A New Dawn, A New Day

Tomorrow's sunrise will bring with it the dawn of a new year. In the upcoming year, I will turn 50, my daughter will turn 8, I'll return to work after a workplace absence of five years, and I will deal with a host of situations new and foreign to me. And I'm OK with that. Although it will be memorable for many reasons, I'm ready to bid farewell to 2014. 

As I am wont to do, I can't help but reflect back on other years that were memorable for me. There is no effective or fair way to rate the order of the years, so it's probably best to go chronologically. 




1970 - I met a little boy who wore Jesus sandals and I fell in love with him. I was 5. I even told my mom that someday I would marry him. We were close friends for many years and I even lived with him for a short while. We managed to hurt each other over the years, but I can't let go of that kindergarten love. 

1976 - My family moved from a dangerous part of a metro city to the little suburb that's not so little anymore. It was terrifying for me to leave all my friends behind and start over in a dinky little town, but it turned out to be one of the best decisions my parents made. I now call this town home and it's where my heart truly lives.  

1980 - I began dating a guy nine years my senior. I was 16. He changed my life in many ways, but the primary lesson I learned is how a woman should be treated. It's his fault I never settled for anything less than what I expected. Unfortunately, he took his own life exactly 20 years ago tonight. 

1982 - My best friend at the time gave birth to an adorable little girl who is now 31 and a mother of 4. Knowing her as a child and as an adult is one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. 

1983 - I graduated high school and thought I was a grown up. I prepared to attend Oklahoma State University, turned 18 and could legally drink! Six months later, the law changed to raise the drinking age to 21. It was the best of times and the worst of times. I also met the first of many gay men I would love. His name was Jon and he was my mom's hairdresser. He was beautiful and artistic, sweet and funny. He colored my world in a way no one had been able to do. He died of AIDS related complications in 1990. 

1984 - My best friend had another little girl, who at 30, is all I wanted to be when I grew up. 

1990- I discovered that I had five half siblings, one who is 11 months younger than I. He contacted me and we met. I ended up meeting my biological mother and the one child she kept as well. It was a tenuous situation since they welcomed me as family, but I was reluctant. I had my mom with me every step of the way and she guided me through that difficult emotional terrain. 

1993 - I lost my compass. My mom died suddenly on a Sunday afternoon from a massive heart attack. The shock sent me into a spiral of depression, alcohol abuse and promiscuity. I was reckless and angry at the world. In the span of one week my dog died, my best friend moved far away and my mom died. I felt I had a right to act out. My mom and I were so enmeshed in each other that it was hard to tell where she ended and I began. I've been missing a piece for two decades, but I still keep going. I also met my rock, my best friend and partner in all things fun and ridiculous. She's Speck and The Pie's Favorite Aunt. She has been by my side without judgment for 22 years and she will be with me until the end. 

1996 - The year of eight jobs. In 12 months I worked at 8 different jobs. I learned many lessons that year, not the least of which was how to file taxes with more than one W2 form! 

1997 - I got the dream job of a lifetime. I was hired by a private school to be the assistant to the director of the arts department. I LOVED that job. I enjoyed being part of young people's lives and working alongside talented and intelligent instructors. That position afforded me the opportunity to travel, to participate in professional development, to meet very famous people like Dr. Jane Goodall and Bill Cosby (he did not attempt to drug and rape me, I want to make that clear) and to forge friendships that I still enjoy all these years later. 

2005 - I traveled to New York City for a journalism conference, since I had been appointed the newspaper and yearbook adviser at the school at that time. It was a very informative seminar and I learned many strategies to take back to the kids. BUT, during that trip I met my close personal friend Hugh Jackman. It's one of my favorite stories to tell about my brush with greatness. When I returned to work the following week, I was let go from that fantastic dream job. As a result of a serious budget issue, 16 positions were being eliminated and mine was one of them. Another bout of depression followed that loss and I ended up spending about a year making really bad decisions. 

2007 - The Pie is born!  

2010 - I moved in with Dad to take care of him. His health gradually declines at about the same rate The Pie is growing and developing. I became firmly entrenched in the Sandwich Generation and adjusted to not working full time. 

2013 - I met a man. He was married. That did not go well. I doubt those feelings will ever really go away, but remember, I learned early how a woman should be treated. 

I'm looking forward to creating new memories, new friendships and new experiences in 2015. Believe it or not, I'm excited about turning 50. And I'll try just about anything once...twice if I like it! 

Happy New Year! 

How Our Elf on the Shelf Saved Christmas

I lost my virginity this year. My Elf on the Shelf virginity, that is. I steadfastly opposed bringing a kinda creepy little doll into my home for the sole purpose of entertaining my child every morning with its silly antics and mess making. The idea of creating another mind-numbing chore for myself was beyond my comprehension. And then my dad died. 

I felt an cavernous emptiness that nothing could fill. I dreaded the upcoming holidays with Grinch-like fervor and wondered how I could possibly survive my sadness. The Pie begged for the last two years for an Elf for our Shelf; she asked again a couple of days before Thanksgiving and I finally relented. While she was at school, I went out and adopted a little girl Elf with mischievous blue eyes and set to making a calendar to outline all the shenanigans she might get up to. Now, I have laughed heartily at all the Internet photos of an Elf doing the nasty with Barbie, and drinking up tiny airplane bottles of vodka or pooping chocolate kisses, but those scenarios are hardly appropriate for a seven year old.  I wanted a well behaved Elf that warmed our hearts and spread Christmas cheer, not one that I might have to send to rehab!  So that is what I created. 


On the morning of December 1, The Pie awoke with no idea what awaited her on the couch. Her squeals of delight when she saw the Elf were enough to set off all the neighborhood dogs! Our Elf was dubbed "Jolly" and our countdown to Christmas began. Jolly liked to make The Pie smile and giggle, so she created little vignettes of herself making breakfast, taking a bubble bath, sneaking into the candy jar, trying to decorate the tree, and baking cookies. Sometimes Jolly even brought special gifts: one day she arrived with tickets to the local production of The Nutcracker, and another day she was discovered playing with toy trains and holding tickets to The Christmas Train. 

Every morning, The Pie woke with anticipation and utter joy at finding Jolly. She says that she wishes the Elf could stay the whole year long. She has grown fond of the Elf and loves her in her very own special 2nd grader way. Jolly filled her days with happiness, instead of sorrow at the loss of her Papa. Jolly reminded her the the holiday is about giving cheerfully to the ones we love. As the days of the month passed, I realized that The Pie would occasionally talk to Jolly when she thought I was out of ear shot. Jolly heard The Pie's wish list, a couple of holiday jokes, and the most heartbreaking one: "if you see my Papa, tell him I said hi." 

