How To Say What You Mean

I recently saw this quote on Pinterest:

"Sometimes when I say, 'I'm OK,' I want someone to look me in the eyes, hug me tight and say, 'I know you're not.'"

I do not understand this, and even though I know I should not be judgy, I sort of am. I realize that I am a horrible person. I realize that many people in my life, including people that I love, and including people in my family, can probably totally identify with this.

The Pinterest quote reminded me of an episode on a recent vacation: I had prepared and served a festive meal for the family, and a few minutes after we finished eating, and well before our digestive systems had fully engaged, my SIL started clearing the dinner dishes.  "Sit down," I suggested, "Relax.  I'll get to those later."

She kept cleaning up, and said, "You don't really mean that." She asserted that everyone appreciated help with the dishes after whipping up dinner for a bunch of people.  "I always do this for my girlfriends," she said, "Even when they say, 'Oh, don't bother!'--because I know they don't really mean it."

"Well, I really mean it," I said.  "I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it.  It's really nice of you to do the cleaning up, but I honestly wouldn't mind cleaning up a little later. I'd be happy to have you sitting down and relaxing."

Apparently, this is what people do: they say things they don't mean. Folks seem to believe that people don't say what they really feel, and that their true meaning and intention must be discerned from something other than their words. And on the flip side, they communicate in the same way, skirting around a direct statement and expecting their listeners to read between the lines or interpret their body language.

Sometimes I feel like I am from a different planet, or that I have some kind of narrow form of autism that makes me unable to read social cues, because this just does not make sense to me. This confusing mentality leads to Harlequin-romance-type misunderstandings and conflict. 

I believe that we should take people at their word, and act accordingly. Say what you mean. Don't say what you don't mean. Ask for what you want or need--but at the same time, have very limited expectations of what people can and will do for you. This is the Peevie Rule for Clear and Sensible Communication.

My immediate response to that Pinterest quote is, instead of saying that you're OK, why wouldn't you say, "I'm not OK. Could I have a hug?" This seems more--incoming judgyness!--mature--and more likely to elicit the outcome you hope for.

It is a fundamental sign of emotional health to take responsibility for one's own happiness. I tell my kids, "You are responsible for your own happiness. Not me, not your siblings, not your teachers, not your friends. If you are not happy, do something about it."

"Most folks are just about as happy as they make up their minds to be." --Abraham Lincoln

What good does it do to say you're OK when you're really not? I mean, unless you're in a social situation, like your workplace, where it's not necessarily appropriate to ask for hugs and to lay your true feelings right out there. But I'm guessing that those are not the people you want looking deep into your soul and sussing out your need for a moment of physical reassurance.

When you're around people from whom a hug is appropriate and would feel good--why would you not just say, "I'm so sad. I could use a hug"?

It is one goal of this blog to encourage people to say what they need, and to express in direct, non-metaphorical language, how they feel and what would help them feel better. Let's practice together:

"I'm feeling lonely. I'd like someone to hang out with tonight. Are you available?"

"I feel sad. I really miss [person's name that you miss]. I'd like to talk about him/her."

"Would you be willing to help out with the dishes tonight?"

"I'm sorry to cut you off, but I need to get off the phone now."

"I know you want to keep reading my delightful blog, but I really want to end this post and go watch some TV."

Let me know how it goes. Alternatively, let me know if you think my expectations are completely unrealistic and that I don't have any understanding for how real people communicate in western culture. I can handle it.

Happiness Is...

..sleeping until you wake up naturally, with no alarm clock.



...eating something sweet for breakfast.



...hiking on the Kal-Haven trail


...taking photos of bright blooms and butterflies on the Kal-Haven trail.


...a covered bridge.


...waving to a kayaker on the Black River.




...when the Black River kayaker interrupts his paddling rhythm in order to wave back.


...sharing a giant bag of pink and blue cotton candy.


...having dessert first.  At this place.

...reading a book on the beach.

...a perfect frisbee throw.


...grilling the perfect burger.  And then eating it.


...a whole day of no kid-bickering.  Not that I would know.  I'm just sayin'.

