On a warm weekday morning, during the spring of 1989, at approximately 12:15pm, you could have found me lying face down in the gravel on my school playground in the suburbs of Denver. My legs were in the spread-eagle position. And of course they were, because that’s basically what’s required to make face-down gravel humiliation complete. My mouth was open, and I could taste dirt mixed with a small stream of blood that was working its way from my nostril down over my upper lip. Multiple pairs of pink Nike’s and glittery Reeboks were surrounding my head, and I could hear the girls’ voices giggling while simultaneously asking “Are you okay?! You TOTALLY didn’t do that right!”

Thirty seconds earlier, I had climbed on top of a metal bar that stood about 9 feet high. To a 48- inch fourth-grader though, it was Everest. That bar was up there. Now, if you’re a child of the 80’s like me, you’ll remember that playgrounds back then were nothing but horrifying code violations. They were death traps, and I still wonder if the public school system (or the government maybe?) wanted to pick us off without it being obvious. We’re talking slides with no railings, tetherballs (who needs a bully when you can whip yourself in the face with a tetherball?), and tons upon tons of random metal bars of various heights that are all completely rusted and covered in peeling paint. This is what they called “recess”, people, and it wasn’t the plastic paradise that kids slobber all over today. Somebody back me up on this.

So there I was…. sitting all 64 pounds of myself on top of the mother of all metal bars…probably getting lead poisoning, while my hairy legs glistened in the morning sun. For weeks I had been tagging along with the cool crowd at recess. And by “cool crowd”, I mean anybody who would allow me to exist in their general vicinity. Every day I would watch these three beautiful and athletic girls from my class climb on top of the bars and do baby drops. Anybody remember those? A proper baby drop consisted of sitting on top of a skinny metal bar, falling backwards, and allowing the backs of your knees to catch on the bar. Your momentum swings your body upwards, and when you let go with your knees at EXACTLY the right time, you land on your feet. There’s an art to it, and there should be international playground competitions over this stuff.

These girls!!! They made baby drops look so easy! And they were so pretty doing it! A couple of times I heard some 6th grade boys (older men, mind you) catch one of them in the act and say “Woah! Cool!” And now, today, it was my turn. I’d taken a pass for too long, and nobody was buying my excuses of tummy aches and injured ankles anymore. It was time. As I monkeyed up the side bar I can vividly remember thinking “I’m supposed to be able to do this.” I was also simultaneously thinking “I cannot do this and I’m going to die.” So, I sat on top of the bar while everyone counted me down from 10, and then I basically submitted to my suicide, threw myself back, and baby…. I dropped. You know the rest.

That was the first of a million more proverbial face plants I would do throughout the next 30 years. I spent all of junior high and high school mimicking the styles, beliefs and verbiage of people who didn’t even know I existed. And they still don’t. I spent college being pulled in whatever direction the current flowed. Whoever was popular and beautiful and appeared to have their act together was my mentor. And just like in 4th grade, I usually found myself face down on the ground with people giggling and saying “Are you okay?! You TOTALLY didn’t do that right!” Because I never actually could look the same way other girls looked. And I didn’t have the money to buy what that other group of people bought. And I could NEVER get the older boys to look at me and say “Woah! Cool!” Each time I was defeated, I swear I could taste the blood and dirt from that first significant fall on the playground. And after so many failures, that taste moved its way down to my heart and baked itself in.

By the time I met my husband at the age of 22, the only thing I knew about myself was that I didn’t measure up in any of the ways I was supposed to. And sometimes, people who feel like they don’t measure up… they do whatever they need to do to make that feeling go away. So, I partied myself numb through most of our dating relationship…and he partied right along with me. We were married 3 years later, and a year after that we started the process of having one thousand kids. The next thing I knew, I was a wife and mother…who had no idea how to be a wife and mother. So I did the only thing I knew how to do. I started searching for a supreme wife and mother to pattern myself after.

