Y'all know about my dysfunctional, guilt wielding, heart breaking, mentally disturbed mother. You have to know about her because all I did for several posts was whine about our rotten relationship was and how time after time after time (no this isn't a Cyndi Lauper song) I tried to make things right. But never could.
Then I grew a spine and got over it.
What you may not know is that I have adopted other mommies. A girl needs a mommy. Tis true. Truth be told one of my mommies adopted me, only it took me a little while to realize it.
My first replacement mom was my MIL. Although she never knew it, my biological mother was so jealous of her she couldn't see straight. For the first few years of my marriage to Beloved, my "mother" poisoned my mind toward MIL. It took some time but I eventually began to see her for the wonderful treasure she was. This spring will be eight years since she passed away. Very few days go by that I don't think of her.
Sheila is my first adopted mommy. She is amazing and I am truly blessed to have her in my life. She is the one who taught me how to have a healthy relationship with my own daughter. As I watched Sheila with her daughter I began to grasp what a healthy mother/daughter relationship looked like. Then, when Sheila became a grandma, without ever saying a word, she backed up everything that my MIL had shown me about the importance of an older woman in a child's life.
Second up, and not that there is really an order, is Fran. Fran who has never had any children. Fran who is a chef, a painter, and has more money than anyone else I know. She has taught me the key to generosity and that a truly wealthy person is the one who gives to others in need. Her tireless efforts on behalf of college students far from home, families with children dying of cancer, and the elderly, have blessed more than she probably realizes. Fran's just funny that way.
All that and she taught me to make Creme Bruelee, the prefect roasted chicken, and a fish stew that could very well bring world peace. Yum.
There's Anne with and "E", who at fifty was courted by her second husband. I say "courted" because they actually stuck to that old term and kept things on course. I remember well her sharing her views on the difference between "dating" and "courtship" at a luncheon when my, then little girl, was present. She candidly and openly shared about her first marriage (he died in a car accident) to an abusive, alcoholic husband. Then her face beamed as she shared about her courtship to her soon to be new husband, a man of value, honor, and faith. It was beautiful.
Today, these three women, along with a handful of others, are throwing me a house shower. When I explained that it wasn't necessary, after all we just got rid of a bunch of stuff! Ann with an E announced that it was necessary! "We are all so happy for you and want to shower you with blessings and good wishes!"
I love my Moms!
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Saturday, November 06, 2010
Friday, April 17, 2009
My Grateful Heart
I am sitting here, looking at a picture of my Beloved when he was just a wee boy. It’s a black and white photo, shot somewhere here on the farm. He’s wearing cut off jeans with white tube socks, the kind with the stripe across the top. His cowboy hat is pressed firmly in place and he’s wearing his favorite yellow shirt. I know it’s a yellow shirt because his mother told me so. Beloved is also wearing his leg brace on his right leg.
Beloved was born with Legg-Perthes Disease. Sounds frightening doesn’t it? It’s not really. Legg-Perthes is a form of osteonecrosis of the hip that is found only in children (1 in 1200) of which only about 5% are girls. Basically, bone death occurs in the ball of the hip which interrupts blood flow. The ball develops a fracture of the supporting bone, which signals the re-absorption of the bone by the body. The lost bone is slowly replaced by new tissue and bone.
Interestingly enough, children with LPD tend to be shorter in stature. This is not the case with Beloved, who stands a healthy six feet tall. The doctors informed Beloved’s parents that he would walk with a limp and would probably never run. He wore his little braces for a couple of years and when they removed it…he ran. You couldn’t stop him.
The picture that sits on my desk is one of my favorites. The smile on his face, featuring his Norwegian ancestry, reminds me so much of his mother that it makes me sigh. I loved his mother. The fact that I have this picture is somewhat of a miracle.
