, and usually, it is brief.

My minivan is my sanctuary.

It's climate-controlled, kind of echo-y, has the best music, and it is the place where I can let everything out.

For as many times as the odometer has clicked a new number, I have prayed, worried, sang, laughed, or pulled over to cry.

I have had deep, hands-free phone conversations while in the Target parking lot, which probably made me look crazy.

I have taken cat naps.

I have asked questions and expected to hear the answers.

When you're busy, you have to find meditation wherever you can get it.

Last week, I was on the cusp of what felt like a big decision in my life.

I had finished a particularly challenging workout. The sun hadn't quite come up yet, and I found myself pulled over next to the river.

I opened the sunroof and turned off the engine.

It is not a secret that I'm a very artistic person. I have come to realize I see things through a more colorful lens than your average person.

With that in mind, I will continue.

I looked over at the hospital.

I was born there.

My siblings were born there.

All four of my sons took their first breaths there.

Even the two souls that never did were born there.

Every single school day, my dad and I would drive past on the way to school. Every day, my mom and I would drive past on the way home.

I can almost feel every joy, pain, anxiety, and happiness that I have felt throughout my life when I look at that building.

I still pass the hospital every single day, and it still catches my attention.

It's like passing an old friend, one who doesn't say much but observes everything and knows a lot more about you than you think they do.

As I sat there contemplating a change in my life, I turned to the hospital, almost expecting an answer.

Sometimes I think listening is the most powerful tool I have.

Even when the answer doesn't come in words.

When I was lonely, it was because I was trying to conform to someone I wasn't.

I was on a mission to hide who I was, trying to please someone else, to be liked by people who weren't my friends.

In the process of trying to go from a size 4 to a 2 to a 0, I wasn't just physically shrinking.

My true self was disappearing too.

I couldn't even be alone because if I sat really still, I had to listen to the voice that knew my authenticity had been seriously compromised.

I'm not one to shy away from an argument, even with myself.

The truth came to me in a really dark moment.

I had been out with friends for about an hour when I was drugged.

Thankfully, they recognized what was happening and got me to safety.

To be out with friends one moment and wake up 12 hours later with no recollection of how I had gotten there was incredibly scary.

I was home, in my little apartment bathtub, which is confusing as it is, but at least I was home.

(In hindsight, I wish they would have left a note.)

But at least they got me there.

After I stopped being sick and was lying in my own bed, in my own pajamas, I took an inventory of every inch of my body, asking myself how I had gotten there.

Both literally and figuratively.

And while taking inventory, I realized something that scared me almost as much as the night itself.

I had spent so much time trying to become who I thought other people wanted me to be that I had stopped listening to myself.

I had been shrinking myself physically, emotionally, and figuratively, trying to fit into someone else's idea of who I should be.

And now, lying alone in my bed, I had to ask myself:

Where the hell was I?

Not where was my body.

I knew where that was.

Where was I?

I had spent so much time listening to everyone else that I had forgotten what my own voice sounded like.

And when I took inventory of my soul, I realized it wasn't intact.

Not at all.

So I listened.

Really listened.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn't try to argue with what I heard.

I even took a break from L.A. for a few days to find me again.

Sometimes you need solitude to allow your soul to give you the answer it has been trying to give you the entire time.

I'm not saying being drugged by a stranger is ever a good thing. It wasn't.

But for me, it became a dangerous wake-up call.

I had been looking everywhere else for answers—at other people, at their opinions, at what they wanted from me.

I needed to stop.

Stop searching outward.

And start listening inward.

A few weeks later, I met Don.

A few years later, we returned to my hometown to raise a family.

And live a stone's throw away from my old hospital.

And now, I find my sanctuary sitting in a van down by the river.

I got my answer that day.

But only after I truly stopped.

Stopped my body and my racing mind.

Stopped scrolling and lifted my focus away from my phone, away from the worry of what other people were thinking.

And I took a sharp turn inward.

How amazing to give yourself the gift of solitude in a crazy, busy world.

A splendid moment of isolation can be more restorative than any conversation could be.

And when you quiet the noise, you can finally find your voice.

Ripped

My dad would take me to school every morning on his way to the office, and as soon as he was out of eyesight, I would roll.

I mean, roll and roll and roll the top of my skirt until it was about mid-thigh.

The dress code for skirt length at my Catholic high school was fingertip length. My skirt wasn't that long to begin with.

Unfortunately, I had to walk by the office for my second class, and just when I thought I was in the free zone, I would hear Mrs. Hatfield call out, "Miss Gunn, please come back here."

She would ask me to put my arms down to inspect the length of my skirt. Before I would do this, I would shrug my shoulders up to my ears in an effort to fool her.

I tried to explain that I was genetically predisposed to extremely long arms, and even longer fingers, and that this rule wasn't fair.

I received a warning, but as the years went on, I would be forced to wear the school "pants," which were hideous corduroy bell bottoms.

