I experienced a rather interesting revelation during a recent counseling session and while it helped me grieve the loss of my friend, it raised a few more questions that remain unanswered. I feel I must preface the following with a clarification to friends who may be reading this: I mean no offense; I do not intend to cast aspersions upon you or just plain piss you off. Please keep that in mind.
My counselor, who is a lovely young woman and seems to know her stuff pretty well, let me ramble on about the things I miss about Donna. It was pretty silly stuff really, but I mentioned that she was always there for me. And not in the ethereal “I’ll Always Be There For You” way, but every time I called, she answered, every time I went to her house, she was there. Of course, she was agoraphobic, but that’s not really the issue here. Let’s focus….
Whenever I needed someone to vent to about my frustrations, she talked me down from the ledge. We spent hours on the phone talking about nothing, and when I needed advice, she gave it freely. We called her The Wise Woman of the Tribe. It occurred to me that she was always good for an ego boost, also. She never failed to tell me that I was the smartest person she knew; she praised my parenting skills, my creativity, my intelligence, my humor, my strength – physical and internal.
I felt validated in my relationship with Donna. She saw me, understood me, appreciated me and accepted me. And I realized that’s what I miss the most. I don’t feel validated in any of my relationships with people. My daughter needs me and I am sure she appreciates what I do for her, but she is not equipped to verbalize her appreciation. My father needs me, but is terrified to admit it and continues to invalidate all of my efforts to properly care and provide for him. I just don’t feel as close to anyone as I felt to Donna. A friend I have known since 6th grade, whose daughters I consider my nieces, feels somewhat remote to me because she has a very busy life and health concerns of her own. One of my closest friends from high school is an ER physician with a crazy schedule, big family and hectic life. Another friend, with whom I shared a house for 9 years, also has her own stuff to deal with and I don’t feel as close to her as I think I should.
I don’t know what happened with these people. Perhaps, I withdrew when I became embarrassed about my own personal situation, or maybe I began to shut down and didn’t pursue more closeness with them. Whatever the case, I feel untethered. I don’t experience the connection that I think I need to be a healthy person. My counselor suggested that I put myself out there more, be more outspoken about what I need from my friends, but that scares me. What if I can’t find the validation I need from others to feel worthy? That just leaves me – and I’m a big ole mess!
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Never Say Never
I think we have all at one time or another identified something we would “never” do. We believe so strongly in our convictions that we are confident enough to put it out there and affirm that we will NEVER eat Brussels sprouts, or ride a motorcycle without a helmet or bleach our hair. Then one day, completely out of the blue, there you are…motorcycling down the highway with a bowl of Brussels sprouts in one hand, your platinum blond locks flowing without benefit of cranial protection. The point is, you can never say “never” because you don’t know what the future holds.
When I became a parent, I harbored grand illusions that I would be the world’s greatest mom and that as a result of my greatness, my kid would be polite, respectful, kind, thoughtful and sweet. Well, she is, but just not to me. I swore to myself that I would set a bedtime routine that never wavered, that I would never allow her to eat processed sugar and I would never let her go outside in the nude. Three strikes. I failed at all of those.
I also failed with discipline. I believe in spanking, but not beating. I believe in time-outs, but in the form of standing in the corner. I believe that children should never say, at the age of four, “You are ruining my life.”
It was hard to take. I lost my temper and did something I swore to myself and others that I would NEVER do. I am ashamed of my actions and apologized to the Pie for hurting her. I meant it sincerely and she accepted my apology with a hug and kiss. My mind still reels at the thought of it…her wide indigo eyes filled with shock, how she stepped backwards away from me…it disgusts me and I feel like such a terrible parent.
What I learned from this incident is that I need help. It is not easy for me to ask for assistance. I would often rather just suck it up and tough it out. But it’s not just me we’re talking about. It’s the Pie, too. I cannot bear to see her confused face in my mind’s eye, remembering the sound of her cries. So I am seeking counseling to get some guidance on parenting and life-management. I surrender.
Being a single mom who also cares for an elderly parent is tough, people. There is no one to help ease the burden; and now that my best friend is gone, I can’t even vent about it! So I will see a professional who can offer me the help I need.
Because although I swore it would never happen, the handprint on the Pie’s left cheek is proof that it did.
When I became a parent, I harbored grand illusions that I would be the world’s greatest mom and that as a result of my greatness, my kid would be polite, respectful, kind, thoughtful and sweet. Well, she is, but just not to me. I swore to myself that I would set a bedtime routine that never wavered, that I would never allow her to eat processed sugar and I would never let her go outside in the nude. Three strikes. I failed at all of those.
I also failed with discipline. I believe in spanking, but not beating. I believe in time-outs, but in the form of standing in the corner. I believe that children should never say, at the age of four, “You are ruining my life.”
It was hard to take. I lost my temper and did something I swore to myself and others that I would NEVER do. I am ashamed of my actions and apologized to the Pie for hurting her. I meant it sincerely and she accepted my apology with a hug and kiss. My mind still reels at the thought of it…her wide indigo eyes filled with shock, how she stepped backwards away from me…it disgusts me and I feel like such a terrible parent.
What I learned from this incident is that I need help. It is not easy for me to ask for assistance. I would often rather just suck it up and tough it out. But it’s not just me we’re talking about. It’s the Pie, too. I cannot bear to see her confused face in my mind’s eye, remembering the sound of her cries. So I am seeking counseling to get some guidance on parenting and life-management. I surrender.
Being a single mom who also cares for an elderly parent is tough, people. There is no one to help ease the burden; and now that my best friend is gone, I can’t even vent about it! So I will see a professional who can offer me the help I need.
Because although I swore it would never happen, the handprint on the Pie’s left cheek is proof that it did.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Those Three Little Words
Admittedly, it’s been a difficult month and on occasion I failed to provide my daughter with the attention she desired and deserved. Losing her Mimi may have had a larger impact on her that I originally thought, or maybe in my stressed out and grieving haze, I didn’t notice her unhappiness. In any event, today, she said those magic three little words that start wars and manage to cause the jaws of many a parent to clench… I HATE YOU!
Yep. There it is. She hates me…and she’s 4. My heart seized and my brain convulsed inside my skull, thinking, “Did she just say what I THINK she said?” I managed to make it into my teens before I ever slung that one on my mom! Hearing those words truly horrified me. But I took a breath and said, “That’s okay, you have a right to feel that way, but I love you no matter what.” Yeah, I’ve read a few books, watched some Oprah and scanned a couple of articles in parenting magazines. Yippee for me.
Truth? That little girl hurt my feelings. No one wants to hear that someone hates him or her – not even if you hate him or her right back! (Yikes, second grade, anyone? And by the way, I cannot bring myself to cause grammatical dissonance by using “no one” and “them.”) Especially if you surrendered your body, for 9 months (10 months really, but who’s counting?), labored for 22 hours and underwent major surgery to give life to that person!! This is the thanks I get? I know that lately my heart has been firmly encamped upon my sleeve and feelings run rampant with little or no notice, but should I have to put up with this? How can I allow this little person who can’t spell more than her own name and still wears training pants to bed to damage me so?
After calming down and drowning my sorrows in a 12-ounce can of Diet Dr. Pepper, I realized that it is BECAUSE I surrendered my body to her, at which time I gave over my life – heart and soul – to her, that she can hurt me with her words. Logically, I know the she does indeed NOT hate me, but that she is frustrated by me at times and that’s the only way she can tell me. There are times I wish I never encouraged her to speak, but she needs her little voice to tell me, in her own inimitable way, how she feels. I would rather hear her tell me she hates me than wind up explaining to the media in 10 years that she was a quiet kid and I had no idea she planned to open fire on her school.
This way, we can deal with what she feels when she feels it and I can get on to doing whatever I was doing before my life fell apart.
Yep. There it is. She hates me…and she’s 4. My heart seized and my brain convulsed inside my skull, thinking, “Did she just say what I THINK she said?” I managed to make it into my teens before I ever slung that one on my mom! Hearing those words truly horrified me. But I took a breath and said, “That’s okay, you have a right to feel that way, but I love you no matter what.” Yeah, I’ve read a few books, watched some Oprah and scanned a couple of articles in parenting magazines. Yippee for me.
Truth? That little girl hurt my feelings. No one wants to hear that someone hates him or her – not even if you hate him or her right back! (Yikes, second grade, anyone? And by the way, I cannot bring myself to cause grammatical dissonance by using “no one” and “them.”) Especially if you surrendered your body, for 9 months (10 months really, but who’s counting?), labored for 22 hours and underwent major surgery to give life to that person!! This is the thanks I get? I know that lately my heart has been firmly encamped upon my sleeve and feelings run rampant with little or no notice, but should I have to put up with this? How can I allow this little person who can’t spell more than her own name and still wears training pants to bed to damage me so?
After calming down and drowning my sorrows in a 12-ounce can of Diet Dr. Pepper, I realized that it is BECAUSE I surrendered my body to her, at which time I gave over my life – heart and soul – to her, that she can hurt me with her words. Logically, I know the she does indeed NOT hate me, but that she is frustrated by me at times and that’s the only way she can tell me. There are times I wish I never encouraged her to speak, but she needs her little voice to tell me, in her own inimitable way, how she feels. I would rather hear her tell me she hates me than wind up explaining to the media in 10 years that she was a quiet kid and I had no idea she planned to open fire on her school.
