Being Broken

In the quiet of a chilly autumn morning I sit with myself, shouldering a burden of thoughts that seem so preposterously heavy I'm not even sure how I manage to carry them all by myself.  I wonder why I choose to carry them all by myself, instead of asking someone out there to help me bear the load.  It feels impossible though, that I could just unload some of this, hand it off to someone else and be free from it.

In all my thinking and trying to figure things out, the only truth  that keeps coming back to me is that of my own brokenness.  I broke a long time ago, when I began to realize that life never quite lives up to the expectations we set for ourselves as children.  I broke a little more when I found out that my differences--something as seemingly insignificant even as having red hair and freckles, could separate me from the love and acceptance of my peers.  With every set-back, every disappointment, every failure, brokenness replaced my image of myself until finally, I sit here on a couch in someone else's world looking at myself, the broken pieces of me all askance from my effort to hold on to parts of me that I should probably let go.

Sometimes we break in such a way that our pieces don't fit back together the same way anymore..

I feel as though my life became a competition somewhere along the way.  I wanted to prove to myself and to everyone else that my ideas about love, fairness, hope and faith could all exist in perfect harmony; I wanted them to exist without struggle, without boundary, without fear or loss. With every set-back though, I learned more and more that without struggle, without limitations, and especially without loss, the sweetest things in life become the very things we take for granted.

All those broken parts of me define me. I could strive for perfection and perhaps remain intact, never letting my human experience break through the thin shell of my outer existence, but then who would I be?  What substance would I possess?  I believe I would be an empty vessel, sealed off so tightly that no amount of love could ever make its way to my core.

  If we seal ourselves away so completely, no outpouring of love, empathy, joy or goodwill can ever reach our hearts.  We are often too afraid to open ourselves up the easy way and let love transform us. That resistance is why I sit here with these heavy thoughts and an even heavier heart, having poured out all I am trying to fill a vessel that can't even crack itself open enough to even let in a little of what I have to give. What I am will never be good enough.  I possess no perfection to offer.  I am scarred and still somewhat wounded. At times my weaknesses over take me, I hide myself away so I can hang on to parts of me that seem so necessary to keep, but only because no one offers me a safe place to surrender them.

I need no judge or jury to tell me that I am so flawed and imperfect.  I know this very well.

I seek only for the safety of acceptance as I seek to accept those around me.  I wish for the peace of resting securely in the kind of knowledge that is only known by the soul when we are made whole by the unconditional love of someone who has the courage to help us piece ourselves back together.

Yes, I am broken and my soul is poured out.  But brokenness is part of life.  It shatters our ideas of perfection and challenges us, time and time again to redefine ourselves and what gives us meaning.

I sit here in the quiet of an autumn morning on someone else's couch, listening to a little fire crackling in the heater, the rush of cars on the highway outside and the sound of my own voice telling me to let go; let the scattered remains of who I am fall where they may so God, or the Universe or whomever will, can put me back together again.  Because I am only able to make an abstract version of me, and that girl doesn't make sense to anyone.

The Big Lie

The last time I talked to my mother, I told her a lie.  I know, we all lie to our moms now and then even when we are little kids.  Nobody wants to admit they broke the ceramic owl (sorry mom) and no one is going to admit to eating the last cookie, especially if your mother is a midnight snacker  who goes looking for sweets during the night like my mom did.  But the lie I told was a different kind of lie.

When I let it slip out of my mouth with tears welling in my eyes, I told myself that I was telling that lie to protect her.  After all, I couldn't have her going to her grave believing I was anything but okay.  She was so weak, but she knew me, held my hand as I sat on the arm of the chair beside her and started telling her how all my kids were doing.  She asked about each one of them, and I assured her they were all doing well.  We talked about Hannah's job, Sylia's wedding and Charlie's new school and love of Batman.  She said she wanted to buy him more Batman stuff but couldn't find any whenever she looked for it. Then she asked me very sincerely, looking me straight in the eye with whatever strength she could muster, "How are you doing? Are you okay?"

"Yes," I said.  "I'm fine!"
She looked at me unconvinced.
"I'm happy," I said with a big smile.

I saw the concern in her face melt away as she said, "Good. I've been worried about you since you lost your house.  I'm glad you're doing alright."

"I am." I said.  And then I changed the subject to her banana pudding and the time I called her for the recipe.

I have replayed that conversation in my head a million times over the last 2 weeks.  I sent my mother out of this world believing a lie, and although I would have rather her leave this world without a worry for me, I still feel kind of guilty for lying to her.  Maybe the guilt comes from knowing that in that moment, I was lying to myself as much as I was to her.  I couldn't say out loud that I'm not happy.  If I said it out loud I would have to accept it as the truth.  Sometimes clinging to a delusion is just the only way we can cope.

I don't know whether it was wrong to lie to my mother that one last time. Part of me is relieved that I did, another part of me feels sick about it.  The only thing that's for sure, is that I can't change it now.  All I can do now is make what I said to her the truth.  I suppose that's the only way I can set the record straight with her now, and the only way I'll find peace with myself as well.

