I attend Sunday school with old people. I have usually been the youngest in my class, but not too long ago two classes combined and now I am in a room with a group that includes friends of my parents and now also my grandparents. Honestly I do not always enjoy the new mix. It would be nice to study with peers of my own, people in a common stage of life. I am smart enough, however, to acknowledge their experience brings wisdom we'd otherwise miss, and to admit I have unfortunately already shared too many experiences that are only common amongst the elders.
One thing I've observed is we tend to trail off topic a bit more frequently. It's sometimes a challenge for my mind to slow down, let go of the focus and have patience to wander along with the conversation. A couple of weeks ago, class was so derailed I'm not sure any us even knew what the intended topic had been. I have no doubt, though, the derailment was intended for me. As the gentleman stated he wished to address the class I was of no consideration to him, but I left believing what he said was meant for my ears.
He spoke at length and began with the loss of his wife. He then told of a widow with whom he later began a friendship when wintering in Texas. His spouse passed relatively quickly while hers did not. She'd made 28 trips to the hospital with her husband and would never put herself through that heartache again. Personally I'd lost count of my ventures, but I was completely with her on that decision. Best case scenario, someone is still dying so no thanks. He said he belonged to a club that believes men should remarry as soon as possible after the loss of their wife. He's kidding, right? But they enjoyed each other's company, so he respected her choice and continued with the friendship. You're eighty-something, so why the heck not? He mentioned another friendship with a widow after returning home that he didn't feel free to pursue. His friends within said club confronted him, informing him he was a disgrace to the organization of which he'd been a member for sixty years and should be ashamed of what he'd been doing. He's fucking kidding me, right? He's old. And dating. So what? Surely we outgrow this bull shit by eighty. There's got to be an age that gets you a free pass on the judgments of man and man-made clubs. He spoke a bit more then he turned to his right, addressed the two men next to him by name and asked if he'd left anything out. Oh, snap! He is not at all kidding...I can not believe we don't outgrow that shit by eighty. He had been moved to tears, and had mentioned the morning's sermon theme that moved him to address our class was 'today is the day.'
I wanted to say to him, thank you. Thank you for continuing your friendship with your friend in Texas. I'm only 37, yet I can't fathom the idea of remarrying and taking care of someone to that degree again. The thought turns my stomach, but I don't believe God intends for us to be alone, either. I didn't say it. I was nearly moved to tears, too. I left knowing that I needed to hear him, but wasn't yet sure what my Sunday school lesson exactly was that day.
I haven't forgotten it. Listening to him and his heartache has stayed front & center on my mind. I needed to hear what her fear had cost him. Not necessarily the friendships of the boys club...I'm not sure I can call those true friends or a real loss. But he sacrificed what he desired of a relationship, compromised his beliefs to be with her, supportive of her needs and boundaries. And her fears and grief. Here was a good man of God, grieving because of her fears and grief. What am I letting go of in order to hang tight to my own? Am I really okay with that?
I don't think I am. My lesson was that it's probably time to let go of my fears and grief, and let myself risk holding tight to someone else again. I've got close to another 50 years before I'm eighty-something, so why the heck not? There are still memories that turn my stomach if I consider the possibility of repeating them, but I don't believe I should allow those to cause a good man grief of his own. And I don't believe God intends for me to be alone, either.
on my own
After a few months of new normal, we finally hit our stride last fall and as the lone parent I got a lot more time with things 1 and 2. With that I started to spot differences and concerns and was able to act without question or compromise. Partnering with just the kiddos' trusted therapist, Asperger's Syndrome was identified. As I read through characteristics of AS, a reel of memories flooded through with light bulbs clicking rapidly in my mind. It made sense to me and I could move forward on my mom instincts for what I believed to be best for my kid, without debate or discussion.
Obtaining the diagnosis for the Aspie was no doubt easier on my own. I knew I was right and I didn't have to argue or explain it. Looking back, I felt awful for how we misunderstood and could have done better by him. I can learn and adjust, meeting Thing 1 were he's at and needs me to be, but Mr. 1inamillion never would. I'm still haunted by "look at me when I'm talking to you boy" as Thing 1 covered his face and completely folded into himself. Those with Asperger's struggle with eye contact, it's a sensory overload that many describe as truly painful.
