The Step-Mom Chronicles. Preview.

    When I was a little girl, I was always chosen for children's church play leading roles and solos. It was a given that every year I would be the one singing the bigger pieces. Why? My mother, Lord bless her, made me sing a Sunday night special every month from ages four to twelve. My curly fro would be pulled tightly back with a bow to perfectly match my fake satin dress. It was 1995. You know what shiny, God-awful fabric I'm remembering. The church's carpet was the color of an old bicycle rusted by rain water and I hated pressing the colored foam microphone to my lips because my pastor's excitement didn't always remain on his own. 

    I had the most singing experience along with weekly singing lessons, so I was always the obvious choice to stand in the spotlight with sweaty palms and paper lyrics stuffed down into my lace socks. My mother's small, sweet face that I now see in my own bathroom mirror was always on the front row; her lips largely mouthing every word to my grand solo. 

   One year, that all changed. They decided to give another kid a chance to shine and I was handed a small song mid-play. My seven year old self couldn't believe it. The boy they gave my solo to liked to pick his nose and couldn't sing a lick. Now that I look back on it, I know that the talent in a kid's play is of least importance.  Also, I vaguely remember hearing a parental fit was thrown to get the nose picker a small spot of fame. 

  I don't remember much about the play, except one of my best friends wore a giant North Star suit and the fact that booger boy totally butchered the main solo. Faces contorted with each off-pitched pre-puberty squeal. I smirked behind my costume head covering and that was it. I was quite the little ass about it on the inside, but patted his back and lied to him about how great he did before skipping off stage to get my happy meal my mother promised me. 

    Moral of the story? I rocked and should have been the lead. Every. Single. Year. Forever. 

The end. 

Thanks for reading my book. 

Just kidding. 

The moral is that I was a typical ornery kid, just like you were and I didn't want to share the spotlight. In fact, I felt entitled to it. 

Nobody wants to be the secondary. 

The "stage hand."

We want to be seen. To be heard. We feel we won't matter if we're in the back prepping costumes instead of singing in the spotlight. 

I want to get real here with you, momma. Sometimes the life of the silent stage-hand sings louder than the leading roles. Your presence as the stage-hand is absolutely necessary for the show to happen successfully. 

Sometimes the most influential person is often the one unseen. Think of major films. Who do we see? The actors, actresses, stunts and special effects. 

But who directed it? Who was the writer, up all hours of the night drinking stale coffee with messy hair and furrowed brow?

We don't know. 

We don't see them.

They don't need our applause or our recognition. 

They sit in the back during the premiere screening and simply smile, content to just have been a part of something great. 

This is who we are. 

You are the writer, just happy that you are helping create. 

Children? They are in the spotlight. 

Mom? In the spotlight. 

Dad? In the spotlight. 

You? 

You set the lights. Play the music. Prep the costumes. Feed the lines. You write. You erase and then you write again. Without you, the show just wouldn't be the same. 

You're going to be the stage-hand often and that's okay. 

No play would ever make it to opening night without you. 

Being a step-mom requires a lot of patience, grace and humility. These are all such beautiful qualities to possess. They don't come easy, but they come. 

This is a journey. 

Sometimes long, sometimes hard, but always beautiful. 

Now, let's get this show on the road momma. 

Together. 

Hold The Cards.

I remember watching people play poker once. I was twenty and had just recently discovered rum. I liked thinking that I could pretend to be a badass with my 5% alcoholic sugar water.

 I would laugh at jokes that became stale when passing through the smoke of cheap cigarettes. 

I like to tell people this was my "hardcore" stage; you know the one we all are supposed to go through when we are young, stupid and searching for our parents' values that we seem to have misplaced somewhere, along with our shoes, around drink number three. 

The truth? I was never hardcore. After two rums I was talking to shag carpet and my asthma blew my badass identity when I choked on mint-flavored hookah. 

I was under the impression that the drunken, lost stage of life was a right of passage, so when fate didn't create it for me I did it to myself. 

Back to poker. 

I loved studying every player's unique bluffing strategy. Each eyebrow raise, twitch of the nose; all were road maps to read. 

I saw so many young idiots trust other players far too easily. 

They couldn't understand the road map, so they would continue to place more and more chips on the table. The other player would remain stiff, unmoved and continue to simply hold their cards close to their chest. 