This way, we can deal with what she feels when she feels it and I can get on to doing whatever I was doing before my life fell apart.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Funeral for a Friend
When a family member dies, it’s a crushing blow that people around you understand and sympathize with. But when you lose a friend, those around us mention how sorry they are for the loss, but that’s where it ends. You don’t get 3 days leave from work to grieve for a friend, you are not involved in helping with funeral arrangements and you often end up lost in the crowd, being one of the random people paying their respects.
The stark reality is that your grief just isn’t as important as that of the immediate family. Friends are expected to support the family, send flowers, make casseroles and sign guest books. But what most people don’t understand is this: grief attacks everyone who knew the deceased.
I recently lost my most beloved friend of 18 years, Donna. She was a special “chosen relative” and we were more than friends, we were like family. Since my mother passed many years ago, I designated her as the Pie’s grandmother figure…she was Mimi. She treated the Pie just as any grandmother would – spoiled her beyond belief! Donna was the best Mimi any kid could ever wish for and my daughter adored her.
Donna’s health had been rapidly declining over the past few months and we all knew that the prognosis was not a positive one. For weeks, she had been bed-bound with no ability to move without pain. She and I discussed many times – even before her illness became so severe – how she wanted her death handled by those she left behind. In fact, the day she died, we talked about my role in supporting her husband emotionally and helping him through the transition. She again adamantly stated she wanted to be cremated and no services were to be held. In life, Donna wanted no attention brought to herself; she wanted to fade into the background and didn’t like people looking at her. It seemed fitting to honor her wishes, but it was not to be.
Funerals are for the living, to provide closure (if that is possible), to say good-bye and to celebrate the life of the loved one. I totally get that. However, some people are entrenched in tradition and insist on having the textbook service for their lost family member. I struggled mightily to not insert myself into the mix of the arrangements. I mentioned that Donna and I spoke about specifics and how I wanted to honor her memory by following those instructions. But since I had no decision making power, I let the family handle everything. I did ask to read something and to play two songs and I was honored that my requests were approved. It ended up being a nice graveside service with many more people in attendance than were expected. People spoke about how generous and humorous she was and told many funny stories involving her antics.
I found myself surrounded by people – many of them friends – and thought that the only thing missing for the event to be a real party…was Donna.
The stark reality is that your grief just isn’t as important as that of the immediate family. Friends are expected to support the family, send flowers, make casseroles and sign guest books. But what most people don’t understand is this: grief attacks everyone who knew the deceased.
I recently lost my most beloved friend of 18 years, Donna. She was a special “chosen relative” and we were more than friends, we were like family. Since my mother passed many years ago, I designated her as the Pie’s grandmother figure…she was Mimi. She treated the Pie just as any grandmother would – spoiled her beyond belief! Donna was the best Mimi any kid could ever wish for and my daughter adored her.
Donna’s health had been rapidly declining over the past few months and we all knew that the prognosis was not a positive one. For weeks, she had been bed-bound with no ability to move without pain. She and I discussed many times – even before her illness became so severe – how she wanted her death handled by those she left behind. In fact, the day she died, we talked about my role in supporting her husband emotionally and helping him through the transition. She again adamantly stated she wanted to be cremated and no services were to be held. In life, Donna wanted no attention brought to herself; she wanted to fade into the background and didn’t like people looking at her. It seemed fitting to honor her wishes, but it was not to be.
Funerals are for the living, to provide closure (if that is possible), to say good-bye and to celebrate the life of the loved one. I totally get that. However, some people are entrenched in tradition and insist on having the textbook service for their lost family member. I struggled mightily to not insert myself into the mix of the arrangements. I mentioned that Donna and I spoke about specifics and how I wanted to honor her memory by following those instructions. But since I had no decision making power, I let the family handle everything. I did ask to read something and to play two songs and I was honored that my requests were approved. It ended up being a nice graveside service with many more people in attendance than were expected. People spoke about how generous and humorous she was and told many funny stories involving her antics.
I found myself surrounded by people – many of them friends – and thought that the only thing missing for the event to be a real party…was Donna.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Alone Again? No Way, Jose!
Greta Garbo had the right idea when she uttered the famous lines, “I vant to be alone…” There comes a time in all our lives when the very idea of another person intruding into our personal space, whether in person or by phone, is simply unbearable. This is one of those times for me.
Inside of two weeks, I have had my dad in the hospital with pneumonia and excessive fluid gain twice. I am exhausted ! He’s an old man, so when he feels poorly, he acts poorly: grumpy, inconsiderate, bossy, frustrated. It’s a lot to handle when trying balance the needs of a preschooler at the same time. The Pie’s idea of a good time is most certainly not hanging out in a hospital emergency room and waiting for something to happen. She doesn’t understand what’s happening, so I can give her a pass, but my dad should know better.
Closed doors are fairly handy sometimes, but they also separate as well as protect. No one can see behind the closed doors of our home to witness what happens on a regular basis, so here’s a glimpse:
Dad sits in his recliner the majority of the day, barking orders trying to be heard over the blaring television. Then he routinely cusses the dog for reasons I have yet to figure out. He shuffles into the kitchen a few times a day and merely stands there, gaping at the room, demonstrating no knowledge of where he is or what he wants. I have to lead him back to the dinner table and play 20 questions to determine what he needs. He slings swear random swear words at inanimate objects – the fridge, the barstools, the drawers or chairs. In his case, I need to escape the noise that surrounds him.
The Pie is under the impression that she must be touching me at every waking moment. She will not tolerate us being in different rooms in the house, so I have not voided in private in nearly 6 months! Upon occasion, she will allow me to take a shower uninterrupted, but those times are few. When I am in the shower, I sometimes wash a few extra times just to take up some time. The Pie follows me from room to room, touching my leg, my shirt, my arm, my hair, my face…anything she can reach. I feel like an alien being probed on the mother ship!
Want I want more than just about anything in the world is a few hours with no one to do nothing. I want quiet…I want solitude…I want to be alone.
Inside of two weeks, I have had my dad in the hospital with pneumonia and excessive fluid gain twice. I am exhausted ! He’s an old man, so when he feels poorly, he acts poorly: grumpy, inconsiderate, bossy, frustrated. It’s a lot to handle when trying balance the needs of a preschooler at the same time. The Pie’s idea of a good time is most certainly not hanging out in a hospital emergency room and waiting for something to happen. She doesn’t understand what’s happening, so I can give her a pass, but my dad should know better.
Closed doors are fairly handy sometimes, but they also separate as well as protect. No one can see behind the closed doors of our home to witness what happens on a regular basis, so here’s a glimpse:
Dad sits in his recliner the majority of the day, barking orders trying to be heard over the blaring television. Then he routinely cusses the dog for reasons I have yet to figure out. He shuffles into the kitchen a few times a day and merely stands there, gaping at the room, demonstrating no knowledge of where he is or what he wants. I have to lead him back to the dinner table and play 20 questions to determine what he needs. He slings swear random swear words at inanimate objects – the fridge, the barstools, the drawers or chairs. In his case, I need to escape the noise that surrounds him.
The Pie is under the impression that she must be touching me at every waking moment. She will not tolerate us being in different rooms in the house, so I have not voided in private in nearly 6 months! Upon occasion, she will allow me to take a shower uninterrupted, but those times are few. When I am in the shower, I sometimes wash a few extra times just to take up some time. The Pie follows me from room to room, touching my leg, my shirt, my arm, my hair, my face…anything she can reach. I feel like an alien being probed on the mother ship!
Want I want more than just about anything in the world is a few hours with no one to do nothing. I want quiet…I want solitude…I want to be alone.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Terror in a Child's Eyes
It’s been 10 years. Seems like it was just last month, but in truth, an entire decade has passed since the worst terrorist attack in American history. Of course, the Pie was six years from being born and the last thing I ever expected was to have to explain to a child what happened that fateful day.
With all the media coverage and network specials flooding the television, the Pie was bound to see something she didn’t understand. She witnessed a shot of the twin towers spewing smoke into the sky and simply asked, “What happened?”
My initial response explained that it was not happening right now, but that it happened a long time ago. I had to set her mind at ease we faced no imminent danger. She climbed into my lap, stared at me with her indigo eyes and asked, “Is it bad?”
I told her that a long time ago, some very bad men stole some airplanes and flew them into some buildings to hurt American people. Of course, her natural response followed: “Why?” I was stumped. I couldn’t answer the why…fact, is I have never known the real reason it happened. I only know that it resulted in death and destruction. If I can’t understand it, how can I explain it to a four-year-old?
I was not directly affected by 9/11 but as a member of the national community, it left an impression on me. I get emotional when I hear stories of bravery and sacrifice that occurred that day. On a trip to New York in 2004, I stood at Ground Zero and wept. Still, I’m at a loss as to how to bring understanding to my daughter about the horrific events.
The images she sees on the television are of burning buildings, ominous clouds and people running for their lives. Not exactly Sesame Street fodder, so she has questions. But I don’t believe she needs to know details about what happened; she needs to know how to live with the knowledge that it happened.
