Put Your Lead Foot Forward

I'm now well into my search for a new vehicle.

In most cases, the sales rep from the dealership accompanies me on my test drives. I don't mind his or her presence, as it allows me to ask questions while I'm driving.

On my first drive, conscious of the sales rep's presence in the passenger seat, I drove conservatively.

Somewhere along I-75, however, I threw conservatism out the window. "Look," I said to salesman Steve. "I like to punch it when I accelerate, and then I brake hard. So I'm tough on my tires, tough on my brakes. I take turns hard, too. Just wanted to warn you."

Steve laughed! "You're the first person who's actually said anything like that. And I'm glad you did. On a test drive, you should drive the car as you would naturally. That's the only way you'll find out if the car is right for you."

Ahhh, I could relax. Then I hit the gas.

When I drove another SUV with saleswoman Caryl, I made a similar speech, with this addendum: "My kids are used to it. They don't get carsick because my driving is what they're used to."

More laughter. Then she said, "Most people don't talk about how they actually drive the car. It's good that you know how you drive, and that you know what you want from a car."

Though I'm tempted to put my best foot forward, it's a fact that I drive with a lead foot. My dad tried to rid me of this habit when I was younger, and I really tried to change, but it didn't last long. Then my wonderfully steady, careful husband used logic to explain how my driving habits affect the wear and tear (and replacement of parts) on my car. I totally understood it. And tried to go easy. But again, I went back to my old habits.

Now I'm almost 40. I've been driving for 24 years -- more than half my life. I just don't think I'm gonna change.

And I don't care to lie to myself or anyone else.

So I offer only the truth: One of my vices is that I'm an aggressive driver. I'm far from the only one who is. But I'd like to think that one of my virtues is my ability to recognize and admit who I am. (But I also offer this reminder: aggressive is not synonymous with careless. I said I'm aggressive; I did not say I'm careless.)

I'm never going to take my vehicle out on a track. But I'm going to take my kids to school, I'm going to run errands around town, I'm going to take the family on trips. And when I do that, I'll need a vehicle that can keep up. It needs to go when I want to go. It needs to stop exactly when I need to stop. It needs to make tight turns, just because I like it that way. It needs to keep up with me, and be safe, comfortable, and reliable to boot.

So that's why, among the usual questions for sales reps, my questions also include estimates on maintenance schedules for tires and brakes for a driver like me. I don't need to know how long those parts last for the wonderfully smooth, careful drivers like my dad and my husband. I need to know how long they'll last for me.

I'm finding that my kind of questions don't come up much. The sales reps need to look up the answers.

Maybe more drivers like me just need to admit to our true habits. I won't hide any longer. I am who I am. The foot I put forward may not be the best, but it's the one I've got. And so I'll proudly put that lead foot forward.

What Car Am I?

When I was in 6th grade, we were given an unusual assignment. We had to answer this question: If you were a car, which one would you be?

It seemed like a silly question to me. Cars were utilitarian hunks of metal that got you from one place to another. For the most part, I couldn't tell one from the other. (Well, some colors were prettier than others.) But I was a human being -- a 6th grade girl! I could not fathom comparing myself to a car.

So I approached Mrs. Hendrix's desk and accosted her with that all-purpose statement that I'm sure makes all teachers cringe: "I don't get it." And then I just stood there.

With absolutely no trace of annoyance on her face -- she always had a smile for us -- she explained how cars have different attributes that set them apart from one another. And so do humans. The assignment, of course, was to think about my own attributes, and then think of a car that has similar ones. It wasn't rocket science, after all. Just a lesson to get us to think about how we perceive ourselves.

After tossing around several makes of cars, she said that she thought of me as a Porsche 911 Carrera. A red one. As utilitarian hunks of metal go, that seemed like a particularly good hunk that I was being compared to! I went back to my seat with a smile on my face.

Now, I happen to be in the market for a new car. My lease is set to expire in a couple of months, so I'm starting the process of selecting a replacement. I'm finding this to be a daunting task! Suddenly, that sixth grade assignment holds a very real meaning for me. What does the car I drive say about me?

My real-life assignment has caused me to take a trip down Memory Lane. Take a drive with me...

