I Love You More Than This Hurts

Just let that soak that in for a minute.

Do you ever hear a song on the radio, or stumble on a particular line in a book, or a TV character waxes eloquent, and it just sticks with you?  I love finding inspiration in unexpected places.

I got this jewel from a good friend recently when we were on vacation together.  She was sharing a current struggle with one of her children, and her frustration that there was no easy fix.  But, as she was describing her sadness, she looked at me and said she knew they would prevail, because the love she felt for her child was far greater than the pain she felt.

Wow.  I can't even begin to explain how those words resonated with me.  It is so simple.  If you love someone, truly love them, then there is nothing they can do or say that can trump that love.

But beyond that, love can keep you from getting in your own way.  Because the feelings you have for another person are inevitably wrapped up in your anxieties, your insecurities, your faults, and your fears.  It is easy to lose sight of the pure feeling of love, when you limit your worth or scratch at your scars.

Instead of feeling like a failure because your child is in crisis, draw strength from the moment you met and fell in love. Rather than give up on your partner because you have drifted apart, remember what drew you together and speak to them from that place.  Don't allow your failures to define you, but celebrate the trials that have made you strong.

Love yourself more than your pain.

I should mention the other quote that stuck with me that weekend, also from my friend.  It came in the form of an honest reaction to raw chicken necks, purchased at a gas station.  She was bagging them up so that our boys could go crabbing, and as the blood and ligament fat dripped onto the floor, she said, "This is gross, but I love my son."

Ya'll.  This woman is my sensai.  I drew on those words later that night when my son was projectile vomiting in his room - in the top bunk bed of a converted closet - while his friend offered moral support.  If you know me at all, you know my gag reflex would impress even Pavlov.

But I love my kid.  And I loved that I could take care of him when he needed me.  Love is a gift - and you can give it to yourself.

Until next time, keep crowin' and lovin'!

I Will Always Have Gum

I just became an aunt for the 6th time.  My sister and her husband welcomed a daughter a few weeks ago. Looking at her, I think about my own children, who are much closer to leaving home than coming home for the first time.

I see my sister in the position I was in almost 14 years ago.  My job at that time to was to keep the baby fed and clean, warm and safe.  That was a tall order, when you throw in the navigation of new family dynamics, grabbing sleep where I could, showering only once a week, eating donated food or pure junk, and generally feeling completely overwhelmed.

But that wasn't the hard part. Not by a long shot.

Because that baby grows up - rather swiftly, I might add - and soon her needs extend to help with homework, negotiations about appropriate clothing, debates over independence, and long talks about the potholed road of friendships and love.

And then she discovers that you are, in fact, a human being, with flaws and vices and needs of your own. That you can screw up royally and make her cry.  Eventually, you can't hide your skeletons in the closet anymore, because your kid is in there, looking for a pair of shoes to borrow, or the hidden Christmas presents, or flat out asking you what your problem is.

Just as suddenly, she is in high school, and you realize in 4 years, she will be gone.  I find myself reliving my daughter's childhood over and over again - the parts I can remember - to judge my successes and failures, to make sure she has been, and will, be happy.

Whew.  Breathe.

One thing my sister has working in her favor, raising a daughter in this day and age, is that the world is a lot more realistic about what the typical family looks like, and what really happens around the dinner table (or, if we're being honest, the coffee table with the TV on).

When my parents were growing up, they had Leave it to Beaver and My Three Sons as their guides. Dinner on the table at 5:00, served by mom in pearls and heels, dad sharing witty truisms and the boys dealing with problems like accidentally breaking a lamp or the dog eating their homework. As I was growing up, I remember The Brady Bunch and The Cosby Show.  Blended families were now OK, kids had bigger problems, like puberty and fender benders, but still, the parents always saved the day.  Now, my children are watching Modern Family and The Middle.  The parents in these shows constantly blow it - the kids are often far smarter and more together - and usually, there is not a pithy, happy ending, but the acknowledgement that life is not, can not be, perfect.  Sometimes a bucket of chicken at 9:00 p.m. with your bra resting comfortably in the chair next to you is the best you can do for your kids.  And no one will die because of it.

