Let's teach our daughters less about glass slippers and more about glass ceilings. Less about makeup and more about waking up. Less about about hair flipping and more about hustling.
Teach her more about standing firm in her beliefs and her love and her own sacred truth than standing for nothing at all. Teach her about grace under pressure and you teach her about pressure.
Because she'll feel it every single day.
Pressure to fit in, pressure to wear certain things, pressure to drink that drink, smoke that cigarette, or to open her legs.
And you teach her that no is a complete sentence.
Teach her that life is hard, and long, and some days will daze her with difficulty. You teach her that she's tougher. Teach her that a bad decision doesn't make a bad life, and teach her how to rise, rise, rise like the sun that she is, and you teach her to
Teach her to shine so hard that even on the broken days, even when it feels like everything - and I do mean everything - has veered off track -
you teach her that the light of her reach will brighten even the darkest of roads.
Call her a game changer, a catalyst, a societal-habit-breaker, a spark. Teach her to be a giver and a liver and a never, not-one-time-stopper. Fill her cup so full that she has enough to fill the cups of others.
Teach her that the blood running through her veins is the result of every other woman that has come before - the ones that marched for the right to vote in 1913, and the ones that marched for equal rights in 1978. You tell her that she is the result of the love of thousands and that, if at any time she's just not quite sure of herself, you tell her to stand tall
square her shoulders
and think about Maya Angelou, Joan of Arc, Jane Austen, Florence Nightingale, Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Queen Elizabeth I, Marie Curie, Helen Keller, Eleanor Roosevelt, Helen of Troy, Anne Frank, Glennon Doyle,
or Mother Friggin' Teresa because
women handle it.
Historically speaking? You teach her that we handle it
I step over Incredibles, drums, books, and cars.
I clean up crumbs, spills, and lunch.
I walk slower, wake up earlier, and worry more.
I clean up puke, snot, and pee that somehow doesn’t make it into the toilet.
I schedule haircuts, doctor visits, swim lessons, and play dates.
I organize backpacks, snack drawers, and all the socks.
With every fort blanket I fold ...
With every stuffed animal I get out from under a bed ...
With every milk cup I clean ...
And with every single super hero I memorize ...
A clock ticks.
And when the feet thud across the floor upstairs, and when the quiet, sleepy voice whispers, “I just love you,”
I hear it loud and clear.
The soft tick tock of a clock that is synced to the center of my being - where he was first loved - tells me that time is passing.
Time is passing.
Time is passing.
One day, there won’t be Bubble Guppies or games. There won’t be costumes or special blankets.
And one day, he will look back on all of the days that bled together and know
that he was loved beyond all measure.
It was time, friends. It was beyond time.
Now, when you type in the previous web address to my website (www.teamthumann.com), it will redirect you to -
The Beck Effect.
I'm becoming less and less of who I was.
And more and more of who I'm supposed to be.
Thanks for sticking around.
I called Miss Cleo the psychic in seventh grade. Her commercials were all over one of the three channels we had at the farm, and I was intrigued. I called the 1-900 number and was only going to talk for a second but Miss CLEO - man.
She had some THINGS to tell me.
Such IMPORTANT, LENGTHY things that I don’t even remember.
The first, very thick, phone bill came in the mail and I hid it between the cookbooks at home. (NO ONE FOUND IT UNTIL WE MOVED OUT.)
The second, very thick phone bill came, and I hid it between some books in my closet.
And then, one day, I was in the car with my mom when she got the mail.
BECAUSE SOMETIMES JESUS HAS A SENSE OF HUMOR LIKE THAT.
“What’s that,” I so casually asked, as she opened the third, very thick (and now very late) phone bill.
“It’s the phone bill,” she said, concerned. “I didn’t get the first one, so I called and asked them to send it again.”
OF COURSE YOU DID, NANCE.
You know those events in your life in which you’ll never forget where you were? We were parked by the strawberry patch in the driveway. Our grey Buick was pointing towards the back porch. And I was sweating.
“What in the …” Mom’s voice trailed off and I’m pretty sure I squeezed my eyes shut.
