When It Comes to Expressing Emotion Is There a Middle Ground?

            Not long ago, I texted my daughter: “Have you heard ‘Mama’s Broken Heart’ by Miranda Lambert? It’s hilarious!” (Yes, I’m a baby-booming, ex-English-teaching texter. I spell out all the words and include the capitalization and proper punctuation.)

            Her reply: “no”

            My response: “When you hear it, give me a call. I want to know what you think. I love it!”

            A few days later I got a call from her. “I know why you love that song,” she said. “The mama is you. You think she’s giving good advice.”

            I didn’t deny the charge, although it’s not completely true.

            What I call my formative years occurred during the 1950s, when “what will the neighbors think?” was a genuine concern and behaving yourself in public in order to “save a little face” wasn’t frowned upon. But I entered my teens during the 1960s—the decade in which pop-culture influencers instructed impressionable youths to “let it all hang out.” So can it come as a surprise to anyone that on the subject of expressing emotions, I stand firmly in the middle?

            I contend somewhere between uptight restraint, which insists we inhibit our feelings to the point of denying them, and flagrant exhibitionism, which says it’s perfectly okay for a full-grown adult to throw a temper tantrum in the Walmart parking lot, there is a balanced way to handle them.

            Here are some strategies I recommend:

1. Acknowledge your feelings, but don’t act on them in public. Your little tirade might be cathartic for you, but it unnerves innocent bystanders. And when it’s all over, you’re going to want to forget about it while others have already posted it on Facebook. (Of course, there are those out there—and you know who you are—who thrive on this kind of attention.) Also, a public display could get you fired or arrested. I’ve always found the shower to be the perfect place to carry out a noisy meltdown.  

2. Talk out your angst with family or friends, but know there’s a limit to what even those closest to you can endure. If the BFF you’ve known since grade school—or your own mother—starts blocking your calls, take the Dear Abby route: consult a professional.

3. Employ a diversionary tactic. Shopping works for me, even if it is just window shopping. But if financial problems are the cause of your emotional stress, find another tactic.

4. “Fix your make-up...paint your toes.” The song makes fun of mama’s instructions to take a little pride in appearance, but I happen to think that’s wise advice. If you're dealing with anger, I’ve always liked Ivana Trump’s approach: “Looking good is the best revenge.” But DON’T make any major cosmetic decisions—like cutting your hair (with or without “rusty scissors”) or getting a tattoo—before giving yourself a reasonable cooling off period.

5. Take Olivia Newton-John’s suggestion and “get physical.” Okay, I’m thinking more along the lines of going for a run or cleaning your house. But if the kind of “physical” advocated in the song works for you, go for it. And speaking of songs...

6. Sing! That’s right. My mama once told me she knew when her mother was upset because she’d start humming. Even if your singing ability falls somewhere between an off-key bagpipe and a cat’s caterwauling, find a private place and belt out a song. The louder, the more therapeutic. I’ve found the shower stall is a good place for this, too.

Above all...

7. Pray. This is the tricky one. I think it’s especially difficult to pray when dealing with anger, but that’s the time it’s most critical. I’ve discovered (after a lot of resistance) that it’s hard to remain mad at someone for whom you’re praying.

            I must admit I’ve learned these lessons the hard way—through many trials and errors. But on the times I’ve had the presence of mind to follow them, I’ve saved myself a lot of grief. And, yes, I've spent a lot of time in the shower.

            If you have some strategies that work for you, I can always use more!      

 

Master Brooks's Bookses: MY FIRST DAY

          Grammy Dee came to visit me last weekend, so you know what that means: I must do a book review. Actually, I don’t mind because I love books and I enjoy sharing my thoughts about them. Today I’m reviewing My First Day by Steve Jenkins and Robin Page. My Aunt Audrey bought this book for me at the San Diego Zoo and sent it to me for my birthday. (Did you catch that? Birthday? Yes, I’m now three years old!) If you can't make it to San Diego to pick up a copy, don't fret. You can order it on Amazon.

            It’s ironic that Aunt Audrey sent this particular book to me now that I’m such a big boy, because My First Day is all about what animals do when they are tiny babies—only one day old. On the day they're born, some animals are  as helpless as human babies and must depend on their parents for everything. On their first day, kittens can’t see OR hear. Other animals, like the kiwi, are expected to survive on their own the minute they hatch out of an egg. I think that would be very scary! I learned many other interesting facts about baby animals from this book. For instance, did you know on the day a baby zebra is born, his mother memorizes his unique stripe pattern and can pick him out of a herd of hundreds of zebras? I also learned the names of unusual animals. Do you know what a sifaka or a capybara is? No? Well, read this book and you will! And you can get further information about the animals from the illustrated guide in the back.

            I promise you will love learning all the fascinating facts about the baby animals in this book. You will also enjoy the colorful pictures of the babies and their parents.

