The Mess that is My Life

A Month of Kindness

2012-01-30T21:56:00.000-08:00

It's been a month since I started my kindness project. So what have I learned?

I've learned that 140 characters isn't very many. I've learned that people define kindness differently. I've learned that reading and posting a great kindness quotation in the morning doesn't mean I'm going to be kind all day. I've learned that I can't be truly kind and cranky at the same time (although a kind moment can peek through a cranky cloud). I've learned that having a single focus for an entire day is tough.

I did not grow up in a house filled with kindness. I was not taught to be kind. I learned lots of good things in my home, but I wouldn't say kindness was one of them. I grew up in a home with a lot of sarcasm, a lot of yelling, a lot of fighting. Not always, of course, but those things stuck with me.

Kindness was something I found outside my home.

My grandmother was kind. There was something different about her that drew me in. An unconditional love. Did she talk to me about kindness? I don't remember. But she treated me kindly.

And I'd say that is how I learned kindness -- by others being kind to me. Kind people popped up in my life often. They were heroes to me. I wanted to be like them. To this day, truly kind people will always be a draw for me. It's like a magic power.

I've tried to be kind. Sometimes I've succeeded; sometimes, not so much. But I've really been struggling with it lately. Especially in my home.

That's why I chose this word. I want to be more kind. I want to feel it in my heart. I want to feel it so much that I can't contain it, that it is bursting from my seams. I want to radiate kindness.

I've been working on it for a month and I'm not there yet. Not even close. I go like gang busters for a while and then fall flat. Out comes the sarcastic remark or snotty comment. I can apologize (although I often don't), but that won't take back what I said.

Change is hard.

It's possible that some of my difficulty is because I'm struggling with my emotional/mental/physical health. It's always more difficult to be kind when I don't feel well.

Can I be kind when I am miserable? Is it possible?

I think so. I haven't proven it yet. The experiment goes on.

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I'm going to broaden my word choice a bit. I'm going to include words which I feel connect to or are an aspect of kindness. Words like charity, respect, compassion. One word just wasn't enough to capture the change I'm looking for.

I'm Crazy -- It's Official

2012-01-23T15:28:00.000-08:00

I don't think it will come as a surprise to anyone who knows me well that I've been struggling. In fact, it probably won't surprise anyone who reads my blog, is my friend on facebook, or follows me on Twitter. I wouldn't even be shocked if the mailman knows. I've tried to fake it but suspect I haven't been doing a very good job.

I have needed to see my doctor for months. I have been ill. I have had pains that should be addressed or checked. I have run out of meds that made my life a little easier. And I was past due for my annual checkup. Why didn't I go? Ironically, because I didn't feel well enough.

I understand that sounds ridiculous. I didn't go to the doctor because I didn't feel well enough. But it's the honest truth.

I have been white-knuckling my life. Holding on with both hands to keep it all from falling apart. Picking up what I could of those things I dropped. And trying to smile and say, "No, really, I'm fine."

But I wasn't. I'm not. And I finally went to the doctor.

I went because I couldn't get my meds refilled without going. And because my husband caught me in a moment of meltdown and offered to get me an appointment.

After all the opening fun of being weighed and giving a urine sample, I changed into the lovely gown and drape and waited for the doctor. My tension was rising as I knew I needed to discuss everything with him. I needed to give him as complete a list of the mess of my life as possible so we could work together to find a direction. And I had a written list just to make sure I hit it all.

He came in, we went through the normal review of medical history, and then I asked if I could give him more information.

And I did. I shared my history of abuse, my struggles with fatigue and pain, and the new things that have come up. I was as brief as possible. I fought through tears. I said what I needed to say.

And do you know what he did? He listened. He didn't interrupt. He didn't rush. He just listened. And when I finished he asked a few questions for clarification. And in that moment I felt like I had a partner, someone who truly wanted to help me. Someone who saw a person and not a problem.

He didn't have the answers. I didn't expect him to. But he still helped.

He performed my physical exam, ordered all the blood tests indicated, gave me new prescriptions for the things I needed, and gently gave me some direction.

He suggested I get back into therapy AND see a psychiatrist.

I was already planning to get back into therapy; I have done so since that appointment.

But I hadn't thought of seeing a psychiatrist. As he explained, they don't really do therapy anymore. Mostly they are medication detectives. They can try different combinations of medications and off-label uses to offer new choices when the basics haven't worked.

I have had many symptoms of low-serotonin for years. I have tried many medications. I have had no success.

I am now fighting more symptoms. They aren't huge in scale but they are numerous. They are making my life difficult. I am fighting social phobias which are limiting my participation in the outside world, including church. I am fighting anxiety which is causing me to isolate and refuse to communicate or spend time with family. I am fighting an OCD issue -- repetitively spelling in my head (yeah, that is obnoxious and hurts my head and I can't stop). I am impatient and often rude without having any idea. When I realize it, but can't stop it, I go back to my room to prevent hurting people. I have no emotional strength to face anything that isn't going just right.

The inch or two of mud I was walking through has become shin-deep. The slog of life is much, much harder. I am trying, but I am struggling.

So, I am eager to jump back on the medication roller coaster and play Russian Roulette with the psychiatrist (in March, which was as soon as I could get an appointment). Even though I may be setting myself up for disappointment, I am hopeful that we will be able to find something that will help. Because, honestly, I don't know how much more I can take. Things have to get better. They just have to.

What Will This Year Be?

2012-01-01T11:59:00.000-08:00

I'm not big on marking the new year as some great day with a bunch of resolutions. I don't usually make resolutions. I used to and then just got angry with myself if I didn't follow through or felt like I had to continue even when it no longer fit my life. I'm always trying to change, trying to improve. I don't think I need a calendar to tell me today is the day to start.

Plus, I hate going along with the crowd. I've been known to not do something that everyone else is doing, even though I wanted to, because of it. But this time I am going to overcome that tendency (that's one goal right there -- done!). I am going to push through my natural rebel and start something today that I intend to continue. Maybe for the whole year.

A while back I saw something somewhere (don't you like how well I track my inspiration?). I think it was on a blog, but I really have no idea. This person chose a word to define the year. One word to use to guide them in all they did. Maybe to improve on. Maybe to notice more. Whatever.

I like this. And I'm choosing to do this. I don't know if it will be for the whole year or if I'll feel like choosing a new word in a month or if I'll just decide the whole thing is stupid and throw it out the window. I like to see how things go and switch it up when they don't work.

And, because I can take commitment in small doses, I am going to do something every day. I am going to find a quote, thought, maybe a scripture for my word each day and tweet it. That's it. I will commit to one tweet a day. I believe that is doable. And if I miss a day (which I shouldn't because that's really a small commitment that anyone should be able to follow through on), I will forgive myself and get over it.

My word for the year is KINDNESS. I want to practice it more. I want to notice it more. I want to feel it in my heart and to my toes more.

You can follow me on Twitter to share my experience. Or you can just come to my blog every now and then; my Twitter feed shows on my sidebar. Who knows? I might even write a blog post about it.

This will be a year of kindness.

I'd love to hear about how you're going to change the world this year (or just change yourself). Feel free to share.

You Fell Out of the World

2011-12-30T16:27:00.000-08:00

A while back I was listening as my son coached my daughter with a video game. I heard a squeal of disappointment and he said, "You fell out of the world."

I'm not quite sure what the implications of this were for her; I'm not very familiar with the game. But that phrase struck me. And has stuck with me.

You see, sometimes I fall out of the world.

I am going along, doing my thing, and suddenly I am nowhere. There is no earth beneath me. I simply am. But what I am is unclear.

I've been in this non-place lately. Disconnected but somewhat present. Visible but absent. Unable to find what I've lost.

I have moments of normalcy. My feet touch the ground and I run from here to there trying to get things done, knowing my time is temporary. And then normal dissipates like a fog and I am undone again.

Time passes and yet the earth is still. My mind races and yet I can't think. I speak and do and yet there are no results.

I will find my footing again. Gravity and I will renew our relationship. The earth will be solid. And I will be a part of all that exists. I will exist.

For now I am simply waiting.

Snips, Spice, Sugar, Snails - Gender Identification

2011-11-19T11:42:00.001-08:00

The most important thing about you is your gender.

Really. Want to know how I know? It's the first thing anyone asked when they found out you were born. Unless there were complications, it's the first thing the doctor told your parents. It's the first label you got in this world. It's why you were no longer an "it."

The doctor told your parents which gender you were and it will be a part of your life forever. You will be checking that gender box on forms for the rest of your life. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of forms. Declaring your gender. It's kind of a big deal.

Is it really the most important thing about you? I don't know. But it is a big deal.

I'm a science girl. For me, the question of whether someone is male or female is usually pretty simple. If they have a penis, they're a boy. If not, they're a girl. Seems pretty simple, huh?

And there was a time when I believed it was that simple. But that was a long time ago.

Even speaking scientifically, it's not always that simple. There are cases when a person has mixed gentalia. Sometimes external male genitals and internal female genitals. Along with other situations, this can get complicated. And I'm not going to lie, when I was pregnant I worried about this. (Because when you are pregnant you worry about everything!) I worried that when my baby was born there would be some question as to gender and I would be faced with incredibly difficult decisions that could affect this small person forever. It wasn't a big worry, it's not common, but it was a possibility that crossed my mind.

I have no idea what I would do in that situation other than pray a lot. I would do a lot of soul searching to try to do what was best for that child. I don't believe people are ever put in the wrong bodies. (But I understand why others disagree with me on this.)

Fortunately, I have been blessed. All of my children have been definitely male or female at birth. I have also been blessed that each of them feels comfortable with their gender and accepts it as correct for them, as far as I know. And I have always felt comfortable being female.

But there is so much more to gender identification. There are parental preferences. There are social prejudices. There are nurturing styles. There are abuse situations. There are hormones in our food. And there are so many societal expectations and definitions of what it means to be male or female.

It's not just about your body and science. It's not just about what parts you have. Part of gender identification is external; part of it is internal.

There is so much more to talk about.

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This post is part of an on-going series discussing gender issues. To start at the beginning, go here.

My Scary Super Power

2011-11-15T12:25:00.001-08:00

We all have things we're good at. Things we do better than others. Sometimes, lots better. We think of them as gifts, talents, abilities. And I have those, too.

But I think, every now and then, we discover something about ourselves that is so powerful that it scares us. It's just something we do. We didn't understand what it really meant. And then something happens which brings it front and center.

When this happened to me I freaked out. I panicked. I swore to never use my power again.

I have the power of persuasion. And it scares me.

I used to think it was cool to win an argument or get my way. I used to like using words to convince my friends to do what I wanted instead of what they wanted. I used to like using logic to disprove what everyone knew was true -- to the point that everyone was questioning what they believed before.

It's not cool. It's dangerous.

So many people don't want to make decisions. They don't want to think for themselves. They don't want to choose. And I have often had people try to put me in the position of making the decision for them (which I am actually not doing even if I tell them what to do; they are still choosing to do what I said).

Before I understood this I answered requests for advice. What do you think I should do? And I would tell them. I figured everyone else was like me and would seek lots of advice, do their own research, and follow their heart. I was wrong. People would ask. I would answer. They would do.

I remember the first time someone said they did something because, "Robin said I should." WHAT? No, I didn't. I just tried to give you more information. Just my opinion. Not a directive.

I don't want that kind of responsibility.

But, like King Midas and X-Men, sometimes it's tough to not use this power. I don't even know I'm influencing someone and then hear later that I changed their mind.

I can argue either side of most questions. I am quite analytical. I am logical. I am good with words. And I am a student of human behavior, so after a few sentences back and forth I can tell whether this person is arguing with their heart or mind and which area they feel strongest about and which attack will work. It's kind of like a sport I am naturally good at. It just happens.

I have learned to be very cautious when answering a request for advice. If I sense that this person wants me to make their decision for them, I try to give arguments on both sides. I'm good at seeing options. And usually people asking for advice aren't seeing options. I try to give several options without weighing any of them more heavily than the other so they don't think I'm telling them to do this or that.

Why won't I decide for them? Why won't I tell them what to do? Especially all those people who are obviously screwing up their lives that I can easily see the answers to? Because I did in the past and it was bad.

There is always information I don't have. They don't grow if they aren't self-determining. And because I believe to my core that each of us should choose for ourselves whenever possible.

And that is something I would like to persuade you of. That you should choose for yourself. I believe it with all my heart. Because that is what this power is truly for. To testify of truth in a way that allows others the chance to choose it for themselves. Because we are all more capable, more powerful, than we know.

Fact Check: A True Friend is Always There for You

2011-11-12T09:57:00.001-08:00

Poppycock! Seriously, I'm calling a big baloney on this one.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that this is a girl truism. We women think this is true. We tell other women it's true. We all want to have that kind of friend. We all feel pressure to be that kind of friend.

Well, let me tell you right now, I don't believe this kind of friend exists. I don't believe this person exists. And if she does, she is very unhealthy emotionally.

Let's talk about a real friend. Let's call her Jane. Jane is a great friend. She loves you and supports you. She listens to you when you are struggling. She calls you on it when you are avoiding things out of fear. She loves you even after you yell at her when you're having a bad day. She is a great friend.

But Jane has crises in her life, too. Jane sometimes leaves town. Jane sometimes gets sick. Jane sometimes gets angry with you and doesn't want to talk to you. Jane sometimes has emotional breakdowns and has nothing left for you.

When you've had a fight with your husband and think your world is ending, Jane may be dealing with the loss of her dear mother. She just can't comfort you right now.

Sometimes Jane just isn't there for you.

Why? If Jane is a true friend, why won't she put everything in her life aside to make you feel better?

Because she is a person, too. And she's not in charge of making you happy -- you are. She is in charge of making herself happy and taking care of her emotional needs.

That's why we all need a support system. Not just a best friend.

As part of self-care, it's your responsibility to build a support system for yourself. No one is going to do it for you. People aren't just going to fall into your life and become important to you and supportive of you without any effort on your part. You have to reach out. You have to open up. You have to risk rejection and find those people. And it will probably take many of them to get you through this life. Because life is tough and we need others.

No one should be the ONLY person in the world who understands you and can help you through. That's just not a kind position to put someone in. It's unrealistic and it's selfish. Even if it's your spouse.

Reach out. Make friends. Find support. Let your friends be real people.

And if you're Jane, quit trying to be everyone's saving grace and just be Jane. A good friend who helps and supports when it's healthy to do so.

Snips, Spice, Sugar, Snails - An Introduction

2011-11-09T19:14:00.001-08:00

Gender. What does that mean to you? Does it inspire questions or debate in your mind? How often do you find yourself thinking about it or discussing it? How often do you reference it? How much does it affect your life and how you interact with those around you?

I've been pondering gender a lot lately. And I have some thoughts. Some things to say. Some practices to question. Maybe some pots to stir.

But I have too many thoughts for one post. So I have decided to do a series of posts on the subject of gender.

I am not a fan of stirring controversy. Really, I usually like to keep my political and religious beliefs to myself. I do not feel a need to convince others to believe what I believe.

But I imagine that my beliefs may color some of what I say. So I guess I better get some of them out in the open.

I believe we existed before we came to this earth. I believe that gender was part of who we were then. I don't believe we came to earth as a girl or boy because God assigned that to us; I believe we came as whatever we were before. If you are a girl on earth, I believe you were a girl before earth.

I also believe there are some really big questions about gender and gender-related issues that I don't know the answers to. Things I have thought about, studied, and prayed about that I am still unsure of. There are things I haven't taken a position on.

There are generalities. And there are exceptions. There are assumptions. And there are truths.

There is love. And hate. And fear. And confusion.

And I want to talk about some of these.

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This post is part of an on-going series on gender issues. If you would like to continue this thread, go here.

Thank You for Touching My Life

2011-10-31T06:41:00.000-07:00

The other day I was privileged to participate in a two-day activity for our church youth group called Youth Conference. Over the course of those days there were many activities, from physical to spiritual.

One of those activities involved a partner. Everyone in the room partnered with someone else. We stood facing each other, within about half an arms reach. Then we followed instructions as led by the speaker. The last instruction really got me. "Look this person in the eye and imagine what you would say to them if this were the last time you were ever going to see them. Tell them."

I was caught off guard by the emotion this evoked in me. My partner was a lady from our neighborhood who has become a good friend of mine. She has been supportive and understanding in a way most people aren't. She truly cares about me and doesn't hide it. She is genuine.

And in that moment I truly thought about losing her. My eyes welled up with tears. I had difficulty speaking clearly. And I thanked her for touching my life. If we were never to see each other again, I would want her to know she made a difference. And I am grateful.

I am grateful for many things. I live in a time and place where most of life's basic hardships aren't a factor. I have food, shelter, heat, money, a bed, clothes, electricity, clean running water, access to health care. I have so many things that so many people in the world don't have. And I am grateful for those things, even though I don't notice them most days.

But what I do notice are the people in my life. I notice them every day. I feel their impact every day. They shape who I am. They enrich my existence. They are the whipped cream that makes my life sweeter. They are the duct tape that keeps me together when I am falling apart.

I am incredibly blessed to have had so many wonderful people touch my life at one time or another. And I am grateful for all of them. For the ones who are still around and the ones who just passed through.

To all of you -- thank you for touching my life. I am better for it.

Where Did the Color Go?

2011-10-21T09:43:00.000-07:00

Sometimes life is bright and full of color. Other times it gets dark. Mostly shades of gray.

The color was there. It was everywhere. And then it started to fade. So subtle. Barely noticeable. Until the color was gone.

And I am left wondering where it went.

The Center of Attention

2011-10-14T00:14:00.000-07:00

As a kid, I loved being the center of attention. Anything I could do to be in the spotlight, I did. Sing a song. Dance. Tell a joke. Do a cartwheel. Whatever.

Somewhere along the line, this desire waned. No longer did I enter a room loudly declaring my presence ("I'm here! The party can start now!"). I kind of stealthed in. Trying to find somewhere to sit or someone to talk to so that I didn't stand out. Trying not to be noticed.

How did this happen?

As children we come into this world with great energy and no fear. The world quickly puts a stop to that silly nonsense. Over time we learn that when we shine others sometimes try to squelch our glory. When we put ourselves out there in the public eye we open ourselves up to criticism and ridicule. We make our offering and it is sometimes rejected as inadequate. We learn that the cost of attention is sometimes too high -- it costs us a bit of our self-worth.

I no longer hide from the spotlight, but I usually don't seek it either.

So why do I blog?

I started blogging at a difficult time in my life, while I was in therapy. I found that writing things out helped clarify my thoughts and helped me process things. It helped me find truths I was hiding from myself. Writing works for me.

But choosing to publish my writings on a blog took a lot of pondering and soul searching. I just wasn't sure I wanted to put it all out there.

I tip-toed into blogging. I began writing without telling anyone. Then I told a couple of people. And I was surprised to find that others enjoyed my writing. Others found value and strength in the things I was learning and sharing. The things I wrote made people think and started conversations. To me, this increased the value of my writing.

Plus, it's fun to get nice comments.

My blogging has evolved. There are fewer therapy sessions but still plenty of philosophical ideas. There are more family stories. As I have moved through that painful time to a happier place, my blog has reflected this.

But I still don't use pictures.

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Today is my day to shine. I am the featured blogger on SITS (a wonderful blogging community that teaches, supports, and connects bloggers). If you are visiting me for the first time, welcome. I hope you feel comfortable here. Check out my About the Author and About the Mess pages -- they have pictures!

I usually stink at replying to comments, but for this day only I promise that if you leave a comment I will reply and/or visit your blog in return.

Celebrity Dinner

2011-10-11T07:27:00.000-07:00

You know that question, "If you could have dinner with anyone (alive or dead) who would you choose?" Have you ever answered that question? The possibilities are incredible.

I've thought about this question many times. I'm not really big on celebrities, so it probably wouldn't be one of them. I do like deep thinkers. I've thought about Mother Theresa, the Dali Lama, Einstein. And Jesus. Who wouldn't want to spend time with Jesus?

But none of these would be my choice.

My choice would be my grandma. She was the greatest influence for good in my life. She was the person who made me believe in myself. She always made me feel important. And loved. And valued.

And I miss her.

At first I think I would want her to cook so that I could taste those moments of joy again. Those dishes that no one else makes like she did. That little bite of heaven.

Then I think I would want to cook for her, to repay her. To show her that I was listening to the things she taught me. To share something wonderful I discovered.

Eventually I realize it doesn't matter. We wouldn't need to eat. That really has nothing to do with the idea of this dinner.

We would be together. We would talk. I could tell her about all the difficult things in my life. She could point out the ways they've helped me to grow. I could tell her about all the wonderful things in my life. She could help me recognize God's hand in them.

And I would listen so much more.

So much of my life with her was while I was young and so self-centered. I wish I'd allowed her to talk more. I'm sad about the parts of her I don't know because I was worried about my own life. My time spent with her was before I really knew how to slow down and just be in that moment.

But even if I went on and on, she would radiate love. She would be glad to be with me, too. And when it was time to go she would tell me how much she loved me. She would tell me to be good. And as she hugged me she would give me those rapid, successive kisses on my cheek.

