It is a beautiful autumn day. I am walking city streets, the warm sunshine tickling my cheeks. Thoughts of her invade my consciousness like bolts of electricity, without warning. Appropriate, as she was very lively. Kinetic.
I try my damnedest to will them away, just like every other time she decides to invade my thoughts. Especially on a day like today, when I am moaning and groaning to myself. Always just to myself. Aloud is not allowed. For then I may have to admit how selfish and ungrateful I am.
I wonder to myself what she would do in this particular life circumstance which I currently and begrudgingly reside. I don't contemplate it long because I know. She would do anything to be in my situation. Anything at all. She would grab this opportunity up and make the absolute best of it, for it beats the alternative. It is hands-down better than where she lies now. Her grave.
She and I share so many similarities. So much of our lives and stories are the same. Accomplishments, defeats, experiences. She has three beautiful babies, same as me. For all intents and purposes, she is me and I her. Except I am here, trudging the road of my existence and she does not and will not have this "opportunity" with which I have been blessed. This scares me. It also shocks me into some awareness that maybe, just maybe, I can do as she would and Just. Effin'. Do. It.
If for no other reason or motivation, and my life is full of them--people who are more precious to me than they will ever know--today I do it for her. Just for her. Because she would happily do it if she were able, and somehow her lack of choice in the matter is now my passion.
It has been said that some people have to die so that others of us may live. That is less than the salve needed to repair a soul in grief, I think. Though today it may be a fitting life lesson. Taught by her, as only she could. She helps me in death just as she did in life.
Today, I will not complain. Not even to myself. It is a luxury she does not have, so it is one I will not allow.
Just for today.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Monday, April 22, 2013
Idea(l)s
Skink and I were at a local park recently, playing in the breeze and the sunshine. It was so sunshiny as a matter of fact, I had stripped him of his pants and he toddled around in the warm spring air wearing nothing but a onesie.
As we were about to leave I noticed two little girls playing by the park entrance. They were having a blast, laughing and completely carefree. As we approached them, one of the girls came running up to me:
I'm Kesha and I'm four and I give great hugs.
Me: I'll take a hug. ::she wraps her little arms around my legs:: You do give great hugs!
How come your baby don't have no draws (drawers) on?
I was amused and refreshed at the end of our all-too-brief encounter. With her honest introduction and polite yet assertive extroversion, I found her delightful.
I wonder how my own life might be enriched if I tried doing things Kesha's way for even a day. Honest, politely assertive extroversion. A challenge to remove myself from my own world and electronic devices long enough to get to know and try to understand those around me. I realize she has age on her side. She is free of the scars of fear and disappointment. I hope she stays that way.
This one ingredient I so highly value seems to be my motive for taking liberties that I should not. Knowing someway somehow our friendship
I value these people in my life immensely, and the very quality that sustains these relationships seems to be the paradoxical reason I do not relentlessly express my gratitude for them.
I find that oddly reassuring.
I hope that I am able to increase my understanding of others in my life rather than taking advantage of theirs'. I'll just add it to the ever-growing list of things I need to work on.
You understand, of course.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
The Ghost of Teenagers Past
I have learned a lot during my journey as a mother. I got a crash-course in parenting when Morgan became a teenager. Oh.My. She was a tricky one, but for the most part was way more saintly than me in my teenage years. She was still abducted by aliens and replaced by a sarcastic, "it's not my fault!" procrastinating clone. They brought her back, eventually. Damn aliens.
There is one thing that sticks out when I reflect back on her early teens: giving her keys to a car changed her personality.
I don't know when this tendency starts in parenting, but I am guilty of it. The tendency to assume one child is going to follow in the other's footsteps exactly. Particularly where there is a sense of freedom involved.
I have written before about my mom's strategy by the time I hit my eye-rollin', talkin'-back, rebellious phase. Her strategy didn't work. At all. So my approach with my two teens has been different. They have my trust until they give me a reason not to trust them. I at least give them the opportunity to meet my reasonable expectations. In general, it has worked out. There are mistakes made, by them and by me, but we all learn from them.
