Collecting Happiness

I tend to be a rather cynical, pessimistic person. At best, I'm a snarky realist. ;-) This is not my favorite personal trait and something I'd like to improve, but I have never found a way to achieve this and make it stick.

Just today, I finished a book called, My Name is Mahtob (the follow-up memoir to Not Without My Daughter - both excellent reads). The author makes mention of a project she had to do for a phycology class her senior year of college. The assignment was to "collect happiness" by writing down five things each day that brought her happiness. At first difficult for her, she soon began to pay closer attention to the things that brought happiness to her day. And if there weren't any, she would actively seek out things that made her happy just so she could complete her assignment. This activity soon became habit for her and she added an abundance of joy to her life.

I love this idea. 

I've tried a number of times to keep a "blessings journal" or write down things I'm thankful for, but even then, those entries tended to be tainted by the negative. Example: The twins were exhausting today, I'm thankful I get to go to bed soon. Or: I discovered I still like bologna, which is a good thing since we have no money and it's cheaper than deli meat.

Not even kidding. Those are actual entries from 2012 that I wrote in my "blessings" journal. Not surprisingly, this journal has a grand total of nine days worth of entries. My pessimism made short work of my attempt to list my daily blessings.

But the idea of "collecting happiness"? It's such an active challenge - like a scavenger hunt for joy. This competitive, over-achieving firstborn can grasp on to that idea, pessimism be darned. Because it's not just about begrudging acknowledging blessings and things I should be thankful for, but rather actively seeking to notice and find the things of this life that actually bring a smile to my face. A heart of gratitude and optimism will naturally grow from that kind of active observation.

Today's Entries: 

1. Our boys are so silly and love each other so much. While trying to get them ready this morning, I got caught in the middle of the three of them while they had a tickle fight. They were all laughing so hard and knocking each other (and me!) over, and I couldn't help but laugh with them.
2. I got to shop alone at Target today and found a beautiful shirt in the clearance rack that was within the budget of my gift card.
3. I love the way our home looks at Christmas time. Especially at night when the house is dark except for the cozy glow of the Christmas lights. 
4. This afternoon, I had time to snuggle up with a blanket and a good book (My Name is Mahtob). I cozied up in my favorite $30 garage sale recliner by the natural light of the window and it was wonderful. 
5. Snuggling, singing songs, and giving back rubs to the boys at nap time today brought my heart joy. 
6. (Bonus) Devin has been enjoying a half-day off from work and is playing with his new dartboard in the backyard. It made me happy to peek in on him and see him concentrating and enjoying his game so much. Just now, the twins joined him in the yard and are enthusiastically cheering him on. 

What about you? What are five moments of happiness that you can collect today? 

Being Brave

I may have hinted at confessed this on my fourth day hair post, but I have a... shall we say, "bold" personality. I'm loud and outspoken. I'm dramatic and blunt and have a very slow-to-act filter at times (okay fine, most times).

However.

When it comes to action - the doing, being, changing - I am incredibly timid. I get anxious over big changes. I'm afraid of failure. I over-think things which causes me to stall, or avoid, action.

It has gotten increasingly worse in the last few years. Having kids was maybe part of it - I feel like I have more to lose now. Plus, because I like stability and structure, the number of moves and changes we've had over the last two years left me dizzy. The constant adjusting to Big Life Changes made me agitated and worried that I would never find solid footing again.

When I do (on my own accord) consider making changes that I could feel in control of (ha!), I find myself fearful of failure. For example -  I used to love, and find much of my identity in, graphic design and theatre. But when I think about getting "back in the game", I'm so afraid of failing that I just push those desires away. For the time being, I have the somewhat legitimate excuse of devoting most of my time and brain power to caring for our three little ones. But they won't be this tiny and dependent forever (I don't know whether to cheer or sob). I can do those things I loved again some day. Yet, when I look just a few years ahead to the possibility of getting involved again, my stomach just clinches with fear. Because I'm afraid of failing at things I used to be good at. I fear that I will never measure up to my previous self.

