Friday, September 4, 2015
Non-Pity party
This is me right now.
There is part of me that wants to announce on Facebook that I'm holding a pity party, and invite all of my "friends" to join in it with me. But I hesitate, for myriad reasons. I don't really want anyone's pity. I think I just want to believe that I'm ok, and this is ok, and time will make me feel better. And I do need to cry.
The reality is this: my life is so overflowing with blessings right now, I am absolutely ashamed for how sad I'm feeling, and how weepy I am all the time. A dear man I go to church with is literally going to be breathing his last breath any moment now, his body finally giving up after a lengthy and valiant fight with cancer. My mother in law has been battling cancer for many years now. A wonderful girl I know from high school is also fighting breast cancer in the most admirable way. My sweet son-in-law's mom will find out today the results from her latest scan, as to whether or not her rare cancer has returned or is still in remission. My grandmother is lying in a bed in an assisted living facility, alive but barely living, and has been that way for so long, I can't even remember. I have a friend that's been battling to recover from a knee surgery for two years and she will never be the same, physically or emotionally. I have an uncle that's fighting against throat cancer. And a cousin who can barely get out of bed each day because of a variety reasons. These are just a few examples off the top of my head, of people I know that are close to me and enduring suffering and pain and true struggles.
Then there's me. I have my health. I have a body that will do pretty much anything I ask of it, barring strenuous physical exercise or asking me to stop eating cookies. I have a mind that is fairly functional, particularly when I take my meds faithfully each morning, and I can use it to do anything I want. I have no real physical or mental limitations. I live in a large, safe, beautiful home with more comforts and luxuries than enjoyed by most people in the world, including but not limited to air conditioning, a vast amount of modern and well-functioning appliances of all sizes, an incredibly luxurious mattress which sits atop of a functional king-size mattress frame and box spring to sleep upon every night, plenty of comfortable (if not quite fashionable) clothes and shoes to wear, freezers and refrigerators (those are both plural) and cupboards filled with food. Our family owns three cars that all work well and are paid for. I have a husband who loves me and is the best companion, who has worked hard his entire life to support me and our children, and I haven't worked outside of the home since the day my firstborn child came into the world. That's over 20 years, folks. I have four children that astound me on a regular basis with their awesomeness, and recognize that they are, bar none, the greatest blessings in my life. Each of them is physically and mentally healthy and whole and fulfilling their own dreams and travelling their own paths in this journey in life.
I do not think it's for lack of recognizing and appreciating the blessings in my life that I am feeling the way I am right now. The only thing I can come up with to attribute all my recent weepiness to is an overall sense of grief for the transitions taking place in and around my life right now. My connections with people who I'm closest to in life are shifting and changing, and I'm left feeling a sadness for what is now past. It's gone. I am no longer the first person my oldest daughter will come to with her most difficult struggles, because she now has a husband with whom she will share all of daily life moments with. I will no longer hear the cartoon character voice of my second daughter's, talking to one of her younger siblings or me, or herself for that matter, bringing a smile to my face no matter where I am or what I'm doing, because that's just what she did. She's at college now, pursuing her life's dreams, becoming her own person, and not here near me. I can't believe how much it hurts, having these precious girls leaving the nest. Right now, the pain of it makes me cry all the time. It's so aggravating to me: if these children we have and raise, grow up and do what you've taught them and hoped they would do, and they do it so well, and they are happy, then why does it hurt my heart so damn much?
I have no regrets for choosing to be a stay at home mom, being here to raise each of my children full time 24/7. There were absolutely many, many times when they were younger, that I would have paid good money to speed up time to get through the most difficult phases and trials of mothering young children. I have great compassion for mothers of little ones; I don't really like children much to begin with. But there's something almost magical about your own kids, being able to witness their growth and development, their becoming their own human beings, that is one of the greatest privileges given by God to all of us who have the blessing and opportunity to have children. It's amazing how unconditionally we can love these little creatures that are sent to us to protect and care for and rear with love. The connection to one's child is probably the most sacred connection a person can forge here on earth, and nothing compares to it. And the relationship I have been blessed to be able to have with each of my children...well, it feels like I've been awarded a Golden Ticket from God, worth more than anything else ever could possibly be worth. Even though I'm an absolute blithering mess right now, I wouldn't trade it for anything. I really like my kids. I like being with them. I like the individuals that they are, their personalities, their quirks, their innermost hearts. I like the way they treat others. I like their senses of humor. I like their minds. I like their strong bodies and the things they can do with them, like kicking a soccer ball or hip hop dancing. I like that they have opinions and that they question things and that they're sassy. I like how they tease and love one another. These kids of mine, they're pretty much the greatest four human beings I know. How lucky am I, to have been able to be mom to them?
Ok, I think I can stop now. My sinuses are sufficiently clogged. I think I can just pick up and carry on for a while more now. This ugly crying jag has come to an end. For the time being...
Monday, November 21, 2011
You do not want to be the "Dream Crusher"
This is my new title. One could also substitute the words "Robber of Childhood Hope" or "Destroyer of Kids' Faith in Parental Honesty." All phrases would apply, and there are probably others as well.
Today, I broke my almost 11-year old daughter's heart, when I shared with her, over delicious DQ Blizzards, the truth about Santa Claus. It's something I've been planning on sharing with her for a long time now, and today we had an opportunity to have some time alone together, so I decided to go for it.
It was doomed from the get-go.
As I was building up to it, sharing with her that it was something I've been wanting to tell her about for a while now, but trying to find the right time to do it, her eyes got really big. She interrupted me before I could get to my main point, and with trepidition in her voice, she hesitantly asked, "Am I adopted?"
I was stunned. I still have no idea where that idea came from. Poor thing; she was seriously worried that I was about to inform her that I didn't really give birth to her, and was very upset by the prospect.
I immediately reassured her that she was absolutley born from my body; I have the stretch marks to prove it.
She was greatly relieved. However, that feeling was short-lived.
I explained that she was going through a sort of rite of passage and joining the ranks of all the grown-ups in the world with this knowledge. Then, I went on to divulge the role of mom and dad, in regards to Santa Claus.
The innocent little freckled face registered shock. Blue eyes immediately filling with tears, she barely squeaked out, "Mom, you're crushing my dreams!" before she burst into gut-wrenching fits of sobbing.
