Since I have been enjoying the cd player in my car, I have dug out some Warren Zevon that I haven’t listened to in a while. I love his lyrics. The song that has been running around in my head this week is “Never too Late for Love”…
In May, June and July, the trip to my daughter’s will be made in the light – the predawn sky will be pale, not black, when I leave the house early in the morning. I appreciate the dawn.
I enjoy those drives – where I am not straining to see, not dealing with snow. It is relaxing to make the drive this time of year and I do some of my best thinking on the road, alone in the car…when I’m not singing, of course. I appreciate the early morning quiet.
True confession here – I recently realized I am spoiled. While I loved my little yellow car, the peepmobile, I missed having a fob that allowed me to pop the trunk or unlock the doors by pushing a button. And cruise control. I appreciate all the little doo-dads on my new used car that will make the trip more pleasant.
Looking back at my cars over the years – vinyl seats, metal dashboards, rust and rattles, no air conditioning – I realized just how blessed I am to have decent and very comfortable transportation. I appreciate being able to drive, having the means to make the trip.
I’m feeling very grateful today. Very blessed.
I am very fortunate that my employer allows me to carry over vacation days: I am still using last year’s!
I scheduled some time off for a friend’s visit and class reunion. I plan to schedule a few more days for a trip to Virginia to see a friend that recently moved south. And after that, I will still have a few days from 2019 left over when my 2020 vacation days kick in.
I am looking forward to these scheduled vacation days – catching up with friends, relaxing and turning off my work brain and my phone.
While I work less than 30 hours a week, my hours often stretch over six or seven days a week and work sometimes follows me home. My trips to visit my daughter, while they do take me away from the office over weekends, are NOT relaxing. I come back to work on the Mondays after a visit feeling like I haven’t had a day off at all.
This will be the first time in years that I have used my vacation days for, well, vacation.
I usually end up spending vacation days on personal appointments, business related to my daughter, or snow days. That’s when I realized, when I was so ridiculously excited over last winter’s back to back snow days, that I needed some real vacation, some real time off. I can’t wait!
I have been enjoying driving my new, used car. The radio sounds great and it has a cd player, which I consider a real treat. I don’t have many cds, but the ones I have are terrific for car singing. ( I also sing in the house when I do house work – I really can’t certain if my singing or the noise from the sweeper is what scares the dogs.)
I have to say since I had my accident, I have been very cautious of other drivers. Maybe a little overly cautious. It has toned down my car choreography and sing-alongs considerably. (I was not singing when I had the accident, by the way.) When I bought this car I realized the volume controls on the steering wheel would be great for my car singing…but in these last two weeks I have only once or twice really belted out a tune.
My new boss mentioned he saw me driving the other day. My first thought was: How wild was the choreography and singing? He remarked that I was extremely focused and didn’t wave.
Whew! What a relief…I am not at my best form right now; and frankly, I don’t think my new boss is ready to see, or hear, my car singing.
There is a lovely volunteer at my office once a week. She is quite a lot younger than I am and extremely stylish. She makes her clothes and they are wonderful. Baggy overalls, oversized jumpers, paired with stylish jackets and sneakers….she looks like a page in a fashion magazine. Her smile is beautiful and contagious.
I enjoy having her in the office. (Not just because the style factor goes way up when she is there.) I enjoy having her in the office because I consider her my friend; I don’t make friends easily. I am socially awkward.
We talk while we work. We talk about our children, families and pets. I like to hear about her sewing and knitting projects – she knits much more complicated things than I would ever attempt.
We talk about strange English idioms (she is from Japan)….We were trimming some papers one day – her eyes got very wide when I told her to “eyeball it.” We have a lot of conversations about those kinds of things.
As a volunteer, she is remarkable. If she can’t come, she often arranges for one of her friends to fill in for her. She learns quickly and I am always amazed at how fast and accurately she completes the tasks I ask her to do. Whether I ask her to help run copies, or assemble booklets, or ask her to help me water the plants, she does so cheerfully. The office is a brighter place when she is there.
I find it amazing that someone can come from halfway around the world and navigate all the things that are different here – not the least of which is the language.
She asked me a couple weeks ago if she could read my blog. I hope she reads it today.
Growing up, we had a very focused dog. She had one thought, only one, DIG. When she was loose in the yard, she dug holes in the garden, the lawn. She even dug a hole in the cement floor of our garage.
From her pen, she tunneled (she must have watched Hogan’s Heroes) through every obstacle my dad installed around or inside the pen…bricks, fencing and assortment of sheet metal patches added to reinforce the fencing, sunk into the ground to keep her from burrowing through. She ignored all my dad’s attempts to stop her from digging, but she always got caught before she escaped her pen.
If she had been a smart dog, she would have realized that she could have easily jumped over the fence from her perch on top of the dog house….but her focus was only on digging – not on accomplishing a successful escape. She was obsessed, and could never consider any option other than DIG.
I thought about that dog today, when I was trying to figure out the best way to do something ….and found myself stuck on a solution that wasn’t really working for me. I am happy to report I realized my mistake – I gave up on the ‘digging’ and jumped over the fence.
That nagging in my brain kept me busy all evening. It isn’t enough to keep me up at night, but it consumed my waking hours.
I realized it wasn’t one thing, but some related items that I needed to wrap up and put behind me. Now that I have identified the problem(s), I can start working on a solution for each part.
The first part is the easiest: an apology owed. I can take care of that one easily. That will definitely help with the “itching” in my brain.
The next part – well, I think the reception of my apology will have to determine what comes next. In the meantime, I will not overthink it. Just like my family weekends, I will have to decide to fly by the seat of my pants on this – and have no expectations.
There is something in the air. It is making my eyes itch and nose tickle and I do not like it.
I don’t often experience allergy symptoms.
It isn’t as if I feel miserable. It isn’t enough to make me wonder if I am coming down with a cold. It just isn’t quite right.
Annoying? Nagging? Maybe that’s the word I want.
It reminds me of something else, an idea or feeling that has been floating around in my mind for a while now.
Nagging – yes, that’s what it is. I can’t quite get a handle on it, but this idea is making my brain itch and tickle and I do not like it.
I never know, until I arrive at family weekend, if my daughter will be able to stay with me at the local hotel. I always have plans loosely laid out in my head for both scenarios – staying with me, and not staying with me.
And I have learned to be flexible when it comes to the plans I make in my head. Even if she can stay with me, there is no guarantee that she will be up for my plans, which might include a haircut, or a swim, or a trip to Walmart.
I have worked really hard to avoid any expectations for these weekends – no expectations of breakthroughs in therapy, no expectations as to how my interactions with my daughter will go, no expectations as to how we will spend our time together – no expectations of any kind.
I am a very organized person. I would not start my workday without a to-do list. I would not go grocery shopping without a grocery list. I schedule. I plan ahead. This is how I am. But when it comes to my daughter and family weekends, I have learned to fly by the seat of my pants. She lacks the ability to be flexible…so I have learned to be flexible enough for both of us.
I got a letter from Summit County Children’s Services today, asking for information to renew my daughter’s adoption subsidy for another year.
I have regular visits with my daughter at her residential facility; I participate in her therapy; I have regular contact with her social workers/case managers, the juvenile court and and her guardian ad litem. My daughter has been in the custody of Summit county for over four years. That is when her adoption subsidy ceased – over four years ago.
Let me make this clear: She is still my daughter; it is only the subsidy that has ceased. (I have surrendered custody voluntarily to obtain for her the services that she needs.)
Every year I get the same form letter from Summit County Children Services, asking me to provide proof she is in school and still living in my home – and every year it makes me cry. I wish she could be living here – but it is not possible. And since she is in the custody of the county, the county should be fully aware that she is not living here, shouldn’t they?
Every year I call the county to politely ask them to take me off this particular mailing list, since my daughter is in their custody, in a planned permanent living arrangement (PPLA). The county should be able to take me off of the mailing list, shouldn’t they?
Every year I get the same, lame excuses (computer issues, changes in staff , red tape) and vague assurances that I shouldn’t get the letter next year. The county should, after four years, be able to figure out a way to correct this issue, shouldn’t they?
When I called the county today, the fourth year in a row I have made this painful call, I was quite tearful. The adoption department social worker feel could clearly hear that I was crying, and I could hear that my crying was making her very uncomfortable.
I am not sorry for making her feel badly. Not sorry at all.
My family’s Mother’s and Father’s Day celebrations look exactly the same. We (my sisters and I, and any available grandchildren) take my parents out for breakfast on Saturday morning. That leaves my sister and I free to celebrate with our own children on Sunday.
We started out taking my mom out on Mother’s Day weekend and my dad out on Father’s Day weekend – but after a year or two we just took both of them out for both holidays. My parents do everything together; they’ve been married almost 62 years, and it seems silly to leave anyone at home.
My sisters and I live within blocks of my parents and each other. We see each other very often, lunching, all of us together, at least once a week. We still look forward to getting together to celebrate our parents on their special days. We are keenly aware that our friends are not all as fortunate – many of their parents have passed away – and we are grateful to have our wonderful parents with us still.
I spent several hours Saturday with my aunt in the local emergency room. I did the same the weekend before. It is exhausting. She calls 911 whenever she gets discomfort in her chest…and chest pain means you end up in the ER.
Is she ill? There is nothing wrong with her heart – although I doubt she is truly convinced. The hospital believes she may have a reflux issue – that will require some additional follow up investigation.
Will she follow up with her primary care provider, like she was told to? I don’t know. I will call her and remind her to make the appointment, but I can’t be sure she will really follow through. The last time she made a follow up appointment, she didn’t show – because she wasn’t feeling well – which is precisely why she should have gone to the appointment.
My aunt is mentally ill. She struggles, making illogical decisions and ignoring sound advice – even advice from the emergency room staff. They have been very kind and patient with her at the ER, even when she complains it is taking too long to get her test results or too long to be released.
I listened with her as they explained what she should do – and she could repeat it back. If she looked confused, I asked for further explanation. I struggle, wondering whether or not she has the capability to schedule and keep her follow up appointments, or even follow the ER staff’s directions. I know she can make the phone call, but if she feels better Monday, she may just decide not to… you can’t make her schedule or keep an appointment because she is an adult.
I recently had a conversation with a social worker – he expressed that adults who suffer from mental illness or developmental issues have the right to make bad decisions, just like anyone else. The difference is this: If I make a bad decision, I have to deal with it myself. If my aunt makes a bad decision, our family , her social workers or the paramedics end up working to straighten things out on her behalf…again.
There is a reason my blog posts don’t refer to people by name. Whether it is my daughter, son, extended family or friends (even enemies, lol) – they all have a right to privacy.
The blog represents my perspective – regarding events, circumstances and people. My perspective. I would feel obligated to share their perspectives, too, if I used names.
Looking back at the word ‘enemies’ makes me chuckle. There are people I don’t trust, people that are not my friends – the word ‘enemies’ is a little harsh…I do not have wicked people out there actively seeking my demise. I find it much more enjoyable to write about loved family and friends, than those in that other category. I am the sort of person who will tell you to your face if I have a problem with you.
Sometimes, my readers recognize themselves or a mutual friend in a post. That’s okay – I’m glad they know I was thinking about them.
When I started my blog, almost half a year ago, I didn’t think I had much to say. But, once I started letting my thoughts out on paper – well, there doesn’t seem to be any way to stop them. Apparently, I have quite a lot to say! I am not reflecting on the quality here, just the quantity.
Writing has always been easier for me than talking; there is time to consider and choose my words. As a member of a family of fast-talkers, you have to jump in, ready or not, in order to be heard. When I’m writing, the pace is slower, more thoughtful.
The grammar in my posts is not always correct…but it does reflect the way I speak. When I am writing, I imagine a dear friend listening to me ramble.
If you are reading this, thank you. Thank you for listening. And if you’ve encouraged me to continue to write, THANK YOU; you’ve helped me find my voice.
Whenever my daughter does not call on her regular call day, I wonder about her.
I am always hopeful that she didn’t call because she was happily occupied by activities at her residential facility. Often this is the case. She is, after all, a teenager and it is healthy for her to be with friends, enjoying a movie or a shopping trip. It makes me happy when I hear, eventually, her giggling reports of her recent adventures.
While I always assume the best, I am well aware that sometimes, the reality is not always as happy. She may miss a call because she was having a meltdown, or simply refused to walk over to the phone. Or, worse, was having a physical altercation with her peers. When I find out this has been the case, I am so very grateful that the altercation, meltdown, or uncooperative behavior is taking place there – and not at home where I would have to deal with it directly. Addressing the behavior after the fact and on the phone is much safer.
Since I am an early riser, I have developed a habit of taking an afternoon nap. Well, to say “I’ve developed a habit,” is actually rather grandiose. The truth is, when I sit down in my recliner to read the paper after my mid-afternoon meal, I fall asleep. It has never been intentional, it just happens.
I always feel good when I wake up – I rarely dream at naptime – and it apparently does not interfere with my nighttime sleep.
I attribute this to inheriting the ‘good sleep’ gene from my dad. He sleeps, always has, very well. My mother, on the other hand, is an insomniac. I am so very grateful that I did not inherit that! Feeling blessed to get my rest.
Now, I’m not saying I never wake up in the middle of the night – I almost always do. But getting back to sleep is rarely an issue.
When I dream at night, the dreams are always very weird, but rarely frightening. If a dream wakes me at night, it will cause me to wonder….”What the heck was that all about?” “What did I eat last night?” or “There is definitely something wrong with me!” I decide to think about it in the morning – that’s all it takes for me to go back to sleep. Come morning, I have a good laugh about the dream and go on with my day.
Once or twice a year I will have a dream that sticks with me; it will be more vivid and feel important, maybe even repeat; it feels like there is a message my sleeping brain wants me to understand. I may spend a good deal of waking time trying to figure it out…but I won’t lose sleep over it.
I read a friend’s post on facebook this week: ‘You are not too old. It is not too late.’
I like it when I read something that gives me a needed kick in the backside – this week I was feeling very old and much too late. I was having a mini pity-party in my head… and I HATE WHEN I DO THAT!
Reading that quote snapped me out of it. I am not too old – I move a little more slowly, more deliberately, but I am definitely moving forward. I refuse to sit and rot.
I really do believe it is never too late – never to late to make things right, to make progress, to be a better person, to love and be loved….but during my pathetic little pity party, I wasn’t living like it.
I declare the pity party over.
I haven’t decided what to name the small black sedan that replaced the peepmobile. I will take my time and pick a name that appeals to me. It will be something that makes me chuckle; a joke that no one needs to ‘get’ – except for me.
I’ve had cars with names of old movie stars(for instance, Spencer – a grey buick), sci-fi references(the Tardis – a boxy blue vw, and Mad Max – a pontiac that was an epic disaster, even when new), a car named after the time in my life that I owned it (the Mom-mobile – a station wagon named that by my dear friend), and one named after a song(Free Bird – a ’78 thunderbird). One car(a red geo with extremely limited power) was known simply as ‘the dog,’ which is very truly an insult to canines everywhere.
I’ve had some suggestions from friends (of course I have the kind of friends that name their cars, too!) ranging from the Crow(like the graphic novel) to Johnny Cash(who dressed in black).
I just haven’t decided…I have a couple of weeks to pick out a name and a vanity plate. In the meantime – I’m open to suggestions.
It is a habit I have developed from talking with my daughter; a habit of replaying conversations in my head. Not every conversation…just the ones that are important to me. I feel the need to try to figure out motives, identify body language cues, and decipher any other clues to a meaning that I might have missed.
I have a friend whose visits routinely make me wonder – What does that mean? Why did you do that? Are you stupid?
Yeah, that last one is not very nice; but it is really something I wonder. Not whether my friend has a low IQ – no, I know my friend is smart. What I wonder is whether my friend is trying to engage me in an argument or is just clueless about the effect of the words being exchanged between us.
I always give my friend the benefit of the doubt after I replay the conversations – I choose to decide my friend is just dense rather than unkind or mean. This friendship is important; I won’t abandon it over words.
It is difficult to understand my daughter’s conversations on the phone. When I am with her, I can read her body language pretty well. When we are on the phone, I don’t have that advantage – and her conversations are hard to follow.
In person, I can see her looking around distractedly, and see what has caught her attention elsewhere in the room. On the phone, when she loses her train of thought, I can’t tell if it is because she is tired, or if her worker walked into the room with a pizza.
In person, I can hold her hand and make eye contact. I can see where she is looking and work to keep her attention on the subject we are discussing. On the phone, I can only ask, “are you still there?”
I can imagine the hand motions she might make as she speaks, but on the phone, I can’t really see them. The movement of her hands would help me understand the mood of her words when I can’t hear the mood in her voice.
For some reason I have run across the word “camaraderie” four times in the last week. It is not a word I see often, so I am looking for some significance in it’s sudden frequent appearance in my life. If there is something coming my way, I don’t want to miss it because I wasn’t paying attention.
I came into work very early this morning to help out with an event. I like being here in the office early, before everyone else brings their noise and activity here. It is peaceful. Calm. Quiet.
I can never have too much quiet. It is something I didn’t realize until these last few years – just how much I long for quiet.
I’m not opposed to music. I sing a lot. Loudly and badly.
I’m not opposed to tv and radio. I watch and listen more than I should.
I’m not opposed to conversation, and interactions with my co-workers. I like them.
But I covet the quiet. I want it more than music, more than entertainment, more than personal interaction. When I can sit next to someone, comfortably, without having to talk – THAT, for me, is the ultimate quiet experience.
I remember watching Shari Lewis and Lambchop when I was a girl. I made my son watch her on public tv when he was a boy. The “song that never ends” was stuck in my head more days than I can count.
I heard an interview with Shari Lewis. She said she would order lambchops at a restaurant just to see the horror on the waiter’s face. I like her.
Lambchop has a new ‘life’ of sorts at my house. Lambchop is by far the cheapest stuffed toy I can order for my dogs on Chewy.
They love her. Texas bites at Lambchop’s feet and brings me the squeakers as gifts when he removes them. Sweetie tears off Lambchop’s face one bit at a time (I worry about that dog). Every time she walks by the doll, she shakes Lambchop to make sure she is dead. They both pull out stuffing (thankfully they don’t eat it), play tug of war with each other, and toss and chase the faceless, footless carcass around the living room. Sometimes they sleep with Lambchop’s remains. Lambchop keeps them out of trouble.
It takes months for them to completely destroy a Lambchop. When the toys get too disgusting, I order two more – about six Lambchops are sacrificed here every year.