First Fruits

My first harvest, from my little city garden.  It makes me so happy.

I posted about my favorite salsa recipe before, but when I went back and clicked on the link I provided, it was sort of lame.  You had to search the Cuisinart website to find the recipe--and this blog believes in keeping things simple.  Hence, here's the recipe for the best salsa this side of Mexico, slightly modified from the Cuisinart cookbook:


Fresh Tomato and Corn Salsa


Makes 2 cups (it's so good you'll want to double this recipe)


1 small onion peeled, cut into 1" pieces
1/3 c. fresh basil (or cilantro, if you like that soapy-tasting stuff)
1 medium salsa pepper, seeded, cut into 1" pieces
  (or jalapeno, or whatever kind of hot pepper you like)
3 medium vine-ripened tomatoes, cut into 1" pieces
1.5 teaspoons fresh lime juice
2/3 cup fresh or frozen corn kernels
3/4 teaspoon Kosher salt

Place onion, basil and pepper in work bowl.  Process until finely chopped, about 5 second.  Scrape work bowl.  Add tomatoes and lime juice.  Pulse until tomatoes are coarsely chopped, about 5 to 7 times.  Add corn and salt; pulse once or twice to combine.  Let sit for 1 hour before serving to allow flavors to develop.  

That is, if you can stand it.


If you use fresh ingredients from your own garden, you will feel like Martha Stewart on steroids, and everyone who tastes the salsa will bow down and worship you.  And then they will ask you to make more, because it got all gone.

Deep Thoughts

I was having some deep thoughts in the car this morning. I thought I'd share.

1. Nothing is linear.

2. Except lines.

3. Everything is a back-and-forth, up-and-down, side-to-side process. Sometimes this feels a little bit like mental illness. Sometimes it IS mental illness.

4. You spend your life trying to get from here to there, and you think, OK, all I have to do is put one foot in front of the other, and I will get where I'm going. And then you end up somewhere else. And you don't know where the hell you are.

5. Or what you're supposed to be doing. Or why you're doing it.

6. Then you start to get depressed. Or angry, which is really the same thing.

7. Eventually, you go to see a therapist, who confirms what you've known all along: Yes, you are mentally ill. You are probably one meltdown away from being institutionalized.

8. Some days you feel like a reasonably functional human being. You take a shower and bake some bread. The smell of fresh bread makes you weep with happiness.

9. Other days you feel like an undiagnosed schizophrenic, living two or more secret lives, with a tenuous hold on reality.

10. But your therapist reassures you that you are not really schizophrenic, or bipolar, and you don't really have obsessive-compulsive disorder, although you might, indeed, have a tiny case of ADD.

11. But the real problem is this existential angst (see numbers 4 and 5), which is essentially the human condition.

12. What to do, what to do? Think. Talk. Become more aware of your interior life, so that you make intentional choices which are driven by meaning and purpose. It's a process.

13. This process takes time.

14. And it is not linear.

I just thought I'd share.

A Grand Social Experiment

The Peevies have embarked on a Grand Social Experiment.

The Background: We are indefatigable consumers in this family. We love food, toys, clothes, music, books, and stuff. We buy when we could borrow. We acquire when we don't really need, and even sometimes when we don't even want. We collect, consume, gather, keep, amass, obtain, hoard, and procure all manner of crap that we don't require for health or happiness.

Mr. Peevie and I are trying our best--OK, maybe not our best, but we're trying--to set an example for the Young Peevies, and to teach them to be grateful and generous. We certainly don't give them everything they want.

But somehow, somewhere, we are failing. The littlest Peevies are spoiled just by living in the time and place in which they live: they have an attitude of expectation and entitlement; they exist in a constant state of desire for what they do not have. One day after receiving a new game, book, or CD, they are already talking about the next game, book or CD they want to get.

One reason we fail is that I, too, frequently find myself wanting what I do not have. I want new windows on the house, new clothes, more books, more music, more candles, another purse. I want to spend money on decorative things; I want to replace old things that are still perfectly serviceable with new things, because they're new. Or new to me. (I do like to shop resale.)

