Wednesday, April 16, 2014

My Mom ≠ My Best Friend

This entry is not going to be popular. Still, I write.

A social media post made weeks back inspired this Wednesday. It was by a talented gal who has a lot going on in her early 20-something life. It was a grateful tribute to her mom who is her partner in crime and remained her very best friend in this world. What would she do with out her? She claimed to have the best friend in the world in her mother. 

I didn't argue or disagree with the post (though she's not had the pleasure of meeting Linda). I did read it and immediately feel sorry for the gal. What a disappointment.

You see, while I think my mom is one of best out there, I also say this with confidence: 

My Mom has never been my best friend - and for good reason. 
Do you each remember that one kid you went to school with, the one with the prettiest mom? She stood out because she looked younger than the rest of the mom's in the class and she dressed to fit that role, too. She was the one who asked about the latest gossip in the school and knew exactly who was dating who. She was completely invested in her child's life. So much so that the two lives seemed to merge every once in a while. She was incredibly fun and forgiving, mostly because her parenting style was "Been there, done that. Wouldn't mind doing it again." 

Yeah, I remember that mom, too. 

It wasn't mine. 

Mine knew who was dating who only after I told her, but my information usually wasn't accurate because sometimes I lost track of those things, myself. 
Mine was invested in my life. But also her marriage to Dad. And the life of her two other children. And keeping a home. And a farm. And being devoted to her home extension club
Mine forgave me only after I had learned the lesson. And for some reason I had the tendency to learn the hard way?...

The point is, I was raised by a mom who knew where to draw the line between being our parent and being our friend. And while that was a tough concept to understand (/respect) a decade ago, it's one for which I am incredibly grateful. I'm better for having one less "friend" and one strong parent.

There are several reasons why, when parents become best friends, damage can occur. I blogged months ago that "fathers teach us confidence and mothers teach us compassion." But darn it, mothers teach us confidence, too. 

Best friends can't be role models. Think of that best friend whom you wanted to model yourself after - wasn't there just a little bit of envy? Wasn't there just little part of you that wished you were more like them, rather than yourself? We can't teach our daughters confidence when the very model they're designed to emulate is viewed as competition in their eyes - or visa versa. With today's diluted values, overshadowed by wacky media, mothers are made to be older versions of their children, rather than experienced models in which to follow. 

Lindsay and her Mom

Lindsay and her Mom

Pretty much the only difference in the pairs is less hair in the bottom two. 
And, Momma and I have never showed up to the same club wearing the same Express cami. 

But it isn't just mothers who can steer us wrong by trying to be our best friend. Not long ago a had a conversation with a friend where I asked, "What happened to him?" I was referring to a bright kid who seemed to have lost his way sometime between high school and ten years later. The friend's honest response: "I am not joking one bit when I say that downfall of this kid was that his dad wanted to be his friend. Not his parent. He didn't have guidance, he had someone who wanted to run the course with him. It ruined him. He never grew up because he didn't know what grown up looked like." I was taken back, but not surprised at all.

Another reason why I'm grateful Momma never tried to be my best friend:
Best friends don't give the most sound advice. 
Best friends want to see you happy. They tell you things to prevent tears. They exercise caution with their words and cushion reality with cotton ball adjectives so they don't hurt feelings. 
Parents give sound advice because your happiness validates their role. 
Parents expect tears and slamming doors and silence and not being the most liked person. And they're OK with that. Their popularity with you isn't the goal at hand.  
They give great advice because they don't want you living in their basement for the next 15 years. 
And also because the content of their Christmas letter to high school friends depends greatly on how happy their kids are. No one wants to read about little Jill who got released out of juvi early for the second winter in a row. She's an all-star, for sure. 

I remember quite vividly a time when Momma taught me this lesson far before anyone else could. We were in GAP at the Muncie Mall. I took a pair of size 6 jeans to the dressing room and from the knee up I had to literally back to the wedding dress disaster). I knew they were tight. But didn't guys my age like tight jeans on girls?

I walked out to show Momma and she made me turn around. 
Her first question: Will you feel comfortable wearing those in front of friends and family?

Darn her sensibility!!!

She wasn't there to be a friend; she was (is) my voice of reason.
She also had to peel said jeans off of me. That also made her handy to have around that day. 
I know good and well that had I taken any of my friends to the mall that day, I would have bought those jeans. And probably a second pair. 

