I stood by the stove with my back turned and listened to the creak of the lock as his key turned in it. Six o'clock, time for him to stomp into the house and in his silent, brooding way, sit down on the sofa by the door to unlace his boots. I didn't turn to speak or even say a "hello" over my shoulder. I knew that to do so would only annoy him and frustrate me. He needed thirty minutes, he told me, after he got home from work, to just not speak to anyone. I did my best to honor his request, although it felt odd to ignore him for a half-hour every day after he came in the door.
I heard him grunt as he bent over to untie his laces, heard the dog excitedly panting, pawing at his knees, begging to go outside. I ignored that too, focusing instead on the hot pan in front of me, sauteed onions and peppers for the sauce. The aroma surrounded me and I tired to only let that aroma fill my brain; not the stench of the man who sat a few feet behind me in the next room, talking to his dog instead of me.
Things went downhill fast after I moved in. Instead of basking in the newness of cohabitation we began a war of wills. He gave me so many rules to follow I couldn't keep up with them all. I felt as though I invaded someone's private space against their will, even though I came to live there by invitation. I kept my things tucked away in drawers and closets, out of sight because I felt afraid of making myself too comfortable in his space. We shared a bed, a shower, a living room, but so much of what one would expect to share in such an arrangement remained absent from the equation.
As I worked on dinner and waited for the thirty minute clock to run down I contemplated how I would tell him my news. Excitement welled up inside me as I thought of my new apartment. I already knew what color I wanted to paint the walls, already knew what furniture I wanted. I paid my deposit that morning and planned to start moving the following weekend. Even though I knew he wanted his cave back all to himself, I feared telling him I was about to leave. Something in me just knew he wouldn't take it well.
He didn't.
"What are you cooking?" He finally asked about twenty minutes after walking in the door.
"Spaghetti." I answered.
"You aren't putting meat in it are you?"
"Of course not. Veggies only." I said, not looking up.
He went in the bedroom to retrieve clean underwear, stopped to pat my butt on the way back through to the shower.
"Should be done by the time you're out of the shower." He always needed a heads up about when dinner would be served.
He gave no response, just went on his way and out of sight for a good twenty more minutes. I felt grateful for the reprieve and stood there in the kitchen fantasizing about cooking dinner in my apartment for just me and my boy; no one there to give me orders or remind me of rules I must follow.
As I prepared to strain the pasta I heard the bathroom door fling open and before I knew it, he stood behind me, his arms around my waist. His wet skin soaked the back of my shirt. I used to love his affection, but that night it made my skin crawl.
"Hot pot of water!" I warned, and he backed away.
"What's up with you lately anyway?" He wanted to know. "You don't even want me to touch you anymore."
"Nothing's up." I lied. "Just didn't want to burn you."
He looked sidelong at me as he leaned against the kitchen sink watching me work.
He never asked about my day, but usually found something over which to pick a fight every evening.
"So why didn't you speak to me when I got home?" He asked.
"You told me not to bother you for thirty minutes after you got home. I was respecting your wishes." I answered.
"You never seem happy to see me," he accused.
"Am I supposed to pant and wag my tail like the dog?" I shot back.
"Yeah," he said with a giggle. "'cause you're my bitch."
Silence. I kept at my work as I felt him staring me down.
"I'm just kidding." He plead. "Don't take things so personally."
I sighed heavily and sat the pot of spaghetti down. "I have some good news." I announced trying hard to smile and seem upbeat.
"You do?" He looked puzzled.
"Yeah," I said. "I found an apartment. I'm planning to move this weekend. Would you like to help me move or should I hire a mover?"
"You're moving out?" He asked, shocked. "Did I say you could move out?" He was trying to sound like he was joking, but I knew he felt threatened by my assertiveness.
"I didn't ask you." I said. "I think it's best for both of us if I go. We are not happy together. I make you miserable and you make me sad."
He took that as an insult. "I make you sad, huh? How do I make you sad?"
"Look," I said. "I'm not having this conversation with you. Let's eat dinner and have a pleasant evening. The good news is I'll be out of your hair soon and you'll have your house all to yourself again." I smiled up at him as I picked up a spoon to stir the sauce.
He looked at me with that seething anger burning in his eyes I'd seen a thousand times before. He stepped closer, pinning me between him and the stove. His skin felt hot through the thin cotton t-shirt he'd slipped on while we talked. As he leaned in my face I could see the pores on his cheeks, feel his breath on my skin.
"Girl, you better appreciate all I have done for you."
"What have you done for me?" I asked, not backing down.
"I let you live here for one thing, so you could save money."
"You let me move here so you could take financial advantage of me and use me as a maid." I replied firmly.
He moved closer still. I didn't try to pull away. I wanted to show him I was not intimidated. I hoped my racing heart wasn't so loud he could hear it.
His big hand was wrapped around my neck as he leaned right in my face. "All I have to do is squeeze." He said with a grin.
"Then squeeze." I dared him. "Go ahead."
He stood there, staring me down, his eyes glazed over with the haze of weed. In that moment I realized he could kill me if he wanted to, with one hand. He was strong, bigger than me, trained by the military to kill in ways I probably couldn't imagine. Still, I didn't waver. I didn't want him to think he could intimidate me.
"I'm not scared of you." I said.
"You should be." He threatened.
"Squeeze, then." I tempted him again.
"Girl, you don't know who you are messing with." He told me as he let go and walked away.