In her eyes, she is safe and nothing bad will ever happen to her. In my eyes, the world is just waiting for her…
With all the media coverage and network specials flooding the television, the Pie was bound to see something she didn’t understand. She witnessed a shot of the twin towers spewing smoke into the sky and simply asked, “What happened?”
My initial response explained that it was not happening right now, but that it happened a long time ago. I had to set her mind at ease we faced no imminent danger. She climbed into my lap, stared at me with her indigo eyes and asked, “Is it bad?”
I told her that a long time ago, some very bad men stole some airplanes and flew them into some buildings to hurt American people. Of course, her natural response followed: “Why?” I was stumped. I couldn’t answer the why…fact, is I have never known the real reason it happened. I only know that it resulted in death and destruction. If I can’t understand it, how can I explain it to a four-year-old?
I was not directly affected by 9/11 but as a member of the national community, it left an impression on me. I get emotional when I hear stories of bravery and sacrifice that occurred that day. On a trip to New York in 2004, I stood at Ground Zero and wept. Still, I’m at a loss as to how to bring understanding to my daughter about the horrific events.
The images she sees on the television are of burning buildings, ominous clouds and people running for their lives. Not exactly Sesame Street fodder, so she has questions. But I don’t believe she needs to know details about what happened; she needs to know how to live with the knowledge that it happened.
In her eyes, she is safe and nothing bad will ever happen to her. In my eyes, the world is just waiting for her…
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
The Mother Tongue
Being an English major, I am quite a stickler for correct grammar, spelling and pronunciation. I know I have made spelling mistakes in this very forum, and they have mortified me, but they were usually results of bad typing in a dark room at 3 in the morning…so sue me.
I have no patience for people who incorrectly pronounce words or use words in the wrong context, but it seems that those people are the only ones crossing my path lately. My dad has home health nurses and a health aide that visit a few times a week and in an effort to quell some of the awkwardness of that time, I will invariably strike up some inane conversation with them. It never fails that one or all of them will end up with her foot in her mouth.
Also, as the Pie learns her native language, she cracks me up with some of the pronunciations she comes up with. I have never used “baby talk” with her but simply spoke to her as if she understood what I meant. By the age of 9 months, she knew the meaning of “dangerous.” At 18 months, she knew what “understand” meant and used it correctly. Now, at the age of 4, she uses words like “appropriate, investigate and completely.” However, some words do give her a little trouble. What follows is a small compendium of some of the incorrect usages and pronunciations I have heard recently. I have noted first the incorrect pronunciation, a definition and finally, an example sentence of how it wasbutchered…er, used.
ROT-A-TOO-LEE – a French vegetable dish. I like to fix up some ROT-A-TOO-LEE for a quick supper.
PA-NAN-O – a musical instrument. Can I play the PA-NAN-O?
NUH-VILL-UH – a flavor of ice cream. I don’t like chocolate; I want NUH-VILL-UH.
KWAY-SO – a Mexican cheese dip. I want to order some KWAY-SO.
NUKE-YOU-LER – it’s NUKE-LEE-ER, you bucket heads! Come on!!!
FY-NAN-SHOE-WULL – referring to money matters. We need to go over our FY-NAN-SHOE-WULL status.
SIM-FON-ICK – working together as one. We have such a SIM-FON-ICK relationship.
KIN-NEE-GAR-DUN – the start of a school career. I have a son going into KIN-NEE-GAR-DUN.
MISS-CHEE-VEE-US – up to no good. Look at him…he’s being MISS-CHEE-VEE-US.
TORE-TILL-YUH – a flat dough made of corn or flour. Do you want some TORE-TILL-YUH chips and dip?
SUH-POSE-UH-BLEE – speculated. She was SUH-POSE-UH-BLEE coming by today.
ECK-SET-ER-RUH – and so on. We need office supplies: pens, paper, ECK-SET-ER-UH.
ATH-UH-LEET – one who participates in sporting activities. He is the greatest ATH-UH-LEET to ever play the game.
So in summary, always make sure to pronounce your words correctly…it will be a blessing in the skies.
I have no patience for people who incorrectly pronounce words or use words in the wrong context, but it seems that those people are the only ones crossing my path lately. My dad has home health nurses and a health aide that visit a few times a week and in an effort to quell some of the awkwardness of that time, I will invariably strike up some inane conversation with them. It never fails that one or all of them will end up with her foot in her mouth.
Also, as the Pie learns her native language, she cracks me up with some of the pronunciations she comes up with. I have never used “baby talk” with her but simply spoke to her as if she understood what I meant. By the age of 9 months, she knew the meaning of “dangerous.” At 18 months, she knew what “understand” meant and used it correctly. Now, at the age of 4, she uses words like “appropriate, investigate and completely.” However, some words do give her a little trouble. What follows is a small compendium of some of the incorrect usages and pronunciations I have heard recently. I have noted first the incorrect pronunciation, a definition and finally, an example sentence of how it was
ROT-A-TOO-LEE – a French vegetable dish. I like to fix up some ROT-A-TOO-LEE for a quick supper.
PA-NAN-O – a musical instrument. Can I play the PA-NAN-O?
NUH-VILL-UH – a flavor of ice cream. I don’t like chocolate; I want NUH-VILL-UH.
KWAY-SO – a Mexican cheese dip. I want to order some KWAY-SO.
NUKE-YOU-LER – it’s NUKE-LEE-ER, you bucket heads! Come on!!!
FY-NAN-SHOE-WULL – referring to money matters. We need to go over our FY-NAN-SHOE-WULL status.
SIM-FON-ICK – working together as one. We have such a SIM-FON-ICK relationship.
KIN-NEE-GAR-DUN – the start of a school career. I have a son going into KIN-NEE-GAR-DUN.
MISS-CHEE-VEE-US – up to no good. Look at him…he’s being MISS-CHEE-VEE-US.
TORE-TILL-YUH – a flat dough made of corn or flour. Do you want some TORE-TILL-YUH chips and dip?
SUH-POSE-UH-BLEE – speculated. She was SUH-POSE-UH-BLEE coming by today.
ECK-SET-ER-RUH – and so on. We need office supplies: pens, paper, ECK-SET-ER-UH.
ATH-UH-LEET – one who participates in sporting activities. He is the greatest ATH-UH-LEET to ever play the game.
So in summary, always make sure to pronounce your words correctly…it will be a blessing in the skies.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Today's Care Giver
During a recent trip to the hospital with my father, I noticed a magazine on a table in the waiting room. The title was “Today’s Care Giver” and I admit being somewhat intrigued. How can a magazine devoted entirely to people who take care of other people be a successful publication? I suppose since it’s a niche market and they only seem to be available in hospitals, it meets the desired circulation.
The glossy cover features a pseudo-celebrity whose interview promises to reveal inside secrets to caring for elderly parents. If we talked about it in real terms, there would be no need for psycho-babbly publications and do-it-yourself seminars. Yeah, the editor-in-chief of this magazine travels all over the country and holds conferences on how to be a caregiver. Where can I sign up for that gig? The one secret you won’t learn in a magazine or at a seminar is this: Have limitless resources.
Financially, it is a huge strain to manage a household that includes a 4-year old, a 46-year old and an 82-year old. I do not work “outside the home” (as they say), so we depend on my dad’s very fixed income to support us. Utility bills, groceries, prescriptions, other personal necessities must be managed with very little financial wiggle room. In fact, for the past couple of months, I have relied on good friends to help me make my ends meet. But really, money is the least of my concerns.
It’s my personal resources that are being drained. It may look to those outside the situation that I have a free ride, but nothing could be further from the truth. I work my fanny off every day to make sure that our odd little household is running smoothly and everyone is well cared for. For example, just this morning, I realized that I had done more in a couple of hours than most people get done in a whole day.
I awoke to my daughter whacking me in the head with her cup, demanding more milk. As I stumbled through the living room, my father greeted me from his recliner (his throne), his leg covered in blood and stuck in a plastic grocery sack. He had injured his shin during the night and spent the rest of the wee hours with his leg propped up. So… I rinsed, refilled and delivered the Pie’s cup and grabbed medical supplies from the bathroom. I washed Dad’s lacerated shin with normal saline (just happen to have it lying around), and then cleaned the dried blood with warm soapy water. I covered the wound with antibiotic cream and dressed it with sterile bandages. Upon completion of this task, I had been awake for about 20 minutes.
After washing my hands, I set to work preparing breakfast. Before I could locate the pancake mix in the cabinet, my daughter blasts into the kitchen with the force of Iron Man and declares she is hungry. I explain that I am preparing our regular Saturday breakfast of pancakes and sausage, but she rebuts that she will starve if she doesn’t have something to eat RIGHT THIS SECOND!!! A quick talking-to and instructions to stand in the corner took care of that, so back to breakfast. While I wait for the griddle and frying pan to heat up, I remove the dishes from the dishwasher and put them away. Why is it there is ALWAYS a dirty dish somewhere in this house? With that done, I grab a load of laundry and start it on it’s merry, agitating way.
Back to breakfast: sausage in the pan, batter on the griddle…we are good to go. Oh, suddenly, from the corner where she still stands, my daughter announces that she needs a new band-aid on her toe (this will be the 17th since her injury less than 24 hours ago) and it must take priority over anything else I am doing. She’s so funny…. I flip the pancakes, get the required accoutrements from the pantry and run to the bathroom for a new princess band-aid. I realize I carried the syrup with me all through the house as I sit the Pie down for a new wound dressing. I go back to the kitchen to finish up pancakes and sausage and serve them up an empty dining table. My dad has wandered off to the bathroom, which could take up to 45 minutes, and my daughter…well; she’s still standing in the corner. At least she takes direction well!
