Limping In A Winter Wonderland

I dread this time of year. For many reasons. It is as if Father Time is hell bent on getting to, and then through the fourth quarter while the rest of us are merely innocent bystanders as we slide into the home plate known as New Year’s Day.

It seems like we all get so distracted by getting through the holidays, we completely lose sight of what is important. Even with months of warning, the fourth quarter “sneaks up on me” every year. How many years do I have to live before I will plan better? How many years will I find myself saying “I can’t believe it is almost Halloween”, “Thanksgiving”, and finally “Christmas”.

Nearly a decade ago, I vowed I would not enter Wal-Mart between Halloween and the New Year. I doubt I need to explain the rationale behind this vow but that won't stop me.  It all started one year I was almost assaulted at the Wal-Mart in Roeland Park Kansas during the season of “giving”. That woman was giving all right. She was giving me the what-for when I had the last of an item that she wanted. In addition, the carts are too big and the aisles are too small. To put it simply, there is not enough room for “both” of us there. At this point, people in my life have gotten used to stocking stuffers from the gas station by now.

To add to my bah-hum-bug attitude, I despise cold weather. This is a little more than my constant inner debate with myself about why I moved from the fabulous sunshine state. This is the dread I feel anticipating the first cold snap. The dread I feel from my left ankle all the way to my left hip.

When I was first diagnosed with RA in 2005 I laughed. Don’t get me wrong, I think the world of my orthopedic surgeon and my rheumatologist. I just thought they had the wrong girl, or the wrong chart. Over the years however, I have slowly conceded, much like Wal-Mart in Roeland Park.

I need to make something clear. My pain is nothing compared to some; but it can be everything to me. My first flare up has been the worst to date. I can recall begging Brad to take me to the hospital and have them do something. Anything. At my lowest point, I swore amputation was not out of the question. Looking back, I realize I was being dramatic. In my defense though, my knee was a big grapefruit. A big, black grapefruit.

The worst part about my version of RA is the waiting period; those eight blissful months between “potential” flareups. On the flip side though, their timing and characteristics are pretty predictable, so I can prepare myself.

While I wait in wonder this season, I will focus on stuffing stockings with goodies for the boys and not stuffing a brace with what is left of my left knee.

Twitter makes me love those I haven't met. Facebook makes me hate those I know in real life.

If you are anything like me, you have a love/hate relationship with Facebook. I fought it as long as I could and finally joined back in 2008. As Facebook evolved, I began to use it more and more for work while managing various business pages. What annoys me about Facebook is the constant self-promotion by those that obviously need affirmation that they are attractive, smart, or funny. I also get a little irked when married people communicate with each other on their respective "walls". Can you not walk down the hall or into the kitchen and tell your partner what you need to say? Is it really necessary to piss so much on your territory that I can smell it on my computer?

I read an article recently about the amount of narcissism on Facebook. The article says "Narcissistic tendencies in many people fuels a need to have a large group of 'friends' link to their pages and many of these people accept cyber-friends that they don’t even know" . I know you have a few of what I like to call “friend whores” on your list of “friends”. They will friend everyone they meet; no one is exempt from their reach. From grocery store lines to the shower at the gym, they will “friend” you.

Which brings up something else to consider. Do you think Facebook has devalued the term “friend”? Sure, I know all of the people on my Facebook page. Some I have known nearly all my life and some are new acquaintances. Some only keep up with my through Facebook and others I see on a regular basis and have a deeper understanding of the person I am today.

Another article I read notes for the average narcissist, Facebook "offers a gateway for hundreds of shallow relationships and emotionally detached communication."; More importantly for this study, social networking in general allows the user a great deal of control over how he or she is presented to and perceived by peers and other users.

Maybe this is why I do not like Facebook. Maybe it is because I am comfortable in my own skin and want others to feel the same way. It takes a lot of time and effort to create and maintain the perception people are presenting on Facebook.  I don't think I could maintain that facade very long without losing it on some level.  I would probably have to lock myself up in my house due to fear that I might run in to someone in real life that would call me out.  Frankly I prefer real people that admit they are not perfect because I certainly am not.  The only perfect person I know of died on a cross.

Get your facts first, and then you can distort them as much as you please.

Some of my fellow “Christians” are disappointing me. Again. This time the subject is divorced women. Why is it, when I go to church the married women treat me as if I am not invited to the party? Have any of you divorced women experienced this? You know what I am talking about. Just because I am divorced does not mean I want your husband. I literally had a woman tell me they were not comfortable hanging out anymore because I am a threat to them now. Do their husbands tell divorced dads the same thing? Do their husbands say to their divorced friends, “dude, we can’t hang out anymore because I am afraid you are going to snatch my wife from me”. Adding to my frustration is when the person throwing the stones has been DIVORCED too!

Now, for some reason when a single dad enters church, or any other place for that matter, he is treated as if he is a saint. “Oh, poor guy. He is a single dad doing his best to raise his kids the best he can”. I guess they forgot I am a single mom doing my best to raise my boys.

Is it because I was the one that “filed” for the divorce (I suppose in this case they forget that marriage includes two people that contribute to the success or demise of the relationship)? Is it because they take Mathew too literally, when it says:

“It has been said, ‘Anyone who divorces his wife must give her a certificate of divorce. But I tell you that anyone who divorces his wife, except for marital unfaithfulness, causes her to become an adulteress, and anyone who marries the divorced woman commits adultery.

I suppose if they are taking the passage literally, they would agree that men too, would be committing adultery if they remarry. Maybe it is because they are just hypocritical busy bodies that would rather throw stones at me while they live in their glass houses?

