Chapter 1: Completely Scathed

It's 2018.  This means that I made it through 2017.

Relatively unscathed.

Well, I take that back.

I was scathed.  I was totally and completely scathed. 

But no one really knew it.  Because I didn't let them see it. If there's one thing I learned on the farm, it's that you never let them see you scathed.

Or sad.

Or furious.

Or weak.

Really, the weakness was the bad one.  The term game face didn't just apply to life on the basketball court.  It applied to all areas of my life.

Friends were being shitty to me?  Game face it. 
Boys at church said horrible and hurtful things to me while the teacher just sat back and let it happen?  Game face it.
Endless torment from bullies in elementary?  GAME. FACE. IT.  
Heartbroken because I didn't get asked to prom?  Game face it.

College was much of the same.  The one and only person who actually got behind the mask of my game face... well, I married him and heaven knows how he has managed to survive my insanity for the last 20 years.

So, yea... the game face has worked for me for a long time.  But it also has a drawback.... because the things that hurt don't pierce the game face, but often neither do the good things.  And how's that for a mid-life crisis epiphany?

In January, I lost my dad.  I wish that I could say that his passing was peaceful and that I have moved on.  But, the truth is... I don't think I have.  In fact, I think that his passing has spotlighted my game face weaknesses in a way that I wasn't prepared for.  And it's freaking me out.

Dad struggled for his entire life with clinical depression.  It was my job to make him smile.  I learned this at a very young age.  I was the comedian for him and would do whatever it took to make him laugh.  I credit my dad with my quick wit and sense of humor.  Because of him, I honed it until it was razor sharp.  Because even though he dealt with that debilitating depression, he had a quick wit.  He just didn't always feel empowered to use it.

I do.  And I know there are people out there - men, mostly - who either don't care for me or who are intimidated by me because of it.  And that's okay.  *cough*chickenshits*cough*.   

Side note:  Really, I still don't know why I never got asked to prom.

And the humor, it keeps me content.... but sometimes that's not enough.  I actively seek out things that will make me laugh.  It's like a drug to me.  If you can make me laugh, I will always hold you in high esteem.  You're my dealer, after all.  And if you can intertwine comedy while having some tenderness and vulnerability then I will forever be your fan.  Mike Birbiglia does a great job with this, as does The Bloggess.  And I can't get enough of either of them.

In 2017, I finally admitted that I needed some help.  I had a breakdown because I JUST. COULDN'T. HANDLE. IT. ANYMORE.

"IT" being... everything.

And nothing.

At once.

I have a full-time career.  Two kiddos that I don't deserve and who I love so much that I want to punch someone in the throat about it.  A husband that is my rock.  At the time of the breakdown, I was the President of the Junior League of Ogden, which if I'm being honest, I'm still shocked about.  I mean, how in the world did I convince anyone to let me take the helm of that organization?  At the same time, I was also taking on new responsibilities at work and trying to make sure that my kiddos got their homework done (they didn't), were eating healthy (they weren't) and getting along like you read about in on the mommy-blogs here in Utah (LIES). 

And it just... it was just too overwhelming.  I couldn't keep it all together.  It was too hard.  And I was giving all of the best of me to everywhere... except my family.  And that's not right.  That's not right at all.  And OMG, it shouldn't be this hard.  And why isn't Benny isn't here so I can cry and scream and yell at him?

When he got back from his work trip the next day, I told him that I needed help.  And he was all:  "Uh... yea. I've been tryin' to tell you for years now."

And then I punched him in the throat.  Because I love my kids.

So, I went to the doc and talked with her.  After hearing about my family history, she was shocked that I had never been on any type of anti-depressant.  My explanation of being the one in the family that made it out without any mental health issues made her roll her eyes and guffaw.  She GUFFAWED at me.  I don't know if you know much about the medical profession, but if a doctor does that to you... it's not good. So, she put me on an anti-depressant.

And I promptly gained 40 pounds.

Which was awesome.  Really, 2017?  My dad dies AND I gain 40 pounds?  You can SUCK IT.

So, that went on until October before another doctor stepped in and made a course correction and I was able to lose over 40 pounds by changing my anti-depressant and addressing a couple of other medical issues that I had been ignoring.

Because I'm a grown-ass woman and I will ignore what I want to ignore, mkay?

And all of that has helped me a lot. There's nothing quite like being able to button a pair of pants that your fat-ass couldn't fit in just 4 months ago to really build your ego.  But I still feel the game face factor.  And lately, I've noticed that I'm just really damn hard on my kiddos.

