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.

but I LIKE winter

Look! Look how brave they are. It's fun to see these little harbingers of joy and hope and spring.

We're melting slowly around here. There are still patches of snow, but more and more ground is showing beneath it.

I wish I was as eager to embrace the next season in my life.

The siding is up on the addition, and from the outside it looks like part of the house. They've done a great job matching it to the rest of our house.


Inside it's quite a different picture. This is one of my kitchen windows, and it used to look out at the woods. Now it looks into this.

As the addition nears completion, I'm having to confront the fact that my view of the future has changed just as dramatically as my view out my window. It won't be long until we move my mom into these rooms. She doesn't know it yet, but it has to happen.

I am trying to be brave, like the crocuses. I know it's all for the best. I know it has to happen. I know it's right and proper. I know it will be easier in the long run having my mom living here with us. I'll be able to more closely monitor her activities and her meals, and she'll have company around the clock. As her condition deteriorates, she's going to need hands-on care.

It just seems scary, too, a little, if I'm honest. As often as I tell myself that it's the right move, I find myself asking God if He's sure I'm the right person for the job.

I'm not a patient, compassionate person. I am not a good nurse. It's not in my nature to overlook irritations. I am selfish with my time. I tend to argue more than concede. I like to be in control. I don't like change.

My hubby says that I am going through this precisely to have those characteristics chiseled away. I say I don't want to be chiseled.

Which brings me face to face with the most uncomfortable realization of all -- I am not surrendering to the Master Sculptor. I know that I need to be saying, "Here I am -- I offer myself to You. Mold me, shape me, refine me, make me more like You."

I know that there should be this sense of welcoming what's coming, knowing that I will have the opportunity to lean on Him, depend on Him to get me through the trying times. I know He'll give me the grace and strength I need. But I am not a good leaner. I don't want to lean.

So to say that I'm all conflicted inside would probably be a ginormous understatement.

fifty is the new fifteen

In some sort of bizarre Desmond-ian time toggle, I am being forced to relive my geeky adolescence. As if it wasn't bad enough going through it the first time.

I have blemishes (really they're pimples, but I'm trying to be delicate). True, they're interspersed with wrinkles, but they're there, nonetheless.

I feel weird in my clothes.

I look at other girls' hair and wish mine looked like theirs.

I want to stay up late and sleep in late.

I want to eat junk food.

I am following closely who gets voted off American Idol.

I have a special blanket and I don't want to share it.

I feel all lazy and unmotivated.

I worry about fitting in.

I care about what people think of me.

I want people to like me.

I sent out a chain letter and now I'm embarrassed about it. OK, it was an e-mail recipe exchange, but the premise was the same. The only thing that was missing was the part that said, "If you break this chain, you will be cursed with split ends." One of my friends sent back an e-mail that said her life was too crazy right now to do this kind of thing and suddenly I'm, like, duh. What was I thinking? What am I, like, a dork? Like, ugh, seriously. (*rolling eyes and smacking forehead*)

Just as quickly as you can say, "I've got a brand new pair of roller skates, you've got a brand new key," all the insecurities and self-doubt of my awkward teenage years resurfaced. I don't think they were ever buried very deeply, quite frankly.

My daughter is fond of telling me about these incredible celebrity women who are SO delighted to be fifty. They've never felt more confident. They're sure of who they are. They feel more alive, more secure in their unique strengths than ever before.

I don't get it.

Somehow the Grow-Up Fairy has passed right over me without stopping to dispense any maturity whatsoever.

Here's a series of phone calls that really happened just the other day, involving my brother, my mother, and me:

Brother: Mom just called. She's really upset about that thing you did/said. I told her she should talk to you about it.
Me (calling Mom): I understand you're really upset about that thing I did/said.
Mom: No, I'm fine. I told him not to tell you.
Me: Why did you tell him not to tell me, if you're fine?
Mom: Because it was just between me and him. I'm going to call him now and tell him he shouldn't have told you.
Me: Don't call him. This is between me and you, if I upset you.
Mom: No. I'm hanging up right now and I'm going to call him. Now I'm mad at him.
Me (calling Brother): Mom says she's fine, but she's going to be calling you to tell you you shouldn't have told me that she told you she was upset.
Brother: You didn't believe her, did you?