But here's the thing - I'm sick of all that. I'm tired of having all of my decisions and hopes and dreams dripping with thick, toxic fear. It's pathetic and boring. I want to be brave and open to trying new things and excited (not afraid) at the possibility of changing things up. Yes, I still desire stability and want to use wisdom, but I don't want to use those things as an excuse for never changing or for my anxiety when things do change (which they inevitably will, because that's life).

This is something that's been on my mind for a while, and then with all the "new year  - new you" stories and quotes and resolutions that have been floating around the Internet this month, there was no shortage of inspiration. There were two quotes in particular that really resonated with screamed in neon flashing lights at me to do something about my change-related anxiety.

"Replace fear of the unknown with curiosity."

This is part of the reason I got a pixie cut. I'd always wanted to try the style, but been too afraid. So I decided to be curious if I'd like the cut, rather than afraid I wouldn't. That curiosity grew to excitement and then I just had to go for it. And I'm glad I did. (Though there was a definite moment of heart palpitations when my long ponytail got chopped off and there was really no turning back.)

The second quote I stumbled upon was from author J.K. Rowling:

"It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all - in which case, you fail by default."

Reading this was like a splash of cold water that jarred awake my mildly catatonic, inner self. I just remember reading it and thinking, "Good grief - that is me! I'm failing by default because I'm so afraid of living."

The timing of this revelation was fortunate as Devin has been longing to quit his part-time job at FedEx to pursue more freelance design work. Normally, I would be having HUGE anxiety about this. But once all angles had been reasonably discussed and a decision needed to be made, I felt calm about trying to make this dream of his a reality. The fears of failure and not making enough money and all those other things I could panic about are still hanging around somewhere (which I think is natural). They are just in the back of my mind as possibilities, not at the forefront screeching at me to stop everything - this is the worst idea EVER. And while I can't promise I won't have my freak out moments, I do feel ready to celebrate with my husband the end of a physically demanding job and cheer on his pursuit of the work he's passionate about. Let me tell you - it feels SO much better than the anxiety.

So, deep breath and here we go! I raise my coffee mug to possibility, curiosity, bravery, and taking chances. I'm ready to see where this may lead...

artwork by Jennifer Hanson 

Why I Got Pixied

It would seem that having children triggers an impulse in me to make drastic changes to my appearance.

After I had the twins, I went out and got my nose pierced. Which seemed rather daring for my conservative, Southern Baptist roots. Plus, I got it done at a tattoo parlor by a guy named Rebellious Tony, so I was really living on the wild side.

Last week, I chopped off all my hair. Which I can only assume had something to do with the fact that I recently gave birth to child. This particular child likes to pull my hair, which may have also had something to do with it.

There is something about a women chopping off her hair that gets noticed (positively and negatively). In both adaptations of the movie Sabrina (1954 with Audrey Hepburn and 1995 with Julia Ormond), the leading lady goes from frumpy, lonely recluse to confident, sought-after love interest (with a killer sense of style) after she crops her tresses short. 

Okay fine, she also spent a bunch of months in Paris finding herself, but WHATEVER.

Obviously that's Hollywood's version, but personally, I have noticed a confidence boost since I cut my hair short. It helps that my husband loves my new do. Another bonus is that the cut is so fast and simple to style that I always feel pulled together. And since it could be considered rather "boyish" for a women to have short hair, I find myself putting a little more thought into my clothes, accessories, and make-up, which always makes me feel less like a frazzled mom.

Still, the over-achieving pleaser that I am (thanks a lot birth order) feels like I need to give an explanation as to why I got rid of my long locks. Weird assumptions are made when a women cuts her hair short. Something inside of me is yelling, "People are going to think you're having an emotional crisis! Or you've given up on looking pretty! Or you're questioning your sexual orientation! Or you're going to turn into a punk rocker! You have to explain yourself to The People!!"

