An open letter to my 5 year old

Dearest Monster Man,

First, I'd like to remind you that it's widely accepted that your Momma is a little passed halfway to crazy town on a good day. Today, is not one of my good days.

I'm sorry that I didn't know you'd really like a new pair of mittens for the hayride at school until it was time to walk out the door and that your new "scarf" is merely a length of hastily cut jersey fabric that was on the top of my fabric bin.

I'm NOT sorry that I coerced you into wearing your new wool coat I spent $50 on instead of your two year old, worn, and well loved Batman hoodie that's simply not warm enough to be out extendedly in 50 degree weather.

I AM sorry that in my current state of being, namely sleep-deprived, half way through a debilitating illness, dehydrated, under-caffeinated, and generally feeling like I've been hit by a MAC truck, I was unable to act with the appropriate empathy and patience toward your plight in our entryway before rushing you out to the car.

Alas, sweet boy who made me "Momma," yours will never be the perfect, happy, Holly-Homemaker mother. She'll likely always always forget something and be rigging something on the fly in the eleventh hour. She'll probably never fully learn to plan ahead more effectively and NOT be finishing up the handout/project/whatever, or in today's case, the gift for the Ward Christmas Party she's chair of tomorrow on the night before it's needed. She may never feel like there isn't something she could have or should have done better.

But your mom has one single saving grace. She LOVES YOU. More than you'll likely ever fully understand.

Ours will be an amazingly fun and wonderfully messy life. I'll screw up and sometimes you will too. The best part is that every moment we can make new choices and try to be better.

Above all, thanks for showing me some grace. I know we held up the drop off line for a few moments while we talked it through again, but then you took a deep breath and hopped out into your teacher's arms even though you were mad at me and really wanted to cry. Sometimes your strength and compassion astound me.

Sincerely,
Your perfectly-imperfect, Domesticated Damsel definitely in distress, crazy-town, mother

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Damaged

Labeling yourself as "damaged" or "broken" and allowing that define who you are is relatively easy. Once you've seen rock bottom, felt utterly alone, and believed yourself completely worthless, being broken seems like a vast improvement and a touch like a coping mechanism. Eventually, it's much more than comfortable... some where close to a security blanket. It's safe, warm, and seems honest. Self-identifying as "damaged" becomes the constant in the chaos, noise, and instability of life.

You can use it as an excuse for bad behavior. Because being "broken" and "damaged" makes it incredibly easy to be self-centered under the guise of self-preservation.

You can wear it like a badge that helps makes your walls darker, higher, and more imposing. It often wards off those who may consider getting to close.

Some are content to wear that badge for life.

Some begin to notice that they're not the only ones who've been through hell and lived to tell about it. And, maybe, just maybe, we could figure out how to have some semblance of security WITHOUT calling ourselves "broken."
But what does that really look like? I mean, REALLY look like?

I've seen happiness from a distance and experienced some glimmers of goodness here and there through my life but sometimes I'm not sure I know enough of joy to be able to identify it in myself. You know, without all the "broken" and "damaged" crap.

There's been times when I've been okay and some moments when I've been close to good but up to this point, I've never fully let go of believing that I am damaged. Irrevocably.

I've always believed that I was some how deserving of all the shit I've been through and earned all the bad that's happened to me, that maybe I never really had a chance at anything close to a good life. I wasn't so sure that I was deserving of good... that it was possible for anyone to actually love me instead of just feeling sorry for me. The loneliness and emptiness that comes with those beliefs make calling yourself damaged feel the stinging relief that comes when pressure is applied to a gushing wound.

But this week, I find myself realizing that I really didn't "deserve" any of it and I didn't DO anything to earn it either. I just experienced it. Maybe I'm not actually damaged. A little broken, yes. But breaks heal. Bruises fade.

When I was young, I used to believe in happily ever afters and that all my dreams really could come true but I gave all that up when I began to wear "damaged" like badge.
I'm finding picking those dreams back up a lot harder than putting that badge on was. Why is it that choosing light feels a lot like training for your first Ironman (not that I'd actually know what that's like...)?
Maybe our minds need endurance training much like our bodies do. If we look hard enough, we can see that even on our trek through hell, scattered moments of mercy or relief existed. We have the power to create them for ourselves and others if we train our minds. And maybe, eventually, we'll quit feeling off balance missing the badge we should have never worn in the first place.

I have come to a place where I have to choose to let all the broken-ness swallow me up or really and truly, for the first time ever, figure out how to let it all go.

**Disclaimer: Anonymous comments will not be published. I'd love to hear from YOU not "Anonymous" :)