So, Chucker got his license about a month ago, and after a cluster of car issues, he now has some wheels. And I have been assuming the worst of him ever since. Strictly based on my experience with his sister. John is equally as guilty. I cannot tell you how many times he has let "You just got Morganed" fall out of his mouth in the last couple of weeks. That's right, Morgan's legacy is such that she has become a verb in our household. When there is manipulation of people, time, money, "well, see what had happened was", etc. that's when you've been "Morganed".
My mother assumed that I would do everything that my older two siblings tried as teenagers. I get it. We recognize our shortcomings as parents and we learn from them. And that's fine, but my experience with "cookie-cutter" parenting has never been positive. Don't get me wrong, I believe there are some developmental phases which few humans can escape. There are going to be similarities in certain aspects, but what works for one isn't necessarily going to work for another. Just because Morgan was a logistical nightmare doesn't necessarily mean that Chucker's fate has already been written in that area. Matter of fact, his pendulum swings in the opposite direction. He's punctual to a fault. Morgan hasn't seen punctual in almost a decade. Maybe ever. I dunno.
Maybe I'm giving us (parents) a bad rap here. Maybe it's human nature. John had zero experience as a parent when we got married. He automatically assumed the worst of Beba because of his teenage experience. Mind you when he was 16 Reagan was president, gas was 89 cents a gallon, and Teddy Ruxpin was the best-selling toy. Yet somehow Morgan was supposed to be held to the same standards he was charged with living up to. As I type this, I can see how senseless that sounds. In the moment, though, all of that escapes me as my anxiety level increases exponentially knowing that I am getting "Morganed" by either of my churen.
Becoming aware of this tendency has given me pause to stop and breathe. Both of my teenagers are good kids. They're different as night and day, though. So for now I'm strappin' myself in for this roller coaster ride that is gonna be Chucker with a car. That's inevitable. He's a teenager with a sense of freedom and independence. Whether it's the "Afterburn" or the "Kiddie Coaster" is yet to be determined.
Have I mentioned how much I love roller coasters?
There is one thing that sticks out when I reflect back on her early teens: giving her keys to a car changed her personality.
I don't know when this tendency starts in parenting, but I am guilty of it. The tendency to assume one child is going to follow in the other's footsteps exactly. Particularly where there is a sense of freedom involved.
I have written before about my mom's strategy by the time I hit my eye-rollin', talkin'-back, rebellious phase. Her strategy didn't work. At all. So my approach with my two teens has been different. They have my trust until they give me a reason not to trust them. I at least give them the opportunity to meet my reasonable expectations. In general, it has worked out. There are mistakes made, by them and by me, but we all learn from them.
So, Chucker got his license about a month ago, and after a cluster of car issues, he now has some wheels. And I have been assuming the worst of him ever since. Strictly based on my experience with his sister. John is equally as guilty. I cannot tell you how many times he has let "You just got Morganed" fall out of his mouth in the last couple of weeks. That's right, Morgan's legacy is such that she has become a verb in our household. When there is manipulation of people, time, money, "well, see what had happened was", etc. that's when you've been "Morganed".
My mother assumed that I would do everything that my older two siblings tried as teenagers. I get it. We recognize our shortcomings as parents and we learn from them. And that's fine, but my experience with "cookie-cutter" parenting has never been positive. Don't get me wrong, I believe there are some developmental phases which few humans can escape. There are going to be similarities in certain aspects, but what works for one isn't necessarily going to work for another. Just because Morgan was a logistical nightmare doesn't necessarily mean that Chucker's fate has already been written in that area. Matter of fact, his pendulum swings in the opposite direction. He's punctual to a fault. Morgan hasn't seen punctual in almost a decade. Maybe ever. I dunno.
Maybe I'm giving us (parents) a bad rap here. Maybe it's human nature. John had zero experience as a parent when we got married. He automatically assumed the worst of Beba because of his teenage experience. Mind you when he was 16 Reagan was president, gas was 89 cents a gallon, and Teddy Ruxpin was the best-selling toy. Yet somehow Morgan was supposed to be held to the same standards he was charged with living up to. As I type this, I can see how senseless that sounds. In the moment, though, all of that escapes me as my anxiety level increases exponentially knowing that I am getting "Morganed" by either of my churen.