New Hair Me is like: "(Shrug) Whatever man, I look great and I'd toss my hair at you if I had any, but I don't need that long-locks nonsense anymore."

Still Stunned I Actually Went Through With It Me is like: "Maybe you need to explain to yourself (and The People) why you did this so when you look in the mirror next week and dissolve into a puddle of tears, you can remind yourself of your reasoning."

So here it is folks: 6 Reasons I Got Pixied:

#1. I've wanted to have a pixie cut since high school, and I've been too afraid to try. I decided recently that I need to show more bravery in my life, so this was a good place to start.

#2. Another something I've wanted to do since high school was donate my hair. My little sisters also wanted to make a donation, and since all three of us had crazy long hair, the timing seemed right. Plus, it made a great excuse for some fun, sissy memory-making!

(We donated to Beautiful Lengths, which provides free wigs to women fighting cancer)

#3. When I hesitantly mentioned to The Hubs that I wanted to donate ten inches of my hair, his response was, "Cool! But, if you're going to cut off that much, do something fun. Don't just come back with a bob." I figured I'd better jump on that ship while it was sailin'. (Also, my stylist friend said I could pull off a pixie and that she'd cut it for me, so that sealed the deal.)

#4. I've got three tiny kids, man. 'Nuff said. I need something fast and easy that still makes me feel pretty. (Because I also live in a house with all boys and I need to have some pretty in my life amongst the dirt and farts and booger-eating.)

(The Hubs does not eat his boogers... just to be clear... that disgusting habit belongs to my three-year-olds.) 

#5. Maybe I just I needed a Big Change that I was in control of. After the rapid-fire of big life changes that I've experienced in the last couple of years (job changes, new baby, new house, lots of moving), I just needed the next drastic alteration to my life to be one that I chose for myself.


#6. I was just plain ready for something different. I actually really liked my long hair (except when I didn't... which was more often than I did). But I was tired of having to put a lot of effort into it to make it look nice and I was sick of the greasy mom ponytail (or even my fourth-day, greasy bun). I was tired of greeting my husband at the end of the day looking like a mess, or trying to find the time to not look like a mess before he got home. I was tired of The Same.

(This is what fourth-day hair looks like now, and I'm lovin' it.)

What about you? Do you need to be braver, or get rid of some of The Same in your life? If you could make one big change, what would it be? What is keeping you from going through with it?

The Cheermeister Who Stole Christmas

Just before Thanksgiving, something in my brain snapped and I was determined to make this the BEST CHRISTMAS EVER. I don't know what exactly cued this Christmas Crazy in me. It could have been the fact that it's been two years since we've been able to bring out our Christmas decorations (we've been moving the last two Christmas seasons), or that it was Maverik's first Christmas, or our first Christmas in our first home, or that the twins' are old enough now to participate in the merriment. Whatever it was, THIS YEAR (I decided), would be perfect and darling and permanently determine all of our family Christmas traditions for the rest of eternity. There would be crafts! And baked goods! And Christmas-themed activities! Santa pictures! Christmas lights! Christmas movies! Advent Calendars! Homemade hot chocolate!

I got the idea (albeit a less psychotic version) from a blog post my friend Jo wrote called Finding Christmas. Her plan was to avoid some of the material focus of Christmas and the ensuing let-down after all the presents were opened, by planning something fun and Christmasy for every day in December leading up to Christmas (an advent of sorts). This way, her family could enjoy Christmas longer, without it being all about the gifts. I loved this. We've always tried to keep the material side of Christmas to a minimum, but I loved Jo's idea of filling the space leftover from removing consumerism with fun memories and loving actions. Somehow though, I hijacked Jo's perfectly charming idea and went way, way overboard.

My downfall was two-fold.