They would wait for their prey to put it all on the table. Every chip and wadded dollar bill. 

Then...the other player would lay it all down. 

The winning hand. 

I learned those were the best players; the ones who had every reason to gloat, cheer and show the room just what they held, but chose not to. 

Sometimes to win, you have to hold those cards that could destroy your opponent close to your chest.

At times, okay always, my flesh says, "Dukes up! Let's fight! We've got the fists to win!" 

But God says, "Hands down. Leave the ring and leave your enemy to swing at the air."

It's hard to take off the gloves, but in the end you win by never joining in on the match. 

At times, okay always, my flesh says, "Britney, lay down that winning hand. What are you waiting for?! Give your opponent what's coming to them!" 

But, yet again, that Jesus fellow comes in and shuffles my deck. 

Jesus instructs us to keep holding that royal flush, that winning hand, those cards that could totally obliterate our adversary. 

He instructs us to keep holding because it's not our hand to play. 

It's His. 

It's not our job to play the the winning hand. 

It's not our job to ever step into the ring. 

It's not our poker game. 

It's not our match. 

It's His. 

Hold the cards. 

"The Lord your God will fight for you; you need only to be still."

Exodus 14:14

Television Will Fry Your Child's Brain and Other Horrifying Myths

"Don't sit so close to the T.V screen, it'll make you go blind."

"Be careful or your eyes will get stuck like that, you know."

"That show will give you nightmares."

"Spray can cheese isn't meant to be sprayed directly into your mouth."

"Your brain will rot from playing video games all summer."

"Spongebob is a homosexual, you know. Don't let your kids watch that."

The last one really did come out of someone's mouth once. I promise.

Before jumping into the real meat of this blog, let me debunk these myths and wow you all by the fact that I actually survived my childhood and not only that, came out as a functioning, intelligent (and rather witty if I do say so myself) adult.

I sat close to every Disney VHS movie screen I could. I've got the best eyesight out of my entire immediate family.

I criss-crossed my eyes every chance I got at my sister in the back seat of that green mini van, yet my eyes are perfectly normal. Wait, are there two of you? Just kidding.

Now, that show my mother told me not to watch (but I did every day when she was still waitressing) did give me nightmares. I think it built character in me though and made me less of a wussy. Sometimes nightmares aren't all that bad to have.

I spent the majority of my summers spraying canned cheese directly into my esophagus with my much older and mature sister, Kim. I have news for you: spray can cheese only has one purpose and that is to gulp it with head titled back. If you're eating it any other way, you're doing it wrong.

I played video games in that hot pink bean bag while wearing my Pocahontas pajamas my entire fourth grade summer and can do magical things like use the proper form of to, too, your and you're despite my half-rotted brain. Take that.

Spongebob isn't a homosexual; he's a cartoon with no genitals or gender identity. Even if he was, let your kids watch him. HE IS EVERYTHING. If you don't, they will grow up to have no friends and no sense of humor. That, my friends, is no myth.



Now, the real point for this blog isn't to talk about Spongebob's lack of genitalia. It's to tick you and every other parent off who has shared an article about why technology is turning our children into cyborgs and storm troopers.

You roll your eyes now, but really, your child isn't being damaged because you're handing them a tablet to shut them up on a road trip or because they would rather play Minecraft than help you mow the lawn.
Their brains aren't fried and their eyes aren't going to be permanently crossed.

They're children.
They want to play video games, watch Spongebob on Sunday mornings in their batman underwear and they want to spray canned cheese down their throats quicker than you can send a two-sentence text message.
Some of my fondest memories are of me and my dad laying on the couch together, laughing at Spongebob and Squidward while my mom got ready for church.
Some are of me and my sister eating junk food in our blanket fort, watching Are You Afraid of the Dark, keenly listening for the garage door to cue the arrival of my mother and us to switch the channel to some happy-clappy, obnoxious children's program.

The same parents who continue to rant about how tablets and video games are destroying the new generations' mental capacity, have a hard time using correct grammar in the same status update.
Did you play too many video games, too? Did outside teach you how to conjugate verbs or...
Too much? Sorry.

Now before you go huffing and puffing and blowing the whole Earth down, know that I am for physical activity. I mean, heck, I'm a marathon runner. I run 50 miles a week and even drag my kids out on the asphalt with me on the occasion.

