Apparently I'm due for a new post.
I can promise you without equivocation, though, that if each time you came here looking for mindless drivel you went instead to Stuff Christians Like, your lives would be enriched.
Thank you for your prayers, though, and your not-so-subtle prompting (in the case of my darling oldest daughter). I think having my hubby actually leave his first ever comment since I wrote my first post in January 2005 was the shocking event that finally motivated me. I'm not even going to attempt to bring you up to date. If my life has not been interesting enough even to myself, I am quite certain no one would be entertained in the least in the retelling of it.
It hasn't just been a blog writing drought. I haven't read anything, either, even from my favorites. So if Pioneer Woman is pregnant or if BooMama has dyed her hair blue, I wouldn't know. It's been a pretty comprehensive computer avoidance on the whole. Weird. And unexplainable, so I won't try.
Danny is done with school. He graduates this Thursday. He's so happy. Susannah was asking me what my favorite day of the year is and I really have to say that for me each year, it's the last day of school. It is just so freeing -- so exhilarating. The thought of a whole summer ahead to sleep in and laze around eating popsicles with no schedule and no demands. Christmas is fun, but Christmas is work, and expectations and shopping. The other kids still have two more weeks, which seems unbearable at this point. I don't think kids should have to be in school in June.
My mom has found her purpose in life -- sweeping our driveway. She's a sweeping zealot. This time of year we have all kinds of stuff falling from our abundant tree population, but by golly it doesn't have a chance to accumulate with my mom and her mighty broom. She keeps a running "whew, whew, whew, whew.." going while she's sweeping. And of course we praise her up and down and thank her profusely. Then she beams.
Her Fox News watching has subsided a little. I think her desire to be with the rest of the family is outweighing her drive to keep up with the most fair and balanced reporting ever. Last night she sat on the couch in our living room and laughed and laughed to Zoey 101. All by herself.
She used to enjoy American Idol. It made Susannah so mad when she would say every time about Simon,"Awww...He shouldn't say that. That's mean." And each and every time Susannah would say, "He's just being honest, Grandma. That's his job. Sometimes he says nice things." And then Susannah would roll her eyes at me and make an exasperated, infuriated face. It was funny to me that Susannah's response was just as predictable as Grandma's comments.
So let me ask you this -- if you had a 73-year-old mother with Alzheimers, who had a tentative grasp on the real world at best, and it was the season finale of the 4th season of Lost, the most complicated, puzzling show ever viewed, and she had never seen even one episode before -- would you think it was A Grand Plan to let her watch with you? Yeah, that's what I thought, too. But she insisted, and was on the verge of getting all feisty and "you're certainly not MY boss"-ish. So we had no choice. We warned her that it would be confusing and troubling, and that we wouldn't be able to explain it.
"Whose baby is that?" "Why is he doing THAT?" " Are those the good guys?" "Well that's weird." "What is she talking about?" "Why would they want to go back to the island?" "How did she get electricity? I thought she was on a raft." "Is he a bad guy?"
And once or twice when I let out with an anguished "NOOOOOO!!!" (at events transpiring onscreen) she said, "Well, I don't think it's really happening. I think it's just fiction."
Whew.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
stuff Christians like
#432 Spending hours reading blogs written by Christians
I need to stop reading this blog, Stuff Christians Like.
I discovered it at boomama's site and it has become my new favorite way to get lost in time. He is real, funny, and convicting. I dare you to not get hooked.
I need to stop reading this blog, Stuff Christians Like.
I discovered it at boomama's site and it has become my new favorite way to get lost in time. He is real, funny, and convicting. I dare you to not get hooked.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Happy Mother's Day and may all your bouquets be edible
We thought it would be fabulous to give my mom one of those edible arrangements. Do you know about this? They take fruit and arrange it to look like a bouquet of flowers. Simply gorgeous, and for a certified fruit freak like my mom, we figured it would be the perfect Mother's Day delight.
They are not cheap, but by golly, she's worth it. Plus my brother said he'd go in on it with me.
You know how sometimes something that seems so right turns out to be so wrong? Yeah, me too.
We could not have chosen a worse present. It completely stressed her out, because she kept saying she could never eat all that, and she had no place to keep it, and it was too big for her, and her refrigerator was too small, and she should give it to my brother.
Note to self: next year stick with flowers, perhaps?