1) I am an introvert masquerading as an extrovert. Which means I over-plan, over-schedule, and over-commit, completely forgetting that activity and being with people sometimes just plain wears me out and I need some secluded time alone (preferable with a good book) to recharge. Really, an uninterrupted potty break would suffice some days. (What can I say? I have two toddlers and going to the bathroom uninterrupted now constitutes as leisure time.)

2) Then, when the wiped-out-from-mothering and/or over-scheduling side of me would become a bit lackadaisical about my list of daily Christmas activities, the over-achieving, perfectionist side of me would start to twitch. Like a Yuletide dictator, I would force myself to play catch up and shove three-to-four activities into one afternoon. As you might imagine, this did not usher in the holiday cheer.

While operating under the duress of these personality "quirks", I tried to figure out what our family's Christmas traditions should be. Clearly this meant I needed to try and do every single blessed one of them. All in the same year. With twin toddlers, a five-month-old, and a new (but old and in need of some love) house.

Good plan, Jen.

There were some really good memories made in the process (despite my tomfoolery). And there were other days that my cheermeister attempts resulted in tantrums and timeouts for the twins and a new set of frown lines for me. I'd start out the day with the cheery aspirations of Mrs. Claus and finish the flurry of festivities feeling like my heart was two sizes too small.

Like when I wanted to bake sugar cookies with the twins. I pictured a Norman Rockwell-eque scene where we would create memories and bond through an over indulgence of Christmas music and cookie dough.

It started out like this:

(because obviously one needs protective goggles when baking)

This adorable moment lasted all of two-and-one-forth minutes. Turns out that expectations minus reality, times three-year-old twins, divided by one unusually fussy baby, equals a stressed out Mama who just about HAD IT with this "best Christmas ever" nonsense. I finally sent the twins outside to run off some energy and finished the darn cookies by myself.

As I mentioned, not all my attempts have been fraught with stress. One of the traditions that everyone actually enjoyed was making Christmas gifts for the homeless. This is something I did once when I was single, but it was even more fun as a family. It created great opportunities to talk with the twins about giving, abundance, and loving others as we made cards and filled gift bags with goodies. THIS was the kind of Christmas magic I had pictured.

It should come as no surprise that we felt the heart of the season most when our attitude turned towards serving others. It also helped that I didn't try to do the shopping, card making, packing, and delivering of the bags all in one day. The project lasted almost two weeks, which ended up giving us extra opportunities for teachable moments with the twins.

Okay fine. I also felt the magic whenever we went to view Christmas lights. And anytime I heard Michael Bublé sing Jingle Bells. Because honestly, how could you not?

Now, I've got less than seventy-two hours until Christmas Day. Instead of trying to figure out which holiday traditions I'll squeeze into the last glimmers of the Christmas season, I think I'll just sit back and enjoy the sparkle of Christmas lights reflected in my sons' eyes. I'll sing along to the carols on the radio and cuddle up on the couch when one of the twins ask me for the fifteenth bazillion time to read How the Grinch Stole Christmas. I'll remember that this is meant to be a season of joy and giving and love and grace (extra thankful for that last one this year). And those things are hard to find amidst the over-scheduled hustle bustle of stress and busyness.

I still want to create fun traditions and memories for our little family (and with our extended family), but maybe not quite so many of them all at the same time. Here's hoping that I can remember all of this next year. ;-)

*If you're curious what kinds of goodies our Christmas gift bags included: socks, water bottles, pretzels, mixed nuts, dried fruit, granola bars, candy canes, and a hand-made card. 

Maverik's Birth Story {Part Two}

Okay let's see, where were we? Oh, yes - in full-blown labor and on the way to the hospital.... (find part one here)

• • •

We made it to the hospital at 11:40pm, and started attempting to fill out aaaaaaaaallll the required paper work. By this point, I could barely talk between contractions, let alone write anything,  so the registration staff moved me straight to triage. Still trying to complete paperwork (Devin was filling it in now), while at the same time getting hooked up for the standard twenty minute monitoring of the baby's heartbeat, our midwife on call, Laura, arrived. She checked my progress and I was 100% effaced and 9 cm dilated.