I wore them so many times that when I graduated, Mrs. Hatfield told me I could keep them as a commencement gift.

My husband went to an all-boys military boarding school, so I can't imagine he was much of a fashion rebel unless you count letting his shoes lose their shine.

I share this because right now, I have a teen who is the same age.

Fifteen years ago, I remember his birth. Specifically, I remember asking—pleading—for an epidural.

Which makes me think epidurals are wasted on the birth. They should be offered for the teen years.

It would make it a lot less painful for me.

I'm kidding.

Sort of.

It is not physically painful. More emotional.

A friend of mine told me that he doesn't give a flying f*ck what his son wears to school.

But the thing is, I do.

I give a lot of flying f*cks about it.

If you are my friend, you know this because I have talked about it with anyone who will listen.

Since my friends are all busy now, I have to write about it. And since you are reading this, you are going to have to be subjected to it too.

My son has recently taken an interest in his personal style.

Up until this point, I have had the privilege to dictate what my boys wear.

I enjoy this.

Every morning, I would lay their clothes out.

I would describe my boy style as East Coast casual with a hint of West Coast edge.

Or professorial kid-chic.

The truth is, the boys didn't care what they wore as long as it was easy to put on and wasn't uncomfortable.

I was also hoping to influence their little boy minds so that when they were adults, they would know that plaid doesn't look right with stripes.

So now I have a boy who wears ripped jeans and jean jackets.

He looks like Zach Morris if Zach Morris would have been mugged on the way home from the Max.

Or, as a friend pointed out, he looks like Donny Wahlberg from NKOTB circa 1989.

Another friend of mine was much more flattering.

She just came back from an Italian vacation and said that he looks very European.

Being a control freak, it takes all I have not to take these ripped jeans and send them to the European boys.

I thought long and hard, and probably too long, about this.

Why does it bother me so much?

Why do I have a guttural reaction whenever I see his knees through his pants?

I don't have the same reaction when he wears shorts.

After discussing it over drinks with yet another friend, I had an A-ha moment.

I'm using my children as mini representatives of me.

I'm worried that anyone who sees one of them walking around with ripped clothes is going to have some opinion about me and my lack of parenting.

That ripped jeans are the universal sign of neglect.

That ripped jeans are a red flag of my ability to control our family's image.

That ripped jeans scream horrific fashion sense, and I cannot deal with it.

The truth is, this isn't just about clothing.

I think parents do this all the time.

For example, you might be hesitant to tell a fellow parent that your child is not interested in going to college, but instead wants to go to a trade school.

Because that ultimately says your child won't have a college degree.

"Then why did you spend all that money on tutors, SAT classes, and after-school activities?" they may ask.

What will they end up doing with their lives? they may wonder.

And then the questions will be pointed at you.

Why didn't you force them to apply to college?

It turns into a parental issue and has nothing to do with what is right for the child.

My friend pointed out that my son is an amazing young man.

He has empathy for animals and little kids (other than his brothers, that is an entirely different blog post).

He is creative and thoughtful and very funny.

He loves spending time with his grandparents on Sunday afternoons.

He has more friends than I can count.

He sends me texts telling me to have a good day at work.

No amount of ripped, faded jeans is going to change that.

The reason I wore short skirts in high school wasn't that I was trying to be provocative.

It was because it was the style.

It was also because I played soccer, and my mom had told me that I had beautiful legs.

Can you imagine if she would have told me the opposite?

That I had ugly legs?

A parent's reaction to their child's attempt to express themselves could leave a lasting impression.

Do I want it to be a positive or negative one?

I have decided to let these ripped jeans go.

If this style makes him feel good about himself, then who am I to tear him down?

Pun intended.

I have spent the better half of his life preparing him to be strong and have his own opinions.

I guess I just thought that his opinions would be more in line with mine.

Parenting mistake #501.

I'm not going to love him any less if his opinions just happen to be different than mine.

I was the Pariah Girl

When I was in grade school, my dad would drop me off early because it was on the way to his office. Back then, you could just wander around the school until everyone got there.

I was in second grade, and I walked down the long hallway to my classroom. My best friend, Kristen, arrived on Bus #3.

This day, I decided to write her a note with a sticker I had gotten at the mall the day before and put it in her desk.

When she arrived, I couldn't wait for her to see it.

It was one of those oily stickers that you pressed on and it made all sorts of swirly shapes.

When she opened it, she folded it in half and stuck it back in her desk.

For sure, I thought by snack time she would crack a smile or at least acknowledge the note.

When I returned from grabbing my milk, she approached me and gave me the note back.

But written in bubbly print, it said:

"You are not my friend and nobody likes you."

Up until this point, I had only had the wind knocked out of me while playing a sport. Her words punched me just as hard.

I looked around the hallway, and she had returned to the group of girls in my class. They stood there giggling and whispering while I made my way to the girls' bathroom with floor-to-ceiling yellow tile and sobbed.

