How To Be A Parent

18 Mar 2013 10 Comments

by Deb D in Foibles, Greatest Hits, Insights, Just Life, Parenting Tags: , , ,

babyA young mother-to-be said with despair, “Only three weeks left to figure out how to be a mother!”

Oh, sweet new momma, I am still trying to figure that out fifteen years later.  I don’t mean to scare you, but this is the truth.

You will find your groove, yes, and figure out the basics like which type of diapers you prefer and where to find the sales on baby food.  But even if you become a mother twenty times over, uncertainty will remain.  Because just when you think you’ve got it figured out, the rules change, or the kids change, or you change.

You will make more mistakes than you’re willing to count.  Like, for instance, letting your six year old eat the party favor that you swear is white chocolate but is actually decorative soap.  (Yes, I did that.)

You will realize after several hundred of these foibles that a sense of humor is an essential item to pack in the diaper bag.  And it is precisely these times that earn you a notch in your parenting stick.  These falls from grace won’t guarantee that your next act will be seamless, but they will remind you that you can do the hard job of parenting AND live to tell about it.

If you are a ‘good’ parent you will never enjoy the smugness of certainty.  You will doubt every major and some minor decisions, feel guilty about others, and learn something new every day.  Early on you may learn that you shouldn’t play airplane with a baby who has just eaten lest he spit up in your mouth.  (That was husband, not me.)  Later, you may learn that you are not above ditching your child in a grocery store when she shouts, “Why is that lady so fat?”  And you will be anointed with humility when your little one declares aloud in church, “Mommy, you tooted!”

I wish my gift to you could be a key to the Parenting Answer Box.  But in my heart I know that if there was such a key to be given, it would ruin the whole experience.  If you had all the answers and didn’t crumble in despair once in a while, you’d never know the sweetness of vulnerability.  Just when you think you can’t go on, your little one reaches up to wipe a tear from your eye and says, “I wuv you, Mommy.  Pwease don’t cry.”  Renewed afresh, your heart fills up and you rise from the ashes.

When we stop banging on the door of certainty, demanding reprieve from the worry and fear of parenting, we realize that we are not alone.  Looking around, we find ourselves amidst the stories of millions of parents before us who stood exactly where we now stand, unable to break through the barrier of doubt.

There is no pot of gold at the end of the child-rearing rainbow.  And the treasure is not what you think it is.  It is not an honors student who never got arrested, never sassed his parents, and never skipped out on chores.  Nor is it a perfect parenting record that is envied by your fellow retirees.  The gift is simply this:  THE EXPERIENCE – good, bad, or otherwise.

Some day you will look back and wonder how you survived.  You will also continue to question your choices long after the children are grown.  But with any luck, you will have learned at least, to abandon blame and shame in favor of forgiveness and gratitude.  You dared to take on the title of parent in the name of love, despite your humongous fears, and did the best you could.

Same Mother, Different Drama

25 Feb 2013 2 Comments

by Deb D in Just Life, Parenting Tags: , , , , , ,

scene1CRASH – SCENE 1, TAKE 1

Feb 17, 2012

When my thirteen year old son texted me from the ski slopes that he needed a new helmet after crashing, I handled myself very well – at first.  From my seat in the lodge, I calmly texted back a list of head injury symptoms to check for.  Instead of a return text, my cell phone rang.  It rang!

(In case you missed the significance of this, modern teenage practice dictates that only ‘old people’ use the phone.  Kids text.  Always.)

My worry meter escalated when I heard Beagle’s shaky voice asking me to pick him up on the other side of the mountain.  “I can’t see out of half my eye or hear out of my ear.”  Crap.  ‘At least he can talk and walk,’ I say to console myself.

Kindly First Aid people recommend a trip to the hospital. (Ya think?!)  They offer an ambulance for two, one seat for Beagle and one for the poor soul with the broken leg.  Strangely un-comforted by the thought of medical personnel escorting son, I opt to take him myself, unwilling as I am to let him out of my sight.