Slowly, her head turned towards me. “Do you know anything about this?”
Yeah. Mom. Turns out, I do.
But I’m almost certain I didn’t own up to it right away. I’m almost positive that I played dumb. That was ALWAYS my first line of defense.
Must’ve been Brett. Must’ve been Brett calling the psychic because it for sure wasn’t me. Brett would TOTALLY do something like that.
(Except he wouldn’t. Ever.)
That night, I was treated to a Dining Room Table Discussion in which Parent One and Parent Two (sometimes referred to as Mom and Dad, or Nance and Rog, or Momma and Daddy) sternly talked to me about “making better choices”.
Specifically, instead of asking Miss Cleo for help with my math homework, I could instead ask my Aerospace Engineer Dad for help, or my ridiculously smart brother who would ALSO turn into an Aerospace Engineer Dad.
I’m fairly certain I cried.
I’m also fairly certain that I cried at every single Dining Room Table Discussion throughout my years growing up, but whatever.
Which is all just to say that sometimes, we screw up. Sometimes, we screw up HUGE. Whether it’s hitting the mailbox with our car (more than once), calling a fake psychic, or something else equally as stupid.
Sometimes we just screw up.
Thank goodness for the people that help correct us.
And thank goodness for the people that still love us despite it all.
And thank goodness they don't have 1-900 numbers anymore. Or do they?
Don't answer that.
I write a lot.
And when I say a lot - I mean that there are notes all over my house, on my phone, next to my desk, in my purse, at Craig's house - binders full of printed books, notebooks full of ideas, half written thoughts here, book titles there.
Late at night, when my house is quiet, I'm often propped up in my bed with my blue blocker glasses on, writing, editing, and creating. YouTube streams behind the 18 documents open on my computer - Chris Stapleton or Cody Jinks or a different voice singing soft and low.
I've been writing ever since I can remember.
I talk about The Brother all the time. He is easily one of my favorite people. He knew what he wanted to do from the moment he took his first breath. He drew airplane parts, read airplane books, built model airplanes, watched airplane movies. His heart beats to the click of a mechanical pencil. I've always been a little envious of his steadfastness.
He has *always* known his next step.
Early in my teaching career, I called him one afternoon. "I taught my kids all about appositives, and they get it!" I cried. It's a win I still remember. Like the good brother he is, he celebrated with me.
And when I asked him how he was doing, he responded oh-so-casually with, "I'm thinking about being an astronaut."
You know how many times I've thought about becoming an astronaut? None times.
My mom is a Dean of Finance. Every #bossbabe meme ever created is talking about her. She's a damn force.
My dad travels to exotic locations for work, and when Tuck wears his rocket scientist shirt, I whisper into his ear, "You can be one just like your papa."
My brother - the newly minted Lt. Colonel? Never became an astronaut, but now he commands all the people and does all the things. He's a rocket scientist, too. So.
And I write.
And for a very long time, I felt out of sync.
Like who are these math-y, science-y people, and what in the world am I supposed to do with all of that?
I don't do anything with *that*.
I do my own thing.
I'll never feel the heavy need to solve a math problem, but words - they swim behind my eyes and tumble onto whatever is closest. I've even used keno crayons and lip gloss to write on cocktail napkins. I have no shame.
And last night, when Her View From Home published a video that used my words - validation that I didn't even know I needed rained down all around me.
This, whispers called out to me.
This is what I am supposed to be doing.
[Note: This is not to say that the fam-bam is not supportive of my writing. They are my biggest cheerleaders and my number one fans and they sit so hard in my corner and push me forward into the big wide open every single day and will go fight club on anyone that comes at me. I would be lost without them. Just ... utterly lost.]
. About Moi .
I love, love, love flannel sheets and I am really passionate about lists on post it notes and most of the time I'm sad that no one else is as excited as I am about Diet Mountain Dew. I also adore run-on sentences. And if you need an awesome virtual assistant, who is full of personality and really good jokes? Email me. I'm your girl.
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He saw her before he saw
anything else in the room.
- F. Scott Fitzgerald
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