Remembering - Another Letter to my Sister

These are the days I miss you the most.  Memorial Day, the first official day of summer, as far as I'm concerned.  We never missed one, did we?

If you were still here, I'd be at your house this very minute.  We'd pack up for the pool: tuna sandwiches, freakishly large tub of cheese balls, fruit, water bottles, towels, pool toys, etc.  The kids would scurry around excitedly in various states of undress, while we attempted to slap sunscreen on their bright white, winter bodies.  POOL day!  Finally!  This meant school was almost over and we'd visit with you practically every weekend for food, fun and family.   They would plunge into the icy water and splash around joyfully as their lips turned blue.  We would finish the day with a lazy cookout - laughing about the day - laughing just to laugh. If we still had energy, we'd play a board game or three before crashing throughout the house and dreaming of future family adventures

Summertime was OUR time.  We'd plan a beach trip, no matter how depleted our bank accounts.  And we'd MAKE it work, by golly.  It was priority.  Fourth of July, birthdays . . . we were together for it all.

I wonder what you'd have to say about my current situation.  I know you would think it was odd, but I feel you'd be supportive, nevertheless.  In fact, I would think, "how in the world could I make it through this without her?"  And here I am.  Making it.  Slowly and painfully, but I'm making it.

But I still miss you.  Especially on days like this.

Stuff

My house is stuffed with . . . stuff.  Everywhere you look . . . stuff.  Craft stuff and school stuff and technological stuff and food stuff and cleaning stuff and messying stuff and stuff to take things apart and stuff to hold things together and toy stuff and paper stuff and dog stuff and stuff you step on and stuff you trip over and stuff you stuff into the linen closet and stuffstuffstuff.

So it shocks me to realize that when it comes down to it - all of the stuff that is truly mine fits into one large suitcase.

I'm moving out of my house; the home I've created with my husband over the past 14 years.  I love our home!  I love our land, our animals, our children (not necessarily in that order) and our . . STUFF, dammit.  Yet as I look over this home and everything I've accumulated over time, I realize that all I truly need materialistically is a week's worth of clothing and toiletries.  All I want, even! Who knew?

Just to clarify: I do not for one second consider my family as "stuff."  I cherish my children and have no intention of leaving them behind without a backward glance.  I will continue to love and care for them to the best of my ability.

But I AM leaving behind a life.  My life.  A life built around my own lie, but a good life, nonetheless.  I feel liberated and terrified all at once.  I am free to be myself!  I have a fresh start in life!  I also have no source of income, no plan for how I will survive, no idea how I will enmesh myself with two families at once . . . my head spins with possibilities and fear.  For the first time in my life, however, it does NOT spin with confusion.  I clearly see and accept myself.  I just need to figure out how to fit myself and all of my loved ones on this new path.

For now, all I can really do is love, learn, laugh and love some more.  Because THAT is the stuff that really matters in this life.

Honesty

What does it mean to live honestly?
To be who I am, even at the cost of hurting others?
To be loyal, even at the cost of myself?
Who am I?
We all ask this, don't we?
I am a mother.
I am a wife.
I am a friend.

And I am something else - something that doesn't mesh well with the rest.
I am gay.
Very gay.
No, it isn't a phase.
No, it isn't a burden for me to overcome.
It is who I am.
But is this honest?
Or just hurtful?
Am I worth feeling whole at the cost of my children's security?
Am I throwing away my family for the sake of intimacy?
Me . . . Miss "Team Jacob, what the hell does passion have to do with anything?"
A mother is supposed to sacrifice for her children, isn't she?
Will I split my home?
Will I cause embarrassment?
Confusion?

Or will I show them the importance of standing true?
Of BEING, regardless of others' opinions?
Of stepping outside the box and embracing who we really are?
Am I brave?
Or selfish?
I have suppressed and "fought" myself for 25 years, failing again and again.
But was that enough?
Too many questions and not enough answers.

Last month was spent in a psychiatric hospital recovering from cowardice.
THAT is not the message I want to send to my kids.
That is not the message I want to send to ANYBODY.
I see that, now.
So as difficult as the road lies ahead of me, I shall remain in this picture.
I'm not sure where, exactly - but I'll be here.
Honest.