As I wait for everyone to be seated, I decide to do a little dusting in the living room when the phone rings and it’s a company to which my dad has applied for Medicare Prescription Part D insurance, explaining why we are unable to enroll him at this time, blah, blah, blah… By the time I hang up, both my charges sit at the table looking at me like Oliver in the movie asking for more gruel! Oh, but wait…where the hell is the syrup? I honestly had to remind myself why I was ever in the entry foyer to begin with when I discovered the Log Cabin sitting forlornly in the corner. Now, let the eating commence.
After 4 bites, the Pie explains that she is full. This from the child who swore she would shrivel up and die if she didn’t eat something. Dad eats silently, that is until he says, “The sausage is a little browner than I like.” Fortunately for all involved, I say nothing. Breakfast is finally, mercifully over and now the real work begins.
Three more loads of laundry, dishes, sweeping, mopping, vacuuming, wound care for both of those clumsy clods I love, then some playing with Barbies, Play-Doh and the Littlest Pet Shop. Preparing and cleaning up from lunch and dinner will also make their way onto the list.
If I have time, I plan to write that magazine and suggest they change the name to: “Today’s Care Giver is Tomorrow’s Exhausted Raving Lunatic.”
The glossy cover features a pseudo-celebrity whose interview promises to reveal inside secrets to caring for elderly parents. If we talked about it in real terms, there would be no need for psycho-babbly publications and do-it-yourself seminars. Yeah, the editor-in-chief of this magazine travels all over the country and holds conferences on how to be a caregiver. Where can I sign up for that gig? The one secret you won’t learn in a magazine or at a seminar is this: Have limitless resources.
Financially, it is a huge strain to manage a household that includes a 4-year old, a 46-year old and an 82-year old. I do not work “outside the home” (as they say), so we depend on my dad’s very fixed income to support us. Utility bills, groceries, prescriptions, other personal necessities must be managed with very little financial wiggle room. In fact, for the past couple of months, I have relied on good friends to help me make my ends meet. But really, money is the least of my concerns.
It’s my personal resources that are being drained. It may look to those outside the situation that I have a free ride, but nothing could be further from the truth. I work my fanny off every day to make sure that our odd little household is running smoothly and everyone is well cared for. For example, just this morning, I realized that I had done more in a couple of hours than most people get done in a whole day.
I awoke to my daughter whacking me in the head with her cup, demanding more milk. As I stumbled through the living room, my father greeted me from his recliner (his throne), his leg covered in blood and stuck in a plastic grocery sack. He had injured his shin during the night and spent the rest of the wee hours with his leg propped up. So… I rinsed, refilled and delivered the Pie’s cup and grabbed medical supplies from the bathroom. I washed Dad’s lacerated shin with normal saline (just happen to have it lying around), and then cleaned the dried blood with warm soapy water. I covered the wound with antibiotic cream and dressed it with sterile bandages. Upon completion of this task, I had been awake for about 20 minutes.
After washing my hands, I set to work preparing breakfast. Before I could locate the pancake mix in the cabinet, my daughter blasts into the kitchen with the force of Iron Man and declares she is hungry. I explain that I am preparing our regular Saturday breakfast of pancakes and sausage, but she rebuts that she will starve if she doesn’t have something to eat RIGHT THIS SECOND!!! A quick talking-to and instructions to stand in the corner took care of that, so back to breakfast. While I wait for the griddle and frying pan to heat up, I remove the dishes from the dishwasher and put them away. Why is it there is ALWAYS a dirty dish somewhere in this house? With that done, I grab a load of laundry and start it on it’s merry, agitating way.
Back to breakfast: sausage in the pan, batter on the griddle…we are good to go. Oh, suddenly, from the corner where she still stands, my daughter announces that she needs a new band-aid on her toe (this will be the 17th since her injury less than 24 hours ago) and it must take priority over anything else I am doing. She’s so funny…. I flip the pancakes, get the required accoutrements from the pantry and run to the bathroom for a new princess band-aid. I realize I carried the syrup with me all through the house as I sit the Pie down for a new wound dressing. I go back to the kitchen to finish up pancakes and sausage and serve them up an empty dining table. My dad has wandered off to the bathroom, which could take up to 45 minutes, and my daughter…well; she’s still standing in the corner. At least she takes direction well!
As I wait for everyone to be seated, I decide to do a little dusting in the living room when the phone rings and it’s a company to which my dad has applied for Medicare Prescription Part D insurance, explaining why we are unable to enroll him at this time, blah, blah, blah… By the time I hang up, both my charges sit at the table looking at me like Oliver in the movie asking for more gruel! Oh, but wait…where the hell is the syrup? I honestly had to remind myself why I was ever in the entry foyer to begin with when I discovered the Log Cabin sitting forlornly in the corner. Now, let the eating commence.
After 4 bites, the Pie explains that she is full. This from the child who swore she would shrivel up and die if she didn’t eat something. Dad eats silently, that is until he says, “The sausage is a little browner than I like.” Fortunately for all involved, I say nothing. Breakfast is finally, mercifully over and now the real work begins.
Three more loads of laundry, dishes, sweeping, mopping, vacuuming, wound care for both of those clumsy clods I love, then some playing with Barbies, Play-Doh and the Littlest Pet Shop. Preparing and cleaning up from lunch and dinner will also make their way onto the list.
If I have time, I plan to write that magazine and suggest they change the name to: “Today’s Care Giver is Tomorrow’s Exhausted Raving Lunatic.”
Thursday, July 14, 2011
What's In My Hand?
I am The Pie Baker...and I am a spanker. But, wait! Before you call Social Services on me, let me explain. When the Pie gets a spank, it's only after she meets certain criteria established upon the first incident of undesired behavior. I only spank with my hand, no other object is used. And a singular spank is what she gets. Not a barrage of smacks on the buttocks. but one solidly landed spank. I know there is an ongoing and fiercely heated debate regarding this issue and I'm not, repeat, AM NOT asking for support, a comment blast, or chastisement, or finger-waving or whatever else fanatical people do to make normal people feel bad about themselves. So, kindly zip it. Now, let's move on.
It occurred to me that The Pie has received more spanks in the months since she turned 4 than she received in her entire first 3 years. Now, I have not conducted empirical, variable or any other kind of real research on this fact, but the only sense I can make out of it is that for the first 2 years she did nothing that warranted an actual spanking and now as her personality takes a more solid shape (some days it's a gargoyle, but most days it's a sunflower) she is testing the boundaries as well as my willingness and ability to enforce them. I get it...it was part of the sign-on bonus I got when I gave her life. But what I do often wonder is what will she remember about my hands?
Will she be haunted by memories of my hand hitting her little bottom or will she smile when she recalls my fingers clenching her tiny chubby hands as she took her first steps? Will she suffer flashbacks of getting spanked for an act of defiance or will she one day revisit when my hands soothed her boo-boos and gently wiped tears from her soft cheeks? It's my hope that she remembers all of these things and more...because what I hold in my hands is the story of a life. Mine. Hers. Ours.
I like to think of it this way...a sculptor begins with a raw material and his or her job is to create beauty from that material. Whether it is clay that must be pounded repeatedly to obtain the perfect curve, or steel that must be hammered into shape, every medium used to create art sustains hitting in order to achieve the artist's vision. During the process, the artist becomes just as much a part of the medium as the piece of art itself.
In that vein, The Pie must withstand my hand occasionally hitting her bottom so that I can shape her into the work of art I see but cannot describe. She must learn consequences and discipline and focus and order. The lessons she learns by my imprinting my hand on her tushy I hope will be passed down to her child as she holds it in her hands and shares its secrets.
It occurred to me that The Pie has received more spanks in the months since she turned 4 than she received in her entire first 3 years. Now, I have not conducted empirical, variable or any other kind of real research on this fact, but the only sense I can make out of it is that for the first 2 years she did nothing that warranted an actual spanking and now as her personality takes a more solid shape (some days it's a gargoyle, but most days it's a sunflower) she is testing the boundaries as well as my willingness and ability to enforce them. I get it...it was part of the sign-on bonus I got when I gave her life. But what I do often wonder is what will she remember about my hands?
Will she be haunted by memories of my hand hitting her little bottom or will she smile when she recalls my fingers clenching her tiny chubby hands as she took her first steps? Will she suffer flashbacks of getting spanked for an act of defiance or will she one day revisit when my hands soothed her boo-boos and gently wiped tears from her soft cheeks? It's my hope that she remembers all of these things and more...because what I hold in my hands is the story of a life. Mine. Hers. Ours.
I like to think of it this way...a sculptor begins with a raw material and his or her job is to create beauty from that material. Whether it is clay that must be pounded repeatedly to obtain the perfect curve, or steel that must be hammered into shape, every medium used to create art sustains hitting in order to achieve the artist's vision. During the process, the artist becomes just as much a part of the medium as the piece of art itself.
