All growed up...?

My son's face is flushed that familiar rageful pink. He does not like being told what to do, yet, he really needs to be told what to do sometimes. Otherwise we'd have cockroaches playing poker tournaments in his room and we would never have hot water. This particular moment, he is being told to apply sunscreen to his transluscent Scottish complexion before spending an entire day in the blazing sun for his school field day.

"But I don't need sunscreen, I have a hat." He makes a show of flinging his cap to the ground and glaring at me. I am used to this. His older sister has hardened me to these stare downs. I am a rock, I don't blink. Do your best, kid.

"That's fine. You don't have to wear sunscreen. You have choices."

"I do?" He is smart. He knows me. He knows this is a semantic trap, but he walks in anyway. Why the hell not, what's he got to lose?

"Sure. You can skip the sunscreen and go to school and stay in the office all day while the other kids do field day...or you can shut your mouth, put the sunscreen on, and have a great day outside with your friends."

Just then, his sister smugly interrupts. "They will probably have an essay assignment for the kids who don't go to field day."

He begins to slather himself with SPF 50. I give her a dirty look.

"I can't wait to be an adult," he says, angrily smearing the white liquid chalk across his face. "Then I can do whatever the hell I want."

"Are you nuts?" His sister squeezes about a thousand tablespoons of honey into her Superman to-go mug filled with cinnamon tea. "Being an adult sucks. You've gotta do all this stuff. Like take care of little shits like us."

"You know, honey is actually a form of sugar," I say, making a cutting motion with my finger across my throat. "It will rot your teeth. As for being an adult. It's awesome. It's awesome 'til it's not."

"So what is being an adult all about?"

"I think it's about doing the right thing...every day. And figuring out how to enjoy life in a simple way."

"Was there anything surprising about being an adult?" This conversation was getting pretty deep. I wasn't even into my first sip of coffee.

"I think the biggest surprise is that other people who you think are adults, are actually not making adult decisions. It's...pretty tough when that's what you're up against."

My daughter nods her head slightly. "Yeah, the grow-ups are the ones doing the really stupid shit lately. Guess we're going to have to follow our own lead."

It's a wonder I don't put whiskey in my coffee. But then, that would be a pretty bad decision right before I drive them to school. I'm sure people do it. I know people do it. It's un-adult. They're in denial.

Of course, who hasn't wanted to check out sometimes? Especially the adult population that is responsible for smaller beings. We all know, but some may not admit, that this parenting thing is just...it's sucking the life force right out of me. These little monsters are expensive. And they're not even little anymore. I was talking with a 747 pilot the other day about the 26,000 gallons of fuel that that giant beast eats up on long distance flights.

"Try feeding teenagers," was my response. He laughed.

In addition to the food consumption, which, if you are raising two VERY active human beings, is abysmal on the wallet, there is the occasional attitude injection at the most timely moments. Like, right before we get in the car, or, just as I am waking up or trying to head to bed...always some little snotty comment drenched with entitlement and arrogant (faux) wisdom. The boy just asks so many questions I finally end up whipping around, coffee in hand, my face twisted in horrible wrath.

"Judas Fucking Priest, that's your last question for the day. That's it, you've met your quota. And how am I supposed to know how many fire ants it would take to eat a man whole? Who asks these things? How do you even think this shit?"

My language is admittedly not adult. It is shamefully un-adult. I am working on it. There is an elaborate ticketing system that will take effect June 24. It excludes my language in the car.

It's a delicate balance and I am watching adults tip the scales in the wrong direction. They are giving in to the self-destruction that ruins whole families generation after generation. I can't tell you if this is a phenomenon that is happening only in this generation, or if it just that we see it more in the news or on social media or in a louder consciousness. But it's there. Very loud, and very clear. We are letting 'the others' make the decisions for us, trusting that, well, they must know best.

They don't know best. Adults make mistakes all the time. But are we learning from the mistakes? It's too easy to blame something else. The addiction, the depression, the desperation, the crappy job, the bad husband, the bad wife, the catastrophically stupid teenager, the coaches, the government...

So, who's gonna make the right decision then? A cruel grandmother marches her 9-year-old granddaughter around the neighborhood until the kid finally dies of exhaustion...no one notices? No one speaks up until it's too late? Where are the adults?

A teenage boy prays on the innocence of his younger sisters...and instead of in jail, he ends up on a major television network...expecting his fourth child with his wife. Why didn't anyone step in? What about the girls? They are marked for life. It is a life sentence enacted on them by their older brother. And he's no longer a predator? Bullshit. Where were the adults?

