Tag Archives: wry

Not forgotten. Gratitude Experiment: Day 16

I raced to get home after grocery shopping this morning to arrive before my step dad dropped off my Mom.   This is part of our routine.  He drops my mom off on the way to his weekly doctor appointment and I watch her for a while.   My mom has Alzheimer’s and is only 71.

Mentally, I have to gear up for visits with my mom, even though it has gotten easier since they’ve lived nearby for the last year and a half.   I used to be mentally drained for at least a day or so after every visit.  Sometimes it still really takes it out of me to see her this way while knowing that there is much worse to come.  But as I have worked through my grieving process for my old mom, I have learned to try to find a bit of  joy in our moments together as I search for her old self within her.  I like to think maybe my real mom is in there and it will just take me doing or saying just the right thing to get a piece of her back, even if just for a minute.

I looked out the door as she was getting out of the minivan. He usually lets her come up the sidewalk by herself .  Thank God she had her teeth in — my stomach sank at first when I couldn’t tell. Any casual observer would  think nothing of this.  Until she gets to my door.  She reaches for the door, then she stops and stares at me blankly.  Then today, in response to my hello, she said “hi” in her familiar mom tone.  (Hearing her old voice at the beginning of a conversation used to make me think maybe I just dreamed this whole thing.) At any rate, this was much better than her usual shoulder shrug.  I breathed a sigh of content.

As I walked her into the kitchen, the family history notebook she put together years ago was on the counter.  Secretly I was hoping she would recognize it. Maybe it could be the spark for today?  She spent a few years compiling it about 20 years ago and it is ever so thorough, with ancestry charts, old letters my grandfather sent home from WWII, newspaper articles, birth announcements and the like.

I point to it and explain to her that it’s the family history book that she put together years ago.  I told her how helpful it was for my youngest son’s school project last night.  She looked at me puzzled and said, “I did?”  I pointed out photos of her parents and her sister and she gave me a look that was both puzzled and blank at the same time. But I wasn’t giving up.

I motioned for her to sit down as I helped her understand the chair.  I let her thumb through some pages on her own. Maybe the pages would feel familiar?  I showed her the  photos of all of the houses her parents had lived in.  Photos have worked a little before. I narrated as I walked her though the book .  She was more intent than I have seen her in months.  I told her that I would be right back and I ran upstairs to answer a quick email for work.  I do this occasionally with ears perked in case she opens the front door in search of my step dad.  She is always looking for him when she is at my house, as though she thinks he’s in the house or just outside. She is much more at ease when he is at her side, which warms my heart like an old love story.

I started getting anxious and quickly jogged down the stairs, worried that I had taken too long.  To my surprise, I found her still sitting in same spot very intently thumbing through each page over and over and back and forth.  She looked content and engaged.

When my step dad arrived to pick her up she pointed at the picture of herself in a newspaper article when she was one of the beauty queens at her college.  She told him “That’s me” and smiled her cute little smile.

My heart sang.

On the second page of this 200 page family history notebook of my mother’s ancestry, it reads:

“I wish I had been more interested in what my parents told me about their families and early years.  I put this history together in the hopes that the knowledge and memories I have would not be forgotten.”

And for this I am grateful.

Give me a dam break. (And it’s not what you’re thinking.) Gratitude experiment: Day 10

I had an interesting conversation with someone today about exploring new interests and skills and what compels one to do so. I find it strange that I have decided to get serious about real writing and also learn to paint this year when both of these things have been on my bucket list for years with little to no action on my part.  Why would I would pick a phase of my life when I have so many stressful events happening to get serious about two pretty big line items on my list?  The timing just seems odd.

Is it because I really am less content with the work I do for a living?  Lately it does seem kind of silly and mundane. And I have a really hard time getting as fired up about things as much as my clients do. Actually as much as I used to back when I donned the corporate cloak and meeting an ad deadline was worth ruining everyone’s weekend for.

Or is it because I’ve read enough self help and positive energy books to fill a library (and provide much amusement to my relatives with my new age philosophies and hypotheses).  I truly am a firm believer in the laws of attraction and the power of visualization.

Maybe it’s because I keep getting reminded of how short life can be.  Or worse…what if I’m falling in line with the cliche of the the middle aged woman who wants to “find” herself? Luckily I’m not dressing like a hippie just yet and I can’t stand the smell of patchouli.

It’s probably more likely that it’s some form of self-soothing to escape and to find a different kind of release.

I’m really not sure what the answer is. But it does makes me wonder what else is possible and what could happen if I decided to open the throttle a little more.  Maybe I’ve had it on halfway for a while – following the path of least resistance and what’s expected. I think we all fall into that trap more often than we’d like to admit – building dams of resistance that maybe just have to break at some point.  The result can transform the slow trickling stream of content into a swollen river of possibilities.

One thing is for certain.  It feels right.  And for that, I’m grateful.

Stick figure decals as sticky notes?

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This morning, on my first of 459 round-trips to and from my 8th and 10th graders’ schools for the coming year (different schools/different start times/bus route eliminated despite the impact of additional exhaust fumage multiplied by God knows how many families), I noticed a common sight.

It always provides driving entertainment as I see the many variations on the theme. And it is certainly not uncommon in my corner of the universe where my realtor told me people hock their wedding rings to move into this district with such highly rated public schools.  It was a back window decal on an SUV – taking up a large portion of the lower half of the window – with what appeared to be two parent stick figures (perhaps with career themed attire), three or four kid stick figures (with what looked like their respective sports apparatus) and what looked like a dog (not sure if he was holding a regular collar or harness to signal his preference).

I know there is a market out there for these stickers since I even saw a storm trooper version the other day.  And come to think of it, maybe they are a crime preventative measure (what car thief would be so bold as to take a large, active family’s mode of bulk transportation?).  And they do keep me amused on my routine jaunts to and fro.  But I think maybe I’ve finally figured out the real reason for them.

They seem to often depict larger families with three or more children  – all with different sports apparatus.  So maybe the real reason people have these stick figure decals is so that they can remember which kid plays what sport?  Or how high to count before they close the car door? Something to think about.

Note:  no stick figure decals were harmed in the writing of this post.

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.

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.

Best Laid Plants

This morning after carpool drop-off as I drove through my winding suburban neighborhood streets I noticed an annual sighting. Not annual because annual flowers were involved, but annual in that each and every spring since I have lived in this neighborhood, it happens.

The same well -intended neighbor goes hog wild at the nursery at the first promising sight of spring and covers her yard with gallon and half gallon containers of roses, geraniums and petunias – all placed precisely where she intends to plant them. If history serves, these poor plants will begin withering by late tomorrow and continue to yearn for a permanent home or some hydration at least – until their death by early July – when they will be baked to perfection – as crunchy as Lay’s potato chips.

They will then sit, posthumously, for another week or two until a neighbor, or possibly even the well intended would-be future planter of such plantings decides to throw in the towel, admitting that sometimes the best laid plants simply don’t happen.