"Oh yeah I do," I said under my breath as I turned back to the spaghetti, now turning sticky in the pot.
It was two weeks later before I finally got moved. He insisted he wanted to help me so I wouldn't have to pay a mover; however, he kept stalling until finally on a Tuesday morning, I decided for myself that I would move my things without him.
Angry that I took control of the situation, he took the day off work and moved all of my stuff at once. He piled it all in the middle of my apartment living room and disappeared out the door. It was one of the last times I ever saw him.
My life started getting better by the next day. Over time I saw more and more that I lived in a prison of sorts throughout that relationship, even when we didn't live together. I lived in a prison of anxiety and fear without ever acknowledging that he held the keys to my cell. Only after I escaped, did I finally see clearly the oppression of life with that man in it. He might as well have kept his big hand around my neck for the entire four years with me playing the fool, thinking I was courageous when really I was just too scared to make a move away from him.
Fear can rule us in many ways. Fear keeps us too long in the grip of toxic people, jobs that rob us of our joy, lives that give us nothing worthwhile to strive for.
I thought this morning as I got ready for work, that life is just a series of seasons rotating around us year after year. We are cogs in a clock, winding ourselves up again every January so we can cycle through another year of seasons. We live the same lives over and over again, year after year, everything so the same that we often forget the smallest details that differentiate one year from another....Sameness and nothingness, life in it's predictable loop lulls us like a ticking clock in an empty room.
Children grow up, things break down, people die. Every year we welcome babies and say goodbye to our elders. Every year we say, "This year will be different."
We live in blindness; we cannot know every outcome. Our blindness instills such deep anxiety. Fear of failure, fear of success, fear of dying, fear of living--we are consumed by it. Restlessness nestles deep in the pit of our stomachs telling us we need to change, but change is scary. The devil you know...
I speak from experience when I say, the Devil you know may very well kill you. Maybe he'll put his big hand around your neck and squeeze, whether or not you act brave and dare him to do it. Maybe he'll stifle your spirit or drain your bank account. He might stomp your very soul into the ground, not with fists or heavy shoes, but with words that choke the life out of you.The Devil might be your partner or your boss, your mom or dad. He might be your next door neighbor or your sibling.
Maybe the Devil you know is slowly dragging you away from who you were meant to be.
Sooner or later, you have to break free.
There is no shame in running away from the Devil in work boots, lurking behind you.
Once you're free, the calendar will ride you along it's pages again, through Summer and Fall and back again through Winter. You don't have to live them all the same, with fear guiding you day after day.
You can create your own season. You just have to leave fear back there in another year--a year spent, gone by, lessons learned. You can create your best tomorrow, head held high, no Devil lurking
behind you. Why wait for his approval? You can walk away today and never look back.
Thursday, November 30, 2017
Thursday, November 23, 2017
The Spirit Remembers
I never used the month of November for anything special. While I possess some degree of sentimentality, I usually forego things like listing things I'm thankful for every day in November. I also never saw the appeal in things like "No Shave November." Going to bed with stubbly legs, even when I'm sleeping alone, just doesn't feel right to me. I got kind of drawn in, several years in a row, by the daily Facebook posts of my friends and family though, giving thanks for even the smallest of life's blessings; so this year when literally none of them participated in the daily thanksgiving posts, I missed them.
Monday I walked around like someone with a fifty pound sack of potatoes tied to her back. My feet felt heavy, a knot of anxiety lodged itself deep in my gut, I wanted so badly to just go back to bed all day. It might make sense for a girl to walk around feeling so weighed down and anxious if things weren't going so well for her. Truthfully though, my life feels pretty great right now. If I compare this year with last year, my life looks freaking awesome! My car is running (well no this minute, but you know what I mean) all of my household appliances are humming along just fine. No one ever showed up at my door this year with papers telling me the hospital system wants to sue me for money I don't owe them. I feel well most days. I love my job. My children and grandchildren are healthy and happy. I tried to dwell on all the positive things in my life all day but the gnawing feeling of doom still hovered over me all day long.
I woke up with it again on Tuesday, my day off. I battled with my will from the moment I woke up. I made myself get up and take Charlie to school and when I got back home, I yearned to lie on my couch with the remote in my hand and let the TV serve as my company for the day. Fortunately the night before I sent out a call to my friends asking for a lunch date and got a taker. Grateful for a reason to get dressed and head out, I met a dear friend and spent two hours just talking to him. For that little space in time I felt normal. I got to just let go of all pretense and just be me. It made me realize how seldom I get the liberty to do that. It felt amazing! By the time I made it to school to pick up Charlie that nagging feeling started bubbling in my gut again. Almost like a whisper, it kept warning me that things might change for the worse again.
I do not tend to dwell on the past. My theory, that perseveration only serves to torture, keeps me from staying too long in that thought-place of "if only" or "could have" or "should have." Even so, it seems as the seasons come and go, the spirit hangs onto things from the past. An old friend whose father took his own life years ago once told me that the date of his death would sometimes come and go without her consciously even remembering it, but all the same she would fall into a state of melancholy for a few days. She said that more than once, after days of feeling down, she suddenly realized the time of year and made the connection to the traumatic memory from her teenage years when she lost her father so tragically. I think maybe my spirit remembers things that I choose not to recall sometimes too.
I can't complain. This year graced me with so many good things, especially if you count the absence of bad things. In stark comparison to years past, I find myself in a better position than ever. Although I forbid myself from dwelling on the sadness of the past, my spirit seems to remember. It continues to nag me with a wordless, unforgiving ache.
