With two adult children, I'm learning to redefine my role as mother. Being the mom of 'grown ups' requires one to engage in a very delicate balancing act where we learn to hold our tongues more and express our opinions less. It means letting our kids make their own choices...and their own mistakes. It means accepting that the day-to-day job of mothering is no longer necessary...and no longer desired by our offspring.
As a bit of a control freak, this is a transition that I often find challenging. My instincts tell me to swoop in when I sense danger, to protest loudly when I see a potential pitfall and to share every ounce of my infinite wisdom...whether it's wanted or not. But I'm learning to exercise self-control in these areas...to react slowly to perceived threats and to wait until my advice is sought to offer it. I actually think I'm getting pretty good at this intricate high wire act. And the relationships that are growing among my husband and I, our adult sons and their mates are testament to it.
As evidence, my sons have started to reveal things about their teen years that I had not previously known. Oh you know the kind of stuff I'm talking about...the stuff they got away with...the stuff I never suspected...the stuff I was probably better off not knowing. It's nothing horrible...normal stupid boy things...like making a sling shot to shoot pencils into the ceiling tiles in the choir room...flooding the boy's locker room during P.E....and one son booby trapping the other one's locker so that a bottle of water dumped on him when he opened it. They laughed and laughed as they shared story after story about their immature antics.
And while I tried to act righteously indignant about some of their high school hi jinx, as any good mother should, I couldn't help but be flattered to be brought into the circle where previously, only their friends had been invited. Events that would have been met with stern reprimands or grounding then could be shared openly and with a good chuckle now.
And while some level of ignorance truly is bliss when raising teenagers, having relationships with my kids that are still growing and thriving now that they are adults is absolute blessedness.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Thursday, June 7, 2012
The Gynocologist, Walmart and the BMV
We all have places we dread going. In my top three are my annual 'female' visit to the doctor, Walmart and the BMV. The first only comes around once a year with benefits that outweigh it's stirrup-induced downfalls, so it's tolerable. Walmart I can generally steer clear of...although every once in a while and defying all logic, I find myself sucked into the vortex of shopping perdition. But the BMV is a place that's often unavoidable and almost always a source of frustration.
In the last few weeks, we added a vehicle to our fleet while getting rid of another, and we gained a freshly permitted young driver. These three tasks would seemingly have required a maximum of three visits to the beloved Bureau of Motor Vehicles. Of course, had that happened, I wouldn't be taking the time to write about it now.
Adding the first vehicle was a breeze. In and out with no problems other than being some $600 poorer. But then I couldn't find the title for the vehicle we were letting go. In all fairness, the BMV isn't at all to blame for my careless misplacement (or more likely the unfortunate shredding) of our original title. Nor is it responsible for the bank's failure to release the lien. But everything from then on I feel totally validated in blaming on them.
My first bone of contention...you can't call the local license branch directly anymore. Like many other fine institutions, the powers that be at the BMV have implemented a voice mail maze that I'm sure is designed to cause enough aggravation to insure patrons either (1) give up or (2) spontaneously combust from utter exasperation. I chose option #1.
So an unplanned trip to one of my least favorite places to visit became absolutely necessary. And because I hadn't been able to talk to a flesh and blood human being, I had no idea at that time what the issue was that was preventing me from being able to order a new title online. I didn't know what to take with me or what to do in advance to prepare for this trip. I showed up empty handed and annoyed.
Once the gal explained that the lien had never been released by the lender even though the vehicle had been paid off for well over three years, I asked if I could have the proper paperwork faxed to the branch so we could get things cleared up right away. She said, "no problem", and jotted down the fax number for me. A quick call to the credit union, and it looked like we'd have a relatively simple solution to my problem. But an hour later...and only a few minutes before closing time...still no fax. I tried to call the loan department at the credit union again, but after 4pm on a Friday, I had no luck.
The gal at the BMV offered to call me in the morning if the fax came through. How nice, I thought, even though it would mean another trip to the branch. So I gave her my number and headed off.
But come Saturday morning, I still hadn't heard from the credit union or the BMV. Now I knew the loan department at the credit union could be closed, but the BMV was open til noon. Of course, because of the voice mail h...e...double hockey sticks....I couldn't actually call to see if they'd received the paperwork yet. So I decided to just wait until Monday when I could call the credit union before making the trip to town.
On Monday, I went in to the credit union with a head full of steam that had built up over the weekend. I planned to let them know just how annoyed I was to have been left stranded at the BMV for over an hour waiting on a fax that never came through. But the agent there was quick to show me that they had indeed sent the fax...twice. And both times it had been returned as undeliverable. I still had the piece of paper the gal at the BMV had written the number on for me in my purse...same number the credit union had tried to fax...same wrong number. The agent at the credit union then told me they had tried to call the branch to ask for the correct fax number, but guess what...they had ended up in the automated purgatory all callers to the BMV land in. And like me, they had chose option #1 and simply gave up on getting through to a real person.
At least I finally had the paperwork I needed to get my new title ordered. But that was not the end of my misadventures with the BMV. Sadly, it wasn't even the most irritating encounter I'd have with them that week.
Just two days later, I had to take the last of the little birdies from this nest to acquire the much coveted learner's permit. We had gathered every piece of identifying paperwork we could find on the boy...birth certificate, social security card, passport, W2 and a bank statement. He even had his student ID and public library card for good measure. We had covered all our bases...something from each of their required categories. The only thing we were missing was a blood test to prove he really belongs to his father and me...which I wouldn't be surprised if they start demanding somewhere down the line.
But upon presenting our stack of documents to the same gal who had provided me with the incorrect fax number, my son's dreams of obtaining his permit were quickly dashed that day. That W2 and bank statement would be no help in proving his Indiana citizenship. They needed something with the physical address on it. But no one is sending things to our physical address...because the United States Postal Service doesn't deliver to our house here in podunkville.
The gal suggested a utility bill. Seriously?? He's 15. He doesn't have utility bills. He doesn't have any bills. How about his grade card? Card grades are mailed...to our P.O. box. Transcript? School's out. There's no one there to print a transcript right now.
Then she tells me she could accept MY birth certificate and two other documents with MY physical address on them. Although how that proves where HE lives is beyond me. It's just her taking my word for it that he resides where I reside. But if she's going to take my word for that much of it, why not take my word for the rest of it? Seriously...we didn't have to provide this much documentation to get the kid's passport or send him to a third world country on a missions trip where he traveled without us!
But at least we had a solution to our problem. However, she informed me, the one piece of ID they will not accept that has my physical address on it...wait for it....
MY DRIVER'S LICENSE.
Apparently, having proven my identity and residence to them once upon a time no longer is good enough when I'm vouching for the identity and residence of my minor child. (Perhaps spontaneous combustion isn't just a concern while using the BMV's phone system!) Strange how the one piece of ID practically every place else will accept as proof of who I am and where I live isn't good enough for the one place that issues it!
But without any other options, we returned home to gather yet more documents. And then, with fingers crossed and migraine medication on hand, we were off to the BMV again. This time, thankfully, we left with a a little piece of paper that made my son smile in such a way that made it all worth it. Maybe we'll celebrate with a trip to Walmart...NOT!!
In the last few weeks, we added a vehicle to our fleet while getting rid of another, and we gained a freshly permitted young driver. These three tasks would seemingly have required a maximum of three visits to the beloved Bureau of Motor Vehicles. Of course, had that happened, I wouldn't be taking the time to write about it now.
Adding the first vehicle was a breeze. In and out with no problems other than being some $600 poorer. But then I couldn't find the title for the vehicle we were letting go. In all fairness, the BMV isn't at all to blame for my careless misplacement (or more likely the unfortunate shredding) of our original title. Nor is it responsible for the bank's failure to release the lien. But everything from then on I feel totally validated in blaming on them.
My first bone of contention...you can't call the local license branch directly anymore. Like many other fine institutions, the powers that be at the BMV have implemented a voice mail maze that I'm sure is designed to cause enough aggravation to insure patrons either (1) give up or (2) spontaneously combust from utter exasperation. I chose option #1.
So an unplanned trip to one of my least favorite places to visit became absolutely necessary. And because I hadn't been able to talk to a flesh and blood human being, I had no idea at that time what the issue was that was preventing me from being able to order a new title online. I didn't know what to take with me or what to do in advance to prepare for this trip. I showed up empty handed and annoyed.
Once the gal explained that the lien had never been released by the lender even though the vehicle had been paid off for well over three years, I asked if I could have the proper paperwork faxed to the branch so we could get things cleared up right away. She said, "no problem", and jotted down the fax number for me. A quick call to the credit union, and it looked like we'd have a relatively simple solution to my problem. But an hour later...and only a few minutes before closing time...still no fax. I tried to call the loan department at the credit union again, but after 4pm on a Friday, I had no luck.
The gal at the BMV offered to call me in the morning if the fax came through. How nice, I thought, even though it would mean another trip to the branch. So I gave her my number and headed off.
But come Saturday morning, I still hadn't heard from the credit union or the BMV. Now I knew the loan department at the credit union could be closed, but the BMV was open til noon. Of course, because of the voice mail h...e...double hockey sticks....I couldn't actually call to see if they'd received the paperwork yet. So I decided to just wait until Monday when I could call the credit union before making the trip to town.
On Monday, I went in to the credit union with a head full of steam that had built up over the weekend. I planned to let them know just how annoyed I was to have been left stranded at the BMV for over an hour waiting on a fax that never came through. But the agent there was quick to show me that they had indeed sent the fax...twice. And both times it had been returned as undeliverable. I still had the piece of paper the gal at the BMV had written the number on for me in my purse...same number the credit union had tried to fax...same wrong number. The agent at the credit union then told me they had tried to call the branch to ask for the correct fax number, but guess what...they had ended up in the automated purgatory all callers to the BMV land in. And like me, they had chose option #1 and simply gave up on getting through to a real person.
At least I finally had the paperwork I needed to get my new title ordered. But that was not the end of my misadventures with the BMV. Sadly, it wasn't even the most irritating encounter I'd have with them that week.
Just two days later, I had to take the last of the little birdies from this nest to acquire the much coveted learner's permit. We had gathered every piece of identifying paperwork we could find on the boy...birth certificate, social security card, passport, W2 and a bank statement. He even had his student ID and public library card for good measure. We had covered all our bases...something from each of their required categories. The only thing we were missing was a blood test to prove he really belongs to his father and me...which I wouldn't be surprised if they start demanding somewhere down the line.
But upon presenting our stack of documents to the same gal who had provided me with the incorrect fax number, my son's dreams of obtaining his permit were quickly dashed that day. That W2 and bank statement would be no help in proving his Indiana citizenship. They needed something with the physical address on it. But no one is sending things to our physical address...because the United States Postal Service doesn't deliver to our house here in podunkville.
The gal suggested a utility bill. Seriously?? He's 15. He doesn't have utility bills. He doesn't have any bills. How about his grade card? Card grades are mailed...to our P.O. box. Transcript? School's out. There's no one there to print a transcript right now.
Then she tells me she could accept MY birth certificate and two other documents with MY physical address on them. Although how that proves where HE lives is beyond me. It's just her taking my word for it that he resides where I reside. But if she's going to take my word for that much of it, why not take my word for the rest of it? Seriously...we didn't have to provide this much documentation to get the kid's passport or send him to a third world country on a missions trip where he traveled without us!
