I don't deal well with change. I never have. It's a character flaw, I know. The worst kind of change, for me, are departures. At this point in my life I'm closer to the grave than to the cradle so, by now, you would think that I have adapted, evolved, come up with coping mechanisms. That could not be further from the truth. As a matter of fact, I think it's gotten worse.
It's rather selfish, wanting things to always stay the same. Logically, I know this. I am fully aware that I am more interested in maintaining balance in my own ecosystem than the evolution of man. To be quite honest, I completely identified with the father figure in "The Croods" and I think the family kill circle is rational mechanism of protection.
I think (and I realize that this post is full of the work "I") I take all types of change personally. For whatever reason, I just can't shake off those last vestiges of deep-rooted insecurity and when someone leaves I don't know how to NOT take it as a ballot cast in the "loves me not" bucket. Is this thinking f*cked up, rudimentary and childish? Yes.
This January we'll have lived in our current house for 16 years. All 3 of my kids have been brought home to this house, we've buried dozens of pets (not in our yard...don't worry it's not a pet cemetery out there. And mostly it's been rodents. And amphibians. And 2 dogs.) and seen countless neighbors come and go. I've lived in this house longer than I've lived any where else in my entire life. We've done 2 additions and added a swimming pool. I've rearranged furniture so many times that recently I just either threw away or donated 90% of it. Lee and I have completed fellowships, modified our careers, gone through illness, taken care of parents in the setting of our home. Our kitchen table has been the epicenter of homework, projects, mentoring, finance summits, bill paying, cookie baking, late nights with friends, tamale making, picture drawing, Scrabble competitions, sandwich preparation, bacon and chocolate chip pancake consumption, family meetings to discuss disappointments and to gather for celebrations. Our kids have learned to read, done math facts, learned Texas history, written (not enough) thank you notes, eaten thousands of chicken nuggets, gallons of macaroni and cheese, been subject to inconsistent morning devotionals, left letters and cookies for Santa Claus, formulated Christmas lists, plotted illness to skip school, taken ibuprofen for actual fevers and have transitioned from diapers to puberty in the same 3 seats.
When I came to Houston in 1991 (that's right, 23 years ago!) I never, ever thought I'd call it my home. Up to the time that I arrived here for medical school, I had moved 13 times in my 23 years of life. My first year of medical school I changed apartments 3 times because I didn't bother finding housing before I left Atlanta (a symptom of my ambivalence and depression at the onset of medical school). It wasn't until I met my husband that I began cultivating any sense of stability. I've lived in 3 different places since we've been together; the apartment I was living when we met, our first rental home and now our current home. I attended a different school for kindergarten, first grade, second grade and third grade and in 3 different states. This isn't a criticism of my parents. They were young and it was the 70s. If I psychoanalyze my husband, he'd have a similar tale to tell (but he doesn't like to be psychoanalyzed and perhaps his moves weren't so extreme-in some ways. In others they were probably worse or at least different). Nevertheless, neither one of us thought we'd be in the same house 16 years later and certainly not in Houston, TX.
In the movie, "It's a Wonderful Life", George Bailey wrestles with whether or not his existence has mattered. It's the basis of the whole movie. I've probably seen that movie about a hundred times and it is one of my all time favorites. I remember sitting in my den on the sofa in my pjs with my mom and my brother on Greenhill Drive watching it during Thanksgiving and Christmas break. I love the underlying expression of loyalty and the emphasis on what really matters. If you know me on more than just a superficial level, for better or worse, I've become attached to you-like a barnacle. You have to scrape me off and I'm old and crusty. I'm not very good at expressing my love for you and your people in a vocal kind of way, but love I do. I love the familiarity of your proximity and all the comfort that proximity brings. Do you have an egg I can borrow? Can my dog(s) camp out at your house? Should we go walk on the bayou (the cement ditch with the gnats and the homeless)? The beer bottles that stack when our men-folk talk nonsense. The running back and forth of our children across yards. There have been lots and lots of you have that have come into my life, made it richer, and then continued on your own journey. We all have a different trajectory and I mourn when yours doesn't follow mine. It's because I love you and I value you. So please don't take my sadness as rejection or judgment or irritation. It's just plain old sadness because I love you and, selfishly, I will miss the familiarity and I suck at change. But I know that you have your own story to create and your own kitchen table that will be central to that story. So, even though I'd love to envelop you into my family kill circle or trap you in my basement, it is a wonderful life. But I will miss the shit out of you.
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Sunday, November 2, 2014
Grandmothers
I've spent dozens of nights in the Embassy Suites in Laredo and every time I'm here I wonder it it will be the last time I get to see my grandmother. Tomorrow she turns 94 years old. Her birthday has become somewhat of an international holiday. When she turned 90 there was a celebration in Mexico. Her 91st and 92nd birthdays were more low key, a backyard fiesta in Laredo. Her 93rd we were back down in Oaxaca. Her birthday coincides with Dia de los Muertos so it's always a fun time to go to Mexico. This year it was another back yard party complete with a piñata and pineapple upside down cake. I wouldn't miss this celebration for anything and whether or not my priorities are straight, I don't even care.
Actually, I have 2 grandmothers in Laredo. The other grandmother just turned a youthful 88 years old. She is mobile and seems to be closer to 70 years old than 90 years old. She just moved into her own 4 bedroom house, drives and reads voraciously. Whenever I get an opportunity to come to Laredo, despite the 6 hour drive, I hop in my car and go. My kids love coming here too. And they love the familiarity of the Embassy Suites and Abuelita Fina's backyard and Nana's irritable chihuahua and the routine of visiting; half the day at Nana's and half the day at Abuelita Fina's.
My daughter chose to stay in Houston with her dad so she could go trick or treating and I don't begrudge her that decision. In her 10 year old mind the benefits of limitless candy outweighed the benefits of a day off of school to travel.
Fina, my 94 year old grandmother, is pleasantly demented but still quick witted and sharp tongued. She vacillates between wondering when her deceased husband will return from work to delivering a razor sharp retort in a battle of the wits. My 71 year old uncle, her oldest son, teases her mercilessly and she loves it. The night we arrived we went to visit her and she was admiring my overly priced Louis Vuitton bag, caressing and coveting it. My uncle, in Spanish (she is wittiest in her native language and I can finally understand the back and forth), tells her that he will sell her my bag for $7 to which she responds she will only pay $5. They haggle over the price for a while and then when she begins to look at the contents of my bag my uncle scolds her and tells her not to be so nosy as his mistress' panties may be inside. I, however, draw a line at my Louis Vuitton bag. No matter how much I love and adore my Abuelita, she will never get my bag! I have real reason to be concerned as she is a bit of a hoarder and a thief. My 2 year old niece loves cell phones and the other night she cried when she had to return my son's cell phone to him, "Me pona!" This is my 94 year old grandmother as she is hiding my cousin's iPhone inside a jewelry box she just received and she becomes equally irate when my aunt, her youngest daughter, tries to take it away from her. To pacify her, I hand her my iPhone which she deftly squirrels away in the small jewelry box.
Magda, my 88 year old grandmother has no memory problems and hasn't regressed into a toddler. She is knowledgable in all areas and she can talk to you about politics and current events and she always has a new book to recommend. She married at age 15 and had her first child at age 16 and like my other grandmother, she has sacrificed. She has no bitterness or regret or anger, only calm wisdom. In talking to her, it becomes apparant that in the generation preceding mine and amongst your family, a tremendous sense of duty and obligation was cultivated. There was never room for individual rights and preferences. You did and still do what is right and best for the family, collectively. Brothers and sisters don't leave each other out to dry and they don't squabble over fairness. Personal rights take a back seat to family loyalty and honor and as I listen to her I am overcome with emotion. How can so much change in one generation? Suddenly my mother and her demands and her siblings and their acts of selflessness make more sense. This is how she and they were raised. You don't question your elders and you are your brother's keeper.
Some days I get frustrated with my own mother and her seeming demands on my time and my attention but in her generation's mind, this is what they are owed. They sowed their seeds and now they want to reap the harvest. We don't live in a world of honoring your elders above all else. We have our schedules and our activities and these win our attention time and time again and now I wonder what we are loosing in the process. This is why I love Laredo and my Abuelita and my Nana and my Tias and Tios. This place and these people anchor me.
Actually, I have 2 grandmothers in Laredo. The other grandmother just turned a youthful 88 years old. She is mobile and seems to be closer to 70 years old than 90 years old. She just moved into her own 4 bedroom house, drives and reads voraciously. Whenever I get an opportunity to come to Laredo, despite the 6 hour drive, I hop in my car and go. My kids love coming here too. And they love the familiarity of the Embassy Suites and Abuelita Fina's backyard and Nana's irritable chihuahua and the routine of visiting; half the day at Nana's and half the day at Abuelita Fina's.
My daughter chose to stay in Houston with her dad so she could go trick or treating and I don't begrudge her that decision. In her 10 year old mind the benefits of limitless candy outweighed the benefits of a day off of school to travel.