It's 8:30 at night, you've just walked in the door after a full day of work, watching your kid's baseball game, piggybacked with your other kid's tennis match, and you know you have to sign two permission slips, make some kind of a nutritious meal because they're starving, make sure they check themselves for ticks...Do you hit a 30-pack and let them lick the wounds of the day? You could. But you're an adult. I'm an adult. Being an adult means you don't give in to the destructive whim. Of course you want to, we all want to. We all have tendencies.

There's a monster child lurking in every single one of us. Do we let it win? People are waiting for us to do our job. Small people. People who will do whatever we say. If that's not the most frightening thing in the world, I don't know what is.

We've had a few 'situations' here, that kind of shit happens as your kids get older by the way. They come home with problems like "my friend isn't eating," or "so and so says he wants to hurt himself..."
These are burdens too big for a child's shoulders. Then they say, "but don't tell anybody, OK?"

Not OK. I want to pretend I didn't hear that an 8th grader might be contemplating suicide. But I don't. 'Cause I'm a fucking grown up and shit is real now.

I just tell my daughter, "You're a good friend, but this is too much for you. You're not responsible for fixing this. It's on me now. Let the adults handle it."

I pick up the phone. She sighs, relieved.

Why I Fight

I’m looking at my right index finger, and it is throbbing and stiff at the knuckle, which I have just noticed is pushed down into the joint. Barely a knuckle at all. I knew this would happen.

I need to get wraps, I say to myself mumbling over sugarless coffee that is laced with coconut oil and honey. I have already devoured two nearly raw eggs like a rabid dragon and am still hungry. I will wait another hour, once I have finished my coffee, for “second breakfast”. What you all might refer to as a coffee break. It could be a giant bowl of raw spinach with olive oil and any kind of nut imaginable and more eggs. Maybe some cheese and flash sautéed carrots. I try to make it all count.

But who am I kidding, I’m still shoveling it in like the excavator on Bob the Builder.

Sugar makes me shake a little. Junk food gives me heartburn (always has, but now it’s just a torture not worth even a taste) and booze gives me acute insomnia.

Also, I am usually covered with bruises.

“What in the fuck happened to your elbows?!” That was the general inquisition at Thanksgiving. I hesitated and gave a desperate look to my daughter, who knew exactly what happened. She had similar purple/yellow markings on hers.

“Class.”

“What class?”

“Fight class.”

The disapproval hung in the air just for a second before the turkey came out. It was nothing compared to the tension in the emergency room a few days before Christmas when a doctor with a thick accent told me that not only did I have two ruptured ovarian cysts but also a contusion on the left inner wall of my abdomen that went from my ribs to my…Southern States.

“Do you know what this could be from?” The doctor was really skeptical. Possibly already writing up the abuse report in his head.

“It’s that damn class!” My mother said. Despite numerous “I’m fine, I’m driving myself to the ER, Just wanted to let you know” texts, she was hot on my tail and would not leave the hospital.

“What class?”

“It’s…it’s an MMA class,” I said. “It’s MuayThai-style fighting and a lot of conditioning and…”

“Combat?”

“Yeah. Kickboxing, but more intense. Way more.”

That was the first doctor’s note I ever received with ‘no contact sports or combat situations’ underlined in the first paragraph under the treatment category. I was out for two weeks. It was awful. I should’ve been out for four but who can stay away? I could feel myself getting weaker by the minute. I could feel myself losing the edge that I fought so hard to gain.

Also, my fight partner is my 14-year-old daughter and we are incredibly competitive. The thought of her gaining ground…on top of already being in really good physical condition…na-ah. Wasn’t gonna happen. Especially when the only thing standing between a good ass-kicking from your kid is a giant mountain of pride and maybe a little more speed.

MMA is not for everyone. It hurts. A lot. But for me, what hurts more, is sitting on all of those years where I wish I had known how to fight for real. Or more importantly, how to control the fight inside of me. Because there is always so much of it.

“You should’ve been a lawyer.”

“I should’ve been a judge.”

I’ve been fighting for 38 years, to the day. Some of them were totally unfair rounds where I was too young to even think about defending myself. I try to forget those fights. God and karma will handle those fights with those monsters. They will seem like ants in the ring…

Some fights should not have come to blows. Metaphorical or otherwise. I should’ve been the better woman and walked away or just put my hands in front of my face and recognized that what my partner needed was to throw a couple of punches and be done with it. That I didn’t need to take any swings or kick with my dominant side. I know better now.