It Takes a Child to Scare a Village

I have a splendid family branch that reaches into the chilly fields of Ohio. Therefore, this week's school shooting has struck a deep chord within me.

Apparently the media over yonder has been quick to point fingers at "bullies" who do not actually exist. At least, not within the school. Not this time. This time, the bullies lived at home. That place we're supposed to find a peaceful haven away from the world? Yes, there.

A brilliant cousin-by-choice has been quite outspoken against the quick judgments made against the students who are truly victims. And even though the murderer is also a victim of sorts . . . how do we protect society against what happens behind the front doors of dysfunctional families?

This has all brought me to ponder families. I belong to a church that values the family unit above all else. I've always thought this was pretty nice - but I didn't truly understand the vital significance until today. I look at my own family growing up. We put the "dys" in "dysfunctional." BUT, I always felt loved and accepted. Maybe not always by the same people or even by blood relatives, but I always had SOMEbody I knew who loved and accepted me. And there was never a shortage of laughter, even during the worst of times.

I look at my own family, now. Do my kids feel loved? Do they feel accepted and understood and appreciated? I can name a hundred things abnormal about myself and my life . . . but I hope to God my kids at least feel loved and free to laugh.

And then I think of the families around me. The families who are involved with the same schools my children attend. Is there ANY way I can influence families not my own before they affect ME?? How do we love, nurture and talk to kids who don't belong to us? No matter how you look at it, we no longer live in villages. More and more, we keep children at arm's length, or further, lest somebody think we're up to no good and blow a whistle of impropriety. We live in a world where dogs sit higher on the ladder than children. Society will rush in to save abused animals swiftly and readily. But what about abused children? Is there ANYTHING we can do??

Many questions and no answer.

Sending my love and light to all of those affected in Ohio. It's the only thing I can do.

Denial

I used to be a message board whore.  Shocking, I know.  And my favourite involved a large group of women all due the same month.  I am still very close to many of those women, and they have the GALL to suggest that our babies are going to turn FIVE next month.  What the heck??  FIVE????  That's, like . . KINDERGARTEN AGE!

Nonono.  He's much too young to talking about all that.  I mean ... LOOK at him!

They're just talking gibberish.

Love and Friendship

Could anything be sweeter?

New Beginning

Every year, our church holds a meeting for the 12 year-old girls entering the "young women" youth program.  They call it "New Beginnings" and it celebrates that these girls are commencing to enter an entire new phase of their lives.  When they leave the program at 18 years of age, they will truly be "young women." The leaders and other girls will help them along the way and they enthusiastically talk about the exciting things they will learn.

This post isn't about that.

BUT . . . it is about a new beginning.  And reasons to celebrate.  I see with a changed med regiment just how chronically grumpy, negative and tired I had become.  You know how you sometimes don't realize that your ears were ringing until it stops?  Yeah, it's like that.

I find myself held up by friends who have etched themselves deep into my heart.  Friends who drag me out of the house, kicking and screaming, and prove to me that I really CAN take part in the "real world."  And, dare I say. . . . even like it!  (But please don't tell them I said so.)  They love me, help me, comfort me, enjoy me, understand me (sometimes) and accept me.

I feel alert, light-hearted and free!  I refuse to think ahead that this will eventually cycle back around, just as the sun doesn't stay in the sky forever.  But I will savor it for as long as I can until the darkness falls.  I wonder who I will be when this phase of my life ceases - but I don't dwell.  For now, I will gaze at the sunrise and allow hope and excitement to lead the way.

Superhero

My firstborn is a superhero.  See?

She is every bit as intelligent, confident, funny and carefree as I hoped she'd be.  Even more so, actually!  I want to be like my daughter when I grow up.  Is that weird?

We've heard back from the colleges she applied to, and she was accepted by all of them!  So . . . now what?  I wish I was the kind who truly understood what I needed to do to ensure my daughter's future . . but I'm not.  And I never will be.  I feel panicked and overwhelmed and want to run and hide and I fear these opportunities will pass right by.  It will kill.me.dead if I manage to screw up her chances for a secure future.  She has worked incredibly hard these past three years . . . isn't it now my turn to get the scholarships and financial aid in order?