I want to be like her when I grow up.

All Sorts of Trophies

2011-10-06T11:27:00.000-07:00

I have recently been in the process of gutting my house. Getting rid of the superfluous. Ditching the things that don't matter but are taking up space in my home and my life.

Last week I focused on the living room.

I know some people have big homes and the living room is kept nice and rarely used. That's not us. We live in a relatively small home, the living room is the first room you walk into when you enter the house, and it's where we live. It's where we congregate. It's where we hang out.

And, when I got sick, it started to stack up.

Every horizontal surface was covered with stuff. Boxes of things were stacked in corners. It was a dizzying array of our lives on full display for everyone who walked into the room.

Most of it was easy to deal with; it just took time. Throw it away. Put it away. Anyone know what this is?

But there were other things that were tougher. One category that I've struggled with is trophies.

In our living room there were 28 trophies, 33 medals, and 1commemorative pin. None of them belonged to me. Or my husband. They are our children's. They are for softball, baseball, basketball, soccer, wrestling, track, piano, band, choir, math, writing, and art. And there are more in some of my kids' rooms.

There are just so many. And they serve no purpose. Or do they?

I asked my kids if they wanted to keep them. They each said they did. I told them they'd have to make room for them in their rooms. They said they'd think about it. I ended up putting them all in a box in storage. Maybe after they've been out of sight for a while they will decide they don't need them.

And I asked myself why they are so desirable.

When I coached there were times we bought trophies for the kids. They cost about four dollars each. They usually have a solid base and incredibly cheap plastic moldings of some sort on top. They also usually have a nameplate of some kind. They are pretty, but whittled down to their basic materials they aren't really worth much.

They have value because of what they represent. Trophies represent a victory, like the trophy of a hunt. They say, "Look at this cool thing I did!" And through this they say that at one time we were great, maybe the best.

And I think that's why we hold onto them. We all have moments when we doubt our worth. But we can look at these and see that there are (or were) things we are good at.

And there are all sorts of trophies. I think that's often what the big, beautiful library is. It shows that we read all those books. That we conquered. That we are of value. Or the trophy wife which shows that a man was chosen as superior to other men. Or the trophy car. The trophy home. The trophy title.

There are so many trophies in our lives. Why do we want them? Why do we keep them? Isn't knowing that we won enough?

When my kids ask, "What do I get if I win?" and I say "bragging rights" or "the knowledge that you won" it doesn't always cut it. The world seems to ask, "Why is it worth working hard if I don't have a prize to show for it?"

But I'm going to keep trying. I'm going to keep teaching that even when the thing that marks the accomplishment is gone, the accomplishment isn't. That doing great things is shown in the people we become, not a cheap piece of plastic. That many friends and a life you can be proud of are the best trophy.

We Gladly Feast on Those Who Would Subdue Us

2011-10-04T10:19:00.000-07:00

It's here! It's here! I can't believe it; it's finally here! It's the most magical time of year! It's Octoboween! Huzzah!

There aren't many things that get me truly excited, and I am usually very frugal in my use of exclamation points, but this is wonderful!

Octoboween is a tradition at our house, a time when we join together in our celebration of the macabre. And it makes me incredibly happy.

The gist of Octoboween is that we watch a Halloween movie every day. But there are so many great films to choose from that we frequently watch more than one. This year I was so excited in anticipation that I started watching a few mid-September.

I wrote about this tradition last year. As October approached and I felt inclined to write about it again, I started to ask myself why Halloween is my favorite time of the year. Have you ever tried to explain why you like something? It can be tough. But I'll try.

There's the glory of the cooling weather and the changing leaves. There's the fact that my grandmother's birthday is in October, and she was my favorite person in the whole world. There's football. But those things are just part of the spell.

To me, Halloween is a time to play. It's a time to be mischievous, to be sneaky. There is something about the ability to laugh at danger, and death, and things that are frightening that can make us feel powerful. Plus, there is something fun about doing things that make others shake their heads and doubt our sanity.

I'm not a big decorator. The only reason anything gets put up for Christmas is because my kids insist on it and do all the work. I don't even do much for Halloween. But there will be a few touches.

There will be a big, black swath of fabric draped above my front porch. There will be a stuffed, rubber rat the size of a large cat in my living room. And my living room is already pumpkin orange, so the mood is kind of preset.

I'm not sure why the macabre is so fun for me. It has been for as long as I can remember. I grew up on Edgar Allan Poe and Vincent Price. I grew up watching Thriller Theater every Saturday afternoon. I grew up telling horror stories. I grew up loving the strange and spooky.

I love scaring people and getting scared. Not the startling "BOO!" kind when someone sneaks up on you. I like the scaring that is like a beautiful dessert. It takes time. There is a recipe to it, many details. And after preparing it slowly and lovingly and carefully, I savor it!

No, we don't eat people. My title comes from Morticia Addams. It's the Addams' family motto. One that we have adopted for our own. Don't worry. We're just playing.

The Fallacy of Getting Organized -- Smartly

2011-09-20T06:25:00.000-07:00

I have a new essay up today over at Smartly. I tackle The Fallacy of Getting Organized. I don't think it's the cure-all some people think it is. You should check it out.

Doing It Out of Obligation

2011-09-13T09:02:00.000-07:00

I read an interesting article today that has me thinking. So, of course, that means I need to write.

This post by Jowita Bydlowska, A Failed Woman Out of the Kitchen: Why I Don't Cook, appears on The Huffington Post website. It is one woman's explanation of why she doesn't cook.

I do not intend to pull apart her arguments. I will say that if you say there is a difference between selfishness and self-interest (knowing that you have to state it because people will accuse you of one when you claim to be the other), you ought to at least try to define the difference. I will also say that while she claims not to have a political agenda, with all her references to societal expectations about gender roles and how they make her feel like a failure sometimes, she has at least taken a political stance. Also, her assertion that a painting or photograph is a higher art form than a beautifully prepared pie says a lot about her feelings toward women (and men) who consider food an art.

But none of this is what has me thinking. The idea that bothers me from this essay is that doing something out of obligation is wrong.

Please understand, I don't like to cook either. I don't cook well. I don't derive satisfaction from a meal well prepared. It's part of the reason I got the rest of my family cooking as soon as they were able. I don't care if this woman cooks, bakes, or pickles. It's her family and they can all work out what's best for them.

I am also in full support of taking care of one's self. I believe there is an amount of selfishness in every healthy individual. I believe it is appropriate. We must meet our own needs, and that includes the need for creative outlet and relaxation.

I also believe that when I chose to start a family, I chose to accept the obligation to care for them. My husband and I chose this together. The obligation is shared. It is up to us to decide how the obligations involved are to be met. (And if something were to happen that he were no longer able or willing to fulfill his part of the obligation, I would assume his share as part of my obligation.)

In our case, he is the primary breadwinner and I am the primary nurturer. It fits us. I am happy in my role and he is happy in his. Maybe not every day, but most days.

I think the point that is missing in this article is the idea that we choose to accept obligations. I chose to have kids. I chose to care for their well being. My husband chose to work. They are our obligations because we agreed to them.

I do not believe in society-dictated obligations, aside from obeying the law. If society thinks I should cook, that doesn't make me believe that I should. I weigh my options, listen to my heart, and do what I think is right.

Other people have expectations. Other people have ideas about what or who I should be. That does not mean I am obligated to fulfill those roles.

Obligations are something I choose when I make an agreement with someone. Doing something out of obligation is not a bad thing. It is a way for me to do my part. It is how I earn my share of whatever I get in this life. Fulfilling my obligations, those I chose to accept, makes me feel good about who I am and what I offer to the world.

When I Was the Mean Girl -- Smartly

2011-09-07T06:31:00.000-07:00

I have a new essay up over at Smartly about a time When I Was the Mean Girl. It's not a moment I'm proud of. Hopefully, I've finally learned my lesson.

Fly, Baby Bird

2011-09-05T14:35:00.000-07:00

No one could have prepared me for how difficult it would be. I had no way to know how much my heart would ache.

A little over a week ago, my oldest daughter left for Russia. She will spend four months there, teaching English to young children. And I miss her so much.

I am not generally an emotional person. I have even been accused of being Vulcan because I don't get emotional when people think I should.

Because of this, I thought I'd be okay. I knew I would worry and I would miss her. I had no idea I'd be a basket case.

She's been planning this trip for over a year. She's worked so hard to save the money and get everything done. She's been so grown up in handling the details.

But she's still my baby. I don't care if she's twenty years old; she will always be my baby.

The days leading up to her leaving are still kind of a blur. I was very busy with other things and other children. That was a blessing. Because every time I had a minute to think about it my heart would seize up with fear. And pain. And loss.

I thought it would get better after I knew she'd arrived safely. And part of it did. But there is so much more that still hurts.

Please don't misunderstand. I am so thrilled that she gets to have this opportunity. I know it is good for her. I know it will help her to become an independent adult who will flourish on her own. And I want that for her.

But my heart hurts. And I am scared.

I worry that something will happen and she will need help and I won't be there to fix it. I worry that she will be sad and scared. I worry that she will get hurt. And I worry that she will get a taste for adventure and make things like this a regular part of her future.

She needs to choose her own path. She is so wise and chooses well. I have to trust that. But I will admit, I would be happier if she chose to live down the street for the rest of her life.

There was a time at the airport when we had to go our separate ways. She entered the cattle lines waiting to go through security (after I finally quit hugging her). We waited and watched. She would move out of our vision and then, as the line progressed, back into it. Around and around. And each time she would look to find us and wave with a big smile on her face. And we would wave back, letting her know we were still there. Still watching out for her.

And I thought back to years ago, when she was on the carousel. She would move out of our sight for a while. Then when she came back she would wave and we would wave. Each time she went around we would reconnect, knowing it would be over soon and we would be back together again.

But this time, when the round and round ended, she didn't come back to us. She flew away. To the other side of the world. And my heart breaks missing her.

I trust her. And I trust that God is watching over her. But I want her back.

So, fly, baby bird. Just remember where the nest is.

The Dreaded Dishes

2011-08-19T20:42:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make. I hate doing the dishes.

No, that's not the confession. The confession is that I hate doing the dishes so much that I bought more dishes so I could go longer without doing them. My husband hates doing the dishes. My kids hate doing the dishes. That means we need more dishes so we don't have to fight about them as often.

Right?

Wrong!

As part of my efforts to live my minimalist desires, we have gotten rid of most of our dishes. We used to have 2-3 plates per person, probably 3 bowls a piece, and I'd guess at least 5 glasses each. We have seven people in our family. You do the math. That's a lot of dishes.

And when you hate doing them as much as we do, that means you don't do them until you absolutely have to -- when you run out of dishes. So when you finally do them there are a lot of dishes to wash.

We now have only enough dishes for each of us to have one of each. Each person has a spot in the cupboards. This is where they keep their dishes. They have a plate, a bowl, a mug, a small cup, a large cup, a table knife, a fork, a large spoon, and a small spoon. There are a couple of extras. One person got to keep her hot cocoa cup. One person traded a large spoon for a fork. But basically that's it.

And this is what that means. Each person is responsible for his/her dishes. Some of us wash them right after we eat, so that they are ready the next time we want to eat. Others stick them in the sink, but end up washing them soon anyway because that's all they have to eat off of. We wash them by hand because we are washing one or two at a time. This means less running of the dishwasher (which wasn't as effective anymore anyway since the law required changes in dishwasher soap). It means fewer dirty dishes stacked in my kitchen. It means no one is relying on someone else to do their chores before they have clean dishes available. It means fewer dishes left throughout the house. It means no more tracking down strange smells because a dish that still has food on it is left somewhere in the house. It means a lot more personal responsibility.

My kids are older (13 and up) so they can easily do their own dishes. And they all know how to use the dishwasher so I don't feel like I am neglecting their instruction.

When I first presented the idea my family thought I was insane. I planted the idea about a month before it was implemented (due to my energy level). Then one day we went through the cupboards and pulled everything out. People chose their stuff, it was placed in their spot, and everything else was boxed up and put away. It's not gone yet. Not because I'm not committed, just because I haven't made another run to the thrift donation area. Soon.

Everyone's biggest concern was about guests. What if we want to have someone over for dinner?

Okay, seriously, we rarely have anyone over for dinner. When we do it's usually just one person. I let my daughter keep an extra plate because if someone is going to be here when we eat it's probably her boyfriend. If it's someone else, they can use his stuff.

We also kept a picnic set. This is a plate, bowl, and cup for each of us along with silverware. It's stored in a carrying case that is packed away. These are emergency settings just in case and will be used when we go to a church function and are supposed to bring our own dishes. They won't be used often.

I have not solved the problem with the dishes used for cooking. Since we no longer have a lot of dishes our old assignments for dish washing don't quite fit. I'm working on a plan for that. We already don't own a lot of food preparation dishes. That means that even if people don't wash as they go, things don't stay dirty long.

We've only been living with this setup for about a week, but so far it seems to be a great success. People are happy with it. I haven't heard a single complaint. (Before, yes. Since, no.) It's working.

And how can you argue with the system when it works?

Ending a Relationship

2011-08-11T22:38:00.000-07:00

He was sobbing. He didn't understand how she could do this. Had it all been a lie?

I remember standing with my friend as he faced the end of his marriage. She said she never loved him. She said it had always been terrible. And his heart was breaking because he just didn't understand.

My heart was breaking for him. She was also my friend, but I was hurting for him. This was something she was doing to him. She was hurting him. She was the bad guy. I never got her side of the story.

When a relationship ends it's easy to feel like we need to take sides. Those of us on the outside seek to understand so we know who's side to be on. Maybe not always, but often enough that we should be ashamed.

No matter how close we are to the situation, we are not those people. We do not feel what they feel. We have not experienced what they experienced. We do not know why they made the choices they did. And no matter what is said or who is blamed, we probably have no real way to know what happened.

I have never ended a marriage. I have never had my spouse end a marriage. But we did come close. I did ask him to move out. And he was so angry.

I didn't understand. I was trying to save our marriage. I believed that separating would help us figure out what was wrong and heal without being in such close proximity that we were destroying each other. He felt rejected and powerless.

And that's why being in relationships is so scary. We are giving power to the other person. By choosing to love someone, we are giving them the power to hurt us. Sometimes relationships end because both people want them to. Other times, one person chooses to end it and the other person is at their mercy.

This is true of any relationship that involves love. When you love and value someone, and they remove themselves from your life, it hurts. It could be a parent. It could be a child. It could be a friend.

For me, it was a friend. I am the one who ended it. And I am seen by many as the bad guy.

I guess I am, in a way. I didn't handle it well. I was so afraid of hurting her that I was not direct. I slowly removed myself from her life. Little by little we were just no longer connected.

Friendships are tricky things to end. It's not like you file for a divorce from a friend. Where is the line? How do you tell when a friendship is over?

I was not angry. I do not think she is a bad person. In fact, I think she is an incredible person. I admire her a great deal. But for whatever reason the friendship was no longer good for me. I think we grew in different directions. I think we both changed so much that we didn't fit together any more. Even after trying to put it back together a couple of times, it just no longer felt right. It felt forced and fake.

The relationship was not good for me. I'm not saying she wasn't good. We weren't good together. I was unhappy. I wanted out. The more I tried to make it work, the worse I felt about myself. I was being untrue to myself by pretending I could make it work.

Ending our friendship hurt her. I am sorry about that. I hate the fact that I caused her pain.

But it is my responsibility to take care of myself. Our relationship was causing me pain. Maybe that is selfish, but I believe it is what was right for me. I wish there were a way for me to make the decision that is right for me without making a decision that caused her pain. I couldn't find one. And I did try.

We had many good years together. I am a better person because of her influence in my life. I think of her often and hope she is happy.

And I know I made the right choice.

A Big, Beautiful Library in My Home

2011-08-03T00:26:00.000-07:00

I grew up wanting walls of books. A room where each wall was floor to ceiling with them. Maybe a small den area with a fine oak desk and a great leather executive chair and a bay window with pillows to read in.

The wonderful room I saw in so many movies growing up. I was in love with the magic of this imaginary room. I knew that I would one day have one in my home.

And so, as my life progressed, I accumulated books. I believe strongly in the power of reading. A love of reading. And in order to facilitate this for my children I made sure to have lots of books. Lots for them to read at every age. Lots for me to read, since it's important for children to see their parents reading if they are to catch the reading bug. And because I like to read.

But I learned that books are mostly a one time deal. You read them once and move on to the next adventure. Maybe little kid books are read over and over, but even then it's only a select few. We own hundreds, if not thousands, of books. I would estimate that the ones that have been read more than once are fewer than five percent.

So why do I still have them? I've been pondering this for quite a while now. How many books that I own do I love enough that I would save them from a burning building? Truthfully, none.

The reasons I came up with for still having them are interesting. I have them because I spent money on them and books are good and noble things to have. I have them because I enjoyed them and would like to have them to loan to friends or suggest to my kids. I have them because I always wanted that big library.

None of those reasons are good enough to me anymore. The magic is not in the big, beautiful library. The magic is in gaining a love of reading. Taking my kids to the public library is an adventure. It's magical. The library has more than I can possibly ever offer. They can keep up with my kids' changing tastes. They have all the newest books. And they store them so I don't have to.

I'm not going to lie. It's tough. I consider this sort my first. I know I will sort again and get rid of more. Right now if I struggle to decide, I keep it. Or if one of my kids feels strongly about it, I keep it. And I'm boxing some up for my daughter who is going to teach high school English; she'll have a good collection of classics in her classroom without having to buy them.

There are a few that I really enjoyed that I considered keeping. But I'm imagining that there are others out there who would enjoy them too. I am ready to pass them on, knowing I can always get them from the library if I really want to read them again.

I'm keeping several for my grandma days. I want to be the grandma who reads with the kids. And who encourages reading when they visit.

But the tough ones. Oh, yes, there are tough ones. I have many books that were given to me after my grandma died. With inscriptions. To her from her father. The book is not something I will ever read. I have many other keepsakes from her. And yet, I can't just donate them. I'm cheating and giving them back to my mother. I'll probably have to face the decision again when my mom passes away. For now, they can live at her house.

There are also some that are quite old. I have several from the 1900s and a few from the 1800s. Some in good shape, some not so much. I can't seem to part with the ones that are over a hundred years old. Whether I would ever read them or not. Even if the binding is falling apart. I still might donate them, but I would want to donate them to someone who would know how they should really be cared for. Someone who could preserve their beauty.

I've made lots of progress. I've got a few boxes ready to go. I'll be getting rid of more as I continue to clean and sort through my house. I'll let some friends go through them and take what they want and then I'll donate what's left to the public library. I'm ready to let these old friends have a new adventure with a new home.

Most of them, anyway.

Shut Up, Stupid Brain!

2011-07-30T03:24:00.000-07:00

It's after four in the morning. I'm tired. It's dark and quiet. Why won't you let me sleep?

Don't you understand what tomorrow will be like for me? I have things to do and people counting on me. I want to sleep. Why can't you shut up?

I know you have a million ideas. I know you want to plan for tomorrow, which chores we'll do and which errands we need to run.

I know you want to review today, thinking about what we got done. And, more importantly, what we didn't. Yes, I know there is still so much to do. But it's four in the morning; we really can't do it now.

If I go out and start cleaning the living room and sorting the books and toys one of two things will happen. I will wake someone else up and they will be miserable, too. Or, it will just make me even more awake and I won't get any sleep at all tonight.

It's easy for you. You don't have to worry about limited energy. Why are you the only part of me that never seems to get tired?

And why do you take such pleasure in torturing me? Do you get some kind of sick satisfaction from keeping me up all night? Is there a battle being waged between you and my body?

It's not fair, you know. I am trapped in the middle. Trying to maintain the peace. Trying to meet your needs and my body's needs. Do you have any idea how difficult that is?

Of course not. You worry only about yourself. It's all about you. "Look at what I can do," and then you take the stage. Performing songs, stories, and wondrous feats to dazzle the mind. To occupy the thoughts and senses. To stimulate the body into producing adrenaline. Because you are afraid that if I go to sleep you will lose your audience.

I guess that's kind of true. You go on performing while I sleep, and when I wake up I have no memory of all you've done. Sometimes I have a slight memory of the shows you put on while I sleep. Quite the imagination, you have there. They are fantastical shows.

If I promise to try to remember, will you let me sleep? Let's give it a shot. I will listen and watch while I sleep. You put on your best show. And in the morning we'll review. Do we have a deal?

The Worst Day of My Life

2011-07-29T01:17:00.000-07:00

I have wanted to write this post for a long time. I have also avoided writing this post for a long time.

It happened almost five years ago, but it is still so tender.

I worry that I won't be able to capture the devastation I felt. That I still feel when I think about it. Because, truthfully, I try not to think about it too often. It's still so painful.

Five years ago was a difficult time in my life. I was working. My health was getting worse. And my marriage was in trouble. We'd been in therapy for a while and things were getting better. At least, our relationship was getting better.

But it was at this time that my husband had a crisis of faith.