Of course, this is through the lens of my 8-year-old self.

Maybe the girls in the group were already laughing. Or maybe they didn't know about the note.

But the rest of the day, not a single girl talked to me.

It was a game they were playing that week.

At recess, I played four square with the boys. I ate lunch alone. (This was before buddy benches.)

Luckily for me, I was a bit of a tomboy. Many times, I was the only girl invited to boys' birthday parties.

I was so thankful for my knowledge of Garbage Pail Kids and Mighty Muscle Men that week.

What I didn't know was that this was a game the girls in the class had decided to play: to call out one girl and treat her like a pariah.

I don't know how I was chosen to be first, but thankfully, I was the last.

This game only lasted a week before everyone became uninterested.

Obviously, this had a significant impact on me.

I had trust issues with girlfriends after that. I spent most of my childhood being friends with boys in my class.

Peter H., Noah G., Clint O., and Adam K., to name a few.

They were fun, they played sports, and they didn't play hurtful "games" like the girls did.

Eventually, I found a new girl who came to the school in third grade.

As much as I loved playing football with the boys, I missed nail polish and dolls. I knew this was my opportunity to befriend someone who didn't know anyone.

It worked.

We became fast best friends.

And when you find that, you don't let it go.

Even 32 years later, we are still best friends, and she was my maid of honor.

But the majority of my good friends, even today, are male.

This doesn't sit well with some women.

I get that, but they don't know my story.

I understand that even today, some groups of women still choose a pariah to collectively distrust or hate.

But if you have been the pariah, you don't participate.

I'm not perfect.

Initially, in high school, I fell into that trap. I was popular, and with that, I gained some sort of false power that made me believe that I could be mean without repercussions.

It would make me feel good at first.

But I began losing girlfriends.

Then, on cue, another new girl came in.

She was beautiful, and she didn't know a single soul at this small Catholic school.

We had met at a party in seventh grade, and she remembered that I was nice to her.

She gave the office my name and shadowed me all day.

When I got married seven years later, she was a bridesmaid.

Over time, I allowed myself to trust women until eventually, I had enough for an entire bridal party!

But I carried the pain from second grade around in my back pocket.

It's amazing that a simple act of cruelty, even if it feels harmless, can have a lasting impact.

In college, my roommate and I got into a fight, and she screamed, "You are so closed off. You don't let anyone in!"

I was a theater major, for God's sake. I was letting people in all the time!

Or maybe I let them see a scripted version of myself.

A predictable story.

A protagonist, an ingénue, and best of all, a curtain at the end for keeping my distance.

She made me realize that I had been protecting myself, and in the process, I was missing out on a lot of amazing friendships.

After I got married, I decided to aggressively and proactively pursue female friendships.

Surprisingly, it wasn't that hard.

You find something you like and do it.

Eventually, you find other people who also like those things.

And BOOM, you have a friend.

Then, when you have kids, that makes it even easier.

Also, work friends are a no-brainer.

I joined two book clubs. I joined mom groups. I joined CrossFit and spinning or yoga. I took an art class, even a dog-walking group.

And along the way, I was creating a little army of women who were there for each other.

Equally, as a simple act of meanness can impact someone, a simple act of kindness or inclusion can have an even bigger impact on someone, especially a woman.

I spend a lot of time at war with myself, and I'm assuming that other women do the same.

The worn-out recording of the same old crap:

I'm not ______ enough.

People think I'm ______.

We have no business tearing other women down because chances are, she already does that to herself enough and is much better at doing it than you could ever be.

A year or so ago, I found out that a woman had said some really awful things about me.

She doesn't even know me, but still thought she would go out of her way to say mean things.

Of course, her hurtful words made their way back to me.

The funny thing is, when you surround yourself with an army of strong women who you actively build up, they are going to go to battle to protect you.

Her effort to gain friends by being cruel resulted in having the opposite effect.

Even so, it still hurt, and it is really hard for me to forgive that person.

It's like standing in the hallway at snack time all over again.

I saw her recently, sitting alone in a bar where I was having a drink with one of my guy friends.

I went on a 10-minute tirade about why I hated her. I also decided to call out all of her flaws.

He just looked at me in shock.

He had never seen that side of me and told me it was ugly.

At that moment, I was not choosing an action that was in my best interest.

Or hers.

I was hurt, and I was venomously expressing hatred that would carry me to a dark, mean place, which made me just as bad as she was.

I figured this out the hard way after I yelled at my friend for pointing this out.

(That is another perk of guy friends: They have no problem calling you out.)

So the next week or so, I went out of my way to make up for this indiscretion.

I friended women on Facebook who had badass profiles that exuded happiness and confidence.

They friended me back instantly, and I sent them messages, even though I didn't know them, explaining why I wanted to be their friend.

Not just in cyberspace, but in real life.

I also started liking selfies of women friends on Instagram.

Taking a selfie takes courage.