You see, I have a sister-in-law who is a white; trailer trash lacks any form of etiquette. We get along just fine, but she’s the kind of girl who says things like, “When you die I want…” Frankly, I think that’s kind of rude. In fact, I think it’s so rude that because I know what it is she wants (it’s a kitchen knife of all things) I want to hide it from her. I want to make sure she never gets it.
I am soooo cruel
Anyway, because my SIL kept saying to my MIL, “When you die I want that knife,” my MIL asked me what I wanted. I told I didn’t want anything. She pushed me a little bit and I confessed to her that the one thing that she had that I wanted was the black and white photo of my Beloved in his leg brace.
“I just love that picture,” I remember saying.
It wasn’t too long after that conversation that MIL gave me the photo. I quipped, “But you’re not dead yet!” She chuckled in her way and told me she wanted me to have it.
My MIL died May 10, 2003. It was sudden and tragically shocking. In many ways, I don’t think any of us have fully recovered from her loss. Not that we’d bring her back…after all, the poor woman was married for 49 years to FIL (and you know how I feel about him).
Looking at this picture, I remember the goodness in my MIL and I see that same mellow, goodness in my Beloved. The older he gets, the more like his sweet mother he becomes. I see her in his twinkling, sky blue eyes and his graying hair. I see her in the lines around his eyes and the set of his jaw when he’s miffed. All that and he has her wacky, strange, fringing on the downright bizarre sense of humor. I’m so grateful that my Beloved has taken after his mother and not after his father.
I had a run-in with FIL yesterday and I won’t report the details, but let me just say that I have never been so grateful in my life that Beloved follows after his mother. So. Grateful.
I’m not a big fan of divorce.
Beloved - 1971
Beloved was born with Legg-Perthes Disease. Sounds frightening doesn’t it? It’s not really. Legg-Perthes is a form of osteonecrosis of the hip that is found only in children (1 in 1200) of which only about 5% are girls. Basically, bone death occurs in the ball of the hip which interrupts blood flow. The ball develops a fracture of the supporting bone, which signals the re-absorption of the bone by the body. The lost bone is slowly replaced by new tissue and bone.
Interestingly enough, children with LPD tend to be shorter in stature. This is not the case with Beloved, who stands a healthy six feet tall. The doctors informed Beloved’s parents that he would walk with a limp and would probably never run. He wore his little braces for a couple of years and when they removed it…he ran. You couldn’t stop him.
The picture that sits on my desk is one of my favorites. The smile on his face, featuring his Norwegian ancestry, reminds me so much of his mother that it makes me sigh. I loved his mother. The fact that I have this picture is somewhat of a miracle.
You see, I have a sister-in-law who
I am soooo cruel
Anyway, because my SIL kept saying to my MIL, “When you die I want that knife,” my MIL asked me what I wanted. I told I didn’t want anything. She pushed me a little bit and I confessed to her that the one thing that she had that I wanted was the black and white photo of my Beloved in his leg brace.
“I just love that picture,” I remember saying.
It wasn’t too long after that conversation that MIL gave me the photo. I quipped, “But you’re not dead yet!” She chuckled in her way and told me she wanted me to have it.
My MIL died May 10, 2003. It was sudden and tragically shocking. In many ways, I don’t think any of us have fully recovered from her loss. Not that we’d bring her back…after all, the poor woman was married for 49 years to FIL (and you know how I feel about him).
Looking at this picture, I remember the goodness in my MIL and I see that same mellow, goodness in my Beloved. The older he gets, the more like his sweet mother he becomes. I see her in his twinkling, sky blue eyes and his graying hair. I see her in the lines around his eyes and the set of his jaw when he’s miffed. All that and he has her wacky, strange, fringing on the downright bizarre sense of humor. I’m so grateful that my Beloved has taken after his mother and not after his father.
I had a run-in with FIL yesterday and I won’t report the details, but let me just say that I have never been so grateful in my life that Beloved follows after his mother. So. Grateful.