On the way to the hospital, I remain stoic on the outside and desperate on the inside.  I begin bargaining with God.  First, I offer my gratitude for life and health.  ‘Thank you, God, for sparing my son’s life in this accident.  I know you’ve got his back.  But I want to buy some extra insurance to cover him from the damage that has been done to his brain.  What can I give You?  How much will it cost me to insure my son’s well-being?  Take anything from me in exchange for his health.’

For a moment I actually believe this is possible – to sell myself to God in exchange for complete protection of my baby boy.  Prayers offered in earnest shift quickly to threats as doubts of my power to persuade God creep in.  I confront Him with my demands, desperate pleas, acts of contrition…in short, my LIFE.  If only He can give me a guarantee.

None is offered.  The swap shop isn’t doing business it seems.  I am left holding a heart full of fears, unsure where to turn.  So I turn back to Beagle, lying on the seat beside me, who is trying to block out the light from his overly-sensitive post-concussion eyes.

‘Be okay!’ I command silently.  ‘Please.’  I feel meek and helpless.

My son’s thirteen years flash before me – joys, sorrows, worries – always the worries.  It’s a cruel revelation when a parent realizes that the immense love she feels for her child is balanced in equal measure by fear for that child.  The more I dare to love, the more I risk the hurt.

A solid 48 hours passes before I begin to breathe freely.  Son was given clearance from the doctor to return home with caveats.  It’s not until Beagle starts fighting with a sister that fear loosens its vice grip on me – normalcy in any form is welcomed.

Beagle has all but forgotten the incident within the week.   But I, still shaken from my first head injury experience as a mother, continue to treat Beagle like a prized possession who narrowly escaped death.

Feeling that I should pay up on my answered prayers for Beagle’s recovery, I promise that I will never take a child’s health and well-being for granted again.

So much for promises…..

 

scene 2CRASH – SCENE 2, TAKE 1

February 17, 2013

(Same ski mountain, one year later)

My one day off from kid duty began uneventfully.  By mid-morning, with chores complete and tea brewed, I sat down to a novel. Simultaneously, my cell phone buzzed – a text.  I considered ignoring it but felt compelled by nothing more than curiosity to check the message.  It was from husband:

   HUSBAND: Teen daughter fell while snowboarding and bumped her head.  Probably has a concussion.

ME:  LOL.  Very funny.

It is exactly one year to the day of son’s incident.  Funny joke, husband. I’m not falling for it.

HUSBAND:  No joke.  Meet us at first aid.

A feeling rolls through me erupting in a howl.  Nooooooo! My one day off, ruined by another trip to the hospital! 

I kid you not – irritation is what I felt.  Surprising, and difficult to justify, I know.  As it turned out, I would spend the better part of a day trying to defend my lapse in compassion.

It wasn’t as though I was heartless.  On some level I knew that Principessa would be ok.  The tone of the text maybe.  Or mother’s intuition.  Or perhaps it was a deep-seated lesson learned from the experience with son last year – I could fall apart by worrying and praying my way through the next several hours of medical emergency (as I did with Beagle), or I could see it for what it likely was – another unfortunate, though not tragic, incident.  What couldn’t be anticipated was the level of chaos I was about to walk into.

Husband phoned to say that ski patrol had called an ambulance, advising that Principessa not be moved.  What?!  “Do NOT let her in that ambulance until I get there!”

Visions of insurance denials for expensive and unnecessary ambulance services flashed before me.  (In my defense, I had been apprised of the events and symptoms – which gives me about as much credibility as the average Grey’s Anatomy viewer, I know, but still.)

I stormed in, ready to take charge.  “What happened?!” I demanded.

Later, I learned that husband had predicted my entrance.  “In a few minutes a small Italian tornado will be coming.  That’s the mother.  We’ll all be okay, but brace yourself.”

By the time I showed up, Principessa was hysterical, trembling all over while an over-reactive medic held her head still and collared her.  He seemed surprised when I questioned his motives, requiring a justification for panicking my daughter.