Unless they are seriously narcissistic, it's not a braggadocious act.

Maybe their skin or hair or makeup looks really amazing that day.

Maybe their relationship with a significant other is just going super well, and they want to document it.

Maybe the opposite is true.

Who the hell knows?

But what I do know is that I am going to LIKE it.

Because it takes courage to put yourself out there.

Every single time a woman supports another woman, we win.

This isn't a competition.

It is a collaboration.

So what the girls in second grade didn't realize is that they were teaching me a very important lesson:

Kindness trumps cruelty in every. single. situation.

For that one day, I'm so grateful.

I was the lucky one chosen to be the Pariah.

Unlocking a teenager

Last night, there were about six things that needed to be done. About four of them HAD to be done, like making dinner and opening a bottle of wine.

But of those four items, I only managed to get one done, and I'm sure you can figure out which one that was.

I needed to finish yet another paper for grad school and should have been researching data analysis. But instead, I found myself on my bedroom floor surrounded by a dozen old journals.

Just by looking at the worn covers, I can tell you exactly where I was in my life.

The yellow one with pink and green flowers with the word "Help" on the side?

That was the beginning of high school.

I flipped through the worn pages, and if I run my fingers over the print, it almost feels like the words are engraved. I can tell how I was feeling by how deep the impression of the words is.

I flipped through until I found 1992.

I was 14.

It was my adult self's desperate attempt to figure out what it feels like to be 14 again.

Memories have a way of filtering out things.

For some people, they filter out the positive. For others, they filter out the negative.

If you asked me now, I would say I liked being 14. I had fun. I had a lot of friends and was well-liked. I was a great athlete, a cute girl, and a decent student.

My 14-year-old self would vehemently disagree.

According to her, she loved people who didn't love her back. Her friends betrayed her. Boys made fun of her. She let her team down in a playoff game. Her body was fat, her face was hideous, and she was the dumbest person in her class.

I was given my first journal when I was 8, and since then, when I needed to sort through my feelings, I turned to writing.

The entire rainbow of feelings. High and low and everything in between.

That is one thing that has withstood the test of time.

And right now, I need to figure some things out.

Like a library, I can go back to a very specific stage and read my very own description of exactly what it felt like.

I pulled the journals out from their hiding place in the name of research.

I was trying to figure out a combination to unlock one of my sons.

When he is hurting, as his mom, I feel like I need to do whatever it is to help him.

Every child is different, and he internalizes.

The combination that would work as a toddler:

Pick him up.

Tell him I love him.

Make him laugh.

When he was a little boy, I would:

Give him a hug.

Tell him I love him.

Make him an ice cream sundae.

When he was a preteen, I would:

Go for a walk.

Tell him I love him.

Give him his space.

Now, as a teen:

Tell him I love him.

Text him I love him.

Text him a funny dog video.

But last night, my combination failed.

Nothing I said or did worked.

I desperately wanted to unlock him because if I understood what was bothering him, I could surely fix it.

Don spoke to him and said I should give him his space.

I didn't.

I tried every combination I knew.

Something you should know about me is that I don't like people to feel sad.

Especially the people I love.

When I see someone broken into pieces, I want to put them back together.

So I didn't listen to Don.

I went up to his room and tried to pick the lock, and truthfully, I only made it worse.

My son continued to turn inward.

Every attempt I made seemed to add another lock between us.

When I looked at him, I saw the Pont des Arts in Paris.

Lock upon lock upon lock.

I had spent the entire night trying to pick my son's locks, when maybe they weren't locks meant to be picked at all.

In 2015, the city removed 45 TONS of padlocks from the bridge. They were called Love Locks—symbols of people who loved each other enough to leave something behind.

And suddenly, I wondered if I had been looking at my son's locks all wrong.

Maybe they aren't keeping me out.

Maybe they are keeping things in.

Things he isn't ready to let out yet.

And maybe my job isn't to break through.

Maybe it's simply to stay close enough that when he is ready to unlock them, I'm still there.

But a mom stops at nothing.

That is how I ended up on the floor of my bedroom reading my journals, searching for a code that I could offer my son.

Before I went to bed, I went up to his room and saw the door was shut.

I stood there and said, "Goodnight," but got no response.

I considered sleeping outside his door just in case he needed me, but even I know that is a little crazy.

As I walked away, I forgot to do the one combination that I always attempt.

Through the door, I said, "I love you."

I waited a few seconds in hopes of hearing it back, but didn't.

I sent him another text with those same words.

He didn't respond.

And no matter what, I am going to continue to tell my boys that I love them. I'll never stop.

Even if they don't want to hear it or read it.

What I know for sure is that they NEED it.

And that is all I can do.

My hope is that when any of them are in a dark place, my voice will reach the places that my hands can't and serve as a light to guide them back to a familiar, safe place.

A place that will always be unlocked for them.