Fina, my 94 year old grandmother, is pleasantly demented but still quick witted and sharp tongued. She vacillates between wondering when her deceased husband will return from work to delivering a razor sharp retort in a battle of the wits. My 71 year old uncle, her oldest son, teases her mercilessly and she loves it. The night we arrived we went to visit her and she was admiring my overly priced Louis Vuitton bag, caressing and coveting it. My uncle, in Spanish (she is wittiest in her native language and I can finally understand the back and forth), tells her that he will sell her my bag for $7 to which she responds she will only pay $5. They haggle over the price for a while and then when she begins to look at the contents of my bag my uncle scolds her and tells her not to be so nosy as his mistress' panties may be inside. I, however, draw a line at my Louis Vuitton bag. No matter how much I love and adore my Abuelita, she will never get my bag! I have real reason to be concerned as she is a bit of a hoarder and a thief. My 2 year old niece loves cell phones and the other night she cried when she had to return my son's cell phone to him, "Me pona!" This is my 94 year old grandmother as she is hiding my cousin's iPhone inside a jewelry box she just received and she becomes equally irate when my aunt, her youngest daughter, tries to take it away from her. To pacify her, I hand her my iPhone which she deftly squirrels away in the small jewelry box.
Magda, my 88 year old grandmother has no memory problems and hasn't regressed into a toddler. She is knowledgable in all areas and she can talk to you about politics and current events and she always has a new book to recommend. She married at age 15 and had her first child at age 16 and like my other grandmother, she has sacrificed. She has no bitterness or regret or anger, only calm wisdom. In talking to her, it becomes apparant that in the generation preceding mine and amongst your family, a tremendous sense of duty and obligation was cultivated. There was never room for individual rights and preferences. You did and still do what is right and best for the family, collectively. Brothers and sisters don't leave each other out to dry and they don't squabble over fairness. Personal rights take a back seat to family loyalty and honor and as I listen to her I am overcome with emotion. How can so much change in one generation? Suddenly my mother and her demands and her siblings and their acts of selflessness make more sense. This is how she and they were raised. You don't question your elders and you are your brother's keeper.
Some days I get frustrated with my own mother and her seeming demands on my time and my attention but in her generation's mind, this is what they are owed. They sowed their seeds and now they want to reap the harvest. We don't live in a world of honoring your elders above all else. We have our schedules and our activities and these win our attention time and time again and now I wonder what we are loosing in the process. This is why I love Laredo and my Abuelita and my Nana and my Tias and Tios. This place and these people anchor me.
Sunday, August 31, 2014
A Day in the Life of an ER visit
I wish I was in a better mood, a joke telling mood. Normally I think I'm pretty funny. I can find humor in most situations. Right now I'm sitting in and ER with my middle kid. I don't think he is sick enough to justify a visit to the ER, but I couldn't take the moaning any more. It was more about my own self preservation than his illness. I know he's dehydrated and he won't drink so we're cheating and getting IV fluids. Because the resident found out my husband and I are teaching faculty my kid is getting the blood work they wouldn't normally get. I don't think it's necessary and they don't either but lots of times what dictates our actions in medicine is not what we think it is, but what we think it isn't. This is mostly so no one can turn around and claim we missed something. No one wants to miss a diagnosis on an attending's kid. Honestly, the moaning stopped as soon as we walked into the ER. "I'm in the hospital. I don't want to seem like I'm sick." he says. Really, we are in the emergency room. This is exactly the location you should be in if you're sick. Better to moan here than at home. Regardless, here we sit awaiting our thousand dollar work up to tell us what we already know; he has a viral infection and he's dehydrated. I do find solace in the other 80% of the families here who also have no business being in an emergency room. But it's probably worse that I'm a doctor. I should know better. I should be in an urgent care center and I thought this children's hospital had one, but they don't. So, I tried.
There weren't too many people here when we first arrived but they put us in a room with another family. It was a large family both in quality and quantity. Their noise level was out of proportion to the number present and it didn't help with the headache. My kid turned to me and said, "I hate them. I think they brought an entire continent with them." So I went and asked if they had a private room like I'm at the Ritz-Carlton or something. They obliged but I'm sure some snarky comments were made at my expense.
I told my kid that the triage medical tech had won the Miss Congeniality contest 3 years in a row. Normally people who work in a children's hospital are obnoxiously chipper but I get it; sick kids need distraction and ridiculously happy is distracting. This lady had the personality of the bottom of my shoe. I listened to the tech across the hall with envy. She was jokey and personable. Our lady seemed like she had suffered the effects of too much ECT. After triage where they took his vitals, they ushered us to some hard, plastic chairs where we sat till they called us to registration. "Would you like to pay your $100 co-pay?" I was asked. My own private thought bubble popped up and silently I said to myself, "No. Not really, but do I have a choice? It's either now or later." Then I handed over my already maxed out credit card.
After registration we sat in the lobby for a nanosecond. Just long enough for my kid to lie down and get comfortable and then get his name called again. At this point we were no longer audibly moaning in pain, but every little movement elicited grimaces (on the ride over he asked me to stop going over bumps b/c even riding in the car hurt. Since we live below sea level I could not accommodate his request). In the lobby I see lots of other kids who are playing on iPads and running around and looking too good to be here. Now we are just waiting, finally in our own, private, "suite" after completing the psychotic, virtual dot-to-dot ER process.
My other 2 kids have been left at home. This is okay with them because it means they can watch television for 8 hours straight with no one telling them to go do something productive. My daughter can watch YouTube video after YouTube video of teenaged girls singing the covers of sappy, Taylor Swift-esq love ballads and looking up decorating ideas for her room (because I am a sub-optimal designer in her eyes). And my oldest can play video games on his phone until his thumbs bleed. I've only gotten 2 phone calls from them and there was no panic on their end though they did express some concern regarding their brother's condition. "Overall his prognosis is good" I tell my daughter. "What does that mean?" she asks. "That he's gonna make it." Her response..."meh".
The sick kid is in heaven because he gets to watch Sponge Bob without having to compromise about the TV and he has a team of women waiting on him. I'm fighting off the final act of desperation...walking over to the McDonalds inside the hospital and getting him some curative french fries and myself a medium sized value meal...there is only so much Sponge Bob a grown woman can handle.
Well the resident is in here now and she's looking up his results (all normal) so I'd better go and act interested...
There weren't too many people here when we first arrived but they put us in a room with another family. It was a large family both in quality and quantity. Their noise level was out of proportion to the number present and it didn't help with the headache. My kid turned to me and said, "I hate them. I think they brought an entire continent with them." So I went and asked if they had a private room like I'm at the Ritz-Carlton or something. They obliged but I'm sure some snarky comments were made at my expense.
I told my kid that the triage medical tech had won the Miss Congeniality contest 3 years in a row. Normally people who work in a children's hospital are obnoxiously chipper but I get it; sick kids need distraction and ridiculously happy is distracting. This lady had the personality of the bottom of my shoe. I listened to the tech across the hall with envy. She was jokey and personable. Our lady seemed like she had suffered the effects of too much ECT. After triage where they took his vitals, they ushered us to some hard, plastic chairs where we sat till they called us to registration. "Would you like to pay your $100 co-pay?" I was asked. My own private thought bubble popped up and silently I said to myself, "No. Not really, but do I have a choice? It's either now or later." Then I handed over my already maxed out credit card.
After registration we sat in the lobby for a nanosecond. Just long enough for my kid to lie down and get comfortable and then get his name called again. At this point we were no longer audibly moaning in pain, but every little movement elicited grimaces (on the ride over he asked me to stop going over bumps b/c even riding in the car hurt. Since we live below sea level I could not accommodate his request). In the lobby I see lots of other kids who are playing on iPads and running around and looking too good to be here. Now we are just waiting, finally in our own, private, "suite" after completing the psychotic, virtual dot-to-dot ER process.
My other 2 kids have been left at home. This is okay with them because it means they can watch television for 8 hours straight with no one telling them to go do something productive. My daughter can watch YouTube video after YouTube video of teenaged girls singing the covers of sappy, Taylor Swift-esq love ballads and looking up decorating ideas for her room (because I am a sub-optimal designer in her eyes). And my oldest can play video games on his phone until his thumbs bleed. I've only gotten 2 phone calls from them and there was no panic on their end though they did express some concern regarding their brother's condition. "Overall his prognosis is good" I tell my daughter. "What does that mean?" she asks. "That he's gonna make it." Her response..."meh".
The sick kid is in heaven because he gets to watch Sponge Bob without having to compromise about the TV and he has a team of women waiting on him. I'm fighting off the final act of desperation...walking over to the McDonalds inside the hospital and getting him some curative french fries and myself a medium sized value meal...there is only so much Sponge Bob a grown woman can handle.
Well the resident is in here now and she's looking up his results (all normal) so I'd better go and act interested...
Saturday, August 30, 2014
Holes
I'm a hot mess right now. I can't control life circumstances so I'm doing the next best thing....trying to impose order into my surroundings. I have been attacking kids' rooms and closets like an vicious Mary Poppins. There is something about ridding your life of plastic and wire hangers that is cleansing to the soul. There are mountains of unwanted clothes, books and toys in every direction. You know how when you dig a hole at the beach and it fills up with water and the walls collapse so you just keep digging but really you are getting no where? That's what I feel like right now. If I could just have everything in my house exactly the way it should be, then maybe the things in my life that I can't control would pop back into place? The only problem is my hole keeps filling back up again.
I've returned to praying every morning because even though prayer won't immediately change my circumstance, it's a good way to start the day; a reminder that I'm not in control and that is ok. And a reminder that there is one that I can trust even if I don't feel that reassurance. He is there.
I read the following this morning in Streams in the Desert:
"Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him till daybreak.(Genesis 32:24)
In this passage, God is wrestling with Jacob more than Jacob is wrestling with God. The "man" referred to here is the Son of Man—the Angel of the Covenant. It was God in human form, pressing down on Jacob to press his old life from him. And by daybreak God had prevailed, for Jacob's "hip was wrenched" (v. 25). As Jacob "fell" from his old life, he fell into the arms of God, clinging to Him but also wrestling until his blessing came. His blessing was that of a new life, so he rose from the earthly to the heavenly, the human to the divine, and the natural to the supernatural. From that morning forward, he was a weak and broken man from a human perspective, but God was there. And the Lord's heavenly voice proclaimed, "Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, because you have struggled with God and with men and have overcome" (v. 28).
