A few thoughts on my oldest.

Sassypants turned 8 last week. We let her choose where to go for her birthday dinner. She had all the culinary options of the greater Seattle area available to her and she picked Old Spaghetti Factory because apparently, we’re raising a monster.

Questionable food choices aside, she’s a pretty amazing kid. Husband and I have always encouraged independence in her. Sometimes I worry we’ve gone too far, but she’s got a sense of self well beyond what I had at her age. She expresses herself, asks thought-provoking questions, and tests boundaries (for better or worse).

She loves science, reading, art, and math. When I told her I wanted to get some math workbooks for her to work on over the summer (she had some trouble at the end of the year), she lit up. She’s been asking to practice math like it’s some kind of treat. How the hell do I bottle that??

She’s also a fantastic big sister. Don’t get me wrong, she can be a shitty one, too. But more often than not, she’s super sweet with Kraken. She has far more patience with her sister than I would expect of a kid her age. She’s caring and kind, even when Kraken is pitching a fit.

It’s obviously not all sunshine. Sassypants has been like an unruly teenager since birth. She throws attitude like monkeys throw poo and rolls her eyes with the slightest provocation. She’s also a picky, reluctant eater with a strong proclivity toward getting hangry. She’s still awesome, though. And the older she gets, the more I like spending time with her. I’m really excited about the person she’ll become — but I also really enjoy who she is now. She’s affectionate and genuinely enjoys spending time with her parents. I know those traits won’t last forever, so I’m trying to soak up as much of that as I can. 

Happy birthday, Baby. I hope you love 8.

A sheep in wolf's clothing.

Like seemingly most professionals, especially professional women, I suffer from a quaint little affliction: imposter syndrome. There’s that small(ish) part of me anxious about the day people realize I’m not that good at what I do. One day, they’ll see the emperor is wearing no clothes. Except I’m no emperor; I’m more of a naked plebe wandering the streets, strategically positioning myself behind signage, water barrels, and the billowing skirts of properly-clad denizens. 

Early in my career, I chalked it up to inexperience and my non-traditional path. I never got around to going to college; I owe my career largely to a lucky temp job placement, plucky attitude, and very patient boss who liked how I wrote office-wide emails. On the surface, that may sound oh-so-bootstrappy, but by stumbling into my line of work, I’ve never felt fully in control; it doesn’t entirely feel like mine. I don’t have an educational foundation to draw from, just my gut. And intuition has never been my strong suit. On the bright side, I didn’t rack up a crushing amount of student debt.

Don’t get too jealous — I married into that.

But back to my delicate psyche. I moved from admin to writer, but for many co-workers, it may have seemed like simply a cute office experiment. After I moved on to my next job, I bumped into an old coworker who seemed unnervingly surprised that I changed companies but not roles. For someone with neurotic levels of self-doubt, it was like watering seeds. Clearly — that was 10 years and 3 jobs ago and it’s still with me.

This shit is all compounded by my start in agency life. If you’ve never worked at an agency, count yourself lucky. Yes, we could crack a beer (or vodka) in the middle of the day with minimal judgement, but it was less a perk and more a survival strategy. Agency life is brutal. One place I worked had a couple stairwells. It was generally impolite to notice the people crying between floors. There are two kinds of people who succeed at agencies: the ones who are fucking rockstars at their trade and the ones who can handle vocational abuse. I guess I like a challenge?

Thankfully, I’ve moved out of agencies for now. Maybe even forever. But now I can’t rest on being quick with the copy and the bullshit. Things are slower, more deliberate. It’s not an element I’m comfortable in. And nothing gets those inner demons talking like discomfort. Every time I write something, those little fuckers are nattering away: this sucks, they aren’t gonna like it, it doesn’t make sense, you’re gonna get fired. You’re not good enough. It’s exhausting trying to keep them quiet.

And the craziest part is that I KNOW this is insanely common. I’m sure there are several highly-capable, talented, awesome people I know working through similar issues. But that doesn’t make the anxiety any less real. In fact, it feels like as soon as I acknowledge I’m good enough, that’ll be the catalyst for everything to unwind. I have no idea how to get past this.

Imposter syndrome is a bitch. The struggle is real.

What's a tooth worth?

Sassypants just lost her fourth tooth. She misplaced the second tooth, so it's only her third experience with the "Tooth Fairy." To be clear, our family's Tooth Fairy situation is much the same as it is for Santa: she knows it's all bullshit, but likes to pretend she actually believes the magic. I'm okay with this arrangement.

But here's where this gets awesome/awful. She wrote a note to go with the tooth:

I shall translate.

"I really want a toy. But I don't want Legos again. You always give me Legos. I want something else, please. Get me something else, please. I do not want Legos again. Please, Tooth Fairy."

I feel things about this. I'm impressed at her ability to clearly state her point of view. I'm nonplussed by her display of entitlement. I happy she said please. I'm horrified by her lack of love for Legos.

I'm not sure if we're raising a strong, capable woman or a terrifying monster. Time will tell.

Out of the mouths of babes.

A few things I've heard from the kiddos lately:

[In sing-song] I'm nekked! Nekked nekked!

I ate my snot.

Are you having a baby? Because of the fat.

What's a car that's not a car? Lights!

[Singing] You and me baby nothing like mammals.

So, you're gonna punch Nana?

I saw an eagle. It looked at me mad.

I really like cream cheese, you know.

If we had a baby brother, we'd be the perfect family.