And that's not what I want for them.  Or for me.  Because that's what they'll remember when they're my age.  And then they'll be sitting in the coffee shop on New Year's Day thinking about how their lives have gone and they'll think back on their life and go:  "Man... my mom was a hard ass and just not very fun... and nothing ever was good enough for her.  No wonder I'm the way I am."  I don't know if you know much about parenting... but that's not good, either.

I'll concede that it may just be an effect of the Christmas "vacation" and the fact that I would be a suck-ass stay-at-homer, but I feel like it goes deeper than that. There's something not quite... right.  I don't know if it's the medication that needs to be adjusted.  Or just my focus and attitude.  I think it's the latter.  I think that my spirit is telling me that I'm not whole.  That I'm missing something.

Two days ago, we ordered Chinese because we wanted to eat just a teeny-tiny bit of food and feel like ass for two days.  AS ONE DOES.  But silver lining... this was in my fortune cookie.  

I've been tossing around this idea for years now.  And I've had a lot of people urging me to do it.  With the ease in which you can self-publish these days, and the absolute joy I get out of writing... it seems like a no-brainer.   But it's going to take more than me just deciding to write a book.  It's going to take me committing to writing every day in my blog.  It's um... going to take me committing to updating the blog to look like a legitimate blogger... not a wannabe still living in the world of blogger.com, while there's Wix and WordPress out there just waiting for me to play in.  And besides... fortune cookies don't lie.  Ask my girls who were fighting over whose lucky numbers were better from their fortune cookies. 

Just thinking about getting back to writing brought a sense of peace to me that I hadn't experienced in quite a while.  And at that moment I realized that feeding my soul through spreading my verbal vomit onto the internets was what I was missing.  And if I could find my peace and contentment through something like this... by following my passion and exploring my talent and hobby, I could be a better mom and wife.

But honestly... I want more than to just write a book. I feel like a book... it's just the beginning.  Who knows where it will take me but at least it's a first step. 

Don't get it twisted... I fully expected 2018 to leave me scathed as well... but I think that's the point.

Isn't it?

Nauseously Exciting

Those who know me well, know two things about me.

1 - I love to speak in sports metaphors or relate sports to life.  Because so much of who I am today is because of what I learned playing sports.  The rest of who I am is because of coffee, wine, chocolate and Seinfeld quotes.

2 - I don't do well with the touchy-feely emotional stuff.  I mean... I'm kind of a one-person emotional floodgate... kind of like a cat.  And my person... well, he's my best friend.  And even THEN, I hold a LOT back and he has to coax it out of me. Then I tell him to suck it up, buttercup, because I'M. FINE. It might be the way I was raised where tears for physical pain were tolerated more than tears for emotional pain... but only slightly.  Because there's no crying or bleeding in softball.  See? I did it again.

But tonight, I want to share the joy I felt being a member of an amazing team in the Junior League of Ogden.  A critical mass of bad ass women who were so unbelievably talented that I continually asked myself how much longer I could keep faking being one of them.

So, because I still have all of my magical Presidential Powers and Wisdom that descended on me June 1, 2016, we're going to do things my way.  With  a sports metaphor.

I KNOW.  This comes as a complete surprise to me, too.

When I was in high school, I joined the track team.  Not because I liked to run (quite the opposite) but because I had sprained my ankle crossing first base the year before and I couldn't open myself to another ridiculous injury and risk the loss of uber-athlete status. 

It turns out, I really couldn't run the 100.  Or the 200.  Or the 800.  Or the mile.  Well... I could.  I just wasn't going to find any success.  Plus the sobbing... which, as we've already discussed, was frowned upon.

That left the 400m for me.  I'm 40 years old now and I still want to vomit a little bit when I see people lining up for the 400m race. Either on TV or in person.  It's nauseously exciting.  And I loved every minute of it.  I held a couple of school records for a hot minute - which did wonders for my ego and was my first immortality project - until someone better and faster came along and wiped out my entire 400m existence like I hadn't almost died out there on the track. Multiple times.

And that's where I learned a profound lesson.  There's ALWAYS someone better, faster, smarter.  And that's a good thing.  Otherwise, what do we train for?  How boring would life be if no one got any better?  If we didn't have anything to benchmark or push ourselves towards? 

My favorite race by far was the medley relay.  In the medley, each person has a different distance.  A different job.  But we were a team. And we worked together tirelessly. What people don't really understand in a relay is that the transition... that handoff of the baton... is THEEEE most important part of the relay.  And it will determine the success of your team.  Of your school.

And honestly, in some cases, it determined your ability to compete.