I remember talking it through with my therapist. "So you're feeling guilty. Wondering how you could have missed it for so long?" My split-second response? Oh no, I know exactly how I missed it. I was driving back and forth to St. Louis all the damn time, bouncing my kids all over the damn place. Huh. I guess I'm just pissed off about it. Yes, this was an instance made easier by now being a single parent.
Our schedule with just the healthy three of us allows for a lot more fun. The calendar stayed full with church, gymnastics, basketball and hockey games. This summer, we've bounced freely from the pool, water park, tumbling and ice skating lessons. And there in lies my first really big frustration with being on my own.
Thing 2 lost balance on the hockey skates in last night's lesson, fell face first on the ice and earned a big gash to the chin. The diva does not handle the sight of her own blood without hysterics, and the fear of stitches took her freak out to a whole new level. It took a lot of coaxing to get her calmed down so the EMT on site could take a look and bandage her up. After a lot more coaxing, she was finally willing to go let some of 'Daddy's nurses' take a look at it and we headed to the ER where she was determined to not get stitches. The doctor came in, squeezed the wide open wound which sort of just pushed it inside out, and said "yep, it needs stitches". Diva began to wail and throw herself around the bed in an effort to make a run for it and this mom began to wrestle. With my left arm across her arms & chest and my right arm around her knees, I laid across my screaming baby whose chin was being sewn shut and silently cussed the man who knocked me up then died.
This was an instance were teamwork was certainly preferred. The boy not wanting to hang out in the ER but forced to stay with his one & only parental unit, the terrified girl screaming and in pain....the evening definitely would have gone better with more than just me. I've never been great at coddling them through a situation such as this. My way of 'suck it up, think of something else and just get it over with' is not preferred. I know this, so I do try, but Mr. 1inamillion was better at this kind of thing (I was always kinda the dude).
I can be honest in my look through the rear view and know that I would have received heavy loads of blame and BS for the broken kid after the fact and without end...but in the actual moment, the kids certainly could have benefited by the presence of their dad and another set of hands would have been appreciated. I also realize that after the stress of holding it together while your baby is being traumatized, it probably would be nice to have someone to turn to, let out a "damn, that sucked" and at the very least get a hug.
The voices in my head....
I used to look forward to this stage in my life. Eventually what was would be done and a new phase would present itself. I held on tight to the book of Job. He suffered, lost it all, but was eventually blessed greatly. More kids, more livestock....life fully restored.....greatly blessed. I clung to his story as a promise of hope. Things never sucked nearly that bad, so better should come with speed & ease.
Cancer and care-taking stalled my career. Just an off-ramp, women ramp off the career path and back in all the time...it's a norm of working motherhood. Job was blessed with more livestock in the latter part of his life than the first. It crushed the dream of another baby. Seven sons, three daughters in his second act. Hell, Madonna didn't even start having babies until 40. There will be a second chance. This is temporary.
It's been a pretty consistent script, running on a fairly constant loop in my noggin for years. Truth of the matter is, though, that right now this forward-facing optimistic self-talk is being drowned out by my natural cynicism. My left shoulder hosts the little blonde cheerleader clutching faith, hope and sunshine. On the other sits the cranky, tired red-headed single mom who is content to sit back alone with a couple of glasses of wine and a season of Sex and the City. My Miranda voice is currently louder than the inner cheerleader, and the conversation between the two sounds something like...
Job lived another hundred and forty years. His later life was blessed even more than his earlier life. He lived to see four generations! Much more lies ahead.
.
Cancer and care-taking stalled my career. Just an off-ramp, women ramp off the career path and back in all the time...it's a norm of working motherhood. Job was blessed with more livestock in the latter part of his life than the first. It crushed the dream of another baby. Seven sons, three daughters in his second act. Hell, Madonna didn't even start having babies until 40. There will be a second chance. This is temporary.