Our little Elf has provided a connection to something we can never see. Whether it's Papa or Santa or flying reindeer, Jolly is the personification of the kind of magic that I am glad my daughter believes in. She feels in her heart that Jolly is alive and flies back to the North Pole every night to report to Santa. For me, Jolly is a wonderful motivation and behavior modification tool; to The Pie, Jolly is a friend that's always there for her to make her laugh and bring her the joy she needs to make it through her first Christmas without Papa. 

Bye, Daddy

It's now December 4. Two weeks ago today, I buried my father. He died peacefully in his sleep on Monday, November 17, 2014. Valerie, his nurse at the Castle, was so kind and gracious when she called to share the news. When I hung up the phone, I sat quietly for a few minutes, knowing that the days following would be a blur of activity and decisions. I allowed myself to be still, to quietly honor his final battle with life. 

Then came the phone calls. Those are the hardest calls to make. I knew I needed my rock, so I first called The Pie's Favorite Aunt and my best friend. When she answered, I spoke two words: "he's gone." I don't even remember what she said...it seems like she just instantly appeared at my side. Awesome Neighbor was next on the list; and the next thing I knew, I was wrapped in her embrace, crying. My Crazy Aunt, Dad's baby sister, was my next call. She was such a great support during the previous several months, and she was already planning to arrive the next day for a visit. She just missed him. All the phone calls bled into one long repetitive conversation and by the time they were finished, I didn't even want to talk about it anymore. 

We went to the Castle, where a hospice nurse was finishing up giving Dad a shave. I saw his body there in the bed, but what I didn't see was pain, anger, sadness or regret. I saw peace. I held his hand and rubbed his still warm head; said good-bye. I felt in a very odd way, that I had just become an event planner - that I was delegating tasks to the appropriate people, fielding questions to which only I knew the answer. The hospice chaplain, Terry, was helpful and mindful of the journey that awaited me over the next several days. Dad wanted the same funeral service that did Mom's funeral to do his, so they were called and as I awaited their arrival, I began to gather Dad's personal belongings. 

There wasn't much, really. He hadn't allowed me to bring too much stuff there. "It's not my home," he told me once. When the all-grown-up son of someone I graduated high school with arrived from the family owned funeral service, we left so as not to witness the transfer. As we walked out the door, the director stopped me and handed me an envelope. I would discover days later that it was his final bill. Classy, right? 

My best friend stuck by me every moment. Just her presence calmed me. I could think clearer, make decisions quicker, be okay. There was one big decision to make and I really needed her there with me. How would I tell The Pie? 

When she got home from school, The Pie was her usual ebullient self; chattering on about the day's events and which boy had aggravated her the most. I asked her friend to go home and beckoned The Pie to join me in the big chair. I took a deep breath and said, "Papa went to Heaven today." She broke down in sobs and all I could do was cry with her and hold her tight. My heart broke for her. In her young life, she had already lost her Mimi and her Papa. But, as young children often do, she rallied, and we talked calmly about how much we would miss him. 

The next day was filled with meetings and conversations: the funeral director, the preacher, bank, the railroad board. The nursing home, the hospice agency and primary care doctor were also on the list. I had prepared a file for service information, so that went surprisingly smoothly and was able to maintain my composure for most of the day. I'm glad I had Crazy Aunt with me, though. I didn't want to be completely alone. One thing I was laser focused on was the music for the service. I contacted the man who was my elementary school music teacher (in the 70s) and asked him to sing at the service. Never mind that I hadn't seen him nearly 40 years, it's what I wanted, and I was damn well going to get it. 

The day of the service was sunny and only a little chilly. The Pie and I got up early to attend visitation, to see Papa one last time. That little girl is so strong and practical that it astounds me. We stood together at his open casket and as I cried, she held my hand tightly and rubbed my arm. "It's ok, Mama," she said. "He's in Heaven now." I must have done something right along the way...she's so smart! 

We went for breakfast, then came home to prepare for the funeral. She picked one of her favorite dresses and I went with the standard black. I felt appropriately respectful, but pushed the envelope with my shoes...high and pointy. We arrived at the funeral home chapel a little later than I anticipated and there already people there. It threw me off a little, but it was nice to see them there to honor my dad. Next, I went to a small room to visit with my music teacher. We both look a lot different that we did in the 70s, but I was momentarily nine years old again, looking admirably at him. Even back then, his faith was strong and obvious. I am grateful that he was willing to make the drive. 

The service was perfect - exactly how I planned it. It was a teeny bit irreverent, like my dad, but still respectful of his life and how he lived it. Mr. Music Teacher sang "My Tribute (To God be the Glory)" and "It Is Well (With My Soul)", my best friend did an uplifting reading, the preacher gave a wonderful eulogy, the song "Daddy's Hands" was played, I read a poem I wrote for Dad 10 years ago and I read something that The Pie wanted to say, but ultimately got too shy for. I held it together pretty well until the end, when the military color guard began their rite of flag folding and presentation. I hadn't seen it in person before and wasn't sure what to expect. But it moved me to my core. The young men were precise, respectful, honorable. The soldier who presented the flag to me went down on bended knee...and as he spoke, his voice cracked with emotion. 

I lost it. I couldn't hold it in any longer. My grief exploded in waves of tears, realizing that my daddy was really gone. God was taking care of him now, not me. He was finally with my mom and his brothers, up to mischief, frolicking without pain or depression. I will have a period of adjustment: getting used to having more time on my hands, not having to consider his dietary restrictions when meal planning, etc. And I will miss it. 

And I will miss him. Forever. 

Hospice-tality

Last week, I spent the majority of one day on the phone with three different representatives of a hospice organization. The nurse, the social worker and the chaplain all had a litany of questions for me regarding my father. 

Calling in hospice was another gut wrenching decision for me. It seemed to me like I was giving up, seeing Dad's situation has hopeless. But after all those conversations took place, each one more difficult than the previous one, I realized that it is the logical progression towards the end of life. 

Dad began refusing to go to the dining room for his meals, then refused to eat at all. His weight loss is now at 49 pounds and his skin hangs limply from his bones. He has developed pressure sores on his bottom and must be regularly turned in bed in order to avoid worsening, or causing more of them. His eyes, which used to spark with life, are now dull and drawn into his head. 

