Status Update: Checking In With a Griever

-Day 1 Friday:

11:00 a.m. Mother's funeral. Wear black dress. Deliver eulogy. Host luncheon.
Survive.

2:15 p.m. Pack van up with photo boards, photo albums, candles and crystal dishes from mother's service.

3:00 p.m. Arrive home, fall face down on sofa. With little boy.

Rest of day: Still in black dress from mother's funeral.

10:05 p.m. Sleep on sofa in black dress from mother's funeral.

-Day 2 Saturday:

8:01 a.m. Wake up in black dress from funeral.

7:00 p.m. Change from black dress from funeral, into black T shirt.

7:15 p.m. Drive self in black T shirt and slippers for something to eat. Only want ice cream.

8:20 p.m. Friend drops off purple violet plant, my mother's favorite. Can barely make out velvety leaves through blur of tears.

9:05 pm. Go into garage, stare at van full of things from mother's funeral, no room for children. Walk back into house.

9:10 p.m. Turn to FB: van needs emptying. Unable to do. Sage friends advise children to empty items into back room, I go through items later.

9:39 p.m. Children empty van.

11:41 p.m. Fall asleep grateful for wise friends on FB. 

-Day 3 Sunday:

7:48 a.m. Open eyes to view from sofa of blue sky and raindrops in sun!

7:49 a.m. Shout at kids to be dressed and ready to go because Now! Now! perfect weather for visit to cemetery.

9:45 a.m. Drive home from cemetery silently, family with me, radio on but don't hear it. Only hear words in my head of how one week ago we were with my mother, and today feels like someone else's life. 

12:30 pm. Escape to movies with 16-year-old son who lets me rest my head on his shoulder during previews, and then throughout movie. He doesn't re adjust once.

6:30 p.m. Dear friend drops off pizza and salad. I take bites and swallow hard in between tears.

11:07 p.m.  Promise to re-send re-write re-word every single card ever sent to anyone who has lost a mother. Will begin with, "My apologies, I had no idea."

-Day 4 Monday:

6:49 a.m. On sofa, eyes wide open, body tired but mind too sad to sleep. Still in black T shirt from weekend.

7:20 a.m. Dear friend knocks on door and drops off card. Is taken aback by lack of wardrobe change, endears herself to me by stammering she "likes T shirt I've been wearing these days."

12:00 p.m. Take children with me to funeral home to pick up mother's cremains. Even when holding evidence of ashes, my mind says not her.

12:40 p.m. Children make me laugh on drive home when littlest says, "Who me? Oh, you know, nothing special -- just driving around with my grandmother's ashes in the minivan."

1:30 p.m. Ice cream for lunch.

6:47 p.m. And dinner.

-Day 5 Tuesday:

7:15 p.m. Place mother's ashes in car seat next to me and go for ice cream. Cry while driving, wondering who's going to ask me now about the stories in my life.

7:35 p.m. Park car at mother's favorite ice cream drive-in and begin with what was always her first question to me as soon as I walked into her room, the latest story of woman who is thorn in my side. Salty tears fall and mix into my chocolate ice cream as I tell her what's new. I still finish cone.

8:00 p.m. 18-year-old son gets surprising new job of hearse driver when mother's ashes still left in car from ice cream run earlier in evening. He takes car, and thus inadvertently takes her for ride with him. He comes home saying, "Well, looks like Nona finally got to go for that car ride alone with me."

8:09 p.m. Bring my mother's ashes in, place her in piano room, where she can now sit near front window, listening to her grand children's serenades.

9:00 p.m. Change into grey T shirt.

11:50 p.m. Fall face down on sofa in grey T shirt. Wonder what I'm going to do.

4:15 a.m. Wake with crick in my neck and see littlest next to me. Don't want him to wake and leave so let him stay in my neck cranny.

-Day 6 Wednesday:

7:15 a.m. Take Tylenol for crick in neck from littlest sleeping in there all night.

Rest of morning: Still in grey T shirt.

9:21 a.m. On sofa, chanting grade school cheer Get up! Get going! You can move and do it!  Gooooooooo me!

10:19 a.m. Shower, leave to register two oldest for high school, come back home and rest for half an hour, leave again to buy shoes for two oldest.

1:55 p.m. Return home and pat self on back for school registration completed, shoe shopping completed, and not telling every person who asked about our summer, that my mother died. Flop down on sofa.

2:05 p.m. Scoop up littlest in my arms and bury my face in his soft head. Pass out for nap. Stay like that, eyes closed, until 8 p.m.

-Day 7 Thursday:

10:40 a.m. Try singing along to radio but voice won't go faster than 33 rpm.

3:00 p.m. Attempt to do all the things I need to do around house but legs are stiff and arms leaden. Will try again Friday.
  
5:25 p.m. Five pounds chocolate covered raspberries for dinner.

1:00 a.m. Order T shirt from Zazzle, "I have no parents. Be nice."

1:20 a.m. Set alarm to wake at 6:45 a.m. then plan to go to small bakery downtown and buy all the donuts.

1:50 a.m. Take blanket to sofa, stare at ceiling and marvel that a week has passed and how strange life will be without a mother. Hot tears slip out the sides of my eyes and puddle in my ears because I don't know what I'm going to do now that the person who loved me more than anything, is gone.

* * *

 **I'm doing okay, ups and downs, and moments that strike out of nowhere when you really need them not to, like not being able to walk past the watermelon at the supermarket because we'd always begin our visits with my mother with a bowl of chilled, cubed watermelon. Your love and kindness on the internet have lifted me and given me peace and comfort. Thank you, for being there, and making all this, a sharing of love. 

You guys are the best.

_____________________________________________________________________

I Don't Care, I Love It

Before I became a lady who stays home with her kids and cleans the toilets here far less often than I should, I used to be someone who pretty much did only what I wanted to do.

I spoiled myself that way.

Then, as so many of us who remember the bygone days say, "I had kids."

I was fussy and picky about so many things in my life back then, from too scratchy tags on my clothes to sheets that didn't feel just right. My bath towels had to be big and fluffy. My pants had to be the right length with the ankle break just atop the shoe.

As I said, that was all before kids.

Never was I more for me? no thank you, than in the area of food. Lima beans? No...  because they look like they'd be icky. Pumpkin pie? Same thing... it looks too much like what mincemeat would be if I knew what mincemeat was. And seafood chowder? Won't it taste fishy? Sandy, at the very least.