My first car, a used Ford Escort that my parents bought for me and my brother back in high school and that my dad maintained flawlessly, likely showed the world that I was barely a young adult, with not much money, but adequately maintained. And the car was very tiny: It wouldn't have allowed too many people, or too many shenanigans, within its confines. I think Dad liked it that way.

Next came the Ford Tempo, the car I bought in college with some of my own money and a small loan to boot. It said nearly the same thing as the Ford Escort, though with a little more room and a slightly higher price tag. It might not have been the sexiest thing, but I was just happy to have my own car on campus, and the freedom that came with it.

A few years after college, I purchased my first new car, a Toyota Celica. I was ready for something fun & sporty, although I couldn't afford anything nearly as pricey as the Carrera. I thought my Celica showed the world that I could afford a new car, though one that wasn't extravagantly appointed or priced, and that I was a young professional in that "fun" stage of life. I loved that car!

My husband and I were expecting our first child when we replaced the Celica with the practical Toyota Camry. In beige. Now that I was moving into motherhood, I wanted something practical and reliable and roomier. (Maybe a bit dull, too. Is that what I subconsciously thought of parenthood?)

Well, parenthood moved right along considerably faster than we'd expected. By the following year, we'd added two more to our brood, so the once-roomy Camry was now woefully too small. And I was exhausted all the time. I just didn't care what I drove. As long as it was priced moderately and could get me and three babies (along with a huge diaper bag, a single stroller, and a double stroller) from Point A to Point B reliably, I didn't care what I drove. I didn't even come along to help pick out the two minivans that followed. I hadn't particularly cared to ever own a minivan, but it seemed to fit my stage of life. It was practical, reliable, roomy, inexpensive, and shouted: "Mom of many kids!" How could I refute the appropriateness of the message it sent? Besides, I was too tired to care.

As the babies grew a bit older and more independent, and I was no longer sleep-deprived, I became interested in my own life once again. The kids were school-aged when it was time again for new wheels. This time, I chose. I still needed a practical, reliable, roomy vehicle, but I had tired of the minivan stage. I had a specific SUV in mind, and I wasn't interested in comparing it with other similar models from competing manufacturers. The only option I was interested in entertaining was the color. I loved the Toyota Sequoia, and then the Highlander Hybrid that came next, when it became obvious that the Sequoia was high-maintenance and high-cost to own.

So now here we are, in a slightly different stage of my evolving life. The kids are getting taller and opinionated. They have specific ideas of what they do and do not like in a vehicle. I drive them around everywhere, so I still need a roomy & reliable vehicle for them and their friends. So no cute little two-seater convertible sports car for met (yet). But this time, I have more time and more knowledge on which to draw when choosing my next vehicle. I also have more freedom of choice, which is a luxury that I appreciate, but that also can actually make choices difficult.

So, what will my next vehicle say about me? I'll be driving it for the next 3-5 years, well into my kids' teenage years. But I want what I drive to represent the many facets of me, not just the mothering me. Unlike my clothing, hairstyle, and makeup, I can't change my car to suit my mood or the occasion: This is a one-size-fits-all proposition. So, not only are there price and seating and cargo and environmental considerations, but there are others, too. I'm a mom, but I'm also a wife and and also my own woman. I like reliability and practicality, but what about fun and zip and power and sexiness? Must I set aside those attributes?

The vehicle I use to carpool the kids around and run errands with is also the vehicle I use to meet girlfriends for lunch, go away for the weekend, and go out with my husband. The sound system that's used at moderate levels for kid-friendly stations is the same one I might blast while cruising with the wind whipping through my hair. The vehicle I use to cart dirty perennnials home in one day is the same one I'll maneuver in and out of in a short skirt one evening. The vehicle I use to drop off and pick up three children and their friends to and from places they love is the one I'll use -- just Kim, not mom, not wife -- to pursue my own interests.

So now it's time for me to choose: If my car is to be "me," which one will I be?

The Dive

When I was 9 years old, I wanted to jump off the high dive so badly.

I was a strong, sure swimmer. But I was afraid of heights.

So I'd glance over at the high dive from the safety of my corner of the pool. I'd watch the other kids climb that long ladder to the top, walk--sometimes even run!--straight out to the edge, and fearlessly drop. Or jump. Or dive.

