I'm judgy. Like really judgy. Are you wearing Mom Jeans? I'm judging. Is your kid screaming like a Banshee in the middle of Pottery Barn? I feel for you. But, I'm judging. We all are, right? I mean not always harshly or spitefully, but in every situation, we watch, interpret, and judge. If you change the word "judge" to "assess," it obviously loses a lot of moral connotation, that self-righteous superiority. If you use the word "assess," we understand the process as akin to how we drive cars, run a business, spend money, raise a family.
Sometimes, I assess people rather than judge them. So it's not always a negative adjudication of a person, it's a way of prioritizing the great people who I want to keep in my life. It's a way of observing and finding compassion for people. It's a way to find people who will be compassionate towards me.
Sometimes, the process really is a judgement. It's a horrible, horrible quality (albeit one I occasionally find useful), but always find mean. Especially in myself. When I judge, it's to a fault. Even if I'm judging myself or my family, it can be ruthless. A glaring moral absolute that I just can't defend. I'm not bragging or apologizing for it. I'm just sayin'. Oh, screw it. I don't know why I'm defending this. I do it, and so do you. Right? Right.
So, what do we do when some one judges us? How do I feel when someone has pronounced me (publicly or privately) shallow or selfish or unreasonable or lazy or [fill in blank]? I watched a recent episode of Whitney (let's not get into the judgement of me watching that. Or Whitney's attempt to reflect Chelsea's solar glow) and Whitney freaked when people proclaimed her "crazy." Her insecure boyfriend's sore spot was "stupid." The ditzy redhead's word was "flaky." I thought about my word. What's the word that sets me off?
A mom has recently judged me. Twice. To my face. Harshly. She couched it with a half-hearted LOL. That totally sucked. She didn't use a particular word, but she stuck a burning poker into my worst fear: permanently ruining my kids. Being a bad parent. Failing. Rearing future militant goths. You know, the usual stuff that keeps us up at night.
For one thing, it's still bothering me. I've talked about it to a bunch of people in an effort to work through it. I've examined my own ambivalence about what she said. I've tried to figure out if I'm defensive because she's right, or if I'm genuinely hurt because she's just wrong and mean.
For another thing, it bothers me that I see my own behavior reflected in her meanness. I think of people who I've labeled as insecure, or meddlesome, or selfish. Were they? Did I just hit their sore spot? Did I cross the boundary? Was my judgement on them as petty as the one put on me?
For a third thing, does this mom really think that's she's above reproach?
How do I cope with this? What would I tell my kids to do? I like to think I'd tell them to blow the meanie off and remember that kids are mean when they are jealous or insecure and bully a weaker kid to make themselves feel better. I'd tell them not to tattle or slander the person, just give 'em a good retort and an eyeroll to send him packing.
So am I being Mom-bullied? Why? Aren't we supposed to be on the same team? She obviously wasn't being constructive. She wasn't identifying a problem and helping me work on a solution. She wasn't trying to make me feel better about choices I've made--she wasn't in a teaching moment. She was letting me know she didn't approve.
I'm going to try to blow it off. I'm going to assume that some psychic glitch in this person caused her to publicly disapprove of me. I'm going to remind myself that I am making the choices I think are best for my family. I'm going to not slander this person or seek a verbal revenge.
This still sucks.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Sunday, March 24, 2013
The Rites of Spring
Spring is a glorious time wherever you live. Some of my friends in the midwest and northeast are still trapped in the snowy jail of winter waiting (im)patiently for their spring to arrive, but here in the deep heart of Dixie,things are all abloom.
The azaleas are in full glory this time of year. The beastly, sticky hedges of winter transform into brilliant bushes of salmon, white and pink. The live oaks are that unusual hue of green that peeps out only once a year--that lime unique to fresh, new foliage. All of the plants are tumbling, unfurling, and hurtling toward that hot, sticky, jungly overgrown season of summer. I literally think that I can watch the plants grow as I watch them. Wisteria, for example, in full bloom already, will grow as much as an inch per day, and kudzu will grow even faster.
But before we embark upon summer when we don mosquito netting, gloves, and shears and fight back mother nature, we sit in rocking chairs on our southern porches, enjoying alcoholic lemonade and relish the spring. This is the best time to live in the south.
Truly, without exaggeration, it is glorious. My lemon tree is so laden with blossoms, and so heavily perfumed, that it is abuzz with bees feasting on the bounty. The ferns are reemerging from the ground, unspiraling into luscious green ground cover. The soil is again black and fertile, and the roses are hinting at the deep red buds within. EVERYTHING, everything is coming alive.
There is a downside to all of this lushness, however. Two days ago, our pollen index was 10.6 on a scale of 12. I am not sure what 12 constitutes. Is it total pollen saturation? A point where the pollen content in the air exceeds the air content in the air? Is it the point at which we start respiring chunky air? Who created the pollen index? It seems like pseudo science, something concocted to quantify our suffering. There is a little bar graph accompanying the pollen information. A little green bar indicates low pollen. Mobile's bar chart is some sort of deep burgundy, indicating air conditions similar to that of nuclear apocalypse. It might as well have a ticker underneath it reading, "ATTENTION MOBILIANS, GO BUY AIR IN TANKS, THIS AIR IS GOING TO CLOG YOUR LUNGS."