If I hadn't been so worked up over the whole thing, I would have noticed the uncanny similarity between this and 9th grade with me, Jeannette and Lucinda. I can almost picture the scene in the lunchroom cafeteria -- "I told her not to tell you that I had told her that you like him but you don't like her. If she finds out that I know that you know, she will think that you told me after she told you not to tell." "I won't tell. Just don't let her know that I told you I like him. Are you going to eat that Ding Dong?"

Geeesh.

Maybe I'm just a late bloomer, and by the time I turn 70 I will have found my wisdom and stability. Either that or I'll be too senile to care.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go put some new rubber bands on my braces.

I'll take arguing for 500, please, Alex

DOUBLE JEOPARDY - Being tried twice for the same offense; prohibited by the 5th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. '[T]he Double Jeopardy Clause protects against three distinct abuses: [1] a second prosecution for the same offense after acquittal; [2] a second prosecution for the same offense after conviction; and [3] multiple punishments for the same offense.' U.S. v. Halper, 490 U.S. 435, 440 (1989).

When Sadie was a small puppy, our vet, a wonderfully wise woman, advised us to early and regularly perform the "alpha roll" with our little cocker spaniel, to teach her who was boss. I looked it up just now on google to see if it was alpha roll (because we rolled her over on her back) or alpha role (because we were demonstrating to her that we would be in the role of the alpha dog) and apparently it is no longer an approved dog training technique. Rats. But it seemed to work swimmingly for us.

I also put my babies to sleep on their tummies.

I've attributed Sadie's sweet submissive spirit today to our diligent training. And I've told everyone who will listen that that is the be-all and end-all to insure compliancy and proper respect in your canine companions.

If only it were so easy with kids. There is something in each of my children, some rebellious particle in their DNA, some defiant chromosome that compels them to argue with EVERY SINGLE THING I SAY. I can't imagine where they get it.

As a child I was the most back-talky, sassy, mouthy daughter ever. I don't know how much of that was due to me being an only child until I was 10. I'm pretty sure I was an intolerable, obnoxious, smarty-pants. I think I'm better now, but I have not learned to hold my tongue very well to this day. It has brought Jim no end of joyous, tender matrimonial moments.

So in the hair-pulling, jaw-clenching instances when I feel like screaming at my kids, "STOP ARGUING WITH ME AND JUST SUBMIT!" I hear this little snigger in the corner of my brain, "ha ha! You've got that coming, you know....this is payback for all the times you sassed your mom."

Or maybe I've got it coming because I didn't train them right when they were puppies, er, babies. I missed some crucial phase where expressing contrary opinions is weeded out. Either way, I know it's somehow my fault that my children talk back to me.

What I can't bear is that my mom has started sassing me, too.

I know that as she ages and her dementia increases that I will be doing more and more for her. Like her bills, her meals, her driving, and her laundry. I know her needs are going to be more demanding as the days go by. I am happy to embrace this season of caregiving. Honestly I am. I can overlook her confusion, her memory loss, and her endless repetition.

What I can't handle is that she is now arguing with me -- she won't submit and just do what I say, without giving me a verbal hassle.

I have to confess that I have not been the most patient, compassionate daughter this week. I have spoken sharply. I have lost my cool.

And I have had guilt. The voice, sensing my weakness, has started its refrain..."ha ha! You've got it coming for all the times you sassed her. Payback's a b-" But NO! That's not fair! I've already been punished for that crime. I've had four teenagers, and one still to come.

All my boys are bigger than me now, and I think Susannah is a lost cause. But my mom's only 4' 11", so I think I'm gonna have to alpha roll her.