I’m not a big fan of divorce.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The Walking Wounded
It’s been nine months and still no word. Most days, I don’t even think about it. I tell myself it’s because I really don’t care. It’s been nine months of drama free living and I’m thankful for it. Yet, sometimes she sneaks into my mind or someone will ask about her prompting a quick laugh and a denial. I haven’t heard from her. It’s been nine months.
I stumbled across a letter that I had written her after the last hysterical, suicidal incident happened. It started off well, controlled and careful, but I noted as it continued on that the accusations started to fill the lines on the page. The hurt and heartache screamed at me from the crisp white stationary and I was annoyed.
At first, I had been so injured by the initial weapons volley that I hadn’t had time to react sanely. I allowed my tears and words to fly, striking out and cursing the very air that surrounded me. Later, the anger would grow and fill my heart with a bitterness that I hadn’t thought possible. It was a biting, sour taste in my mouth and it reminded me of her.
Had it really come to this?
I waited a week before discussing the situation with the Golden Child. I admit that his shocked reaction pleased me. It wasn’t just me. I was vindicated by his response and I couldn’t help but smile. Being the textbook middle child that GC is, he made the phone call, reaching out, exploring, and searching for an answer. What he found stunned both of us sober and we blinked at each other in disbelief.
It’s been nine months since I’ve spoken to my mother. Nine months of silence. Sometimes I feel guilty that I am missing time with my aging father. Other times I am thankful for the peace that this ever widening gap has brought me.
I’ve learned some thing about myself and my mother’s hatred of me. I’ve discovered that regardless of what I’ve done in the past or what I do in the future, that woman will never love me as a mother should love a daughter, her only daughter. It is completely beyond my control to fix her or us. I cannot allow myself to become the bitter, angry woman that she has become.
I will never be her daughter.
Those are shocking words to many of you who could never imagine a rift so deep, so wide, and so treacherous as to keep a mother from loving her only daughter. I envy you. Treasure your mother. Treasure her love, her nagging, her quirky ways. Being a motherless child, even at forty-one is depressing. I will never have what you have and sometimes it hurts more than I can express.
In nine months I have thought of all the things I would say to her if I could; the hurt and anger I would express, the savage depression of never being good enough, the knowledge that I am a failure in her eyes. I practiced my speech about forgiving her, but that I would never allow her into my heart again. I’ve felt my heart constrict when thoughts of her or my fathers death come to mind. And I’ve learned from her mistake and embraced my children closer.
It’s been nine months since that fateful phone call and still friends ask if I’ve heard from my mother. I can only laugh and tell them no, that I don’t expect to. Grief is a funny thing, making us wish that the past were somehow different and that we’d made different choices.
Perhaps if I’d never been born, she would have been a happier person. Maybe she’s happier now that I am no longer a part of her family. I really don’t know. In nine months, I’ve learned to let go of my anger and my bitterness. Yet, the wounds are deep and the Hello Kitty band-aid isn’t quiet large enough to cover it. These scars run deep and I will forever walk among the wounded.
For now, I can only pray for her. That is all I have left to give.
I hope it’s enough.
I stumbled across a letter that I had written her after the last hysterical, suicidal incident happened. It started off well, controlled and careful, but I noted as it continued on that the accusations started to fill the lines on the page. The hurt and heartache screamed at me from the crisp white stationary and I was annoyed.
At first, I had been so injured by the initial weapons volley that I hadn’t had time to react sanely. I allowed my tears and words to fly, striking out and cursing the very air that surrounded me. Later, the anger would grow and fill my heart with a bitterness that I hadn’t thought possible. It was a biting, sour taste in my mouth and it reminded me of her.
Had it really come to this?
I waited a week before discussing the situation with the Golden Child. I admit that his shocked reaction pleased me. It wasn’t just me. I was vindicated by his response and I couldn’t help but smile. Being the textbook middle child that GC is, he made the phone call, reaching out, exploring, and searching for an answer. What he found stunned both of us sober and we blinked at each other in disbelief.
