Dear Social Media Warrior

Dear Social Media Warrior:

I am writing to you today to relieve you of your post. From here on out, you are no longer required to sit on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, or any other social media platform and search out those who do not think exactly the same as you. At ease soldier.

To help you find your way back into normal social media society, I have a few tips that might help you. I know active social media duty can be tiresome and draining. It takes some time to break habits you might have formed during your tour around social media land.

First, several of the platforms offer you the ability to unfollow, unfriend, or delete other warriors or targets. Use this option. Remove anyone that might cause you to go back into attack mode or put you on alert. Any time you see something in your feed that causes you to pick up arms and attack, it's time to remove that trigger.

Second, choose to employ the scroll by. If you see something that just makes you want to go on the attack, use that little bar on the side and drag it down. POOF! The trigger has now been removed. You can go about your browsing. If you find yourself continuing to ponder the rants and soapboxes you see, get off whatever platform you are perusing and do something positive. There are several options you can choose from. Consider calling your mom or grandmother. Write a letter or card to a sick friend or a sad co-worker. Pay it forward and go pay for someone's meal at a restaurant. Combat the negativity with positivity.

Third, consider why you are still aching to be in active duty. Why do you fight so hard? Is it the desire to be right? Is it the urge to put others, who you believe are wrong, in their place? A recent article on Psychology Today explains that no matter how persuasive you might be, even cold hard facts won't deter the masses. Denise Cummins, PhD gave this example in her article:

"Consider this study by Lord, Ross and Leppner (1979)     which used a very realistic procedure to examine whether logic and evidence lead people to change their minds: People supporting and opposing capital punishment were asked to read two studies, one that confirmed and one that disconfirmed their existing beliefs about the death penalty. The studies were fictional, but were described as actual published research. They were then asked of each study, "Has this study changed the way you feel toward capital punishment?", and "Has this study changed your beliefs about the deterrent efficacy of the death penalty?" Then they were given summaries of several prominent criticisms of the study, and the authors’ rebuttals to the criticisms.

The results? The two groups became more certain of their original position, and, as a result, the groups became more polarized in their beliefs!

Why? Because people are likely to examine relevant evidence in a biased manner, accepting evidence that is consistent with their views without further scrutiny while subjecting evidence that contradicts their views to intense scrutiny."
Whose mind are you changing? Are you just making things worse? Are you just making someone even more less open minded? Who are you to give orders? What makes you so infallible and correct that you are allowed to give your opinion as the only opinion worth having? One of the things I have found to be a great characteristic of this wonderful thing we call mankind is the ability to think differently. Should you stand up for injustice? Yes. Should you stand up for life? Yes. Should you continue to fight the good fight? YES!  But not everything is so cut and dry. Do your due diligence and see all sides of an issue. Not only does this help you see things from another perspective, it allows you the opportunity to know why you believe what you believe.

Lastly, consider joining another regiment. Go out and find an infantry group who actually have their boots on the ground and get your hands dirty. (Not to say that your fingers and keyboard aren't already covered in the blood of your victims you have slaughtered during your many campaigns on the social media battle field.) Social media rarely makes real change. Lots of people say they want to fight the good fight. It is rare that many really step in and actually put on the uniform and walk the walk. 

But I am here to say it is okay to put the fire out under your fingertips and light the fire under your butt. You don't have to leave your warrior status behind, just become a different kind of warrior. Fight for real change instead of just being another voice in a sea of words. When you look back on your career as a warrior, don't you want to have actually helped someone? Otherwise, what's the point of fighting? 

Signed Your Commanding Officer,

Just as Guilty as You

Confessions from the Gynecologist’s Office

I am like every other woman in the world—busy. To say I had put off my “lady doctor” appointment is an understatement. My next appointment was scheduled for three years ago. Of course, I put it off because, not only am I a busy mother of three children, business owner, homeschool teacher, and crazy person, it’s not my favorite experience in the world. I am going to be honest right here folks. I absolutely hate having my finger pricked. I like to think I have a very high tolerance for pain, but that right there drives me crazy. It’s like someone purposefully giving you a paper cut. Anyway, let’s just say I was due for a visit. After much harassment from my mother and husband I made the call.