In order for this to make sense, you must know a few things about our faith. I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormon). I have been my whole life. While there was a time when I was young that I followed along because it was all I knew, that's not what it is now. I have long since quit relying on the testimony of others. I am a member of this faith because it makes my heart happy. It brings me peace. I believe this is what I was taught before I came to this world.

One of the elements of our faith is a belief in a pre-earth life, this life, and a post-earth life. We believe this life is just a tiny portion of our existence. Most of what we do here is in preparation for the next life. As part of that, in our temples we perform ordinances that we believe carry on into the next life. In particular, sealings. We believe that if we are sealed together in the temple, and live the best life we can, that families can be together forever. We believe we are sealed for time and all eternity.

I believe this. And I grew up believing this. This is why I was careful about the boys I dated. This is why I chose to live my life according to God's commandments. As a child and teen, getting sealed in the temple to a worthy man who loved me was my main goal. I tried to do everything I'd been taught to make that happen.

And it did. I married a return missionary who took me to the temple. We were sealed for time and all eternity. Because of this sealing power, our children were sealed to us also. There was such safety in knowing that.

When things got ugly between my husband and me, I knew that things would get sorted out with time and we could still be together forever. We would find our way back to God and would do so together.

And then he said he had questions. He wasn't sure anymore that certain parts of our faith were true. He shared his concerns, we talked about them, and he was reassured and found his footing again. Then he had more questions, bigger struggles. We worked through those, too. Then it went beyond questions and doubts. He came to a point where he no longer believed it was true. In fact, he felt it was harmful. He wanted out and he wanted to take his family with him. The months that we worked through this were incredibly difficult. It was hard not to push him to choose the church for me, to make me happy. Or for anyone else. I believe in honesty. He was honest with me and I am grateful for that.

He started blogging about his feelings, denouncing the church. He made accusations and claims that were anti-Mormon in nature. We were in counseling with our bishop (pastor) during this time. I told him of the blog. He discussed it with my husband and said that if it continued, because of the things he was writing (preaching against the church), his membership in the church would be in jeopardy. We returned to visit with him a month later, he asked about the blog and was told it was still up, my husband was still adding to it and had no intention of stopping. And we were at a decision point.

My husband was given two choices. He could withdraw his name from the church records or the bishop could start proceedings to have him removed. My husband asked which of these would be easier on the bishop. I admire that. My husband chose to have his name removed from the records of the church.

It had been a while coming and I thought I was prepared.

But the day the letter came saying that he was no longer a member of the church I died a little. My heart broke into a thousand pieces.

It came while he was at work. I called to tell him it was there. He asked me to open it and read it to him. I did. He said okay and that was that.

But not for me. I held that letter. I stared at it. It didn't matter that I knew it was coming; I was not prepared.

How would we tell the children? Our families? Our friends?

And what did this mean for me? I was unsure about who I was now. We had been one and now we were two. I was unsure about eternity now. I didn't know how I fit in. I didn't want the attention and sympathy that I knew I would receive. I fit into a new classification now. I was a woman married to a non-member.

It was the most lonely day I have ever experienced. I had this information that seemed to stop the world from spinning and I couldn't talk to anyone about it. The person I usually talked to about things that made me sad was my husband and he didn't understand. He was happy and relieved about it. I felt like a widow. I walked around in a daze that day. I cried a lot. I felt so lost.

I had a friend whose husband died around this time. I remember feeling like she was lucky because he was living a righteous life when he died and at least she knew her sealing was intact, she knew he would be waiting for her. I am ashamed of that feeling. I was jealous of her ending as opposed to mine.

It felt like an end.

He and I are in a better place. He is more kind about the church and the fact that the children and I still participate. But something is gone. There is a spiritual intimacy that is no longer there. It died that day. And I don't know if I will ever be done mourning its loss.

The Doctor Who Didn't Listen

2011-07-26T15:30:00.000-07:00

Oh, how I wish I'd known then what I know now.

Ten years ago, in the spring of 2001, the world fell out from under me. I was hit with unbelievable exhaustion. No matter how I ate, how much I exercised, or how much good sleep I got I was so tired I couldn't function. I couldn't parent. I went to bed for about a year and a half. More on that story another time.

After a few months (when I knew it wasn't getting better, and after much prodding from my husband and other friends and family) I finally went to my doctor. I told him how tired I was. I told him I couldn't get anything done. His words are forever burned into my mind. "You have five small children; of course you're tired."

And that was it. Since nothing showed up in a cursory glance, in a routine physical, there must not be anything wrong with me. I had tried to explain that it was more than that. It was more than tired. I was not a human anymore. I was a shell, a pile of skin and bones, walking around trying to participate in life.

He didn't listen to me. I felt chastised, like how dare I waste his time? I felt diminished, like a small child told to get over it because life is hard. I felt like I'd been told to quit whining. To suck it up and get back to work.

I would never stand for that now. I would insist that he listen, I would repeat myself, I would tell him he misunderstood. And if he still didn't listen, I would leave him and take my business elsewhere.

I was incredibly vulnerable at that time and did not know how to fight for myself. I did not know I could insist on certain tests. I did not feel safe questioning what he told me. I believed doctors truly knew more about my body than I did.

I have had many incredible doctors. Doctors who listened and cared. Doctors who were more concerned about making me feel better than I was. I have friends who are doctors. I have a brother who is a doctor. I have great respect for doctors.

But I no longer think they know more about my body than I do. When I say something is not right, then it should be respected. Even if I can't prove it or put it into words. My doctor and I are supposed to be a team. We are supposed to work together to find the solution.

I will never know if he could have helped me. Maybe if we had run a blood test at that time something would have turned up. Maybe I wouldn't still be fighting the debilitating fatigue 10 years later. Maybe there were answers then that were too far gone by the time I found a doctor who would listen to me.

I will not allow myself to be ignored by a doctor again. Ever.

A Difference of Opinion

2011-07-22T11:36:00.000-07:00

How do you handle it when you have a difference of opinion from someone else?

There are times I think I handle it well. I have a good friend with whom I frequently disagree, especially about politics. Sometimes people come to our book club just to watch the heated discussion they know my friend and I will be having. We argue and debate. We get passionate. But in the end we are still friends and we are able to let things go. I believe it's because we approach our discussion with mutual respect. The fact that we disagree doesn't mean we think the other person is stupid. We don't call each other names. We don't bring in irrelevant events to try to prove the other person is lacking in intelligence and so their argument can't be valid. I believe I have a healthy dialogue with this woman. We are friends who work well together in our church callings. We choose to get together for game nights. Despite our political differences, we remain friends.

Maybe my friend deserves more of the credit here than I do.

Because there are other people I don't argue with as respectfully. There are some people who choose to attack when they disagree. Sometimes I can remain in control and be polite in these disagreements. Sometimes I lose it. Sometimes I get right down in the mud with that person. Even if I win the argument, I come away feeling dirty.

This is how I feel about my last post. I responded to a post by a fellow blogger. And I did so badly. Something she said struck a nerve. I did not intend to be unkind in my response, but I was. I had a juvenile moment and attacked. Not my shining moment.

I disagree with her point of view. I believe women should be told they are of worth no matter how they look. I believe women should be told they are wonderful even if they choose to spend the whole day in their pajamas. I believe we should do all we can to build women up. I believe we should strengthen each other and back up a woman's right to choose her own path. I want women to feel the freedom to be whoever they want to be, regardless of society's dictates. And that includes my fellow blogger.

Because I fought back in an immature way, my message was lost. And I did not offer this woman the same support I was arguing for. Sometimes I get so frustrated by women thinking they have to be what society tells them to be that I forget some women actually choose that route because it's right for them.

This woman has made choices in her life because she felt they were right for her. More power to her. I believe all women should be able to choose for themselves and with far less judgment.

I apologize for letting my emotions overtake my manners. I apologize for being unkind. I apologize for not arguing her right to choose for herself because I didn't agree with her choice.

Shopping in My Pajamas

2011-07-20T17:42:00.000-07:00

As I hop from blog to blog, I frequently run into people whose lives are completely different from mine. People who value different things and focus their energies in other areas. For the most part, I enjoy this. I like learning about other people and seeing a way of life that differs from mine.

But every now and then I run across someone who irritates me. Not because she is different, but because she is superior, snotty, and judgmental of those who are different from her. In her world, she is right and anyone who sees things in any other way is wrong and stupid and doesn't deserve the good things in life.

This happened recently. Through a blogging community, I found myself at the blog of a woman with whom I am fairly certain I have almost nothing in common. We are both women. We both live on the planet earth. I'm guessing we both breathe oxygen. I'm pretty sure that's where our similarities end.

She is single, lives in London, and focuses much of her attention on fashion. And I offend her.

I know I offend her because she said so. In the post that bugged me she said that anyone who shops in their pajamas offends her. She said that I had no business in the grocery store in my pajamas. That there is no excuse, no matter how tired or lazy I am. She said shopping in my pajamas is a statement about my low self-esteem. She then proceeded to tell me the proper way to go to the grocery store. The GROCERY store! Seriously?

I understand that this post was meant to be comedic. She was going for snarky/funny. And from the comments on her blog it looks like her audience liked it.

I found it ridiculous.

If we are going to ban people from coming to the grocery store dressed offensively then I have a few things to add: ultra-short shorts (the kind that barely cover their cheeks); wife-beater shirts; intense cleavage; and any clothing that is so tight or revealing as to be inappropriate for public viewing (since I am making the rules, I get to decide what is inappropriate).

From now on we will all shop in uniforms. All pants/skirts must reach the knee. All necklines must reach the collar bone all the way around. Your clothes must be loose enough that you can easily put them on even when you are wet. And I want them to all be olive green. That way, people won't clash as they walk past each other -- because that offends me.

What an incredibly lucky young woman the author of said post is. Her life must be flowing along smoothly and without any major problems if she has time and energy to worry about this. She must be generally healthy and have plenty of money. And thank heavens she decided to make sure we know what is and is not appropriate to wear to the grocery store.

I guess she has never run to the store in a hurry to try to get there before it closed because her child came down with a fever and she needed medication (after she'd gone to bed). I guess she was never told at 10:45pm that her child had a project due the next day that would make or break his grade so she decided to sacrifice her sleep to run to the store to get what he needed and stay up all night helping. I guess she has never been so ill she didn't know how she would make it to work and had to run to the store for anti-diarrhea medication so that she didn't get fired for missing work.

And besides all this, I guess she is so worried about what other people think of her that she feels she must put on a show every time she steps out of her house. Some of us are actually self-confident enough to be seen in whatever we happen to be wearing without caring if the people around us approve.

I sometimes shop in my pajamas. Sometimes because it takes every last bit of energy I have to get to the store so my family has milk. Sometimes to get a treat for my daughter who had a difficult day. And sometimes just because I am comfortable in my pajamas.

When I mentioned this to my friend, she pointed out that when super models are trying not to be noticed they walk around without makeup on and in sloppy clothes. (I guess that's because they're so insecure, right?)

So I would say to the author of that post, next time you see a woman shopping in her pajamas just pretend she is a super model in hiding. Maybe that way she won't be so offensive to you.

Who Asked You? -- Smartly

2011-07-20T10:21:00.000-07:00

My essay Who Asked You? is up over at Smartly today. I invite you to go check it out. And read a few more while you're there; they've got some great stuff.

A Sunday in the Life of a Mormon, part three

2011-07-17T00:27:00.000-07:00

Go here for part one.
Go here for part two.

We attend Sacrament Meeting as families. It ends at about 2:10pm. We then have ten minutes for transition. During this time people might get chalk from the library or have copies made for a lesson. Others take time to get a drink or go to the restroom. The kids generally make a mad dash to Primary.

Sacrament Meeting is followed by Primary/Sunday School.

Primary is for children 3-11 years old. There is also a nursery that is part of the Primary program; children 18 months to 3 years attend nursery. In nursery they play with toys, have a lesson, have a snack, make a craft, have singing time. Children change classes in January, so they are in nursery until the January after they turn three. Children 3-7 are in Junior Primary. Children 8-11 are in Senior Primary. In our ward there is one class for each age group (3-year olds, 4-year olds, etc.). Primary begins with an opening song and a prayer by one of the children. Junior Primary starts in sharing time. This is a time when a member of the Primary presidency gives a lesson to several classes on topics that fit the theme for the year. (This year's theme is I Know the Scriptures are True.) The Primary music director then has about 20-30 minutes to teach and review songs. Junior Primary then goes to class. Each age group has their own teacher(s) and classroom. This schedule is reversed for Senior Primary. About 15-20 minutes before our block meetings end, Junior Primary comes back into the Primary chapel and the two groups have closing exercises together. They recognize and welcome visitors, sing to birthday children, recognize children who were baptized that week, give announcements, and recite an Article of Faith or scripture. Then one or two children give 2 1/2 minute talks (assigned the week before). A child reads a scripture of his/her choice. They end with a closing song and a closing prayer by one of the children.

After Sacrament Meeting (when the children go to Primary) the youth and adults go to Sunday School. Sunday School for the youth is divided up every two years: 12&13-year olds, 14&15-year olds, 16&17-year olds. The 12&13-year olds are taught about the past presidents of our church. The older groups are taught about whatever the course of study is for that year. (This year it's the New Testament.) Adults are offered varying classes. Right now we have two Gospel Doctrine classes on the New Testament (the course of study rotates each year). People can choose which to attend. Sometimes there are other classes offered, as the bishopric deems necessary: Temple Preparation; Marriage and Family Relations; Family History; and Teaching, No Greater Call (a class to prepare members to teach). Sunday School is about 50 minutes. Each class is opened and closed with prayer. We usually do not sing as part of Sunday School.

After another ten minute transition, the youth go to Young Men or Young Women and the adults go to their Priesthood quorum (men) or Relief Society (women). In these settings we have lessons directed specifically to our lives and our responsibilities. YM and YW are divided in ages like in Sunday School. Since I work with the Young Women, I go there instead of Relief Society (on the second week the YW meet with the RS for opening exercises). These classes are about 50 minutes as well. They open with song and prayer. We usually have announcements. We then have a lesson of about 40 minutes on varying gospel subjects. Tomorrow I am teaching a lesson about agency and responsibility. We close our class with prayer by one of the young women.

Five minutes before 4:00pm the librarian rings a bell (like a school bell, it goes through the whole building). This is our five-minute warning. Then on the hour, the librarian rings the bell twice (hopefully not right in the middle of the prayer).

Then church is over. I head toward the foyer as that's where I meet my family. I usually chat while waiting for everyone to show up. If someone has a meeting or needs to visit with the Bishop they usually walk home.

Once we get home we have certain rules about what we do on the Sabbath. These are our family rules. Every family has slightly different rules. Sunday is family day at our house so my children aren't allowed to play with friends. We don't watch TV on Sunday. They are also not allowed on the internet. In theory, they aren't supposed to use their cell phones to chat with friends either. (This isn't followed well by my 18-year old daughter and her boyfriend.) We really only have one family meal on Sunday, usually around 5:00pm or 6:00pm. People are responsible for taking care of their other food needs. Sometimes we visit grandparents on Sunday. We play board games. Some of us take naps. We watch DVDs (they have to check with me first to see if I am okay with that DVD on Sunday). They might go outside and play catch together or go for a bike ride. Maybe they do a puzzle. Maybe we have a family home evening lesson. Maybe they play the piano or another instrument. Maybe we read scriptures together. The idea is to make Sunday a day that is different from the others. A day that focuses on spiritual things and on family. And sometimes that means sacrifice.

We have only given up TV on Sundays for the last year or two. It was tough. We are NASCAR and NFL football fans. We miss a lot of these events by not watching TV on Sundays. That's been hard on me probably more than anyone else. But I feel like it's been worth it. It's changed the spirit of our home. It helps to carry the peace we gained at church through the rest of our day. And I believe it's important to teach my children to sacrifice some of what they want on Sundays as a sign of devotion to God. It's a way of saying thank you. It's a way of saying that we are willing to do what is necessary to become the people God would have us be. (We do have a few exceptions. We watch the Super Bowl and the Indy 500.)

We end the day with family prayer.

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I know I probably lost many of you through this exercise. Sorry about that. I'll be back to regular programming next time. I probably included too much detail, too. Sorry again.

Oh, and Libby made a comment on the first part of this that reminded me of a way our church is very different from most. We do not choose which congregation to attend. Our wards are assigned based on where we live. Each area of the world is divided into wards or branches. Whichever boundaries you're in, that's where you go. I believe this helps us focus more on the gospel itself rather than just the people we like. Plus, when we move or travel we don't have to hunt to figure out where we belong. We check the church website to find our ward and that's where we go. The lessons taught are the same around the world. It's like having access to instant family wherever we go.

And our ward is truly like that. We are a tight knit group. A family. We serve each other. Watch out for each other. Love each other. There are easily a hundred people in a two or three block radius that I could call on for help. And I know they would have my back.

A Sunday in the Life of a Mormon, part two

2011-07-16T00:51:00.000-07:00

Go here for part one.

After my meeting, I go home and make sure everyone else is getting ready. (I should mention that I only live about two blocks from my church building.)

My husband had his name removed from the records of our church about five years ago, so he isn't involved in this process. It's taken some time, but we've come to a mutual respect of each other's choices. Sundays are his day to himself. He spends them sleeping, playing on his computer, watching movies in his room. It's up to him. We don't see him much on Sundays.

When I get home I wake anyone who is still asleep. My kids are old enough that they get themselves ready. Boy, it was a lot tougher when they were young.

I usually use this time to put the finishing touches on my lesson, if I'm teaching that day. Or I lie down for a few minutes. Sundays are a long day for me.

My eighteen-year old daughter gets ready pretty fast and then starts playing the piano. No, we don't make her and haven't even asked her. She just really likes to. She's self taught and is working her way through the hymnbook. It is requested that she keep her music spiritual when playing on Sunday.

My goal is to be out of the house by 12:30, even though we live close and church doesn't start until 1:00. This started a while ago. When my kids were younger we were often late for our meetings. That meant we usually sat in the foyer or in the overflow on hard chairs. I figured out that they were better behaved during the meeting if we were in a pew. By changing my mindset to leaving at 12:30 instead of being there at 1:00 we are always able to get a pew, even when we're running late -- because we're still early. Also, going early means that they have time to switch into church mode, get a drink of water, go to the restroom -- hopefully, so that they won't need to do those things during the meeting. And I get to relax and listen to the prelude music, knowing we are all there and ready. (If one of my kids isn't ready when it's time to leave, he/she walks.)

Since we are so early, we can sit anywhere we want. We always sit in the back row on the right. Habit. My husband liked that spot when he used to come with us and it just kind of stuck.

Our Sunday worship service is three hours long. The first meeting is Sacrament Meeting. This is the most important meeting of the day because we participate in the holy ordinance of the sacrament. The meeting is an hour and ten minutes. It is conducted by a member of the bishopric. (Our bishop is similar to a pastor. He has two counselors. Together, they make up the bishopric. They are responsible for the spiritual and temporal needs of everyone who lives in our ward boundaries.) It is opened and closed with music and prayer. Announcements are given. New callings are presented for a sustaining vote. The sacrament is blessed and passed by the young men who hold the priesthood. The program is presented by various ward members who have been invited to speak by the bishopric on an assigned topic. There is often a musical number presented in between speakers. (On the first Sunday of the month we have testimony meeting. On this day any member of the congregation may go to the pulpit to share his/her testimony.) On the third Sunday, the musical number is usually presented by the ward choir. (That's just in our ward. Each ward decides for itself when the ward choir will sing.)

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To answer Linda's questions: We call our weekly Sunday worship church. Everyone is welcome at Sunday worship, member or not. We do have temples. These are buildings where sacred, eternal ordinances occur. Only worthy members may enter the temple. They must have an interview with the bishop and stake president (a stake is a group of wards). They must be following the guidelines of the church like paying tithing, being honest, attending their meetings in order to obtain a temple recommend. They can then attend the temple at a time that is convenient for them. The temple isn't open on Sunday so that all may attend their regular Sunday meetings. It also isn't open Monday afternoon or evenings so that it doesn't interfere with Family Home Evening (a time set aside for spiritual instruction in the home and family time). And the formal name of our faith is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

More to come.

Go here for part three.

A Sunday in the Life of a Mormon, part one

2011-07-14T11:03:00.000-07:00

No theology here today, just a glimpse into what my Sundays look like (because I think it's fun to see how others live). Some of this would vary depending on what my current calling is. Also, different families establish their own guidelines, so a Mormon in a different family may have a very different Sunday from mine. I will try to explain terms that may not be understood, but if I do too much explaining this post will be a novel.

Let's go with the second Sunday of the month; currently, that's my busiest one.

We are on the 1:00pm meeting schedule. That means our meetings start at one in the afternoon. There are three wards (congregations) that meet in our building so we have to take turns. The start times are 9:00am, 11:00am, and 1:00pm. This rotates every year.

Being on the late schedule means we can sleep later. That is both good and bad at our house. Good because we are night people and it's easier to get people moving happily in time for church. Bad because we are night people and tend to stay up later on Saturday knowing we can sleep late the next day. That is why you will see that the times I am waking people up are ridiculously late.