They are not cheap, but by golly, she's worth it. Plus my brother said he'd go in on it with me.
You know how sometimes something that seems so right turns out to be so wrong? Yeah, me too.
We could not have chosen a worse present. It completely stressed her out, because she kept saying she could never eat all that, and she had no place to keep it, and it was too big for her, and her refrigerator was too small, and she should give it to my brother.
Note to self: next year stick with flowers, perhaps?
Saturday, May 10, 2008
do what I say right now and I mean it or else young lady.. oh all right whatever
I've lost my mothering mojo.
I have no more mom muscle. I feel like Rodney Dangerfield. I get no respect.
Holding the line is hard work. It takes a lot of determination to be consistently strict. Kids wear you down. They aren't dumb. They know where the weaknesses in your wall are.
I know I did a better job when I only had one kid, or two. Or even three. I wasn't SO shabby at four, but I'm telling you right now--this number five child of mine, while I love her skinny eleven-year-old self with all my heart, is pushing and testing and she is relentless. I don't know if I'm just weary of the whole mom routine, or if I'm just weary in general, but I know she is getting away with stuff that would curl the toes of many a stronger mom. She is young and brave. She has tenacity and motivation. I have stiff knees and flabby resolve. With the other kids I wielded a wooden spoon. Now it's more like a white hankie.
Is it just me? Or is there a reason that birth order stereotypes endure? How many first borns out there can raise their right hand in solidarity and say that the baby of their family got away with murder? What about you youngest kids? Do you think you turned out okay anyway?
I wonder what Michelle Duggar would say about this. How do you keep your authority intact when the kids far outnumber the grown-ups, when you've been saying the same things for 26 years now, and you just don't have the energy to battle anymore? Especially because for me, right now, I have the added responsibility of keeping my mom in line. (Where does she fit in? She's the oldest person, but she acts like the youngest!)
I have to trust that God didn't make a mistake when He placed Susannah in my care. He isn't surprised by my circumstances, and He hasn't abandoned me to raise this child on my own. And as I've counseled so many younger moms.....God has no grandchildren. So I think I need to tell her, "You just wait until I talk to your Father about this." And then do it.
I have no more mom muscle. I feel like Rodney Dangerfield. I get no respect.
Holding the line is hard work. It takes a lot of determination to be consistently strict. Kids wear you down. They aren't dumb. They know where the weaknesses in your wall are.
I know I did a better job when I only had one kid, or two. Or even three. I wasn't SO shabby at four, but I'm telling you right now--this number five child of mine, while I love her skinny eleven-year-old self with all my heart, is pushing and testing and she is relentless. I don't know if I'm just weary of the whole mom routine, or if I'm just weary in general, but I know she is getting away with stuff that would curl the toes of many a stronger mom. She is young and brave. She has tenacity and motivation. I have stiff knees and flabby resolve. With the other kids I wielded a wooden spoon. Now it's more like a white hankie.
Is it just me? Or is there a reason that birth order stereotypes endure? How many first borns out there can raise their right hand in solidarity and say that the baby of their family got away with murder? What about you youngest kids? Do you think you turned out okay anyway?
I wonder what Michelle Duggar would say about this. How do you keep your authority intact when the kids far outnumber the grown-ups, when you've been saying the same things for 26 years now, and you just don't have the energy to battle anymore? Especially because for me, right now, I have the added responsibility of keeping my mom in line. (Where does she fit in? She's the oldest person, but she acts like the youngest!)
I have to trust that God didn't make a mistake when He placed Susannah in my care. He isn't surprised by my circumstances, and He hasn't abandoned me to raise this child on my own. And as I've counseled so many younger moms.....God has no grandchildren. So I think I need to tell her, "You just wait until I talk to your Father about this." And then do it.
Friday, May 9, 2008
happy birthday to ewe
Fifteen years ago Garrison was born. He actually arrived right around this time -- right around midnight. But we decided to have his birthday be May 8 instead of May 9, because it's a much nicer day. Eights in general are preferable to nines, wouldn't you agree? Plus I was born in '58, so I liked the number vibe of 5-8. We even said that his arrival time would be 11:58.
We had the freedom to decide these things, you see, because he was born at home with only Jim as his midwife. Or midhusband, as it were.
He arrived one week past his due date. The fourth child. The third son.
He arrived in the bathroom after oh...maybe 15 minutes of labor. Please don't hate me. It's a true fact.