I believe in spontaneous combustion. I believe it is possible for a person to burst into flame and vanish. It almost happened here last night.
I am hot all the time. All the time.
I have friends who are always cold. I envy them. They wear really cute sweaters and dressy blouses, even in the summer. Me? I wear as little as possible without being indecent. I think there were two days last winter that required a coat. My unlined, corduroy jacket is usually sufficient. I run a fan in my office all year long.
I don’t often have hot “flashes.” But, when they come, WOW! It almost always happens at night. Throw off the sheet (I never need a blanket), and tear off the nightie! Good thing I live alone!
My daughter longs for the life we shared when she was little. Simpler, easier. In her mind everything was just the way she wanted. She misses Easter dinner, candy, spoiling grandparents, aunts and uncles. (Who wouldn’t?) But the day to day living here at home is foggy when she remembers it. Maybe selective is a better word.
She did not like bedtime. Or baths. Or any of the necessary activities, like her school or my work, that interrupted whatever she was doing to occupy herself. I will say that when she was smaller the behavior problems were smaller. Or, maybe, because she was smaller, I could physically manage her behavior more easily. I could pick her up and deposit her in her crib. Or her room
Now that she is nearly an adult, she wants the freedoms that come with adulthood, without any understanding of the responsibilities that it brings (this is typical teenager behavior, I know.)
The problem is, while she is big (grown up) on the outside , she is still little (maybe 5 or 6) on the inside. She does not have the capacity to manage either the freedoms or the responsibilities that come with adulthood. I’m very grateful for the crew of social workers, teachers, and aides that help her manage her day to day chores and behavior. It makes me hopeful for her future.
While I enjoyed both of my children when they were little, I am so very grateful they are big.
Sometimes events (illnesses or tragic losses, for example) change us. They can add a perspective to life that was missing before the event occurred. Is this a good thing? If you decide it is, yes.
The restraints and pain that come from tragedy can force us to be different. Better. More humble. More kind.
Sometimes we don’t recognize, until much later, how an event has transformed us; how positively our lives have been impacted, even through pain.
Sometimes people change without any awareness that they’ve been transformed in a positive way. They don’t embrace hope. They don’t recognize any divine plan or care. They long for who they were before, without any appreciation of the remarkable person they have become through their struggle. Sadly, they don’t see themselves as capable, or worthy. They don’t seem to be able to focus clearly on the present or future; they can only look back at the loss; they cling to the past and miss out on the now.
My friend of the frequent phone calls has tremendous friendship retention.*
But in my life, friendships change or end. Distance, time, changes in circumstance. Sounds like a math story problem, doesn’t it?
Some friendships just fade. They are still there, just not as vivid. These are the friends it is easy to reconnect with when they come to town or call out of the blue, or when you run into them at the grocery store. It’s like finding a comfortable pair of shoes in the back of the closet and discovering they still fit perfectly.
Other friendships end with a bang – an argument or betrayal; fortunately, I haven’t experienced many of those.
The saddest ones are the ones that vanish suddenly like a magician’s trick, into thin air: Makes you suspect the friendship was just a skillful illusion, makes you feel that you’ve been watching from the audience rather than being an active part of the show. When the curtain comes down you are still wondering what happened.
*Quite a tongue twister!
I have a friend who frequently calls to check on me. I don’t see her often; she often is away, but she calls me regularly just to see how I am. If I needed something, she would help me. I would help her, too.
But the calling? I rarely call her – I return her calls if I miss them, of course, but I don’t initiate our contact. My friend is one of those people who has a real talent for staying in touch. Her parties include her neighbors from many years ago, former co-workers, high school friends…..I don’t think she has ever made a friend and lost track of them.
How did she become my friend? She had been a neighbor of my husband’s some years before he and I met. She invited us to card parties and cookouts. After the divorce, she and her husband remained friendly with me. I am grateful for her continued interest and care.
She has an outgoing manner and a knack for dealing with people, but I suspect most of her friendship success stems from the high priority she places on keeping in touch.
I do not swear. It is a personal conviction. If I need to put someone in their place, I can do it very well with g-rated words and a glare. You know that expression – “if looks could kill.”
I have some words I use to express displeasure – for example, “bolognahead.” It is a word my great aunt’s bird used to say – about her husband. I use it to describe people who behave stupidly.
Now, today, I have decided on a new non-curse word to exclaim when someone really ticks me off: “ambulance chaser.” Why? because they are the lowest life-form on the planet, and they are making my phone ring constantly, after the accident WHERE NO ONE WAS INJURED, (DO YOU HEAR THAT, MEDICAL CLINICS?) AND AND NO ONE INVOLVED WANTS TO FILE A LAWSUIT (PAY ATTENTION, LAWYERS!)! If I did need medical attention or legal advice, I would not get it from some fool who trolls police reports!!!
If we argue and I call you “ambulance chaser,” you better run. It means I am really mad, and I want you to go away!
One of my fondest memories of my grandma’s house is the big front porch. Wicker furniture, a swing, vining flowers on the east side, a large bamboo roll-up blind on the west.
The porch floor was painted grey and partially covered by a rug. The wood floor was tongue and groove, not the deck-style with spaces between that is common now. It was a great place to play on a hot day. My grandma swept the porch with a broom every morning to make sure no dirt got tracked in the house. The front porch was an extension of the living room…just like the back porch was an extension of the kitchen.
Because of the big maple tree on the south side of the house, the front porch was cool on hot days. I can remember stories of my uncle sleeping out there on a hot summer night. No one would do that today. But when I open all three windows in my bedroom, breezes stirring the curtains, the sound of cars going up the brick street at night…I can imagine exactly what that must have been like.
When I visit my daughter, my sister and son take care of my dogs. They are lazy old dogs, and quite frankly, they might as well be cats.
They want fed and petted only when they want. They sleep all day and most of the night. Unlike our first dog, these two, do NOT follow me around like a puppy. They do not beg for attention. They tolerate me because they do not have the thumbs required to open doors or food containers.
They are annoyed when I pack my suitcase, because they have come to realize that the suitcase represents a change in their routine. They fuss when they are confined for the benefit of a dinner guest. If I allowed them access to the bedrooms, they would sleep on the beds or clean laundry in baskets. They steal my yarn balls when I knit.
See? They’re cats!
They do have one important non-feline quality – they bark. And if you heard their deep voices, you would think twice about breaking into my house. That is their one job. Even if they act like cats, they sound like dogs.
It took 13 days to get the police report from my recent accident. Things happen. That delay doesn’t frustrate me – it made me slow down and think about what kind of car will replace the peepmobile. I really needed to take some time to decide what to do.
When the police report became available at 9:00 this morning…my phone started ringing. Every ambulance chasing lawyer and chiropractor/doctor in town called me this morning; tying up my phone with junk calls while I am waiting for a call from my insurance adjuster – that IS frustrating.
Also frustrating: finding out that the other driver, while insured, does not have a valid license!?! If you don’t have a license – it means you shouldn’t drive. If she had complied with the suspension, the accident wouldn’t have happened.
Even as I am typing, though, I am thinking of that other, younger driver. Her life is going to much more impacted by this accident than mine will be. Dealing with the suspended license issue, her own totaled car, and her insurance….her frustrations will be much, much greater than mine. I pray she has the capacity to handle it and straighten things out for herself.
Another family weekend at my daughter’s residential facility…Activities and crafts together, meals together, long conversations. I enjoy the extended time with my daughter; even when she isn’t eligible to spend the night with me at the hotel.
Why was she ineligible? She threw some desks at someone who irritated her. Desks! This is why she isn’t at home: Explosive outbursts of dangerous behavior.
She was fine at the visit. A little tearful when we said goodbye. (I feel that way, too, but I suck it up until I get home – then have a good cry.)
The drive combined with the visits is exhausting, emotionally and physically. I look forward to her move closer to home after graduation. More frequent and shorter visits will be easier for both of us.
I love my children. I enjoy any time I get to spend with either of them. Here at the house this evening, packing my bag for an overnight visit with my daughter, I found myself humming a song. It took me awhile to identify it: Another Ticket by Eric Clapton.
Why does it always have to change?
Seems you’ve always got to pay it twice
Every time you think you’re near the end
You turn around and find another ticket
With the loss of the peepmobile, I decided to drop my class at the local university. I have transportation to work, and to see my daughter. But school? I decided the time preparing for school, and driving there, would be better spent looking for a used car.
My sisters’ cars are nice and big. All the cars other people have offered to loan me are nice and big. I am not sure I want to drive someone else’s nice, big car to school. Forget that school is downtown….downtown where I had the wreck….I am not sure I want to be responsible for parking a nice, big car in the student lot. And, of course, I can’t parallel park.
I was sorry to drop the class; I learned a lot of information that I wish I had known when I was young; young like the rest of the students in the class. And, just like my class last semester, taking this class has reinforced to me the value of my life experience. I usually know the answer to the instructor’s question because I’ve lived it, because I pay attention to what happens around me and I read the newspaper, not because I memorized the answer from a text book reading assignment.
I won’t sign up for summer classes. But next fall….I’ll definitely go back.
I’ve made a couple quilts over the last few years, and some other enjoyable sewing projects. I like to keep my hands busy. I have quilt-top cut out, but haven’t felt like pinning it together and sewing it up. The 120 year old sewing machine I use, is not portable, so I sew upstairs in the room that was my daughter’s. The dogs like it when I sew. They lay by my feet and watch the treadle move up and down. That is the only time they are allowed in that room. (The boy dog, Tex, has a love of sleeping on human beds, so unsupervised naps in the bedrooms are off limits.)
Since I prefer to spend evenings downstairs, I decided to start knitting again. I have a friend who gives me her leftover yarn from crocheting baby blankets. I don’t have the patience for crochet. When I read those instructions I feel stupid and clumsy.
So I knit hats for the local public school…one year I knitted ninety. The pattern is easy and variable. And when you are making hats, there isn’t the pressure of having two finished products come out the same size, like pairs of mittens or socks. It is relaxing. A hat takes about two hours, start to finish on the circular needles.
I don’t know who invented those circular knitting needles – short needles joined by a flexible nylon cord, but it is genius! No seams, no blocking, continuous knitting, and the project goes so fast!
I won’t buy anything that causes me to think, “If I was younger” or “If I was thinner.” I do always buy clothes that fit me now…not my past or future self.
Every once in a while, though, I make a clothing choice that can be filed under the heading: WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?
These choices could be things such as…
uncomfortable shoes – NOT heels, and not uncomfortable for any obvious reason – just uncomfortable.
a blouse in a color that is strange – I have trouble identifying colors anyway – if the clothing is new, I can rely on the color name in the catalog. If the clothing is from the thrift store, I will ask someone who looks fairly put-together, “What color is this?” (I really do ask someone whose own clothing looks good that day!) The color, though, can still be strange.
dress slacks in a funky synthetic fabric – I do wear fake suede pants in the colder weather. These are actually the least ugly dress slacks that I own. The old-lady slacks I used to wear daily have all been retired. I am shaking my head just thinking about them and their stylish-less bagginess.
Every once in a while, I will pick something out that I’m not sure about and buy it anyway. Oddly enough, some of my favorite clothing choices have come about this way. A vintage silk blouse with french cuffs and cuff links, for instance. I don’t wear it often, but when I do, I feel like a million bucks. Sometimes it’s worth the gamble.
I have shopped for, and bought, used cars by myself a number of times. It is NOT a pleasure.
The first time, I was 24. My dad was laid up with a bad back, so I went shopping without him. I had a number of car salesmen tell me to come back with my dad. One gave me a half dollar to remember his name “Kennedy.” I used the half dollar to buy a soda, and bought my car somewhere else…from the one salesman that treated me like I was not stupid.
The salesmen routinely asked, “What color car do you want, little girl?” (I know they were thinking ‘little girl’ even if they didn’t say it.) Now I do have a color preference, but it is very low on the list after fuel efficiency, engine size, maintenance/service records and other such truly useful information. Back then, I worked on my cars; I wanted to know what I was buying!
The salesmen that wait on me now are a little less condescending. Of course, there is the added insult of treating me like I’m elderly. I may be old enough to be his grandma, but he better talk to me like an intelligent and vital adult with a very good credit rating!
And heaven help him if he asks, “What color car do you want, grandma?”…even if the “grandma” is silent.
When my kids were little, spring and fall, we would get out the bins and boxes of clothes for the coming season and try them on. (or at least hold them up to see if they were close.) My children were always blessed with a lot of hand me downs from friends and family, so there were never a lot of clothes to purchase. I miss those days of Winnie the Pooh t-shirts and tiny shorts on their chubby, dimple-kneed, legs. Fall overalls and turtlenecks.
Now, I just move my off-season blouses from the guest room closet into my own room’s closet. It’s not necessary to try them on – my size is the same (thankfully) from season to season. There is still some excitement – summer tie-dye and short sleeves come out – long sleeves and jackets get put away. The warm weather items I bought last fall on season-end clearance sales are new, still wearing tags.
I love the change in seasons; the change in weather, the change in clothes.
I have some decisions to make about my own circumstances – not just my daughter’s.
I have some home repairs to prioritize. I have to shop for, and buy, a used car. I have decisions to make that will affect the people in my life. I am in a season where decisions seem to be required in every area of my life.
I don’t have a problem making decisions. I am very methodical, very logical, and I have a clear sense of direction; a clear sense of right and wrong. I know where I want to go, and I know that steps, rather than speed, will take me there. (I have a picture of a turtle that says something like this hanging outside my bedroom.)
I will take a little time, and over the next few weeks, I will make every decision, carefully and prayerfully. I will make the best decision that I can in each case. Indecision is not an option.
Now, I know not every decision will play out exactly the way I envision. Some decisions will play out better, some not quite as well. Some will play out in ways that I could not begin to imagine – future me will look back and shake her head, or smile. Just because it doesn’t turn out the way I expect, doesn’t mean I made the wrong choice.
My recent auto accident helped me finalize a difficult decision.
I had already decided my daughter would have a payee. (A financial guardian that is not me.)
I had to decide whether we would apply for a guardian for her person, to help her manage life when she graduates from high school. There was a long conversation with her DD social worker, and other social workers. We discussed her difficulty with transitions and the pros and cons to me taking that role initially. There are some personal particulars to her case that will need to be handled in 2021. The thought was that, perhaps, I would be better able to make sure this business was handled.
I read the many pages of definitions and information that they gave me to review. My gut was telling me it would be easier to make all the changes at once, rather than to make them piecemeal.
The accident caused me to decide, yes, a guardian is needed as soon as she graduates from high school. My greatest concern is that I would pass away without this protection in place. Asking for the appointment of a guardian up front will eliminate that concern. I don’t need to be her guardian to look out for her best interests, including that business in 2021 – I am her mom. I will not let that guardian rest until that business is handled.
I realize that a guardian could pass away suddenly in an accident, too, but that is a different, lesser kind of loss.
Hold on loosely.
That was the best advice anyone ever gave me. It applies to stuff you own and plans you make. When I was given this advice, the context was clearly stuff and plans.
When your fists are closed in an attempt to hold on, you can’t accept anything new, you can’t embrace change, and you can’t move forward.
It can apply to people; people that move through your life without a real connection, people that don’t want to be in your life, or who aren’t good for your own mental health.
But it doesn’t apply to faith, hope, or loving family and friends; to those you need to hold on tightly. And I’m not picturing a tight, grabby fist here, I’m picturing a hug.
I bought the peepmobile, my little yellow car that looked like a marshmallow peep, about a year ago. It wasn’t new, but it was the newest, nicest car I had owned in a very long time. I smiled whenever I opened the garage and saw it there; the yellow upholstery and yellow interior trim made me chuckle. I had never imagined driving such a thing.
Driving to school the other afternoon, the peepmobile was hit and totalled. I just had a couple bruises from the seat belts and airbags, and the other driver and her passengers were not hurt. I am very grateful for that!
The other, at fault, driver had made an illegal left turn into my passenger side door and fender and pushed me into a pole, which damaged the front end and ripped off the bumper.
The other driver was legitimately confused. The intersection is poorly designed, and although there was a “no left turn” sign over her lane, she just didn’t realize there were two lanes of parallel traffic coming up on the left beside her; Main and Broadway merge. The changes being made all over downtown, all at once, have left many drivers confused!
The policeman indicated there is a traffic camera at the intersection because there are so many accidents at that location. He was able to see the video from the camera on his smartphone immediately. It was clear that her claims that I caused the accident were untrue. He could see her turn left into into my car on his little screen. Thankfully, she was insured.
My sister graciously came down and picked me up; I grabbed my stuff out of the glove box, since I didn’t expect to see the car again. We watched the peepmobile getting ready to be towed away. The officer asked me about the license plate: P33P. I told him I got the vanity plate because the car looked like a giant marshmallow peep (he agreed)….and that it was spelled that way because it was substantially cheaper to have two 3’s than two E’s.
It’s the end of the road for the peepmobile and P33P.
I enjoy the daffodils in my yard. They are transplants from my friend’s yard, by way of my mom’s yard. They were among the plants I received when I moved into my home almost 29 years ago. I like their sunny yellow faces. They seem to glow when the sun hits them in the morning.
My aunt had an intense dislike of another yellow flower – forsythia. Instead of a sign of spring, she considered them the harbinger of doom. When she saw forsythia blooms, she recognized them as a signal that snow and ice were on the way to kill her other spring blossoms.
My son and daughter liked yellow flowers – dandelions. I cannot tell you how many dandelions I have put in little vases and cups, brought in by my children, because they wanted to bring me flowers. I always told them not to pick the neighbors’ flowers, so they picked ours. Our were mostly dandelions.
I miss the days when they were little and life was that simple. But you can’t go back, only forward.
And that’s okay. Who knows what kind of yellow flowers might be in my future?
I am a calm person. When I recently sat in a seminar about high conflict parenting, I noticed that some of the suggested methods of defusing a difficult situation were already a part of my repertoire. I’m used to dealing with volatile people without getting sucked into the madness. I almost always will choose a thoughtful response over a knee-jerk reaction.
I’m not saying I never get mad, annoyed, or irritated. I do. But I rarely reach a combustion point. I rarely lose my temper. I don’t like arguing and I don’t feel the need to be “right;” I am able to just walk away…most of the time. Sometimes, though, something is SO important that it is non-negotiable.
I reached a combustion point this week. I reached the end of my patience and peered over the precipice. I did manage to keep control of myself and there was no anger-explosion. I moved away from the person who chased me to the edge until I can interact with him/her calmly. I’m nearly there now…I just need a little more time to fully calm down before I set things straight.
