Eddy Out

26 Apr 2013 4 Comments

by Deb D in Eddy Out, Greatest Hits Tags: , , , ,

white-water-rafting-rapids_03I wasn’t at the Boston marathon this year.  Nor was I with my parents in my childhood home in Watertown.  But I watched, along with the rest of the world, a week’s worth of terror on my turf.  I wake each morning since April 15th feeling violated, as if my own home has been robbed.

During this week of evolving tragedy, husband and I checked in with our brood to allow for debriefing.  Nine year old Peach responded with a casual dismissiveness, leaving us to wonder if her detachment from fear was self-protective.  When she emerged from her bedroom in full-blown tears, we assumed it was bombing-related.  Instead we got this:  “Blubby (the goldfish) is dead!”

Stifling a smile, I offered my deepest sympathies.  As words of comfort flowed, it struck me that these same condolences are being uttered throughout our city.  Be it animal or human, when a loved one has passed, we are called to support each other.

I tried to disconnect these two incidents, assigning weight where it was due, but the two were entwined like the two sides of the ‘Best Friends’ necklace that Peach asked me to disentangle.  She wondered about her fish’s passing, “Why me?  Why are brother’s fish still alive?  What did I do wrong?”  To which I replied, “Death is not personal.  It happens to all living things.  It’s part of the deal.”

This detached truth is the tiny light that burns eternal.  Death, illness, loss…they are simply part of the risk of being alive.  We are no more immune to them than we are to joy and abundance.  When we engage in life, we are equally at risk of experiencing overwhelming love as we are at experiencing loss.  Life doesn’t play favorites.  When we try to assign reason to life, it makes us suffer and keeps us stuck in confusion.

At times like these, I am reminded of the instructions given at the start of a white water rafting trip.  If one falls out of the boat:

  1. Don’t panic
  2. Don’t try to swim – it’s futile to fight the river
  3. Put your feet up and let the river take you.  It may toss you around, but eventually it will spit you out.
  4. Look for the rescue rope.  Someone will throw it to you.

This week felt a lot like falling out of a boat – again.  There was panic and fear.  We scrambled underwater, searching for terrorists and demanding resolution, trying to stop the hurt and climb back to safety.  At last, the river of life spit us out, heads above water, and we could see hope.  All around us, ropes were thrown – expressions of solidarity and generosity coming from near and far.

I used to marvel at Anne Frank’s famous declaration that, “Despite everything, I believe people are really good at heart.”  But now, witnessing the collective response to the Boston bombings, I too, am certain that there is more good in the world than evil.  There are more people trying to save the world than hurt it.

It is certain that life will toss us into the river again and we will lose precious possessions in the process.  But we can also be certain that we will be rescued.  We just need to stay centered, release our resistance, and reach for the ropes.

Boston is eddying-out after negotiating a wicked rapid. It still has a long stretch of river to travel before finding its footing on dry land.  Knowing Boston, it will take on the rest of this river with a vengence.  Then it will climb back in the boats, ready to show the river who’s boss.

April Fool’s Frenzy

04 Apr 2013 3 Comments

by Deb D in Crack A Smile, Fun Stuff, Uncategorized

april 1Three days after April Fool’s Day, the Dunhams are still decompressing from the annual frenzy that is generated by five pranksters under one roof.  April 1st ranks at the top of our list of major celebrations.

In the early years of marriage I was dragged through the April Fool’s tradition by husband, a career jokemaster.  It was no fun trying to compete with his level of expertise.  (As a child he put dog poop in a sibling’s pillow!) But when the kids came along and husband apprenticed them, I had to get in the game. I began modestly with the old standbys: books in the pillow, traps on the toilet, early morning alarm clocks under beds…and finally reached the big leagues the year I sewed husband’s underwear together.

The competition has gotten so fierce of late, that the formation of alliances is a must.  Husband and I began plotting against the children a month in advance.  Our biggest hit was a scheme that required a late night setup.  Giggling like schoolchildren, we snuck upstairs in darkness to cover bedroom doorways with newspaper and fill the space between paper and door with ping pong balls and popcorn.  Suspecting foul play, Beagle emerged from his room with paintball mask donned, armed for an attack.