I imagined those precious seconds between board-walking and splash-down as the ultimate freedom.

And, oh, I wanted that freedom!

Two or three times each summer, I'd muster up the gumption to try out that high dive. I'd stand in line, shivering from the breeze against my wet body. Finally, my turn would come to start the ascent. One by one, my feet would climb the rungs of the ladder. Excited and anxious altogether, I continued on, knowing I was safe as long as I held on to the long rail. I'd reach the top, take a deep breath, and slowly walk on, still holding on to the rail.

But the rail always ended before the board did.

Knowing that other kids were waiting for me to jump so they could have their turns, I felt obligated to continue. I'd progress across the board, though slowly. But my mind raced faster, calculating the myriad ways I could fall and split my head open on the concrete below and behind me. Although the board was dangling over water at this point in my fear walk, and logic held that gravity surely would carry me straight down into the water in which I felt comfortable, I held onto the illogical conclusion that, if I were to fall, I'd actually fall diagonally backward to the concrete.

Fears are not logical.

My body frozen, perched at the end of the high-dive board twelve feet above earth, visible to my peers below, my naked fear was exposed to all.

I just couldn't do it. I couldn't make myself jump. Humiliated, I'd start the retreat toward the safety of the railing, then climb down the ladder. Looking down, I didn't dare make eye contact with any of the kids standing in line. I felt certain I knew what they were thinking about me anyway. I didn't need to actually hear it or see it in their eyes. I would beat myself up mentally the rest of the day.

I've since overcome my fear of the high dive. I still dislike heights, but I dislike the fear of heights even more. The key, I've found, is to commit to it and then stop thinking about it. Just walk right out to the edge and GO! Before I've had time to think, there I am, flailing through space with the joy that only freedom can bring.

Writing gives me that joy of freedom: to organize my thoughts, to write coherently and fluidly, to express myself. I love that feeling of publication, whether it's a user manual or a blog posting or (someday, I hope) a book.

But, strangely, I've been struck by a fear of publication the last few weeks. I could simply brush it off as writer's block, but I needed to understand why I felt that fear, that block. The feelings of humiliation and frustration from my youth re-emerged. The difference, however, is that I've been through this before, so I have a head start on working through the temporary immobilization.

What was my mantra? The one that ultimately got me to jump off the high dive? Commit to it, stop thinking about it, walk to the edge, and GO!

Well, here I am: committed, no longer overthinking, standing at the edge. Here goes...

Alone, Not Lonely

She silently walks over, stands in front of me, and looks up at my face.

"What are we going to do next?"

My daughter is on spring break. All of my children had a week to themselves this spring. With three kids at three schools and three different breaks, they've each had to cope with some downtime alone.

Of course, we've done plenty of activities together. But not 24/7. Some of the kids deal with the non-24/7 thing better than others.

This child always has a tough time of it. She's a twin, and the assertive/dominant of the two. Yet, despite her assertiveness, dominance, appearance of self-confidence, tendency to be opinionated -- you get the picture -- when her twin is around, she's completely different without her sister.

She's totally and completely lost without her. She's lonely.

So she turns to me as her surrogate.

But her twin -- the follower, the passive one, the one you'd think would not be able to cope without her "leader" -- doesn't have this problem. She loves the time she spends with her sister, the rest of the family, her friends, but she doesn't rely on them to have a good time. She knows how to be alone.

It's the difference between being lonely and being alone.

But I'm their mother. I can't stop at just identifying this difference between the twins. If I assert, as I do, that it's my job to give my kids the tools they need to become successful, independent adults, then I need to teach the lonely daughter how she can enjoy time by herself. Spending some time alone, pursuing one's own pleasures, is a necessary and unavoidable part of life.

I can't teach this by ignoring her, not by frustratingly stating, "go find something to do!" This doesn't help her. She doesn't know what to do. She feels a sense of loss without her twin nearby. So I show her our plan of activities we're going to do together, and then we make a plan of the things she enjoys that she can do by herself.

Today is Day 5 of her spring break: the last day she'll have to spend without her twin. We've done a lot of fun things together, and a few things alone. I think she's more comfortable with herself today than she was on Monday.

