My horse, my self

Buck Brannaman once said that horses were the mirrors to our souls and that we may not always like what we see.  I used to compare Sasha's behavior to my own and now I find that I do the same with Carl, my five-year old Arab gelding.  He's very sweet, maybe a little ADD, and usually spooks at the stupidest things...a cone, a blue barrel, someone sweeping the aisle or bringing in a wheelbarrow.  It was enough to drive me crazy each time I was sitting on his back and he decided to spin and dash away or crab-walk sideways in an effort to avoid whatever he thought was seconds away from threatening to bite or attack him.

I was resigned to the fact that the first fifteen minutes of each ride would be mentally and physically draining as he tried every evasion trick in the book.  My inside leg muscles would ache from pressing him over and my arms would be sore from fighting to keep his head in the middle of his chest.  My voice would convey frustration and my eye sockets were wearing thin from the constant eye-rolling at his fear-of-everything antics.  If he was  supposed to be an extension of my body as I sat on his back, it sure didn't feel like it.  Was Carl a mirror to my soul?  I didn't think so.  I mean, was I really that difficult to deal with?  

A few weeks ago, I was showing some of my friends at the barn how to work the new Keurig machine we had bought for the barn kitchen.  After the lesson, I was opening some of the cupboards looking for any place we could store our cups.  As I slowly opened one of the higher cupboards, I was met with my biggest fear:  the common spider.  It wasn't doing anything other than hanging out in its web at the back of the cupboard.  It didn't look at me with it's eight eyes, deciding whether or not to attack me and it certainly wasn't big enough to eat me.

But, still, I jumped back in horror and danced around as I announced the presence of the spider.  I even hid behind one of my friends as I proclaimed my intense fear of the eight-legged creatures.  One of my friends chuckled at me and finally told me what I needed to hear.  "You're just like your horse!"  In that moment, I smiled.  She was right!  Carl had an irrational fear of cones, barrels, and other random things that moved and I had an irrational fear of spiders and bugs.  We both acted the same way when faced with the things that scared us.  

I had been looking at it all wrong!  It wasn't about being difficult, it was about working through our own fears.  Carl was young and he needed help learning how to work through what was a threat in his mind, no matter how silly or irrational I thought it was. I have to help give him that confidence that the cone, barrel, broom, or wheelbarrow isn't going to suddenly come alive and chase him down.  After all, life isn't a Stephen King novel.

Buck's words of wisdom aren't just for horses, either. It's relevant with our children, family members, friends, and co-workers and the overall message of holding the mirror up to ourselves every now and then is a good one.  He's right that we won't always like what we see, but it's a start to remember that we create our own mood and that mood can have a profound effect on the people that surround us.  

Stumbling toward social awkwardness

Nyah recently told me my husband, Bryan, had said that I have trouble talking to people.  "Is that true?"  she wondered aloud while she regarded me quietly with her brown eyes behind her glasses. I had to tell her that yes, I did have some anxiety about talking to people.  When I confirmed how I felt, she told me suffered from the same issue and I took some comfort knowing that she and I shared such discomfort in social situations.

I've tried to conceal the fact that I'm uncomfortable in social situations outside of my close family....until now.  So here's the truth:  I don't like to answer the door, I will wait to get the mail if there are people nearby, and I don't always talk to people I know.  I often wonder if people think I'm a bitch.  I don't mean to be, I just find myself stumbling toward social awkwardness.

The funny thing is, once I force myself to be in social situations with people outside of my close family, I have fun.  Yet, that fun doesn't stick around in my brain long enough to remind me that it's okay to hang out with people the next time a social situation presents itself.

I started thinking that maybe I needed to see someone or go on meds for this behavior.  That is, until I saw a post on Facebook from my friend, Jack.  She had found the definition of an Introvert and had shared the page.  As I read it, I realized it fit me to a "T" and described everything I had been feeling.  

Turns out, I'm not really stumbling toward social awkwardness.  I'm actually just standing on the outskirts, observing.

Slugbugs and sadness

Nyah and I play that ridiculously silly slugbug game.  You all know what it is--you have to be the first to yell the slugbug and color or else you get a swift punch to the arm from the person that beat you to it.  It's almost a religion with us and Nyah is even considering a slugbug as her first car just so she can wake up every morning, new, and punch me in the arm and yell, "slug bug <insert color here>!"

About two weekends ago, Nyah and I were having a particularly sad day at the barn.  We were saying goodbye to Sasha, a horse I've had for five years.  She was going back to the rescue I got her from.  We spent time bathing her and just letting her graze out in the warm sun until the trailer came to take her up north.

After loading her, she let out a deep, breathy nicker from the side window when I went around for one last goodbye.  It broke my heart and as she drove away, I began to cry.  Nyah followed suit.