I’m gonna go with the latter and let me tell you why. After a brief hiatus from church due to traveling and the death of my mother, I returned with my boys one Sunday morning in the Spring. Upon entering the children’s room, a woman approached me and whispered she had heard about what happened and wondered how I was doing. I thanked her for her concern and added losing my mother was hands down the most difficult thing I had ever been through. With eyes as big as silver dollars guess what she said. Wait for it.

“I’m so sorry, I had no idea your mom died”. I smiled at her and said "Oh, you must be talking about my divorce".

Other than seeing this woman at church, I did not socialize with this woman. I did not confide in her about my personal life. Apparently, I did not have to. The other busy bodies at church can spread my news for me. Well if you are going to talk about me, tell the whole story. While your airing my dirty laundry you might consider washing yours too.

You Can't Handle The Truth

Everyone has trying times. We all experience loss in one form or another. These events can happen to us one at a time like a slow leak or they can come at us all at once like a roof caving in. The great thing about being human is that we can all empathize with each other during strife and triumph. Not everyone handles success well. I have met a few people that actually sabotage their own success because they do not feel they deserve it. Fortunately I am not one of those people, I deserve every bit of it! Not everyone handles stress well. On the other hand, some of us shine brighter than ever when they are in a pressure cooker.

Problems are not really the problem. Coping is the problem. Not everyone is equipped with the necessary tools to get through the times that challenge them. I used to be the type of person that, under stress, would withdrawal from others. My theory was “why do I want to bother others with this”, this is my deal. What I have learned over the last few years is that these are the times I need to reach out even more than usual. Of course I am selective to whom I reach out, not everyone can handle the truth about other’s vulnerabilities.

After one particular year of growth, I had many friends say to me they could not imagine how I got through it. A divorce, the death of my mom, job loss, and a whole lot of heartache can test the strongest among us. Although I understood what they meant, I think what they should have said was “How did you get through it”.

For those that cannot tell the difference between the statement and the question, let me elaborate. The statement focuses on the situation. The question focuses on the person. I admit I am guilty of this too. I want to show my compassion but I do not want to bring up a sore subject. Are we all so self absorbed we do not realize there is a difference? Is it that no one wants to hear it? Are we afraid of what we will hear? Do we think what we hear will make us look at ourselves in a way we may not like?

No man is an island. If we would stop and listen to others, we might learn something about them, and maybe ourselves.

Let's Be Honest Here

I registered for our local Making Strides against Breast Cancer walk months ago. Maybe it was weeks. Either way, I had plenty of time to raise awareness and funds. I also had time to talk to my boys about Breast Cancer, and why we walk. G-Man asked big boy questions like “what is fund raising” and “what is charity”. He also asked about Cancer and how the doctors help those that are sick. The Babe asked the exact question I expected from him; “what are breasts”. You can imagine how delighted both boys were to hear me say “boobs”. They ran around saying “breasts, breasts, breasts”. Typical boys.

The three of us talked about the walk for days before it was scheduled. The morning of, the boys gathered their toys and snacks for their “walk” in the wagon while we all donned our pink. What I did not have time for during my preparation, was to reflect. I participate in stuff like this all the time so I did not think this time was any different. However, I never stopped to think about how it would feel when the volunteer handed me a sticker that said, “I walk for ______________”, let alone when I actually filled it in. I did not think about the questions the boys would ask about Mom on the drive to the walk. I was not prepared for my oldest son to look at me as I am filling out papers and stickers and say to me “I walk for you Mommy”. Can he possibly understand what he is saying?

The walk was only a 5k so they boys took turns in the wagon while the adults took turns pulling it. When I was not making sure the boys were warm enough, or not too hot, I thought. I thought about my mom, and her mom. I thought about all of the people at the event that donated time and money. I thought about how much I wished I could have spent that morning with my mom.

These events tend to bring out the community in some that otherwise know nothing of the concept. I acknowledge many participate in these events because they are good hearted. Some do it for recognition. Everyone has his or her own agenda. With that in mind, many people I spoke with that day; whether friends, volunteers, or otherwise, thanked me for walking. It was fine the first few times I heard it but after a while, it bothered me. I did not do it for them. I did not do it for recognition. Frankly, I did not do it for my mom. There are moments I feel my mom more closely than other days. That day was one of them. I will do whatever I can to feel her presence.

So truth be told, I walked for myself.

The Alibi App

If you don't know what Facebook Places is, thanks for crawling out from underneath your fav rock to join us.

According to Facebook: "Places is a Facebook feature that allows you to see where your friends are and share your location in the real world. When you use Places, you'll be able to see if any of your friends are currently checked in nearby and connect with them easily. You can check into nearby Places to tell your friends where you are, tag your friends in the Places you visit, and view comments your friends have made about the Places you visit. Use Places to experience connecting with people on Facebook in a completely new way."

My first reaction to this application was that I really don't want othes knowing THAT much about me.  It is bad enough I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook but now people are telling me there every move.  I was much happier when they just updated their status every few seconds with the mundane tasks of daily life.

After I finished my mental rant I realized this application could be used for good and evil.  Sure you can see where friends are connect with them easily.  I can not imagine I am the first one to think of this as "the alibi app".  Think about it.  A teenager tells his parents he is at the school football game and as such, checks in there.  In reality, Little Johnny is reeking havoc with his friends in his girlfriend's basement while her parents are out of town.

What about the husband that tells his wife he is working late and checks in on Places accordingly.  In reality he is loosing his shirt at the local casino.  As to not sound sexist; what about the wife that tells her hubs she is going to the gym but in reality is out spending the college fund at the mall.