In that vein, The Pie must withstand my hand occasionally hitting her bottom so that I can shape her into the work of art I see but cannot describe. She must learn consequences and discipline and focus and order. The lessons she learns by my imprinting my hand on her tushy I hope will be passed down to her child as she holds it in her hands and shares its secrets.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Go The F*#k to Sleep
I recently received a wonderful gift from a friend that truly gets me and my experience as a parent. The gift was a book entitled “Go the F*#k to Sleep” by Adam Mansbach and it is an irreverent and painfully accurate glimpse into getting your kid to go to sleep.
The book is full of sweet little rhymes - descriptions of kittens snuggling and lambs resting – and visually arresting illustrations by Ricardo Cortes. The author resorts to all the standard efforts to coerce a child to sleep, but updates the plea with the lament, “Go the F*#k to Sleep.” I repeatedly laughed out loud as each page reveled increasing frustration and vehement requests to the listening toddler to just go to sleep – something I know quite personally.
The Pie's nighttime ritual is pretty much the same. Dinner, a little play time, bath, teeth brushing, story time and bed. Every night she attempts a negotiation as if she is dealing with a hostage-taker. “I will play for 1 minute and then go to sleep.” When I say, “No, it's bedtime,” she tries a different approach. “Mama, how about I watch a movie and then go to sleep?” I just stick to the script and say “no” to everything, which turns bedtime into a stressful and raw experience. Mansbach must have obviously placed cameras in my house, because I am certain I have mumbled some of the pleas more than once. Verbatim.
When I finally get out the door, after chanting the requisite bedtime words, I take a deep breath and wonder how long I have until she comes out of her room waving her sippy cup or claiming she needs to use the bathroom, or suddenly needing to share a thought she had four days ago. It's usually between 20-45 minutes. But on very special nights, if she's sick or just exhausted, when I put her to bed and hear not a peep until morning. Those are the nights that God smiles on me.
There is a line in the book that totally captures the essence of my nightly struggle:
The book is full of sweet little rhymes - descriptions of kittens snuggling and lambs resting – and visually arresting illustrations by Ricardo Cortes. The author resorts to all the standard efforts to coerce a child to sleep, but updates the plea with the lament, “Go the F*#k to Sleep.” I repeatedly laughed out loud as each page reveled increasing frustration and vehement requests to the listening toddler to just go to sleep – something I know quite personally.
The Pie's nighttime ritual is pretty much the same. Dinner, a little play time, bath, teeth brushing, story time and bed. Every night she attempts a negotiation as if she is dealing with a hostage-taker. “I will play for 1 minute and then go to sleep.” When I say, “No, it's bedtime,” she tries a different approach. “Mama, how about I watch a movie and then go to sleep?” I just stick to the script and say “no” to everything, which turns bedtime into a stressful and raw experience. Mansbach must have obviously placed cameras in my house, because I am certain I have mumbled some of the pleas more than once. Verbatim.
When I finally get out the door, after chanting the requisite bedtime words, I take a deep breath and wonder how long I have until she comes out of her room waving her sippy cup or claiming she needs to use the bathroom, or suddenly needing to share a thought she had four days ago. It's usually between 20-45 minutes. But on very special nights, if she's sick or just exhausted, when I put her to bed and hear not a peep until morning. Those are the nights that God smiles on me.
There is a line in the book that totally captures the essence of my nightly struggle:
“A hot crimson rage fills my heart, love.
I get so angry at this adorable angel that I nourished in my body and gave breath to that I am tempted to punch a hole in dainty shelf near her bed. How can she do that to me? More importantly, WHY do I let her do that to me? By there time her bedtime rolls around, I am spent. Goofily, swaying from room to room, picking up toys and shoes and clothes. Gleefully giggling to myself that I might actually get some quiet personal time. Oh, what a cock-eyed optimist I can be. No, what I should do is don my armor and prepare for battle!
Let me be clear, I do not in any way recommend you read this book to your child. While it masquerades as a childrens' book, it contains adult profanities that you probably don't want your child knowing at this tender age. “Go the F*#k to Sleep” is a work of inspired genius for every parent – whether of one child or ten – and can help us all, at least for a moment, laugh at ourselves.
Now, I need a sequel for advice to get her to take a F*#king Bath!
For real, shut the f*#k up and sleep!”
Let me be clear, I do not in any way recommend you read this book to your child. While it masquerades as a childrens' book, it contains adult profanities that you probably don't want your child knowing at this tender age. “Go the F*#k to Sleep” is a work of inspired genius for every parent – whether of one child or ten – and can help us all, at least for a moment, laugh at ourselves.
Now, I need a sequel for advice to get her to take a F*#king Bath!
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
52 Pick Up
Confession time: my daughter has WAY too much stuff. Mostly toys. And she cannot stand to leave them on the shelves, or in the toy box, or in the storage bins. For some reason, she needs to be able to glance at any given square inch of our 1200 square foot house and find one of her playthings. Me? I can't stand it! I am all about organization - a place or everything and everything in it's place.
Today I counted and kept track of the things that I picked up and put away (some items more than once) and was astounded at the multi-colored flotsam and jetsam I waded through to achieve the smallest amount of standard organization. My strong back proved victorious against the enemy, but I don't know how long it will hold out.
Strewn about my living space were:
1 monkey towel (the Pie's favorite)
2 shredded tissues (those might have actually been courtesy of the dog)
3 crayons
3 Polly Pocket Dolls
4 pairs of shoes (making 8 total)
4 stuffed animals
5 socks (don't ask about the singleton...I have no clue)
6 La La Loopsy mini-dolls (those things can really do a number on bare feet!)
9 Little Pet Shop pets
and 15 various McDonald's Happy Meal toys (as God as my witness, I will one day shove every one of them up Ronald McDonald's nose. Just have to find the freak first!!)
Alas, these 52 items do not complete the list. I also picked up stuff of my dad's:
3 dropped pills
2 towels (left on the bathroom floor)
2 pairs of shoes (4 total)
22 pieces of junk mail (that piled up since I moved in)
and 1AWOL hearing aid
So, to be clear...I am picking up what you're laying down.
Today I counted and kept track of the things that I picked up and put away (some items more than once) and was astounded at the multi-colored flotsam and jetsam I waded through to achieve the smallest amount of standard organization. My strong back proved victorious against the enemy, but I don't know how long it will hold out.
Strewn about my living space were:
1 monkey towel (the Pie's favorite)
2 shredded tissues (those might have actually been courtesy of the dog)
3 crayons
3 Polly Pocket Dolls
4 pairs of shoes (making 8 total)
4 stuffed animals
5 socks (don't ask about the singleton...I have no clue)
6 La La Loopsy mini-dolls (those things can really do a number on bare feet!)
9 Little Pet Shop pets
and 15 various McDonald's Happy Meal toys (as God as my witness, I will one day shove every one of them up Ronald McDonald's nose. Just have to find the freak first!!)
Alas, these 52 items do not complete the list. I also picked up stuff of my dad's:
3 dropped pills
2 towels (left on the bathroom floor)
2 pairs of shoes (4 total)
22 pieces of junk mail (that piled up since I moved in)
and 1AWOL hearing aid
So, to be clear...I am picking up what you're laying down.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
The Parental Divide
Admitting I don't know everything is difficult for me, but it is the harsh reality. I have only been a parent for 4 years so I have no experience with teenage angst (other than my own, of course), or other issues that apply to children older than the age of my own little Pie. What I do know, and consider myself expert in the field of, is what I feel is best for my child and what I can live with. Honestly, sometimes those are exclusive to one another, but for the most part, they exist in harmonious glory. People who are not familiar with my child or know anything about us often attempt to instruct me on how to parent my daughter. But here's what I have to say to them:
YOU DON'T KNOW EVERYTHING EITHER!!!
My child is an individual and what works for most kids may not work for her and vice versa. I am exceedingly weary of women piping up in the check-out line at Wal Mart to tell me that my child needs a coat, or shouldn't be drinking from a sippy cup, or should be able to conjugate at least 10 verbs at her age. What makes these people think that I don't know what's best for my own child? The Pie happens to be very warm blooded and rarely gets cold, even in the deepest of winter, so wearing a coat for her is torture. When we travel away from home, she takes a sippy cup because I don't want to deal with the inevitable mess that will result from a spill. And yes, she is 4 and still talks like Cookie Monster...we are dealing with that, OK?
When I notice this situation developing, what I desire most is to punch the sanctimonious ass-hat in the throat and holler "Mind your own business, you daft cow!" But I can't risk being banned from Wal Mart. So, I nod and and make some noncommittal remark and psychically will the checker to engage warp speed so I can make my escape. Why must I defend my actions as a parent? I know the basics - stuff like not letting her play in the street, keeping her away from plastic bags, feed her - that kind of stuff, so why am I - and other moms for that matter - under such intense scrutiny?
Why must mothers be divided on the issue of parenting? After all, what we really want is to raise responsible, caring, inquisitive, loving, kind, intelligent people to launch out into the world...what difference does it make how they get there?
YOU DON'T KNOW EVERYTHING EITHER!!!