At that moment, I felt like the most horrible person in the world. I wanted to reverse time and take it all back. I felt a very strong urge to punish myself (if you've seen the movie "Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets," you may remember Dobby the house elf, and his intense need to punish himself when he did something he thought might be bad - that was me, wishing I could bash myself with a table lamp repeatedly right then and there).
But, it was too late. The jig was up. I couldn't go back and change it. And my punishment was just: I had to attempt to comfort my daughter, whose heart I had just broken into a million little pieces. Anyone who is a parent knows that, as a mom, you would do almost anything to spare your child pain. As that was impossible, and because I was the one responsible for causing this distress, I felt especially lower lifeform-ish.
Once the worst of the sobbing past, the questions began. "Do my older sisters already know? What about my friends? And what about the Tooth Fairy? Is that fake, too?" I answered each of her questions as honestly as possible. I explained that these were the only things that I have ever lied to her about, and why I felt compelled to perpetuate the falsehood up to now. We talked about how magical things are for little ones, and how it's the only time in life where people can believe in that kind of magic. I promised I'd not lie to her ever again, and asked for her forgiveness.
In time, she ended up being alright. She told me she is glad she heard it from me, and not someone at school. She mentioned that now it made sense to her, why her friend got five dollars from the Tooth Fairy, when she only got fifty cents (pile on more guilt for being cheap). And finally, she agreed to allow her little brother to enjoy the magic for a few more years, and help us all to make that possible for him.
But, she was so sad. And she didn't know why. I told her that I thought she was grieving, and explained what grief was. When we lose something that's important to us, whether it's a person or a home or a belief, it's really hard. And grieving is a normal, healthy part of the way we process things in life and that it was okay to be sad.
As I've been thinking about this all evening, I've come to the conclusion that I'm grieving, too. I'm grieving that I broke my baby girl's heart. I'm grieving that, as a parent, it's really hard to know sometimes when the timing is right to divulge certain things to your kids, and that I screw up and hurt them sometimes. I'm so sad that I can be trying to do something that I think is right, and the resulting anguish caused by my choices, although unforseen, could have possibly been delayed or softened, had I known how to manage it.
So, for now, I am resigned to being the "Dream Crusher" in the family.
I strongly recommend you leave this job to someone else, if at all possible.
Today, I broke my almost 11-year old daughter's heart, when I shared with her, over delicious DQ Blizzards, the truth about Santa Claus. It's something I've been planning on sharing with her for a long time now, and today we had an opportunity to have some time alone together, so I decided to go for it.
It was doomed from the get-go.
As I was building up to it, sharing with her that it was something I've been wanting to tell her about for a while now, but trying to find the right time to do it, her eyes got really big. She interrupted me before I could get to my main point, and with trepidition in her voice, she hesitantly asked, "Am I adopted?"
I was stunned. I still have no idea where that idea came from. Poor thing; she was seriously worried that I was about to inform her that I didn't really give birth to her, and was very upset by the prospect.
I immediately reassured her that she was absolutley born from my body; I have the stretch marks to prove it.
She was greatly relieved. However, that feeling was short-lived.
I explained that she was going through a sort of rite of passage and joining the ranks of all the grown-ups in the world with this knowledge. Then, I went on to divulge the role of mom and dad, in regards to Santa Claus.
The innocent little freckled face registered shock. Blue eyes immediately filling with tears, she barely squeaked out, "Mom, you're crushing my dreams!" before she burst into gut-wrenching fits of sobbing.
At that moment, I felt like the most horrible person in the world. I wanted to reverse time and take it all back. I felt a very strong urge to punish myself (if you've seen the movie "Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets," you may remember Dobby the house elf, and his intense need to punish himself when he did something he thought might be bad - that was me, wishing I could bash myself with a table lamp repeatedly right then and there).
But, it was too late. The jig was up. I couldn't go back and change it. And my punishment was just: I had to attempt to comfort my daughter, whose heart I had just broken into a million little pieces. Anyone who is a parent knows that, as a mom, you would do almost anything to spare your child pain. As that was impossible, and because I was the one responsible for causing this distress, I felt especially lower lifeform-ish.
Once the worst of the sobbing past, the questions began. "Do my older sisters already know? What about my friends? And what about the Tooth Fairy? Is that fake, too?" I answered each of her questions as honestly as possible. I explained that these were the only things that I have ever lied to her about, and why I felt compelled to perpetuate the falsehood up to now. We talked about how magical things are for little ones, and how it's the only time in life where people can believe in that kind of magic. I promised I'd not lie to her ever again, and asked for her forgiveness.
In time, she ended up being alright. She told me she is glad she heard it from me, and not someone at school. She mentioned that now it made sense to her, why her friend got five dollars from the Tooth Fairy, when she only got fifty cents (pile on more guilt for being cheap). And finally, she agreed to allow her little brother to enjoy the magic for a few more years, and help us all to make that possible for him.
But, she was so sad. And she didn't know why. I told her that I thought she was grieving, and explained what grief was. When we lose something that's important to us, whether it's a person or a home or a belief, it's really hard. And grieving is a normal, healthy part of the way we process things in life and that it was okay to be sad.
As I've been thinking about this all evening, I've come to the conclusion that I'm grieving, too. I'm grieving that I broke my baby girl's heart. I'm grieving that, as a parent, it's really hard to know sometimes when the timing is right to divulge certain things to your kids, and that I screw up and hurt them sometimes. I'm so sad that I can be trying to do something that I think is right, and the resulting anguish caused by my choices, although unforseen, could have possibly been delayed or softened, had I known how to manage it.
So, for now, I am resigned to being the "Dream Crusher" in the family.
I strongly recommend you leave this job to someone else, if at all possible.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Maturity
Have you ever experienced something that made you suddenly realize you might be turning into your mother? And it scared you, just a little bit?
I remember when I was in high school and, for some reason, had the misopportunity to catch a view of my mother stark naked. Now, my mom was by no means grossly obese or disfigured or anything like that. But, in my 17 year-old mind, with my seventeen year old body, I thought to myself, Ew! And, something along the lines of, please don't let me ever, ever look like that when I get old! All wrinkles and excessive dimpling and extra flesh around the midsection; yuck!
Fast forward to the present.
Recently, I was dismayed when I went to give my sixteen year old daughter a hug. She was stiff-armed a little bit, and wouldn't let me get too close to her, and I was wondering what the heck was wrong.