And then I had three children in seven years, and had no time to make only what I wanted to eat, and no time to go out to restaurants to eat, and no time to selectively shop at high end grocery marts for the ingredients for white asparagus cream sauce. Now it's all warehouse shopping for 100 pound bags of rice and oil barrel sized cans of kidney beans.

From all this eat-what's-there-because-you've-got-time-so-grab-it mentality, a very interesting thing has happened. And it makes me wonder about all that I've missed.

Just a few years ago, I had my first slice of pumpkin pie ever -- all because I made it to the dessert table at someone's house much too late in the evening due to being busy feeding babies and changing diapers and then changing diapers some more, and all that was left on the white table clothed card table, was a skinny broken piece of pumpkin pie. I was hungry. It was food. I took it.


The whipped cream heavens opened, and dessert angels sang their chorus and I joined in with oh em gee and why didn't anyone ever tell me PUMPKIN PIE IS DELICIOUS. I loved it.


It's like I'm having food for the first time.

When baby #3 came along, I was at a relative's house when Cupid's food arrow struck me over a white bowl of lima beans. I was so starved from chasing after three boys that when I finally sat down to eat at 8 p.m., I had to stop myself from grabbing the pale green beans out of the ceramic bowl like a handful of popcorn. I composed myself and served them on a plate and again with the heavens in song; either I was starving or those were the best gd creamiest, butteriest green starchy vegetables I have ever tasted.

Since children, you can say the same thing about me and three bean salad. So sweet and tart at the same time! And lamb chops, with their downright sexy aftertaste. How could I never have known that I like jelly on meat?

Black bean burgers? Did I say they looked mushy? Mushy is my ass.
Portobello mushroom sandwiches? To think that I thought they looked like a sliced up giant slug.
Pea soup? I am sorry I ever helped spread that rumor about them being used in The Exorcist.

So many undiscovered delicacies, so little time. All coming to light from taste buds primed and ready after being in a state of famishment from food deprivation and days with no time to eat built in. Hunger is a powerful motivator and a close-food-minded opener.

Low blood sugar from living a life of no breakfast or lunch along with my gratefulness for having an invite out of my house, make me an especially appreciative party guest. I will ask you for your recipe for anything you set out, and I will thank you as you hand it to me scribbled on paper, saying "It's just cottage cheese on toast points. Maybe a little pepper sprinkled on top." Maybe for you, but for me? It's a mouth carnival.

So if you ever find me at your home for a get together of any kind, and you see me hovering over your kitchen island while stuffing my cheeks like a squirrel in October, please pull me away and break it to me gently when I choke out the words muffled by food, "What is this? It's awesome!"

And you answer, "Weeds. My husband pulled them from the garden earlier. We were in the middle of trying to identify them on google when you stopped over..."

On second thought, never mind, it won't bother me. They'll still taste delicious and I'll be singing  Icona Pop to you, because I know what she's really talking about here.




Something I didn't have to cook or shop for and the time to eat it.

I don't care what it is, I love it.

* * * 

And Again, You've Held Me Up

It makes no sense how everything in the world didn't stop this week. Bills still have to be paid, jobs still need to be completed, and appointments still must be kept.

There are 43 messages in my voice mail and over 500 emails in my inbox.

Life goes on, even when a beloved one's has stopped.

We have to keep going. Steel ourselves up and keep going. Even when we've become that crazy lady who looks up at everyone who crosses their path, and says to total strangers in the store check-out lane, "my nephew died, you know? And I can't believe it."

People have been kind; these poor strangers who have no idea who I am. One woman touched my arm, and could barely whisper, "I'm so sorry." A man told me he lost his sister, and that he'd pray for our family. I turned my dentist into my psychotherapist today--because that's what we do when devastation hits. (he took off his mask, held my hand, listened, wiped his eyes, and now I will follow him anywhere, even if he falls out of my dental care network)

We seek out, looking for others, to help us. There are so many of us doing the daily must-dos, carrying our stories of suspended disbelief inside, wondering, asking the unanswerable, how do we keep going?

A big part of that answer for me has been in all of you, who have become my community. I have my faith, my belief, I have my family. But I also have your cards, your emails, phone messages, tweets, texts, facebook messages, comments here on my blog, and every single one of these, a gift to me in the long hours of a sleepless night.

You may not realize the strength that comes from knowing that so many care and are heartbroken along with me, but it does. To feel you all sharing in this pain with me, that runs as an undercurrent through every single thought of mine. My family has suffered a great loss, an untimely death of a brilliant star that lit up our lives. I know just how much more overwhelming this time for us would feel, if I didn't have your kind words here to make me smile.

I smile, through tears, but I smile. With genuine gratitude and appreciation for how you have kept me from feeling alone in this tremendous blow.

Once again, you all save my life, daily, as we have to go back to what the world calls "normal," something our lives will never be again.

Thank you.

Today

       Mend a quarrel. Search out a forgotten friend. Dismiss suspicion and
      replace it with trust. Write a love letter. Share some treasure. Give a soft
      answer. Encourage youth. Manifest your loyalty in a word or deed.       Keep a promise. Find the time. Forego a grudge. Forgive an enemy. Listen.
      Apologize if you were wrong. Try to understand. Flout envy. Examine your
      demands on others. Think first of someone else. Appreciate, be kind, be
      gentle. Laugh a little more.
      Deserve confidence. Take up arms against malice. Decry complacency.
      Express your gratitude. Worship your God. Gladden the heart of a child.
      Take pleasure in the beauty and wonder of the earth.
      Speak your love. Speak it again. Speak it still again. Speak it still once again.

                                                                                      --- Author Unknown

   ***

Breaking News: Titanic Sinks and Social Media Interferes With Real Life

photo credit: Heritage Vancouver via photopin cc

We were all sitting at the family dermatologist's office (yeah, group rate, what of it?) waiting for our names to be called. I was flipping through magazines older than the hills telling me a ship called the Titanic sank, when I saw an article in a magazine from 2009. The blistering title and byline was "Social Media--It's Taking You Away From Your Real Life."

The paragraphs go on to tell me all that I could be doing by logging off. Strengthening real life relationships (like online ones aren't real?), developing a hobby (got one, it's twitter), exercising (bawk! that chicken sound, you know?), and re-organizing my life (what's wrong with sitting on laundry?).

