When the Parent Becomes the Child

I have no idea how to write this post.  I really don't.  But I know it must be written.  For me.  For her.  For others.

I try to always tell the truth.  My truth (because that's all I really know).  Especially when I write, because I know it will last.  It will stand as a testament to who I am long after I remember saying or thinking it.

But sometimes our truths intersect.  My truth crosses your truth.  Who owns that portion in the middle, that shared truth?  Who has the right to present that to the world?

I want to be careful about that.  I want to honor the person who shares that space with me.  But I also want to tell the truth.

I hope that by owning up front that this is MY truth and not necessarily THE truth, it's okay for me to share.  This is about me and my mom.

My ability to recall memories is not great.  I have vague images.  And pictures.  I have those, and they help.

This is me and my mom on my wedding day.


As a teen, I always thought she wore too much makeup, and I never understood the hair.  But she was always put together.  She wouldn't leave the house until she "put her face on" and "cleaned herself up."  How she looked mattered to her.

And she was so sharp!  She was the one who edited my papers.  She could type and take shorthand like nobody's business.  She was the Administrative Assistant to the President of the local state college and totally rocked that job!  She was loved and admired by all who knew her.  I don't remember ever hearing anyone say anything negative about her.

That was twenty-five years ago.  She was two years older than I am now.  And things have changed.

It's been gradual.  Little things here and there.  Her asking me how to spell things.  Her not remembering the proper noun/verb correlation.  Her not able to figure out how to use a new cell phone.

This is the profile picture she chose for her facebook account when someone helped her set it up five or six years ago.

She felt it represented well her many moods.  I liked it then. 

It's painful for me now.  It feels like a way too accurate representation of her current fractured state.

I have these vague recollections of her coming to my grade school to do an art presentation.  Of her taking me garage sale-ing on Saturday and then to Arctic Circle for lunch.  Of her telling me I was her saving grace.  The only daughter she got.  The one who could understand her in a house full of men.  I remember her being my best friend - so many years ago.

I don't have a picture of her now.  I'm not sure I'd share it if I did; it wouldn't be a happy picture.

She's seventy-two now.  Only seventy-two.  I wasn't ready for it to happen so soon.

Because she's not her anymore.

I still live in the town I grew up in.  And it's the town she grew up in.  So I regularly run into people who knew me when I was little and she was so capable.  I even run into people who knew her when she was young, long before I was around.  People who grew up with her.

Inevitably the moment comes.  They ask the question.  The question I don't want to answer.  "How's your mom?"

And the only answer I can give is, "Not good."  As I start to tear up.

They ask what's wrong.  I don't know the answer.  None of us do.  My dad.  My brothers.  Me.  Her doctors - many, many doctors.  We each have a guess; we think we know.  But we don't.

My mom has fought anxiety, PTSD, and PMS for longer than I was aware.  I remember when I was young and she discovered walking.  Walking stabilized her.  Walking cleared her mind.  Walking was the mental medicine she needed that made her able to face her life again.  And so she walked.  Miles and miles all over town.

Back then, when I would run into people, they would say, "I see your mom out walking all the time."  Back then it meant they saw their friend and she looked good.  Like she was okay.  It was said with positive energy.  Now when they say, "I see your mom out walking," it's said with sadness and concern.

My mom still walks, when she can (she's injured right now).  And those miles she used to walk pale in comparison to the miles she walks now.  She's tiny and frail, and she will walk ten or fifteen miles a day.  Maybe more.  Because she no longer has a driver's license and she can't stay in one place.  Honestly, it feels like she's trying to escape her own self.

She no longer leaves the house beautifully coiffed.  She doesn't always have her makeup on.  She can't smell well enough to know if her clothes are really clean.  As long as they don't have major spills on them and are the right warmth for the weather, she'll wear them.  And off she goes.  Pulling her little rolling suitcase behind her.  Looking like a bag lady.

I remember many years ago, as her own mother was aging and having difficulty walking and preparing meals, my mom said, "If I could choose between losing my mind and losing my ability to walk, I'd choose to lose my mind.  As long as I can walk, I'll be okay."

I'm afraid her wish was granted.

I remember when she was strong.  And healthy.  And competent.  And happy.  But just vaguely.  Because I feel trapped in this moment.  I feel trapped in her hell.

She is angry much of the time, maybe most of the time - usually at my dad.  She has difficulty keeping track of what day it is, even when I've told her three times already in the last hour.  She doesn't prepare meals for herself, do her laundry, or meet most of her own care needs.  And she still thinks she's independent.  Most of the time.

She feels abandoned by my brothers who moved to another state years ago.  She feels abandoned when my dad leaves town, for an occasional respite - which he so badly needs and deserves.  She feels abandoned when my adult daughters stay with her instead of me.  And she feels abandoned when none of these things are true.

She feels abandoned that we don't understand.  Like we've left her alone to her anguish.

She will spend hours upon hours reliving all the traumas of her past.  Over and over.  Telling me the same stories again and again.  Of her pain.  Of all the things people did.  Of all the ways they hurt her.  And they are all true.  They are her truth.  And she is trapped there.