We had gone for a walk that evening and I'd had some light contractions, but then I'd been having them for weeks and didn't pay any attention to them at all. I had gotten out of bed to spray warm water on my belly with our hand held shower sprayer, because it felt kind of crampy. Then I thought maybe I just needed to use the potty. Then I realized, with spectacular clarity, that no, I needed to PUSH! I called for Jim, who called for Corie and told her to call the midwife. While she was on the phone to the midwife's answering service he told her never mind, call 911. By the time the EMTs arrived, Garrison was already here. He weighed 9 lb. 12 oz, when the official midwife came around 3:00 a.m. with her handy portable baby scale.
May 9th was Mother's Day, and we had made reservations at the neighborhood cafe for Brunch. Believe it or not, I wasn't quite up to going that morning, but the rest of my family went ahead, and brought me home a tray of the most delicious food I've ever eaten. I can still taste those melons. My lilac bush was in full bloom (as it is now) and Corie had picked a bouquet which she brought to me with my meal.
His little face was rather purple for the first few days. It was a result, I believe, of his amazingly speedy arrival.
And now this baby is 15. He's 6'3" and wears a size 12 shoe. He's taking driver's ed. He can sing like Johnny Cash on "I Walk the Line" and "Ring of Fire." He's got blond hair and blue eyes and has really nasty cuticles. His heart is huge and tender. He can almost tolerate his little sister, but just barely. He plays football and runs the 400 and designs cars and houses. He is my go-to guy for carrying in groceries, reaching high shelves, and often fixing things. He is completely nuts about his nieces and his nephew. He wants to spend his birthday money fixing up his mountain bike. (My brother says he wants to make a Ferrari out of a Yugo. I think if anyone can, it'd be my boy.)
For his birthday dinner he chose ribs and chocolate cake. I delegated the ribs to Jim, not being a rib fan myself. And I turned to Pioneer Woman for the chocolate cake.
Susannah came in once it was complete (except for the pecans in the frosting. We're chocolate purists around here.) and asked, "What kind of cake is that?" I told her, "chocolate sheet cake. From Pioneer Woman." I continued my bustling with the beans and mashed potatoes and overheard her telling Danny, "Mom made a sheep cake. It's a pioneer thing."
Ah yes. That's how they celebrated birthdays back in the covered wagon days.
Sheep cake. Not to be confused with the more widely known shepherd's pie.
(p.s. It was thoroughly delicious, by the way. Do not delay. Make some today.)
We had the freedom to decide these things, you see, because he was born at home with only Jim as his midwife. Or midhusband, as it were.
He arrived one week past his due date. The fourth child. The third son.
He arrived in the bathroom after oh...maybe 15 minutes of labor. Please don't hate me. It's a true fact.
We had gone for a walk that evening and I'd had some light contractions, but then I'd been having them for weeks and didn't pay any attention to them at all. I had gotten out of bed to spray warm water on my belly with our hand held shower sprayer, because it felt kind of crampy. Then I thought maybe I just needed to use the potty. Then I realized, with spectacular clarity, that no, I needed to PUSH! I called for Jim, who called for Corie and told her to call the midwife. While she was on the phone to the midwife's answering service he told her never mind, call 911. By the time the EMTs arrived, Garrison was already here. He weighed 9 lb. 12 oz, when the official midwife came around 3:00 a.m. with her handy portable baby scale.
May 9th was Mother's Day, and we had made reservations at the neighborhood cafe for Brunch. Believe it or not, I wasn't quite up to going that morning, but the rest of my family went ahead, and brought me home a tray of the most delicious food I've ever eaten. I can still taste those melons. My lilac bush was in full bloom (as it is now) and Corie had picked a bouquet which she brought to me with my meal.
His little face was rather purple for the first few days. It was a result, I believe, of his amazingly speedy arrival.
And now this baby is 15. He's 6'3" and wears a size 12 shoe. He's taking driver's ed. He can sing like Johnny Cash on "I Walk the Line" and "Ring of Fire." He's got blond hair and blue eyes and has really nasty cuticles. His heart is huge and tender. He can almost tolerate his little sister, but just barely. He plays football and runs the 400 and designs cars and houses. He is my go-to guy for carrying in groceries, reaching high shelves, and often fixing things. He is completely nuts about his nieces and his nephew. He wants to spend his birthday money fixing up his mountain bike. (My brother says he wants to make a Ferrari out of a Yugo. I think if anyone can, it'd be my boy.)