Right, all these things I could be doing. Could. That's the kicker there, the author assumes I'd be doing things if I weren't online. Oh, my sides, my sides from the laughter. Yeah no not so much.

Here's my list of "All I Could Be Doing If I Weren't Online":

--Staring at my fingernails, willing my lazy butt go get out of the house and get a manicure.

--Poking around snack cabinet deciding on what to have for second breakfast.

--Walking around the house with two pairs of socks on to stretch out my new winter boots.

--Letting Bethenny Now! exercise DVD play in background while I finish up sweetnsalty chips kids left out last night.

--Walk downstairs to basement with intention to cull toys dvds books. Walk back upstairs after three minutes.

--Be at local yoga class where teacher there always waits until I'm relaxed with my eyes closed to sneak up on me and make me jump ten feet into the air by whispering "namaste" into my ear.

--Or I could be at Zumba, where instructor tries again to talk me into leading Zumba Silver.

--Pull blankets off beds to let sheets "breathe" as Martha Stewart Living advises. Consider that my gold bar of housekeeping for the day.

--Decide to have lunch with kids at school, show up with McDonald's bags only to have them grab bag out of my hands and say, "Thanks mom you can go home now. No, really, you can go home now."

--Look down at jeans with permanent knee mounds, take myself to Old Navy for new pair. All are too long and too tight. Refuse to try double digit numbered ones. Drive to Hefner's Cup O'Custard, sit in parking lot, licking wounds metaphorically through death by chocolate triple scoop in cup. Consider death by chocolate literal invitation.

--Drive to afternoon matinee. Suffer through "Playing for Keeps" about hypersexed soccer moms wanting to do aging soccer star Gerard Butler at every which way while he coaches their little ones on for a team win! Try and guess which mom is the one who gets behind the scenes reffing. I win.

--Rummage through husband's sock and underwear drawer. Hoping to find something linking him to exciting past Bourne identity life, find only saved tags from boxers in case new ones don't fit.


Oh, the undeniable Jezebel that Social Media is. We need no more proof than this list right here. 

Peace out. 

Wanted: Dead or Alive

photo credit: hugovk via photopin cc

The other morning, my ten-year-old son came downstairs, and walking past me, said, "Mom, seriously, that dinner you made us last night tasted like you were trying to kill me or something."

And good morning to you too, honey. Before I even had my head half way whipped around to ask just what he meant by that, the two teens saw their in and jumped at it.

"Yeah. It's like you think you're a wizard or something, making up potions."

"You've made up stuff before, mom, but this one would get the blue ribbon in a chemistry class."

"I know! Like the time she chopped up the left over turkey hamburger with the left over spaghetti and then made into a pie. I thought I'd be dead by midnight that night."

"Remember when she scrambled up the tofu with the left over hash browns and made it into a casserole with that saffron stuff? I wanted to put Wanted: For Murder posters up in the hallway."

The ten year old feels the power of his brothers' back-up and so now he's up on his toes, "No! The worst was when she laid out that old bread flat in the cookie sheet and then covered it with that shiny sauce and she got mad when I told her she should be on America's Most Wanted..."

It was like inmates rattling their tin cups against the jail bars. I put my hand up and looked over at my husband. I raised my right eyebrow at him, wasn't he the sheriff in town?

My husband just slunk into his newspaper, nervously clearing his throat, "ehhem, ehhem."

With my hands in the air, I tried to explain; I'm busy. I had to be at work. The food is perfectly safe. They're too picky. How about doing left overs like the rest of the world??

But between me and you and the lamp post, I couldn't deny it. I mean, I can deny the murder part, or the food poisoning part--I label everything with a sharpie and discard within 3-5 days. The meal was a pretty bad concoction, one of my worst. That night's fly out the door dinner was so bad that after I threw it at the kids and rushed to work, I had to confess to my boss as soon as I got there, "Whoa. What I made tonight for the kids to eat was really bad."

"Oh, it's all right," she tells me. "We all have those days." [she really is one of the finest humans on the planet]

"No, this was bad. I mean left over boiled potatoes, chopped up deli meat, sliced tomatoes, all skilletted together with Catalina dressing over. Sliced peaches for dessert."

"Oh." [first time I've ever left her speechless]

The slapped together last minute meal. Why would I even try, what was I thinking, I mean throwing a hot dog and a bag of chips at them would be better.

I think it's that hope--that somehow blindly optimistic or else thinking too highly of myself, with some hating-to-waste ethics I grew up with, that have me thinking it's so crazy, so crazy that it just might work. I know it's a kitchen fail as soon as I start rummaging through the refrigerator--I'm surprised the kids haven't picked up on that behavioral clue yet. When mama starts moving aside the tupperware containers in the fridge to see what's in there, might wanna fill up on some bowls of cereal first.

The Desperation Dump Dinner. I don't want to admit that time got away from me. I don't want to say I couldn't do it all today. It's never laziness or lack of desire to give them a good meal. I try to ignore the voice in my head that pops up when I look at all those round containers of left overs in the fridge and says, "and so you think it's all right to use your kids as the garbage disposal?" As my ten year old told me, "Either way, mom, it goes down the sink, or comes out of our butts."

The ten year old is right. I need to start over and be open to the reality that some nights may just be frozen chicken patties and a sliced banana. There can be honor and beauty in accepting your limitations.

I could also do without the price on my head.

***

Scared Clean

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SNL likes to parody a documentary that aired in the late 70's called "Scared Straight." Short and quick, Scared Straight was about a group of juvenile delinquents and their exposure, filmed, to actual convicts. Like, face to face close enough to get spit in your eye exposure.

The hope was that these prison guys with names like ChopChop, Jesus, Rodman, Gallo--would scream, berate, and terrify these tenderonies straight and away from a life of crime. Oh and there be swear words, along with lots of kissysmooch sounds out to the air.

Scary shiz and man oh man if I were 15-year-old Danny Levinger invited to spend the day with these lifers? Guaranteed I'd come back with a rewritten life plan in my notebook on the bus ride home, fully complete ten years out called "Scared Damn Right."

Well, I've just had my own Scared Straight revelation.

While flipping through talk show channels the other day, (I skipped out on AndersonLive, he keeps ignoring my on-air tweets so I got him back good by changing channels) I stopped on a show that was interviewing clutter control professionals. The segment was called Not Quite Hoarders. Oh and it was as valuable as Scared Straight to me.