But it hurts.  It hurts me.

When my dad leaves town I become her primary caregiver.  It's my job to help her get where she needs to go, even when she can't decide where that is.  Even if it means dropping everything and going to pick her up at her motel room (which my dad rents for her by the month, because she has to have somewhere to go other than her house).  For the third time that day.  Or taking her to my house, because she feels peace there.

But those are the good days.  If all I have to do is take her where she needs to go and listen to her tell me for two hours straight how horrible my dad is and was, that's a good day.

Lately they haven't been good days.

Lately it's been her showing up at my door, pounding and pounding, hysterical.  Or calling.  Any hour of any day.  She's crying.  Sobbing.  "No one understands how bad I am!  I can't make it!  I just can't make it!  He doesn't care!  All he thinks about is himself!  No one cares!  No one will help me!"

And if I don't answer (because I'm not home and can't answer my door or I'm at church and have my phone off) then she feels abandoned by me.  And sometimes in those moments she'll turn to my brother in town.  And he'll help as best he can.

But usually it's me.  Often even when my dad is in town.  Because he and she have had another screaming match and she wants a divorce and her life will be all better if she could just get a divorce.

Because she can't see that he manages her world.  That he wraps his life around her and what she feels and what she needs.  That he drops everything, including his job, to come get her.  To take care of her.

Yes, they have an ugly history.  I know that.  I was there.  There were many years I prayed they would divorce because he was so mean.  So controlling.  So angry and unkind.

But he isn't that way now.  At least, not that I see.  I am sure there are times when he loses it and he yells back when she's screaming at him.  But not nearly as much as she is horrifically unkind to him.

Those rants I hear for hours and hours?  He gets them, too.  She just rips him up one side and down the other.  All while he is trying to help her.  Because sometimes she isn't clear in her expression of what she wants (when she can figure out what she wants).  And when he, or any of us, gets it wrong she says it's because we don't care what she wants.  We don't give a damn about her feelings.

A month ago, when she found out he was going to leave town to go golfing with my brother for six days (which we were happy about and fully supported, because he needs refueling - even if he won't admit it), she lost it again.  She showed up at my house - hysterical - and just cried and cried.  Not quiet I'm-so-sad cries.  Anguished end-of-the-world crying.  Lost.  Alone.  Abandoned.  Sobbing.  Screaming.  And somewhat slurred.

Because it turns out she took twice as many pain pills as she should.  Along with Ritalin.  And Valium.  And progesterone.  And whatever else she could think of that would take care of the pain and help her be calm enough to survive in her own skin.

I called my brother, who had prescribed the pain pills, and asked him what to do.  He sent her a text begging her to give me the pills.  He couldn't live with it if she died as a result of something he'd prescribed.  She gave me the pain pills.  And then I kept watch over her as she slept and watched Elvis in my living room for the next seven hours.  I tried to feed her, but the most I could get her to eat was half a banana.

You see, her teeth are very bad.  So bad that I don't think she brushes them anymore because it hurts.  She knows she needs to have work done on them, but her anxiety is too intense to sit through it.  So she can't eat anything that's not soft.  And she has gotten to the point that she usually doesn't even want to try.  She lives on Ensure and chocolate.  And water.  She will go days without having anything else.  I know this because I've lived with her for several days at a time.

That day when she took too much medication was a major turning point.  (Oh, who am I kidding?  I think she takes too much medication every day.)  Since then, she has needed nearly round the clock care.  Someone to be with her all the time.  Yes, someone to try to feed her and get her where she needs to go.  Someone to tell her when she can take what pain pills.  But mostly, someone to help manage her panic. 

She can't sleep well.  She can't walk much, because of her injury.  And the meds just don't manage the anxiety like they used to.  So she melts down.  And she needs someone there when she does.

This last week, which started with her pounding on our door at five in the morning on Sunday, was the most difficult for me yet.  There were at least five times in the four days I took care of her that I was sure we would be heading to the ER in the next five minutes.

I've taken care of a lot of people over the years.  I've acted as nurse to many people through surgery recovery, illness, and many emotional breakdowns.  I've raised five children (as a stay-at-home mom, so around the clock) from birth to adulthood.  I'm good at it.  I'm good at taking care of other people.  I am patient.  I am knowledgeable.  And I truly care.  I'm really good at it.

But this last week broke me.  Over and over.

When she showed up at five in the morning, my husband answered the door.  She was in a bad way again.  My dad had told her he was leaving town the next day and she'd lost it.  They'd gotten into another screaming match.

My husband was able to get her to lie down on our couch and try to sleep.  And then he let me know she was there so I wouldn't be hit with it unexpectedly when I got up.

I had a long day ahead of me at church, on my feet in an energetically demanding calling for two hours.  I hadn't had more than four hours of sleep the last two nights.  So when he told me she was there I tried so desperately to go back to sleep.  But, knowing she was there and was likely to throw off my entire morning (possibly the whole day) and bring that angry energy to my family and completely drain me on a day of rest, made it impossible to sleep.  I did stay in bed and at least try to rest.  Even as my panic and anxiety began to set in.

