An Awfully Proud Mama

This is our oldest daughter, Jessica.  And today she graduated from Brigham Young University.

Attending her commencement and convocation exercises was amazing.  I can't even begin to describe my pride in her achievements and in the incredible young woman she is.

We don't have much money.  We live paycheck to paycheck and always have.  At times of job loss we've been on food stamps and church assistance.  My husband and I both attended some college, but neither of us finished our degrees.

Jessica loves learning.  She's so smart and works hard.  She always wanted to go to college and I've known for most of her life that we couldn't afford to send her.  I remember telling her that if she wanted to go to college, she'd need a scholarship or would have to work her way through.  Turns out she needed both.

She earned a full-tuition scholarship for four years through good grades and test scores.  Some of her abilities are genetic, to be sure.  She's a quick learner and has been blessed with a mind that works the way the school systems are set up to test.  But she also had to put forth a lot of effort.  She had to sacrifice things she wanted, which sometimes meant her social life.  But she did it.

But there was still the cost of books.  And for a time there was the cost of living away from home.  And there was the expense of her trip to Russia to teach English to young children for four months.  She paid for these things herself almost in entirety.

For the first two years of her schooling she worked a 4:00am job as a custodian.  For the next year she worked a 6:00am job as a custodian.  And near the end she finally got her dream job - doing custodial work in the evening.  (Just kidding about that being her dream job, but the timing sure was better.)  All of this to pay for her books and other things she needed, because we couldn't.  And she worked these jobs while carrying a full-time load of classes.

Everyone has their own path in life.  Not everyone will go to college, nor should they.  I don't think success is measured by whether or not a person has a degree or how much money they earn.  I don't think a person will be happier just because they have a bachelor's degree.

But what I do think will make a person happier and what does constitute success is an ability to have a dream, to want something with all their heart, and to have the drive to make it happen.

These last two days I got to see my daughter realize a dream of hers that she's worked so hard for almost all her life.  And it was an absolutely amazing experience!

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.

Tucked Safely Under My Wing

My third child is graduating from high school later today.  It's a wonderful day that marks the successful completion of many years of hard work.  Hers and mine. 

But it also marks the beginning.

She is eighteen.  She is legally responsible for her actions.  She could move out and do whatever she wants without my approval.

Those of you with small children will read this and think eighteen sounds so old.  You won't be able to imagine that tiny baby or toddler so far into the future.  And you probably think by the time they turn eighteen you'll be ready.  You'll see how smart and independent they are.  You'll see them reaching for the world and you'll do everything you can to help them grab it.  You'll know it's time for them to leap into the wonder around them and learn to fly.  You think you'll be ready.

You're kidding yourself.

They'll feel like they're all grown up and you'll still see that five-year old, crying because she hurt herself on the playground  They'll be making plans to take off on their grand adventure and you'll think of all the times they called you from school begging you to bring them something they forgot.

How will they make it in the big, bad world without you?  Why aren't they content to stay tucked safely under your wing forever?

Well, they outgrow that wing.  They just don't fit anymore.  They eventually see the fragility of that wing and realize it's not as safe as they thought and they need to create their own shelter.  And they need to learn to fly.

You will understand all this in your head, but your heart will still ache for simpler times.  You will yearn for those days when all they wanted was to climb into bed with you and snuggle up.  Those days when a juice box or a popsicle made everything all better.

And with the strength of Hercules you will open your heart and release them into the world.

Mother's Day Sucks!

It's that dreaded time of year again.  Mother's Day.  Those two words strike fear in the hearts of men everywhere.  (Is it everywhere?  Is Mother's Day recognized in other countries?)  And so many men think they are the only ones who dread this day, but they are wrong.  So many women dread this day, too.

I know there are women and men and children out there who are looking forward to this day.  I'm happy for you.  I would wish you a happy Mother's Day, but you don't need that.  You will have a great day full of love.  Because somehow you've found the magic tunnel that leads to a world of joy and celebration and giving and love.

The rest of us live in a fallen world full of heartache and unmet expectations.  I rejoice in the fact that some of my friends will have a wonderful day this Sunday.  I ask that you try to understand why so many others don't.  Please don't judge.  Please don't tell us to make it a great day.  Please don't throw sunshine and Disney songs at us and tell us to cheer up.  For so many women (and many men) today is a day of pain and mourning.  That should be respected.  It should be honored.