But at least we had a solution to our problem. However, she informed me, the one piece of ID they will not accept that has my physical address on it...wait for it....
MY DRIVER'S LICENSE.
Apparently, having proven my identity and residence to them once upon a time no longer is good enough when I'm vouching for the identity and residence of my minor child. (Perhaps spontaneous combustion isn't just a concern while using the BMV's phone system!) Strange how the one piece of ID practically every place else will accept as proof of who I am and where I live isn't good enough for the one place that issues it!
But without any other options, we returned home to gather yet more documents. And then, with fingers crossed and migraine medication on hand, we were off to the BMV again. This time, thankfully, we left with a a little piece of paper that made my son smile in such a way that made it all worth it. Maybe we'll celebrate with a trip to Walmart...NOT!!
Friday, May 11, 2012
Mom pay
I got a text at 3pm from my fifteen year old son asking me to please bring his basketball shoes to him after school...at 3:10. So I dropped what I was doing...nothing important really...went and hunted down the shoes in his 'enter at your own risk' bedroom and headed out the back door.
My husband, who happened to have the day off today, met me at my van and asked me where I was going. I quickly filled him in, not only on my immediate objective but also on how I had very specifically asked our son if he had everything he needed for his after school activities before we left this morning. I added that I feel like I spend half my life running errands for and following the agenda of our children.
I honestly don't think that's much of an exaggeration. For the past twenty-one years, I have logged a lot of miles taking kids to and from everything from church related events to wrestling meets...ball games to dances. I've made special trips to fetch missing uniform pieces, forgotten homework, field trip permission slips that just had to be turned in that day. I've made many late Sunday evening treks to buy poster board and art supplies for projects that always seem to be due on Monday mornings. I've delivered after school snacks to boys who surely would have wasted away had they had to wait until ball practices were over. I've made so many trips to and from my kids' schools, I'm certain my van could get there by itself now.
I couldn't even begin to guess how many hours I've spent sitting on uncomfortable bleachers watching my boys play basketball or wrestle...or how much time I've spent watching baseball in the scorching heat...or soccer in the pouring rain. Oh, and the time spent watching is nothing compared to the time spent waiting! Waiting in the parking lot for school to get out...waiting on the bus to get back after an away game...waiting for rehearsal to end or practice to get over.
I'm pretty sure if I got paid by the hour or by the mile, I'd have enough to take a very nice trip somewhere by now or maybe even a nicely funded IRA. And while I don't except to be financially compensated for my 'work' as a mother, it's nice to be appreciated for it.
So when my husband leaned into the van, kissed me gently and said, "Everyone should have a mother like you,"...all I could do was smile. Because no matter how many times I've complained about the wasted gas and wasted time spent making special trips just to deliver gym shoes, I'm always going to do it. And the truth is, I'm going to miss it when it's gone.
My husband, who happened to have the day off today, met me at my van and asked me where I was going. I quickly filled him in, not only on my immediate objective but also on how I had very specifically asked our son if he had everything he needed for his after school activities before we left this morning. I added that I feel like I spend half my life running errands for and following the agenda of our children.
I honestly don't think that's much of an exaggeration. For the past twenty-one years, I have logged a lot of miles taking kids to and from everything from church related events to wrestling meets...ball games to dances. I've made special trips to fetch missing uniform pieces, forgotten homework, field trip permission slips that just had to be turned in that day. I've made many late Sunday evening treks to buy poster board and art supplies for projects that always seem to be due on Monday mornings. I've delivered after school snacks to boys who surely would have wasted away had they had to wait until ball practices were over. I've made so many trips to and from my kids' schools, I'm certain my van could get there by itself now.
I couldn't even begin to guess how many hours I've spent sitting on uncomfortable bleachers watching my boys play basketball or wrestle...or how much time I've spent watching baseball in the scorching heat...or soccer in the pouring rain. Oh, and the time spent watching is nothing compared to the time spent waiting! Waiting in the parking lot for school to get out...waiting on the bus to get back after an away game...waiting for rehearsal to end or practice to get over.
I'm pretty sure if I got paid by the hour or by the mile, I'd have enough to take a very nice trip somewhere by now or maybe even a nicely funded IRA. And while I don't except to be financially compensated for my 'work' as a mother, it's nice to be appreciated for it.
So when my husband leaned into the van, kissed me gently and said, "Everyone should have a mother like you,"...all I could do was smile. Because no matter how many times I've complained about the wasted gas and wasted time spent making special trips just to deliver gym shoes, I'm always going to do it. And the truth is, I'm going to miss it when it's gone.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
The Hard Way
When I tell our story...my husband and mine, I like to say we were fearless as we went out into the world and just refused to fail. But maybe we were just plain stupid. After all, we did do it the hard way. Less than twelve hours after graduating high school, I became Mrs. Dan Wyant. And less than than twenty-four hours after that, we packed up our meager possessions and headed to another state to start a new life together. We had no jobs to go to but had no doubt we'd find them. We had no home to call our own, but we weren't afraid to make one. We had no plan for how to build our future...just two hearts that were determined to make it happen.
By the time I was 21, my twin sons' age now, I was three years married, the mother of two, living with my husband in a town far enough way from our families that we really felt like we were on our own. We had a little house and a car with a $78 a month payment. We were standing on our own feet and going to to bed at night with a tired we had earned. Life was good, and we were happy.
But for me to pretend our lives have always been smooth as silk or perfectly peachy would be as crazy as you believing it. There's nothing particularly 'easy' about being a grown up, about being married or about being a parent. Putting all those hats on at once only multiplies the challenges.
Let's face it, the on-the-job training program for life is difficult and sometimes painful. The only thing higher than the hurdles are the stakes. We've made more than our fair share of poor choices over the years. We've taken turns being selfish and foolish. We've made messes and left scars. We've fallen short and missed the mark from time to time. Maybe there is no 'easy way' when it comes to this life.
But the mother in me can't help but want to spare my sons all the pains and pitfalls this life promises. I don't want them to be like we were...doing it the hard way. I don't want them to struggle or fall short or have to trade their dreams for harsh realities. I don't want them to settle or sell out. I don't want them to have to do without or simply make do. As their mother, all I ever wanted to do was give them....well, everything.
So it's good for me, that as it turns out, to do so...to have given them everything...would honesty have been to rob them, in whole or part, of the beauty that is their own life's journey. Because as I look back at my own life, it was in the struggles and in the times of want and in the arena of the unknown that I did my best growing. It was when we had so little that we gained an appreciation for much. It was when we were without that we were often the richest. It was when we had nothing but each other that we first realized we had everything that mattered. And who we are today and where we are today would not be nearly so sweet without the insights gained by lives well lived.
So while there was a time when it was my job to provide a safe haven and construct a careful cocoon around the little boys I was so blessed to have call me 'mommy', that time has passed. And boys no more, my sons...grown men...move away from this place to make their own way. They do so, for better or worse, for richer or poorer...with women who love them and who walk beside them through this world.
They will discover for themselves all the things marriage and family and real life hold. They will find their own strengths and learn to help each other through in times of weakness. They will decide what's worth fighting for and what's simply not worth anything at all. They will build their own future, burn their bridges, break their own ground. They will make their own plans, dream their own dreams and pursue their own happiness. They will find it out...figure it out...and sometimes even fight it out. But Lord willing, they will endure and overcome it all together.
So while my sons may not have done everything the way I would have chosen for them...the easy way...I'm sure my mom and dad would say the same about me. But I know I wouldn't change my life even if I could...and that's what I hope for my sons to be able to say themselves one day. When they too are old and gray, I want them to look back and say they wouldn't have had it any other way.
By the time I was 21, my twin sons' age now, I was three years married, the mother of two, living with my husband in a town far enough way from our families that we really felt like we were on our own. We had a little house and a car with a $78 a month payment. We were standing on our own feet and going to to bed at night with a tired we had earned. Life was good, and we were happy.
But for me to pretend our lives have always been smooth as silk or perfectly peachy would be as crazy as you believing it. There's nothing particularly 'easy' about being a grown up, about being married or about being a parent. Putting all those hats on at once only multiplies the challenges.
Let's face it, the on-the-job training program for life is difficult and sometimes painful. The only thing higher than the hurdles are the stakes. We've made more than our fair share of poor choices over the years. We've taken turns being selfish and foolish. We've made messes and left scars. We've fallen short and missed the mark from time to time. Maybe there is no 'easy way' when it comes to this life.
But the mother in me can't help but want to spare my sons all the pains and pitfalls this life promises. I don't want them to be like we were...doing it the hard way. I don't want them to struggle or fall short or have to trade their dreams for harsh realities. I don't want them to settle or sell out. I don't want them to have to do without or simply make do. As their mother, all I ever wanted to do was give them....well, everything.
So it's good for me, that as it turns out, to do so...to have given them everything...would honesty have been to rob them, in whole or part, of the beauty that is their own life's journey. Because as I look back at my own life, it was in the struggles and in the times of want and in the arena of the unknown that I did my best growing. It was when we had so little that we gained an appreciation for much. It was when we were without that we were often the richest. It was when we had nothing but each other that we first realized we had everything that mattered. And who we are today and where we are today would not be nearly so sweet without the insights gained by lives well lived.
So while there was a time when it was my job to provide a safe haven and construct a careful cocoon around the little boys I was so blessed to have call me 'mommy', that time has passed. And boys no more, my sons...grown men...move away from this place to make their own way. They do so, for better or worse, for richer or poorer...with women who love them and who walk beside them through this world.
They will discover for themselves all the things marriage and family and real life hold. They will find their own strengths and learn to help each other through in times of weakness. They will decide what's worth fighting for and what's simply not worth anything at all. They will build their own future, burn their bridges, break their own ground. They will make their own plans, dream their own dreams and pursue their own happiness. They will find it out...figure it out...and sometimes even fight it out. But Lord willing, they will endure and overcome it all together.
So while my sons may not have done everything the way I would have chosen for them...the easy way...I'm sure my mom and dad would say the same about me. But I know I wouldn't change my life even if I could...and that's what I hope for my sons to be able to say themselves one day. When they too are old and gray, I want them to look back and say they wouldn't have had it any other way.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Another year older
If there's one thing I know, it's that I don't know much. As I live this very innocuous existence, rarely venturing beyond my own little world, I realize there are places I will never go, things I will never see, experiences I will never have. But the bigger reality is that there are places I don't even know are out there...things I can't even conceive of...adventures I'm not even aware are a possibility.
It's a fine line between content and complacent, I suppose. As I find myself firmly entrenched in this place I like to refer to as 'the middle ages', that line is one I often walk with trepidation. It's easy to slip into a life of routine, a life of monotony, a life where every day becomes much like the one before it and the one that follows.
It's easy to become satisfied to know only what we know, do only what we've always done and never reach beyond the place we are. But is that the life I want as I begin my descent over the proverbial hill? Just because my hair is starting to gray and my joints sometimes ache, am I past the point of dreaming new dreams and pursuing new mountains to climb?
Or is the goal to just keep pressure on the brakes so I don't fly down the old mountain too quickly?