I am in charge of Sunday dinner. I try to prepare something that can cook while we are at church or that is really fast and can be prepared after (our church ends at 4:00pm). Since we don't shop on Sunday, I have to plan ahead. Usually I get up at about 9:00am (maybe 9:30) and put something in the crock pot. Then I get myself ready for the day, knowing there won't be time again later or I will be fighting for the bathroom.

I wake my 14-year old son at 10:00am if he isn't already up. (Funny how he can get himself up just fine for football practice but struggles to get out of bed Sunday mornings.) He has priesthood duties to perform. On the first and second Sundays of the month the young men go to each house in the ward to collect fast offerings (donations for the welfare needs in our ward). Hopefully he gets up and gets himself ready and out the door.

My current calling is second counselor in the Young Women organization (YW). That means I work with the girls in our ward who are 12 and 13 years old. It also means I have a YW presidency meeting every second Sunday at 10:30am. I meet with the president (who works with the 16 and 17-year olds), the first counselor (who works with the 14 and 15-year olds), and the secretary. We open and close the meeting with prayer. One of us shares a spiritual thought that we think can help us in our callings. Then we discuss the needs of the young women in our ward. We note who is struggling. We discuss ways to help individuals as well as the group. We plan activities, hopefully those that will meet the needs of our girls. We review activities we've already held to note things that worked and things that didn't. Our president presents items that we need to know about from Ward Council. Our goal is to follow the guidance of the Spirit as we try to help these young ladies prepare to be wives and mothers. This meeting usually lasts about an hour.

Okay, I can see that this is going to take longer than I thought. I guess I'd better break it up into several posts so as not to overwhelm anyone. More to come.

And I'd love to read about how other people spend their sabbath (no matter what day you observe it) or how you choose to worship. If you write about it, please send me a link so I can check it out.

Go here for part two.
Go here for part three.

Let's Talk About Minimalism

2011-07-12T20:53:00.000-07:00

A few months ago I wrote about finding my kind. Finding my place. Feeling at home. In the minimalist movement.

Much of that post talked about getting rid of stuff. And having less stuff is certainly a big part of minimalism. But minimalism is so much more than that.

It would take many posts to give you an accurate idea of the current minimalist movement. I'm sure I will write about it again to cover various areas and how they fit into my life. But for now, I would like to offer a small introduction to minimalism of today.

While there is a push toward minimalist architecture and decorating and design, that's not really what I'm talking about. The minimalism I'm talking about is a lifestyle change.

As with any lifestyle generalization there are many different interpretations on what it means to be a minimalist. There are probably as many interpretations as there are people trying to live this lifestyle.

A few of the things I've seen people working toward: owning fewer than 100 things; 33 items in their wardrobe; quitting their regular job; becoming location independent; giving up their car; traveling the world with nothing but their backpack and a laptop.

I do not anticipate doing any of these things.

More commonly I read about people who are getting rid of stuff, rethinking commitments, challenging the ideas that they've been told for years, defining what they want out of life and making it happen.

My definition: Minimalism is about creating space for the things you love. Maybe that's physical space and you're focusing on clutter. Maybe that's time and energy and you're adjusting your work week. Maybe it's emotional space and you are letting go of relationships that are draining. Whatever.

It's not about living without. It's about only having what you need and what you love, realizing that anything extra takes away from the joy of life. It's not all about thrift shopping. Maybe instead of ten cheap pairs of pants I want to own three really nice ones.

It's about choosing what I want in my life, what feels good in my heart. It's about knowing when I have enough. It's about living with intent. It's about slowing down. It's about making this very moment important, no matter what I'm doing. It's about not choosing things based on what other people say I should want. It's about listening to my own heart and letting it help me find myself. Chipping away at all the garbage the world has buried me in.

It's about thinking. Choosing. And enjoying.

What's the Opposite of Wanderlust?

2011-07-11T11:52:00.000-07:00

Our family just got back from San Francisco. It was perfect weather. The completely different scenery and diverse population were fascinating. Everyone got along almost all the time. We had a great time -- success!

But even on the heels of this successful adventure I will readily admit I don't like to travel. It's just not in my top ten list of things I like to do. Probably not in my top one hundred. And to some people that's a crime. It's just not right to not like to travel.

About a year ago I was with a group of women, chatting. One of them mentioned a trip she was planning and how excited she was. The rest of the group got excited as well, talking about how much fun they were going to have. I said I didn't like to travel (at an appropriate time, not just in the middle of everything). The room went silent.

They stared at me like I had two heads. How could anyone not like to travel? How can you possibly not want to visit every corner of the earth? (Especially the travel agent in the room. You'd have thought I just said her kids were ugly by how offended she seemed.)

I like reading about, hearing about, or watching documentaries about other places. Other people and lifestyles fascinate me. But not enough to want to go there. I just really like where I am. There are enough incredible things to see within a two or three hour range of my house to keep me busy and satisfied for a lifetime. Actually, there's enough in my own town to keep me happy for a lifetime. I just honestly cannot think of another place in the world I'm dying to visit. My life will be perfectly complete if I never leave my hometown again.

But what I found most interesting in this whole thing is how strongly it affected the other women in the room. Why should they care if I don't like to travel? Why would they spend the next fifteen minutes trying to convince me that if I were with the right person or "did it right" then I would love to travel? Why isn't it okay for me to feel differently about something they love?

I bear no ill will toward those who like to travel. In fact, I love hearing about their trips when they come back. I love watching their faces light up as they describe each incredible thing they saw or did.

I love differences of opinion (as long as they are handled respectfully). I think that's what makes our world function. How would we survive if no one wanted to farm because everyone wanted to be an electrical enigineer? What would happen if all little boys grew up to be firefighters and no one became a garbage man? We need diversity.

So feel how you want to feel. Celebrate what you want to celebrate. Love what you want to love. And please offer me the same freedoms.

Wearing My Cranky Pants

2011-06-13T01:39:00.000-07:00

I find myself wearing my cranky pants a lot lately, almost all the time.

I don't know why I do this. They aren't very comfortable. They're constricting, showing too many of my flaws. They are not flattering at all.

And yet, day after day, I wear my cranky pants.

Maybe I've been getting dressed in the dark too often. I reach for my pants and think I've got the ones I want. Then later, in the light of day, I find I chose the wrong ones again. I reached for my comfy pants or my peaceful ones. But because I was in a hurry and didn't take the time to turn on the light, I ended up miserable.

And I've noticed that when I wear my cranky pants too many days in a row my family starts to think it's the new uniform and they all put on their cranky pants, too. Before you know it we're one big, cranky family.

I guess I need to find my other pants and keep them closer. I need to quit going with what's easy and look for what is really best for me and my family. I need to plan in advance and work to have what I want available. And most importantly, I need to turn the light on.

And maybe, after I change my wardrobe, I can help my family find their happy pants, too.

Do you know where your happy pants are?

The Glory of Women -- Smartly

2011-06-06T08:28:00.000-07:00

I have a new essay up at Smartly today singing of the Glory of Women. Read it and recognize the women in your life. Or yourself.

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Note to bloggers: If you have a blogspot blog with embedded comments, I am currently unable to comment (as are many others). Changing your comment setting to either of the other two options will take care of this. And please provide an email address somewhere on your site. There are a couple of you I've been trying to contact since I can't comment.

Making Other People Happy

2011-06-03T14:46:00.000-07:00

How much of your time and energy is spent trying to make other people happy? Well, I have a secret for you. You can't make other people happy and it isn't your job. So stop it!

You are not in charge of anyone's happiness but your own.

I'm going to let you just think about that for a few seconds . . .

Do you believe me?

There are two ideas in that one sentence. You are not in charge of anyone else's happiness. And you are in charge of your own happiness.

Today I want to talk about making other people happy.

Is there someone you have always tried to make happy that just never seems satisfied? For many of us that person is a parent. For some it's a spouse. For others it's a friend. We may spend our entire lives trying to make them happy. We do everything they want. We become exactly who they say we should be. We give up everything. And they still aren't happy. Why?

Because they are the only ones with the ability to make themselves happy. They have to choose happiness. They can have every need and desire met beyond belief and still be unhappy. And there isn't a thing you can do about it.

You can be kind, giving, charitable, serving, forgiving, loving, valuing, and self-sacrificing. These are good and healthy things when they are done because you choose to. These may affect another person's happiness. But they won't determine it.

You can spend your whole life giving up everything you want, jumping through hoops, and killing yourself to meet their demands. This is not healthy. It is not good for you or for them.

The idea that we can make others happy is a fallacy. It's just flat-out untrue. It's an illusion we carry around; a belief in a power that we don't actually possess.

So be a good person. Live a life of kindness and generosity. Send value to those around you. But quit thinking it's your job to make them happy. You'll be better because of it. And so will they.

I Walk in Faith . . . Believing

2011-05-31T16:10:00.000-07:00

I wondered if this day would come. If there would come a time when I needed another outlet. It has.

I started a new blog. A blog about faith. My faith. I offer my heart and my thoughts. Join me if you wish, but no pressure.

I Walk in Faith . . . Believing.

The Power of Women

2011-05-27T00:09:00.000-07:00

I have four daughters and one son. They range in ages from 12-20 years. We are talkers. We talk about almost anything. One of the things we talk about a lot is human behavior.

Recently we were watching a movie. One girl got angry at another girl for a perceived offense. She then began to systematically ruin this girl's social life. And so began our conversation.

My son didn't see it coming. My daughters were all able to predict what would happen each step along the way. It seems this is one way males and females are still different.

My husband taught me about how boys handle things like this. He told me a story about when he was in junior high. A boy had a problem with him, didn't like him. He told my husband so. My husband said that was fine because he didn't like the boy either. Soon the fists were flying. They both got in trouble. The police were involved. They learned their lesson. And before long, they were good friends.

As I've talked to men over the years I've come to understand that this is a common happening. Guys have a problem, they deal with it (not always with fists), and often they become friends afterward. If not, at least they are direct and know where they each stand. Then they just leave each other alone.

Girls, on the other hand, are not as direct. They often continue to act friendly in person but destroy each other behind their backs. They spread rumors, they steal friends, they poison the social waters in any way they can. And it works. It works because girls/women are of the heart.

We understand how people feel. We learn what is important to them. We understand that they are social creatures, that cutting off their social support is like suffocating them. We know how to hurt another person in a way that is so much deeper than a physical injury. And because we are of the heart, these wounds damage us. This attack works.

I wish I could say this ends in junior high. For some of us it probably does. I've known some incredible women who would never say anything bad about another person, who would never strike at another's soul.

I wish I was one of them, but I'm not. Sometimes I'm petty. Sometimes I'm jealous and self-centered. Sometimes I'm just impatient. And often I am critical.

As women we have an incredible ability to do good. We can use this same power to lift others up. Instead of seeing how those around us don't measure up, we can look for things they are doing well and praise them. We can encourage them. We can thank them. It's this same exact power -- the power of the heart -- that offers us this choice. We can do so much good or so much harm.

People don't need to be told what they are doing wrong; they already know. They need to be told that they are of worth. They need to be told that they are capable of better, that we believe in them. They need to be appreciated for what they have to offer, not told how they are lacking.

I am a woman. I have the power of the heart. I commit today to use this power more wisely and kindly. Because I can. I have a choice. I hope you will join me.

It's Just Stuff, part two

2011-05-24T20:56:00.000-07:00

Minimalism is about so much more than getting rid of clutter. It's about a mindset, a life philosophy. But it usually starts with clutter.

So I've been following a bunch of minimalist blogs lately. I love their thoughts and hearing about their progress. I love feeling like I've found people who understand how I feel. And they inspire me.

One of the ideas I am trying to implement is to not have anything in my life that I don't use or love. No more hanging on to things just in case. No more keeping the old one as a backup after we've got a new one. No more keeping things I don't like just because someone gave them to me. No more storing things in the cupboard for a special occasion when that special occasion never seems to come.

Shortly after high school I was somehow convinced that I needed to get china, stoneware, and crystal. It was expensive. I begged my mom into helping me purchase four settings of each. They are beautiful!

Now ask me how many times I've used them. Um. Hm. I'd bet it's fewer than five times. And I've been married twenty-one years. For twenty-one years they've been sitting in my cupboard. I've packed and unpacked them every time we've moved. I've dusted them. I've displayed them. And I do love them. But we just don't use them.

So as I was planning to gut my kitchen cupboards (just planning, the true gutting hasn't occurred yet), I saw those dishes. And my heart seized up. I never use them. I should get rid of them. But they cost so much money. We never use them. But I love them. Okay, then use them.

My kids are older. Theoretically we should be able to use fragile dishes and not break anything.

This was just before the Oscars. We like to do a family evening for the Oscars. Special treats. Everyone completing a ballot before hand. Prizes for the winners. So I decided to make the night extra special by bringing out some of these precious dishes.

Actually, I used some glass tea trays (which we also never use) and the crystal. They were placed on the table with the snacks. My kids' faces lit up when they realized they were going to get to use them. It was fun pouring Sprite and Diet Coke into wine glasses. Even more fun drinking out of them. I was glad I'd done it.

The night was going well. I was winning (I always do). Everyone was having a good time.

Then I heard a crash. A very distinctive crash. I knew instantly that it was one of my precious wine glasses. The light blue ones that we displayed at our wedding. The ones we drank fake champagne out of to celebrate our first anniversary. The ones I loved.

My heart seized again. But only for a moment. I saw my kids' faces tighten as well. They were waiting to see if it was going to ruin our night. And I wasn't going to let it.

As it turns out, the cat had gotten up on the table and knocked off one of the glasses. It was my fault for placing them there. And as I cleaned up the crystal my focus was different than it would have been in the past. There was the momentary "if only," but that passed quickly. I wanted to get it cleaned up so I could get back to my family. It was only a thing. I wanted to be with my family having a good time instead of worrying about a piece of glass that I only see when we move.

I got it cleaned up and got back to the party. It was never mentioned again. The evening ended on a good note.

I call it a rousing success; three cheers for me: Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!

But then I was tested again when my daughter hit a pole with the new car. That is a story for another time.

Watching Clouds Dance -- Smartly

2011-05-23T12:14:00.000-07:00

I have a new essay up on Smartly. It's a moment out of time, a moment of freedom. Of peace. Blue sky and one little cloud. Spend some time with me Watching Clouds Dance.

It's Just Stuff, part one

2011-05-13T12:26:00.000-07:00

I grew up with the mentality that if I had something that I didn’t need or wasn’t using, and someone else did need it, I should give it to them (or at least lend it). It was just a thing. Getting rid of things was easy.

I also grew up in a home where we had enough. I never worried about having food or a home. I never worried about my parents being able to afford to pay for the things I needed. My parents may have struggled and sacrificed when they first married, but by the time I was aware of money they had more than enough for me to be able to do the things I wanted. If something broke, we had enough money to fix it or replace it. If someone were injured, we had good health insurance and enough money to see that they were treated. If an unexpected expense came up my dad might grumble, but there was enough money to cover it. If there was a school activity or sport I wanted to participate in, I only had to ask. I do not remember ever being told that we couldn’t afford something. I do not remember ever going hungry because we didn’t have money for food. I don’t remember hearing much about money except when my dad complained about how much my mom spent shopping. On worthless stuff.

So I came into my marriage believing that stuff was of little value. That it wasn’t worth worrying about.

When we got married, we were poor. We had debt. We couldn’t live like we had when we'd lived with our parents. If something broke, we may or may not be able to replace it. We couldn’t afford to do all the things we wanted to do and still pay our bills. This was an adjustment period for me, to be sure, but luckily I was not an overly materialistic person. I didn’t need lots of stuff. I wasn’t a big shopper. We didn’t have a lot, but we were okay. For a while.

Then we went through periods of unemployment. Over the course of twenty years of marriage my husband was laid off ten times; he was our only source of income (I was a stay-at-home mom). That makes it difficult to build any kind of base to work from. The longest time he was out of work was seven months. We had been keeping our heads above water before this. Then the bottom fell out. He got a severance package and we tried to manage that well. We hoped for this time of unemployment to be of short duration like in the past. It wasn’t.

Before long we were in a difficult place. If we didn’t change things soon it was going to get ugly.

We sold an old, small motor home we owned. We sold our boat. We cancelled the satellite service. We quit eating out. We got rid of any extra expenses that we could. This helped, but it wasn’t enough for long. We eventually ended up turning to others for help. Our parents. The governenment. Church welfare. We had to have others help with our debt and pay for our food. We used food stamps, Medicaid, and other services. We did without. (As difficult as it was to ask for and accept help, I am so grateful it was there.)

I believe that when you have to do without it sometimes changes your perception of stuff. You no longer take stuff for granted because you don’t know if it will last. You hate to let anything go out of fear that you might need it again in the future and don’t know if you will be able to replace it.

These difficult times altered the way I saw stuff. When someone offered hand-me-downs I never considered refusing. I knew we couldn’t afford to buy new clothes, so we’d better accept what was offered. People frequently gave us stuff because they knew we were struggling financially. I found myself accumulating more and more even though I wasn’t shopping. Accumulating didn’t seem so bad when I wasn’t buying it.

But then we found ourselves in a position where we had enough. In fact, we had more than enough. Maybe not financially, but materially. We were overflowing with stuff.

And my old feelings reasserted themselves. I saw all the stuff and how it was taking over my life. I felt suffocated by it. I didn’t need it. I didn’t want it. I didn’t even like most of it. Why was I letting it into my life?

I’ve been systematically trying to change those behaviors. I’ve been trying to get back to my minimalist mentality toward stuff. I’ve been trying to get rid of all the stuff that’s come into our lives over the years. It takes time.

And I have noticed that when I try to make a major change in my life, when I’m sure of my choice, something always happens to challenge that decision. To see if I will stick to my guns. It happened this time, too.

Redefining Mother's Day

2011-05-09T22:47:00.000-07:00

I hate Mother's Day. I have for as long as I can remember. As a child/teenager? I'm not sure. But definitely most of my adult life.

I believe Mother's Day was created with good intent, but I believe it tends to do more harm than good in too many cases. It reminds so many women (and probably more than a few men) of painful things. An inability to have a child, children who have severed relationships with parents, men who don't live up to our expectations, loss of a loved one. So many things. I hate that it causes people pain.

And for so many years I knew it would cause me pain. I came into marriage believing that it was a father's job to teach his son how to make Mother's Day special for his wife, like something from a Hallmark commercial. I'm not sure where I got this belief. I watched my dad work hard to make the day special for my mom. Sometimes he got it right. Sometimes not. But I expected my husband to know how to make it a special day for me.

Over the twenty-one years we've been married we've had a few good Mother's Days. Not great, but not ending in tears. But there have also been horrible ones. The ones full of yelling and slamming doors. Lots of crying. So many unmet expectations on both sides.

I can see now that neither of us knew what we were doing. Frustration manifested itself in different ways, but that's what it was more often than not.

As Mother's Day approached this year, I felt the all too-familiar dread. I felt obligations pulling on me. I felt the expectations start to creep in. I began bracing myself for another miserable holiday.

And then I stopped. I decided that I'd had enough miserable Mother's Days. If I wanted to have a good day then I was going to make it happen. I knew I had to change my way of thinking and decide what I really wanted the day to be about.

I hate to have the focus on me. Everyone watching me to make sure I'm happy and I approve of everything. I feel like I am supposed to perform for everyone. Not this year.

This year I decided that I would make it a peaceful day. Fewer expectations. Less stress.

I visited my mom on Saturday and gave her flowers. Since I live in the same town as my parents I have been with my mom every Mother's Day. Whether I felt well or not. Whether things were good for me emotionally or not. Sometimes because I wanted to, other times out of obligation. My mom and I are in a strange place right now and there's just too much unpredictability. So this year I decided Sunday was for me and I would not feel guilty about it. That part worked out great.

I also took the initiative to make things happen around my home like I wanted. I assigned chores to be done Saturday and followed through on them instead of leaving them up to my husband. It is my job to make myself happy -- I wish I'd learned that sooner. I instructed my husband about what I wanted (clean house and yard and someone else making dinner). Then I made it happen.

My mental change was so important, too. Instead of waiting to be appreciated and celebrated, I celebrated being a mom. I reveled in my children and all that they did for me. I enjoyed my husband's company and all the work he put into it. I chose to have a good Mother's Day. I chose to celebrate womanhood, to remember all the women who have touched my life or the lives of my children. Women rock!

And then something wonderful happened. My family gave me the best gift they could possibly give. Besides cleaning and cooking and being extra nice, they recognized me as I am. They accepted me and found a way to make the day mine.

Two of my daughters came to me with an idea. They suggested that since I hate Mother's Day but love Halloween we should have another Halloween. I loved the idea. I loved it the most because they were respecting my feelings. They were telling me that they understood who I am. They were able to look past what society says Mother's Day should be and celebrate who I am. No tangible gifts, to respect my minimalist desires. Thinking outside the box.