Beloved, this should be a typical scene in the life of everyone who has been transformed. If God has called us to His highest and best, each of us will have a time of crisis, when all our resources will fail and when we face either ruin or something better than we have ever dreamed. But before we can receive the blessing, we must rely on God's infinite help. We must be willing to let go, surrendering completely to Him, and cease from our own wisdom, strength, and righteousness. We must be "crucified with Christ" (Gal 2:20) and yet alive in Him. God knows how to lead us to the point of crisis, and He knows how to lead us through it.
Is God leading you in this way? Is this the meaning of your mysterious trial, your difficult circumstances, your impossible situation, or that trying place you cannot seem to move past without Him? But do you have enough of Him to win the victory?
Then turn to Jacob's God! Throw yourself helplessly at His feet. Die in His loving arms to your own strength and wisdom, and rise like Jacob into His strength and sufficiency. There is no way out of your difficult and narrow situation except at the top. You must win deliverance by rising higher, coming into a new experience with God. And may it bring you into all that is meant by the revelation of "the Mighty One of Jacob" (Isa 60:16)! There is no way out but God.
At Your feet I fall,
Yield You up my ALL,
TO SUFFER, LIVE, OR DIE
For my Lord crucified."
I'm trying God.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
I've returned to praying every morning because even though prayer won't immediately change my circumstance, it's a good way to start the day; a reminder that I'm not in control and that is ok. And a reminder that there is one that I can trust even if I don't feel that reassurance. He is there.
I read the following this morning in Streams in the Desert:
"Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him till daybreak.(Genesis 32:24)
In this passage, God is wrestling with Jacob more than Jacob is wrestling with God. The "man" referred to here is the Son of Man—the Angel of the Covenant. It was God in human form, pressing down on Jacob to press his old life from him. And by daybreak God had prevailed, for Jacob's "hip was wrenched" (v. 25). As Jacob "fell" from his old life, he fell into the arms of God, clinging to Him but also wrestling until his blessing came. His blessing was that of a new life, so he rose from the earthly to the heavenly, the human to the divine, and the natural to the supernatural. From that morning forward, he was a weak and broken man from a human perspective, but God was there. And the Lord's heavenly voice proclaimed, "Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, because you have struggled with God and with men and have overcome" (v. 28).
Beloved, this should be a typical scene in the life of everyone who has been transformed. If God has called us to His highest and best, each of us will have a time of crisis, when all our resources will fail and when we face either ruin or something better than we have ever dreamed. But before we can receive the blessing, we must rely on God's infinite help. We must be willing to let go, surrendering completely to Him, and cease from our own wisdom, strength, and righteousness. We must be "crucified with Christ" (Gal 2:20) and yet alive in Him. God knows how to lead us to the point of crisis, and He knows how to lead us through it.
Is God leading you in this way? Is this the meaning of your mysterious trial, your difficult circumstances, your impossible situation, or that trying place you cannot seem to move past without Him? But do you have enough of Him to win the victory?
Then turn to Jacob's God! Throw yourself helplessly at His feet. Die in His loving arms to your own strength and wisdom, and rise like Jacob into His strength and sufficiency. There is no way out of your difficult and narrow situation except at the top. You must win deliverance by rising higher, coming into a new experience with God. And may it bring you into all that is meant by the revelation of "the Mighty One of Jacob" (Isa 60:16)! There is no way out but God.
At Your feet I fall,
Yield You up my ALL,
TO SUFFER, LIVE, OR DIE
For my Lord crucified."
I'm trying God.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
My Cousin
Major Depressive Disorder. Bipolar Disorders. Autism Spectrum Disorder. Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder. Schizophrenia. Anxiety Disorders. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Anorexia Nervosa. Bulemia Nervosa. All of these labels come with a diagnostic code and they are all defined in the DSM V, The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders; the book that is the mental health professional's bible.
Yesterday, along with an intern, I treated a woman who clearly met the diagnostic criteria for MDD (major depressive disorder). She was adamant that she would not go to see either a psychiatrist or any other mental health provider. No amount of coaxing was going to convince her that she might benefit from talking to a trained, objective 3rd party. We finally compromised and agreed to start medication and she would return in 2 weeks to evaluate the effects of the medication and at that time we'd discuss therapy some more.
I'm going to out myself here. I've had the same mental health provider for almost 20 years. At times we've seen each other more frequently than other times; during and after pregnancies, major home renovations and treatment for breast cancer we saw a lot of each other. Now, I talk to her monthly whether I "need" it or not. I've decided that mental health maintenance is important for me and my family and the annual cost far outweighs any future cost from not going. Am I crazy? Aren't we all a little bit? I'll tell you one thing, after 20+ years of therapy I'm far less crazy than I might have been without it. Throughout the course of our relationship, this woman, who is an angel from God himself and like a second mother to me, has never told me what to think or given me the answers but she has listened and in listening she's helped me analyze situations and relationships clearly.
I first sought out help from mental health providers in medical school when I was clinically depressed. I had all of the symptoms, sleeplessness, anhedonia, decreased appetite, depressed mood, feelings of guilt and worthlessness. The scariest part was the suicidal thoughts that I was having. I never actually attempted suicide, but I had come up with several scenarios. You see, at this time, the pain was unbearable. There was no rationale explanation for my depression. I knew that my family would suffer but many times I thought this was the only way to escape the pain that I was feeling and to stop some of my destructive behaviors. I felt embarrassed about the way my brain was working, I felt defective and I didn't think anyone could help me. At that time I became friends with one of my clinical rotation partners and she was one person who couldn't see me through the same filter in which I was viewing myself. When you are depressed, the reflection you see is warped, like a funhouse mirror. Finally I mustered the courage to ask my primary care doctor for the name of a therapist. She gave me a list of names and I randomly picked a number and called.
Robin Williams' death is a tragedy. He was well loved and his legacy will endure through his family and his body of work. The conversation that needs to occur through all of this is that mental health disorders are real and they are treatable. No one chooses depression or autism or schizophrenia or bipolar just as no one chooses diabetes or cancer or asthma or heart disease. Mental health disorders are not a weakness or flaw in character. They are biologic disorders that need recognition and treatment. All this energy that we are spending remembering Robin Williams can be shifted towards education and ridding our society of any stigma that may be associated with mental health disorders. Would you judge someone for having leukemia? Would you tell your family member to avoid medications to treat their high blood pressure? Yes, we can honor Robin Williams but in doing so lets make mental health awareness a thing, a ribbon, a month...Suicide is a manifestation of an illness. People who commit suicide are sick in the same way someone with congestive heart failure is sick, it's just a different organ system. If you were feeling short of breath you'd call a doctor. If you had a fever that won't go away, you'd call a doctor. If you have sadness or mania or anxiety or any other brain based symptom and it won't go away, call a doctor! It's not shameful to have the symptoms or to make the call. What would be a shame is to let the symptoms go unrecognized or untreated. If you have a loved one and they have brain based symptoms, talk to them about it and don't judge. Identify the signs that you might be witnessing and encourage treatment. If your brother or sister or cousin or friend had a disfiguring rash that won't go away, you'd eventually bring it up and take them to the dermatologist or urgent care center or ER or make them seek treatment. Brain based symptoms can be just as disfiguring, altering the individual that you know.
My cousin committed suicide 13 years ago, August 8th 2001. I don't have any sisters so my step-sister and my female cousins are the next best thing. My cousin was 4 years younger than me, but we had spent many summers together and when I moved to Texas for medical school she was starting college and our worlds started colliding more and more. Austin and Houston are only 2 and a half hours apart so we'd see each other frequently and I was able to see her go through those late adolescent stages of individuation as she challenged traditional values and tried on different view points and ideas. In the summer of 1994 she and I both spent a lot of time together in Mexico in Oaxaca and Cancun. She and I were both dating boys that we liked and were in the same early stages of like in our respective relationships. I heard a lot about her future husband and she heard a lot about the boy that I dumped for my future husband. We were become adults at the same time. We were in the same cohort and we were thinking about careers and weddings and marriage and kids and mental health. She was bipolar and had a lot of anxiety and I had major depression. We both got it.
I'll never forget that day and that phone call. It is permanently etched in my mind. The days that followed seemed like I was floating through an alternate universe. The air was thick and I was moving through mud. She wasn't my sister or my daughter, but she was the next closest thing and most days I think about her and what life might have been like if she had traveled along a different trajectory. She left a giant hole in my life and in the life of so many others. It's a hole that can never be filled and at times is more gaping than others. Right now is one of those times. It's like a scab has been ripped right off and the wound is fresh again, except this time the scab covers the majority of the body. The wound feels deeper, more sensitive and the salt is raining down. Her younger and only sister, has been vocal about her anger at the romanticization of Robin Williams. It's not anger at the man but there is anger towards the action. Those of us who survive suicide have to relive the horrors and lasso the demons frequently and unexpectedly. This time it's different; it's in your face and it's everywhere. Every magazine, every radio DJ, every online article, every movie on TV....everywhere...it's all about remembering this individual. That is fine. I remember my cousin everyday in lots of little ways. It's vital to remember her and talk about her and tell stories about her. Last night when I was floating in my pool, looking up at the stars after I had exorcised and exercised out my hurt and pain and anger, I thought about heaven and I thought about who I was most excited to see and I know my cousin can't wait, in time, to see all of us. It will be the best encuentro ever.