I hate talking on the phone. It’s also one of my least favorite things to do. It’s not up there with having my finger pricked, but definitely in the top 25. The nurse answers and I explain what I need to do. You can almost hear the lack of shock in her voice when she says, “So, you haven’t been back in three years?” Let’s just say, I wasn’t known around the office as the most cooperative or calm pregnant person. I explain about my busy life and how I had always planned to, but never got around to it. I can feel her eyes through the phone. She asks me who I would like to see, and I say the name of the woman who I have seen since I was 19. A wonderful midwife who has talked me through the beginnings of becoming a woman, three pregnancies, one miscarriage, and countless other life milestones. “Ummmmmm……” is what I hear on the other end of the line. “I am sorry ma'am, but due to your age, you are no longer able to do your yearly visits with a midwife.”

Here is my first confession. I wanted to choke her. And I know this receptionist. We laugh and chat every time I begrudgingly fill out the paperwork and complain about peeing in the cup. I wanted to scream out, “I AM NOT OLD. And even if you believe that fact based on a number you see on my file, it’s not true.” I just sat there for a second while I internalized never seeing the woman who had talked me through so many huge events and decisions in my life. She was a calming voice, and at times, the voice of reason when I wasn’t so reasonable. It was like a kick to the gut. When I was finally able to respond, she gave me some options of female doctors I could see. (Real mom moment here—I don’t like male gynecologists. Let’s just say I had one during a pregnancy that tried to pull my esophagus out of my lady parts while checking my baby. Ever since then, I just decided that I would stick with the women.) I chose a name from the list of TWO (yeah, you heard that right—only two) women she offered. We made the appointment and I kind of deflated when I hung up the phone.

Poor Anthony took the brunt of my anger as I blamed him for making me call in the first place. I wasn’t seriously angry at him, but he took it like a champ. It’s probably the first time since I learned that I was no longer eligible to be a Disney princess at Disney World that someone told me I was too old.

Here’s confession two—I wanted to “accidentally” forget my appointment. The thought crossed my mind. Surely my midwife would make a house call right? She loved me more than any other patient. I am sure of it. As I watched Anthony rearrange his whole schedule to make my office visit possible, I realized the selfishness in this thought. He really did everything he could to make my visit as stress free on his end as he could.

Now, to make this visit even more awesome, about a week before, I took a dive off of a high ledge in Gainesville during a photo shoot. Okay, that’s dramatic. My weak right ankle (don’t you DARE think old) decided to be a drama queen and gave out. I was only on my second shoot of the morning so I don’t know why it was such a big deal. So not only was I going to this most hated visit, I was going as a gimp. I would look like the old person she had insisted I was over the phone. Yay. Not to mention the pain. Here they were going to prick my finger while my ankle was the size of a small cantaloupe. Greeatttt……

I hobbled into the office trying to make it without the crutches I had left in the car. I was determined that if I was going in gimpy, I was going to be on my own two feet. I walked in the office, signed the sign in sheet and chatted with the same receptionist. (She’s so nice ya’ll! She asked me about my business, how I was, etc. She was genuinely interested in what I had been up to the last three years.) I sat down looking at all the new moms with their hubbies excitedly talking about what they expected at this visit.

Confession three makes me seem so petty but here it is—I was jealous. In my mind, they were able to see a midwife and I wasn’t. In fact, they were probably going to see MY midwife. (At this point, I was probably delusional from the foot pain. I am praying that’s what it was.) I know most of you thought I would say I was so jealous because they were having a baby and starting that awesome journey. No! I am very happy with where I am currently! I seriously was jealous of the fact that my amazing midwife would be the one babying, I mean, examining them.

I was called back by my favorite nurse in the world. Poor woman has seen me in all kinds of situations and still had to see me at the baseball field like a normal person. I don’t know how she does it with a straight face. As I take the walk of death toward the finger prick I knew was inevitable, she says, “Jump up here and let me weigh you.” Ummmmm…….I looked down at the huge boot on my foot which I knew was probably keeping me upright at the moment. “Do you deduct the weight of the boot?”

Confession four—I was embarrassed about being weighed. I don’t know why. But the thought of her looking at my weight (the one person who knows what I actually weighed during every pregnancy) with the added boot weight was just horrific in my mind. She looked at me and said in jest, “Do you know how much it weighs?” I swallowed my pride and climbed up. As I watched the scale slide further over I just cringed. This just kept getting better and better.

It was then that she showed me to a room. WAIT!! She didn’t prick my finger! I don’t know if she forgot or if it’s not practice anymore, but there was no way I was bringing it up and I almost skipped to the room behind her. Okay, it was more of a hobble, but it was a peppy hobble.

She handed me the standard paper couture gown and as I rocked it, I sat on the table trying to figure out how my boot was going to fit in a stirrup. Then I started to look around. I saw the familiar posters of pregnant mothers showing the various stages. I saw pamphlets on different types of cancer and treatments. And then it hit me.