I'm torn about it sometimes. Part of me likes to just sit back and rest on what I've already accomplished. But another part of me is screaming, 'there has to be more than this!'. As the kids are growing up and leaving home and my role as wife and mother is being redefined, the me that's been neglected...even forgotten...by the me I was busy being is finding herself again. She's thinking that she could discover...or at least rediscover...a whole plethora of things to do, places to go and even dreams to dream.
And while I'm deciding what that all means in real life terms, I at least am able to look over the horizon with a renewed sense of excitement and wonder....knowing that the youth I've lost has made way for the woman I am...and the woman I'm still yet...even at this age...still yet to become.
It's a fine line between content and complacent, I suppose. As I find myself firmly entrenched in this place I like to refer to as 'the middle ages', that line is one I often walk with trepidation. It's easy to slip into a life of routine, a life of monotony, a life where every day becomes much like the one before it and the one that follows.
It's easy to become satisfied to know only what we know, do only what we've always done and never reach beyond the place we are. But is that the life I want as I begin my descent over the proverbial hill? Just because my hair is starting to gray and my joints sometimes ache, am I past the point of dreaming new dreams and pursuing new mountains to climb?
Or is the goal to just keep pressure on the brakes so I don't fly down the old mountain too quickly?
I'm torn about it sometimes. Part of me likes to just sit back and rest on what I've already accomplished. But another part of me is screaming, 'there has to be more than this!'. As the kids are growing up and leaving home and my role as wife and mother is being redefined, the me that's been neglected...even forgotten...by the me I was busy being is finding herself again. She's thinking that she could discover...or at least rediscover...a whole plethora of things to do, places to go and even dreams to dream.
And while I'm deciding what that all means in real life terms, I at least am able to look over the horizon with a renewed sense of excitement and wonder....knowing that the youth I've lost has made way for the woman I am...and the woman I'm still yet...even at this age...still yet to become.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Dad
After four plus decades in the workforce, my dad crossed the threshold into retirement yesterday! He has always worked hard and provided well. His co-workers think the world of him, and he has made valuable contributions on every job he's ever had. So as he closes this very long chapter of his life, I not only congratulate him, but I want him to know how very proud I am to have him as my dad.
I think when you're a kid, you don't realize just how much of an impact your parents are having on you. For better or worse, whether by design or without intent, they set a standard for us. They impress on us certain values, ideas and world views that we don't fully appreciate until we're grown.
Especially as a teenager, my dad became the voice of reason for me. He was never really one to just say, 'because I said so'. He listened to me, entertained my ideas and offered his own in a way that didn't belittle mine even when he surely was hoping to sway me in a different direction.
It is with great fondness that I look back on the many late night conversations my dad and I would share. When I would come in, he would always be up. I never got the impression he was waiting up on me, but now that I have kids of my own, I wonder if he was. Either way, I always knew he was open for discussion. Sometimes the topics were light as we both loved sports and sharing the mundane stories of our days. But often, the topics were quite serious. It's with my dad that I first discovered my love for talking about politics, religion and all things worth debating. It was with my dad that I got my first impressions of how life really works. It was with my dad that I first began to form opinions about all the hard subjects...things that I find even the most seasoned among us still cannot come to agreement about.
It was with my dad that I really learned my own value. Because he thought I was special, because he valued me, because he respected my ideas (even when he didn't necessarily agree with them), because he treated me fairly, because even when I was small, he made me feel empowered to do whatever...to be whoever...I wanted to be, because he loved me, I loved me. And because my dad was the man he is, he showed me exactly the kind of man I deserved to share my life with.
My dad may be unassuming, but he should never be underestimated. There isn't another like him...not for me anyway. And while some men are happy to be measured by their contributions in the workplace, it is in the hearts of those who love him that my dad will always be head and shoulders above any other.
I love you, Dad. Thank you for being you...and thank you for shaping me into the woman I am today.
I think when you're a kid, you don't realize just how much of an impact your parents are having on you. For better or worse, whether by design or without intent, they set a standard for us. They impress on us certain values, ideas and world views that we don't fully appreciate until we're grown.
Especially as a teenager, my dad became the voice of reason for me. He was never really one to just say, 'because I said so'. He listened to me, entertained my ideas and offered his own in a way that didn't belittle mine even when he surely was hoping to sway me in a different direction.
It is with great fondness that I look back on the many late night conversations my dad and I would share. When I would come in, he would always be up. I never got the impression he was waiting up on me, but now that I have kids of my own, I wonder if he was. Either way, I always knew he was open for discussion. Sometimes the topics were light as we both loved sports and sharing the mundane stories of our days. But often, the topics were quite serious. It's with my dad that I first discovered my love for talking about politics, religion and all things worth debating. It was with my dad that I got my first impressions of how life really works. It was with my dad that I first began to form opinions about all the hard subjects...things that I find even the most seasoned among us still cannot come to agreement about.
It was with my dad that I really learned my own value. Because he thought I was special, because he valued me, because he respected my ideas (even when he didn't necessarily agree with them), because he treated me fairly, because even when I was small, he made me feel empowered to do whatever...to be whoever...I wanted to be, because he loved me, I loved me. And because my dad was the man he is, he showed me exactly the kind of man I deserved to share my life with.
My dad may be unassuming, but he should never be underestimated. There isn't another like him...not for me anyway. And while some men are happy to be measured by their contributions in the workplace, it is in the hearts of those who love him that my dad will always be head and shoulders above any other.
I love you, Dad. Thank you for being you...and thank you for shaping me into the woman I am today.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Exposing Myself
As more and more of life lies behind me, I find myself often looking back at where I've been. For the most part, I look back with fondness. As a whole, it's been a good life. More often then not, I've been loved and nurtured. I've been safe and sound. I had enough of everything that's mattered.
But I don't think anyone gets through this life completely unscathed. We all fall down. Sometimes we get knocked down. We know the notion of sticks and stones breaking bones but words never hurting is a big fat lie. Time doesn't heal all wounds. Not everything comes out in the wash.
Most of this life's battle scars mar heart rather than flesh. And while some people crumble under the weight of a broken heart, most of us learn to bandage our wounds somehow and keep on going.
But our brokenness always reveals itself. It helps shape us from the inside out. In our broken places, we are changed from who we were to who we are. The words spoken, the deeds done, the choices made...it all plays a role in molding us at the very core of ourselves.
Sometimes people reach into our world and perhaps without even realizing it, they tear a hole in us that we spend the rest of our lives trying to fill. They steal something from us with their cutting remarks, brutal mistreatment or their cruel disregard for us as human beings. They violate us somehow...taking something away that wasn't theirs to take or leaving behind for us to deal with something that was never intended to be ours.
We question our value. We wonder if they are somehow right to degrade us, to disparage us...as if there is some justification for robbing us of something that was, at it's very root, the heart of us.
We find ourselves changed. We find ourselves forever altered by things that were often completely beyond our control...sometimes beyond our comprehension. We find ourselves vulnerable...our wounds open to infection. We find ourselves defenseless...our brokenness rendering us powerless to save ourselves.
And while we more often than not find the strength to move on, some part of us bears that scar. In mistrust, in doubt, in depression, in addictions of every form and nature, in self-loathing, in anger, in fear...in whatever the symptoms may be...the brokenness of our hearts is exposed.
For me, I wear the scar of my personal dysfunction for all to see. The hurts I hold inside I keep buried beneath the layers of my physical body. Like a suit of armor, I have built this body to guard my heart. In some twisted way that only I truly understand, it is my best friend and my worst enemy. It protects and punishes me all at the same time. And while I am not generally unhappy in my current form, I do recognize that the me I seek to shelter within this fleshy vessel is just as open to the hurts and heartaches of this life as it would be in a smaller shell.
I haven't a plan...I haven't a goal...I just have a revelation. Where I go from here is yet to be decided. What I know for sure though, is that I don't want to be forever defined by the scars on my heart.
But I don't think anyone gets through this life completely unscathed. We all fall down. Sometimes we get knocked down. We know the notion of sticks and stones breaking bones but words never hurting is a big fat lie. Time doesn't heal all wounds. Not everything comes out in the wash.
Most of this life's battle scars mar heart rather than flesh. And while some people crumble under the weight of a broken heart, most of us learn to bandage our wounds somehow and keep on going.
But our brokenness always reveals itself. It helps shape us from the inside out. In our broken places, we are changed from who we were to who we are. The words spoken, the deeds done, the choices made...it all plays a role in molding us at the very core of ourselves.
Sometimes people reach into our world and perhaps without even realizing it, they tear a hole in us that we spend the rest of our lives trying to fill. They steal something from us with their cutting remarks, brutal mistreatment or their cruel disregard for us as human beings. They violate us somehow...taking something away that wasn't theirs to take or leaving behind for us to deal with something that was never intended to be ours.
We question our value. We wonder if they are somehow right to degrade us, to disparage us...as if there is some justification for robbing us of something that was, at it's very root, the heart of us.
We find ourselves changed. We find ourselves forever altered by things that were often completely beyond our control...sometimes beyond our comprehension. We find ourselves vulnerable...our wounds open to infection. We find ourselves defenseless...our brokenness rendering us powerless to save ourselves.
And while we more often than not find the strength to move on, some part of us bears that scar. In mistrust, in doubt, in depression, in addictions of every form and nature, in self-loathing, in anger, in fear...in whatever the symptoms may be...the brokenness of our hearts is exposed.
For me, I wear the scar of my personal dysfunction for all to see. The hurts I hold inside I keep buried beneath the layers of my physical body. Like a suit of armor, I have built this body to guard my heart. In some twisted way that only I truly understand, it is my best friend and my worst enemy. It protects and punishes me all at the same time. And while I am not generally unhappy in my current form, I do recognize that the me I seek to shelter within this fleshy vessel is just as open to the hurts and heartaches of this life as it would be in a smaller shell.
I haven't a plan...I haven't a goal...I just have a revelation. Where I go from here is yet to be decided. What I know for sure though, is that I don't want to be forever defined by the scars on my heart.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Missing My Grandma
I'm missing my grandma today. I try not to just sit and think about her too often. Not because I don't love her and not because I don't ache over not having her anymore. It's quite the opposite actually. As I sit here just beginning to let myself wallow in my memories of her, tears pour freely down my face. I can quickly become consumed in heartache and anguish as I long to touch someone I can no longer reach, as I long to take hold of someone who has slipped so far away from me.
Growing up, my grandma was the axis around which our family spun. Through both good times and bad, she was the single most powerful force that held us all together. Despite divisions and strife that occasionally reared their ugly heads, her matriarchal influence somehow kept us in line.
My grandma was a confidant to me. I could tell her anything, and she listened without passing judgement. She was a great sounding board, giving me honest and thoughtful advice at times when I was just beginning to discover who I was and who I ought to be.
She was my biggest supporter. When I was with her, I felt invincible. She always saw good in me when I couldn't see it in myself. She saw beauty in me when I was sure no one else could. She made me feel comfortable in my own skin and confident in my own abilities. She made me feel strong, like there was nothing she thought I couldn't do.
She loved me.
She loved me like only a grandma does.
How pleased I think she would be to see who I've become. How delighted she'd be to see the wonderful young men my children have grown to be. How ecstatic she'd be to welcome my grandchild into this world. How I wish she were here now to share in this time of my life.
What I wouldn't give for just one more day with her. What I wouldn't do to be able to tell her how much I love her and how I hope to be the kind of grandma to my own soon-to-be-born grandchild as she was to me.