An Open Letter to The Person Who Critiqued My Son's Performance in A Christmas Show

I was having a pretty decent morning. Yesterday, our neighborhood had a freak power outage at 7:30 a.m. right after I had dried half of my hair.   Luckily for me, the wet side was on my left and I was able to roll my window down and let the brisk 41-degree air dry the other side as I rushed to get my boys to school on time So compared to yesterday, it was smooth sailing.

Until a few friends of mine told me not to read the local newspaper.  To be honest, I didn't need coaxing with that.  I don't usually read it anyway, but now I was curious.  As you know, there was a review in the paper of the show two of my sons, my husband, and numerous (new) friends are in.  It is a timely production of A Christmas Story. An adaptation of the movie and my son plays Ralphie. 

I felt that little tingle.  The tingle I can only imagine Bruce Banner feels right before he turns into the Hulk. Except, I'm something far more dangerous than a giant green meathead, I'm a Mama bear.   I tried to suppress this feeling before I made it to my office and searched the Internet.  

You see, Jack has wanted to be on stage since he was 2.  Any opportunity he has had to perform he has jumped at the chance.  Both my husband and I spent a good amount of time on stage.   We didn't let him audition until he was 8.  Jack's older brothers were in plays, but we wanted him to be ready for the massive time commitment any production takes.   He auditioned for a few shows and while his brother got lead roles, he got the chorus and ensemble, if he got a part at all. 

When auditions for A Christmas Story came around, he wanted to audition, but talked himself down saying he would probably be cut.  We encouraged him to try. When he got the news that he had not only gotten a part but the lead, his world blew up.  

That was in October.  We are now in December.   What I don't think you could have even possibly considered was that, a commitment to five- six nights a week for 2-4 hours is tough for anyone. It's not just the actors commitment, it is a family commitment.   We ate dinner at 5:15 every night so we could still see each other and make it to rehearsal on time.    I'm currently in the trenches of my master degree, while working full-time and raising four young boys, but you see, all that doesn't matter when you finally see the spark in your child's eyes when they finally find something they love doing and believe for the first time, that they are good at. Running lines day and night, became our life.

A little history about me,  I have a theater degree, hence me returning to get my masters at the age of 40.  I was in my junior year of college auditioning for parts across Los Angeles, I got some bit parts here and there.  Then I got a big break, an audition with an agent that I believed could change my life.  And he did, but not in the way I had hoped.  He told me that I was a great actress, that he wanted to represent me, but that wasn't good enough. I needed to change my appearance and test my morals if I really wanted him to be my agent.  The really sad thing is, is that I believed him.   I was just 21 and I thought he knew what he was talking about.  And just like that, I believed something someone else said to me, and I gave up my dream. 

So today, when I sat down at my computer and saw that you critiqued my 10-year-old son's acting I couldn't help but feel a bit defensive.   I'm not a theater mom. I'm just a regular mom, who just read someone publicly criticize her son.  In a community theater production. At Christmas.   Can you imagine if every kid that did any kid-like things was judged?  Jack loved playing basketball but he was terrible, thankfully someone like you wasn't there to point out all his flaws there too. He gave it up on his own accord. 

The thing is, my son is a kid, playing the part of a kid.  And the criticism was that he wasn't engaged when other characters were speaking.  Holy cow, talk about method acting, I think this is a brilliant interpretation of how every kid across the world interacts with their parents on a daily basis! He deserves a Tony Award.

I apologize if this is starting to sound a bit too Mama bear, theater mom crazy, but I'm writing it for every parent who has sat crouched in a cold dark backstage room telling kids to be quiet or listening for cues . Or pricked their finger sewing on a feather that has fallen off a costume. Theater is so much bigger than just the acting.

This little town of mine, and the kids in it, need this community theater now more than ever.  Why? Because acting is more than just pleasing the audience. It's allowing our kids to learn to express themselves in creative ways. It's showing them alternative ways to deal with complex emotions. Being a kid today in this violent world is not easy, but what is easy, is being a kid, playing a kid in an imaginary world and loving every single second of it.

The last thing I would want is for someone to read a bad review of a community theater production, and then decide not to attend. Because without an audience, those kids are just rehearsing, and they do a LOT of that already.  Plus,  those ticket prices, although they may seem high, are what keep these little theaters going, and these kids dreaming and learning how to navigate in this unpredictable society.

So thank you for saying my husband was the "highlight of the entire production", that was sweet, but I kindly disagree, I think every single person on that  stage was equally as bright.  And thanks for saying Jack did a fine job reciting all of his lines (167 of them in all, he counted). But, he isn't going to see your review.  We have taught him that people will forget what you say to them, but they will never forget how you make them feel. 

After his opening night, the same show you saw, as I tucked him in way, way, way past his bedtime,  he said the best part of the entire night, was hearing people laugh and seeing people in the audience smiling.  You should know, you were there.

Really, that is what theater is all about. It is making people feel.  And with every kid who can stand on a stage and that is willing to do that for me, is a star in my book. 

