How to Be Perfect Like Me

by Dana Bowman

And that’s why I’m going to say I can only handle happiness with God’s help. Otherwise, I mess that crap up.

  Yes, many of us believe that God is in charge of a peace that is hunkered down in our souls. I know this. I feel it when I slow down, sit outside on the back stoop, and watch my new kitten, Willie, attempt to catch butterflies. That’s a soul-cleansing kind of peace. It’s the “It’s a nice world, after all” kind of thing. Willie glances over as if to say, “Hey! Look at me! I’m generating calm and contented feelings in your soul right now because of my cuteness! We should do this every day! Meet me out here tomorrow!”

  Incidentally, the butterflies might not feel quite the same about all this, but I do notice also that Willie has goofy aim and precision, so there’s that. But as I sit out there, feeling the sun and drinking my fourteenth La Croix of the day, I often wonder about the same thing.

  Am I happy?

  That’s precisely where I go wrong. Happiness gets cagey when you try to analyze it.

  I give it to God and ask, “Could you, um, help? I have no idea, still, how to be happy. After all this time—even with sobriety, healthy children, and all of it—I know I should feel thrilled beyond belief.”

  God doesn’t answer me when we talk like this. It is so annoying. Instead, I sit for a bit longer, go inside, make some goulash or something else my children will pick all the green bits out of, and go to bed, asking, “Well, see? There you go. Another day and I don’t remember any happy. What is the point? Why am I here, then?”

  Did you know? If you ask, “Why am I here?” often enough, God will answer. Here’s how.

  He’ll give you a feverish kid with a sore throat who sits with you in the big recliner in his room until midnight, even though he is a bit too big for this.

  He’ll give you a sick cat that has to have surgery for a blocked urethra and then has to be bathed and carried around for days afterward because he keeps peeing all over himself, you, and the floor. And while you carry his huge, furry, white self around, he looks up at you with such sweet patience that you stick your face in his furry chest, and you don’t even care that he smells really bad.

  He’ll remind you that people everywhere have hurricanes and floods and fires. Displacement and fear and loss are all around. You will help how you can.

  He’ll remind you that you could drink over all this existential pondering of your own life, but you don’t. You don’t ever drink over it—because that’s not an option anymore.

  And that’s when you realize that you are really, really happy about all of that.

  Happiness doesn’t need to be folded up and put away with some faded ribbons, hair clips, and tiny, sparkly jewelry from my past. We think that’s where happiness lives, in the past, in the slanted sunlight of playtime with a tea set and some Barbies. And maybe it’s true that happiness did really partake in that tea, but I would venture to say that it was just as flaky there as it is here.

  The last time I flew, the plane landed as the sun set. As we slowly descended, the clouds were a lovely apricot and deep blue, and I pressed my nose to the thick glass of my window and stared. It was like those fireflies. The sunset only lasted a few minutes, but what if it had been there, smacked up against my window, for the entire trip? I bet eventually I would have looked away. And I certainly wasn’t going to suggest that we take the plane for a few more swoops around to keep the sunset with us a bit longer. I do have control issues, yes, but trying to pilot the plane is where I draw the line.

  Happiness, maybe, isn’t in us, just waiting to be released like a bunch of doves at a wedding. It’s like those clouds that we flew through out there, all lovely and God-breathed. We traverse through it. It’s not in our jurisdiction, and that’s what makes it so cool.

  What if, when the plane landed, I stomped and wailed like one of those unhinged travelers you hear about on the news. “Bring it back!” the nutball lady in 18C cries. “Make the sun set again!” I would have been looking at a TSA holding cell within seconds.

  Life is too short. I had sick kids to hold and a cat to try to administer a pill to, which in itself requires an act of God. And as long as I remember them, I will, dare I say it, be happy. Or, happy-ish. And I’m content with that.

  Definition

  Happiness: (noun) a state of being in which you find yourself feeling extra-good. Sometimes this feeling is attached to a specific event. But sometimes it’s not. And other times it shows up at totally inappropriate times, like when your kid gets sick at the holiday choir concert and almost yaks all over the risers. You can up and leave while all the moms give you sympathetic looks, but the reality is that you get to go home to your pajamas and watch Elf with little Mr. Sickie. Mainly? Happiness is elusive. I wouldn’t take it home to meet the folks, speaking truthfully. It’s shifty.