I refuse to let it win. Too much good surrounds me right now, for me to allow unconscious fears to spoil my spirit. I know by now that in every life good and bad must exist. Sometimes they dance together through your whole world. I think of times when their dance made me dizzy, unsure of where to look or how to feel. For now though, good is reigning supreme in my world and I plan to revel in it for as long as I can. Sure, the struggles still exist. Who can truly live without struggle? But I will take these struggles gladly, and let them feed my spirit with strength and joy--things I hope my soul hangs onto as tightly as it seems to cling to the disappointment and sadness of the past.
I can feel nothing but gratefulness today, not just for all the goodness that fills my life, but for the absence of so many struggles with which I remained so familiar for so long. I'll take this joy, even mingled with the sadness of missing my parents and traditions of years gone-by and hold it close, thankful for the memories, the strength and the reward of making it out of the darkness into the light of this beautiful Thanksgiving Day.
For whatever troubles plague you today, I wish you strength; and for all the joys life holds for you tomorrow, I wish you the perseverance to make it there.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Monday I walked around like someone with a fifty pound sack of potatoes tied to her back. My feet felt heavy, a knot of anxiety lodged itself deep in my gut, I wanted so badly to just go back to bed all day. It might make sense for a girl to walk around feeling so weighed down and anxious if things weren't going so well for her. Truthfully though, my life feels pretty great right now. If I compare this year with last year, my life looks freaking awesome! My car is running (well no this minute, but you know what I mean) all of my household appliances are humming along just fine. No one ever showed up at my door this year with papers telling me the hospital system wants to sue me for money I don't owe them. I feel well most days. I love my job. My children and grandchildren are healthy and happy. I tried to dwell on all the positive things in my life all day but the gnawing feeling of doom still hovered over me all day long.
I woke up with it again on Tuesday, my day off. I battled with my will from the moment I woke up. I made myself get up and take Charlie to school and when I got back home, I yearned to lie on my couch with the remote in my hand and let the TV serve as my company for the day. Fortunately the night before I sent out a call to my friends asking for a lunch date and got a taker. Grateful for a reason to get dressed and head out, I met a dear friend and spent two hours just talking to him. For that little space in time I felt normal. I got to just let go of all pretense and just be me. It made me realize how seldom I get the liberty to do that. It felt amazing! By the time I made it to school to pick up Charlie that nagging feeling started bubbling in my gut again. Almost like a whisper, it kept warning me that things might change for the worse again.
I do not tend to dwell on the past. My theory, that perseveration only serves to torture, keeps me from staying too long in that thought-place of "if only" or "could have" or "should have." Even so, it seems as the seasons come and go, the spirit hangs onto things from the past. An old friend whose father took his own life years ago once told me that the date of his death would sometimes come and go without her consciously even remembering it, but all the same she would fall into a state of melancholy for a few days. She said that more than once, after days of feeling down, she suddenly realized the time of year and made the connection to the traumatic memory from her teenage years when she lost her father so tragically. I think maybe my spirit remembers things that I choose not to recall sometimes too.
I can't complain. This year graced me with so many good things, especially if you count the absence of bad things. In stark comparison to years past, I find myself in a better position than ever. Although I forbid myself from dwelling on the sadness of the past, my spirit seems to remember. It continues to nag me with a wordless, unforgiving ache.
I refuse to let it win. Too much good surrounds me right now, for me to allow unconscious fears to spoil my spirit. I know by now that in every life good and bad must exist. Sometimes they dance together through your whole world. I think of times when their dance made me dizzy, unsure of where to look or how to feel. For now though, good is reigning supreme in my world and I plan to revel in it for as long as I can. Sure, the struggles still exist. Who can truly live without struggle? But I will take these struggles gladly, and let them feed my spirit with strength and joy--things I hope my soul hangs onto as tightly as it seems to cling to the disappointment and sadness of the past.
I can feel nothing but gratefulness today, not just for all the goodness that fills my life, but for the absence of so many struggles with which I remained so familiar for so long. I'll take this joy, even mingled with the sadness of missing my parents and traditions of years gone-by and hold it close, thankful for the memories, the strength and the reward of making it out of the darkness into the light of this beautiful Thanksgiving Day.
For whatever troubles plague you today, I wish you strength; and for all the joys life holds for you tomorrow, I wish you the perseverance to make it there.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Tuesday, November 21, 2017
Immigration Day
I'm not mom of the year. Let's go ahead and get that out of the way. It's likely I'll never BE mom of the year and I'm on my third kid. I've got plenty of experience with the parenting thing but I still screw up a lot. For instance, I can't seem to keep up with the various school events taking place all the time. Yesterday I waited in the car line to pick Charlie up and got completely annoyed that he didn't come to the car when they called his number only to find out after he finally got in the car that he was in Chorus practice. I should have picked him up at 4:00-- not 2:30. I sent him back to practice and went to waste some time since by then, 4:00 was only an hour away.
This morning when I dropped Charlie off, I realized I forgot something else: Immigration Day.
With the Thanksgiving holiday upon us, teachers everywhere are dispensing lessons about how we all came to America. Charlie studied the story of the first Thanksgiving last week and we talked about the finer points at home. He blew me away at one point when he said something about the tolerance and kindness the Native Americans and Pilgrims showed one another, and that somehow it seems Americans want to forget that part of the story.
