If the Shoe Fits

We all have certain challenges we face in life. One of mine is saying, “You’re right, I’m wrong.” when I know the opposite is true or, more importantly, when it’s not. Letting go of criticism and guilt, especially the kind I heap on myself, is another.
We’ve all had our fair share of difficult relationships too. My last one is no exception, seeing as we haven’t been getting along for a while now. He folds over without a fight and then snaps at me without warning. It’s no wonder I’ve sent him--my two tiered laundry drying rack, that is--to the basement for a much-needed hiatus.
Don’t even get me started on my love/hate relationships with my dishwasher, shower faucet, glue gun, electric screwdriver and pencil sharpener. They promised to be there when I needed them and to cause me no bodily harm but it hasn’t exactly been working out that way for some time now.
There is one challenge, though, that at times seems to defy all sense of fundamental reasoning. It tests boundaries that could move mountains. It leaves you speechless, breathless and restless. Some days it even brings you straight down to your knees to pray “Dear Lord, remind me again why in the world I got myself into all this in the first place?” I am sure y’all have guessed what it is by now. Yep, I’m talking about parenthood.
A few days ago, I finally worked up some much needed courage. I had a job to do and, to be perfectly honest, it’s the one I dread the most. Give me a root canal, a twenty-eight hour plane ride, or an extended five-hour encore of Oklahoma, and I would probably be just fine. Spend some time shoe shopping with the girls, on the other hand, and I’ll need a Xanax, a molten chocolate lava cake, the patience of Job, the compassion of Gandhi, and a warm bath behind a locked door if I ever hope to function properly again.
One morning, out of the blue, someone will come downstairs with their big toe sticking out of the sole of their shoe while walking with the limp of a 99 year-old man. I brace myself. It’s time.
Later that day, I’ll be standing with my kids in front of the entrance to the shoe shore. “Haven’t we just been here?” I say out loud to no one in particular. I take a deep breath. I don’t expect things to go smoothly. I know we will not be in and out. How can we? Every shoe will either be the wrong size, wrong color, too big, too small, too hot, too cold, too wide, too tight, too plain, or just plain too much. My girls make Goldilocks look like a pretty low maintenance, easygoing gal on the go.
Before you know it, the shoe shop looks as if a Stride Ride 18-wheeler delivery truck hit an oil patch and spilled its entire contents on to the floor. Oh yeah . . . and we still haven’t found a shoe that’ll do. About now, amid the chaos, the bending and standing, the tying and untying, the crying and whining, I decide to just see it for what it really is. Sometimes answers to the most puzzling aspects of life appear when we aren’t even looking for them:

The shoes may only come in blue when you wanted purple but sometimes we don’t get exactly what we want. Be gracious; make the best of it.

Money doesn’t grow on trees and tennis shoes aren’t cheap. Appreciate what you are given; take care of it.

You may make a mess or mess up. It’s okay; just own up to it.

Little feet grow faster by the day. Time is precious; value it.

Indecision will try your patience, but something worth getting should be worth doing right. If it’s important to you, take your time with it.

It’s easier to tell the truth about something sooner rather than later. Don’t wait; tell me about it.

Sometimes it takes a while to figure out how much shoestring to tighten and how much to let out. You just need to find the right tension; adjust to it.

Even after you’ve finally found them a shoe that fits, they probably won’t wear it but will instead choose an old pair that are a size too small and have a hole in the seam that their toe pokes out of because they match their socks better. What can you do? Just go with it.

Sometimes when the self-doubt sneaks in and I wonder if I am doing more harm than good, I think of an old Vietnamese proverb that says, “When hulling rice, one cannot carry one’s baby sister.” Strange choice of a mantra, I know, but true. In other words, common sense really does go a long way. Embracing parenting as the toughest job you’ll ever love, no matter how bad you think you are at it, well . . . that will take you beyond places you never thought you could reach.