A couple hours later I got up and got ready for church.  I talked to her a bit as I put the evening's dinner in the crock pot.  Well, talked with her is not exactly right.  Two-way conversations don't happen much anymore.  She just talks and talks and talks and I just listen.  So as I walked around getting ready, she kept talking at me.  I have no idea what about, except how awful and self-centered my dad is.  (I would be lying if I said I don't sometimes tune her out while she's talking at me.)

Eventually I was ready and told her I needed to go, but my husband was there and would help her if she needed him.  I told her he could take her anywhere she needed to go.  And then I called him and told him he was on duty.  I could hear his heart drop in the answering sigh.

I went to church.  I had a wonderful, soothing day, as I almost always do.  And as I came out of church I checked my phone.

I had missed several calls from my mom.  And I had a voicemail.  The worst voicemail I've ever received.  Sobbing - "Robin, I need help!  I've made a mistake! I need you to come and get me! I need somebody to because everybody just doesn't think I'm as bad as I am! I can't make it! I can't make it anymore!!!  Please!" - followed by more sobbing.  I can't describe the emotion, panic, pain, and terror that I heard in her voice.

I also had a missed call from my local brother.  I called him back.  He was on his way to pick my mom up from her motel (where she'd had my husband take her).  My brother told me she had called my other brother, the doctor, and yelled at him about how worthless he was.  She also called my dad and told him she'd taken a bunch of pills and would see him in the morgue.  My brother was on his way to a job when she called and wondered if I could take over.  I told him I would meet him at her house.

You may be wondering why we didn't go immediately to the ER, after the statement about pills.  Honestly, she says a lot of things in anger that aren't even close to reality.  Especially to my dad.  She tries to punish him and strikes out quite frequently.  She wants to hurt him; she has said so.  But when I ask, she has no hesitation in telling me what she's taken.  As long as she can remember what she's taken.  So I knew the ER was a possibility (one I was terrified of), but wanted to talk to her first.  To assess the truth of the situation.  As it turns out, she didn't take a bunch of pills.  She didn't take anything other than her regular stuff.  She admitted she just said that to my dad because she was mad at him.

I stayed with her at her house for many hours.  (I wish I could truly convey what that day and those to follow were like.  It felt like she was an 18-month old child who is overly tired.  A child who is so tired but won't sleep.  She wants to be picked up and then when you do pick her up she hits you and wants to be put down.  She wants the toy but when you hand it to her she throws it back at you and hits you in the face.  You feel bad for her because you know she has no idea what to do with the emotions she's feeling but you don't know either and you're sure if she could just sleep things would be better.  And even though you feel bad for her your frustration at her unwillingness to comply grows.  And your stress grows.  And your sadness grows.  And you want to throw things, too.  You want to hit someone, too.  And you're getting no sleep, or even rest, because of her temper tantrums and she won't let anyone help her but you.  And it goes on for days and days.  It's a lot like that.  Except this toddler takes prescription medication [not always hers] according to her own whims and walks all over town any time of the day or night and has money and a cell phone to call a cab and is considered an adult who is in charge of her own life.  Oh, and she is completely verbal so she can tell you over and over how much you've failed her and how much everyone else who's trying to help has failed her and how none of you care and are all so selfish.  It's like that.)

As I said, my mom doesn't sleep well.  Even when she's taken enough meds to put down a horse.  So it was a day of trying to sleep.  Pacing and panicking because she can't sleep.  Her calling and texting my dad about what to do.  Him trying to help from another state.  Him calling and texting me asking what's going on and suggesting other things to try.  And encouraging me to try to keep her from going to the ER (which she does at least once every month or so).

My 24-year old daughter came over to relieve me for a few minutes so I could go home and finish dinner for my family and get some food.  I was only gone about fifteen minutes.  I then stayed with her until my 20-year old daughter (the one my dad had asked to stay with my mom while he was gone) came over at about ten thirty to spend the night.

I went home, hoping that now that my mom was finally sleeping she would be a bit better and my daughter could cover for a bit.  But my mom showed up at my door early the next morning telling me she couldn't make it.  And it started all over again.  A couple more times thinking we were going to end up in the ER.  Then she called her therapist who said she could see her later that day.  I know this usually calms her, so I was eager for this to happen.  Even though I don't always agree with this therapist.  Or what my mom presents as the things this therapist says.

Somehow we got through that day and got to the therapist.  I was hoping to get her in and go lie down in the car for an hour.  I just needed a few minutes alone.  A few minutes of not needing to take care of her.  A few minutes of not having to calm anyone but myself.  But it didn't work out that way.

My mom asked if I wanted to come in with her.  I said I would do whatever she wanted.  Her therapist suggested they meet together first and then invite me in if they needed me.  Which meant I needed to stay in the waiting room.

Half an hour or so later, her therapist invited me into the room.