A Friend in Grief

It has been a little over a week since my mother died.  I like to use the word "died" instead of "passed away."  It seems like people are so afraid to say the words, "death" or "died" because they are heavy with the reality that life isn't permanent, they signify the end of us in some way and even those of us who believe that there is a life after this one aren't exactly comfortable with the finality of death.

Anyway, she died on October the 11th and the days following her death, with the funeral planning, spending time with my dad and sisters, the visitation and the funeral itself the whole week following her death was a blur.  For the first time in my life I found myself standing on the receiving end of that line of family and friends who came to pay their respects and show their love for us.  It was really very overwhelming to see so many faces, old and new, of people who knew my mother or who were there to show support for one of us whom they knew and loved and felt empathy for.  I saw family members I haven't seen in years, saw friends I hardly think about anymore, and was deeply moved by the friends in my life who came to hug me and tell me how sorry they were for my loss.  I never really understood the value of the visitation before the funeral until now; even my father has commented on how surprised he felt that so many people cared about him and his grief.  I left there that night feeling emotionally wrung out, physically tired and so mentally overcome that I had to drive home slowly, taking in my thoughts as they came to me, concentrating minute by minute on what was before me.

My mother wasn't the kind of person who had close relationships with anyone, including her daughters.  She wasn't the kind of mom we could call up to ask for advice or to vent our frustrations to. In fact we couldn't really talk to her at all about anyone in our lives who caused us any trouble; she was so biased towards us that if we ever once spoke ill of someone in our lives, she forever thought of them as evil.  When I was younger I saw this as a fault in my mother, but now with adult daughters of my own, even in my efforts to remain objective, I have trouble not becoming bitter and angry at anyone who has done wrong by my children.  I like to think that I learned from my mother that it isn't always the best idea to blurt out my own opinions as she did.  Even though I understand it was her love for me that got her stirred up against anyone she thought had mistreated me, I realize the distance her reactions created between us.

Having had a strained relationship with my mom for most of my life I always felt envious of my friends who had close mother-daughter bonds.  My friend Debbie, for instance, had such a bond with her mother that they almost seemed like one person at times.  Her "Mama" as she always referred to her, was often her best friend.  They shared a home together, shared worries and troubles.  They supported each other, worried about each other and both absolutely adored one another.  Debbie took on her mother's nature, always giving to others, recognizing the strengths of others and being everyone's cheerleader.  I often wished for that kind of bond with my own mother, but I knew she was just not that kind of person.  My mother was guarded, always thinking that people were not to be trusted, that most people just ended up causing her pain, so she, in a way, protected herself by not letting anyone get too close.  That wall was erected so soundly that even her children couldn't penetrate it completely.  I don't doubt that she loved us with all her heart, but she wasn't able to really express that love because she couldn't be that vulnerable.  Likewise, I believe I often shield myself from potential "danger" by holding myself back emotionally, even at times when my own emotional vulnerability could help someone else.

Whoever they are, and whatever struggles our mothers face, they teach us how to relate to the world.  My mother taught me to be careful, to hold others suspect, even after they prove they are trust worthy.  Debbie's mom taught her to look for the positives in others, to give her heart and to be a beacon of encouragement to the people she loves.

On the day my mother died, I drove home, tired and emotionally worn out.  I took a long shower and cried to myself at the thought of her languishing on her death-bed.  I hummed the tune of her favorite hymn to myself quietly, and cried even more as I let it comfort me with the assurance that the storms were over for her; that perhaps she was finally resting in that perfect love she had always craved but been too afraid to accept.  I tucked myself into bed, pulling the covers up under my chin as my mind began to race with what the next day would hold--planning the funeral.  Just as I was about to ease into my pillow and seek the comfort of sleep, my phone made that chiming sound.

I had been texting with my friend Debbie earlier in the day, letting her know that my mother had died that morning.  Her mother had been battling all week from illness and was not doing well either. This was the message she sent me just before I went to sleep:



We are two completely different women with completely different mothers, but together we grieve for what we lost when we lost them.  It's a journey that we embarked on together, without ever knowing why it happened as it did.  Their funerals were on the same day, at the same time, and although we were both experiencing our own losses, we both remembered one another as well.  Through her own suffering, my mother taught me never to forget about the suffering of others; through her own graciousness and openness, Debbie's mother taught her to never fail to think of and encourage others.  They went about it in different ways, but both of our mothers must have done a good job, because here we are, traversing the road of grief together, never once getting so lost in our own grief that we forget that we have a friend who is also hurting.

And for those lessons our mothers taught us, we must be forever grateful.  We will miss them, we will wonder what could have been different.  We will feel the loss for a long time to come, but we can both take comfort in remembering and recognizing those parts of our mothers that are now a part of us.  Mama lives on in the struggles and victories, the loves and losses we experience.  She lives on in us when we find ourselves repeating her words, cooking her food, seeing her looking back at us in the mirror as we age.  In a way, Mothers never die, as long as they leave their mark on us.  And our mothers surely did just that.