He responded with flour in the hairdryer that blew into my face when I turned it on.  Principessa had a more subtle style.  She created a fake ‘Failure To Pay’ parking ticket notice to the tune of $200 which husband was chastised for.  Little Peach, a novice at nine, stole and hid everything she could – toothbrushes, curtains, socks – and toilet papered her sister’s room.  Husband likened her to a civilian with a water gun trying to fight experienced terrorists.

The house was like a war zone, destroyed within an hour of sunrise.  By day’s end, more than 200 pranks befell five Dunhams.  No living creatures were harmed and all were applauded for a high level of ingenuity and sportsmanship.  Cleaning up the fallout is a bear, but so worth it.

Please share your best pranks so I can begin my list for next year!  The stakes are getting higher every year and I need new material.

Deb

Love Class

31 Mar 2013 2 Comments

by Deb D in Insights, Love and Other Things Tags: , , , , , ,

Warning:  Rated “S” for Spiritual.  Content may be inappropriate for atheists and agnostics.

crossAs I re-read my ‘Intention to Love’ declaration I noticed a tone of enthusiasm and self-assuredness.  Forty days ago I jumped headlong into Lent with a commitment to love – everyone.  What was I thinking?

It didn’t take long for me to be bowled over by the hard-to-love tidal wave.  Which I could have predicted and prepared for if not for a premature self-satisfaction with my success in loving criminals and sassy teens.

Caroline Myss advises watching what you wish for.  If one asks for patience, one will be presented with three people or situations that try your patience to its limit.  How else would you learn?  Did you expect that patience would fall into your lap just because you asked for it?  Did you think you’d be asked to forgive Santa Claus?

Truthfully, yes.  I had hoped that setting a conscious intention to love would ease the process.  Apparently, it had the opposite effect.  If this is Life School, I signed up for the A.P. class in Love.  And it was more than I bargained for.

One of my first assignments was to find love for a family member who conducted herself in an irresponsible manner.  It was an old story, a skipping record that keeps repeating, making it increasingly difficult to tolerate.

I tackled my assignment with prayer – the old standby.  I prayed for this person to be relieved of her evil ways.  I prayed hard for tolerance.  Nothing changed.  My prayers were like rubber balls bouncing off a wall.

I sat with my  frustration for a while before raising a hand to ask for help.  ‘What am I missing?’  An image of a mirror came to me.  Cautiously, I turned the mirror on myself – on my spiritual arrogance to be exact.  Who was I to think this person needed help?  Maybe she was fine and I was the one with the problem.

I could sense teacher nodding approval.  I was onto something.  My prayers changed to pleas of protection for this family member from me, from my harsh criticism, and for all the ways she has to put up with me. Instantly, the ugliness of her behavior melted away.  Love flowed in as effortlessly and forcefully as water past a newly released dam.  The lesson was clear:  trying or wanting to change others is not loving.  Relationship 101.  I should have remembered that.

With my semester project behind me, I still had to face final exams – Holy Week.  The testing was as intense and stressful as I remember from my college days.  My trying-to-be-more-loving self, now humbled, met with an endless stream of themed challenges:  Loving the Self.

When one has minored in Too Much all her life, and received High Honors in it, she is loathe to dump that ‘accomplishment.’  But if one wants to also claim proficiency in Love, Too Much must go.

Self-critics came out of the woodwork like an infestation of pests that had met with a fumigating spray.  Each had a label – too weak, too loud, too intense, too shy, too bold, too scared, too broken.  ‘Too’ was like a gong clanging in the background of my mind, and often in the foreground.  The world, including my dear family, was more than willing to help me see my too-muchness.

My final exam felt less like a test and more like an unguided trek across dangerous terrain in extreme weather.  And all I brought was a flashlight.  Fortunately, I spotted some encouragement along the way.  There was this from Tama: You do not have to be perfect to lead.  Someone needs what you have learned from your struggle.  And this one from Glennon:  Maybe I am who I am for a purpose.  Maybe I’ve been wasting my energy trying to be different.