In fact, maybe it lets your kids know that no one expects them to be June Cleaver when they grow up.  That the pressure is off.

My niece is a lucky girl.  She's got wonderful parents, and I know she will have a happy life.  She is already so loved and cared for, and as her aunt, I get to spoil her rotten and be her buddy.  I get to watch a new, sweet little life grow and learn, as my own kids fly the coop.  And one thing she can count on, one thing I can guarantee, is that I will always have gum.

Until next time, keep crowin' - and seeing the beauty in your family's imperfections.

Perfectly Wrong

I was watching "The Perks of Being a Wallflower" with my teenage daughter the other night, when we came to a scene where a boy is offered a brownie at a party, not realizing it was "special."  He ate it and became as high as a kite.  I decided to use this as a teaching moment in the war on the drugs in suburbia.

Me:  "Carolyn, you should never eat brownies at a party."
Her: "Why?"
Me:  "Because they could have drugs in them.  Marijuana is very bad for you - it affects your reproductive organs."
Her:  "Is that why I have red hair?"
Me:  pause ... "Touché"

I'll be honest, I got a lot of pride out of her comedic timing.  Spot on.

But I know what you are thinking.  Yes, I smoked pot in college.  And yes, my daughter knows I did.

So, where does the judgement lie - in the doing or the telling?  Or both?

I have always believed in admitting to my kids about my past mistakes.  How can they talk to me about their thoughts and fears if I am sitting high on a silver cloud of perfection?  And no, the cloud does not smell like pot.  My daughter has always taken it in stride, but my 10-year-old son usually isn't so sure.

Him:  "I heard about Carolyn's joke."
Me:  "Did you?"
Him: "Yeah.  Did you do drugs?"
Me:  "Yes."
Him: "Why?"
Me:  "Well, I was curious, and wanted to fit in, everyone was doing it, and I made bad choices.  If I was the person I am now, I would have never done it."
Him: pause ... "Ok...."

Again with the judgement - because I did it, or because I told?  Or both?

As parents, are we supposed to be perfect or human?

Here's my answer - yes.  We are supposed to be both.  Set the standards, teach the rules, share the expectations, BUT then explain why.  

For example, if you see a little child picking up dog poo, you say, "Yuck, drop it!"
If you see an older child picking up dog poo, you say, "Don't eat that - your mouth will rot!"

The truth is, "because I said so" doesn't work any more. In this world of technology and investigative journalism, people want proof and accountability.  So, I am an open book.  And I hope, by being transparent, that I will spare my children just a few of the mistakes I made.  They will make brand new ones, but hopefully, they won't be made out of fear or ignorance.  And if I do my job right, the timing of their good choices will be impeccable.

Until next time, keep crowin' - and keep it legal!

7% Uncertain

For my 41st birthday, I received a DNA kit.  Not because I am about to join Maury Povich onstage for the latest edition of "Who's Your Daddy", but because I truly wanted a final answer for the question, "Where did you get that nose?"

My quest to determine my ethnic heritage had, up until this point, been an internal journey.  Since adolescence, whenever someone would ask me where I was REALLY from, I would tell myself, surely, not from here.  The details are sketchy.  My father's father had a mysterious life, and most of his adventures and escapades are lost to time.  My appearance has been ambiguous enough to raise questions from friends and strangers alike, and I have always wished to find the answers.

And so, with a spit deposit in a tube and a postage-paid envelope, I submitted my history to science.

Turns out, I am pretty much a white girl.

According to my saliva, I am:

British Isles                    64%
Scandinavian                  22%
Eastern European            7%
Uncertain                        7%

I was disappointed until I got to that last 7%.  There was my loophole, my life raft.  A little bit of me that can't be determined, a percentage that I get to keep and grow.  7% of me cannot be put in a corner, labeled and ready for delivery.  I get a space on the page to be whatever it is I thought I was, whatever it is I should be.