Becoming aware of this tendency has given me pause to stop and breathe. Both of my teenagers are good kids. They're different as night and day, though. So for now I'm strappin' myself in for this roller coaster ride that is gonna be Chucker with a car. That's inevitable. He's a teenager with a sense of freedom and independence. Whether it's the "Afterburn" or the "Kiddie Coaster" is yet to be determined.
Have I mentioned how much I love roller coasters?
Monday, October 1, 2012
Wonders Never Cease
My son, the middle one, that is, got a new toy today. He's been wanting one for months and his wait is now over. He bought a banjo. Because the guitar "just isn't challenging enough for me anymore". Twerp.
This is verbatim a snippet of a phone conversation between me and a friend of mine a couple weeks ago:
Hello?
What you doing?
Listening to Chuck pick out a James Taylor song on the guitar that he's heard all of about two times.
@#$%!! (expletive). Tell him I said I hate him.
I know that all mothers are amazed by their children's abilities. I get it.
I am truly baffled by mine.
He had that damn banjo home for all of a couple of hours and had already learned a song. By ear, of course. BY EAR. Looks like the banjo won't be as much of a challenge as he originally thought.
As I am lying on the couch fllipin' through pages on Pinterest, I hear the chords to a very familiar song. I smiled to myself. That is effin' amazing. My next thought was, That is effin' disgusting.
Try as I might, I will never possess his ear for music. Or my daughter's artistic ability and eye for fashion. Ever. I should be happy for them, right? Proud even. Well screw that. I am proud of them and I do admire them for their abilities. I am also envious.
Okay, okay, I'm outright jealous. There. I said it.
My susta and I have names for people who possess things we want. We call them "whores" (lovingly, of course). Seein' as how that's not really appropriate when referring to my churen, I am open to suggestions.
p.s. It is impossible to play the banjo quietly, turns out. There is no escaping the TWANG of that thing anywhere in the house. Even if I shut him up in a room with all doors closed and retreat to my bedroom with the noise machine on, for instance. Nu-uh. Still.Doesn't.Work.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So, did you get a text from your susta tonight?
'Bout what?
Your diddy?
Um, no. What's up?
He took a Zumba class tonight.
Shutyourmouth!
::hysterical laughter::
On the topic of wonders never ceasing, any of you who know my father will automatically see thewonder humor in this. Yeah, you're welcome. I kindly thanked my sister for the material and got off the phone. I could not wait to tell John.
And all of y'all.
Oops.
This is verbatim a snippet of a phone conversation between me and a friend of mine a couple weeks ago:
Hello?
What you doing?
Listening to Chuck pick out a James Taylor song on the guitar that he's heard all of about two times.
@#$%!! (expletive). Tell him I said I hate him.
I know that all mothers are amazed by their children's abilities. I get it.
I am truly baffled by mine.
He had that damn banjo home for all of a couple of hours and had already learned a song. By ear, of course. BY EAR. Looks like the banjo won't be as much of a challenge as he originally thought.
As I am lying on the couch fllipin' through pages on Pinterest, I hear the chords to a very familiar song. I smiled to myself. That is effin' amazing. My next thought was, That is effin' disgusting.
Try as I might, I will never possess his ear for music. Or my daughter's artistic ability and eye for fashion. Ever. I should be happy for them, right? Proud even. Well screw that. I am proud of them and I do admire them for their abilities. I am also envious.
Okay, okay, I'm outright jealous. There. I said it.
My susta and I have names for people who possess things we want. We call them "whores" (lovingly, of course). Seein' as how that's not really appropriate when referring to my churen, I am open to suggestions.
p.s. It is impossible to play the banjo quietly, turns out. There is no escaping the TWANG of that thing anywhere in the house. Even if I shut him up in a room with all doors closed and retreat to my bedroom with the noise machine on, for instance. Nu-uh. Still.Doesn't.Work.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So, did you get a text from your susta tonight?
'Bout what?
Your diddy?
Um, no. What's up?