Sheltered In The Arms Of God

My mother was terrified of storms.  Any time a dark cloud would linger on the horizon and the wind would start to kick up a bit, she would warn us to all sit down and be quiet.  "It's comin' up a cloud!" She'd say, and we would usually obey her orders.  I guess you could say she instilled within us as well, her nearly irrational fear of stormy weather.

She told us stories of the devastation she had witnessed from the ravages of storms: a family member's home that was picked up and tossed about by a tornado, another relative who was struck by lightening while stirring a pot on a stove.  This was a woman whose bravery in the face of illness allowed her to care for my aunt who was dying from cancer, night after night without respite.  A woman who once fired a gun at a would-be intruder and accidentally shot a howling dog trying to scare it away.  She was fiercely protective of her children, causing a scene more than once when she felt one of her daughters had been the victim of some injustice.  She was often stubborn and ornery, determined to have her way even when the odds were against her; but something as simple as a clap of thunder could humble her in a second.

I suppose nearly everyone has some kind of irrational fear that they carry with them throughout life. For some of us its spiders or snakes or heights.  For others its public speaking or roller coasters--things that though they inspire fear in our hearts, are usually quite avoidable.  But storms are something over which we have no control.  Perhaps that lack of control was what my mother found so incredibly frightening about strong wind, heavy rain and angry lightening licking the ground with abandon all around her.  There was no way to stop it, no way to slow it down or change its direction.  Storms were something over which she was powerless, something that made her have to rely on nothing more than her faith in God until the winds calmed and the thunder faded into the distance.

She taught us as children, to sit quietly in reverence to the power of a storm.  It just seemed like tempting God to her if we carried on with business as usual while the weather raged all around us.  It gave her some strange sense of peace I think, to stop the chatter, the playful running around, the chores as usual to just sit and listen as the awesome power of nature drew near, lingered for a while and then began to drift away, moving on to its new destination, leaving us in peace to resume our day with a renewed sense of gratefulness for having survived the turmoil.

My mother was no stranger to the storms of life.  She weathered many that came to her in the form of physical challenges, heartbreak and disappointment.  She suffered with pain in her body for years, day in and day out, seeking relief from it, but never quite finding it.  She suffered the loss of her parents, her friends and even a pregnancy.  She stood strong as a rock for my father as he suffered through painful illnesses, the losses of his own parents and some friends.  She knew the uncertainty of need as my parents struggled to financially provide for 5 daughters and give us all we needed to be healthy and happy.  She helped her daughters find strength to weather their own tribulations and experienced our heartbreaks and struggles as acutely as we  felt them ourselves.

So it is no wonder to me that my mother found great comfort in the song "Sheltered in The Arms of God."  Ever since I got the call this morning that my mother had taken her last breath with my father by her side, the words of that old hymn have been playing in my head.  I've even found myself humming it quietly to myself a few times--feeling the same kind of comfort it must have given her over the years.  On Tuesday my nieces will sing it at her funeral, a reminder to all of us that she is finally in a place where storms can no longer threaten her peace of mind.  She is tucked securely into the shelter of God's arms, where no matter how high the storms may rage, she will never be afraid again.

In memory of my mother, here are the lyrics to that sweet song:

I feel the touch of hands so kind and gentle,
They're leading me in paths that I must trod;
I have no fear when Jesus walks beside me,
For I'm sheltered in the arms of God.

So let the storms rage high, the dark clouds rise,
They won't worry me for I'm sheltered safe within the arms of God;
He walks with me and naught of Earth can harm me,
Sheltered safe within the arms of God.

Soon I shall hear the call from Heaven's portals,
Come home my child, it's the last mile you must trod;
I'll fall asleep and wake in God's new Heaven,
Sheltered safe within the arms of God.

So let the storms rage high, the dark clouds rise,
They won't worry me for I'm sheltered safe within the arms of God;
He walks with me and naught of Earth can harm me,
Sheltered safe within the arms of God.

Sheltered safe within the arms of God!

Back Freckle

I was born with a heart-shaped vascular birthmark on my back.  When I was a kid my parents taught me to believe it was special. I remember not really understanding what they were talking about when they would carry on about my heart shaped birthmark. Of course when I got a little older and figured out how to use two mirrors to see my back, I examined the little red splotch thoroughly. It didn't look like a heart to me but I was never bothered by it.

Nearly every summer some kid at the lake or the pool would, in a panic, tell me my back was bleeding. I never blinked though, before I just explained to them that it was a birthmark.  

I have friends who refer to it (and to me) simply as Back Freckle, which I find funny and a pretty creative description of my red splotch. It's just one of those things that has always , literally, followed me around.  I've known people who rubbed it for luck, men who wanted to write their names on it (because of the heart-shaped thing that I still don't see) and people who have tried to persuade me to have it removed because of cancer risks they think are associated with it.

