The Hat

Yesterday I was going over the calendar and making sure I had all the children's activities and timings right.  "Daddy's going to be out of town all week." I casually said to Sarah Katherine and Christopher.  Christopher turned, looked at me with that grin that melts my heart, put his arm around me and said, "Oh great--now we won't get any dinner all week."  I leaned back and said, "What do you mean?  Why wouldn't I make you dinner?" I was trying to stay in the "he's kidding around with me mode" but my defenses automatically shot up. His, however, did not.  "You know you don't make us dinner when Daddy's not here. You're too busy at night."  "Yeah," piped in Sarah Katherine with a twinkle in her eye and a smile a mile wide, "You're always out at EfM or book club or some other meeting.  It's okay I'll make sure we all eat."  "That's not true," I sputtered, "I always feed ya'll and I'm not always gone.  If I am gone I make sure there is something ready for you."  "Yeah," continued Christopher laughing, "some sort of dried out chicken in the microwave."  "THAT HAPPENED ONCE!! And it was because we didn't get home for 3 hours passed when I thought we would so it cooked too long." I protested.  "Whatever, we'll manage." they both said as they flitted out of the room and onto their next activity. I stood where I was and willed my head to keep repeating, "They're only kidding.  They're only kidding.  They're only kidding."  hoping that repetition would make me believe it to my core.  My heart meanwhile was shaking and no matter how much I repeated the mantra "they're only kidding" I also heard a voice inside my head that said, "You're not good enough; you don't do enough; you're failing them."  They had unknowingly triggered my greatest fear and ignited the continual pulling I always feel--I love my job AND I want to be home with the children-to be available to them and to create a happy secure home. Chris listened to me off and on all afternoon struggle with my feelings and he assured me over and over they were only kidding.  But I couldn't let it go.  I woke up this morning still hearing the voice,faintly in the background of my mind, "you're not good enough." and so before my morning run, I found The Hat.

The spring  of 1981 was not an easy time for me. It was towards the end of 7th grade and all of a sudden my friend group changed.  It felt like abruptly the people I had been friends with all year (our first year at Marist) didn't seem to want to be friends with me anymore.  I took it hard; I believed there was something about me, something I didn't know that made them all of a sudden not like me.  I believed I wasn't good enough. What I know now as an adult and the mother of four children who have gone through (or almost gone through) middle school, is that this is perfectly normal.  Middle school is hard and we all try on different identities, try out different friend groups, and then somewhere around the end of 9th or 10th grade it begins to settle down.  But I didn't know that then, and I had no one to talk to about it, so I left the house every morning pretending I loved going to school and that I wasn't hurting--pretending I still had lots of friends and that I was fine.  This was also a stressful time in my parents marriage, and it was clear the last thing they needed was drama from me.  And so I pretended.

Pretending only works for so long, and somewhere along the way my heart and soul must have grown very weary.   I developed an eating disorder; I was hospitalized, but at least I didn't have to go to school.  I still didn't talk about anything, and we certainly didn't talk as a family about the eating disorder or why it might be happening.  This was a time before we understood eating disorders and they were more secret-- kind of like alcoholism, another secret our family learned to keep. Keeping my disorder a secret only added to my feelings of inadequacies and not being good enough.  Now I had something, I did something, and we weren't allowed to talk about it; we had to tell people I had the flu.  Clearly, I believed, there was something really wrong with me.

That fall I returned to school determined to find some friends.  It was hard.  During football games I didn't sit with friends.  I sat with my parents and their good friends and second parents to me--the Oldermans, and the Ebingers. The Oldermans and the Ebingers lived in our neighborhood; their boys played football for Marist; and there homes were always open to us.  When I was with them I felt loved and secure-- And so every game I sat with them and no one asked why I wasn't in the student section. No one seemed to notice that I was lonely and had no friends.  I believed I had the art of pretending down perfectly.

 Early in December my sister and I asked our parents if we could have a Christmas party. (Seemed like a good way to make friends I thought.)  Mama said we could but only if we agreed to go carolling first.  We moaned and groaned.  No one would want to come if we had to do that!  We begged for her to just let us have a party, but she wouldn't budge.  Meredith and I spent hours talking about what to do. Ultimately the desire to have a party won out, but we vowed to make sure we told everyone we believed it was stupid and to stress that our parents were making us do it.  I just knew this was going to end any chance of me ever having friends; I believed no one would come and now they'd have a good reason not to so their parents wouldn't make them.  The night came and a few people showed up!  It was an unusually cold night for Georgia.  We found out what the minimum number of homes we needed to visit and set out for carolling.

Don't tell my parents, but it wasn't all bad--people were laughing and even seemed to enjoy it.  But we were COLD!  When we got to the Oldermans' house they stood at the door and listened to us sing two or three songs while we jumped around trying to stay warm.  We finished with "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" and began to walk away.  Mr. Bruce called me back.  "Wait here." he said as he disappeared inside the house.  He came back out and put a hat on my head.  As he lowered it over my ears, he leaned down and whispered, "You're a very special person.  I love you."  I wish I could say that instantly my lonliness disappeared like a Hallmark movie, but life isn't a Hallmark movie.   I do know that as I ran to catch up with the group, my heart was a little lighter and for the first time in months I felt like maybe I was okay.  I felt like maybe there was something good about me--at least one person believed in me.

I have now had that hat for 32 years--it has traveled with me through five states and two countries, and every time I put it on I remember Mr. Bruce, and I remember how I felt that night.  We never talked about it and cancer took him from us all too soon, but I believe he did know that I needed to feel loved and important.  I believe he knew there was stress in our home, and I believe he knew something was going on with me.  I believe he saw through all the pretending and I believe he thought I was good enough.

Not being good enough, worthy enough..I think that is  many people's greatest fear.  I wonder how many times we trigger someone else's fear knowingly or unknowingly? I wonder how many people in this world are walking around pretending because deep down they don't feel adequate, and I wonder how many people notice?  It only takes one.

I went for my run this morning, and I came home with a warm head and a lighter heart. Everyone needs a "hat"--something  to remind them that they are, as God's beloved children, in fact good enough. Find yours or better yet make sure you give one to someone else.