He took a Zumba class tonight.
Shutyourmouth!
::hysterical laughter::
On the topic of wonders never ceasing, any of you who know my father will automatically see the
And all of y'all.
Oops.
Monday, September 24, 2012
The Consumption
Okay, so the "consumption" is a very old-fashioned term for tuberculosis. Given the content of this post, I found it more than appropriate.
I have issues. If you have followed this blog for anytime at all, this is far from a newsflash.
It was suggested to me a long time ago that I seek therapy for obsessive-compulsive disorder. I always took it sort of light-heartedly, thinkin' that my "isms" were normal for women, particularly moms. Since I have been a mother for more of my life than I haven't, I can't really remember not being this way.
It was more recently brought to my attention that I really might need to get it checked out. For realz.
For as long as I can remember, I have had two speeds: high and off. There is no middle-ground there. I am either barreling through life like a bull in a china shop or I am asleep. Rest is a four-letter word. I honestly don't think I know how. My husband has brought this up many times over the years. I didn't pay it much attention, because after all, it wasn't his life that got out of control if my chores weren't done, it was mine.
I was talking with a friend whose spouse has OCD. She was in tears expressing her frustration in living with him. By the end of the conversation, I was in tears because I finally saw our home life through John's eyes. It was not pretty.
I have been feeling overwhelmed as of late and have tried to delegate some household chores to Chuck and John. I asked Chuck to pack his lunch for school and John to set the coffee maker for the next morning. They both did as they were asked. When I walked back in the kitchen, there were coffee grounds on the counter, bread crumbs and lettuce strewn all about. Ignore it Wendy. It is okay. Just go on doing what you're doing. So, I sit down at my computer to calmly finish the task at hand. I cannot concentrate because the bread crumbs and coffee grounds on the counter are creating noise in my head. That's the only way I know how to describe it. The noise is so loud I am unable to focus on anything else but THE BREAD CRUMBS AND THE COFFEE GROUNDS ON THE COUNTER! I could not stop myself from getting up out of my chair to clean the kitchen. Again. For at least the tenth time that day.
This is how I live my life on a daily basis. It is exhausting.
In doing research on the subject, I came across a quiz, so I took it and then had those closest to me take it too, just to compare. I am too embarrassed to tell you all my score, let's just say that when my total came up there was stuff highlighted and flashing in red 'bout how I needed "to seek professional help immediately".
Yikes.
So I did. I start behavioral therapy next week and I am scared to death. Yes, I want to learn how to relax and yes, I think it will benefit my family tremendously. But quite honestly, I don't know that I'm ready to be that "well". My OCD has benefited me in many areas of my life. I have a work ethic like nobody's bidness and when it comes to gettin' some stuff done, and done well, I am the woman. I rock in situations like that. Multi-taskin'? Child please. My OCD is why I can beat the pants off anyone at Tetris. Little puzzle looking pieces that when fit perfectly together disappear? That's an OCD's dream.
All the women in my life have told me they can relate, but they know how to chill out, too. That's what I want. There has to be a gray area in there somewhere and I am hoping to find it.
p.s. If anyone wants to take the quiz and e-mail me their results or comment below, feel free. I'd love to get some input from other women.
I have issues. If you have followed this blog for anytime at all, this is far from a newsflash.
It was suggested to me a long time ago that I seek therapy for obsessive-compulsive disorder. I always took it sort of light-heartedly, thinkin' that my "isms" were normal for women, particularly moms. Since I have been a mother for more of my life than I haven't, I can't really remember not being this way.
It was more recently brought to my attention that I really might need to get it checked out. For realz.
For as long as I can remember, I have had two speeds: high and off. There is no middle-ground there. I am either barreling through life like a bull in a china shop or I am asleep. Rest is a four-letter word. I honestly don't think I know how. My husband has brought this up many times over the years. I didn't pay it much attention, because after all, it wasn't his life that got out of control if my chores weren't done, it was mine.
I was talking with a friend whose spouse has OCD. She was in tears expressing her frustration in living with him. By the end of the conversation, I was in tears because I finally saw our home life through John's eyes. It was not pretty.