A few years ago I went to my doctor and asked about having it removed.  His answer was "absolutely not."  He said it was a harmless bundle of blood vessels that just happened to form above the skin and there was no need to remove it. So, I left it there.

For most of my adult life I've tried to keep it covered, but in recent years I've relaxed a bit more. I wear lower backed blouses and tank tops without even thinking about the lowly back freckle.  Maybe I've let down my guard a bit too much though, because I think I crossed a boundary of some sort the other day when I asked a close friend to put lotion on my back. 

Not everyone is cool with ol' back freckle. In fact it apparently grosses some folks out pretty bad, which is something I never really considered.  But isn't it just like life to let you live for so many years without even realizing that the rest of the world is disgusted by some small physical flaw you have that you've never even thought twice about?

Point is, now I know that my birthmark is indeed, gross.  And that makes me wonder what else there is about me that makes other people want to lose their lunch.  My skin? My hair? My squishy body? For sure the tube in my belly, right? And maybe my ugly teeth...

The worst things about me I think are hidden away, but maybe they're more obvious than I think, and maybe I expect too much when I believe that anyone else could ever accept and embrace me for who I am.  Especially when it's very likely that I'm not even close to being the okay kind of person I think I am.

Change

Change sucks.  Not to be Ms. Negativity or anything, I'm just admitting that change isn't easy and that when I get myself into difficult situations that involve strenuous effort to adapt, I often want to shut down.  Seriously, I'm like a generator that's running out of gas. I feel a cough and a sputter coming on, and pretty soon I'm going to be empty.  Out of fuel. Shut down completely. 

Change is a whole lot tougher when, for all the effort you're giving it, someone keeps reminding you of just how inadequate and sucky you really are at life.  It isn't as if I think I'm good at life in the first place. I know I'm not and there aren't enough "hacks" out there to save me.  I make stupid decisions. I'm a poor judge of character. I trust people I shouldn't trust and I put up with way more bullshit from bullshitters than anyone should ever tolerate. I honestly hope that my hopefulness will someday pay off, but let's be real.  I'm just kidding myself.

So, I'm working on this adjustment thing. Adjusting to living in someone else's house with their rules and pet peeves (which are endless) and trying my best to he gracious and tiptoe around so as not to disrupt the stays quo.  The last thing would ever want to do is make someone I love miserable, but that seems to be exactly what I'm doing. Just by existing, being a mom, having a kid who acts like a kid...and even though I want to make this adjustment and make the most if my situation, I fear I am in a no-win scenario. No matter how much I change and adapt, I'm never going to be adequate. 

A lot of folks love me just the way I am, so I know I can't be as awful as I often feel lately.  Still, it's tough to not internalize the sarcasm and constant criticism that I hear daily. I know the issues aren't all mine, but I'm all too willing to take them on. Another way that I'm bad at life, I suppose.

All I seem to be able to hear are echoes from the past.  Voices of men who tell me I'm not sexy enough. I'm not smart enough.  I'm not educated enough, not disciplined enough, not seductive, not pretty, not healthy enough...it's as if my effort to adapt and overcome is worthless. Is there no merit in simply refusing to give up?  

I mean really, who else do I know who would take on a hike in the dark with a still-healing broken leg, a belly full of dialysate (fluid, a liter to be exact) an 8 year old and a dog. All of this with a healthy as a horse former marine who walks like he's going to put out a fire everywhere he goes.  Is it for nothing that I'm determined enough to keep putting one foot in front of another and push my body past it's comfort zone?  Does that not say to anyone that I'm not a quitter? 

Would it even matter if I were a quitter? 

I just don't know anymore, and like I said, I'm running out of energy. I'm not sure how much longer I can even give a damn, when giving a damn seems to not matter anyway.  You can care all you want, try as hard as you can, you can even improve yourself, but you can't make someone accept you for who you are. And who you are, it turns out, is really the only thing that counts when it comes to life.  So maybe the only thing I can do is find the people who are able to accept me and love me despite my foibles and cling to those people for the rest of my days.  It's probably the only way I'll ever feel like I'm enough.

To My Children

When you are constantly faced by your own mortality you start to see the world differently.  You find yourself thinking about things that, for many people, never even enter the mind.  Like, "if I up and die in my sleep tonight, will my kids ever really know what they mean to me?" It was that very thought, in the wee hours of the night a few months ago, that urged me to get out my phone and type a message to them in my "notes" app.  I ran across it this morning and decided I should probably post it somewhere, because if I up and did in my sleep tonight, how will they ever see it if it stays in my phone? 

So here it is. 

To my children:

You are the reason I was born.

You're the reason I breathe, and from the day I held my first baby in my arms, my life had more meaning than I ever thought possible.

You taught me how to love.

You gave me the courage to open my heart, despite my fear that one day, you would end up hating me and breaking it.

You exceeded every expectation I had about raising children. 

You filled my life with laughter.

You taught me patience and determination.

You showed me the power of unconditional love. 