"Well," I laughed/gasped between contractions, "guess it's a good thing we came when we did."

The midwife told the triage team to grab my still-unfinished paperwork and move me to delivery. At some point I mentioned wanting to use the labor tub (since it had helped so much with my pain during the twins' birth). Laura assured me that the likelihood of the tub getting set up before I delivered was slim-to-none.

We got to the delivery room, but protocol must be followed - I still had paperwork and a twenty-minute monitoring to finish. The nurses filled out the paperwork, for which Devin gave them the answers. When necessary, I nodded or grunted to assert that the information being scribbled onto my registration forms was correct. The monitoring belt was on me, but I didn't really care and still moved around how I needed to, sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning into Devin with my arms around his neck. After my birth experience with the twins, I was confident and ready to stand up for myself and what I needed to do to get this baby out. Screw the paperwork and monitor. (Really though - thanks to the nurses for filling it out and to Laura for putting the pressure on them to finish up the monitoring as fast a possible.)

Once the busy work was done, it was time to get down to the real business at hand. I needed to use the bathroom, and while there, felt the urge to push. I remember thinking, "Dang it, I don't want to have this kid over a toilet." I made it back to the bed however, and after trying a couple different positions, found that it was most comfortable and productive to be on my hands and knees (with the back of the bed tilted up). This way, I could rest on the pile of pillows on the bed in-between contractions, and push myself up with my arms and bear down when it was time to push.

I was very vocal and remember having this half out-loud mental arguments with myself.

Out-loud voice: "I'm too tired. I can't do this."

Inside-my-head voice: Oh stop it. This is happening and you are going to do it. You've done it before with twins, you can do it again with one. 

Out-loud voice: "I can't. I can't do it."

Inside-my-head voice: Oh! This is good. You really don't think you can do it, that means you're going through Transition. That means you're almost done!

Out-loud voice: "Ow. Ow. Ow. Arg! This hurts."

Inside-my-head voice: Hey! That's good. It's the "ring of fire" - push through it, it means he's crowning!

I know Devin was there whispering encouragement to me and rubbing my back, and Laura was quietly offering direction to myself and the nursing team, but what I really remember vividly was me mentally reprimanding and prodding myself on. It was kind of a cool experience being confident and aware enough to know exactly what I needed to do. It made the pushing phase so much faster and productive. I could tell exactly when the baby's head was crowning, how much harder I needed to push to get his head delivered, and when I needed to push out his shoulders. (Which was the complete opposite of the twins' birth. I was so stressed and distracted then by all that was going on, I had to have the midwife tell me when I was contracting so I could push.)

At 1:08am, just under one hour and twenty minutes after walking though the doors of the hospital, Maverik James slid out and landed on the bed between my knees. Laura told me, "Look down - there's your baby!" I sat back, saw my little boy, and just started laughing with joy. "He's so cute!" I said as I scooped up his warm, slick body and soaked up the sight of him. He was such a beautiful newborn, I could hardly believe it.

After a moment, I shifted around in bed and held my new little guy skin to skin. He was so warm and soft and it felt so sweet to have him lying on my chest. The nursing staff and Laura were especially wonderful during this time. They kept the lights low, talked in whispers, and gave us a full hour of peace to just enjoy the newest member of our little family. There was very little medical interference during this time. At some point, I delivered the afterbirth and Devin cut Maverik's cord, but otherwise, I just got to hold and snuggle my boy while Devin sat with us in the bed. It was such a sweet, calming time.

Once we'd had our time together, Maverik was weighed and measured: 8 pounds, 1 ounce and 20.5 inches. 

