shared stories

When a comment becomes your story

straight hair

I have naturally curly hair. When I get my hair cut every couple of months, my hairdresser will straighten my hair.  She uses a straightening iron and tames my locks into a sleek, smooth style.

Coworkers or someone usually comments on my hair.

“New hair style?”

“I like your hair.”

Or even, “I didn’t recognize you with that straight hair.”

Instead of acknowledging, Yes, I just had it done. I usually say, Well, I have to get my hair straightened every time I get my hair done or else my husband will say – and I deepen my voice – ‘Why did you spend money to get your hair done when it looks the same?’

He may have said that comment to me once a couple of years back. Ever since, it’s been my go-to-response when someone comments on my hair.  I had the revelation that his comment is now my story, my truth.  Even though it was said years ago, I’m keeping it alive and present by repeating the speil.

Today I’m going to change my story. That inner dialogue from a comment way back when will no longer have such a prominent place when I respond to a compliment.

I can think of other examples of compliments that tend to get brushed off.

“Nice dress.”

“Oh, it was on clearance.”

“Thank you” is not always the first response.

Next time someone compliments me, I’m going to accept their compliment with grace and gratitude.

parenting · shared stories

I am not my mood

All this weekend, my 16 month old was driving me crazy. Changing her diaper had become a wrestling match.  I would pin her down across her waist to stop her from rolling over and off the changing table, while she protested, “No! No! No!”  You’re only 16 months old.  You’re not supposed to be telling me “No” yet.

She’s a happy, content, cuddly baby most of the time. Now it seems like she thinks she’s a big kid, wanting to be like her older siblings.  She almost climbed up the ladder to the top of the bunk bed within seconds of leaving the girls’ bedroom door open.  I was exhausted from chasing her.  I kept repeating to myself, “This kid’s gonna be the death of me.  I’m going bonkers, bring me to Butler.” Not in all seriousness all the time, but the thought was ever present.

Last night around 4:30 a.m., my baby was crying. Not the usual, I’m half asleep whimper to a cry.  This was full-blown hysterical crying.  My husband brought her to our bed and she just sobbed and sobbed for a good thirty minutes.  She slung her body across my chest, almost like she had me pinned down, with her face close to mine.  I rubbed her back and took deep breaths to silently demonstrate calm breathing.

The crazy making self-talk melted as I held my sobbing child. I realized I was the only one making myself crazy.  She needed me to be there for her, to make her feel safe and loved.  She had me pinned down. And while I held her, my heart widened to that truth.