We talk about everything in our family of five. Nothing is off limits. My kids know about my cousin and they know about suicide and death and all sorts of uncomfortable topics. They know that I talk to my psychiatrist, my second mom, once a month. All the news and media coverage has brought up lots of conversations. I'm grateful for sunglasses and exercise and God and my Bible and the ability to write down my thoughts. This is not an easy time and it will get easier. In the mean time I'll honor my cousin and all others by knowing its okay to address mental health and brain based symptoms. There is no reason to fear the conversations or the acknowledgement. Talk to someone. Talk about it.
American Foundation for Suicide Prevention
www.afsp.org
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org
National Alliance on Mental Illness
www.nami.org
Yesterday, along with an intern, I treated a woman who clearly met the diagnostic criteria for MDD (major depressive disorder). She was adamant that she would not go to see either a psychiatrist or any other mental health provider. No amount of coaxing was going to convince her that she might benefit from talking to a trained, objective 3rd party. We finally compromised and agreed to start medication and she would return in 2 weeks to evaluate the effects of the medication and at that time we'd discuss therapy some more.
I'm going to out myself here. I've had the same mental health provider for almost 20 years. At times we've seen each other more frequently than other times; during and after pregnancies, major home renovations and treatment for breast cancer we saw a lot of each other. Now, I talk to her monthly whether I "need" it or not. I've decided that mental health maintenance is important for me and my family and the annual cost far outweighs any future cost from not going. Am I crazy? Aren't we all a little bit? I'll tell you one thing, after 20+ years of therapy I'm far less crazy than I might have been without it. Throughout the course of our relationship, this woman, who is an angel from God himself and like a second mother to me, has never told me what to think or given me the answers but she has listened and in listening she's helped me analyze situations and relationships clearly.
I first sought out help from mental health providers in medical school when I was clinically depressed. I had all of the symptoms, sleeplessness, anhedonia, decreased appetite, depressed mood, feelings of guilt and worthlessness. The scariest part was the suicidal thoughts that I was having. I never actually attempted suicide, but I had come up with several scenarios. You see, at this time, the pain was unbearable. There was no rationale explanation for my depression. I knew that my family would suffer but many times I thought this was the only way to escape the pain that I was feeling and to stop some of my destructive behaviors. I felt embarrassed about the way my brain was working, I felt defective and I didn't think anyone could help me. At that time I became friends with one of my clinical rotation partners and she was one person who couldn't see me through the same filter in which I was viewing myself. When you are depressed, the reflection you see is warped, like a funhouse mirror. Finally I mustered the courage to ask my primary care doctor for the name of a therapist. She gave me a list of names and I randomly picked a number and called.
Robin Williams' death is a tragedy. He was well loved and his legacy will endure through his family and his body of work. The conversation that needs to occur through all of this is that mental health disorders are real and they are treatable. No one chooses depression or autism or schizophrenia or bipolar just as no one chooses diabetes or cancer or asthma or heart disease. Mental health disorders are not a weakness or flaw in character. They are biologic disorders that need recognition and treatment. All this energy that we are spending remembering Robin Williams can be shifted towards education and ridding our society of any stigma that may be associated with mental health disorders. Would you judge someone for having leukemia? Would you tell your family member to avoid medications to treat their high blood pressure? Yes, we can honor Robin Williams but in doing so lets make mental health awareness a thing, a ribbon, a month...Suicide is a manifestation of an illness. People who commit suicide are sick in the same way someone with congestive heart failure is sick, it's just a different organ system. If you were feeling short of breath you'd call a doctor. If you had a fever that won't go away, you'd call a doctor. If you have sadness or mania or anxiety or any other brain based symptom and it won't go away, call a doctor! It's not shameful to have the symptoms or to make the call. What would be a shame is to let the symptoms go unrecognized or untreated. If you have a loved one and they have brain based symptoms, talk to them about it and don't judge. Identify the signs that you might be witnessing and encourage treatment. If your brother or sister or cousin or friend had a disfiguring rash that won't go away, you'd eventually bring it up and take them to the dermatologist or urgent care center or ER or make them seek treatment. Brain based symptoms can be just as disfiguring, altering the individual that you know.
My cousin committed suicide 13 years ago, August 8th 2001. I don't have any sisters so my step-sister and my female cousins are the next best thing. My cousin was 4 years younger than me, but we had spent many summers together and when I moved to Texas for medical school she was starting college and our worlds started colliding more and more. Austin and Houston are only 2 and a half hours apart so we'd see each other frequently and I was able to see her go through those late adolescent stages of individuation as she challenged traditional values and tried on different view points and ideas. In the summer of 1994 she and I both spent a lot of time together in Mexico in Oaxaca and Cancun. She and I were both dating boys that we liked and were in the same early stages of like in our respective relationships. I heard a lot about her future husband and she heard a lot about the boy that I dumped for my future husband. We were become adults at the same time. We were in the same cohort and we were thinking about careers and weddings and marriage and kids and mental health. She was bipolar and had a lot of anxiety and I had major depression. We both got it.
I'll never forget that day and that phone call. It is permanently etched in my mind. The days that followed seemed like I was floating through an alternate universe. The air was thick and I was moving through mud. She wasn't my sister or my daughter, but she was the next closest thing and most days I think about her and what life might have been like if she had traveled along a different trajectory. She left a giant hole in my life and in the life of so many others. It's a hole that can never be filled and at times is more gaping than others. Right now is one of those times. It's like a scab has been ripped right off and the wound is fresh again, except this time the scab covers the majority of the body. The wound feels deeper, more sensitive and the salt is raining down. Her younger and only sister, has been vocal about her anger at the romanticization of Robin Williams. It's not anger at the man but there is anger towards the action. Those of us who survive suicide have to relive the horrors and lasso the demons frequently and unexpectedly. This time it's different; it's in your face and it's everywhere. Every magazine, every radio DJ, every online article, every movie on TV....everywhere...it's all about remembering this individual. That is fine. I remember my cousin everyday in lots of little ways. It's vital to remember her and talk about her and tell stories about her. Last night when I was floating in my pool, looking up at the stars after I had exorcised and exercised out my hurt and pain and anger, I thought about heaven and I thought about who I was most excited to see and I know my cousin can't wait, in time, to see all of us. It will be the best encuentro ever.
We talk about everything in our family of five. Nothing is off limits. My kids know about my cousin and they know about suicide and death and all sorts of uncomfortable topics. They know that I talk to my psychiatrist, my second mom, once a month. All the news and media coverage has brought up lots of conversations. I'm grateful for sunglasses and exercise and God and my Bible and the ability to write down my thoughts. This is not an easy time and it will get easier. In the mean time I'll honor my cousin and all others by knowing its okay to address mental health and brain based symptoms. There is no reason to fear the conversations or the acknowledgement. Talk to someone. Talk about it.
American Foundation for Suicide Prevention
www.afsp.org
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org
National Alliance on Mental Illness
www.nami.org
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Gypsies
I’m sitting on the floor of our rented condo. I’ve been awake since 5 am and we’re packed into this place like sardines in a can. There are sleeping bodies everywhere; 3 sweaty teenaged boys lie about 15 feet away on make shift beds because when you are 13 years old you can be made to sleep on a couch or a floor or an air mattress and be told to be happy about it. Upstairs, grandmothers are huddled with giggly, gangly granddaughters and great-nieces. In the room across the hall are the uncle and aunt splayed-out across 2, now obsolete, full sized mattresses with a helicoptering baby between them. My husband is knocked out in the master bedroom unconcerned about my sleeplessness and grateful that he has weathered another event with my family.
Doesn’t it seem like every time we conclude another _____ (birthday, holiday, vacation, dinner....) with family it’s as if we survived another round in the ring. We walk away winded, hands on our hips, swaying to and fro, slightly bloodied, knuckles bruised, faces swollen but victorious because this time, yet again, we didn’t get knocked down. And after a couple of months, once the post-pugilism amnesia has fully taken affect, after discussing with our agents, we sign up for another spot in the ring. Because in the end, we don’t remember if we win or lose, but we do remember that left hook to the temple or the upper cut to the jaw or the time we got back up off the mat. That’s what it is like with family, there might be that time when Great Aunt Gladys kept calling your wife the wrong name (your ex-wife’s name), or Little Johnny broke your great-grandmother’s heirloom vase (the urn in which you kept her ashes), or your cousin Bob drank too much and kept slurring his words (and you had to walk him back to his room and put him to bed), but you file that stuff away as family history.
Sure, family is genealogy-the whole big tree with all the limbs and branches and leaves and the trunk and the roots-but it is more than this. It’s shared experiences and collective history, both good and bad. It’s the reason God gave us families. We don’t get to pick them, we’re stuck with who we got and if you ever need a kidney, they are the people you are going to first (and not because they are feeling generous, but because you share DNA and they are the only match).
This is a long and winding road that we walk along, some of us with the good fortune of a longer journey. You pick up friends along the way and a few stay with you for the distance but most are only there for a short segment until their path takes them a different way. Per the wise, pot-smoking, guitar-picking, country music singing lyricist, Willie Nelson, we are a band of gypsies rolling down the highway. And while, at times, we might walk away and grumble, I am grateful that I am your pain-in-the-ass and you are mine. I am grateful that I wake up each day and that I have 2 legs that can take me places, 2 lungs that can fill with air without assistance or difficulty, the finances by which to stay in this over-stuffed condominium, family who will tolerate each other long enough to co-habitate together, an employer who allows me vacation time and a country that provides the liberties of free will and commerce and recreation and self expression.