My child is an individual and what works for most kids may not work for her and vice versa. I am exceedingly weary of women piping up in the check-out line at Wal Mart to tell me that my child needs a coat, or shouldn't be drinking from a sippy cup, or should be able to conjugate at least 10 verbs at her age. What makes these people think that I don't know what's best for my own child? The Pie happens to be very warm blooded and rarely gets cold, even in the deepest of winter, so wearing a coat for her is torture. When we travel away from home, she takes a sippy cup because I don't want to deal with the inevitable mess that will result from a spill. And yes, she is 4 and still talks like Cookie Monster...we are dealing with that, OK?
When I notice this situation developing, what I desire most is to punch the sanctimonious ass-hat in the throat and holler "Mind your own business, you daft cow!" But I can't risk being banned from Wal Mart. So, I nod and and make some noncommittal remark and psychically will the checker to engage warp speed so I can make my escape. Why must I defend my actions as a parent? I know the basics - stuff like not letting her play in the street, keeping her away from plastic bags, feed her - that kind of stuff, so why am I - and other moms for that matter - under such intense scrutiny?
Why must mothers be divided on the issue of parenting? After all, what we really want is to raise responsible, caring, inquisitive, loving, kind, intelligent people to launch out into the world...what difference does it make how they get there?
Monday, June 6, 2011
Tap, Tap, Tap on My Heart
I love dance...all kinds. I took dance lessons for 14 years and really enjoyed the creative and performance aspect of it. I did tap, ballet, jazz, lyrical, and pointe. I dreamed of dancing the pas de deux from "The Nutcracker" with Mikhail Baryshnikov and taking Radio City Music Hall by storm. But truthfully, it's hard to parlay dance, particularly solo dance, into a solid financial future. I never entertained dance as a profession, mostly because of my body type, but I truly loved the art form.
So that's why I signed up the Pie for a 6 week summer dance camp that will teach her introductory tap and ballet. I became nearly spastic at the idea of my daughter following in my dance shoes and couldn't wait to complete the enrollment form. For one hour a week, my child will learn grace and expression through dance and I am certain that even if she just stands there for the entire hour (which I highly doubt). I will be proud of her effort.
The studio has specific requirements for dance students, so I had to purchase a black leotard, pink tights, tap shoes and non-split sole ballet shoes. They were easy enough to find and fairly affordable, so I excitedly ordered the items online and awaited their arrival. Surprisingly, one item arrived today.
Shiny, black patent leather tap shoes, sparkling with potential. My tears only made them gleam brighter. I became unexpectedly overcome with emotion thinking about seeing my little Pie take the stage and perform her heart out. I thought about how excited I was when I was young to move from the clunky block sole tap shoes to the character shoes with heels...and someday she may be equally excited. And will share her joy.
It was just another milestone to mark the Pie's development and maturation. I know she can't stay little forever, but it seems that with every moment that passes, she grows a little more into a big girl. It's a good thing I have a strong heart!
So that's why I signed up the Pie for a 6 week summer dance camp that will teach her introductory tap and ballet. I became nearly spastic at the idea of my daughter following in my dance shoes and couldn't wait to complete the enrollment form. For one hour a week, my child will learn grace and expression through dance and I am certain that even if she just stands there for the entire hour (which I highly doubt). I will be proud of her effort.
The studio has specific requirements for dance students, so I had to purchase a black leotard, pink tights, tap shoes and non-split sole ballet shoes. They were easy enough to find and fairly affordable, so I excitedly ordered the items online and awaited their arrival. Surprisingly, one item arrived today.
Shiny, black patent leather tap shoes, sparkling with potential. My tears only made them gleam brighter. I became unexpectedly overcome with emotion thinking about seeing my little Pie take the stage and perform her heart out. I thought about how excited I was when I was young to move from the clunky block sole tap shoes to the character shoes with heels...and someday she may be equally excited. And will share her joy.
It was just another milestone to mark the Pie's development and maturation. I know she can't stay little forever, but it seems that with every moment that passes, she grows a little more into a big girl. It's a good thing I have a strong heart!
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Star-Studded Shopping
I have seen the underwear of the biggest country music superstar of all time. I even know what kind and size he wears. I should clarify by telling you that at the time I swept my peepers over the tightie-whities and t-shirts of this mega-star, they were hermetically sealed in a package and lying in a Target shopping cart. While shopping this afternoon, I ran into this man who dominated the charts for a decade. Yes, literally “ran” into him. I was returning to my cart and backed into him, turned and said, “Excuse me, I’m so sorry…HOLY CRAP! I mean, hello, my name is Jackie. I graduated high school with (your ex-wife).” He smiled that wide smile that America loves, his ice blue eyes sparkling, and said, “Hi…I’m Garth.”
Yep. I live in the same relatively small town that counts Garth Brooks and Trisha Yearwood as residents. His ex-wife Sandy and I graduated the same year from our high school they have neighboring properties in our town and by all accounts have a very amicable relationship. I confess that I am easily embarrassingly star-struck and the idea of meeting celebrities just makes jittery and emit noises similar to Spongebob Squarepants.
Since I moved back in with my dad, I have actually hoped to run into some people from high school or other folks I used to know and it has not happened once. I admit being mildly disappointed about it. But today certainly made up for it! Mr. Brooks welcomed my introduction and appeared to endure my verbal diarrhea with graciousness. We chatted about high school stuff and he told me his eldest daughter has dated the son of one my classmates for several years. He fawned over the Pie, who strangely sat quietly in the cart and stared, and then he said would send my regards to Sandy.
As we parted company, and Garth made his purchase, I realized that I had made polite conversation with and shaken the hand of a real live, no-doubt-about supermegastar, but today he was just a dude who needed new underpants. Very cool.
Yep. I live in the same relatively small town that counts Garth Brooks and Trisha Yearwood as residents. His ex-wife Sandy and I graduated the same year from our high school they have neighboring properties in our town and by all accounts have a very amicable relationship. I confess that I am easily embarrassingly star-struck and the idea of meeting celebrities just makes jittery and emit noises similar to Spongebob Squarepants.
Since I moved back in with my dad, I have actually hoped to run into some people from high school or other folks I used to know and it has not happened once. I admit being mildly disappointed about it. But today certainly made up for it! Mr. Brooks welcomed my introduction and appeared to endure my verbal diarrhea with graciousness. We chatted about high school stuff and he told me his eldest daughter has dated the son of one my classmates for several years. He fawned over the Pie, who strangely sat quietly in the cart and stared, and then he said would send my regards to Sandy.
As we parted company, and Garth made his purchase, I realized that I had made polite conversation with and shaken the hand of a real live, no-doubt-about supermegastar, but today he was just a dude who needed new underpants. Very cool.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Birthday Wishes
Today is my birthday. This particular milestone marks the last year of my mid-forties. It was a pretty good day, I guess. I’m okay with having another birthday, really, I am. But I wish it were still socially acceptable to have a big deal made about the day of my birth. I am an only child AND I am adopted, so every birthday of my childhood was a celebration of epic proportions. But as I have aged, I find that not many people like celebrating birthdays – theirs or anyone else’s. It reminds them of their own mortality. So, as I blow out my (nonexistent) birthday candles, I wish…
…people could embrace their special day and truly celebrate being alive. So many humans are suffering, starving and struggling, but most of us are more afraid of noticing a new line around the eyes or another gray hair than of losing our home in a natural disaster!
…that everyone could relax and enjoy accolades from friends, family and co-workers regardless of expense, time or medium. I was thrilled that I had nearly 40 Facebook messages wishing me a happy birthday. Where else could I get that kind of recognition? Gotta love the Facebook!
… it was not an embarrassment to have plowed through an entire box of Rice Krispie Treats in a day, but it is and I have to live with that.
… my daughter could sit still and quietly for 10 minutes. Not just for my birthday, but ANY day!
…my old friends knew how much I really miss them and my current friends knew how much I love them.
…my bathroom had a whirlpool tub in it.
… I could parlay my love of words into a lucrative income-generating vehicle.
… I could bring myself to lather, rinse and repeat.
… I liked to eat tomatoes. I don’t, but I really want to – they look so pretty and appetizing on the outside, but something just ain’t right on the inside. Hard to explain.
… the Dancing With The Stars results show was just half an hour.
… I was more patient and better at juggling the needs of my daughter and father.
… had the time to develop an idea I have for a book that I think could be really awesome.
… lived closer to people I love dearly and miss desperately.
… Charlie Sheen would get his shit together.
… for President Obama to be re-elected in order to fulfill his destiny as THE preeminent President of the 21st century.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
The Average Person
Most of the people I know would consider themselves average. A generally accepted definition of “average” is something not out of the ordinary. Is that really so bad? I am a student of words and believe that a word can carry many responsibilities and inferences based on how it used, the tone of voice used when spoken and the context. In our current society, we expect everyone to excel beyond our wildest dreams – our favorite teams to pound their opponents into the turf, our favorite shows to win every award for which they are nominated, our children to talk at 9 months, read at 16 months, solve algebraic equations at age 3 and win the Nobel prize by the age of 5.
There’s too much pressure to be excellent. I used to harbor a deep-seated fear of my own mediocrity, but over the years, I have embraced the fact that I am not a stunningly beautiful woman, nor am I a wart-laden, socially inept ogre with a unibrow. I’m average looking. And I can live with that. In fact, there are times I long to be average – just another one of the teeming masses. I am what they call a “plus-size gal” and would give a kidney to be an “average” size. I’d like to be part of the average American family – with two parents, a house, 2 car garage, adorable children and a purebred dog. But instead I am a single mother of a toddler who works full time to barely make ends meet. And if the truth were to be told, I would venture to guess that there are more like me that would like to admit! I think there can be found a certain joy in being average.