I was so pleased with my birth experience with Maverik. Supportive staff, a lovely midwife, no meds, no IV, freedom to move around how I needed, and the knowledge and confidence to have a smooth labor which I felt in control of.  I never once felt panicked (which was a big deal for me after my experience with the twins' birth). It was hard and painful and exhausting, but also wonderful and empowering. Plus, I got an adorable kid out of the deal (who six months later is proving to be the most mellow, sweet, content baby I've ever known).

And yes, the twins heartily approved of their new baby brother.

Maverik's' Birth Story {Part 1}

Since this little guy...

... is now this little guy...

...I figured it was high time I write down his birth story before my mommy-brain fizzles it out of oblivion. I had a few people ask me to post the story on the blog - so here we go!

This summer, after moving back from Colorado, we were finally at a point where we could move out of my (ever so gracious) in-law's house and buy our own place (yay for steady income!!) I was very pregnant when we started house-hunting, which definitely put us in a time-crunch. Fortunately, we had an awesome realtor (Kirk Erickson) who was so incredibly helpful and pretty much at our beck-and-call. We knew next-to-nothing about buying a house and he made the stressful process of finding and buying a home quite fun. (Seriously, look him up if you're need to buy/sell a house anywhere in Phoenix. He's the best. #BaconRealtor)

Fun Fact: Kirk and his wife bought their first house when she was heavy with child, so I think he was extra sympathetic to our delicate deadline. When I say "heavy with child", I literally mean her water broke during their final walk through. I doubt Kirk wanted to have a repeat of that scenario). 

My desperate plea for help via facebook

The week before my due date, we did our final walk through (waddle through for me), signed a mountain of paper work, and got the keys to our house. Keys in hand, we made a mad dash to move the bulk of our belongings into our new place before our littlest man made his big debut. We had some amazing people come to our aid last minute and get the job done.

During our long day of moving, I tried as best I could to stay off my feet, but I failed pretty miserably at that attempt. I didn't lift any boxes, but I was constantly directing where things went, driving around town buying last-minute necessities (like toilet paper and hand soap... and Craigs List finds...), and bringing pizzas, root beer floats, and donuts to our wonderful moving crew (we treat you right when you drop everything on a Saturday to help us move). Throughout the day, I was having some mild Braxton Hicks contractions, but I'd sit down momentarily, drink some water, and they would stop.

Around 5:00pm, we were done moving our stuff into the house and I stopped by Subway to get some sandwiches for the family members who were convening back at my in-law's house for dinner and a swim. The Braxton Hicks were coming regularly now (about ten minutes apart), but I chose to ignore them, because dang gone it, I had things to do and family to hang out with! Plus, I was alone with my little sister and didn't want to alarm her precious twelve-year-old self. I just needed some down time with food and water and then the contractions would stop. Yeah... that's it.

Well...  three hours, lots of food, water, and a trying-to-relax swim later, the contractions were still coming and getting stronger.

Planting myself firmly in denial, I told Devin that I needed to go to bed so that I didn't go into labor while all the family was there. We played the "so tired from the move" card and went to bed. While everyone else hung out down stairs at my in-laws, I lay upstairs trying to convince myself that if I could just go to sleep, the labor would stop. "I am too tried to be in labor," I told Devin matter-of-factly. "This is not happening tonight!"

I tried to sleep, Devin tried to help me relax, but nothing doing. Around 9:30pm (the family had left by now and my in-laws were in bed), I tearfully admitted that this was happening tonight and I suppose we'd better finish packing our hospital bags. Between increasingly intense contractions, I gathered my things, and hobbled my way downstairs (with Devin's help). We called the midwife to see how soon we should get ourselves to the hospital. The conversation went something like this:

Midwife: How far apart are her contractions?

Devin: About four minutes.

Midwife: And this is her second pregnancy?

Devin: Yes.

Midwife: Is she in a lot of pain?

Devin: Well... she's sitting on the kitchen floor moaning right now, so... yes.

Midwife: Okay... how far are you from the hospital?

Devin: About twenty minutes.