Upon inquiring, the aforementioned sixteen year old informed me that she
didn't want me to squeeze her so tight because, when I did, my poo-chi, which as a result of my Nutter Butter addiction, now sticks out further than my underwhelming A-cups, and she informed me that it "creeped her out a little bit" as it squished into to her flat little stomach while I tried to hug her.
Huh. Well then. How 'bout that?
My response, of course, was to tell her to enjoy her flat stomach while she can; genetics (or perhaps a genetic Nutter Butter problem) would be coming to catch up with her some day.
Her response: the obligatory eye roll, accompanied by a long-suffering heavy sigh, and immediately followed with an extremely un-heartfelt, "Thanks Mom."
My always-mature reply wasn't long in the making: I snottily snapped out, "You're welcome."
And when she wasn't looking, I stuck my tongue out at her.
I am now patiently waiting for her to reach her 40's and realize I am right. And I will have my evil laugh cued up and ready to roll when it happens.
I remember when I was in high school and, for some reason, had the misopportunity to catch a view of my mother stark naked. Now, my mom was by no means grossly obese or disfigured or anything like that. But, in my 17 year-old mind, with my seventeen year old body, I thought to myself, Ew! And, something along the lines of, please don't let me ever, ever look like that when I get old! All wrinkles and excessive dimpling and extra flesh around the midsection; yuck!
Fast forward to the present.
Recently, I was dismayed when I went to give my sixteen year old daughter a hug. She was stiff-armed a little bit, and wouldn't let me get too close to her, and I was wondering what the heck was wrong.
Upon inquiring, the aforementioned sixteen year old informed me that she
didn't want me to squeeze her so tight because, when I did, my poo-chi, which as a result of my Nutter Butter addiction, now sticks out further than my underwhelming A-cups, and she informed me that it "creeped her out a little bit" as it squished into to her flat little stomach while I tried to hug her.
Huh. Well then. How 'bout that?
My response, of course, was to tell her to enjoy her flat stomach while she can; genetics (or perhaps a genetic Nutter Butter problem) would be coming to catch up with her some day.
Her response: the obligatory eye roll, accompanied by a long-suffering heavy sigh, and immediately followed with an extremely un-heartfelt, "Thanks Mom."
My always-mature reply wasn't long in the making: I snottily snapped out, "You're welcome."
And when she wasn't looking, I stuck my tongue out at her.
I am now patiently waiting for her to reach her 40's and realize I am right. And I will have my evil laugh cued up and ready to roll when it happens.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
I Am a Camper: Day 1
I recently had the great opportunity to spend some time with my mom and some of her family. My mom and her husband Dean and I drove from their home in Olympia, WA for ten long hours to a tiny place in Northern California called Happy Camp. This region in California is an area that was part of "gold country" over 150 years ago, and is one of my folks' favorite places to go "prospecting" for gold and camp. Prospecting is their favorite thing to do (not mine, as it turned out,but that's okay), so I was looking forward to sharing this experience with them, getting to be out in nature, and away from the normal day-to-day routine.
Now, the name of the truck we drove down in is Doggie. And the name of the camping trailer that was attached to the truck is Gracie. I'm not sure why these things have these names, or why I needed to share this information, except so that it is understood that when I henceforth refer to Gracie, it will be understood that Gracie is not an actual person, but a camping trailer. Yeah, my folks are kind of weird like that; they name all kinds of inanimate objects for who-knows-what reason. But, I digress.
We arrived at our little spot in the woods late in the afternoon, and unfortunately for me, Mother Nature was immediately calling. There is a toilet in Gracie, but it had hitherto never been used by my folks; they generally set-up their own little outdoor outhouse whenever they camp and use it (well, my mom uses it; Dean just uses nature). However, since we had just arrived, there were no "facilities" available anywhere, and I had to go. Dean handed me a shovel and a roll of toilet paper, and sent me on my way.
Right.
I can do this.
I marched away from the campsite, far enough to not be seen or heard, and looked carefully around me. Several times. I think I was afraid there might be some random woodland creatures secretly watching me, and I was feeling modest. Anyways, I dug a hole, finished my business, covered up my business, and felt like a new woman afterwards. Aside from the physical relief, of course, I felt like I had really come into my own as a camper. I was hardcore now; like a bear, I pooped in the woods. How cool is that?!?!
I strode back to camp with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. I was a real camper now. Boo-yeah!
Since my Mom and Dean have done this so many times before, they've established a bit of a routine for how they set up camp. I was trying to be helpful, but I felt like I was getting in the way more than anything. I pestered someone to please give me a task, and was told to inflate my air mattress. The grown-ups were sleeping in the bed in Gracie, and I opted for sleeping in a little 2-man tent nearby, so we could all have a little space and privacy. But, I would have the luxury of a queen size air mattress to put my sleeping bag on, and I was excited about that. The little air compressor had a car adaptor, so it was easy to pump up my mattress and fast.
Check. Solo task one completed.
Dean had me gather firewood, but other than that, I didn't do much at all that first day. It cooled down a lot that night, and the weather forecast was predicting rain. I wasn't concerned. There was a rain fly covering my tent, plus a tarp stretched out a couple of feet above that and tied to nearby trees, so I knew I would be protected from the rain. Besides, I was coming from Texas, which was many months into an extreme drought, and I actually was looking forward to being wet and cold. I honestly couldn't remember what either of those things felt like, it had been so long.
One should always be careful what one wishes for.
Bedtime for the folks is pretty early out in nature. Although they have a campfire in the evenings, they put the fire out and go to bed probably within an hour after the sun goes down. So, it wasn't even eight o'clock and I found myself in my tent, getting ready to go to sleep.
The mattress seemed a little softer than it ought to have been, but I didn't worry about it too much. I snuggled down, read my book for a bit by lantern light, and tried to go to sleep.
It was kind of cold, I noticed. But, I liked it. Feeling cold was wonderful. I simply added another layer of clothing to what I already had on (my long johns) and knew it would warm me up. And it did.
For about five minutes.
I was thinking, wow: this is so awesome! I love that it's cold! I turned on my flashlight and dug out another jacket and zipped it all the way up, then hunkered back down under the sleeping bag.