You taught me about God's love for me.

You showed me kindness with your crayons.

You gave me flowers to remind me that life is a beautiful gift.

You saved the prettiest rocks you found for me, because you thought I was so special. 

You snuggled up in bed with me to watch our special show every night.

You trusted me to be your referee, your hair stylist, your therapist, the villain to your super-hero. You came looking for me randomly throughout the day just to give me hugs. You told me you loved me just out of the blue.  You made even my worst days bearable.

You wanted my approval when you learned to ride your bike, when you played that one song you knew on your violin, when you climbed all the way to the top of the monkey bars by yourself.

I was important to you.

You were my reason for existing. You were my treasure. My joy. My heartache and the reason for many sleepless nights.

You tested my character with temper tantrums, with defiance, with your messy room.  You asked me the toughest questions and expected honest answers. You kept me on my toes.

Your hugs were little bits of sunshine, warming me from the inside out.

Wherever I went, whatever I did, you were always at the front of my mind. 

 

You hated it when I sang. You got embarrassed when I made a fuss over you in public. But you loved to giggle when I praised you for being able to put your pants on while standing on a giant marshmallow. We talked about our favorite super heroes, but I never told you my favorite hero was YOU.

You asked me where babies come from, and hotly debated the value of homework with me until 4th grade. You asked me for breakbast, and cried for me whenever I was out of your sight. You got angry when I said you were "little" and you sang to me from the backseat of the car all the time. We had "grown up" conversations almost from the time you said your first words, and you told me I was cool.

Your bright red hair was like a beacon. No matter how much you got passed around, I could always find your sweet, pudgy baby face in a crowd.  You loved baby dolls and Barbie dolls and playing dress up. You always said you were "mommy's girl" and had to sit by me wherever we went.  You let me braid your hair and call you silly names. You saved rocks for me, and brought me wild flowers from the yard. Crumbs followed you everywhere you went.  You told me I was your favorite person in the world! 

You trusted me with your secrets, your fears, your dreams.  You loved adventuring with me all day in the car.  You made me giant birthday cards and loved our picnic days.  You let me know when I let you down, but you always forgave me. You tried me over and over again to make sure I would always love you no matter what...

And I have always loved you insanely.  I've loved you unreasonably. I've loved you endlessly.  My love for you has exponentially layered itself over my heart, cushioning my spirit against every blow that tried to crush me and bring me to my knees.  You made me brave. You made me strong.  You made me into a woman.  You took away my childish narcissism, and made me learn to live outside myself.  You taught me what life is really all about, you gave me purpose.

You are the reason I exist. You are my gift to the world.  You will live on after me, and you will continue to bring meaning to every other life you touch.  You will live with abandon, you will learn from your mistakes, you will reach out to the underdog, because from the time you were in kindergarten, we have talked about the virtue if kindness.  You will be there for one another...the guru, fashion police, career counselor, homework helper, comic book convention partner.  You will invest in each other that part of me I leave behind in each of you, and you will bring meaning to the word "family."  

You are my heart and soul.  You are what my life was all about. You are the legacy I will leave behind. My life's work. My biggest success. My greatest reward.  You were the picture of God's grace towards me, for I could never have done anything to deserve such pure, trusting determined spirits giving me purpose and filling my heart with the kind of love I still struggle to explain. 

Believe in yourselves as I believe in you. Love one another as I have loved you. Forgive one another. Encourage one another. Protect each other, take care of each other.  Keep my love in your hearts always, and let me live on in the love you give away. 

Remember me with laughter. Cry a few tears if you must. We will miss each other so much, but we have hope.  And you always have me.  I will always be there. I'm part of who you are. Someday, you'll hear me in your own voice and know this is all true. 

Your mommy will live on forever in the things you do. 

I love you bunches and bunches.

Mom

The Toothache, The Mud Puddle and The Truth

Jon Brown was my first professor of Social Work.  He was a short man with thin white hair that neatly framed his round face so perfectly that he could have easily been a news anchor.  Instead, he stood humbly in front of our tiny classroom and talked about things like toothaches.

"When you have a toothache," he explained, "It's difficult to really care about someone else's toothache."

It's a metaphor that has stuck with me through the years.  It is one that I often have to remind myself of when, on days like today, I am struggling to find that place of empathy that I need to be in.  I'm overwhelmed with my own troubles and even though I know others around me are struggling too, I can't seem to really identify with them.