Oh how I long to feel her face against mine and stroke her soft hair and melt into her embrace. I wish I could smell her. I wish I could sit on her couch and pour out my heart to her again. I just wish I still had her. I just want heaven to give her back to me, if only it could.
I miss you Grandma. I love you...and I miss you.
Growing up, my grandma was the axis around which our family spun. Through both good times and bad, she was the single most powerful force that held us all together. Despite divisions and strife that occasionally reared their ugly heads, her matriarchal influence somehow kept us in line.
My grandma was a confidant to me. I could tell her anything, and she listened without passing judgement. She was a great sounding board, giving me honest and thoughtful advice at times when I was just beginning to discover who I was and who I ought to be.
She was my biggest supporter. When I was with her, I felt invincible. She always saw good in me when I couldn't see it in myself. She saw beauty in me when I was sure no one else could. She made me feel comfortable in my own skin and confident in my own abilities. She made me feel strong, like there was nothing she thought I couldn't do.
She loved me.
She loved me like only a grandma does.
How pleased I think she would be to see who I've become. How delighted she'd be to see the wonderful young men my children have grown to be. How ecstatic she'd be to welcome my grandchild into this world. How I wish she were here now to share in this time of my life.
What I wouldn't give for just one more day with her. What I wouldn't do to be able to tell her how much I love her and how I hope to be the kind of grandma to my own soon-to-be-born grandchild as she was to me.
Oh how I long to feel her face against mine and stroke her soft hair and melt into her embrace. I wish I could smell her. I wish I could sit on her couch and pour out my heart to her again. I just wish I still had her. I just want heaven to give her back to me, if only it could.
I miss you Grandma. I love you...and I miss you.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Wedded bliss {My spin on poetry. :)}
This is what it is..
a safe place to fall...
a warm summer breeze..
fuzzy socks on a cold night.
It's a tall glass of iced tea and hot cup of cocoa with little bitty marshmallows floating on top.
It's a gentle laugh, a subtle smile, a soft touch.
It's being full...happy...content.
It's being totally vulnerable and completely protected all in the same moment.
It's the highest high and lowest low having a shared center.
It's opening the world to all the possibilities and then closing the circle around the heart of it all.
It's deliberate when it needs to be and beautifully random when it can be.
It's the perfect balance of sophistication and innocence...of elegance and messiness.
It's a whisper and a shout...a song and sigh.
It's shelter from the storms and dancing in the rain.
It's finding yourself enmeshed in someone else and finding someone else enmeshed in you, two becoming one.
It's ups and downs, leaps and bounds, two steps forward and three steps back.
It's giving up on the idea of giving up.
It's war and peace and joy and grief.
It's where hope and reality meet.
It's pure and simple...and complicated.
It's looking into someone's eyes and seeing only yourself there.
It's looking into your heart and seeing only him there.
It's love...and all love promises.
A ring and a kiss.
This is what it is...wedded bliss.
a safe place to fall...
a warm summer breeze..
fuzzy socks on a cold night.
It's a tall glass of iced tea and hot cup of cocoa with little bitty marshmallows floating on top.
It's a gentle laugh, a subtle smile, a soft touch.
It's being full...happy...content.
It's being totally vulnerable and completely protected all in the same moment.
It's the highest high and lowest low having a shared center.
It's opening the world to all the possibilities and then closing the circle around the heart of it all.
It's deliberate when it needs to be and beautifully random when it can be.
It's the perfect balance of sophistication and innocence...of elegance and messiness.
It's a whisper and a shout...a song and sigh.
It's shelter from the storms and dancing in the rain.
It's finding yourself enmeshed in someone else and finding someone else enmeshed in you, two becoming one.
It's ups and downs, leaps and bounds, two steps forward and three steps back.
It's giving up on the idea of giving up.
It's war and peace and joy and grief.
It's where hope and reality meet.
It's pure and simple...and complicated.
It's looking into someone's eyes and seeing only yourself there.
It's looking into your heart and seeing only him there.
It's love...and all love promises.
A ring and a kiss.
This is what it is...wedded bliss.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
What part of 'vacation' don't you understand?
I am married to a very hard-working man, for which, I am very grateful. He takes both his paying job and his job as keeper of the castle very seriously...maybe too seriously sometimes. Like today, for instance...
I am on day #7 of my Christmas break (one of the very nice perks of being employed by a school system). In those seven days, however, there has been very little down time for me. If all the pre-Christmas activities...shopping, baking, wrapping, cleaning...and all the Christmas events...going to see my husband's parents, hosting the big family get together for my side of the family, having our traditional Christmas breakfast with our little family unit...and all the post Christmas tasks...getting mountains of empty boxes and shredded wrapping paper bagged up, taking down the tree and decorations, making a return to two weren't enough, our youngest son has had basketball practice every morning at 9am except on Christmas Eve and Christmas itself. With all that, there has been little 'vacation' to be found in this break as of yet.
So this morning, on day #7, we finally had the opportunity to sleep in, slow down and just have a lazy day. Oh wait, remember that hard-working man I'm married to? Yeah, well, he doesn't believe in a lazy day.
As I sit in my office hiding from his to-do list, I can hear him repeatedly calling for our fifteen year old son to come help him as he tiles and grouts the shower in our main bathroom. My son's response...or lack thereof...indicates to me he has the same opinion about my husband's incessant need to stay busy as I do.
What's wrong with the occasional day of sheer and utter slothfulness? Spending the day in one's jammies, watching made-for-tv movies, playing mindless games on Facebook...how can that be such a terrible thing? Will the world stop spinning or the sun cease to shine if we just let everything go for a single day? Can there be any real harm in just taking it easy and doing absolutely nothing of real value for just a 24 hour period?
As I hear him working away, I almost feel guilty for just sitting here now...almost. It isn't that I don't have a to-do list of mine own. I haven't been to the grocery store in almost two weeks. I need to get the Christmas decorations down to the basement. The checkbook needs balanced. These are all things I could easily do today that would satisfy his need for us all to stay productive while not causing me to feel overworked on our very first free day.
Maybe I'll even go offer him a little help...or at least company...while he works. He always seems to appreciate that. And after all, I really do enjoy the fruits of his labor so it's the least I can do...literally, it's the least I can do. <g>
I guess I should just give up the dream of a totally lazy day...at least until January 4th. That's the one day he'll be back at work, but I'll still be on vacation. :-)
I am on day #7 of my Christmas break (one of the very nice perks of being employed by a school system). In those seven days, however, there has been very little down time for me. If all the pre-Christmas activities...shopping, baking, wrapping, cleaning...and all the Christmas events...going to see my husband's parents, hosting the big family get together for my side of the family, having our traditional Christmas breakfast with our little family unit...and all the post Christmas tasks...getting mountains of empty boxes and shredded wrapping paper bagged up, taking down the tree and decorations, making a return to two weren't enough, our youngest son has had basketball practice every morning at 9am except on Christmas Eve and Christmas itself. With all that, there has been little 'vacation' to be found in this break as of yet.
So this morning, on day #7, we finally had the opportunity to sleep in, slow down and just have a lazy day. Oh wait, remember that hard-working man I'm married to? Yeah, well, he doesn't believe in a lazy day.
As I sit in my office hiding from his to-do list, I can hear him repeatedly calling for our fifteen year old son to come help him as he tiles and grouts the shower in our main bathroom. My son's response...or lack thereof...indicates to me he has the same opinion about my husband's incessant need to stay busy as I do.
What's wrong with the occasional day of sheer and utter slothfulness? Spending the day in one's jammies, watching made-for-tv movies, playing mindless games on Facebook...how can that be such a terrible thing? Will the world stop spinning or the sun cease to shine if we just let everything go for a single day? Can there be any real harm in just taking it easy and doing absolutely nothing of real value for just a 24 hour period?
As I hear him working away, I almost feel guilty for just sitting here now...almost. It isn't that I don't have a to-do list of mine own. I haven't been to the grocery store in almost two weeks. I need to get the Christmas decorations down to the basement. The checkbook needs balanced. These are all things I could easily do today that would satisfy his need for us all to stay productive while not causing me to feel overworked on our very first free day.
Maybe I'll even go offer him a little help...or at least company...while he works. He always seems to appreciate that. And after all, I really do enjoy the fruits of his labor so it's the least I can do...literally, it's the least I can do. <g>
I guess I should just give up the dream of a totally lazy day...at least until January 4th. That's the one day he'll be back at work, but I'll still be on vacation. :-)
Friday, December 2, 2011
Flushing Optional
We have two bathrooms in our house...ours and the boys'. The boys' bathroom is actually the main bathroom for the whole house, but for all intents and purposes, it is the boys' bathroom. They mark this bathroom much in the same way a dog marks it's territory. In addition to dribble marks on the floor in front of the stool, they also leave their mark with dried blue toothpaste in the sink (sometimes mixed with whiskers), dirty laundry draped over the tub, the daily newspaper scattered about and more often than not, an empty toilet roll sitting on the counter.
For these reasons, I have often referred to this bathroom as the gas station bathroom and have refused to use it. But just before Thanksgiving, my husband remodeled their bathroom and made it simply beautiful. So today, I decided to give this not even two week old bathroom a try. For the most part, it looked great. But then I saw the tell-tell sign that it definitely is still the boys' bathroom. The toilet had not been flushed.
I do not know why my sons consider flushing to be optional. And in spite of their mantra, 'if it's yellow, leave it mellow; if it's brown, flush it down', I somehow doubt their actions have as much to do with water conservation as simple laziness.
Unfortunately, that isn't the only thing my sons consider 'optional' around here. My youngest often considers tooth brushing optional. When it's to the point where his teeth and flesh are almost the same color, I feel compelled to inquire when he last brushed. (Were I more gifted, I could probably answer that question by the hardness of the dried toothpaste in the sink.) He will then, use the inside collar of his shirt to wipe off his teeth...as though that's a worthy substitute for actual brushing.
Putting sheets on their beds is also optional to the boys. My mom often says it looks like an episode of 'Cops' around here because the mattresses are always exposed and their bedrooms look like they were ransacked. I have no idea why they elect to sleep in the remains of their own sloughed off skin cells or why they feel at home in rooms that put the best frat houses to shame.
Clothing is also optional around here much of the time. I do not know why I cannot convince my boys that they are past the point where seeing them in their skivvies is cute. One of them traipses through the house routinely in nothing but his undies, usually scratching himself as he goes. But at least he refrains from letting it all hang out when we have company, unlike my youngest, who very recently made a trip through our dining room in just a sweatshirt and his underwear (why a sweatshirt with underwear, I haven't a clue) while I had several of my friends over. Even when I shouted, "Hey, these ladies don't want to see that", he just shrugged and went on about his business.
Maybe these are just issues in our house. Maybe they are just issues for mothers of sons. Maybe they're the things that make for annoyances now but will make for funny memories somewhere down the road. Who knows...I'm just glad I have my own bathroom. :-)
For these reasons, I have often referred to this bathroom as the gas station bathroom and have refused to use it. But just before Thanksgiving, my husband remodeled their bathroom and made it simply beautiful. So today, I decided to give this not even two week old bathroom a try. For the most part, it looked great. But then I saw the tell-tell sign that it definitely is still the boys' bathroom. The toilet had not been flushed.