The nurse, LaToya, explained to me that his appearance is natural at this stage of life. She gave me very specific reasons why those things were happening, and it helped me understand a little better what was going on. Melvin, the social worker, was a delightful conversationalist and had me disclosing very personal information before I even realized I was saying it. He is quite skilled in his job, and I see why he does it. He made me feel important, helped me truly understand that my decisions, while difficult at best, were the right ones for Dad and me. He guided me through the entire process, helping me clarify when it all began and why. The chaplain, Terry, was soft spoken and kind. We discussed my father's faith and his church experiences; we talked about his childhood, his marriage to my mother, her passing and his subsequent brief marriage to the Hell Beast. We discussed the possibility of Dad having some unresolved issues. 

My dad worked most of his adult life for the Santa Fe Railroad. Over 40 years ago, he was on duty during a tragic event. A car, filled with a family, tried to beat the train and crossed the tracks before the train could even begin to stop. The car was demolished and each occupant was instantly killed. He still carries guilt regarding that event, even though he knows he was not personally at fault. It was a traumatic event for him, one that he has never forgotten. He has spoken about in the past with me, with one of his nurses, with a church friend. In talking with Terry, I encouraged him to try to get Dad to talk about it, and hopefully the chaplain can help him to find some peace. 

Going over those conversations in my head, it occurred to me that those people are not just helping my father through his transition; they are also helping me. The nurse keeps me updated on Dad's physical well being, so that I have complete understanding. The social worker provides insight for me as to how to properly honor my father and respect his final battle. The chaplain guides me through issues of faith, assuring me that Dad will rejoice when his time on earth is done. In the short time hospice has been in place, I've come to a point where I accept that I will lose the physical being of my father, but I am comforted that he will always be with me in my heart. 

Frozen

No, not the kind that springs immediately to mind. Not the one with the catchy tunes and the adorable, huge-eyed princesses. The one I'm talking about is the paralytic, immovable force field that the bank has placed on my dad's accounts. The kind that leaves me with no access to money and resulted in payments I made being returned. Embarrassing, unyielding...frozen. 

It all started when Dad was first admitted into the nursing home. We applied for MedicAid assistance to pay for his care after Medicare ran out. It's been a frustrating experience, to say the least, but I felt the hoop-jumping and red tape calisthenics would be worth it in the end. Every week, DHS wanted something else from me: copies of his birth certificate, his social security card, his driver's license,the deed to the house, his retirement annuity award, his car title, even his deed to his burial plot he purchased in 1993. Finally, they needed copies of the past 12 months of his bank statements. 

I searched all the files and could only find a few of them (Dad is a known paper hoarder and piler), so off to the bank I went with Power of Attorney in hand to request copies directly from the bank. I presented the written request from DHS, my identification and my Power of Attorney document to the teller, who then referred me to the bank manager. The manager, who I will call Wendy...because that's her name...explained to me that since I was not actually listed on the account, the corporate legal department would have to review the request and examine the POA document before any information could be released to me. I even showed them the paper that Dad signed giving me permission to access his accounts. Still no luck. Had to go through legal review. 

So, four days later, Wendy calls me and says that the legal eagle at the corporate office needs to know the date that Dad became incapacitated and unable to handle his financial affairs. Something to do with the wording in the Power of Attorney. I couldn't simply give them a date, NO, I had to have a signed statement from a physician noting the date of his admission into the nursing home. Fortunately, I have made friends with Sasha at the Castle (which is what we call the nursing home), so I explained to her what the delay was and she jumped right on it. What she learned threw me for quite a loop and left me in a VERY awkward position. 

Upon the satisfaction of the request for physician's statement, the bank intends to transfer the account to me directly, rather than have me take care of things in his stead. Until such time as the transfer occurs, however, the account is frozen.  Like I've done for a while, I paid all the utilities online at the first of the month, so I make sure all the necessities are covered. Since I was unaware of the bank status, all those payments are being returned, incurring extra fees that I can hardly afford. Now, I am forced to throw myself on the mercy of the companies and tell my story a few dozen more times, in hopes of making some kind of arrangement until all this is resolved. And who knows when THAT will be?

In the meantime, I am stuck with no access to funds. My cell phone company has no patience with returned payments, so they immediately suspended the service. Fortunately, the electric, water and gas payments aren't actually due until later in the month. I'm crossing my fingers that I can talk them into waiving the return fees. 

It's not enough that my father lies in a nursing home, so sick that he sometimes doesn't recognize me; I have to deal with this too? I'm scared to even think about what else could happen, because the moment I begin to think things can't get any worse, they do. I discovered another plumbing leak inside a closet; there are other repairs that need to be made to the house, but I can't attend to them. 

This situation makes me feel like such a second class citizen. The limited income we have lived on for years was a struggle in itself, but now with no access to anything, I just feel defeated. This feeling of hopelessness is somewhat new to me. I usually can find the fortitude to stay cautiously optimistic in the face of a challenge, forging ahead to fix whatever needs fixing. Or, as in the past, I just ignore it and hope it goes away! But that won't work in this instance. 

I feel frozen in panic. Paralyzed by fear. Bound by frustration. I wish I could...let it go.

Making a Plan

I am a planner. It's what I do. I begin planning events well ahead of time to make sure that all the details are in place and whatever the event, it will be perfect. I started planning Thanksgiving dinner this morning and realized that no matter what I plan, it will not be perfect. My dad won't be at his place at the table. He'll be in a nursing home, most likely choking down pureed turkey and dressing. It's doesn't exactly elicit a Norman Rockwell type of image. 

No matter how moist the turkey is, how sweet the yams are or creamy the pumpkin pie is, my family won't be together to share it. It's very sad to me to think about the upcoming holidays without him here at home to celebrate with me and The Pie. I've gotten so used to planning the meal and festivities around the two of them that I'm at a bit of a loss as to what to do. How can I plan something that really isn't going to happen? 

I know that the spirit of Thanksgiving is more than just one day a year, more than a four day weekend, more than a parade, more than football games and great sales on electronics. It's a spirit of gratitude for everything and everyone we have in our lives. We should celebrate it every day. And I try to. Some days are easier than others. 

Since Dad went into the nursing home, I've become withdrawn, less motivated and quite depressed. I haven't cooked much, either. Most of our meals have been fast food or eating out.  The majority of my time used to be spent taking care of Dad in one way or another - managing my time between him, The Pie and The Cuteness, my babysitting charge. Now I realize that I have much more time available to work on projects - cleaning, organizing, redecorating - but I lack the energy to begin, much less complete, them. 

Holidays are what you make of them and all about traditions, so I guess this year we will start a new tradition. I could prepare a smaller scale dinner for The Pie and myself, then take a plate to the nursing home for dad, making sure to take only things he can easily swallow. Or I could dress us up and visit him for the nursing home meal, giving thanks that we can still sit at a table together. Watching the parade was always a favorite, so we could bring him breakfast and watch the parade with him. Or we could take snacks to share and watch the football game. I have many options, but I need to determine the best course of action. 