This was rough.  My mom had gone there to get help from the therapist on how to divorce my dad.  The therapist asked me how I felt about my mom divorcing my dad.  I told her I didn't care at all if she and my dad stay married.  I spent years as a child praying they would get divorced.  I truly didn't care if they were married.  And then I paused.  I am always as truthful as possible in therapy.  This was the moment I worried about.  This was the moment I had to tell a painful truth to my mom.  This is the moment I knew I would hurt my mom.  Just the first of many that would happen in that session.  I said I didn't care if they divorced, but I worried about who would take care of my mom if that happened.  He does so much for her that she can't do for herself.  And I couldn't take that load on.  I just can't.

Lots of other discussion.  Lots of other distraction.  More truths I told her.
*  When she rejects one of us, she says it's because she needs someone who sees reality.  I challenged her on that and said, "Your reality.  Your reality isn't the same as the reality I see or others see."
*  When she called my dad manipulative I challenged her on that.  "What about when you called him and told him you'd taken a bunch of pills and would see him in the morgue?  Don't you think that was manipulative?"
*  When she said my dad has everyone on his side because he gives them money I challenged her on that.  "I have never felt obligated to take his side because he's given me money.  None of us do.  We're not taking sides.  We listen to both of you.  We try to help both of you.  We are not against you."

There were other truths I shared.  It did hurt her.  She's brought at least one of them up again since.  The one when I said I couldn't take the whole load on by myself.  Later that night or the next day (things are kind of blurring together), as I was getting my stuff together so I could go back over to her house with her, she walked out the front door.  She didn't tell anyone she was leaving or where she was going.  She didn't ask for a ride.  She just left.  I sent my daughter after her.  My daughter came back and said my mom was unwilling to come back.  She just needed to leave.  It was cold and my mom was in no condition to be out walking to who knows where.  I told my daughter to go get her in the car and bring her back.  My daughter said she wouldn't come back.  I told her to just bring her to the driveway and wait for me, she didn't need to come in.

I went to the car and asked her where she wanted to go.  She said she guessed she had to go to her motel.  She just couldn't go home.  She couldn't be in that house.  I asked her if she felt like she could be okay alone at the motel.  She said what other choice did she have.  She couldn't go home.  I asked if she wanted to come back into my house.  She said I had said I didn't want her calling me with her problems.  She said I had said I didn't want to help her.  I said that just wasn't true and what was she talking about?  She said that I'd said it in her therapy session.  I tried to clear up what I'd said.  I do want to help her, but I can't take on the whole load without dad.  I again asked if she wanted to come back in my house.  She said yes, if there was somewhere private and quiet that she could be.  (So far, she'd been in the living room.  It's the center of the house and the only gathering room other than the kitchen - we don't have a large house.)  I said she could try my bedroom.

I led her to my bedroom.  I helped her get settled on my bed.  I made sure she had what she needed nearby.  And then I sat in the chair by the bed and listened again, for half an hour or an hour.  When she finally felt stable, like maybe she could sleep, I left and closed the door.  She must have slept because I didn't see her again for hours.  (You would think I would rest during this time, but not so much.  In those moments I'm still on constant alert listening for her and knowing at any minute I could be called on again to manage another crisis.)  She got up and went to the bathroom once, but then went right back.  Eventually it was bedtime and I just curled up on the couch, hoping she'd get lots of sleep and finally feel better.

She came out a few times starting at about three in the morning.  I pretended to be asleep, although I woke up each time.  I was hoping if she thought I was sleeping she would go back to bed.  It worked three or four times, until it started to get light and she could see for sure that it was me on the couch.  She woke me a little after six, in another panic and wanting to go to the hospital.  I spent the next hour trying to settle her enough that I could get my kids up when I needed to and another hour after that as I tried to get my kids out the door for school.

A couple more days like that.  One night when she actually let my daughter be in charge and I got some sleep.  And so much panic and anger and recycling trauma.  And so many hours of me suppressing my feelings so I could do what needed to be done without causing her additional stress - and then going into the bathroom to break down in sobs from the emotional weight of it all.

Near the end of her therapy session, her therapist had asked if she could talk to me alone.  My mom said that would be fine and went to the waiting room.  As soon as the door was closed her therapist looked at me and said, "Do you think your mom is competent?"  Without missing a beat I answered, "No.  Absolutely not." 

Her therapist said she'd seen a noticeable decline in my mom since the last time she'd seen her.  She was very concerned about all the meds my mom takes and the addict behavior she displays.  Then she said she wanted her to have a neurological evaluation, to have her competency assessed.  She spelled out how to do that, recommended who to call, and told me what could happen afterward.  She said if my mom and dad divorce or separate that we would likely have to put her into assisted living.  And she told me my mom would likely be very angry with me and with her.

And I felt another weight drop heavily on my shoulders.  I now have the expectations and wishes of the therapist.  And the feelings and needs of my mom.  And the feelings and beliefs and stewardship that is my dad's.  And my brothers.  And my own issues, anxieties, panic, and sadness.  And somehow I am supposed to balance all this and figure out what is right.  What am I to do?  My dad is her primary caregiver.  How am I to tell him?  Should I tell him, knowing how my mom feels about him?  How much do I involve my brothers, not wanting to place extra burden on them?  And honestly, not wanting them to make my job harder by disagreeing with me when they aren't here and don't see what I see.