Thirty minutes into the show, I became what Standolyn Roberston, star of A&E's popular series, Hoarders, calls "action prone." Action prone is a mental state where you need to STRIKE WHILE THE IRON'S HOT. When you're action prone, you are motivated--the Hoarders' version of Nike's Just Do it.

When I heard one of the clutter organizers say, "our children learn organization from us. Their response to an environment has to do with what is modeled at home. Living with disorganization and too many things will DESENSITIZE them to disarray in their future and they will have DIFFICULTY seeing chaos, where someone else who grew up in order and organization may recognize disorder much quicker. AND PLUS ALSO TOO these children of disorganiztion WILL NOT KNOW how to organize their future homes," my head popped up like the wounded gazelle at a watering hole when she senses danger.

The caps you see above may not have occurred but so what, that's how I heard it. So, basically, when my three boys go away to college, they'll be the ones falling asleep on top of a stack of books with socks hanging off their desk lamps while piles of underwear are what they use for a pillow.

Charming visual. I know. Because of me.

I can no longer call my stuff treasures, precious, semi-precious, valuable, antique, heirloom, generational, collectible, memorabilia, mementos, keepsakes, souvenirs. I can't keep the toothbrush they used when they first brushed their teeth by themselves.

I can no longer deny, procrastinate, avoid, be indecisive, feel overwhelmed, or unfocused. I can't say either I do it all today, or I don't do it all.

I need to decide, handle, toss out, spend time, give away, plan, be ruthless. I need to drop off five industrial strength bags of things at the family sharing store once a month.

I am going to clean up because I will in no way become that lady responsible for my three kids sitting on metal folding chairs in some church basement someday while busloads of young college-bound students are brought in to see them while my three whistle and cat call out to them, screaming, "Yeah?! Ya think ya all of a sudden one day wake up underneath a pile of 200 plastic Transformer cups?! Huh? Ya think we like being this way?!"

I'm so action prone right now that by the time I'm through with this place, I'll be written up in Destination Must Sees of Taoist Monthly.

***

Ways To Milk a Birthday

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As a kid, I had to share my birthday.

I know.

I.Know.

My younger sister will cite the same complaint, and realize that it's nothing personal. It's just that, it's your birthday, you know? And you have to share a cake? And the birthday table?

We were a family of six children, and my sister and I had a birthday just three days apart. I'm sure we should have been grateful that we got chocolate cake with cherry icing. And I'm over it now BUT now that I'm in control, I like to stretch that birthday out as long as I can. And have it all to myself.

I would have been a lot less grimacey and grumpy back when I was little had I known that one day I would be lucky enough to live in a houseful of men where I reigned as the only queen.

Hence, my birthday weekend. I begin announcing the upcoming event a week beforehand. I'm not one to bury my head in the pillows, falling into extended crying jabs, because someone forgot the big day to celebrate me.

I don't take that chance.

This morning was the official birthday start, and the queen's trumpets will sound until its end late Sunday night, about 10:30ish. I ask the kids to write up a home-made card, rather than a store bought one, telling me why I'm the best mom in the world and I give my husband a shopping list for the small things I want. I'm a believer in asking for what you want - no disappointment that way. And why risk unnecessary suffering?

I see my beautiful childrens' cards on the table as I type this, along with pretty packages wrapped in light pink and pear green (the colors I've told them I like).

I don't have to cook, my husband runs out and picks up whatever take-out I ask for. The kids do the chores I ask them to. Everyone is happy. And everyone understands.

They know the story.

I remember first telling my children about the shared birthday, watching their eyes open in horror - a horror to them more terrifying than watching a Twilight Zone episode by yourself at 10 PM when you're five-years-old. (note to self: post on how I know it's terrifying to watch Twilight Zone by myself at 10 PM)

While I'm grateful to the sky and back for my family and how much they do for me, I'm also grateful for all of you. Your tweets and facebook posts and emails to me today, wishing me a Happy Birthday, go beyond making it better for all those years of sharing a cake and never really having a day that was mine.

Just the act of wishing someone Happy Birthday is such a kind, loving one.

Thank you all so much. I don't regret the years of the semi-birthday where it was more of a "Hap Bir!" to me rather than a whole complete "Happy Birthday!" to only me. My family did the best they could, and they were just being grown-up practical.

I get that, and in a way it turned out to be the reason why I love the birthday wishes just for me today.

And why my younger sister and I call each other on our birthdays, and ask, "How about that cake THAT BELONGS TO ONLY YOU??"

 ***

P.S. In a statistically improbable life turn of events, our two boys have birthdays three days apart (can you believe it?).

When the second one was born, my MIL said, "Oh! How nice! Now you can share birthdays!"

I ugly screamed, "NO!"

She asked me, "Don't you think you're overreacting??"

No, I thought, No, I'm not.

Writers Write

They're called writers because they write.

To become a writer, step one is To Write.

Yah. Sit Down and Write. Not fiddle on twitter, play with your phone, jump around to 5,000 blogs that you love. Not check email and gmail and YouTube.

There's a reason I haven't gotten down and dirty with Pinterest - and it's the same reason I don't keep chocolate in the house. It would end in an ugly call to 911 and something about a woman who had quit eatingbathingsleeping.

You gotta take a big gulp, knock down that beast that tells you you're not a writer because you don't have a book out.

If you love to write, and you write, then you are a writer.

Easier said than done, so I've lined up in 7 Easy Steps; how to get those words down on paper.

If I can do it, you can do it. (I love that phrase)

Brought to you by AimingLow, my post today, 7 Ways To Get Your Butt Down and WRITE.

Someone Tell Me, What Is This Called?!

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It has to be something. I refuse to believe it's indicative of or a measure of intelligence.

But when you tell me something in a tweet about calling your dad's cell, I gasp and almost type back "What?? Your dad's in jail?!"

Almost type back, because I've learned to stop myself. Time has taught me that.

If you tell me the family's mouse is dead, I kindly touch your arm, and suggest a pet shop on Highway 60. The reaction I get is 'you're funny!' and I laugh back - fast - pretending I get the punch line. 

Play along play along, I tell myself, just like the way I'd pretend to get all the dirty jokes in second grade.

Yesterday, my son was looking in the mirror and audibly lamenting, "I can't believe these are my genes!" 

Excitedly, I told him we could go shopping later, "I've got a 20 percent off coupon for The Gap!"

I'm not dumb. I cleared A's through grade school, was on The National Honor Society in high school, and made the University's Dean's List and Honor Roll.

