Thanks, Mom
“A house is made of walls and beams; a home is built with love and dreams.”
Do you ever feel like a gloomy Gus? Have you ever been dangerously low on positive vibes? I have, and I hate it. It is like sitting in the movie theater with a bucket of popcorn but as you reach down for a buttery handful instead your hand scrapes the bottom, empty except for a few unpopped kernels.
What a disappointment.
I am not sure I can spot the gloom as clearly in myself as in those around me. I saw it in my daughter’s eyes and slumped shoulders as we sat on my bed the other day. Her black hair cascaded down her face as she studied her hands, hands decorated with faded Sharpie marker. In the quiet away from the chaotic kitchen, I listened carefully as she spoke.
It feels good to decompress. Somehow we know we can’t ignore the build-up of discouragement. She was tired of trying to hide the weight of the conflicts she felt inside. Family is supposed to be the home where we can let our guard down, the safe place.
It was late afternoon and the sun was peeking in through the windows as she took a throw pillow into her arms. She sat up with her legs crisscrossed.
“I just feel alone, “she said.
I nodded my head. I could relate and yet I know her world is harder in many ways than mine was at her age. It is much easier for friends to hide behind social media posts when they want to hurt you. Scrolling through to see the friend’s smiling pose with others, not you, shared knowing full well you would see it. Such selfies can feel like an indirect punch.
Is it petty to feel hurt by a simple picture?
In one social media user study, teens responded when asked: Do you sometimes feel left out or excluded when using social media?
70% felt low social-emotional well-being
29% felt high social-emotional well-being
From such a study it appears my daughter is not alone in feeling a sense of gloom. Social media is such an interesting beast. On one hand, we are able to feel more connected worldwide to friends we couldn’t see otherwise. On the other hand, it feels phony and cold like window shopping. Instead of admiring the pretty clothes hung on a mannequin I am admiring someone else’s life from a safe distance.
In an effort to relate I said, “Somehow, at times, it feels like I am standing outside someone’s picture window in the thicket of their rose bushes while wearing sandals in a foot of snow. If I gaze too long I just feel miserable.”
My daughter laughed at my weird metaphor as she traced the flower design on my comforter nodding in agreement.
“Is it dumb to feel mad, Mom?” she asked.
A single tear fell from the side of her dark-lashed eye. Why is it hard to find a good friend? In a culture that pressures us to post an edited and filtered snapshot of ourselves when what we really long for is depth. We are all hoping to truly be seen and loved, to be known and accepted, but sometimes we feel left out and sad.
I held out my hand, “Daughter, you are so special and amazing. I am sorry you are feeling alone right now.” She let the tear glisten on her cheek. It felt good to have it seen.
The pain we feel needs to be shared.
As a mom, I have only a few rare moments to be let into the vulnerable space of a daughter’s heart. Life is busy, and I often miss such moments. The space on my bed that afternoon became a holy sanctuary to rest and heal. Words of affirmation do not always come easily from me. Though I am a writer, words to my loved ones can be elusive. As I work on my own issues I am learning to have more compassion for theirs. It is from these lessons I have learned grace flows more readily.
“You are the most beautiful when you are relaxed and willing to just be yourself,” I said as I hugged her. “Trust me.”
She looked me in the eyes and smiled.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Did she believe me? After all, it is her mother speaking. Aren’t moms supposed to say such things? I felt vulnerable as I sat with her knowing: how she views herself will shape how she lives her life. My words felt trivial and cliche, but I meant them. If only I could walk with her through life holding her hand. I would yell at all these silly friends that can’t see the gold in my girl. (This is my over-mothering urge) Foolish, I know, for she is no longer small, but grown. I sighed as she jumped off the bed to find her phone.
I hoped she would listen to my words more directly than the messages she received from the little device charging on her bedside table. It was time for dinner so I walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge to see what I had to work with.
Where is my phone? I need to google a recipe…
As I looked on Pinterest I saw several ads for fashion, make-up hacks, and party ideas. I rolled my eyes as I thought about my unwashed hair and the sweatpants I had been wearing on repeat for the last two days.
“Get with it, Dianne.”
And so the phone speaks silently. Pictures portray a life we have yet to live. Clever fonts draw us in by our own insecurity to yearn for things just out of reach. This can make a gloomy Gus out of each one of us if we don’t watch it. Remembering the talk with my daughter I softened my words, “Go with the flow, Dianne.”
Life is not linear, at least for me. It is full of curves, waves, and full-circle moments. As I work on my own issues I am becoming a mindful hugger. I am trying to use my words to build up those I love. I want to be an anchor, the home for my children to rest and become renewed. I don’t want to be so glued to the screen that when the empty bucket of popcorn comes back around I become the grump. Instead, I want to be the giver. The one to which they say:
Thanks, Mom.
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