She thinks if she could just get on the right meds she'd be her old self again.  My dad thinks if she would just get off all the meds she'd be her old self again.  I'm not sure what my brothers think.  I think her old self is gone.  I think the meds are a problem.  I think she needs to be in a treatment center where they can take her off all the meds and figure out which she really needs and teach her to manage them properly.  Or hand the management off to someone else.  But I also think her mental capacity is declining.  A lot.  I think we are past the point of no return.  I think she will never be competent again, no matter what we do.  I think we are on a downward slope and we will just continue down until she dies.  But I could be wrong.

So, for now, I am sitting on it.  I'm not making a decision about what her therapist said and what to do with it.  My dad is back and has taken over, although I'm still getting calls for rides.  It's only a matter of time until another crisis.  And she will turn to me.  Or he will.  Because I've managed them well in the past and none of us knows what to do and we all reach out for the piece of driftwood that will keep us afloat just a little longer.  And I am often the driftwood.

And sometimes I'm the one sinking.

Sending My Daughter on a Mormon Mission

I got married when I was twenty.  Twenty years old seemed so mature.  So wise.  So ready for independence.  So ready to start my own life and choose my own way.  It seemed that way when I was the one who was twenty.

But now my daughter is twenty.  And today we took her to the MTC (Missionary Training Center).  And today twenty seems so very young.

Today, as I watched her walking away, I saw a five-year old girl.  The little girl she was walking into kindergarten.  Head tucked a little.  Shy smile.  Eager.  Anxious.  Trusting.  Quietly walking away to start something new.  Something so important for her growth.

But that day she came home to me.  This time I won't see her again for eighteen months.

One day soon my son will go on a mission.  He will leave for two years, to serve wherever the Lord calls him.  I've been preparing for this his whole life.  I wasn't prepared for my daughter to leave.

In the Mormon church, we are taught that every worthy young man should serve a mission.  And every young man should spend his life working toward this goal, making himself ready.  Young women are able to serve a mission if they feel so directed, but it isn't pushed the same way for them.

And none of my daughters ever expressed any interest in serving a mission.  Until last November.  My second daughter came to me and my husband, crying, saying she needed to go on a mission.  It had not been in her plans either.  She never had any intention of going.  Until God asked her to.

And being the person she is, she said yes.

She is my most shy child.  She is my most anxious child.  My least independent child.  But when God asked her to serve, she said yes.

I admire her.  I am so proud of her.  But, even though we dropped her off only five hours ago, I miss her terribly already.

Her mission will be eighteen months (for young men it's two years).  In that eighteen months we will not see her.  We will only talk to her on the phone (or Skype) on Mother's Day and Christmas.  The rest of the time we will exchange letters the old fashioned way.  And she will get to email one day a week.

We are giving her up for a year and a half.  She is giving a year and a half of her life to leave her world behind and serve God exclusively.

She will teach others about the gospel and about God and Jesus Christ.  She will tell them that they are loved and valuable.  That they matter.  That there is so much more to life than what the world has to offer.  That there is so much more to each of us than just this life.  She will perform many acts and hours of service.  She will give and give and give.

And she will grow.  She will learn to believe in herself and in her ability to do hard things.  She will learn to reach out to God when things are difficult (partly because we won't be there for her).  She will learn to lose herself in service.  She will experience miracles.  She will learn and grow in ways I can't yet imagine.

Our family will grow, too.  We will be blessed through her service.  We will learn from her letters and her experiences.  We will grow in some ways just because she isn't here.

And, as a mother, I will learn a little more about God.  He gave His Son.  In a way I cannot ever understand, He offered His child for me.  And for you.  And for all mankind.  This experience will give me a glimpse.  As I offer my child to Him, I will gain a tiny bit of understanding.  Like when I became a mother and learned a little about how He loves us.  I will learn more about God as our Heavenly Father.

There will be so many wonderful things that happen in our lives because of her willingness to serve a mission.  And it will get easier.

But right now, I just want to hold her in my arms.  It hurts so much.  Because a piece of my heart is gone and won't be back for eighteen months.

On Being Powerless

We all want to be in control.  Sometimes we feel like we're succeeding, like we've got a handle on life and things are going the way we planned.

And then something comes out of the blue and smacks us in the head with a two by four and walks away giggling, knowing it has power over us.  We sit.  Dazed.  Trying to figure out what's going on.  Trying to get our bearings.  Trying to figure out what our next step should be.

I'm still dazed.

Two days ago our family received some scary medical information, an initial diagnosis.  My 19-year old daughter has a Chiari malformation in her skull which is putting pressure on her brain.  It was a whirlwind day of exam, MRI, diagnosis.  Now we are in a holding pattern, waiting to see a neurosurgeon and make a plan.

It's left me feeling very powerless.  Powerless against the insurance company that won't pay for the specialist our doctor wants us to see but insists on sending us to a different one.  Powerless against the schedule of the specialist that leaves us waiting for days before we can even schedule to meet to get any more answers.  Powerless against the emotions it's churning up in my family.  And powerless to change what is.