Confession five is the hardest of all. I was a horrible, horrible person. Here I was, sitting on this table waiting on a regular check-up, with regular every day problems. For the most part, I had been healthy for the three years I had so conveniently skipped my check-ups. So many women walked into that room, looked at those same posters, wore the paper gown and had much bigger problems than weight, a busted ankle or a pricked finger. They were wondering if their baby would have a heartbeat. They were trying to decide how to tell their family about a diagnosis that might change their lives forever. They were crying, feeling hurt, alone, and angry.

I felt terribly ungrateful. As I sat there on that table, I realized just how blessed I am. Sometimes, as humans, our lives get so complicated. We get overwhelmed and frustrated. Each one of us has moments in the valley where life just doesn’t seem to get any better. At this point, I was pretty low in the valley as I sat there on the table drowning in my “problems.” It took putting myself in someone else’s shoes to realize that the things I was allowing to eat at me weren’t as big as they seemed. I have been that person sitting in that room praying over and over, “Let them see something, let there be a heartbeat.” It’s ten million times worse than a bum ankle.

It also reminded me that I am called to see past my own life and circumstances, and comfort those around me. It was a God thing that the very next Sunday School lesson we sat through the following Sunday was about reaching out and comforting others. It’s more than just offering to pray or sending them a card, but actually being present in the lives of those who are hurting. It was on that table that I decided that I would be as present as possible when I knew of someone going through a struggle. Instead of offering to bring them food, actually doing it without asking. I would not only send a card, but make a follow-up call or visit. Instead of offering to keep their kids, come over and drag all their kiddos out to our car and to the park.

Some of our friends will never ask for our help. Even if they really, really need it, they will try to keep that need hidden because they don’t want to come across as weak. I am that person. Social media has become another place where women especially feel the need to keep up appearances. Most of you know, I try to keep it as real as possible on that end. But when I get in over my head, when I am really struggling, those are the times I am absent from social media. If I can’t post reality, I usually just shy away from it entirely. If you see a friend missing from social media, reach out. There is probably a reason.

In a world of me, me, me, it’s time we make a change. I believe our country is at a crossroads. One of the ways for us to get back on the right path is to think about others more than ourselves. We need to show love, even when we don’t feel so amazing or loved ourselves. Seeing beyond our own circumstances and realizing that we can make a difference in the lives of others is one of God’s gifts to us. We can be the change. And when we start moving beyond our own circumstances, other people around us will follow. So stop sitting on the table, get up and make a difference!

Dear Horrible Mom

Dear Horrible Mom—

Yeah, I am talking to you. The mom who struggles with keeping a clean house while balancing a job and her family. The one who hates to cook and allows her husband to prepare meals. A crotchety, frustrated, spent mom who finally loses it at the end of the day and yells at her children (Okay, let’s be honest. It might be more like 9:30 am.) Sometimes I see you in the parking lot wrangling your crazy kids as they put every reflex, not to mention ounce of patience, to the test—and it fails. Other times I see you stressing over your time, trying to figure out if you have actually spent enough time just listening to your kids. You wonder if your husband even remembers your name, or what you look like for that matter. You really can’t keep up with every detail, no matter how hard you try.

Let’s face it—you are a real loser. Not just a loser, but a failure. You aren’t helping anyone—not your kids, not your husband, not your coworkers, not anyone. Your kids will grow up to be degenerate, unintelligent, disrespectful people. Your husband will finally look at you one day and realize just how far you have let yourself go. Your job will suffer to the point that no one would ever keep you on staff or hire you. Your church is completely devastated at your lack of participation and leadership. I could go on and on listing out your future disappointments.

At some point, you break. You cry into your pillow, your steering wheel, your laptop, or just whatever’s closest. Who could ever understand what you feel like? Who could put up with such a depressing, pathetic excuse for a mother, wife, friend, and wait…..I can’t even list the rest of the roles you place because it makes me tired.

The truth is that every woman on this planet in every era of history has taken a moment out of her day to label herself a horrible ____________. (You can fill in the blank—worker, wife, sister, friend, etc.) It’s almost like it’s in our DNA to be hard on ourselves. We are our own worst critics. I guarantee, in most cases, someone around you thinks that you are doing a great job. But why would a horrible mom listen to anything positive about the pitiful job she was doing?