I feel awful at times that she has to be my experimental prototype.  I might (MIGHT) have half a clue by the time the youngest gets to college age.  But I make no promises.  I feel frozen . . . just about everybody I meet pours out buckets of very useful information on what I should do.  NONE of it assimilates.  By the time I return home, I sit at the computer and think, "what am I supposed to be doing, again????  I AM supposed to be doing something, right?"  And then the laundry list mentally unrolls and I, again . . . run and hide.

I barely graduated high school.  If I hadn't been ahead of the game before my senior year, I wouldn't have graduated at all.  Thanks to the "higher" diploma, I was able to eke my way across the stage.  A lot of circumstance - not much pomp.  So I have no experience to fall back on.  And there's SO MUCH we need to do to make sure she'll actually be able to ATTEND one of these colleges which has so readily accepted her.  And then there's so much to PREPARE for, and so much to DO and so much to BUY and so much to . . . 

::breathes into paper bag::

I'm going to bed.

Meds

We interrupt this life to bring you . . . . a med adjustment.  I apologise in advance for anything I say or do in the next thirty days.

At my doctor appointment today, the conversation went something like this:

Doc:  How are you doing on your current antidepressant?

Me:  Well . . . I get out of bed every morning.

Doc:  (Looking a little concerned) There's more to life than getting out of bed, you know!

Me:  True . . . but I'm not jumping off bridges!  So I think the med is working brilliantly!

Doc:  (Stares)

Doc:  Let's up your dosage a little . . . . 

I also asked about a sleep med because I have this nasty habit of, you know . . . not sleeping.  Hardly at all.  Ever.  He glanced at my chart and lo and behold, there's a med that apparently helps ALLLL of my issues. Like . . all of them.  Except maybe the whole "if you touch me, I keell you" one.  Or that my boobs hang low and they wobble to and fro.  Everything but that.  Yes.

I took my first dose a few hours ago, and I have to say:

Holy woooow, man.  I was a vortex of irritation when I got home tonight and now I feel like nothing could bother me.  Nothing.  Not even the excessive use of ellipses and repeating repeating words that just.won't.stop oozing onto this page. (I didn't see those side effects listed - must look more into this.)  See, it was like this:

ME BEFORE:

ME AFTER:

Feel the love, man.  If you have anything to tell me, NOW would be the time.

Bring it awwwwwn.  I am now going to trudge off to bed and maybe make a few flower wreaths along the way.

Derailed

You know how it is.  Everything is going along just peachy keen and all of the sudden you slip right off the tracks.  Not a crash, exactly, but all of your progress comes to a screeching halt and you wonder where in the world you will find the motivation to right yourself and chug away as well as you did previously.

This is where I find myself this week.  Derailed by everything from painful memories and haywire hormones to a husband out of commission.  Then there is the problem of one simple derailment causing further derailments in every other aspect of my life.  Each of those cars IS connected, after all.  So this week, I pretty much wanted to hide away from the world.

But thanks to a brilliant family and stubborn friends who refused to let me cave, I think I'm finally starting to roll out of the station again.

Today was a good day - much purging and organizing in our dungeon basement: Step one of "The Great Room Shuffle of 2012."

And tomorrow promises fun with friends and family at a house I don't have to clean!  What more could I want?

Making Room in the Inn

No pics tonight, but I anticipate plenty on this subject in the near future!

We have six people in our family and three official bedrooms.  Yes, you do the math.  Guy added another "bedroom" of sorts to the basement to allow our firstborn a place to hide from the rest of us spread her wings.  But this still leaves two rambunctious little whirlwind boys sharing one tiny little upstairs room.  It's been. . . okay.  As in: the blood has been minimal.  It definitely isn't ideal.  When they argue, I send them to their room . . . where they continue to argue.  Often at rapidly increasing decibels.  Where's the safe haven??  Hey, I'm not picky . . I'll take "safe from flinging blunt objects."

So as wrecked as I am over the thought of aforementioned firstborn abandoning us next year for college . . .  I can't help but feel a little squee at the thought of an open bedroom to spread out this pack of wild animals a bit.  Next-in-line has also had these very thoughts and began to plan out a complete room transference and makeover in earnest.  Firstborn was, shall I say, "less than thrilled" with ANY plans mapped out a year before her departure.  She pointed out that she wouldn't be gone ALL of the time.  True.  Yes, so true.  I guess I should have realized that.  All or none thinking much?

