alisonnissen

The house is a mess. Chili is cooking on the stovetop. I’m wearing a holey t-shirt and jogging shorts.

“Alison, go get dressed.”

It was practical advice. Over 30 people were expected to arrive in 30 minutes, but Transformer robots were strewn all over the living room and kitchen.

“Alison, no one cares if there are toys lying around. Go fix yourself up. You’ll feel better.”

I probably looked like a deer in headlights. “But the mess?”

“I promise. People aren’t coming to see a clean house,” my mom said calmly, holding her 2-year-old grandchild on her hip. “No worries.”

I glanced at the simmering mess in the kitchen. Chili bubbled and popped; onion skins still laid on the countertop.

With permission, I ran upstairs to shower and change. I was excited, how often do you celebrate the 5th birthday of your oldest child. And just as Mom promised, no one cared about the mess.

I recently participated in an online survey: Would you rather have a clean house or make memories in a messy house? I selected memories and noticed that 77% of participants agreed with me.

But what about those who would rather have a clean house?

I’m reminded of my journey as a mother. I used to fear that people would judge me, my ability to be a good mom and caregiver to my children, by my kitchen floor. The thought would overwhelm me: tumble fur roamed the corners as we walked by, splattered yogurt left over from a dropped spoon clung to the baseboards, toys from Happy Meals discarded haphazardly under the chairs.

The kitchen wasn’t bad. Dishes were clean. Windows were washed. Food was put away. It was my mom’s comment that changed my perspective.

People aren’t coming to see my clean house. They are coming to make memories. In the wise words of journalist Hunter S. Thompson, “Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming ‘Wow! What a Ride!’”

Over this Thanksgiving season, I hope you make memories with those you love in a messy house.

“But what if I fail?”

A few years ago, I jumped on the Impostor Syndrome bandwagon, wrote a blog article about looking yourself in the mirror and saying, “I believe in me!” But I’ve recently changed my mind that the idea of the Impostor Syndrome, the belief that you are not the real deal, is another excuse to blame others rather than actually accomplishing all you should.

We tell ourselves stories. We aren’t good enough or that we’ll never make it. We look in the mirror and wonder, when will it be my time? Here’s the good news, you’re already there. No one on Earth has had the same experiences you’ve had—and that’s why you aren’t an impostor. You are the subject matter expert on the sum of your experiences.

In 1998, with only an undergrad degree, I accepted a position as a “emergency” literature professor for a college on a military base. As I entered the classroom, I noticed the varied ages of students. Some soon ready to retire from their military careers and some fresh out of high school.

“What if I fail,” I repeated the question to my mom the night before.

“You won’t. And,” she added, “as long as you stay one week ahead of your students, you’ll always be a week ahead.”

This logic assuaged my fears but didn’t take away my worry that I was an impostor.

My first day in the classroom invigorated me. I realized that I could have daring conversations about literature with my students and leave confident in my knowledge that I was an expert. I learned that one of my students had spent his time during Desert Storm as a base librarian and had read hundreds of books. Another was a general’s aid and responsible for a variety of international communications with world leaders. A third was a tank mechanic. I engaged my students with lessons on literature and writing, and they regaled me with interesting stories from their own fields of expertise.

Lorne Michaels, creator of Saturday Night Live once said, “If you’re the smartest person in the room, then you’re in the wrong room.” There should always be the desire for growth and a willingness to learn. The impostor syndrome is born when we feed doubt to our ego. Instead, have confidence in knowing that you are the best you the world will ever meet. The next time you feel like an impostor, just look in the mirror because you will be the one smiling back. And that, my friends, is the real deal.

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“That is the ugliest piece of pottery I have ever seen!” My ceramics teacher glanced at the basket I held in front of me as he turned on his heel to talk to the next student.

The comment was brief, brisk, and cruel. My beautiful woven clay Easter basket with bright, cheerful yellows and pinks and baby blues sat in my hands exactly the way I wanted it. I envisioned it stuffed with overflowing green Easter grass, some hand-painted eggs, and my mom’s smile on Easter morning.

Instead, I headed toward the paints to select every angry color I could find. Metallic blacks and browns haphazardly brushed onto every crevasse covering the pale pastels. I wanted to keep painting repulsive red, grungy green, bitter blue. My vision smashed by one sentence, as if it were a bowl tipped casually to a cement floor, broken into a thousand shards.

I no longer cared about my basket or the class or the teacher. I would be a high school graduate in a few short months and told myself I would never look back again.

The next day, my creation sat next to all the others as students picked through the various pieces to find their own designs. It wasn’t as ugly as I had hoped. There was a copper shimmer that caught the light and a reflective nickel that created movement if you tipped the basket left or right.

“Much better,” the teacher said as I, once again, held the basket in my hands.

Maybe my teacher wanted me to be an artist. Maybe he hoped that I wanted to be an artist. Maybe all I wanted was an easy class to while away the time prior to the next chapter of my life.

For years, the basket sat on a shelf in my parent’s guest bathroom, the perch it received after I presented it to Mom on Easter morning. It had never been filled with eggs dipped in happy colors. To me, it was filled with a reminder that words have power. They have the power to scorn as well as the power to shine.

My parents no longer have that house, and I no longer have that basket. But if I did, I’d fill it with my collection of ceramic Easter eggs, each lovingly made, each with a craftsman’s signature. My basket was designed to hold pretty things, not painful words.

That gives me an idea…maybe I should sign up for a pottery class.

At 9:00 pm, I received a text from my husband. Our son needs to be home by Friday before the European Corona Virus travel ban begins.

For years, I pushed our children to explore the world, study abroad, expand horizons. Our youngest finally did by participating in a Transitional Economies course, which included a week in the Czech Republic, visiting corporations, attending lectures, and sightseeing.

I hadn’t fallen for the COVID-19 hype—I had an adequate amount of toilet paper, plenty of bleach, and an extra bottle of Dawn Ultra with 50% less scrubbing and 3x the grease cleaning power—until my child was about to be stuck in Europe for a month.

As an experienced traveler, I hopped on the internet and within a minute, acquired the ticket he needed. But the date was incorrect. Ugg. No problem, I bought him a second ticket one minute later only to discover he’d been waitlisted. Wait. What? No. NO. NO!

I felt my hands began to tremble, just a little. I called the airline: “We are experiencing higher than normal call volumn.” I fumbled with my computer mouse. My clicks weren’t connecting as panic slowly started to bubble inside. I Googled the airline for information. Nothing. I called another number. Busy. I felt myself falling apart until a little voice said, Alison. Stop. Breathe.

So I did. One inhale in. One slow exhale out. A few calmer clicks later, my world traveler was booked and on his way to the airport.

When I look at the craziness all around me: schools closing, markets falling, baseball postponing the season, I imagine this is what pandemonium looks like. I realize it doesn’t take much to be swept up by hysteria—regardless of how much toilet paper I have. I will count myself lucky that I have that little voice to remind me to breathe, to recalibrate.

As everything seems to fall apart around me, I am going to make one simple suggestion to the world: let’s give ourselves a pause. Let’s stop and breathe. Really, it’s quite amazing what a slow inhale and exhale can accomplish. Now, where is hand sanitizer?