A Telepathic Romance

It’s official. I heard that after a seven-year break, it looks like Ken and Barbie are back together again. On Valentine’s Day, the buxom blonde changed her profile status on Facebook to “in a relationship,” quickly and effectively confirming the rampant rumors of a possible reconciliation.
I don’t know about y’all, but I had no idea that they had broken up in the first place. I guess, in an apparent lack of hipness, I was spending way too much time in the carpool line, grocery store aisle, laundry room, and on dish duty to notice when the iconic pair of 43 years called it quits in 2004.
It seems Barbie tossed Ken to the curb and sent him sailing into the sunset solo in his blue hotrod, making room in the townhouse for a cute Aussie surfer named Blaine. Ouch. Why am I always the last to know? Even my kids balked at my lack of knowledge about the dynamic duo.
“Seriously, Mom?” one of them asks, rolling her eyes. “Didn’t you stay awake during Toy Story 3? No?”
She pats my hand. “Well, they were reunited on the movie set and decided to make sure it was the real deal and not motivated by the pressure of the paparazzi and the production company. I guess its true love, after all.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” I think to myself. “But I wouldn’t count my Barbie Farm Stand organic plastics eggs before they hatch.” You know what I’m saying?
According to a spokesman for Mattel, the new and improved “Sweet Talking” Ken doll is the “ultimate boyfriend for every occasion,” because he “says whatever you want him to say.” Literally. You push a button, whisper exactly what you’d like to hear directly into his six pack plastic abs, and voilà, he repeats it back. It’s true what they say about the famous eleven and a half inch mold of plastic with artificial blonde hair and tattooed eyebrows, she’s pretty and she’s smart.
Gone are the days of attempting to communicate her needs and wants to Ken telepathically. Now, at the touch of a button, she can feel like the prettiest girl in any room, or at least at the Swoop and Swirl Ice Cream Shop and Barbie Space Camp.
Here are a few examples of possible mind plants:
“Did you just get highlights down at the Cut & Style? Your hair looks amazing!”
“Who cares if you pawned my Beach Cruiser to pay for them? I just love those high heeled, leathered ankle boots!”
Me, I don’t need to be told I look good across the pillow. Especially, if I’m wearing my lavender mint eye pillow and Rodan+Fields anti- aging cream slathered across my forehead. Just because someone says something nice, doesn’t mean they really mean it. When it comes to romance, I prefer action over words. If it were me, Ken’s whispered sweet nothings would sound something more like this:
“I can’t wait to cook you dinner every single night this week. And don’t you dare step one foot into the Happy Family Barbie Grocery Store. I mean it!”
“I just changed all the light bulbs in the three story Dream Townhouse, skimmed the Glam pool, filled up your Malibu, and walked all 207 of your dogs.”
Now that would really be something to show off at the Toy Expo this spring.
Of course, this got me thinking. Sure, it sounds good on paper, but I know we are all rational adults and recognize there is no way, at least not in the near future, to plant ideas into the brains of our significant other via a small button and a battery operated voice recorder embedded in their flesh. I noticed that even "Sweet Talking" Ken didn't come with a money-back guarantee, so Barbie may be giving Ken another chance, but she's not totally buying into this newest "relationship" technology just yet. What I did find interesting is that it seems my husband and I, like the old school Barbie and Ken, have been communicating telepathically for years and never realized it.
Sure, it didn't start out that way. One of us would actually say something, then the other would actually respond. It seems this basic form of communication is rendered moot the longer you stay married.
Here are a few examples:

Him: "I know. You hate the new cell phone I got you."
Me: "I never said that. I haven't even said anything all morning."
Him: "You don't have to. You get these really deep creases all across your forehead and eyelids every time you look at it."
Me: "That's called aging, Matlock. Keep it up and I'll throw it at you."

Husband stands bowled over in the kitchen, clutching his stomach after inhaling an ex-large bean and beef burrito. He stares at me with a look of sheer panic crossed with a tinge of compassion.
"No. Sorry," I try and sound sympathetic, but I know what he is thinking, "that's not what contractions feel like. Not even close."

Me: "Can you take out the trash?"
Him: Silence.
Me: "Can you please take the trash out?"
Him: Nothing.
Me: "Take out the trash! I'm not asking you again!"
Him: Still nothing. Nada.
I place the two large trashcans between him and Rush Limbaugh and the Haney
Project on the TV and close the door.
Two minutes later, he takes out the trash. Who needs words when you've had shrimp for dinner?
People will ask me what the key to success is for a happy marriage. I always tell them it's not about communication, but sometimes, it's about the lack of it. If you love someone enough to give them their space when they need it and pay enough attention to them from a distance to figure out what they want, words really aren't so necessary all the time. Success is when you can finish each other’s sentences or sit on the couch and feel comfortable not talking at all.
Unlike Barbie, I don't have a PhD or a successful vet practice, or even a beautician’s license and a glam jet, so I'm certainly not the world’s best expert on relationships, or much else, really. I do know in my almost fifteen years of marriage that you can't change another human being, no matter how annoyingly disparate they can seem sometimes. How can you change a person who is constantly morphing, evolving, and learning new things on their own? After all, as individuals, we are growing and moving forward to a wiser place as well. It's about making a commitment to respect each other’s choices and approaches towards living this one life and sharing what we learn along the way.



