Relief

My oncologist, whom I adore, emailed me over the weekend.

I don't have cancer.

To say this is a relief would be like saying that to have one's arm torn off by a grizzly might hurt.  There are really no words to describe the sense of elation that comes with believing that I have another shot at life.  Every year, my appointment sends me spinning in this way; I'm just glad that now I only go a little crazy around cancer appointment time, and not all day every day as the first several years went.  (It's hard to forget cancer with scare after scare, surgery after surgery.)

I also got good news - well, I choose to view it as good news.  My thyroid is WAY off, and I'm extremely hypothyroid.  Why is this good news?  Because it explains my fatigue and general sluggishness this past month, and because there is a simple fix.  (I take a synthetic thyroid drug because mine has been "off" for years, and occassionally I need to alter the dosage.  It appears that now I need to alter the dosage immensely, but with that simple alteration I should feel better very quickly.)

I have felt like I am just slogging lately, and the fact that my PollyAnna brain went as crazy as it did on the way to my oncology center is proof that I'm just not myself.

I'm going to be okay.

Hallelujah.

How to Fake It

Excel and I are having an intimate relationship.  I massage, I prod, I experiment, I enter, I remove.  If it were sexual, it would be kind of fun, but this number business can give anyone a headache.

I am aware that since Bryan was late on the second child support payment, that next month his personal finances (assuming he tries to make the back payment) will be even tighter, and I'm aware that we might be falling into a terrible downward spiral, and my fear is that he would just give up.  I am going to have to tread very, very carefully.  I don't know what each month holds: will I continue to hear excuses, or will he pay what he owes?  Will he pay future child support, will he pay back support, will he be sporadic, will all child support disappear?

I'm looking at selling off some personal items.  Refinancing the house.  Putting expenses (car) on credit.

I am going to stay afloat, and I'm going to have a road trip vacation to visit friends - a cheapcheapcheap vacation, but a vacation.  I am making the math work....it's going to be tight, and I'm going to have a few heart attacks on the way, but as long as I stay the course, I think I can do it.

I will continue paying my bills.  I will keep eating.  And I will cut corners where I can so that there is a tiny bit left for fun.

Good news:
I'm losing weight!  I don't own a scale because I don't want one, but my clothes are looser, and I look good.  Wahoo.  This is not a weight loss program, this is a too-busy-and-too-stressed to eat program, coupled with a personal mission to eat more fruits and veggies.  I was a healthy weight before but with a bit of wiggle room (should I call that jiggle room?!), and now I'm a healthier weight.  So there.

Good news:
I really am an optimist PollyAnna.  Here I am, in the middle of a financial nightmare, as well as a nightmare for Katherine's relationship with her dad, and I'm doing great.  Wahoo!

Good news:
I have decided that in six months or a year I'm going to get a big raise.  I'm earning it, and I'm creating revenue streams so that the business can afford it.  My financial problems, whatever Bryan does, are temporary.

Good news:
When I am really scared and having a hard time sleeping because of all of the scenerios running through my head, I'm good at envisioning a beautiful future.   I specialize in self-soothing.

Good news:
I'm healthy.  Katherine is healthy.  We have so many people who love us.  I have a great education that affords me work opportunities.  I am resilient.  We have a roof over our heads.  I'm smart, and patient, and I can outlast this storm.

Faking it?  Absolutely.  But I think I'm making it, too.

How I can be an optimist, despite it all

Over on the Daily Plate of Crazy, Big Little Wolf is having a conversation about how our principles and our pragmatism operate when we're at our worst.  I'm starting to see that principles, attitude, and pragmatism all come together in something that I think gets at the essence of who I wish to be.

 In her comments to me on my prior post, BLW wrote:

I say these things only to make this point: a good attitude is extremely useful (very helpful with our kids), but attitude and pragmatism are not mutually exclusive. Understanding that many of us are at our worst during and after divorce, we can prepare for that if necessary. We can also use that knowledge to understand that it's a painful process, with many tentacles, but pain often comes before healing - even if healing takes considerable time.

This is important thinking for a self-proclaimed optimist of the PollyAnna variety.  There are plenty of people who believe that optimism is for fools, and that it can be dangerous for its lack of pragmatism.  (Perhaps I should revisit Barbara Ehrenreich's book on the subject in another post, for she's covered it in great detail.)  But BLW points out, correctly, that pragmatism must be linked to optimism, and this is when it starts to get exciting.

