"Mistakes are going to be made."

Earlier in the week, I received some constructive criticism over a piece of work I had done. It had been my first attempt at it, and though I hadn't been given much guidance, I didn't ask many questions, because I genuinely thought I knew what was expected of me. As it turned out, I wasn't entirely sure, and so when it was reviewed, parts of it had to be re-done; which, obviously, was not the most efficient use of my time.

To say I am unaccustomed to dealing with criticism would not be entirely accurate, but it is also true that until then, most of the feedback I had received had been positive. And it is also true that I have been known to be rather defensive when I am criticised; seeking to justify why I have done or said something, whatever that something is.

So I had to try to face things differently this time; and here are three things that helped:

one. having a lovely manager who knows how to interact with people helps enormously. She didn't start by listing out everything I'd done wrong, with no opening. She sat down next to me and asked if we could talk about the assignment. She started by praising another section of my work. And then she didn't say that what I had done was rubbish-no-good. Instead, she suggested I look up a couple of examples of how other people approach it, so as to understand what it was about. She explained where I'd gone wrong, and heard me out when I explained that part of why I'd done something one way was because I thought it made sense because X, Y and Z. She even engaged with that, acknowledging the logic in the thought process, but let me know that 'no, we can't do that, though I understand why you'd think that'.

two. The following quote from The West Wing kept going through my head: "Mistakes are going to be made. Minimize them, fix them... move on." (From the episode 'Mandatory Minimums' in season 1, in case anyone fancies watching it!) Instead of what I would have been tempted to do a while back (which is to think, at length, about what I'd done wrong and how I should have done it differently and so on and so forth), I thought, "Ok, I made a mistake. How can I fix it? How can I not make it next time?" Over an over, I kept reminding myself, "Minimise them. Fix them. Move on. Move on. Move on."

three. Today, I came across a sign: "Don't look back: you're not going that way." And I had to laugh. Because, yes. "FORWARD."

I looked over my work, bearing in mind the criticism. I recognised the mistakes that had been pointed out. I thought of how to correct them. I went on a course about how to do the task - which, admittedly, may have been useful before I attempted the task. I learned how to do it. Next time, I will ask more questions, I will try harder, and I will have learned.

"Minimize them. Fix them. Move on."

I'm moving on.

Meet my dad.

A blogger I follow, Miss Zoot, recently posted an entry which was basically an open letter to her dad, who died several years ago. I have been feeling a little under the weather recently, and it's Father's Day in Spain today, and I have noticed that I have been missing my dad more than usual; and so I thought I would write to tell you about my dad.

*****

One of my earliest memories of my dad is of him trying to teach my sister and I to say the word for 'dog' in Spanish. We must still have been living in Paris, and based on my recollection of what the kitchen looked like, it must have been in the first year we lived there. I must have been two? That doesn't sound right. Perhaps it was the first year we were in Spain, which would have made my sister and I eight and six years old respectively, which seems more likely. Neither my sister nor I could roll our 'r's, so when we tried to say "perro", what actually happened was this:
Sister: "Pe-lo!"
Me: "Pe-jo!"
Sister: "Pe-ro!"
Me: "Pehhhh-o!"
Cue ecstatic small-child-giggles of hilarity, when, already in our in nighties, we should have been headed to bed.

And so my dad tried to teach us some Spanish before we moved to Barcelona - or in the first few years we were there. And when I started learning it at school, whilst my sister still spoke French with him, I switched to Spanish; and it felt like our little secret. I knew, of course, that both my sister and mum could perfectly understand what we were saying, but I still thought of it as "our little thing."

But then there are so many more things that make him him, that made my relationship with my dad be one that I miss enormously. Like how he always called me "pretty face". How he encouraged me to be part of the Castellers de San Andreu De La Barca even though it was crazy and at strange hours and he was afraid of heights. How he taught me some DIY - how he left me instructions on how to affix a cork board to the wall in my room, and how I did it, following those instructions, after he'd died. How we'd build IKEA furniture together while drinking cups of tea and listening to the Boss. How he'd help me with my maths homework. How he let me sit on his lap at the dinner table until I was surely too old for that, because I needed a cuddle. How he'd let me try any wine he was drinking - until I realised, around about my 12th birthday, that I wasn't sure I liked wine, and so stopped. How he let me make Tiramisú by myself when I was about eight years old, and I burned his stove-top coffee maker by omitting to place any water in it, and couldn't stop laughing about it. How he told me to "trust [my] voice" that he "[liked my voice]". How when I told my mum and him that "I... I think I don't like boys," he laughed, said he was proud of me for telling them, and offered me a glass of wine. I was thirteen. (Spain, eh!)

I miss sitting in the car driving back from town, listening to Melissa Etheridge or the Dire Straits, and signing - both of us signing delightfully out of tune. I miss being able to go to dad and say "I don't understand my homework!" I miss being able to dial his office number, and with pride in my voice, be able to ask to speak to "Dr E, please" - though I know the phone number by heart, still. I miss being able to talk to him, to ask him for advice, to tell him "I feel rubbish" or "I am happy."


I miss having this man around.


Come July, I'll have spent a third of my life without him. That is all of my adult life. He died before I finished school, before I moved across the world, before I got into university, before my first serious relationship, before my first paid job, before I graduated from my degree, from my MA, before I learned to drive. Before I moved to a city where I knew no one, before I got my own apartment. There's so much I'd have wanted to tell him.

I just -
I just miss my dad.

If yours is still around, please call him? Just say hi. Ask him for his thoughts on something. Tell him you love him. One more time.