  See: contentment—happiness’s less hot, but more reliable, big brother.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  HOW TO

  say no

  AND HOW TO

  say yes

  “Honey, could you . . .”

  “No.”

  “Just, sweetie, I . . .”

  “I SAID NO.”

  I decided to practice saying no. And Brian wanted to know if I could pass the salt, which I was handling like a boss.

  Saying no used to be hard for me, even though it’s only one wimpy little syllable. I didn’t say yes well either, actually. I just tried to duck and run and get out of all obligations in a sneaky way, which would leave me feeling embarrassed over my inability to utter one-syllable sentences. It’s an identity thing. Along with my Super Sobriety Girl cape, I also wore the Perfect Mom wrist cuffs, and don’t even get me started on Smart and Sexy Wife bustier. That thing was uncomfortable.

  It’s hard to accessorize so much. Most days, I’m good if I remember to wear a bra.

  No one told me about the mantle you would wear when you became an adult. There’s no real ceremony with it. No audience claps politely for you while some dude in a cap and gown places the ceremonial “you are a big grown-up” garb on you. But still. It’s on there, draped across your shoulders in all its glory, pressure, and satiny seriousness. I mean, really? Could there not have at least been some balloons and a cake?

  Or some money? Graduates get cash in envelopes. Instead, I put wads of cash in envelopes and send it to school in my boys’ backpacks because our lunch money is always overdue.

  When you are a full-fledged adult with children and a mortgage to prove it, you’re responsible for so many things.

  Fun Fairs. Fun Fairs are neither fun nor fair, but they happen a lot, and you will be volunteering at them.

  Pets that die and then you have to tell your kids. I’m not sure which event is worse.

  Somewhere, at some point, a kid will vomit on you. Repeat.

  Lost bills that are really, really important. Like, State of the Union kind of important. If you don’t find that bill, you will end up in a van down by the river.

  Lost kitchen shears. Still. Totally lost. I refuse to buy a new pair because I cannot accept that I lost them. How? People lose hair ties and bills but not big kitchen shears with red handles. Those shears and their disappearance are a symbol of how far I have sunk in terms of organization. I could write a book on those shears alone.

  Sex that is really borderline mundane and might, just maybe, possibly, be filed under “It’s been two months, so let’s give this a whirl, okay?”

  A solid knowledge of Ninjago’s characters. Their development. Their arc. The pathos. I laughed. I cried.

  Moments in life that seem to come up at you and go, “Gotcha! Bet you don’t know how to handle this one at all, do you? But you have the mantle, so go on now! Good luck!” You decide to walk out there while you look back at all the other adults, who are standing there nodding and waving you on. However, you are completely clueless and just want to grab a fuzzy blanket and a nap.

  Ugh. All this nonstop adulting. It is for reasonable people, and I kind of think reasonable
is overrated.

  One of my favorite bands is the Flaming Lips. They don’t do reasonable. If you have ever seen this group live, it’s kind of like an acid trip. I’ve never had one of those, but I like to think the Flaming Lips will take me there without the scary hallucinations. Their performances are often paired with grown men in furry costumes and sparkly lights. The music is ethereal and lovely, and all the while the lead singer is dressed up like the Cowardly Lion.

  This is so spot-on.

  I tend to think people like this have a firm grasp on reality. Wayne Coyne knows exactly who he is. He’s a dude who likes to dress up like a Teletubby on some days. That takes some verve, and he’s got it. The man really does not care. And if he wants a parade for being an adult, he just puts on a drum major costume and throws his own. This speaks to me.

  There is not any time in my foreseeable future when I will don a costume and throw my own parade. But I like to think that Wayne does this stuff because he has reached a level of Wayne where his insides match his outsides.

  We all should be so lucky.