The JLO transitions every year.  On multiple teams.  And perhaps no one team of transition is more crucial than that of the outgoing and incoming board.  And let's be honest... the woman running as the anchor - the President - ultimately determines the ability of the team to compete. To get better.  Her job is to keep an eye on the goal and help the team execute.  To guide the league through the nauseous excitement and help it take a leap of faith.  As my relay teammate, Kim, takes the baton  from me and begins her leg of the race, I trust that the League is on solid footing.  And I know with that foundation, she and the board will take JLO to the next level of genius and passion.  I am so excited to see what's in store for the League... because this little organization of ours is about to blow things up.  

This year has been one of the most significant time periods of my life.  It has been my absolute honor to serve on this year's Junior League of Ogden Board with some of the most talented and passionate women I have ever met.  Saying how much I love each and every one of them rings hollow, but I do.  I learned something from each of them and they each inspired me in some way. And it made the year fly by.  It was mach speed and slow motion at the same time.  All of the meetings.  Following up on an additional email account where everyone needs or wants something from you.  Having conversations with people who needed some guidance. Writing up agendas and researching issues. Finding a babysitter to attend more meetings.  Holding your temper when something goes awry, and constantly reminding yourself:  "I'm a volunteer.  I'm a volunteer.  I'm not going to lose sleep over this."

And then losing sleep over it anyway.

It's just such a beautiful time.  Everyone should have this opportunity!

This year, I lost my dad. And this group of women... they didn't miss a step.  They were there for me in the best way they could have been... by reaching out with a call or a text.  By sending a ginormous plant that I can't seem to kill... and by showing up at my office with a beautiful painting of my Dad (thank you to Kim, Kym and Emily) and pretending it wasn't magnificently awkward when I burst into tears.

I can honestly tell you that I have never had so much fun with a group of women as I had this year.  Particularly at the board meetings with the new mama's and babies.  Watching our board members grow both personally and professionally has been the highlight of my tenure with the League.  And one I will not soon forget.   

As part of my new immortality project, I'd like to leave the President and incoming board with a few tokens of advice as they embark on the 2017-18 year from someone who has a leetle bit of experience on the board:

• No one is carrying the heart in the cooler.  - Vicki Clark
• Believe the best of people... even at their worst.
• There are always exceptions to this rule
• There are three levels of no AND yes.
• You can't do everything... so don't expect it of yourself.
• You will make mistakes.  And you will survive them.
• Delegate, motivate, delegate, motivate, delegate, motivate.... REPEAT
• Everyone is scared.  Everyone thinks they're in over their head.
• Don't mess up your priorities.
• Ask. For. Help.
• If you get prego, you don't get to quit the team.
• This is supposed to be fun.
• Showers and shaving are over-rated.
• Chocolate at every meeting is a must.
• Your legacy is that you're planting a tree whose shade you may never sit under. 
• Make time to not talk about JLO with each other. 
• Stay to the left and hurry back- 400m coach

Finally, to the 2016-17 Board and JLO members who latched on to the whole #lobsterup theme and KILLED it:

Thank you.  Thank you for letting me be a part of this wild ride.  Thank you for helping me grow and letting me help you grow.  Thank you for always having my back.  Thank you for your professionalism.  Thank you for you personalities.  Thank you for showing up.  Thank you for working hard and for laughing harder.  Thank you for putting your trust in me and letting me put my trust in you.  You never disappointed.  Thank you for giving me the opportunity to lead.  Thank you for Daring Greatly and stepping into that arena with me.

I will always look back at this year with a fondness, joy and pride.  That's what having little babies at Board meetings and volunteer events can bring.

But more importantly, that's what women fearlessly stepping up to make a difference with passion, intelligence and courage can do.  And that's what the Junior League of Ogden is all about.

Jaynee - OUT.

Dad

My Dad died on January 22nd after a long battle with congestive heart failure.  The days and hours preceding his passing have been seared onto my heart and finding the words to provide comfort and share a portion of Dad's legacy was one of the most difficult things I've done.

We celebrated Dad's life on January 28th, and I had the honor of sharing my thoughts with the friends and family that came to pay their respects.  Below, is the talk I gave, edited to reflect a blog post.

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I probably shouldn’t have waited until Friday night to finally compose my thoughts with some semblance of clarity for my talk at Dad's funeral on Saturday.  But if I’d done it earlier, Mom wouldn’t have been able to roll her eyes while I was typing at midnight and even as a 39 year old, that’s something I like to experience. 