The maple trees in the neighborhood are covered in emerging red buds. I love the way they look. The buds will get bigger and bigger until they burst into a big red mess on the sidewalks and driveways. I never mind the mess. I choose to look at the bigger picture:
Red buds mean the trees will be leafing out soon. In a few weeks, I will no longer look out my kitchen windows and see downtown or the city lights. Leaves, flowers, trees. That is all I will see in the early mornings when I cook my coffee.(Yes, I actually cook it on the stove.) I will have a complete change of scenery courtesy of spring.
Red buds mean that the evening sun soon will not shine through my west-facing windows. Instead, the trees will cool my house in their lovely shade. I will leave the upstairs windows open enjoying the sight and sound of the breeze through the lacy branches.
I am ready for the change of seasons. Red buds say it’s here.
I describe my work around the house as putzing. Lots of little fix-it jobs, mending, moving my pictures and tchotchkes around into different arrangements. Some dusting. Even a little ironing (Yes, friend, there is that one blouse that just needs it.)
I washed the china for an upcoming dinner after moving it carefully down from the upper cupboards. I cleaned my long hairs out of the vacuum cleaner brushes. I hand washed some doilies.
Before I know it, I’ve putzed the day away. No one but me would notice any of the changes I made today, but I do notice them. And I feel like I got something done…something just for me.
The thing about doing those little putzy jobs around the house is – one thing leads to another. Washing the doilies makes me want to launder the curtains, throw the toss pillows into the dryer to dust them. There always seems to be a natural progression to the next task. I like that. It’s very orderly in a natural way. It does make for a long workday though…it’s hard to find the place where you stop thinking, “just one more thing.”
My dogs are old and lazy. They eat breakfast and sleep all day. When I come home from work, they want to go out, have a little attention (pats on the head) and another nap. What a life!
About an hour before my bedtime, something changes.
Sweetie makes a “nest” and “sings,” curled up on her chair, grunting and snorting herself to sleep. It is quite a racket and often lasts half an hour.
Texas…for him evening is fetch time. He would play fetch all evening, if I was willing. I throw whatever he brings, a ball, a rubber squeaky toy, rope or the un-stuffed “corpse” of his Lambchop doll…he runs back and forth, bringing me toys to toss into the other room for him to chase. He wags his tale, smiles (I swear he smiles) and drops the toys at my feet. When he is finally tired, he stretches out and chews his bone.
When I decide to go up to bed, Sweetie will open one eye and watch me leave the room. Tex will follow me upstairs and lay down beside the bed. He rarely stays there all night though; apparently my snoring drives him back downstairs.
I have a lot of things in my house. Decorative things. Things that have sentimental value to me. Some of the things remind me of family or friends. Seeing these objects often prompts me to pray for the acquaintances, friends or relatives who gave them to me. Sometimes the objects weren’t gifts, but they will still remind me of someone for whom I need to pray.
Not all of the objects have such a serious purpose. Sometimes an object will just tickle me. (I am chuckling, imagining how my daughter would take that sentence literally!)
One of my favorite objects is a “statue” I named “Maynard.” It is a cheap resin copy of Rodin’s Thinker. He sits on the table next to me ‘watching’ tv in the evenings, along with the giant nose that my son bought me to hold my reading glasses. I named the nose “Moss.”
Now, don’t worry, these are not imaginary friends and I have not totally lost my mind. When I am doing housework, I just prefer, “I have to dust Maynard and Moss,” over, “I have to dust my plastic thinker and giant glasses nose.”
In fact, I was sitting here this evening thinking I should make a teeny-tiny name tag, you know, like those stick-on ones that say, “Hello, my name is,” for Maynard. That would really tickle me.
The people watching at a professional seminar is different from the people watching at my regular college classes. I am NOT the token senior citizen (60+ student) in the class.
There is no one here under 35, and fully one third of the participants are older, much older, than me. About two thirds are women; about 80% are white. They are attorneys, social workers, education professionals.
They have this in common: Fabulous shoes. I bet you thought I was going to say something serious, like “they care about children.”
No, I chose to focus on the footwear.
I cannot remember the last time I was in the presence of that many gorgeous high heels – pumps and boots, and perfectly shined wingtips. Even the sensible shoes were magnificent.
Some of the other clothing choices were suspect…too casual, too tight, too much. But the shoes were perfect.
I took a day off work to attend a seminar on High Conflict Parenting. Why? Because I like to learn new things. I spent part of the day looking out the large windows, enjoying the spring weather; listening to the speaker, but allowing my brain to wander a little.
I have a lot going on in my life right now. Work is busy. There are a lot of decisions to be made on behalf of my daughter. There are the usual spring cleaning things to do around the house.
With all the busy-ness it was a pleasure to sit and listen to someone else work. I had no responsibility there. While the topic is serious, my mood is relaxed. Oddly enough, this was like a vacation.
I spent Sunday driving three hours with my son to visit my daughter.
He is without a doubt her favorite person. Her face just lights up when she sees him. One year at the school’s Santa shop, she bought him a large pencil that said, “#1 Sister,” because she thought that conveyed the sentiment that HE was number one to her!
He is kind and patient with her, and their conversations about movies, anime, video games and such, go right over my head. I observe the conversation like I am watching a wild, no-rules ping pong game – it makes me smile to see them interact this way. The visits between the two of them are relaxed and happy.
On this visit, my daughter was not able to go out….so we brought in Chinese food. And drinks: lemonade and iced tea. It doesn’t matter which drink we choose for her, she will want to try the one he has chosen for himself…and he always gives it to her. That has become a joke between my son and I; it is the reason we don’t just pick out two drinks the same.
My son and I spent the long drive up and back talking about future plans, our daily lives and music. This trip, Weezer’s Teal Album played on the way back. He always has some modern take on my old favorites that he wants me to hear.
It was a really good day.
My aunt took my sisters and I, sometimes our cousins, and two other adults to church in her VW on Sundays. Now, you couldn’t stack all those people in a car without getting pulled over. Then, it was pretty routine. The best seat was in the back window well.
Trips for ice cream cones with my grandma’s fat dog, long drives in the country. I remember floating across a flooded roadway in that car during a heavy rain. We had a lot of adventures in that car.
When my aunt decided to replace that her VW, she sold it to my dad. By that time, the VW was no longer sea-worthy, the floorboards having rusted away. (They were replaced by pegboard.) Can you imagine driving a car with no real floorboard?
After failing to parallel park my parents’ giant Buick, I passed my driver’s test in the VW.
My dad mounted a big horn under the hood, and when you honked it, it would rattle the fillings in your teeth. The defroster didn’t work, so it was very interesting to drive this car in the winter.
My dad made arrangements to trade in the VW when he ordered his red Chevy Nova. By the time the newer car was ready, the VW was on it’s last leg. I held a plastic gallon jug of gasoline with a drip line (it looked like an IV) out the passenger window while my dad drove it to the dealership.
My aunt, my mother’s older sister, spent a lot of time with me as a kid and as an adult. She always seemed much older than my mother (she was about 12 years older) and it was like having an extra grandmother. She turned grey early, and during most of her working years, had long hair that she wore in a bun.
For work, she wore suits. At home, she wore house dresses. She made her own clothes, and many of the clothes that my sisters and I wore to school.
The suits she made for herself were very nice. Conservatively styled in neutral colors. Sensible looking expensive shoes. She did not wear jewelry. She had a favorite raincoat that she called her “Columbo” coat.
Her sleeveless house dresses were called “Three-holers.” It was a pattern that she used frequently – it was for a wrap-style housedress with three armholes. No zippers, no buttons – the extra armhole is what kept the dress closed. Once she retired, she preferred denim jumpers and skirts.
She sewed skirts, jumpers, dresses and vests for us. I’m not sure she enjoyed sewing, but when asked by my mom or by us, she always sewed. My mom bought bolts of fabric for our clothes. One year our clothes were red corduroy. The next year they were snakeskin(!) patterned corduroy. Once slacks were allowed, especially jeans, my sisters and I began wearing those for school instead (Yes, there was a time long ago that girls had to wear dresses and skirts to school!)
The things that she sewed for us in junior high and highschool were Sunday dresses, special occasion dresses in velvet and other hard to sew fabrics, long frilly maxi dresses with zippered fancy sleeves. I even remember a jumpsuit or two. She altered our store-bought clothes, too. She used much more complicated patterns for our clothes than she ever did for her own.
Working full-time, coming home and sewing clothes for three girls. Remarkable.
The clothes we remember most (not counting that snakeskin corduroy):
The lined winter coats she hemmed for my sisters – she failed to remove the pins that were inside. They were routinely poked in the backside.
The lovely dress she made for my sister – J. forgot to do the final stitching connecting the bodice to the skirt. Fortunately the basting held until my sister got home.
My flowered purple maxi dress that required yards of expensive extra fabric to correctly match the flowered pattern .
The doll clothes that Santa delivered in fabrics that exactly matched the clothing that J. made for us.
I do not care to seek change just because I want something different. I have many memories of bad hairdos, bad clothing-style choices, and even experiments with over-rated food fads to look back on. Change for it’s own sake is NOT always good.
The changes I have chosen to embrace, the changes that I consider ‘good,’ are brought about by time, or health, or necessity. They are changes over which I have limited or no control.
My long time boss took another job…I decided I would like the new boss before he was hired.
My dear friend retired south – our friendship is now a long-distance relationship, the change couldn’t be avoided. (She is still my dear friend, she is just far away.)
I’m growing older – this means I do things more slowly. It would be silly to pretend that this change has not occurred or rail against it.
When I bought my most recent car, I went from full-size to sub-compact. It was an economic necessity and I decided I could learn to like the little car from the first test drive. (And I do!)
Not accepting the unavoidable changes that life brings would make me ungrateful for what I have. It would lead to whining and joylessness. Why would choose that for myself? Instead, I’ve decided to look for the good in change. Looking for the good in anything makes it easier to live.
Change is hard.
My daughter cannot tolerate change. Whether it is stopping one activity and moving to the next one, a new classroom, even new clothes.
She likes clothes; she has a wonderful sense of style. But she longs for styles that are from a few years back…when she was a little girl. It’s hard to find what she sees in her mind.
I remember her heartbreak when she had to start buying shoes in the grown up (adult women’s) department. I remember desperately trying to find her some heavily padded, metallic mint green hightops, with silver hearts…like the ones in the children’s department.
While I, too, long for styles from the past, I can adapt. I can find something to wear that is the next best thing and be satisfied…the jeans I wear now are definitely NOT the stylish jeans of my youth, but as long as they have pockets, I’ve come to embrace their comfort. The shoes I wear now…well, I’ve come to appreciate comfort there, too.
My daughter cannot look at something new and say, “Wow! this is comfortable!” Or “Wow, this is an attractive new style.” She can only look at it and say, “It’s not the same. I want it to be exactly the way it was.”
I hope someday she will come to see that change can be good. That something new doesn’t have to be exactly the same as something old to be good and satisfying.
I learn new things all the time. How to use social media, how to use new software, how to repair things (thank you, you-tube!). Sometimes, I feel like I have reached capacity; like I cannot learn one more new thing. On those days, as soon as I have reached my brain’s limit, I work on filing, cleaning and doing other fairly mindless tasks. I am fortunate to have a job that lets me manage my own time and work at my own pace.
I like learning new things; it keeps my skills up to date. It gives me confidence that I could find another job if I needed to.
I plan to retire from my current job. I’ll be old enough soon. I have a long list of things to do around the house, in addition to spending more time with my family, that is, my kids and my parents. I will need to work about ten hours a month to make retirement work…and because I’m willing to learn new things, I can do that anywhere.
I hope to learn a lot of new things in retirement, too. Maybe genealogy research. New quilting methods. New repair methods. Maybe, I’ll learn to like cooking! And when I have reached capacity, I’ll take on some mindless tasks here at home.
Every six months, the county reviews (the review is called a Semi-annual Administrative Review, or SAR) my daughter’s case because she is in a planned permanent living arrangement.
A supervisor not connected to her case goes over the records with me, the guardian ad litem, the county developmental disabilities worker, the county children’s board caseworker and her immediate supervisor. My ex-husband also attends these meetings. The purpose of these meetings is to make sure that no child falls between the cracks; to make sure children get the services they so desperately need.
My daughter and I are fortunate. My daughter’s case workers are diligent in their efforts on her behalf. I am sadly aware that not all case workers are as thorough and competent.
The second meeting today did not include my ex-husband. This meeting was not a review, but a future planning meeting. The issues discussed were guardianship, housing and the supports my daughter will need for a safe and successful future.
This meeting left me with the need to do a lot of studying, investigating. Decisions have to be made soon and I want to make the best possible ones for my daughter.
I spent over two hours on conference calls* today. Two separate meetings – one with school staff (ETR meeting) and one with the treatment team(psychiatric and dorm staff). Both calls included a couple of social workers who drove three hours from our county to attend in person. (My daughter has the best social workers!)
Two hours of reviewing IQ test scores and scores regarding the severity of her autism – all with full explanations of each item. Reviews of mental health diagnoses. Observations of teachers and staff . All of this reinforces what I already know about my daughter’s behaviors, deficits and abilities.
Is it helpful?
Having these meetings and the very detailed results in her records will help determine the services that are available to her as an adult. Definitely helpful.
Hearing the difficulties that highly trained staff have with my daughter makes me feel like I am not a crazy woman or incompetent mother. Sad, and maybe selfish, but helpful.
Hearing about her good days makes me happy, and miss her very much. Hearing about the bad days makes me very grateful for her residential school setting. Both helpful, but heartbreaking.
Tomorrow – two more meetings, this time in person, here in our home county. I trust those meetings will be helpful, too.
*I don’t attend these meetings in person because my daughter does not attend the meetings – if I am going to drive the three hours to her school, I want to spend time with my daughter, not staff!
I like my computer. Having learned to type on a manual typewriter, and having made regular use of carbon paper, I am grateful every day for my word processing program. It tries to correct my spelling and grammar for me….sometimes I let it. The copier at work is a huge improvement over any mimeograph.
I learned to do bookkeeping on a real set of books: oversized journals and ledgers. The computerized bookkeeping program does all the math for you. Easy peasy. But I still confirm the debits and credits with an adding machine.
My phone has the capability to text (even talk to text) and remember phone numbers. I don’t use those features…my brain needs the exercise of remembering the phone numbers of the people I call.
So many of the new electronic gadgets and methods try to eliminate the need to think. I don’t think that is a good thing. My brain gets lazy when I don’t use it. In a power outage, I can still function…there are a lot of people I know that can’t function without the gadgets…Can’t make change, can’t dial a phone, can’t think.
My daughter has a lot of meetings coming up within a week….well, that is not exactly true. On her behalf, I have a two phone conferences, two meetings (requiring a vacation day from my work) and a special trip to see her with my son.
These meetings will begin the groundwork for her future plans. She will be included in the planning after her guardian ad litem, social workers and I hash out some basics. We want her to have a say in her future, too. My family has been very blessed to have very dedicated and conscientious social workers – from multiple agencies. They make the long trip to see her every month, and drive up for the meetings that I attend by phone. (I attend some meetings by phone because I would not be able to see my daughter that day – she is in school. I save my trips for days I can actually see her and spend time with her.)
A group home of some kind is in her future; about the time I retire. The hope is that she will live closer than the current three hour distance that separates us. I’d love to see her more often.
When I was writing (ranting?) about guns, I mentioned my daughter’s alternative weaponry. (Her hands, feet, nails and teeth were formidable, too.)
There have been a number of interesting weapon choices.
- Electric Fan
- Cupholder broken off my car
- Toy guitar
You would be surprised how much damage you can do with these items – damage to people and property.
If any other teen came after me, in my house, with these items – I would have picked up the nearest heavy object and decked them. But this was my daughter – and I did not want to hurt her. So when necessary, I used my weight as a weapon; I tackled her and sat on her until the police arrived.
The policemen(and women) who responded to domestic violence calls at my house were always kind and professional. I could not possible thank them enough for their help during those difficult times.
There was a shooting on my street last night. Around 11:00pm. The 25 year old victim was driven to the hospital. There haven’t been many details in the news…that kind of local news really doesn’t get much coverage. I slept through the shooting, though it was just a couple doors away. My dogs never barked. There was no sense of immediate danger.
I cannot for the life of me imagine what kind of beef might exist between the shooter and the victim. How does someone decide to use a gun to settle a ‘score?’
What happened to stepping outside and settling things with your fists? or better yet, to argue or debate an issue intelligently? When did it become a standard option to settle differences with gunfire?
My friend told me it is becoming the “wild west” here. That is unacceptable. In almost 30 years, I have never been afraid in this neighborhood – and I am not about to start being afraid now.
I don’t keep a gun in my house. Am I against guns? No. I believe strongly in the right of law-abiding citizens to bear arms. (My personal choice of gun would be a shotgun with the shortest, legally allowable barrel and it would be only used to protect myself were there to be an intruder inside my home.)
While I am not against guns, I am against stupidity. Having a gun in my home with my daughter around would be have been stupid. (There are actually a lot of alternative ‘weapons’ that my daughter should not be around – but that is a topic for another day.)
I know my daughter. She has irrational thought processes and a hair trigger temper. I decided long ago that it would not be appropriate to have a gun in the house. What she might do in a fit of rage, would haunt her forever. Not to mention, she might kill me.
Now, I know about gun safety; locking up the ammunition away from the gun, trigger locks, gun safes, etc.
There are not enough safety mechanisms to insure that my daughter wouldn’t gain access. I don’t believe that a policeman answering a domestic violence call should have to wonder if the gun pointed at him by an angry teenager is loaded or disabled by a lock. My daughter, should never have even the most remote chance to access any gun.
I fired up the crock pot to make a beef roast (a teeny, tiny roast!) for dinner. I find I am eating a lot of pork chops (I freeze them individually), meatballs, and soups these days. Easy to make in quantity and/or freeze in individual servings. Beef roast for two days will be a nice change of pace.
I’ve never really enjoyed cooking – well, some of my kid-friendly recipes, like octopus dogs, were fun to make for my enthusiastic children, but octopus dogs are not exactly a homemade gourmet masterpiece. (In case you don’t know, they are hotdogs cut before boiling so they will look like an octopus when done)
Maybe it is the budgetary constraints that limit cooking creativity here at my house.
Maybe it is the time I’d rather spend doing something else.
Maybe it is the chirping of the smoke detector that criticizes my technique.
I really don’t know why I dislike cooking, I just do.