I'm convinced that to dismiss optimism is to miss the whole point of being alive. I think it matters.  And I think that the best optimism comes with pragmatism, and the two operate hand in hand.

A fool disregards the facts, refuses to look, pretends that there is nothing amiss.  If that fool puts a positive spin on things, people call her an optimist, but at heart, I believe that she's more fool than optimist.  The Secret swept through America a few years back, proclaiming that all we had to do was declare our intentions and life would give us what we asked for; this is the ultimate in foolishness if you ask me.  (Don't even talk to me about how angry I got, reading it as a bald, breastless woman.)

A pragmatist, on the other hand, trudges through things, one foot in front of the other, acknowledging that life is difficult and that there are difficult tasks to do.  Pragmatism itself is not about joy, and so sometimes pragmatism is confused with optimism's opposite, surly negativism, but this is no more accurate to me than calling an optimist a fool.  It's tricky business, though, trying to make pragmatism and optimism meet. 

In divorce, optimists might believe that the future is rosy, that there is a new life waiting to be found.  Pragmatists, on the other hand, have a to-do list that is daunting, and they're too busy trying to figure out if they can pay the mortgage AND keep junior enrolled in piano lessons, and they have to cancel book club because they can't get childcare, and, well, who can blame them for being a bit joyless.

But it can come together.

Optimism, Pragmatism, and Principles

When I gave birth to my daughter, I knew that I wanted that baby more than just about anything, ever.  I had visions of our life together, of motherhood, of all I wanted to give her.  I knew I'd go to the ends of the earth for her, and that doing so was part of my deal with my unborn baby.  I wrote her letters before she was born, promising: "I will do whatever I can to keep you safe."

I didn't have to wait long to get tested as to how far I was really willing to go to protect her.

At the end of my delivery, everything went wrong.  My baby's heartrate dropped in panic inducing ways, and my own blood pressure went sky high into dangerous levels.  Two crash carts were called in, and the room filled with a dozen doctors ready to face the worst.  To say that it was frightening doesn't even touch on how I felt - I was in agonizing pain, and suddenly I understood that my life, and my baby's, were at stake.

 My gynecologist looked at me, and raised her voice to me (the only time she ever did so).  Get this baby out NOW, she commanded.  DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?

Yes, ma'am.  I understand.  If I don't get the baby out, both of us are at risk of dying.  I understand.

My principles laid out, I knew what to do. My principle was clear to me from the onset: do anything to protect my baby.

My principles fed my attitude: my baby was worth whatever it took, and whatever I gave her was from love.  I would give her everything I had to save her, because she was worth it to me.  I would give her anything, including my pain, and maybe my life, with love.

And then pragmatism had to do some work.  As people called, "we're losing them" my gynecologist said, "NOW.  I mean it.  Get this baby out NOW!"  I knew something inside me was wrong, that things were scraping, that my body wasn't "right," but the pragmatist said, "We have to do this.  We will push with all of our might, and when we feel tearing, we will not stop.  We will bear down, and we will force this baby out."

When my daughter was born in the next contraction, her hand was above her head, and she scraped my birth canal; it felt like birthing a cheese grater.  When I tore, I knew I was tearing, and I kept pushing anyway, making the tear worse...but delivering the baby.  It was a physical feat, but more, it was a feat of will and desire.

And it was worth it.  So, so worth it.  Delivery complete, both of us left the danger zone we'd been in.  I had lived by my principles and done my best to protect my baby, taking a pragmatic approach (I was under no illusion as to how ugly it was going to be, but I did it anyway), and in doing so, uncovering the greatest joy I've ever known.

Principles + Pragmatism = Joy

I happen to be very, very, very fond of living with joy.  I'll go out of my way to find joy, to identify it, and to keep it.  And I have learned that if I apply my principles with pragmatism, I'll find joy eventually.....and this keeps me optimistic.  Eventually, if I apply my principles with pragmatism, I'll find joy.  There is reason for optimism!

It's not a secret.  It's not The Secret.  But my optimism is founded in the truth that I Know How To Find Joy.  If I live according to my principles (which requires first, knowing what my principles are, and second, taking a pragmatic approach to living by them), then I will locate joy....and that is why I can be an optimist.  It might not work out entirely the way that I want (I still do involuntary Kegals when I think about my stitches after birth), but there is joy in doing what I believe, and this allows me to approach life with optimism.