I do not know why my sons consider flushing to be optional. And in spite of their mantra, 'if it's yellow, leave it mellow; if it's brown, flush it down', I somehow doubt their actions have as much to do with water conservation as simple laziness.
Unfortunately, that isn't the only thing my sons consider 'optional' around here. My youngest often considers tooth brushing optional. When it's to the point where his teeth and flesh are almost the same color, I feel compelled to inquire when he last brushed. (Were I more gifted, I could probably answer that question by the hardness of the dried toothpaste in the sink.) He will then, use the inside collar of his shirt to wipe off his teeth...as though that's a worthy substitute for actual brushing.
Putting sheets on their beds is also optional to the boys. My mom often says it looks like an episode of 'Cops' around here because the mattresses are always exposed and their bedrooms look like they were ransacked. I have no idea why they elect to sleep in the remains of their own sloughed off skin cells or why they feel at home in rooms that put the best frat houses to shame.
Clothing is also optional around here much of the time. I do not know why I cannot convince my boys that they are past the point where seeing them in their skivvies is cute. One of them traipses through the house routinely in nothing but his undies, usually scratching himself as he goes. But at least he refrains from letting it all hang out when we have company, unlike my youngest, who very recently made a trip through our dining room in just a sweatshirt and his underwear (why a sweatshirt with underwear, I haven't a clue) while I had several of my friends over. Even when I shouted, "Hey, these ladies don't want to see that", he just shrugged and went on about his business.
Maybe these are just issues in our house. Maybe they are just issues for mothers of sons. Maybe they're the things that make for annoyances now but will make for funny memories somewhere down the road. Who knows...I'm just glad I have my own bathroom. :-)
Friday, November 18, 2011
Reflections of a Middle Aged....Grandma
Grandma...nana...memaw...granny...is there any way to become a grandmother without somehow also becoming 'old'?
After receiving the news that our son and daughter-in-law are expecting their first baby next summer, my husband happily staked claim to the name, 'gramps'. Seriously, 'gramps'?? How old are you? Like 90? When I hear 'gramps', I picture a little old man with a bushy mustache and a walking stick, maybe sporting a pair of bib overalls or orthopedic shoes. I certainly don't envision my 42 year old husband, who I happen to think still looks mighty fine and who, I'm fairly certain, would never wear bibs.
Somehow I thought we would have more time before we had to cross this particular bridge. I at least thought our own nest would be empty before our kids started adding little birdies to their nests.
I thought when grandparenthood became our reality, we would be older, grayer and more on top of our own lives. I guess the truth is, 41 is older than I like to believe, and were it not for the help of Miss Clairol, I definitely would be grayer.
As for being on top of things, here I feel like life is just beginning to settle down. We are getting to a place where things just seem...easier. We are hitting a nice stride...moving along at a comfortable pace. We are, after 23 years of marriage, beginning to see the possibility of being 'just us' again.
Not that we are pushing our own last little birdie out of the nest just yet, but we definitely are beginning to accept that our days as 'mommy and daddy' are numbered. And making the move from parents of littles to parents of bigs is one we are fully prepared...even happy...to make.
But grandkids? Who saw that coming so soon? "Not I", said the middle aged mom. I do not feel like a grandma. I do not look a nana. I am not aptly prepared to be a mamaw. I haven't a clue how to move from here to there.
I have a friend with a grandson and two more grandchildren on the way who cannot believe I am not already over the moon at the prospect of having a grandbaby. She assures me I will be. I'm sure she's right. After all, any child of my child is sure to steal my heart.
So after mulling it over, I staked my claim to the name, 'MiMi'. I don't think 'Mimi' sounds too old. I think I could be a 'Mimi'. After all, a 'Mimi' wouldn't wear a duster dress and keep her teeth in a cup...would she? Well not this 'Mimi' anyway. :-)
After receiving the news that our son and daughter-in-law are expecting their first baby next summer, my husband happily staked claim to the name, 'gramps'. Seriously, 'gramps'?? How old are you? Like 90? When I hear 'gramps', I picture a little old man with a bushy mustache and a walking stick, maybe sporting a pair of bib overalls or orthopedic shoes. I certainly don't envision my 42 year old husband, who I happen to think still looks mighty fine and who, I'm fairly certain, would never wear bibs.
Somehow I thought we would have more time before we had to cross this particular bridge. I at least thought our own nest would be empty before our kids started adding little birdies to their nests.
I thought when grandparenthood became our reality, we would be older, grayer and more on top of our own lives. I guess the truth is, 41 is older than I like to believe, and were it not for the help of Miss Clairol, I definitely would be grayer.
As for being on top of things, here I feel like life is just beginning to settle down. We are getting to a place where things just seem...easier. We are hitting a nice stride...moving along at a comfortable pace. We are, after 23 years of marriage, beginning to see the possibility of being 'just us' again.
Not that we are pushing our own last little birdie out of the nest just yet, but we definitely are beginning to accept that our days as 'mommy and daddy' are numbered. And making the move from parents of littles to parents of bigs is one we are fully prepared...even happy...to make.
But grandkids? Who saw that coming so soon? "Not I", said the middle aged mom. I do not feel like a grandma. I do not look a nana. I am not aptly prepared to be a mamaw. I haven't a clue how to move from here to there.
I have a friend with a grandson and two more grandchildren on the way who cannot believe I am not already over the moon at the prospect of having a grandbaby. She assures me I will be. I'm sure she's right. After all, any child of my child is sure to steal my heart.
So after mulling it over, I staked my claim to the name, 'MiMi'. I don't think 'Mimi' sounds too old. I think I could be a 'Mimi'. After all, a 'Mimi' wouldn't wear a duster dress and keep her teeth in a cup...would she? Well not this 'Mimi' anyway. :-)
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Cutting the Cord
I vividly remember the day my twin sons were born. I know how I felt...both the joy and the pain. I can clearly recall the events of the entire day, from the moment my water broke to the moment I first held each of them in my arms. One thing I don't remember, however, is the cutting of the cord. I mean, I remember the doctor telling me it was happening, but I don't remember how it felt. For me, it was utterly painless and held no long-term significance. What I didn't realize then is that it wasn't the literal cords that would be tough to cut.
This year as been one of great stretching and testing...and cord cutting. As my eldest twin got engaged, married and announced he and his wife are expecting, I felt the deep stabbing pain of having to let go before I was ready. With precision, he sliced his way into adulthood with seemingly fearless abandon. He didn't ask for permission, and he didn't ask for help. He just took the leap and dove right into a life all his own. When he cut the cord, it may not have been the painless procedure the doctor had performed when he was a newborn, but it certainly was quick.
While I wasn't thrilled about it in the moment, now I'm convinced his way was ultimately the best way to do it. I say that because now I am faced with the opposite end of the spectrum with Son #2.
Son #2 has no interest in having his cord cut. He is seemingly content to stay in some kind of suspended state of adolescence. He doesn't have any urgency about growing up and getting on with his adult life. He is hanging on with all his might while I saw at the cord with the dull butter knife that is motherly nagging.
It isn't that he doesn't have aspiration of a grown up life. He is, in fact, engaged to be married and in the beginning stages of planning to make a life with his fiance. What he isn't is realistic. He wants to keep one foot in his youth while only stroking the edge of adulthood. He is trying to find a way to hang on to the carefree, worry free, trouble free life he has enjoyed to this point while at the same time trying to muster the courage to step off the edge of the cliff that real life can be.
I understand his apprehension. After all, life is a complicated game we all play where sometimes we win and sometimes we lose...and the rules are always changing...and the stakes keep going up. But it's also an exciting, whirlwind ride where we find love, happiness and our passion. Being out on our own is when we go from crawling to walking and then hopefully to running the race like a champion. It's when we discover who we really are and what's really important in life.
When we're young, the whole world is contained within the walls of our parents' house, the halls of our high school and the fences around playgrounds and ball fields...and all those places are wonderful. But when we step outside of that, we are introduced to the whole wide world. We find endless possibilities. We discover limitless potential. We are opened up to brand new opportunities we never even knew existed. And we realize, maybe for the first time, those things were always there...somewhere inside us, hidden beneath the baby fat of childhood.
So as my son struggles to strap on his parachute and prepare for the flight of his life, I firmly and steadily push him toward the door. Not because I don't love him or don't want him to stay here with his father and I, but because I do love him. And because I love him, I want him to experience all this life has for him. I want him to feel the thrill of being independent...the pride of accomplishment...the kind of contentment that comes from knowing one has earned what he has. I want him to step out of the shadow of the boy and be the man I know he can be. I want him, when this life is at it's end, to look back and be able to say he's lived it well...that he wouldn't change anything...and that it's been a wild and wonderful ride.
I love you Zachary. Always have...always will. Now jump!!
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Changing direction
During the twenty-three years my husband and I have been married, we have worked opposite shifts for eighteen of them. A dozen and a half years of living in a revolving door has been by far our single most challenging hurdle.
For me, the primary downside of having a husband who works second shift is that I have been, for all intents and purposes, a single parent much of the time. I have done the vast majority of homework helping, ball game watching and parent/teacher conference attending alone. I have sat by myself at band and choral concerts, awards dinners, in doctor's offices and on many a set of cold, hard bleachers wishing beyond words to have my husband by my side.
If you were to ask him, Dan would tell you this has been his biggest hurdle too. He has, after all, missed out on many, if not most, of the boys' major success and little victory moments. He wasn't there when Kyle won the final match and consequently the entire meet for his wrestling team in the 8th grade. He wasn't there for Aaron's National Junior Honor Society induction. He missed out on seeing Zach the day he got his high school diploma. My most special days with the boys have been among some of Dan's saddest.
It's the simple things of life...the things most married couples take for granted...that we have missed out on all these years. Sitting down to dinner together. Actually talking face to face rather than via text or phone. Celebrating both the big and little things as a family. Going to bed at the same time rather than me climbing out of it about the time he's climbing in. We really haven't been able to share our whole lives...not the way we've wanted to...certainly not the way we thought we would when we got married oh so many years ago.
All this separation has taken it's toll on my husband. He has a deep anguish over the things he has sacrificed all these years...the precious moments he's missed...the things he has lost that he can never get back.
As our children are growing up and now beginning to go away, he questions the choices he has made..we have made. He asks if being a good provider was reason enough to be a part-time parent. He wonders if, in the end, it will really have been worth it all.
So here we stand on top of the hill that is being middle aged. We look back and see a place we can never return to....a place both replete with glorious memories of days gone by and littered with the remnants of our past mistakes. We look forward and wonder what still lies ahead. We ask, can we erase any of the heartache of the past by choosing better in the future? Can we heal the wounds of yesterday by applying the salve of today's wisdom and insight? Is it possible to change directions so late in the journey and still end up exactly where we ought to be?
As we face the second half of our lives...the time when we begin to go back to being 'just us'...we find ourselves redefining what 'happy' means and refining our plan for how to get there from here. We know now that sometimes learning to live with less is the only way to truly have more....that dollars and cents can't always make up for everything we have to trade to get them. We wish we had realized that much much earlier but we accept that we can't undo what's been done. However, we also know it's not too late to start doing things differently.
So instead of laying down and beginning a slow roll over that proverbial hill, we are going to shift gears and try going a whole new direction. It's scary. It's exciting. It's something new. It's frankly something long overdue. I take a deep breath, pray, pray and pray again and, hand in hand with the only man I've ever loved, step out into the great unknown. And when we land...wherever we land...so long as we're still clinging to each other, I know everything will be all right.