My Momma has never been my best friend.
And do you know why?
She never had the time,
Because she's always invested her time and efforts into being one hell of a mom.

Two weeks before our wedding I met Momma at the local jeweler to get her opinion on bridesmaids' gifts. While looking through the Pandora bracelets and charms I picked up one that I made me smile. I pulled it from the grey cushion and showed it to her. It was a reversible charm that read "Best Friend" on one side and "Best Mom" on the other.
Her response, after getting out her bifocals out to read it: "That's pretty.......but it's not really us?"
She was right.
And I am grateful.

"Suck it in...More."

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Back To School

Monday I started a new adventure which

You may think I tend to use the word "adventure" frequently. The Post office, Alaska, dressing room - all adventures in their own right. 

I traveled back to the place where I 
founded my professional passion, 
discovered my need to sleep in cold rooms and
met two of my four bridesmaids. 
And a sister-in-law, actually. 

All Hail, Our Old Purdue. 

It's been several years since I've been back. 
The parking lots that we'd cut through, late to class, are now giant brick buildings with Last Names plastered on the side. 
Construction cones were everywhere. 
There was a bistro, deli, kitchen or smoothie shop on every corner. 
And there were just a lot of yoga pants. 

But as I drove down State Street through the pouring rain on Monday afternoon, two Asians darted in front of my car like little clueless cats, causing me to say words that I'd rather not type. 
Suddenly it hit me: the place really hasn't changed at all. 

I've enrolled in an Executive AgriBusiness Program through Purdue so I gain the ability to see numbers on a sheet of paper and actually understand just what all of those digits mean. 
You betcha:
Back to School, Back to School,

A strange feeling came over me as I climbed Chauncy Hill  (in my car) and entered campus.
So many strangers. 
Different languages. States. Countries. GPAs. Backgrounds. Experiences. 
I remembered just how little confidence I had when I went to school here. It was a quiet, small lack of confidence that usually spoke to me the morning of exams which were held in lecture halls the size of my hometown. 
At that point in my life, Purdue was the biggest, greatest place I had ever seen. 
Familiar intimidation set in for a gal who works and lives in the very state in which she was raised. 
Doing what she loves. 
Why was I so intimidated by my Alma Mater? The place I called home for four years? 
Going to my first class at 29 felt much like it did at 19. 
Only I had a few more hours of sleep in me this time around and I knew how to dress. 

Lecture began Tuesday at 8:00 AM sharp. 
I had highlighters ready, my phone on silent and the perfect seat. 
I loved it. 
Even being completely intimidated by those around me. 
How much did they already know that I didn't?
But then...
It was like Devine intervention. Or just too much coffee and a nervous stomach.
I began challenging the Doctor presenting the course. 
His idea was that history has a minimal influence on strategic planning of a business. 
I disagreed, and somehow found the guts to tell him.

And that is when this blog entry came to fruition.
I challenged (what I thought was) the Doctor's lack of appreciation for lessons learned in our history. 
His rebuttal: 
You should always care about your history.
It built who you are today.
But remember, the rear view mirror of your car is much smaller than the windshield, and for good reason.
If you spend all of your time looking back, you're liable to get into a real mess as you try to move forward.

Instantly, a post I had read on Facebook Tuesday morning made sense. 

Why was I - again - intimidated by the brilliant people on this large campus?
I have done some exciting things since graduation, even if my name isn't on the side of a billion dollar building...
Who am I to compare myself to others who have completely different experiences, backgrounds, ideals, histories and values?
Or maybe a better question - 
Who are you to compare yourself to those around you?
As I write this, I'm trying to close with some witty saying about looking in the windshield to move forward, paying no attention to the insecurities that may be found in your rear view mirror.
But all I can think about is that Harvard Business Review article that I have yet to read to and the discussion questions I have to be prepared for in just a few hours. 
Darting Asians and my innate ability to procrastinate until the last possible minute: some things really never do change. 

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Let Them

It’s been nearly three years since I asked dozens of people the same question: 
In this life, what is one thing you know?
The responses came for weeks, and I documented each in three separate Jean's Boots entries that you can read here:


I encourage you to read all three days if you've not already; Jean's Boots readers are funny and wise. 

Given the response from three years ago, I'd like to do that again - only asking a different question. 
Think about your answer(s).
Then Privately Message me 
on Facebook 
or email me by clicking any of the links above.
You can also send me a letter, as some readers prefer to do.
I will anonymously record all responses and again blog to share with Jean's Boots readers. 