For his birthday dinner he chose ribs and chocolate cake. I delegated the ribs to Jim, not being a rib fan myself. And I turned to Pioneer Woman for the chocolate cake.
Susannah came in once it was complete (except for the pecans in the frosting. We're chocolate purists around here.) and asked, "What kind of cake is that?" I told her, "chocolate sheet cake. From Pioneer Woman." I continued my bustling with the beans and mashed potatoes and overheard her telling Danny, "Mom made a sheep cake. It's a pioneer thing."
Ah yes. That's how they celebrated birthdays back in the covered wagon days.
Sheep cake. Not to be confused with the more widely known shepherd's pie.
(p.s. It was thoroughly delicious, by the way. Do not delay. Make some today.)
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
while waiting for what I believe is Jason's inevitable farewell -- and speaking of tanks
I've always held a firm line on pets. Firm being a relative term meaning as many kittens and puppies as you want, but NO:
I have a good friend, Laura, and she is just a saint when it comes to allowing all manner of beasties to dwell in her house. They once had for a pet, and I promise you I am not making this up, a hairless rat. Yes, they did. Until it developed lesions or boils or something tumor-esque and they had to do away with it. Which her husband did by beheading it with a shovel. Can I get an "eeeeeuuuwww?"
So I experienced a bit of displeasure when Susannah received for her birthday -- from her biggest brother who should know better -- a fish tank complete with four fish. I told her in no uncertain terms that I wanted NOTHING to do with them. I didn't want to hear about them. I wouldn't be feeding them. I didn't want to know about them. I wasn't going to spend any money on them.
Today is the second day in a row now that we've had to endure the inevitable farewell (see how I tie this all in?) to a fish. First it was Benji, and now today, Bob. Bob who was her favorite fish EVER.
I wish I could work up more sympathy. But isn't it to be expected? Don't balloons either pop or float away? Don't juice boxes always always always squirt when you put the straw in? Don't bubbles always spill? Don't goldfish always die?
What are your rules for pets? Am I the only ogre mom out there?
- reptiles
- birds
- fish
- amphibians
- rodents
I have a good friend, Laura, and she is just a saint when it comes to allowing all manner of beasties to dwell in her house. They once had for a pet, and I promise you I am not making this up, a hairless rat. Yes, they did. Until it developed lesions or boils or something tumor-esque and they had to do away with it. Which her husband did by beheading it with a shovel. Can I get an "eeeeeuuuwww?"
So I experienced a bit of displeasure when Susannah received for her birthday -- from her biggest brother who should know better -- a fish tank complete with four fish. I told her in no uncertain terms that I wanted NOTHING to do with them. I didn't want to hear about them. I wouldn't be feeding them. I didn't want to know about them. I wasn't going to spend any money on them.
Today is the second day in a row now that we've had to endure the inevitable farewell (see how I tie this all in?) to a fish. First it was Benji, and now today, Bob. Bob who was her favorite fish EVER.
I wish I could work up more sympathy. But isn't it to be expected? Don't balloons either pop or float away? Don't juice boxes always always always squirt when you put the straw in? Don't bubbles always spill? Don't goldfish always die?
What are your rules for pets? Am I the only ogre mom out there?
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
It once was lost, but now it's found.... or not technically a miracle but big fun nevertheless
You will never guess what my daughter-in-law brought to the track meet tonight with her. Besides Baby James in his darling little sandals.
No really, you will never guess. Because I couldn't believe my own eyes.
MY LONG-LOST PASHMINA SCARF! The one I received as a gift the morning we left Korea back in January.
I know I had it when I went to the hospital the day James was born almost three months ago, but I hadn't seen it since. I searched, I grieved, then I gave it up as lost and gone forever dreadful sorry Clementine. Lynn was so dear -- she shopped for a replacement one for me, and that was almost nicer than the original gift, because it was such a sweet gesture.
So I don't know how it suddenly resurfaced in Dave and Cerissa's back seat. These things happen to me all the time.
I went through a stamping phase a few years back. Not stomping -- stamping. And I lost a really handy little star stamp, which annoyed me to no end. MONTHS later .. maybe even a year... there it was one day, in plain view on the floor in front of my laundry chute basket. Where I would have seen it at least once every day, the way I'm constantly, obsessively doing laundry. I don't get it.