After a wonderful day at church (in which one daughter gave a talk with a beautiful little tribute to me), we came home and just enjoyed each other. We had candy corn, m&ms, and pumpkin pie. We watched Halloween movies. We hung out together. Two of my daughters sneaked out the back door without being seen. The doorbell rang. We answered to see these two teenage girls dressed up in costume (a nerd and a pretty, pretty princess). "Trick or treat," they chorused as they held out their bags. It totally made the evening. I giggled as I put candy corn and m&ms into their bags. They thanked us and left. When they came back in the back door they acted as if nothing had happened. It was so much fun.

I am so blessed. I have an incredible family. And I had the best Mother's Halloween Day ever.

Happy Womanhood Day! May we use this day to celebrate women everywhere for who they are. And may we, as women, define and create our own happiness.

Politics -- Smartly

2011-05-09T07:30:00.000-07:00

My essay on politics, slightly rewritten, is up over at Smartly today. Check it out and weigh in.

I Wish You Could Have Known Your Mom

2011-05-03T22:42:00.000-07:00

A couple of months ago I had an interesting visit. I answered a knock on my door to find my mom's best friend from high school. They've remained friends and I've known her my whole life. "Tell me what's going on with your mom," she said.

I invited her in. She proceeded to tell me that last year when they'd had their class reunion she'd tried to contact my mom. My mom didn't respond and didn't attend the reunion (she's always attended in the past). She also tried to contact my mom a couple of other times. I think my dad called her back once and told her that my mom was busy with family stuff and couldn't talk.

She was worried. She had good reason to be.

My mom is struggling right now. She has emotional and physical health problems, more so than she used to I think. She is also trying to save a family member from an addiction. It's taken its toll. She is less and less social. She spends a lot of time isolated in her room. I don't know that she sees anyone other than family or doctors, except maybe when she's shopping.

I told her friend the story of what was going on. I admitted that things are very difficult for my mom right now. I cried a little as I described the current situation. It's a tough thing to watch and not be able to fix.

Then she said something unexpected. "I wish you could have known your mom." It sounds like something you say to someone whose mom died early or was out of the picture for some other reason. My mom has been in my life the whole time. But I understand what she meant.

She remembers my mom as vibrant, smart, capable, and social. I've read my mom's yearbooks. She was very popular. She was a cheerleader. She was an Art Attendant. She was the editor of the yearbook. So social. So involved.

It's not that way now.

The change has been gradual, occurring over many years. She's definitely not that person anymore. I wish I could have known her, too.

Sometimes I get resentful that I don't have the mom I want. I get frustrated that her life is filled with other people, that we are often a second thought. That since I stayed in my hometown and am not in crisis I am less important than everyone else. I get frustrated that I can't have a conversation with her and feel heard. I am incredibly selfish. I can own that.

I can't imagine how difficult her life is right now. Partly because I haven't spent much time trying. Shame on me.

And while I process all of that I also find myself wondering if someone will say the same thing to my children one day. "I wish you could have known your mom."

I am struggling with my emotional and physical health as well. I tried to avoid her path and yet here I am. Following in her footsteps almost exactly. I don't know how much of it was avoidable.

And I feel bad that my kids don't have the mom they want. That they feel less important than they are. That they often don't feel heard.

I hope that who I can be is enough. And I hope that one day someone does tell them who I was. That they get to hear stories of the me that they don't remember. The one who took them to the park and pushed them in the swings. The one who had picnics in the middle of the living room floor. The one who taught them to read and color and sing. The one who nourished their imaginations. I hope they can remember some of that.

Because I am struggling, too. I am not the mom I want to be.

Lost My Footing

2011-04-27T23:06:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid summertime meant freedom. Roaming. Exploring. And one place my friends and I spent time was the creek.

Early summer would find it still deep enough to come up to my thighs. And, man, was it cold.

We would walk up the creek, marveling at the wonders around us. Finding cool rocks. Talking about life.

But when I wasn't careful I would lose my footing. I'd step on a wobbly rock or a slippery one and down I'd go. Sometimes I got caught in the current and was carried a ways downstream before I could get my feet under me again.

Well, I've lost my footing. I was going along okay, but I guess I wasn't watching where I was going. Suddenly I was down and going the wrong direction. I was cold and floundering. I think I've stopped losing ground and I'm very carefully trying to get back on my feet.

This happens. Over and over this happens. It's so frustrating. And sometimes it's very scary. What if I can't catch myself this time? What if I float so far away no one can find me? What if I drown?

I have always found my footing in the past. I believe I will this time as well. The sun will come out and begin to warm me as it dries my clothes. I will find my way back to my friends.

But right now I'm just stepping oh so carefully. One wrong move and I'll be down again. And I don't want to be down again; the fight to get back up can be so hard.

I Refuse to Apologize

2011-04-09T00:58:00.000-07:00

No, this isn't about my husband. I usually don't apologize to him because I'm right and he's wrong. Right, honey? (That was a joke, by the way.)

This is about blogging.

I read a bunch of blogs. I currently have about 65 that I'm subscribed to. Few of them post every day. Some almost never post. I read most of those posts; I comment on very few of them.

There is one thing I see over and over that bugs me. Apologies. Apologies bug me because it seems like these bloggers are questioning themselves, whether they are enough with what they offer. It feels like they believe they are inadequate as they are. That they need to constantly dance to keep their followers happy. These bloggers apologize constantly. (No, not all of them. But enough that it seems like all the time.) I probably read a post with an apology at least once a week. And in the blogging realm I think I am much less involved than others so I'm sure there are more out there.

If I hurt someone's feelings through something I say, I am sorry. And I will say so if I know that I hurt them. But there are very few things about my blog other than that for which I will apologize.

I will not apologize for:
*not commenting on every blog I read
*not replying to every comment I receive
*not posting when you think I should
*not writing about what you think I should
*not using pictures on my blog
*dropping blogs that no longer appeal to me
*not blogging in the way you think I should, whatever way that is
*choosing my real life over an e-life

This is my blog. I will decide how to use it.

This blog is not my life. I will not surrender my life to the internet and/or my followers. When I am old and gray I hope to be surrounded by my family not my blog posts.

Please do not read this post and think about all the things you're doing wrong (if you're a blogger). Please do not feel like I am judging you. I am not. And because I am not, there is no need to apologize. You don't owe me anything. If I read your blog it is because I like what you write. I consider your writing to be my reward for reading. I don't need to be wooed or babysat. Neither of those things will keep me coming back like good content.

Just be who you are, even on your blog. Write what you want, when you want. Authenticity in a blog will get you so much further ahead than pandering.

Smartly Essay -- Adrenaline

2011-04-06T06:13:00.000-07:00

I have a new essay up over at Smartly today. It's an attempt to describe a panic attack, what it feels like when adrenaline takes hostages.

A Princess Story

2011-04-01T01:23:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there were three princesses: Gwendolyn, Donatella, and Genevieve. They lived in an enchanted realm, in neighboring kingdoms.

One day a new princess, Princess Bobbie, moved to the realm and brought her kingdom with her. Only she didn't know that she was a princess. You see, that's something about being a princess -- sometimes you forget.

As she was out exploring the realm, Princess Bobbie met the three princesses. (The three princesses were often together; it helped them remember that they were princesses.) She was mesmerized. These princesses glowed. And they glowed because they were magic! They weren't the ordinary kind of magic, the kind where everyone can do the same things. They each had their own special magic and it was exactly the kind of magic needed for their own kingdom.

Princesses aren't what most people think. They aren't superior and unkind. They are welcoming and inclusive, and Princess Bobbie was thrilled to be invited into their circle of friends. As she spent more and more time with them she began to remember who she was. Her magic began to return. And that was a very good thing because an evil spell had come over her kingdom; they needed her magic. So Princess Bobbie left to protect her kingdom. Things got better and she returned to find her princess friends. And they were happy together again.

But the evil spell isn't ever fully conquered, it is just cast out of a kingdom. And over time it was evident that when the spell left one kingdom it would eventually find its way to another. Sometimes it found its way to one of the other princesses' kingdoms.

If it attacked a kingdom while the princess knew who she was, she was able to defeat it. But if she was a little unsure of herself, if she couldn't see her own magic anymore, the evil could overwhelm her.

And one of the laws of magic and spells was that each princess had to defeat the evil in her own kingdom. The other princesses couldn't do it for her. All they could do was cheer for her. And try to remind her of who she was and to help her find her magic again.

But the evil tried to keep the princesses apart. The evil knew that the princesses were stronger when they were together, that their magic grew as they spent more time with each other.

The evil also knew that being a princess is hard. It can be a very lonely thing. Especially when a princess forgets who she is. That's why the evil worked to make each princess feel like she didn't belong or wasn't good enough to be with the other princesses.

But the princesses love each other. And they are strong. And they will keep fighting their battles and strengthening each other. And although one may get lost every now and then, the glow from the others will always lead her back to them. And the princesses will welcome her back where she belongs and help her remember who she is and the power she has. Because that is what princesses do.

To Do the Will of God

2011-03-28T19:59:00.000-07:00

I would like to share some spiritual thoughts. To throw out some ideas for you to ponder or to chew on and to do with as you will.

For this exercise to work properly you should know where I stand, what I believe. I believe in personal revelation from God. I believe that He speaks to each of us. In our hearts. In our minds. Through a feeling of peace when we hear truth spoken by others. I believe that He speaks to each of us differently, knowing us as He does, in a way we will understand.

And I believe that many of us choose not to listen.

We turn to Him when we have a question or concern. Sometimes we even remember to turn to Him in gratitude, just because we feel blessed. I wonder how often we turn to Him as a servant, a disciple.

We ask what we should do at this particular time, within the framework of our current life and situation. We ask what direction we should go or path we should take to meet our goals. We read His words in the holy scriptures or hear it from His servants and look at our life. We interpret what He would have us do and ask how we should do that.

These are good things. These are honorable questions and choices.

But I wonder how often we lay it all on the table. How often we say "Thy will be done" and mean it with our whole heart and life. We mean it in this instance. With this situation. Do we mean it with all that we have and all that we are?

And so I would ask (rhetorically) what are you willing to sacrifice to do the will of God? Do you ask what He would choose to make of your life if you offered it freely to Him? And if you ask, do you sincerely listen to the answer and follow through on your offer?

Imagine you are young, say 25, and you ask this of God. And He communicates to you that He has a very important work for you, but that in order to do this work you will have to be blind. If you accept this assignment your eyesight will begin to fail and you will be blind before you are 30. Then you will be ready to do His work. Would you accept?

Or you are newly married and eager to begin your family. You ask God how He would use your life and your talents. He tells you that you will be a leader among women and touch many hearts. But to qualify you for this role you will be asked to do hard things. You will get pregnant many times but will not carry a child to term. You will never hold your living child in your arms. Would you be willing to carry this burden to serve Him?

What if you are well established in your profession, a giant in your community, and He asks you to give away everything you have and start a new life of simplicity? Having little materially and working hard to serve others? Could you let all that go if you knew it was what He wanted?

I ask these questions and put forth these possibilities because I think this is what prevents us from asking. I believe most of us do not ask, do not offer our whole lives, because we are afraid of the answer. We have a plan for our life. Our goals are righteous. Our hearts are pure. We will ask His direction as we work toward our goals, but we know what we want to do with our life.

Do we know what He wants to do with it?

Smartly Essay -- Spring Tease

2011-03-28T12:07:00.000-07:00

I have an essay up today over at Smartly about how spring teases us, how she toys with our emotions. Even still, she's always worth the wait.

My Beautiful Neighborhood

2011-03-17T23:56:00.000-07:00

Tonight, as I let the dog in, I took the opportunity to admire my neighborhood. I stood on my porch and looked at the homes within my immediate view and was overwhelmed with love and gratitude.

I am incredibly fortunate to live in my neighborhood. I love the location. I love the view from my porch. But most of all, I love my neighbors.

There are some younger than us, some older than us, and a few of the wise and wonderful generation. And each of them has touched my life in some way.

Our immediate neighbors have been incredibly understanding and forgiving during times when the volume between my husband and me was intense. And again when my children held a picnic on their porch and didn't clean it up. They have been kind and helpful. They have watched over us. They have been an emergency contact for my children when we were away; I felt comforted knowing they were there for my kids.

The ones on the other side I don't know as well. The parents only speak Spanish and I don't. We haven't really connected verbally. But they have been polite and friendly. We wave at each other with a big smile. Even without many words, there is a tenderness there. An understanding that we are neighbors.

Across the street is my neighbor who is 95 (give or take a year). He frequently walks across the street and visits with me and my kids when we're in the yard. He brings us produce from his garden. He talks to my kids about the activities they are involved with. He tells me about his family and all that they are up to. And he loves us. In the way he talks to us and smiles at us, I know that he does.

And all along the street I can see people who are kind to me. People who have helped me. People who look out for me and my kids. People who see when I'm having a bad day and give me a hug. People who look past the irritating things we do and are still our friends. People who've had hard times and learned lessons and shared them. People who speak with love from their heart. People who are open to connecting and aren't afraid of being loved.

I hear of people who don't get along with their neighbors or who live in unsafe neighborhoods and I am sad. I wish everyone had a neighborhood like I do.

Each of these people has touched my heart. Each of them has served me at one time or another. And if asked each of them would probably say that they didn't do much. But isn't that the point of a neighborhood? If we all do a little to take care of each other, everything important will get done.

Smartly Essay -- Yes, Dear

2011-03-17T08:34:00.000-07:00

I have a new essay up over at Smartly today. Just a few more tales about my husband. Seriously, it's amazing that he's still alive. You'll like these stories.

Dear Diary

2011-03-15T00:35:00.000-07:00

I often see bloggers begin a post with an apology for having been absent for a while. When I see this it reminds me of how like a diary a blog can be. I remember as a teen that most of my diary entries started the same way.

I've never been a good journal keeper. I have friends and family who are so good at taking note of what's happening in their lives, who write in a journal religiously. My entries were sporadic, but I tried. I have a few recorded memories of those difficult years when everything is wrong and the world just doesn't understand you.

Today I have chosen to share one. I do this mostly for my daughter who is just leaving that time of her life. So that she can know that I struggled with similar things. And so she can laugh at my drama.

This entry would have been during my junior year in high school, shortly before I turned 17. I typed it exactly as it appeared, including punctuation mistakes and lost focus.

November 29, 1986
I think I'm going to go insane. I'm still waiting for a letter from Kevin and my "dad" and I just had another fight.

He probably doesn't even know we've had a fight. He just told me another flaw he doesn't like about me is that I'm getting sarcastic. I wish he'd notice something good in me for a change. It seems like he's only pleased with me once a year. Last year it was my "Outstanding Sophomore Award" and this year it's my stupid grades.

While once a year he notices a good thing he points out hundreds of mistakes, I already know about, the rest of the year. It'll be so good when Ryan comes home because I'm going to stay with my Grandma Conover so that Kay can have my room.

It'll be great to get away from my dad & Chris for two weeks, off & on. They drive me totally insane on a day to day basis.

I think I'm going to die if I don't get a letter from Kevin soon. I've been living the past week just waiting for the mail so that I could see if it had come yet.

I seem to be getting depressed more and more lately. I don't know why. Maybe it's all the pressure I'm getting from my parents. My mom doesn't even realize that she pressures me, too.

I mean they're so happy when I get good grades that I'm scared to let them know if I really start having problems.

I've been thinking about Kevin all the time lately and I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm in an awful situation. I don't know how he feels and I don't know how I feel. Our relationship is going to be almost frozen for the next two years. Oh, that sounds like such a long time. I'm gonna die!

Love Always,
Robin

When Disaster Strikes

2011-03-13T00:18:00.000-08:00

It's been two days since the world turned upside down for thousands of people in Japan. Two days of the rest of the world watching, with so many hoping and praying. So many people wondering if their loved ones were okay. Waiting for news. Hoping for the best.

I only know one person in Japan. A man I knew shortly after college. A man I had a flirtation with. A very sweet, tender-hearted man. And through the magic of facebook we have been able to reconnect. We exchange very little, but I am able to get small glimpses into his life every so often. I feel like he is still my friend.

Today I found out that he and his wife are safe. And I exhaled. Because in a very real way I had been holding my breath for the last two days. Checking facebook more often than usual just to see if he's posted. Offering many prayers and thinking of him.

Because that was all I could do.

And when disaster strikes that is often all any of us can do. Wait. Hope. Think. Pray. And amid all the horror that has been happening (and will for some time to come) there has been beauty. Beauty in seeing the rescue efforts under way. Beauty in nations offering help to other nations. An unknown brotherhood discovered as earthquake and rescue experts from California travel to Japan to help their family in need. And the incredible outpouring of love and concern.

There are people who are oblivious, I suppose. Who don't know what's going on or take time to care. There may even be those who think it's a good thing because of some prejudice they have or a hard-heartedness about human life. But I don't have time for those people.

The ones I see are those whose hearts are breaking open full of love and concern.

And while the word disaster generally makes us think of massive things, disasters can also be tiny in scale. It can be a disaster even if it only affects a few people. The loss of a child. Receiving a diagnosis of a terrible disease. Watching Alzheimer's transform someone you love into someone who doesn't know you. So many things.

I hope we remember to allow our hearts to be broken open for those disasters, too. Because while we can't save the world, we can touch lives.

I can't fix the buildings that fell down. I can't give everyone clean drinking water. I can't bring back the people who were lost.

So I offer what I can. I offer my prayers because I never run out -- I have enough for everyone. And I offer my heart. Because no matter how full it is, no matter how many people I hold in my heart, there is always room for one more.

My Power Songs

2011-03-03T00:26:00.000-08:00

I can admit it. When I started therapy a few years ago I was lost. My life was a mess, everything from my past was catching up with me and holding me hostage, and I had no idea who I was. It was an ugly time.

While I think we all routinely redefine ourselves, some of us have more trouble with it. If you've ever been in an abusive situation, where you had to be the person your abuser wanted you to be in order to be safe, it is so much more difficult.

As I worked through some things I began to discover who I was. I began to choose who I would be. Part of this process for me was putting together some power songs. I put together three cds of music that help me center myself. Connect with my soul. Find my power core again.

Each song was chosen for a reason. I wanted to accept and represent the many facets of who I am. It would take too long to explain them all, so instead I broke them down into basic categories.

I provided links so you could check out the song if you wanted to. Please remember to be wise in your time management. I am not responsible if you start clicking and find yourself wasting an hour (or more).

Also, I'd love to hear about any power songs you might have.

I am strong all by myself:
   *I Will Survive
   *Independent Woman
I am in charge of my life - I set my rules - I deserve respect:
   *Boss of Me
   *We're Not Gonna Take It
   *It's My Life
   *Any Man of Mine
   *Video
   *Appletree
   *Nasty
I am powerful - I can change the world:
   *Wonder Woman Theme
   *Man in the Mirror
I am a sexual being - I can be bad if I want to
   *Need You Tonight
   *Hot Blooded
   *Hurts So Good
   *It's Raining Men
   *Like a Virgin
   *Hungry Like the Wolf
   *Devil Inside
Self-definition - PMS songs:
   *Bitch
   *Cold as Ice
   *Witchy Woman
   *You Gotta Be
Gallows humor - Irreverent - I want to inflict pain
   *Dirty Deeds
   *Dirty Laundry
   *Little Black Backpack
   *Bark at the Moon
I hate men - men suck - daddy issues:
   *Bugaboo
   *Perfect
   *Where Have All the Cowboys Gone
   *Wonderful
   *Voices Carry
   *Spiderwebs
   *When Doves Cry
   *No Scrubs
   *I Kicked a Boy
   *There You Go
Just love the song - fun to sing:
   *Lovefool
   *Major Tom
   *Lady Marmalade
   *I Like it Like That
   *This is Halloween
   *Girls Just Wanna Have Fun
   *Popular
   *I'm Like a Bird
   *What I Am
   *Scar Tissue
   *Ugly Girl
   *Bad Moon Rising
   *Try Again
   *Juke Box Hero
   *Renegade
   *Zombie (dance mix)
   *El Tango de Roxanne
   *Whip It

Smartly Essay -- Hollywood

2011-03-02T06:14:00.000-08:00

I have a new essay up over at Smartly. It's all about how Hollywood Has Messed Me Up for Life. I mean, seriously, why can't my life be like the movies?

You'll understand after you read it. So go. Now. Read it.

A Lesbian Trapped in a Man's Body

2011-02-22T23:07:00.000-08:00

This is how my husband describes himself. You see, he's very attracted to women. I know, try to wrap your mind around it.

As I examined this phrase I realized that he might be right. He is kind of a girl.

He's not effeminate in any discernable way. And he does enough stupid man-things that I want to kill him on a regular basis. But if ever anyone were "in touch with his feminine side" it's him.

Allow me to illustrate.

My husband does not do home repairs. He has no idea how; he's not allowed to try. He can fix computers but nothing else. He does not own any tools. He is forbidden to touch power tools.

My husband likes scented candles. Way more than I do. His favorite scent is lilac. Back when I used to get invited to candle parties all the time there was always a handwritten note on the invite that said to bring him along. Please.