If I invite you for a meal, and I’ve cooked for you rather than serve take out, just know you should feel very honored.
I have a sign in my kitchen that says “Ambiguity – what happens in vagueness stays in vagueness.” I put the sign up because I love puns and it made me laugh. But the more I walk past it the more aggravated it makes me….because it’s true.
When I don’t say what I want or need, when I use idioms or use euphemisms to describe things, when I use any vague expression, I am unlikely to get what I want or need.
I need to talk to everyone like I talk to my daughter, who takes everything literally. Leaving vagueness behind. Does that mean I will get everything I want? No…but I won’t be disappointed due to miscommunication.
For instance, I have a friend who can’t say ‘no.’ He will say ‘maybe,’ which is just a way to avoid confrontation. I suffered a lot of frustration until I realized ‘maybe’ was just his vague way of saying ‘no.’ I don’t like having to interpret what someone really means when they are vague – it leads to fear and loathing in vagueness.
To my son, those puns are for you!!!
I am very easy going. I rarely get angry. It’s how I am wired. And most of the time that is a very good thing. There really aren’t that many things in life that are worth fighting about. (I will fight to the death to protect my children, of course.)
But sometimes things build up. It will be that last thing, one thing too many, that pushes me over the line. I ‘ll give you an example.
During my divorce, while my stress was high, the phone wire to the house was sagging badly. It was sagging because the phone company had twisted the wire around a tree branch to shorten the line and hold it up high when it was installed. Even I know that was not a good installation. A garbage truck driving down the street took the sagging line out. (It sounded like a truck hit the house!)
It was the worst possible time for me to have to deal with one more thing!
When the repairman came to reattach the wire to the house, I met him at the bottom of his ladder and asked where he planned to attach the wire. He indicated that he was planning to attach the wire near a second story window. Then he asked me why I was carrying a saw. I told him what the old installation looked like and that I planned to cut down any branch he wrapped a wire around. He laughed nervously and got to work.
I had reached my limit and I was ready to fight. Looking back, I wonder if he thought I was crazy.
Another family weekend has come and gone. I enjoy the time with my daughter very much. Our usual activities are games, reading the Barberton Herald, talking, and texting my son.
I always enjoy having her stay overnight with me, but this time she couldn’t stay at the hotel. Her behavior had been a little rough the week before. After our day together, Saturday, I was exhausted, and since I was alone, I enjoyed an extremely early bedtime. The hotel is very nice: clean, comfortable and reasonably quiet. (The pool is sometimes out of order, but since I do not swim, I don’t consider this an inconvenience at all.) The internet connection is speedy, but this time I didn’t even turn on the computer. I just rested.
As much as I enjoy time with my daughter, it is exhausting. I wonder sometimes how I managed when she was at home. The never-ending, confusing conversations, constant vigilance….maybe I just notice it more since it is only one weekend a month.
I plan to make an extra trip this month. My son is going with me; not overnight, just for the day. He is my daughter’s favorite person. I am smiling as I type this – thinking of how her eyes light up when she sees him.
As much as I love words, I often find I leave many things unsaid.
Do I tell my children and other family members I love them? of course.
Do I say everything I want to say when I see my friends? probably not.
I tend to be a listener, an observer, and I often turn the conversation back to the person I am with. With a couple questions, I can change the subject and just listen. It is easier than holding up my end of the conversation – especially if the subject is touchy. I’m not talking about politics and religion here. I’m talking about the state of the friendship, interpersonal issues.
It’s not that I don’t have much to say; it’s that I don’t always know what to say, or if it is the right time to say it. I’m never sure just what my audience, that is the friend I am talking to, will tolerate.
That’s why I write.
When people recognize themselves or others in my posts, they often contact me; it opens the door to further discussion.
When those folks are on the dense side, they don’t even realize I am describing them – and I don’t get any push-back. But that also means there is no resolution and the issues remain in limbo. It’s a cowardly way to operate, isn’t it?
You will notice this blog doesn’t have many photos. That is to preserve my children’s privacy. People who know my children already know the stories I share. And they know exactly what my children look like.
But, there is another reason: I really like words.
I love to read and see in my mind what the writer is describing. My mental images are vivid and detailed; far more interesting than a photo. My mind fills in the blanks where the descriptions are lacking.
I think that is why I always prefer reading the book over watching the movie. (And those movies that I do enjoy are always heavy on dialogue, really good dialogue: The Moon is Blue, All about Eve. It’s about the words!)
Now, I don’t for a minute think that my words are so wonderfully descriptive that you can see everything I describe exactly as it is. But I do hope my fondness for those people and places comes through…and I hope you use your imagination to fill in the blanks.
My dogs are relaxed and lazy most of the time; they are very nearly cats. A dog barking nearby will make them sit up and take notice, but they rarely join in. When the wind howls, or thunder roars, they come and sit quietly at my feet. They just look at me for reassurance that all is well.
Music attracts the dogs’ attention. They like Bob Marley. They wag in time to the reggae beat and become very mellow. I’ve been told that the boy dog grew up with reggae; I don’t know why it appeals to the girl dog. They both hide when I play my Traveling Wilburys cd, aware it signals time for housework and the vacuum cleaner.
Recently, the girl dog has started barking at the tv. Truth be told, she only recently started barking at all. What is it on the tv that makes her bark? Trucks, heavy machinery, roaring cars, airplanes, helicopters. These are the real-life noises that cause her to bark, too. It is a bark that clearly expresses annoyance. Do the machine noises hurt her ears? Or do they remind her of something that happened long ago?
Do the dogs bark when someone comes onto the porch? Yes. Since I started ordering from Chewy, they think every footfall on the porch is bringing them food, treats or toys and they respond with great noisy joy. This is not a scary “Beware of Dog” noise; this is a the dog equivalent of the way I feel when my Chinese food or pizza arrives.
I like the way that you can see so clearly what they are thinking/feeling by the way they respond; I wish people were more like that.
My daughter is not the only one to whom I send notes or cards. I send notes or cards to others, to let them know they are thought of fondly or encourage them when they are having a rough time.
I never expect a response; these notes are not part of an ongoing correspondence. No, writing is the best way for me to communicate what I am thinking.
Writing, rather than a telephone call, allows me to weigh my words; to revise my choice of words and make sure my point is clear.
I have always preferred writing letters. I have always hated talking on the phone…even as a teenager. I have a couple friends who will call me to chat; and while I am always happy to hear from them, and very glad they continue to call me, it is unlikely I will initiate a call to them.
Oddly enough, I don’t like texting or messaging very much either….better than a phone call, but not nearly as good as a letter.
And while I never expect to receive a note or letter in response to my own, I am tickled on those rare occasions when I do receive one.
And how do I feel about in-person conversations? Well, that’s a topic for another day.
I write a lot of letters to my daughter. I made a commitment, when she could no longer be at home, to keep in touch with her as much as possible. The distance of her placements has limited visits, and phone calls are allowed on weekends only. So I write to her.
Now, there is not that much going on in my life, or my family’s life, to fill my two letters a week. So my letters are not long. They are printed or typed, since it is hard for my daughter to read cursive. (If you saw my handwriting, you would understand why!)
One letter will be more serious, encouraging her to go to school and stay out of trouble. Often this letter will remind her when I will see her next.
The other letter comes ‘from’ the dogs; or at least recounts something silly that they have done. A silly joke or a picture of her favorite anime or game character might be included in this second letter, too.
I never get a response – even though I have sent her self-addressed envelopes and cards. Whether or not she writes back to me is not the point. My letters let my daughter know that I think of her, even though we didn’t talk that day. They make her feel connected to family here; and I do hear from her staff that she is happy to receive them.
Working on my future plans has reminded me just how much value I place on time.
I have often felt the conviction that I am stingy with my time.
Money, I hold loosely. Stuff? there is not much that I have that I wouldn’t share with someone who needed or wanted it.
But ask me for time?
I’m not saying I won’t drop everything to help a friend or family member. No, I do that gladly.
But I am often annoyed and impatient with people who, from my perspective, have wasted my time, even though I waste plenty of time myself.
While I’ve worked out how my retirement income, expenses, and time might work, I am still trying to figure out whether I want to pursue companionship when I retire.
I have friends, good friends, and I am not lonely. I enjoy living alone. But I realized a few months ago that I was missing day-to-day domestic life. When I realized that, no one was more surprised than I was.
I still haven’t decided what I want to do about that. I wouldn’t say that I am ‘stuck’ on this issue. I would describe it as ‘processing.’ You know, that little circle that goes around and around when your computer is ‘thinking.’
I looked back to see how long ago I wrote about missing domestic life. It was in a post from last December –
I have been working on getting un-stuck recently. Since my friend asked me about my retirement plans, I haven’t been able to get my future off my mind. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking, praying, and planning.
What will retirement look like for me?
I know I will need to work about 10-12 hours a month to stay afloat and finance my house’s fix-it projects. Most of those projects are low-cost and just require a lot of time and elbow grease.
I really don’t care for travel. (I am always happy to hear about others’ travels, but I truly have no desire to do it.) So, when I retire, I will happily spend time at home.
My daughter and parents will require more of my time. Retiring will give me the time I want to spend with family.
Then there is school. I love taking classes in the 60+ program. This keeps my brain busy and gets me out of the house. Being retired will allow me to take early morning classes, rather than evening classes, and allow me to select from a wider variety of subjects. Did I mention it is FREE?
I have been practicing living at the lower income level I will have at retirement…and am relieved to report it is definitely doable. And working out this plan has made me realize just how much I value time.
I’m no longer feeling ‘stuck’ …at least about retirement.
I’ve personally experienced a different kind of ‘stuck.’ It’s not a developmental issue, like my daughter.
No, this is different. Maybe ‘oblivious ‘would be a better word for my issue.
For a long time I didn’t realize I was stuck (see, I WAS oblivious)… not moving forward…not making future plans.
One reason for that is that things with my daughter were so unsettled. I was so focused on her future, that I forgot to think about my own. When I did make plans for myself, like planning to retire at 62, it was because that plan coincided with plans for my daughter. My 62nd birthday is about when she will graduate from high school and move closer to family. I want to be more available to her when she moves closer.
But there is another reason for it, as well: I wasn’t sure what I wanted. I really hadn’t spent any time figuring out what my future would look like! or what I wanted it to look like!
How did I figure this out? One day, my friend asked me what I planned to do when I retired. It was then that I realized I really didn’t have a plan and that I really wasn’t sure what I wanted. My friend has a way of asking questions that really make me think!
I’ve been writing about some silly subjects in order to avoid writing about this one. I have been mulling it over in my mind for some time and yet I don’t have any insights into how to address it.
It’s about being ‘stuck.’
It’s something that came up at a recent family weekend, during a lecture. I have no doubt it is true. I see it in my daughter and I see it in other women I know. (I am not singling out women; I just don’t have many close friends that are men.)
It’s something that happens with traumatic events (that includes the onset of mental illness or addiction) that causes emotional growth/maturity to get stuck at the age when the traumatic event occurred.
It’s possible to work past some of it, maybe more easily if you don’t have intellectual or additional developmental issues, to deal with, too.
I don’t know if my daughter will get past that – she is 17 going on 6. I don’t really know if she has the intellectual capacity – but I do plan to make every effort to help her grow up, to get un-stuck and move forward in every way possible. I want her to be her best possible self.
I realize that the opposite of a compliment is an insult. But sometimes there is something in between; the ‘compliment’ just isn’t very, well, complimentary. Some people call them left-handed compliments…but since they aren’t really very clever, that is an insult to left-handed people everywhere.
I’m not talking about mis-speaking, when the words coming out of your mouth don’t match the compliment your brain wanted to say. (When people do that you can see they are mortified!) And I’m not talking about very direct insults – words that are clearly meant to be mean. Non-compliments are passive-agressive comments….you casually act like you are saying something nice, when you are really just being catty.
“Oh, you used a new pattern this time, didn’t you?” is not the same as saying, “Nice jacket.”
“Wow, you’re wearing makeup today!” is the non-compliment version of “You look especially nice today!”
“I like that so much better than the one you had on yesterday!” is a non-compliment, too.
“I would never have thought of wearing those two (or in my case, three or four) colors together!”
“You like the way you wear your hair, don’t you?” I could go on and on.
My grandma, and I imagine most grandmas, used to say, “If you can’t say any anything nice about someone, don’t say anything at all.”
The non-compliment version would be, “If you aren’t sure you have something nice to say – (implying you are just not that smart) – keep your thoughts to yourself.” The kicker is, I would never say that to someone – because it isn’t nice!”
I don’t drink, so I don’t have to worry about sending drunken texts. But I am all thumbs (not in a good way) when it comes to texting/messaging.
My son has had some good laughs over my texts. I learned the hard way that I MUST wear my glasses when I text…even if the message is sent from the larger screen and keyboard of my computer. And because I often text folks whose first language is not English, I spell out every word and use proper grammar and punctuation.
Recently I sent a message to the wrong friend. A valentine message. It was not mushy or romantic, so there was no harm. I just felt a little stupid…and the recipient was very polite, but a little confused.
It could have been a disaster!
Maybe the lesson I learned from this experience is one I should have learned in kindergarten – if you can’t share it with everyone, don’t share it at all. Of course, if I do send you a confusing message, wishing you love, just accept it – I’m sure you deserve it.
I love shoes. Over the years I have had some fabulous, and fabulously uncomfortable, shoes. But it’s the red ones that own my heart.
The red shoe-lust started when I was just a girl. My aunt took me shopping for shoes. Milton’s Shoe Box on Copley Road. I must have been 8 or 9 years old. These shoes were to be my Sunday dress up shoes. Sunday shoes were black patent in fall and winter, and white patent in spring, in time for Easter, and summer.
On this very memorable shopping trip, however, I spied a pair of candy-apple red shoes in the window. I was in love. My aunt knew my mom would not be happy with red shoes and make me return them – so my aunt let me wear them home so that they would be non-returnable.
I wore those shoes whenever I could – with any color dress. I wore them until my feet could no longer squeeze into them.
I’ve had many pairs of red shoes since then, different styles, different heel heights and levels of comfort. All quite expensive and resoled several times to extend their lives.
Even now, I occasionally wear red shoes – of course , now they are sneakers, machine washable, very comfortable and practical. But I can tell you if I am wearing these, my mind is on that first pair of red shoes, and it puts a spring in my step. One of my friends always notices and says, “you’re wearing your happy shoes today!” She’s right!
Over the years, I have made some interesting hair decisions. You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, with my shoulder length hair, uncolored and pinned back purely for convenience, but I was in my younger days, a slave to hair fashion.
I have died my brown hair red, frosted it, had uni-perms, spiral perms, even a home perm(only one of those – I learned my lesson.) I have have had very short hair, waist length hair, bangs, layered and feathered styles….and before I was old enough to choose: an assortment of Pixie cuts.
I have used hot rollers, curling irons, an iron for crimping and straightening, blow dryers and gallons of hair spray. I braided (I braided it a lot back in the seventies – lol) rolled, pin-curled and even rag-rolled my then, thick wavy hair.
I spent a lot of time trying to make it look ‘just right .’ I cringe to think of the time spent (it took hours to roll up my perms) to change my look.
Looking back at these lists, it is amazing to me that I still have hair. Post menopause my hair is thinner (not too thin) and extremely straight, still mostly brown, but starting to grey. I’ve become comfortable with it – and that I wish I would have done sooner.
Actions can have huge impact.
I’m not talking accidents or crime – although a few years back, when we had a break-in, it caused us to get our first dog… So those teen-aged thieves certainly did have an impact on us!
I was thinking about more positive impacts. For instance:
The lovely nurse at the doctor’s office that made my daughter feel so at ease. This was at a time when everything was a struggle, and this nurse erased her fears and made her feel important.
The young man, a host at Cracker Barrel, who treats our family so kindly. He always fusses over my parents, especially my dad. It makes my dad so visibly happy!
The young man who plows our parking lot at work, and goes out of his way to salt where I park and walk. He checks the parking lot even when no events are scheduled – just for me. I appreciate it so much!
The dear friend who sent me chicken when I was going through a divorce. Yes, I said chicken. It was the most practical expression of sympathy and support I have ever experienced! And it provided delicious meals for days.
These actions have a huge impact; they make life better. These individuals, their actions, make me consider… what kind of impact have I had today?
Recently, at Family Weekend, we had a guest speaker (a prescriber) to parents about meds.
It was interesting to hear how meds are developed, and how they are used off label.
It was frightening to hear about the possible side effects and interactions they can have.
It was educational to hear how long it might take for a new med to work. (My daughter thinks meds work as soon as you swallow them – like in the commercials.)
It was horrifying to hear that generics can contain only 70% of the active compound and still be considered “equivalent.” And it was equally horrifying to hear how many of the drugs are manufactured in China and India – far from the eyes of American inspectors.
My daughter’s meds have been helpful. There is no doubt about that. (We have had one or two over the years that were the opposite of helpful! I keep a ‘blacklist.’)
I am grateful that she is covered by medicaid and that I don’t have to figure out how to pay for her meds.
I am aware that vigilance is necessary: Self monitoring for side effects and other issues is beyond her current capability, so I do need to look out for her.
I am thankful that she has been compliant in taking her meds, so far. As she becomes an adult – I realize that could change. Since I try not to borrow future trouble, I will choose to remain hopeful that as she matures, she will see the value in her med routine. And as that routine changes, I hope she will learn from watching me, what questions to ask the doctor or pharmacist – and ask them.
I live in a neighborhood dissected by a steep hill, an interstate and railroad tracks. Roads stop, start and sometimes turn into stairs, or a foot path. There is no designation assigned to the streets, like north or west, to clarify the sections. Sometimes the closest route by car is several blocks or a half mile away. Locals will tell you the nearest cross-street and hope you can find them. In a local neighborhood, this might be considered charming.
However, construction projects in our town have produced a whole new level of “You can’t get there from here.”
I can see the local university, downtown, from my kitchen…up here on the steep hill. Getting to school is easy – the route may change a little, day-to-day, due to highway construction, but I can get there, as long as I pay attention to which lanes are open today.
Coming home is another story. I can see the hill where I live…..but the trick is figuring out how to get there. Damage to a nearby bridge (this accident could not be anticipated) has disrupted traffic. Emergency repairs to the interstate (now, think about just how big a chuckhole must be to require immediate, lane-closing repairs) eliminated my usual route. The downtown roads that are open during their construction have constant lane changes – and driving through them at night is no pleasure.
I do make it home, eventually, but my 5 minute drive often takes 15 or 20.