About two weeks ago we got a note in that dreaded Wednesday Folder asking parents to dress their kids up as Immigrants for school today. The suggested outfits were long dresses for girls, long pants, vests and hats for boys. I immediately wondered if this attire actually represented the majority of immigrants who came to our country? I think they were trying to represent a certain time-period in history, turn of the century-type styles perhaps; but it seems like they left a huge gap in there--a gap that took race or country of origin into consideration. Charlie wondered too, if all immigrants who came through New York City in the late 1800's and early 1900's were all dressed in the "uniform" of the day.
I seriously doubt it. A stark reminder of that thought hit me like a brick when I dropped my boy off this morning in his regular school clothes and saw an African American kid standing on the sidewalk wearing shorts and a sweatshirt with some sports team logo on the front. Ugh, I felt bad for that kid, because today while all the hoopla about immigrants is going on and all the little white boys are dressed like Jockeys getting ready to sprint across the finish line on horses named things like "Lucky Penny" and "Uncle Jimmy's Gambling Problem," he's going to be thinking, "That's not how my people came to America."
In fact, many people from countries all over the world did not show up here instantly Americanized. Most people came here with whatever they owned on their backs, and that meant the clothes that were the cultural norm for that time period in their countries of origin. Out of curiosity I did some Google research. I found this awesome link with actual photos of real immigrants from that era. None of them were dressed like Jockeys, by the way.
How I wished I had spoken up two weeks ago with a gentle reminder that not everyone who came to America in those days looked the same. A reminder that one of the things that has always made our country so amazing is the blending of cultures and customs from all over the world. There was a time when differences were celebrated, when people were curious and fascinated by not only the attire of their fellow Americans, but wanted to learn more about their religions, their beliefs about life and death and family. They wanted to taste the rich array of foods from around the world and they respected the differences between themselves and others.
My son's school has turned this event into a white-washed look-alike parade today. It's really a shame they aren't getting a chance to learn about the real way people came here.
Perhaps worst of all is the complete omission, after months of studying the Civil War, of how many African Americans ended up in our country. They didn't arrive on our shores with high hopes and lofty dreams. They came here bewildered and terrified, against their will. They were torn apart from their families, treated as less than human, used as whipping posts for the white elite as they were used like objects--tools for the use of making the rich man richer. By the time these immigrants were coming through Ellis Island at the turn of the century, slaves were free but life for the African American was anything but easy. While we welcomed people with white skin into our country with open arms and afforded them all the privileges of whiteness, people of color still languished, treated as sub-human, unworthy to even share the same restroom or water fountain with white people.
I'm glad I forgot about Immigration Day. I wouldn't have dressed my kid up like a tiny Americanized version of an Irishman anyway. I would have probably dug through his family roots to find that tattooed, shirtless German guy and made him look more like the real deal. I'm sure his school would appreciate a shirtless tattooed Charlie showing up for class today--well they should appreciate it anyway.
We have glossed over the ugly parts of our history long enough. It's sad to me that an elementary school would treat the amazingly diverse arrival of millions of Americans from all over the world by dressing them all up to look the same. I wish instead, they had taken the pains to portray our immigrants in a realistic way. We really missed a chance here, to teach our children about the value of diversity and acceptance. We missed the chance to describe the ugly, heart wrenching, life-altering struggles of the actual people who made America what it is--or was, or still needs to keep working toward.
Nope. I'm not Mom Of The Year. I never will be; but, I wish that just this once, I had remembered an event and dressed my kid accordingly.
The above photos were borrowed from The Washington Post. You can see more photos and read their article on how Immigrants looked when they showed up on Ellis Island by clicking the above link or clicking this one: Washington Post
This morning when I dropped Charlie off, I realized I forgot something else: Immigration Day.
With the Thanksgiving holiday upon us, teachers everywhere are dispensing lessons about how we all came to America. Charlie studied the story of the first Thanksgiving last week and we talked about the finer points at home. He blew me away at one point when he said something about the tolerance and kindness the Native Americans and Pilgrims showed one another, and that somehow it seems Americans want to forget that part of the story.
About two weeks ago we got a note in that dreaded Wednesday Folder asking parents to dress their kids up as Immigrants for school today. The suggested outfits were long dresses for girls, long pants, vests and hats for boys. I immediately wondered if this attire actually represented the majority of immigrants who came to our country? I think they were trying to represent a certain time-period in history, turn of the century-type styles perhaps; but it seems like they left a huge gap in there--a gap that took race or country of origin into consideration. Charlie wondered too, if all immigrants who came through New York City in the late 1800's and early 1900's were all dressed in the "uniform" of the day.
I seriously doubt it. A stark reminder of that thought hit me like a brick when I dropped my boy off this morning in his regular school clothes and saw an African American kid standing on the sidewalk wearing shorts and a sweatshirt with some sports team logo on the front. Ugh, I felt bad for that kid, because today while all the hoopla about immigrants is going on and all the little white boys are dressed like Jockeys getting ready to sprint across the finish line on horses named things like "Lucky Penny" and "Uncle Jimmy's Gambling Problem," he's going to be thinking, "That's not how my people came to America."
 |
| This dude was a Greek Soldier |
 |
| A German Immigrant |
 |
| An Algerian Man |
My son's school has turned this event into a white-washed look-alike parade today. It's really a shame they aren't getting a chance to learn about the real way people came here.