As I contemplated the many gurus I admire, it occurred to me that they had their own ‘too-muchness.’  Mother Theresa was described as impatient.  Look what her impatience did for the world!  Gandhi was intolerant (of poverty and oppression) which may have stemmed from his intolerant character.  And Einstein was rebellious.  Need I say more?

We are flawed characters, us humans.  But so lovable.  So deserving.  So valuable.

I rose on Easter Sunday wondering if I passed my Love class.  Did Jesus wonder that when he ascended to Heaven?  Was he worried that maybe he could have done better, saved more people?

I may find myself enrolled in Love Class again next semester and the one after that.  I’ll take it as many times as I have to in order to excel.  And I’ll continue to teach it too.  Because we teach best what we most need to learn.

Unsticking the Stuckness

28 Mar 2013 2 Comments

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

oh-the-places-youll-go“I feel stuck,” she whined.  “It feels like everyone is moving forward without me.  This one is dating, that one is achieving, and I….I am going sideways.”

Principessa is in the Waiting Place –  that frustrating place in the Great Balancing Act of Life.  I remember when the Waiting was a place I loathed.  I too, was a teen itching for excitement and forward motion.  These days, as a parent, the ‘nothing is happening’ place is a welcome reprieve from the ordinary chaos.   It represents safety and calm.  Not so for an eager teen teetering on the edge of the nest.  She is percolating with frustration and worry.

I ask Principessa to look at the bare-limbed trees outside.  They are resting.  Months ago they dropped their leaves in order to preserve energy for the Spring revival.  The trees didn’t worry when they lost their leaves because they knew that their season to shine would come around again.  They just had to be patient.

But it’s hard to believe in seasons when you’re a teen.  NOW is where it’s at.  I. Want. It. NOW.  Which is just another version of ‘I’m not enough as I am.’ Whenever I hear this ‘not enough’ story, (including from myself,) I follow with the question, “Not enough for whom?”

We could spend a lifetime chasing ourselves with a stick, slinging accusations and pointing out failures, which is essentially what we do when we entertain self-criticism.  We think that comparison keeps us motivated to achieve.  We are convinced that without ‘not good enough’ we are in danger of falling behind.  In truth, the only purpose it serves is to keep us in a perpetual state of anxiety.

Long ago I read this bit of wisdom:  Perhaps the question is not, ‘How can I be who I want to be?’ but rather, ‘How can I want to be who I am?’  Loving the self is tricky business.  Contentment is often confused with complacency or vanity.

I remind Principessa to stay in her own lane and keep her eyes on the road.  If your attention is on the person who’s passing you and you’re worried about falling behind, who’s driving your life?

My words of wisdom barely hold the teen tears at bay.  In a final attempt at rescuing Principessa from herself, I gather her in a cuddle and begin to read to her for the first time in many years.

Somehow you’ll escape

All that waiting and staying.

You’ll find the bright places

Where Boom Bands are playing.

…

You’ll get mixed up, of course,

As you already know.

You’ll get mixed up

With many strange birds as you go.

…

And will you succeed?

Yes! You will, indeed!

(98 and ¾ percent guaranteed.)

Kid, You’ll move mountains!

I felt Principessa’s body lighten.  “I never understood this book when I was little.  Now I do.” she said quietly, then leaned in for a kiss.

Thank you, Dr. Seuss, for getting the job done.  You were a genius!

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.

Don’t Give Up On Me Now

14 Mar 2013 2 Comments

by Deb D in Insights Tags: , ,

I get upset, maybe irrationally so, when things break – which they do at an alarming pace in our house.  It’s difficult to pinpoint which machine failure causes the most angst for me.  I was equally annoyed when the toilet handle broke as when the refrigerator committed premature suicide.  So I wouldn’t claim that the impending death of my car was more dramatic than any other loss, until it threatened to take me, and my daughter, with it.