So, what the heck?

What is this?

Could you call it literalitis? I guess you could. But it's more of missing the whole gamut of the other use for words: homonyms, homophones.

I've tried to commit Venn diagrams, like this one, to memory; hoping it would help me keep in mind: words have more than one meaning.

I run this like an undercurrent through my brain, hoping it takes as a filter before I speak, "Words have many meanings. Words have many meanings." But I still get snared every time.

I know it has to be something, but maybe I'll just accept it and enjoy what it's brought me - making people think I'm quick as a whip and queen of the double entendre.

Actually, it comes in pretty convenient. How else could I get away with announcing, while holding the door open for the brooding, dark-haired, mystery of a man that delivers pizzas to the Friday night basketball games, "Hot Stuff coming through!"

Because, duh, obviously I'm talking about the pizza.

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Thank you to Mommy Unmuted, for gifting me with The Versatile Blogger Award. I am so honored, and happy that you thought of me. Thank you.

NSPW

National Suicide Prevention Week is September 9th through 15th, it surrounds World Suicide Prevention Day on September 10th. Reading, knowing, discussing, seeing that this week exists, encourages awareness and sheds light on a subject that is too often whispered about and carries a social stigma. The quieter we remain about suicide*, the more people will be made to believe that they have to be alone in their struggle. No doubt, this leads to the fact that suicide increases every year.

Suicide is real, and it happens. And its deaths are real. Here are the facts.

• Suicide is the 4th leading cause of death among adults ages 18-65 in America.
• Firearms are used in more suicides than homicides
• Every 15 minutes, someone commits suicide, which is equal to about 101 American deaths by suicide every day. (every 15 minutes!)

Suicide needs to be brought out in the open. Discussion can lead to prevention. It's worth a try, isn't it?

In honor of NSPW, and in memory of those that felt they had no one to turn to, please talk about this subject. If something tells you in your gut that someone you know may need a friend, follow that instinct. It could be a look in their eyes, or the hesitancy in their voice, whatever it is - ask them how they are, please do it. Make time to listen, and do it without judging. Let them know you are there and will help. If they tell you they have thoughts of taking their life, make a call with them. People do commit suicide, so listen and stay with them. Make this call together, right away. You may not get another chance.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (24/7) 1-800 -273-TALK(8255)

The truth about suicide is that it doesn't take away any duress or its pain. It's a devastating, permanent action that's not an answer - it just passes the weight of your burden on to someone else. The problems never disappear, just like the fact that you are on this planet can never be erased.

Taking your own life is beyond sad, or tragic, or horrific. Killing yourself is something that is done when thoughts aren't clear, when the mind is turned upside down, when the maze of thoughts becomes too twisted and coiled to the point of looking like there's no way out: and that the future is only more of the same.

I don't believe that anyone wants to end their life; I believe that they just want the days of living with despair and emotional torment to end.  

If someone turns to you and feels safe enough to speak honestly about the pain they're suffering, please listen. Listen without saying a word or giving a lecture. Be that person in society that doesn't let them down and who accepts them at the point where they are in their life right now.

I can't imagine a darker moment than those few that lead up to that final minute, when the person makes that move to just stop their life now. I don't know how all of us in the universe can't feel what goes on in those last seconds. The world must stop in its rotation for a millisecond, don't you think? The scream of their silent shout has to be heard somewhere.

Suicide happens across all demographics: no one is immune to it, all are stunned by it. Deciding to end your life is an action taken when the person has no other idea of what to do. The aftermath of an unfinished life - unnaturally yanked out of being - reverberates through those left behind in such a loud clamor, that years later, the whispered cause of death is still an undercurrent in the survivors' world.

How does anyone forget a suicide?

We don't.

It shapes us, it's a word we use to describe ourselves when asked who we are, it's the ache we feel when we hear yet another has taken their life.

The worst consequence of a suicide? How over forty years later, it's the first characteristic that comes to my mind, when asked who I am.

I am the child of a parent who committed suicide.

Please, if you know of anyone - or if you yourself have ever thought the world would be better without you - listen to my words here:




Listen To Your Mother Show, Madison, Wisconsin, Mother's Day, 2011. 

*I know about the imposed silence and oath of secrecy that family members ask for. I was asked to do the same, until I couldn't just watch as I'd hear of others taking their lives - and me, saying nothing. The first time I ever talked about my family and suicide was only a little over a year ago, at The Listen To Your Mother Show in Madison. Staying quiet helps no one.

The One-Year Latin Haircut Rule

Abuelas, Nanas, Nonnas, Omas, Babcias, Grandmeres, Memeres, Bubbes, Nai Nais.

If you're fortunate enough to either still have a grandmother, or remember the presence of a grandmother in your life, then I'll bet you'll have an old wives' tale you can pass on to me. Something you heard from your meemaw's lips, some firm belief she entrusted to your care, to then cast over your own children's lives.

For us, growing up raised by my Colombian Abuela, one of the first wives' tales we heard was "No cut a baby's hair before he is one year old! No!" Bad things could happen if you did. So don't tempt the fates - don't, and leave well enough alone within that one year rule; the way mothers have been doing since the first generation of child-rearing.

Today, I tell the story of what happened when I almost broke the almighty one-year no haircut rule, and took my son for his first haircut - with my mother present. You can read all about it at TikiTiki Blog today, where I write a monthly memoir column. TikiTiki Blog, one of my favorite sites because of the culture, the variety, the passion and pride that you see displayed on every page.

I hope you click over, read about a bi-cultural life, and knowing when to pick your battles.

The One-Year Haircut Rule, at TikiTiki.

Testimony, or The Doctor Was Right

My wrinkles are almost all gone. My skin has this--healthy--radiance. My eyes sparkle with life.

Do I sound like I'm having a late-in-life baby? Has the GNC guy finally sold me something worth the $20 for 30 pills he's always trying to talk me into? After ten years of reading Prevention magazine, did I say Yes and jump on the drink eight glasses of water a day bandwagon?

Wait. It gets better.

3 p.m. no longer finds me drooling and head bobbing, begging for a nap. My mind is now quick, nimble, sharp. When I hold my arms up over my head during my 30 minutes of Body by Bethenny, my hands no longer feel like they're made out of 25 pounds of red clay. Each.

Is it a new drug?

Yes it is. And it's called SLEEP. Sleep is the drug and I need some more.