So how does all of this apply to divorce?

Divorce is it's own kind of ugly - I don't know how many (metaphorical) stitches I'll need by the time this is over.  I can already feel where I will tear, though.  And this leads me back to the inspiration for this post, BLW's words:

I say these things only to make this point: a good attitude is extremely useful (very helpful with our kids), but attitude and pragmatism are not mutually exclusive. Understanding that many of us are at our worst during and after divorce, we can prepare for that if necessary. We can also use that knowledge to understand that it's a painful process, with many tentacles, but pain often comes before healing - even if healing takes considerable time.

I know what my principles are.  They are:
- honesty to self and others
- compassion to self and others
- protect my daughter
- be a great role model for my daughter
- live the best life I can live
- make the world a better place

I already know that divorce is not my best time.  It's been an ugly road to get here, and I'm not okay yet.  I am operating low on Maslow's heirarchy, even as I fantasize about operating at the top.  And my ex is an angry, depressed person who self-sabotages and acts passive-aggressively and it's hard to have a logical conversation with him because he either shuts down or blows up, and I feel judgemental about him and angry that he put us in this position.  I know I'm in the danger zone for acting like this:



I know lots of people who wouldn't blame me (although the "cheater" label doesn't apply....I don't think....).  Sometimes he behaves badly, and I really want to act the way he does in response.  Who could blame me?

But I won't act like that, because then I couldn't look our daughter in the eye.  I won't act like that because it's not who I want to be.  There are days when I think he deserves it, true, but *I* don't deserve it.  I want to live with joy, and for that, I'm going to have to take the high road.

I have a lot of to-do lists.  We're meeting with the mediator soon.  And I've run the numbers more than I can count (thank you, Excel).  I have plan A: he pays what he ought to; and I have plan B: I get nothing.....and I'm determined to make it work even if it's plan B.  I'm working on keeping the house, but I'm talking to a realtor too.  And I know that whether I get plan A, or plan B, I'm going to try to live my values, and that will give me some joy along the way, even when I feel tearing.

And I've got an ace in the hole.

Childbirth introduced me to pain.  I healed from that pain, and marveled at my body's ability to do so.  But it was nothing.

My real pain looks like 15 surgeries related to breast cancer, several of them with more complications than I can list.  My real pain looks like the doctor telling me that it's 50/50 that I only had a few months left to live (yet here I am, healthy again).  My real pain looks like radiation burns that made my skin crack open and ooze unmentionable things....and it looks like caring for my daughter and my husband yelling at me in the middle of it as I was hunched over from that pain.  My real pain looks like riding a bus to chemo while my husband slept at home.

So, I know a thing or two about pain, and I know that it goes away: either you die and so you don't care any more, or you heal.  I have healed, over and over again.  I know how to heal, and I  know what it looks like.  I know that there can be unheard of complications, but still, eventually, I can heal.

So yes, I'm an optimist.  I believe that I can heal, over and over again, no matter how deep the wound, no matter how terrible the odds.  I'm a pragmatist, because I know how to thank the surgeon for her care, right before she cuts off my breast, and because I know that it doesn't matter how much I hurt, if my little girl needs dinner and nobody else is feeding her, then I need to make dinner.  And I know what I believe in, and who I want to be, so I let that guide my decisions.

Forgiveness falls in there somewhere, in the neighborhood of compassion.  All of the intentions in the world can not control every word that comes out of my mouth; I'm not infalliable, and I wonder what my ex would say if he read this post.  But I can say this with certainty: I try my hardest to do my best, and I apologize if I screw up.  Maybe it's optimistic to think so, but I think that is enough.

So, somehow, this is going to work out.  I will make mistakes along the way - oh, I've made many, including along that cancer path - but I believe in my ability to recover from them.  I will lose my optimism some days, and my pragmatism other days, but it's okay, because I won't lose what I believe in. 



I'm alive, and I'm glad to be alive.

No matter how many tentacles reach out to squeeze me.

------------------------------------


How do you hold your sanity when the tentacles of pain grab you?

What tools do you use to live your principles when you're tempted to throw them out?  What's your ace in the hole?

Are you an optimist?  How do you maintain optimism in a world that is often ugly?

I hope to hear from you.

A hint of hope

It's just a hint.  Just a wee, itty bitty hint.  But I might be onto something.