Mostly, I am grateful for MY band of gypsies; all of you, our similarities AND or differences. I am grateful for my Abuelita and my Abuelito,and despite all of their short-comings, the two things they seemed to get right and pass on to my mom and my aunts and uncles, the things that matter most...the 2 commandments that Jesus said were the most important; 1) Love God your father and 2) love each other. Faith and fidelity. Remember this and give thanks. Life is a gift; choose gratitude.
Doesn’t it seem like every time we conclude another _____ (birthday, holiday, vacation, dinner....) with family it’s as if we survived another round in the ring. We walk away winded, hands on our hips, swaying to and fro, slightly bloodied, knuckles bruised, faces swollen but victorious because this time, yet again, we didn’t get knocked down. And after a couple of months, once the post-pugilism amnesia has fully taken affect, after discussing with our agents, we sign up for another spot in the ring. Because in the end, we don’t remember if we win or lose, but we do remember that left hook to the temple or the upper cut to the jaw or the time we got back up off the mat. That’s what it is like with family, there might be that time when Great Aunt Gladys kept calling your wife the wrong name (your ex-wife’s name), or Little Johnny broke your great-grandmother’s heirloom vase (the urn in which you kept her ashes), or your cousin Bob drank too much and kept slurring his words (and you had to walk him back to his room and put him to bed), but you file that stuff away as family history.
Sure, family is genealogy-the whole big tree with all the limbs and branches and leaves and the trunk and the roots-but it is more than this. It’s shared experiences and collective history, both good and bad. It’s the reason God gave us families. We don’t get to pick them, we’re stuck with who we got and if you ever need a kidney, they are the people you are going to first (and not because they are feeling generous, but because you share DNA and they are the only match).
This is a long and winding road that we walk along, some of us with the good fortune of a longer journey. You pick up friends along the way and a few stay with you for the distance but most are only there for a short segment until their path takes them a different way. Per the wise, pot-smoking, guitar-picking, country music singing lyricist, Willie Nelson, we are a band of gypsies rolling down the highway. And while, at times, we might walk away and grumble, I am grateful that I am your pain-in-the-ass and you are mine. I am grateful that I wake up each day and that I have 2 legs that can take me places, 2 lungs that can fill with air without assistance or difficulty, the finances by which to stay in this over-stuffed condominium, family who will tolerate each other long enough to co-habitate together, an employer who allows me vacation time and a country that provides the liberties of free will and commerce and recreation and self expression.
Mostly, I am grateful for MY band of gypsies; all of you, our similarities AND or differences. I am grateful for my Abuelita and my Abuelito,and despite all of their short-comings, the two things they seemed to get right and pass on to my mom and my aunts and uncles, the things that matter most...the 2 commandments that Jesus said were the most important; 1) Love God your father and 2) love each other. Faith and fidelity. Remember this and give thanks. Life is a gift; choose gratitude.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Instructions Not Included
Sometimes parenthood is hard. Understatement, right? This is the drive a knife in your heart, keep you up at night kind of stuff. The shit that drives your spouse crazy because you won't relent and he drives you crazy because he can't see things through your set of lenses. It doesn't really matter what the issue is. Pick any issue; why isn't my kid talking, why isn't my kid reading, why can't my kid hit the ball, why is my kid overweight, why doesn't my kid have friends, why didn't my kid get invited, why didn't my kid get into that school, why did that person break my kid's heart, why didn't they get into medical school, why can't they find a mate, why can't they get pregnant....The anxiety can be overwhelming. There is a natural ebb and flow with parenthood. Times when it's smooth sailing, everyone is happy and healthy and we are all living the American Dream. The trick is to maintain sanity in the valleys. Learning to take deep breaths, trust and have faith.
I'm sure if you looked at a scatter plot of my life and years lived were on the X-axis and prayers uttered were on the Y-axis, you'd see points clustered randomly over time. But if you superimposed a timeline of life's events you'd see that the clusters correlate perfectly with the most stressful moments of life. I wonder if God gets sick of us and the 911 prayers. Does He feel used?
No one wants their kid to face adversity of any kind. It doesn't matter the adversity...the mean teacher, the bad coach, the bullies at school, acne, stuttering, illness...we all want to shield our babies. And no matter the age, they are always our babies.
What I continually have to wrap my mind around is the fact that they are simply on loan to us. They've been entrusted into our care for such a short period of time. And if they don't learn how to handle difficult or uncomfortable or adverse situations while they live with us, it will be so much more painful when they are not with us (and the stakes will be so much higher). Also, the big reveal here is that as much as I love my kid, there is a God in heaven who loves them even more. And that God didn't just put our kid on this planet for the pleasure and enjoyment of his/her parents. That same God in heaven has a purpose and plan for your kid that extend beyond the 18 years they live under your roof. If you kid is fortunate enough to live out their existence that is listed in actuarial table, 18 years is a fraction of their life. So, every time my stomach is in knots and I can't sleep, I hand the kid over one more time. I unclench my hands and say here you go God. He/she is yours. You dry their tears, heal their broken heart, calm their fears and you teach them how to be joyful in spite of their circumstance. And dear, precious, merciful God, show me, guide me, walk the steps for me. I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO DO THIS. I repeat. I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE F*CK I AM DOING!
And I pray and realize how small I really am. But that is okay. Because just like Horton could hear the Hoo, God can hear me and he can hear my kid. He's not a magical genie, but he is present and that's all that matters.
Breathe in and breathe out.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
I'm sure if you looked at a scatter plot of my life and years lived were on the X-axis and prayers uttered were on the Y-axis, you'd see points clustered randomly over time. But if you superimposed a timeline of life's events you'd see that the clusters correlate perfectly with the most stressful moments of life. I wonder if God gets sick of us and the 911 prayers. Does He feel used?
No one wants their kid to face adversity of any kind. It doesn't matter the adversity...the mean teacher, the bad coach, the bullies at school, acne, stuttering, illness...we all want to shield our babies. And no matter the age, they are always our babies.
What I continually have to wrap my mind around is the fact that they are simply on loan to us. They've been entrusted into our care for such a short period of time. And if they don't learn how to handle difficult or uncomfortable or adverse situations while they live with us, it will be so much more painful when they are not with us (and the stakes will be so much higher). Also, the big reveal here is that as much as I love my kid, there is a God in heaven who loves them even more. And that God didn't just put our kid on this planet for the pleasure and enjoyment of his/her parents. That same God in heaven has a purpose and plan for your kid that extend beyond the 18 years they live under your roof. If you kid is fortunate enough to live out their existence that is listed in actuarial table, 18 years is a fraction of their life. So, every time my stomach is in knots and I can't sleep, I hand the kid over one more time. I unclench my hands and say here you go God. He/she is yours. You dry their tears, heal their broken heart, calm their fears and you teach them how to be joyful in spite of their circumstance. And dear, precious, merciful God, show me, guide me, walk the steps for me. I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO DO THIS. I repeat. I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE F*CK I AM DOING!
And I pray and realize how small I really am. But that is okay. Because just like Horton could hear the Hoo, God can hear me and he can hear my kid. He's not a magical genie, but he is present and that's all that matters.
Breathe in and breathe out.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Bean Bags
It's been awhile since I've written. This past school year I've been busier than necessary. It hasn't been good for anyone. My family suffered, my job suffered and my friendships suffered. I've always learned things the hard way. If someone tells me no then I am going to prove them wrong. Sometimes this quality is advantageous but when you bite off more than you can chew it is not.
It's interesting who is willing to forgive you/give you some latitude. Husband-check (he's a saint). Kids-check, check. Family-check, check, check. Job-check (still functioning at a high enough level that it's only obvious to myself. Not coming to work drunk or anything). House-check minus (but there are other extenuating factors that I will describe later). Friends-mostly check, check, check, check (last time I looked they were all equally as busy and tapped out to even notice me).
Being too busy can be an addiction; a false idol; a sickness. I fully admit that I suffer from it. There is a certain feeling of satisfaction when you can keep multiple balls in the air, even if it is detrimental to others (watch out below for falling plates, bowling pins, balls, etc). Sometimes you forget to pick up a kid from school, sometimes you forget who has practice where, sometimes you don't cook dinner, sometimes the dishes sit in the sink for 2 days, sometimes the dogs don't get walked. But, damn straight, you can balance on a tightrope while peddling on a unicycle and balancing a puppy doing a handstand on your nose and juggling flaming torches at the same time. "See, God, I am worthy! I can do many things at once even if I am doing most of them at 50% effort. Love me. Need someone to balance the federal deficit. I got it. Need someone to reduce carbon emissions. Got it. Need someone to find a cure for halitosis. Got it. Why don't you just come to me, God, for all of your needs. I got 'em covered." It's exhausting.
My kids just got their report cards and all 3 did well, As and Bs, but mostly As. My report card, B- at worst, B+ at best.
There is this intangible thing called grace. Not the kind of grace that you say before meals and not the kind of grace that trained ballerinas have, but grace that is all about forgiveness and mercy and unconditional love. In my belief system (I am a Christian, Presbyterian, but Jesus is my homie), grace is something not earned, but freely given. Some days and periods of time I need it in abundance and other times I just need a trickle. Right now I am feeling like I need a Niagara Falls worth of grace. My mom used to torture my brother and I in our Southern Baptist upbringing and we'd have to get up and read the Bible and pray before school and we'd have to memorize Bible verses. Looking back, it's like anything your parents forced you to do; you can see the utility in it as an adult. So, one of my favorites is 2 Corinthians 12:9 which goes something like this “My grace is all you need". There is more surrounding it, but that is the essence. Grace is sufficient.