It's been a rough couple of days.  And the rough times aren't over.  They are probably just beginning.  I've spent a lot of time trying to figure out what I should do, how I can deal with it, how I feel.  I'm riding tumultuous waves of okay and freaked out.

But, for just this minute, I'm done focusing on what I'm powerless against.  Right this minute I want to focus on the power I still have.  I still have the power to decide how I'm going to face this.  And that matters.

I'm not going to put my life on hold.  I'm not going to drop all other responsibilities.  I'm not going to obsess.  I'm going to do the best I can to live my life while waiting.

And I'm going to practice what I preach and be kind to myself. 

When others tell me about difficult things they're going through, especially transitions, I ask them to be kind to themselves.  I ask them to allow themselves to feel what they need to feel and not judge themselves for it.  I ask them to give themselves time to make decisions, to not force them just because someone else wants an immediate answer.  I ask them to practice good self-care.  I ask them to be as kind to themselves as they would to a dear friend if they were the ones going through this.

So this is my game plan.  I'm going to live my life as normally as I can.  I am going to drop everything and cry when I need to.  Then I'm going to pick it back up again.  I am going to take care of myself.  I am going to respect the feelings of my family members but not feel accountable to fix those feelings.  I am not going to project all the possibilities at this point.  I'm going to wait for further information.  If it's going to get ugly in the future, I'm going to let that be in the future.  I'm not going to let the possibility of future stress ruin now.

We're going to get through this.  We're going to be okay.  But I'm not willing to wait.  I'm not going to sit and wallow in the toxic stew of powerlessness.  I'm choosing to be okay now.

My Current Crazy

This one's tough.  I want to be honest and express what I'm struggling with while still treating the subject delicately.  I don't generally do delicate very well.

While I do believe my current depressive state is biochemical, it comes closely on the heals of a rather big stress storm.  And I have to be careful talking about it because the center of this storm is my mother.  No matter what she's been or done in my life, she deserves to be treated with respect.  I will try to honor that.

But I also deserve to share my story.  Sharing my story when it is closely entwined with hers is tricky.  Here goes.

My mom lives a few miles from me.  She and my dad are still married and living together.  I'm not really sure why.  But I gave up worrying about that a long time ago.

My mom went off the deep end when I was born.  Not that she didn't want me or blames me, but that's when her mental health tanked.  She had an emotional breakdown.  Long story short, she ended up addicted to Valium for several years.  So much more to the story, but that's not mine to tell.

She beat it.  They stayed married.  Life went on.  Again, lots of history.

Jumping ahead to where we are now.

I am the only daughter.  My whole life my mom has told me how important I am to her.  How I am her refuge.  That we stand united amidst the men.  (Kind of against the men, but that's another therapy session.)  For most of my life she's considered me her confidante.  Her closest friend.  The one who understands her.  That's a heavy burden.  Please don't do this to your children.

I've written about some of the other parts of my home life.  It was not a mentally healthy environment.  In order to heal and figure out who the heck I was and who I wanted to be, I've had to distance myself from them over the last few years.  Even though we live in the same town, I could go a month or two without talking to them.  It's not usually that long, but sometimes.  We pulled back from family events, putting in an appearance but leaving before I got triggered.  It's taken a lot of work and a lot of therapy to get to a place where I felt healthy with them.

But recently my life got a shake up again.

Over the years she's struggled with her emotional health.  I've watched her try this and that to make it better.  I've watched everything fail.  I've watched her mental health get worse and worse.  We are now at a point where she can't be in the room with others for long unless it's silent and dark.  She is no longer capable of listening to more than a sentence or two from anyone else.  She has bad ADD and struggles to stay on topic; she often can't finish a sentence.  She can't sit still.  When she's at my house she sits, gets up and moves, sits again, gets up and moves.  Over and over.  And she talks and talks without getting anywhere productive and without hearing anything we have to say.

She's 70-years old.  She's still married and he is healthy.  I didn't think I'd be put in the position of being her caretaker so early.  We're not quite there, but it's close.  She wants to put me in charge of things but also accuses me of trying to be in control.  She says she wishes she'd had a mom like me but tells me how much I'm like my dad who she can't stand.

Current situation.  On many meds and hormones.  Takes them as she feels she needs them, kind of close to as prescribed but not really.  Very much self-medicating.  She goes to her room and won't come out when my dad is there.  She waits until he's gone for the day before she comes out.  She leaves and stays gone all day, practically living out of her car.  She won't come home until she knows he's gone to bed.  She's a compulsive shopper and hoarder -- which leads to the many money fights I've been hearing about my whole life.  Her rooms (apparently she needs more than one room to herself) are so full there's about a foot wide walking path.  She's put wallpaper up to cover her bathroom mirror.  She's hung dark blankets over her windows with masking tape.  She has a mini-fridge, microwave, toaster, and food in her room/bathroom/closet.  She almost never eats at her house unless it's junk food in her room.  She's on a backward sleep cycle.  She never sleeps before 2am.  She doesn't function in the morning.  And she sleeps on the floor of her bathroom or walk-in closet.  Not on a mattress or anything, just a thick rug.  And she recently told me she has bad cataracts and needs to have them taken care of but hasn't felt well enough.  Because of the cataracts, night driving is very difficult for her.  But she keeps doing it anyway.  Her need to get away is apparently greater than her concern for her own or others' safety.  I have expressed my concern.