Having done a quick assessment of my own, (I do have a level of medical training beyond that of the average mother,) I postulated that Principessa’s signs of shock were indicative of an anxiety attack caused by the drama, not by a spinal cord injury. If only I had gotten there sooner, I could have calmed her down and avoided this scene.

While husband and I weighed the options and potential risks of driving Principessa to the hospital ourselves, First Responders charged in with enough equipment to sink a ship – namely the one I was trying to captain.  It was too late, I couldn’t keep it afloat.

By the time we arrived at the hospital via flashing lights, Principessa had calmed sufficiently to bring her vital signs, and her senses, back to normal.  She laughed at my jokes and complained about how uncomfortable the backboard was. A CAT scan confirmed what I already knew – Principessa had an expensive headache.

I suppose this scene could have ended badly, in which case I wouldn’t be writing about it with self-deprecating humor.  But it didn’t, which gives me leave to assess the whole drama in contrast to the one that took place exactly one year ago.

During my recovery from trauma #1, it appears that I both gained and lost something of value.  On the positive side, now in possession of a thicker skin, I was able to keep my nerves in check when a child was injured.  Being desensitized can be a valuable asset.  The flip side is, I’m desensitized, which rendered me a bit harsh in a situation that called for compassion.  I all but attacked the very people who were trying to protect my daughter from the unknown, whilst I brazenly denied anything other than what I wanted to believe or suspected to be true.

All this to say that motherhood is Chaos with a capital C.  I could analyze it until I’m blue in the face, trying to glean scraps of clarity from the experience; I could promise to do better or different;  but no matter what, chaos will continue to sneak up behind me and change the rules, giving me yet another new experience to toy with.  All I can say is, God help me.  And God help the next kid who gets injured on my day off.

The Princess, The Witch, and The Door

09 Feb 2013 8 Comments

by Deb D in Crack A Smile, Greatest Hits, Just Life, Parenting Tags: , , , ,

photo credittruthluvr.blogspot.com

photo credit
truthluvr.blogspot.com

 

For years I’ve been trying to instill in my children the practice of knocking on a door before entering a room.  Two out of three have mastered the skill.  But Principessa, the oldest, struggles with this basic concept despite (or because of) my repetitive instruction and begging.

After a recent infraction, when daughter barged in on me in my bedroom (alone, thank goodness) I snapped.  In response to a reprimand, Principessa defiantly replied, “It’s no big deal, Mom.”

Really?  We’ll see about ‘no big deal.’

The next day, when Principessa was out of the house, I enlisted her brother’s help.  He had just woken at the crack of noontime and wasn’t feeling especially generous until I filled him in on my plan – to remove his sister’s bedroom door.  Suddenly devoid of morning stupor, Beagle popped out of his seat and ran to get the tool box.

When Principessa returned home and entered her doorless room, she, how should I say it?….Freaked Out.  In retrospect, I believe her reaction was a full-blown panic attack.  No privacy, too loud, too bright! Her concerns were numerous.

Principessa demanded that I return her door immediately.  She had ‘gotten the point.’  Silly girl.  Why would I put the door back so soon when I had gone to so much trouble to remove it?  Sorry, Love, lesson is not over.

For two days the family endured Principessa’s ranting.  Gradually, she began knocking on bedroom doors.  Unconvinced of her sincerity, I held out for the rest of the week just to be sure.

I knew it was time to rescind the consequence when Principessa entered the kitchen for a glass of milk.  In a show of the utmost respect, Principessa walked up to the refrigerator and knocked on its door.  “It’s not answering, Mom.  What should I do?”

At last!  We had moved past anger to acceptance and finally to humor.  Lesson complete.

I did the parent victory dance that day.  You know, the one where you celebrate the fact that you’ve managed to teach a lesson without losing your cool or getting sucked into the endless cycle of parent-child power struggle.  You’ve managed to use your grown-up skills without resorting to arguing with irrational young ‘uns.

One week later, Principessa failed (for the millionth time) to turn off her bedroom lights before leaving for the day.  I calmly explained that her next lesson would involve turning off power to her room.  Still smarting from her previous consequence, Principessa snapped to attention with apologies and promises and pleas to spare her the agony.  She knows I mean business.  But I fear that some lessons are best learned the hard way.  And I suspect I’ll be in the basement searching for the right fuse to pull before the end of the week.

