That time my son rediscovered crafts

So far in his relationship with crafts, Sonshine has regarded them with a range of emotions. On one end of the Posture Toward Doing Crafts spectrum was a feeling of Ambivalence as demonstrated by a screwing up of the side of his mouth and a shrug, "Like, do you think we can actually go eat a Nutty Bar instead of doing this craft?" On the other end of the spectrum is something I would characterize as Existential Angst, like, "What is a craft and why does it benefit me, you, the community-at-large, if I glue this googley-eye to this popsicle stick and then wait for it to dry, subsequently discarding it as waste in the days to come?" This range has been replaced with one that includes a much warmer zone, a climate where temperatures might even reach Craft Ecstasy?

I know. It's been a confusing time for me, too.

It started when Sonshine started begging nagging harassing  asking me for a white T-shirt. He didn't specify a reason. A small ask by any measure, and although I am sure he wasn't envisioning the woman's JJill white XL T-shirt when he requisitioned the plain white T, he seemed pleased as punch when we scored it for a whole two moneys at Boomerangs thrift store over spring break. Achievement level unlocked!

When we got home and he started asking me for the paints, however, this is when I started to take his temperature, and just asked casually if I could see his dental records. WHO THIS.

The boy set about to decorate the official t-shirt of the Vera Bradley luggage-toting mom with some verbiage that is not completely familiar to me. It would appear, given the primitive YouTube graphic rendering on the back, that the T-shirt is basically an homage to all of the YouTube stars du jour who know Things about Minecraft. I mean, I get it. I wore a Paula Abdul "Forever Your Girl" tour shirt for a minute. I know what it is to wear your fandom on your literal sleeve.

In the meantime, the boychild also produced a puppet that, I would assume was pulled from the Upside Down, but is, once again, some kind of homage to a YouTuber du jour.

I don't know what your alarm clock sounded like yesterday, but I'd be interested to know if you've ever been roused from sleep with: MOM CAN YOU PUT THIS ON TWITTER LIKE RIGHT NOW I NEED TO SHOW THIS TO PIXELDIP AND SEE IF HE WILL GIVE ME A SHOUTOUT MOM MOM MOM TWITTERRRRR.

So I guess you could say things are getting pretty serious.

Back to the t-shirt, though. Upon completion of this t-shirt craft involving puff paint (like this was the year 19 freaking 91), Sonshine launched his campaign to get said apparel washed, dried, and wearable so that at 600 hours this morning, he was all-systems go.

"I just hope the kids at school aren't distracted."

Yeah, I mean. I don't see why they would look twice at a kid who appears to have shoplifted from JJill and then gotten dressed in the ballpit at McDonald's Playland.

Craft on, players.

On Rejection

So far in 2018, my work has been rejected more than 30 times. More than 20 by literary or other magazines, 6 by literary agents, 1 by a graduate program.

When I got the rejection from the graduate program, I felt disappointed, confused, at peace, then markedly more confused, followed by a chaser of confusion and peace. And then I felt relief and I still feel relief coupled with a little bit of confusion. I think that's about the truest feeling I can describe upon being rejected. It's so rarely just one singular feeling that wraps around one's tender ego and that plugs up the heart from leaking out rejection tears. It's a little bit of this and a little bit of that unexpected other thing that mingle together in the rejection cocktail. Even when relationships didn't work out, this was my experience. A lot bit sad, a little bit relieved. A strong portion of UMMM WUT? and a slice of the OH GOOD, one fewer people to revolve my life around, hey? 

Rejection always stings not because it's a denial of one's work or one's companionship. It's a rejection of something one has chosen with which to be vulnerable. This is why self-preservation is such a powerful reflex for some of us. If we don't make ourselves vulnerable, we won't deal with rejection. Nor will we ever see our work published or experience deep love or anything that places our vulnerability at risk?

I decided that 2018 was going to be my year to aim for at least 104 rejections (2 for each week of the year). It's not enough to say I want to be published because publication is a moving target on quaaludes. If I play the rejection numbers game, it's like that old corndog adage about aiming for the moon but landing among the stars.

And my work has found a soft place to land in a couple of publications, and that has felt even better. Better than the sting of rejection is the feeling of acceptance. What they don't tell you about acceptance as a writer, though, is that it begins from within and it has to be a continuous renewal process. It's very difficult if not impossible to receive the acceptance of a publication and to really appreciate what it represents if you haven't accepted your own strengths and limitations as a writer, as an artist. I'm not so self-actualized that I can read things I wrote, like things I wrote two sentences ago, and don't want to find a nice cement mixer and fling myself underneath its direct pour. Fortunately, that feeling becomes more fleeting, though, the more vulnerable we make ourselves, the more practiced we become at receiving rejection and putting it in its place.

That's why I'm aiming for a year of rejections, because aiming for the moon still nets me some stars, and seeing the moon up close must be pretty cool, too. 

Can We Fat Talk?

Can you picture her? The girl in your same grade who constantly asked, "Do you think I look fat?" Maybe she was your best friend or the bane of your existence. Maybe she had the strong core of a ballerina or the strong calves of a star soccer player. Maybe she was rail thin or gorgeously curvy. The facts of her figure didn't matter. The resounding chorus of her being was the same, like a broken record, replaying the same few notes over and over. Am I fat Am I fat Does this make me look fat Do you think I look fat...

The chorus began to lose meaning, so diluted by its frequent play. The question became a rhetorical one that begged no answer. It was symptomatic of issues much deeper, but how to broach those?

***

I received an advance release copy of Rachel Simmons' Enough As She Is: How to Help Girls Move Beyond Impossible Standards of Success to Live Healthy, Happy, and Fulfilling Lives which just released in the last week. I've already delved into it and even though this book primarily offers guidance for parents of daughters, there is one chapter that has universal appeal for women.

The "Can We Fat Talk?" chapter is grounded in current research and offers a very sobering portrait of what a social media-saturated girlhood is like. I found myself highlighting and dog-earing just about every page. Simmons knows her stuff. But rather than simply painting a fearful portrait, the book also offers many helpful, actionable solutions for steering girls away from body shaming and toward a positive, holistic view of themselves at this moment in time.

In many ways, though, this chapter seems as though its audience could be any female readership. Fat Talk is a problem that begins in girlhood that we cannot seem to outgrow as women. Simmons writes that Fat Talk may feel like Friend Talk but it builds a bridge at the expense of putting down an individual. As women, too often we bond over one-upping (or one-downing?) each other on our body shaming. How many times have you been privy to two women gushing about how much they ate over the holidays or how lazy they were on a vacation? Maybe you were even participating in the conversation. It may have seemed innocuous, but is this the message we want to send girls? That the currency of true friendship is exchanged by putting one's physical self down?

***

Simmons visited my children's public school system earlier this year and her talk was very resonant, covering the same topics addressed in her book (bullying, social media, the pressure to be perfect).  She invited girls grades 2 and above to attend the talk. She was able to address the girls as well as their parents, speaking to both audiences in a way that was relevant but not preachy, funny but still heavy with the gravity of an important message. Many of the topics in Enough As She Is are geared toward parents guiding girls through the latter years of high school, but there is plenty relevant to parents of younger daughters. Moreover, so much of the message of modeling positivity and listening to our bodies and their unique needs is ageless, timeless.

Simmons' book is certainly a drink from the fire hydrant and I'm finding it may be a perennial go-to resource than a quickfire read. The complexity of issues and the depth of the research and guidance speak well to the complexity and depth of being female, though, and I would recommend it to anyone who is one or who cares about one.