Oh, hey! I guess that means I get to plan after all!

Scarred for Life

I read a parenting article today that outlined how we, as parents, scar our children for life by making our own bad life decisions. I experienced conflicting emotions about that statement, because while I have made some questionable moves in my life, I don't see how the Pie can be scarred by them. 

This article talked about mistakes that parents make to impart internal scars on our kids. One was not having a father present in the child's life. That one caught my eye. The Pie's biological father has NEVER been a presence. He has never seen her or helped support her in any way. The article made think...isn't no presence better than a negative presence? The man was an alcoholic, was violent, couldn't hold gainful employment and cursed like it was his job. He had three other children with another woman, and I cringed when I heard him talk to them on the phone. When I got pregnant, I knew that I wouldn't want that influence in my life or my child's, so I was somewhat relieved when he took off. 

If I had encouraged him to be involved in the Pie's life, she would be a totally different child. She would live in fear of his outbursts and probably suffer ill consequences from his harsh and critical ways. In that way, I can see how she might be scarred, but having no father presence in her life is something she is pretty cool with. I can't feel guilty about him not wanting to be in her life, that's his loss, but I can continue to provide a loving environment for her.

What I don't want to do is be a helicopter parent that hovers over her all the time, making sure nothing happens to her. There's a scene in Finding Nemo that Dorie asks Marlin, "if nothing happens to him, how will anything ever happen to him?" BEST. PARENTING. ADVICE. EVER. The Pie needs to make mistakes, learn hard lessons and become the woman she is destined to be. If I protect her from the world, she will never be a part of it in any significant way. Who am I to deny the planet her effervescent little self? What a disservice that would be! 

As it is, she asks my permission to do just about anything. Unevenly cut Barbie hair? Sharpie marker on the wall? Complete destruction of my make up? Nope... not gonna happen because she always asks me first. Believe me,  I know there will come a time when she won't ask before doing something I won't permit, but I'm okay with that. Just like her recent cheating incident, she cannot learn from mistakes if she doesn't have a chance to make them. To me, sheltering her from making those mistakes would cause even bigger scars. 

And what's so bad about scars anyway?

I am fascinated by scars. There is usually an interesting story that goes along with a bodily scar and if I can't determine the real story, I often entertain myself by making one up. Lots of move stars and celebrities have interesting scars...Harrison Ford, Bruce Willis, Catherine Zeta-Jones. I think they add character. To me, scars are a permanent mark from something making an impact. From an artistic perspective, sculptures are the perfect example of scars being beautiful. The artist starts with a block of marble and slowly, painstakingly chips away at it, leaving scars, until the art emerges...striking, powerful and resonant. 

 There is something beautiful about scars, regardless of how they are obtained. It shows that at one time we were injured, but the wound has healed and the hurt is gone and we have moved on with our lives. 

A Cheatable Moment

I know of NO parent that enjoys punishing their child. So to say that I hate doing it, I think, is valid. Tonight, I had to make a tough decision about punishing the Pie, and I hope I didn't overreact. 

After a nice evening of sharing dinner and watching TV, I mentioned to the Pie that I needed to go through her school binder. She casually stated that she had a paper I needed to sign. That's nothing new. But when I looked at the paper, my heart dropped as my eyes slowly read the words
ACADEMIC DISHONESTY. 

I was speechless. I stood at the kitchen counter, staring at the paper, while the Pie sat across from me, sobbing in earnest. I reacted with a shocked gasp, then began asking questions. What were you thinking? Why did you cheat? Where did you get this idea? Every question I posed was met with "I don't know" as a response, which simply made me angrier every time I heard it. The Pie knows that I do not accept "I don't know" as an answer for anything other than "Do you know..." inquiries.  When I reminded her of that rule, she responded with more sobbing. 

I took a moment to breathe and get my bearings and decided to attempt a different approach. 

"Please tell me how this happened," I said calmly. She stumbled over how to begin the story (as I sometimes do myself) but eventually explained that during the spelling test, she wasn't sure how to spell the word, so she sly slipped her study sheet out of her binder and copied the word.  Her desk neighbor saw the infraction and quickly told the teacher about it. The Pie was allowed to finish the test, but her paper was confiscated and remains ungraded. 

I know all the educators and child development experts would consider this a teachable moment, but I was too heartbroken to teach her anything but how upset I was. She knows that it's wrong to cheat, so I asked about her motivation. "Where did this idea come from?"

"Junie B. Jones," she said. "I'm reading the Cheater Pants book and Junie B. Jones cheated on a test in school because she didn't study." Some role model SHE is! When I asked her what happened to Junie in the book, she admitted she hadn't gotten that far yet. I decided that what would happen to the Pie would be vastly different that what happened to the little Jones brat. 

Earlier in the evening, I agreed to enroll her in gymnastics this month since she has been begging me for weeks. I was about to do the online registration when all this came to light, so THAT little project was immediately nixed. She is grounded from playing with friends for the rest of the week and each night she has to write sentences. One hundred times, I will not cheat in school. Finally, and probably the worst for her, she must apologize to her teacher for her actions.  

I know in my heart that the Pie is a good kid. I wonder if she just was unable at the time to discern that her action was wrong. She gave me no indication that she had gotten in trouble at school until I saw the paper. Was I not paying enough attention? Did I miss something? I still want to know WHY she felt compelled to cheat?

Am I putting too much pressure on her to get good grades? Am I pushing her too much? Maybe I think that school for her should be just as easy as it was for me. During our conversation, I stressed that it was much more important to me that she do HER best, not THE best. I would rather she make a lesser grade on her own than make a perfect grade by cheating. 

Perhaps this situation was a teachable moment, after all. I'm fairly certain that when faced with a similar choice in the future, I hope she looks back on this time and remembers how she felt, how I felt and what she lost as a result:  a tiny little bit of my trust. 

Daddy's Hands

Country music artist Holly Dunn released a song in 1986 titled Daddy's Hands. The lyrics tell a story of a girl who reminisces about how her father worked with his hands to provide for his family, used those hands to comfort her following a bad dream and occasionally used them to discipline when necessary. Our hands tell the story of the kind of life we lived. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then the hands are the front door!

How people take care of their hands - whether they adorn them with jewelry, get regular manicures, bite their nails - says a great deal about the character of the person. Rough and calloused hands reveal a life of manual labor, while smooth and soft hands identify the owner as a person of higher class. Many people (myself included) use their hands to communicate. I doubt I'd be able to speak a word if my hands were tied behind my back! I tend to gesticulate wildly, especially when I am excited or very angry.