For about 17 years now; coincidentally since the time my first baby was born, I have been falling asleep at the proverbial wheel. No place is off-limits; anywhere, in any body pose - I can do it. I can even fall asleep while you're talking to me and you'd never know I was grabbing a power-nap.

"... and so then I said to him Zzzzzzzz ..."

Finally, during my last physical exam, I begged my M.D. to please do some blood work, because for months now, I have been feeling more tired than Rip Van Winkle. Tired like I'm sledging through knee-deep mud in a celebrity boot camp training exercise. I knew there must be some thyroid/cholesterol/red blood cells/glycohemoglobin/iron stores thing going on inside my body. Something must be at the root of my mid-sentence segueing into a snore.

My Doctor's response was one I loved, "Well, you appear to be a healthy, well nourished female younger than your stated years (that was my favorite part). Your nail beds are pink and so are your inner eyelids. However, based on the look of concern you have on your face, I'll order some tests."

Yee-haw. I grinned - positive that there must be an organic cause to my fatigue, something beyond the surprise baby at age 42. I offered my hand up to my M.D. in a high-five. Or at least I wanted to. In actuality, I was too tired to do it live, so I just gave her one in my mind, feeling much too listless to raise my hand up off my paper-gowned lap.

My Doctor promised to call me as soon as the preliminary lab work was ready, which would be two to three days. Soon oh soon, I'd have that prescription of something that would give me back the pre-baby days of tireless, enthusiastic possibility. I couldn't wait and began taking notes for my eager beaver list of all that I knew I was going to get done: closet de-cluttering, yard weeding, photo organization, sparkling tile grout! Oh! the places I'll clean!

The bloodwork was drawn on Monday, and three days after that would be Thursday. I circled Thursday on my calendar in red crayon. The Big Day.

Thursday finally arrives, and my Doctor calls as promised:

Awesome M.D.: Good morning! I've got your blood results here. I can tell you pretty quickly what's going on.

Me:  ::yawn:: Hi, Doctor. Thanks so much for calling. I've been waiting to find out.

Awesome M.D.:   Everything looks great. All readings within normal ranges. You are very healthy and the lab findings are right where they should be for your age.

Me:  Huh. Really. That's good news. Um ... I ... I just can't believe that everything looks so good and I'm dying here.

Awesome M.D.: Well, are you tired right now?

Me: Dead tired.

Awesome M.D.: How much sleep do you get a night?

Me: Like, all the time? Or, on average?

Awesome M.D.: Tell me how much sleep you get a night on average.

Me: It's not a good answer so I don't want to say it.

Awesome M.D. It's Okay. You can say it. No lectures.

Me: About five hours.

Awesome M.D.: Oh.

Me:  ::silence::  (He who speaks first loses. I learned this when I was working and I know it doesn't apply in this case but it's where my mind goes whenever there's silence.)

Awesome MD: Yeah. You need to get a lot more sleep than you do. You're tired because you're tired. Try seven or eight hours, and let's see how you feel. It'll make a big difference.

Me: (so red-faced you can hear it) Will do, Doc. Thank you.

***

I tried it.

And I liked it.

In bed by midnight, up by 7 a.m. Seven hours of sleep a night and I have less anxiety. I have enlightenment and vitality. I have energy.

I have awakened reserves in myself that I had forgotten I was capable of.

I have become considerate and kind toward others and my relationships have improved due to this limitless amount of patience I've found.

I handle conflicts constructively rather than the pre-sleeping response of and so what are you going to do about it?

I have become tranquil, tolerant, relaxed.

Naaah. I haven't. DNA is DNA.

But I can promise you this--I look a heck of a lot better now than any jar of $50 eye cream could ever make me. No more do mornings find me packing the only Coach bags I'll ever be able to afford--the ones under my eyes.  


Image via Flickr
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--Thrilled to be featured on mamapedia today, with a post where my pain will hopefully be the source of a smile for you today. Read about what happens when the cutest boy I'd ever seen in college tries to convince me to fall in love with him. Painful, but not too painful. I hope you stop by!

Sung To The Tune of Rock Lobster

We got us a rock tumbler in the house. And I learned a thing or three that you need to know about this little so-called "toy" that every kid asks for at least once in their life.

Life lessons, courtesy of my pocketbook, in contribution to the public good. My post today at Aiming Low, where the money you save will be your own -- unless you need an idea for a good post, then by all means, tumble away.

What I can tell you about rock tumblers, at Aiming Low.

 *anything for you guys

April is Child Abuse and Neglect Prevention Month

Those who have come to know me, know a bit about my life.

I hint at it on my About page.

Details aren't important, but what I've learned in this last half of my life is how sharing your story can save others.

For years, I lived ashamed and kept my story to myself. The rare times I had shared about my life, those who heard it reacted with judgment, lectures, reprimands. Angry that I had gone against some unagreed upon code of silence.

I now tell my story as a way to have others not feel the isolation of secrecy that I had been forced into. Far too long into adulthood.

Believe me, your story will keep knocking and knocking until the day you find yourself almost screaming it from the rooftops.

Life has serendipitously weaved its way into a perfect timeline for me. April is when my guest post at Letters for Lucas was slotted, where Tonya graciously allows an open letter to anyone in your life to be shared on her site.

Today, I write to all of those who were raised in Domestic Chaos. I hope you read, and I hope you never feel alone again.

Thank you, Tonya.

Letters For You

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So, I'm Going To Be Okay

About two summers ago, after I followed a smell in my kitchen that led me to some ground turkey meat I must have set out to defrost days ago -- in the cabinets with the dishes, and after I opened the freezer and found a bag of fingerling potatoes next to the lemon sorbet, and after I found the bananas I had been looking for since the weekend sitting next to the shoes in the backroom, I quietly and without much of a fight, accepted the fact that I must have early onset dementia.

I'm not joking or making light about those with this condition. I really believed it, accepted it, and went on with my days; always being sure to have a little church pew pencil and mini notebook in my back pocket to write things down; important things, like who was at soccer until what time and at what park. Things that matter, like that.

I knew it was early onset dementia, my kids knew I had it, and my husband shared the diagnosis along with me. Just a fact of life, we learned to deal with it.

Until last week Sunday afternoon, when my oldest son was reading an article in the Wall Street Journal, and he happily cried out as if he just saw winning lottery numbers, Mom! Dad! You guys don't have Alzheimer's!