I feel out of place.  I've never been very comfortable with life when seemingly everything is in limbo.  Now though, everything is so unsettled that the word "limbo" falls far too short in describing the level of discord that I find swirling around me.  I wake up every morning in a bed that isn't mine beside a man who seems bewildered by the fact that I'm there.  What clothes I have with me are in a pile on top of a dresser in my son's room--or what we call his room for now.  I take a shower and carefully mark every movement I make to be sure that every item I use gets put back in exactly the same spot it came from.  I keep my cosmetics in a bag that I try to hide away in a cabinet when I'm done with them; it seems as though keeping myself as inconspicuous as possible has become my number one goal lately.  I try to be as invisible as possible, and yet I still end up feeling intrusive.  I've never felt so sick over a dish being left in the sink, or about using too many towels or wearing too many shirts in one week.  I try so hard to keep everything exactly as it would be if I weren't even there, but the reality is, I am there and it's nigh unto impossible to hide myself away so completely that there isn't a sign of my existence anywhere, even when I'm away.  I find a necklace of mine lying on the bathroom sink and I scold myself for not hiding it away with my other things.  I realize I've been leaving my toothbrush out--I hadn't meant to do that.  I try so hard to not leave my things in sight, but inevitably I forget something, and there I am, glaring up at him from the coffee table in the form of a pen or a hair clip or a scribbled note.

I suppose it would be easy to mistake my inner turmoil for a lack of gratefulness, but that isn't it at all.  If anything, it's my gratitude that seems to be holing me hostage.  After so many years of opening my door, my heart and my home to other people, I'm finding myself on the other side of the fence and I'm really not sure what to make of it. On a certain level I feel like a pathetic loser--someone who couldn't even manage the very basic task of keeping a stable roof over her head.  On the other hand, I feel so cared for.  It's hard for me to accept such a conflicting view of myself, but I am both these things and lately, nothing more.

I guess I'm in what Jon Brown would have called "The Mud Puddle."  It's when you find yourself at a low place in life and instead of just jumping up and brushing yourself off, you feel the  need to just sit there a while in the mud getting thoroughly marred up in it until you can't even see where you end and the puddle begins.  I wish I could be invisibly camouflaged in my puddle of failure and confusion, but no matter how hard I try to disappear, I keep getting found out.

The truth is, change is hard for everyone.  I know my son is struggling with the newness in our world.  I know my presence and his presence have created an upheaval around the house where once a man and a dog peacefully co-existed in their perfect little world together.  In my head I know that I'm not the only one who is feeling the challenge of adapting to change, but it isn't always easy to look past my own struggle and appreciate the struggles of those I love.

The truth, is that change is never easy.  Loss is never simple, and learning to be at peace with a world that seems to not want you in it can feel damn near impossible.  The truth is that accepting your inadequacies, realizing that your presence doesn't necessarily make anyone's life particularly better, learning that dutiful friendship often trumps true affection and incorporating all those harsh realities into who you're becoming is discouraging, daunting and truly overwhelming at times.

The truth is, toothaches and mud puddles are not very helpful in the process of moving forward; but they sure do seem like convenient explanations when you can't figure out what to do or how to feel or where to go next.

The truth:  I don't really belong anywhere and until I do, I'm afraid I'm never going to find that feeling of home again.

In The News

Once in a while I get the urge to rant a little about stuff I keep reading in the news.  Lately a few scenarios concerning parents and children seem to keep replaying themselves in the headlines.  First of all, the seemingly more common phenomenon of parents who "forget" they have a kid in the back seat of their cars and go in to work all day without ever having that "oh crap!" moment of realizing they forgot to drop the little one off at daycare.  Secondly, the ever-growing problem of DSS (and other similar agencies in other states) overstepping their bounds in some cases while completely dropping the ball in others.  It seems to me that in both cases, most people are quick to find a stance, either condemning or defending the actions of the parents involved.  The problem that I see in the responses of most folks is their lack of consideration for the reasons behind the actions of parents, which in nearly every case are different.  We can't really come to solid conclusions on whether or not a parent was neglectful unless we know the motivation behind their actions in every circumstance.

Everyone knows the story of Justin Harris, the Georgia dad who left his son Cooper in his hot car all day while he worked and everyone remembers the first time a story like this hit the headlines a few years ago.  On some level, every parent can identify with this happening.  We all know how hectic the our mornings can get and how easy it is to operate on auto-pilot sometimes.  Some would even argue that the simple change in routine, from mom dropping the baby off at daycare, to dad dropping the baby off just that one time, is enough to throw a parent off track.  We have all driven down the road with our minds somewhere else while a little one sleeps, oblivious to our worries, in the back seat.  I remember after I had Charlie, it had been so long since we had a baby around that I actually dropped off my two daughters a couple of mornings and headed to work without dropping the him off with the sitter.  I didn't get far though, before a thought of my sweet baby popped into my head and I turned back towards Maria's house to drop him off.  So, yeah, I can sympathize with a parent who drives all the way to work with a baby in the back seat.  I can even understand up to the point that mom or dad gets out of the car and starts to walk in to the building.  What I don't get, is how anyone can go for 8 hours or more without remembering their kid is still sitting in the car.  In Justin Harris' case, we can be pretty sure Cooper wasn't exactly forgotten.  His dad went to the car at lunchtime to leave something in the seat.  How would he not have noticed the baby then?  Harris seems to be a father who was feeling trapped in his marriage, sexting other women all day while his wife worked and his little boy died a torturous death just outside his office in the family car.