We got into our truck and started the drive home.  Just down the road, a slugbug drove by.  Nyah, in a very subdued voice, announced from the backseat of the truck it's presence to which I was completely oblivious.  This time, though, she didn't punch me.

Although I was still crying on the exterior, there was some semblance of a smile inside at our little connection.  A silly game played to the chagrin of my husband helped Nyah and I deal a little bit better with the tinge-y sadness of goodbye.

Helicopter parents

Helicopter parents...I love this term, but I can't take credit for coining it.  I don't love it because I am one; I'm actually the furthest thing from it.  I love it because it's the perfect term to describe this couple we know that constantly hover over their two kids, not letting them experience the real world and sheltering them from everything.

As I write this, I can hear Bryan in my head doing his helicopter impression (chew-chew-chew-chew-chew-chew-chew); something he does whenever we talk about this family, which has been a lot lately.

I grew up fairly independent--riding the city bus for an hour to the barn when I was in 6th grade, playing with my friends all over the neighborhood (my mom used a dinner bell to call us home that could be heard a mile away), doing my rather large paper route on my own in the dark, and spending the night at the barn with my friends.  True, I grew up in Juneau, AK where you could do these things without much worry, but regardless I made it to adulthood.

We've raised Nyah to be smart and independent as well so she can problem solve on her own and deal with life in a mature and straight-forward manner.  We never engaged in baby talk with her, she asked a question about life and got a real answer, and I talked to her about sex and drugs when she was five.  She stopped going to daycare in 5th grade and started to walk to school on her own, which, by the way, is just down the street past the three or four homes of police officers.

Because we haven't babied her or subjected her to "helicopter parentism," she's responsible and pretty mature for her age.  As a 7th grader, she doesn't have to rely on us to drive her to school or knock on a friend's door unexpectedly at seven in the morning to see if she can walk to school with them because we won't let her walk alone for five minutes.  Past several homes of police officers.  And did I mention we live right by a Police Substation?

Don't get me wrong, people have the right to parent however they want.  But, when it extends to our lives and the helicopter parent drops their cargo on us at the last minute, I feel it's my right to be irritated that they don't let their kid grow up and learn to be independent.

It's my opinion (and you know what they say about those) that if you shelter a kid and don't let them experience life, it only hinders them later.  Kids need to learn how to be responsible and stand up for themselves.  Mommy and daddy aren't going to be there forever to bail them out or handle a difficult situation--especially in the workplace.  Note to those that were raised under helicopter parents:  your manager or HR Partner do not want to hear about how you can't get along with so-and-so or you disagree with this or that, but you can't deal with it and you want us to do so.  It's not our responsibility--it's yours.

If you're a helicopter parent and you're reading this, I probably have offended you.  Pause, breath, re-read what I've written and try to let your kid experience life.....or buy a pepper spray keychain with an ear-piercing alarm.

Fighting and bonding

My daughter, Nyah, once summed up our mother-daughter relationship in this quote:  "we fight and then we bond."

I couldn't agree more.  She and I are so alike that we often clash, sometimes to the detriment of Bryan's ears.  His annoyance with us often permeates the space like the smell of turkey burgers to a pregnant lady.  

We may fight and yell at each other, but like the weather in Washington State, wait ten minutes;  we fight and then we bond.

I've noticed as Nyah continues to grow up that we've become a lot closer.  My love of horses has become her love of horses.  Recently, Nyah competed in her first Dressage show.  I was a little nervous doing her show coaching because she has a bad habit of not listening to me.  I'll admit, I'm probably not the best teacher and I have the patience of a hungry lion waiting for the steak to drop.

But, I took on the challenge and before the show, we fought as I thought we would.  I asked her to tell me if she was going to listen to me if I was her coach at the show.  She didn't answer.  Bryan, sensing a fight, told me to let it go.  My reply was less than diplomatic:  if I was going to spend fifty bucks for her to ride two tests, she better f*#%ing listen to me.  

At the show; however, we bonded.  I helped her warm up on Leana, the horse she was riding.  I had her repeat the tests back to me by memory several times.  As she entered the ring for her tests, I reminded her how important her posting diagonals are and to make sure she gets them right every time; something she seems to struggle with.

During her first test, I was probably more nervous than she was.  My heart beat at a furious pace, threatening to jump out of my chest.  I muttered "good girl" under my breath each time she picked up the correct posting diagonal and smiled as she got Leana to ignore the scary white canopy tent the judges were sitting under when only moments earlier and when Nyah was warming up in the ring before the test started, Leana had bolted in fear.  

After her tests, I had the prideful pleasure of photographing her and Leana with their first and second place ribbons.  As I read the comments from the judge, my eyes kept coming back to the comment that she and Leana were an elegant pair. Later, I watched the video Bryan had taken of the two of them and I heard myself agree with the judge that she and Leana were indeed an elegant pair.  