I know this idea is not new, I just don't like giving up that much info about my where-abouts.  Don't look for me to check in anytime soon.

It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it. ~Aristotle

This may come as a surprise to some of you, but there once was a time in my life when I was easily dismissed.  I would allow others to convince me that my opinion was either not accurate, or better yet, I would be lead to believe that it wasn't really my opinion at all.  To help you understand, I offer this illustration:

Child: "Mommy, I want to go outside and play in the snow"

Mommy: "Honey, it is too cold to go outside right now, you don't want to go out there"

Child: Hmm.  I could have sworn I wanted to go outside and play in the snow.  This big person seems to know everything else, maybe I don't want to go outside after all.

The above is just an example, but imagine if this scenario is something the child experiences often enough that it becomes a part of their being.  They allow others to tell them what they want.  What they should do for a living.  What their opinions are.  I had no idea that even did this until I got on the roller coaster ride of events that occurred during the last couple of years.  They say awareness is the key.  So here we are.

This is not to say that I run around town on a soapbox telling everyone what I think all the time.  I'm not making decisions willy nilly like, without thinking of the effects those decisions have on others.  What I am saying is that I don't mind rockin the boat sometimes.  I do try to pick my battles wisely.  Frankly some things just aren't worth the fight, with myself or others.  There are a few subjects that are exempt from my self censor though.  Now you, my lucky reader, get to hear my rant about one of these subjects.

Smokers. (Said with slight disdain and a snarled lip)

I am not a smoker, nor have I ever been a smoker.  Sure, I puffed on a few back in high school and college while I as out with friends.  I just don't never picked up on the allure of this habit.  I don't understand how people keep smoking knowing it makes them smell, their teeth yellow, it discolors their home, makes their car smell, and not to mention IT WILL KILL THEM.  It's a minor detail but I thought I would mention it.

I have very few friends that smoke.  I can count on one hand the people in my life that have made a decision to harm their health and those with whom they come in contact.   What baffles me, is these people I know that smoke are good people.  They have jobs, contribute to society and raise their kids well.  They generally make good decisions, and yet they smoke.  Let's talk about how this decision affects their children.

• The adult decreases the amount of time they get to spend with the child.  The adult might be hiding while smoking and is cutting years off their life by smoking.


• Lets say the adult is hiding while they smoke...what does that say to the child about the habit?


• The adult is cutting years off the child's life by smoking in front of them or in the home.  Statistics show that children with smoking parents are twice as likely to start smoking between age 13 and 21.


• The adult is wasting good money that could go in a college fund.

None of this is to say I think smokers are bad people. On the contrary, my mother was one of the very best people I knew.  That was before she DIED  before her 59th birthday because her LUNG CANCER spread to her brain.  I know smoking is an addictive habit that is hard to kick.  I don't care what people do as long as it is not harming others.  You want to kill yourself?  More power to ya.  The issue I have is when adults make a decision to harm the kids that have no control over the situation.  Should I be so bold to consider it child abuse?

Think about this the next time you light up or a loved one does.

What Others Have to Say About Me is None of My Business

I turned off the water, grabbed a towel and opened the shower curtain. I was startled by the oldest boy who was quietly sitting on the toilet, and he got a kick out of my surprised squeal.  Apparently he had been sitting there a while and I did not realize it.  This is just one of the benefits of being Mom; you are never alone.  While stepping out of the shower I teased the boy that he scared me and I didn't know he was there.  Why can't they be this quiet when I want them to be?

I am drying off as I step out of the shower and he hits me with it.  "Why do you have a tattoo on your butt Mommy?"  In an attempt to stall the answer, I remind Mr. Observant that I have another one...right there.  Like many other times I am caught off guard by a question by one of the boys, I simply fly by the seat of my pants. "Why do you ask buddy, do you not like Mommy's tattoo?".

This is one of those many times one of the boys teaches me something.  They are constantly making me stop and reflect on myself and my beliefs, making me a better person. My little man, wise beyond his years, looks at me and says "Mommy, it doesn't matter if I like it.  It only matters if you like it.".

All I could do was smile with pride.  Where does this kid get it?  I know he does not get it from me, and Daddy is less open minded than I am.  Little Man then proceeds to tell me about a picture he drew at school that one of his classmates did not like, and evidently was not shy about sharing her opinion.  The incident with the picture at school had made an impact on Little Man.  He told me he liked the picture and did not care if others felt differently. YOU GO BOY!

I am not sure how long he was sitting there, waiting for me.  After my schooling on confidence and what others have to say about  me, he got up and walked out like nothing happened.  If he only knew.

What Genitals and Religion Have in Common

Stick with me here folks.  I will hopefully make sense soon enough.

My parents taught me a lot of things.  Most of you have heard similar statements from your parents including, but not limited to:

• Don't point.


• Don't talk with your mouth full.


• Cloth shoes are for evening wear.


• The olive in a martini DOES count as a veggie serving.


• If you don't have something nice to say, keep your mouth shut.


• You get what you give.

Although my parents divorced when I was eight years old, they agreed on one thing.  Don't force others to see things your way.  Your way is not the only way.  This did backfire on them as I got older, when I could use the argument against them.  At that point, their work was done.  They had taught me to think for myself and allow others to do the same thing.

You might be asking yourself at this point, "Hey Red, what does this have to do with my God or my junk?".  Patience is a virtue my one lonely reader.  I am getting there.

