O.K., so I think most of my readers know this, but on the off chance that you don't, I'm going to "out" myself. In 1995 I competed in the Miss America Pageant as Miss Nebraska. Or, as Coulter puts it, "My mom was Miss Nebraska last year." Last year. Yes, let's just go with that. You may wonder how a girl born, raised and educated in Arkansas becomes Miss Nebraska and well, that's a story for another day so I will just leave you to wonder, but obviously it can (and did) happen and I left many in Atlantic City thinking that Nebraskans have Southern accents (which, is not exactly that far-fetched, especially if you've visited way-Western Nebraska.) Anyway, while far from the home-town favorite, I was quickly welcomed, and became an "adopted Nebraskan." North Platte became a second home. And the people of North Platte as well as Miss Nebraska volunteers from all over the state became family.
This past weekend was the Miss Nebraska Pageant and if we are family, then I guess you could call this our family reunion; complete with your favorite cousins, the crazy Aunt who pinches your cheeks and the Uncle who drinks too much and hugs just a little too tight.
I love returning home to North Platte. It holds precious memories, including, but not limited to the time a complete stranger ate a pork chop off my plate at the official "Pork Chop Breakfast". Recently, though, I've developed a love-hate relationship with going back for the pageant. Much like I have a love-hate relationship with wearing a swimsuit. I love going swimming. I hate wearing the suit. This weekend should be about the big, crazy family that you adore (even the hugging uncle) but it's bittersweet because quite frankly, the whole thing makes me feel O.L.D. "Formers" as we're called, walk the stage and re-live the glory of it all as we're announced at the beginning of the program and the whole thing is depressing because first of all, no-one really cares to see us and second of all, with each year there seem to be less formers "in front" of me. This year I was the fourth oldest. Ugh. But it's not really (or I should say, only) the walking that makes me feel old (although I really do not like the walking. I didn't like it 16 years ago and I don't like it today.Give me a microphone; give me a piano; give me just about anything (o.k., well, not a baton) and it will be preferable to walking.) But no, it's not the walking, and it's not even the contestants who could be my daughters; it's all the well-meaning relatives.
"Oh my gosh! (read: genuine surprise) You look beautiful." (Meta message: Oh my gosh! 1995? I can't believe we still recognize you.")
"Oh, how nice to see you! You haven't changed a bit!" (Meta message: I am so surprised you haven't gotten fat! Wait, didn't you used to be fat?")
I know what you're thinking (just be grateful) and yet I know there will be a small group of you who understand what I'm saying. Yes, I am grateful for the words of affirmation; I just don't necessarily believe them. And there's a part of me that laughs because it seems that my Miss Nebraska family, especially my more distant relatives, just seem so darned surprised that I'm still hangin' in there!
But my Mother tells me that you can't make other people responsible for how you feel; that no-one can make you "feel" anything (which, well, let's just say is ironic considering that the Catholics (and their so-called Catholic guilt) ain't got nothin' on my Mother.) But, since I know she's right, I must recognize that I was in a funk even before arriving in North Platte. Just prior to leaving for the Miss Nebraska weekend, I had been out for a bike ride. I had my hair up in a ponytail (a detail I only mention because from the back it might give you the impression that I'm not 38.) Anyway, a group of young boys in a truck approached from behind. They rolled down their window and were making noise (please don't ask me to explain) when they caught up to me at a stop sign. The boy closest to the window leaned his head out and, for the first time, saw my face. Evidently it didn't match my back-side (and by back-side I'm referring of course to my pony tail) because at that point the boys just burst out laughing and drove off. Once I realized what had happened, I too burst out laughing. Had they not seen the toddler seat on the back?
Later that same day, and totally unrelated to my bike ride, I was admiring my daughter, complete with scabs and scratches and rashes and sunburns, and a face full of left-over Nutella, and I said , "Emma Claire, you're so pretty." (And she is.) And she said, "M-oooomm, I don't want to be pretty. I want to be awesome."
Well, how silly of me. Of course she has greater purpose than just being pretty. Did I teach her that? No. Wait. It would seem she just taught me, that above being pretty or skinny or even young; we are called to be excellent (the grown up and I'm thinking more biblical word for awesome!) and so today, as a girl raised in the South where being pretty is, well, pretty important and we say things like "Pretty is as pretty does;" today, as a girl whose identity was wrapped up in pageant officials' opinions for far too many years; today that girl feels pretty awesome (and not at all old.) I guess that's what a pretty awesome 2 year old (not to mention a cute ponytail) can do for a girl!
Thank you Lord Jesus for the precious spirit and humble heart of a two year old. Help me to move past my own insecurities and nurture her awesome aspirations! And now I'd better get back to the job of Mothering. Seems that while Emma Claire claims to have no desire to be pretty, she has in fact made her way into my make-up drawer and, in her words, is "getting ready." Oh. My. Gosh! Is that my new, anti-aging, retinol, line erasing, decade removing cream mixed all over your face with pink lipstick?
Perhaps we're not finished with pageants after all.
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