I have been feeling overwhelmed as of late and have tried to delegate some household chores to Chuck and John. I asked Chuck to pack his lunch for school and John to set the coffee maker for the next morning. They both did as they were asked. When I walked back in the kitchen, there were coffee grounds on the counter, bread crumbs and lettuce strewn all about. Ignore it Wendy. It is okay. Just go on doing what you're doing. So, I sit down at my computer to calmly finish the task at hand. I cannot concentrate because the bread crumbs and coffee grounds on the counter are creating noise in my head. That's the only way I know how to describe it. The noise is so loud I am unable to focus on anything else but THE BREAD CRUMBS AND THE COFFEE GROUNDS ON THE COUNTER! I could not stop myself from getting up out of my chair to clean the kitchen. Again. For at least the tenth time that day.
This is how I live my life on a daily basis. It is exhausting.
In doing research on the subject, I came across a quiz, so I took it and then had those closest to me take it too, just to compare. I am too embarrassed to tell you all my score, let's just say that when my total came up there was stuff highlighted and flashing in red 'bout how I needed "to seek professional help immediately".
Yikes.
So I did. I start behavioral therapy next week and I am scared to death. Yes, I want to learn how to relax and yes, I think it will benefit my family tremendously. But quite honestly, I don't know that I'm ready to be that "well". My OCD has benefited me in many areas of my life. I have a work ethic like nobody's bidness and when it comes to gettin' some stuff done, and done well, I am the woman. I rock in situations like that. Multi-taskin'? Child please. My OCD is why I can beat the pants off anyone at Tetris. Little puzzle looking pieces that when fit perfectly together disappear? That's an OCD's dream.
All the women in my life have told me they can relate, but they know how to chill out, too. That's what I want. There has to be a gray area in there somewhere and I am hoping to find it.
p.s. If anyone wants to take the quiz and e-mail me their results or comment below, feel free. I'd love to get some input from other women.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Football Food
Anyone who knows me knows I enjoy bein' in the kitchen.
Football is sort of a big deal at my house. Okay, okay, so football is a huge deal at my house. Which gives me the perfect opportunity to combine two of my favorite things: football and food.
In the past twenty-four hours I have made two loaves of pumpkin bread, chicken salad, chili, sausage dip, and these cream cheese pepperoni puff thingys. And chocolate chip cookies. Oh wait, I always have chocolate chip cookies. Football or not.
Fall is my favorite time of the year. Football is my favorite sport. And cooking for me is always in season, especially baking.
My family and I have done nothing but watch football and eat. All.Day.
Football season is indeed the most wonderful time of the year.
Even if my team sucks.
Again. This year.
Football is sort of a big deal at my house. Okay, okay, so football is a huge deal at my house. Which gives me the perfect opportunity to combine two of my favorite things: football and food.
In the past twenty-four hours I have made two loaves of pumpkin bread, chicken salad, chili, sausage dip, and these cream cheese pepperoni puff thingys. And chocolate chip cookies. Oh wait, I always have chocolate chip cookies. Football or not.
Fall is my favorite time of the year. Football is my favorite sport. And cooking for me is always in season, especially baking.
My family and I have done nothing but watch football and eat. All.Day.
Football season is indeed the most wonderful time of the year.
Even if my team sucks.
Again. This year.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Groupie
Friday night Chuck and I were out and about and ran into a dear friend of mine. Upon seeing Chuck he asked, "You couldn't find any football games to go to tonight?"
"For whatever reason, he wants to hang out with me tonight", I replied.
"Well, if you were my Mom, I'd want to hang out with you too".
Yeah, that's why I love him.
Chuck and I had just picked up a new album from my favorite band. My very favorite band. Maybe it was having that old flame rekindled, but Chuck and I started reminiscing about my (and my susta's) experiences with them. You know, before all of their hard work paid off and they made it big. We were fortunate to be groupies when we were, really.
And groupies, we were. I prefer the term "bandwhore" as it more aptly describes our obsessive devotion and dedication to these boys.