This went on for a while. 'Bout an hour later, I was also wearing insulated winter socks, slippers over that, a knitted stocking cap pulled down over my ears, gloves, and was all wrapped up in two layers of sleeping bags. The only skin visible on my body was between my eyebrows and my nose; everything else was covered in blankets or other body-warming devices. I smiled to myself; I wish I could have taken a picture, because I'm pretty sure I looked completely ridiculous.
As is normal for me, I don't usually sleep too well the first night away from home. I was finally warm, except for my bum cheeks, and I still haven't figured that one out. How could everything else on my body be cozy and warm, but my bum be frozen? If someone can explain this phenomenon to me, I would be grateful.
I curled onto my side and realized that my mattress had less air in it than I originally thought. Oh brother. For some strange reason, I had three pillows in the tent with me, and I finally discovered why: two of those pillows had to go underneath my body to cushion me from the cool, damp earth, since I had epically failed my one and only solo task of blowing up my air mattress properly. I was grateful for three pillows right then.
Sleep continued to evade me. I was awake so long that I started thinking about having to go potty. I found it ironic; earlier that day, on our drive down, we made many potty stops along the way. I bragged that I had, for some strange reason, been blessed with a very strong bladder, which is unusual particularly for someone who has birthed four children. So, I was lying there in the tent, bundled up like a triple layer burrito, smiling at the situation.
It began to rain.
I love the sound of rain. It's fantastic to listen to, particularly when you are out in nature. It was a steady drizzle and I loved to hear it.
I'm lying there, starting to wiggle my feet, feeling that urge to go potty, but knowing I am just making a mountain out of a molehill out of the situation. I tried to think of something different, and eventually drifted off to sleep.
I awakened in the dark, hearing the steady rain coming down, to the sound of some strange bug I've never heard before. It made a really high pitched noise, not really like a cricket or a cicada, but sort of like them. It reminded me a little bit of a zipper opening and closing really fast. And it was right behind my head. And loud! Crazy freaking bug! I was bummed, because I had fallen asleep. But, I refused to get upset; I reminded myself that I was camping out in nature and to be grateful. So, I just listened to the bug. For a while. Until I couldn't take it any more. I found my flashlight, turned it on, and looked for the little pest. I wasn't sure if it was in my tent, or just outside of it. I ended up not locating it, so I just beat on the back of my tent and told it to shoo! Miraculously, that worked! It finally stopped all the racquet.
I immediately got back under my two sleeping bags; it felt like it had gotten colder. I took a deep breath, and realized again that my bladder was filling up more. Aw crap! It was so cold out now. And raining! I really didn't want to go out in it. I would freeze my little naked butt off, after stripping off the sixteen layers of warmth I had covering it. I could have walked across the campsite to use the toilet in Gracie, but I really didn't want to wake up my Mom and Dean if they were asleep. I figured it had to be getting close to sunrise at this point; it felt like I had been in the tent forever.
My ironic "strong bladder" comment felt like a little demon, jumping up and down on my lower abdomen in glee.
And then, I hear a rush of water hitting the ground right outside my tent. You know, kind of like the sound of when you go potty in the toilet? The tarp over my tent was releasing some of its water load, so it could refill and repeat. I couldn't believe it; just what I needed. A few minutes later, I heard the rush of water again. Great. Just fantastic.
With trepidation, I pulled off my gloves and pushed the little button to light up the face of my watch, mentally willing it to say sometime after 6:00 a.m. The clock ready 1:13 a.m.
I almost cried.
How can it possibly be only 1:13 a.m.? I have been out here in the freaking cold rain, nearly wetting the bed for at least ten hours now, haven't I?
I am never going to make it.
Whoosh; the rush of water off the tarp again.
Naturally, at that moment, I start to hear other sounds. I remembered a conversation from earlier in the day. I had asked Dean about bears. I had some concerns about having an encounter with a bear at night, since I was alone in the tent and my folks were tucked up tight in their trailer. Dean assured me repeatedly that we weren't going to see any bears, because there was nothing for them to eat in the area we camped. However, he couldn't help himself by adding that all I really needed to listen for was the sound of teeth chomping. And, he continued, if I felt a snout of prodding me through the tent, accompanied by the sounds of snuffling, that I might want to lie very still.
Ha ha ha.
Well, of course I started hearing snuffling! Right next to my tent!
I was thankful for my lamaze classes I took during my first pregnancy, because I needed to implement the deep-breath-in-through-the-nose, exhale-out-the-mouth thing to calm down.
Which, by default, put more of a squeeze on my bladder again.
And now we've come full circle. Fantastic.
Another whoosh of water comes off the tarp.
By some piece of magic or luck, I made it through the night without wetting myself. Albeit, I was in an adequate amount of pain from exercising my rocking bladder muscles so well all night. It was uncomfortably challenging to get myself out of the tent, make my way to the toilet in Gracie, and undress enough to use the facilities once daylight arrived. The relief once event began was, in a word, exquisite. I can't remember ever feeling so thankful for the ability to empty my bladder. I actually offered up a short prayer of gratitude to my Heavenly Father for it. I'm not kidding!
One day down, and only four more to go. I am a Camper.
Now, the name of the truck we drove down in is Doggie. And the name of the camping trailer that was attached to the truck is Gracie. I'm not sure why these things have these names, or why I needed to share this information, except so that it is understood that when I henceforth refer to Gracie, it will be understood that Gracie is not an actual person, but a camping trailer. Yeah, my folks are kind of weird like that; they name all kinds of inanimate objects for who-knows-what reason. But, I digress.
We arrived at our little spot in the woods late in the afternoon, and unfortunately for me, Mother Nature was immediately calling. There is a toilet in Gracie, but it had hitherto never been used by my folks; they generally set-up their own little outdoor outhouse whenever they camp and use it (well, my mom uses it; Dean just uses nature). However, since we had just arrived, there were no "facilities" available anywhere, and I had to go. Dean handed me a shovel and a roll of toilet paper, and sent me on my way.
Right.
I can do this.
I marched away from the campsite, far enough to not be seen or heard, and looked carefully around me. Several times. I think I was afraid there might be some random woodland creatures secretly watching me, and I was feeling modest. Anyways, I dug a hole, finished my business, covered up my business, and felt like a new woman afterwards. Aside from the physical relief, of course, I felt like I had really come into my own as a camper. I was hardcore now; like a bear, I pooped in the woods. How cool is that?!?!
I strode back to camp with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. I was a real camper now. Boo-yeah!