This "question of the basement bedroom" has been weighing on my mind.  Well, when I remember to weigh it.  I think I have FINALLY come up with a solution!  One of the children . .. at this point I don't care which one . . . but one of them will share the room with firstborn.  That way most of the year, he/she has it to him/herself.  And eldest still has a space when she returns home for holidays and vacation.

I assumed that next-in-line would be the firstborn's choice, forgetting that there is no way in creation they'd EVER agree on room decor.  Firstborn is all about classic colours, Pokemon and superheroes.  Next-in-line is all about sparkle, pink, sparkle, purple, sparkle anydamncolourjustbringonthesparkle.  No, it would never work.  So the obvious answer and what oldest requested when I spoke with her about this very subject, is for the YOUNGEST to share her room.  They both are almost obsessed with superheroes - and most of the time he sleeps in her room, anyway.  They have the brilliant bond that can only be formed with siblings spaced far apart. She is his hero and he is her sidekick.

After profuse promises to Sprout that we WILL give her current room a makeover involving lots of paint and sparkle and shine and "holy crap you'll need to wear shades anywhere near the door, it will be so amazing" assurances, she seemed okay with the situation, as well.  It would be particularly splendiferous if we could accomplish this by, say . . . . her birthday in March.

Yes, I said March.  Stop laughing at me.

Anybody up for a painting party??

Freeze Out

Scout had his annual overnight "Freeze Out" camping trip this weekend.  Last year - for his first EVER overnight camping trip of ANY kind - the temp plummeted down to zero.  Yes, zero.  So we were grateful to have such unseasonably warm temperatures THIS year!!!

See how fresh (and flushed) and excited he is??  See how over-dressed he is because his freakishly protective mother insisted he wear five layers even though it felt like he really only needed a light jacket?

Within hours of his departure, we started to see this:

Poor kid.  But he survived!!!  Over-protected Mamas Boys unite!!!!  The cold seems to have numbed his brain, however - all he can remember about the entire trip is that there was a fire, and all he wanted in the world was to get as close to that fire as possible, without actually falling in.

I wanted to get an "after" picture, but he raced through the front door and by the time I turned back around with the camera, he was in the bathroom thawing out.  Ah well.

I did catch some pretty icy picatures from this morning.  This is pure ice, not dripping water:

I guess they call it a "freeze-out" for good reason.

Another Letter To My Sister

Two years ago this month, I heard your voice for the last time.  I hugged you freely, without having to maneuver around tubes and wires and a various assortment of doctors and nurses.  We laughed nervously and I whispered assurances to you that the brain surgery would go FINE and that you'd be better than ever within months.  It didn't exactly happen that way.

You are always - ALWAYS - on my mind.  I think of you when something funny happens.  I think of you when something crazy happens.  I think of you when I feel upset.  I think of you when I feel excited.  There is so much I want to tell you at all times.  I find myself still - STILL - reaching for the phone to call you so you can help me wrap my head around this overwhelming world.

I thought of you especially tonight at your baby's high school orientation.  Sprout is going to high school next year.  If you were still here, you would have called me and we would have talked for hours about how time has slipped between our fingers.  We would say that we couldn't IMAGINE that she's old enough - and what will she be interested to study?  When will she begin to date?  Where will her dreams take her?  And then you'd cry, but you'd smile, too.

Sprout is amazing.  You wouldn't believe how MUCH she has grown in two years.  She's as tall as I am!  She is independent, confident, kind, flexible, positive, and beautiful - just beautiful.  Like her mom.  She is thinking about becoming a cheerleader.  Also . . just like her mom.  Only you would really understand how foreign and terrifying I find the world of cheerleading. But I will encourage her and do what I can to support her, if this is what she wants to do. It hurts me to think about how much you would have LOVED this turn of events.  How easily you'd slip into the role of a "cheer mom" and attend every meeting and game.  You'd be able to fix her hair perfectly and you'd remember the name of each girl on the squad.  Every one.  I feel completely inadequate - there is so much she will have to do on her own because I am incapable of doing anything . . . . pretty.