As my mother's health declined over the last couple of years, I noticed her relationship with her God got stronger than ever.  My mother was a big believer in the power of prayer and believed her God answered every prayer.  Some will say those  fighting terminal illnesses tend to gravitate towards religion.  They need something, anything, in which they can believe.  I, on the other hand believe my mother already had a strong faith.  It was in this time of need that she was able to find solace in her faith.  She never ran around waving a self righteous flag.  She didn't have to, her God knew her heart.

I grew up near the church.  I don't mean it was down the street.  I mean that I asked Jesus to be my Lord and Savior a long time ago. I was baptized and forgiven for my sins.  We did not attend church every Sunday and Wednesday though.  I did not wear my faith on my shoulder.  My faith is something I consider to be very personal and private.  It is mine.  The other reason for my privacy with my faith is, frankly I did not want to be grouped with some of the zealots I have met on the road to redemption.  Most so-called Christians I have met in all my 34 years are the most judgmental and unforgiving souls I have ever met.  I found it ironic that the religion founded on forgiveness seems to be the least.  These people know a different God than I do.

My step-dad was a deacon in his church for years.  I listen to his stories about his time serving God in this capacity and I hear the cynicism in his voice.  He too, had a similar viewpoint as I do.  Too bad.  The church lost another good follower. His faith is still strong.  He and my mom walked together and shared their faith.  Funny thing though, I never saw him waving a flag either.

My father is a non-believer.  He was raised in a large Catholic  family and has his reasons for his viewpoint.  I don't try to convince him of my way and he gives me the same respect.  He does not mock the cross I wear around my neck and I do not tell him he is going to hell.  On the contrary, one day when our time comes, he will save me a seat in heaven and be the first to pass me a Schlafly.

I took the boys to church last Sunday.  No, I don't go every Sunday and that does not make me less of a Christian than those that do.  Hell, going to church makes you as much of a Christina as hanging out in the garage makes you a car. While are church, the boys enjoyed children's church while I listened to a sermon that could not have been timed more appropriatly.  Why does it turn out that when I finally show up, I hear exactly what I need to hear?  Do I make the sermon work for me or is God doin his job?  I will go with the latter...might make me go again.  I will continue to take the boys to church on occasion and educate them on all religions, not just Christianity.  Information is power and my boys will make their own diecisions.

Oh, and I will let them wear jeans when we go.  I am such a heathen.

You might still be wondering about your junk. Your religion is like your genitalia.  Don't shove either down anyone's throats please.  The world will be a much better place.

The Echo Effect

What causes an echo exactly?
The persistence of sound after the source has stopped.

When can you hear an echo best?
When it is quiet and other sounds are absorbed.

God my mom could nag me.  Do this, do that. Did you do your homework?  Did you check the oil in your car?  That skirt is too short.  Be nice to your sister.  She could be unrelenting with her constant badgering.  In college it was more of the same but the subjects changed a little.  Are you sure about that boy? You got another speeding ticket?  Why did you drop that class?

My mother was also my most reliable cheerleader.  Mom attended every choir concert, every orchestra concert and every dance recital.  During my softball phase that quickly faded, she was at every game.  She was PTA president, read books to my kindergarten class, made my Halloween costumes by hand and encouraged me when I struggled with algebra.  As an adult she supported my decisions, even when she knew they would turn out badly.  When I called to cry on her shoulder she was there with words of encouragement and never an "I told you so".  She answered the phone EVERY time I called, no matter where she was or what she was doing.  She could have been in a meeting with Microsoft executives (not uncommon in her line of work) and she would answer anyway.  I would hear her say,"one second, it's my daughter".  I would tell her to stop doing that and her response would be that the meeting can wait.

When my mother and I would argue about something we would talk loudly and quickly.  It was like each of us wanted to make sure we were heard.  Half the time though I don't think either of us really heard the other person or their perspective.  I doubt either of us really felt like we were being heard.

The other night, while I was putting the boys to bed, Beau asked me if Nana Linda could still talk.  I tried to explain to my sweet boy that Nana does not talk to us like we talk to each other.  I tried to describe how he can listen for Nana Linda to talk to him.  Then he put one hand on my arm and the other on my mouth to shush me and whispered "listen, can you hear her now?".  I can hear her.  Sometimes her voice is faint like she is whispering something in my ear.  I wonder if those are the most important things she wants me to know.  Those messages that are hard to hear, literally and figuratively.  They require that I stop what I am doing and pay close attention.  Other times I hear her offering words of encouragement at just the right time.  Most often though, I hear her at night, when the boys are in bed and the house is quiet.  Her voice is clear as day.  She is nagging, she is encouraging and she is loving.  She is just as persistent now as she was in life.

“No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” ~Eleanor Roosevelt

The other day I heard the funniest thing.  It wasn't something one of the boys said, which is usually the case.  The funniest thing I have ever heard came out of my sister's mouth.  The fact that my sister said something funny is worth writing about in the first place.  In case you haven't been paying attention, I am the funny one.  Just ask me, I will tell you. 

It all started with a conversation about how I had confronted someone that was not speaking to me in a respectful tone.  I was explaining to my (older) sister that I had been dealing with this issue for about six months and was just fed up with it.  I was tired of being spoken to and treated like a six year old.  I was tired of being second guessed.  When I finally addressed the individual, I was not confrontational by any stretch of the imagination.  I thought I handled myself very professionally and with tact. 

I made a comment during my story that this was totally out of character for me.  After all, I hate to rock the boat.  I hate to make others uncomfortable.  I hate confrontation.  I hate it so much that my heart pounds, my pits sweat and I talk too fast when confronted.