Dad was sick for a long time.  Longer than any of us realized.  But even when he went into hospice last month, I didn’t really believe that anything could actually take down Dad.  The man that used to throw me through the air at the pool without so much as a grunt?  The man who would let me hang off his bicep as he would lift his arm until my feet didn’t touch the floor anymore?  The man who, on more than one occasion - and once during my wedding rehearsal dinner surrounded by city folk - punched a horse whose attitude he didn’t appreciate?

THIS is no ordinary man.  I didn't believe that anything can take down a tough old bird like that.

Dad was a true miracle who shouldn’t have made it past the age of 5 due to the quarter-sized hole in his heart… which they found when he was 70. 70!!!!  But because of his unbelievable grit and determination, he worked a farm, married the woman of his dreams, raised three headstrong and stubborn daughters, survived the hijinks of hundreds of high school boys in 29-years of bus driving, and lived to see the birth of his two granddaughters.

As I was procrastinating the talk I would give at his funeral all last week -- you know, when the family is tasked with comforting the people who are coming to comfort the family? -  I thought about all of the things I learned from my Dad.  And thought that would be the best way to honor him and to give everyone a glimpse into the legacy he has left behind. 

Dad taught us to be tough.  He taught us to be fearless.  He taught us how to work hard.  And most importantly, he taught us to stand up for what we believe, even if it wasn’t popular to do so.  

Everyone that grew up on a farm knows that if a horse bucks you off, you get right back on.  I didn’t even really like horses so I felt that when I got bucked off, well, the horse and I were clearly in agreement about this happening so let’s just call it good.  But, it didn’t matter how much I cried or stomped my feet, Dad insisted that I get back on. When I was in the 6^th grade, my horse reared up and rolled over on top of me. It was very scary and not at all something I would ever want to repeat. After it happened, the horse took off one way, and I took off the other. Dad caught up with me before I made it to Mexico, made sure that there weren’t any broken bones.  And then made me get back on and sit on that stupid animal.  Just for 30 seconds, but it may as well have been 30 years.  Today, whenever I have a professional or personal setback, I have to decide if I’m going to run to Mexico, or get back on the horse and handle my business.   Mexico would be fun…  and given the winter we’re having right now, I’m thinking Cabo?  But I know I’d always have that horse on my mind if I didn’t get back on.

Humor and laughter were a big part of life on the farm. Dad had a great sense of humor.  The day after that horse rolled on me, it was gone and I decided that my new ride would be our Shetland pony who didn’t buck or rear.  But in the off chance that she did, I could just put my legs down on the ground. And Dad sure got a kick out of watching me run barrels on that Shetland.  If you’ve never seen a Shetland run barrels with a 70 pound, lanky 12-year-old, with a perm, riding sans saddle and holding on for dear life, then you haven’t really lived. 

And for just a second, let me digress and talk about the perms.  We need to talk about the perms. Dad took over hair duties when mom broke her wrist.  We all have naturally straight hair and none of us were known for our ability to do our hair… a trait that has been passed down to my girls.   I’m not sure why dad thought it would be a good idea to cut our hair into mullets and then perm it… but I can tell you that it was a really rough year for the three of us socially.  But everything was a lesson… this one being that if I can get through the perm femullet (female mullet), with any semblance of confidence, I can survive anything.

Dad was determined to make sure that I had every opportunity to excel and be the best at whatever I set my sights on.  When I was in junior high, I found an ad in sports illustrated that said:  “Somewhere, someone is out there training harder than you.  And when you meet her, she’ll beat you.”  I took offense to this ad and made it my goal to outwork anyone I ever came across.  Dad knew this, and decided it was his chance to cure me of this little problem I had of not being able to jump.  We didn’t have a jump rope when I started my little summer jumping workshop, so Dad gave me a straw rope he kept in the back of his old GMC.  I kept getting little slivers in my hands from the rope because it wasn’t exactly for jump roping.  But for about a week, that was my rope.  I had also brought back a workout from one of the many basketball camps I had attended, and one of the things that it called for was box jumps.  I’m sure you’re probably thinking that dad went ahead and built me a couple of boxes to jump on. And that’s cute.  Surely, you are thinking to yourself, surely he wouldn’t have found an old wood-burning stove in the barn - one with two different levels and covered in rust on the very sharp edges - and told her to jump on it. 

When he presented my new workout equipment, I remember asking him with not a small amount of incredulity: “What if I miss???” 

He was on his 4-wheeler and just kind of looked at me and said:   “Well, I would recommend not missing.”   And then he drove off.   

And that’s how I spent my summer… jumping on to a tetanus shot waiting to happen and becoming a great jumper in the process. 

One of the best lessons I learned from Dad was not being afraid to stand up for myself.  If I had a problem with a coach or a teacher, I would tell my Dad about it, with the hope that he would step in, use his size and his scary voice and handle it.  But, he’d just look at me and say:  

“Well, what are you going to do about that?” 