Quite often I read things like this:

And perhaps the "wish/make it happen" quote is true. My childhood leads me to believe it is. 

(By the way, thanks to Walt Disney, Michael Jordan 
and Abraham Lincoln for apparently each making that statement.)

But for a moment, 
can we all just wish 
with reckless abandon 
and anonymous voices?.....

Again, think about your answer(s).
Then Privately Message me 
on Facebook 
or email me your response by clicking any of the links above.

Right now, I wish...
My answers:
Right now, I wish that I would have kept myself current regarding our country's political situation. I feel vulnerable. 
Right now, I wish I could visit with Granddad one more time. 
Right now, I wish Dad knew that leaving to get married was as emotional for me as it was for him. 
Right now, I wish I would have gone to bed earlier. 
Right now, what do you wish?
Email Me! (don't post a comment)
I look forward to hearing from you -

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

When The Credits Roll

It was a once-in-a-lifetime voyage. 
I mean, unless King George pulls a Garth and decides to retire....twice?

Cody and I traveled south last weekend to watch George Strait perform his last concert in the musical motherland of Nashville. What a performance from a class act. At the conclusion of every song we looked at one another and wondered, "What could he possibly play next to top that one?"

Each song was a hit of which the crowd knew the lyrics, even with so much left off the playlist. 
I guess it's hard to pack 40 years of number ones into a two-hour show. 

It's also tough to pick a favorite Strait hit, because so many resonate with life:
Write This Down - If I don't, I'll forget it
Amarillo By Morning - Show circuit theme song
All My Exes Live In Texas - Or did at one time
Run - I actually only do this if I'm being chased
Give It Away - Please, seriously, toss all of those cups
Does Ft. Worth Ever Cross Your Mind - Yes, and it makes my head hurt just thinking of it
Ocean Front Property - My house in Greens Fork I'm trying to sell...just blocks from the Greens Fork River!
Living and Living Well - Cody. 

But there is one Strait song that hasn't hit the radio waves, and maybe one day it will.
It is the kind of song that makes you three minutes late to work so you can listen to it one more time. 
The kind of song placed on every playlist you create, because it's a lyrical reminder. 
The kind of beat that makes you put it on repeat and crank up the volume. 
The kind of lyrics that remind you why you keep mascara in your console. 
The kind of title you print off and hang in your office:

When The Credits Roll

(3 minute song)

I've played the rebel teenager, 
the mysterious stranger

The wild child on the run

I've been the college dropout, 
the commitment cop out

The comin' home prodigal son

It feels kinda like a movie

Makes me wonder what I'm gonna see

When the credits roll 
and the show is over

And I see all the parts I played

Get a glimpse of my soul up on that screen

I only hope I can say

I was a little less villain

And a little more hero

When the credits roll

Was I in it for the money, 
was I trying' to be funny

Was it all about me being right

Was I a stand up witness, 
did I offer some forgiveness

Help somebody see the light

When the curtain comes down some day

I wonder what the Critic will say

When the credits roll 
and the show is over

And I see all the parts I played

Get a glimpse of my soul up on that screen

I only hope I can say

I was a little less villain

And a little more hero

When the credits roll

I always think about the different roles I've played in my life when I hear the song.
The neighbor in Greens Fork would say I've played the unprepared gal who never had enough sugar or eggs.
My sorority sisters might say I play the one who returns texts or phone calls 3 days later. 
The gal at Dillard's knows me as the habitual returner who can't decide on bedding.
The kid at the carwash remembers me as the gal who will - without fail - ramrod over the curb like I'm in some kind of hurry and then forget to put my car in neutral. 
Gary at the hardware store would say I'm the character who never actually knows what I want or need before entering his store. Always some big idea...

And I look at this list and realize that none of it matters once the Credits Roll. 
I don't want to be remembered for little, insignificant things - do you?
I'd rather commit to doing - even small things - with great love. 

What will you see once the Credits Roll?
A little less villain, and a little more hero?
In images and impressions, how will you be remembered?
The giver or the taker?
The forgiver?
The one guided by money?
The comic who hid behind humor?
The one who stepped up?
The hero?
The committed one or the one easily swayed?
The teacher?
The "just enough"?
The heartache?
The worker?
The example, good or bad?
The friend?
Far past the days when you're present in every day life, people will forget what you said and what you did, but what they won't forget is the way you made them feel. 