It’s been nine months since I’ve spoken to my mother. Nine months of silence. Sometimes I feel guilty that I am missing time with my aging father. Other times I am thankful for the peace that this ever widening gap has brought me.
I’ve learned some thing about myself and my mother’s hatred of me. I’ve discovered that regardless of what I’ve done in the past or what I do in the future, that woman will never love me as a mother should love a daughter, her only daughter. It is completely beyond my control to fix her or us. I cannot allow myself to become the bitter, angry woman that she has become.
I will never be her daughter.
Those are shocking words to many of you who could never imagine a rift so deep, so wide, and so treacherous as to keep a mother from loving her only daughter. I envy you. Treasure your mother. Treasure her love, her nagging, her quirky ways. Being a motherless child, even at forty-one is depressing. I will never have what you have and sometimes it hurts more than I can express.
In nine months I have thought of all the things I would say to her if I could; the hurt and anger I would express, the savage depression of never being good enough, the knowledge that I am a failure in her eyes. I practiced my speech about forgiving her, but that I would never allow her into my heart again. I’ve felt my heart constrict when thoughts of her or my fathers death come to mind. And I’ve learned from her mistake and embraced my children closer.
It’s been nine months since that fateful phone call and still friends ask if I’ve heard from my mother. I can only laugh and tell them no, that I don’t expect to. Grief is a funny thing, making us wish that the past were somehow different and that we’d made different choices.
Perhaps if I’d never been born, she would have been a happier person. Maybe she’s happier now that I am no longer a part of her family. I really don’t know. In nine months, I’ve learned to let go of my anger and my bitterness. Yet, the wounds are deep and the Hello Kitty band-aid isn’t quiet large enough to cover it. These scars run deep and I will forever walk among the wounded.
For now, I can only pray for her. That is all I have left to give.
I hope it’s enough.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Wasting Away Again...
A note to Annie’s employer: This is not, I repeat not, a shameless brown-nose post. Please do not take it as such and think I’m buttering you up. Unless, of course, this type of behavior gets me promoted...Just kidding! Ha ha ha
Is it necessary to excel in all facets of life?
I’m just wondering because it happened again; someone told me I am too “smart” to be employed at the gym.
“You’re wasting your time,” she stated, “Go back to school, you’re not too old.”
Gee, thanks for throwing in the not too old part. Seriously, though, why do I have to have some high profile, high stress, career? Can’t I be happy without it? I feel happy, a little stressed at times, but happy none the less.
I like writing what I want to write and occasionally having something published. Yes, I know I should kick it up a notch, but I guess I lack ambition. Either that or I’m afraid of success (which is totally possible). I know in my heart of hearts that I will never write the great American novel and I’m okay with that.
My other full-time job is, well, still a job. I’m still a mommy. I still have a chickie at home who needs me. Granted, she needs me to drive her here and there, to give her money for Starbucks and the occasional movie, and tonag remind her to clean her room, scoop the cat box, and feed the dog. Honestly, where would she be without me? Girl still likes to read books with me, watch chick flicks with me and bake. She needs me…or maybe I need her…
Then there is Master Smiley and his brother The Game Master who will descend upon our humble dwelling in April when Soldier Girl deploys to parts hot and sandy. There will be more clothes to wash, more homework, more driving, more laughing, loving, living, to do. If I returned to school would I have time to play legos with Master Smiley? Trust me, at forty-one; I really have to work to learn Guitar Hero. That’s going to take some time and I don’t think classes at my local community college will help me achieve rock star status.
And as much as I hate to point this out my FIL is getting older. He is requiring more help here and there and I know whose shoulder he’ll lean upon. Funny that. The man makes me stark raving mad, but when it comes down to it, I’m the one. Sigh. I’m the one who drives him to doctor appointments when he needs “an ear” to listen to the doctor. It’s me who trots upstairs to answer some mundane question about his printer, the internet, or how to cook a pork roast. Yeah. It’s me and as time passes, I can see my role as caregiver increasing.