And so, I had to do something about that.  And the sense of empowerment and confidence it gave me to know that my dad believed in me enough to do that on my own?  Immeasurable. 

This also extended to the boys I grew up with.  I don’t think that it was very often that I didn’t get the last word with them… and yet I couldn’t figure out why I never dated.  I blamed the perm.  Dad blamed my tongue.  But again, he got a kick out of every time I handled my own against a boy.  All the same, he was relieved when I finally found one that appreciated this little personality trait, and could handle the tough job that is dealing with my attitude.

Dad believed in his girls.  He trusted me.  And knowing that I had his trust was an amazing and empowering feeling.  Last week when I had to have one of the most difficult conversations that a child will ever have with their parent - when I told him that we needed to think about his safety and that of mom’s, and that I needed him to get into that hospice bed -  well, let’s just say he was less than thrilled.  I didn’t blame him.  

“Dad… it’s not like you’re giving up.  You just have to think about your safety.  It will be okay. ”   

He closed his eyes and I held his hand and asked him:  “Do you trust me?”   

He got that little Kirk-Smirk of his and simply said:  “NOPE”.  

And then we argued about who would have the last say at his funeral.   

One of my favorite memories of Dad is sitting with him on our porch during a storm.  We would look to the east and watch the lightening over the hill.  We didn’t talk when we’re watching the storm.  This was not the place for high school drama, or complaining about my sister cheating at monopoly again.  This was a place for quiet stillness.  I loved that time of quiet reflection and meditation, although I’m sure that he would scoff at the word meditation.  But as I look at it from my grown up, admittedly liberal perspective, that’s what it was.  I’m sure that when Dad went out to the porch during that storm, he was stressed about something.  More than likely, he was worried that the storm wouldn’t bring enough water.  Or, maybe it would bring too much water.  Or maybe he was worried about how in the world he was going to pay for new shoes for all of us girls because our feet grew faster than the crops.   

But usually, sitting out there in that storm brought him a sense of peace that was palpable.  To this day, I love storms and feel a sense of peace when I hear the rolling of the thunder or the howling of the wind.   Because of Dad, I learned to lean into the storm and enjoy it.

Leaning in was something dad was a master of.  Dad was such a strong supporter and advocate of Mom.  I was so blessed to grow up watching how my parent’s marriage worked.  How they were equal partners.  How they would lovingly flip each other the bird when one of them would pull something over on the other.  Which was daily.  And I think that it broke his heart to know that he was leaving her and that’s why he just fought so hard to stay.  He was a fighter.

My parent's marriage taught me the importance of picking the right person to share your life with.  More specifically, watching how my Dad loved and supported my Mom through thick and thin taught me a valuable lesson about how I should expect to be treated. Through his unwavering support and fierce loyalty to my mom, I grew to expect the same of my future husband.   The last week of Dad’s life was rough on him.  It was rough on all of us.  But one thing I’ll never forget was one of the last times he was conscious and lucid.  He was talking to mom while she was holding his hand.  All of the sudden he said:  “How about a kiss?”  And pulled her down to him for a big old kiss.  

That right there… that was everything.   

I had asked Dad on one of his better days what some of his favorite memories from his life were.  He looked at me and simply said:  “Your mom.” 

And then like the Gambler, he faded off to sleep. 

Toughness. Grit. Courage.  That’s what Dad wanted for us.  These are just a few of the great memories and lessons I learned from my dad, and there are just so many more that I could tell you.  Like how he never missed a single game in my high school career.  How he would purposely not sit next to other parents because he just wanted to watch the game and not listen to complaints about the coaching or playing time.  How he would pay me a dollar to sweep the school bus.  How he never listened when I asked him to please stop texting me in all upper case because that meant he was yelling at me.  How he never judged me when I told him I was thinking of becoming a Democrat.  And how he always left me a voice mail with the words:  "This is your dear old Dad.  Call me please."  

I'll miss all of this, and more. 

I love you, Dad.   

Thank you for surviving and giving us life.  For giving your grandaughters life.   

Thank you for being a shining example of perseverance and kindness.   

Thank you for putting up with everything we put you through.   

Thank you for passing on your feet to me because anytime I put on my shoes and woe is me about their size and shape, I’ll think of you. 

Thank you for making sure that our home was a safe place. 

But more than anything, thank you for loving mom. 

"Do you know, you are my sunshine?  Do you know what your smile did to me?  Do you know you are my sunshine and it looks like you’re always gonna be."