My husband opened his eyes from his spot on the floor in front of the fireplace where he'd been taking his 2 o'clock nap, I looked up from my new book Cooking Light and Feelin' Good, and together we shouted We don't?

No! You don't! He filled us in. It says here, you're normal! If you forget your keys, that's normal. If you forget your car, and walk home, that's not. More good stuff like this follows. If you can't remember your friend's name from high school, that's normal; if you can't remember your kid's name, that's not.

My husband and I looked at each other and grinned. We're normal!

Turns out we are just over worked, under rested, maxed out, life engulfed, sleep deprived, inadequately exercised, middle aged working parents. The clinical term is Normal Aged Forgetfulness.

We're okay.

Isn't that great?

I want to share this sense of relief with you. The article gave some more examples of what's normal versus what needs to be examined. Here, for you, nuggets of reassuring good news:

To lose car keys, normal. To lose a car, not.

To forget your childhood address, normal. To forget current address, not.

Forgetting names or appointments, normal. Forgetting your spouse's name, not.

Forgetting why you walked into a room, normal. Forgetting where your room is in your house, not.

Forgetting the names of things occasionally, normal. Forgetting the name of a toothbrush while you hold it in your hand, not.

Forgetting where you're going while you're driving, normal. Forgetting where your house is on your block, not.

Wearing clothes for days in a row without changing, not normal. Yoga pants Monday till Wednesday, totally fine.

Unable to manage household finances any longer, not normal. Kind of putting a dent in the credit card during Anthropologie's Winter Clearance Sweater Sale, clearly normal.

Wearing your black cardigan inside out for a full day, normal. Wearing your bra backwards for even one minute, not normal.

Talking to yourself, so normal. Yelling at yourself to answer back, not.

Occasionally blanking out on what your phone number is, normal. Forgetting what a number is, not.

Putting potatoes in the freezer, normal. Putting your watch in the sugarbowl, not. (Okay, I made that one up.)

Getting upset that Jim Halpert let that temp-tress Kathy in his room with only her underwear on, normal. Actually writing a letter to Jim Halpert reminding him of what it took to get Pam, still normal.

Good news, people. We're all going to be okay.

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Smart Choices

The older we get as parents, the more free we are to make decisions about what we want for ourselves. Our children have grown and aren't as needy, and we can kind of start to rebuild ourselves into people again.

We can make decisions about our appearances and our clothing: we are no longer limited to tops that allow access to breasts in seconds for on demand nursing. We are able to choose the foods we want to eat with only ourselves as a concern rather than avoiding the Three Bean Salad because you'll be dealing with little one's colic from your Beano-less breast milk. We can decide how we want to spend our time and will no longer have the automatic response of kids are down! I'm going in for a nap!

We weathered it all, and now, I say congratulations on surviving one of the wildest rides in town: young parenthood. You will be faced with opportunities now that you thought would never show their face again.

I have some suggestions for you; ideas for smart choices while you work your way back to being Healthy, Strong and Attractive...like the days of yore.

Tips for Emerging Out Of Parenting: The Early Days

Limit Your Snacks: Yes, you'll want to eat everything in sight because now you by yourself or you with someone else can grab a few minutes here and there to actually chew and eat something versus choking on the food you jam down your throat while screaming SIT DOWN and getting up 15 times to refill juice glasses. You can sit and eat: this is a dangerous combination. Be aware.

Altering your Appearance: You will trick yourself into thinking that you can turn back time and go back to being that hot mama once more. Mouth jewelry, pierced navels, some new ink: why not. Well, don't. Not without considering first how things have stretched and pulled and lost resiliency. Do you really want a ring hanging from an already looking-like-it's-a-winking-eye bellybutton? Or risk chipping one of your ever softening osteoporotic teeth as your pierced tongue clangs away during Junior's Parent Teacher Conferences? Just think, all I ask.

Smoking and Drinking: the old college days. The old single days. Sitting at a bar, thinking you look so irresistible with a cigarette hanging just by an ash from your beautiful full lower lip as you drink a sexy drink made with enough booze to light your husband's brand new Charbroil grill you gave him for Father's Day. Don't do it...you won't look sexy and wanton, you'll look tired and haggard and someone walking by will drop a card in your lap inviting you to audition on the Jerry Springer Show. 


Losing 25 pounds by next Thursday: May have looked good to do at one time, not so fast not so good this time. You're older...a few pounds round out the edges and fill out the sags. Take it slow, a pound a month. *snort* as if losing a pound a month is even going to happen with your new metabolism...

Thinking you can hit the dance floor like you used to do: Uh uhn. Nuh uh, as a matter of fact. Don't you know that the day you got married is the day your dance moves stayed frozen in time? Forever? Like the way I'm still doing The Cabbage Patch? And my husband does The Running Man, just about beating himself up in the process? Yeah. True. Turn on the radio...see what your body does. I rest my case.

Enjoy your new freedom, my lovely readers, just take it easy. Though we may think it's only been seconds since we left the playing field, we're not what we used to be.

 Photo via Flickr cc 

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**Am I the only one a little bitty bit worried about Jim Halpert? What's going on with that man? Let me know what you think. My post up today, at Sprocket Ink.


Be in the know, be the clever one, read Sprocket Ink.

Unattended Google Searches

The unattended google search. You read about it, you discount it, you say Naaaaaaaaah...that's something that happens to other people, it'll never happen to me and my kids.

It always happens to other families, doesn't it?

Except when it happens to yours.


My post at Aiming Low today, on what we saw when we saw the Unattended Google Search.

.

Aiming Low: Where mediocre parenting is the gold standard.

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**In some exciting family news, our oldest son, Alexander, 16, has been chosen to attend an intensive civil education program known as the Civil Leadership Academy, in Washington, D.C. for one week. He was the only cadet chosen in the state of Wisconsin, and one of only 24 chosen nationwide. He leaves today for one week. When he completes the program, he and the other cadets will present before Capitol Hill legislators.


We are very proud. 

Thank you for allowing me to brag a little. He's a great kid.

xo

Deemed Unsafe

When we were homeschooling a few years ago, my short husband, a/k/a youngest son, and I were on a group field trip to a huge pizza-making factory. I, and the other parents on the trip, were assigned our own child plus five to watch. I've always been lucky enough that my boy is crazy about me and sticks to me like glue, so I had no worries about whether or not he wanted to be with me. I also had absolute confidence in my abilities and zero concerns about losing any child in my care -- I've always been very responsible. However, based on who knows what criteria, there was something about me that pushed a fellow chaperoning parent to the point of her having to ask me every 20 minutes during the two and a half hour tour, So, all your kids with you?