All I ask is that next time, you feel like tearing something down consider the community that took the time to build it up. 

I encourage every single person in our city of South Bend, Indiana and a 25-mile radius to go and see the remaining 15 shows if they get a chance.  And if you aren't local, go and see your community's Christmas Show.  I can promise, you will smile, at least twice, and I don't know about you, but lately, our world has been filled with a lot of frowns.   

Thank you,
Noelle Gunn Elliott

Losening the Reins

I have never broken in a horse.

I should probably say that up front because recently I told a friend that breaking in a horse would be easier than raising a teen.

She didn't question my comparison, at least not out loud.

The last couple of weeks have been challenging. Since last month, I have two teen boys in the house, and I don't want to freak anyone who is currently raising toddlers out, but I have lost more sleep and felt more guilty about my parenting than I ever did when they were little.

And guilt was my middle name.

My teens are 13 and 14, which means we are still in the pony stage of teen life.

If I can't handle a pony, how in the world am I going to handle a full-size horse?

Again, I have no experience with horses. The last time I rode one was in Sonoma on our honeymoon 16 years ago.

The thing about horses is that they are beautiful, but at the same time, they can scare the shit out of you.

For example, you can be going along, riding a horse on a trail, and then all of a sudden, something freaks them out. They start galloping, and you think you are going to die.

And you say, "Whoa," but they don't listen.

And just before you think you are going to get bucked off, they start walking again like nothing ever happened.

That is why I feel like raising two teen boys is like breaking in a horse who doesn't like having someone on their back telling them what to do.

And for the simple fact that horses eat a ton....

What I do know from brief horse encounters, and the obscene number of Lifetime movies I have watched where the movie takes place on a ranch, is that horses respond better when you loosely hold their reins.

When you guide them gently, but let them follow the path without forcing them to go where you want them to, they will do it.

I have learned that teen boys are kind of like that too.

In every instance that we have ended up in a conflict, it has been because someone's—okay, mostly my—expectations have not been met.

My preconceived ideas about how a conversation or a situation is going to go, and when those expectations are not met, all hell breaks loose.

This happened recently with a movie night I had planned.

All I wanted to do was put on my comfy pajamas, make some popcorn, and snuggle with my husband and the four humans we created surrounding us.

I announced my intentions numerous times and put it on our kitchen chalkboard that the movie would begin at 7.

We were all ready, and my oldest was missing.

He had decided to go to a volleyball game instead.

He texted me and called, but I had put my phone away so I could be fully present.

When I did read the text, I saw he had called nine times.

I was mad.

How dare my high schooler want to spend a Friday night with his friends?

If I'm honest, it hurt my feelings.

And I know how pathetic that sounds.

When he got home, he couldn't understand what the big deal was, and truthfully, I couldn't articulate it either.

It isn't a secret that I'm a bit of a control freak.

I like order, organization, and predictability.

The three things that teens are not notorious for.

At least not mine.

So I continue to try and shove them into this perfect square I have created with four equal and straight lines.

And when one of them decides to veer off, I pull in the reins.

Making it even worse.

It's a hard realization when you suddenly have kids who are the size of adults in your house.

I look up to their eyes, and I still see the little boys holding a sippy cup and a blanket.

And that is the problem.

I'm trying to keep them in this box that they no longer fit in.

They are growing, so I might as well too.

I decided it was time that I loosened my reins.

I'm not hovering.

I'm trusting.

I'm keeping them safe, giving them guidance, but letting them find their way, within reason.

This is tremendously hard for me and could possibly blow up in my face.

You see, for the past decade, I have been doing my absolute hardest to teach them right from wrong.

I have made them apologize when they have done something inconsiderate, write thank-you notes when they need to show gratitude, and put their dirty dishes in the sink.

In addition to being the single female in their house and trying to make them see me in a way that will shape how they see all other women for the rest of their lives.

The last one being the most important to me.

I want more than anything for them to respect everyone, but especially women.

I want them to be the men I needed at a party in college, or at my first job, or second, or third job.

And my fear is that if I step aside, they may get off this path, so I have painstakingly tried to put them on it.

My answer came in the form of this text.

It's not groundbreaking, but I texted him at what I thought was his lunchtime, just letting him know I was thinking about him.

But then, he returned the favor and asked me how my day was.

Reins loosened.

A 14-year-old boy asking his mom how her day was going.

It may not seem like a lot, but to me, it was validation that not only does he care about others, but he takes the time to ask.

I may not know anything about riding horses or getting them to stay on the path, but the little that I do know has helped guide me in the right direction when it comes to raising gentlemen.

The Perfect Mess

I was running behind schedule this morning.

I did my usual workout at 5 and was back home by 6:15. But somehow, between 6:15 and 7 a.m., I had the nerve to sit down and have my breakfast rather than taking bites of it as I scrambled past the kitchen island.