Since my Mom and Dean have done this so many times before, they've established a bit of a routine for how they set up camp. I was trying to be helpful, but I felt like I was getting in the way more than anything. I pestered someone to please give me a task, and was told to inflate my air mattress. The grown-ups were sleeping in the bed in Gracie, and I opted for sleeping in a little 2-man tent nearby, so we could all have a little space and privacy. But, I would have the luxury of a queen size air mattress to put my sleeping bag on, and I was excited about that. The little air compressor had a car adaptor, so it was easy to pump up my mattress and fast.
Check. Solo task one completed.
Dean had me gather firewood, but other than that, I didn't do much at all that first day. It cooled down a lot that night, and the weather forecast was predicting rain. I wasn't concerned. There was a rain fly covering my tent, plus a tarp stretched out a couple of feet above that and tied to nearby trees, so I knew I would be protected from the rain. Besides, I was coming from Texas, which was many months into an extreme drought, and I actually was looking forward to being wet and cold. I honestly couldn't remember what either of those things felt like, it had been so long.
One should always be careful what one wishes for.
Bedtime for the folks is pretty early out in nature. Although they have a campfire in the evenings, they put the fire out and go to bed probably within an hour after the sun goes down. So, it wasn't even eight o'clock and I found myself in my tent, getting ready to go to sleep.
The mattress seemed a little softer than it ought to have been, but I didn't worry about it too much. I snuggled down, read my book for a bit by lantern light, and tried to go to sleep.
It was kind of cold, I noticed. But, I liked it. Feeling cold was wonderful. I simply added another layer of clothing to what I already had on (my long johns) and knew it would warm me up. And it did.
For about five minutes.
I was thinking, wow: this is so awesome! I love that it's cold! I turned on my flashlight and dug out another jacket and zipped it all the way up, then hunkered back down under the sleeping bag.
This went on for a while. 'Bout an hour later, I was also wearing insulated winter socks, slippers over that, a knitted stocking cap pulled down over my ears, gloves, and was all wrapped up in two layers of sleeping bags. The only skin visible on my body was between my eyebrows and my nose; everything else was covered in blankets or other body-warming devices. I smiled to myself; I wish I could have taken a picture, because I'm pretty sure I looked completely ridiculous.
As is normal for me, I don't usually sleep too well the first night away from home. I was finally warm, except for my bum cheeks, and I still haven't figured that one out. How could everything else on my body be cozy and warm, but my bum be frozen? If someone can explain this phenomenon to me, I would be grateful.
I curled onto my side and realized that my mattress had less air in it than I originally thought. Oh brother. For some strange reason, I had three pillows in the tent with me, and I finally discovered why: two of those pillows had to go underneath my body to cushion me from the cool, damp earth, since I had epically failed my one and only solo task of blowing up my air mattress properly. I was grateful for three pillows right then.
Sleep continued to evade me. I was awake so long that I started thinking about having to go potty. I found it ironic; earlier that day, on our drive down, we made many potty stops along the way. I bragged that I had, for some strange reason, been blessed with a very strong bladder, which is unusual particularly for someone who has birthed four children. So, I was lying there in the tent, bundled up like a triple layer burrito, smiling at the situation.
It began to rain.
I love the sound of rain. It's fantastic to listen to, particularly when you are out in nature. It was a steady drizzle and I loved to hear it.
I'm lying there, starting to wiggle my feet, feeling that urge to go potty, but knowing I am just making a mountain out of a molehill out of the situation. I tried to think of something different, and eventually drifted off to sleep.
I awakened in the dark, hearing the steady rain coming down, to the sound of some strange bug I've never heard before. It made a really high pitched noise, not really like a cricket or a cicada, but sort of like them. It reminded me a little bit of a zipper opening and closing really fast. And it was right behind my head. And loud! Crazy freaking bug! I was bummed, because I had fallen asleep. But, I refused to get upset; I reminded myself that I was camping out in nature and to be grateful. So, I just listened to the bug. For a while. Until I couldn't take it any more. I found my flashlight, turned it on, and looked for the little pest. I wasn't sure if it was in my tent, or just outside of it. I ended up not locating it, so I just beat on the back of my tent and told it to shoo! Miraculously, that worked! It finally stopped all the racquet.
I immediately got back under my two sleeping bags; it felt like it had gotten colder. I took a deep breath, and realized again that my bladder was filling up more. Aw crap! It was so cold out now. And raining! I really didn't want to go out in it. I would freeze my little naked butt off, after stripping off the sixteen layers of warmth I had covering it. I could have walked across the campsite to use the toilet in Gracie, but I really didn't want to wake up my Mom and Dean if they were asleep. I figured it had to be getting close to sunrise at this point; it felt like I had been in the tent forever.
My ironic "strong bladder" comment felt like a little demon, jumping up and down on my lower abdomen in glee.
And then, I hear a rush of water hitting the ground right outside my tent. You know, kind of like the sound of when you go potty in the toilet? The tarp over my tent was releasing some of its water load, so it could refill and repeat. I couldn't believe it; just what I needed. A few minutes later, I heard the rush of water again. Great. Just fantastic.
With trepidation, I pulled off my gloves and pushed the little button to light up the face of my watch, mentally willing it to say sometime after 6:00 a.m. The clock ready 1:13 a.m.
I almost cried.
How can it possibly be only 1:13 a.m.? I have been out here in the freaking cold rain, nearly wetting the bed for at least ten hours now, haven't I?
I am never going to make it.
Whoosh; the rush of water off the tarp again.
Naturally, at that moment, I start to hear other sounds. I remembered a conversation from earlier in the day. I had asked Dean about bears. I had some concerns about having an encounter with a bear at night, since I was alone in the tent and my folks were tucked up tight in their trailer. Dean assured me repeatedly that we weren't going to see any bears, because there was nothing for them to eat in the area we camped. However, he couldn't help himself by adding that all I really needed to listen for was the sound of teeth chomping. And, he continued, if I felt a snout of prodding me through the tent, accompanied by the sounds of snuffling, that I might want to lie very still.
Ha ha ha.
Well, of course I started hearing snuffling! Right next to my tent!
I was thankful for my lamaze classes I took during my first pregnancy, because I needed to implement the deep-breath-in-through-the-nose, exhale-out-the-mouth thing to calm down.
Which, by default, put more of a squeeze on my bladder again.