But let me assure you that when she handed me that scarf this afternoon? Oh , there was much rejoicing.
And also Garrison ran the 400 at his new personal best time. And the sun was out. AND I found out I get to have Lily for a week starting Friday!
The only downer of the day was Jason Castro's abyssmal performance tonight on Idol. What in the world. (If he wasn't so darned cute and charming...) I haven't been that uncomfortable watching anyone perform in quite a while. I'm so sorry. I know he's an Aggie, and I think he might be a Christian, but he was really Not Good.
Syesha and David A. were pretty incredible, I thought. I keep trying hard to love David Cook. Truly I do. I was honestly eager to see what he'd bring tonight since it's supposed to be his genre and all. But really? Were those the best songs he could come up with ? I have been listening to rock and roll for a verrrrry long time, and I have never heard that teenage wasteland song. I just thought it was a weird choice.
But overall the balance in my life is beginning to tip. Not a shabby way to temper the broken and unfixable iPod, the broken camera that Jim attempted to fix and ended up breaking further, and the scorched and smelly microwave.
The view from the pit is looking up.
No really, you will never guess. Because I couldn't believe my own eyes.
MY LONG-LOST PASHMINA SCARF! The one I received as a gift the morning we left Korea back in January.
I know I had it when I went to the hospital the day James was born almost three months ago, but I hadn't seen it since. I searched, I grieved, then I gave it up as lost and gone forever dreadful sorry Clementine. Lynn was so dear -- she shopped for a replacement one for me, and that was almost nicer than the original gift, because it was such a sweet gesture.
So I don't know how it suddenly resurfaced in Dave and Cerissa's back seat. These things happen to me all the time.
I went through a stamping phase a few years back. Not stomping -- stamping. And I lost a really handy little star stamp, which annoyed me to no end. MONTHS later .. maybe even a year... there it was one day, in plain view on the floor in front of my laundry chute basket. Where I would have seen it at least once every day, the way I'm constantly, obsessively doing laundry. I don't get it.
But let me assure you that when she handed me that scarf this afternoon? Oh , there was much rejoicing.
And also Garrison ran the 400 at his new personal best time. And the sun was out. AND I found out I get to have Lily for a week starting Friday!
The only downer of the day was Jason Castro's abyssmal performance tonight on Idol. What in the world. (If he wasn't so darned cute and charming...) I haven't been that uncomfortable watching anyone perform in quite a while. I'm so sorry. I know he's an Aggie, and I think he might be a Christian, but he was really Not Good.
Syesha and David A. were pretty incredible, I thought. I keep trying hard to love David Cook. Truly I do. I was honestly eager to see what he'd bring tonight since it's supposed to be his genre and all. But really? Were those the best songs he could come up with ? I have been listening to rock and roll for a verrrrry long time, and I have never heard that teenage wasteland song. I just thought it was a weird choice.
But overall the balance in my life is beginning to tip. Not a shabby way to temper the broken and unfixable iPod, the broken camera that Jim attempted to fix and ended up breaking further, and the scorched and smelly microwave.
The view from the pit is looking up.
memory
Watching someone with Alzheimers is like having one page of a favorite book ripped out every day until all that's left is the cover.
Yesterday was a good day for my mom. We moved her furniture in on Saturday, and really, I couldn't be more pleased at the way everything fits in there. It's such a nice little spot, and it looks homey and cozy. She has adjusted to the transition better than anyone could have expected or even hoped.
I'm grateful that my brother and his wife are close enough to help. Actually all the kids pitched in, too, and by the end of the day we had pictures hung and everything in place. She seems to be genuinely comfortable here, and for that I'm grateful, too.
Yesterday morning I put some hymns on the CD player for her, and then gave her the task of putting a stack of pictures in an empty album. Afterwards I sat down and let her show them all to me. We also looked at a book that was put together for her by the teachers at the elementary school where she had taught before she retired in 1999. It ends with letters from each of them, telling her how special she is.