I expect Sunday to be a good day for me.  A couple of years ago I was able to redefine Mother's Day for me in a way that's really helped break through that dark cloud.  Even still, there are treacherous areas for me on that day.  I have to be careful.  And my associations with Mother's Day aren't nearly as tough as so many of my friends.  They are the ones I'm thinking about at this time.  They are the ones I am worried about.  They are the ones my heart is aching for.

There is my friend whose mom knowingly allowed her to be sexually abused for years.  Who barely noticed her daughter.  This friend is a wonderful mother and I hope the day is about her.  I hope she is able to celebrate her own motherhood.  But I can't imagine there isn't a twinge of pain for that mother she doesn't have.  Whether we like it or not, whether we fight it our whole lives or not, there is something in us that longs for loving parents.  It's part of our make up.  I know she is strong and loving and does her best not to let that part of her past control her, but I know there's still pain there.

There is my friend who has never been able to have a child.  She and her husband are good people.  They would make wonderful parents.  But for whatever reason, that blessing has been withheld from them.  I have watched them reach out and touch the lives of others' children, but I know their hearts have ached for that child of their own.

There is my friend who has experienced multiple miscarriages.  She has children.  But her heart longs for more.  Her heart aches for more.  But her body seems unwilling to cooperate.  I know her heart aches.  I know she feels an absence.

• There is my friend who lost a grandchild she never got to know.
• There is my friend who has been disowned by her mother.
• There is my friend who has been disowned by her children.
• There is my friend whose mother was taken from her while she was still in grade school.
• There is my friend who has been told over and over by her husband what an awful mother she is.
• There is my friend who's children won't allow her to see her grandchildren or be a part of their lives.
• There is my friend who lost a child to cancer.
• There is my friend whose mother killed her father and then herself.
• There is my friend whose mother beat him.
• There is my friend who's husband and children will forget Mother's Day because they don't think it matters and she will feel as if they are saying she doesn't matter.
• There is my elderly friend who has outlived all her children.
• There is my friend who grew up knowing her mom never wanted to have children -- never wanted her.
• There is my friend whose mother abandoned him and his siblings.
• There are my friends who are single mothers, doing the work of both parents, who would love to have a loving husband tell them how grateful they are for these wonderful women who are raising their children.
• There is my friend who feels so inadequate as a mother and sees Mother's Day as a reminder of all her failings.
• There is my friend who is caring for her mother with dementia and mourns the mother she doesn't have anymore.
• There is my friend who is watching her drug-addicted mother ruin her life and can't do anything about it.
• There is my husband who will be reminded that his mom is gone.
• There are all the women who will feel guilty for having a good Mother's Day when they know their friends are hurting.

 

There are so many people around us who will be hurting this Sunday.  And whoever thinks one day a year is enough to recognize and value all the work mothers do is crazy.  One day a year doesn't begin to cover the sacrifice and heartache it means to be a mother.  One day a year has turned it into a marketing ploy.  A way to make money off the guilt of people who should be more appreciative more often.

 

But for those of us who hurt so deeply on Mother's Day, one day a year is more than enough.

Balance is a Myth

My daughter's Chiari 1 Malformation repair surgery went well (decompression and duraplasty).  The doctor didn't have to remove any of her brain.  Thank you to all who offered prayers and support in our behalf.

It took longer than expected because she has an extra thick skull.  (The doctor said it was about three times as thick as most, and if he'd had to remove any more he'd have had to get a new saw because he burned through the one he was using.)  He removed a piece of her skull.  He removed the back half of her first vertebrae and shaved off part of the second.  He opened up the dura (the covering of the brain) to make more room and patched it with a piece of her scalp.  She goes back next week to have the staples removed and make sure everything's healing well.

She's still quite medicated, so it's tough to tell if any of her symptoms are better.

Three long days in the hospital with her were exhausting.  I was sleep deprived when we got there and it only got worse.  I tried to take care of myself while taking care of her.  I ate some.  Slept some.  Neither enough.  Because she was my top priority.  She needed me there in order to feel safe.  She was scared.

Since we've come home it's been better.  She's slept more.  I've slept more.  I'm keeping her on a strict medication schedule to stay ahead of the pain -- absolutely no waiting until it hurts.  As soon as she can take more meds, I give them to her.  It won't be this way for long.  I will start to stretch it out when I think she's ready.  But right now she needs to be able to relax a little and sleep so she can heal.