My kids love to watch YouTube, but they also love to ride their bikes.
My kids love to play MineCraft, but they also love to make me play kick-ball with them in the street.
My kids have access to technology and sometimes sit close to the television, but they also have equal access to outdoors and the joys of swinging too high at the park.

 My love of beating video games or texting 5,000 words a minute as a pre-teen didn't turn me into a mindless couch potato.

It's not slowly turning my boys into robots either. This isn't Robocop or 1987, so calm yourself.

Technology isn't bad for your child, but an imbalanced life is.

Don't feel guilty for handing your ten year old a tablet, but make sure he knows what it feels like to slide in the dirt to home plate.
It's okay to let your kiddo waste a few hours watching Spongebob (he's like Gandhi, but better), but make sure to take them for a park picnic, letting them know what it feels like to waste hours of the day away on the monkey bars, too.

Your job is to send them into the world as a well-rounded, decent human being.
Getting them to that place is your task and yours alone, but let them have some fun and enjoy a few new things the world has to offer along the way.

When you were a kid your mom locked you outside and told you to play in the woods until night-fall? Good for you. I'm glad you didn't get kidnapped.
But, maybe instead of forcing the way you lived your childhood onto your own kids, you can try to join in on theirs and learn to love some of the things they do.

Balance.

Also, remember:

Sunday morning Spongebob and basic grammar are of the utmost importance. 

Pretty Isn't Priority

I remember when I was younger, I had a bow to match every dress I owned and I refused to wear anything but a dress until I was in first grade.

As a little girl, you are taught to cross your legs, look straight into the camera and "smile pretty."
Our hair is pulled, prodded and twisted into absolute perfection.

We are trained to be pretty.
To look pretty.
To act pretty.


I think we grow into thinking it is our duty and our responsibility to "blossom" and to transform into delicate, fair posies.
So we grow.
We blossom.

We figure out how to tame our wild, curly locks.
We discover how to dress in the most flattering way for our own body type.
What color blush suits our fair cheeks the best.
What goopy foundation blends the best into our pores.

We pluck.
We wax.
We cut.
We highlight.
We blend.
We contour.

We do all we can to pay our dues and be the flower we were told to be.
We look into the camera.
We smile pretty.

I decided to not wear any make up this week as an experiment for the purpose of this blog. I showered, let my curls fall naturally and left the blush brushes and foundation sponges sit in their drawer. I wanted to see how I would feel, what people would say, the reactions I might get. I wanted to know why I was really doing what I was doing. Why did I feel the need to cover my natural face up? Was I doing it for me? For the people I passed in the grocery store? If I wasn't doing it for myself, I wanted to discover why I was doing it at all.

You want to know what happened the last few days when I left the house without make up or hair mousse?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. People didn't look at me cross-eyed. My husband didn't ask if I was feeling okay. Nobody even seemed to notice, but me. Granted, I think makeup can be fun and nice to put on for work or just to make yourself feel a little bit more put together. I'm not giving up make up completely, for I don't feel the need to personally do that. Will I wear it way less often?
YOU BET! It's freeing. I feel freaking great, honestly.
I feel like Britney. Just Britney.

I don't want to wear makeup again until I forget about it all together.
I want my natural face to be more normal to me than the one with dark eyelashes and painted cheeks.
I don't want to feel I owe anyone, my own prettiness, anymore.

I want to be beautiful, not pretty.
I want to be known for my heart, not my face.
I want to know that prettiness isn't a priority in my own life.

There are far more beautiful things than looks to strive for.
There is wisdom.
There is laughter.
There is knowledge.
There is kindness.
There is humility.
There is meekness.
There is selflessness.

These are the things I want to leave with the world.

 I feel like so many of us feel like we owe the world to be pretty.
You don't owe anyone that.
Pretty isn't a priority, nor should it be.

If you want to use hair products and eye-shadow to enhance yourself some days, go for it!
But, don't use it to hide.
Don't use it because you feel you owe anyone anything.


Your job as a woman isn't to smile pretty.
Your job as a woman isn't to be anything but yourself.

You don't owe prettiness to anyone.

Be kind.
Be gentle.
Be humble.
Be merciful.

For those are the things that will outshine the wrinkles of old age.