How will you be remembered once the Credits Roll?

I should have reached out to my neighbor and made an extra cake for she and her husband who work long hours. 
I should drop what I'm doing and answer those phone calls when friends need me. 
My hours should not be wasted by anything as insignificant as picking out bedding. 
I should have tipped the car wash kid for waiting until the foam covered my rear windshield before laughing at me.
I need to thank Gary and his employees for answering 429 questions while smiling and thinking, "Wow, she seemed more put-together in high school..."

This Wednesday, I challenge you to join me:
Commit to living with the consideration of how the credits will roll once your show is over. 
I know I will. 
Because I'd sure like to be remembered for more than the shopper who holds up the line at Aldi's because I tried to fit 14 items into my arms rather than pay a quarter for a cart. 

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Company Comes To Visit

Anytime there are more than two !!!!!!!!!!! or all CAPS on my calendar, I know it's serious. 

Last week it was house guests. 
Shorthorn friends. 
From Iowa. 
Who only visit if there is a production sale.
Or wedding. 
Or en route to the Ohio Beef Expo. 
But they aren't just Shorthorn friends. 
They are full-fledged-repurposing-upcycling-bargain hunting-crafty-as-all-get-out-friends.  
I felt a little bit of pressure. 

I went from zero to my mother in 17 seconds after hearing they'd like a tour of the new Sankey homestead. 
Because I want a farm hose that will drain and coil itself in -10º temperatures.
Doesn't mean it's going to happen. 

But, I prepared anyway, in the only way I know how: The Bowman Binge.

I swiftly walked through every room and into a pile too embarrassing to blog about, I threw anything that would not exist on a Country Living cover:

Living room:
  • Mail
  • Chargers/cords
  • A box of band-aids
  • Fireplace ashes
  • Shoes
  • Boots
  • Heating pads
  • Suitcases
  • Sale catalogs
  • Angus Journals
  • Hereford Worlds
  • Shorthorn Country issues
  • Cereal boxes
  • Granola bars
  • Cook books
  • Wine aerators
  • Travel coolers
  • Socks
  • Coozies
  • Invoices
  • Mail
  • Sale catalogs
  • Angus Journals
  • Hereford Worlds
  • Shorthorn Country issues
(Do you notice a trend?)

With no no artificial forces other than my arms, like horizontal windshield wipers anything that hit the ground automatically went into the Bowman Binge pile. 
Company was coming. 
Everything was to be out of sight. 
I did the dishes then wiped down the shower with same rag. 
I'm fairly certain Patrick wasn't going to check the shower, but just in case he did...
I got warm while dusting and went ahead and took off my sweater then sprayed Pledge on it to cut down on any visible signs of laundry. 
I put all sale catalogs into the oven and any mid-progress craft projects were stuffed under the spare bed. 
No shame: The Walls were coming. 

The house ended up looking great. I mean, Not even lived in, great. 

And all was well until four days later when Cody got home and began asking where certain things his breakfast granola bars. 
Can I just say, it's a lot easier hiding something when company is on the way than it is finding it days later?

Our text conversation, 3/17, 8:45 AM:

CS: Where are my granola bars!!!
Me: Crap. Basement. Sorry. 
CS: What? Why are they in the basement?
Me: I did a Bowman Binge before Walls came to see the house. 
CS: So why is the food in the basement?
Me: I didn't want it on the counter. 
CS: You know it's a kitchen, right? Where food belongs?
(No response from me)
CS: I don't care who is coming to see the house, we don't need to hide food. 
Me (several minutes later): Ummm yeah. 
CS: Lindsay they are not in the basement. But all of my Angus journals are??? Why are they all down here? Where are the granola bars??
I didn't text that, but I sure said it aloud in my office. 

I knew I was busted. And I had every intention of replacing all of the binged items before he got home from his trip. Dang it. 

Let this be a lesson: If you want to see the place, just show up. This will give you a realistic view of how we live.
Food on the kitchen counter and Angus Journals archived on the end table right next to 3 remote controls and a stack of mail that may still have Christmas cards in it. And a shower that needs a scrub down. 

Now, if you'll excuse me...I'm going to continue my search for the half-dead house plant that I hid somewhere during The Bowman Binge. Because you know, fancy people don't have dead plants. 