Wait for it.  This is when it gets funny.  My sister then says to me, "if you don't like confrontation, why do you scare the hell out of me?"  I could not contain my laughter.  Then I asked if she was drunk.  She could have been; it was after five!  My sister begins to defend her sobriety by describing my intimidating nature.  I asked her to elaborate.  The only thing I intimidate are pedestrians when I try to parallel park downtown. 

The only other time I have been called intimidating was by a former employee of mine.  It was 2000 and a young man by the name of Mark worked for me and Brad as a video editor.  Mark was having some reliability issues that were not only affecting his attendance, but his ability to meet project deadlines.  Brad and I planned a meeting with Mark to discuss
our concerns.  Much to our surprise, he arrived on time for once...with his mother. 

As we sat down to discuss the situation, Mark was silent.  Mother did all the talking.  When I finally had an opportunity to jump in the one sided conversation, I asked Mark what is mom was doing there.  I didn't put it like that really, I just politely asked Marked why he felt it necessary to bring his mom. His response was short and sweet; "you scare me".

Since this was the first time I had heard anything like this, I laughed even harder and longer than when my sister offered this assessment.  I can only imagine that my laughter compounded the situation but I just don't see it.  This people must have me mistaken for someone else.

Isn't it interesting that what we see in ourselves is completely different than what others see in us. Good, bad or indifferent, I am trying not to dwell too much on what others think of me.  I think that has contributed to my problem of not speaking up in the past.  I was afraid others would be unhappy with me or think differently of me.  There are people out there that truly do not care what others think of them and I am a little envious.  I do care what others think, but I will no longer let that affect my ability to communicate my feelings or do what is right.

I kind of like the idea that some think I am intimidating though.  I will go with that for a while.

Wish You Were Here

Four days after my mother lost her battle with a brain tumor, I got a box in the mail from her.  You read that correctly.  No need to reread that sentence.  I had known the box would be coming but would never have guessed I would get it after she died.  Frankly I wasn't really thinking about it at this point in the process either.  The last time I visited Mom she had a list of things to do before she would allow herself to take her last breath.  One of the most important tasks to her was to purchase three necklaces, each with a silver cross.  One for me, my sister and my step-sister.

I opened the box and noticed Mom and Neal had sent my step-sister's necklace with mine.  A completely sensible thing to do since we live mere minutes from one another.  I felt like I should wait to open the box with Laura but could not contain my emotion and opened it by myself in my kitchen.  I was overcome by the simple beauty of the cross and what it represented to my mom and found myself crying as I drove West to Laura's house.  I apologized to Laura for my lack of patience as I held my hand over my necklace as she opened her box.

As I mentioned before, I was aware the box would be coming.  What I was not prepared for was the note that accompanied the box.  There were two notes actually.  One note to "the girls" from my mom and another to the doctors and nurses that cared for her.  I was able to contain myself at my place and waited to read them with Laura.  We sat together, now in her kitchen, and read the message she sent to us and the message of gratitude to the caregivers that gave us two more years with her.

For my country music fan friends, this story might remind you of a song by Mark Wills called Wish You Were Here:

Wish you were here, wish you could see this place
Wish you were near, I wish I could touch your face
The weather's nice, it's paradise
It's summertime all year and there's some folks we know
They say, "Hello, I miss you so, wish you were here"

My mom may not be here any longer in the physical form, but I know she is still here.  The cross I wear around my neck reminds me of her but even without it she is with me.  Everywhere.

Something Happened on the Way to the Courthouse (Part 3)

Before you read on, be sure you are caught up on Part I and Part 2 of the series.

___________________________________________________________

So here we are. The last four years have presented many changes and challenges for me and my family. Two boys with two homes. A career change. A dieing mother. It’s enough to drive any sane person blind with madness. On the contrary though, my vision seems to be clearer today than ever before. I finally feel like Dad’s prediction may be coming true.

____________________________________________________________

I can recall talking with Dad about this process throughout the years. Now that I am a parent, I recognize his efforts to help me avoid some pitfalls or obstacles he may have experienced. Like most of us, he too had to learn from his mistakes, and his experiences make him the person he is today. He warned me I would find out who my true friends are at some point in my life. He also told me I can’t fix stupid. Not that my friends are stupid, mind you. This is just his way of saying I can not change people and more importantly, I can't control them. I can only control myself and how I react to people and situations.

______________________________________________________

The last few years have taught me a few things I wasn’t really ready to admit until recently:

• I refuse to let others make me feel inferior. In fact, I took charge of the way I feel about things and myself. What others think of us does not determine our worth.


• I am ok that others may not like what I do or say. This will not, however, stop me from saying it. Silence breeds contempt and I will not be silent anymore. This is not to say I will speak my mind or do things at the expense of others. I am simply owning my opinions and taking responsibility for my actions.


• I am ok with the fact that I am not perfect. This may come as a shock to some of you, but you are not perfect either. May I suggest you not judge others based on your opinion of yourself? Remember others have opinions of you too. Admitting our imperfections actually makes people like us a little more. Who wants to be friends with the perfect people that just make others feel inadequate anyway?


• I am more like my mother than I ever cared to admit. As I watch her die though, I learn all too late that I should be so lucky.


• I have been shown by two friends what it means to be a true Christian. They have both offered unconditional love and support without judgment. The sad thing though, is these two friends have also magnified the fact that my other “Christian” friends may need to brush up on the scripture they spout off regularly at me to condemn me. I think they must know a different God than I do.