Perhaps worst of all is the complete omission, after months of studying the Civil War, of how many African Americans ended up in our country. They didn't arrive on our shores with high hopes and lofty dreams. They came here bewildered and terrified, against their will. They were torn apart from their families, treated as less than human, used as whipping posts for the white elite as they were used like objects--tools for the use of making the rich man richer. By the time these immigrants were coming through Ellis Island at the turn of the century, slaves were free but life for the African American was anything but easy. While we welcomed people with white skin into our country with open arms and afforded them all the privileges of whiteness, people of color still languished, treated as sub-human, unworthy to even share the same restroom or water fountain with white people.
I'm glad I forgot about Immigration Day. I wouldn't have dressed my kid up like a tiny Americanized version of an Irishman anyway. I would have probably dug through his family roots to find that tattooed, shirtless German guy and made him look more like the real deal. I'm sure his school would appreciate a shirtless tattooed Charlie showing up for class today--well they should appreciate it anyway.
We have glossed over the ugly parts of our history long enough. It's sad to me that an elementary school would treat the amazingly diverse arrival of millions of Americans from all over the world by dressing them all up to look the same. I wish instead, they had taken the pains to portray our immigrants in a realistic way. We really missed a chance here, to teach our children about the value of diversity and acceptance. We missed the chance to describe the ugly, heart wrenching, life-altering struggles of the actual people who made America what it is--or was, or still needs to keep working toward.
Nope. I'm not Mom Of The Year. I never will be; but, I wish that just this once, I had remembered an event and dressed my kid accordingly.
The above photos were borrowed from The Washington Post. You can see more photos and read their article on how Immigrants looked when they showed up on Ellis Island by clicking the above link or clicking this one: Washington Post
Sunday, November 19, 2017
The Granny Life
And here, I thought my partying days were over...
At 47, I'm tired. Too tired to go out partying on Friday night, long over the hangover experience, far past the eating breakfast before going to bed days. No. That's not me anymore. I'm a grandma.
I'm of the age that I start dozing on the couch at 8:00 pm. watching CSI (my generation's version of "Murder She Wrote") covered in blankets with only a solitary lamp lighting the room. Darn it. I try so hard to live the granny life, but I'm not pulling it off very well.
I reckon most grannies aren't still raising their own kiddos; still getting up to drive a kid to school every day, still re-learning how to divide fractions (for the fourth time in my life) and signing up to chaperone field trips.
But the biggest surprise for me, in my granny-hood years, is how late I stay up with these children. Why do grandchildren not have bedtimes? Athena and I stayed up and stayed up, and stayed up some more last night. We started with The Wizard of Oz and popcorn and snuggles with Uncle Charlie. Then Uncle Charlie disappeared back into his room and we watched Brave and Beauty and The Beast and Mickey Mouse Christmas. We ate sweets and drank chocolate milk and had to take at least 10 bathroom breaks. I'm telling you, it was almost as crazy as a night on the town with my pal DeLane. You know those nights when you end up at a friend's house, everyone asleep on the couches and chairs, people snoring on the floor? That was my night. Athena fell asleep laying spread eagle on her back, smack on top of me on the love-seat. I found Charlie rolled up like a burrito in a blanket on his bed, the XBox controller still gripped in his right hand.
After I put the little party animal to bed (in my bed) and put pillows around her to make sure she wouldn't fall off, I finally crawled under the covers to sleep. She immediately turned herself sideways in the bed and put her feet right in my stomach. This was the sleep-dance we did all night. Feet in my stomach, feet in my face, elbow to my nose once or twice...All the while she snored like a passed out 22 year old who stayed out too late with the wrong crowd.
At 6:30 this morning when I felt her sitting up in bed beside me, I became aware of the throbbing in my head. I looked up at her. She was smiling down at me, her hair all askance. "Hi Momo!" She said.
"Hi Athena." I said back, in my brightest granny voice. "Let's go get waffles."
So we all got dressed and hit up the Waffle House dressed like we just got up and pulled clothes out of the hamper without the lights on. The food was good, the kids were hilariously fun, but I couldn't wait to get back home and go back to sleep.
Of course, I didn't go back to sleep when I got home. I started loads of laundry and picked up toys and made beds. Then I put in a lasagna for lunch, all the while telling myself, "I'm taking a nap today."
Here I am though, still sitting awake. Not even CSI can put me to sleep right now.
I'm just telling y'all, don't think that life is going to slow down and give you a break once you're a grandma. You're still going to be up all night on Saturdays, eating breakfast too early on Sundays, walking around like a zombie on Mondays. The party never ends, it just changes into something different. Instead of tequila shots, you'll be slamming chocolate milk until 3:00 a.m. and let me tell you, there is such a thing as a chocolate milk hangover. It's only cured by a super sweet breakfast and lots of water and that's only if you're NOT lactose intolerant.
I'm going to just go try to recuperate for the remainder of the day. I gotta work tomorrow and I can't have the boss seeing me dragging in like I spent the whole weekend partying.
Enjoy your youth while you can, girls. If you think staying out all night at 27 is rough, wait until you're home all night with a 2 year old at 47!
At 47, I'm tired. Too tired to go out partying on Friday night, long over the hangover experience, far past the eating breakfast before going to bed days. No. That's not me anymore. I'm a grandma.
I'm of the age that I start dozing on the couch at 8:00 pm. watching CSI (my generation's version of "Murder She Wrote") covered in blankets with only a solitary lamp lighting the room. Darn it. I try so hard to live the granny life, but I'm not pulling it off very well.