I can do a lot with 7%.  I can break cycles, tear down walls, reconnect with my heart, and conquer just about anything.  I can navigate my children through the struggles of life, and fall in love with my husband, again and again.  I can overcome crimes committed against me, and learn how to live without fear.  I can be proud of my sacrifices, and strong enough to stop sacrificing.  I can just be.

Sometimes, we lose ourselves so much, we give so much of ourselves to others, that we forget to keep some for ourselves.  I think that was the purpose of the test for me - to show that, no matter what, we all have something inside that can't be touched - it's just for us.

Until next time, keep crowin' and hold on to your 7%!

It's Not Hard, People

Take a look at this photo.  Can you spot the error?

 

So close ... just a few more steps ....

 

 

If I were a sociologist, I'd solve the mystery of why carts are abandoned in parking lots, when the corral is 10 feet away. Or the greater puzzle of why we walk past said carts, go into the store, and get a fresh one.  Why do we step over a piece of clothing that has fallen off the rack at a store?  Further, why do we speed up to keep a car from pulling in front of us when lanes merge? 

 

Are we overly righteous or underly moral?

 

I silently judged the person that left their cart to die at Target, but then reprimanded myself a few minutes later when I realized that I could have fixed the problem by putting it away - and didn't.  Today, at TJ Maxx, I fixed one sweater that was askew on the hanger, but not the next five.  I let two cars go in front of me while waiting at a red light, but not the third.

 

Where do we draw the line? 

 

You see, I'm a stickler for putting a plastic divider down after I've put all my groceries on the conveyor belt, but sometimes leave my drink cup in the movie theater after the show is over.  I wipe down the equipment at the gym after I use it, but will pick my nose and then shake someone's hand.

 

I think the answer is in the quote by H. Jackson Brown, Jr.  “Our character is what we do when we think no one is looking.”   

 

Of course, nowadays, someone is always looking, which is all the more reason to behave.  Because you never know when the cart police will knock at your door, and justice will be swift.

 

 

 

 

Until next time, keep crowin' - and go the extra mile!





Gone Fishin'

After having already decided not to take a family vacation this summer, due to lack of time and funds, I changed my tune.  The tornado, plus a week with four children in my care - my niece (7) and nephew (1) came to stay - I decided a get-away was, in fact, possible. 

Of course, it was 4th of July week, so there was nothing available within a 500-mile radius.  It took a few days of pulling my hair out to finally find just the spot - a private home in a gated community at a beach that I had never heard of.

We made the 5+ hour trek and rolled up on our oasis.  It was a lovely house, and we quickly settled in. The kids picked their rooms, we unpacked the food, and I got dinner started.  My husband poured himself a cold one and headed out to the screened porch to breathe in the fresh air.  The kids soon joined him, and once I had the bread in the oven, I walked out the door to sit with my family and enjoy some quiet time. 

As I closed the door behind me, I heard a click click.

Now, if you have been reading this blog for any length of time, or if you know me personally, there are several things you can assume from this sound.

1.  It was not the sound of pennies raining down from heaven.
2.  It was the sound of us getting locked out of the house.

We realized immediately that there was no hope of re-entry.  All doors and windows were locked, and we were on the 2nd floor of the house.  Further, I had on neither shoes nor bra, having shed them both in the glory of freedom.

Being in a private neighborhood, we had few options.  We could start yelling for help, my husband could jump, or we could break down a door or window.  Before I pushed my husband over, fate intervened.

The Security golf cart came puttering by, and I waved the lady down.  After visiting a few of the neighbors, looking either for a screwdriver or a key, she found John, our guardian angel.  John had a key to the house.  John also kept the lawn for the owner, had some connections to our home town, and ran a business putting faces on tiles and lazy susans in case we were interested.  And as we would find out the next day, John also knew how to fix air conditioners.

All of that, and I didn't even burn the bread.

Several things struck me about our little Utopia:

 

The shopping. Must have been closed for the holidays.