Yesss. All six.

20 minutes later, same question, So, how many kids with you now? 

Still. Six.

I think I know what it was that weighed on her and made her twitchy: my group was having fun, lots of it; the usual faces back and forth and imitations of tossing pizza dough up in the air and missing it. I behaved on this trip and promised myself that I wouldn't get defensive with this woman, no snarky words would slip out.

You know Gloria on Modern Family? Not a Colombian exaggeration. Push us enough and you'll hear about it. But I bit my lip and kept it all inside because my son had asked me to, as all three of  my three children usually do when they set out the Rules We Must Follow On Field Trips This Means You, Mom speech given to me pre-public appearances.

This mom had her own child with her in her group, so the issue couldn't be fear of losing him via me. My son also noticed her apparition-like appearances, the Ghost of Nosiness Present. His heavy sighs were timed at the exact moments as mine in response to her questions. I saw him roll his eyes as we'd sense her approach. I saw him with the identical fake tight lipped smile skill I have come to perfect. As soon as the six in my group and I would begin with the enjoyment of an afternoon together, she'd be over in two seconds like she had heelies on.

By the end of the trip, she had me chomping my gum like a 1930's mobster to keep my mouth quiet. More than anything, I wanted to say What the heck already, lady … enough with the Amber Alert with my group. Does it bother you that much that we enjoy a few snorts and chortles here? When it came time to board the bus back home, she floated to the front of the line where we were like Casper the meddling ghost.

All your kids here before we head home? She queried.

Yup. All six. Still.

When my son and I found our seats in the middle of the bus and sat down, I looked at him and made cross eyes, slumped my shoulders, shook my head, and maturely stuck my tongue out. He covered his mouth and giggled. I know, he then whispered seriously, shaking his head and crossing his own eyes in a perfect unintentional imitation of me. I. Know, he continued, What the heck, right? Instead of keeping on asking you if you lost any kids, why didn't that lady just say I'm worried about you losing kids because you don't behave like a normal mom.

I sputtered out laughing. If the adorableness next to me at that moment was the end product of being raised by a socially suspect woman, then I don't think I have ever felt prouder of being deemed unsafe in my life. 

Hmmmm... now who'd Baby E learn that face from?

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**Twilight without Edward Cullen? Please let it not be true....details on my post today at Sprocket Ink.

The One Thing

There is one thing I will stop in my tracks and respond to.

There is one thing I will never stop fighting for and writing about.

The very thing that makes some hide in shame and pull their world in even closer has become the one thing that I cannot be loud enough about.

Post Partum Depression. The shame, stigma, and isolation it can cause. The suffering of all involved.

One of the best predictors of PPD recovery is social support and a network of concern.

I'm grateful to be posting at PPD to Joy, the amazing Yael's site today, on what to do if you or someone you know is trying to make it through just another day. I was that someone barely hanging on 17 years ago, and now I am a PPD survivor. I made it through to the other side, something I wish for everyone. NEVER GIVE UP.

If you know of someone, please have them stop by. If you were that someone, please let others know that reaching out is the one best thing you can do for yourself right now.

Thank you so much for reading, and thank you, Yael, for having me.

Post Partum Depression is my 'something be be passionate about.'

Have a wonderful weekend everyone.

xo

An Acknowledgement To The Level of Craftiness Employed On A Daily Basis In This House

This used to frost me.

I mean, ooooh....really just frost me.

I used to get madder than a woman who's been arguing with her local library for the past three months over who's got the Disney's Prince of Egypt DVD.

It seemed that anywhere I looked in my house, there'd be the very thing that would just push me right over the edge.

The near empty Kool-Aid pitcher in the middle shelf of the refrigerator.

The two drops of apple juice left in the gallon, next to the Kool-Aid.

The trash can under the sink that was kinda full, but not full enough to spill out...yet.

Our Mr. Coffee, along side the toaster, with barely 1/4 cup of coffee left in the pot. 

Tony The Tiger smiling at me from a cereal box filled with, oh...what? Let's say FOUR frosted flakes inside.

A snack cabinet loaded with bags of Lay's, Jay's, Doritos; each one filled with a precise count of no more than seven, no less then four, chips.

The gas gauge in the car; at a level where the *pingpingping* of the cutest little gas pump ever has been lit since last Thursday -- at least.

And the soap dispensers in the bathroom....my three all answer yes when I ask them if they've washed their hands; so, are we using air as soap now because when I went to wash my hands just now the pump I saw in there hasn't seen soap in it since Jillian tried to convince me to lose 20 pounds in 30 days the day after New Year's.

But, tonight, when I opened the refrigerator door and saw the Kool-Aid pitcher sitting on the shelf with only an eighth of an inch of yellow liquid silt covering its bottom, it hit me like a bolt of lightning.

Holy cow but the forethought the four guilty parties in this house go through to NOT be the ones to have to make the fresh Kool-Aid, or empty out the apple juice and crush the container and bring a new gallon up from the basement, the piling up of the trash -- like a game of Mr. Tip It.  How there is just enough coffee in Mr. Coffee to make it look like there is still some coffee in Mr. Coffee, leaving cereal in the boxes so it sounds like there is still cereal in the boxes so they don't have to be the ones to throw out the box and take it to recycling, same MO with the bags of chips in the snack cabinet...if you shake the bag and hear something in there, then you don't have to be the one to get rid of the empty one and replace it with a new one from downstairs.  Perfectly timing out the gas longevity in the car so it juuuuust gets you home, but no one else anywhere else.

And the empty soap dispensers in the bathrooms.... let's just say that if that's the level of cleanliness in this house, then it was no small miracle the swine flu didn't take us out last year.

It astounds me; the cerebral gymnastics required to calculatingly measure, determine, estimate how much is not too much but just right for leaving the Kool-Aid, juice, snacks, car, trash, coffee, full enough so that no labor or replenishing is required on their part.

I noticed a trophy store on the way home from school the other day, I'll be stopping by there and placing four orders tomorrow, because such skillful levels of ingenuity just can't be left unrecognized.

Bravo, children, well done. 

Please, sir, the trophy over there? The big one? Make it out to read "First Place: To The Artful Kool-Aid Dodger."
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