Poor Principessa, she’ll probably want to take her door off so she can let in more light from the hallway.

Oh, The Places We Go

12 Jan 2013 2 Comments

by Deb D in Just Life, Uncategorized Tags: , , , ,

In one week I am informed that two of my friends have cancer.  Another has died.  I’m at that age when really tough things happen at an increasing frequency – divorce, illness, death.  It’s happening all around me, but not currently to me.  So instead of the drama of utter despair, I have the luxury of a more detached melancholy.   A friend’s cancer reality will not change my day to day life, but it does change my view of the world.

Allowing myself to go to ‘that place’ – the deep fear place where the world is unsafe – is a slippery slope.  I fear I will be swallowed up by demons of all kinds and never climb out.  But go, I do, because it pulls me in.

I see myself sitting before God with childlike eyes and grown-up concerns.  I throw no tantrum, nor even ask for help.  I simply sit.  No questions come.  Perhaps because I know there is no answer – at least not one that I will understand or agree with.

All of my beliefs and convictions about life are pulled out of me and laid on a virtual table before me.  I sort through them, easily discarding those that suddenly, no longer have value.  Like the one that makes me floss every day and fret over the dirt on the floor.  The rest of the pieces I re-arrange, trying to make them fit together.  These trinkets are an awkward excuse for a belief system.

My child sitting beside me calls to me from what seems like a distance.  I catch myself daydreaming and scoop up the pieces scattered in my mind, tucking them away in a safe place.  I will examine them again, perhaps later, when the kids are in bed and my confidant comes home.

For now, I will continue my superfluous day wearing a new set of glasses.  Not the rose-colored ones, nor the sunglasses.  Today, I see clearly, almost too clearly – like when the eye doctor adds drops to your eyes that dilate them.  If only I could block out the light.  This new vision is just too much.

One week later, I return to a more comfortably numb state of being.  The “meaning of Life and Death” is not in every sip of coffee anymore.  My normal, slightly cloudy, vision is back.  I walk down the street called “My Life”.  It is flat terrain for now.  But I can’t help looking  back to see what it was that I kept tripping on.  And to be sure that whatever it was, is not following me.

Is Love Alive?

16 Dec 2012 7 Comments

by Deb D in Just Life, Love and Other Things, Reconciling Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

candle2After hearing about the school shootings in Connecticut, I tried to fight the lump in my throat, but it threatened to choke me if I didn’t release the sadness welling up inside.  I’ve never cried so hard for someone I didn’t know.

As a rule, I avoid news-viewing of this sort.  But this day I am fixated like the proverbial moth to a flame.  And I am singed, feeling the sting of another’s horror.

This blog post will not pretend it has answers.  Nor will it join in the cacophony of anger towards guns or politics or school systems or even God.  As it likes to do, this blog will remind us to pause long enough amidst the chaos – even if only for the blink of an eye – to glimpse a spec of clarity.

At the funeral of an eight-year old that I attended years ago, the priest offered a metaphor that has influenced every challenge I’ve faced thereafter.  He said that life, at times of tragedy, is like a pot of boiling water.  When we are plunged into it, two very different things can happen.  If we are like an egg, we will harden.  Our shell remains unharmed to the naked eye, but inside we react to the heat with hardening in the form of bitterness and anger.  In contrast, the same boiling water, to a carrot, has the opposite effect.  The carrot becomes soft, allowing itself to be stripped of its rigidity as it gives way to a new form.

Therein lies our only choice.  For we cannot escape the pot.  Not one of us will coast through life without taking our turn with loss.  Which will we be, egg or carrot?

When I lost a baby to the treacherous business of childbearing, I cracked, like the egg that couldn’t stand the heat.  At first I raged against life.  Then I abandoned it.  Time became irrelevant; joy non-existent.

