Clarification: Insult and Invective

I want to clarify something for my own peace of mind. My blog is about me - about what I learn and how I'm trying to grow up already. I'm 35 years old and still growing up. Yesterday's blog was me learning about insults. And it was me learning about why I want to try very hard to stop my own stream of invective and hurtful behavior. Well, it's not really more of a stream. I'd like to think it's a small brook that floods seasonally. Regardless, I saw some things around that I didn't like very much. And then I saw those things in myself too and I didn't like that very much at all. I'm not a perfect person, although I like to pretend that I am sometimes. I am, however, trying to be a better person today than yesterday. And tomorrow, I would like to be an even better person. And then maybe when I'm 85, I'll be perfect. But probably not. ;)

Insult and Invective

I've been doing some unpleasant reading today. Evidently, some morning show aired some snippet about moms having cocktails during play dates. And then the judging began on both sides of the debate. "Moms who drink during play dates are putting their desires above their children's safety!" "Moms who don't drink during play dates are self-righteous prigs who need to loosen up." I also read a snide and unpleasant exchange about car seat choice. The worst of the lot was actually something that I didn't read. It was explicitly intended for only a handful of people, but breadcrumbs were left everywhere - the better for everyone else to know they were excluded. And on and on world without end. Anyway, I had not intended to blog about any of this. More than enough people have expressed variations of my opinion anyway, and my little seldom read blog is not going to change the world or the people in it. But then I happened across a gem of a statement at The Anchoress. "That sort of writing betrays one’s interior noise and adds nothing to one’s argument." She was actually referring to insults about others' appearance, yet it applies fantastically. Insults reveal more about the speaker than about the insulted. Drink at play dates, don't drink at play dates, buy expensive car seats, buy moderately priced car seats, whatever. But when you insult someone for making any of those choices, you betray your interior noise and reveal to all your weakness. Frankly, it's a lesson that I should have learned a long time ago.

Report Card Day

It's Report Card Day. I love report card day with ardor matched only by that of young boys for puppies. I loathe report card day with the heat of one thousand suns. Contradictory, but it is nonetheless true. When I was a little girl, I would wake up at 3am on Report Card Day to fret about my grades. Would I get a B? Quelle horror! If I got a B, the sun would burn up the sky, the earth would cease to turn, and God would stop loving me. If I got all A's, my report card would be praised unto the ends of the earth. My sisters would know, beyond a doubt, that I was the best. Of course, I'd get straight A's. Then I danced through the doorway to meet the glares, and occasionally fists, of my sisters. Who wouldn't want to thump a smug little diva like me? Then came college. I distinctly remember Christmas break that year. I was making chocolate chip cookies in the kitchen when my dad brought in the mail. It was my report card. I knew it was going to be ugly because I'd taken calculus from the worst teacher in the entire history of teacherdom. This teacher was so horrible that all but six students had dropped the class by midterms. Of course, I didn't drop the class because I was Christy, queen of everything, and I could overcome even the worst teacher with my impressive mental acuity. The rest of the semester proved more challenging than I'd imagined. I was unable to tease out the calculical (Like that word? I just made it up.) theories by myself. I was horribly, horribly lost. But still! I was Christy! So I was positive that I'd pass the class. But no, I got an F. I threw the cookie dough into the trash and went to bed. My father reassured me that the world had not come to an end, despite the tremendous rift in the natural order. As a parent, Report Card Day is still fraught with anxiety. Every single "Needs Improvement" is a mark against my parenting skills. Every "Meets Expectations" is proof that I am indeed Christy, queen of everything. On Report Card Day, I'm a smug and terrified nine year old. I know exactly what the report card is going to look like. There will be high marks in academics and social skills. There will be low marks in deportment and discipline. At 4:15 today, when I see the report card, I will be the best and the worst parent in the world. I'm giving myself until 4:16 for that nonsense. Then I'm putting the report card away.