Women will always inspect a man's hands, and not because of the urban myth about size! It's because hands are so symbolic to us. Will they protect us from danger? Softly caress us? Express deep emotion to us? Provide for us? These are things that we question and only the hands hold those answers. I love looking at peoples' hands...especially those of men from an older generation.

These are my daddy's hands.

They are big. They are covered with age spots. The tip of one was nearly completely lopped off decades ago when Dad worked for the Santa Fe Railroad and ran to jump on a car. The door unexpectedly rolled back and caught the tip of his finger. I always rub the scar when I trim his fingernails. His hands have gotten softer over the years, since he hasn't been able to work in the garden or complete woodworking projects. I am jealous of his ability to grow such perfectly elongated and square nails. My grandmother, his mother, also had beautiful nails.

He once wore a plain silver band on his left ring finger. In the railroad industry, jewelry is considered a hazard, so it wasn't until he retired - when he had been married to my mom for 40 years - that he began to regularly wear the symbol of matrimony. His fingers are slightly webbed, a fact that convinced me when I was a kid that he was from outer space. I've always had this wild imagination, folks!

Lately, his hands are very cold. Dad suffers from diabetic neuropathy, which leaves his fingers numb and cold to the touch. He has even been known to wear gloves while sleeping to keep his hands warm and avoid the pain. I often warm his hands between my own and the last time I did, I was struck by the irony that just the same as he held my hands to help me learn to walk, I hold tightly to his hands to assist him as he walks.

When I was an infant, his big powerful hands enveloped me, making me feel safe. As a toddler and preschooler, his big hands scooped me up when I fell down, and they dried my tears. Adolescent years were tough, so he often smacked my bottom to keep me in line. During my teen years, those hands applauded all the efforts I put in to band, choir, dance, and writing. Now as an adult, when I look at every line, crease, vein and spot, I can vividly see his life played out for me like a movie on a screen. Growing up in the Depression era, his time in the armed service, his life of hard work, and so much else is reflected there.

When I sit next to his hospital bed, again I hold his hand ... and I'm not exactly certain who is comforting whom.

Pedicures, Pleasure and Pain

I have this friend. I will call her Doc. She is spectacularly generous and knew I desperately needed a day of pampering and fun, so on the day before I left to retrieve The Pie from her summer visit to Kansas, we planned such a day. I initially had some misgivings about taking a day to myself, but I received encouragement from my friends and I knew that Dad was well taken care of at the hospital. When you are constantly in "caregiver" mode, it's a monumental challenge to break from the norm and do something for yourself. But Doc is pretty damn good at her job and she prescribed a fabulous Girls' Day. 

After breakfast, which included a raspberry jelly-filled doughnut that was filled specifically for me, Doc and I headed out for mani/pedis.
 As nice Asian ladies soaked and scrubbed our feet, we drank wine and chatted. We had lunch at a flatbread restaurant, which was delightful. A stop at the mall had us getting our eyebrows threaded (I highly recommend it) and Doc shopped for a dress for our evening plans (Michael Buble' concert, thank you very much). Next on the agenda was a Chinese massage. 

I don't care for being touched by strangers, but conversely, I love a massage. The whole point of the exercise is to relax, so if I must endure foreign fingers on my skin, then I will definitely suck it up! We arrived at our appointed time to a quiet storefront in a strip mall, but what awaited me behind that non-descript door was an experience I had only read about in magazines of questionable taste or seen in bad Jackie Chan movies (is that statement redundant?). A little old Asian lady greeted us, took payment and called to the massage "technicians." As a couple of nice little Chinese girls led us into a darkened room and wordlessly bade us to lie supine on Naugahyde cot tables, indeterminate Asian music tinkled over the speakers and I began to think that "happy endings" may not be on the menu, but were available for an additional charge.   

Doc showed no hesitation, so I followed suit. Remaining fully clothed, I placed my feet in a bushel basket lined with a plastic trash bag, filled with warm - no, scalding - water and made the Herculean effort not to pee my pants. While my feet steeped, my girl massaged my head, face, neck and ...ear lobes? New to me, but surprisingly pleasant. The massage continued in a fairly normal fashion, deep tissue stimulation to get all those nasty toxins out, joint movement and your basic generally enjoyable rubbing. Upon completion of rubbing the tops of my toes (at which point I discovered a new erogenous zone), I was asked to flip over onto my stomach. Have you ever tried to lift warm Jell-o with a fork? Trust me, it's no easy feat. 

I sat up and looked immediately for Doc. She was sitting up with her hair sticking straight out behind her head and I erupted in a fit of giggles. Then I looked in a mirror and nearly collapsed into laughter. My hair was eerily reminiscent of The Bride of Frankenstein, but my face had a healthy glow, so I guess that's a plus. Anyway, I turned over, put my face in the specially designed Asian massage table face hole and got comfortable. My "technician" began raising my shirt in the back and then POP, in a flashback to a particularly skillful young man I dated in college, my bra unsnapped! I became instantly less comfortable...there were other people in the room! The Chinese massage ministrations continued, making me no longer care about other people, and I felt a sweet, nearly euphoric sense of relaxation. Suddenly, I experienced a considerable weight atop of me and through a series of mental flashes and complex mathematical equations, I realized that the small Chinese girl was CRAWLING on my back! 

Not a photo of the actual experience. 

My eyes widened and I stared at the gaudy carpet beneath my face, contemplating putting a stop to the assault of my wee tormentor. Just as I started to lift my head, she placed her tiny hands on my shoulders and her, no doubt steel capped, knees at the tops of my thighs. A sound similar to a ferret strangling on curling ribbon escaped my lips, a few tears dropped onto that colorful carpet, and I struggled to maintain consciousness. It was a spectacular sensation of pleasure and pain that I have only read about in magazines of questionable taste or seen in bad Demi Moore movies (there I go being redundant again! It appears I may need to find more intellectual entertainment options...). Waves of shooting stars caromed through my nerve endings and my muscles contracted in response to their incredible journey. How they expect a person to walk out there instead of wobble out is beyond me. I felt as though I were a prehistoric slimy creature dragging myself across the asphalt to Doc's vehicle in an effort to evolve to a higher life form. I remember declaring, "I may never need to have sex again!" 

It was a feeling I had never enjoyed in my life; and I fear I never will feel it again. Unless I pay a Chinese girl $30 to molest me. 

Why I Broke My Promise to My Dad

Years ago, shortly after my mom died, I made a promise to my dad that I would never put him in a nursing home. He said he would rather take a bullet in the head than live in one of "those places" with the stench of urine and Lysol permeating everything. Four years ago, in an effort to keep my promise, I moved back into the house in which I grew up to care for him as his health declined. And a few days ago, I broke that promise. I placed him in a nursing home for a short-term stay.  He will be there for 14-21 days to work on physical therapy, increasing strength, stamina and balance. 