Just don't call the ASPCA.

size matters

Dear Tide,

I have been a faithful devotee for the last 30 years. You have seen me through all the laundry that a family of seven has generated. I have been fiercely loyal, never wavering in my commitment, even when Dynamo is buy one, get 2 free. Why are you messing with me now, at a time in my life when I am so reluctant to embrace change? When I need to know I can feel secure with the status quo in my laundry room, at least. When my feeble, wrinkled hands need to reach for that familiar blue cap and fill it right up.


What is this "2X ultra" stuff? I don't trust it. I want my big bottle. I am skeptical and unhappy to have to pay the same amount for a bottle half as big. Who can believe that half as much detergent is going to be as fully effective?

There are some things in their original form that are just right. They don't need to be improved. Lays potato chips, for one. Coke, for another. Were you snoozing during the whole "New Coke" fiasco? You should have been concentrating.....wait, never mind that. You should have been paying attention. No one asked me if I wanted a new formula.

Can you imagine trying to foist this line of marketing on the milk drinkers in my house? Here -- have HALF a glass of new 2X ultra milk. It's all the nutrition and every bit as satisfying. You're hungry for a steak? Try our new concentrated 2X ultra steak product. It's half the size, with all the flavor. Yum.

I'm imagining where this trend might lead.... Thirty years from now we'll be buying Tide in bottles the side of Visine. One drop gets your whole load dazzlingly clean!

Of course by then I'll probably be washing my clothes in Downy, so it won't matter.

of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most

There are many things about myself that I would like to change. One of my most disturbing , well, disturbances is my obsession and preoccupation with lost things.

I HATE to lose things. When something gets lost a panic rises up in my esophagus and my stomach clenches up in nauseous knots and my breathing gets shallow and my eyebrows squinch together and my scalp constricts and I break out in boils. And I simply
can. not. move. past. the lost thing and its mysterious whereabouts.

I then need everyone in my family to join the search. I call Corie. I interrupt Jim's work. I view all my children through the suspicious lens of accusation. I harbor ill will toward my dog. A deep resentful loathing begins to percolate toward all mankind because I'm sure that someone somewhere knows where my thing is. Even if they aren't guilty of theft, they're surely guilty of irresponsibility, or of (worse!) ambivilence.

All these symptoms manifest themselves even if the lost item is the lid to the milk jug, or my grocery list. But they intensify in direct correlation to the perceived preciousness of the lostee.

So.

I can't find the pashmina scarf that I was given as a gift the morning we left Korea. It was beautiful and special and irreplaceable.

I've spent the better part of the day straining my brain, trying hard to remember the last place I wore it, calling the hospital and Panera, interrogating my kids, scouring the house.

I'm just sick.

And you know what? The little sanctimonious comments that my conscience keeps chirping in my ear are not exactly helping. I know it's just a thing. I know I am not supposed to hold tightly to the things of this world. I know.

But I would sure be happy if I could just find it.

all because two people fell in love

I was thinking today about how full my household is. Actually that's not entirely accurate, because that implies a sort of quiet contemplative pondering. "I was socked in the nose with the inescapable reality of how full my household is" is more like it. It's an extension of the fullness of my family, and my life, and the events swirling around and through and in us. It could make a girl dizzy. In fact, reading this post could make a girl dizzy, as it veers wildly and un-connectedly from one thought to the next.

I can't imagine what an empty nest would feel like. I had ALL my little birdies in my nest today...and their little birdies, too! It was JR's first trip to Mimi and Pop's house. We also had an extra mother-in-law and eight or thirteen workmen outside, with all their big backhoe bobcat pneumatic drill hammer shovel thingies. Sand trucks and lumber trucks and bears -- oh my! Just kidding about the bears.
I think.