Am I too smart to work part-time for peanuts at the gym? Maybe, but honestly I don’t think so. This is not a high stress job. It requires me to know the facts of the job and to do it well. I need a bright and shining outlook and a desire to better myself while helping others to do the same. It’s not brain surgery, Mr. Spock, but it is fun…Most of the time.
See, even at the gym, a place I’ve come to love, there are bitchy folks. Not my fellow employees, but there are members here and there that have totally crappy attitudes. They remind me of what it’s like to work in a traditional office with a group of women: the snotty remarks, gossip, and just plain meanness of it all. Why would I want to trade a job I like for a job that features small, petty, nasty women for EIGHT HOURS PLUS A DAY?
I don’t want that. I hate that. When I was twenty I took it. I took it because I had to and I was too insecure to tell someone to bugger off. That’s not the case anymore. When faced with a difficult person now I try to be friendly but if they throw snark my way, I laugh and move on. I don’t need to deal with the drama. It eats up too much energy and time.
So, in regard to whether I am “too” smart to be employed at the gym, I’d have to say the opposite is true. I have a job I love with fellow employees who rock. The members are a group of women who, for the most part, are vibrant, happy, interesting, and down right funny. The hours I work are very conducive to family life and I’m happy. Seriously, who needs more than that?
I think I’m way too smart not to work at the gym.
Is it necessary to excel in all facets of life?
I’m just wondering because it happened again; someone told me I am too “smart” to be employed at the gym.
“You’re wasting your time,” she stated, “Go back to school, you’re not too old.”
Gee, thanks for throwing in the not too old part. Seriously, though, why do I have to have some high profile, high stress, career? Can’t I be happy without it? I feel happy, a little stressed at times, but happy none the less.
I like writing what I want to write and occasionally having something published. Yes, I know I should kick it up a notch, but I guess I lack ambition. Either that or I’m afraid of success (which is totally possible). I know in my heart of hearts that I will never write the great American novel and I’m okay with that.
My other full-time job is, well, still a job. I’m still a mommy. I still have a chickie at home who needs me. Granted, she needs me to drive her here and there, to give her money for Starbucks and the occasional movie, and to
Then there is Master Smiley and his brother The Game Master who will descend upon our humble dwelling in April when Soldier Girl deploys to parts hot and sandy. There will be more clothes to wash, more homework, more driving, more laughing, loving, living, to do. If I returned to school would I have time to play legos with Master Smiley? Trust me, at forty-one; I really have to work to learn Guitar Hero. That’s going to take some time and I don’t think classes at my local community college will help me achieve rock star status.
And as much as I hate to point this out my FIL is getting older. He is requiring more help here and there and I know whose shoulder he’ll lean upon. Funny that. The man makes me stark raving mad, but when it comes down to it, I’m the one. Sigh. I’m the one who drives him to doctor appointments when he needs “an ear” to listen to the doctor. It’s me who trots upstairs to answer some mundane question about his printer, the internet, or how to cook a pork roast. Yeah. It’s me and as time passes, I can see my role as caregiver increasing.
Am I too smart to work part-time for peanuts at the gym? Maybe, but honestly I don’t think so. This is not a high stress job. It requires me to know the facts of the job and to do it well. I need a bright and shining outlook and a desire to better myself while helping others to do the same. It’s not brain surgery, Mr. Spock, but it is fun…Most of the time.
See, even at the gym, a place I’ve come to love, there are bitchy folks. Not my fellow employees, but there are members here and there that have totally crappy attitudes. They remind me of what it’s like to work in a traditional office with a group of women: the snotty remarks, gossip, and just plain meanness of it all. Why would I want to trade a job I like for a job that features small, petty, nasty women for EIGHT HOURS PLUS A DAY?
I don’t want that. I hate that. When I was twenty I took it. I took it because I had to and I was too insecure to tell someone to bugger off. That’s not the case anymore. When faced with a difficult person now I try to be friendly but if they throw snark my way, I laugh and move on. I don’t need to deal with the drama. It eats up too much energy and time.