My dad knows most of this but has lived with it so long he just accepts it.  I think he feels helpless.  Theirs is not a good partnership.

She's recently been coming around more, leaning on me more.  She'll show up at our house and talk for several hours two or three times a week.  I feel held hostage in those moments.  She's asked me for prescription meds (I didn't give them to her).  She tells me things and wants me to keep them secret from my dad, from everyone really.  She's shown up at the church a few times while I was trying to perform my calling.  She's very needy and has no friends.  The only people she has in her life on a regular basis are me, my dad, and my adult niece who lives with them. 

On the bright side, I've had plenty to talk about in therapy.  My therapist has helped me define what my responsibilities are and what they are not.  He's helping me set boundaries.  I will no longer listen to her tell me everything awful about my dad for hours.  I will change the subject or leave.  I will no longer let her take over my life.  I will give where I should but draw lines as well.

She says she's going back to therapy (at my suggestion).  And her primary care doctor (who is a pediatrician -- don't get me started on that) says she has to get in to see a psychiatrist and an internist within the month or he won't see her anymore.  He's worried about her psychological health.  Yeah, me too.

I'm trying to keep my out-of-state brother informed, because I don't want to carry this information alone.  I am leaning on others.  And I've done great with boundaries the last week or so.  But it is a heavy burden that's likely to get worse before it gets better.

And heaven forbid they finally do decide to divorce!  I can't imagine what my life will become if that happens.

So please forgive me if I let you down recently.  Or if I'm not up to getting together.  I'm doing the best I can.

And I'm so scared of turning into her.

My Dream Car is a Truck

Over the last few years I've watched several friends excitedly buy a new car.  Exactly what they wanted.  Eyes dancing with joy.  Truthfully, I just don't have this experience with cars.  I don't think a car has ever made my eyes dance.  I did like watching the joy their dream cars brought them.

As I was driving down the freeway a while back, a nice car drove by.  I have no idea what kind it was.  I wasn't really paying that much attention, I just appreciated the aesthetics of it.  And it sparked a thought.  If I could have any car in the world, what car would I want?

Let me first say all I've ever wanted in a car is for it to run and do what I need it to do.  Get me and mine and our stuff from here to there.  That's it.  We currently own four cars (remember, I have five kids, ages 14-21).  One isn't running or registered.  All of them have multiple things wrong with them.  They are all either hand-me-downs or gifts from my parents.  As long as they run, I don't care what they look like.

We haven't had a car payment in years.  I hate having a car payment.  We have no plans to buy a car in the near future.

But if the universe suddenly wanted to give me the car of my dreams, this is what it would be.  It would be a Chevy pickup from the late 70s or early 80s.  It doesn't matter what color or whether it's two-toned or not.  A few dents would be nice.  It would be partly rusted out, maybe even a small hole in the floorboard.  The shocks would be somewhat worn so that we could really appreciate the bumps on unpaved roads.  It would be a stick shift that sometimes took both hands to get into reverse.  The bed would be dented and dirty from hauling anything and everything.  You'd have to really slam the tailgate to get it to close.  The windows and locks would be manual.  And since this is my dream car and it can be whatever I want, it would have a rebuilt engine that runs smoothly and gets great gas mileage, working air conditioning and heating and seat belts, and new tires.

Thinking about this took me back to all the trips to the livestock auctions on Saturday mornings, all the rides through the canyon, all the times I had to get out and open or close the gate, and the smell of hay mixed with manure while hauling horses.  The good times with my dad.

Completely impractical but oh, so nostalgic.  Isn't that what dreams are supposed to be?

Noticing Progress

I want to be perfect.  I want to have all the answers.  I want to be able to do anything and everything all the time.  Be everything my family and friends want me to be.  Is that really so much to ask?

Of course it is, and it sounds ridiculous.  But time and again those are the standards I judge myself by.

I walk through my house and notice everything that needs to be done.  I notice the mess.  I notice things that are broken.  I notice what I've never really liked about the house that I still haven't changed.  And I feel bad.  I feel like I am not enough because it's not all perfect.  Right now!

I wake up and start moving at the beginning of the day.  From the moment I start to stir, I feel tired.  So tired.  As I get moving I notice how much my head hurts.  Maybe I notice how dizzy I am or how blurry my vision is.  And how little motivation I have to do anything.  I try to get my kids up and off to school, getting irritated and grumpy in the process.  And I feel like a failure because I lose my cool and snap at them.  I want to be the mom that's happy all the time and participates in everything they do.  I want to be at every event.  I want to play with them and study with them and help them when they are sad.  Every time!