I think, at least for the next little while, I am going to curl up into a giant, overstuffed bean-bag full of grace and hunker down there for awhile and maybe learn a thing or two while I'm trying to be still and not wiggle. At the end of the day, no one really cares about the laundry list of things you have accomplished (unless you are uber-rich and leave a lot of money behind. Then they might care b/c it gives your money more credibility. It's not just, hey here is some anonymous hermit who saved his money his whole life and bequeathed the city a library. It's the founder of Wowie Social Media site and electronic wizardry who left his fortune to the city. I'm not that uber-rich person. I'm just messy me). What matters, I think, is the way you have lived your life. That's what I want. To have lived my life well. I just need to slow down and circle my wagons and remember what really matters. Let's hope I don't get distracted by the next shiny object and can really put myself on a slower speed.
Peace out.
It's interesting who is willing to forgive you/give you some latitude. Husband-check (he's a saint). Kids-check, check. Family-check, check, check. Job-check (still functioning at a high enough level that it's only obvious to myself. Not coming to work drunk or anything). House-check minus (but there are other extenuating factors that I will describe later). Friends-mostly check, check, check, check (last time I looked they were all equally as busy and tapped out to even notice me).
Being too busy can be an addiction; a false idol; a sickness. I fully admit that I suffer from it. There is a certain feeling of satisfaction when you can keep multiple balls in the air, even if it is detrimental to others (watch out below for falling plates, bowling pins, balls, etc). Sometimes you forget to pick up a kid from school, sometimes you forget who has practice where, sometimes you don't cook dinner, sometimes the dishes sit in the sink for 2 days, sometimes the dogs don't get walked. But, damn straight, you can balance on a tightrope while peddling on a unicycle and balancing a puppy doing a handstand on your nose and juggling flaming torches at the same time. "See, God, I am worthy! I can do many things at once even if I am doing most of them at 50% effort. Love me. Need someone to balance the federal deficit. I got it. Need someone to reduce carbon emissions. Got it. Need someone to find a cure for halitosis. Got it. Why don't you just come to me, God, for all of your needs. I got 'em covered." It's exhausting.
My kids just got their report cards and all 3 did well, As and Bs, but mostly As. My report card, B- at worst, B+ at best.
There is this intangible thing called grace. Not the kind of grace that you say before meals and not the kind of grace that trained ballerinas have, but grace that is all about forgiveness and mercy and unconditional love. In my belief system (I am a Christian, Presbyterian, but Jesus is my homie), grace is something not earned, but freely given. Some days and periods of time I need it in abundance and other times I just need a trickle. Right now I am feeling like I need a Niagara Falls worth of grace. My mom used to torture my brother and I in our Southern Baptist upbringing and we'd have to get up and read the Bible and pray before school and we'd have to memorize Bible verses. Looking back, it's like anything your parents forced you to do; you can see the utility in it as an adult. So, one of my favorites is 2 Corinthians 12:9 which goes something like this “My grace is all you need". There is more surrounding it, but that is the essence. Grace is sufficient.
I think, at least for the next little while, I am going to curl up into a giant, overstuffed bean-bag full of grace and hunker down there for awhile and maybe learn a thing or two while I'm trying to be still and not wiggle. At the end of the day, no one really cares about the laundry list of things you have accomplished (unless you are uber-rich and leave a lot of money behind. Then they might care b/c it gives your money more credibility. It's not just, hey here is some anonymous hermit who saved his money his whole life and bequeathed the city a library. It's the founder of Wowie Social Media site and electronic wizardry who left his fortune to the city. I'm not that uber-rich person. I'm just messy me). What matters, I think, is the way you have lived your life. That's what I want. To have lived my life well. I just need to slow down and circle my wagons and remember what really matters. Let's hope I don't get distracted by the next shiny object and can really put myself on a slower speed.
Peace out.
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Pathways
Everyone has secrets; sins, transgressions, skeletons in the closet, fears, apprehensions. These are the things we want to keep hidden from the world and for which we will go to great lengths to disguise the truth, even from ourselves. In no way am I suggesting that we should suddenly pull all these demons out of their closets and display them for the world to see. But....what if we all lived without fear of judgment? Suddenly that nagging ache might just disappear. If we all knew that no matter what we did or didn't do, we'd still be loved and accepted then we wouldn't have to waste so much energy posturing.
When we were growing up, my mom used to say to Bill and me, "Remember who you are!". This was her admonition whenever we'd leave the house. If I was going out with my friends, going to my father's house, going back to school after a break, at the end of every phone conversation..."Remember who you are!" Mostly I would openly mock her..."yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it mom!" or "Rosa Michelle Schmidt" would be my response. What did she think? That I'd suddenly enter into a psychogenic fugue and assume a new identity? Or I'd collapse into a fit of moral turpitude and start selling pot and sleeping around? Regardless of my mockery, she'd still say it every time I walked out the door or we hung up the phone. Repetition. Consistency.
I guess this is why I suddenly said this to my middle kid as he walked out the door for school on Monday morning. Only moments before I had been lecturing him, Charlie Brown style, about choices and behavior and I could see his eyes glazing over and his agitation escalating. Fidgeting on the bar stool, he was already across the street waiting for his ride and on his way to chess club (the irony of lecturing a kid who is in the chess club on wise choices...so many layers there). The words came out of my mouth reflexively. And they made sense. And in the middle of the street, not looking back, he responded with his full, given, name. I didn't want to leave anything open to loose interpretation, so I screamed back to him, (Oh yes I did. In my pajamas, coffee cup in my hand, crazy hair and crazy eyes right there on the front porch at 7:30 am) "You are a child of the King!". He sprinted the last few steps to his friend's front door.
Sometimes we know each other's secrets. You might come to me and entrust me with some closely guarded apprehension or truth about yourself. The package can be big or small. I'm not really a brunette (I really am...just an example) or I have 3 parking tickets that I never paid and if I get pulled over in New Orleans, I'm going to jail (again, just an example. Actually I'm on the Most Wanted list for removing mattress tags). Why do we share these things? Why am I going to make someone complicit in my secret? Do we want absolution or acceptance? I think we are all just trying to find our way home, which circles back to remembering who we are.
One of the early clues with Alzheimer's Disease is an inability to find your way in familiar surroundings. You might be trying to get to the same grocery store you've been to a thousand times before and it's like you are in a house of mirrors. Or you don't remember the route home, a route traveled so many times that there are ruts in the road. If my judgment lapses and I do something out of character or if I am hiding something deep within myself I might feel lost and confused. I've gotten off the path and I'm wandering in circles like Pooh in the 100 Acre Wood.
Have you ever woken up from a bad dream and it takes you a couple of seconds to reorient yourself and realize you can let go of the fear? If someone is there to hold your hand or comfort you then the process is just a little bit easier. You can fold into the arms of your spouse, your parents or a loved one and the fear gradually subsides.
Another thing my mom always says is "I love your more today than I did yesterday and less than tomorrow." But parents are supposed to love us even when we do bad stuff. Their love is supposed to be unconditional, even if they don't like our choices.
I have a sign in my house that says, "Not all those who wander are lost" (I also have a sign that says "Be nice or leave!") and I think the phrase is correct in the sense that you have to stop and take time to smell the roses, explore, discover. But I don't think it's an endorsement to spend a good portion of your life wandering about like a Bedouin in a sandy desert or a hobo riding the rails, jumping from box car to box car. We all want our own Gypsy encampment to call home. And if I get lost and wander away from my tribe, I want you to take me by the hand and gently lead me home and to leave the judgment at the door. Soon enough we are all going to loose our way, wander off the path, and we all just need to help each other find the way home.
When we were growing up, my mom used to say to Bill and me, "Remember who you are!". This was her admonition whenever we'd leave the house. If I was going out with my friends, going to my father's house, going back to school after a break, at the end of every phone conversation..."Remember who you are!" Mostly I would openly mock her..."yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it mom!" or "Rosa Michelle Schmidt" would be my response. What did she think? That I'd suddenly enter into a psychogenic fugue and assume a new identity? Or I'd collapse into a fit of moral turpitude and start selling pot and sleeping around? Regardless of my mockery, she'd still say it every time I walked out the door or we hung up the phone. Repetition. Consistency.
I guess this is why I suddenly said this to my middle kid as he walked out the door for school on Monday morning. Only moments before I had been lecturing him, Charlie Brown style, about choices and behavior and I could see his eyes glazing over and his agitation escalating. Fidgeting on the bar stool, he was already across the street waiting for his ride and on his way to chess club (the irony of lecturing a kid who is in the chess club on wise choices...so many layers there). The words came out of my mouth reflexively. And they made sense. And in the middle of the street, not looking back, he responded with his full, given, name. I didn't want to leave anything open to loose interpretation, so I screamed back to him, (Oh yes I did. In my pajamas, coffee cup in my hand, crazy hair and crazy eyes right there on the front porch at 7:30 am) "You are a child of the King!". He sprinted the last few steps to his friend's front door.
Sometimes we know each other's secrets. You might come to me and entrust me with some closely guarded apprehension or truth about yourself. The package can be big or small. I'm not really a brunette (I really am...just an example) or I have 3 parking tickets that I never paid and if I get pulled over in New Orleans, I'm going to jail (again, just an example. Actually I'm on the Most Wanted list for removing mattress tags). Why do we share these things? Why am I going to make someone complicit in my secret? Do we want absolution or acceptance? I think we are all just trying to find our way home, which circles back to remembering who we are.
