It’s Plank Pullin’ time! The one day a week that we strongly resolve to ignore the multitude of specks and sawdust around us and pull one bona fide plank from our own eye. Matthew 7:3-5, style.

My sweet little girl has a new favorite word. It’s not a “bad” word, or a curse word, or an inappropriate word really. It’s just a word that sounds… wrong… coming out of an innocent mouth.

The word is “HATE” and she has been experimenting with it for several days now, usually without even meaning it. She hates that shirt, she hates the crust on the toast, she hates this song, she hates the grumpy cashier at the Dollar Store. I know it will pass, but I can’t help but cringe just a little each time I hear it. I hate that word. Such a negative, ugly-sounding word.

And where would she have heard it? Her brothers don’t say it with any regularly. Her father doesn’t say it with any regularity. Her mother… just said it yesterday in reference to a driver’s cell-phone-yapping activities that almost got her sideswiped on a busy street. 🙁 And I’m sure it wasn’t the first time this week, or even that day. Because for all my outer calm and zen-ness, I have an embarrassingly long list of minor grievances with, well, the world (and sometimes the people that inhabit it). An all too often conversation in the house starts with the following: Me – You know what I hate? Husband – Lots of things?

Sigh.

You know how sometimes when you fill out one of those silly surveys, it will ask you for your biggest pet peeve/s? I always have trouble answering those, because there are just too many to choose from. And I may or may not use the word, ‘hate’ to describe many of them. I never use it to describe people (I do not hate anyone), but I do use it.

And now my little girl uses it too.

I can’t stop her from using it, and I know that in time she’ll only use it when she really means it… but I can work on how discriminating I am when I use it myself (or even better, stop using it altogether). Because my daughter is now overly fond of a negative word thanks to me….

and I really hate that.

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It’s Plank Pullin’ time! The one day a week that we strongly resolve to ignore the multitude of specks and sawdust around us and pull one bona fide plank from our own eye. Matthew 7:3-5, style.

My dad is a very stubborn man. Don’t get me wrong, he’s also a very sweet man. A very kind man. A very funny man. But yes, he’s also as stubborn as all get out.

My husband is stubborn too. And it is mind. numbingly. frustrating. to me to talk with either one of them when they’ve dug in their proverbial heels about something.

So last night, I was laying in bed at 1:00 A.M… tossing, turning, trying to solve all the problems of the world… when I realized,

I’m more stubborn than both of them put together.

I have been a chronic insomniac for most of my adult life, and while – yes – there are multiple reasons for that, a large portion of the blame lands squarely on the fact that I am STUBBORN.

It drives me crazy when people offer unsolicited suggestions, mainly because I have tried them all (and gave up on them probably way too quickly)… but also because I am stubborn.

I don’t want to give up my coffee for the length of time needed to see if the lack of caffeine really makes a difference, because I truly need it to function when I’m in a particularly bad patch… but also because I am stubborn.

I watch TV or hop on the computer when I can’t sleep – both no-no’s in the world of the “get better sleep” tips… because I am stubborn.

I don’t enjoy not sleeping. I long for the days that I’ll sleep again. But I know that part of me chooses it. I could take more steps to get better, but I don’t. I could face the real issues (because I know the real issues) but I don’t. It’s easy, and safe, and familiar to keep going on as I have been, drinking my coffee, ignoring the elephant in the room, and failing to do the hard work required to face my demons and make things better.

I am stubborn. And I haven’t slept for the better part of two decades because of it.

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It’s Plank Pullin’ time! The one day a week that we strongly resolve to ignore the multitude of specks and sawdust around us and pull one bona fide plank from our own eye. Matthew 7:3-5, style.

Yesterday, Oprah Winfrey aired her final show after 25 years on the air. I share that just in case you’ve, well, been living under a rock… or maybe heard the weeping in the streets and wondered what it was all about.

Yes, the era of Oprah is over. And I feel…. sad. Not because I’ll miss the show (I hardly ever watched it) and not because I was a fan of Oprah (I pretty much spent the past 25 years disliking her intensely) No, I’m sad because I’ve been doing the same thing to Oprah that so hurts me when it’s done to me: I was judging her without knowing her. I found her arrogant and self-serving, using her show as a platform for HER. Using her jillions of dollars to help other people, yes, but also to show the world how wonderful and giving SHE is.

And then this morning I watched her finale, for no other reason than to scoff and roll my eyes and be glad that it was all over. And I don’t know if it was because I went to bed – and subsequently woke up – feeling sad, or if it was because I’ve been humbled by my own “hate mail” I’ve received of late, but for what was literally the first time I felt like I truly “got” her. I realized that Oprah and I are not that different (billions of dollars and worldwide fame aside)

And the fact is,
I don’t know what kind of person she’s like behind closed doors.
I don’t know how much giving she does that she *doesn’t* share with her audience.
I don’t know what insecurities she has, or what she’s not proud of, or what kind of mistakes she’s made.
I’m not privy to her relationships with her friends, her family, and her loved ones.

I do know that she seems to genuinely want to help people, and is genuinely interested in living an authentic, meaningful life and paving the way for others to do the same. I do know that she seemed humbled, and grateful, and sincere as she thanked her viewers, her staff, and God.

And all that mushy-gushy rainbows and unicorn and lets-all-love-one-another stuff she was always talking about? I honestly want that, too. Her platform just happened to be a deeply loved, national talk show… and mine is a little blog. But we’re on the same side.

And so, Oprah, it’s taken me 25 years, but I am truly sorry for judging you. You have done a great thing with your show, and have touched many people. I am sure that outside of the lights and the cameras and the hoopla, that you are a beautiful person – inside and out – and one who is deeply loved by those who really know you.