  When I got sober, I worked hard on myself. This involved dealing with other people, because I don’t live in Antarctica. All that work didn’t get tossed when I drank again, but it did need some retying of the knots. I needed to learn, again, how to say no and how to say yes.

  No, really. This is some really hard stuff.

  Saying no means we have to be brave. Saying yes means we have to be willing. Both are hard as heck.

  None of this is possible unless we know who we are. That’s the trouble with adulting. We’re so busy being all adult-y and trying to be perfect that we forget.

  Not long ago my eight-year-old had a fabulous idea, and he decided to make me a thank-you card. The card itself was under duress, I have to admit. We have chore sticks, a collection of popsicle sticks in a cute little mason jar that I wield as a threat to my children whenever they bludgeon me with “Mommmmm, I’m booooored.” Voilà! The Sticks of Pain!

  I saw it on Pinterest.

  Anyway, one option is “Write a thank-you card.” Charlie was thrilled because other sticks in there are all about cleaning bathrooms, and I watched as he gathered paper and crayons. Then, because I am a Mom and I spy on things, I saw it.

  “Dear Mom. Thank You For . . .”

  I smiled and walked away. My work here was done. My kid was taking a moment to thank me for being his momma. I had reached high parenting.

  About thirty seconds later, he brought me his card. On the front was a stick woman with snakes sticking out of her head. I wasn’t deterred. All the pictures my children draw of me look like this. The front read, “THANK YOU MOM.”

  I smiled. And then I opened it, and it said, “YOU BUY ME THINGS.” And there was a little stick child playing with his stick Wii.

  “Oh, okay. You’re welcome?” Backstory: Charlie and Henry were in the middle of three days of grounding from any sort of screen time. This was a great consequence that worked well for the two or three days after they got the Wii back, until I grounded them again. So, the card was perhaps a subtle dig at his third-world-country existence at that point.

  But also, really? What about all those nights I spent with him, sitting in the recliner, with all those sore throats? What about the endless Band-Aids and kisses and advice about communicating with his brother without smacking him with a baseball bat? And hey, what about childbirth? Huh? That was a toughie, and I never once complained to him about it. To his father, yes, but not to him.

  Now it’s true, Charlie is a little mercenary. He likes cash. So, this thank you was pretty sincere, I think. But it bugged me. I had in my mind—when will I learn?—that my identity as a mom was a bit more salt of the earth, not Bank of America.

  You see, I thought he had me down as something different.

  Identity. It really only works if you play only with yours and refuse to share. I think identity behaves best when it’s off doing its own thing. If it keeps going up to others and asking, “How does my personality look today? Does my identity fit well in these jeans?” it ends up sounding neurotic and insecure. Nobody wants that.

  I thank my relapse. It gave me the gift of identity. It taught me who I was, and who I wasn’t. Relapse tore off all the covers and left me bare. And then it said, “Get dressed, woman. And this time, choose what you like, not what you think everyone else wants you to wear. Okay?”

  So, I took my time and I chose.

  Comfortable jeans. Not super skinny ones. Those are for moms on Pinterest with the big felt hats, and I look stupid in both.

  Bright-orange running shoes. I will never get shot by a hunter while jogging.

  Red lipstick. Sexy underwear once in a blue moon. Mostly Hanes.

  Often a book. A lot of times a Bible. Always my laptop.

  My wedding ring.

  My laughter.

  Possibly a Blow Pop stuck to my butt.

  Coffee cups with kittens on them. Not real kittens, though.

  I really don’t care anymore about what other people see. My identity has a lot to say, but the conversation is just for me. Finally. FINALLY. It’s no longer a constant sending out of who I am to the masses, hoping the masses will like me. What do the masses know? They all like fidget spinners.

  My identity prior to sobriety was like that freshman kid who selected communication arts as his major. This degree is a way to communicate that you don’t really know exactly what you want to do with your life, but you want to do something with your life. So, it’s a start. I didn’t really know what I wanted to be as a mom, a teacher, a writer, or a wife. I had ideas that my “mom-ing” would be super loving and soft voiced and richly layered with Jesus and fun crafts. My “wifeing” would be the same, crafts included.

