A Good Job

It was about 3:30 in the morning. I’m lying in my 5-year-old’s bed, awkwardly wrapped around stuffies and just-in-case towels and something pokey that was probably Mr. Potato Head's eyeballs that we had ransacked the house earlier trying to find. My poor son had been throwing up every 20 minutes since 10:30 pm. So there I was, feeling exhausted and helpless and impatient, since he had stopped even trying to dry heave into the bowl. Instead, he just lay there all limp and clammy and stinky, like a tiny, drunk frat boy. Only way cuter.

To add insult to injury, the day/night before had been Valentine’s Day, which used to be a big, romantic deal to my husband and I. Seriously nauseating schmoopieness. Handmade gifts. Flowers. Love notes. But that was many years ago, before marriage and kids and impending Noro Virus. Now V-Day had now turned into a tired family dinner and mandatory exchange of uninspired gifts.

Here’s how I’m pretty sure Dave’s and my passive-aggressive thought conversation transpired when we swapped presents:

Dave: “Oh, a trite, motivational book about pursuing my dreams! How thoughtful of you to pick this up near the register when you bought something for the kids.”

Me: “You’re welcome, honey. Maybe someone else’s words might inspire you more than my own.  Oh, neat.  A short, sheer, black robe. Does middleagedsuburbanhousewifelingerie.com take returns? “

So, I lay there, jammed against the wall in my son's bed, thinking about this and all the other stuff you think about in the middle of the night. Work and parenting and aging parents and marriage and the everythings that need to be repaired or cleaned or upgraded in our house. And how I could be doing them all better. How that TV commercial I wrote could have been funnier, or how I should have said something smarter in that meeting, or how I should have planned ahead and handmade a Valentine’s gift like I used to, or how I should be more patient with my parents and the kids because I expect the same of them and childhood is short and I will miss these days. And as usual, in the middle of the night, it all seems insurmountable.

I guarantee the very first molehill turned into the very first mountain sometime around 3am.

Shaking me out of my guilt reverie, my son gave the little chokey cry that meant he was going to be sick again, and I helped him. And we both settled back into our uncomfortable positions, mine more mental than physical.

Then, in his raspy, exhausted, sweet, five-year old voice, he said the words that he must have intuitively known I needed to hear. (Kids are amazing like that. I also believe they can communicate with animals, but that’s a topic for another day.)

He said:  “Mama. I’m so glad you’re staying here with me. You’re doing a really good job.”

Wait. I was doing a good job?

I WAS DOING A GOOD JOB!!

I wanted to cry. Because I think that’s all most of us really want to hear. In every aspect of our lives. As wives and husbands and employees and bosses and parents and friends and siblings and kids and grown-ups.  We all just want to know that we’re doing “a good job.”

And I realized that I am.  

Because at any given time, I’m doing the best I can.

Oh, sure, there’s plenty of room for improvement. Especially in the timely and thoughtful gift department. But overall, as my delirious 5-year-old had pointed out, I’m not sucking pretty successfully.

So I kissed him on the forehead and said “Thank you, buddy. I love you.” And fell into the most restful sleep I’d had all night.

For about 23 minutes until he had to hurl again.

But when he did, I held that bowl and gently propped up his sweaty little head like the best middle-of-the-night-vomit-helper the greater Seattle area has ever known.

Cause that’s just what you do when you’re doing a good job.

 

 

No, you push it.

More than just the title of the Salt N’ Pepa’s classic that I did some SWEET dance moves to in high school, the phrase “Push It” has been the bane of my creative existence.

In fact, if I had a dime for every time I’d been told to “Push It” during the course of my career, I wouldn’t be doing the majority of my shopping at Marshall’s fine discount clothing retailer, where You Never Pay Full Price for Fabulous ®. I shop there a lot, apparently.

 

I get it. “Pushing it” is what makes good work, better. “Pushing it” also makes scientists, or innovators or philanthropists or anyone better, really. Except maybe that guy in charge of guarding the button to blow the world into smithereens. Not good advice for that guy.

“Pushing it” is what most successful people spend their whole careers doing. Going beyond the obvious. Driving themselves to come up with something newer or more insightful.  Fine tuning and crafting what they’ve already done to make it more impactful.

I have heard this phrase repeatedly from several amazing, talented creative directors whom I greatly respect and admire.

And there are times when it has been just the kick in the butt I needed to send me into a quiet, rage-induced self-doubt spiral. No! I mean, into a brand new way of thinking about things!

But the rest of the time (99.2%), it just pisses me off.

Because telling a creative to “Push It” is non-specific. It is a request to improve things, without knowing the subjective and very specific idea of what would be funnier or wackier or more poignant or better in the mind of the person delivering the critique.

Plus, everybody has a different definition of “better.” Everyone’s version of the perfect poop joke is unique.  And beautiful, I might add.