One morning I lay awake in a familiar state of numbness and noticed that the darkness of the room and that of my soul blended together.   The void that was me was so vast, it had no boundaries.  All that had once defined me was gone.

Vaguely, I was aware of my curled form, head down, no more than a lump on the ground.  Out of nowhere, a voice commanded me, “Look up!”  When I did, I heard one more instruction, “Remember who you are.”  With that, rapid screen shots of my life flickered before me – distant, fleeting reminders of purpose.

This was the day I began my healing.   Like the lame man in the Bible who was told to get up and walk, God had reached down from Heaven and picked me up by the scruff of my neck like a cub.  ‘Enough,’ He seemed to say, and sent me on my way with a gentle nudge.

This is how I learned about grace.  When I began to examine the depths of my experience, I became privy to the great life lessons that seem to be reserved for the experience of tragedy.

I saw the courage and loyalty of friends who refused to let fear withhold their extension of love, even when it meant doing nothing but be present.  I saw the tears in their eyes and the heard the sadness in their voices as a reflective measure of my own sadness and it comforted me.

I learned the value of family – the ultimate crutch.  The ones I can curse to or curse at and still expect their love.  The ones who pick up the pieces long after most people think the puzzle is back together.

And I saw the resiliency in myself.  No matter how far I had fallen, I could always rise again.

In the face of loss, I found these reasons to have hope.  When I allowed myself to experience sadness for all its potential, it led me back to love.

This is what I know to be true:  that grace exists for all people.  That we are never abandoned.  That healing is always possible.

We, friends and strangers alike, will gather around this enormous loss trying desperately to fill the gaping wound in humanity.  We will pray and think and do, yet still the wound may refuse to close.  Life has its own plan, its own clock.  Sometimes all we can do is wait for grace to arrive.

This is my winter song.

December never felt so wrong,

Cause you’re not here where you belong;

Inside my arms.

Is love alive?

I’ll be your harvester of it

And send it out tonight

So we can start again

Is love alive?

-Sara Bareilles/Ingrid Michaelson

Ode To Twinkie

19 Nov 2012 2 Comments

by Deb D in Just Life, Uncategorized Tags: , , ,

Thirteen year old son and I sped through town like our lives depended on it.  In total, we hit five convenience stores and one major food store.  No, we weren’t pulling a Bonnie and Clyde, heisting these stops for cash.  But it felt like it.  With hearts racing, we considered all manner of threats at our disposal to get what we wanted.  We were desperate to find a single, traditional, gorgeous, Twinkie – the icon of my childhood.

My father was the first to break the news to me.  “Are you in mourning?” he asked, and went on to detail the tragic shut-down of Hostess, Inc.  I could scarcely believe my ears.

Those who have known me only since adulthood will be shocked to hear of my intense and solemn reaction to this news.  I haven’t eaten sugar, much less a processed treat, in fifteen years or more.  But for the twenty years prior, junk food comprised the majority of my diet.  So fond was I of Hostess snacks that a friend in college bought me boxes of them as a birthday gift.

For years I have chosen not to indulge, but now, being told that I can’t ever have another Hostess fix, well, that’s a new ball game altogether.

Just last week in the grocery store, nine year old daughter lamented that she had never tasted a Twinkie.  I refused her request on the grounds that we already had too much candy in the house from Halloween.  “Maybe after the holidays I’ll buy one for you,” I half-promised.  Little did I know that she may never get the chance to experience the joy of a Hostess cake. This is the real reason, I rationalized, for my frenzied search.  How could I live with myself if my youngest daughter never tasted a Twinkie?

Beagle was all too willing to join in the fun, pleased as punch to conspire with his ridiculously health-conscious mother in the hunt for junk food.  “I’ve never seen this side of you.” He said with amusement.

At one stop, Beagle tried bribing the young clerk for one of the last eight Twinkies he had cleared from the store shelf for himself.  “Nope, I’m freezing them for later.” The clerk coldly informed.  And I couldn’t blame him.  Every man for himself in cases such as these.