And now we've come full circle. Fantastic.
Another whoosh of water comes off the tarp.
By some piece of magic or luck, I made it through the night without wetting myself. Albeit, I was in an adequate amount of pain from exercising my rocking bladder muscles so well all night. It was uncomfortably challenging to get myself out of the tent, make my way to the toilet in Gracie, and undress enough to use the facilities once daylight arrived. The relief once event began was, in a word, exquisite. I can't remember ever feeling so thankful for the ability to empty my bladder. I actually offered up a short prayer of gratitude to my Heavenly Father for it. I'm not kidding!
One day down, and only four more to go. I am a Camper.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
The "No Soliciting" Sign
August 25th, 2011
Why have just a “No Soliciting” sign by your front door?
Like the majority of people I know, I do not appreciate solicitors knocking on my door. There are, of course, many reasons for this, which include the fact that I have a hard time saying no to anyone because I feel bad for them, slaving away in the hundred degree weather attempting to earn their living in such a crappy way, and likely having many doors slammed in their faces. I mean, there are starving children in Africa, and supporting the fireman’s gala can’t be a bad thing, right? And, am I really opposed to helping protect the environment or supporting the Girl Scouts of America? Plus, maybe it’s just me, but doesn’t seem like solicitors always come when you’re trying to get dinner prepared? That is so aggravating! And then, of course, there is the basic truth that if I need something, I generally go out and purchase it myself, without someone coming to my door trying to sell me that item. Duh!
Just the other day, a lady stopped by and knocked on my door. I know it's naive, but, initially at least, I always try to think the best of others, that most people are decent human beings who will honor the request on our posted “No Soliciting” sign located just to the left of our front door at eye level and in plain sight. Time and again, however, I learn that I am setting myself up for disappointment in humanity. And yet it never ceases to amaze me when people so blatantly disregard my wishes. As I was saying, just the other day, a lady stopped by and knocked. I answered the door, and this time I was greeted with one of my all-time favorite lines: “Hi, my name is Andrea. I see (she was pointing to my sign) that you have a “No Soliciting” sign, but I was wondering if I could just have a few seconds of your time.”
At this point, my eyebrows rose up and my eyes bulged. Are you kidding me? Really? You actually read the sign and you are still going to ignore it and attempt to sell me something me anyways? Really, really?
Andrea then began saying something about pest control services, and I’m sure my eyes visibly glazed over. I wished right then that I was the type of person who could be outwardly rude to people who were outwardly rude to me. Sometimes, it really sticks in my craw that I get these frequent reminders (in the shape of thoughts in my head) that every single person is a child of God and should be treated accordingly.
Well, this particular daughter of God started asking me questions about my current pest control services, and I hastily informed her of the fact that I have had a “bug guy” (as we call him in my family) for years, and have no desire to stop using his services. I mean, Domingo talks a lot (I mean a lot, and he doesn't require many responses), but he does a fine job keeping the little pests at bay. Then I thanked Andrea for her offer to make my world significantly better via her life-changing pest services, but told her that I needed to go finish working on dinner now. As a last ditch effort, she asked me what chemicals were currently being used by my bug guy. I guess you’ve gotta give her props for her persistence. As I slowly closed the door in her face, I said to her that I had no idea, and nor do I care, and please be sure to have a lovely evening.
I have decided that I need to replace my current “No Soliciting” with a new one, which reads:
“STOP RIGHT THERE!! Don’t you even think about knocking on that door or ringing the door-bell, unless you have already received a personal invitation from someone living within this dwelling. If you are selling anything, which may include, but is not limited to, cookies, paintings, pest control services, coupon books, life insurance, investment banking services, wrapping paper, candy, athletic club memberships, etc.; or if you are trying to raise awareness and funding for any type of organization or in need of political support for a cause you feel deeply about; or if you are feeling compelled to save me from damnation; or if you want to get more signatures for your petition to correct something terribly wrong in the world, then these words are for you. I DON’T WANT TO TALK TO YOU! I don’t want to stop what I’m doing right now and become enlightened by your vast knowledge on some subject I am obviously uninformed about. I don’t need your goods or services; if I did, I would have already taken care of it myself. I don’t care enough about all the causes in the world to want to help you out. I am okay with my cold heart. I am also perfectly happy with my religious denomination; in fact, I’ve got a Book of Mormon right here, if you’d like to accept it. (And, yes, I am aware of the irony in the last sentence. :)) I already donate a large portion of my income to help others, and I know that money really is going to relieve pain and suffering in the world, and not making anybody rich. I respect and honor your work ethic and efforts to do something productive in life. Now, please kindly remove yourself from my front porch.
“Have a lovely day!”
Why have just a “No Soliciting” sign by your front door?
Like the majority of people I know, I do not appreciate solicitors knocking on my door. There are, of course, many reasons for this, which include the fact that I have a hard time saying no to anyone because I feel bad for them, slaving away in the hundred degree weather attempting to earn their living in such a crappy way, and likely having many doors slammed in their faces. I mean, there are starving children in Africa, and supporting the fireman’s gala can’t be a bad thing, right? And, am I really opposed to helping protect the environment or supporting the Girl Scouts of America? Plus, maybe it’s just me, but doesn’t seem like solicitors always come when you’re trying to get dinner prepared? That is so aggravating! And then, of course, there is the basic truth that if I need something, I generally go out and purchase it myself, without someone coming to my door trying to sell me that item. Duh!
Just the other day, a lady stopped by and knocked on my door. I know it's naive, but, initially at least, I always try to think the best of others, that most people are decent human beings who will honor the request on our posted “No Soliciting” sign located just to the left of our front door at eye level and in plain sight. Time and again, however, I learn that I am setting myself up for disappointment in humanity. And yet it never ceases to amaze me when people so blatantly disregard my wishes. As I was saying, just the other day, a lady stopped by and knocked. I answered the door, and this time I was greeted with one of my all-time favorite lines: “Hi, my name is Andrea. I see (she was pointing to my sign) that you have a “No Soliciting” sign, but I was wondering if I could just have a few seconds of your time.”
At this point, my eyebrows rose up and my eyes bulged. Are you kidding me? Really? You actually read the sign and you are still going to ignore it and attempt to sell me something me anyways? Really, really?