I am about to get very real with you here. I am that horrible mom. My husband cooks in our household. Our house is in total chaos a majority of the time (Oh okay—all the time). My car looks like homeless cats probably live inside. Some days, I don’t want to be the best. All I want is to sleep. Maybe even without a foot in my eye socket. I look around at the chips on the floor, the laundry on the back of the couch, the sticky wetness on the door frame (what in the heck is that?) and literally think there is no more horrible mother than I. Forget the fact that I spend waayyy too much time working. I struggle trying to find a balance between my editing time for my job, instructing the boys for school, and just enjoying real face to face time with them. Did I hug them enough today? Did I grade that spelling test? Did I remember to edit that booger off that child’s face in the family picture? Yeah, I am a jumbled up mess some days.

It’s usually on the days where I feel like that horrible mom that I talk to another person who vents to me the exact same struggles that I have had that day and I smile. Relief floods over me and I realize, IT’S NOT JUST ME! I scream it on the inside, from the rooftops of my, uhhh, greater intestine maybe. I usually look her straight in the face and say “Preach sister.” That’s when I realize how important it is for women—not just moms—to be very careful of the social media trap. You know exactly what I am referring to. You can’t sleep (mainly because you are stressing over what you have to do tomorrow, or next week even) so you mindlessly open Pinterest. You scroll nonchalantly through the pins and you stop on that amazing article—How to Clean Your House in a Week (and keep it clean for eternity with 15 minute spot cleanings). Or maybe that article that should give you all the feels—500 Things You Should do With Your Toddler Before they grow up and go to Kindergarten. Or my personal favorite—30 Days to Weighing Exactly What you Think You Should Weigh (with a gorgeous butt). You see pictures of beautiful homes with playrooms that look like no child has ever been there. You see a list of things you should probably do with your kid that you couldn’t complete before he was 30. You glance over and realize that you couldn’t do those exercises even if it meant that someone would gift you a million dollars and do them for you. And don’t even get me started on Facebook. The statuses that haunt me look a little like this: “I completely cleaned my house, had 15 houseguests over for an absolutely awesome party, cheered my son as he threw a no hitter, and now it’s 9pm and I am crawling under the covers about to get it on with the man of my dreams.” We compare not only what we look like, but what we are doing, how we do it, and who did it on less sleep. Sometimes, it can even be the opposite. We compare who has the worst of it. You know the people who groan on and on about how bad their life is. Let’s just be real. Social media needs a good dose of reality and positivity. Is it okay to say that in the same sentence?

So let’s bring this letter back around. It’s time to change a few things horrible mom. First, it’s time to stop being so hard on yourself. I bet (well unless you have a teenager) if you ask your kids right now about the job you are doing, they would praise you. If you talked to a coworker, they would be able to highlight something you did right. Your husband could probably tell you some vital thing you did to keep the house running. We are way harder on ourselves than other people. It’s time we get out of the self-pity and get on the positive. We can’t encourage our kids to think positively about themselves and their bodies if we constantly exhibit the opposite.

Second, get out of the comparison game. It’s a no win situation. There will always be someone better out there. Photography actually taught me this. No matter how much I learn, no matter how much I improve, there will always be someone who is better at photography than me. Once I finally became okay with that, I was able to grow and accept my own work for what it was—mine. It’s the same with womanhood. There will always be a better mom, a better friend, a better wife—but your family, your friends, your coworkers accept you for you—failures and all.

Third, get real on social media. Had a kid poop down your back while you were working? Post it. House looks like a velociraptor had a house party? Post it. Turned an entire load of laundry blue? Post it. Why? Because you will get 50 responses from folks who had the same kind of day and will say, “It does get better. It happens to the best of us.” What should you not post? Keep all spouse rants, bullying, and hatefulness to yourself. Beating down someone else will NOT make you feel better about yourself.

And last, but certainly not least, let people compliment you. Don’t be like me horrible mom. When my husband tells me how much he appreciates me, I sometimes sigh in my head and think, “I bet you do. It meant you didn’t have to do it.” That’s a crappy attitude and there is no place for it (even during PMS). When someone at work compliments a project or someone who is competing with you for a job says something nice, don’t automatically dissect their compliments to find the sarcasm or hidden meanness. When the older lady in Walmart tells you how awesome your kids are behaving as you are quickly pulling your toddler’s pants back up (the ones he had pulled off and was swinging around his head like a lasso) and giving your other child the “put that down before I lose it” look—smile, hug her, and cry on her shoulder. Some of them haven’t forgotten what it was like to be in your shoes.

All this to say, horrible mom, that you are not so horrible. You are an amazing creature that juggles like a clown, is faster than the Flash, needs less sleep than Elf, saves more days than Wonder Woman, and loves more than any person on earth. That in itself is not so bad.

Sincerely Yours,
A Horrible Mom