So good luck, Barbie and Ken. I'm glad you are jumping back into the hotrod together once again. I hope you're having the ride of your life. I sure am.
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Shoemaker, Shoemaker, Bring Me an Elf

Previously published in Coastal Illustrated, December 16, 2009





My daughter finally completed her Dear Santa letter. It didn't take much really; just two weeks, five rough drafts, and the paper made from two fifty foot trees. I'd love to share to whole thing with you, I really would, but seeing it's as long as the current Health Care Bill, I'll spare the newspaper the ink. Here's a sample:

Dear Santa,

I'm so glad it's Christmas! This is my Christmas list!
(See how she shows appropriate enthusiasm then, knowing Santa's a busy guy, gets straight to the point.)

1.) I want an electric guitar
2.) I want an iPod touch
3.) I want a Nintendo DSi (Here's where she realizes she might be pushing it.)
4.) Maybe you could throw in a few stuffed animals?
(But then, suddenly, knowing it's now or never, she goes in for the kill.)
5.) Oh, and this is my BIGGEST wish of all-- that I can have one of your elves. A real living, breathing one from the North Pole.......not the fake kind that sit on a shelf.

She goes on to describe what they'd do, the places they'd go, and all the things they'd build together. This is because she's also requested her elf come complete with a miniature, teeny, tiny workshop. And I'm fairly sure the teeny, tiny batteries won't be included, but beggars can't be choosers, now can they? That is, except for Liv, because she goes on to tell Santa it would be a good idea to dispatch another pint-sized little fellow for her elf so he doesn't get homesick. Why ask for one elf when you can ask for two?

The letter goes into more detail and is filled with at least 49 pages of the word "please" written over and over again. But she finally wraps it up (probably because her hand cramped up as it developed carpal tunnel syndrome) with a large "I heart Santa" and "You're the best!" underlined in pink glitter pen.

Now, if you exclude all the electronics from the list that could easily cost more than "Santa's" yearly power bill, the elf part isn't such a bad idea after all. Especially, if he can help keep her room clean and double-check that she has properly flossed and brushed her teeth. Who wouldn't mind having a super helpful, miniature elf running around, as long as he's strong enough to lift a small laundry basket and an industrial-sized can of Lysol? He could even untangle twenty to thirty feet of lights off the wrapping paper tube then string them back on the Christmas tree so my husband and I could stay married for one more year.

While he's at it, he probably wouldn't mind hanging all the tiny ornaments on top so I wouldn't have to lug the ladder up from the basement, knocking at least two softball size holes in my drywall on the way up. And when he isn't making miniature dolls and toys with Livi for her Littlest Pet Shop animals, he could keep the pine needles swept and fill the water in the tree stand after our dog has licked it dry.

Livi's request reminds me of the old Brothers Grimm fairy tale about the shoemaker and the elves. Do y'all remember how it goes? These two little elves help a cobbler and his wife who were down on their luck by making shoes while they slept, turning their business woes into profit. Seeing as the elves didn't own a stitch of clothing, the indebted couple made them outfits with stockings, hats, and teeny pairs of shoes. The elves were so delighted looking like "jaunty gents" they never felt the need to work again. The cobbler and his wife weren't sad the elves left, but joyful that they were able to make the elves as happy as the elves had made them. This story always reminds me that to give is better than to receive.

I know it's a little silly for a grown woman to hope for a magical elf given the times we're in, even if the pocket-sized little guy could take Barbie's jeep to the grocery for some eggnog and a box of Hefty trash bags. Like the cobbler at the beginning of the story, it's been a tough year for everyone. The things that seemed so important last year don't really matter as much. But what if this help we're looking for is something that doesn't grant magic wishes, or do our chores, or bring us fancy electronics? What if it's simply the people in our lives that offer support without worrying about reciprocation? I've come to realize I already have these "elves" near and dear to me....my friends and family that love me unconditionally, and I love them back just the same. So maybe there's no need to wish for elves after all, because the real ones surround us every day, and it is those people for whom I'm truly grateful this Christmas.