I would like our family to spend less time and less money on stuff, and less emotional energy wanting and thinking about getting stuff. I want to teach our children these values in a more compelling and effective way. I want my kids to be more thankful for and aware of what they have and how much they have; and I want to replace the mindset of wanting and desiring with the mindset of gratitude and generosity.

So at breakfast this weekend, I made a not-so-modest proposal: Let's pledge to have a year of Not Buying New Stuff That We Don't Really Need. We'll exempt things like food, necessary clothing for growing children, necessary replacement clothing for adults (I need new underwear desperately! Oh, wait--was that TMI?) and household fixes and repairs. Our goal would be to not bring anything new into our house for one year except what we really need.

The responses ranged from totally on board (A. Peevie), to lots of clarifying questions (M. Peevie), to reluctant assent (C. Peevie and Mr. Peevie).

We talked about what we might learn from such an experiment.

"I think we'll learn to be more happy with what we already have," said A. Peevie.

"I just read an article today about a study that showed that generosity is directly related to happiness," offered Mr. Peevie.

"Maybe we'll spend more time playing with the toys we already have!" M. Peevie said happily.

"Will we still get allowance?" asked C. Peevie.

We encountered our first test of the Grand Social Experiment within a couple of hours of signing up. M. Peevie's friend J.Lala invited M.P. to go to the mall with her, and she was flush with cash from Christmas and her recent birthday. She looked at me with sorrow and regret in her expressive brown eyes.

"Mom," she said, "What can I buy?" See what I mean? We just love to spend money. If it's in our pocket, we go looking for ways to spend it.

"Well, M.," I said, "J.Lala just had a birthday last week. Why don't you buy her a birthday present?" Her face brightened immediately.

"How was the mall?" I asked her when she got home. "Did you buy J.Lala a birthday present?" As it turned out, M. Peevie accidentally bought herself a pair of fingerless Lady GaGa gloves, a set of mouse-ear barrettes, and a lip gloss.

I think we're in for a long year.

Magical Moments

Have you ever had one of those moments when time slowed way down and you felt like you had entered a magical alternate dimension where you were eternally young and you were surrounded by happy children, friendly adults, sounds of laughter and cheering, and there was cake, too?

Me neither.

However. This week we came pretty close to that moment. The eighth-graders challenged their parents to a softball game to celebrate their emancipation from grade school and to demonstrate their "superior" athletic ability.

We creamed them. It was awesome.

But wait: let me backtrack for a moment. First of all, we (and by "we" I mean Poor Man's Ricardo Antonio Chavira (PMRAC), who is a 4th grade parent; yay, PMRAC!)) reserved a field at Thillens Stadium for two hours on Wednesday night. Thillens Stadium is an iconic part of Chicago history, where generations of Little Leaguers played under the lights, and Jack Brickhouse announced the play-by-play during the 1950s.


To play under the lights at Thillens is to be a part of something bigger than yourself. To play third base at Thillens as a 48-year-old, mini-van-driving, capri-pants-wearing mother of three, against about 40 eighth-graders and their younger siblings and schoolmates, and to throw your own son out at first base* in a slo-mo-replay moment, is to make history that will never be written, but will also never be forgotten.

After we shut the kids down in the first half inning, we grabbed our bats and took the kids to school. I put myself first in the grown-ups' line-up because I got there first, and the dads were too polite to object. I smashed a single between the cocky teenaged infielders, who were no doubt thinking to themselves, "Sink in, boys, sink in; it's just C. Peevie's mom; she can't hit!"

I rounded the bases when Eddie "The Babe" sent one into orbit, and crossed home plate gasping for air and begging for the paramedics to administer oxygen. "I need a defibrillator!" I wheezed, and Mr. Peevie said, "You need a work-out program." Like I have mentioned in the past, he has a bit of a mean streak.

Since there were little kids playing on the kid team, we let them have five outs per inning. We let them swing until they got a hit, and we "accidentally" fumbled the ball in the field. See, we wanted the little ones to have fun and success, but we had no such concern for the big kids.