In my mind, when someone says “Push It”, it insinuates I have not “pushed it” to begin with. Now, I admit I can be sensitive about this, and those close to me are nodding too enthusiastically in agreement right now. Shut up, those friends. Because being told to “Push It” is a huge affront to someone who crafts every word they type. Seriously, even texts. It drives my husband nuts. This sentence alone required 23 revisions.

Now, I absolutely believe in the intention behind “Pushing It.” I believe that you shouldn’t settle, and that there is always room for improvement.

But telling a creative to “Push It” is the equivalent of telling a high jumper who can’t quite clear the bar to just “jump higher.” Wouldn’t it be more helpful to suggest he change his approach, or adjust his position, or… I just reached the end of my high-jump knowledge, so this is where that metaphor ends. But you get the idea.

In my case, I find I get the “Push It” comment because I am a rule follower.  I like a solid creative brief, and the chaperone that shows up to many of the concepting parties in my head wearing a turtleneck and sensible shoes, insists I follow it.  For instance, if I know the client has not bought something in the past because of a certain sensitivity, I avoid that landmine.  I like things to make strategic sense and all tie up in a nice little bow. I am more comfortable thinking within a box than I am floating in space.

So to break out of this, I’ve realized I need to not worry so much. Tell my creative chaperone to chill the eff out and let me do my thing. Believe strongly in myself. Not in an infallible, cocky “I know better” way.  But in the positive, confident way that reminds me I’ve done this before. I’ve been awesome before.

With this in mind, I’d like to suggest some alternatives to “Push it.” Something encouraging, not insulting. Motivational but not too foofy. This is a working list, but here are some quick ideas. (Could be sharper. Must revise this at least 17 more times.)

 • Relax and give two shits less!

 • Let it go! (may be taken)

 • Encourage your mind to swim naked in an infinity pool of your own best ideas!

Sure, there’s not one stock answer. But it boils down to a simple nuance. To get a better creative product, don’t simply ask someone to “Push It.” Start by defining what better means to you, and show your confidence in their ability to achieve that better thing.

I know you can do it.  I believe in you. (See what I did there?)

 

Hores and Spaceships

You’re looking at my two favorite pieces of art my kids have ever done.

These are my favorite because I love imperfection. Inappropriate things make me really happy. If I meet another mom who reaches into her purse for a pen and instead pulls out a tampon with a half-eaten Tootsie Pop and a hair band stuck to it, I know we’ll be instant friends.

Not because we can complain about how bad it is, but because we can commiserate about how good it is. How funny it all is.

I am a big believer in sharing the mistakes, comparing the messes, admitting my faults and laughing (sometimes crying) about it all.

A friend and art director partner of mine has four kids. FOUR. Whenever we work together, we spend a lot of time sharing stories. Mostly about how, with the help of our husbands and friends and families, we’re barely holding it all together. Her stories trump mine every time (she has twice as many everythings, afterall.) But we both take solace in hearing that we’re all in this together, each doing the best we can. It’s not a competition, it’s a club.

I love my kids (duh.) And I am left breathless by their beauty and sweetness and budding talents almost every day. But you’ll rarely hear me talk about it.

Because I’d much rather laugh about my daughter’s horrible meltdown at the Halloween party. Or describe the adorable way my son sucks at karate.

The beauty is in the imperfection. The stories are in the screw-ups.

This is why I grow so tired in my job of advertisers worrying about portraying parenthood as negative. Of clients insisting we round the corners on the truth, concerned about alienating moms because we’re reminding them of the chaos in their own lives. Newsflash: THE CHAOS IS REAL. And if we embrace it, laugh about it and move on, we’ve shown that we understand what it’s really like to be a parent.

Aspirational is a popular word. “Don’t show the reality, show what moms aspire to be

Nope, sorry. Calling BS on that one. Because I will never be, nor aspire to be, that mom with no clutter on the counter of my unnaturally clean house and perfect hair and no visible panty lines who smiles in utter delight when she opens her dryer to see her kid has thrown a pack of crayons into it. 

In reality, I would LOSE MY SHIT if my kid threw a pack of crayons into the dryer. Even in the name of “science.”  But after I calmed down and used a lot of stain remover, I would begin sharing the story. With everyone I knew. And it would probably spark an even better story from my friend about how her son finger-painted his nursery room wall … with poop. Or how my other friend’s daughter built her entire first grade project out of champagne corks and cages, cause there just happened to be a lot of them lying around.

I don’t want to hear stories of perfection. Good for you, if you have them, but what I really want to hear about is how you spilled breast milk on your male coworker. Or how your 4-year-old walked in on you and your husband, and you told her you were “wrestling.” Tell me about how you burst into tears after dropping your son off at preschool this morning, because you’d yelled at him for picking up gum off the sidewalk and you haven’t slept well for 3 nights and you think the cat may have peed on the jeans you’re wearing because you haven’t had time to clean the litter box. I will laugh and cry and commiserate with you every time.

Cause that stuff is the best. The imperfect moments are the best.