Our efforts yielded a sparse assortment of Hostess cakes – enough for each family member to sample only a slice of each.  During a bittersweet ceremony befitting deceased royalty, we consumed our plate of goodness.  We nibbled with respect, sharing memories of our first Twinkie encounter, voting on our favorite cake, and lamenting our future loss.  It felt as if my childhood was being ripped away bite by bite.

I had considered saving one Twinkie for posterity.  But then I remembered that I’m all grown up, sort of.  And contrary to urban myth, Twinkies do have an expiration date.  Succumb we must to reality.  It appears that Tallahasse (in Zombieland) was right when he predicted, “There’s a box of Twinkies in that grocery store.  Not just any box of Twinkies, the last box of Twinkies that anyone will enjoy in the whole universe.”

Sad, sad, times.

I Hope You Dance

12 Oct 2012 Leave a comment

by Deb D in Just Life, Love and Other Things Tags: , , , ,

Almost daily I cross paths with the same woman.  I don’t know her name or anything about her.  I do, however, gather plenty of assumptions about her – through my astute observations, of course.

To judge the woman by her physical appearance, one might fear that she is malnourished.  Her brittle hair and bony skeleton are blatant cues.  In fact, everything about her persona suggests frailty – the way she avoids eye contact, the slumped shoulders, the baggy clothing.  My thoughts about her concern me.

I worry about this woman I’ve never spoken to.  I wonder about the circumstances of her misery.  Is she abused?  Has she endured an unspeakable tragedy?  Is she terminally ill?  Surely, she has suffered.  I want to help but I decide to respect her solitude and hope that she somehow absorbs my silent blessings for her well-being.

I have pegged this woman to a wall of misery.  With deep regret, I’ve pitied her, or rather, my impression of her.  Until today.

Today I saw the woman through the glass doors of a room.  She was alone and didn’t know anyone could see her.  But I saw her.  Really saw her for the first time.  And she was dancing!  My frumpy, forlorn, fabulous friend was dancing like no one was watching.  She was energized and confident and carefree and not at all like the woman I ‘knew.’

I smiled a great big huge smile in spite of myself.  Because I was dead wrong – again. She wasn’t lifeless or hopeless or helpless.  She just looked that way, to me, on the outside.  And I let the outside inform me about the inside, which is such a rookie move.

I gazed at the dancing woman for as long as I dared, transfixed like a child watching a music box dancer.  I wanted desperately to tell her how she helped me find my happy today.  But I feared that she might be self-conscious and stop dancing – forever.  So I settled on telling you, because I had to share my gratitude with someone.  And I thought, maybe, it would inspire you to start dancing or to keep dancing even if you know someone’s watching.

I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean
Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens
Promise me that you’ll give faith a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance

 ‘I Hope You Dance’ by Lee Ann Womack

Dance on, my friends, dance on.

Love,

Deb

The Pep Talk

26 Sep 2012 Leave a comment

by Deb D in Crack A Smile, Just Life, Parenting Tags: , , ,

Beagle had a bad day.  An ‘I hate my life’ kind of day.  The grievances were numerous.  Each one packed only a small punch, but strung together they gained impact.

It started with attention-seeking for a minor injury which morphed into an excuse to skip football practice. Next, a complaint of boredom and some push-back against serving time on a grounding consequence.

At first I reacted with defiant conviction, employing the ‘tough it out’ message.  But when tears welled up and a thirteen year old voice started shaking, I backed off.  Clearly, Beagle’s complaints were a cover for a bigger issue.

With a little prodding the truth revealed itself – a personality conflict with a coach that became too big to contain in one young boy.  Now this, I could handle.  Dealing with difficult people is a challenge I relish. And I am all too willing to impart my expansive wisdom in the life skills department.  Teachable moments can be so gratifying!

After several minutes of listening to my monologue, Beagle patiently advised, “I don’t need a lecture, Mom.”

“I’m not lecturing!  I’m inspiring!” I clarified, and sent him off to practice with a ‘go get ’em, Tiger’ and a love punch.

When Beagle returned from practice, I held my breath, unsure of what to expect.  I tiptoed around trying to gauge his mood and waiting for him to speak first.  With satisfaction he said, “I felt some redemption at practice. Caught a forty yard pass. Twice. And looked like a hero.”