Today I listened to How She Really Does It, a podcast program that brings in inspirational speakers, and today the (archived) podcast I listened to was with Danielle LaPorte.  Ms. LaPorte has a new book out, The Firestarter Sessions, that is one part inspiration mixed with twelve parts brilliance then sprinkled liberally with spirituality, but grounded in the everyday world with practical exercises.  It's heady stuff.

So today, in addition to reading Mark Nepo in the morning, I turned to Ms. LaPorte, and got some hints of what it is I might need to do, what it is that will save my soul from this fearful trembling that I'm struggling with.

Because I am still PollyAnna, but I'm the little girl PollyAnna, the one that puts on a brave face all day and then wets her pillow with silent tears at night.  Okay, maybe I'm not quite that melodramatic, but mine is not a "oh crap that driver cut me off in traffic" kind of malaise, but a soul sucking fear that maybe I can't keep my home (and the stability it represents to both Katherine and I), that I don't have what it takes to drive the career I want most....that maybe ultimately I'm not special at all and I will fail at whatever I set my hand to.

Soak in that last line - I fear that I'm not special and that I will fail in all that matters to me.  Feel that fear: feel how cold it is when it slinks into your bones, when it tightens its grip until those bones crackle and begin to splinter.  Feel how lonely it is, feel how dark, feel how confusing.  It's the kind of dizzy that makes you nauseaus.

If one of my friends was reading this - and they're not, because I really am anonymous, and I highly doubt they're doing super-sleuthing across the internet to seek out a blog that they don't know exists - they'd protest.  They'd talk about my innate leadership abilities, my smarts, my endurance.  They'd tell you how they believed in me, how it will all work out somehow.

But the kind of quaking I'm talking about can't be touched by kind words, or a hug, not even from a beloved girlfriend.

Are you still with me?  Because when you read this, don't be fooled into believing that just because I've decided to live life as PollyAnna, I don't feel suffering.

This is what suffering looks like sometimes.

But today, reviewing Ms. LaPorte, and with a little help from Mary Oliver, I think I caught a glimpse of what it is I'm supposed to be doing.  I heard a little fluttering of something warm and alive, deep down in my soul, where it has felt so cold and lonely, and I thought, maybe it is possible.

All souls have dark nights.  I've had darker than this one, and longer, too.  But that doesn't make me any less grateful for the pinprick of stars, that tiny streak in the darkness that whispers "perhaps it will work out somehow..."

Thanks, Ms. LaPorte.  I'm going to do those worksheets, the ones that I dog-eared, the ones that have some hard work in them....

And I'll revisit this from Mary Oliver, too, because when it's dark out, Mary Oliver's light shines, and today this one is speaking to me.  With it, maybe I can even hear my voice.

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Pulling myself up by my bootstraps

Monday morning - a fresh week, a chance to get it right.

PollyAnna is still missing today but I'm going to power through until she shows up again.  I'm determined to work harder until my life turns out the way I'm hoping it will.  I'm determined to fake it until I make it, and that is what I'm doing today.

I will make my life happen.  One foot in front of the other.....

Loaded holiday

Happy Mother's Day to all of the moms out there...

It has been a hard weekend.  I feel worn out by all that I need to do, a list that includes getting another job, getting Bryan to move out, figuring out my finances, and a million more petty items.

And Katherine just interrupted me for the ten billionth time today and I just need her to sleep so that I can get ten minutes to simply be....because the week ahead looks daunting. 

I am really really missing PollyAnna tonight.

PollyAnna MIA

It happens every now and then.

PollyAnna - that is, my belief that everything is going to be okay - goes completely missing.

This week I worked extra hours, and I went to a play in the middle of the week (which involved begging childcare favors and moving the sun, moon, and stars to make it all happen), and there was the coffee date, and the usual household things and caring for my girl.....and now I'm crashing, and it feels like I'm crashing hard.  I want to roll up into a little ball and wait for whatever this is to pass.

The little voice inside my head, the one that I've trained to say "you can do it!" and "this is all going to work out!" is saying "you'll never make it work" and "you can't do this" and I just wish it would shut the hell up.

I know that I'm tired; I'm bone weary and worn out.

And my date was rather depressing, despite my spin on it.

And I FELL ASLEEP at the play, one of those two second head bouncing jolting awake moments, and I was so damned tired I wished the play would just end so that I could go to bed.  (It wasn't riveting theatre, but more than that, I am just so tired after work and mama-dom.)