As we know, time keeps on ticking (ticking, ticking.....)  I'll get through this - hopefully with minimal psychological damage to our Sprout.  As nervous as I feel, I look forward to the journey.  But I will count on your invisible, gentle guidance.  "What would my big sister do?"  I will do my best to keep a good sense of humour, no matter what happens.  I will try to remember to look up and keep things in proper perspective.  I will do whatever I can to make you proud of your baby daughter. And proud of your baby sister, too.

Scouts

I have a love/hate relationship with the Boy Scouts of America.  And it isn't just that I love to hate them.  Though there's that . . .

I HATE the frequent disorganization.  The lost forms, the forgotten merit badges, the kids running around like maniacs during a completely unstructured "class," the time after time after time of finding out about a major event after the fact (or hours before) and the general reek of testosterone.  I also loathe some of the . . . erm . . . "politics" I'll say. (There!  Did you see that restraint?!  I didn't once use the word "homophobic.")  (Well . . until then.)

Then I look at the oldest boychild of mine who is actually in scouts.  And Scout LOVES scouts and everything about the program.  He's a kid motivated by awards and recognition, and he's all about being a uniformed little nobleman doing good to all mankind.  I think that's how it goes.  He's my little computer geek Legoman homebody and couldn't possibly be less outdoorsy - and yet he enthusiastically dives right into camping and all of the physical demands placed upon him.  So I do love this motivation and opportunity for him to get outside and enjoy God's bug-infested green earth by assisting aged chipmunks, or whatever the heck they do.

There's the tiny detail, however, that the Boy Scouts of America is led primarily by overgrown BOYS.  And men/boys don't COMMUNICATE.  Ever.  I was dubbed "The Crazy Scout Lady" due to my frequent rants in the church lobby just about every Wednesday night.  If you can rant in the church lobby, you can pretty much rant anywhere.  Nothing is sacred to me.  You have been warned.

So I finally stopped ranting and whining (mostly) and took it upon myself to communicate for them.  Forgetting that in order to that, I would have to communicate with them.  ::shuddershuddertwitch::  Somebody had to do it.  And it was going pretty well there for a while.  Mostly because I stalked the scoutmaster and annoyed him mercilessly until he finally threw a calendar at me and begged me to leave him alone.  (Well he wanted to - I could tell.)  I then flooded the emails of every scout parent with dates and details of upcoming events . . . and then flooded them again . . . and again as I received corrections and updates on the information given . . . again and again.

Grrrr, scouts.

As imperfect as that was, I was thanked by many.  The problem is that I forget.  I forget a LOT.  And when I forget, I flake out.  So how many events did we miss out on this month already?  Yeah . . not good.  And how many other scouts missed out because I didn't remind their mothers?  I feel shame.  I say "mothers" because let's face it - for every Eagle Scout, there's a woman who acted as his personal secretary.  I just don't see how it could happen, otherwise.

Now - time to get back on track and get the reminders out to the other poor mothers who are even partially as clueless and forgetful as I am.

And time to remember that when you claw your way through the BS of BSA - you see that it's truly about making better little men who make the world just a little bit nicer . . one chipmunk at a time.

Our Pack

Over time, we have had a freakish amount of animals in our home.  Ferrets, parrots, rats, cats, dogs, frogs, turtles . . . okay, I can't think of anything that rhymes with turtles.  Turtles, bearded dragon, lizards, chinchilla, rabbit . . . well, you get the idea.

It's so nice to "only" have six pets.  An even animal:human ratio = a good thing.  

Let me introduce our pack:

Alpha Belle:

"If you don't get that thing out of my face, Ima have no choice but to lick yer mouth right after I lick my butt."

Beta Riley:

"Why hello!  Is this a good pose?  Does my collar clash with the couch?"

Noisy Guards Jibber and Jabber:

"Are you an intruder?!  You must be an intruder!  Holy honey stick - I don't see the entire flock!  Sound the alarm!!!!!"

Thief Eek:

"WhoawhoaWHOA!  What has we here???  Is it nummy?  Can I eats it???"

Omega Rex:

"If I don't make eye contact, they can't see me..."

Will Burying my Head in the Sand Make my Butt Look Big?

My 4yo has a girlfriend.  Or "gelfwen" as he calls her.  Seems to me that if you can't SAY "girlfriend" you're entirely too young to HAVE one.