Now, I don’t dispute that some of the traffic changes and new construction are necessary. But I do think it might be better to finish one project before starting the next one (if it’s not an emergency). And maybe the newly popular* ‘right-sizing’ or lane reducing of major roads, like our local business district boulevard, could wait until all surrounding road projects are completed.
*popular with the “experts”, not drivers
I like bold colors, but I am NOT a fan of pink. When my daughter was little, she loved green – a lot of her clothes were still pink (have you ever shopped for little girls? Pink is inevitable.) but green was her favorite.
As she grew, she decided she would like her room to be pink. It had been beige, with lines of ivy and a border of little cottages, gender neutral, and very calm, since it had started out as a guest room for adults.
We looked for wall paper that she might like at the discount shop. We found a border that she loved…pink ballet shoes, with ‘photos’ of grown up ballerinas in pink tutus…ballerinas that were a variety of shades of brown. It was perfect. Even with a ballerina theme, I figured she would enjoy the border for a long time.
Once she found the border, she was done shopping. She left it to me to find the pink paper for the rest of the room and the pink paint for the ceiling. She was very serious about the shade of pink he wanted – bubblegum pink. I found paper with several shades of irregular pink boxes that had a companion paper of bubblegum pink with circles and cartoon-ish daisies. I bought both and I asked the salesman to match paint to a pale shade of pink in the paper. I painted the ceiling and trim and got to work hanging paper.
My daughter’s room is as large as my own, and it took the better part of a week to get the room done, working evenings and all day Saturday. My daughter loved it and it suited her. It was bright and happy …and despite what you might think from my descriptions of the wallpaper….it looked really nice. Really pink, but really nice.
She enjoyed it very much for a couple years before she destroyed it. She put huge holes in the plaster, right down to the lath when she lost her temper.
When I had the holes repaired – the gentleman who repaired my walls, wouldn’t charge me, God bless him – I decided the pink had to go. Even then, I knew it was unlikely that my daughter would be coming home to stay. I removed the pink wallpaper and painted over the pink ceiling and trim. I took up the carpet and finished the hardwood floor.
The room is pale blue and beige, once again gender neutral and very, very calm.
Daylight Savings Time comes March 10. I love the lighter evenings….but I hate the time change.
Why? In the fall I spend weeks trying to convince my dogs that it is NOT time to get up. I pull the covers over my head, but they grunt and snort and try to find me with their cold wet noses until I give up, get up and feed them, an hour earlier than needed.
In the spring, I spend weeks trying to convince them it IS time to get up. Pulling the 50# mutts out of bed and herding them outside is not how I like to start my day.
I remember when my son came home all excited from school one fall day and informed me that starting that Sunday, days would have 25 hours per day. He had misunderstood his teacher and he thought all the days would be longer, not just the one day when we changed the clocks.
It really doesn’t matter how many hours are in the day – there are never enough, yet I still manage to fritter many of them away.
Maybe I’m the one who needs schooled on time – not the dogs.
Grandma was a cheater. Checkers, cards; at any game we asked her to play, she cheated. I wondered for a while if it was being hard of hearing, not understanding the rules…..but no. She just cheated.
And not just at games. When she read books to us, she skipped sentences, paragraphs and pages, whatever she could get away with.
When my sisters were little, they got even. She would read to them at nap time, and thinking they were asleep, she would tip-toe down the stairs. They would wait until she went all the way down the stairs before they yelled very loudly, in sing-song voices, “Grandma, we’re not sleeping.’ She would climb up the stairs and read again.
She was an interesting babysitter. Lots of polka music on the stereo: Frankie Yankovic.
When we did something we weren’t supposed to, (while she was napping) she covered for us. I remember my sisters trying to catch the guppies in the 10 gallon fish tank with a comb. Why a comb? Who knows. They were quite successful, though. Grandma scooped up the poor little guys, after they stopped flopping and put them back in the tank. We were adults before my mother found out why her fish raising efforts were unsuccessful!
Monthly, I attend family weekends with my daughter. The facility where she resides reserves hotel rooms and provides meals so families can spend time together.
I always go. Sometimes my daughter’s behavior is excellent in the weeks before, and she gets to spend the night at the hotel with me. Many times, her behavior is not good, and she comes over to the daytime events, returning to the facility overnight. Either way, we get to spend hours and hours together and I love that.
Something always puzzles me at the weekends, however.
The rules are very rigid; this is necessary for the young people who reside at the facility. This is a group who sees things black and white; something is, or isn’t acceptable. For this group there is no in between – they understand the rules and most try hard to follow them. This part is not puzzling.
What puzzles me are the family members (just a few) who come, and ignore the rules. We are not talking criminal activity here. We are talking about things like: No cellphone use during programming, or no outside food or drink during programming.
I do follow the rules – I want my daughter to see that I think it is important. I want her to know that she is capable of following rules….of doing what is expected. I want her to understand that life is easier when you do what you are supposed to do. And I don’t want the distraction of a cell phone during the precious time I have with her; she is far more important than the latest music video, text message or tweet.
Whenever I write about my grandma – I usually mean my mom’s mom. We saw her very often.
Although my dad’s mom lived just as close, we didn’t see her very much. She was busy raising my cousins. She would have been about my age when my uncle died. I cannot imagine taking in three rambunctious boys at 60.
My memories of her are limited. I remember her wearing boy’s tennis shoes (sneaker options for women were different than they are now). At the time I wondered why. Now I know: her feet hurt.
As she aged, her hair remained mostly brown, and I don’t think she colored it – because mine is the same way. In fact, when I look in the mirror, I often wonder at how my grandma’s face is looking back at me.
She was an accomplished knitter and crocheter. I still have the little blue afghan she made for me. While I knit ( dishcloths and hats only – I cannot for the life of me get pairs of things, like socks or mittens, to come out the same size), I have never been very good at deciphering the instructions for crochet.
The colors she picked for some of her projects were outrageously bright; something else we have in common. I wonder if she had some color blindness, too?
Today is my friend’s birthday. When I wish my friend well today, this is what I mean:
- may you wake up from a good night’s sleep, in a warm, comfortable bed
- may you feel as well as possible (face it – we’re old and stuff hurts – lol)
- may you receive many loving greetings from family and friends
- may you have time for fun, without any guilt about using your time for yourself
- may you have a deep sense of security and a genuine feeling of calm
- may you have hope for a future that includes peace, love and happiness
- may you sit down to good food on the table, and have good company with whom to share it
- may you have cake (because everybody needs cake)
This was posted two months ago. For some technological reason I do not understand, this post got all messed up when you scrolled past – so I deleted the original and am trying it again.
I usually bake my kids’ birthday cakes. I am no baking/decorating master, but I have managed to make a number of acceptable, even a couple exceptional, cakes over the years.
When it was my daughter’s birthday, we would sometimes be on vacation with extended family in the Outer Banks. She would know we were going to celebrate, and even pick out the cake – but she wanted us to all to yell “Surprise” when she came in the room. She expected it and enjoyed it, so we did it.
My kids’ birthday cake adventures were pretty tame compared to two of my own experiences.
First, I remember a birthday cake my aunt ordered – a doll in a hoop-skirt cake with a big cardboard and frosting hat. Well, the candles were too close to the hat. You can imagine the rest. Exciting and memorable. All the other birthdays celebrated with my aunt run together. Only the flaming disaster stands out. What I learned from this experience – you remember more of what goes wrong than what goes right.
Second, there was the banana cake incident. We were high-school age, a few girls celebrating a birthday at my friend’s house. I baked a scratch banana cake with cream cheese icing – it was perfect. When the birthday girl went to cut the cake, it was too close to the edge of the coffee table and flipped frosting side down onto the living room carpet. We laughed so hard that we spilled a glass of cider onto the mess. We, being responsible girls, decided to clean up our mess with the vacuum cleaner. Needless to say the vacuum was never the same. Fortunately, someone else had baked a second cake and the party went on. What I learned from this experience – always have a back-up cake.
I used to watch a cartoon called ‘Fractured Fairy Tales’ when I was a kid. Puns everywhere. It is the kind of cartoon I enjoy watching even now.
I don’t know if it was this cartoon that inspired my telling of the ‘Three Bears’ fairy tale to my son. I do know that he was truly frightened of Goldilocks for many years. Here was a girl who would come uninvited into your house to eat your food and break your stuff! He found it frightening. I probably should have read him a standard version from a children’s book…a version where Goldilocks ran away, afraid of the bears.
I think back often about the stories my children liked me to tell them or read to them. Sitting on the couch reading to them, or telling them stories was one of my favorite parental responsibilities. No, make that one of my favorite parental privileges.
My neighbor was a good cook, a very good cook. I remember the smell of garlic and onions coming from her house as I came home from work. At canning season, the smell of tomato sauce and a variety of peppers filled the neighborhood. Like my grandma, she used the high wall of her back porch to cool her pies and set her jello at Thanksgiving – that back porch was an extension of her busy kitchen. When my son was born, she brought me a casserole…it was delicious.
My neighbor often offered my young son a cookie when we were out for a walk. We would stop and chat while my son ate his cookie, waiting patiently to move on so he could look for interesting rocks and bugs. My son asked more than once why her cookies and other baked goods tasted so much better than mine. It made her smile to hear him say that.
The neighborhood has changed since she moved away. Oh, I still have good neighbors, but illness and age keeps them inside. Some, like me, work irregular schedules. There is still the feeling, that in an emergency, you could knock on any door and someone would help. But there aren’t neighbors sitting on the porch, waiting for a chance to talk. Or share a cookie.
My daughter is approaching age 18, so there is a lot of planning going on about her future. Some of the planning involves her team of social workers, and me. Some of it includes her directly.
When I adopted her at age 46(she was 3), I never imagined the changes that would take place in both of our lives. I did not expect to feel old at 60. I did not expect to be a single parent. Am I expressing regret over the adoption? NO. Not at all. I’m just saying that my plans back then did not adequately consider rogue events.
I think it is important to plan. I think that based on what we know about my daughter’s development and her emotional state now, we will come up with a wonderful plan….a plan that will take into account every situation that we can imagine. It’s those situations that are outside our view, beyond our wildest imaginings that could derail the plan. God knows her future. He knows her need. And I am confident that he will provide what she needs even if her team and I can’t foresee it.
Will I lose sleep over the plan, or over her future? No, probably not. I will make every effort to be sensible and careful. I will consider possible outlying events, and wherever I can, make them a part of the plan. That doesn’t promise planning success, but is does eliminate guilt and regret and those are the things that tend to keep people up at night.
When I was little, my grandma’s dining table had six legs with wide curved stretchers connecting the legs. These stretchers made wonderful roads or parade routes for the decorative salt and pepper shakers she used to let me use as “toys.” A refrigerator box with a dish towel as a curtain on a cut-out window, was a playhouse. The old record player turntable was a steering wheel for my “car.” I played “store” in the fruit cellar. Grandma could fold hankies into babies in cradles and turn little boxes into cribs. Newspapers could be cut into paper dolls.
I spent a lot of time playing at Grandma’s, but I don’t remember there being actual toys there…and I certainly don’t ever remember being bored.
When I got older, imaginative playing gave way to watching silly old movies on Saturday afternoons and sitting on the porch swing; all of us talking, laughing and dozing off after a big lunch. I miss those simpler, quieter days.
Perhaps the biggest challenge that comes with living alone, is cooking for “one.” My crockpot is my friend (my daughter calls it a ‘crackpot!’). Since I don’t mind leftovers, I often plan to eat the same thing all week or freeze servings for busier days. Soup, chili and meat sauce for pasta are frequent preparations. Easy to make, easy to reheat. An occasional roast or batch of pulled pork. I am definitely in a cooking rut.
I have friends that are gourmet cooks; their recipes and ingredient lists are astounding. Like the cooking shows on tv – far removed from the reality of my kitchen.
Here is the kind of cooking show I would like to see:
The competing cooks go to a random home, a home like mine: galley style kitchen, old stove and an oven that may or may not heat to the temperature you dial up. Using just the equipment available in that house and just the ingredients on hand in that house, the competitors have to make an edible meal.
No fancy knives, one mediocre paring knife. No fancy pans – just Farberware or Revereware. no stand mixer – just an egg beater.
Simple seasonings like salt, pepper and Italian seasoning from the dollar store. Ingredients like canned tomatoes, boxed pasta, canned tuna, condensed soup, applesauce and baked beans. (Not to be used all together in one dish – of course!)
There may or may not be butter, milk, flour,eggs or sugar on hand. The produce will be grocery store quality – not fresh from the farm or orchard. The meat or poultry will be from the local supermarket and will be frozen solid because no one defrosted it.
The judges will be picky children – not people who live alone. Why? because when you live alone, you tend to appreciate anything someone else cooks for you!
Looking back over my posts, I see I have written about a lot of things other than my daughter.
When I write about her, it is often very difficult. So if you wonder why I get off track, wonder what’s up with the silly family stories: It’s a matter of self-care. Some self-indulgent writing about happier days, simpler times, and adventures with friends takes my mind off the weight of care giving, and off the pain of loss.
Now, do NOT imagine that my life is a misery – it is not. I actually consider myself very (undeservedly) blessed.
I have friends who don’t get to choose to take any kind of break. Their reality is 24/7, ongoing, never-ending care-giving. They have my respect and admiration. I remember having my daughter here at home…the constant stress, the heavy weight of that responsibility.
I have friends who have suffered the worst possible loss, the death of a child. I cannot fully comprehend the enormity of that grief. I still get to see my daughter, and although the future for us is not what I imagined when she was little – she is still here, on this earth for me to hug, and I am very, very grateful.
When I think of racing, I do not think of NASCAR, the race in Indianapolis, or drag racing.
When I think of racing, I think of my daughter’s racing thoughts and the resulting one-sided conversations she has with me.
She will be talking to me very fast; it is hard to follow her train of thought – and suddenly she will stop and ask, “Wait, what was I talking about?”
If I’ve been able to keep up with her monologue, I tell her and she will go on. When I can’t keep up (It is easier to keep up in person than on the phone!), she will go on to something else…and when she remembers that first racing train of thought, she will suddenly switch gears.
Now, I come from a family of fast-talkers. I’m used to that. But my daughter’s words come out at a speed that makes everyone else seem slow!
Funny thing is, while her words and thoughts may race, her walking and working at tasks is very slow. I think to myself sometimes, “If she moves any slower, she’ll be going backwards!”
I have never made fried chicken. Never. I have never even investigated fried chicken recipes. I live in an area with many local and truly excellent chicken joints, so I never had any reason to cook it myself. I do cook chicken in other ways: baked, stewed, grilled, paprikashed. I make chicken a la king, chicken casserole and an assortment of other chicken dishes – just no frying.
My daughter was horrified to find out that ‘chicken’ was really chicken. We eat beef or veal (we don’t call it cow), pork and ham (we don’t call it pig) – so why don’t we have an alias for chicken? Fortunately, her horror at eating chicken didn’t last long. She did want to know, though which part was the nugget. Her comment was, “It’s the butt, isn’t it?” Just thinking about the seriousness on her little face, when she asked…
Similarly, my grandma, upon hearing that we had “chicken fingers” at a fast food place, once remarked quite seriously, “I didn’t realize that chicken had fingers!”
With my sisters and parents, saying “chicken” would bring back the same memory to all of us. My sisters had a friend who was a very picky eater. Knowing this, my mother always fixed chicken when she came to visit. Every time. We found out later that this friend thought that chicken was just the only thing my mother knew how to make.
In my kitchen there is giraffe lamp from World Market and a giraffe painting that my daughter made in kindergarten. I love that painting. The giraffe is smiling, surrounded by clear blue sky and he is twisted into a crazy position because he is joyfully dancing. It is a happy picture; it makes me smile when I see it.
Some of my kitchen wallpaper has sky blue and red stripes and some of my kitchen wallpaper has giraffes. Now, if I didn’t point out the giraffes, gazelles and ostriches in my wallpaper, you might not notice them. They are beige animals in a colonial style wallpaper that I bought – wait for it – because I liked the colors. The red, green and blue plants that surround those beige creatures match the style and colors of the cross-stitch samplers hanging in the kitchen. It’s hard to explain, but it really all coordinates quite nicely.
This is not the wallpaper I was hanging when a friend passed away – I mentioned that in a recent post. This wallpaper represents a fresh start and happy days. I put it up right before my daughter came home from her first placement. It was celebratory wallpaper!
Recent happy kitchen memories include meals with friends and cooking because I choose to – not because I have to.
From the other room, sitting in my recliner, I can see into the kitchen and watch the sunrise through the kitchen’s picture window. The window is framed by a string of lights; the kind of lights you see strung across the ceiling in an Italian restaurant. They were a gift from my son and they always bring him to mind. He makes me happy, too.
I remember the first time I saw and heard Andrea Bocelli. It was 1997 on public tv during fundraising week. How do I remember? Am I some kind of music memory savant? No. I remember because I was wallpapering my kitchen.
That was what I was doing when the phone call came. A friend had died; he had been very sick for some time. He had survived a lung transplant that extended his life a few years, but he had begun to fail again. I remember thinking about his wife and how lost she must feel after such a long struggle.
That song always makes me think of her. “Time to Say Goodbye.” It isn’t actually the correct translation of the Italian lyrics, it is a phrase added to the song in English to make it suitable for another event, a retirement. (I think the correct translation is more like “I will go with you.”)
I remember seeing her at the hospital after his transplant. I remember how sick he had looked before the operation and how well he looked afterward. I remember her giggling and happy when he came home from the hospital. She adored him. And he loved her. You could see it on both of their faces. You could hear it in the way they spoke to each other.
I remember him using the time after the operation, he felt so much stronger, to make sure everything was good at the house – he made curtains (yes, he could sew; he had been a boy scout!), painted, remodeled. He wanted the house to be trouble-free for her when he passed and he worked hard at that.
I remember the stories they shared about how they met. I remember them bringing dinner to us on the day we moved into our house and telling us about some of their own homeowner experiences. I remember them together. Until he passed away, I don’t really remember seeing one without the other.
It was hard to get her to come out after he passed. She stayed, for a while at the house he had he had so faithfully prepared. Then I lost track of her. I heard she moved in with her son. She was truly heartbroken after he passed away; she missed him so much because she loved him so much; or maybe it was because of the way he loved her, Either way is just lovely.
My children and I spent a fair amount of time at the Akron zoo; it’s close to home and the annual membership fee was very reasonable. Both of my children had their favorite parts of the zoo.