In the afternoon she had my nephew's baseball game to attend, and when my brother brought her home, (Jim and I were on a babysitting mission) she gave him a tour of her "new house." I guess she had forgotten that two days ago he had been very involved in moving everything in. Here's how he described it in an e-mail I have permission to copy:
She took me on a Full Tour....showing me every detail of the new addition, every piece of furniture and picture that "They" had put there. She even opened each drawer in each cabinet, showing me how the items inside would be used. "Now, see, in here is this thing (hairbrush), and I can just do this (demonstrating her hairbrushing technique) after I take a shower, which I did this morning, and see, here is where I hang the towels..." Clearly she is totally enamored with the setup -- I couldn't be happier with how she has reacted. But the whole time I had a lump in my throat, thinking about how much like a two-year old she was, wanting to show me everything, like a toddler with a new playhouse.
The whole time Danny and Suse were popping in and out, obviously amused by the whole thing. And while they were being very nice and respectful, it made my heart hurt. It's the same with my kids, and with every stranger who happens to run across Mommy at a baseball game or track meet; I want to scream out NO you DON'T know her based on this shell, albeit a very happy shell, of who she REALLY IS, or was. She is the most amazing teacher known to education, whose memory is so sharp she could remember all 30 students' names after 15 minutes on the first day. She is the person who is so smart and brave that she learned to fly a plane and soloed when she was 60. She is the person who is so creative and caring that she sends extra lunch with her kids for all their friends, who would otherwise eat junk food for nutrition, and writes personal notes on EACH banana. This is NOT the person you should judge, this is only what's left. And I realize that what keeps that wonderful person alive is our memories. Our own fragile, temporal, vulnerable memories. Which I now feel I need to protect not just for me, but for her, since that's all that remains..."
Yesterday was a good day for my mom. We moved her furniture in on Saturday, and really, I couldn't be more pleased at the way everything fits in there. It's such a nice little spot, and it looks homey and cozy. She has adjusted to the transition better than anyone could have expected or even hoped.
I'm grateful that my brother and his wife are close enough to help. Actually all the kids pitched in, too, and by the end of the day we had pictures hung and everything in place. She seems to be genuinely comfortable here, and for that I'm grateful, too.
Yesterday morning I put some hymns on the CD player for her, and then gave her the task of putting a stack of pictures in an empty album. Afterwards I sat down and let her show them all to me. We also looked at a book that was put together for her by the teachers at the elementary school where she had taught before she retired in 1999. It ends with letters from each of them, telling her how special she is.
In the afternoon she had my nephew's baseball game to attend, and when my brother brought her home, (Jim and I were on a babysitting mission) she gave him a tour of her "new house." I guess she had forgotten that two days ago he had been very involved in moving everything in. Here's how he described it in an e-mail I have permission to copy:
She took me on a Full Tour....showing me every detail of the new addition, every piece of furniture and picture that "They" had put there. She even opened each drawer in each cabinet, showing me how the items inside would be used. "Now, see, in here is this thing (hairbrush), and I can just do this (demonstrating her hairbrushing technique) after I take a shower, which I did this morning, and see, here is where I hang the towels..." Clearly she is totally enamored with the setup -- I couldn't be happier with how she has reacted. But the whole time I had a lump in my throat, thinking about how much like a two-year old she was, wanting to show me everything, like a toddler with a new playhouse.
The whole time Danny and Suse were popping in and out, obviously amused by the whole thing. And while they were being very nice and respectful, it made my heart hurt. It's the same with my kids, and with every stranger who happens to run across Mommy at a baseball game or track meet; I want to scream out NO you DON'T know her based on this shell, albeit a very happy shell, of who she REALLY IS, or was. She is the most amazing teacher known to education, whose memory is so sharp she could remember all 30 students' names after 15 minutes on the first day. She is the person who is so smart and brave that she learned to fly a plane and soloed when she was 60. She is the person who is so creative and caring that she sends extra lunch with her kids for all their friends, who would otherwise eat junk food for nutrition, and writes personal notes on EACH banana. This is NOT the person you should judge, this is only what's left. And I realize that what keeps that wonderful person alive is our memories. Our own fragile, temporal, vulnerable memories. Which I now feel I need to protect not just for me, but for her, since that's all that remains..."
Friday, May 2, 2008
the weather could be a factor, too
I never wanted this to turn into The Dementia Chronicles, but it seems like that's where I am, so my choices are not to post at all, or to post what I'm living.
I do have other things going on in my life, but I'm not giving them the attention I should.
I have a son who's graduating in a month. How can this be? I haven't even begun to process that, emotionally or practically. I finally gave up on the scrapbook, realizing and coming to terms with the fact that it just wasn't going to happen. Not now, anyway. But I keep thinking I should be doing something to plan for his open house.