The air is visible, a shimmering golden halo hovered over the city, indeed the region, as though physically attached to us. The car washes in town were making a booming business as hapless drivers try to clear their windshields, only to have the yellow dust stuck to their vehicles hours later. I had to run my windshield wipers and washer multiple times per day to keep the view clean. It was as though I was driving in a yellow fog.
Our commerce begins to evolve. Instead of money, we conduct transactions in Allegra and Claritin. My heart, unused to the stimulants in decongestants, raced and palpitated when I finally broke down and took medication. Finally, the sinuses were clear, while I sweated and fretted about my exploding cardiac system. I kept the decongestants in my purse and offered them to friends and clerks suffering from the unholy effects of the pollen. Everywhere I go, I am greeted by watering, glassy eyes, and hacking coughs.
Friday night, I slept in S's room (God knows he wasn't using it). I slept upright, or semi-upright, in an effort to keep the gravity drainage system working problem. My body was literally wracked by coughing all night. I couldn't control or stop it. Even the dog stared at me, glassy-eyed, his feet stained yellow from the pollen, and silently begged for some Benadryl.
Last night, it rained. The air feels cleaned, refreshed. The weather website I trust says the pollen count is down to 9.8 of 12. Humans can probably function at 9.8. We can boldly turn down our car windows and enjoy the breeze (like the dog). We can open our windows and air out our homes. We can sit on the porches and welcome spring like our southern forefathers have done for generations. The only interruption to the singing birds, and chirping squirrels, being of course, my hacking cough.
The azaleas are in full glory this time of year. The beastly, sticky hedges of winter transform into brilliant bushes of salmon, white and pink. The live oaks are that unusual hue of green that peeps out only once a year--that lime unique to fresh, new foliage. All of the plants are tumbling, unfurling, and hurtling toward that hot, sticky, jungly overgrown season of summer. I literally think that I can watch the plants grow as I watch them. Wisteria, for example, in full bloom already, will grow as much as an inch per day, and kudzu will grow even faster.
But before we embark upon summer when we don mosquito netting, gloves, and shears and fight back mother nature, we sit in rocking chairs on our southern porches, enjoying alcoholic lemonade and relish the spring. This is the best time to live in the south.
Truly, without exaggeration, it is glorious. My lemon tree is so laden with blossoms, and so heavily perfumed, that it is abuzz with bees feasting on the bounty. The ferns are reemerging from the ground, unspiraling into luscious green ground cover. The soil is again black and fertile, and the roses are hinting at the deep red buds within. EVERYTHING, everything is coming alive.
There is a downside to all of this lushness, however. Two days ago, our pollen index was 10.6 on a scale of 12. I am not sure what 12 constitutes. Is it total pollen saturation? A point where the pollen content in the air exceeds the air content in the air? Is it the point at which we start respiring chunky air? Who created the pollen index? It seems like pseudo science, something concocted to quantify our suffering. There is a little bar graph accompanying the pollen information. A little green bar indicates low pollen. Mobile's bar chart is some sort of deep burgundy, indicating air conditions similar to that of nuclear apocalypse. It might as well have a ticker underneath it reading, "ATTENTION MOBILIANS, GO BUY AIR IN TANKS, THIS AIR IS GOING TO CLOG YOUR LUNGS."
The air is visible, a shimmering golden halo hovered over the city, indeed the region, as though physically attached to us. The car washes in town were making a booming business as hapless drivers try to clear their windshields, only to have the yellow dust stuck to their vehicles hours later. I had to run my windshield wipers and washer multiple times per day to keep the view clean. It was as though I was driving in a yellow fog.
Our commerce begins to evolve. Instead of money, we conduct transactions in Allegra and Claritin. My heart, unused to the stimulants in decongestants, raced and palpitated when I finally broke down and took medication. Finally, the sinuses were clear, while I sweated and fretted about my exploding cardiac system. I kept the decongestants in my purse and offered them to friends and clerks suffering from the unholy effects of the pollen. Everywhere I go, I am greeted by watering, glassy eyes, and hacking coughs.
Friday night, I slept in S's room (God knows he wasn't using it). I slept upright, or semi-upright, in an effort to keep the gravity drainage system working problem. My body was literally wracked by coughing all night. I couldn't control or stop it. Even the dog stared at me, glassy-eyed, his feet stained yellow from the pollen, and silently begged for some Benadryl.
Last night, it rained. The air feels cleaned, refreshed. The weather website I trust says the pollen count is down to 9.8 of 12. Humans can probably function at 9.8. We can boldly turn down our car windows and enjoy the breeze (like the dog). We can open our windows and air out our homes. We can sit on the porches and welcome spring like our southern forefathers have done for generations. The only interruption to the singing birds, and chirping squirrels, being of course, my hacking cough.
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