I reckon most grannies aren't still raising their own kiddos; still getting up to drive a kid to school every day, still re-learning how to divide fractions (for the fourth time in my life) and signing up to chaperone field trips.
But the biggest surprise for me, in my granny-hood years, is how late I stay up with these children. Why do grandchildren not have bedtimes? Athena and I stayed up and stayed up, and stayed up some more last night. We started with The Wizard of Oz and popcorn and snuggles with Uncle Charlie. Then Uncle Charlie disappeared back into his room and we watched Brave and Beauty and The Beast and Mickey Mouse Christmas. We ate sweets and drank chocolate milk and had to take at least 10 bathroom breaks. I'm telling you, it was almost as crazy as a night on the town with my pal DeLane. You know those nights when you end up at a friend's house, everyone asleep on the couches and chairs, people snoring on the floor? That was my night. Athena fell asleep laying spread eagle on her back, smack on top of me on the love-seat. I found Charlie rolled up like a burrito in a blanket on his bed, the XBox controller still gripped in his right hand.
After I put the little party animal to bed (in my bed) and put pillows around her to make sure she wouldn't fall off, I finally crawled under the covers to sleep. She immediately turned herself sideways in the bed and put her feet right in my stomach. This was the sleep-dance we did all night. Feet in my stomach, feet in my face, elbow to my nose once or twice...All the while she snored like a passed out 22 year old who stayed out too late with the wrong crowd.
At 6:30 this morning when I felt her sitting up in bed beside me, I became aware of the throbbing in my head. I looked up at her. She was smiling down at me, her hair all askance. "Hi Momo!" She said.
 |
| The bartender should have cut her off hours ago. |
So we all got dressed and hit up the Waffle House dressed like we just got up and pulled clothes out of the hamper without the lights on. The food was good, the kids were hilariously fun, but I couldn't wait to get back home and go back to sleep.
Of course, I didn't go back to sleep when I got home. I started loads of laundry and picked up toys and made beds. Then I put in a lasagna for lunch, all the while telling myself, "I'm taking a nap today."
Here I am though, still sitting awake. Not even CSI can put me to sleep right now.
I'm just telling y'all, don't think that life is going to slow down and give you a break once you're a grandma. You're still going to be up all night on Saturdays, eating breakfast too early on Sundays, walking around like a zombie on Mondays. The party never ends, it just changes into something different. Instead of tequila shots, you'll be slamming chocolate milk until 3:00 a.m. and let me tell you, there is such a thing as a chocolate milk hangover. It's only cured by a super sweet breakfast and lots of water and that's only if you're NOT lactose intolerant.
I'm going to just go try to recuperate for the remainder of the day. I gotta work tomorrow and I can't have the boss seeing me dragging in like I spent the whole weekend partying.
Enjoy your youth while you can, girls. If you think staying out all night at 27 is rough, wait until you're home all night with a 2 year old at 47!
Wednesday, November 15, 2017
Irony
"You have a lot of kidney function still, but not enough to keep you off dialysis."
"You do a great job with your diet, but if we can't get your calcium under control with medication, you'll have to get a parathyroidectomy."
"We have a really great meeting place for a senior center; it's a shame more people won't come."
"Your son is extremely intelligent; but he has ADHD and needs medication or he will never be able to live up to his potential."
My day today. An exercise in cosmic irony, it landed me here on my couch, eyes closed as I type this because I'm too tired and overwhelmed to even look at it. Yeah, I know It'll need editing later.
It's like living in a world of big ol' buts--running into them everywhere you turn.
They somehow erase whatever came before them. The worst words to hear? "I love you, but..." You know what I'm talking about.
They leave you overwhelmed and worn out and feeling like everything you do in life is pretty darned pointless at times. I know it's not really. I know my decisions matter, I know it matters whether or not I can take a medication that is from Satan himself (which my doctors all swear I should tolerate "just fine" based on the notion that other patients tolerate it with no problem. Hello, y'all, I'm not "other patients" I'm me.)
Today I saw a new practitioner whom I'd never met before. She stared at my lab report and spoke in amazement at how great most of my lab values were. Then she harped on the calcium and Senispar and yadda yadda. She wanted to know what kind of dialysis solution I use (the weakest one) was completely blown away that I still get my period same as I always did. She was completely taken aback at the fact that four years into dialysis, I still pee. I've never had an EPO shot, my potassium levels have never gone wacko. I don't retain fluids so I can drink all I want without worry. I try to see all these things as blessings--my life could be much harder. Today though, I sort of felt angry about it. "You still have a lot of kidney function, but...." Ugh, I'm so tired of hearing that. So tired of kidneys that only half-ass do their job and doctors that want me to get a transplant and take scary drugs the rest of my life just because THEY think that's what is best for me...I'm just not convinced yet.
Then my boy--school, poor communication between them and me made me miss Thanksgiving Lunch with him today because his teacher told me to be at school at 12:20 and for some reason I was supposed to have been there at 10:30 instead but I didn't know that so my kid sat and waited and waited for me and I never showed up. I felt like mud because of that. Who eats lunch at 10:30 a.m.? Apparently I can go tomorrow but I don't know what time to go...So much confusion over such a simple thing--it's so unnecessary.
Charlie's 504 meeting is finally coming up tomorrow. I found out today that his teacher has gone to China until after the holidays, so on the day he starts his medication and for the next few weeks, she will not even be there to observe him and see if the meds are making a difference at all. She's supposed to be at this meeting tomorrow, so I'm not sure who I"m meeting with now besides the Vice Principal and for some reason a speech therapist. As far as I know my kid doesn't have any speech issues so I'm really puzzled by that one.