Oscar saw me and was so confused by this that he asked me if it was Saturday.

"No, it's Wednesday," I explained.

And I have lost all motivation to move.

I managed to make my way into the shower, and I just stood there in a strange time warp, actually enjoying the hot water running down my back.

I even decided to wash my hair today.

Seriously, who in the hell did I think I was? A lady of leisure?

Just as I was about to apply conditioner, Oscar burst into the bathroom and asked if he could have my thumb.

He needed it to unlock my phone.

I stuck my thumb out of the shower, and he dried it off and pushed the phone against it.

"Why?" I asked.

He said he had made the perfect mess and wanted to take a picture of it.

I tried not to freak out, and my shower euphoria came to an abrupt end.

I'm not a messy person on the outside.

But on the inside, dear Lord, help me.

Let me share a little insight.

A couple of weeks ago, my foundation was compromised.

What I mean is, on the outside, my structure looked normal, but on the inside, I was crumbling.

Anxiety was eroding any solid beams that were keeping me standing.

For me, anxiety is like a closet that you stuff everything into before you have company come over.

Remember, I don't like a mess.

If someone is sad, I want to cheer them up. If someone is mourning, I want to shower them with love. If someone is angry, I'll take the hit. If someone is lost, I want to help them find their way. Totally metaphorically, I have a horrific sense of direction.

I want to take those painful things away from others and lock them away.

At least for a little while.

Because for me, there is such beauty in a clean space. It's when I can finally breathe.

Then, one day, something happened that forced the door to the closet to open, and everything spilled out.

I panicked as I tried to stuff it all back in, but I couldn't, no matter how hard I tried.

Things spilled out in plain sight.

Every anxiety I had hidden away. All my insecurities about every aspect of my life. My marriage, my friendships, my work, my school.

Everything.

I had been here before, and I knew I needed help, so I called a therapist.

I have had one fantastic therapist in my life, and I became friends with him, so now he isn't my therapist. And that is really cool, but also sad because every other therapist I have had is, well, nuts.

So I went to a new therapist and sat with him for two hours.

TWO hours.

Answering his questions about why I feel overwhelmed with anxiety.

He told me he had never met a woman with more on her plate, and I agreed with him.

And then he told me he knew why I was having such anxiety.

I was so thrilled to finally have someone offer a solution.

He told me it was Satan.

(See above comment about my luck with therapists.)

I had allowed Satan into my life, and he was causing the anxiety.

Yep.

Our session ended abruptly after that.

How ridiculous, right?

Satan?

But then I started thinking about it.

Maybe he was right?

Maybe I had...

I mean, I was pretty crazy at one point in my life. Maybe he saw a vulnerable window open and crawled on in?

Oh my God.

Maybe I AM possessed?

I pulled over and messaged my pastor.

Actually, my former pastor, but he is still on my crisis contact list.

Surely he would know.

He responded almost instantly and apologized for the therapist who offered such a suggestion and said that, indeed, he did not believe Satan was the cause of my anxiety.

I texted/called four of my closest friends and asked them if they thought I had been acting weird(er) and if it was possible that Satan had entered my body.

They all responded and said no.

I didn't text my mom because she would have had an exorcism arranged by the time I got off work.

When I did get home, I poured a glass of wine—i.e., if blessed, the blood of Christ—and called my brother.

I told him what the therapist had told me.

He had a good point.

He explained that if the worst thing Satan is capable of doing is causing a busy mom who has four growing boys, a full-time job, a part-time job, a theatrical show, is going to grad school, helps take care of her parents, and has a husband to have anxiety, then I must be one strong mo-fo.

OR, the guy was full of shit.

I can always count on him to make me see things clearly.

When I think of evil, I think of death, destruction, manipulation, politics, but anxiety isn't at the top of the list.

Or even on the bottom.

I discovered a few things.

In addition to finding a new therapist, I realized that most of my anxiety is caused by trying to conceal the things that make us imperfect.

What Oscar saw in his "perfect mess" was that it was the shape of a flower.

What causes me anxiety is all the things that are messy.

I worry I'm f'ing up my boys' lives.

I worry that Don thinks I'm not doing a good job as a wife or mother.

I worry that I'm not smart.

I worry that I'm not doing enough for others.

On certain days, I worry if I'm chubby/ugly.

I know it sounds petty, but these things are a concern.

My biggest and most frequent worry is that I just can't do it all.

But as my brother pointed out, I kind of am.

On a difficult day, I need to focus on the times when I saw this.

Like when Fin was at a rehearsal for his play and was the happiest I had ever seen him.

When I broke the garage door (again) and Don didn't blame me, just fixed it.

When I got an A on a paper that I did at the very last minute because I was too busy helping Parker with his homework.

When a co-worker tells me I look nice when I didn't even shower that day.

If I look closely enough, I too can see that true perfection is messy, ugly, hard, brutal, and, most importantly, real.

And most significant are the people who love me for it.