O-Daddy and I formed an unbreachable wall covering third and short. I think he took one look at my out-of-shape self and thought to himself, "Oh well, it's just a game." But then! Then I fielded a short-hopper to third and threw to first with precision and grace (if I do say so myself), and O-Daddy's jaw dropped to the ground.

"Wo, Momma!" he said with admiration. "You got some mad skilz!"

"Yes, O-Daddy," I said. "I may look like a zaftig, past-her-softball-prime mama, but when I'm in ready position in the infield, I am still 17!"

The rest of the Mamas and the Papas did great as well, recalling the skills of their lost youths ("yutes," for those of you who are fans of My Cousin Vinny, one of the funniest movies of all time), some of them more lost than others.

The bleachers were filled with additional moms, dads, siblings, and friends who opted to watch the game in the comfort of their blankets (yay! Chicago in June!), coolers, and snacks. I joined them after the first game, having already caused enough damage to my so-called muscles and joints to keep me sore for three full days.

We beat the kids soundly in the first game, and then we sang "Happy Birthday to" C. Peevie because it was his actual b-day, and then I served homemade sheet cake, passing the slices around the bleachers and to the players on the field. The playing, the talking, the trash-talking, the celebrating, the remembering, the laughing, the hanging out in a truly cool locale--these were all gifts of grace and beauty in a troubled world.

It was magical. In the Presbyterian sense of the word, of course.

*My son remembers this differently. In his version, I bobble the grounder, and he's safe at first. But he's been known to have a distorted view of reality.

The Best Thing in the World

A. Peevie takes Verapamil, a medicine that slows his speedy-quick heart-rate down. We try to give it to him in the morning, because he's already got a fairly slow heart-rate at night--but sometimes we forget.

One day last week we forgot, so I had him take it after school. Unfortunately, a few hours later when he took his other meds at bedtime, he took an extra dose of the Verapamil. This caused my own heart-rate to increase significantly.

By the time I learned about the double-dose, it was after 10 p.m. I called the cardiology service, and soon got the cardiologist on the phone. Unfortunately, what we needed was not a mere sub-sub-specialist like him (pediatrics and cardiology), but a sub-sub-sub-specialist, a pediatric electrophysiologist--a physician who specializes in caring for children with heart rhythm disorders. I believe there are eight of these docs in Illinois.

So the docs conferred, and they came up with a plan: They wanted me to check A. Peevie's heart-rate every two hours. If it stayed above 40 beats-per-minute (bpm), I would keep checking every two hours. If it dropped to between 30-40 bpm, I'd check it every hour. If it dropped below 30, I'd need to bring him to the hospital to be monitored for the rest of the night.

By the time we'd worked out the care plan, A. Peevie was already asleep and curled up under his blue camouflage comforter, snoring gently. I checked his heart-rate while he slept, and its strong, regular rhythm (about 50 bpm) soothed my mild anxiety. I crawled under the covers next to him, set my Treo to beep me awake every two hours, and went to sleep.

I am normally a sound sleeper. I can sleep through earthquakes, thunder-storms, most snoring, and early morning radio talk shows which are loud enough to wake Mr. Peevie but never enter my consciousness. But on this night I woke promptly to my Treo singing its descending arpeggio, "Din-ne-ne-ne, Din-ne-ne-ne, Din-ne-ne-ne, Neh" every two hours. Each time, I rummaged under the covers for A. Peevie's skinny wrist, found his pulse, and counted the beats for a full minute. If he shifted, I'd briefly lose the pulse, and I'd start all over again. It usually took me two or three tries--because I felt it would be prudent to be sure I'd gotten it right.

At one point, between Treo alarms, A. Peevie woke up and looked at me. "What are you doing here?" he wondered.

"I'm checking your heart-rate every two hours," I said.

"How come?"

"Because I want to make sure that your heart doesn't slow down too much."

"But you don't usually have to do that," he observed.

"Right," I said. "But you don't usually take a double dose of Verapamil, either."

"Oh," he said; and then he smiled at me, cuddled closer, and went back to sleep.