But I can't.

I am a problem solver by nature.  My mind is constantly working to fix things:  physical, emotional, spiritual, psychological -- and all the other "al" words.  Which serves me well much of the time.  But it also holds me back and causes me pain.

We can only truly focus on one thing at a time.  Sometimes we fool ourselves into believing that we are multi-tasking, but we're not really.  Our brain isn't paying attention to lots of things at once.  It's swapping out attention from one thing to another, sometimes so fast that we don't realize that's what is happening. 

Why does the inability of our brains to multi-task matter?  Because if we are looking at the problems we are not seeing the successes.  This is a major struggle for me.

I see the messy house.  I don't see the six trailer-loads of stuff I cleaned out and gave to charity or the five trailer-loads that went to the dump.  I don't see all the things I gave away to family and friends.  I don't see all the free things that were offered to me that I politely refused to keep from bringing more stuff into my life.  I see that my life isn't spartan and pristine, not that it's so much better and more peaceful.

I see how tired I am.  I don't see all the doctor's visits, therapy visits, prescriptions, tests, lifestyle changes, and progress I've made.  I don't see that I used to go to bed for days, semi-sedated just to face another day full of pain.  I don't see those months on end when I didn't leave my house except for church.  I don't see those times when I was so depressed that I scared my husband.  Or those times when my mental state was so bad that I sliced my own arms open.  I don't see that these things aren't true anymore.  I overlook the fact that I've checked back into life.  I don't see that I am doing so much, so many things.  I only see all the things I want to do but can't.

Not today.  Today I see progress.  I am not all I want to be.  My life is not all I want it to be.  But I have done so much and come so far.  And that's what I'm going to focus on today.

Sewing on Patches

I'm so glad I got my boy; I'm also glad I only got one.

I used to say this all the time when my son was little.  He was so different from my girls.  It was fun watching the world through his eyes, but it was also difficult.  He seemed to be on a search and destroy mission.  It seemed like every room he walked into was new territory to conquer.  He scanned the area for weakness and then unleashed an incredible force for one so small.  He broke more things than his four sisters combined.

Not that he was intentionally destructive, he just had a different way of exploring and discovering.  And he didn't have a natural tendency to control his strength.  He got so excited about things and ran head first into them, sometimes literally.  Then, when he saw them broken, he felt so sad.  He didn't mean to.

I can still see his little two-year old face, round, with a pouty lip.  Big tears welling up in his eyes.  Because even though he was powerful, he was tender.

Maintaining that balance has been a goal of mine.  Stay powerful, but be tender.  Sometimes it's gone well; other times, not so much.

But raising a man isn't easy -- and that's what I'm doing.  If I can remember that in the tough moments, then I can get through it.  And so can he.

I remember when he was a cub scout.  As his birthday approached, he still had a lot to do to receive his patch (whichever year, it was always the same).  We'd begin a drive to finish in time.  He'd start with energy and before long decide he didn't want to do all the work and it would be fine to just not get it this time.  But it wasn't fine for me.

My brothers didn't do much in scouting.  Neither did my husband.  There was no big family push and I had no clue what I was doing.  But I felt like it was important to finish what he started and to believe in himself.  I felt like it was important for him to learn to do hard things so that he could be proud of his efforts. 

So we'd push through.  And he'd finish just in time, sometimes yelling, crying, and fighting with me all the way.  And then, when he was done, my little boy would thank me for making him do it.  I can still see that face, too.  My grinning eight-year old smiling at me as he received his award.  An award he earned.  An award he was proud of.

There have been many times since when he wanted to quit things.  I'd be lying if I said I pushed him to finish all of them.  But I push when he's expressed a desire and then tries to back out because it's hard.  He says he wants to get his Eagle.  I will do whatever I can to make sure he follows through.

The other night I sewed his Star patch on his boy scout uniform.  This shirt is so much bigger.  He's fifteen now and practically a man.  He did so much more of the work under his own direction.  He doesn't need me as much as he used to.

But I still sew on the patches.  And I do so with honor and pride.  I am so proud of the young man he is becoming.  I want him to be proud to stand in that uniform.  As proud as I am to see him do so.

He speaks of joining the Marines one day.  There's a long time before that could happen, but I can already see it in my mind.  I'm not going to lie, if he changes his mind before then, I'm probably not going to try to talk him back into it.  The idea scares me.

But if he doesn't change his mind, I will be honored.  I will support his decision.  I will sew on patches or pin on badges as long as he will let me, until some young woman takes my place.

And I will know that I've raised a fine young man.

Celebrity Dinner

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.

We Gladly Feast on Those Who Would Subdue Us

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.

Doing It Out of Obligation

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.

Fly, Baby Bird

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

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?

The Worst Day of My Life -- When My Husband Left the Church

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 returned 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.

Wearing My Cranky Pants

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?

It's Just Stuff, part two

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.

Redefining Mother's Day

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.

I Wish You Could Have Known Your Mom

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.

I Refuse to Apologize

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 -- Yes, Dear

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.

A Lesbian Trapped in a Man's Body

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.