I am sleeping on a mattress on the floor of her bedroom at night.  There was an oxygenation issue in the hospital that's got her a bit paranoid.  Having me there to make sure she's breathing lets her relax.  It's a small price to pay.

While I was at the hospital with her those three days, my oldest daughter played mom at home.  She got people up and off to school.  She kept track of people.  She ran things.  All while finishing up classes and studying for finals.  She was a life saver for me and now has a better understanding of how hard it is to be a mom -- I understand there were some tears.  (Don't ask where my husband was.  We had a fight that started while my daughter was in surgery and continued throughout the day, both of us sleep deprived and stressed.  He was not in a good place those three days.)

Since we've been home, my daughter's ex-boyfriend-but-still-best-friend has spent most of the daytime sitting with her in her room, running errands for her and/or me, and giving me a chance to rest.  This would have been incredibly difficult without him.

And I have had to give up a lot of things.  I've let a lot of things slide.

All of that brings us to my point.  Balance is a myth.  Life isn't about making everything we want fit into a tiny space of time and energy.  Life is about deciding what's most important and choosing that.  Life is about letting go of things that don't matter to focus on things that do.

I wanted to be at my oldest daughter's concert, but I was needed at my other daughter's bedside.  I wanted to go to a discussion on literature of world religions, but needed to take care of myself.

There was a time in my life when I would have demanded it of myself to keep doing all I was already doing and find a way to squeeze this in there, too.  Luckily, I'm wiser than that now.  I know that's not healthy and not something to strive for or admire.

My priorities right now are my daughter, my health, and the other people in my life.  The house will wait.  There will be other fun opportunities.  And anything that really needs to get done can be farmed out.

Life is about seasons.  We do one thing for a while, at the proper season.  As the seasons change, we need to be willing to change with them.  We need to find the beauty in each season and not feel like a failure because we leave the other season behind.  We need to be willing to let a season go when it's time to move on.

This is my season to take care of my daughter and help her heal.  And it's the perfect season for me at just this moment.

Simple Joys: Tiny Bubbles

Since we got rid of most of our dishes over a year ago I do most of my dishes by hand.  It's a more pleasant experience.  The warm water.  The suds.  Instant gratification.

And the tiny bubbles.

I don't remember seeing these before.  I've done dishes by hand many times in the past.  I think it might be the bottle.  Nearly every time I pick up or set down the bottle of dish soap, tiny bubbles shoot out of it and float around the sink.  About the size of my fingertip.  And it makes me happy.

Bubbles are one of life's miracles, if you ask me.  They're just magical, no matter how old I get.  Watching them float.  Wondering if they will survive the landing.  Trying to catch them without popping them.  They are a wonder.

They take me back to a simpler time with my children.  Every time I see them I remember the summers spent blowing bubbles so my children could chase them.  I remember helping my children learn to blow them.  I remember when the magic of bubbles was enough to solve most unhappy days.  Long before dating woes, driving stress, and worries about grades and graduation and college.  Just me, the kids, bubbles, and sunshine.

They also take me further back in time.  Every time I see them I hear the song "Tiny Bubbles" in my head.  I remember the first time I heard that song.  It wasn't Don Ho.  It wasn't on a ukelele'.  It was an old man on a guitar.  With his partner on a banjo.  I went camping with my grandma to an annual gathering called The Blackhawk.  As the summer evening was winding down, people were socializing and relaxing.  People were playing music together, rocking in lawn chairs by their trailers, singing.  And these two old men created heaven.  A moment that still brings me peace when I think about it.  Just a still, quiet summer evening filled with the beautiful harmony of two old friends.

A time when I had no worries.  There was nothing left for the day except to enjoy the company of those around us until it was time to go to bed.  I was with my grandma, my angel on earth.  And with people who had all the time in the world just to be.

Washing my dish makes me happy.  It brings me joy in a most simple way.  (And just in case it is the bottle -- it's Dawn and it works best when the bottle is mostly empty.  I want you to find happiness washing your dish, too.)

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.

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 Glory of Women -- Smartly

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.

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.

Why Did I Get Out of Bed?

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

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.

What I Hate Most About Chronic Illness

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.

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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.