Tag Archives: catholic guilt

It ain’t always easy being grateful. Gratitude Experiment: Day 69

As I try to channel Chester Cheetah from the Cheetos commercials, I fully realize that I am truly a lucky person.  I have a wonderful family, a roof over my head and plenty of food on my table. Really, I should have nothing to complain about. But it’s all relative right?

When some days come to a close, I sigh and wonder what I am going to be grateful about when I blog.  And then I feel guilty for thinking that, because relatively speaking, depending on what you compare it to, I’ve got it made.  But where does that thinking end? And let’s face it, we all have our days.  Fortunately, I’m learning that it’s okay to be honest with myself.  And I’m grateful for that.

Today, I ran from point A to point B (and back to point B and then A again so that I could get work done in between), more times than I could count.  I didn’t feel like I got anything accomplished in as complete of a way as I would have liked. I continue to feel guilty about not spending enough time helping with my Mom and I feel like my kids are growing up so fast that I need to soak up every minute of it and teach them everything I can before they leave the nest. But days like today make me feel like I didn’t get to soak up any of it at all, because life got in the way.

Not to mention that tonight’s presidential debate just plain stressed me out.  As a conflict-avoider down deep, these debates cause me angst no matter the outcome.

Much more importantly, today I worried about my oldest son who I am convinced is still having a hard time emotionally since his concussion last spring which kicked his butt and changed his life, athletically speaking, and consequently, self esteem-wise.  I really think more research needs to be done about the link between concussions and depression, and everything in between.  I swear he is not the same kid, emotionally speaking, and it breaks my heart.  I’m trying everything I can think of and taking him to every kind of specialist I can think of, but my heart still knows he is far from himself. And this makes me sad, and tired on days like today.

On the flip side, my youngest son put on a heck of a show in his theater arts class at school this morning, and I was so very proud of him.   I think he is truly an actor down deep in that body with a face that is a clone of mine. And I can tell it makes him truly happy to make others laugh. This is what I am most grateful for today.

And the fact that my family, near and far, is safe and sound tonight.

I’m also grateful, for you, my loyal readers, and your patience with the ups and downs of my blogging catharsis.

Sleep tight.

Back to school is a mixed bag. Gratitude experiment: day 6

Should I feel guilty for being grateful that school starts tomorrow? Everyone I have seen all month has lamented the end of summer.  My guilt is kind of a mute point since my mother was Catholic before she married my dad and 100% of her Catholic guilt was passed directly down to me.  If there is something to feel guilty about, I probably do.  So that’s settled.

On one hand, I am sad that summer flew by so quickly which means the kids are growing up far too fast.  And that our Florida trip was foiled by tropical storm Debbie.  And that we weren’t able to make our summer pilgrimage to Oklahoma to see family and the lake.  But on the other hand I am just plain relieved to get back to a regular schedule and routine.  And to get things back to some semblance of normal, whatever that is.

It has been a hectic and rough summer for our family.  Strike that – it has been an exhausting summer. Post concussion months for my oldest son were peppered with bad choices resulting from low self esteem and depression after being pulled from his sport in April and not released to play any sports all summer.  I’ve never seen him so down on himself  as these past months and felt so helpless at the same time.  The thought of it rattled in my head like a diesel engine many of these summer nights.

My younger son seemed to know it was best to take cover as the various storms erupted in our household these past few months, the poor guy.  I’m sure he’ll be in therapy over it when he is an adult.  Maybe we can get a family discount.  I wasn’t able to help out with my mom (who has Alzheimer’s in a big way) nearly as much as usual.  And my husband has had a less than fun summer at work.  All of this has helped fuel the idling diesel in my mind.

I have been the lifeguard of the group, throwing life preservers hither and yawn, only to quickly reel them back for relaunch.   But even as a weary lifeguard, I am starting to see past the rough waters.  I am grateful that these last couple of weeks have seemed more like our old life.  And that my oldest son’s sly smile is making a return, which sends a ripple effect of relief throughout the house.

So there you have it, I am ready for the close of summer and to move on to smoother sailing.  In fact, hot damn and hallelujah, let the school bell ring.

Hoarding, buried alive — or in my lamps

There they were again, or maybe there she was.  Staring me down as I pulled into my garage this morning.

These two lamps were given to me by my late sister probably 20 years ago, just seven years or so before she died in a car accident at 36.  She gave them to me when her budget allowed her to upgrade her lamp status and when my budget was in need of free lamps.

I probably thought they were way attractive at the time, but they’re really not.  Or at least not now after years of use and an inexpensive foundation to begin with.  My sister would almost suredly agree.  They’ve served us well as bedside lamps for many years.  I have wanted to change them out more times than I can count.  In the last few years in particular they’ve seemed a tad sketchy electrically speaking.  The one by my side of the bed even had a habit of turning on in the middle of the night sometimes.  Was it electrical?  Hmmmm.