And speaking of parties, you should see him go nuts at a Pampered Chef party. He thinks anything made by Pampered Chef is a godsend. I was also instructed to bring him to these parties. The demonstrator would talk about an item, he would gush about how he uses it to make such and such, how he couldn't live without it, and sales would soar. I'm pretty sure that as long as he went no one would care if I even came.

At social gatherings he is much more likely to hang out with the women than the men. Those men are just such . . . men. They are just gross. He can't stand locker room talk or behavior. He doesn't talk sports. But get him with a bunch of women talking about the mini-whip from Pampered Chef and he can hold his own.

And as much as I love him, he is more like a 14-year old girl than I ever was. Emotionally needy. Playing mind games to get attention. Pouting when I don't include him.

I guess it works out well for us because I am more like a guy in so many ways. I own the tools. I do the repairs. I mow the lawn. I split the wood. I explain sports to him.

No, I do not consider myself a man nor am I trapped anywhere I don't belong. I'm just a very progressive girl.

We fit, in our own peculiar way. My favorite memory of how we're different would have to be as we prepared for a Memorial Day barbeque with my family. I was up in a tree with a chainsaw while he was in the kitchen making deviled eggs.

Yup, that's us.

*****
If you liked this story, you'll love the one my daughter tells about him trying to do something manly.

Smartly Essay - Love

2011-02-16T06:23:00.000-08:00

My essay about my love of people is up over at Smartly today. There is hope for humanity. People are wonderful. Maybe we just didn't notice.

Thinking of you today, Maggie. You are one of them; may you blossom and soar!

The Real Me

2011-02-15T02:57:00.000-08:00

Sometimes we choose to put on a false front. We pretend to be someone we aren't. We've all done it at one time or another, I'd suppose.

But then there are other times. Times when you just aren't yourself and it's not because you chose it.

I remember when my grandma was in the hospital the final time. She was one of the sweetest women I've ever met, but they put her on some medication that totally altered her personality. She was angry and mean; it was not good. Luckily, they figured it out pretty quickly and changed her meds. She was able to be her angelic self for a while before she passed away. I'm grateful we got to remember her that way.

I've spent a lot of time wondering about the real me. Who am I really?

For so many years I let others decide what I wanted. I let others define who I was. I still hear so many of those tapes in my head when I choose something for myself that I know would not be approved of.

When I let others tell me what to do and who to be I do not believe I was myself. I believe I was an impersonator. Pretending to be what they wanted.

The real me was buried inside all along.

I have found her in the last few years. I have spent a lot of time trying to discern between the tapes in my head and the desires of my heart. I believe I'm closer than I ever have been to knowing who I really am.

But then an interesting thing happened. As part of the ongoing Russian roulette that my health has become, I tried a new medication. Xanax.

A few positives. Several negatives. Not a good fit overall. But an important lesson.

You see, it altered me. I wasn't the true me. It made me aggressive, yelling at my family for stupid little things. That was bad enough. But the true alteration was more subtle and I didn't realize it until I got off the medication.

It quieted my mind.

I always thought that would be a good thing. My brain is always working, always pondering, usually processing many ideas at once. It's difficult for me to sleep because I can't shut my brain down. It gets really annoying sometimes because I have difficulty focusing on a single task.

I thought I hated it. Until it went away.

Things were quiet. There was only one thing at a time. Nothing of much importance. Nothing that inspired emotion or deep thought. Everything was shallow, washed out, muted.

I couldn't process. I couldn't analyze. I couldn't think deeply. I couldn't feel. I couldn't write.

In short, I wasn't me.

As it turns out, I like thinking deeply. I like seeing a bird and pondering its thoughts and its place in the universe. I like wondering about others' motivations, about their psyches. I like struggling through a difficult emotional problem. I like deconstructing my past to understand my today.

Even with the noise that has resumed in my head, I am glad I chose to get off the meds. They served an important purpose and I may need them again someday. But right now they just aren't worth the cost. I'm not willing to sacrifice myself -- not when I've just figured out who that is.

Thanks for the Sting

2011-02-04T12:09:00.000-08:00

Every now and then I receive a comment on my blog that bugs me. I can't really put my finger on why. What is it about that comment that irritates me so? Makes me feel like I need to defend myself? It wasn't mean, exactly. So why did it sting?

Well, today I think I finally found my answer. I got my first truly snotty comment. It was on an older post. And a fairly popular one. It felt like a slap in the face. A moment of shock.

But there was beauty to it as well. You see, it was written in a way that helped me figure out what had been bugging me about those other comments. And in such a way that it showed the insecurities of the woman writing it. It was obviously her issue and she was projecting. I am grateful for that. Because it was so evident in hers, I can see it in others' as well.

So what was it? What is it that bugs me so much in those comments? It's someone else assuming that they know what my motivations are. It's someone else telling me how I feel. It's someone else putting words into my mouth. Basically, it's all the childish arguments I've had over the years with people who would rather attack me than argue their point. It's not debate. It's not stating your opinion and backing it up. It's saying, "You don't agree with me so you're stupid!"

I've had way too much experience with this kind of arguing. Too often I don't see it when it happens. I am hurt and can't figure out why. I feel defensive. I feel like a little girl being chastised for not being good enough. I feel like I'm being told that everything that's wrong is my fault.

And those are my issues.

But because this woman took the time to comment, in all her snarky glory, I was able to see it. I was able to see that when a person attacks like this, it's not about me. It's about them. And just because they blame me or think I am stupid it doesn't mean I am. They may throw the label out there but I don't have to choose to wear it.

So if any of you have the need to tell me how I feel, you may. And I will not argue with you. You can just be wrong. And I can be right. And I don't have to prove to you that I am right or defend myself. It's okay if I'm the only one who knows.

To that wonderful woman who gave me this gift this morning, thank you. It may not have been what you intended, but it turned out great for me. Good luck to you as you work through your insecurities. I hope some day you can receive a similar slap in the face that helps you become the person you want to be. And I said that in all kindness and sincerity.

Thanks for the sting.

Smartly Essay - Sex

2011-02-02T11:46:00.000-08:00

My essay on sex, slightly rewritten, is up over at Smartly. If you haven't read it, you should. Everyone should. It's a statement about sex that I would love to spread to as many people as possible. Especially young people.

My Front Door

2011-01-31T14:01:00.000-08:00

My front door is nothing special. It’s old. The nasty brown paint is missing in spots. It’s really heavy and the door frame has seen better days so you have to slam it to get it to latch.

But it works. It protects us from the elements. It keeps us safe. It greets people.

Or it keeps people out.

Here’s the deal. It’s my door. And I get to decide what to do with it. If you come to my house and knock on my door I might not answer. Even if I’m home. Even if I’m dressed for the day. Even if I’m not really doing anything.

I am under no obligation to do so. There is no law that says I have to open my door to anyone who knocks on it. Or even acknowledge that I hear them.

And I refuse to feel any guilt about it.

Sometimes I don’t feel well. Sometimes I’m napping. Sometimes I have a bad headache. Sometimes I am avoiding someone and since I don’t know who knocked I don’t answer the door; it’s just not worth taking the chance. And sometimes I just don't want to talk to anyone.

And I do the same with my phone. Even if I love you I might not answer when you call. I might not call you back. I can usually see who’s calling because of caller ID, but that doesn’t always change things. Sometimes I’m just not up to answering the phone.

Or a text message.

I know our society is all about instant gratification. Instant information flow. Instant communication. And lots of times I play the game. You text and I text right back. You call and I answer. You email and I respond before you’ve even moved on to something else.

But not always.

It’s my phone. It’s my door. It’s my time. It’s my life. I get to decide what to do with it. Even if that means slowing down. Even if that means not answering you long enough that you find your own solution instead of always relying on me. Even if that means you have to call someone else. Or do without.

Even if that means you have to be alone.

I am no longer interested in being all things to all people. I’m too worn out. Now I use great care to pick and choose where I spend my precious time and energy.

And I refuse to apologize for it.

Unless you live in my house with me -- then I kind of feel like I should unlock the door for you. I guess you’re special.

But I still have my bedroom door.

Smartly Essay -- Stephanie Meyer

2011-01-28T17:01:00.000-08:00

My Stephanie Meyer rant is up over at Smartly. If you haven't read it, I invite you to do so now.

Smartly Essay -- Prayer

2011-01-24T06:15:00.000-08:00

I have a new essay up over at Smartly. It's about prayer. How do you feel about having others pray for you? I'd love everyone's input.

You should check it out because My Prayers are with You.

The Ugly Materialist

2011-01-15T22:57:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time there was a very ugly duckling. Only it turned out that it wasn't a duckling after all. It was a young swan. He didn't fit in because he wasn't with his own kind.

Have you ever wondered how that swan felt when he realized where he belonged? When he found his own kind and felt like he was home? He was okay. There was nothing wrong with him. In fact, he was glorious and beautiful, despite what he'd been told.

I found a little bit of that home-ness recently.

For years I would go through and purge my house at least twice a year. Gut the whole thing. And get rid of trailerloads of stuff. Spring and fall. I would send my kids away with my husband for the day and just pull everything out of all the closets, all the bedrooms, and chuck stuff. As my kids got older this got more difficult. They had more stuff and noticed when it disappeared.

Then I went to bed for a year and a half. I'm still not really sure what made the bottom drop out of my world at that time, but it was not pretty. And I got behind on the gutting (along with so many other things).

You should know that my family likes stuff. And my mom has a shopping problem. To the point where she used to show up at my house three or four times a week with stuff she bought for us. Nothing we needed usually, just stuff. It's tough to say no when you know it's given out of love. Or when your kids see it and want it because it's shiny and new.

But I got buried. My house got deeper and deeper in stuff.

And then I got a job and found out I can easily be a workaholic. I was working 50-60 hours a week while parenting five active kids. Basic housework didn't get done; forget about purging.

Then my health plummeted again and I had to quit my job. My kids needed me and I just didn't have enough energy for them and work.

So I came home. And I was happy about that decision. It's where I needed to be.

But I still have all this stuff. And I'm six or seven years behind in the gutting. And I want it gone.

Did I mention that I don't like stuff? I'm not a fan of possessions. I do not want to be the one with the most toys. I see very little value in it and they just add to the weight I feel in life. More stuff to worry about, clean up, take care of. Ugh! Not the life I want.

And then it happened. I found my kind. I found the minimalist movement.

It's kind of a big thing right now. Lots of people are doing it. And that usually would keep me from doing it because I hate going along with the crowd. But I can't turn away. I can't resist the pull. I want less. So much less.

I'm not one to push a cause. I'm not interested because it's good for the planet. I don't care if anyone else chooses to do it. I don't plan to get rid of all my possessions and live out of a box.

And I don't think there is anything wrong with people who like stuff. Materialists. I am just not one of them.

I am a minimalist.

Making my life what I want it to be will take a long time. Even for people who feel well it sometimes takes years to make the change. And because I don't feel well I'll have to take it slowly.

But I'm okay with that because I finally know the way home.

A Smartly Sub

2011-01-13T01:48:00.000-08:00

My essay suggesting that we treat life more like competetive sports (Who needs a sub?) is up over at Smartly.
You should go read it. It will make you smarter and more popular. You will sleep better at night. You'll be able to read minds.

Okay, maybe not, but you should still go read it. It might make you think. And we could all use more of that.

Protect the Space/Time Continuum

2011-01-08T20:59:00.000-08:00

The beginning of a new year is a great time for evaluation. A time to think about where you are in life, what things you want to change, how to make a better you.

Poppycock!

Once a year to evaluate life? Are you kidding me? I do that at least once a week, sometimes every day.

Needless to say I do not make New Year's resolutions. I tried a couple of times when I was younger and it was not a good thing. I am a perfectionist at heart. Like, to a clinical point. So I don't do well when I mess up. Really, really not well. I know this about myself. And since I haven't beaten the perfectionist thing yet I dropped the resolution thing instead. Sometimes you need to honor your weaknesses.

However, I do believe in self-improvement. I believe in changing life to make it what you want it to be. And I am just now coming out of a dark time in my life. A pretty big funk. I am ready for some change and some light.

I am ready to get back to the quest of me. Finding myself. The true me that I want to be. Connecting to purity and truth in the universe that will make me feel more whole.

Doesn't that sound nice. Just reading it makes me take a deep breath and feel better.

I do want a focus, but nothing too specific and restrictive. I want a more bohemian feel to it. Loose and free-flowing. Too much definition kills the peace that I am looking for.

I am going to protect the space/time continuum. My space/time continuum.

Space and time are interesting things. Both are infinite in the universe; however, both are limited in our individual lives.

Because they are limited I want to use them wisely. I am not happy when they slip by unnoticed and disappear into nothingness. Never to be seen again.

I am concentrating more on my time. Whom I choose to share it with. What I choose to spend it on. And refusing to let it be stolen.

Similarly, I am protecting and reclaiming my space. Deciding who and what gets to share it with me. It's not so much about getting rid of things that are taking it from me as it is creating more of the space I want. That I crave.

It's not about cleaning and organizing. It's not about scheduling better and saying no more often. It's about choosing a better way of life for myself. It's a paradigm shift.

It's about looking at life through a crystal, letting all the facets shine in majestic glory. And letting them radiate in my soul.

An Update

2011-01-05T21:18:00.000-08:00

Thank you for all the kind expressions of concern and support. It was very sweet and touched my heart.

I got triggered over the holiday. Multiple times. By different people.

I have kind of lost my sense of self recently, my self-definition. I regressed to letting others define me. To feeling like I am worth less because others didn't approve. Because I didn't measure up.

It was a gradual thing, so I didn't really notice it until it had gotten pretty bad. I was isolating myself. I was unable to write. I was no longer talking to people in any meaningful way. I was not leaving my house unless absolutely required. For over a month.

I felt like I was disappearing.

And then the holidays hit. There were some really good things which I'd hoped to write about. But then there were a couple of situations that sent me back in time. I was not self-assured. I had no power. My boundaries were difficult to maintain. I didn't feel like a whole person. And my anxiety began to climb.

I didn't understand what was happening. I couldn't pin it down to just one incident. Or even to just one person.

But I was suddenly full of fear. Paralyzed with fear. Always on the verge of tears. Several sobbing fits with so much emotional pain. And I didn't understand where it was coming from. For a couple of weeks.

On the bright side, I made it through the worst of it without injuring myself. That's progress. And I found a way to stand up for myself once I figured out one of the problems.

It's not gone. I'm not through it. Sudden waves of fear and/or anxiety still happen. But I am making progress. Understanding that it is PTSD because I was triggered helps. Even though I don't know the specific cause, I do have coping strategies -- healthy ones -- to deal with it.

So right now I am trying to pull it together. To figure it out. But at least I am finally able to write. That alone makes me feel like I might be real.

A Little Lost

2011-01-02T23:25:00.000-08:00

I'm a little lost right now. I'm sure I'll find my way again -- I always do.

For now, I just wanted you to know why I'm missing.

With Wonder and Awe

2010-12-23T11:09:00.000-08:00

I listen to the birds outside my window. It is almost Christmas, there are several inches of snow on the ground, and those birds are still here. Still chirping away. And I wonder. What kind are they? What keeps them here? How do they survive?

As I've gotten older I'm afraid I've lost much of my ability to wonder. Things just don't amaze me like they have in the past. Is it age? Is it depression? Who knows.

But there are still moments. Moments when time stands still.

When I hold a sleeping newborn. I look at this being. I behold this creature. And I am filled with awe. I gaze lovingly. I glory in its magnificence. I am overwhelmed by its very being.

I sit on my porch at midnight on a summer evening. All is quiet. Except for nature. Nature composes the most incredible symphonies. And she plays them in the dark of night. The crickets. The wind. Leaves rustling. An owl. And the stillness. The stillness is a player in the orchestra. The stars play their chords. It is breathtaking.

A moment of clarity. In a room full of people. During a busy day. All has been rushed. Then something clicks. A look. A word. A phrase. A thought. All is made clear in my mind in that moment and I am awash in peace. Clarity. Calm.

These are the moments when I know I am more. We are more. More than we can possibly understand.

Being a Video Game Character, Smartly

2010-12-20T07:09:00.000-08:00

My Envy of Video Game Characters is up over at Smartly. It's one of my earlier posts, so many of you probably haven't read it yet. Plus I tweaked it a little, so you should definitely go check it out.

Then come back and tell me which video game charater you would be.

Depression as a Part of the Family

2010-12-16T23:51:00.000-08:00

Sometimes it feels like Depression is another member of our family. I've seen him walk with various other members. He has been around for so long, he doesn't seem like a visitor anymore.

At times he will hang out in the background, examining things, taking it all in. Other times he will invade our lives like a child having a tantrum.

It's tough to be sad about it. It's part of who we are. To wish it away would be to wish away all we've learned from our walks with him. It would mean we weren't as strong or understanding. It would mean we were a little more hollow.

I mention this because today I re-read a post my daughter wrote about it last year, while at college (which you should go read). It is such a part of her as well. Kind of a travelling companion. Like taking a friend with you wherever you go.

I know it sounds strange when I describe depression this way. Like a friend. Like a family member. But if you've experienced it then it probably makes total sense. It can be a comfort. It can help you understand who you are. It can give you strength when you have none. And like friends and family, it can be very trying.

Learning to understand Depression for the part he plays in our family helps. It's part of why we understand each other, enjoy each other, even while we kind of freak other people out.

Just think of Depression as the crazy cousin who got drunk and passed out on the couch. Yes, he's tough to deal with but he's still family.

Why Did I Get Out of Bed?

2010-12-13T22:09:00.000-08:00

Let me set the stage a little. I was very dizzy yesterday so I took some anti-dizzy medication. Mixed with the Xanax I am taking let's just say I was VERY tired. However, I still didn't get to bed until about 12:30am.

Since I am the human alarm clock in my house, my day started at 5:00am. Wake up one daughter so she can study for a test. 6:30am start waking other kids. 7:00am wake son. 7:07 wake son again. And 7:14. And 7:21. Son is already grounded from the computer for other infractions, so what do I threaten him with now? Finally scare son enough (pretty loud yelling) that he gets out of bed at 7:28am. Keep in mind that I have to walk down the hall on my very painful foot each time to do this. To say that I am irritated with him does not come close.

Spend the next twenty minutes trying to get him to move faster than a sloth so that he will be ready when his ride comes. As he purposely pushes every single one of his sister's buttons. When his ride comes he makes them wait a minute or so while he hunts for his jacket. I am just glad to have him out of my house.

I lock the doors and go back to bed. I can barely keep my eyes open. I am still feeling the effects of yesterday's medications. I set my alarm for noon. I will surely be able to get up by then. Or not. Many snoozes and alarm changes later, I finally get up at about 1:30pm. My foot hurts so bad I can barely walk. I have to eat something so I can take some anti-inflammatory meds without extreme stomach pain. I stumble to the kitchen and have a bowl of cereal (after I wash a bowl and spoon because the dishes have stacked up -- again). Of course, the kitchen smells of something really nasty that I'm sure is buried under all the dishes. I get my frozen water bottle and take it to my room so I can put my foot on it. I try to catch up on some blog reading.

Half an hour later, I take the water bottle back to the freezer. Passing through the living room on my way back to unlock the door so the children can get in, I notice a discoloration on the carpet. Not a subtle one. Cat puke. Of course. So I limp into the kitchen and get what I need to clean up the cat puke.

I get a text message telling me my daughter is on no-credit status because of unexcused absences or tardies (which I know I have called and excused). I get an email that another daugher is failing one or more of her classes (she says the teacher hasn't entered all her make up work). I find myself in the basement looking for something and can smell cat poop. Somehow, as strong as the smell is, I can't find it. I eventually have to give up and decide to try again later.

One daughter comes home, very sick. I send her to bed. It's her turn for dinner so now I have that as well. Did I mention that my foot is killing me and my meds are sending me into a depression? Just walking around my own house is hard. I need a shower. But now I have to go out in public.

Two more daughters come home. Aside from their irritating cheerfulness, things seem to be okay with them. I realize it's getting kind of late and I haven't heard from my son. I decide to give him a little more time to check in.

Oldest daughter comes home and collapses on my bed. Super tired and stressed because it's finals week at college and she is pushing every limit she's got.

Finally decide I can't wait any longer and I have to track down my son. I try to call the only friend I can think of and their phone isn't working. I decide I'm going to have to drive to his house. I look like death warmed over. I drive up there. She says they were there but they went to do parkour somewhere. She doesn't know where. She can tell by my face that he's in trouble. We each promise that whoever finds them first will make them contact home. It is now 2 1/2 hours since school ended and since it's winter it's dark. He's fourteen.

I am a pretty relaxed parent in many ways. My kids get away with a lot. But I have one major rule (other than don't kill anyone) and that is that I must know where you are and who you are with. Always. You do not leave the school to go anywhere but home unless you call first. You do not stay at the school to practice your instrument or work out in the weight room unless you call first. You do not say you are going one place and then go to another place without checking in first. You do not leave me wondering where you are. Especially if you already ticked me off that day.

I drive around for half an hour checking parks. No sign of him. The street lights are now on. I go buy Little Caesar's pizza because I'm in charge of dinner now. Still looking like garbage.