And work is not going smoothly, and then I get these moments of self doubt, and I think "my God I can't do this and yet I need to add MORE hours...." and my whole body just feels the fear in that one.

It was a hard week, even though I thought it "shouldn't" be.

I am really, really hoping that a good night's sleep, some catching up on my to-do list on the weekend, and I can make this all okay.

This is part of the single motherhood thing.  It's not glamerous, it's not pretty, it's not sexy, and it's not inspiring.  It's exhausting, and I feel like I'm in danger of losing my faith in my ability to keep it all together, financially, personally, and the rest.

I really am ready for a break.  I need a break, somehow, somewhere, to show me that I'm on the right path, that I can do this, that I can make it work.  God, are you listening?  I'm a little desperate here.  Help?  Please?

(sigh)

I like it better when PollyAnna is running the show, because right now there's a lot of Debbie Downer.

Seriously? I mean, SERIOUSLY?

I really want to be zen.  I really want to sound like Molly from Postcards from a Peaceful Divorce.  She seems to genuinely like her former husband, and she doesn't appear to feel a lot of rage.  I'm not fond of rage, but I'm feeling it.

Two examples:
Today I came home from work; Bryan had picked up Katherine at school at my request, from her after school activity, so they'd been together less than two hours when I got home.  (Remember, he's on the bench, getting paid to do nothing but sleep and play video games all day, which is all he does.) I arrived home full of determination to be sunny and kind, and since the weather was still sunny I said, "Hey!  I was thinking we should get take-out and head to the beach for a picnic; would you like to come with Katherine and I?"  This is much more polite and kind than I feel, but I'm working on a fake-it-til-I-make-it attitude.  He said, "No, you go."  Phew, relief.  So I got the girl, said, "Grab some flip flops and let's go!"  She said, "I'll put on a swimsuit," and I laughed and said, "No, no swimming...." and before I could continue, Bryan said, "Aw, come on, let her swim," and I said, "It's APRIL.  In the NW.  It's not that warm, it's just sunny, and I think swimming isn't reasonable."  Katherine joined Bryan, "Mom, can't I?  Please?"  I repeated, "No, it'll just be a quick picnic, it'll be nice to be outside, but it's not warm enough to swim."  Bryan went on, "Come on, let the kid swim!"  As a matter of fact, he went on, and on ,and on, in front of Katherine.  I finally got Katherine in another room and said, "Bryan, right now this is my call, and I say it's too cold for swimming and I'm not up for a freezing kid, I just want a quick dinner.  I would appreciate it if you would not contradict me and argue with me right in front of Katherine, especially because it's my night with her and you're not even coming."  He said, "I don't see what the big deal is."  I said, "I don't believe it's good parenting to have conflict in front of her, and as you're not coming or at all involved with this situation, can you please stop arguing with me, especially in front of her?" to which he said, "Why don't you just let her go swimming?"  ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! 

Not sure if this represents cold beach Katherine, or me.  You pick.

It was 64 degrees out and breezy, the sun was setting, we hadn't had dinner yet, and the ocean here is COLD.  He wasn't coming, he wasn't going to get her through the bath when she got home all sandy and salty and seaweedy, and he wasn't going to deal with chattering teeth or cut feet from barnacles.  My nice little spontaneous picnic - me in my work clothes, high heels and trenchcoat off, replaced with a jean jacket and flip flops over my work dress because I didn't have time to change - felt tarnished.  Now, why did he have to do that?!  Katherine and I had a great picnic anyway, with her running around in the grass, the dog getting picnic scraps, the sun setting over the water.  So there.  (insert head toss here)

Sadly, I do not own a single corset-topped dress. But you get the idea.

And the other example, this one really gets me steamed.  But not in a steamy hot way, in a fuming way.  You know what I mean.

Katherine was in my room watching a funny cats video on my laptop (oh good grief, but it was only three minutes), and I was putting on my pajamas.  Bryan walked directly into my bedroom, to which I said, "WHOA!  I'm changing!" as I literally backed into my closet.  He came in anyway!  I said, "Hey, a little privacy!" and he snapped, "I just want to kiss MY daughter goodnight."  I had to send him a terse little email called "boundaries" in which I reminded him that it was inappropriate for him to enter my bedroom, and UTTERLY inappropriate for him to do so when I was undressing.  He wrote back "Understood," to which I refrained from saying "Then why are we having this conversation AGAIN?!"