It felt like a zoo at times today. I wish that I could just yell "hold it!" to everything else except helping baby JR and his momma get in sync with each other. You remember how it was that first week with a new baby? Just the overwhelming hormones and emotions and questions and physical exhaustion and lack of sleep? Doesn't it seem like a dirty trick for car batteries to die and cameras to break and laptops to start making funny noises and luggage to get lost? Doesn't it seem like there should be a moratorium on things going wrong? Just a grace period of sorts?

Right in the middle of it all my mother called because her washing machine was overflowing. When my amazing fix-it-hubby went to help her with it, he discovered that she had six bottles of Downy in her laundry room, but no detergent. So who knows how long she's been washing her clothes with just Downy... This addition, it is not happening any too soon.

Garrison forgot his lunch, and didn't stay after school to lift weights so he needed to be picked up. Danny stayed to lift, because he's still not sure what next year holds for him regarding football and college, so he's trying to be prepared for his upcoming visit to meet the coaches and I don't even know what else. I just know it seems like a lot is hinging on it. No.... no stress there at all.

Just like there wasn't any stress when Danny called me to ask if someone else had picked Susannah up after school today (they hadn't) because he was there at her school to get her and she wasn't there. I know she's the fifth kid, but I still hate to think she wouldn't be where she's supposed to be! She did turn up, but it was a brief scary moment.

It's a funny thing about my family -- we eat. We're just kind of odd like that. So even though I'd rather be reading to Lily or bouncing Tessa or watching JR run through his repertoire of facial expressions, meals still need to be made. Laundry still needs to be done (extra laundry needs to be done!). Groceries need to be bought. And then more groceries. Every day. Because as soon as we get home from the grocery store, we're out of milk. Then somehow Valentine's Day has crept up on me again, like most holidays do in recent years, which necessitated an eleventh-hour run to Target for Corie and me, where I was compelled to spend many drooly minutes in the Choxie chocolate aisle, counting and re-counting how many people I was buying Valentine treats for. Oh, and by the way, Susannah needs to bring brownies to school. But that's okay because she gave me plenty of advance notice. Like eleven minutes.

I think about my life with Jim, and how it started out just the two of us, and now here we are at the center of this hurricane that our family has become. I told JR today, "This chaos is your family, darlin'. Welcome and get used to it."

You know, I wouldn't have it any other way.

looming things

Having the Korea trip behind me is a huge relief. It goes without saying that I worried about it probably more than I should have. If someone asked me to go again next month, I'd be happy to...just as long as I didn't have to sit in coach.

The hand of the Lord was upon us when we got to the Seoul airport -- there's no two ways about it. The friendly United agent said, "today you get a free upgrade to business class." We still can't come up with any reason for it -- we just know it was exactly what Jim needed to recuperate from his cream cheese laxative/ ipecac misfortune. The bummer of the deal was that the upgrade was for the flight from Seoul to Tokyo, and not the flight from Tokyo to Chicago. But we were soaking in luxury for those two hours, baby. To the point that we really didn't even want to get off the plane when we landed.

So being home with that whole big thing behind me should leave me just serene and blissful.

You'd think.

But because this is me, I've got four or seven things just waiting in the wings -- ready to slip right into the role of The New Big Stresser.

Vying for the title currently are:

• putting away the last remnants of the Christmas plates, cups and such. I've been telling myself that the snowmen can stay up since it's still winter, but I really can't make a case for the red and green Waechtersbach mugs with the Santas and Christmas trees on them. I suppose I could pretend that we're waiting until the lunar new year, like they do in Korea.
  
• trying to get caught up on all the blogs I missed this past week. I am in pretty severe Pioneer Woman withdrawal right about now, but it's overwhelming thinking about how long it would take me to get up to date on her, Big Mama and Boo Mama.
  
• The Scrapbook. Which I've been shoving to the back burner since fall. First it was football season that I had to get past, then the holidays, then the marriage seminar, and now.....
• Our newest grandbaby, who is permitted to come any time now, just as soon as the baby clothes are washed, which makes me think of...
• the mountains of laundry that are decorating my usually meticulous laundry room.

So ugh.