So, in regard to whether I am “too” smart to be employed at the gym, I’d have to say the opposite is true. I have a job I love with fellow employees who rock. The members are a group of women who, for the most part, are vibrant, happy, interesting, and down right funny. The hours I work are very conducive to family life and I’m happy. Seriously, who needs more than that?
I think I’m way too smart not to work at the gym.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Here's to Parenting
I met with the Writer today. 'bout time, I know. I miss seeing her on a regular basis, but between both our jobs, families, and sleep, time has become something of a precious commodity. It was grand to sit and chat about things that I can't really discuss with others. See, she's one who knows me, really knows me. She has enough dirt on me to blackmail me. Of course since she knows me so well, she knows I haven't a dime, so she'd rather stay friends than try to squeeze blood from a turnip.
One of the topics we always discuss is our respective kiddos. My boy and her boy are bestest friends and have been for nearly their entire life. They are a good combination and I think they balance each other out pretty well.
Our daughters are close in age, but don't have much in common. However, after the recent, "she's too worldly" episode we experienced, the Writer's daughter made it very clear what she'd like to say to those nasty girls. She even offered to come over and "explain a thing or two" if needed. I'd say she got her hackles up and I know if my girl needs it, the beautiful chicken has got her back.
As my friend and I discussed the kiddies, we both agreed that parenting older children, meaning adult and nearly adult, is very different and in some ways harder than it was years ago. We are both now in the place where our "advice" is not always welcome. It isn't that they are disrespectful, it's more that they have their own ideas and are prepared to move forward on their own.
Don't get me wrong, this is what we want! We don't want them sitting on our sofas, eating our food, and unemployed when they are forty! We want them to grow up and become functioning adults. But what about when you wonder if they are making the best choice? Do you gently suggest another path or let them learn for themselves?
Learning for themselves is best...it's just hard to watch them make mistakes isn't it? That is the heart of it. We are still mommies, regardless of how old the children are.
Yet, it's nice when someone else gives your off-spring the same advice you would give. Perhaps, if the words are coming from someone else, the adult child is more apt to listen. It's certainly a possibility anyway.
So, dearest Writer Girl, thanks for your words to boy about saving money and getting on with life. It meant a lot to me and I'm thankful that we are on the same page.
Oh, and thanks for the coffee :)
One of the topics we always discuss is our respective kiddos. My boy and her boy are bestest friends and have been for nearly their entire life. They are a good combination and I think they balance each other out pretty well.
Our daughters are close in age, but don't have much in common. However, after the recent, "she's too worldly" episode we experienced, the Writer's daughter made it very clear what she'd like to say to those nasty girls. She even offered to come over and "explain a thing or two" if needed. I'd say she got her hackles up and I know if my girl needs it, the beautiful chicken has got her back.
As my friend and I discussed the kiddies, we both agreed that parenting older children, meaning adult and nearly adult, is very different and in some ways harder than it was years ago. We are both now in the place where our "advice" is not always welcome. It isn't that they are disrespectful, it's more that they have their own ideas and are prepared to move forward on their own.
Don't get me wrong, this is what we want! We don't want them sitting on our sofas, eating our food, and unemployed when they are forty! We want them to grow up and become functioning adults. But what about when you wonder if they are making the best choice? Do you gently suggest another path or let them learn for themselves?
Learning for themselves is best...it's just hard to watch them make mistakes isn't it? That is the heart of it. We are still mommies, regardless of how old the children are.
Yet, it's nice when someone else gives your off-spring the same advice you would give. Perhaps, if the words are coming from someone else, the adult child is more apt to listen. It's certainly a possibility anyway.
So, dearest Writer Girl, thanks for your words to boy about saving money and getting on with life. It meant a lot to me and I'm thankful that we are on the same page.
Oh, and thanks for the coffee :)
Sunday, May 11, 2008
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