It didn’t take long for me to remember June. I mean, if ever there was a wife and mother who had her shit together, it was June Cleaver. You know her right? June was the wife/mother in the TV show “Leave it to Beaver” ….and it was one of the few shows (besides Little House on the Prairie) that I was allowed to watch when I was a kid. For starters, June looked fabulous ALL THE TIME. When Ward and the kids came into the kitchen every morning, June had clearly been up for hours. Her dress was freshly pressed, her heels and pearl necklace matched perfectly, and not a hair (not one) was out of place. And breakfast was totally ready. Eggs, bacon, coffee brewing. Shortly thereafter she’d send her adoring family out into the world for the day with a gentle smile, and some timeless words of wisdom. Then her strenuous work would begin. Vacuuming (in her heels, of course), ironing Ward’s shirts, making cupcakes for the bake sale that would no doubt be raising money to feed the homeless, sewing and mending clothes, attending church choir practice, and then back home to hurry and get dinner in the oven. Later, when Wally and Beaver trudged through the door and confessed some deep amount of trouble they’d gotten into, June never lost her cool. She spoke in a low, calming voice and again imparted inspirational wisdom to her children that, no doubt, had a life-long effect. Ward would return home just in time for her to serve him dinner, clean up after everybody, and sit quietly on the sofa listening to him tell her about his day. And then, when her own 16 hour day was finally over, she probably tucked the kids in and still had enough energy to have sex with Ward…..with a loving smile on her face.

(That last paragraph might not be 100% accurate, but that’s June how I remember her).

Over the years I’ve been mesmerized by other June-types…..Martha Stewart (you know, before the whole prison thing)….oh and Kelly Ripa on that Electrolux commercial…the one where she is wearing none other than a dress and heels while she DOES THE LAUNDRY and then bakes cookies for her kids in her sparkling kitchen. And the kids are all smiling and looking at her adoringly. Stupid kids. And obviously I have to include Pinterest in this group. Who else has a love/hate relationship with the website that you can’t stop scrolling in awe, but has also convinced you you’re a total loser if your 5-year old’s birthday party doesn’t consist of hours upon hours of skilled artistry and bakery that is not humanly possible for 90% of the population?!

But for so many years, when the day was done and I was lying awake in bed at night, I always went back to June when grading my own paper on wifehood and motherhood. It’s not that I thought I should be in a dress every day, or scrubbing my kid’s boogers off the wall while in my heels….and maybe that’s why I didn’t feel ridiculous when comparing myself to some 50’s fictional character…..but I should’ve made a better dinner. I shouldn’t have lost my cool with the kids. Again. I don’t iron, and why can’t I EVER keep the house clean? I forgot that dentist appointment. For the third time in a row. I’m so disorganized. Why can’t I get my weekly schedule under control? I’ve let myself go. I never look good anymore. I’m lazy. And on, and on, and on. I’m sure you’ve all heard the saying that we’re our own worst critics, but there’s a select group of us out there who are guilty of absolutely torturing ourselves.

Finally, a few years ago, in a state of total anger and depression, I remember thinking, “I wonder if June had a sister. A totally messed up sister. One who stumbled into the kitchen about 20 minutes late every morning, tossed some potentially stale cereal on the table for the kids, and told her husband it was his turn to brew the coffee. One who wore sweat pants and sometimes/always let her leg hairs grow out for days. I wonder if June had a sister who unwittingly said embarrassing things in front of her preschooler that she prayed feverishly he wouldn’t repeat to his teachers. And she sucked at all things domestic and did stuff like order pizza for 4 nights in a row and wished she could petition for McDonald’s loyalty cards. And she said things like “What the hell is this shit!?” when the kids were at school and an unknown rotting piece of food was once again discovered under the couch cushions. And her house was so disorderly that she made her kids hide with her in a closet one time and pretend they weren’t home when neighbors unexpectedly rang the doorbell. And she silently cursed the PTA presidents and bake sale gurus of the world in between sips of Chardonnay. And she had a past that haunted her. I wonder if June had a sister like that. If she did, I bet her name would be Jane.”

And then I smiled.