Midwife. Um. Yeah - you need to get in the car right now. I'll meet you there.

It took us an additional twenty minutes to get the car loaded, wake up my mother-in-law and put her in charge of the twins, and get my definitely-in-labor self settled in the car. It takes a while to walk to a car when you're having contractions every two minutes and there is a small person trying to exit your body.

That drive to the hospital was a little suspenseful. Thankfully, there was no traffic, but my contractions were close and intense, and I wasn't entirely confident that I wouldn't be having this child in on the side of the highway.

Whelp! That seems like a good place to take a break from our story. More tomorrow!
(I know - it's horrible of me to leave you hanging. But it would be more horrible of me to make you read 1900+ words about my birth experience all in one day. Spoiler Alert: I don't have the baby on the side of the highway... disappointing, I know. Sorry.)

Fourth Day Hair {A Confession}

CONFESSION: I play with the limits of what is socially acceptable in two areas in particular. 

1) By having a self-deprecating and socially awkward set of over-sharing conversational skills. Especially when in social setting that I find uncomfortable. For example, I met a friend's new boyfriend recently and instead of chatting with him like a normal person, my get-to-know-you questions were as follows:

"How many little tax-returns do you plan on having?" (This was my opener folks, the first thing I said to the poor guy following a brief introduction). I was referring to children. Yes, I asked an almost-stranger who had only been dating my friend for mere weeks how many children he wanted... and I phrased it in the most awkward way possible.

My second question arrived after we finished a game of Wits and Wagers. "So, do you actually enjoy playing games or are you just trying to fit in and make us all like you?" (What is wrong with meeeeee????) Points for him though, because he laughed and admitted to genuinely being a board game nerd. His favorite being Clue.

Lastly, I wanted to know if he enjoyed reading (because he's dating my English teacher friend). Instead of saying something normal like, oh I don't know, "Do you enjoy reading?" I asked him, "Do you watch the movie first or read the book?" He met me with a blank stare. Because I'm obviously an idiot with next-to-no grace in certain social situations. Also, I phrase questions really oddly.

2) The second social boundary is one that many moms of little ones can probably relate to. It is this: I  wash my hair as seldom as possible (without resulting in dreadlocks). I can go a good four days without washing my hair if I rotate my hairstyles just so (curly, wavy, ponytail, bun). My lack of cleanliness is one of those things that I think should probably bother me, but it totally doesn't. And the likelihood of me changing my hair washing habits are getting slimmer, because the last three times I've worn my "fourth-day bun" I've gotten compliments on how pretty my hairstyle was. Um, okay.

My two habits came together on Sunday during the "meeting and greeting" part of our church service (an often awkward social time that brings out the weird in me). A new friend leaned across her husband to say good morning and to compliment me on my "cute hair". Instead of responding with a simple, "Thank you," I felt the need to over-share, with a side of self-criticism, and said instead, "Oh thanks - I haven't showered in four days." At which her husband's face went awash of all color and he literally covered his ears. Fortunately, I was saved from my social blunder by the opening chords of the praise music.

Now I'm wondering, not why I say so many awkward things (ain't nobody got time for that rabbit hole), but when is it that we lost the social skill of graciously accepting a compliment? Why others might not do it as strangely, I think most of us, especially women, have adopted the habit of returning a compliment with some sort of self-deprecating remark. Why is that? Is it because we're crazy insecure and can't mentally accept that someone thinks better of us than we do of ourselves? Or is it a fear of sounding prideful by giving a "Thank you," as a return to a compliment? I know both have been true in my case. I never realized until just now how rude (or awkward) it can be to shoot down someone's compliment with a self-deprecating rebuttal.

Also on my mind: I hope I didn't make my friend's new boyfriend feel unwelcome... oops.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, and in honor of over-sharing, below is a picture of me with my fourth-day bun. Looks lovely until you know the greasy truth behind it, huh? ;-)