But here's WHY I broke that promise: I am not a doctor, nor do I have training as a nurse, physical therapist or dietitian. I am not qualified to provide the level of care he currently needs. I pride myself on the job I performed as his caregiver, but I realized that I may have been doing him more harm than good. I did everything for him. I prepared his meals, dressed him, bathed him, helped him with toileting, dressed his wounds...you name it. As his needs increased, I faced more and more decisions regarding his care. Back when he was healthy and fiercely independent, I felt confident in making that promise. "Sure," I thought. "I can take care of him just fine." But I can't. 

Dad regularly takes 19 medications. He's had both knees replaced. He suffers from worsening congestive heart failure, COPD, atrial fibrillation, diabetes, neuropathy in his hands and feet and, of course, depression. He is incontinent and cannot move himself at all. He requires two people to move him. His last visit to the ER revealed pneumonia, a urinary tract infection and a fractured clavicle. And suddenly, he became unable to swallow. He ate nothing; drank nothing for three days as the staff attempted to determine the cause of that little surprise. 

I learned many things from my mother, but one of the most important was to recognize when I reach my limit. I once believed I was capable of caring for my father at home until his final breath. I never dared considering turning his care over to strangers and abandoning him in a strange place. However, that's exactly what I did. And while I did break the promise - the one I should have never made -  I feel like I can honor the spirit of it. 

I am still his primary caregiver. I can take care of making his room seem a bit more homey; I clearly labeled all of his belongings; I communicated with the facility very specific needs like his bedtime, his wake up time, laundry, bath schedule, etc. I am a visible and vocal advocate for him with the nurses, technicians and administrators of the center. I am committed to ensuring that the care he receives at The Highlands is equivalent to that I would provide at home if I were properly equipped to do so. 

Yes, I admit there is some guilt about taking him there (I'll deal with that in another post), but there is also something pretty cool about it. I feel like I can enjoy his company again, rather than fuss over whether his feet are elevated, or if he needs to change pants, or if he took his meds properly, or if I need to rub some ointment, cream or potion on him. I'm not exhausted from doing everything for him, not frustrated because he peed his pants again, not pissed off about being tied to him. When The Pie and I visit, he is pleasant and when I choose to do things for him, like cutting his fingernails, it comes from a true place of love in my heart and not from a sense of obligation.  It's the only time I can really hold hands with my daddy. 

I'm human. I can't do it all. But I can manage the care that others provide him. I can be present and aware of the progress he makes and dedicate myself to being his daughter again. 

Spare Change

We know it's true. We can't avoid it. Everything changes. Change is inevitable. Four quarters becomes a dollar, the caterpillar becomes the butterfly, and the egg becomes the chicken. In my case, I became an idiot. I learned the hard way that change, just for the sake of changing, is not necessarily a good thing.

Here's what happened: Speck (also known as The Pie's Favorite Aunt) and I were on a little shopping outing and she mentioned that she was thinking of going a little more blonde the next time she colored her hair. I fully supported the idea because I have seen her with VERY blonde hair and quite liked it (although, it was 20 years ago). At my house, she decided to make the change. Quite a bit of product was left over and she practically dared me to to color my hair. I didn't think it would do much to my mousy, grey streaked hair, so I went for it. As time passed, we watched each other's hair get lighter...and lighter...and lighter. Her result was almost white blonde and mine resembled the bottom end of a baby chick.

In my attempt to tone down the blonde, I purchased a hair color at the local Walgreens with the word "golden" in the name. That should have been my first clue. At the end of that experiment, my hair made me look like the love child of Howdy Doody and Side Show Bob! My horror was such that I actually cried before returning to aforementioned Walgreens and buying a lovely shade called Truffle. I am now sporting a hair color that is found in nature and one that I like very much.

But I wonder why I felt the need to change in the first place?  Again, feeling the itch to change, I rearranged my bedroom furniture. And I hate it. It's not at all convenient and the bed is now closer to my Dad's room AND The Pie's room. So, I have to rearrange again. But do I want to go back to the same arrangement, or try for something different. I think change should show a transformation of sorts. Forgive another hair color reference, but it's like the scene in "Beaches" where Hillary spends an hour coloring her hair the EXACT same color as she already had. Why go through the effort not to show any difference? W.H. Auden wrote:

We would rather be ruined than changed;
We would rather die in our dread
Than climb the cross of the moment
And let our illusions die.

Some people fear change. They say, "We've always done it this way." I don't mind change. I like to mix things up every once in a while, but I want it to be worth it. Years ago, when Speck and I shared a house, she would leave for the Thanksgiving holiday with the furniture and dishes in one spot and arrive home to find I had changed everything in the house! It frustrated her beyond belief because she likes the familiarity of items always being in the same location. Plus, we were (are) both control freaks so we like things the way we like them. I don't know how we managed to share a house for 9 years without controlling each other to death!  

My point, and I think I do have one, is that if you are going to make a change - whether it's hair color, furniture placement, body wash, toothpaste, diet, drive to work or style of underwear - make sure it's for the right reasons.  Does it benefit you in a positive way or cause stress as a result? Does it make a difference in the quality of your life? 

All change is not growth; as all movement is not forward. (Ellen Glasgow) The good thing is that if you don't like the change you make, you can keep changing until you do. 

A Girl I Knew

There's this girl I knew...she was adorable, precocious and so smart. Today, she's a woman. An accomplished, confident - still adorable and smart - woman who turns 30.

I was in the room as she drew her first breath, when she let loose that piercing cry, entering the world with a plan to take it over. Her mother gave her my middle name, and I considered it huge honor and a responsibility to her. All I wanted to do was hold her and look deep into her coffee colored eyes and give her advice on how to navigate this tricky thing called womanhood. 

For the first nine years of her life, I dedicated myself to making things better for her. She was so tiny - as a baby, had been hospitalized for failure to thrive - I felt the need to protect her from bad things and surround her only with things that sparkled, glittered or were pink. I thought she was so delicate and fragile. But she fooled me. 

I lost that little girl because personal issues interfered with the relationship between her mother and me. It crushed my heart to think I wouldn't have her in my life, but I thought at the time it was the best thing for everyone. I missed seeing her grow up...losing teeth, first boyfriends, heartthrob crushes, first period...those were things I could only imagine her experiencing. 

When she was 16, her mother and I patched up our friendship and I reconnected with that girl. She was still little, but she was grown up. Beautiful, intelligent, confident. As I watched her give the toast at her sister's wedding, I realized that even though I missed all those other things, for her, the best was yet to come. 