What the hell is wrong with our country when we are so stressed, over-stimulated and distracted that some parents legitimately FORGET they have kids in the car with them and work all day without ever remembering that they didn't drop off the baby at daycare?   Is technology to blame?  Are we so busy texting, checking Facebook, Tweeting and returning phone calls that we have forgotten what is really important?  Are our jobs so stressful and all-consuming that for the whole 8 hours we are at work every day, we don't have a second to think of anything else?  The nation has so identified with these parents that our outpouring of sympathy and support for them has seemingly lead to a whole other group of people who decide, for whatever reason, they need to get rid of their child and that leaving them in a hot car is the best way to go about the task.  They see other parents getting support from the public and getting little to no legal consequences, so why wouldn't they think the hot car method is a good idea?

Last week there was a local story about a man who left his infant in the car at a Goodwill here in Greenville.  He apparently went back to his car after going into the store and tried to pretend the baby was missing, but a Goodwill employee heard the baby crying from inside the car and called the dad on his BS.  The dad handed the hot, sweaty vomit-covered baby to the Goodwill employee and someone called the police.  Now it seems like we are hearing variations of this story every few days from somewhere in the country.

My point is, whether it is done on purpose or not, any parent who leaves a child in a hot car all day from this point forward needs to face some pretty stiff consequences.  Lots of parents make mistakes every day--some of them neglectful in nature.  Most, as attested by the many DSS stories in the news, get punished for those mistakes whether or not the parents had malicious intent.  I think the best way to stop the hot car deaths of children is to hold parents responsible.  Seriously, you have children now and it's your job to remember to take care of them.  What if I didn't feed my child all week because I was just so busy and distracted by life that I forgot?  I see no difference in the two scenarios.  They are both self-absorbed, neglectful behaviors that end up harming the little ones who are counting on us to care for them.  Maybe I'm being to rigid in my beliefs here, but I think it's pretty pathetic when we have to come up with inventions like a rope across the door of our cars to remind us that we have a child in the back seat when remembering our children should be first and foremost on our minds in the first place.  It's sad to me that we live in a world with such mixed up priorities and technologically distracted parents who are so stressed out by their jobs that they forget the very reason they work so hard.

In another story today I read about a Georgia mom who was arrested because she left her 9 year old daughter to play alone at a park all day while she was at work.  At face value, it looks pretty irresponsible, but the rest of the story makes it a little easier to empathize with this mom.  First of all, she works at McDonald's.  The same McDonald's that is directly in front of the park where her daughter plays.  The child said that she goes to McDonald's for lunch--the same McDonald's where her mom works.  She had previously been going to work with her mom and playing on an iPad all day, but the iPad broke and mom couldn't afford to replace it.  The kid begged mom to let her play at the park during the day instead of sitting bored out of her mind in McDonald's while her mom worked.

Maybe this mom made a poor decision, but the way I see it, more of the blame for her situation lies with McDonald's than it does with the family.  McDonald's is one of the lowest paying employers in the country, despite their massive profits and super-wealthy executives, their employers rarely make a liveable wage.  Some have cried that daycare is too expensive, that there's no excuse for leaving  9 year old alone in a park all day, or that the mom could have gotten public assistance to pay for daycare, but I see very few who will speak out and place the blame squarely where it belongs:  On the company who doesn't pay a single mom enough to protect and care for her child.  Now DSS has the 9 year old child and who knows what kind of foster home she will end up in while they make her mother prove she is worthy enough to raise her.  This is a mom who works and tries to provide for her kid.  She didn't "forget" her in a hot car.  I understand the stress of not being able to find a baby sitter.  I know the struggle of trying to bring a kid to work with me every day.  I remember what it was like when my girls were 9 years old and constantly trying to convince me they didn't need to be looked after all the time anymore. I'm not saying that this mom did the safest thing, but I am saying I identify with her the way many people identify with the parents who have forgotten their babies in the car all day.  I believe she was doing the best she knew how to do considering her circumstances.  So where is the public outcry of support for this mother who made the unfortunate mistake of thinking her daughter was safe and happy playing at a park all day instead of staring at the walls in a McDonald's all day?  If she had left her kid in the car all day--forbade her to get out and let her suffer in the heat, would the public be rallying around her for forgetting her kid for 8 hours?

