Either way you can never seem to get rid of them. You can try to forget and they might even disappear into your mental chatter, but they always find a way back. Even the silliest of little details pack a punch upon return. I know I've said this all before, but it still impresses me what the mind is capable of.
While wrapping gifts this afternoon I ran into a problem. We were out of tags, and it brought back the memory of what I used to do as a kid when I ran out of tags. Or because I was a kid, poor, and didn't have money to buy pretty Christmas tags. Instead I would cut a square piece of paper and tape it, white-side-up, to the gift. Then write on it. It made me chuckle at how clever I thought I was as a child, and for some reason the memory shifted to Christmas Day. Reading those messy written tags.
I'm sure everyone plays a version of this game on Christmas, where you have one person play Santa. They're the one that hands out all the gifts under the tree. My mom always picked me to play Santa, every year. I hated it. Now you might think that's silly.
Why would I hate playing Santa?
I had a BIG problem with reading and writing growing up. I muddled together an ability to read on my own, but up until high school reading simple things was very difficult for me. At times it's still difficult, but it doesn't stress me out as much. My husband is very supportive of my struggles. My mom on other hand. . . Not so much.
She knew I had problems readying the labels, and reading handwriting was even worse for me. So in front of the whole family she would declare I would be the one to play Santa, and while I stuttered along trying to read the tags the best I could everyone would laugh at me. I would struggle and struggle or give people the wrong gifts until someone got upset and took over. Every year—every damn year I played Santa, and I still hate it till this day.
Why shame your child like that? Why make a public mockery of them?
I don't have a clue, but it wasn't just at Christmas this happened. This embarrassment is something I had to live with in other areas of my life. Mainly in school and when my mom would volunteer me to do the readings at church on Sundays. The only time she ever put the spotlight on me was when she wanted to embarrass me.
I believe this is the reason I stress myself out about being perfect—I avoid awkward or embarrassing situations like a plague. Which is sad, because I used to be a goof ball. I would do the silliest things, jump into any new experience and if I made a fool of myself. I didn't care. I had done something new and exciting. Now, new things scare me. The idea that I might not be good at something paralyzes me with fear.
Little things—the smallest moments in life make a big impact. A distasteful joke, a second of wrong action—they matter so much. Being embarrassed by my mother on Christmas Day doesn't mean much on it's own, but when you look at all the other times. . . When you take a look at how often she teased me, embarrassed me—they add up, and they matter. I'm a damaged person because of it. I hold myself back because I'm mortally afraid of making a fool out of myself. If you live in fear, it's not a life. My mother took that from me, and now I fight every day to get it back. Piece by piece.
#LittleThingsMatter #SmallMoments #BigImpact
~Jax~
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