"Great," I thought. "Now he's going to double-dose himself on purpose just so I have to sleep with him." He's a cuddly ten-year-old who would sleep in my bed every night if I let him. Which I do not. He's far too pointy for comfort.

At every check-point, the tell-tale heart-rate was safely in the mid-40s, so we dodged yet another trip to the ER for this high-maintenance boy.

In the morning as we were getting ready for school, I was kind of a zombie. "What's the matter, mom?" A. P. asked me cheerfully.

"I'm just tired, honey," I told him.

"That's my fault, isn't it?" he asked.

"No, baby, it's not your fault," I reassured him.

"But you had to wake up at night to check my heart because I took an extra dose," he said. "That's why you're tired."

"A. Peevie, it wasn't your fault that you took it," I said. "It was an accident." I looked him straight in the eyes. "And besides," I said, "That's my job--to take care of you, and make sure you're OK. It's the best job in the world."

He smiled at me, the kind of smile that makes my eyes fill up with tears and makes my chest tight with gratitude and love. There is nothing better in the world.

Two Down, One to Go

I breathed a sigh of relief this week when two out of three Peevies started school again. Finally. (I'm singing a different tune now than I did when I wrote this post!)

They had been jumping up and down on my last nerve with their constant bickering, and all I wanted to do was drink wine and watch Prison Break reruns and catch up on the episodes of Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles that I had missed the first time around.

(Hey, that sounds like I'm a teensy bit depressed. Hmmm. Time to call the high-priced empathist, I mean therapist. Can you actually be depressed when you're already on anti-depressants? Eeeeeenyway...)

Even though I was thrilled to drop the Peeve-monsters off at second and fifth grade, I was also a bit moophy. (Moofy? Moophie? Whatever. You know what I mean, right? like the kind of sad when you make a little sad sound like, "Mooph," and make a little sad frownie face. At my growing up house, we always called that "moophy." I don't actually know if there's an actual word for it, but as you may already know, I do love neologisms.)

The PTL sponsored a back-to-school event that they called "The Boo Hoo/Yahoo Breakfast" (yay, Andrea!) which I think perfectly captures my conflictedness. Because, hello? My baby is in SECOND GRADE? and my angsty-boy is in FIFTH GRADE? I am not even ready for all this growing up.

I did finally break down and buy school supplies just in the nick of time. I dropped $190 on that trip to Tar-Zhay, but it was all worth it when I watched A. Peevie's Face of Pure Delight as he was sorting through his pens and folders and spiral notebooks.

Every day for three weeks leading up to this point, he'd voiced his dread about school starting. "I do NOT want to go back to school, Mom," he said.

"Can you homeschool me, Mom?" he asked, and I told him if I did, one of us would be dead or maimed by the end of the first week.

"Why do we have to go to school anyway? School's dumb. Lots of smart people didn't go to school. Einstein didn't go all the way through school," he pointed out.

But on this day, as he looked through his pile of supplies and checked off items from his supply list, he was happily anticipating the start of fifth grade. "I can't wait for school to start!" A. Peevie said cheerfully.

On the morning of the first day, he was up bright and early, dressed, and in his right mind--and still cheerful about seeing his school friends again. "Can we get there early?" he asked. Silly boy. What, does he think he woke up belonging to a different family or something? I'll settle for being on time, which we were. Barely. A one-time only event. Not a guarantee of future performance.

But day two, he woke up grumpy. I opened his door and called his name gently. "A. Peevie," I said, "Time to rise and shine! Time for school!"

"No!" he yelled. "I do NOT want to go to school." He flung himself deep under his covers as though being unseen would automatically transplant him into a different no-school dimension.

And we had a repeat performance on the third day. "Growl!" he growled. "Grumble, grrrr, ROAR! I hate school! I'm NOT GOING."

Sigh. Only 177 more of these mornings to go until summer! Blissful, happy, sleeping-in summer, with no fights about getting up to get ready for school.

Wait...what? What just happened there?