For me, the primary downside of having a husband who works second shift is that I have been, for all intents and purposes, a single parent much of the time. I have done the vast majority of homework helping, ball game watching and parent/teacher conference attending alone. I have sat by myself at band and choral concerts, awards dinners, in doctor's offices and on many a set of cold, hard bleachers wishing beyond words to have my husband by my side.
If you were to ask him, Dan would tell you this has been his biggest hurdle too. He has, after all, missed out on many, if not most, of the boys' major success and little victory moments. He wasn't there when Kyle won the final match and consequently the entire meet for his wrestling team in the 8th grade. He wasn't there for Aaron's National Junior Honor Society induction. He missed out on seeing Zach the day he got his high school diploma. My most special days with the boys have been among some of Dan's saddest.
It's the simple things of life...the things most married couples take for granted...that we have missed out on all these years. Sitting down to dinner together. Actually talking face to face rather than via text or phone. Celebrating both the big and little things as a family. Going to bed at the same time rather than me climbing out of it about the time he's climbing in. We really haven't been able to share our whole lives...not the way we've wanted to...certainly not the way we thought we would when we got married oh so many years ago.
All this separation has taken it's toll on my husband. He has a deep anguish over the things he has sacrificed all these years...the precious moments he's missed...the things he has lost that he can never get back.
As our children are growing up and now beginning to go away, he questions the choices he has made..we have made. He asks if being a good provider was reason enough to be a part-time parent. He wonders if, in the end, it will really have been worth it all.
So here we stand on top of the hill that is being middle aged. We look back and see a place we can never return to....a place both replete with glorious memories of days gone by and littered with the remnants of our past mistakes. We look forward and wonder what still lies ahead. We ask, can we erase any of the heartache of the past by choosing better in the future? Can we heal the wounds of yesterday by applying the salve of today's wisdom and insight? Is it possible to change directions so late in the journey and still end up exactly where we ought to be?
As we face the second half of our lives...the time when we begin to go back to being 'just us'...we find ourselves redefining what 'happy' means and refining our plan for how to get there from here. We know now that sometimes learning to live with less is the only way to truly have more....that dollars and cents can't always make up for everything we have to trade to get them. We wish we had realized that much much earlier but we accept that we can't undo what's been done. However, we also know it's not too late to start doing things differently.
So instead of laying down and beginning a slow roll over that proverbial hill, we are going to shift gears and try going a whole new direction. It's scary. It's exciting. It's something new. It's frankly something long overdue. I take a deep breath, pray, pray and pray again and, hand in hand with the only man I've ever loved, step out into the great unknown. And when we land...wherever we land...so long as we're still clinging to each other, I know everything will be all right.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Love can build a bridge
This morning as I passed through my living room, it was wall to wall boys, everyone seeming to sleep where they fell. It's been like that a million Saturday mornings around here over the years...everyone crashing at our house after a football game or a big dance. But never before has it been because we were up late getting ready for my son's wedding day.
Said son had apparently earned the right to sleep on the couch last night rather than the floor. As I tiptoed by him, it hit me...this may be the last morning we ever wake up under the same roof.
Oh, I'm sure he'll be around a lot. It doesn't hurt that her parents live literally two blocks away. But the possibility that he'll never again lay his head down in this house at night or open his eyes here in the morning is very real.
If they were moving far away, perhaps the opportunity to have them spend extended time with us...whole weekends, entire holidays, summer vacations...would be more likely to present itself. But since 'home' will be just a stone's throw away, we may discover we actually see them less rather than more.
There's something about knowing you can get to a person any time you want in theory that often makes you get to them less in reality. I have a best friend who lives just one street over. I enjoy every moment she and I spend together. I'm always amazed how many hours we can still burn on the phone. But the truth is, we don't actually connect with each other very often. Even my parents, the most incredible parents in the world may I add, who's house I drive by at least two or four times a day, do I rarely just stop in to visit. When I do, I stay for hours on end. I relish my time with them, but honestly, it doesn't happen as often as it should.
The truth of the matter is two people can live in the same house and still not get to each other. We get busy or distracted or disgruntled and the distance between our hearts can grow quite substantial even while we're sharing the same dinner table. We figure we'll bridge the gap eventually, but before we know it, the bridge is burning behind us.
We take it for granted when someone is nearby that they'll always be nearby, that we'll always be able to reach out and touch them whenever we'd like. We think there will always be time. There will always be another chance. But sometimes, there isn't.
So today and from now on, my husband and I will be steadily laying rungs of a bridge we pray will give our son and his wife a clear path to us. And I hope they will be laying their own rungs from their end of it, so the distance between us...both literally and figuratively...will always be small.
Said son had apparently earned the right to sleep on the couch last night rather than the floor. As I tiptoed by him, it hit me...this may be the last morning we ever wake up under the same roof.
Oh, I'm sure he'll be around a lot. It doesn't hurt that her parents live literally two blocks away. But the possibility that he'll never again lay his head down in this house at night or open his eyes here in the morning is very real.
If they were moving far away, perhaps the opportunity to have them spend extended time with us...whole weekends, entire holidays, summer vacations...would be more likely to present itself. But since 'home' will be just a stone's throw away, we may discover we actually see them less rather than more.
There's something about knowing you can get to a person any time you want in theory that often makes you get to them less in reality. I have a best friend who lives just one street over. I enjoy every moment she and I spend together. I'm always amazed how many hours we can still burn on the phone. But the truth is, we don't actually connect with each other very often. Even my parents, the most incredible parents in the world may I add, who's house I drive by at least two or four times a day, do I rarely just stop in to visit. When I do, I stay for hours on end. I relish my time with them, but honestly, it doesn't happen as often as it should.
The truth of the matter is two people can live in the same house and still not get to each other. We get busy or distracted or disgruntled and the distance between our hearts can grow quite substantial even while we're sharing the same dinner table. We figure we'll bridge the gap eventually, but before we know it, the bridge is burning behind us.
We take it for granted when someone is nearby that they'll always be nearby, that we'll always be able to reach out and touch them whenever we'd like. We think there will always be time. There will always be another chance. But sometimes, there isn't.
So today and from now on, my husband and I will be steadily laying rungs of a bridge we pray will give our son and his wife a clear path to us. And I hope they will be laying their own rungs from their end of it, so the distance between us...both literally and figuratively...will always be small.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
New Lenses For Some Old Eyes
About two years ago, our longtime optometrist not so delicately informed me that my eyes were getting old. He said by 40, I'd need reading glasses. I doubted him. But he was right.
I remember the moment I knew he was right. I was sitting comfortably on the couch, legs curled up behind me, happily eating yogurt from a cute little single-serve cup. I turned the cup so I could see the nutritional information, not that it mattered, and was shocked to see nothing but a jumbled mess of blurry chicken scratches. I quickly discovered, however, by simply moving the cup a little bit further away, things came quickly into focus.
I knew at some point, the length of my arms wouldn't be enough to remedy the issue. Given that, I broke down, admitted my vision wasn't what it ought to be and got a a pair of reading glasses. Unfortunately, it hasn't just been my eyesight that's been a little out of focus lately.
It's funny how a mom has trouble seeing her kids as anything other than...well, kids. Even though we know they're getting bigger...bigger than us even...we still see them as 'little'. We want to protect them and provide for them, to lead them and guide them. We want to encourage them and inspire them, teach them and shape them. We invest ourselves in them so fully that the line between them and us often gets very blurry indeed.
But our kids come to a place in their own journey where they need the lines to blur just a little less. They start to make their own lives. They make their own friends. Want privacy. Think they know it all. They
have opinions we don't always share. Ideas we don't always understand. Dreams we don't always embrace. They feel their own feelings and think their own thoughts. They have attractions that astound us and preferences that confound us.
And then the moment comes when, like with the writing on my yogurt cup, you just can't quite make them out anymore. So you let them move away a little bit...an overnighter...a boy girl party...a driver's license...prom...college...and boom...your arm can't reach any longer. You stretch as far as you can, but then you just have to let them go. As your fingertips slip off the edge of their childhood, they become...their own.
At first, it's almost devastating. All you see is an empty house filled with painful quietness. You see that you're losing what you had...you're losing who you've been. But then, you begin to see things differently, if you're willing to look through a fresh set of eyes.
You see that all the years of bedtime prayers, loving care and a strong guiding hand have led to a beautiful place. It's a place where little boys become great men and little girls become incredible women. With a change of a prospective, you suddenly begin to see your children as the grown up...competent, capable, productive, insightful, wholly wonderful human beings they were destined to be all along. You see that who they are is exactly who they ought to be.
And the beauty of it is, just about the time they have children of their own, they'll begin to see us with different eyes. They'll understand why, even when we're truly happy for our kids, even when we're genuinely excited for them to spread their wings and fly...we still cry as we watch them grow and our heart still aches as we watch them go.
I remember the moment I knew he was right. I was sitting comfortably on the couch, legs curled up behind me, happily eating yogurt from a cute little single-serve cup. I turned the cup so I could see the nutritional information, not that it mattered, and was shocked to see nothing but a jumbled mess of blurry chicken scratches. I quickly discovered, however, by simply moving the cup a little bit further away, things came quickly into focus.
I knew at some point, the length of my arms wouldn't be enough to remedy the issue. Given that, I broke down, admitted my vision wasn't what it ought to be and got a a pair of reading glasses. Unfortunately, it hasn't just been my eyesight that's been a little out of focus lately.
It's funny how a mom has trouble seeing her kids as anything other than...well, kids. Even though we know they're getting bigger...bigger than us even...we still see them as 'little'. We want to protect them and provide for them, to lead them and guide them. We want to encourage them and inspire them, teach them and shape them. We invest ourselves in them so fully that the line between them and us often gets very blurry indeed.
But our kids come to a place in their own journey where they need the lines to blur just a little less. They start to make their own lives. They make their own friends. Want privacy. Think they know it all. They
have opinions we don't always share. Ideas we don't always understand. Dreams we don't always embrace. They feel their own feelings and think their own thoughts. They have attractions that astound us and preferences that confound us.
And then the moment comes when, like with the writing on my yogurt cup, you just can't quite make them out anymore. So you let them move away a little bit...an overnighter...a boy girl party...a driver's license...prom...college...and boom...your arm can't reach any longer. You stretch as far as you can, but then you just have to let them go. As your fingertips slip off the edge of their childhood, they become...their own.
At first, it's almost devastating. All you see is an empty house filled with painful quietness. You see that you're losing what you had...you're losing who you've been. But then, you begin to see things differently, if you're willing to look through a fresh set of eyes.
You see that all the years of bedtime prayers, loving care and a strong guiding hand have led to a beautiful place. It's a place where little boys become great men and little girls become incredible women. With a change of a prospective, you suddenly begin to see your children as the grown up...competent, capable, productive, insightful, wholly wonderful human beings they were destined to be all along. You see that who they are is exactly who they ought to be.
And the beauty of it is, just about the time they have children of their own, they'll begin to see us with different eyes. They'll understand why, even when we're truly happy for our kids, even when we're genuinely excited for them to spread their wings and fly...we still cry as we watch them grow and our heart still aches as we watch them go.