I have a son who's started driver's training (his white Nikes were recovered, by the way. Dan happened to see a kid at school with them. Now Garrison isn't so sure he wants them back after they've been, well, sullied and debased).
I have a daughter who is paddling her canoe as close to the waterfall of adolescence as she can without dropping right off the edge. Mouthiness is the order of the day. I am certain much of it is a desperate need for some quality Mom time. She really gets the leftovers, I'm afraid. And this whole Grandma thing is probably the hardest on her. Simply because the rest of us can draw on our memories of Grandma the way she used to be, and that helps us be more tolerant of her quirks and weirdnesses now. I could spend hours analyzing and dissecting the psychological, emotional dynamics at work in their relationship and this new living arrangement. But I won't.
I have a hubby who certainly, certainly means well and wants to be supportive and helpful. It's hard for him, because he has his ministry work which is pretty demanding in and of itself. I haven't been a very nice wife. I know I must be sheer delight to live with...
I have a dog who needs a bath.
I have a house that has been neglected since January.
I have a broken camera. They just don't make cameras to survive being dropped on the kitchen floor like they used to. I'll add that to the small appliance cemetery with my iPod.
I have fifteen (at least) extra pounds of potato chips and bagels that I'm carrying around in frankly unflattering places.
And I have a mama who tried to hand me her dirty clothes through my kitchen window opening this morning. I don't know how I'm going to do this, this next phase. I don't know how to be a daughter to her while telling her to put her wadded up kleenexes in the trash instead of on the floor. I don't want to be bossy, but she clearly needs direction. Literally. She can't remember where the refrigerator is. I don't want to be annoyed but her behavior defies logic. I keep thinking, "Where are you, Mama? Where is the lady I know and love and have always admired?" How do I strike that balance between controlling her and honoring her dignity? How do I keep from becoming her? How do I sort out my feelings of knowing this is the right choice, but not liking the choice? I couldn't imagine making any other choice, though.
Sorry. I know this isn't jolly fun reading. I miss myself, too.
I do have other things going on in my life, but I'm not giving them the attention I should.
I have a son who's graduating in a month. How can this be? I haven't even begun to process that, emotionally or practically. I finally gave up on the scrapbook, realizing and coming to terms with the fact that it just wasn't going to happen. Not now, anyway. But I keep thinking I should be doing something to plan for his open house.
I have a son who's started driver's training (his white Nikes were recovered, by the way. Dan happened to see a kid at school with them. Now Garrison isn't so sure he wants them back after they've been, well, sullied and debased).
I have a daughter who is paddling her canoe as close to the waterfall of adolescence as she can without dropping right off the edge. Mouthiness is the order of the day. I am certain much of it is a desperate need for some quality Mom time. She really gets the leftovers, I'm afraid. And this whole Grandma thing is probably the hardest on her. Simply because the rest of us can draw on our memories of Grandma the way she used to be, and that helps us be more tolerant of her quirks and weirdnesses now. I could spend hours analyzing and dissecting the psychological, emotional dynamics at work in their relationship and this new living arrangement. But I won't.
I have a hubby who certainly, certainly means well and wants to be supportive and helpful. It's hard for him, because he has his ministry work which is pretty demanding in and of itself. I haven't been a very nice wife. I know I must be sheer delight to live with...
I have a dog who needs a bath.
I have a house that has been neglected since January.
I have a broken camera. They just don't make cameras to survive being dropped on the kitchen floor like they used to. I'll add that to the small appliance cemetery with my iPod.
I have fifteen (at least) extra pounds of potato chips and bagels that I'm carrying around in frankly unflattering places.
And I have a mama who tried to hand me her dirty clothes through my kitchen window opening this morning. I don't know how I'm going to do this, this next phase. I don't know how to be a daughter to her while telling her to put her wadded up kleenexes in the trash instead of on the floor. I don't want to be bossy, but she clearly needs direction. Literally. She can't remember where the refrigerator is. I don't want to be annoyed but her behavior defies logic. I keep thinking, "Where are you, Mama? Where is the lady I know and love and have always admired?" How do I strike that balance between controlling her and honoring her dignity? How do I keep from becoming her? How do I sort out my feelings of knowing this is the right choice, but not liking the choice? I couldn't imagine making any other choice, though.
Sorry. I know this isn't jolly fun reading. I miss myself, too.
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