She enlisted in the United States Marine Corps right out of high school. That little firecracker served out country! She has traveled to five foreign countries, made a cross country move, finished her degree and began a successful career as a funeral director. She purchased her own own home and is pretty handy with tools! I get very excited when I learn that she is coming back for a visit because she just makes me smile. 

Turns out, you never needed my advice on anything because you, my dear young woman, are kicking ass!

Happy Birthday, Kristina!

Wal-Mart: More Than I Bargained For

Just a quick run into Wal-Mart to pick up a few items was all I planned. I had the Pie and her friend, Queen Bee with me. As we meandered down the midway aisle, I heard a most disturbing voice screaming, "Stop touching her! I will beat the hell out of you!" I peeked around the school supply display to see a woman with two small children in her shopping cart; they cowered and huddled. Shoppers and employees began to gather around as the woman's voice got louder and her threats became more serious. I stopped in my tracks, stunned at her behavior.

A young woman, a shopper, politely said, "Excuse me," and the Mean Woman (as I will now refer to her) turned on her heel and began hollering, "Leave me alone!" More and more people gathered around while Mean Woman continued to lose her mind. It reminded me of someone attempting to capture a wild animal. Her eyes bulged and she was quite jumpy, easily irritated.  We all watched in horror as she just kept screaming at those babies. I think we were all shocked that she would act in such a way in public! And then, it happened.

The little boy in the cart incidentally put his feet on his little sister and Mean Woman fell loose from herself. She reached into the back of the cart and blindly swatted, connecting several times with heads and faces. The surrounding people, all women by the way, rushed her and began admonishing her to calm down; one older lady tried to pull the cart away from Mean Woman. This did not set well with Mean Woman because she roughly shoved the cart away and bowed up on the lady. It was at this point, my arm went around the Pie and Queen Bee, ushering them behind greeting card display, and I

took my post in the fray.

Employees called for managers, shoppers threatened to call police and Mean Woman called to a couple of us to "bring it on!" I called to her that those children deserved better than her as a mother and she kept repeating that they were kids and she would do whatever she wanted with them or to them; there was nothing anyone could to her, she swore. Older Lady shocked me by saying she would take those babies right out of the cart if she had to. I thought, "you go, older lady!" Mean Woman chest bumped Older Lady to keep her away from the children and I stepped in. I got in her face and calmly explained that she was embarrassing herself and if she didn't want to find herself in jail, she needed to calm down and walk away. She obscenely invited me to engage in coitus with myself (if you get what I'm trying to say, here) and that was all I needed.

Without raising my voice, (too much) I said: "Okay, I get it. You are frustrated and scared. You might be at the end of your rope - what mother hasn't been?  But those babies are not your property - they are your responsibility. Is this how you want them to remember you?" She looked at the children and back at me. I didn't know what to expect, but I knew something hateful would spew out of her mouth. Managers gathered and interrupted what I thought was a productive moment and asked the woman to leave. Mean Woman stormed out in a cloud of vulgarity and obscenity, tossing the items already in her cart to the floor, children still looking confused and scared. I retrieved the Pie and Queen Bee from their hiding place and continued my shopping trip, the girls asking questions with every step. And that's when I began to quietly worry.

What happens when she gets those kids home, all to herself? Will she beat them and blame them for embarrassing her, when really she did it to herself? Will she scream curses at them, deny them food, physically abuse or neglect them. I have to wonder that if a mother would display such cruelty to children under the age of 3 in a public place, what stops her from doing worse in the privacy of her home? I am heartbroken and sick about this incident, and terrified that I might read about those cute children in a headline soon.

My Brush with Mortality

In the movie Meet Joe Black , Death pays a visit to a man to warn him of his impending demise. Brad Pitt didn't stop by my house for coffee a couple of weeks ago, but it felt to me like he might be lurking around the corner. And not in a good way.

Mowing the yard is usually one of my favorite tasks because I get to strap on earbuds and listen to 80s dance music at dangerously high decibels and escape from someone needing me for at least 90 minutes. It gives me an opportunity to de-stress and do mind numbing manual labor. It was also, apparently, the chance for me to scare the shit out of my neighbors! One minute I was busy mowing and the next minute I was on the ground surrounded by a bunch of men. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't complain, but I didn't have any recollection of how I got in that position. Admittedly, I was unnerved.

A short time later, I was loaded into an ambulance and transported to an emergency room in the neighboring city, the paramedics being convinced I had suffered a head injury as the result of a fall. The full lights and sirens ride was kind of cool, but during the whole episode all I could think was, "What about the Pie and Dad?" What if I had to be admitted to the hospital? What if it was something serious? Who would take care of them?

Here's what I figured out: if something puts me out of commission, they are screwed! They won't have me to clean the house, wash clothes, prepare meals, wash dishes, open jars and packages, shop for groceries, apply bandages and ointments, pick up items dropped or left on the floor, or mow the yard. During the crisis, my neighbor stepped up and took the Pie to her house, but my Dad was left alone in the house with only the sketchy information he received from a paramedic. I know he worried himself into a state while I was gone. It's what he does.

The truth is, I am terrified of leaving this earth while I am still needed. The Pie is only 7 and has so much to experience and I want to share that with her. If I go before my Dad, I am certain he would follow quickly behind me, just because he refuses to go to a nursing facility. Facing my own mortality is a very uncomfortable proposition for me. I fear the possibility of agonizing pain related to dying, of dying in the water, of dying in a fire, of dying in a car crash. Well...of dying.

I was scared. Very scared. Mostly because there were so many questions I couldn't answer. Questions still exist for me...how would my death change the Pie? How would she adjust to her new home in Kansas? How would she handle holidays without me? Would she be taught all the things I still need to teach her? I trust that the people I have chosen to care for her in the event of my death would do an excellent job raising her, but would they do it as well as only I can?

What I do know is that I must cherish every moment with her, guide her into being a good citizen and hope my influence stays with her even after I'm gone.

These Are the People in Your Neighborhood

Ah, Saturday mornings...the perfect time for big breakfasts, garage sales, and obscenity spewing little old ladies.

Yesterday, I had completed one and was on my way to another when I encountered the third. 

After sharing eggs and bacon with the new man in my life, I headed back home and followed a sign for a garage sale. I noticed an elderly woman walking and thought nothing of it because it's a common sight in the neighborhood. Her lack of shoes did catch my attention and as I cruised past, I witnessed her tumble and fall head first into the sidewalk. I immediately pulled over, threw the car in gear and hopped out to assist her. 