Monday, August 8, 2011
The Score Keeper
My guess is every family has one...the person who appoints him or herself as scorekeeper. This is the person, in my experience most often a middle child, who feels compelled to keep a detailed record of every gift given, every chore assigned and every penny spent on each member of the family. The scorekeeper does not really do this to keep things even. He does this to make sure he gets, at least, his fair share.
I myself have never been an even Steven sort of mom. I've had the philosophy that we should meet each child's needs as they arise, without particular regard for keeping all things equal. After all, just because one boy needed new shoes or jeans or a backpack, didn't mean everyone did. And just because one child might need extra money for something didn't demand I dole out the dough in even shares to everyone else. I figured that over the course of each of their childhoods', it would all even itself out so I didn't have to.
It was basically that same notion that governed the assignment of household chores. I never did stars on a chart or a color-coded calendar detailing each person's daily responsibilities. I admired that kind of organization, I just didn't aspire to it. So we pretty much have always had a 'mind your own stuff and do what mom tells you when she tells you' policy.
This parenting style has served my husband and I well, but for our little scorekeeper, it has been a perpetual source of irritation. You see, the scorekeeper remembers with utter clarity the exact number of times he has taken out the trash in comparison to his brothers. He has made mental notes of the dollars spent by us toward his possessions and activities in proportion to the budget allocated to each of his siblings. He has kept a painstaking record of the ages at which he was permitted to do specific things as opposed to when we are allowing his younger brother to do the same things.
Now, as the face of our family is quickly changing, the scorekeeper of our house has become increasingly disgruntled. With he and "A" being more men than boys, the chasm between them and the 'baby' is ever widening. And while "A" is moving into adulthood seemingly without giving it a thought and the 'baby' is happy with the impending prospect of being an 'only child', the scorekeeper quite openly expresses his displeasure with it all.
Our scorekeeper simply cannot believe how excessive my husband and I have become now that we aren't fully supporting him anymore. He is appalled by the quality and corresponding price tag of the 'baby's' new soccer gear, sure we never would have spent so exorbitantly on him and "A" at that age. He is concerned that the 'baby' is going to end up driving a car far superior to his first one...although he has had two vehicles he didn't pay a penny for. And the kicker is that he was appalled by the amount he is certain we spent on a child-free weekend getaway although he honestly hasn't a clue what it cost nor is it any of his business.
Moreover, he's flabbergasted that we are considering the possibility of taking a second long weekend away later this year to which the 'baby' is likely to be invited, but which he is unlikely to be. Not that we wouldn't want to spend the time with him, but as an adult, he isn't certain to be in a position to get away from his own grown up obligations when our schedule permits.
I have to keep reminding him that times are changing. His father and I have more discretionary money now that we are no longer the sole support for three children. We have more free time too. And while the 'baby' is likely to benefit from his years as the only child in this house, I try to remind the scorekeeper that he and "A" had half a dozen years on the front end of their lives to be lavished with unfettered attention, affection and gifts as they were not only our only children, but they were also the only grandchildren and nephews on either side of the family. Of course, the scorekeeper in him can't help but point out that he doesn't remember most of that while the 'baby' will remember all of this.
I truly hope as the scorekeeper grows up and moves into the role of husband and father himself someday, he will come to care less about what the score was and find satisfaction in how we all played the game.
I myself have never been an even Steven sort of mom. I've had the philosophy that we should meet each child's needs as they arise, without particular regard for keeping all things equal. After all, just because one boy needed new shoes or jeans or a backpack, didn't mean everyone did. And just because one child might need extra money for something didn't demand I dole out the dough in even shares to everyone else. I figured that over the course of each of their childhoods', it would all even itself out so I didn't have to.
It was basically that same notion that governed the assignment of household chores. I never did stars on a chart or a color-coded calendar detailing each person's daily responsibilities. I admired that kind of organization, I just didn't aspire to it. So we pretty much have always had a 'mind your own stuff and do what mom tells you when she tells you' policy.
This parenting style has served my husband and I well, but for our little scorekeeper, it has been a perpetual source of irritation. You see, the scorekeeper remembers with utter clarity the exact number of times he has taken out the trash in comparison to his brothers. He has made mental notes of the dollars spent by us toward his possessions and activities in proportion to the budget allocated to each of his siblings. He has kept a painstaking record of the ages at which he was permitted to do specific things as opposed to when we are allowing his younger brother to do the same things.
Now, as the face of our family is quickly changing, the scorekeeper of our house has become increasingly disgruntled. With he and "A" being more men than boys, the chasm between them and the 'baby' is ever widening. And while "A" is moving into adulthood seemingly without giving it a thought and the 'baby' is happy with the impending prospect of being an 'only child', the scorekeeper quite openly expresses his displeasure with it all.
Our scorekeeper simply cannot believe how excessive my husband and I have become now that we aren't fully supporting him anymore. He is appalled by the quality and corresponding price tag of the 'baby's' new soccer gear, sure we never would have spent so exorbitantly on him and "A" at that age. He is concerned that the 'baby' is going to end up driving a car far superior to his first one...although he has had two vehicles he didn't pay a penny for. And the kicker is that he was appalled by the amount he is certain we spent on a child-free weekend getaway although he honestly hasn't a clue what it cost nor is it any of his business.
Moreover, he's flabbergasted that we are considering the possibility of taking a second long weekend away later this year to which the 'baby' is likely to be invited, but which he is unlikely to be. Not that we wouldn't want to spend the time with him, but as an adult, he isn't certain to be in a position to get away from his own grown up obligations when our schedule permits.
I have to keep reminding him that times are changing. His father and I have more discretionary money now that we are no longer the sole support for three children. We have more free time too. And while the 'baby' is likely to benefit from his years as the only child in this house, I try to remind the scorekeeper that he and "A" had half a dozen years on the front end of their lives to be lavished with unfettered attention, affection and gifts as they were not only our only children, but they were also the only grandchildren and nephews on either side of the family. Of course, the scorekeeper in him can't help but point out that he doesn't remember most of that while the 'baby' will remember all of this.
I truly hope as the scorekeeper grows up and moves into the role of husband and father himself someday, he will come to care less about what the score was and find satisfaction in how we all played the game.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Turning the page
My oldest son is getting married, and I'm not dealing with it particularly well. The impending nuptials have sent me into an emotional tailspin. It isn't that I don't want to be happy and excited. I do. But there's this dull aching that I just can't seem to get over.
At the request of his future mother-in-law (yet another woman I am going to have to share him with), I went on an expedition to gather photographs of his growing up years. As I poured over pictures of the past twenty years...pictures documenting virtually every noteworthy moment of his life from sporting conquests to his first dance...from carefree moments of childhood play to crossing the stage at his high school graduation...from annual shots of he and his brothers in front the family Christmas tree to my personal favorite of all the men in my life piled in our bed acting goofy and just enjoying being together...I was painfully aware of just how quickly the time had slipped away.
In the day to day, while there was a tight schedule to keep and chores to be done and an overwhelming sense of never getting through it all, well, it felt like it would go on forever. I remember thinking they would always be little. It would always be hectic. There would always be chaos and clamor and busyness. I remember thinking there would never be enough hours in the days to do everything we wanted or enough hours in the night to recover from it all. I remember thinking this was my life...my whole life... being a mom.
So what becomes of a woman who is at the root of herself a mom, when her children no longer need mothered? What becomes of me when who I have been is no longer who I can be? When my house is quiet and my calendar is clear...when the hampers aren't full and the sink is empty...when no one needs me to take them anywhere or help them with anything...what then do I do about getting on with having a life of my own?
I hadn't really given this moment a bit of thought before now. It wasn't that I didn't know it was coming. I just didn't expect it to happen so quickly. Twenty years went by like a tick of the clock. The next few will go by even faster, I can only suspect. And then what? Who will I become when I'm no longer mommy...when there's no longer a child in this house to fill up my life? Will there just be emptiness...vacuous, echoing space that haunts me? When this phase of my life is over, will the next find me brooding and anguished over the one I've had to let go?
I don't know if I'm supposed to grieve over this. I've never been here before. Perhaps tomorrow I can find a way to be happy about it all, but today, I just feel like I want to cry...so I am. In this moment, I feel like I'm losing a piece of myself I will never be able to get back. But who knows, maybe as the page turns, I can find a new me in the ashes of the old one.
At the request of his future mother-in-law (yet another woman I am going to have to share him with), I went on an expedition to gather photographs of his growing up years. As I poured over pictures of the past twenty years...pictures documenting virtually every noteworthy moment of his life from sporting conquests to his first dance...from carefree moments of childhood play to crossing the stage at his high school graduation...from annual shots of he and his brothers in front the family Christmas tree to my personal favorite of all the men in my life piled in our bed acting goofy and just enjoying being together...I was painfully aware of just how quickly the time had slipped away.
In the day to day, while there was a tight schedule to keep and chores to be done and an overwhelming sense of never getting through it all, well, it felt like it would go on forever. I remember thinking they would always be little. It would always be hectic. There would always be chaos and clamor and busyness. I remember thinking there would never be enough hours in the days to do everything we wanted or enough hours in the night to recover from it all. I remember thinking this was my life...my whole life... being a mom.
So what becomes of a woman who is at the root of herself a mom, when her children no longer need mothered? What becomes of me when who I have been is no longer who I can be? When my house is quiet and my calendar is clear...when the hampers aren't full and the sink is empty...when no one needs me to take them anywhere or help them with anything...what then do I do about getting on with having a life of my own?
I hadn't really given this moment a bit of thought before now. It wasn't that I didn't know it was coming. I just didn't expect it to happen so quickly. Twenty years went by like a tick of the clock. The next few will go by even faster, I can only suspect. And then what? Who will I become when I'm no longer mommy...when there's no longer a child in this house to fill up my life? Will there just be emptiness...vacuous, echoing space that haunts me? When this phase of my life is over, will the next find me brooding and anguished over the one I've had to let go?
I don't know if I'm supposed to grieve over this. I've never been here before. Perhaps tomorrow I can find a way to be happy about it all, but today, I just feel like I want to cry...so I am. In this moment, I feel like I'm losing a piece of myself I will never be able to get back. But who knows, maybe as the page turns, I can find a new me in the ashes of the old one.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Going Topless
I am a woman with curves...and rolls...and bulges...and some very gelatinous underarm flaps. But I am aware of these imperfections in my figure and do my best to enhance...or at least cover...the parts of my body that are best not exposed to the general viewing public. I have discovered, however, that middle aged men do not seem to share the kind of self awareness about their bodies that inspires more clothes rather than less.
While visiting a local ice cream shop with my teenage son, we were greeted, not so pleasantly, but a rotund little man who had to be mid-sixties if he was a day. He stood squarely in front of the entrance all the while wrestling with an inside out t-shirt that he managed to get right side out but then proceeded to struggle getting over his big 'ol head and down around his basketball-esque belly. As I stood there like some kind of dessert deprived hostage, I couldn't help but wonder why he was going topless in the first place.
It sadly wasn't the first or the last time this thought crossed my mind. There was the similarly shaped and identically dressed man perched proudly on his riding mower on my way home. There was the man riding his bike as I came into town who's hair had all left his head only to relocate with a vengeance on his back. There was another guy with his shirt flung over his shoulder as he, proud as a peacock, strutted past the house.