• Perception is not reality. This theory works a couple of ways. What others perceive does not mean it is true. It also means that I will never know what others deal with in their lives or be able to understand what they are going through. Remember that when you find yourself about to judge others.


• I learned to like myself again. It is easy to pick out the people that don’t like themselves for one reason or another. You can do it too; who are the people in your life that are full of judgment or fall off the planet when you are in need?

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Going through this process and coming to these conclusions was not an easy task. Some of these ideas are those with which I still have a hard time admitting. There was a point in my “awakening” I wondered how much one person could actually handle at one time before breaking. I truly believe, however, we are never given more than we can handle. The alternative would have been to have these things trickle in one at a time. Imagine a slow leak that you don’t even know is present. You look up one day and see a wet spot on your ceiling. The next day the roof caves in. I think I will go with the all at once method. At least I can try to avoid loosing my top if possible.

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One more thing. If you happen to see my Dad, do me a favor. Don’t tell him I said he was right. I want him to hear it from me. One day I hope that my boys will say I was right about something. I hope at some point in their lives they will realize I knew what I was talking about. My boys teach me something everyday; teaching them something is the least I can do for them.

Something Happened on the Way to the Courthouse (Part 2)

Need to catch up on Part 1?

When you find yourself under pressure or stress, how do you relax? I don’t know about you, but it seems that I decide to throw some fuel on the fire and make a move.  That’s right, another move.  This makes about 11 times in 11 years.  Give or take a house, a city, or a year.

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Moving into a new house during an ice storm is even less fun than it sounds.  Toss in some discontent, two boys under three and changing careers and you have a recipe.  A recipe for what I did not know.  You know those nights you come home from work and need to make dinner but find a limited amount of ingredients available?  You decide to make due with what you have and just hope something edible comes out of the oven.  It’s a crap shoot. It could turn out well and you are asked for more.  It could turn out very badly and you end up ordering pizza.  As you might imagine, I was ready to call for some delivery at this point.

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Asking for a separation was literally the hardest thing I have ever done.  I don’t care what you think of me or my decision, but frankly staying would have been easier. This was not a decision I took lightly.  Although I had thought about it for a couple of years, I talked myself out of it by using the old adage of “suck it up”, “its not that bad”, “other people have it so much worse than you do”.  I thought about how this decision would affect everyone; from my boys to my in-laws.  I thought about my friends and how they would have to choose sides and I worried about disappointing my parents.  Like most individuals that find themselves getting divorced, I never thought I would do it. As we stand at the alter in front of God and everyone, none of us could fathom we would one day rather be alone than with this person we adore so much.

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I admit I should have spoken up sooner.  I take that back.  I admit I should have spoken louder.  I take full responsibility for the surprise on people’s faces when word spread of the dissolution of “the perfect marriage.”  If I had only pushed a little harder to be heard.  If I had stood up for myself more when I felt strongly enough about something.  If I had shared what was going on with friends or family maybe things would have been different.  If I had stopped worrying about the perception we had created.  If I had stopped worrying about what other’s think.  Should of, could of, would of. If ifs and buts were candy and nuts, we would all have a Merry Christmas too…

To Be Continued

Something happened on the way to the courthouse (Part 1)

My father has always had a theory that when you reach the age of 30, you finally figure out what life is all about.  He describes it as an awakening of sorts.  I imagined myself laying in bed on the morning of  my 30th birthday watching the fog of my former self hover over me like an out of body experience.  Once the fog dissipates, I am left feeling refreshed and clear-headed, ready to tackle what had once eluded me.

Although Dad may have been a little off on the exact age, he was right about the event itself.  My “awakening” didn’t happen overnight, as I once expected though.  It seems that I like to take my time with these things, so my growth is a work in progress that has taken me a few years.

In 2005, I was 29 years old and gave birth to my first child.  As you might imagine, the next year I was 30.  In 2006 I gave birth to my second child.  As if giving birth twice in 17 months wasn’t enough, I decided to throw in some more excitement with a move from Florida to Missouri in 2006.

The second born was in a hurry to introduce himself so he decided to arrive a few weeks early.  Some four or five weeks early to be exact.  The Babe came home with us on schedule but needed to spend a few days in the hospital for a double hernia at 7 weeks of age.  At nine weeks of age he was diagnosed with RSV.  It seems big brother brought home a cold from daycare that the little man just could not kick.  During the ice storm of 2007 we found ourselves without power as we cared for our infant son on an oxygen saturation monitor.  As the second born was turning a year old, I then found myself selling a business that once defined who I was.

More change was in order as 2008 began.  I was no longer identified by the business I had owned and operated for nearly ten years.  I had two boys under the age of three and was struggling with some baby blues that I just couldn’t kick after the second born arrived.  I guess something about having a 17 month old, giving birth to a baby in the winter that was in and out of the hospital, moving back to a place where I had no family and selling a business had taken its toll on me.

I’m 32 by this time and I’m starting to wonder if I will ever realize my father’s prediction.  What the hell is going on here? Am I destined to continue on the current path?  I soon realized it was all part of the process…

To Be Continued

Making Her List & Checking It Twice

I am a list maker. When I was younger, I considered my lists some sort of indication of how productive I was. It was the best feeling ever when I could toss out the list when everything was done. As I have aged though, I have realized I accomplish something important each time I cross off a task on the list. My list is never ending and I am never really able to toss the list all together. I always find something new to add.

Not all of us are list makers or planners. Some people are comfortable just taking things as they come. For control freaks like me, this would never do. If I could, I would always know what to expect. I would walk into a meeting at work with an agenda in hand and the meeting would follow it to the letter. Unfortunately, this never happens.