Aunt Audrey also sent me this cool t-shirt from the zoo. If
I look unhappy in this picture, it's not because I don't like
my shirt or my book. It's because I don't like standing still
long enough to get my picture taken.

Resurrecting Macrame-nia is a Great Idea! Knot.

             When it comes to fashion and décor, I enjoy revisiting bygone eras, taking pleasure in the nostalgia they elicit. But I do have my limits. There are those decades I’d just as soon exclude from any revival movement. Ever.  Among them, the 1970s.

             The fact I’m not a current fan of the ‘70s decade doesn’t mean I eschewed all of its trends when I lived through them. On the contrary, I enthusiastically embraced “feathered” hair a la Farrah,  bell-bottomed pants, peasant blouses, wooden platformed shoes. I even bought my husband a leisure suit (which, thank goodness, he had the good sense to despise and wore only twice). As I was writing this post, I caught myself humming "The Age of Aquarius" (which actually came out in 1969, but close enough). To decorate my first home, I took inspiration from the apartment of Chrissy, Jack, and Janet of Three’s Company fame. And I was enamored of macramé.

A couple of examples of
the macrame art that
decorated my 1970s home

With walls and ceilings
amply adorned, we could move
on to apparel.

(For the record, my aunt made these
pieces. I stuck mainly with three-prong
pot hangers.)

       I’m not sure what it was about tying knots that had the country ensnarled in that craze, but you can count me as a victim of ‘70s macrame-nia. I think part of my zeal was inspired by an aunt who was truly a person created to create. Her hands were constantly busy—crocheting, knitting, sewing, weaving, even spinning. And she was a consummate teacher, loving nothing better than sharing her skills with anyone who wanted to learn them. In the ‘70s, she found willing and eager  students among family and friends for her macramé classes. In knot-tying frenzies, we  fashioned hangers for anything from pots to pendant lights. Products of our new-found skill were suspended from every square foot above our heads. At one point, my dad flatly refused to hang any more of my mother’s “art” for fear the ceiling would collapse. With the space above us either off-limits or filled, we moved on to wall hangings, window and door coverings, purses, belts, jewelry, vests, hats...even bikinis. (I actually never had a macrame bikini, so don't ask me how that worked.) The options were endless, running out of rope being the  only deterrent to our productivity.

            With the comeback capability of a boomerang, macramé has enjoyed a long and interesting history  of wafting in and out of popularity. Originating in the 13^th century with Arab weavers, the skill worked its way across Europe. In the 17^th century, Queen Mary taught it to her ladies-in-waiting. Sailors brought it to the New World, where, in the 1970s, hippies and housewives practically made a cottage industry out of it. Macramé fell out of favor for a couple of decades, but the other day on the Houzz website, an article suggested it might be staging yet another appearance. A quick search revealed dozens of Pinterest boards dedicated to it. Of course, for the sake of marketing, this most recent phase will involve innovative twists such as...fewer owls.

            As far as I’m concerned, even a dearth of owls can’t be innovative enough to make resurrecting macrame-nia a good idea. It roped me in once, but as with many trends and fads, once is enough.

 

            Any thoughts on this? I’d love to hear from those of you who, like me, were entangled in the ‘70s macramé web.

Let's Put the "Self" Back in Self-Esteem

            I began my teaching career in the mid-1980s, about the same time the self-esteem movement began to sweep through education. I struggled for years with that concept, torn between what I was observing first-hand in my classroom and what the education “experts” were telling me I should be observing (experts being those persons with lots of educational theories but little or no actual classroom experience). Then one day in the mid-1990s in the school library, the cover of a Psychology Today magazine caught my eye. The headline: “The Ten Worst Educational Theories of the Last Ten Years.” Hallelujah! The self-esteem theory made the list.

            Of course, in spite of the experts’ insistence they are “cutting-edge” innovators, they’re often reluctant to abandon ideas they’ve long embraced and propounded—even if those ideas don’t work. So twenty-something years after its initial appearance, the specter of bestowing self-esteem as a motivator still haunts the classroom. But thanks to books and articles I’ve read lately, I sense the ghost can soon be laid to its final rest. 

            I’m sure we all have memories of the fire-breathing, draconic teacher who managed the classroom through heavy-handed intimidation. I’m certainly not advocating that method. But, surely, somewhere between tyrannical teaching and feeding undeserving egos, a middle road exists.  

            I’m not a psychologist (never even played one on TV), but I’ve read a lot on this subject, trying to make sense of the nonsensical. Two works on which I’m drawing to write this post are the book Generation Me, by Jean M. Twenge, Ph. D and an article in the Wall Street Journal by Sue Shellenbarger, dated February 27, 2013.  Based on my personal experience as a parent and teacher and based on what I’ve read, the following suggestions are some of my ideas for a balanced approach to instilling confidence, not hyper-inflated egotism, in children.