I'm sure that both of these little exercises are him proving to me that I'm not the boss of him.  I can not tell you how relieved I am that I am *not* the boss of him, but these little outbursts of his test my patience.

And since I'm on a roll, I'll share one more little passive aggressive piece of nastiness.

We got our tax refund - nicer than we expected - and so this weekend I said, "Our vacuum really isn't picking up the pet hair; I just vacuumed and look, the carpet looks terrible.  Since we got our tax refund, and since we're going to need a second vacuum when you move out so that we each have one, I thought I'd got to Costco and pick one up.  What do you think of that idea?"  To which he replied, "It doesn't matter what I think, you'll just do it anyway."  I said, "No, that's why I'm mentioning it, do you think it's a good idea?" to which he replied, "You don't care, you'll just do what you want," to which I replied, "I'm trying to understand what YOU want, are you saying you think it's a bad idea?" to which he replied "I didn't say that, but it doesn't matter what I think....." and that conversation could have gone on for another hour, I think, if at that point I didn't realize its futility and walk away.  (I didn't go to Costco, or buy the vacuum.  Still not sure what I should do on that count.)

In my sweet fantasies, the less steamy ones, The Guy would either say, "I think that's a great idea, go for it!" or "I don't think we should shell out the money right now," but either way I'd get a direct response.

Gratuitous picture that simultaneously makes me gag and reminds me what I want.  I'll bet they're having a nice, reasonable, SANE conversation on that white sand beach.

So here's the deal, to sum it all up:  I am fully aware that he is not going to change, and that unless I walk away from these weird exchanges, they would just continue like that until the end of time.  It doesn't matter if I set boundaries, or try to agree upon a parenting style, or hold reasonable discussions about household expenditures, he will find a way to undermine me and blame it on me.  I am walking away, because I don't want that in my life, and because I don't think it's healthy, and I don't even think it serves him, and I know it doesn't serve me.  But living together, I just don't know how to get around these exchanges, and it sucks the bliss straight out of me.

All day, I thought, "I'm so glad I like my job!" and "I'm proud of the work I'm doing," and "It'll be so nice to picnic with Katherine," and "I love the sunshine," and "The salad I made for myself for lunch is delicious and healthy" and "My boss is a lovely woman"...and I was a right proper PollyAnna.  I came home prepared to do chores, manage homework, clean up after Bryan without complaint or thought (because it's easier to do that than to have a repetitive argument about it).....but these little things just throw me over the edge. 

I'm working on my good attitude, I swear I am.  Maybe tomorrow I'll do better.

Why Being PollyAnna isn't all it's cracked up to be

PollyAnna, April 1, 2012

I first read PollyAnna by Eleanor H. Porter (published in 1913) when I was a child; I’m not sure if I read it first, or saw the movie version (starring Hayley Mills) first, but in any case, the book and movie both struck a chord with me.  I admired PollyAnna greatly, and I wanted to be just like her.  I saw her as the ultimate loveable person: so positive, so kind, so….so….so…. perfect!  She was perfect.  Even her admitted imperfections just made her more perfect to me.  She was delightful and kind to everyone, bringing sunshine and joy just by being herself, despite the hardships of her life.

For those of you not familiar with the story, the short version is this:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pollyanna

The title character is named Pollyanna Whittier, a young orphan who goes to live in Beldingsville, Vermont, with her wealthy but stern Aunt Polly. Pollyanna's philosophy of life centers on what she calls "The Glad Game", an optimistic attitude she learned from her father. The game consists of finding something to be glad about in every situation. It originated in an incident one Christmas when Pollyanna, who was hoping for a doll in the missionary barrel, found only a pair of crutches inside. Making the game up on the spot, Pollyanna's father taught her to look at the good side of things—in this case, to be glad about the crutches because "we didn't need to use them!"

With this philosophy, and her own sunny personality and sincere, sympathetic soul, Pollyanna brings so much gladness to her aunt's dispirited New England town that she transforms it into a pleasant place to live. 'The Glad Game' shields her from her aunt's stern attitude: when Aunt Polly puts her in a stuffy attic room without carpets or pictures, she exults at the beautiful view from the high window; when she tries to "punish" her niece for being late to dinner by sentencing her to a meal of bread and milk in the kitchen with the servant, Nancy, Pollyanna thanks her rapturously because she likes bread and milk, and she likes Nancy.

