30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 17 (A Quote You Try To Live By)

Day 17: A quote you try to live by

The first thing that came to mind when I thought about this was something I will always be able to hear my mother saying to me. The first memory I have of it comes from a very long time ago in my childhood, when I was probably only four or five years old. "Just do the best you can. That's all anyone can ask of you."

I have since heard her say this phrase on countless occasions to not only me, but also both of my siblings, my nephews, and probably several other people who I have forgotten about. When you're young, you don't really think about stuff like that or how it is going to shape you for the rest of your life. But looking back, it's easy to see how it has.

I always do the best I can, even to the point of groaning begrudgingly but carrying on when I just don't want to try anymore or I am exhausted past the point of caring. I always seem to be able to hear my mom saying, "Just do the best you can!" Not in a condescending or authoritative way, but in a genuinely helpful and supportive way; letting me know that my best will always be good enough.

The second part of that quote is the part that has helped me the most in getting through my adolescence, as well as my college education. I think that somehow inherently knowing that all anyone can ask of me is that I do my best has actually helped me learn how to create and maintain healthy boundaries and perspective as an adult.

If a person -- no matter who it is -- asks me to do something, and I have legitimately tried my best and still fallen short, then I have no problem whatsoever in being at peace knowing that I did all I could do. No amount of guilt tripping or shaming me will make me feel bad about not being good enough or not doing well enough. All that trying to make me feel bad will accomplish at that point is make me very angry at the source of the attempted guilt or shame. This translates over into my interpersonal relationships, as well. I am capable of loving a person with all that I have, but if all that I have is not good enough, that's too bad.

Similarly, through college, I have come to learn that I am a B-average kind of student. All throughout my academic career up to this point, I have always been an A student. Yeah, I got the occasional B in a hard math class; but again, my best in math was a B and I was okay with that. However, in the senior year of my baccalaureate program, I can say, getting more B's than A's is totally no big deal to me. Even now, some of my peers gasp at the horror of that idea. I don't care.

My parents never pressured me to be a straight-A student, and both of them always told me that I am incredibly intelligent and capable of doing anything. They supported me in whatever academic endeavors I dreamed up, and they still do. What the educational system does not recognize as A-student material, I acknowledge as being immeasurable on a grading scale. I have done my best, and that's all anyone can ask of me. 

Essentially, my mother instilled in me at an early age self-confidence and acceptance of the fact that my best is good enough. As long as I am really doing my best, then that's all I'm capable of offering. That is really all there is to it. It would be impossible for me to do anymore than I already have. So don't expect me to do the impossible.

I guess I never realized it until now when I actually sat down to think about it, but hearing my mom tell me those things over and over again as a young, impressionable child really helped instill good self-worth in my psyche. I don't think I actively try to live by that quote all of the time, but it is certainly always there in the back of my mind for me to fall back on when I need it. It has subconsciously shaped my life, teaching me how to be consciously aware that no matter what I do, when I have given my all, it will always be good enough.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 7 (What Tattoos You Have and If They Have Meaning)

Day 7: What tattoos you have and if they have meaning

I don't have any tattoos. Although there have been at least a few occasions in my life when I have considered getting one. Ultimately though, I have always decided against it for some reason or another.

First, about three years ago, I wanted to get the quote "no day but today" from RENT tattooed somewhere around my ankle. I thought it was a good reminder of the fragility of life and more poetic than #YOLO. Plus, I love RENT and I just really thought a nice cursive ink anklet would be a constant reminder to myself that tomorrow is never promised. I decided against it because I was 18 and very afraid of the pain. I remember my mother poking me in the ankle several times in a row with her fingernail to simulate a fraction of the pain, and I chickened out.

Then, when I was in France, during my last week there when the sad realization began to wash over me that I would soon be leaving, I decided on a whim that I should get myself some ink to commemorate the experience. I considered a few different options, and I consulted Pinterest appropriately. I decided I wanted to get "libérer" because it seemed fitting for everything about that time of my life. "Libérer" is French for "to free" or "to liberate". Again, I wanted a simple, cursive script. But this time, I was conflicted about where exactly on my body it should be located. My ankle or my thigh bone were the two top contenders. I remember discussing the impromptu decision with my host parents beforehand, and my host dad jokingly rolled his eyes and said to me, "What, you want a tattoo that says, 'I was in France'?" He was right. I felt compelled to get a tattoo while I was there, because I was there. Then I saw the busy boutiques de tatouage late one night while walking the streets, and I decided I was too scared. I let my monkey mind talk me out of it because 1) it was a bit of a rash decision and 2) I didn't know the regulations for tattoo parlors in France. Plus, what if they didn't understand me if I said stop? (Which was a dumb excuse, because I could've just as easily said arrêtes.) I left the country ink-free.

Then, just a few weeks ago, I briefly considered getting a tattoo on my shoulder blade of something my mother wrote to me in a note. I was reading said note, and at the end she signed it, "Follow your dreams Sweetpea. Love you muches, Mom". It was very late, I was very sleepy, and I thought, "it is very important for me to get this phrase in my mother's exact handwriting tattooed on my body." (One of my good friends has a tattoo of her mother's handwriting on her shoulder blade, so you see, I wasn't being very original here.) Then I flashed forward about 50 years and thought about my 70-year-old skin sagging and my mother being long gone, and me still having this whimsical little ink stain between my liver spots, as a tangible reminder of my mother's love. I thought, that's absurd. Harry Potter was alive because of his mother's love, just as I am. And he didn't have a tattoo.