Andrea then began saying something about pest control services, and I’m sure my eyes visibly glazed over. I wished right then that I was the type of person who could be outwardly rude to people who were outwardly rude to me. Sometimes, it really sticks in my craw that I get these frequent reminders (in the shape of thoughts in my head) that every single person is a child of God and should be treated accordingly.
Well, this particular daughter of God started asking me questions about my current pest control services, and I hastily informed her of the fact that I have had a “bug guy” (as we call him in my family) for years, and have no desire to stop using his services. I mean, Domingo talks a lot (I mean a lot, and he doesn't require many responses), but he does a fine job keeping the little pests at bay. Then I thanked Andrea for her offer to make my world significantly better via her life-changing pest services, but told her that I needed to go finish working on dinner now. As a last ditch effort, she asked me what chemicals were currently being used by my bug guy. I guess you’ve gotta give her props for her persistence. As I slowly closed the door in her face, I said to her that I had no idea, and nor do I care, and please be sure to have a lovely evening.
I have decided that I need to replace my current “No Soliciting” with a new one, which reads:
“STOP RIGHT THERE!! Don’t you even think about knocking on that door or ringing the door-bell, unless you have already received a personal invitation from someone living within this dwelling. If you are selling anything, which may include, but is not limited to, cookies, paintings, pest control services, coupon books, life insurance, investment banking services, wrapping paper, candy, athletic club memberships, etc.; or if you are trying to raise awareness and funding for any type of organization or in need of political support for a cause you feel deeply about; or if you are feeling compelled to save me from damnation; or if you want to get more signatures for your petition to correct something terribly wrong in the world, then these words are for you. I DON’T WANT TO TALK TO YOU! I don’t want to stop what I’m doing right now and become enlightened by your vast knowledge on some subject I am obviously uninformed about. I don’t need your goods or services; if I did, I would have already taken care of it myself. I don’t care enough about all the causes in the world to want to help you out. I am okay with my cold heart. I am also perfectly happy with my religious denomination; in fact, I’ve got a Book of Mormon right here, if you’d like to accept it. (And, yes, I am aware of the irony in the last sentence. :)) I already donate a large portion of my income to help others, and I know that money really is going to relieve pain and suffering in the world, and not making anybody rich. I respect and honor your work ethic and efforts to do something productive in life. Now, please kindly remove yourself from my front porch.
“Have a lovely day!”
Thursday, April 22, 2010
The Snake Incident
After dropping off my two littlest ones at the elementary school this morning, I drove home, and opened the garage door. As it went up, I happened to see something out of the corner of my eye, on the side of the door before it finished going up. I stopped the van before pulling into the garage, and got out to investigate. With a shudder, I realized it was a snake. It was a long snake, too; although it wasn’t big around, it was probably between 3 ½ and 4 feet long. I opened the door inside of the garage and told #1 child to get me the phone. Unfortunately (or fortunately, from his point of view), my husband was gone to work already; it was just as well, since he doesn’t do snakes. (That’s not to say I’m fond of them or anything, but they don’t bother me quite as much as they do him.) Anyways, #1 child asked what was wrong, and I told her there was a snake in the garage. Then, #2 child, from somewhere else in the house, yells at me, “Mom! Close the door NOW!” I get the phone from #1, who comes out to look at it with me, while #2, who refuses to look at it, continues yelling from somewhere else inside the house. I tell her to be quiet, and, no, I am not going to close the door; I’m going to keep my eye on that thing until it ceases to exist.
I immediately call my dad’s house (Have I mentioned lately how grateful I am to have my dad and wicked step-mother (w.s.m.), as I lovingly refer to her, living just around the corner from me?) and my w.s.m. answers the phone. I ask to talk to my dad, and am told he’s in the shower. I repeat that I really need my dad right now. When she asks me what’s wrong, I appraise her of the situation. She promises to let him know right away. I hung up the phone, and saw one of my neighbors in our cul-de-sac pull in. I walked out and asked her if any of her kids had a pet snake, and she said no; I told her I was glad because it was going to die soon and I would feel really bad if I killed someone’s pet. She wanted to see it, so I showed her. She grew up in Texas, and has had plenty of snake encounters, so this didn’t freak her out. In the mean time, my dad has called me back, but since I’m speaking with the neighbor, my #2 child proceeds to answer the phone, and hysterically tells Papa he needs to come over NOW and kill the snake before it kills us. My dad, who quickly tires of listening to the hysterics, tells her to have me call him back when I’m done talking to my neighbor. And, my neighbor, bless her heart, said if my dad couldn’t help me out, she’d be happy to come and terminate the scary slithering snake's life for me. Aren’t neighbors the best?!?!
She went home and brought back a long wooden shovel handle and a separate spade, and then my dad and w.s.m. pulled into the driveway. At this point, #2 has decided that the only safe place for her is in on the kitchen counter, and so she proceeds to perch there and refuses to move until the beastie is dead. #1, meanwhile, rolls her eyes at her sister, and watches cautiously from a distance as the carnage begins. After retrieving a second shovel from my back yard, my dad decides first to use the wooden stick handle my neighbor brought over, and coax the thing out of the garage before decapitating it. It was a good idea, in theory, but the darn thing started coiling its body around the aluminum runners and through the little holes, making it impossible to dislodge. At this point, I realize my w.s.m. has brought her camera and is madly taking pictures like the paparazzi. I start laughing, loving that she remembered her camera for an event such as this. She also whips out her little Texas critters identification book, and starts trying to decide what kind of snake we’ve got on our hands here. It is decided all around that it’s a rat snake, and not venomous. For some reason, this provides little comfort.
Unable to coax the critter out of its tangled lair, my dad has moved on to bludgeoning the snake to death with the dull end of the stick, and the bloodbath begins. The vermin doesn’t particularly like being attacked by Dad the Stick Wielder, and hisses his anger vehemently. But, to no avail; after valiantly fighting to stay alive, he eventually gives up the ghost. I can hear #1 (who is still standing at the door inside the garage) saying “Eeeewwwwww” as she watches on. When it’s finally done twitching, #2, who now has to leave the house to go to school, sets a world speed record as she bolts to her grandma's car, refusing to look at the snake guts on her way, and hurls herself into the vehicle, slamming the door shut almost simultaneously. As my dad finally manages to get the dead reptile unwound from its perch, I hear #1 utter the words, “Well, at least I know what I’ll write about in my journal tonight.”
That made me laugh out loud.