I just wanted to yell out...cover it up already!! There's a time and a place where I'm willing to tolerate a little more exposed flesh than others...no matter how flabby or excessive that flesh might be. The beach, the pool, the privacy of my own home. But in general, I do not personally find the bare chest of a middle aged man to be a thing of beauty. I understand for them, that's not likely the motivation for baring it all from the waist up, but seriously fellas...consider the fact that you do have an audience.
Unless you're cut...buff...ripped...most women (regardless of age) prefer a well dressed man to a nearly naked one. Just ask ZZ Topp...or any man in uniform. So whether your sporting boobies big enough for a B cup and a rock hard beer gut...or your just shapeless and sagging...PUT A SHIRT ON WILL YA!!
While visiting a local ice cream shop with my teenage son, we were greeted, not so pleasantly, but a rotund little man who had to be mid-sixties if he was a day. He stood squarely in front of the entrance all the while wrestling with an inside out t-shirt that he managed to get right side out but then proceeded to struggle getting over his big 'ol head and down around his basketball-esque belly. As I stood there like some kind of dessert deprived hostage, I couldn't help but wonder why he was going topless in the first place.
It sadly wasn't the first or the last time this thought crossed my mind. There was the similarly shaped and identically dressed man perched proudly on his riding mower on my way home. There was the man riding his bike as I came into town who's hair had all left his head only to relocate with a vengeance on his back. There was another guy with his shirt flung over his shoulder as he, proud as a peacock, strutted past the house.
I just wanted to yell out...cover it up already!! There's a time and a place where I'm willing to tolerate a little more exposed flesh than others...no matter how flabby or excessive that flesh might be. The beach, the pool, the privacy of my own home. But in general, I do not personally find the bare chest of a middle aged man to be a thing of beauty. I understand for them, that's not likely the motivation for baring it all from the waist up, but seriously fellas...consider the fact that you do have an audience.
Unless you're cut...buff...ripped...most women (regardless of age) prefer a well dressed man to a nearly naked one. Just ask ZZ Topp...or any man in uniform. So whether your sporting boobies big enough for a B cup and a rock hard beer gut...or your just shapeless and sagging...PUT A SHIRT ON WILL YA!!
Friday, July 8, 2011
On the edge
Sometimes I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering on the cusp of sanity. Today was one of those days. It was something relatively insignificant in the scope of life as a whole...but truthfully, all the things that push me closer to the brink generally are. Today it was frustration at work, but sometimes it's my kids not listening to me, my husband doing something he knows gets on my nerves, the dog being under foot, traffic lights, unpaid bills, waiting in a line with a slow cashier, plans being made for me or my plans getting ruined. Sometimes it's an unexpected late night or worse, an all too early morning. It's unexpected guests and a perpetually full laundry hamper. It's the price of gas and the cost of living. It's my neighbors who never leash their dogs and people who throw cigarettes out their car windows when I'm behind them. It's itchy tags in my shirts and holes in the toes of my socks. It's having a longer to do list than I have hours in the day or money in the bank to finance.
When I was younger, I would simply steamroll...with word or deed...over anyone or anything that tried to upset my proverbial apple cart. I am by nature, after all, a person who often lacks patience and who is, callous as it sounds, intolerant of stupidity. I do not appreciate having to take detours...literally or figuratively. I want things the way I want them, and I'm rarely quick to accept the fact that I simply can't always have it all my way. Every little irritation threatens to stir up hostility within me. I'm like that little tea..short and stout...when I get all steamed up you'll hear me shout.
But now that I'm a little older and a little wiser, I realize that this take no prisoners, no holds barred approach to life only serves to breed frustration rather than alleviate it. Perhaps I have been a slow learner, but I'm finally figuring out that it is selfishness that lines the threshold of my inner peace. And crossing that line never makes my journey easier.
Oh it may feel better for a while, the satisfaction that comes from getting my own way, but it's a very fleeting feeling for sure. Having others kowtow to me for fear of unleashing my primal rage isn't really how I want to achieve my goals.
So as I move forward into the second half of my life, I have decided to make it my objective to be less self serving...to realize not everything everyone else does that stirs my pot was intended to do so...to accept that not every hurdle I come up against needs to be taken as a personal affront. I am going to do my best to see others before I look at myself. I'm going to work on thickening my skin and softening my heart. I'm going to focus less on how close to the edge I am and more on the path that leads me away from it. So I take a deep breath and remind myself to get over myself. I am, after all, not the center of the universe.
When I was younger, I would simply steamroll...with word or deed...over anyone or anything that tried to upset my proverbial apple cart. I am by nature, after all, a person who often lacks patience and who is, callous as it sounds, intolerant of stupidity. I do not appreciate having to take detours...literally or figuratively. I want things the way I want them, and I'm rarely quick to accept the fact that I simply can't always have it all my way. Every little irritation threatens to stir up hostility within me. I'm like that little tea..short and stout...when I get all steamed up you'll hear me shout.
But now that I'm a little older and a little wiser, I realize that this take no prisoners, no holds barred approach to life only serves to breed frustration rather than alleviate it. Perhaps I have been a slow learner, but I'm finally figuring out that it is selfishness that lines the threshold of my inner peace. And crossing that line never makes my journey easier.
Oh it may feel better for a while, the satisfaction that comes from getting my own way, but it's a very fleeting feeling for sure. Having others kowtow to me for fear of unleashing my primal rage isn't really how I want to achieve my goals.
So as I move forward into the second half of my life, I have decided to make it my objective to be less self serving...to realize not everything everyone else does that stirs my pot was intended to do so...to accept that not every hurdle I come up against needs to be taken as a personal affront. I am going to do my best to see others before I look at myself. I'm going to work on thickening my skin and softening my heart. I'm going to focus less on how close to the edge I am and more on the path that leads me away from it. So I take a deep breath and remind myself to get over myself. I am, after all, not the center of the universe.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
The Rules of Engagement..for moms
This week I have come smack dab, face-to-face, up close and personal with the mother's curse. Oh, you know what that is. It's when your mother said, "I hope you grow up and have children just like you." Now, let me preface by saying, I honestly don't remember my mother ever saying those exact words to me, but I am sure in her heart she thought them on various occasions. For example, when, as a senior in high school, my boyfriend and I announced that we were going to get married.
Now you must understand that while I wasn't the best or the brightest in my small graduating class, I wasn't exactly stupid either. I had been heavily recruited by the journalism department at Indiana University and had aspirations of becoming a well respected author. But somewhere between planning a future as a writer and actually getting to college, I just happened to fall in love. And as anyone who has ever taken that plunge knows, falling in love has the ability to change the course of history.
So as my boyfriend and I sat in my parent's living room and made our grand announcement, I could not quite understand my mother's cold, if not right down rude, reaction. She sat in her chair, arms crossed over her chest, face forward, lips pursed...and silent. She said nothing as we told her and my dad the very loosely constructed wedding plans we had made. She did not share one iota of our enthusiasm, not one ounce of our joy. She was not happy and made no attempt to hide it.
I remember my father, always the voice of reason, asking her if she was really surprised by all this. After all, Dan and I had dated since seventh grade and had been completely inseparable for the previous two years. But still, my mom remained stone cold, not at all interested in sharing in our excitement.
She asked questions like, 'did we have to get married?'...'what was our rush?'...'had we really considered how hard it would be?'...'and what about school?'
As I sat in this very room with my son and his now....fiancee...not much more than a week ago, I experienced a very strange sort of deja vu. It was the kind where I had lived this moment before...just on the other end of the conversation. Now I was the one with all the pointed questions...mostly the same ones my mother had asked me oh so many years ago. Imagine my surprise when my son gave me, almost verbatim, the same answers I had given my mom.
As I sat there with my head spinning and my heart palpitating, I suddenly could see myself in him...a person so in love and so determined to be with that person that no one or no thing was going to persuade him otherwise. I could see that fearlessness that comes from being certain you're doing the right thing at the right time with the right person. That kind of certainty brings a confidence no amount of reason, logic or circumstantial evidence could overcome. And no amount of parental objection would do it either.
All he could see was the new plans he and she were making together. My plans for him were no longer his priority. At that moment, I knew I had two choices...be on his side...or not. Because for all my arguments, no matter how sound, no matter how valid, they all were going to fail to change his mind. He is going to get married. He is going to pack his things and leave this home and go into the world with her by his side, and they are going to make a life together. And it's a life I want to be part of.
So, with tears both of joy and sadness, I told my son he has my blessing. Joy because he is beginning his life a man. Sadness because he is leaving behind his life as a child.
We've raised him well. We've taught him everything he needs to know. We've equipped him for this moment as best we could. So as hard as it is for me, I have to take my hands off the wheel because the reality is, he knows how to drive. And wherever the path takes him, I want him to know we will always love him...and we will love her too.
Now you must understand that while I wasn't the best or the brightest in my small graduating class, I wasn't exactly stupid either. I had been heavily recruited by the journalism department at Indiana University and had aspirations of becoming a well respected author. But somewhere between planning a future as a writer and actually getting to college, I just happened to fall in love. And as anyone who has ever taken that plunge knows, falling in love has the ability to change the course of history.
So as my boyfriend and I sat in my parent's living room and made our grand announcement, I could not quite understand my mother's cold, if not right down rude, reaction. She sat in her chair, arms crossed over her chest, face forward, lips pursed...and silent. She said nothing as we told her and my dad the very loosely constructed wedding plans we had made. She did not share one iota of our enthusiasm, not one ounce of our joy. She was not happy and made no attempt to hide it.
I remember my father, always the voice of reason, asking her if she was really surprised by all this. After all, Dan and I had dated since seventh grade and had been completely inseparable for the previous two years. But still, my mom remained stone cold, not at all interested in sharing in our excitement.
She asked questions like, 'did we have to get married?'...'what was our rush?'...'had we really considered how hard it would be?'...'and what about school?'
As I sat in this very room with my son and his now....fiancee...not much more than a week ago, I experienced a very strange sort of deja vu. It was the kind where I had lived this moment before...just on the other end of the conversation. Now I was the one with all the pointed questions...mostly the same ones my mother had asked me oh so many years ago. Imagine my surprise when my son gave me, almost verbatim, the same answers I had given my mom.
As I sat there with my head spinning and my heart palpitating, I suddenly could see myself in him...a person so in love and so determined to be with that person that no one or no thing was going to persuade him otherwise. I could see that fearlessness that comes from being certain you're doing the right thing at the right time with the right person. That kind of certainty brings a confidence no amount of reason, logic or circumstantial evidence could overcome. And no amount of parental objection would do it either.
All he could see was the new plans he and she were making together. My plans for him were no longer his priority. At that moment, I knew I had two choices...be on his side...or not. Because for all my arguments, no matter how sound, no matter how valid, they all were going to fail to change his mind. He is going to get married. He is going to pack his things and leave this home and go into the world with her by his side, and they are going to make a life together. And it's a life I want to be part of.
So, with tears both of joy and sadness, I told my son he has my blessing. Joy because he is beginning his life a man. Sadness because he is leaving behind his life as a child.
We've raised him well. We've taught him everything he needs to know. We've equipped him for this moment as best we could. So as hard as it is for me, I have to take my hands off the wheel because the reality is, he knows how to drive. And wherever the path takes him, I want him to know we will always love him...and we will love her too.
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