Watching her, it reminded me that she was growing up and that thought made her statement of our relationship that much more important.  Yes, we do fight strong.  But, when we bond, we bond just as strongly.

My birth certificate says 1977, my high school diploma reads 1995

Ok, so 36 isn't that old in the grand scheme of things, but I find myself having trouble knowing that it's almost been 20 years since I walked up onto the stage of my high school and took my diploma after a hearty hand-shake from someone, possibly the Principle or the Vice Principle?  Maybe both?  Memory could be failing me at the ripe old age of 36.

It's not just the fact that my 20-year reunion is around the corner.  My daughter talks about things I have never heard of and listens to music I know nothing about.  I also find myself muttering "get a room" under my breath whenever I see couples engaged in PDA.  Oh, help me!  I've become one of those people that I swore I wouldn't when I was younger!

I think about middle school, high school, college, and any time before my 30th birthday.  And then I think about what I'll be like at 40, 50, even 60.  I think about being 42 at Nyah's high school graduation and 46 when she finally turns 21 and I can take her to Las Vegas.  Will I still be fun or will I be old and crotchety?  WIll I have grey hair and wrinkles I try ruthlessly to cover up?  Better yet, will I have more aches and pains than I do today and will there be yet more physical limitations to add to the list? I hate the fact that I can't do all the things I once could with ease.

Truth is, I hate that I'm getting older and the real reason probably is not related to everything mentioned above. Getting older means that your friends and family members are getting older, too.  You start to wonder who won't be here tomorrow...next week...next month...next year.  These thoughts started to amplify when my grandma passed earlier this year and more recently, an iconic soul, Bill Ray.  Both were about the same age and lived wonderfully full lives. But, they're gone and we won't ever be able to see or talk to them again or hear them tell great stories.

So, who's next? I shudder to think that I could get a call soon that my dad or my mom has passed....or one of my sisters...or a family friend.  I know that death is all part of the cycle, but that doesn't mean I can't fight it every step of the way.

My invitation was lost in the mail

From the time we're youngsters, we're meeting new people and forming friendships.  Part of those relationships are the many invites we'll get over the years.  Invites to come over and play, invites to birthday parties, invites to sleepovers.  You get the point.

We grow up and this same thing continues.  It's how we maintain our friendships and spend quality time with one another.  When we're younger, it might be more about being popular or having a strong social identity.  When we don't receive an invite to someone's party that we thought we should have, it sends us spiraling into questioning our popularity and status among our friends.  We ask ourselves, "am I going to be hated by everyone tomorrow?" or "why doesn't she want me at her party?"  It feels bad when we don't get that invitation from someone that seemed to be our friend.

It happens when we're adults, too.  Only, I don't think it's so much about popularity and social identity.  I think it's more about the deep-seated feeling that we want to feel connected to others and know that they still think about us.  It also seems to be more about social norms - you invite people even if you don't necessarily want to because it's the right thing to do and we were raised not to hurt people's feelings.

I found myself in this situation recently.  It was actually a blood relative that didn't invite me to a major event.  It bothered me.  It still bothers me.  Why should it bother me?  

I'll eventually get over it.  I have in the past.  Maybe it'll help if I tell myself my invitation got lost in the mail...

Productive member of society

Earlier this year, I said goodbye to a  career I'd paid good money to get a Master's degree for and a near-six figure job to do something completely different.  I am following my passion as a writer.

The change has been great for my psyche, but sometimes I find myself feeling like I'm no longer a productive member of society...well, not yet anyway.  It's hard knowing that I'm not really contributing to the household expenses like I used to when I had a steady gig.

Aside from my own insecurities, it's even more amplified when people see that I'm not physically going to a place to do a job everyday.  One of my sisters told me I didn't work and sat at home all day, doing nothing.  Albeit, it was one of those comments a person makes in the "heat of the moment" since we were technically having a fight.  But, boy did that ever strike a nerve!  

My dad recently referred to me as "unemployed."  Although it's not truly what he meant to say because he knows I'm self-employed.  He just meant that I wasn't a slave to the workforce and could structure my day as I wanted to.  I have to admit I did lash out a bit at him for calling me unemployed (sorry, Dad!).  Likely a product of my own feelings and how others such as my sister see my writing career.  

Why is it when people aren't going to a physical place everyday for a set number of hours, they're seen as not really working or having a job?  Hello, society?  I have news for you.  I do have a job; I am a writer! It may be sporadic and sure, I'm not doing it 8-10 hours a day, five days a week.  

I may stand strong and be proud of what I have decided to do, but in the back of my mind, my neurosis sits on a swivel chair and points out that I'm not making money doing what I'm doing.  To that I reply to a seemingly empty room where the echo is deafening, "it's like starting a new business where you don't immediately make money and besides, I'm doing something that I love, so I should forget everything I learned about being a productive member of society, right?  right?"