The physical price of the training is…well, let’s just say today I’m having trouble managing flights of stairs and using my legs to get up (and down) from a seated position. That includes visits to the bathroom. My toe has a mysterious gash that won’t heal. My feet are so calloused and unfeminine I can barely stand to look at them. My shoulders, which were already wide to begin with, are ropes of muscle around bone. My nose has finally stopped throbbing from the “accidental” contact my daughter made with my face a few weeks ago.

Literally every single bra I own is too big. And I pee all the time because all I do is eat eggs and down water…all day. All night. In fact, it’s dangerous for me, this class. I take a medication for seizures that prevents me from sweating. Do you know what that does to a person in the middle of a brutal conditioning session? I can almost feel the acid taking over my blood. I’d rather sweat to death than wonder if this is gonna be the night I overheat like a 20-year-old Pinto in the middle of Vegas.

Thankfully, my fight partner recognizes the signs and even while she’s kneeing me in the chest she’s asking if I need water. Or a band-aid. Or a break.

“Do you feel sick,” she fusses, in a whisper. “How’s the sweating? Your face is getting white. Maybe you should stop.”

Each time, I tell her I’m fine, and that I really will let her know if I’m not. That is the irony of the bruises, the aching muscles, the cracked skin. I will always finish the fight in there because it’s worth it to me to know that I can do it. It is giving me the grace, slowly of course (because I’m more stubborn than an old jackass, this I’ve been told) to pick my battles once I take the gloves off. Fighting is so hard, gaining ground takes so much effort…it had better be worth it.

With a teenage daughter made out of fire and a son made out of wind, both living under the same roof with a mother made out of timber…it has to be worth it.

 

Knowing better

It’s time to talk about this. Time to come clean. If you don’t like it, tough shit, it might be time for a little self-examination. If you agree, then it’s time to do something. Get uncomfortable. Tear your ass away from that chair and that Instagram account and that cocktail recipe you’ve been meaning to try from Pinterest and get fucking real. Because for everyone else, shit just got real. Or, as my daughter says almost every day of her adolescent life, “Ma, the struggle is real.”

So, what’s real? Here’s what’s real, on the ground. On my ground. Where I walk every day with my kids in tow. And if you’re sick of hearing it, which many of you have expressed that you are…let me tell you…we are sick of living it. EVERY DAY. It’s not a figment of my imagination that when I let my daughter roam the aisles of the grocery store to help me do the shopping that she is stared at, followed and in some cases, glared down—especially when I send her to the health and beauty aisle for the expensive face creams that she and I both insist on purchasing. That we share.

‘Cause we share everything. We sip from the same mug of coffee, she pilfers my sock drawer, I steal skirts from her closet, she watches re-runs of “Full House” in the same bed where I’m reading a recycled farm magazine. Some people think we are sisters. Most cannot even fathom that we are blood.

“We look exactly the same,” she says, pulling Moroccan oil through her springy curls. She hands me the bottle so I can use the oil on my wild “stick” hair she calls my “Cherokee ‘fro.”

But, to the outside world, to this culture that I am struggling to raise my children in and against, we are one thing and one thing only. Black and white. Night and day. Not child and mother.

A few weeks ago we made the mistake of going to the mall. She loves to shop. I’m not a fan. But I choked back my hatred of chain stores and took her into…god help me…Delia’s…to shop for trendy graphic tees. A wardrobe essential for her, who wants to fit in. There were at least 10 other girls her age in that store, not to mention a packed cluster of six giggling and hovering around the jewelry section. And yet, while my daughter obliviously wandered the place looking for that perfect thing, a sales clerk was hot on her heels at every turn.

“Can I help you with anything…?” became the battle cry of that experience. Every store—every single fucking store—seemed like it had a designated clerk assigned to following my kid while she blithely shopped for skinny jeans, T-shirts and, because she is mine, the perfect ‘ugly Christmas sweater just for fun.’ I pretended that she was a Saudi princess and that these people were waiting on her hand and foot because of her exquisite beauty and regal stature.

But we all know the truth. We are all part of the truth, whether you want to admit your complicity or not. Your complicity in the complete plundering of the innocence of kids because of the color of their skin. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, or you don’t care, there’s this essay highlighting the disproportionate rate at which black students (as young as preschool age) are disciplined over their white counterparts. Wanna know why? There is a perception, apparently, that somehow a 4-year-old child of color should “know better” and is less innocent than his/her white peers.