A bleeding goose-egg perched in the middle of her forehead, so I made her just sit still for a few minutes until I could get to the collection of fast-food napkins I house in my car's glove compartment. I put some pressure on the injury and slowed the bleeding, but she was determined to get up and walk somewhere. Her name was Jewel and she insisted I knew her brother Roy and she wanted me to take her to his house. While she jibber jabbered to me, I led her to my car under the guise of taking her to Roy's. Jewel patted my hand, muttering incoherently, and said she was glad to see me. She would soon change her mind. 

I called 911 and explained that I was assisting an elderly woman with a bleeding head injury and the paramedics/fire department arrived in a flash! The tone of my quaint visit with Jewel rapidly deteriorated at light speed to a panicked, foul mouthed rage fest! The six men gathered at my vehicle looked at me like I was punking them! I tried to explain to them the events that occurred, but I was reduced to a fit of giggling about the time I heard "you stupid cock biters, leave me alone!" issue from the woman in my car. The young men spoke with her as professionally as her vulgarity would allow, but even they got frustrated as her tirade continued. When they attempted to guide Jewel to the ambulance, she suddenly gained Kung Fu Master status or something because all I saw was little arms and legs flying around and momentary glimpses of a little grey head. The image coupled with the stream of obscenities was enough to send all of the hot firemen into paroxysms of laughter, so they backed off. Little Old Jewel continued to fling curses at us, like "you son of a whore, you stupid sumbitch, don't touch me with your F**ing devil prick." Finally, one EMT advised me that they appreciated my attempt to help the woman and that they would take it from there. 

I was a little dejected that I wouldn't have an opportunity to learn more cuss words and phrases, kinda like an Adult Sesame Street. Today's lesson is brought to you by the letter F and the middle finger!! 

Bathroom Buddies

I have witnessed many things during my numerous trips to Wal-Mart, but this morning topped just about every other experience I've ever had there. It literally changed the course of a young woman's life. While I waited for The Cuteness to potty, a young woman entered the restroom and chose a stall. After a few minutes, I heard her exclaim, "Oh, no! Oh, no...oh, God, no!"  Thinking perhaps she was on her cell phone, I ignored it and continued to wait until my assistance was requested from The Cuteness. Soon, the young woman, opened the stall door

She looked at me with wet eyes and said, "Can I ask you a question?" Always ready to impart wisdom or opinion, I responded in the affirmative. "Is it hard to be 21 and have a baby?" she asked as she brandished a newly peed upon pregnancy test. What I wanted to say was, "Hell, it's hard to be 42 and have a baby!" But instead, I smiled and said, "Oh, honey...let me buy you a cup of coffee," as I steered her to the McDonald's restaurant inside the store.

Her name was Lydia and she was terrified. She was in a fairly new relationship and wasn't sure of the reaction of the baby's father. She chattered for a while as I simply nodded and smiled. She needed to process the information and I was a willing sound board...a stranger she just met in the Wal-Mart bathroom. As good a person as any, I suppose.

Eventually, she took a breath. I took this as my cue to jump in. I explained that having a baby at any age was a unique challenge, but it was one that millions of women have accepted and triumphed over. She asked questions, I shared my story and related some lessons and advice. She even wrote some things down on a napkin!

After about an hour, we hugged and parted ways, both of us having experienced the oddly happy occasion of making a friend in a Wal-Mart bathroom.

Life Lessons at 87 Feet In the Air

It was my birthday and our charming town was hosting the annual founder's day festival, complete with carnival. The Pie is a sucker for rides and funnel cakes, so we grabbed her Favorite Aunt and commenced our adventure. We walked among the teenagers and oldsters who celebrated an unencumbered night out, dodging toddlers who had ingested too much lemonade, and at some point made the capricious decision to stand in line for the Ferris Wheel. 

The Pie said she wanted to "face my fears" and ride the giant wheel. Having never ridden one myself, I was proud that she was willing to conquer whatever those fears were, but I knew she couldn't ride it alone. And I had some fears of my own to deal with. Initially Favorite Aunt was to join us, but the three of us would not fit in one car. So, I swallowed the terror that rose into my throat and took my seat next to The Pie. 

We buckled our seat belt, snapped the safety rod in place and I felt pretty good. Then

Here we are just as our adventure began

the wheel moved. The Pie emitted a soft squeaking noise and I began to feel my bowels loosen. I clutched at The Pie with my right hand while my left hand seized the safety bar with crushing intensity. The stop and go as others loaded the ride was maddening! Every movement made me nauseous and made The Pie cry even harder. I whispered, "It's okay, it's okay..." but I can't be entirely sure if my attempt to soothe was meant for my daughter or myself. The time dangling in the car, swinging back and forth at the lightest  movement, was interminable. At about the fourth stop, The Pie, through tears,  stated forcefully that she wanted off the ride immediately. 

Knowing there was no way to communicate her desire, I attempted to mollify her as if I were approaching a wild animal. My heart thumped as I calmly explained that we couldn't get off; my buttocks clenched tighter into the imitation leather seat as I encouraged her to be brave and enjoy the adventure. Favorite Aunt had taken my cell phone before we boarded to get some photos, so I couldn't even text her to have the ride operator get us off. And I TOTALLY would have! There was a bit of a stiff wind that intensified the higher we went and I could feel a panic attack coming on. Eventually, my progeny and I found ourselves stopped at the very top of the Ferris wheel and I began to look around us.  

I saw the sunset from a new perspective; I was over 80 feet in the air and could see for what seemed miles. I can't remember the last time I paid attention to a sunset. I drew The Pie's focus to the slowly setting sun and she commented about how pretty the colors were. Lights from the next town twinkled cheerily and she laughed as she joked that she could see the whole world. My muscles began to stop their spasm parade and The Pie and talked about how beautiful it was so far up in the air. Then mercifully, the wheel started its rotations and the ride began in earnest. 

My grinding grasp on The Pie's rib cage eased and she let out a little giggle. "This is not so bad," she said. "I faced my fears, Mama!"  With perhaps a little too much forced perkiness, I replied, "You sure did!! I'm so proud of you!" After a couple more rotations of the Ferris wheel, I relaxed and realized I was having fun!  I said, "Hey, Pie, can I tell you something?" She nodded her little blonde head, her golden hair bouncing on the breeze. 

"I was really scared. Really, really scared to get on this ride. But because you were so brave, you helped me be brave, too. And I faced my fears!" Her face instantly glowed with pride and she reached for my hand. "We did it TOGETHER, Mama! As long as we're together, we can do anything!" And she's right. 

Life is like a Ferris wheel. The ride is what you make it out to be. It can start out terrifying but but eventually, you wind up on top. And if you're lucky, you'll have someone you love by your side.