Soon, Pollyanna teaches some of Beldingsville's most troubled inhabitants to 'play the game' as well, from a querulous invalid named Mrs. Snow to a miserly bachelor, Mr. Pendleton, who lives all alone in a cluttered mansion. Aunt Polly, too— finding herself helpless before Pollyanna's buoyant refusal to be downcast—gradually begins to thaw, although she resists the glad game longer than anyone else.

Eventually, however, even Pollyanna's robust optimism is put to the test when she is struck down by a motorcar while crossing a street and loses the use of her legs. At first she doesn't realize the seriousness of her situation, but her spirits plummet when she accidentally overhears an eminent specialist say that she'll never walk again. After that, she lies in bed, unable to find anything to be glad about. Then the townspeople begin calling at Aunt Polly's house, eager to let Pollyanna know how much her encouragement has improved their lives; and Pollyanna decides she can still be glad that she has legs. The novel ends with Aunt Polly marrying her former lover Dr. Chilton and Pollyanna being sent to a hospital where she learns to walk again and is able to appreciate the use of her legs far more as a result of being temporarily disabled.

It’s a dangerous book, though.  Put in the hands of the wrong person, this book has some really terrifying messages.  Put in MY hands, that is.  Perhaps I am the only person in history to twist this sweet story the way I did, but here’s what I took away from it:

-          It’s okay for the rest of the world to be “troubled” and “querulous” and “miserly”, but it is the job of nice girls to be “sunny, sincere” and “sympathetic,” even while the adults around them treat them poorly.

-          Little girls have the power to transform nasty folks into delightful people, and with just the right touches, such changes will happen.

-          No matter what crumbs one receives, one should be grateful.

-          Nice little girls do not complain.  They just work harder at being good.

-          In the end, one’s goodness promises a happy ending.

There are clearly some advantages to being a PollyAnna – it is delightful to be able to find the good in people and things.  It is a gift to contain light and kindness.  The world may be nasty and unkind, but we can add kindness, and that does give joy to ourselves as well as others.

Here is why it is NOT a good idea to base one’s marriage off a PollyAnna story:

-          Sometimes grouchy people are just grouchy, and no amount of sunshine can change that.  As a matter of fact, sometimes shining some sunshine on someone is a very good way to annoy the hell out of them.

-          When grownups say “Oh thank you so much for the tiny crumb you gave me!  It’s so wonderful – you’re delightful!” they send a different message than gratitude.  When a wife treats her husband like a king for taking out the garbage, sometimes the husband starts to expect that treatment.  When small kindnesses – crumbs – are treated like glorious gifts, sometimes instead of inspiring further kindness, it sends the message, “All I need are crumbs.”  Once you’ve taught someone that all you need are crumbs, when you ask for a whole slice of cake, they will look at you like you’ve lost your mind.  (Trust me on this one.  Years of experience here.)

-          Kindness and a sunny disposition are great, but without boundaries, they make for a really great doormat.  PollyAnna let people walk all over her, and maybe she had to because she was a child with no control, but when grownups just say “no problem” to things that are actually great big problems, they are teaching others to dump problems in their laps.

-          Taking care of an adult someone all the time, without getting care in return, is exhausting.  When you are a grownup and you have a breakdown, like PollyAnna did at the end, you are still expected to run the house and care for the child(ren) and be glad for the opportunity.

So, here’s what I’d like to say to that little PollyAnna Whittier.  I’d like to say,

“Come here, little one.  Climb up beside me.  I’ve got a nice cup of hot cocoa, made just the way you like it, with a little vanilla mixed in.  You are a beautiful creature, and the light you have brought our lives is a joyful gift, and I’m so glad you’re here….but I know you have some sadness.  It’s okay to cry sometimes, sweetheart.  Let me hold you….it’s okay.  I’ll bet you miss your mama and your daddy until it hurts, but I am here for you.  It’s okay to miss them, love.  I would do anything to bring them back for you, and I’m so sad that I can’t do that for you.  All I can do is tell you that I love you, and I will do everything in my power to honor them in the way I love you.”

Like PollyAnna, my early life wasn’t perfect, and like PollyAnna, I thought it was my attitude about it that mattered most, and not how others treated me.  I taught my husband how to treat me, and what I taught him was that I didn’t matter.  But you know what?  Every little girl matters.

Maybe I should have read A Little Princess more often instead!