I have just enough belief in what’s out there in the spiritual world to be swayed  by a psychic I once saw in an effort to communicate with my sister.  She told me that my sister tries to communicate with me through lights and at night, in my dreams.   I know you’re thinking – well sure, that’s a classic easy reach that anyone desperate to believe might make a connection with.  I even thought so.  Or did I?

As a true skeptic who even tries to set psychic types up to fail,  I also yearn to believe that maybe — just maybe — they really can help me talk to her.  There are just so many things I would ask her.  There are so many memories from my childhood when I lived with my mom and my sister (the Three Musketeers)  where  I can’t quite recall all of the details.  Who would have imagined my sister would be gone and my mother would end up with Alzheimer’s so advanced that she hardly even speaks?  Who would have thought I should have been taking notes for goodness sakes?   They say it is this kind of love — and love lost — that flames our endless desire to communicate with those who have passed on before us.  Especially those that weren’t supposed to.

Back to the lamps.  So, I religiously watch the Hoarding, Buried Alive television show, which to my family’s amusement is what causes me to go on mad purging binges – clothes, furniture, you name it.  My unneeded hoard finds its way to my donate bins and designated areas at least twice a month.  Afterall, it’s just stuff.  And if I’m not using it, someone could.  Plus, from what I witnessed in the homes of  my late grandparents on both sides,  I’m afraid I  just might have a tad bit of a hoarding gene in me somewhere.

So, finally I decided it was time to donate these lamps and get real “grownup” bedside lamps.  My husband appeased me and accompanied me to many stores in search of the perfect bedside lamps, which we found.  I still don’t feel like a grownup, but that’s beside the point.

But what to do with the lamps? I  regularly give most of my donation worthy items to my housekeepers – furniture and all.  They strike gold at my house at least monthly.  Or I like to think they do. I just wish I could understand what they were saying to each other whenever they bag up my donate bin that I keep next to the vacuum.  For all I know it could be “Look at this crap this lady thinks we want…”  But I like to think it’s not, especially since they take it enthusiastically. At any rate, I didn’t want to give them these lamps in case they really did have electrical problems.  That would keep me up worrying for sure.  And I knew that Goodwill probably has to test everything before they sell it.  Or that’s what I tell myself.

So, on three different occasions I have loaded these lamps in the back of my car to take them to the Goodwill donation center along with my other purge-fest prizes. It’s always right at the moment when the guys helping me unload my Hoarding Buried Alive load of treasures point to the lamps and say “these too?” when I freeze.  I tell them not to take the lamps, just everything else.  Then I carefully drive the lamps back to my house and set them at the front of my garage again until I can figure out what to do with them.

I also have a purse my sister gave me that I will never carry again because it’s such a bad luxury brand knock-off.  But I vividly remember how proud she was to buy it for me and how excited I was to have it (same spot in my budget timeline as the lamps).  I remember how much she smiled as I modeled it.  I will never donate it, even after a hoarding series marathon.  I also have a cheesy belt that she gave me that I will never wear, but that reminds me of us going through each other’s closets and making fun of clothes in need of purging. Both items hang inside my closet where I can see them and just know they are there.

Maybe these lamps are my sister’s way of staying in my busy life when I try so hard to keep her memory alive but life gets in the way. And for that I’m grateful.  I think I’ll find a place for them afterall.

Gratitude Experiment: Day 4

Today I am grateful that my writing coach is a fabulous cheerleader and quasi therapist. And also just a terrific and compassionate person. Despite all my best efforts to concoct many complicated and even compelling excuses not to write over these last few months (other than the usual mundane words I use to describe underground gasoline tank monitoring systems and electronic health records), she has been able to push me over my mental hurdles and hold me accountable.

Ask anyone who knows me and they will tell you that holding me accountable for something for which I think I have perfectly good excuses not to do is a TALL order. Some might even describe me as a stubborn procrastinor with undiagnosed attention deficit disorder who will alphabetically organize her entire pantry before performing the task at hand.  I’ve long convinced myself that my procrastination techniques are uber productive and help me produce better writing.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Despite this daunting duel of wills, my coach did not throw in the towel.  She has encouraged, prodded and even tried to trick me into writing by getting me to forget about my excuses.  As a result, I have submitted an article to a magazine (which is getting published next month) and I am writing this blog.  My list of articles, essays and books I want to write is extensive.  It’s been growing for years.

I have pushed through enough losses and obstacles in life to know that there is a reason for it.  And that reason is to help others face their own obstacles.  And to keep their eye on the gratitude all the while.