While recently up north together sequestered hanging for several days, my children gave me an executive 360.

For years I have been requesting feedback- even a review, especially on Mother’s Day. What can I improve on? What needs work? How can I be better? Usually this comes across as a backing into compliments, which, as most of you know, I consider a national sport.

My oldest, who has never given me much push back (I do love me a little push back) was mad and frustrated with me. Something about how I move too quickly and expect too much. We had been snow shoeing and X country skiing and apparently I was acting like it was a race to the death.

The telling  suggesting to them they were going to do the 10km with me in May as my desired birthday present, sent them both over the edge. I can be a little obsessed with the family that plays together, stays together theme.

I asked her to tell me how she was feeling. And she could not. So she got out a notebook and started writing a note. I sat patiently (very hard for me) while she wrote page after page.

I was dying to read it.

We were by the fire and I was worried she would write the whole thing and then choose to dramatically toss it in there and I would never get a chance to read it.

Could I read the first few pages while you continue writing?

Nope.

She was biting her lower lip and writing like a1960s secretary in a corporate meeting doing shorthand at 300 WPM.

Please let me read it?

Silence.

She seemed to have no shortage of content. I kept thinking boy oh boy this is going to be terrible. It will read like MOMMY DEAREST.

She finally- in what seemed to be hours later- got up and brought it over to me and said emphatically- Here mom, read it all without comment until the end.

She was being bossy. I loved it. And feared it a wee bit. But I kept thinking-‘Atta girl.

I read it.

It was bang on.

It was amazing.

I looked up and said It is perfect. Thank you so much. I love you. You are beautiful. And strong.

And then we talked about it for an hour.

I can’t help but love a little well appointed, well supported criticism.

And that is how we came to have the FUGLY Jar. The mason jar of notes of what I need to work on. You know, my fugly bits.