My sister introduced me to them by first letting me hear their music, which was catchy, but I wasn't convinced. Then I saw them live. There were two back-to-back shows that weekend and I agreed to go with her to one. Immediately after that show, I found myself signing up to go to the second. I really wanted to go but I didn't understand why. I didn't need to, I guess. I just knew I loved seeing them live.
Following these boys has led to us attending shows in three states (two of them in one weekend), standing in lines for hours to ensure our preferred spot (at the stage, of course), CD signings, talking to them after shows, pictures, and obsessively checking their tour dates. Chuck's first show was in Raleigh. He got his guitar signed and got the first string broken on one of the boy's instruments given to him after the show. That night, his aunt and I were rock stars in his eyes. He was amazed. He was starstruck by them, it was obvious. And I could relate all too well.
He had that same look on his face Friday night. One of amazement and wonder as I showed him pics of his auntie and me in a magazine, a finger pick I scored from one of the shows, told him of conversations had with them. Through our devotion to this particular band, we were exposed to many other awesome talents. His jaw dropped when I told him about his mother hosting one of the bands overnight after a local show. (It was like 10 degrees that night and they were gonna sleep in their van. We just couldn't have that, now could we?). Chuck laughed as I told him about the band's lead making a sandwich in my kitchen at like 2 a.m.
His aunt and I also threw a house concert for another band we fell in love with while chasing these boys. In other words, we excel at bein' bandwhores. We are so good at it.
Thinking over my conversation with Chuck before I went to bed that night, the more I thought my friend was right. I am pretty damn cool (to be a mom, that is). Seeing as how most teenage boys view their mothers as being lame, out-of-touch and ignorant, if me and my sister are cool enough to be heroes in his eyes (at least for one night), I'll take it.
I think I'd wanna hang out with me too, if I were my Mom. Just sayin'.
"For whatever reason, he wants to hang out with me tonight", I replied.
"Well, if you were my Mom, I'd want to hang out with you too".
Yeah, that's why I love him.
Chuck and I had just picked up a new album from my favorite band. My very favorite band. Maybe it was having that old flame rekindled, but Chuck and I started reminiscing about my (and my susta's) experiences with them. You know, before all of their hard work paid off and they made it big. We were fortunate to be groupies when we were, really.
And groupies, we were. I prefer the term "bandwhore" as it more aptly describes our obsessive devotion and dedication to these boys.
My sister introduced me to them by first letting me hear their music, which was catchy, but I wasn't convinced. Then I saw them live. There were two back-to-back shows that weekend and I agreed to go with her to one. Immediately after that show, I found myself signing up to go to the second. I really wanted to go but I didn't understand why. I didn't need to, I guess. I just knew I loved seeing them live.
Following these boys has led to us attending shows in three states (two of them in one weekend), standing in lines for hours to ensure our preferred spot (at the stage, of course), CD signings, talking to them after shows, pictures, and obsessively checking their tour dates. Chuck's first show was in Raleigh. He got his guitar signed and got the first string broken on one of the boy's instruments given to him after the show. That night, his aunt and I were rock stars in his eyes. He was amazed. He was starstruck by them, it was obvious. And I could relate all too well.
He had that same look on his face Friday night. One of amazement and wonder as I showed him pics of his auntie and me in a magazine, a finger pick I scored from one of the shows, told him of conversations had with them. Through our devotion to this particular band, we were exposed to many other awesome talents. His jaw dropped when I told him about his mother hosting one of the bands overnight after a local show. (It was like 10 degrees that night and they were gonna sleep in their van. We just couldn't have that, now could we?). Chuck laughed as I told him about the band's lead making a sandwich in my kitchen at like 2 a.m.
His aunt and I also threw a house concert for another band we fell in love with while chasing these boys. In other words, we excel at bein' bandwhores. We are so good at it.
Thinking over my conversation with Chuck before I went to bed that night, the more I thought my friend was right. I am pretty damn cool (to be a mom, that is). Seeing as how most teenage boys view their mothers as being lame, out-of-touch and ignorant, if me and my sister are cool enough to be heroes in his eyes (at least for one night), I'll take it.
I think I'd wanna hang out with me too, if I were my Mom. Just sayin'.
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