Can you get your head around that shit? I’ve been prepping my 13-year-old for months about watching "Schindler’s List" in school. She’s going to be a wreck.

She’s just a kid.

But, bit by bit, I’ve felt compelled to warn her about things. About things that I’m guessing other mothers don’t talk to their kids about. I am the one chipping away at her innocence for the sole purpose of trying to protect her. It’s unconscionable. But, it’s my job. I cannot trust that society will watch out for my kid when I’m not there. Because it won’t. The same police officer that will help your white daughter back to her sorority house because she’s had a few too many is the one who will look at my daughter like a piece of dirt, and bloody her lip and throw her in jail…or worse.

OR WORSE.

We have a problem in this country. And that problem translates into the kind of anxiety that no one wants to understand. Because, as a mother, my thoughts naturally go to the worst place possible. Most mothers go “there” occasionally. We have to, to get that horrible shit out of the way and move on with our day.

Where your thoughts have stopped, mine keep going to the routine traffic stop where my daughter is a new driver—probably speeding if she is anything like her mother. The car will be searched for drugs. She will be roughed up, handcuffed, and possibly injured, or what the hell, shot. Forget a fucking citation…that’s for other people’s kids. That’s for ‘good’ kids who don’t know any better.

“I think there is a huge difference between calling someone a nigga’ and a nigger,” s/he says, in between drags off a cigarette. I am stunned. The air is heavy. I can’t breathe. S/he is a cop. S/he has a gun. These are the thoughts…
“Why don’t you ask my daughter,” I say, slowly. “I’m pretty sure she won’t notice the difference. They both sound the same to me, especially coming out of your mouth.”

I suddenly remember my daughter’s third grade social studies folder. And a packet she brought home, entitled ‘Teaching Tolerance.’ We should be grateful that society puts up with us.
And I wonder. Who’s tolerating who?

The folly of youth...sports

My insider posse is crossing their demonic fingers hoping for a blog about this wedding I've got coming up in five days. There have been some too-good-to-ignore events and comments and gaffes and I will give them my full attention before the big day while they are still fresh in my mind (and raw in my soul). As a teaser, 'dis bitch don't wear white...no way, no how. I'll leave you with that.

But there's something else pretty fresh on my mind as well, a little more pressing, and it needs to be addressed before we all put away our football/soccer/other contact sports jerseys for the season. Before winter settles in and we all start the mad frenzy of trampling each other at Walmart to get a hooker-murdering video game to jam in the sugar-filled stocking of our darling 5-year-olds, we need to address...or rather I need to address the madness that has become youth sports in America.

Be warned, this may offend all people. Also know, that I am the mother of two sports-oriented children and I have tripped on, rolled over, and accidentally washed those goddamn cleat balls. My grocery bill has tripled, my laundry machine is in constant use, my car smells like ball sweat and cat urine, all of my frozen vegetables have been rendered null and void because they are now used to ice knees, shoulders, necks, ankles, backs and groins. We lovingly refer to one particular bag as "crotch corn". So know this, since the time they could walk, I have been a "sports mom." I am not speaking from some didactic point high above. My lawn is filled with divets where soccer moves have been practiced over and over. I have been forced into playing goalie, catcher, pitcher, lineman, quarterback, attacker and slide tackler.

Here's the deal. Common sense in youth sports is dying a quick death and we, the parents, are letting it happen. Straight up. I had inklings of this when I reluctantly (think teeth being pulled out through your butt) allowed my son to play pee wee football when he was 9. He had been playing soccer up to this point and decided it wasn't his thing (while his sister excelled and he scored accidental goals for the other team and chased butterflies at half field--for years). It was a disappointment to me. And a horror. I knew a little bit about head injury statistics and what have you. But not enough to arm myself with a sound-proof argument.

Every clash of the helmets made me want to puke. I had a full three months of emergency runs to the bathroom. Every day, headlines from high schools across the country blasted across my computer--Junior dies from severed spine, head injury renders varsity player brain dead, paralysis for college all-star. And yet, my son played on. He complained of neck pain about three weeks in. Then migraines and more nosebleeds...the machismo ER doctor just gave my son a manly clap on the shoulder pads and said "Welcome to football, kid."