I decide to go home and wait it out. On my way, he calls. Our conversation goes like this:

"Hi, mom." (sounding cheery and nonchalant)
"Are you at T's house?"
"Yeah."
"Get your binder (which he left there last week). I will be there in five minutes to pick you up." (It's now three hours since school has been out.)
"You mean I can't stay?"
"GET YOUR BINDER. I WILL BE THERE IN FIVE MINUTES TO PICK YOU UP. ARE WE CLEAR NOW?"
"Yup."

I pick him up. I can't even speak because I am so angry. (Okay, fine, the meds may have something to do with my aggression. But this is also not a first offense for this boy. He's been warned and grounded before. Several times. I have had it!)

We get home. I kick his sister off the computer and tell him to log into his facebook account. Then I send him to take out the over-flowing trash. As he does that I change his facebook status to: "This is Nik's mom. He is grounded from any contact with friends for the next two weeks. Do not invite him to do anything or call until after Christmas. He is unavailable. Thank you."

I go in to make sure he puts a new liner in the trash can only to find that someone spilled something nasty in the trash earlier when it didn't have a liner and just put a new one in anyway. So whatever they spilled has now fermented. I get the Lysol and paper towels and start to clean it out, only to find that there is also an entire serving of mashed potatoes in the bottom of the trash can. Soft and gooey mashed potatoes. This is a 30-gallon trash can so I have to practically climb inside to clean it. Awful smell. And now choking on the Lysol.

People eat their pizza. Husband finally gets home. I am a little irritated at him, too. He forgot to charge his phone last night so it's been dead all day. This means I couldn't call and ask him for help finding my son, to pick up dinner on his way home, or complain about the horrible day I was having.

I finally take a bath. Now I no longer look like an unearthed zombie with a hangover. I head into the kitchen to see if there's anything I can eat (I hate Little Caesar's pizza). I finally make a couple peanut butter and honey sandwiches. I go back into the kitchen to put my dishes away. I don't have the heart to make the daughter in charge of dishes do them because she's the one studying like crazy for finals. I have other daughter unload the dishwasher and I load. In the process I find that both sides of the sink are clogged because my family simply cannot resist the urge to throw solid food into the sink. Our disposal has been broken for over a year. I have been lecturing for about that long. They aren't getting it. As I do the dishes I find chunks of curdled milk, soggy Cheerios, sandwich baggies, a box top, the sharp removed top of a tin can, and bits and pieces of no-one-wants-to-guess. And a seriously disgusting rag that could easily be used for a science project in its current state of stench. I end up using our mini-plunger just to get the sinks to drain.

My head is killing me. I'm tired. I have zero patience. I have done no Christmas shopping because my foot hurts so bad and my meds are playing havoc with my system. We don't even have a Christmas tree.

And my daughter just sent me a text asking me to wake her at 5:30 tomorrow morning.

Today, I am Scrooge. And I am completely and 100% okay with that. Wake me up in January; I'm skipping the rest of this holiday.

Shutting Up, Smartly

2010-12-07T05:48:00.000-08:00

I have a new essay up over at Smartly. It's all about learning to shut up -- or not. You should check it out by clicking here.

You're Much Happier in Person

2010-11-30T15:19:00.000-08:00

Recently, as part of an improve-your-writing challenge, I asked for feedback on my writing. A few brave souls trusted that I meant it (I did) and offered some. Kudos to you for your bravery. And thank you.

To me, feedback is like telling someone they have spinach in their teeth. It might be awkward, but it helps them avoid future embarrassment. I believe you should ask a person if they want feedback before offering it (unless they ask you for it). And I believe feedback and criticism are two very different things. It's not feedback if you are telling them about something you don't like that they have no way to fix. It's not feedback if it's meant to hurt or tease or make you look better than them.

One thing that a couple of people told me was that I seem much happier in person than I come across in my writing. That my writing seems darker than I really am.

Being the introspective person that I am, I thought about this. Is it true? Am I misrepresenting myself in my writing? Am I misrepresenting myself in person? Why don't these two personas align?

Like most things in life, it's complicated.

While I would like to be incredibly genuine at all times, sometimes I still put on a happy face when I'm out. Not as much as I used to. Not to people I trust. Usually just in passing or with people I don't really know. Or if I'm not up to talking about what's bothering me.

And then there's the fact that if I'm outside of my house, I'm probably feeling better. If I feel better then I'm happier. It's that simple.

Plus, being with people, especially certain people, makes me happier, too.

I can also be more intimate in my writing than I can in everyday situations. There just aren't that many opportunities to sit and chat for hours with a friend. Privately so I can get it all out without worrying about being judged or others overhearing. Writing serves that purpose for me. Writing is very intimate. I can say what I feel without anyone else's emotions coloring it. And things come out in my writing that I might not have known about myself, that I might not have even known I was feeling.

When I don't feel well I stay home. I stay in my room. Just me and my computer. That leaves more writing time. When I feel well I am out and about and don't have as much time (or need) to write.

I also feel a need to capture the dark times. For me and for others. It's so difficult to communicate those feelings to others. It's difficult to remember them when they pass. But it's important to try, if only so others know they are not alone.

All of that said, I know my writing has been darker for a long period of time (until maybe the last week or two). I have been in a darker place. One that won't break. But even in the midst of this I don't feel sad most of the time. People sometimes think that because I write about dark feelings I am sad. That's not always the case. I have sad moments and happy moments, just like everyone else. Some are just longer than others. I don't think my life is horrible or tragic. I also don't think it's peaches and cream.

Realizing that my writing has been dark, I have asked myself if I should write more positively anyway -- in spite of how I feel. No one has asked me to do this. But some people do miss my positivity. (It didn't feel like criticism, just that the other me was missed.) Maybe my dark writing will drive people away.

Trust me. I have thought about this a lot.

And this is my conclusion. I will watch for this in my life. I will watch for more positive things. I will look for happy. And I will make it a point to try to write when I am in a better place.

But I won't fake it. As much as I love having other people read my writing, it's not really for you. It's for me. If it is meeting your needs and not mine, then it's just not worth it to me anymore.

And that's another thing that's beautiful about feedback. You can examine it, weigh it, and decide what you want to do with it. Implement all, some, or none of it. Without this freedom it loses it's power.

Pedmeregocide

2010-11-27T09:38:00.000-08:00

Last Sunday was a little ugly. I'm not afraid to admit it.

We're a go-to-church-every-Sunday family. (Except for dad, although that only plays a small part in the story.)

I got up early to work on my lesson. I'd been up for an hour or so showering, curling my hair, making cute little handouts. Things like that. I was in a pretty good mood. It was going to be a lovely day at church.

Then it was time to wake others. One daughter was out of town. That took a little pressure off. One daughter was exhausted from performing in the orchestra for her school play the night before, but she's kind of a morning person (at least compared to the rest of us) so she groaned and got up. One daughter is in college. She got up, looked at the clock, and said she was going to be late (I'm thinking, "Then why don't you get yourself up in time to get ready like an adult?" *grrr*).

The morning started to turn at this point. Oh, did I mention that I started new meds a day or two before that have been affecting my moods? No. Well, that could possibly have played a part in the day as well.

Last two. These two are the toughest. They have never been morning people anyway and are both at that age when their bodies need a lot more sleep. And they haven't gotten to the point where they will get up and do something they aren't dying to do if they are still tired.

I wake my son. Four times. Every five minutes or so. The last time I am not pleasant. "Get up here now or you are grounded from the computer for a week!" (You've got to know their currency.) He stumbles upstairs like the living dead. I tell him to find his clothes before he eats. He groans an assent.

I wake my youngest. She tells me she is *cough, cough* sick. I tell her she is tired and to get up. We argue back a forth a bit, me getting more impatient every minute.

My husband and I have a deal that I won't force the kids to go to church. (And really, if you're forcing someone to go to church will they be getting much out of it? The gospel isn't really about force; it's about choosing.) I agree with this in theory but it's a little tougher to live up to Sunday morning as my stress is climbing.

I tell her that it can't be a decision every Sunday. You just have to plan to go. Otherwise you're going to choose to sleep in more often than you think. Soon you won't be going at all.

I hear my son eating. I ask if he found his clothes. He tells me he did. (Let me add here that he has grown many inches lately and now only has one pair of church pants and one church shirt. I know, I need to get on that.)

The daughter refuses to go. We are both grumpy and snapping at each other now (fairly loudly). I tell her I am leaving and I am disappointed that she won't go. Son is still eating. I tell him he's going to be walking (only a few blocks) and he'd better get there soon to do his duties. Two older daughters are ready and head out to the car with me. As I pull out of the driveway son peeks his head out the door, gets my attention, and tells me he can't find his shirt. I tell him good luck and he'd better look harder. I drive away. (I am now cursing my sleeping husband for not being up to help me.)

Youngest daughter gets to church just as it's starting and tells me her brother still can't find his shirt. (I'm fairly certain there is smoke coming out of my ears now.) I get in the car, drive back home, and start hunting. I can't find it either. He gets a lecture for lying to me about having found his clothes. And another one about learning to put his clothes away. At rather high volume. He finally ends up wearing one of dad's dress shirts (at least four sizes too big).

We drive back to church (son has missed his duties) and I am trying desperately to let it all go so that I can get something from the meeting.

Throughout this morning the thought that kept running through my head was, "I'm going to kill him/her." I must have thought that ten times. Maybe not the best mood to go to church in. But, if you're in that mood, I guess church is the best place to go.

At this point, the wordsmith part of my brain kicks in. What's the word for wanting to kill your child? Homicidal is too general. Fratricidal is wanting to kill your brother. There's got to be one for wanting to kill your kid(s). I can't come up with anything.

After the meeting, and before the others, I speak to a couple of my friends I know pay attention to Greek and Latin roots, like me. I ask if either of them can think of anything. They can't. Although we consider Youth-anasia. (I know, it's only funny if you're a nerd.)

By the time I get home I still don't have a word, but I've come up with a complex. I declare that I have a Medea complex, which still doesn't entirely apply because she just killed her sons and I have daughters involved.

I mention to my oldest that I've been trying to come up with a word and does she have any idea. (She's an English major so she's dealt with root words more recently than I have.) She starts working on it. Soon my other daughter and son are working on it as well. They are on the computer, looking up root words.

And I just start laughing. I have just told my children that I spent the day wanting to kill them and they are working to figure out what to call it. As if I've just asked them to define the word shoe.

They said they knew I didn't mean it. And that makes me happy.

The final word they came up with was pedmeregocide, a mix of Greek and Latin roots. Ped - child, mere - part, ego - self, cide - kill.

And that's what teamwork looks like in our family.

Holidays from Hell

2010-11-24T12:24:00.000-08:00

So I want to know how many people actually look forward to the big holidays. And how many people live to regret it.

Seriously.

For every happy, cheesy, life-is-wonderful-and-everyone-in-our-family-loves-each-other-so-much movie there are ten about the dysfunctional, we-got-together-and-we're-just-glad-no-one-killed-anyone movies. Do you think this is just because Hollywood has a grim world view? I don't. In fact, I know it's not because I've experienced my share of holidays from hell.

There was the one when I was on the phone with my grandma telling her how much my Christmas presents sucked and found out my mom was on the other phone listening. (Yeah, I learned a lesson about gratitude that day. Through my mom's tears.)

There was the one when we were all around the Thanksgiving table and my brother in-law revealed to everyone at the table that our niece was conceived out of wedlock (she knew, others didn't). Very religious family; it was a big deal.

Or the Christmas when this kid hit that kid with one of the Christmas chimes. The father of the victim thought there should be an apology. The father of the perpetrator didn't think it was a big deal. They ended up in a yelling match, others got involved, someone got shoved into the wall, several people were pulled apart by others, and as we watched everyone storm away in their cars my husband and I looked at each other wondering if we should lock up (we were the only ones still there and it wasn't our house).

And none of us even drink. These were all without alcohol. I know there are other, much more intense, stories out there about family holidays gone bad. Ask anyone who works in the emergency room or as a cop and they'll tell you. Holidays are ugly.

Why?

I have a few hypotheses. Nothing proven, but I think you'll agree that the ingredients that go into big family holidays are like mixing bleach and cleanser -- you're lucky if no one dies.

Recipe for a big holiday family get together:
1. High Expectations - this one's going to be the best; everyone's going to have a great time; everyone's going to show up (on time) and bring what they said they would; things are going to go exactly as planned
2. Family - we belong together; we love each other so much; we hardly ever get together (maybe there's a reason); we know everything about each other (secrets, maybe?); we have a history together (which often means a few grudges)

I'm calling those two ingredients bleach and cleanser, because really with those alone you're already in the danger zone. Adding anything else is just for kicks to see how big the explosion will get. But let's toss some in anyway.

Optional ingredients:
New people who don't know where to tread lightly; the girlfriend/boyfriend/spouse/guest who drives you crazy even on a good day; alcohol; grandma's dementia which leads her to say whatever comes into her head (some of which turns out to be long kept secrets); poor communication/unspoken expectations (we wanted to watch movies vs. we wanted to watch football, we should pray vs. why does God have to be part of everything?); one part of a couple enjoying themselves while the other wants to be anywhere else; food that doesn't go as planned (the turkey timer that won't pop even though everything else has been ready for over an hour); and did I mention high expectations?

Maybe the only real solution is to change your expectations. Expect things to go wrong. Take bets on who starts arguing first, who plays one-upmanship the best, and who reveals the tastiest tidbit of illicit information. Have a backup meal waiting at home or the hotel (as the case may be) just in case it turns out there's nothing edible. Make sure you have some Excedrin handy.

And if none of these plans give you any hope, do as my therapist once advised. Go ahead and take a Valium. Your desire to kill, and your ability to do so, will be greatly diminished.

Good luck!

Nectar of the Gods

2010-11-17T22:22:00.000-08:00

Ever have one of those days? A day when everything goes wrong? When everyone hates you? A day that seems to be neverending?

It's finally over. You've made it home, to your refuge. Your haven. Your day has been horrible, but you've done your time and now you get to relax.

You go to the fridge and see that lovely bottle. Just holding it in your hand eases the tension. It's cool; it will bring relief.

You twist the top and hear that sound. The sound that promises to quench a thirst deeper than physical. That promises to drown the day's sorrows.

So you take a swallow. That first precious swallow that tastes better than anything humans have a right to enjoy. That swig that burns all the way down. Followed by a sigh of relief. You have just partaken of the nectar of the gods.

Diet Coke.

And life is good again. You're going to make it through the night. All is right with the world.

*ahhh*

About the Mess

2010-11-15T12:44:00.000-08:00

You may have noticed there's another little tab above this post. Hopefully, this is my last housekeeping job on my blog for a while. I don't write a lot about my family, especially not details, or post pictures of them. However, I decided to do a simple introductory page for those who have asked. You will find a picture and description of each person I live with at About the Mess. Enjoy it -- it's all you're going to get.

My Favorite Blogger

2010-11-14T22:08:00.000-08:00

I read a lot of blogs. And there are some incredible writers out there. Some fabulous storytellers.

But if you were to ask who my favorite is, it would be an easy choice for me. My favorite blogger is also my favorite author. And she's got years ahead of her to keep filling my life with entertainment and wisdom.

My favorite blogger is Singing Devil. And, yes, I will admit that I am biased. She is my oldest daughter. She has not branched out into the blogging community, so she doesn't have many followers. That is sad, because she is such a great writer. She has been published a couple of times. And I have no doubt that she will eventually produce several works for commercial consumption.

She is currently on a countdown toward her 20th birthday. She is also going to college full time and works as a custodian at 4:00am. She's busy and a little crazy. She's also brilliant.

If you're looking for something a little different, please visit her. I think you'll be glad you did.

About the Author

2010-11-13T14:39:00.000-08:00

The SITS activity for this week is to rewrite my About Me page using the tips provided (see here). Since I didn't have an About Me page, I figured this would be a good time to put one together. I even put a picture of me on it.

So, above this post, there is now a bar of tabs. One of these is About the Author. Check it out.

As always (during this month of exercises, at least), feedback is welcome.

My NOT to Do List

2010-11-11T13:05:00.000-08:00

SITS activity number 2: write a list post in 10 minutes.

**********

I am fairly certain that everyone reading this has made a To Do list at one time or another. Whether you've lived up to it or not is a different thing entirely. Some people like to keep a running list, prioritized, with whatever is unfinished at the end of the day rolling over to the next day's list. Not me. I like to finish everything on my list; I'm kind of maniacal about it.

Since I've been unwell, I have had to alter my To Do lists. Sometimes there is just one thing on it for a day. And I get so frustrated by my inability to complete a real list.

So today, to honor myself and all others who may be struggling to check off their entire lists, I offer a Do Not list. Some of these will be a little tricky to accomplish, but I have faith in myself. And in you. Please accept the challenge to check off everything on this list.

Do NOT:
   * Turn stupid, irritating people into frogs. No, none of them.
   * Throw rocks at your children's heads no matter how much eye rolling they give you.
   * Shoot, eviscerate, and roast on a spit the neighbor's eternally barking dog.
   * Use mind control on people to get what you want; it's just not nice.
   * Accept the nomination for President of the United States (or any other country).
   * Spike your family's food with a sedative so that you can get more sleep.
   * Walk on the ceiling just to prove that you are stronger than the earth's gravity.
   * Stage a military coup to overthrow the government.
   * Use a fire hose to clean your house by blowing it all out the back door.
   * Burn the house down as an alternative to cleaning it.
   * Travel to Mars just to prove that Martians are not green. (They are red, duh.)
   * Reveal your secret identity.
   * Follow the rainbow and steal the Leprechaun's gold; again, not nice.
   * Create a clone of yourself so that you can rest while she works.
   * Take over the world. (That will have to wait for another day, Pinky.)

Depression, Smartly

2010-11-11T05:58:00.000-08:00

My depression post, with a few tweaks, is up over at Smartly. If you haven't read it, I invite you to pop over and give it a read. I also invite you to visit Smartly on a regular basis. They publish one essay a day, by various authors. Great writing on a wide variety of topics -- a little something for everyone.

Letter to a Friend -- Take Two

2010-11-08T07:10:00.000-08:00

I think it's safe to say that I am in a heavily therapeutic place right now. Focused on healing so much that I miss a lot. One thing that proved this to me was my last post.

I don't think it was overly negative or anything, but it didn't even occur to me to write something positive. Something praising.

Today it occurred to me. So I want to try again. There are so many people who have touched my life. So many who saved me. From myself. From bad situations. Whatever.

This is for them, with one in particular in mind.

**********

Dear Friend,

My heart is overflowing. I have so much gratitude I don't know how to express it. When I think of you, and the time we've spent together, I am ovewhelmed at my fortune. I know God brought you into my life. I am sure of this.

Do you know that you are God-like in your nature? Do you know how much you radiate His love? His tenderness? His compassion and acceptance? Do you know that hugging you is like being wrapped in His arms?

You make me feel safe. You make me feel valued. You make me feel wanted. Do you know how rare that has been in my life?

You are amazing. You fill me with awe. I look at your life, at all you've been through, and wonder how you became so radiant. How were you able to endure the darkest things in life and still shine so brightly? It was your light that got me through some of the darkest times in my life.

You are such an example to me. I aspire to be like you. Sometimes when I'm trying to figure out what to do I ask myself what you would do. I want to be like you. You are one of the most Christ-like people I have ever met.

The way your face lights up when you see me. It's overwhelming. It floods me with love and value. And I've watched as you give this gift to others. Like whoever you are with is the most important person in the world. Like there is nothing you would rather do than sit and be with this person. With me.

Do you know your power? Do you understand your greatness?

And no matter how long we are apart, I am welcomed back with love every time. Never judged for staying away, for being busy, for not staying in touch. Just loved.

Do you understand how rare you are?

I love you. I love you so much it makes my heart hurt. I love you for what you've done and for who you are.

And I praise God every day for bringing you into my life. Thank you for being willing. Thank you for letting Him guide you. Thank you -- for everything.

Love,
Robin

Letter to a Friend

2010-11-07T08:38:00.000-08:00

Activity 1: Write a letter to a friend as if she is sitting beside you. How is this writing different from your blog posts?

This prompt immediately brought to mind an incident from high school. A time when my life was in flux and I chose to exclude a friend. I did not get the chance to resolve it then; I would like to address it now.

**********

Dear Carol,

What would I say to you if you were here now? I have regretted my decision for so long, but I don't know if I could find the words. I don't know if I could even speak. I think I would have difficulty looking at you because of my shame.

The guilt of our decision, our pact, was weighing heavily on me. I couldn't keep silent any longer. I couldn't keep lying. I knew I needed to tell the truth.

But I should have talked to you before I did so. Instead, I hung you out to dry.

Why didn't I talk to you first? I'm not sure. I think maybe I was afraid. I was afraid you would get angry with me. I was afraid you would disagree and talk me out of it. I was afraid I was too weak to stand up to you.

And I was selfish. I was more worried about clearing my conscience than protecting my friend.

I don't know how we lost each other so quickly. One minute we were inseperable. The next minute you were gone.