One of the early clues with Alzheimer's Disease is an inability to find your way in familiar surroundings. You might be trying to get to the same grocery store you've been to a thousand times before and it's like you are in a house of mirrors. Or you don't remember the route home, a route traveled so many times that there are ruts in the road. If my judgment lapses and I do something out of character or if I am hiding something deep within myself I might feel lost and confused. I've gotten off the path and I'm wandering in circles like Pooh in the 100 Acre Wood.
Have you ever woken up from a bad dream and it takes you a couple of seconds to reorient yourself and realize you can let go of the fear? If someone is there to hold your hand or comfort you then the process is just a little bit easier. You can fold into the arms of your spouse, your parents or a loved one and the fear gradually subsides.
Another thing my mom always says is "I love your more today than I did yesterday and less than tomorrow." But parents are supposed to love us even when we do bad stuff. Their love is supposed to be unconditional, even if they don't like our choices.
I have a sign in my house that says, "Not all those who wander are lost" (I also have a sign that says "Be nice or leave!") and I think the phrase is correct in the sense that you have to stop and take time to smell the roses, explore, discover. But I don't think it's an endorsement to spend a good portion of your life wandering about like a Bedouin in a sandy desert or a hobo riding the rails, jumping from box car to box car. We all want our own Gypsy encampment to call home. And if I get lost and wander away from my tribe, I want you to take me by the hand and gently lead me home and to leave the judgment at the door. Soon enough we are all going to loose our way, wander off the path, and we all just need to help each other find the way home.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
D.O.D.
I have insomnia. But it's not really insomnia. Recently, and when I say recently I mean the past month or so, I have been waking up at 4 am and then I can't go back to sleep. At first it's an exciting canvas of free time with no husband or children to bother me. I get up, I drink my coffee, I read, I write, I make lunches and then by 5 am I'm back in my bed and when the alarm goes off at 6 am I feel slightly hung over.
When I'm in Atlanta visiting my dad I always wake up early so I can have coffee with him. His house is about 2 square feet so I can hear him puttering around (this is a very dad word...puttering or to putter...it means to do little stuff that on it's own is not of much consequence) so I steal the opportunity to have him one on one and we go and sit on his front porch and drink coffee and talk. Dad is not a big talker. He never has been. But at 4-5 am he is at his chattiest and we have our best conversations in the world before the sun rises. His house, though no where near a beach or water for that matter, sits up on stilts so when you are on the front porch among the trees it's like you are sitting in a tree fort having a secret meeting. Even when I'm not visiting, sometimes I'll wake up early and call him on the phone or send him a text and it feels almost like we are sitting in his tree fort drinking coffee. And days, weeks or a month can go by and I can call him up or send him a text and there is never any bitterness or resentment for the missed time. No apologies or explanations needed. It's like that in our little club.
Now things haven't always been roses or butterflies in our 43 years of acquaintance. He has never really gotten mad at me or if he has he doesn't show it. He just gets silent. That is the absolute worst. Silent judgement...only you don't know if it is judgement or indifference or castigation or agreement or what. It's maddening. When I was a teenager and pushing the boundaries in mostly pretty harmless ways, I could never get a reaction out of him which was quite frustrating and when you were a mildly borderline and narcissistic adolescent as I was you could read all sorts of stuff into his silence. He's not a turtle or an ostrich. He doesn't retreat into his shell or stick his head in the sand. He's like an old oak tree that just stands there rooted despite the storm that is raging around him. Before he and my mom got divorced they would "talk" in the kitchen with the door closed. The den was adjacent to the kitchen and while my brother (who was like 2 or 4 at the time and oblivious) and I watched TV I could hear all sorts of inflections and tones and volumes in my mom's voice but no sound ever came out of my dad. If I'm allowed to speculate, I'd say that his silence is part of the demise of their relationship (among many other things). My mom, who was 23 when she married him & still working out her own issues, couldn't handle the silence. It was like water-boarding and she was the water-boardee.
I can remember 2 times in my life where I got really mad at him. I believe pissed would be the correct term to use. The first time I was a junior in college and the second time was about 5 years ago. Both times it took about a year to get all the kinks worked out. The first time I raged at him via phone and letter and in my mind and then it was over. When you rage and someone doesn't rage back I guess the storm eventually dies. The second time, after I finally worked up the nerve to tell him I was angry, he actually came out with his boxing gloves. There was no TKO but he did spar and it ended in a draw and with greater understanding for the both of us. I lost about 9 months of good communication being resentful before I finally decided to air my grievance but I was kind of proud of him for putting up a defense.
He's always reserved his opinion. Even when you ask him for it directly often he won't give it. Growing up it seemed more elusive than the Loch Ness Monster. Now, if I ask him for his opinion he doesn't come right out with it. He mulls it over for days and days and then when you least expect a response it will come to you...normally by text or email. It always catches me off guard. Not because what he has to say is so shocking but because I mostly don't expect to get it (his opinion, I mean). So I'll be waiting in line at HEB or in the car pool lane or sitting strung out on the couch at the end of the day and I'll check my phone and there it is...the golden ticket...an email or text from dad with his thoughts. Usually by that time I'm 3 or 4 minor crises removed, but I will read it and about 98% of the time it makes good, solid sense. Probably it makes sense 100% of the time but the other 2% I disagree and so discard it as the shortcomings of an older generation.
Another favorite dad display of affection is when he sends me random articles or book suggestions. Sometimes these come by email, sometimes by phone and sometimes even by mail. We are both in the health care profession so I've gotten several esoteric medically related articles. Or sometimes he'll send me a short story out of Mother Jones or some left-leaning political piece (even though I'm more right leaning, I don't mind these articles and enjoy the difference in perspective). But what I really like is when he shares his reflections on his spiritual growth or the most recent Bible passage he has read or the most recent sermon topic he has heard.
The coffee is starting to wear off and I haven't even had time to talk about the simple, yet eloquent way that he walks the walk...there has never been a time that he hasn't been helping someone else, but it is almost always in an understated and quiet way. It might be putting a new roof on someone's house at the church or spending a Saturday doing a build for Habitat or flying across the world to volunteer but there isn't fanfare or self congratulations. If he's in Vietnam or Haiti there might be photos but most of them are of the people he's met or who he is helping. I used to wonder why we didn't get a lot of gifts, but the older I get the more I realize the real gift is the example and I don't think he's ever really meant to do that; be an example. He'll tell me about the new roof he is putting on a church ladies house (this is a 67 yo man climbing up onto someone's roof, shucking shingles in the hot sun or cold air) in the same sentence he's telling me about reorganizing his work room or the dog's most recent antics.
He's a good egg, dear ole dad. And then there are his chickens...but I've gotta go refuel and make pb & js. No going back to bed today.
When I'm in Atlanta visiting my dad I always wake up early so I can have coffee with him. His house is about 2 square feet so I can hear him puttering around (this is a very dad word...puttering or to putter...it means to do little stuff that on it's own is not of much consequence) so I steal the opportunity to have him one on one and we go and sit on his front porch and drink coffee and talk. Dad is not a big talker. He never has been. But at 4-5 am he is at his chattiest and we have our best conversations in the world before the sun rises. His house, though no where near a beach or water for that matter, sits up on stilts so when you are on the front porch among the trees it's like you are sitting in a tree fort having a secret meeting. Even when I'm not visiting, sometimes I'll wake up early and call him on the phone or send him a text and it feels almost like we are sitting in his tree fort drinking coffee. And days, weeks or a month can go by and I can call him up or send him a text and there is never any bitterness or resentment for the missed time. No apologies or explanations needed. It's like that in our little club.
Now things haven't always been roses or butterflies in our 43 years of acquaintance. He has never really gotten mad at me or if he has he doesn't show it. He just gets silent. That is the absolute worst. Silent judgement...only you don't know if it is judgement or indifference or castigation or agreement or what. It's maddening. When I was a teenager and pushing the boundaries in mostly pretty harmless ways, I could never get a reaction out of him which was quite frustrating and when you were a mildly borderline and narcissistic adolescent as I was you could read all sorts of stuff into his silence. He's not a turtle or an ostrich. He doesn't retreat into his shell or stick his head in the sand. He's like an old oak tree that just stands there rooted despite the storm that is raging around him. Before he and my mom got divorced they would "talk" in the kitchen with the door closed. The den was adjacent to the kitchen and while my brother (who was like 2 or 4 at the time and oblivious) and I watched TV I could hear all sorts of inflections and tones and volumes in my mom's voice but no sound ever came out of my dad. If I'm allowed to speculate, I'd say that his silence is part of the demise of their relationship (among many other things). My mom, who was 23 when she married him & still working out her own issues, couldn't handle the silence. It was like water-boarding and she was the water-boardee.
I can remember 2 times in my life where I got really mad at him. I believe pissed would be the correct term to use. The first time I was a junior in college and the second time was about 5 years ago. Both times it took about a year to get all the kinks worked out. The first time I raged at him via phone and letter and in my mind and then it was over. When you rage and someone doesn't rage back I guess the storm eventually dies. The second time, after I finally worked up the nerve to tell him I was angry, he actually came out with his boxing gloves. There was no TKO but he did spar and it ended in a draw and with greater understanding for the both of us. I lost about 9 months of good communication being resentful before I finally decided to air my grievance but I was kind of proud of him for putting up a defense.