I could have sworn put put it in the washing machine and put the lid down, but the only thing I found hid in there there was my iPad?

Friday, March 14, 2014

On The Road Again

I've been everywhere, man. I've been everywhere. 

Not really.
Just 5 days in Colorado. 
Followed by 8 days in California. 
Rounded out with 5 days in Pennsylvania. 
Planes, buses and cars - I've logged a lot of miles in 2014.
My travels aren't extraordinary; they're a trip to the grocery compared to what most people do. 
But I have run out of clean socks and jeans that fit. It's time to stay home for a week. 

There was a time in my life when I couldn't wait to board that next plane. 
I guarded each boarding pass as though it was a golden ticket to a promised land, and in a lot of ways it was. I learned so much with every landing. It is money I'd never want back because the return on investment was exponential. 

Traveling now, I set my alarm, allowing me to hit snooze as many times as possible before stumbling down the stairs for a wake up shower. Forty-five minutes later I stumble to my Escapé in the dark, barely coherent and trying to remember if I've printed my boarding pass and if so, just where the hell I put it? Did I remember face wash? Biggest question of all: Am I driving to Dayton or Indy?

If there is anything I've learned after logging thousands of miles from prairie to coast in my twenties, it is this: I'm not a graceful traveler. There are gals who show up for the 6:10 AM flight looking like they just walked off of a Pinterest board. 

I'm not one of those. I'm typically the one holding up the security line because I can't get my boots off. It's not my fault they don't provide a boot jack. Every single time I walk away from security, frantically looking for my boarding pass and limping on one leg trying to stomp the left boot (right foot, stomp, right foot, stomp) back on while thinking to myself, "It's time to buy Sperry's for travel..."
Never do. 
Never will. 

I always try to find a seat at the gate that provides a view of the runway. Or one with an outlet next to it so I can keep my phone charged. Because if our pilot shows up for the flight appearing drunk, I'm going to need to call someone. Gate time (if I have any, due to too many snoozes) is the place to scope out fellow passengers and pick the ones to avoid. Which is tough to do on a full flight. 
Tough, but possible. 

Once on the plane I like to act like a real jerk, I'll admit it. I strive to be that person that people spot on the plane, and try to avoid. I act angry. I do not give pleasant looks. I rarely smile and I never talk. (If you know me, you understand that I've worked my entire twenties to achieve this ability.) No seat mates allows for more leg room and peaceful sleeping. And there is a story behind that desire. Are you surprised?...

Four years ago I was returning to Indianapolis from Denver after a week out there on business. About to settle down for a long flight's nap, two guys sat down in my row; one in the middle, one on the aisle. They were both in their forties, energetic, happy to be going to Indy. We struck up a conversation while other passengers loaded. I truly just wanted to sleep, but I visited with them anyhow. 

The next thing I know, I'm waking up to the plane touching down in my favorite fly-over state. Realizing I'm still in public, I quickly wipe the drool from my chin and reposition a bobby pin in my hair. I do not look pleasant when sleeping en transit. Head back, mouth open, totally oblivious to any beverage service or seatbelt announcements. Plane, car or bus, I'm usually asleep within 15 minutes of departure. 

Anyway, I straighten up in my seat trying to indicate a bit of class as I turn on my cell phone.
"Have a good nap?" the guy on the aisle energetically asks me with his whiskey breath. 
"Ha!" I laughed, "Yeah, I was out wasn't I?" I nervously asked, cleaning the eye liner from the corners of my sleepy eyes. Understanding that these guys just saw me catching flies at my worst, I said, "My mom always told me I'd never find my husband on an airplane."
The middle man replied, far too quickly, "She was right!"

His response is why I work a bit to discourage folks from joining my row. I am not looking for a husband (thank you, Jesus), I just don't want to be the subject of any Snapchats. 

Lucky for me, my traveling days will slow down a bit after next week and I can sleep on my way home from church with out anyone judging me. Well, almost anyone. 
I'll clean out my suitcase and find shirts so tightly rolled that I forgot I packed them. 
I'll use Google maps and find my way to the grocery to restock our kitchen. 
And I'll again have some solid grasp on what's going on at our homestead. 

But even after those unpacking moments, it is with fondness that I'll look back on the endless amounts of TSA travel size hairspray I've gone through and 50+ lb. luggage restrictions I've blown right past and remember this: 

And made me a wife, after all.