Meanwhile, my daughter, who was just starting 7th grade, was launched into playing JV soccer. She suffered a knee injury about a month in. I demanded that she baby it. Ten days on ice, no practice, elevation, Advil. Our house was starting to look like an infirmary. But they loved their game. Each one, despite the obvious trauma, loved being on the field. Yet my concern, was not with my daughter. Her coach was great. She insisted that the knee heal. She saw into Anna's future, and didn't want this to be a game-ender for her. Football, on the other hand, was a totally different beast. Play 'til you puke. Play 'til you bleed. Play 'til you die. One kid broke his arm. He was back on the field in two weeks. Another fractured an ankle--back out there three weeks later. My son had a bad lung infection at the very end of the season, so couldn't play the last (unofficial, mind you) game of the season. His neck was still bothering him, he was on antibiotics, coughing. We still drove an hour to the game so he could support his team. He sat the sidelines (in the rain/snow) and cheered. And do you know what his coach said to him. To this little 9-year-old kid..."You should be suited up and out there with them..." gave him a look of disgust and walked away. Nine years old.

Three ambulances came to that game. A pee-wee fucking football game. Parents cheering and screaming and some yelling at their kids to get back out their and "how bad does your leg really hurt, c'mon, toughen up, it's the last game of the season."

Pee-wee football, guys.

(I think it warrants a second blog about the coach calling the kids "retards" and the assistant coach screaming at his ex-wife, for all to see, calling her a "fucking cunt" in the parking lot while she was dropping off their son to a game on a nice sunny Sunday at the home field...but I digress...they still coach, by the way.)

It was such a relief when he decided to join baseball. Yes, the games were excruciatingly long. But it was fun. The kids were having fun. They hung out, they learned the game, they did a little conditioning. They were kids. I, as the traumatized mother of the previous football season, was amazed at the difference. Nobody got hurt. Not too bad anyway. And my daughter played her first season of tennis. The knee flared up, as I expected. But, again, there was a general mutual feeling of understanding that it was our jobs, all of us, to keep the kids safe, teach them sportsmanship, and preserve their bodies while they grow into athletes of their own choosing.

Now, fall, again. No football for Lucian. His neck hurts. Still. His pediatrician just shook her head and said "You want your son to be a battering ram? These injuries don't get better if you play more. They get worse." I almost got the sense that we were borderline child abusers even allowing him to play the one season. And who's to say we weren't? Who's to say we all aren't? What the hell are we waiting for? A death blow? My 13-year-old has an orthopedist. She plays entire soccer games without a sub. She's still growing. And people keep asking me why she's not on the weekend league in addition to the JV team. Are you nuts? Because I want her to actually be able to walk on Monday. Look into the future...

I saw a parent last week, he looked more bummed out than his kid. She has to have surgery on her ACL and will be off the field for 10 months. She's not even 17. Did it just so happen that this child had a freak injury, or is it from years and years of constant play: practice every day, games during the week, games on weekends, school league, special spring league while also playing another sport, skiing then rushing off to basketball practice or vice versa...do we honestly think that this stuff won't somehow catch up. And not to us, but to them? What about plain old burnout? I would be heartbroken if Anna decided one season that she was just done playing soccer. Heartbroken. I love watching her play. But who can blame a kid for calling it quits if they've played for three teams and on weekends since they were 8 years old? I'd say fuck it, too.

In this case, it is up to the parents to look into the horizon. We are dealing with growing bodies, and growing bodies are fragile bodies. My daughter's knees can't keep up with the rest of her. So, it's my job to watch her gait during games, it's her job to respond to pain. They will only love the game so long as the game loves them back. If you force them to play it, be prepared for backlash. I know plenty of parents who force their kids into sports. I admit, I practically begged Anna to go to one tennis practice.

"Just one," I said. "If you don't like it, you don't have to go again. I promise. Just try one."

It's not even the end of soccer and she can't wait for tennis. Am I stoked? Of course. Would I have forced her to go? No way. Same goes with my son. I asked him if he would be willing to try martial arts/self defense as a substitute for football (we don't like to have idle seasons around here, the devil finds work...) He said sure. Now he's in his second month of MMA and loving it. On his own terms. And no ambulances in sight. And with such respect in the air with his instructor.

They say that youth football will be obsolete by 2020. That the injury rate will be so high, it will be banned forever into eternity. But why wait until others make the decisions for our kids? Why wait until your kids knees are torn to shreds internally and they've had three concussions and one shoulder surgery and foot reconstruction to finally say, "Shit, they're just kids. Maybe we should let them be kids. And play sports the way kids play sports."