He's always reserved his opinion. Even when you ask him for it directly often he won't give it. Growing up it seemed more elusive than the Loch Ness Monster. Now, if I ask him for his opinion he doesn't come right out with it. He mulls it over for days and days and then when you least expect a response it will come to you...normally by text or email. It always catches me off guard. Not because what he has to say is so shocking but because I mostly don't expect to get it (his opinion, I mean). So I'll be waiting in line at HEB or in the car pool lane or sitting strung out on the couch at the end of the day and I'll check my phone and there it is...the golden ticket...an email or text from dad with his thoughts. Usually by that time I'm 3 or 4 minor crises removed, but I will read it and about 98% of the time it makes good, solid sense. Probably it makes sense 100% of the time but the other 2% I disagree and so discard it as the shortcomings of an older generation.
Another favorite dad display of affection is when he sends me random articles or book suggestions. Sometimes these come by email, sometimes by phone and sometimes even by mail. We are both in the health care profession so I've gotten several esoteric medically related articles. Or sometimes he'll send me a short story out of Mother Jones or some left-leaning political piece (even though I'm more right leaning, I don't mind these articles and enjoy the difference in perspective). But what I really like is when he shares his reflections on his spiritual growth or the most recent Bible passage he has read or the most recent sermon topic he has heard.
The coffee is starting to wear off and I haven't even had time to talk about the simple, yet eloquent way that he walks the walk...there has never been a time that he hasn't been helping someone else, but it is almost always in an understated and quiet way. It might be putting a new roof on someone's house at the church or spending a Saturday doing a build for Habitat or flying across the world to volunteer but there isn't fanfare or self congratulations. If he's in Vietnam or Haiti there might be photos but most of them are of the people he's met or who he is helping. I used to wonder why we didn't get a lot of gifts, but the older I get the more I realize the real gift is the example and I don't think he's ever really meant to do that; be an example. He'll tell me about the new roof he is putting on a church ladies house (this is a 67 yo man climbing up onto someone's roof, shucking shingles in the hot sun or cold air) in the same sentence he's telling me about reorganizing his work room or the dog's most recent antics.
He's a good egg, dear ole dad. And then there are his chickens...but I've gotta go refuel and make pb & js. No going back to bed today.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Not So Snowy Day
The kids are home from school today. This is the second day in 2 weeks where school has been cancelled because of inclement weather. Because we are in the south our city isn't equipped to deal with the teeniest amount of ice, sleet or snow. Lucky for me, I don't have to go to work today (clinic was cancelled) so I get to enjoy the day with my kids.
Regardless of your political leanings to the appropriateness of canceling school because it is cold outside, your inner child has to be yahooing with delight. As a kid, it doesn't get much better than school being canceled for any reason. I grew up in Chamblee, Georgia and I remember vividly the wonder of snow days. The only difference is we did get some real snow accumulation. There was a particular hill in my neighborhood of Huntley Hills behind the houses on Plantation Lane...many kids would gather there with sleds or toboggans or anything that would go down a hill. There were no helmets and there were certainly no adults. We'd walk back home cold and dripping wet and make Totino's Pizza Rolls and watch the Price is Right. It was just my brother and me because my mom still had to go to work. I don't remember if we had to make up those days or not because on that one day, it was absolute freedom. For my kids, it's slightly different in Houston, Texas. In the 23 years I've lived here I think we've had snow stick to the ground only twice and it wasn't more than a light dusting. We did get 2 weeks off of school for a Hurricane, but that is a different story. And because it is flatter than a pre-teen girl's chest, there is zero opportunity for sledding even if there was snow. But, you still get to sleep late, watch bad TV, play video games for hours and run back and forth between your house and your friend's house depending on whose mother is the least irritable at the time. The other difference is that my kids aren't completely unsupervised (not mom's fault...the plight of the single parent).
I suppose 35 years ago, it wasn't as big of a deal not to have a parent around all the time. But, my mom didn't really have a choice and she did the best she could. It's only by the grace of God that a lot of bad stuff didn't happen and that my brother and I didn't end up in the prison system. She was meaner than a snake and I was scared to death of her. I guess it's kind of like animals in the wild, they develop defense mechanisms to ward off any one who might try to do them harm. My mom had this scary as hell exterior so we wouldn't f*ck with her and so we'd do what we were supposed to do. In the words of Sweet Brown she must have been thinking, "I ain't got time for that!"
A couple of times I managed to get away with stuff. One afternoon my friend Cathy and I decided we wanted to make French fries and we almost burned down my house in a grease fire. It took several years to get all the smoke stains off the cabinets. Another time, same friend - Cathy, decided to teach me a lesson and not leave her supervising my younger brother while I rode my bike over to another neighborhood to visit my boyfriend who'd just been in a car accident. I had no sooner arrived at his house than the phone rang and she told me I'd better get home quick b/c my 9 year old brother had just fallen out of a tree and broken his arm. I got on my bicycle and raced home to find him lying on the couch, moaning with his arm in a temporary sling. I burst into tears. I'd like to think it was out of concern for my brother, but it was because I knew my a$$ was toast as soon as my mom found out a)I'd left my little brother and b)I went to a boy's house unsupervised. I was weeping great tears of fear. Cathy and my little brother (and by this time my neighbor Mary Ann had joined in the fun) kept up the rouse for about 10 minutes while I tried to think up all sorts of lies to tell my mother. Finally Bill popped up off the couch and scampered off somewhere to play, arm intact, and Cathy laid into me about ditching her for a boy AND leaving her with my little brother.
I doubt my kids will get into that kind of trouble, but they'll manage their own brand of mischief. The boys are the best because they tell me most things and when they don't their friends do, even if it is unintentional. I've gotten more Intel from my sons' friends just by being a fly on the wall. And thankfully my daughter has a 31 year old neighbor to confide in and I trust her (the neighbor) unquestionably.
Gonna go drink my cup of coffee in peace and torment my oldest son's friends as they have already started bullet texting him at 8 am ("Go back to bed you fool"). I guess I am DOM, daughter of Martha...
Everyone have fun today in the not snow!
Regardless of your political leanings to the appropriateness of canceling school because it is cold outside, your inner child has to be yahooing with delight. As a kid, it doesn't get much better than school being canceled for any reason. I grew up in Chamblee, Georgia and I remember vividly the wonder of snow days. The only difference is we did get some real snow accumulation. There was a particular hill in my neighborhood of Huntley Hills behind the houses on Plantation Lane...many kids would gather there with sleds or toboggans or anything that would go down a hill. There were no helmets and there were certainly no adults. We'd walk back home cold and dripping wet and make Totino's Pizza Rolls and watch the Price is Right. It was just my brother and me because my mom still had to go to work. I don't remember if we had to make up those days or not because on that one day, it was absolute freedom. For my kids, it's slightly different in Houston, Texas. In the 23 years I've lived here I think we've had snow stick to the ground only twice and it wasn't more than a light dusting. We did get 2 weeks off of school for a Hurricane, but that is a different story. And because it is flatter than a pre-teen girl's chest, there is zero opportunity for sledding even if there was snow. But, you still get to sleep late, watch bad TV, play video games for hours and run back and forth between your house and your friend's house depending on whose mother is the least irritable at the time. The other difference is that my kids aren't completely unsupervised (not mom's fault...the plight of the single parent).
I suppose 35 years ago, it wasn't as big of a deal not to have a parent around all the time. But, my mom didn't really have a choice and she did the best she could. It's only by the grace of God that a lot of bad stuff didn't happen and that my brother and I didn't end up in the prison system. She was meaner than a snake and I was scared to death of her. I guess it's kind of like animals in the wild, they develop defense mechanisms to ward off any one who might try to do them harm. My mom had this scary as hell exterior so we wouldn't f*ck with her and so we'd do what we were supposed to do. In the words of Sweet Brown she must have been thinking, "I ain't got time for that!"
A couple of times I managed to get away with stuff. One afternoon my friend Cathy and I decided we wanted to make French fries and we almost burned down my house in a grease fire. It took several years to get all the smoke stains off the cabinets. Another time, same friend - Cathy, decided to teach me a lesson and not leave her supervising my younger brother while I rode my bike over to another neighborhood to visit my boyfriend who'd just been in a car accident. I had no sooner arrived at his house than the phone rang and she told me I'd better get home quick b/c my 9 year old brother had just fallen out of a tree and broken his arm. I got on my bicycle and raced home to find him lying on the couch, moaning with his arm in a temporary sling. I burst into tears. I'd like to think it was out of concern for my brother, but it was because I knew my a$$ was toast as soon as my mom found out a)I'd left my little brother and b)I went to a boy's house unsupervised. I was weeping great tears of fear. Cathy and my little brother (and by this time my neighbor Mary Ann had joined in the fun) kept up the rouse for about 10 minutes while I tried to think up all sorts of lies to tell my mother. Finally Bill popped up off the couch and scampered off somewhere to play, arm intact, and Cathy laid into me about ditching her for a boy AND leaving her with my little brother.
I doubt my kids will get into that kind of trouble, but they'll manage their own brand of mischief. The boys are the best because they tell me most things and when they don't their friends do, even if it is unintentional. I've gotten more Intel from my sons' friends just by being a fly on the wall. And thankfully my daughter has a 31 year old neighbor to confide in and I trust her (the neighbor) unquestionably.
Gonna go drink my cup of coffee in peace and torment my oldest son's friends as they have already started bullet texting him at 8 am ("Go back to bed you fool"). I guess I am DOM, daughter of Martha...
Everyone have fun today in the not snow!
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