So, I guess, my reasoning for not getting a tattoo has always been two-fold: first, I have a shamefully low pain threshold; and second, I can't think of anything so important and central to my life's story that I want to pay someone money to give me an open wound which will one day fade. Although, I'm not dismissing the notion entirely. If, someday, I can think of something so perfect that I want to keep it on my body as a physical reminder forever, then I feel totally free to make that decision. But until then, I think I'll just get my meaningful phrases framed and hang them up in my home.

I don't feel any regret about these experiences, though; and if anything, I think they have taught me more about myself and my relationship with commitment. I remember a family member once telling me, "if you're not 100%, don't do it." She was referring to shopping for clothes in Target, but I think the advice is just as applicable here.

And by the way, it doesn't escape my attention that it was words I wanted to get tattooed on my body each and every time; almost as if they're the only thing I view as meaningful enough to leave a physically lasting impression on me, in addition to everything else they already do.

My Mother

Few things in this world do any of us need more than our mother. Few people know us so well or can comfort us the same.

There was a long time during my youth when the person I wanted to see least was my mother. I said awful things about her and to her. I slammed the door to my bedroom at least a dozen times. I back talked her and she slapped my face only a fraction of what she should have.

A child so unruly grew into an adult with an appreciation so deep. My mother made sacrifices for all of us: my father, my sister, my brother, and me. She went without many things that she desired so we could have what we wanted instead. There were undoubtedly tough times when we did go without, and I will always remember them well. But I will never forget that she always did her best.

My mother's life has not always been easy, and as an extension, neither has mine. That's not to say she is a victim or that she is a helpless pawn in the game of life. It's to say, instead, that she has a fighting spirit; one which I know I inherited from her. I've seen her in moments of strength and weakness, laughing with joy and with tears of pain rolling down her cheeks. I have heard her make declarations in indignant anger and I have heard her say nothing as she is faced with disappointment. Many times I have witnessed these types of interactions without her even knowing I was watching.

I have learned things from her which I may not realize for another ten years. Just the same, I have taught her things that she never expected to learn. We have learned from each other, both from the ways we are different and the ways in which we are entirely too much alike. I often hear her words in my own voice. Everyday, I see her face in my own reflection. She is with me forever, wherever I go, whether I like it or not.

I doubt if there is a thing in this world of which my mother is more proud than her children. Besides her grandchildren, perhaps. Her pride is fierce and constant, and no matter how hard I try, I know I could never lose her love. She created me, after all, and then she set me free out into the world. As the days go by and I grow older, I realize that in a number of ways, I am her in miniature, and sometimes it's not always so bad. Ten years ago, I would've cringed at the thought, but adulthood brings with it a certain appreciation for all that your parents have done.

I have seen what it takes to be a mother and I have decided that it is likely not for me. It requires a patient kind of selflessness that I do not possess. It demands momentous sacrifice again and again. It means allowing your heart to beat outside of your chest, and consequently, it means worry in your heart and wrinkles on your forehead. It means being there for your child, even as they turn their back to you and spread their wings in the opposite direction. It means being available for every late night call that may ever come, about school, relationships, or careers. It means dropping your toddler off at daycare and praying you don't get another call about their misbehavior. It means, that for better or worse, you are at least a little bit responsible for who this tiny, malleable person becomes in the future, and that outcome hinges on every single moment, both big and small. It means being both the good cop and the bad cop, and having your teenager's attitude toward you change accordingly. It means refraining from smacking the mouthy little brat's mouth when they disrespect you in the mean-spirited way that only kids can. It means that you have to keep this extremely dependent human being alive to adulthood, and not get yourself killed in the process.

It means doing all of this, day in and day out, with no sick leave and no paid vacation time, for a minimum of eighteen years but usually much longer, in the hopes that someday, just maybe, they will realize all of this and be grateful to you for all you have done to make them possible -- both figuratively and literally.

My mother is many things to me. She is my support system, my champion, and my rock. She is my number one fan and my biggest critic. She asks too many questions and she too often tells me what to do. She is, on occasion, my best friend; but more often, she drives me crazy. She is three text messages and seven missed calls within an hour. She is a love note packed away inside my suitcase the night before I leave. She is the voice inside my head when I really don't want to make a decision. She is my backbone, my strong-willed stubbornness, and my determination. She is my pants and my bra both immediately taken off upon coming home after work. She is the sinkful of dirty dishes and the laundry hamper piled high. She is the salty sweet combination of every small motherly habit and every curse word I've ever heard. She is the reason I know what it means to love someone with all of my heart, but not to like them one little bit.

She may not be much to anyone else. But she is my mother, and without her I would not exist. She is the very reason I am breathing, and as such, she is the air within my lungs. She is my mother, and she is very much the reason I know love, and all of the beautiful things which derive from it.