The wildlife.  Here we have a two-headed alligator walking on a fluorescent water-type substance.

The security.  It is so safe, you can't even jump in front of the sensor to exit the neighborhood.  Going on a run requires fitting through that triangular space.

The tides.  They appear to be out during the day.  This gave our fellow sunbathers a healthy walk to squat and pee in the sea.  It was a sight to behold, all day, like a continuous stream of birds floating on the ocean.

The sands.  They sink under your feet like butter and dry like pound cake on your shoes.

 

 

Yes, it was a fool's paradise, full of sights and sounds that we had never experienced before.  On our last day, we ventured beyond the gates and found a little miracle - a Swiss Family Robinson State Park that offered white sands and rolling waves for a small fee.  It was like being on a deserted island for a week and then realizing a resort was a mile down the road.

 



Ahhh ... much better!

 

I can just make out Pocahontas .....

 

Regardless of the hiccups, it was away, and that was all we needed.  Sometimes you just need to get out of your habitat and spread your wings to tame the inner wildlife within.  I have already started planning my next vacation - because, let's face it, I could use one.

 

Until next time, keep crowin'!

 



How to Deal

With summer in mid stroke, I think about when I was a kid, and these months off of school were a wide open field of carefree possibilities - the pool, friends, sleeping in, movies, ice cream, vacation, and lots of good old fashioned "down" time.  As an adult, summer isn't about hitting the pause button anymore.  Your employer doesn't skip June, July, and August so you can rest, and there is no school bus to take your kids to their activities. 

But still, we look forward to it because it symbolizes a slowing down, an opportunity to refresh your screen and get a new perspective.

I have definitely had a summer for the books so far.  Granted, there are books with more tragic and difficult stories, but since this is my blog, I will talk about mine. 

In the past, I have written about my backyard, and my love of the trees and the shade and privacy they provide.  That's my little oasis, my quiet place where I can breathe in the sun and lounge in arms of Mother Nature.

Until the tornado. 

 



Now that clean up is done, my yard looks like a shaved armpit with a bit of stubble.  And I suddenly have the ability to report on what the neighbors are cooking for breakfast and whether it is bath day in the big tub.

Am I lucky that no one was hurt?  Beyond belief.  Am I fortunate that my house and husband's car were not destroyed?  You bet.  And in light of those blessings, did I handle the dealings with neighbors and insurance and tree men and my do-it-yourself husband, in the most professional and positive manner?

Absolutely not.  I actually lost my mind, quite vocally, and then tried to commandeer a bobcat.

This photo has become known as The Determinator.

From that time on, anyone that came along, anything I was asked to do, any way the wind blew, I treated like a hostile witness.  The world was Tom Cruise and I was Jack Nicholson. 

Me: "You want answers?"
World: "I think I'm entitled."
Me: "You want answers?"
World: "I want the truth!"
Me: "You can't HANDLE the truth! ... My existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives. You don't want the truth because deep down in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me on that wall - you NEED me on that wall ...  I would rather you just said thank you, and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a weapon, and stand a post. Either way, I don't give a d*mn what you think you are entitled to!"
World: "Did you order the Code Red?"
Me: "YOU'RE G***AMNED RIGHT I DID!!!!!"

It got a little ugly.

And then it got better.

Because what goes down, must eventually come up.  Sooner or later, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and realize you look like Norma Desmond and are scaring the neighborhood cats. So, the sun fought against the clouds and won, helping me to snap out of it and make a refreshing cocktail with the lemons of life. 

I also I remembered something I already had in my arsenal that had been locked away --- that when used properly, a sense of humor can be your most powerful weapon against evil.

Some excellent examples that I have bookmarked are two letters from disgruntled airline passengers.  They express their nightmares in a way that not only gets the point across quite effectively, but also leaves the recipients of their complaints actually ... smiling.   Click here for the first place letter, and click here for second place.

And that, my friends, is how to deal. 

Until next time, keep crowin' - and let a smile be your umbrella.