Oh, and if you run into Dr Phil, tell him I’m working up to an apology for him too.

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It’s Plank Pullin’ time! The one day a week that we strongly resolve to ignore the multitude of specks and sawdust around us and pull one bona fide plank from our own eye.

I have a husband.  I don’t know if you knew that, but I do.

I don’t post about him nearly as often as the kids, and if you’re my friend on Facebook, you won’t find me doing a lot of gushing about him, OR complaining about him in my status updates …. mainly because I think the former is a little weird (I tell him I love him; why would I feel the need to announce it to everyone else?), and I think the latter is just inappropriate, and well… mean… whether the poster is doing it about a spouse, a child, or a friend. 

But I do have one.  And [prepare yourself for some unprecedented gushing] I think he’s pretty darn terrific.  Terrific partner, terrific father, terrific friend.  So what I’m wondering, as I pull this enormous plank from my eye, is:

Why don’t I appreciate him the way that I should?

Mike and I very rarely fight.  Very. Rarely. But when we do (in our typical, get all grumbly and huffy and pouty with each other fashion, until one of us decides to be a grownup and actually talk about it) it’s essentially the same fight dressed in different clothes, over and over.  I feel like you don’t appreciate me.  I take care of the kids all day and the house and the laundry and the bathrooms and the floors and the animals and the errands and the appointments and I’m TIRED…. and blah, blah, blah.  I just want to be appreciated. 

But you know what?  He gets up at 5:30 every morning, while we’re all still in bed.  He commutes an hour and a half, twice a day, on public transportation.  To a job that he sometimes likes, but one that leaves him sitting behind a desk all day when he would much rather be outside.   He comes home tired, and knowing that I’m tired too, often makes dinner and does the dishes.   He gets the girl into her pajamas.  He takes care of the yard, and our cars, and takes out the trash.   He deals with the complicated phone calls involving things like insurance claims and interest rates and repairmen because he knows I don’t like to do it.

And he does it all because he appreciates us. 

The other morning, I was picking up and wiping down the kitchen.  Mike had made dinner the night before, and he’d run the dishwasher.  But the counters were still covered with… stuff.  They were dirty and cluttered, and there were gooey, un-rinsed black bean cans by the sink.  I instantly went into sighing, huffy, why can’t he appreciate me and my time mode and started to rinse out the cans.  And in the span of the 30 seconds it took me to walk them from the kitchen to the pantry to put them in the recycle bin, it hit me.  It hit me in a shame-filled, plank-pullin’ epiphany. 

It was not about him, it was about me.  Me and my stubborn, non-appreciative, self-centered stinking thinking.  I was stressing out about a few bean cans that took me all of 18 seconds to rinse out?  When he’d cooked us all a nice dinner, after a long day at work?  What was wrong with me?  Why on earth wouldn’t I just rinse them out happily, in appreciation for what he did do – and continues to do – for us, that night and every night.   Maybe, just maybe, the problem isn’t that he doesn’t appreciate me…. but rather that I could do a whole lot better at appreciating him. 

And now I will. 

Because I really do kind of love him.

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So my friend Jessica of Bohemian Bowmans does a Plank Pullin’ post (try saying that 5 times fast) every Thursday. You know, from the verse “How can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye?” I think she’s pretty darn cool, and brave, for posting these every week. However, despite her valiant effort to get people to join her, I have resisted – mightily – until now. It’s not that I didn’t have planks to pull. Oh, no. The problem was that I had so many planks to pull. Where to even start?

But something’s been bothering me lately, so in the interest of “confession’s good for the soul” I hereby give you my very first Plank Pull:

I’m a hypocrite.

There, I’ve done it. Phew! I feel so much better now. Thanks for reading.

Oh, did you want to know how I’m a hypocrite? Well if I must….

I write a lot about staying calm in the moment, about not sweating the small stuff, and about treating kids kindly and respectfully. I write a lot about patience. And while every word I write is authentic (I don’t know how to write any other way) I’ve become increasingly aware of – and uncomfortable with – a dichotomy when I write about patience specifically. Because the fact is,

I am one of the most impatient people I know.

Yes, I’m generally able to maintain patience with my children. But with other adult family members? With myself? With LIFE? Not so much with the patience.

I think it’s funny when people say things to me like, “How can you stay home with four kids all day? Don’t they drive you crazy?” The truth is, as far as I’m concerned, staying home and dealing with the four people I love more than anyone is exponentially easier than it was to deal with co-workers. Or customers. Or most of the general population. I used to work in retail, and I would inevitably come home mentally and emotionally exhausted every. single. night. People sort of… well, they drive me crazy. “What is wrong with everybody??” is a common lament around here.

I am such an advocate for treating children like people (because they ARE people) but somewhere along the way I think I forgot that adults are people too. I am so impatient and easily frustrated by other people’s more… human qualities. Particularly when I’m dealing with friends and family members, I have a tendency to expect them to be perfect. Then when they’re not, I internalize it: How could they say that to ME, how could they do that to ME, why are they always so self-absorbed? Ironic, no? The truth is, no matter what color I paint it, it still boils down to one thing: my impatience. My impatience with people who, just like me, are flawed. People who, just like me, are on their own paths to self discovery. People who, just like me, have good days and bad, and who might not always think before they speak. People who, just like me, deserve to be treated gently and kindly and with PATIENCE.

I am too hard on people, and I hate that about myself. I want to be more patient and loving towards everyone, not just my kids. I want to be better about it, and I’m trying to be better about it, but because I’m so impatient with myself, I want to be better about it RIGHT NOW.