At eighteen years old, failed breaks in my beloved first car were a great story.  With no proverbial ‘life’ to flash before my eyes, it was just a bit of excitement in the day.   Not so at 43.

I knew something was amiss; three different warning lights on the dashboard told me as much.  What they failed to indicate is when the car would fail and how badly.

In typical triage-style parenting, husband and I deemed a trip to the mechanic a low priority, pushing it out a week while secretly hoping the warning lights would disappear.  You know, the old ‘if I ignore it, it will go away’ trick.  But our over-used SUV wasn’t willing to accommodate our busy schedule and decided to self-destruct mid-week while I – not my risk-taking/thrill-seeking husband – was driving our nine year old to dance class.

Shortly after calling husband to report increasingly squishy brakes and the possibility of visiting the mechanic sooner rather than later, I went careening through a stop sign, avoiding a crash by sheer luck.  Not wanting to panic Peach, I restrained my reaction, opting instead to unleash my fury on husband when I arrived home.  Thankfully, he is a seasoned husband who wasn’t hurt by my insinuation that this was somehow his fault.  (He’s a big fan of the rhetorical question: If a tree falls in the woods and the husband is nowhere near it, is it still his fault?)   Of course it is!

I awoke the next morning with virtual whiplash from my virtual accident.  Ah, the power of stress.  In retrospect, I should have had the car towed to the shop.  But I opted to drive it, sans passengers, tempting fate once more and nearly killing myself and the car in the process.  (I’m pretty sure the mechanic would wag a finger at me for driving my automatic transmission like a stick shift in lieu of brakes to slow down.)

Regular readers may notice a trend.   I prefer barreling through life at full speed, trying to squeeze 30 hours into every 24-hour day, foregoing common sense and self-care.  (You might recall me ignoring a warning last year that my online calendar was going to explode from all the conflicts.)  I recognize this self-destructive pattern, and yet I persist.

I envision a guardian angel assigned to me at birth, rolling its eyes and grumbling about a future of futile attempts at keeping me safe from myself.  In my dream, he is chasing after me, barely able to keep up until, at last, I pause just shy of running into traffic like an oblivious toddler.  The sight of my breathless angel fuels the game of cat and mouse and I take off once again, confident he will follow.

Last night my dream took on a more serious note in one of those vivid, sweat-inducing dreams that stays with you long after waking.  I was driving distractedly when the road spontaneously disappeared.  My car launched into the air and landed in a river.  After escaping the car, I had an emotionless thought that the car could be replaced, but I was hysterical about the loss of my smart phone – my second brain that contains all my contacts and appointments.

I woke with the feeling that perhaps it’s time to turn over a new leaf.  No more ignoring of warning signals that are trying to protect me.  No more getting irritated at policemen that pull me over for speeding.  I will ‘hear God on the whisper’ so He doesn’t have to yell.  And maybe, just maybe, I’ll slow my life down enough so my guardian angel can catch a break.

Make-Believe Manners

12 Mar 2013 3 Comments

by Deb D in Crack A Smile, Parenting, The Jig Is Up Tags: ,

When a new friend invited my clan to dinner, I was excited – for five minutes – until I realized how unfit my three meal-time barbarians were for communal dining.

“Listen up!”  I announced in my most authoritative voice at dinner that night.  “This is serious.  We have a dinner invite.  We need work on manners!”

Not sharing my sense of urgency, kids returned their focus to animated banter, interrupting each other with mouths full of food and greasy hands gesticulating their point.  The color drained from my face and panic set in.  What will the neighbors think of us?  Two minutes of this animalistic feeding frenzy and they’ll send us packing with a ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you.’

“That’s it!” I shouted. (Ironically matching their primal behavior.)  “You need to shape up.  Starting right now, you are all enrolled in Manners Boot Camp.”  My voice assumed a  drill sergeant tone.  “I want to see a fork in every hand.  No fingers on food.  Sit up straight.  Close your mouth when you eat…”  The list of instructions was lengthy.