Deep Thoughts with M. Peevie

The other day M. Peevie and I were driving along, having our usual conversations about random things. She loves driving with the windows open and hanging her head and arms (a few inches) out the window, like a dog. I looked at her in the rear-view mirror, and smiled, because she's so alive, so in-the-moment, so happy--and I get to be her mom.

At one point, she pulled her head back in, pushed her hair back, and said, "Mom, do blind people blink?"

Where does she come up with these things?

"Great question, M.P.," I said. "I don't know. What do you think?" That's my standard answer, because I know she's got some thinking going on behind the question, and that's always way more interesting than my answer.

"I don't know," she said, pondering. "We blink to keep too much light from going in to our eyes," she said confidently, "And blind people don't have any light going into their eyes, so they don't really need to blink."

"Are there other reasons that we blink?" I asked.

"Well, maybe," she said. "Oh, yes! We blink to keep things out of our eyes, and air and stuff! So blind people DO blink."

I think you're right, I told her. Our eyes blink automatically, to protect themselves, and to keep from getting dried out.

And then she stuck her head back out the car window, squinted and grinned into the wind, and started pondering her next Deep Thought. I looked at her in the rear-view mirror, and smiled.

Finding Happiness

I'm always skeptical about social science research. Or should I say, social "science" research. I'm even more skeptical of news reports about social science research. It seems that editors care more about the catchiness of a lead sentence than about its accuracy. For example, these widely divergent and occasionally misleading lead sentences all introduced articles covering the same topic: a research study published in the March edition of Psychological Science:

"You can't buy happiness, but it looks like you can at least inherit it, British and Australian researchers said on Thursday." (Reuters on Yahoo News.)

"Though most of us spend a lifetime pursuing happiness, new research is showing that that goal may be largely out of our control." (Time Magazine.)

"People tend to be hardwired for happiness, and new genetic research may help explain why." (WebMD Medical News.)

"If you think a new car or the perfect partner is going to make you happy think again, as new research says this is only possible with the help of your genes." (ABC News Australia.)

And somewhat shockingly, "The right genetic mix might lead to a lifetime of happiness, a new British study suggests." (The National Institutes of Health, Medline Plus.) It does?

I don't have access to the full published report, but I assume these reporters did. It's interesting, isn't it, how they all have a slightly--or in some cases, widely--different take on what the researchers actually concluded? Depending on your preferred news source, you might develop unrealistic expectations about a "lifetime of happiness," or you might decide to drink the special Kool-Aid.

The researchers concluded that half the differences in happiness levels among pairs of identical and fraternal twins were genetic. This conclusion, from what I can tell, arises from the fact that fraternal twins were only half as similar as identical twins in "personality and well-being," according to the Reuters article; and the researcher suggests that this difference "strongly implicates genes."

Researchers say, first of all, that personality traits like "being sociable, active, stable, hardworking and conscientious" are genetically determined. They've also concluded from studies of identical twins that these traits have a causal effect on happiness; ergo, happiness is at least partially genetically determined.

The reports all mention that happiness seems to be inversely related to anxiety or worry. Well, duh. What will they reveal next--the shocking connection between happiness and gratitude? Oh, wait--they already confirmed this: "Count your blessings" in order to be happier, researcher Timothy Bates advised.

Interestingly, findings suggested that circumstances did not alter the happiness curve. Income, marital status, education--even devastating life events like the death of a spouse or the loss of a limb--didn't have long-term effects on happiness levels. Rich people and married people are not necessarily happier than poor people or single people.

I'm still trying to figure out what this research means to you and me. What's the big "so what"? Are you doomed to a lifetime of glumness if you're not naturally outgoing and conscientious? Can you learn optimism? Can you cultivate calmness?

Just to indulge the tiny preacher inside me, I'll leave you with two counter-intuitive passages from the Bible about finding happiness, one from the Old Testament, and one from the New:

Blessed [happy] is the man who walks not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor stands in the path of sinners, nor sits in the seat of the scornful; But his delight is in the law of the LORD, and in His law he meditates day and night.(Psalm 1:1-2)

Blessed [happy] are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God. Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. (Matthew 5:3-10)