He couldn't have picked a better "gel," even so.  She's a precocious little chatterbox with a great sense of humour and an elfin smile.  What's not to love??  Today she celebrated her fifth birthday, which was a punch-in-the-gut reminder that my own aforementioned littlest man will turn five in April.  Whaaaa?  I just HAD him!  I swear!

And if they're turning five, why that means that next fall . . . . . ::screams at the thought::

While I rush off and bury my head in the sand, here are a few pics of our day:

Ready to par-tay.

This one made me giggle.  I can't imagine what they were looking at.

My biggest little man, who opted out of the preschool birthday party so he could game at a friend's house.  Weird.

Gorgeous sunset this evening, but I wasn't in a very good location to capture it the way I wanted.  I was kind of playing around with the new camera and got this one, no edits.

Four Score and Three Years Ago

My sweet mother-in-law celebrated her 83rd birthday today.  Her actual birthday is tomorrow - she is one day older than Martin Luther King, Jr.  Let that sink in for a moment . . .

This woman is amazing.  Truly.  Can I sign up to look like this at 83???

It won't happen.  For one thing, I have no problem doing nothing.  No problem a'tall.  My MIL gets twitchy if she isn't . . . well . . .  doing something.  Anything.  It has to be productive, even!  (Indeed it makes me look bad.  Very bad.)  She works, volunteers at the hospital, teaches Sunday school, walks daily and travels across the continental U.S. to visit with any various assortment of four children, twenty grandchildren and four great-grandchildren.

Me?  I . . . . uh . . . well . . . . I . . . . blog.  Does that count as productive?

We enjoyed a pizza party and in lieu of birthday cake, horked down her favourite:  Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

The whole idea here was to make a stack of eight doughnuts, and then another stack of three, with corresponding candles.  It looked better in my mind than it actually turned out - but she was happy, so I'll take it.  Notice how bent out of shape Chase is in that first pic.  He's going through a phase of feeling offended at everybody else's birthday because it isn't HIS.  It'll be a long four months for him.  And us.

I can't say enough how grateful I am that my MIL is who she is.  She enjoys everything about our family and rarely turns down an invitation to join us.  She is supportive, funny, kind, respectful and could not be more proud.

Who wouldn't love somebody like that?

Ouch

Not such a fun day, no.  Guy's back is out.  Waaay out.  He has a history of these issues and, as he said today, "this is getting old."  It was old twenty years ago.

It kind of makes me glad that all of my issues are in my head.

He's finally resting after a wheefun trip to the clinic.  It's quite a traumatic experience to ride in a car with me under the best of circumstances - pure hell to ride with me when every movement feels like your insides are ripping to tiny shreds and rolling up into a taquito.  (At least, that's how I imagine it is.  Surely it is.)  The man can endure a freakish amount of pain, but enough already!

Hopefully the meds will stop the spasms and he can have a relatively pain-free weekend.  At the least, I hope they'll dope him up enough that he won't care what condition he's in.

In the meantime, here's my brilliant teenager who is smarter than me and knows it.  I don't stand a chance.

Strung Out

Rain, rain, rain, holy drenching downpour of rain.  Rain that SHOULD be snow.

::imagines the insane amount of snow that would equal this precipitation::
::imagines the insane amount of shoveling of the insane amount of snow that would equal this precipitation::
::imagines the insane amount of TIME the insane amount of kids would be crammed into the insanely small, stuffy house because everything in the insane area shuts down at the mere MENTION of snow::
::imagines what it would be like if our mouths were located in our left armpits::

I'm sorry, what?

OH!  So, yes, um . . . I'll take the rain after all, thank you very much.

In honour of the rising river, I give you . . . a guitar pic:

I really want to re-take this, as I hadn't noticed the weird reflections until now . . . but the owner of said guitar - 13yo Sprout who has been learning how to play for a year, now, and just loves it to pieces - has it stored safely away in her room and I dare not chance waking her up in the middle of the night just because her parental figure is obsessed with . . well, just obsessed in general.  So I give you a guitar pic reflecting our living room wall.

Rawr.

Mother Nature is Bipolar

So, about that whole snowy "winter has FINALLY arrived!" statement:  lies, all lies.

And that's all I have to say about that.