Did I mention that not one single person I asked about my Satan-induced anxiety hesitated to help me?

Or to talk me through it?

Not one of them told me I was to blame.

Compassion for others—and for oneself—is being able to see the flower in the mess.

The Scarlet letter F

I have not tried to hide the fact that I was a bit of a troublemaker as a kid.

Well, I have hidden it from my own kids, but not everyone else.

I like to act shocked when they get caught doing something they shouldn't be doing.

In fourth grade, I tried to use my sister's bug collection and pass it off as my own. She and my dad spent weeks making a wooden case with a plexiglass window. Inside were all the insects she had collected day and night all summer. All of them intact, with a long needle right through the middle. Each was labeled with labels she lined up in the typewriter to get just perfect.

We went to a small private school, but nonetheless, I thought I could pass it off as my own.

I might mention that she is nine years older than me, and the insects looked a little... crusty.

Despite my sister's research on what looked to be expert insect taxidermy, my teacher could clearly see that these insects had been dead for almost a decade. They had legs falling off. Some even had cobwebs.

But on the day it was due, I marched it in and presented it to my teacher.

This box was not light. It was cumbersome, so my dad had to help me carry it in.

He didn't say a word.

I set it on the table next to all the other bug collections, and although I felt a tinge of guilt, I was happy I had spent my summer swimming and not killing bugs.

At the end of the day, the teacher gave me a note and a grade.

The note said I needed to take it home, that I got an F, and that my parents had to sign it.

This time, I had to carry the stupid bug collection out to my mom's car by myself.

She didn't say a word.

They knew very well what I was doing, and neither one of them stopped me.

They let me get caught.

The teacher didn't give me a chance to make it up, either. I had to carry that F for the rest of the trimester and work my butt off to get a C.

Which I did.

My parents didn't seem to think my actions were a reflection on them, but more on me.

I realize now that my parents were badasses.

At the time, I blamed them for all of my problems, like most kids, but I'm glad they let me walk out of the house and into a trap that I had set for myself and that they were going to let me get caught in.

Did I try and cheat again?

Yes.

A few years later, I waited until the last minute to do a leaf collection. Rather than collecting leaves all fall, I waited until they were dead and covered in snow the night before it was due.

I attempted to color and cut the leaves into various leaf shapes, then laminate and label them.

Although an oak leaf may not look like a maple leaf, with a little help from some craft scissors, it can.

It is no surprise that I got caught... again.

I would like to say that was the last time, but it wasn't.

In high school, I missed a history quiz, so I was taking it in the library and used my textbook to find all the answers.

But as I was turning it in to Mr. Rethlake, I burst into tears and told him what I had done.

Once again, I got an F, but rather than making me tell my parents, he made me read him the chapters that I should have read, out loud, and then asked me the same questions that were on the quiz until I got them right.

Because of this, I was late to soccer practice.

Because I was late to soccer practice, I had to tell my coach why I was late. He made me run laps around the field for an hour and a half.

In unrelated news, that day my boyfriend broke up with me.

#worstdayever

It was around that time I decided that it wasn't worth it.

I was destined to get caught, and not only that, I wasn't going to get off easy.

As much as I don't want my boys to experience pain or humiliation, a little discomfort goes a long way.

Of course, they are perfect in every way, yet they have each done some seriously stupid things, and I have let them.

As long as it wasn't going to result in physical trauma, I stepped aside.

What I didn't realize is that it is not easy to do that for parents.

Not at all.

It hurts ten times worse.

I find myself wanting to correct their wrongs, but if I constantly do that, how will they learn what is right and what is wrong?

Recently, one of the boys plagiarized a book report.

I was a little suspicious because all summer I had not seen him open the book once.

But I'm not a helicopter mom, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

On the day he presented his report to the class, he was feeling sick to his stomach.

By the time he did, he was in full-on guilt mode.

He admitted it to his teachers.

He didn't eat his lunch, he barely touched his dinner, and afterward, he called Don into the bedroom.

On the bed, he had every item of value to him.

His laptop.

His iPod.

His gaming system.

He, in dramatic fashion, said he needed to confess something.

But before he did, he was grounding himself from screens.

Don watched as he dry-heaved, confessing something he thought we didn't know.

He made it right.

It's like we are raising self-cleaning ovens!

They are regulating themselves.

By the time he told me, I too, in dramatic fashion, acted shocked and dismayed.

I'm not at the level of badassery as my parents were to let him know I knew.

I'll get there, I'm sure.

Being a kid is hard sometimes, but if I make it easy for him, how will he ever be able to cope with the fact that being an adult is even harder?

As an adult, I can't blame my mistakes on not knowing better.

Chances are I do, but still make the dumb choices.

Or the easy choice.

Like saying yes to that third glass of wine or saying yes, I want to watch the next episode of Orange Is the New Black even though I have to wake up in five hours.

I digress.

When you know better, you do better...

Most of the time.