  And my teaching and writing? Someday there would be a movie made about me, telling how I inspired so many children to write their way out of the inner city, but I think it’s been done. Plus, I teach in a small town.

  Also, I kind of pictured myself as a tiny-house person. They’re so cute.

  My identity now kind of thinks those tiny houses are nutball.

  In fact, my identity is not tiny at all. No one’s identity should be. We are too big for that.

  I don’t know what happened, but somewhere along this road I found I have big feelings about things. I have hard yeses and nos about life. My addiction turned me inside out. It left me empty. And I am so grateful for that emptiness, because then I could attend to my soul without any distractions. It was like learning to samba in a large, empty ballroom as opposed to my crowded living room. I was an echo chamber, and my soul wasn’t taking any crap anymore. Life was too short to dink around with indecision or apathy about anything. I stand with my decisions. I do that a lot. Standing. Shoulders back. All good with being me.

  This makes me sound rather intense but with really good posture. It’s not like I go to the store and strut through the aisles saying, “Yes! I choose YOU, Bartlett pears! You spark JOY! I KNOW WHAT I WANT, AND IT’S PEARS!” or some such thing. That’s a little much, even for me. But I am a lot better at saying no and enjoying it.

  I don’t say no to every Fun Fair, I promise. (Note: Actually, that’s not true. To date, I have not ever volunteered at a Fun Fair. Come at me, PTA.) But there is an endless pull and tug of motherhood and all its trappings that come my way. So often, these requests are festooned in the soft, pretty colors of “But this is what moms do,” and I just smile and turn away. From some of them. Not all, just some.

  The other things I say yes to, and it’s a really happy, full-on yes.

  It’s funny, but the more nos I utter, the bigger the yeses become.

  I would love to explain that this means I am now donating a lot more of my time to service, the church, and a whole lot of other worthy endeavors, and yes, sometimes it does mean that.

  But what I would also like to touch upon is sex.

  Puns are so easy when it comes to this subject.

  Sex is not
simple. I am a sober woman, married for over ten years, and also somewhat hormonal. I wish I could say that sex was as simple as my Netflix queue. You click on a few options. Quick comedy? Romantic drama? Game of Thrones? (No. Just, no.) And then, boom, it’s the best-preprogrammed seven minutes of your life.

  Instead, sex is a mystery but without any death or cops. Maybe like a nice, cozy Murder She Wrote episode. I never quite know how it’s going to end. But somehow, along the way, I started to understand my marriage more. I stopped trying to be what I figured Brian wanted, and I just loved him.

  A lot of times this didn’t involve the bedroom at all. I didn’t wonder anymore whether Brian was disappointed in me if I couldn’t take on another Sunday school class or messed up our schedules for the weekend. Long ago I would have mulled over this for a good hour, at least. But now, if he asked me to pick up his dry cleaning and I couldn’t, I wouldn’t “sorry” all over him and offer to reroute my entire day to accommodate. I would say, “I can’t today,” and then watch how the world, and our marriage in it, did not end.

  The better I became at my nos with him the better he could see me. And, miraculously, he loves me all the more for it. I know this because I just asked him, and he blinked a little and said, “Yes. I love you all the more for it.” I believe him.

  I didn’t worry about whether our sexy time was on par with what Men’s Health tells you is needed in a relationship. When I stopped looking at sex as a task to prove my great-wife status, I started having it because I plain old wanted to. True, our sexy time usually involves at least one cat on the bed, a very concerned Hosmer whimpering outside the door, Saturday morning cartoons for the children, and a small window of time. But we’re like the Navy SEALs. We are stealthy, and we get the job done.

  My marriage is a cuddly one. We lean in to each other, often, and our boys roll their eyes as Mom and Dad make out while cleaning the kitchen. We are comfortable and content, and I think we kind of look like one of those ads for Viagra, all happy, serene, and cutting vegetables, which you know is code for we are going to be getting it on soon. We don’t really need the Viagra, at least not yet, so that’s a bonus. I think the state of our marriage is due to a lot of things: Brian’s affable spirit; our love for God; a lot of baked goods; but also, all my yeses and nos.