It's not the Olympics, people. Very few get to the big leagues. Sports scholarships are infrequent. And fickle. I thought the whole point of all this was to keep fit and build character, not to burn bodies and kill dreams. Let them play. Let them compete. But in the end, always, in the end; You are in charge. So be in charge. You think it doesn't kill me, this baseball-obsessed former pitcher, that neither of my kids has taken the mound or has even an inkling of interest in doing so? It stings. It stings that they both hate basketball (oh love of my youth) and fishing and archery and competitive singing and Irish punk bands and neither has any interest in learning how to play the piano. Kills me. But I won't live out the wayward dreams of my youth at the expense of their bodies. Or their own dreams. I run this ship. To me, you are Messi. Right in my own backyard.

It's an honor to trip over your cleat balls and bring you frozen corn while you do your homework.

A single, sensical pebble...or, stop supporting potato salad online!

Ahh, summer. Anesthetizing summer, where each raw nerve and astute observation is somehow made numb or less sharp by the alluring scents of grilling meats and potent flora. And what we should see and do see is often shaded by big, leafy trees that leave us longing for a nap and a book in the sleepy heat.

I love summer. The blade is dull. Summer is the flame, we are moths...insert more cheesy metaphors here.

But shit is happening all over the globe. Real shit. Big serious shit that is incomparable to about 90% of the conversations I have on a daily basis. I cringe at myself sometimes, I cringe at the words spewing out into a cauldron of conversation. I see what people are posting about their daily lives and think, "Jesus Christ, Gaza is on fire and we really have the audacity to give a shit about body image...still?" But these things are important, all things are important to all people.

Perspective. Perspective. Where did all the perspective go?

I think we should all be suffering from a little bit of survivor's guilt. Maybe even shame at times, for choosing to ignore the vast sea of suffering that roils right at our feet while we play in the sand. Maybe I should stop trolling the web at night. Nothing sets off my insomnia like a GoFundMe page for an already privileged white kid wanting to raise funds for his/her private school education. Or a litany of posts about the sad state of affairs in third world countries interspersed with numerous pictures from a second home "on the vineyard", a trip to the American Girl Café, and then another post about women's reproductive rights. Then "This stuff in the Middle East is awful" and "Those poor girls in Nigeria" then "Great waves in Malibu today..."

We've all gone totally batshit crazy. Or, perhaps, it just appears that we have.

Where are the causes? Is anyone getting behind a cause anymore and sticking to it? Does anyone feel the weight of their privilege when their GoFundMe site pleading for money to take their kid to a trumped up beauty contest/state gymnastics championship is flanked by one where a baby needs life-saving cancer treatment? Who hits a donate button on a multi-billion dollar museum expansion project but deletes a newsletter asking for small donations to stamp out local hunger?

Our hearts are bleeding and good for us, but I can't help but wonder if we're bleeding into a drain sometimes. There is a logical order to things and the older I get, the more I wonder about the logic.

Let's teach kids math by getting a big grant to have dancers come to the math classroom and do integrative dance to incorporate algebraic concepts...

That's admirable. But you've gotta figure that at least 46% of the kids in that math classroom haven't eaten breakfast and are probably too hungry to give a shit about dancing around. They can't learn on an empty stomach. Empty stomach=empty brain.

Guess which one will get the money...ballerinas attempting to teach right angles.

No one really knows how to save the world. We think we do. We wish we did. But there is a way to start that makes sense. There are priorities. Somehow. Start with life, then take it from there, I guess...

Stay tuned.

Hey, bulldog

When I think of bullying two images come to mind: an atomic wedgie in some locker room in Texas and the collective groan of my former teacher colleagues at yet another staff meeting on said subject. Bullying has some new creative pseudonyms thanks to today's wild social network dictionary. Slut-shaming, cyber-bullying, mean girls, you name it -- it's bullying. I always thought that getting pushed around was a rite of passage that, once you cleared high school, would be over. Once we scaled the awkward hurdle of youth, we would no longer have to defend our every eclectic habit. Our every choice. Our every breath while mortar fire besieged the foxhole of our fragile existence.

I was, of course, wrong. Even big people get goaded and pushed around. Like a dry dog turd on the lawn that gets nudged with a sneaker, but never fully picked up and thrown. Cowards.

I've had a couple of bullying incidents recently that were so passive-aggressive they were laughable, hardly threatening, hardly bullying, right? Nobody got hurt, no wedgies were delivered. But the premise was there, lurking just beneath the civilized surface. Do this, no, do this, why don't you do this? Oh you're not going to do this -- you're the c**t then.

We were all finally seated, surrounded by a nice meal of a fresh salad from the garden. My gentleman friend had grilled up a nice steak. It was a perfect night. We served ourselves. I doled myself a healthy portion of salad and just got my first bite in my mouth. The avocado practically melted. It was so good...