All in all, we've had a good week! Still, she's counting the hours until school's out for her twin. And, I confess, I'm counting the days until Monday, when all three kids are back in school.

Because when I'm alone, I'm not lonely.

How Do You Doodle?

I realize the title of this post sounds like a corny greeting. A play on words, this post is really about doodling. You know, those chicken-scratches you leave in the margins of paper without really thinking about what you're doing.

Given a sheet of paper, a pencil, and some idle time, what would you create?

I doodle words. Lists, often, but also verbal sketches. Rarely pictures.

{Incidentally, I was a writer when I worked full-time, and I still write for enjoyment.}

My husband doodles flowcharts, interface design. Some words are involved, but essentially he's drawing connections that he sees in his mind, putting form to thoughts and relationships.

{He's a technology business owner now, a computer programmer by training.}

But that's not all. Sometimes he doodles with another part of his brain, and the result is wonderful poetry!

My son doodles by drawing, never writing. Although I wish his mind stayed attentive to his schoolwork during the day, he daydreams. I know this because I see the drawings sketched in the margins or on the back of his papers when he brings them home. I see the scraps of paper he leaves all over the house. He has a talent -- a gift -- for drawing. And seeing his doodles brings me joy, because I see each one as a glimpse into his future.

{I think he'll be a designer of some type -- likely architecture, from what I see in his drawings -- when he's older.}

Childhood is a time for trying out new things, having experiences, exploring abilities, defining interests. As a parent of three children, I find myself looking for clues about what they might pursue later in life. Sometimes those clues are right in front of me, unspoken but very real.

Sometimes they're on scraps of paper.

Doodling just might be the way our inner passions are expressed concretely. Without overthinking. Just creating. Time will tell whether the clues my children leave me now truly are portholes to their futures.

How do you doodle?

Life, Resumed

It's been seven long months of troubleshooting, recovery, and waiting.

First the stress fracture in my hip. Nearly 10 weeks on crutches, then the resumption of activities. But not quite; something still didn't feel right. So two months of troubleshooting, then surgery and recovery.

Yes, it's been a frustrating seven months.

It's like watching a video feed on a slow computer, or a movie from a scratched disc. The images seem to start and stop, like someone's playing around with the Pause and Play buttons. You can technically watch the video this way, but it's not very satisfying.

But life is full of its starts and stops, isn't it? I accept this; I'm just too impatient to like it.

Today I met with my doctor for what I really, really hope is the very last time. I'm ready to put the last seven months behind me, and finally move on. Fortunately, he agreed: he gave me medical clearance to resume any and all activities.

So now I am resuming my former active life. No more Pause for me... it's time to Play!

Gives You Hell

The All American Rejects have a hit in "Gives You Hell."

I mean, who hasn't wanted to give someone hell before? Don't tell me there's not a single person who comes to mind when you hear this song?

"Gives You Hell" has universal appeal. Doesn't matter if it's meant for an ex (an obvious allusion), a former teacher or boss (maybe one who didn't think you'd achieve much), a parent (one whose expectation you couldn't live up to, or who abandoned you), an old friend (a falling out), or any other person important to you.

Whoever it was, and for whatever reason, it all fell apart. And it hurt. But you picked yourself up and moved on. Sort of.

Because if you'd really moved on, you wouldn't be singing this song. So loud. With that person's image in your mind.

But, you know, it goes both ways. Yeah, I hope it "gives you hell," but someone hopes it gives me hell, too.

Or did.

Love and hate are two expressions of the same emotion: passion. "Truth be told, I miss you. Truth be told, I'm lyin'."

Although I know I felt exactly as the All American Rejects at one time, I just don't now. Call it a mellowing, a maturing. After reflection, it's just not so raw anymore.

My life is really good -- for me. But I don't need to prove it to someone who is no longer in my life. Or compare it to anyone else's. And I don't need to make anyone feel bad, though at one time I might have felt I did.

Paths cross. We live, we love. (Isn't that another song? Well, lyrics are the poetry of our times.) We move on. We learn. Then we use those experiences to become who we're meant to be.

Years ago, I might have wanted to give you hell. Or you might have wanted that for me. But if I meet you on the street today, I'll simply say "Hello" and, yes, I'll even smile. Will you do the same for me?