When my son was young, my aunt often went along with us. She and I sat and talked while he dug up “dinosaur bones” in the area set aside for digging. We followed him to the playgrounds and watched him ride the pony. The animals were really not the focus of our visits…except the goats. He liked to feed the goats.
Now, my son was a very cautious boy. The goats were as tall or taller than he was. Before reaching out his little hand full of goat crackers or kibble, he would look them in the eye and ask, “Are you a nice goat? You like me, goat?” Now, of course the goats didn’t answer; their eyes were focused on the food in his hand. But he took their silence as agreement – “yes” and “yes.” When they took the food he offered, he would smile and wipe his dimpled little hands on his overalls. (I love overalls on toddlers and preschoolers – if you have a baby and I give you a gift – that is probably what it will be!!!)
Visits to the zoo with my daughter were a little different. We spent a lot of time at the playgrounds, too…zipping down the slides, climbing carefully up the ladders or steps. When my son was with us, he carefully guided her up and down. She always looked to him to determine what was safe, fun, and acceptable behavior. She watched everything he did.
When he got older, my daughter and I would go alone. I have a lot of pictures of her sitting on a giant fiberglass caterpillar and “driving” pretend vehicles. She liked the more recent additions to the zoo….the jellyfish and the interior play areas. Even when she was a little too old/big for those play areas, she enjoyed them….and as long as her behavior was appropriate, I let her play on them with the smaller children who were there.
My daughter’s trips to the zoo were shorter. It was easy to see on her face when it was just all too much and we needed to leave. She would fall asleep, exhausted, on the five minute ride home.
I miss those trips to the zoo. I think I’d like to go again, just myself…maybe I’ll feed the goats.
I have a three frogs in my living room, ceramic and glass…and a “mistletoad” that hangs in the doorway year-round.
I did not set out to collect frogs or toads. In fact, my favorite one, the big fat frog, started out as something I didn’t want at all.
We were shopping (my mom, my sisters and me) at a gift shop, on vacation at the beach. My mom wanted me to distract one sister so she could buy a gift for her elsewhere in the store.
My sister and I were in a section of the store that had bugs and frogs. Now, there was no way I could make my sister believe I wanted a giant ant doll for my living room, so I went for the frog. I really sold it. “He’s so cute. I really like him.” I kept my sister busy with the big fat frog until my mom had stowed her gift purchase safely in the car.
Later that week I received a gift. Because I had convinced my sister that I LOVED the big fat frog, she talked my mom into buying it for me. My mom asked her, ‘Are you sure?” It didn’t look like something I would pick.
My sister really worked hard to convince my mom it was what I wanted. She remembered all the things I pointed out about the frog (while I was keeping her busy!) and my mom was convinced…she bought me the big fat frog.
Now when I look at that frog – I think about how my sister went to bat for me and that is what it represents. I got two other, much smaller frogs as joke gifts after that – so big fat frog now has a little frog family.
And the mistletoad? He hangs in the doorway to remind me of something completely different. A kiss. Wow! what a kiss! The mistletoad represents hope of getting kissed like that again. Someday…..
I don’t know why it was so easy to form a friendship with my caregiver friend. If I knew what made it easy, I would look for other people with those qualities.
What I do know is this: He is easy to talk to. He doesn’t seem to be offended by my need for alone time (he needs his alone time, too.) He gets my jokes, or at least laughs at the right places. He eats my cooking without complaining and doesn’t think I should wait on him. He expects me to have opinions and doesn’t expect those opinions to be the same as his. He makes me feel like ‘me’…not somebody’s mother, daughter or anything else. Just ‘me.’
My friend is not perfect, but he is authentic. (On the rare occasion that he’s tried to be cagey – well, let’s just say that he has an obvious – obvious to me anyway – tell.)
He has great taste in music and likes to sing along and dance… I’m not saying he’s REALLY good – I am saying he REALLY enjoys it, and that makes those around him enjoy it, too.
My friend is genuinely and rather innocently affectionate, not fresh or grabby. (He would call that ‘frisky.’)
While having a companion on a caregiver journey is helpful, having a companion who is no longer following that same path, who is changing directions, makes it hard to stay close. I expect we will see each other less, communicate less, and continue to move farther apart. This friendship will just fade away. There will be no animosity and no regrets. Hearing my friend’s name, will always make me smile.*
*(I’m hearing Hello, Old Friend, by Eric Clapton in my head…“when he tipped his hat, I knew his name……” )
My caregiver friend and I have been friends for about 2 1/2 years. Despite the difference in our life experiences and lifestyles, we bonded over some common things…like care giving, divorce and shared acquaintances.
If you saw my friend, with his hippy-biker style, you might think he was tough, rough. You would be wrong. He is polite, considerate and gentle. Sometimes, a little goofy.
He is the most naturally kind person I have ever met. He took wonderful care of his mother. He treated her gently and lovingly, even when he didn’t feel very well himself.
I always knew this was a friendship just for a time, this care giving time, while we were both traveling this parallel road. My journey on the care giving highway is never going to end. Oh, I’m not stuck in the 24/7 express lane; no, I’m in the local lane with frequent exits and little curving access roads. Since my daughter is not living at home, I can veer away from the care giving highway for brief side trips. I just can’t stray very far.
My friend, who had been stuck in the express lane of constant care, has now, after the death of his mother, been able to exit that road entirely. He looks forward to new and distant adventures…Just as soon as the weather is motorcycle appropriate.
I am very happy for him; he is free to go wherever he wants and is no longer responsible for anyone else. I don’t think I remember that feeling.
I wish him the best – I hope that he will be as kind to himself as he was to his mother. He deserves that.
Long after most children stop taking naps, my daughter still needed them. She required a lot of sleep at night and substantial down-time during the day.
She has a very odd (to me, anyway) way of sleeping. She sits cross-legged, like you would in a yoga class. Then she leans down over her legs, head resting where her calves intersect. Her arms are tucked in the middle, across her waist. I don’t know when we started calling this position “turtle-mode;” I do know it was intended to be descriptive, not mean. She looked like a turtle with all extremities pulled in.
I was NEVER that flexible. It amazed me that she found this position comfortable. (AND STILL DOES!) I also remember her sitting and watching tv with the soles of her feet on either side of her face. She routinely and absentmindedly stretches into positions that amaze me.
Grandma had an assortment of colorful neighbors over the years…There were neighbors who borrowed fried chicken. Neighbors with unusual names. Neighbors whose dogs brought her Fenton glassware and other collectible offerings.
One young neighbor boy ran into her kitchen and hid under the stove (the stove was up on legs back then). He had seen a blimp in the sky, didn’t know what it was. He thought it was a whale or fish coming to eat him.
An elderly Italian woman wanted to summon the police. Not knowing how to use the phone, and knowing the telephone lines were attached to the poles, she ran out and knocked on the pole, calling “Police, Police.’
Grandma’s next door neighbor routinely came to borrow ice, which made Grandma wonder if the poor girl knew how to make it.
Grandma was the best cook. I have not eaten pork chops anywhere that are as good as I remember hers. And don’t get me started about the gravy. She planned six (yes, you read that number right) pork chops per person when she cooked.
Grandma wore glasses. It didn’t matter if they were hers. If they were handy, she put them on. She would complain, sometimes, that her eyes weren’t very good that day. Those would be the days she was baking; her glasses were covered with flour and it never occurred to her to clean them.
She baked and cooked a lot; if she wasn’t sitting on the couch, she was standing at the stove. If you fussed over something she made, pecan pie for example, she would make it every time you came. I cannot eat pecan pie to this day, because I ate so much of it a kid. I remember warning my friends to compliment the cooking, but not to go overboard – unless they were willing to eat that same food at every visit forever.
She knew she was a good cook and she would often tell stories about how her cooking was better than a neighbor’s, relative’s or other acquaintance’s. One story involved a cherry pie – the baker bragged and bragged about her cherry pies, but didn’t remove the pits. Grandma was incredulous.
At restaurants, Grandma routinely said, “Mine are better.” And she was right!
Her recipes, when they were written down, were not really helpful. “Bake until done” is not a real instruction! A bit, a pinch, a handful – really!
Her grocery lists were not helpful either! Triangles were her shorthand for chicken breasts. Circles were donuts. Or dog treats…and there were some other hieroglyphics that you just had to guess.
Last time I wrote about IEPs, it was about a discouraging one. This week we had a IEP meeting that knocked my socks off. (I am thinking about what that expression might look like in my daughter’s very literal mind and chuckling.)
There were nine participants, all fully engaged. Every suggestion, was discussed and then worded or reworded to have the maximum impact on my daughter’s success. Her mental state (her mental health diagnoses and her autism) was truly considered as a factor in her ability or inability to complete her work.
Despite the ice and snow, two workers from my county made the two and a half hour drive to participate in person. Despite a school closing, the school staff came and participated – all of them. The guardian ad litem and I participated in the meeting via phone.
The plans and changes to help her move toward graduation….so encouraging. I look forward to the day when she’ll be moving closer to home. So encouraging!
Grandma was born in 1902. She was 56 years old, and already seemed very old, when I was born. She was quite hard of hearing. My grandma was a short woman, well under 5′ tall, but she was not a small woman. Her clothes came from the half-size department; nowadays, we call it the plus-size department. She wore conservative clothing to church, black and navy blue, no jewelry, but very loud-print cotton house dresses at home. (The prints disguised the tomato sauce and paprika that found their way onto her clothes when she cooked.) The dresses, all of them, always seem to hang longer in the front than in the back, regardless of how they were hemmed. She wore a hat or babushka when she went out, and a very long black coat. Her long, curly white and grey hair was always pinned up on her head with hairpins and a hairnet – unless she was brushing it out. Grandma looked like Aunt Bea on the Andy Griffith show (but not as stylish), and even had that same shrill tone to her voice.
I spent a lot of time at Grandma’s. We (my sisters and I) were there all day most Saturdays, sometimes after church on. Once I was grown, I often visited her in-between. I visited at her house when she live around the corner, and when she moved into an apartment, I visited her there.
I loved being at her house, being with her.
Once Grandma passed away, I continued these visits with my Aunt, who lived with her ….but those stories, stories about my Aunt, are for another day.
Grandma had her special place on the sofa. Her seat. I don’t ever remember her sitting anywhere else. That sofa – it was the color of paprika, burnt orange; the upholstery fabric was bullet-proof. The furniture was always in the same arrangement – at her house nothing ever changed.
One day, a neighbor kid came to visit. He was very fond of Grandma, and her cookies, and stopped to visit whenever he came to town. His comment was, “Everything is always the same here, nothing ever changes.” It was intended as a compliment. And it was true, nothing ever changed there. She never fussed if the house was clean enough for company; she always said they came to see her, not the house. And she was right.
Everyone was always welcome, but I will say she preferred her grand-childrens’ friends, because she “didn’t like to be around ‘old’ people.” I remember her saying that she didn’t know how she got so old, that she still felt young on the inside. I didn’t understand her comment then, but I do now.
Just for the record, I don’t really like that movie, Lawrence of Arabia, but Peter O’Toole is beautiful in it. Yes, I do mean beautiful, not handsome; if you’ve seen that movie, you will agree. When I saw the framed movie poster at the thrift store, I had to have it. Graphically the poster is striking….and the colors match my bedroom perfectly. Red, gold, brown, orange. (Yes, I admit I buy artwork because I like the colors.)
My room, like the rest of my house is colorful. Red and gold fabric-look walls, boldly patterned borders, a red rug, old furniture, a Moroccan travel poster, a funky round mirror and Lawrence. My room is “exotic-on-a-budget.”
Now, I have no desire to actually go and see Arabia or Morocco. I hate to travel and I have never had a passport. I dislike flying and I prefer to sleep in my own bed every night. But I do like to think about far away places. I watch travelogues on tv and movies. I prop up against my white iron headboard, snuggle in under my orange and red comforter, and read. The books take me far away. The warm colors and vibrant patterns in my room make me feel warm and happy; they please me.
I was eager to talk to my daughter; she had been on the upswing when I saw her at family weekend.
When she called today she was tearful and upset. We are on a sharp downward turn again. It’s heartbreaking to hear her cry and wail. I want to be there to hold her hand and give her a hug, but she is far away…and the next visit isn’t for another 10 days. And if I was with her, there is no guarantee she would accept the hug…sometimes she doesn’t like to be touched. I always ask if it would be helpful before I hug her or take her hand.
Nothing is right in her world today. School. Her roommate. Her memories. Homesickness.
It is one of those days that when you look her, you can see things are not good in her head. Over the phone, I hear it in her voice.
Her mental state overpowers everything, every thought. I don’t know how else to explain it. It overpowers? overrides? overwhelms? Her unsettled mental state fills her with sadness, anger and fear…and it overflows into her actions.
On days like this, I feel very sad for her and helpless. It’s heartbreaking, just heartbreaking.
When I was in sixth grade we moved across town to the house where my parents still live. I went from a neighborhood with 20+ kids, to one with only a few, most of them younger. I went from a school where I knew everyone, to a school with only strangers.
Fortunately, there was a girl down the street, in my grade, who became my friend. We spent a lot of time together, listening to LPs or 8tracks, stalking boys we liked , playing marathon games of Monopoly, and walking home from school. When summer plans took us different directions, we wrote a lot of letters.
My parents never asked me where I was going when I went out with this friend, because we had fun, but we never got in trouble. (We accepted as fact that we would get caught if we did something we weren’t supposed to be doing.)
My friend has a wonderful sense of humor (translation: she gets my jokes and likes puns) and while we don’t see each other often, due to distance, we do occasionally send each other a bad joke or pun. Sometimes I run across a pun so bad (or good, depending on your perspective) that I have to send it to her. Our punny interactions always make me think about happy times long ago.
About the same.
For instance, I remember the two of us visiting my grandmother. Grandma was getting a little forgetful, and when Grandma asked how my friend’s little dachshund was doing (we already had told Grandma that the dog had passed away) my friend answered without hesitation, “about the same.” It was kind, true, horrifying and funny – all at the same time.
I thought about that visit the other day. A detour took me by my grandmother’s house…and my friend’s visit is the thought that popped into my head…About the same.
Since I always played classical music in the nursery for my son, daughter, and foster babies, I listened to a lot of it myself over the baby monitor. Often I played a cd, sometimes I turned on the local classical station. It was background noise, soothing and I never paid it much attention.
One night, having fallen asleep on the couch, I woke to the most amazing melody/harmony. It drew me in and woke me up. I didn’t recognize it and the radio announcer, of course, did not say what it was. Back then, there was no digital read-out on the radio to tell you what was playing.
A few weeks later, driving with the same baby in the car, I heard it again. This recording was different, piano only, but I recognized that the music was the same. I pulled over and listened closely until I heard the announcer say it was a transcription for piano of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony.
The music makes me cry every time I hear it, that second movement!
Recently, I was able to hear it performed twice – by the Akron Symphony and the Cleveland Orchestra. Both times the tickets were given to me by people who did not know how much I loved it. I can’t describe the feeling I have when I hear it….it overwhelms me.
There are other songs that transport me back to a particular place and time in my mind, songs that bring to mind an experience or feeling (like dancing with my friend to Turn the Page), but this music, Beethoven’s Seventh, stands alone in touching my soul.
I watch a lot of old movies and tv shows. My children watched them with me. They never seemed to care that they were in black and white. Maybe they thought the world used to be less colorful.
It was certainly more appropriate for children! Old shows like McHale’s Navy, Burns and Allen, The Munsters, even the Three Stooges – were all acceptable for little eyes and ears.
Sometimes my daughter would ask, “Did you watch that when you were little?” When I answered, “Yes,” she would scowl and ask “Is he dead?”
Now, sometimes the answer would be, “No, but he is old now like Gampy,” and she would be very satisfied with that. But when the answer was, “Yes, he is dead,” she would shake her head and say, “I knew it.” I don’t know how she “knew it,” but it clearly was important to her , because she always asked. If I didn’t know the answer, I had to google it so she could be certain.
The actor being alive or dead didn’t determine whether we watched the show or interfere with her enjoyment of the show. It was just a fact she needed to know.
It’s funny, the things my daughter focuses on. Sometimes the things give me an insight into her thought processes. Other things, like this dead-or-alive information, leave me wondering.
I was sitting in my recliner, looking out at the heavy snow falling today. It made me think of another snowstorm long ago. It made me think about how things have changed….how I have changed.
I had just started my first full-time job and no one had my phone number to call and tell me not to show up for work…during a blizzard. I went; I was carpooling with my dad back then because we both worked downtown. It was the legendary (in our area ) Blizzard of 78. My dad and I both went to work in my 1967 Buick. We both came home early together.
I have to say, it would have never occurred to 19-year-old me NOT to show up for work. Now, as an older adult, you do not have to ask me twice if I want to take a snow day – whether I get paid for it or not. It doesn’t have to be particularly dangerous – just really snowy or really cold – for me to call and tell my boss “I’m not coming.”
It isn’t that I have become less reliable as an employee, it’s just that I’ve become more sensible as a person. I have a better balance in my life. My job is how I get money to live. It isn’t a career. It isn’t my life. It’s just a living.
Now, I really like my job – I am a church secretary and bookkeeper – but I am confident could find another…and I would like that one, too. I feel a freedom regarding my job, or changing jobs, and regarding life in general, that I did not feel as a younger person. That is a positive change.
When forecasters call for the mother-of -all-snowstorms to come down on us, I think back to the Blizzard of 78 and think – “I’ve seen worse.” The creative terms they use to describe the storms do a disservice to the public – hysteria reigns. This is a big change from 1978. Because the weather is delivered in such a sensational way, because the the computer generated models are taken as gospel, people are fearful. When the storm doesn’t develop as predicted, we and venture out during the next storm, when we shouldn’t. This is a negative change.
So, if I’m not keen of forecasts, how do I know when to stay home? I take my dogs out. If I have to push them out the back door due to the extreme cold; if the gate or garage door is frozen shut, if the snow is drifted up to my knees…I stay home. Yup, common sense.
Thinking about the Lunch Bunch made me think about a woman that passed away before the group was formed. Mrs. G.
Mrs. G. attended our church for some time. She was very lovely; beautiful on the outside, as well as gracious and kind, generous and strong. If I had to describe her in just one word, it would be ‘class.’
I could never understand how her husband could have left her and their children. I know it is not possible that his new, younger love interest was more beautiful than Mrs. G.
I knew Mrs. G. long before I was divorced myself. I heard her advice (Hold on loosely) and saw the grace with which she conducted herself. I saw the respect that her children and others offered her.