So...The meeting is finally upon us but the teacher who needs to be present to make all this work is in China.
That's my day.
So sue me if I'm overwhelmed and headachy and generally am embracing my own bad attitude.
I will find my optimism again by tomorrow morning. A good night's sleep fixes my attitude most of the time.
Everybody just better keep their buts out of my way tomorrow.
"You do a great job with your diet, but if we can't get your calcium under control with medication, you'll have to get a parathyroidectomy."
"We have a really great meeting place for a senior center; it's a shame more people won't come."
"Your son is extremely intelligent; but he has ADHD and needs medication or he will never be able to live up to his potential."
My day today. An exercise in cosmic irony, it landed me here on my couch, eyes closed as I type this because I'm too tired and overwhelmed to even look at it. Yeah, I know It'll need editing later.
It's like living in a world of big ol' buts--running into them everywhere you turn.
They somehow erase whatever came before them. The worst words to hear? "I love you, but..." You know what I'm talking about.
They leave you overwhelmed and worn out and feeling like everything you do in life is pretty darned pointless at times. I know it's not really. I know my decisions matter, I know it matters whether or not I can take a medication that is from Satan himself (which my doctors all swear I should tolerate "just fine" based on the notion that other patients tolerate it with no problem. Hello, y'all, I'm not "other patients" I'm me.)
Today I saw a new practitioner whom I'd never met before. She stared at my lab report and spoke in amazement at how great most of my lab values were. Then she harped on the calcium and Senispar and yadda yadda. She wanted to know what kind of dialysis solution I use (the weakest one) was completely blown away that I still get my period same as I always did. She was completely taken aback at the fact that four years into dialysis, I still pee. I've never had an EPO shot, my potassium levels have never gone wacko. I don't retain fluids so I can drink all I want without worry. I try to see all these things as blessings--my life could be much harder. Today though, I sort of felt angry about it. "You still have a lot of kidney function, but...." Ugh, I'm so tired of hearing that. So tired of kidneys that only half-ass do their job and doctors that want me to get a transplant and take scary drugs the rest of my life just because THEY think that's what is best for me...I'm just not convinced yet.
Then my boy--school, poor communication between them and me made me miss Thanksgiving Lunch with him today because his teacher told me to be at school at 12:20 and for some reason I was supposed to have been there at 10:30 instead but I didn't know that so my kid sat and waited and waited for me and I never showed up. I felt like mud because of that. Who eats lunch at 10:30 a.m.? Apparently I can go tomorrow but I don't know what time to go...So much confusion over such a simple thing--it's so unnecessary.
Charlie's 504 meeting is finally coming up tomorrow. I found out today that his teacher has gone to China until after the holidays, so on the day he starts his medication and for the next few weeks, she will not even be there to observe him and see if the meds are making a difference at all. She's supposed to be at this meeting tomorrow, so I'm not sure who I"m meeting with now besides the Vice Principal and for some reason a speech therapist. As far as I know my kid doesn't have any speech issues so I'm really puzzled by that one.
So...The meeting is finally upon us but the teacher who needs to be present to make all this work is in China.
That's my day.
So sue me if I'm overwhelmed and headachy and generally am embracing my own bad attitude.
I will find my optimism again by tomorrow morning. A good night's sleep fixes my attitude most of the time.
Everybody just better keep their buts out of my way tomorrow.
Monday, November 6, 2017
The Genesis
Earlier today a couple of people asked me some questions about my blog. I started this thing way back in 2011, mostly as a form of comic relief as I found myself re-entering the big-bad scary world of dating, which in this modern era seems to revolve an awful lot around meeting people via the internet. I joined a few online dating sites and as I went on dates with one loser after another, found myself becoming more and more amused with the diverse array of lunacy out there. Just perusing men's online profiles provided enough entertainment to make me forget about being lonely. Seriously, they were whack.
So I made up a name (get a little happy) because that was after all, my goal in finding a special someone, and thought the whole theme of this blog experience would center around my online dating fiascoes. Obviously somewhere along the way, I lost my focus.
I find catharsis in writing out my thoughts and feelings. I live so much inside my own head that it often gets crowded in here. I must find some way to empty out a little of the noise so I can make sense of it, order things, put them in their places.
The blog became, I suppose, a kind of journal about my journey. I started out in one place and now that I look back, I realize I've come a long way, baby. I went from making fun of myself to taking myself too seriously, to taking other people too seriously, to wherever I am now. I don't know where that is exactly, but ask me in another year or so and I can tell you; because I am writing it all down as I go.
Someone asked me, "How do you get over the feeling of throwing other people under the bus when all you want to do is write about your experiences from your own perspective?" I have no idea. I guess I've never felt like I threw anyone under any bus with my blog. Maybe I've called some people out before, but thrown them under a bus? No way. My understanding of "throwing someone under a bus" is when you try to blame someone else for your own shortcomings. I try my best NOT to do that; however, I'm okay with letting someone know when they've hurt me or angered me or both. To me that's not shoving someone into oncoming traffic, it's holding them accountable and expecting them to do the same for me.
Nobody's perfect.
