Spring Break Snow

The kids are off from school this week for spring break and, although it was 75 degrees last Thursday, it snowed here today. Not just flurries, either. Two days ago it was hail, and the day before that we had some sort of rain/snow mix. But all that’s ok, because I spent the last two days doing spring clothes shopping for three girls who just won’t stop growing.

I don’t remember my parents having to shop this often to keep me in clothes that fit. Perhaps I was less opinionated and therefore things simply appeared for me to wear. Perhaps there were more hand-me-downs from the many cousins and neighbors. Perhaps my kids, who take after Forrest, are growing much faster than I ever did. Or maybe I’ve just blocked it out.

I suppose it doesn’t matter. Because I am so thankful that it’s no hardship to buy clothes for my kiddos. Well, financially, anyway. Emotionally, it’s two straight days of arguing, nitpicking, and, by the end, pleading with them to just please for the love of God pick out a pair of sandals that fit. There’s a part of me - a very vocal part of me - that gets frustrated at their pickiness, the desire to see so many different options, the rejection of perfectly good clothes because they don’t feel right or fit perfectly.

But then I remember that what I wanted for my kids was a life where they could have choices. The choice to wear clothes that they can run and jump and climb in. The choice to wear styles that I was too shy to wear. The choice to find out what they like for themselves so that they don’t follow blindly after fashion, but rather know who they are and what they like so deep down that peer pressure doesn’t have a chance.

I wish that for myself sometimes. But the other side of that knowing is that my kids immediately become more difficult people. They know what they want, so no, those shoes that pinch their heels aren’t ok. They know who they are, so that frilly, flowery dress that I like so much isn’t going to get much use. And while I find it annoying, I accept that difficulty in them.

So why can’t I accept that difficulty in me? Why do I go out of my way to make sure I never cause an inconvenience to anyone? Why do I wear the shoes in my closet that hurt my feet simply because I can’t seem to admit that I don’t like them that much? Why do I still have pajama pants from 20 years ago when I am perfectly capable of buying new clothes that I actually like?

The other day I was having a conversation with a random person, and like many random people, they told me all the reasons why I was failing at becoming a traditionally published author. She was trying to be helpful, really she was, but she was not coming from a place of expertise or even experience. Afterwards, I cursed myself. Why hadn’t I been more difficult? Why hadn’t I made it uncomfortable? Why hadn’t I been so sure of myself deep down that I verbalized the truth - that I was in no way interested in any critique from a non-expert on a subject that is, at the moment, pretty emotionally charged for me?

I think it’s because I don’t even know where to start saying something like that. But luckily for me, I’ve got three pretty amazing teachers right here in my house. So, even though we’ve got to go shoe shopping tomorrow, I’m going to take a deep breath and maybe learn a thing or two from my very difficult daughters.