I am like my mother in many ways. Most of which I did not realize, or admit, until recently. My mother is a planner. A control freak I suppose. At the very least, mom is a list maker. Even now, in her weakest state, mom is making a list and checking it twice.

While visiting DC last weekend, Mom and I were talking and the conversation took a turn. I had prepared myself for the conversation but was still caught off guard. She began her requests with the question “what will you tell my grandsons about me?” She continued to tell me she did not want them to think she gave up. As I began to sob in her arms, I told her I was about to tell her the hardest thing I will ever tell anyone. I gave her permission to go to sleep and not wake up. I gave her permission to find peace and not be in pain any longer. I reminded her that, if in fact, she chooses to close her eyes and not open them again, that it is just her body giving up and not her spirit. Her spirit will live forever in everyone she has touched.

Mom went on to lay out what she wanted me to have of her material things. She wants to write a letter to one of her stepdaughters. She asked to speak to my boys and their dad. With each request she made, she checked something off her mental list. With each item she checked off the list, a weight was lifted.

Much like when you have a rough day and can’t sleep due to restlessness, Mom needs a clear mind to sleep soundly for eternity. She continued her list of requests with asking me to take care of my stepdad. Check. She asked me to work on my relationship with my sister. Check. She asked me to raise my boys with God and not be afraid to ask for help doing so. Check. She told me to be true to myself in everything I do. Check.

Unlike the lists I currently make, Mom’s list will end. When I look at the things on my list now, they all seem so trivial. Oil change, haircut, car tags, and cat food. My recent conversations with Mom have made me alter the things on my list a bit. Sure the things to do things to get done at some point, but I have added a few things as well. Call my sister more. Let the dishes sit until the boys go to bed. Write more. Sing louder. Talk more and text less. Nurture relationships.

Losing a parent is a part of life that some of us are lucky enough to avoid well into our adulthood. If I can find anything good about dealing with this in my early thirties, it is that I realize now, rather than later, that some things just aren’t as important as we make them. Just like kids growing into young adults, we all have to learn from our own mistakes no matter how hard our parents try to help us avoid making mistakes they made. My mother is still teaching me.

Making Her List & Checking It Twice

I am a list maker. When I was younger, I considered my lists some sort of indication of how productive I was. It was the best feeling ever when I could toss out the list when everything was done. As I have aged though, I have realized I accomplish something important each time I cross off a task on the list. My list is never ending and I am never really able to toss the list all together. I always find something new to add.

Not all of us are list makers or planners. Some people are comfortable just taking things as they come. For control freaks like me, this would never do. If I could, I would always know what to expect. I would walk into a meeting at work with an agenda in hand and the meeting would follow it to the letter. Unfortunately, this never happens.

I am like my mother in many ways. Most of which I did not realize, or admit, until recently. My mother is a planner. A control freak I suppose. At the very least, mom is a list maker. Even now, in her weakest state, mom is making a list and checking it twice.

While visiting DC last weekend, Mom and I were talking and the conversation took a turn. I had prepared myself for the conversation but was still caught off guard. She began her requests with the question “what will you tell my grandsons about me?” She continued to tell me she did not want them to think she gave up. As I began to sob in her arms, I told her I was about to tell her the hardest thing I will ever tell anyone. I gave her permission to go to sleep and not wake up. I gave her permission to find peace and not be in pain any longer. I reminded her that, if in fact, she chooses to close her eyes and not open them again, that it is just her body giving up and not her spirit. Her spirit will live forever in everyone she has touched.

Mom went on to lay out what she wanted me to have of her material things. She wants to write a letter to one of her stepdaughters. She asked to speak to my boys and their dad. With each request she made, she checked something off her mental list. With each item she checked off the list, a weight was lifted.

Much like when you have a rough day and can’t sleep due to restlessness, Mom needs a clear mind to sleep soundly for eternity. She continued her list of requests with asking me to take care of my stepdad. Check. She asked me to work on my relationship with my sister. Check. She asked me to raise my boys with God and not be afraid to ask for help doing so. Check. She told me to be true to myself in everything I do. Check.

Unlike the lists I currently make, Mom’s list will end. When I look at the things on my list now, they all seem so trivial. Oil change, haircut, car tags, and cat food. My recent conversations with Mom have made me alter the things on my list a bit. Sure the things to do things to get done at some point, but I have added a few things as well. Call my sister more. Let the dishes sit until the boys go to bed. Write more. Sing louder. Talk more and text less. Nurture relationships.

Losing a parent is a part of life that some of us are lucky enough to avoid well into our adulthood. If I can find anything good about dealing with this in my early thirties, it is that I realize now, rather than later, that some things just aren’t as important as we make them. Just like kids growing into young adults, we all have to learn from our own mistakes no matter how hard our parents try to help us avoid making mistakes they made. My mother is still teaching me.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T. Find Out What It Means To Me

I was barely nineteen when my mom met the man I now call my step dad. The irony of the situation is my mom hasn’t been married for about fifteen years. Mom and Neal met when they were both still married to other people. Imagine my dismay when I learned of their indiscretion. My self- righteous nineteen year old self could not fathom what on earth they were thinking when they made the conscious decision to disrespect their current commitments. After all, in all of my nineteen years I had acquired more wisdom than either of them in their combined years (insert sarcasm here).

Mom and Neal were transferred to my birth state of North Carolina in 1997 and I soon followed them from Missouri my sophomore year of college. The decision to live with my mom and her new beau was not a difficult decision; after all, I had no money to speak of and no prospects of a job. Upon arriving to my new home it was obvious Neal had a way about him. To put it lightly, Neal and I did not always get along. There were many times the man made me cry at the dinner table. His comments or questions were never an attempt to hurt me, but to make me think. The only problem I had is his efforts worked.