She was very vocal about what was, and wasn’t helpful, after a divorce. Some people mean well, but don’t know what to do or say. (Sadly, others just don’t mean well.) Because she shared these experiences in her gracious way, people paid attention. And when I got divorced, I avoided a lot of the difficulties she experienced. She paved the way for me and for others….it made it better, easier for us, and I am very grateful.
She went out of her way to befriend women who were attending church alone, widowed or divorced….and those ladies, in turn, befriended others. She was the “Lunch Bunch” before it existed.
Mrs. G. was an avid golfer, well into her 80’s. Very fit and fashionable. She passed away after a very brief and unexpected illness. Years after her passing, when I have to deal with life and divorce issues, I still ask myself, ‘What would Mrs. G. do?”
I was approached by a woman at church about starting a group for unattached (single, widowed or divorced – or women who just come out to church alone) ladies – so that they could get to know each other. She was fairly new and wanted to meet other women. Women who might have interests similar to her own.
Now, I work at the church. I “know” everyone. I was NOT looking to expand my social circle. But I agreed to facilitate a get-together.
The woman who came up with the idea did not stay around to see her brain-child succeed. But I am so glad she came up with the idea! I have gotten to know the most interesting, strongest, most caring group of women you could imagine.
We are the Lunch Bunch – I was hoping for an alliterative name, but settled for rhyming instead.
We range from 50 – late 80’s. Two (including me) are divorced, one is single (and still hopeful) and the others, about six of them, are widowed. The widows are remarkable in their compassion for each other; in the quiet strength, and mental toughness, that they had to draw upon as caregivers when their husbands were sick.
I don’t want you to think that this is a humorless, grief support group. Just the opposite. While we do offer each other support, we get together just to laugh, eat and learn about each other’s lives. I have made some good friends. And I have to admit that, before Lunch Bunch, I didn’t “know” these ladies at all!
It’s funny how some songs remind you of a past event or a particular time. And my thought processes – sometimes I wonder if the way my brain functions is normal.
This morning, while I was driving to see my daughter, Free Bird came on the oldies station. It reminded me of a trip I took long ago. And a car.
A friend and I were driving to Florida, and a long version of Free Bird was playing on the radio when we started the trip. Funny thing was – I thought about that trip, and I thought about a car; a different car than the one we took to Florida. The car involved in the Florida trip was memorable because of the breakdowns it had over those two weeks on the trip. Since we were young, the trip was an adventure, even with the inconvenience of car trouble. THAT car was such a lemon, I will not even reveal its make and model…the mere thought of it makes me shudder.
The car that Free Bird brought to mind was one I really loved, a 1978 Thunderbird. Red. It was the car that replaced the lemon-car after that difficult trip. Considering how these things were connected in my memories, I realized that it was the memories of that particular friend and our times together that tied the good car and adventurous trip together with the song.
Next time I hear Free Bird, my mind will go to my friend first. Good memories.
Recently my dear friend moved south. While we didn’t see each other in person often, knowing that she was nearby, and knowing I could depend on her to pray for me, was very important to me. She could depend on me to pray for her, too. We would get together for lunch at our favorite spot and catch up on all the news: our children, extended families, pets and shared acquaintances.
Her husband recently retired, and her life down south, will be busy and full, and closer to her grandchildren. That makes me very happy for her; it is a wonderful change.
We will, of course, continue to communicate via text and facebook, continue to pray for each other, as we have done for years. We will still catch up on all the news, but it won’t be in person. And I’ll miss our lunches. Knowing she is living far away makes me feel lonely.
I always played classical music on the radio at night for my kids. Since the neighborhood is noisy, I wanted them to be used to sleeping with sound…and exposure to classical music is a good thing.
Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Saint Saens… all good for little ears to listen to.
When my kids got bigger, they could choose. Motown and children’s songs were added to the repertoire. My daughter liked Captain Underpants, so “Super Diaper Baby” played over and over on many nights.
Then there were the bongos. For some reason, my son decided to buy my daughter bongos as a gift. (I often wonder if he was mad at me when he bought them!) My daughter loved to play those bongos along with the radio…especially in the wee hours when she couldn’t sleep… Better than a door alarm for me to know when she was awake at night.
Two of my daughter’s animal dolls were a mint green elephant from a claw machine and a beanie baby duck. Ellie, the elephant, was my daughter’s favorite stuffed toy for year. Ellie went to placements with my daughter, rode in the car with my daughter and had to start wearing doll clothes just to keep her stuffing contained. And an eye patch. Ellie had lost an eye. It was a sad day when Ellie disappeared. Nellie (short for ‘New Ellie,’ who is a new green elephant) has taken her spot on the bed…but Ellie is still missed.
Ellie’s closest friend was Dandy the duck. Dandy was about 6 inches long with a small head, wobbly neck, skinny legs and a worn tuft of feathers on his head. He also was well loved. Dandy got lost at my daughter’s first placement. It was heartbreaking for my daughter. We looked and looked online and in stores for a similar duck, but my daughter could not find any duck that was just right.
One day we were at a yard sale. My daughter got all excited – she found a 50 cent duck that was “just like” Dandy! This was not a 6 inch duck! This was a two foot tall duck with a HUGE head! It was the same color as Dandy….but so were a lot of the potential replacements that we saw online. What did she see in this giant duck that made him the same as old Dandy?
It was the worn tuft of feathers on the head that made the giant the same as little Dandy. That was the one part that was so important to her!
When my daughter played with her Barbies, they often had “guests” for tea. The guests included stuffed elephants and ducks, sometimes wearing clothes(stuffed animals were always considered dolls here), and Little People. The Little People are toddler toys, about 2 inches tall, in a variety of skin tones, hair colors and ages(indicated by balding and grey hair). She had elaborate stories about which ones were related and how.
It never occurred to my daughter that there was anything odd about the disparity in size and shape of her tea party participants. They were all dolls and all played together. I didn’t think it would be a good lesson to have her keep the dolls segregated by type.
She still has doll families (mostly stuffed animals) where you cannot tell who is related just by looking at them…you have to ask. After all some of them are adopted, and there might not be an obvious familial resemblance. It makes me happy that she plays this way. It makes me happy that she accepts that family members don’t have to look alike to love each other and be together.
I write letters to my daughter. They aren’t long, or particularly interesting…but they make her feel connected to home. I try to write two at a time. One that is fairly serious and one that is silly. The dogs often “sign” that one. My daughter knows that our dogs don’t actually say ‘hello,’ but it makes her laugh when I tell her the dogs said to tell her, “woof.”
I remember when she was six or seven years old. We watched “Mr. Ed” reruns. My daughter was sure that horse could talk. And “Babe”. Talking pigs, sheep and dogs!
When she heard a real dog “woof,” she would ask me what the dog was saying. She thought she just wasn’t hearing the dog’s words right. It took quite a while for me to convince her that animals don’t really speak.
My name is Kellie.
When I type that into my online email program, it tries to autocorrect.
“Did you mean ‘Killer’?” it says.
Killer was the name of a neighborhood stray that lived on my grandma’s porch.
Killer was a big black labrador mix. Killer was old and very friendly.
Killer had no teeth. Everyday my grandma would cook Killer mac and cheese for lunch.
“No, autocorrect, my name is NOT ‘Killer’!”
My friend has had a series of golden retrievers. Rescues. I remember her telling this story about one of them.
One inclement Sunday morning, her dog did not want to go out. On a typical wet-weather day, when my friend was staying in, that was ok. On those days, he did not have to go out. He could wait for the rain to stop and the air to warm up.
This day was different. My friend had all-day plans, and needed her dog to go out NOW. It was for his own good…she did not want him to be uncomfortable.
Exasperated, she pushed him out the door, and she told him, “Trust me. I know what’s going to happen, and you don’t!”
My friend said she realized as she said that, God must sometimes feel that way about us. We don’t want to experience the inclement weather and refuse to move…not understanding why things are happening, not not seeing the bigger picture.
There are two things on my bucket list. Only two: A return to the ocean for a vacation(off-season), and a trip to Cooperstown and the Baseball Hall of Fame.
On Major League opening day, hotdogs and other ballpark-type foods are served at my house, in front of the tv. I use rabbit ears to watch tv, and not very many games are broadcast, but opening day is always broadcast on our local station.
I like baseball movies: Pride of the Yankees, Rhubarb, It Happens Every Spring, The Sandlot. I regularly re-read my favorite baseball books: Veeck as in Wreck(my all-time favorite), Cobb, The Curse of Rocky Colavito. And I love to read about dead ball era players and games, and the business of baseball.
I like the sound of baseball on the radio. It is the soundtrack of my summers, now, just as it was when I had my first transistor radio, back in the 60’s. It is a sound I associate with happy times.
My dad listened to baseball, and my grandma listened to baseball (although, sometimes she would take her hearing aid batteries out because she didn’t want to waste them on the Indians…yes, they could be that bad).
Growing up in the 60’s, the neighborhood kids played baseball in the street. The sewer lid was home plate. Telephone poles were bases. The rules and equipment were very loose…of course there is no sliding into a telephone pole. We used a bat (or stick), we used whatever ball we had, not necessarily a baseball. We only had two mitts among us. The pitcher was very often the biggest kid playing. He pitched for both teams and didn’t get to bat. Our games were not measured in innings, we ended when our moms called us in for dinner.
When I was pregnant with my son, Ken Burns’ Baseball was showing on PBS. I was on bed rest, and I must have watched it, all of it, at least three times over that summer. The Major League strike that year – the year I could have watched all the Cleveland baseball games – really annoyed me, but not enough to keep me away from baseball the next spring.
I dressed my son in baseball gear quite often. (Clothes for little boys seem to come only in three ‘colors’: vehicle, sport or dinosaur. As a kindergartner he wanted to be a baseball player/archeologist.) My son played a couple seasons of baseball as a kid and I decorated his room with an old-time baseball theme.
I don’t follow the current players very closely, but my son regularly fills me in on the new players, trades and standings. Apparently, the love of baseball is genetic.
Individualized Education Plans.
This was a new concept to me when my daughter started school. Actually, her teacher suggested it and spearheaded the campaign to get it done. The principal advocated for my daughter’s accommodations with the music teacher and art teacher. (The principal would allow my daughter to sit in the office and work on her math homework if she wasn’t up to music class. I don’t know if it was the noise of the students or the loud voice of the teacher that upset her – she could never say.) The staff worked as a team to make my daughter successful. I know this is not typical. I have heard all the public school and IEP horror stories that parents tell.
I have one, only one, to tell myself.
Fourth grade – this year got off to a rocky start. First, a new principal was at the school. Before this year, I had no idea just how important a principal is – in terms of setting the tone for the school. Second, one month after school started, just when my daughter had gotten into the routine of a new school year, the school decided the class was too big and needed to be split. Of course, that meant my daughter would be moving to the new class, despite my pleas that this was not good for her.
A substitute teacher had the new class for a month before the permanent teacher arrived. Personal tragedy struck the new permanent teacher, and after a few weeks, another long term sub took the class. All this upheaval was not helpful to my daughter. And while I was sympathetic to the new teacher’s absence, I was annoyed with the principal’s refusal to leave my daughter in her original class.
Come time for the IEP, I left work early to attend the meeting. I was on time. The intervention specialist was waiting for me and we got down to business. No one – no teacher, no principal, no district representative – NO ONE else attended. Now, I liked the intervention specialist, but she was not in contact with my daughter on a daily basis. While we did go over the recommendations and the intervention specialist promised to go over the IEP with the teacher and principal, I left the meeting discouraged. If the meeting was inconvenient for them that day, they could have rescheduled. When the formal IEP transcript was given to me, I was surprised to see both the teacher and principal signed it as if they had attended. It made me very angry. It was clear to me that the educators were not taking my daughter’s education seriously.
The rest of that year did not go very well. In fact, I don’t know how they passed my daughter to the next grade. Because of this, I made a decision – to enroll my daughter in a charter school, one that had a large number of students with autism, bi-polar, adhd, and other related disorders, for grade 5.
While, it was the best choice for my daughter, it was not as convenient for me – it was across town and my daughter is NOT a good candidate for riding a school bus. (We did try the bus a couple different times, but it was Trouble – the capital ‘T’ is intentional.)
At my daughter’s current placement, they have Family Weekends. Once a month, I travel to western Ohio for a day-and-a-half visit, with group and family therapies and free time. The facility pays for a hotel room, and when my daughter’s behavior permits, she can stay overnight with me at the hotel.
I like an extended visit like this. It gives my daughter and I time to talk about a lot of things, face to face, which I really value. It gives me time to interact with my daughter’s direct caregivers. The guest speakers, experts who address the parents only, share good ideas on self-care and practical advice.
But perhaps the most helpful part of the extended visits is this:
Extended visits give me a chance to talk to other parents, who are dealing with similar developmental and mental health issues in their children…and this is really helpful.
- Helpful because I know I am not the only one in this situation.
- Helpful because some of the trial and error experiences they share can save me a lot of trouble.
- Helpful because I see hope for my daughter when they share their successes.
- Helpful because I have seen the services available in my county are not widely available – it makes me truly appreciate the competency of the social workers on my daughter’s case.
- Helpful because I can share my experiences with someone who really understands, someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m a crazy person when I talk about my daughter’s behavior.
“Wait here until you are useful.” That is the sign on my desk. The sign has a quirky picture with a bird that I saw on the internet a few years ago when I was looking for something else.
I don’t remember what it was I was looking for when I found this sign.
Isn’t that how life goes? You are looking for something, working toward something….and something else, something completely different pops up. Maybe it is a change in circumstances, maybe a change in your health, maybe you make a friend that makes you stop and take stock of your life.
That’s why I keep the sign on my desk – not because I need to be reminded it is good to be useful – I keep it to remind myself that I need to keep my eyes open, pay attention to what is going on around me, so I don’t miss something meaningful, something unexpected and important.
I have lived in the same house since 1990. It was familiar to me immediately – it has the same floorplan that my grandma’s house did – with different details, and not as old.
When I bought my house, I was interested in the closeness of the bus stops. Do I take the bus? No, not usually. But I could if I needed to, and that provides me some security.
My parents and sisters all live within blocks. If I need something, or if they need something, everyone is nearby to help. I don’t have to travel very far to go to the market, hardware store, bank or post office. Doctors, and hospitals are both nearby. I have a 10 minute commute to work.
The utility costs are low, thanks to newer windows. The taxes are reasonable and, well, since I have lived here so long, there is no house payment. I cannot imagine anywhere I could live as cheaply as I do here.
For many years, even as a kid, my dreams took place at my grandma’s house – that house that was so similar to my own. Very recently, I started having dreams that take place in my house instead of at my grandma’s. My sister suggested that the shift could mean “the past is done.” I like that. And I think that the shift also means my future is here.
My daughter is a horrible liar. No, I don’t mean she has the habit of lying all the time! What I mean is that she is just horrible at it.
Any story she tells is out of order and confusing, difficult to follow – so I tend to ask her a lot of questions.
When she is telling me the truth, she knows the answers to my questions, like -“Who was there?” or “What color were they wearing?”
When she is lying, she can’t settle on an answer, or the answers are so far out of the realm of possibility, so outrageous, well, let’s just say she is always found out. Her “tell” is obvious.
When she asks me how I knew she was lying, my answer is always the same: Moms always know.
When my son was three, he wondered how he got caught doing things he wasn’t supposed to do. My aunt told him that moms have eyes in the back of their heads.
One day, while I was sitting playing with my son on the floor, he started lifting up my long hair; he told me he was looking for the eyes in the back of my head – he wanted to see those eyes.
Thankfully, my son outgrew the confusion between ‘an expression’ and fact. (This is something my daughter still struggles with.)
We always had a large flock of rubber ducks in our bathroom – most were yellow, but there was the occasional odd duck. When my son was two, he was intently studying an oddly shaped blue duck. He turned around, a very serious expression on his face, and grimly declared, “Blue ducks no have butts. Yellow ducks have butts, but blue ducks no have butts.” He shook his head sadly as he walked out of the room.
He outgrew his sadness over the unfortunate blue duck – it was after all just a toy. but he has never outgrown kindness and concern for those who seem ‘different’. I hope he never does.
I cannot imagine living in a rural setting. I love the city lights too much.
When I was a girl, visiting my grandma (just a few blocks from where I live now) I loved looking out over the city lights from her hill top home. The shape of the interstate and other roads looked like a Christmas tree to me. I still drive down that street occasionally just to see that view.
From my house, in the winter, when the leaves have fallen, I can see the city lights I can watch the New Year’s Eve fireworks that happen downtown. (In the summer the trees are so thick, there is only an occasional twinkle, and although we can hear the summer fireworks at the ballpark, we can only see an occasional glimmer.)
I like the look of the neighborhood homes – different styles and eras, all on the same street. No homeowners’ association to control what color(s) you can paint your house. Renters and owners all on the same street.
And I love the look of the families, families of every color – and families that include every color. At the local grade school, no one considered it odd that my daughter and I were not the same color. I like that.
There are some sad sights in the neighborhood: vulgar graffiti, an occasional vacant house – but the good sights outnumber the sad.
I love my children, biological son and adopted daughter. I recognize that they are wonderful, undeserved, gifts from God and I am thankful for both of them.
I assumed, when I got married, that I would have children. But years went by…ten years.
Some of our friends were frantically trying to conceive, taking extreme measures, and exhibiting desperate behavior, bordering on throwing a tantrum. I thought they were out of control. I could see they were not happy, that they would not even consider that they could be happy, without bearing children. They did not find enjoyment in anything happening TODAY – they were only focused on the future, a future that must include children in order to be complete. I truly did not understand this desperation.
Meanwhile, I felt, “If we get a baby, great. If not, my life is still really good, isn’t it?” After all, I enjoyed being married, spending time with my husband. Those friends, who were consumed with conception, thought I was delusional, out of touch with my own feelings. Abnormal. I couldn’t understand their attitude, just like they could not understand mine. It made me wonder, for a while, if there was something wrong with me. (It was several years later before I encountered a woman with the same attitude as mine – it made me so happy to realize others felt content without children! )
There wasn’t anything wrong with me (at least not where this is concerned) – I just had the benefit of a perspective that not everyone enjoys – having an unmarried and childless, very wonderful aunt, let me see that life’s worth was not measured by your marital status or whether or not you reproduced. Life’s fullness is not measured that way. It’s how you receive and perceive what you have (or haven’t) been given, how you love those around you, that makes your life “full” and complete. It comes from inside, heart and soul, not your circumstances. Not from having children.