The more I pestered, the worse it got.  Littlest one was paralyzed with confusion and teens indulged in a game of mockery, competing for Most Uncivilized.  “We know this stuff, Mom.  We just don’t do it at home because it doesn’t matter.”  Unconvinced, I soldiered on.

One night, son queried, “Will you be telling the neighbors that we’ve been practicing for a month just to eat at their house?” Not likely. “And neither will you,” I threatened.  “I’d like them to believe you’ve been groomed well since birth.”

As we pulled into the neighbor’s driveway I couldn’t help but give a final review of manners material. A collective symphony roared back at me, “WE KNOW! JUST STOP!”

Nervous smile plastered to face, I ushered my students to the front door where they exchanged cordiality seamlessly. Phase One – check.  Hostess took drink orders and received ‘pleases’ and ‘thank yous’ on cue. Phase Two – check.

Onward rolled the seamless evening with children playing and adults conversing.  Nary a warning glance was needed from Mom.  Dinner passed without incident….until dessert. By that point we had all relaxed enough to let our guard down and didn’t see Tom Foolery sneak in the back door.

I turned my head just in time to catch Prankster son mocking aristocracy with pinkie in air, pursed lips, and feigned British accent raving about the ‘delightful’ meal.  After dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin, he waved it ceremoniously in the air, fanning it out into a single sheet in order to be tucked into his shirt collar as a bib.

Teen daughter snickered, egging him on, and elbowed nine-year old Peach to join in the fun.  Unamused and preoccupied, Peach’s eyes grew wide as she declared with urgency, “I’m going to throw up!”

May Day, May Day!  We’re going down!

I shot a harsh glance at teen daughter which she understood immediately to mean ‘You and your brother regain control NOW!’  Daddy created a conversational diversion while I whisked pale-face off to the nearest bathroom.

“Did we pass?” asked a child when we arrived home.

“By the skin of your teeth.” I replied, and collapsed from exhaustion.

Silly isn’t it? This game of pretend we play.  ‘Look at me, a good mother, with good kids who have manners.’  Hah!  If the ruse could speak it would say something more accurate like, ‘look at me, pretending to have it all together.  Only a fool tries to cover up her family’s flaws. Everyone knows that real connection can only happen when people act as themselves, shortcomings and all.’

Yes, I know this, but press the right button and I am back in the third grade, wanting to be liked, wanting to be invited to the parties, and fearing that I’ll mess up my chances.  Truth is, that very fear is what could sabotage the deal. When we’re afraid to be who we are, afraid that we won’t be accepted, we act different. You know, like in an awkward way. That makes us, you know, like, stumble over our words and stuff.

The day after dinner, hosting friend dropped off our serving bowl with an encouraging note. Had a great time. Would love to have you over again soon.

Excellent.  Just not too soon, I thought.  I need time to recover from the stress of the first dinner.  Maybe next time we’ll try being ourselves and see how that goes.  How bad could it be?

Is This Goodbye?

04 Mar 2013 4 Comments

by Deb D in Greatest Hits, Growing Up, Love and Other Things, Parenting Tags: , , , ,

handsDear Child,

We are standing at a crossroad.  Before us are two choices.  The first would keep us on the familiar path we’ve been travelling.  It’s the one on which we walk together, sometimes stopping to notice a wondrous bug or a rainbow, sometimes jumping in puddles or stomping on shadows.  This path is full of adventure that is meant to be shared and we’ve done just that.   We’ve held hands while skipping, chased each other in a game of tag, and collapsed in a heap at the side of the road laughing ourselves silly.  In everything, we’ve been together.

But now, the road is splitting.  I want to stay the course – the familiar one.  You are drawn to the other road.  You assure me it’ll be fun, an adventure like nothing we’ve seen before.  ‘I’ll go first’ you say, for the road is too narrow to walk side-by-side.  You beg and plead for me to drop your hand.  You’re old enough, you declare, to take the lead.  ‘Let me show you the way,’ you suggest.

You want your wings sooner than I’d like you to fly.  Fear tempts me to clip them in order to keep you close just a little while longer.  I even try to guilt you into spending more time with me – a weak move, I know.  Your earnest face reminds me that love does not hold on.  It trusts in the flow.  Real love is able to let go when it’s time.