"Hey, aren't you gonna have steak?" My soon-to-be-in-law #1 asked.

I fucking hate it when people ask me questions right when I'm diving in to my dinner.

"Um" Hand up to mouth, chew quick, avoid getting said avocado stuck in throat. Crunch. Chew. "Um, no. All set."

"It's really good steak," said in-law number two. "You should try it."

"I'm good with salad. I love it." Charging steady into my second bite.

"So what, you're not eating meat. Jesus Christ, is it because it's not organic?"

I really just wanted to eat my salad and talk about...NOTHIING...

"No, it's just that I stopped eating meat at Lent and really haven't..." I let the sentence trail off while I deliberately chewed with my mouth open and full of salad. I didn't put my hand in front of my mouth. Just chewed, talked, had to explain myself. The vicious, saber-tooth creature inside me wanted to turn the conversation around--for all different reasons. Why are YOU eating red meat, of all people? Ya know, this salad is a little different because it's comprised of more than just iceberg lettuce, so...

But that would be bullying, wouldn't it?

I remember this time, it was a Friday in winter. I had put a roast in the crockpot with the intention of taking it to my then brother-in-law's house for dinner. The weather started to get dicey by noon, and by 5 p.m., just as I was supposed to head out and meet everybody at the little house in Hillsdale (with dinner in tow) it was down right stupid to be on the roads. I called my then-husband, who had a 4wd Nissan and who had picked our daughter up from daycare.

"I don't think I can make it. The driveway is barely passable. The road isn't even plowed. And Route 23 is a mess."

"Well, I'm almost there. And you've got the dinner, so...just drive slow."

"But I don't think it's safe. Honestly, the driveway is...is like an oil slick."

"Why do you have to put up a fight about everything? Everybody's relying on you to bring the roast. Just drive slow."

I risked my life and limb to bring those drunks a goddamn roast that night. I piled the crockpot, the dog and most of my anger in my tiny 4-cylander Hyandai (before the changeover) and slid backwards down the driveway, nearly over the embankment on the other side of the road. The kind neighbor saw that I was stuck in the snowbank across the road and pulled me out with his plow truck. I drove for 1.5 hours, white knuckling it the whole way. The dog whining in my ear as the tiny car fishtailed and slid its way to the brightly lit house, where, of course, no path had been shoveled. Beef juice dripped into the snow from the crockpot and I remember thinking, "shit, I nearly just died. I'm an idiot for driving here."

Of course, it was agreed that I should leave the car there that night, because it was just too dangerous to drive it in such weather. Yet no one objected to me driving it there...

It's a matter of convenience, this bullying thing among the big people. Because we let ourselves be pushed around, or we push other people around for different reasons. Maybe we think it's for their own good. We're just trying to help. To be supportive...to "show" them "the right way." We do this a lot with the older folks in our lives.

"Ma, the speed limit's 55 you can..."

"Don't tell me how to drive, Jesus, I've been doing this longer than you have."

"You may wanna stop for this guy in the crosswalk. Ma, Ma, blinking lights!"

"I see them!"

Should I be telling my mother how to drive? Absolutely not. Can I help it? Absolutely not. Is it bullying? Probably...

It's bullying when another adult, friend or foe, tells you you need to quit smoking. No shit. Like that's not completely obvious. But if you fire back with, "yes, I do. And you need to quit feeding your ass and hitting the tanning bed every 10 minutes and crying like a 1930s silent film star" guess who wins the asshole contest. You got it.

On a self-righteous side note here, I have, with a few lapses in sanity and judgment, said goodbye to cigarettes. This is the first week in four months where I have not had a single craving for one. It's been hell. And whoever says you can replace cigarettes with food is a total jerk liar. There is no substitute for a best friend.

The line is fine because we think we've reached civility. We're not giving anyone an atomic wedgie or a bloody nose, so it's acceptable to not accept, to push the last buttons, to poke the bear--if that's what you really want to do. My daughter tried that once, on the sidelines of my son's football game.

"Ma, you're cheering too loud. People can hear you. Shush..."

"You didn't just shush me. I'm cheering for my son. On game day. I know you didn't just shush me."

"Yeah, but you get too into it. And you laugh too loud, too." She uncrossed her legs and gnawed on a Skittle. I pasted my hands to my thighs.

"Do you think I got this far because I let people tell me how to be?" She shifted uncomfortably. My voice started to rise and rise...

"Ma, I'm just saying..."