How do you not get depressed when you go back and read over all your old posts? One person wanted to know. Easy answer: I don't usually go back and read through my old posts; not often anyway. When I do, I try to read them with the understanding that in the moment they were written, I was doing the best I could with whatever circumstances I had at the time. I wrote to get clarity, to find where I was going wrong, and to see if I needed to change something in my life. In most every case I can see where I took the steps I needed to take, I can see my own change and growth. That's how I can read back over some of my own saddest days and not wallow in the sadness all over again. You can't beat yourself up endlessly for making mistakes in the past.
Everybody makes mistakes.
Some days my son comes home with a blank sheet of paper and instructions from his teacher. "He needs to write an introduction, 3 paragraphs and a conclusion at home tonight because he never got started in class." The thing is, Charlie always has great ideas, he just doubts himself a lot; so in his moments of self-doubt, not knowing if his idea is "good enough" he sits thinking, afraid to put pencil to paper and just get started. Once he's home we talk over his ideas and when he articulates something brilliant to me I say, "There ya go! That's what you write down!" He's still unsure at first but once he gets started the ideas flow, he writes that intro, three paragraphs and a conclusion with no problem. It's all in the getting started that a lot of us trip ourselves up. Myself included.
We are all filled with self-doubt.
Journaling is my therapy. It soothes me, relaxes me, helps me make sense of the senseless or to at least accept that some things never make sense. Maybe it's not for you. Maybe a walk in nature is your thing, or listening to music or even playing an instrument, singing, dancing, banging on a drum. Maybe your therapy is a night out with friends, a big hug, an afternoon snuggled on the couch with your dog. Maybe your therapy is actually a real live therapist who listens without judging you and helps you find your own way through the emotional muck. Whatever it is, embrace it. Get started. Eventually you'll be glad you did.
We all need something to keep us sane.
The Quest is my sanity (or rather my insanity) splayed out in words for the world to see. It's messy and sometimes raw and often poorly articulated, but it is me and perhaps one of the most therapeutic aspects of all is in finding that I'm not alone. People identify with much of what I write because we all go through tough times. We all get lost. We all get scared. We all feel loss and pain and sorrow.
We are all human.
And that's what this blog is all about.
So I made up a name (get a little happy) because that was after all, my goal in finding a special someone, and thought the whole theme of this blog experience would center around my online dating fiascoes. Obviously somewhere along the way, I lost my focus.
I find catharsis in writing out my thoughts and feelings. I live so much inside my own head that it often gets crowded in here. I must find some way to empty out a little of the noise so I can make sense of it, order things, put them in their places.
The blog became, I suppose, a kind of journal about my journey. I started out in one place and now that I look back, I realize I've come a long way, baby. I went from making fun of myself to taking myself too seriously, to taking other people too seriously, to wherever I am now. I don't know where that is exactly, but ask me in another year or so and I can tell you; because I am writing it all down as I go.
Someone asked me, "How do you get over the feeling of throwing other people under the bus when all you want to do is write about your experiences from your own perspective?" I have no idea. I guess I've never felt like I threw anyone under any bus with my blog. Maybe I've called some people out before, but thrown them under a bus? No way. My understanding of "throwing someone under a bus" is when you try to blame someone else for your own shortcomings. I try my best NOT to do that; however, I'm okay with letting someone know when they've hurt me or angered me or both. To me that's not shoving someone into oncoming traffic, it's holding them accountable and expecting them to do the same for me.
Nobody's perfect.
How do you not get depressed when you go back and read over all your old posts? One person wanted to know. Easy answer: I don't usually go back and read through my old posts; not often anyway. When I do, I try to read them with the understanding that in the moment they were written, I was doing the best I could with whatever circumstances I had at the time. I wrote to get clarity, to find where I was going wrong, and to see if I needed to change something in my life. In most every case I can see where I took the steps I needed to take, I can see my own change and growth. That's how I can read back over some of my own saddest days and not wallow in the sadness all over again. You can't beat yourself up endlessly for making mistakes in the past.
Everybody makes mistakes.
Some days my son comes home with a blank sheet of paper and instructions from his teacher. "He needs to write an introduction, 3 paragraphs and a conclusion at home tonight because he never got started in class." The thing is, Charlie always has great ideas, he just doubts himself a lot; so in his moments of self-doubt, not knowing if his idea is "good enough" he sits thinking, afraid to put pencil to paper and just get started. Once he's home we talk over his ideas and when he articulates something brilliant to me I say, "There ya go! That's what you write down!" He's still unsure at first but once he gets started the ideas flow, he writes that intro, three paragraphs and a conclusion with no problem. It's all in the getting started that a lot of us trip ourselves up. Myself included.
We are all filled with self-doubt.
Journaling is my therapy. It soothes me, relaxes me, helps me make sense of the senseless or to at least accept that some things never make sense. Maybe it's not for you. Maybe a walk in nature is your thing, or listening to music or even playing an instrument, singing, dancing, banging on a drum. Maybe your therapy is a night out with friends, a big hug, an afternoon snuggled on the couch with your dog. Maybe your therapy is actually a real live therapist who listens without judging you and helps you find your own way through the emotional muck. Whatever it is, embrace it. Get started. Eventually you'll be glad you did.
We all need something to keep us sane.
The Quest is my sanity (or rather my insanity) splayed out in words for the world to see. It's messy and sometimes raw and often poorly articulated, but it is me and perhaps one of the most therapeutic aspects of all is in finding that I'm not alone. People identify with much of what I write because we all go through tough times. We all get lost. We all get scared. We all feel loss and pain and sorrow.
We are all human.
And that's what this blog is all about.
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