If I push myself to achieve excellence all the time, I will push myself right into an early grave! Sure, there are times that I must be above average – parenting, my work, my writing – but sometimes, it’s OK to be just average. Do I want to spend an extra 15 minutes hand washing the dishes before I put them in the dishwasher because I want them to look excellent as they sit in my kitchen cabinet? Nope. Do I want to lose valuable play time with the Pie because I desire outstandingly shiny floors? Um…uh-uh. Do I agree to lose important sleep time in exchange for a spectacularly ironed shirt? Hell, no!
These days, every institution – from schools, corporations, lemonade stands – touts their goals of excellence. If all those entities are so excellent, where’s the balance? Where’s the enterprise? I remember when Avis started advertising that they try harder…there was no need to lie and say they were number one or the best. They knew they had things to work on and admitted it. I respect that. Ito me, it takes great courage to embrace ordinariness. I don’t mean to withdraw into oblivion, but to tread surely in a forward motion. You know what they say: The tall nail is the first to get hammered.
Being a perfectionist can practically paralyze you into believing that nothing is ever good enough. But when it really matters, some things just have to remain average. What a burden it must be to feel you have to be perfect all the time – perfectly groomed, perfectly articulate and perfectly charming. But that’s a little intimidating to average people who are just trying to make it through the day without shiny floors and ironed shirts!
There’s too much pressure to be excellent. I used to harbor a deep-seated fear of my own mediocrity, but over the years, I have embraced the fact that I am not a stunningly beautiful woman, nor am I a wart-laden, socially inept ogre with a unibrow. I’m average looking. And I can live with that. In fact, there are times I long to be average – just another one of the teeming masses. I am what they call a “plus-size gal” and would give a kidney to be an “average” size. I’d like to be part of the average American family – with two parents, a house, 2 car garage, adorable children and a purebred dog. But instead I am a single mother of a toddler who works full time to barely make ends meet. And if the truth were to be told, I would venture to guess that there are more like me that would like to admit! I think there can be found a certain joy in being average.
If I push myself to achieve excellence all the time, I will push myself right into an early grave! Sure, there are times that I must be above average – parenting, my work, my writing – but sometimes, it’s OK to be just average. Do I want to spend an extra 15 minutes hand washing the dishes before I put them in the dishwasher because I want them to look excellent as they sit in my kitchen cabinet? Nope. Do I want to lose valuable play time with the Pie because I desire outstandingly shiny floors? Um…uh-uh. Do I agree to lose important sleep time in exchange for a spectacularly ironed shirt? Hell, no!
These days, every institution – from schools, corporations, lemonade stands – touts their goals of excellence. If all those entities are so excellent, where’s the balance? Where’s the enterprise? I remember when Avis started advertising that they try harder…there was no need to lie and say they were number one or the best. They knew they had things to work on and admitted it. I respect that. Ito me, it takes great courage to embrace ordinariness. I don’t mean to withdraw into oblivion, but to tread surely in a forward motion. You know what they say: The tall nail is the first to get hammered.
Being a perfectionist can practically paralyze you into believing that nothing is ever good enough. But when it really matters, some things just have to remain average. What a burden it must be to feel you have to be perfect all the time – perfectly groomed, perfectly articulate and perfectly charming. But that’s a little intimidating to average people who are just trying to make it through the day without shiny floors and ironed shirts!
Friday, April 29, 2011
Baby Cried the Day the Circus Came to Town
There are only about eight fewer things I love doing more than planning an event and my daughter’s birthday (her 4th) was more than an event, it was an extravaganza! In serious planning mode since January, I considered every detail and set a course to produce the Greatest Show on Earth … or At Least Our Little Corner of It!!!
Our circus guests dined on hot dogs, nachos, cotton candy and peanuts; they made their own circus party hats, posed in a photo booth, played games like Pin the Nose on the Clown and Elephant Ring Toss. The children ran around the grounds with innocent abandon while the adults looked on and wished they had a fraction of the energy on display.
There were prizes and candy, cake and ice cream, presents and friends. The only thing missing?
Pictures.
Don’t misunderstand, I took my camera to the park for the circus extravaganza and even managed to take about 568 pictures. However, when I got home to check out my awe-inspiring photography, the wind left my multi-colored big top tent. Upon entry into its dedicated slot, the memory card made a noise similar to that of a farting wildebeest and displayed a blank window on my screen. All my pictures were gone. My wild keening was heard about 11 blocks away and when I could finally breathe normally again, I attempted a recovery mission.
I downloaded an application, went through all the steps prepared myself to weep with joy as I expectantly gazed at the screen waiting for the lost photos to magically reappear.
Yeah, not so much.
The recovery mission was a failure and I have absolutely no pictures from my daughter’s 4th birthday party. It’s a good thing I have an excellent memory because I can recall those special moments later on in life.
Now where did I put my gingko-biloba?
Our circus guests dined on hot dogs, nachos, cotton candy and peanuts; they made their own circus party hats, posed in a photo booth, played games like Pin the Nose on the Clown and Elephant Ring Toss. The children ran around the grounds with innocent abandon while the adults looked on and wished they had a fraction of the energy on display.
There were prizes and candy, cake and ice cream, presents and friends. The only thing missing?
Pictures.
Don’t misunderstand, I took my camera to the park for the circus extravaganza and even managed to take about 568 pictures. However, when I got home to check out my awe-inspiring photography, the wind left my multi-colored big top tent. Upon entry into its dedicated slot, the memory card made a noise similar to that of a farting wildebeest and displayed a blank window on my screen. All my pictures were gone. My wild keening was heard about 11 blocks away and when I could finally breathe normally again, I attempted a recovery mission.
I downloaded an application, went through all the steps prepared myself to weep with joy as I expectantly gazed at the screen waiting for the lost photos to magically reappear.
Yeah, not so much.
The recovery mission was a failure and I have absolutely no pictures from my daughter’s 4th birthday party. It’s a good thing I have an excellent memory because I can recall those special moments later on in life.
Now where did I put my gingko-biloba?
Thursday, April 28, 2011
A Bitter Pill and A Better Pie
I’ve had to make only a handful of really difficult decisions in my lifetime. But none proved greater than the decision to become my father’s full-time family caregiver. Dad is 82 and lost my mother 18 years ago. He lost a second wife almost three years ago. Over the past few years, he had grown more and more dependent upon me for a variety of tasks: laundry, computer help, grocery shopping and light bulb changing among others.
It dawned on me after nearly five months of unemployment that something was going to have to give one way or the other. Dad needed more of my time and I needed more of his financial assistance to make my ends meet. The conversation occurred somewhat naturally and we began to seriously discuss the option of me and the Pie moving in with him. I won’t lie; it was an emotional topic – for both of us.
Dad doesn’t like thinking about his mortality, nor do I, but the fact is that he is going to die. Neither of us knows when that will happen, and he refuses to entertain the idea of a nursing home. Truth is, I don’t want a stranger caring for him anyway.
So I had a lot to think about. How would I adjust to not having my own life? How would he adjust to the changes occurring under his own roof? How would the Pie adjust to the new environment? How can three generations separated by 40 years each live peacefully in the same house? I still don’t have answers to those questions, but what I do have is a plan.
I know, I know….God laughs when we plan, but there is no other way I can handle this situation without a well thought out plan and monkey ass load of lists.
It has now been a month since the Pie and I moved in and I believe the transition proved to be hardest on me. I bear the burden of preparing meals, laundering all the clothes, cleaning the entire house, yard work, transporting my charges to their respective appointments, shopping, staying on top of what prescriptions need filling, and fixing things. Lots of things. Light bulbs, stopped up toilets, leaky faucets, Barbie doll legs, Littlest Pet shop toys, fishing poles, shoes, air filters, TV connections and recliners have all needed my attention in some fashion.
Then there’s the things that I am always picking up: shoes, papers, blankets, clothes, toys, chewed up toys, dropped food, towels…and poop. LOTS of poop!! And not just the kind that once belonged to the emotionally disturbed dog!
My daughter adores her grandfather and enjoys her new big bed and pretty bedroom. Dad beams every time the Pie walks in the room and has laughed more in the past 47 days than in all of his 82 years. It just seems like we all have our own medicine to take, but I sometimes wish mine were easier to swallow.
It dawned on me after nearly five months of unemployment that something was going to have to give one way or the other. Dad needed more of my time and I needed more of his financial assistance to make my ends meet. The conversation occurred somewhat naturally and we began to seriously discuss the option of me and the Pie moving in with him. I won’t lie; it was an emotional topic – for both of us.
Dad doesn’t like thinking about his mortality, nor do I, but the fact is that he is going to die. Neither of us knows when that will happen, and he refuses to entertain the idea of a nursing home. Truth is, I don’t want a stranger caring for him anyway.
So I had a lot to think about. How would I adjust to not having my own life? How would he adjust to the changes occurring under his own roof? How would the Pie adjust to the new environment? How can three generations separated by 40 years each live peacefully in the same house? I still don’t have answers to those questions, but what I do have is a plan.