The corners of my mouth turned up.  Surely the catalyst for success was my inspirational talk.  Not wanting to steal Beagle’s thunder (but feeling pretty smug) I praised him for plowing through a challenging situation with character.

But I couldn’t hold back.  Assessing his lightheartedness, I deemed it safe to ask, “So, do you think the positive outcome of the night had anything to do with my pep talk?”

Beagle froze, fork in mid-air, and gazed at me askance.  I could almost hear his brain weighing possible responses.  He decided on this, “Mom, if it makes you feel good, then yes, it had everything to do with your pep talk.”  And he quietly returned to his dinner.

He’s too good to me, my Beagle.  And wise for a young man, having already learned to tell women what they want to hear.  At least I’ve imparted that valuable piece of wisdom!

Family Vacation, Enough Said

12 Sep 2012 Leave a comment

by Deb D in Crack A Smile, Just Life Tags:

I haven’t spent a week with my whole family in twenty years, which is not a mistake. To the like-minded reader, this needs no explanation.  To those who have a Brady Bunch family, congratulations.  I envy you and hope you will try to understand.

Someone once asked me if I was adopted.  I am that different, in every way, from my family.  Which makes me, by default, the black sheep simply because I am the one who is different.  We are apples and oranges my family and I.  Never the two shall mix in harmony. I knew this when I agreed to spend my one full week of summer vacation with Mom, Dad, Sis, and the five children between us.  (Husbands wisely opted out.)

The excel spreadsheet I received via email one month before the intended trip opened with a warning:

‘I know you can’t think this far ahead, but here’s a list of what we’re bringing.  Take some Tylenol and try to fill in your part.’

My response:  ‘It would take a lot more than Tylenol to deal with this level of preparation.  Get back to you in a few weeks.’

I mean, really.  I didn’t even know what I was having for dinner that night.

Anticipating the level of drama my family creates, I wisely planned my arrival a day later than the other players in this theatrical performance.  As it turned out, it took less than six hours for a ‘situation’ to arise.  Details were not forthcoming via text and I was afraid to ask.  Instead, I patted myself on the back for my strategic planning and hoped the situation would be resolved before I joined the inevitable circus scene.

On the drive to Destination Disaster I began to panic.  Like a bride with wedding jitters, I contemplated all manner of excuses that would spare me from this vacation.  When none proved to be believable I resigned myself to hopeful dependence that our collective maturity level would smooth the waters.

But alas, the chaos that surrounds this clan is immense.  As I am the one writing this perspective, I shall remain blameless.  (We’ll disregard the small hissy fit I had when I arrived at the house on schedule to find it empty.  Myself and three children were locked out, desperately in need of a bathroom.)

I’d like to say the week went smoothly despite the enormous personality gaps outlined above. Nothing would be more satisfying than for me to wrap up my story in a neat little package with a bow on top, like an episode of Leave It To Beaver.  But if that were the case, I wouldn’t have any juicy stories to relate. Like the night that a Jerry Springer episode unfolded causing enough commotion to motivate one handicapped grandmother to climb 16 steps and another family of four to flee from the house to avoid involvement. (I still can’t believe the neighbors didn’t call the police.)

And what fun would it have been if two grown sisters didn’t disagree about meal preparation, sleeping arrangements, and Mom’s favorite child status?  Just kidding about that last part, but truly, sibling rivalry has no age limit I discovered.

Ram Das said, “If you think you’re enlightened, spend time with your family.”  Family has a way of bringing out those aspects of us that we’ve learned to keep nicely tucked away in broader social situations – impatience, intolerance, harsh judgment….Our closest relations are the sandpaper that rubs up against our vulnerability in just the right (or wrong) way, causing us to react from a well-worn place.

By the end of our vacation, that vulnerable place inside of me started to resemble an actual wound.  I feared for my sanity and the sanctity of our family relationships.  A cry for help to husband stated a simple but desperate truth, ‘I NEED YOU!’