            First and foremost, realize the operative word in self-esteem is self. It should be earned, not bestowed. High self-esteem is not a cause, a means of producing better results. It’s an effect, a result of having worked hard to achieve an admirable goal. I’m not saying children actually have to achieve that goal. They just need to know they did their best in order to take satisfaction in their effort. And kids are smart. They know when they don’t deserve that trophy, gold star, high grade, praise, etc.

            Allow children to feel bad about themselves sometimes. If they’ve been mean or hurtful or dishonest, they probably should feel bad. It doesn’t mean they can never be forgiven or have to carry guilt for the remainder of their lives. And it doesn’t mean we withhold love from them. But that uncomfortable feeling can be a goad to correct a misdeed or a deterrent to future bad behavior. Several years ago I read that only the criminally insane have continually high levels of self-esteem.

            Recognize that no one is good at everything. When we suggest that all children have done all things equally well by handing out blanket rewards, we diminish the special skills or talents of some and discourage hard work and perseverance. (Before you start objecting, read my next point.)

            Acknowledge that everyone does something well. The “Good Sportsmanship Trophy” has often been the butt of jokes. But you know what? Over the long haul, the ability to encourage others or handle disappointment with grace or perspective might well be a more valuable life-skill than throwing a mean curve-ball. There’s nothing wrong with acknowledging skills such as those—as long as you don’t give a good sportsmanship trophy to everyone on the team.

            Do give encouragement. There is a difference between giving encouragement and doling out self-esteem. Encouragement develops self-control and self-discipline—two assets that will serve a child exceedingly better than a trumped-up sense of entitlement.  

            I’ve already overshot my word limit on this post by about two hundred words, but I can’t close without making this final point. If my suggestions sound uncaring or mean-spirited, consider the full title of Twenge’s book: Generation Me: Why Today’s Young Americans Are More Confident, Assertive, Entitled—and More Miserable Than Ever Before.

            Your thoughts?

          

The Courageous Middle

            Some acquaintances and friends might take issue with my claim I occupy “the courageous middle.” Agreed, my political thinking leans to the right. But not the far right. And I believe that in most--certainly not all--areas of life, there is a middle ground. That delicate point of balance is often workable and acceptable but also difficult to achieve and maintain. Hence, the “courageous” designation.

            Please don’t assume I have no definite opinions on anything. I do. I just don’t feel everyone has to agree with me one hundred percent in order for us to get along. Whenever I see propriety run amok or hear people pontificating on a particular issue, I often think, “But wait. Somewhere there has to be a happy medium.” So I decided that, from time to time, I’d voice my thoughts on situations, pointing out the wisdom—and sanity—that can be achieved by taking the middle road.

            Don’t worry. These posts will seldom address burning political issues—that isn’t the focus of my blog. But notice I said seldom, not never. “Middlers” seldom deal in absolutes. (Again with the seldom.) For the most part, the topics will range from the frivolous—pedicures for five-year-olds (really?)--to the more weighty issues such as healthy lifestyles. (Pardon the pun.)

            For the sake of brevity, I won't tackle a specific issue in this post, but, trust me, I have LOTS of topics. Look for one to come very soon. And, PLEASE, offer suggestions. Areas you’ve noticed that could benefit from a balancing act. In the meantime, let me know if you consider the middle a wise solution or a cop out. Feel free to disagree. I’ll listen. I’m in the middle.

    

 

A Rose by Many Other Names

            Wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, successful business woman, tennis champion, fashionista—all of these and more are among the many names my friend Rose can lay claim to. And with a name like Rose, it is fitting that she can also add avid and accomplished gardener to this list. Recently, I asked if I could blog about her garden, and she graciously consented. Follow along for a virtual tour garden tour.   

Our tour guide! Isn't she beautiful? In addition to the above-listed accomplishments, Rose can also boast--along with husband Glenn-- being a roller skate champion in her younger years! (I'm trying to talk her into letting me blog about that.)










             Welcome...come in, sit a spell.

Artistically arranged groupings such as these add a warm welcome to the front of her house and her porch. Don't you just want to pull up a chair and visit?

 

And we're walking...

 

...to the backyard.

 

There's something about a gate that promises mystery...entices us to peek behind.

 



 

With no horses around, this handsome jockey spends his days admiring the flowers.

 

Names like "Bleeding Heart" and "Naked Lady," suggest these beauties inspire a lot of juicy garden gossip.

 

 

And you know there has to be a rose bush. In fact, there are many of them.

 

 

 

 

An eye for details...As with her clothes and accessories, Rose has what it takes to make her garden not only beautiful but also interesting. Notice all her (almost) hidden treasures such as the figurine and the lamp post tucked amid her plants.

 

Family, friends, and plants get lots and lots of TLC from Rose.