Meanwhile in a situation close to me, I am witnessing DSS take a completely irresponsible stance concerning an autistic child who needs placement in a safe environment.  He was being raised by his grandmother, who after testing positive for methamphetamine, temporarily lost custody.  DSS always looks for a family member first, who can take a child who is being removed from it's custodial parents. In this case, there are no family members who are healthy and physically able to give him the kind of care he needs, yet DSS has guilted a family member who is physically ill to care for him by telling her that "There's no one else."  It is their JOB to make sure there is proper placement for this child, but they insist that he must stay with a grand-aunt who is sick and physically over-stressed already from caring for her aging parents.  This child needs placement in a home with physically capable adults who have the time and ability to give him the care and attention he deserves.  The main concern of DSS is that they don't have to work hard to appropriately place him with the right family until his grandmother can prove to them that she is capable of staying clean and taking good care of him.  I for one, am sick and tired of hearing about how understaffed and under budgeted our state's DSS is.  I'm tired of reading stories about kids who were taken from dirty houses, and turning the next page to see that another child died because DSS refused to take action on a report of abuse.  As it stands now in SC, DSS only takes seriously the accusations of abuse made by health or mental health professionals, and teachers.  If you call them about someone you know who is abusing a child, they will take your report, but in all likelihood, they will never follow up.  They say they are not staffed well enough to investigate every complaint, while Nikki Haley encourages them to avoid recording information on certain cases in order to make our state's statistics look as though they've improved under her leadership.  We are really in trouble as a state, when our one agency that is supposed to help look out for the safety and rights of our children has been corrupted from the very top.

I know my opinions probably differ a lot from the generally accepted points of view out there, but I've been mulling these thoughts over in my head for days now, and these are the only rational responses I have for any of the current headlines.  I'd love to know what everyone else things about these things, so feel free to comment if you have something to add.

Catching up

Sometimes I get angry if I think too much about all the people I know in my own family and otherwise who, over the years, have shown gross disregard for my father's kindness and generosity.  My dad has always been a kind-hearted man.  He never forgot what growing up in a large poor family taught him about life and he let those lessons guide him throughout his.  I can't even recall how many "stray" kids he allowed to live under our roof with us as we grew up in our own big family with limited means.  One thing my dad always had enough of was love and acceptance.  A lot of folks came to admire and appreciate him for his big heart and kind nature, but there was also no shortage of ungrateful leeches who took advantage of him without ever looking back.

It isn't easy to stay silent when you see someone you really care about being mistreated. If I think for too long about those people who took more from my father than he ever offered or could afford to give, I get tempted to pick up the phone and make a few calls.  I want to tell them they're jerks and I hope their misdeeds come back to haunt them but I know that my anger will never be enough to right the wrongs that were done.  I believe my father thinks about all of those people who took from him unfairly too, but he knows it is too late to go back and change anything.

Right now I'm finding myself in a tight spot with someone I really love a lot.  I feel as though I am walking on a tightrope, wanting to do things differently than my dad did them because I don't want to look back at myself and feel the indignation that takes me over when I think of the injustices done to him; however, it is extremely important to me that I preserve the relationship that is being tested.  Part of the problem is, I don't see myself as I see my father.  He has always held a place of reverence in my heart and mind.  I have a hard time seeing his imperfections and I'm often tempted to put him on a pedestal.  I know he wouldn't want that, which makes him seem even more perfect to me.  I am far from perfect.  I see my faults above all else and I struggle to remind myself that I should be respected and treated with the same kindness and positive regard that I give to others.

Probably the the toughest struggle in all of this is the seemingly impossible task of handling this situation in a way that satisfies all the people in my life who are telling me to stand up for myself and stop letting the other person take advantage of me.  My sister, my daughter, my friends all speak to me in frustration, with anger welling up inside them so intensely that I can't help but feel like I am letting them down just by being who I am.

Difficult conversations aren't my specialty.  People who know me and want to push my limitations know this and they tend to take advantage of it.  I shut down when I am cornered and right now I feel like a kindergartener with her nose pressed firmly against the square edge of a wall.  The only way out of this is to turn myself around and speak up.

I love my dad, but I don't want to end up sitting alone with the thoughts of how I should have looked after my own resources in a more self-preservative manner.  I don't want the people who love me to lose respect for me because they think I lack respect for myself.  I don't want the people who are treating me poorly to ever feel that their behavior is justified.  I know that by not speaking up, I'm sending the message that they can do as they please and I will just lie down and be their doormat as they come and go, but that's not the reality and it is not the message I want to send.

So I've spoken up for myself today.  I've said things I needed to say and there's probably still more I need to communicate before this is all resolved.  I know I can't control how another person chooses to react to my truth and I have to accept that by sharing it, I might alienate someone I care about very much.

Maybe this person will decide she doesn't want me to be a part of her world anymore, but she can't decide to make me stop loving her.  I might be some woman in the shadows of her life but I will be here.  She might never come looking for me again, but I will always be watching out for her, even if all I can give her are my prayers.

As hard as this experience is, I keep reminding myself that trials between people who care about one another can make their bond even stronger in the end.  I am realizing that I am not preserving anything by throwing away my own need to receive the same regard I give to others.  I'm praying for the strength and courage to plant my feet firmly on this principle.  I'm hoping for the power to believe in myself, even though it seems like everyone else is losing faith in me.

I can do this.  Even with everything else that is weighing so heavily on my mind, I know I have the strength to do what's right in this situation.  I know I have to find the strength to accept the consequences that follow.  I know I'm no good to anyone if I don't take care of myself first.

These lessons have been difficult for me to learn but my mind knows the truth, even if my heart has yet to catch up.