I have been your human guardian this many years.  Now the time has come to trust the work I’ve done and to let you go on ahead.  It’s time you had your own experiences without being weighed down by my presence.  I will not be your ball and chain.  I will not stifle you.  But I may cry a bit trying to keep these promises.

We used to play that game, remember?  The one where you said, ‘I love you, Mom.’ And I’d reply, ‘I love you more.’  We’d debate back and forth trying to prove who loved whom more.  It was always a stalemate.  You’ve stopped playing that game with me, which makes me think that maybe I do win – that I do love you more than you love me.  Well, even if it’s not true, it feels that way when you barely glance in my direction or refuse to answer my questions with anything other than grunts and groans.  Deep down, beneath my insecurity, I know this is simply the way of it.  The natural evolution.  And you do love me, more than you’re willing to admit aloud.

This is an opportunity to be the kind of mother I can be proud of.  It takes all I have to shut down my protective instincts and loosen my grip on your precious hand.  I know that the moment I let go, you will slip away.

Perhaps you’ll return once in a while to check in.  If I leave the door open, you can pop in from time to time and share a story or two about your new adventure.  I’ll be here, following behind you a pace or two, in case you need me.  I’d follow you anywhere, my child.

Go then, quickly, before I change my mind.  And take my blessing with you.  May you find all that you need and enough of what you want.  And may you never forget that I love you.  More.

Love,

Mom

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.

Love, Here I Come

15 Feb 2013 5 Comments

by Deb D in Love and Other Things, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , ,

i love youEvery year at this time (the Christian season of Lent) I seize the opportunity to spearhead my own crash course on Life.  Some themes I’ve taken on in past years include Gratitude, Non-Judgment, and Giving.  For forty days I commit my focus to a challenge that impels me to be a better version of myself.  Without fail, this practice proves to be life-altering and inspirational.

I don’t always go public with these personal encounters, but when Friend asked me what project I was cooking up this year (so that she might also be inspired), I felt obliged to share.  Marianne Williamson said, “As we let our own light shine, we give other people permission to do the same.”  Or as the fellow diner said in response to Meg Ryan’s orgasm interpretation (in When Harry Met Sally), “I’ll have what she’s having.”  Same same.

So here it is, The Forty Days of Love.  Cliché, I know, since it also happens to be Valentine’s Day.  But whatever, love rules.

Love is one of those words that has no right being just one word.  There’s too much going on with love to box it up in four letters.  Poets and playwrights, saints and songwriters have said more about love than any other subject, and still, they’ve only grazed the surface.  There’s plenty more to learn about love and I intend to do just that.  Experiment and learn.  I’ll notice it, play with it, express it, apologize for withholding it, accept it, and maybe even try to define it.

No one and no thing is off limits.  If you cross my path this month, be you friend or foe, expect to find love.  Love has agreed to be my constant companion.  It’s good like that – very accommodating – though very sneaky too.  Love tends to hide in the most unlikely places.  No worries, I have a nose like a basset hound.  And a black belt in gratitude.  Love, I will hunt you down if I have to.  But I don’t expect it will come to that.

If you intend to join me on this journey, buckle up.  It’s never an easy stroll through the park.  This conscious living thing is Work.  I’m not talking about ladling on an extra dose of hugs and kisses to the dear ones.  It’s easy to love them. No ma’am, I’m talkin’ love thy enemies – the ones who tick you off and stir the pot and make you want to say those curse words that fit so nicely in the angry space.  That’s the love I want to know – the kind that claims dominion over evil.

It’s you and me against the world, love.  Let’s do this thing.

Deb

p.s. After writing this piece and before posting it, a neighbor’s house was broken into.  I offered up my blessings for the people who had been violated, then another for the criminal – for whatever is going on for him/her that motivates stealing.  Hard to suspend the judgment, but I’m throwing some love in that direction and the judgment is caving.  Powerful stuff love is.

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