 

 

And now for some gardening tips from Rose. She didn't actually state these for me, but they are what I picked up as we talked and toured and what I've gleaned from conversations over the years.

 

1.  Have a willing partner. I would be in trouble if I didn't give a shout-out to Rose's husband Glenn. Evidence of his gardening enthusiasm abounds. (And according to him, he provides all the muscle.)

2.  Mulch much--the more natural, the better. Pine needles and grass cuttings provide much of the mulch in their garden.

3.  Fertilize and water freely, especially in the hot, stressful Oklahoma summers.

4.  Economize. As in clothing stores, amazing bargains can be found on sale racks in nurseries. With patience and care, ailing plants or those with spent blossoms can be nursed back to health in no time. 

5.  Share. Rose shares not only her knowledge of gardening but also seeds and cuttings. And she shares generously. Just last Sunday I heard someone at church ask for a cutting from her giant angel wing begonia. More than once I've seen her haul potted cuttings to someone in our Pilates class. (Yes, she does Pilates, too!) And many times I've been the lucky recipient of those cuttings.

 

 

 

These four o'clocks and the purple double trumpet vine
below are in my own garden. Just two of the many cuttings Rose has shared with me.

 

 

A gift from a garden truly can be the gift that keeps on giving!

 

 

      

 

Hope you enjoyed the tour and meeting Rose. Have some gardening tips you'd like to pass along?

Grammy Dee and the Night Visitor

             It was a dark and stormy night—well, it was dark. In fact, it was pitch black because Grammy Dee was sleeping in the basement bedroom, the one she always occupies when visiting her daughter and family. The room has no windows. But it does have a fireplace...with a dark, gaping opening.

             Around midnight, Grammy Dee dreamed about a butterfly fluttering around her head.  As sleep morphed into wakefulness, she realized this was no dream. And if the creature circling the room was a butterfly, it was on steroids.

            Grammy Dee hid under the covers and hoped the nocturnal visitor would go away. But even with a comforter over her head, she could hear the frantic flap, flap, flap...flap, flap, flapping of its wings. The creature was trapped. And so was Grammy Dee.

            Summoning her courage, Grammy Dee bounded from her bed. She flipped on the light switch and opened the bedroom door. Her worst fears were realized as the bat luffed its way from the bedroom and into the cave-like darkness of the living area. Grammy Dee slammed the door and climbed back into bed. She’d be safe from the bat at least until morning.

            But as she lay there, she started to worry. What if the bat flew upstairs? What if it bit her darling and extremely smart little grandsons and turned them into vampires? And what if they weren’t nice, well-dressed vampires like those in the Twilight series, but mean, ugly ones like in Horror of Dracula? Once again Grammy Dee leaped from her bed and turned on the light.
             At the bedroom door, she hesitated then opened it just a crack. She listened for more flap-flapping. Hearing nothing, she rushed to turn on the light in the living area.

            With the stealth of a stalker, Grammy Dee searched the room. Then she spied it—a small, mud-colored triangle on the floor between the couch and the big chair. She inched closer to confirm her suspicion. Yes, the triangle had pointy big ears and bony little claws. Backing up slowly, her heart pounding, Grammy Dee fought to keep her wits about her and devise a plan.

            She knew from experience—a bird once flew into her house—it might be a good idea to throw a sheet or towel over the bat. But what if the bat was only pretending to be dead or sleeping? What if it was “playing possum”? What if it suspected what Grammy Dee was up to and, when she came close to trap it, flew up and sunk its fangs into her jugular? Grammy Dee thought some more and came to a reasonable, if rather sexist, conclusion: Bat-catching is a man’s job. She climbed the stairs to the main floor and gently roused Kristin and her husband Brad by announcing, “There’s a bat in your basement!!!”

            Grammy Dee and Kristin crept down the stairs and waited for Brad who was putting in his contacts. He had to do that because without them, he’s blind as a...well, a bat. When he came downstairs, the two women, from under their protective head gear of throw pillows, gave him moral support and advice.

            Heeding their expert instructions, Brad flung a towel over the bat. Suspense hung thick in the air as everyone waited. When the bat made no effort to move, Brad scooped it up, towel and all, and hurled it into the yard.

            With crisis averted, carpet cleaner was applied to eliminate any possible bat residue, and Brad and Kristin returned to bed. But just in case the bat had relatives who might come searching for him, Grammy Dee placed a card table in front of the fireplace opening before retiring.

            The next morning, the episode made for an interesting post on Facebook and drew many comments. Among them was one from friends who’d previously been guests in the basement bedroom: “That place is so dark we’ve always referred to it as the ‘bat cave.’”

            Grammy Dee thinks that’s a fitting name. But please don’t refer to it as the “old bat’s cave.”

 

           What about you? Any close encounters of the critter kind you'd care to share?