"You just saying what? That I laugh too loud. I cheer too loud. You kiddin' me? You can't tell me how to be. Bigger men have tried. Don't ever think you can. I don't tell you how to smile or how to cry or what to laugh. You're a crazy fool. Go take a lap around the field. Get rid of some of that attitude. You're lucky I'm laughing right now."

I watched her saunter-huff to the concessions stand for more junk food. The father sitting next to me was chuckling to himself.

"They can't tell us what to do," he laughed. "And it's getting to the point where we can't tell them what to do."

I can't wait.

Flabvocate

Normally I feel pretty good about what’s going on in the morning (after coffee and a shower, of course.) I can heave up this miserable pile of humanity, even on a snowy (fucking April) day and make it presentable to the world. Of course, some days are better than others. Some days, I get in a few more sets with my little dumbbells, a longer stretch…no pressure. Whatever there’s time for. Some days, I am practically eating a yogurt in the shower and asking my 10-year-old to start the car while begging my daughter to pack me a lunch.

“Put anything in there, I don’t care. Just do it now. We are going to be late.”

Those mornings make for some interesting hair. It’s a crap shoot. Farrah Fawcett-Tina Turner love child or Eponine dying in the rain. Either way, we’re leaving the house.

NO MATTER WHAT.

So when I think about my little dumbbells, and my weird, Herculean hikes, and the Frankenstein scars, and the big feet…well, I don’t really think about those much. In fact, I usually only think about the imperfections of the shell I live in when I’m trying to make someone laugh. Usually a friend who is worried about her imperfections.

“God, I got a full visual of my face yesterday…it was just…”

“I used two mirrors. I don’t even know how people look at me.”

“How did my nose get so big?”

“Where did my chin go? My teeth must’ve ate it.”

“Oh stop…you’re gonna make me go off the road.”

“I’m serious. Where did it fucking go? And the back of my hair…How long has that nest been there? Why didn’t anyone tell me about the nest. It’s a miracle my neck can hold it all up. My neck is pathetic. It’s not even a neck. It’s…”

“A golf tee.”

“Exactly.”

Funny, right? I actually feel better. We are laughing. It’s cool, things are cool. Then we go and eat our weight in really good food, including orange zest EVOO cake and life just feels good.

So why then, do I not feel this confident when the Huffington Post inundates the web (we’re talking deluge via FB, Twitter, smoke signals) with “body image empowerment” stories. We're supposed to feel good, right? That's the point of paying a writer to scrawl out 600 words on how Jennifer Lawrence ruins her white set gowns with Dorito dust. Or how Kate Winslet was a "fat kid" in school. Or how the cellulite on Kim Kardashian's thighs was photoshopped out of a cover shoot.

Oh, phew, I feel so much better now. Thanks, newsfeed, for the coiffed photos of beautiful women in expensive dresses leading the charge in favor of feeling good about myself while I sit here in my 10-year-old yoga pants knowing it's only a matter of time and gravity before my boobs will rest solidly in my lap and that the veins in my hands are starting to look like the highway clog entering L.A.

But thanks for placating me with the photo montage of post-partum moms in black panties and bras holding their smiling infants and toddlers. That takes the sting off a bit. Nice black and white noir shots, good lighting... Close, very close, and very brave.

If you want hyper real, try a dimly lit bathroom at 3 a.m., full color saturation--so you can see the nice purple-silvery stretch marks that will never go away, bags under the eyes so deep Tim Burton should be calling to cast you in his next morbid Claymation film. Now that's body image reality. Oh, and don't forget the clinging baby...but wipe that smile off his face because he's just puked all over himself and you and you're both going in for a bath. No black bra, no soft light, no luxuriant hair.

But it's all good, 'cause he still thinks you're cool. And his big sister (age three) will be leaning over the bath tub, while you are bathing the puke off your broken naked self and the baby, and she will point to different parts and ask hilarious questions.

"Why do you have hair there?"

"What are those? What are those in the middle of those?"

"What's he got there?"

"Why are there drawings all over your skin?"

"What's a tattoo?"

"You're belly is really floppy. It floats! Cool!"

Here are the real body image warriors. Stick with them. They will tell you the truth, build up your armor, and never steer you wrong. And if anyone says anything bad about your shell, they are trained to kill. But don't expect Disney-esque miracles of enlightenment.

"Nice dress, Ma. I like the color."

"Thanks. It's black, though."

"Yup. Like I said..."

I'll take it. I'm sure Dorito dust looks good on black.