Our urban neighborhood is noisy. The street is brick and there is a certain noise that comes from tires rolling over the brick. The interstate is just a block away and that has a very distinct, mechanical sound. The neighbors, just a few of them, can be quite loud: dogs, all of whom bark when a stranger walks down the sidewalk, picnics and bonfires that feature Motown (I am so glad it it is Motown), fireworks around holidays, birds chirping at dawn. I am used to the noises from these regular occurring activities and routinely sleep through them all.
Every once in a while, though, there will be an unusual noise that wakes me up.
When my daughter was home, her room alarm routinely woke me, instantly and completely.
From outside, an occasional domestic dispute. A car alarm. Non-stop quacking. (I thought I was losing my mind – middle of the night and I am hearing quacks. A family of ducks had hatched in the back yard across the street and the neighborhood cat was too close for the comfort of mama duck.)
A gunshot…that was the scary one. My son was due to be home from work around the time I heard the shot. I ran downstairs and looked out the front door window; I saw him sitting in his car. When I turned the porch light on, he hopped out and ran into the house. I asked him if he heard the shot. He said, “Mom, I SAW the shot!” Frightening! Just frightening!
After my daughter’s first long term placement (six months) ordered by the juvenile court, she was released. The therapist did not indicate that she was significantly improved, but rather that it was time for her to go – they had done as much for her as they could.
I worked frantically to get ready: in home services scheduled, and visits arranged by her social worker and others who were assigned to her case.
It was a difficult summer, with multiple visits to the hospital, a short term stay at a mental health facility that served adults and teens and many calls to the police for assistance. Even the workers that came out could she was struggling to control herself.
At the end of the summer, about the time I re-enrolled her in a local charter school, all hell broke loose. It was a Saturday night. We had a wonderful day – a trip to the library, and Chinese take out (my daughter’s favorite). I had her get ready for bed at nine, with a reminder that bedtime was coming. At 10 pm I reminded her it was ‘lights out’ and time to sleep. That final reminder is what set her off.
She began swinging her toy guitar. The furniture, closet door and the walls took the brunt of her tantrum. When I walked toward her, she held it up to swing it at me, so I backed off. She began pounding on the wall between our rooms; her stated intent was to go through the wall and destroy my room. My 90 year old house is very well made and the heavy lath and thick horsehair plaster fortunately made her progress very slow.
It was at this time that I heard my son come home. I heard him talking on the phone, asking dispatch to send a CIT (Crisis Intervention Trained Officer). I thought to myself that a 20 year old should not have to know how to do that. My son let the officers in and they came upstairs. Since I knew they were coming, I had gotten dressed and ready for their arrival. When they came upstairs, I went downstairs to get out of the way. I could hear the officer say, ‘If you expletive kick me again, I will tase you.’
That was the last time, the last day, my daughter was home.
I have a friend who likes to say, “Normal is only a setting on the dryer.”
After years of dealing with “atypical” diagnoses, and “non-standard” behavior, I have to agree. People are just not “normal” – we are all weird.
And it isn’t just folks with a formal diagnosis that designates some definable difference – the weirdness is in all of us.
Of course, once you realize that, well, “weird” becomes “normal,” doesn’t it?
I have a friend who always ends her emails with “Choose Joy.” This is my resolution for the coming year.
When I think of ‘joy’ – I think of full satisfaction and security, peace and hope. I want to choose joy every day. No whining. No complaining.
Just like my thankfulness project back in 2016, when I chose to be thankful and express thanks every day – I want to make a daily, conscious choice to choose joy in 2019.
I recently saw another friend, one who is not joyful. The circumstances are difficult, the weight being carried is very, very heavy. Without a doubt, choosing joy would require tremendous effort.
But I can also see the enormous effort that it takes to continue to carry great weariness, unhappiness, and dreary tiredness. And I can’t help but wonder, “Would it be that much harder to choose joy? To embrace hope and relief?” I plan to find out.
I am a homebody. I go to work, see family or a friend and come back home.
I decided to go back to school as a healthy way to get out of the house and expand by world. The local university offers free classes (auditing) to those age 60 and over. When I turned 60, I signed up. I wasn’t sure what to expect.
Many things, i.e. technology, dress codes, the ability of students to write and read cursive….these have all changed since I last attended a class in 1978.
I was amazed at seeing young people walking side by side, not talking, but looking at their phones. Why don’t they talk to each other? I wondered how they can text and walk at the same time? I have to watch where I am going! Whenever I caught their eye, I smiled and said ‘good afternoon.’ They always seemed surprised and responded. I was very pleasantly surprised by the kindness and politeness of the students toward me.
In class, I enjoyed the lecture, I understood the material (Survey of Economics) and I did the reading (but not the homework – class is SO enjoyable without the pressure of assignment deadlines!) The reading was pretty minimal – a short chapter each week.
The book was digital only. Digital books are NOT my preference. I like to read in the tub and I have this awful fear of having the tablet in the tub. Not that I am going to drop it and ruin it, no, I take that risk with my paper books all the time. No, my fear is that I might accidentally take a selfie with the tablet and accidentally post it. Horrifying!
The one thing that has not changed about college textbooks: college textbooks are still incredibly over-priced.
I plan to take another class this semester. It is good for my brain and good for me to be out among other people – instead of a semi-hermit at home. I hope to sign up for a one-night-a-week class recommended by a friend. It has a whole new level of required student participation…not just a lecture. Yeah, I am living on the edge.
At her current facility, no one has visitors on Christmas Eve or Christmas. The reason will make you cry: There are no visitors on those days because so many of the kids (young teens to young adults) have no one to come see them.
Because of this, they all celebrate together. They open the gifts, shopped for by staff. They have a Christmas dinner, Christmas activities, a facility “family” celebration.
My son and I will celebrate “Christmas” with my daughter on December 30 this year. We will take the 3+ hour drive, talking and catching up. I look forward to this time with my son.
All of my daughter’s gifts, which will fill my little car (not because we spoil her; birthday and Christmas are the only occasions for gifts at her facility and I like to make sure she has plenty to wear…plenty of socks, undergarments, clothing, shoes), have been pre-approved, tags removed and her name written on them. We will pick up a pizza at the last shopping area before heading out through the cornfields and woods. When we arrive, we will wait by the locked door for staff to admit us to have lunch and watch my daughter will open her gifts. (My son will open the gift she made for him, too.) We will keep the conversation light and laugh together, enjoying our short, two hour visit, before the very long, mostly quiet, drive home.
We have always, since my sisters and I have been adults, celebrated with our family on Christmas Eve. As soon as everyone can get off of work, usually in the afteroon. That continues…but there are changes.
Some changes are just a result of aging – there are no little kids in the family, so we have a gift exchange – we have an exchange rather than giving gifts to all. And the menu: It is a sandwich smorgasbord.
Some changes have developed since my daughter is away.
The sign. Since my daughter is away, we started taking a photo with a sign. The sign was my mom’s idea. It says “We love you, (daughter’s name)” and we hold it up in front of us. Somehow, knowing she is missed by us all is helpful to her. We tell her, of course. But this small, extra effort is extremely meaningful to her. I print and take the photo to her.
The phone call. I start at the beginning of December, reminding her what day and time we will all be together. I keep my cell phone nearby…something I wouldn’t normally do at a celebration and we pass the phone around when she calls. Lots of “I love yous” and then my daughter talks to her favorite person – her brother.
The quiet. At the end of the day, I go home to a quiet house. I put on my nightie and I read the paper. I think, “Maybe I’ll head out to Christmas Eve service,” but I always choose to stay in.
Christmas Day. A late breakfast at my folks’ with any available family or friends, followed by more home and quiet. Sometimes, my daughter will call me on Christmas Day. Other times, she is busy…busy with the Christmas busyness of her home-away-from-home.
At one of the group activities at my daughter’s facility, families were asked to tell about the nicest thing that someone has done for us – individually. We were to discuss this as a family and come with an answer for each family member present. It was a wonderful discussion – “What about this?” we bantered back and forth. Both my daughter and I had several wonderful suggestions. Then she said it – “I know what the nicest thing is for you,” she declared. And she was right. It was the nicest thing.
I had fostered several children over a period of 8 years before adopting my daughter. (We actually had not planned on adopting – but that is a story for another day.) We had asked for infants; my son was still young and we wanted to keep him away from the influences of older children. Children’s Services sent us our first foster child, a little girl, just under two years of age. She was very cute, short, and quite chubby. It was a pleasure to have her in our home. After 11 months, an appropriate relative, an aunt, was identified, and she was able to move on to her permanent home.
I never had any doubt that this was the best possible move for my foster daughter. And when thought of her, I never doubted that she was well loved and cared for by her aunt.
Recently, I had a knock at the front door. I was already in my nightie, and not looking my best, but I decided to answer the door anyway. There stood a smiling, middle aged woman who looked vaguely familiar and a strikingly beautiful young woman I didn’t recognize at all. The older woman called me by name and said, “I’m (Aunt) and this is (Foster daughter’s name). We took a chance that you still lived at the same house.” Stunned, I invited them in. Foster daughter was indeed well loved and cared for…and graduating from high school.
They had come to invite me to her graduation party. This was at a time when I was sorely missing my own daughter; a time when I wondered if I had failed as a mom. They had come to invite me because they valued the time my foster daughter spent with me. It was an encouragement that I really needed at that time. It really was the nicest thing.
My son and I had a good time at the party. I shared one of my favorite memories of Foster daughter: she had a healthy distrust of strangers, and although she was a very pleasant little girl, when a stranger came near her, she would give them the meanest, dirtiest look. When I said I remembered this look, her family laughed – she still does it, they told me. Then she did it; she made the face – now THAT face I would have recognized!
I have had a series of wonderful used cars. All reasonably priced. All reliable. All white.
I didn’t intentionally buy white cars – I just always bought what was the best value.
I don’t want you to think I don’t care what I drive. I love cars. Classic cars, hot rods, fine looking new cars. If money was no object, my car would be fabulous. And NOT white.
When I totalled my Mercury station wagon (it was an embarrassing accident in a parking lot that involved a pole. A pole that was painted red – and I still hit it!) I had to shop for a used car. I had a budget. I had an idea what I would like to drive. I had to find something that was on both lists.
Nowadays, you can do a lot of the legwork online. I kept sorting the cars…looking up information about the cars, trying to decide if I wanted to go back to a manual transmission. I spent a LOT of time looking at the available cars.
One car kept ending up on the list. I wondered, “Who would buy a car with the color name ‘lemonade’?” Apparently, the answer to that question is ‘me.’ The car, a small Chevy, is fuel efficient, barely used and easy to drive. It is so small that I can even parallel (did I spell that right?) park it. I smile when I lift the garage door and see it there. I smile when I get in: even the interior is yellow.
Why is it the ‘Peep-mobile?’ Because it looks just like a big yellow marshmallow peep.
I loved going to the city’s main library when my daughter looked for books and videos in the children’s section.
The children’s section must have been designed by a mom. One way in, a bathroom in the section, and a security guard on patrol. I could park myself near the door with a newspaper and turn my daughter loose. She would browse for hours sometimes. Other times, she new exactly what she wanted and was ready to go in minutes. Either way was ok…this was a good, free and quiet activity we both enjoyed.
Eventually, she wanted to visit the teen department. She wanted ‘Graphic novels,’ you know what I mean, we used to call them ‘comic books.’ Problem is, the teen section is open, not enclosed. How could I be sure she wouldn’t wander off?
Adults are not supposed to sit in the teen section, or hang out there, but adults, mostly young men, would comb through the shelves for books, too. How could I be sure they wouldn’t bother her?
The nearest adult seating area was the business/economics section. I sat there with a book and read…occasionally walking to where I could see her…she would be sitting on the floor in front of a shelf full of comics, oblivious to everything.
One day the security guard on that floor stopped me to ask what I was doing hanging around the teen section. I told him my autistic daughter was searching for books to check out. I told him I was concerned because she had a tendency to wander and I couldn’t sit in the teen section. He asked me to introduce him to my daughter. So I did. (I realized later that since there was no familial resemblance – he would have never suspected I was her mom.) He told her that he walked through the section regularly…if she couldn’t see me or if anyone bothered her, he would help her. He pointed out a better spot for me to sit and every time he walked through the section he would give me a thumbs up on his way by to let me know she was still there and ok. Sometimes he would tell her to go check in with me. His kindness gave my daughter a freedom she would not have otherwise had.
No, not the cologne from the nineties. The obsession I’m talking about is far worse that those bad commercials.
The objects of my daughter’s obsession change – maybe rotate is a better description. A classmate. Japan. Anime. A video game. Drawing. Finding her birth mother. Something she can’t find – it could be as simple as a scrap of paper – this last one is the obsession that has the worst effect on her life.
Obsession is so disruptive. When my daughter is fixated on something, she cannot redirect. she cannot think about anything else. She cannot function until the obsession resolves or lessens. She doesn’t want to talk about anything else. She doesn’t want to learn about anything else. If she is drawing, she will erase and redraw the same thing over and over, trying to get it the way she sees it in her mind.
When she is looking for something she lost, she often can’t even tell you what it is. She can’t describe it, she can’t answer questions about it so that you can help her find it. She will empty every drawer, box, closet, laundry basket and bookshelf.
She will scream, ‘where is it? I have to find it! I need it!’ Sometimes she just screams – no words. It is not rational. There is nothing you can do to help her find the lost item…even if she wanted, or allowed, you to help.
When she is in this state, it is obvious, when you look at her face, that things are not good in her head. I wish I could describe it better than that, but I have no special insight into her mind. When I see her like this, well, I think I would be terrified to have that insight – looking at it from the outside is heartbreaking enough.
I have written about Sweetie, the dog with no name, and Perry, our first dog. I realized I left out Texas.
Texas has been here about 18 months. He is an old dog with no place to go, so I offered, if he was housebroken(and he is), to take him in.
He is a very sweet old man, similar in size (60#)to Sweetie. He is handsome, beautiful coat, smiley face. Undemanding, content just to have a quiet home. He is a polite boy, and I am glad he came to stay.
He recognized immediately that Sweetie was the boss of him. If he has a bone, and she wants it, he lets her have it. He defers to her in every way.
He likes to sleep on the floor beside my bed. Once in a while, Sweetie will come up and sleep with him. She “sings” him to sleep with her grunts and snorts.
Now, I don’t want you to think Texas is the perfect houseguest. One day I came home from work and he did not come to greet me. I went upstairs to see where he was. He had climbed into my bed, under the covers, and was sleeping with his head on my pillow. Unacceptable. Now I tightly shut my bedroom door.
Then there was the “pie incident.” My beautiful pie – the best looking apple pie I ever baked. I baked it for my friend. I posted a photo of it on Facebook – I don’t usually have beautiful baking successes to post. I don’t let the dogs in the kitchen (another usually tightly shut door), and I had only turned away from the pie for a moment. Texas stealthily grabbed and gulped the top crust, all of it, off my pie. I was SO angry and he was NOT SORRY! In fact, I’m sure, given the opportunity, he would do it again.
When I was 4 1/2, my mom had twins. My parents were expecting one baby in February, what they got was two babies, on December 21. Back then, there weren’t sonograms to show the babies and warn the families in advance.
I was NOT very happy with their arrival. When my parents brought them home, I asked them to take them back.
I like them a lot better now…56 years later, but I still like to kid them – “Your birthday is the darkest day of the year!”
There are times the strangest things will make me miss my kids. I don’t want you to think my life is a misery. It certainly isn’t and I am happy, content with my life. But once in a while, sadness sneaks up on me.
True confession time: I sing in the car. Loudly and badly. Usually it makes me happy, but once in a while, a song will come on the radio that makes me feel sad. (Ringo Starr’s “Photograph” for instance – I heard it on the way home the first time I visited my daughter at a facility. Years later, it still makes me remember that day and cry.)
When those songs come on, I change the station.
Christmas music can be the worst. Don Henley’s “Please Come Home for Christmas,” which I used to regularly belt out in the car: I don’t even listen to it when it comes on the radio …it makes me think of my kids, and it makes me truly sad.
There are some other Christmas songs that affect me that way, too. You may laugh when you hear what they are. I hope you do; I am smiling as I think of how to describe them.
There is a really bad Dean Martin version of “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer” that is overplayed on the local stations. My kids would laugh and say “don’t change the station” every time it came on because they knew it annoyed me – especially the German accent part – and because they knew that the ONLY acceptable version is by Gene Autry. I change the station when it comes on now, not because the song is awful(it is!), but because I miss the good-natured joking that surrounded it.
And “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas” has a story, too. When my daughter was little, she kept singing a song over and over. We couldn’t figure out what song it was….her lyrics were, well, different. “Does your llama, does your llama ever poo.” I don’t know how she got from a hippo to a llama – and the rest of the lyrics, well, they changed every time…only the llama and the poo remained the same. It wasn’t until she sang along with the radio in the car (yeah, we all do it), that we realized she had corrupted the hippo song. Now when I hear it on the radio, I smile and change the station before “Llama Poo” gets stuck in my head.
There are others, random songs, songs with mis-heard lyrics (for years I thought the werewolf of London had hair that was purple, not perfect!), that make me, not exactly sad, maybe “sentimental” is a better word. Not all of them remind me of my kids. A few remind me of friends now far away or passed away.
I’m sure some of the songs I sing in the car now on a regular basis will someday move into the category of “no longer fun”….in the meantime, I plan to sing them loud and work on my car choreography. If you see me, in the peep-mobile (that is what I call my yellow car – and a story for another day), singing and dancing, smile and drive on by – and if it’s a warm day and my windows are open, join in. It doesn’t matter if you know the words…I probably don’t know them either.
I always got my daughter to school. She put on her uniform, took her morning meds, I pulled her into the car, and walked her into the building, if necessary. Her hair may have been messy, her shoes might not have been on, but she got there.
At her residential placements, they have much less success in this area than I had. An on-site school – and the facilities can’t make her go if she refuses. I am not suggesting that they drag her by her feet down the hall. Or bribe her – I wouldn’t want that either.
But there needs to be some way…If she had missed school at home as much as she has missed school at her various placements – I would have been charged for her truancy.
Explaining to her that she is just prolonging the school experience is not helpful – she has no concept of time. She cannot connect her behavior now with a later graduation date – this just not make any sense to her.
I don’t know what the answer is regarding her schooling. She will be the first in her bloodline to graduate from high school, if she finishes. I have always placed a high value on finishing high school – not on getting A’s, but on doing your best. There is no shame in any grade – if that grade is the best you can do.