Luckily, husband was just an hour away and full of generosity from his own solitary week without us. Upon his arrival, I nearly wept for joy. It could have been the alcoholic beverages or the bakery items he brought that made my knees weak. But more likely, it was the relief I felt to see him.

Husband has a way of tilting a room in his direction. I watched in awe as he took charge with his sense of humor and no-nonsense attitude, setting us all back on center, effectively calling us away from ingrained patterns of discord.  My knight in shining armor.

Unintentionally, husband made an even greater save the next day when he necessitated a quick and early departure by breaking Beagle’s finger while tossing him a football. Vacation over. Phew.

It’s been a few weeks since the vacation.  I’m still recovering.  In fact, I’ve delayed writing about it because I’m searching for closure.  Or more accurately, I’m hoping to absolve myself from guilt over not embracing the family gig.   The best I’ve come up with is a little pat on the back for holding my irritated tongue on several occasions.

I like to remind myself that there are as many people in the world struggling to get over having known me as I am trying to get over having known them.  This thought keeps me humble.  In the future, though, I’d like to ‘get over’ my people from a greater distance, on separate vacations.  I love my birth family.  Just not when we’re living under the same roof.

 

Do It Well

23 Aug 2012 1 Comment

by Deb D in Just Life Tags: , , ,

Today’s daily inspirational email advised ‘Whatever you do today, do it well.’  Today I had to attend a funeral.

How does one do a funeral well?  Cry more?  Cry less?  In my experience, one doesn’t do funerals at all.  Funerals are done to you.

General sentiment was one of relief that my aunt had finally been freed from her torturous body.  But the joy for the deceased cannot obscure the sorrow of those left behind.  I gazed at the massive hole in the cemetery ground and thought, ‘there is not dirt enough on the planet to fill in the hole left by the departure of a dear one.’

Hugs and kisses and condolences greet me at the door of the funeral home.  I am both relieved and guilty to be in the arms of family seen only at marriages and deaths.  And I’m grateful for the rituals that force us together when we’ve failed to sustain connections otherwise.

Together, we bolster each other, forming a collective cocoon around Auntie’s closest family – the ones who risk the greatest sorrow.  Our unspoken promise is to hold tight and not let go.  Fall here and we’ll catch you.  You are safe in our arms.  Take what you need from our open hearts.  And fall they do, spilling open with abandon.  Love and sorrow are one voice intertwined.

After all these years, I learn things I didn’t know about the woman who held me at the altar of God at birth and pledged to help my parents watch over me.  Her life is no longer a still shot but a panoramic movie.  A motion picture in which she is the star.  And here we are, her supporting cast, applauding her as she accepts her final award.  She is center stage and has never appeared more perfect.

The bittersweet sound of church bells unleashes my tears.  A song pleads, ‘Hold me close God.’  Yes, God, please do.  Because I feel myself unraveling.  The world is suddenly unfamiliar.  Someone important is missing.

The clock in my world has stopped, yet the people outside of my circle carry on, oblivious that the world is forever changed.  They watch, unaffected, and perhaps even annoyed as our processional of cars slides by.  I gaze into their strange eyes willing them to pause and commend Auntie to Heaven with a prayer of their own.

It’s hard to guess when the healing will come.  It will be different for each of us.  Healing is not to be demanded.  It must be invited and allowed to arrive in its own time, after it has negotiated its way past the darkness.

For now, I wait.  I am at once drained and replete.  It’s as if I am a bottle that has been emptied of its contents and scrubbed out with a brush that reached deep inside.  Empty but clean.  Ready to fill again.

I vow anew to live more consciously and to love more fully so that I may fill myself this time with only the things that really matter.  This, I know, is a promise I will make a thousand times over.  It is my own repeating death and resurrection story.

Returning to this morning’s instructions to ‘do it well,’ I maintain this as an impossibility where funerals are concerned.  But if by this statement one is meant to be present to life and death, to open to vulnerability, and to give from the most sincere part of one’s heart, then yes, I did it well.  And I have an Auntie to thank for it.

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