Neal was, and still is, a stubborn man. He likes things a certain way and rightfully so. Neal has been in the construction industry for nearly forty years. He manages projects. He manages people. He facilitates. Although he has not been on his current job site for almost three weeks, Neal is still managing and facilitating. This time though, he is not constructing another East Coast hotel. This time he is facilitating the care of the love of his life. I watch this man bath my mother, rub lotion on her, take her to the bathroom and then I watch him quietly fall apart. I watch this big, strong construction man, with his wrinkled face and callused hands from years on the job, cry like an infant, and my breaking heart melts.

During my last visit east to visit my mother, Neal and I were walking from the hospital to the car after seeing Mom. I carefully brought up the subject of how mom wanted to be “taken care of”. It was my vain attempt to bring up burial services at a very emotional time. Neal laughed and said “your mom always said you and I were more alike than we want to admit”, “I was just thinking about turning her car in since her lease is up in two months”. We continued our walk to the car in silence.

Neal has three children from his marriage. Like me, his children were not pleased about how his relationship with my mother began. In their defense, Neal had been married to their mother for nearly thirty years. My mother, on the other hand, was married to husband number four and frankly my sister and I were not all that impressed with him. All of Neal’s children; two girls and one boy, live with their families in the town which I currently live. Laura is married with two teenage boys and runs a daycare out of her home. My two boys have had the privilege of being in her care during infancy. She is an example to mothers, daughters, wives, sisters and friends, and has forgiven her father. I am so lucky to say she is part of my family. Although I do not have a relationship with Laura’s brother and sister, I know what kind of people they are because I know their sister and their father. One day I hope they will see what I see in their dad. What I see in their father is a devoted, compassionate man. A man of conviction. A man that has my undying gratitude and respect.

Visiting Hours

Thirty four years ago yesterday, my mother was in a hospital in Charlotte North Carolina. She walked in as a wife and mother to a four year old daughter. Upon admittance, she brought her quick wit, and I am sure she immediately had the nurses doing her bidding as if it was the very thing they were put on earth to do. I can only imagine the pain my mother was in while she was in that hospital in 1976. Medicine was not as advanced back then, but giving birth to a child that was overdue was a relief with or without an epidural. Visitors came from miles and states away to see mom and the new addition to the family. They brought with them well wishes and congratulations. After all, the birth of a child is an exciting time that everyone wants to share. Mom walked out of the hospital with her husband and her two baby girls. She may not have had all of her strength back yet, but she had enough strength stored in her that during the next 34 years she would teach me what it means to be strong.

Yesterday morning I walked into a hospital in Fairfax Virginia. I walked in as a mother to a four and a half year old boy and a three year old boy. I held the hand of a man I have known as my stepfather for the last fifteen years. I thought of my mother as a rode the elevator to her room. I dug in my heels and tried to muster every bit of strength she gave me and I walked in the room she has lived in for over a week. I saw a woman that resembled my mother. Just days ago, this same woman thought Bush was the President and the date was May 2007. I said hello to this woman and she said “hi, baby”. There’s my mom.

I talked to my mom for a couple of hours before her radiation treatment. I tried to get her to stop messing with the stitches where the shunt had been placed in her head. I reminded her, as she has me so many times, to stop picking. I tried to lighten the mood with a joke here and there and at one point my mom flipped me off as her crooked smile curled. She was still in there. As I painted my mom’s fingernails I found myself counting them. I recalled counting the fingers and toes of my boys as I held them in the hospital after delivery and just being happy they were all there. I felt the same way about mom.

As my mother napped after radiation I sat with my stepdad in a small office near mom’s room. The two of us sat across from a doctor that would soon tell us the fate of my mother. The fate of a woman, that in her early 40’s beat breast cancer with one hand tied behind her back. The same woman, that in the last two years, all but beat an unbeatable lung cancer. The same woman that is called mother, sister, wife, daughter, friend and Senior Vice President of Sales.

“The oncology department is no longer going to follow your mother’s case”. “Palliative Care”. “Six Months will be a shock”. “A list of hospice companies”. They will offer my mother 10 radiation treatments and plan to send her home with hospice. There is nothing more they can do for her. The tumor in her brain that has metastasized from her lungs is incurable and due to the critical location is inoperable. Chemo would make her worse and the radiation buys us some time, but no one can tell me how much time.

Each time I visit my mother now, I wonder if it will be the last. Each time she closes her eyes I wonder if she will open them again. Each time someone says I am just like my mother I say thank you.

Like my mother 34 years ago, I walked out of the hospital a different person. I am still a mother, daughter, sister and friend, but I am stronger because of my mother.

I Pee Near You!

It had to be at least ten years ago. I wasn’t married yet and certainly didn’t have kids. The boys’ dad and I were back in Springfield visiting friends and family for a New Year celebration. As far as I can remember, the evening started as most would have that night. The last thing I remember is being driven through the Taco Bell drive through on the way home. I can’t recall if the person giving us food at the window used English as a second language or if English was my second language for the night. As he handed us our bag of food he gave us his New Year greeting of “I pee near you!”. At first I thought it was just me, since I was after all being the one driven. Once we pulled away from the drive through Brad looked at me somewhat perplexed and asked if I heard the same thing he did. Now you know why you may hear me say “I pee near you!”.  I am giving you a well wishes, not a warning.

I pee near you to you and yours!