I have searched for you. I have watched for you. I think of you often, and my heart is filled with regret.

I may never see you again. I may never have the opportunity to make things right.

But if you were here now, I would tell you that I am so very, very sorry.

Love still,
Robin

A Little Housekeeping

2010-11-06T13:40:00.000-07:00

No, I'm not going to write about housekeeping. If you thought that, you really don't know me.

I just want to let people know what is coming up on my blog. I generally steer clear of conducting business on my blog, but I don't want people to misunderstand.

I have a lot of followers who aren't bloggers. People who follow me because they know me and like me. Or my train wreck of a life is entertaining. Whatever. I want to clear some things up for them. Because if there's one thing I've learned in the past year that I've been blogging it's that blogland has it's own set of guidelines and it's own language.

Now if you know me, you know that I'm not a stickler for following the rules. Commandments and laws, yes. Societal rules and expectations, not so much.

So as I've been adjusting to this new blog world, I've picked and chosen which rules I'd live by. I've avoided a bunch of the everybody does it areas. Because they weren't me. And if I can't be me on my blog then I won't play anymore. I'll take my ball and go home.

But I have participated in a few things. One of those is a blogging community called SITS. It's all about developing yourself as a blogger and connecting up with other bloggers. It's about supporting each other.

Truthfully, I've boycotted a bunch of the activities they do. Just not my thing. But this month they are all about writing. It's Content is King month. That's something I can get on board with.

In particpating in this event, I am choosing to do several of the suggested activities -- all with my flavor. I will do two of them here and one on my other blog (heavier topic). That's this week. Who knows what next week will bring?

The focus for this week is Finding Your Voice. I think this is something I'm generally pretty good at. But I usually pick my topics. Doing this with someone else's prompts may be a challenge.

This month is all about improved writing, so I am throwing out an open invitation. If you have feedback for me, please share it. If you see things I could improve on, please tell me. I'm open. I promise we'll still be friends afterward.

On with the challenge.

Crying Uncle

2010-11-03T22:35:00.000-07:00

I don't know if it was family upbringing or just my natural state, but I grew up fiercely independent. I didn't ask for help; I researched it on my own. I learned how to do what needed to be done by myself. I cowboyed up and got myself through the tough times. For so many years.

Giving help was fine. Receiving it was not. Asking for it was an abomination.

Enter chronic illness.

Wow. Let me just tell you, independence goes out the window with chronic illness.

Yes, I've studied psychology and had enough therapy to know that interdependent is the healthier place to be. Knowing that wasn't enough to get me there. I had to be dragged there kicking and screaming.

I'm still not good at it. I still think I should be able to do everything I used to. I still want to be everything for everyone. I want to solve all the problems. I want to be the hero -- not the damsel in distress.

But life doesn't always turn out as we planned.

Tonight I had a lesson in interdependence. Tonight I cried uncle.

Lots of things have slipped since I got sick. The house (a wreck). My job (gone). Volunteering (non-existent). All of those things are difficult to accept. But for the most part they are just irritants. The one that was dangerous was money.

You see, I've been in charge of the money and the bills for most of our marriage. When I got sick, things started to slip. We bounced checks. Bills didn't get paid. Collectors started calling. (I hate the fact that my kids are well trained in the art of avoiding the bill collector calls.)

I went through good periods and bad ones. I'd catch up and then fall behind again. But all along the way, I was sure we had enough money and I just wasn't managing it well enough. And I would pledge to get on top of things. Tomorrow.

Somehow, tomorrow didn't seem to want to appear. I kept waiting for that magical day to happen when I would be able to conquer the piling debt and stress and get that monkey off my back.

But it didn't come.

I don't know why. I don't know what kept me from being able to do it. I know how. I have the capability. But I just couldn't do it. (I have theories, but they would take too long here.)

And now the money problems are at a dangerous level.

So tonight my husband and I had a meeting. Not confrontational. Not a fight. Warm and open. Supportive and affirming. A meeting where I said, "I just can't do it. I hate that I can't, but I can't." And he said, "You've done everything for so long. It's my turn."

And that was it. He is now in charge of the bills and the money.

I promised to let him do it his way. I will not interfere or correct or complain. And when I do (as we both know will probably happen) he will kindly remind me that I promised to trust him.

Lots of feelings of failure. Lots of feelings of inadequacy. And so many tears.

And then peace.

Sometimes crying uncle is the right thing to do. No matter how hard it is.

The Person

2010-10-27T07:57:00.000-07:00

Everyone has one. That pivotal person. The one who changed your life. The one who helped define you. The one without whom you wouldn't be who you are. Hopefully, the one who taught you to believe in yourself.

For me, that was my grandma. And today would be her 100th birthday. I miss her.

What I Hate Most About Chronic Illness

2010-10-25T10:46:00.000-07:00

Take your pick on what qualifies me as chronically ill. Chronic fatigue. Chronic headache. Chronic depression. Or whatever diagnoses we haven't made yet. Basically I feel horrible all the time. On a good day I just feel yucky and drained and my head hurts. On a bad day I can't get out of bed.

And, while there are so many ways this has changed my life, there is one area that bothers me the most.

It's difficult to not enjoy things I used to, to not want to do anything or be with anyone. It's more difficult to want to do things but not be able to. But the most difficult isn't the things that I am missing out on. It's what my kids are missing out on.

For the first ten years of my marriage I was a doer. I played with my kids. I took them places. I cleaned house. I made meals. I read to them. I volunteered at their schools. I did crafts with them.

But that was a long time ago. At about the ten year mark, my health started going down hill. And I started to do less and less. And because it was so long ago, they don't remember all those things. They don't remember me pushing them in the swings at the park or having picnics on a quilt in the living room. They remember me asking them to be quiet because my head hurts so much. They remember me telling them to ask their older sister for help on their homework because my mind isn't clear enough. They remember me sending them to do things instead of doing things with them.

I expected to teach them about hard work by working with them and by modeling the behavior. But they see me do one small job and then crawl back into bed because I am so dizzy. I expected to teach them about service by volunteering in various ways and doing family service projects. Instead, I try to encourage them to work with their youth groups when there is a service opportunity. I thought I would teach them spirituality by doing all the things our church suggests we do to teach in our homes. I often don't feel well enough and so those things fall through the cracks and I have to be content with just getting them to church.

I planned to have a beautiful home where my children could find a place a refuge. A place that was warm and welcoming to all who passed through our doors. A place where our family could feel peace. But I can't clean like I need to. And I am often tense and isolate myself in my room, leaving them to their own devices which leads to mess and fights.

There are so many things I thought I would be as a mother. So many desires I am unable to fulfill. For years I waited, hoping that it was just a matter of time. But it might not be.

This might be as good as I ever feel again. And I am mourning that today.

Yes, there are great things in my life. Yes, I have found other ways to teach and show love to my children. Yes, I have found value in the life I have.

But it's important to allow ourselves to mourn our disappointments. It is a loss. And it makes me sad.

**********
Oh, and this is my 100th post. It's been just over a year since I started blogging. It's amazing how quickly time passes.

I'm Not Who You Think I Am

2010-10-14T23:48:00.000-07:00

I spent most of my life letting others define me. They told me what to be and that's what I became. Or they told me what I was and I believed them.

I was so many different people, depending on who I was with.

And this was such a part of my life that I really had no idea who I was. And sometimes I still slip up. Sometimes I still believe what others think of me. Or I know it's not true but it still makes me question myself.

It's so easy to look to others for our value. It's easier to believe what others tell us about ourselves than to decide on our own.

Some people like me. They think I'm kind. They think I'm honest. They think I am strong and dedicated.

Others aren't so fond of me. They think I'm a snob. They think I'm selfish. They think I'm judgemental.

Still others claim to like me but constantly tell me what is wrong with me, how I don't measure up.

I'm an angel. I'm a witch. I'm self-centered. I'm compassionate.

All, some, or none of those things may be true. There is probably someone out there to vote for each trait, who would assign it to me.

But no matter how others perceive me, no matter who they say I am, I know what is in my heart.

I am a person. A small person in a big world. A person with a purpose who is just trying her best.

I am okay with that. And that's all that really matters.

Where's My Duct Tape?

2010-10-09T01:56:00.000-07:00

Often, when people ask me how I am, I reply that I am holding on -- with both hands and a roll of duct tape.

I misplaced my duct tape.

I say this because my life slipped out of my hands a bit recently. I was stuck doing triage. Hitting those life or death things, but missing the details.

I kept the electricity on. We had food in the house. My kids went to school.

But I fell down on some things, too.

I have been sleeping too little at night and too much during the day. I haven't been eating much. I stayed home almost all the time, usually not getting dressed for the day until my kids were about to get home from school. Or after they did and I had to take them somewhere.

Basically, I quit doing things for me. I spent so much time trying to put out fires that I forgot to make sure my firesuit was secure. And I got a little burnt.

Once I find myself there, it's tricky to get out. It's a steep climb without any gear. Because I left all my gear on the ledge I fell off of.

But it's still there. I know where it is this time. I have some spotters who will help keep me from plummeting to my death. I've made the climb before.

And I've finally figured out what the duct tape is. It's self-care. I've got several rolls stashed in various areas of my life.

Now if I can just remember what I'm looking for when I walk into the room that has it. Then I'll be all set.

A Smartly Metaphor

2010-10-08T11:05:00.000-07:00

I have a new essay up over at Smartly. A metaphor for life. You should check it out by clicking this link.

And I will have a new post here sometime soon. I hope.

Octoboween

2010-10-01T06:58:00.000-07:00

Huzzah! The day has finally arrived. The day I've been waiting for all month long. It's the first day of Octoboween and I am so excited!

Seriously, not a lot of things excite me. But the first day of October does. It really, really does.

For most people, one day of Halloween is plenty. For some it's too much. But not for me.

I love the dark and scary stories. I love the rats and spiders. I love the macabre.

I grew up on scary movies, some much scarier than my children have yet to see. Edgar Allen Poe movies with Vincent Price. Stephen King. All the original scary movies of the '80s (Halloween, Nightmare On Elm Street, Friday the 13th) and then some. Plus lots of Hitchcock.

I don't go in for the hard stuff anymore. Nothing R. I just can't stand the gore. And I've found that a good scary movie doesn't need it. A really scary movie can freak you out without showing you anything. It lets your mind scare you. That's where the fear happens.

So a few years ago I decided I wanted more out of Halloween. Thus, Octoboween was born. Every day in October we watch a Halloween movie.

Halloween movie is a somewhat loose term. If it has ghosts or monsters, it qualifies. If it has Halloween in the title, it qualifies. If it's scary, it qualifies. So we end up with quite a broad range.

We will watch several M. Night Shyamalan movies (Signs, The Sixth Sense, The Village, Lady in the Water); probably a few Hitchcock movies (Rear Window, Rebecca); some more recent classics (Young Frankenstein, Labyrinth, Disney's Haunted Mansion, Ghostbusters, The Addams Family); definitely some Vincent Price (Fall of the House of Usher, Pit and the Pendulum); some original classics (Dracula and Frankenstein from the '30s); possibly Monsters, Inc. and Jaws; and we will end with Disney's Legend of Sleepy Hollow on Halloween.

It will be fun. It's a great family bonding time for us. Some days it will be just us; other times we'll have friends over.

It's the way we welcome fall. It fits our family. We revel in the ways we are weird -- together. And isn't that what family traditions are all about?

Why the Cue Ball is So Sexy

2010-09-24T19:39:00.000-07:00

Cue Ball. Chrome Dome. Mr. Clean. Whatever you call him, if he's bald then he's sexy.

I am ready to declare publicly my affinity for bald men.

I have found bald men sexy ever since high school. Today I tried to figure out why. I analyzed it and found out some surprising things about myself.

I reject the idea that I like bald men because my dad is bald. Trust me, I have daddy issues but this isn't one of them. Sorry, Freud, no Oedipal complex here.

I do like older men. Even in high school I was attracted to older men. Not a few years older, 15-20 years older. I liked the idea of someone wise. Someone above the need to impress. And, yes, someone who could protect me (the feminist part of me gives way to the injured little girl part in this instance). So maybe this is part of it. Bald usually means older.

But there's more to it. Especially now that shaving their heads is more common among men of every age. It's a hairstyle choice. Now I see thirty-year olds with bald heads. That's younger than me. Do I find them sexy? Why, yes I do.

So it's more than age.

It's confidence. Men who are going bald naturally and embrace it rather than fight it with the dreaded comb-over, hairpiece, or plugs. Men who know that they are not defined by their hair, something so arbitrary. Men who roll with what life hands them. That is sexy.

There's also an element of honesty. This is who I am. Honesty is sexy.

And then there's the elusive element. Why do we like anything? Just because we do. Sometimes there's not a logical reason behind it. A certain smell or taste pleases me just because it does. I find bald men sexy just because I do.

You can keep your Hugh Jackman and Brad Pitt types. I'll take Sean Connery, Patrick Stewart, and Anthony Edwards. Men who are confident in who they are and wear it well. I love bald men.

Now, Johnny Depp is a rare exception; him I'll take. Sometimes attraction just doesn't fit the rules.

Hee-eere's Robin!

2010-09-18T00:30:00.000-07:00

Old Tonight Show reference. You probably don't get it unless you're over 35. (It might make a little more sense after you read my post -- so go check it out.)

I am guest posting today over at depressions and confessions. (I can't capitalize it because she doesn't. It's kind of making me nuts not capitalizing it, but I'll try to let it go.)

depressions and confessions (okay, that one really makes me crazy because it's at the beginning of a sentence) is written by Alexis, a beautiful and very intelligent young woman. No wonder people are afraid of her.

She is direct and will discuss anything and everything. She's struggled with depression and believes it's important to discuss mental health issues, to take away some of the stigma. Remind you of anyone you know?

Maybe that's why I enjoy her blog so much. If she has an opinion, she shares it. She doesn't apologize for it. And she welcomes differing opinions (but please try to be respectful about it). She's open about her life and her flaws.

I love her Awkward Thursday posts where she writes about things that may be tough for some. One of my favorites is self-sabotage and the modern woman. Another important post was the life that might have been, about her miscarriage. A topic too many people understand personally. And her favorite recent post is marriage before midgets, or how she chooses to put her marriage first.

Some of her writings get people all stirred up. I love her no-apologies, make-you-think style. I think you will, too.

And if you're new to my blog, welcome. It's pretty easy to navigate. My favorite posts are over there on the top right corner. Make sure you read the Warning and About Me boxes so you know what you're getting yourself into. My blog is where I empty my head. These are some of the things my blog will never be/have. I'm known to get a little snarky. I also fight depression on a semi-regular basis; sometimes I win, sometimes not so much. I try to keep the heavier mental health issues on my other blog, The Difficult Things.

If I haven't driven you off yet, stay a while and take a look around. Welcome to my world. And don't mind the mess.

I Got a Little Distracted

2010-09-17T11:08:00.000-07:00

So I guess I got a little distracted with that annoyance I like to call life. I say this because I had another post go up at Smartly two days ago and kind of missed it. It's a repost of Real Simple for the Barely Functioning. If you haven't read it or it's been a while, pop over and read it.

Also, a heads up. Check back tomorrow. I'm doing a guest post for another blogger. I will have the details here Saturday. If you haven't read her stuff, and lots of you have, you'll want to check her out. I mean, check out her blog.

Please excuse this confused interruption.

It's All Downhill From Here

2010-09-13T19:04:00.000-07:00

Remember when you were a kid and the word downhill was magical? It meant you'd made it to the top of the hill and could almost fly down. The thrill of danger. The joy of easy speed. The pride in your hard work that got you to the top.

Once you hit 40, downhill doesn't mean that anymore. Downhill is now a bad thing.

Your health is going downhill. Your looks are going downhill. Your memory is going downhill.

Now I know that there are plenty of 40-year olds who are doing better than ever. Plenty who still look great and have it all together. For now. But they're just delaying the inevitable.

Because it's not like it used to be. When you were a kid and something went wrong with your body, it healed. You felt miserable, for a few days. You worked hard and were tired and sore, the next day.

Now it might take a week or more to recover from an intense day. When something goes wrong with your body or you feel miserable it might not get better.

And it requires a mind shift.

I'm not saying to give up. I'm not saying to quit trying to improve your health.

I am saying, "Be realistic."

You will never feel like you did when you were twenty. Never again.

Suck it up and deal with it. You're more than a grown up. You're a grown old.

Dressing for my Moods

2010-09-08T22:49:00.000-07:00

It seems like my mood determines my life. Like it is something out of my control that pushes all the buttons. Like my moods are the man behind the curtain.

I do not believe that my moods are in charge. I believe I have the power to change them, to subdue them. Sometimes.

My moods are like an ever changing beast. A metamorph that can change into any shape at will. And can do so instantly.

And when there is a beast in your life your options are limited. Fight it. Find a middle ground. Be devoured. I vacillate among these three.

One of the ways this is evident in my life is in the way I dress.

When I am feeling strong I can fight. I am willing to spend extra energy to win the battle. I go the extra mile. I shower. I do my hair. And I pick clothes that make me feel like I can tackle the world. Usually it helps. Sometimes the beast and I both know I'm fooling myself and it's not long before I'm craving my pajama pants.

On those days when I'm willing to compromise with the beast, things are a little different. I don't shower, but I do brush my teeth. I don't curl my hair, but I do brush it. I don't dress up, but I do get dressed.

Then there are the devour days. The days when I'm just out of bed long enough to give someone a ride or go to the bathroom. No effort at hygiene. I don't change out of whatever I fell asleep in. And because I look so horrible, I avoid people as if I were contagious.

But a funny thing can happen on those devour days. There's power in staying in my pajamas or my worn out flannel shirt. The power that says the beast may be setting the agenda, but I still choose the wardrobe. And I choose to wrap myself in comfort. I choose clothes that serve as a hug for myself.

And that little bit of defiance keeps the beast from swallowing me. Until I can claw my way out of its gullet and back out into the sunshine.

Writing Smartly

2010-09-06T09:45:00.000-07:00

I have recently joined the ranks of conributing writers at smartly, a writers collective showcasing one essay a day. My first essay, Creatures of the Night appears there today. It's a new essay so none of you have read it yet.

You should go check it out. You know, like, now.

Dinner Training -- an Experience in and of Itself

2010-09-04T17:18:00.000-07:00

A while back I wrote about my struggles with food. Food and I just don't get along. I understand that it's necessary for life, but it's hard for me.

Now take that and imagine being a mother. Someone who is theoretically in charge of keeping others alive. In charge of feeding them. Ugh.

It was tough enough when they were little. Three meals a day, plus snacks, actually spoon-fed to them. All grocery shopping - mine. All preparation - mine. All clean up - mine. And they would eat most of what I offered. When they were small.

But as we all know, growing up tends to allow us to form our own opinions. Even about food. Pretty soon they were refusing what I offered. I was cooking to make them happy. I wanted them to eat so I prepared what they liked.

This wasn't usually too hard for my husband. He'll eat almost anything. He's just glad when someone else makes the food for him.

For me it was tough. I wanted them to have balanced meals, but I don't really like meat. So they would have meat, vegetables, fruit, dairy. I would have a potato. Or corn. It was more important to me to feed them than to feed myself. And easier because they liked food.

Now they are teens (yes, I just promoted my baby by a year). They are practically adults (one is). Shouldn't they be feeding themselves? I thought so.

So we divided up the week. Each of us has one day a week that we are in charge of dinner. Choosing it. Purchasing the food for it. Preparing it. Serving it.

Doesn't that sound lovely?

When it works, it is. At least one day a week they know that they will like what is prepared. If they don't like it, they are in charge of feeding themselves. I don't care if they eat cold cereal, ramen noodles, or just tater tots. As long as they take care of it.

This sounds like a great way to teach them tolerance and understanding of what it's like to be in charge of the food. Or a great way to teach them to cook. Or shop for groceries. Whatever.

But we have cheaters. Rather than learn to cook or actually do any work, they want Little Caesar's. Or they buy turkey, rolls, and cheese and announce that we're having hoagies.

And I am just too tired to fight it. Which is why I gave them the responsibility in the first place. I'm just too tired to care about food anymore. We're not quite at the if-you-want-to-eat-you'd-better-go-kill-something stage, but we're close.

It's not without flaws, but it's functioning for now. Barely. It will get us through for a bit.

And every once in a while we have a magical moment when one of them comes to me and wants to cook an actual meal. "Mom, can you teach me how to make chicken enchiladas?"

It's a glorious moment.

And then I remember that I really can't cook. But that's another story.

A Moment of Success

2010-08-28T22:54:00.000-07:00

It tried again. That stupid, sneaky darkness. It hides and waits and watches. For that moment of vulnerability.

The moment when too many things are going wrong. That moment when I haven't had enough sleep or healthy food. That moment when I'm feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders.

Then it starts its dance. Its entrancing, bewitching motion. It weaves and undulates. It sedates. And it pulls and welcomes.

Tonight it tried again.

But this time I saw it for what it was. This time I remembered who I was. Where I'd been. What I'd done. All I'd learned.

And this time I won.

Isn't the light beautiful?