I know, I know….God laughs when we plan, but there is no other way I can handle this situation without a well thought out plan and monkey ass load of lists.
It has now been a month since the Pie and I moved in and I believe the transition proved to be hardest on me. I bear the burden of preparing meals, laundering all the clothes, cleaning the entire house, yard work, transporting my charges to their respective appointments, shopping, staying on top of what prescriptions need filling, and fixing things. Lots of things. Light bulbs, stopped up toilets, leaky faucets, Barbie doll legs, Littlest Pet shop toys, fishing poles, shoes, air filters, TV connections and recliners have all needed my attention in some fashion.
Then there’s the things that I am always picking up: shoes, papers, blankets, clothes, toys, chewed up toys, dropped food, towels…and poop. LOTS of poop!! And not just the kind that once belonged to the emotionally disturbed dog!
My daughter adores her grandfather and enjoys her new big bed and pretty bedroom. Dad beams every time the Pie walks in the room and has laughed more in the past 47 days than in all of his 82 years. It just seems like we all have our own medicine to take, but I sometimes wish mine were easier to swallow.
Monday, February 14, 2011
What's Love Got to Do With It?
My preschooler is quite inquisitive and curious about the world. She asks why people are mean, or why she can’t have a third cupcake and really wants to know the truth. It’s a challenge for me to be honest, yet age-appropriate sometimes. But when she asked me about Valentine’s Day, I told her simply, “It’s a day to tell people you love them.” Oh, the wisdom sequestered in her brain…she replied, “But I do that every day!” My response? I commenced to ask her what she thought about love:
Me: What is love?
Pie: It’s when you really, really, really, really love someone.
Me: But what does love mean?
Pie: It means you love them really a lot.
Me: (Trying a different approach) Who invented love?
Pie: You…and me!
Me: How did we do that?
Pie: You loved me when I came out of your tummy.
Me: When did you love me?
Pie: All the time.
Me: Why do we love people?
Pie: ‘Cause they are nice.
Me: Do we love mean people?
Pie: No, but Jesus does.
Me: Who do you love?
Pie: Lots of people?
Me: Like who?
Pie: Weeellll, you… and Mini (the dog). And Mimi and Poppy. And Papa. And Aunt Susie and Pickle Juice, Aunt Stephie and Uncle JimPa….and Parker!
Me: Anybody else?
Pie: Miss Krista and Miss Wendy. And Autumn.
Me: Is that it?
Pie: For now…I might love other people some day. That OK Mama?
Me: Yes, that’s OK.
Pie: Can I go outside and play?
So, the message is clear…love the nice people and let Jesus sort out the rest.
Me: What is love?
Pie: It’s when you really, really, really, really love someone.
Me: But what does love mean?
Pie: It means you love them really a lot.
Me: (Trying a different approach) Who invented love?
Pie: You…and me!
Me: How did we do that?
Pie: You loved me when I came out of your tummy.
Me: When did you love me?
Pie: All the time.
Me: Why do we love people?
Pie: ‘Cause they are nice.
Me: Do we love mean people?
Pie: No, but Jesus does.
Me: Who do you love?
Pie: Lots of people?
Me: Like who?
Pie: Weeellll, you… and Mini (the dog). And Mimi and Poppy. And Papa. And Aunt Susie and Pickle Juice, Aunt Stephie and Uncle JimPa….and Parker!
Me: Anybody else?
Pie: Miss Krista and Miss Wendy. And Autumn.
Me: Is that it?
Pie: For now…I might love other people some day. That OK Mama?
Me: Yes, that’s OK.
Pie: Can I go outside and play?
So, the message is clear…love the nice people and let Jesus sort out the rest.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
The Real Mickey Mouse Clubhouse of Beverly Hills
There are television shows I follow nearly religiously; some I catch every now and then. My daughter is the same. The Pie will want to watch nothing but the same show over and over again for a while then move on to something new. Recently, her obsession became The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. My newest guilty pleasure is the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
I did not follow any of the other Real Housewives franchises, so I am a virgin in that regard. My voyeuristic personality simply could not resist tuning in to this cycle, however – primarily for my interest in the Housewife America loves to hate: Camille. But I will get to her in due time.
Tonight, I watched another installment of the Housewives, followed by the 723rd viewing of a Mickey Mouse Clubhouse show and I could not help but draw certain correlations between the two shows. There are six main characters in each series and it occurred to me that each Housewife has her own animated Disney doppelganger!
Mickey Mouse is obviously the calm, mature and learned Lisa who takes care of her little friends and teaches them life lessons. Just as Mickey solves a problem, Lisa calmly assesses a situation and finds the most suitable resolution. Lisa has a fantastic sense of humor and Mickey giggles a lot at the silly exploits of his buddies.
Minnie Mouse is Kyle, the emotional compass of the group. Kyle is sensitive, family-oriented, and very strong. Minnie matches Kyle’s emotional fervor in her love for Mickey, her close friendship with Daisy and her mothering nature with all the other friends in the clubhouse. She just wants everyone to get along – same with Kyle.
Kyle’s sister Kim is most like Donald Duck to me. She complains a lot and it’s hard to understand what she says. Notice that Bravo uses the superimposed translations more often with Kim than any other Housewife. She mumbles and like Donald’s tirades, I often have to think about what I thought was just said!
Then there’s Daisy Duck, the smart, savvy gal that tolerates all the juvenile antics of the clubhouse pals. She matches Adrienne with every step. They are both calm, analytical and strong. Daisy has her own career as a secret spy while her man Donald walks around without pants. Adrienne maintains a phenomenally successful family business despite the interference of her plastic surgeon husband, who probably walks around pantsless, too! Adrienne has no tolerance for bullshit or childish behavior, but still manages to remain friends with the crazy ladies.
Dear, sweet Taylor is our real-life Pluto. They both lovingly follow the others around, don’t have much to say and take up space in the clubhouse. Occasionally, they get their feature shows, but they are primarily supporting players who don’t add much depth to the proceedings.
And finally, little Camille is the Beverly Hills resident Goofy. They each vie for attention, put themselves before others, live in their own little self-absorbed worlds and constantly screw things up for everyone else. It’s usually Goofy at the center of a problem, just like Camille – who stirs the pot every chance she gets. They both laugh it off and smile winningly and expect everyone to find it endearing. Between the two, it’s neck-and-neck on who I loathe more, but Camille is beginning to take the lead because she just won’t shut the hell up!
Yes, I feel a modicum of embarrassment in admitting that I watch these shows. However, each show has some redeeming value. They teach morals, problem-solving and involve a little fantasy. What’s wrong with that?
I did not follow any of the other Real Housewives franchises, so I am a virgin in that regard. My voyeuristic personality simply could not resist tuning in to this cycle, however – primarily for my interest in the Housewife America loves to hate: Camille. But I will get to her in due time.
Tonight, I watched another installment of the Housewives, followed by the 723rd viewing of a Mickey Mouse Clubhouse show and I could not help but draw certain correlations between the two shows. There are six main characters in each series and it occurred to me that each Housewife has her own animated Disney doppelganger!
Mickey Mouse is obviously the calm, mature and learned Lisa who takes care of her little friends and teaches them life lessons. Just as Mickey solves a problem, Lisa calmly assesses a situation and finds the most suitable resolution. Lisa has a fantastic sense of humor and Mickey giggles a lot at the silly exploits of his buddies.
Minnie Mouse is Kyle, the emotional compass of the group. Kyle is sensitive, family-oriented, and very strong. Minnie matches Kyle’s emotional fervor in her love for Mickey, her close friendship with Daisy and her mothering nature with all the other friends in the clubhouse. She just wants everyone to get along – same with Kyle.
Kyle’s sister Kim is most like Donald Duck to me. She complains a lot and it’s hard to understand what she says. Notice that Bravo uses the superimposed translations more often with Kim than any other Housewife. She mumbles and like Donald’s tirades, I often have to think about what I thought was just said!
Then there’s Daisy Duck, the smart, savvy gal that tolerates all the juvenile antics of the clubhouse pals. She matches Adrienne with every step. They are both calm, analytical and strong. Daisy has her own career as a secret spy while her man Donald walks around without pants. Adrienne maintains a phenomenally successful family business despite the interference of her plastic surgeon husband, who probably walks around pantsless, too! Adrienne has no tolerance for bullshit or childish behavior, but still manages to remain friends with the crazy ladies.
Dear, sweet Taylor is our real-life Pluto. They both lovingly follow the others around, don’t have much to say and take up space in the clubhouse. Occasionally, they get their feature shows, but they are primarily supporting players who don’t add much depth to the proceedings.
And finally, little Camille is the Beverly Hills resident Goofy. They each vie for attention, put themselves before others, live in their own little self-absorbed worlds and constantly screw things up for everyone else. It’s usually Goofy at the center of a problem, just like Camille – who stirs the pot every chance she gets. They both laugh it off and smile winningly and expect everyone to find it endearing. Between the two, it’s neck-and-neck on who I loathe more, but Camille is beginning to take the lead because she just won’t shut the hell up!
Yes, I feel a modicum of embarrassment in admitting that I watch these shows. However, each show has some redeeming value. They teach morals, problem-solving and involve a little fantasy. What’s wrong with that?
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