My dad chased my w.s.m. with the snake for just a minute, as she took a few more pictures, then he dropped it on the driveway pavement. I got my barbecue tongs and put the thing in a plastic bag, tied it up, and tossed it in the garbage can, grateful that today is garbage day. I am so thankful for my dad, who has honorably earned the title Snake Killer, for coming to our rescue, and for my dear w.s.m. for her unfailing instincts to capture the moment with her camera for all of us to share. I have decided to leave the small smattering of snake blood on the wall of the garage, in memoriam of this exciting event, and for future generations of storytelling. My husband, of course, does not approve of this.
And, as soon as I can figure out how to upload the fabulous pictures, I'll post those, too.
I immediately call my dad’s house (Have I mentioned lately how grateful I am to have my dad and wicked step-mother (w.s.m.), as I lovingly refer to her, living just around the corner from me?) and my w.s.m. answers the phone. I ask to talk to my dad, and am told he’s in the shower. I repeat that I really need my dad right now. When she asks me what’s wrong, I appraise her of the situation. She promises to let him know right away. I hung up the phone, and saw one of my neighbors in our cul-de-sac pull in. I walked out and asked her if any of her kids had a pet snake, and she said no; I told her I was glad because it was going to die soon and I would feel really bad if I killed someone’s pet. She wanted to see it, so I showed her. She grew up in Texas, and has had plenty of snake encounters, so this didn’t freak her out. In the mean time, my dad has called me back, but since I’m speaking with the neighbor, my #2 child proceeds to answer the phone, and hysterically tells Papa he needs to come over NOW and kill the snake before it kills us. My dad, who quickly tires of listening to the hysterics, tells her to have me call him back when I’m done talking to my neighbor. And, my neighbor, bless her heart, said if my dad couldn’t help me out, she’d be happy to come and terminate the scary slithering snake's life for me. Aren’t neighbors the best?!?!
She went home and brought back a long wooden shovel handle and a separate spade, and then my dad and w.s.m. pulled into the driveway. At this point, #2 has decided that the only safe place for her is in on the kitchen counter, and so she proceeds to perch there and refuses to move until the beastie is dead. #1, meanwhile, rolls her eyes at her sister, and watches cautiously from a distance as the carnage begins. After retrieving a second shovel from my back yard, my dad decides first to use the wooden stick handle my neighbor brought over, and coax the thing out of the garage before decapitating it. It was a good idea, in theory, but the darn thing started coiling its body around the aluminum runners and through the little holes, making it impossible to dislodge. At this point, I realize my w.s.m. has brought her camera and is madly taking pictures like the paparazzi. I start laughing, loving that she remembered her camera for an event such as this. She also whips out her little Texas critters identification book, and starts trying to decide what kind of snake we’ve got on our hands here. It is decided all around that it’s a rat snake, and not venomous. For some reason, this provides little comfort.
Unable to coax the critter out of its tangled lair, my dad has moved on to bludgeoning the snake to death with the dull end of the stick, and the bloodbath begins. The vermin doesn’t particularly like being attacked by Dad the Stick Wielder, and hisses his anger vehemently. But, to no avail; after valiantly fighting to stay alive, he eventually gives up the ghost. I can hear #1 (who is still standing at the door inside the garage) saying “Eeeewwwwww” as she watches on. When it’s finally done twitching, #2, who now has to leave the house to go to school, sets a world speed record as she bolts to her grandma's car, refusing to look at the snake guts on her way, and hurls herself into the vehicle, slamming the door shut almost simultaneously. As my dad finally manages to get the dead reptile unwound from its perch, I hear #1 utter the words, “Well, at least I know what I’ll write about in my journal tonight.”
That made me laugh out loud.
My dad chased my w.s.m. with the snake for just a minute, as she took a few more pictures, then he dropped it on the driveway pavement. I got my barbecue tongs and put the thing in a plastic bag, tied it up, and tossed it in the garbage can, grateful that today is garbage day. I am so thankful for my dad, who has honorably earned the title Snake Killer, for coming to our rescue, and for my dear w.s.m. for her unfailing instincts to capture the moment with her camera for all of us to share. I have decided to leave the small smattering of snake blood on the wall of the garage, in memoriam of this exciting event, and for future generations of storytelling. My husband, of course, does not approve of this.
And, as soon as I can figure out how to upload the fabulous pictures, I'll post those, too.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
The second child
My #2 child is, without a doubt, the clown of the family. She is always saying something embarrassing or inappropriate or just downright hysterical. I recently e-mailed her something, saying that I can't believe she's almost 12 years old now, commenting that I must be getting old. She replied back to me, "No, mom, you're not old. You just have a bit of extra skin....that folds." This is the same child who informed me one time, when I was lamenting the excessive weight I had recently gained, "Mom, you're not fat; you just haven't lost your winter blubber yet." I'm so thankful my self-esteem isn't based on her opinion of my appearance.
#2 doesn't mean to make degrading comments; she just can't seem to stop her mouth from spewing forth any thought that enters her head. A good friend of ours was at our house a while back, and #2 made some comment that wasn't meant to be offensive, but it certainly came across that way. This good friend, who seems to have great patience and understanding for #2, carefully explained why it's important that each of us has a gatekeeper in our minds that we listen to before we speak. She explained that this gatekeeper helps us to consider what we're saying, so we don't say things that may be hurtful or embarrassing to others. After listening intently to this explanation, #2 proceeded to ask if her gatekeeper could wear a bikini and high heels and have long curly red hair and wear sunglasses.
Consequently, #2's gatekeeper is really hot looking, but not very good at her job.
We love #2 and wouldn't change her for anything in the world.
#2 doesn't mean to make degrading comments; she just can't seem to stop her mouth from spewing forth any thought that enters her head. A good friend of ours was at our house a while back, and #2 made some comment that wasn't meant to be offensive, but it certainly came across that way. This good friend, who seems to have great patience and understanding for #2, carefully explained why it's important that each of us has a gatekeeper in our minds that we listen to before we speak. She explained that this gatekeeper helps us to consider what we're saying, so we don't say things that may be hurtful or embarrassing to others. After listening intently to this explanation, #2 proceeded to ask if her gatekeeper could wear a bikini and high heels and have long curly red hair and wear sunglasses.
Consequently, #2's gatekeeper is really hot looking, but not very good at her job.
We love #2 and wouldn't change her for anything in the world.
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