It's been a pretty consistent script, running on a fairly constant loop in my noggin for years. Truth of the matter is, though, that right now this forward-facing optimistic self-talk is being drowned out by my natural cynicism. My left shoulder hosts the little blonde cheerleader clutching faith, hope and sunshine. On the other sits the cranky, tired red-headed single mom who is content to sit back alone with a couple of glasses of wine and a season of Sex and the City. My Miranda voice is currently louder than the inner cheerleader, and the conversation between the two sounds something like...
Job lived another hundred and forty years. His later life was blessed even more than his earlier life. He lived to see four generations! Much more lies ahead.
- One hundred and forty damn years? Does the bible specify that all the family additions out lived him? Nope, it doesn't. FOUR damn generations. How many wives did he go through? How many more people do you suppose he had to fucking bury in his one hundred and forty damn years? Yeah, several.
- Marriage? No. That really just means that at some point, someone is going to be wiping someone else's butt in a hospital. And they'll die. Disney leaves out a lot of 'happily ever after'. Death doesn't come from an apple or cursed loom, and no one is saved by a kiss. It's bull shit. Life is messy, and so is death.
.
I can't be a Jehovah's Witness
I am really not a big fan of the month of May any longer. My birthday is tomorrow, promptly followed by Mother's Day which at this stage really just boils down to the fact I should have taken down the Christmas lights by now. I don't see much fun in turning 37 and I don't particularly enjoy Mother's Day without my mom. Also, school is almost out making the kids just wound up and rotten.
I bought a couple of slices of cake today to celebrate the eve of the day of my birth, and Thing 2 dug her fingers into it as soon as she was home. I ate it anyway, but still. They both wanted to make me a whole new cake, which would really be just a whole new mess. That is an example of it's the thought that counts, that REALLY is the thought that counts. It has me nervous about what they might attempt this weekend.
I was seriously considering converting to Jehovah's Witness. No birthday, no Mother's Day. No Christmas lights, although that would definitely mean it's time to take them down. I did some serious research on the matter. Wikipedia, where all serious research is now done, says drinking alcoholic beverages is permitted in moderation but otherwise the denomination is a far bigger buzz kill than just no holidays. Patriarchal family structure probably wouldn't have flown well with me, we are rather fond of blood transfusions in this house, and I wholeheartedly support same sex marriage. Those are just my top three oh huh-uh red flags spotted on Wikipedia. There seems to be a whole lot of grace they're missing. So I will suck it up and let the kids celebrate me this weekend. And I will be keeping the Christmas lights. Probably on the roof year round.
I bought a couple of slices of cake today to celebrate the eve of the day of my birth, and Thing 2 dug her fingers into it as soon as she was home. I ate it anyway, but still. They both wanted to make me a whole new cake, which would really be just a whole new mess. That is an example of it's the thought that counts, that REALLY is the thought that counts. It has me nervous about what they might attempt this weekend.
I was seriously considering converting to Jehovah's Witness. No birthday, no Mother's Day. No Christmas lights, although that would definitely mean it's time to take them down. I did some serious research on the matter. Wikipedia, where all serious research is now done, says drinking alcoholic beverages is permitted in moderation but otherwise the denomination is a far bigger buzz kill than just no holidays. Patriarchal family structure probably wouldn't have flown well with me, we are rather fond of blood transfusions in this house, and I wholeheartedly support same sex marriage. Those are just my top three oh huh-uh red flags spotted on Wikipedia. There seems to be a whole lot of grace they're missing. So I will suck it up and let the kids celebrate me this weekend. And I will be keeping the Christmas lights. Probably on the roof year round.
In our own time
I've been walking sideways since the day Lucy took her first steps. Things 1 and 2 have always moved at opposite speeds. Lucy has been full speed ahead from the moment she was mobile. Gabe on the other hand, he has always moseyed along. They each have their own pace for everything they do, and they are different in every possible way. Thing 1 is up with the sun and is ready to head for bed shortly after it sets. Thing 2 gets up after a lot of yelling and water hits her noggin, and only sleeps when she collapses. Thing 1 is quick with computers and academics, Thing 2 has the athletic aptitude and no desire to be still long enough to read or add a couple of digits. There are only two things on which they agree--McDonald's and ice skating.
As with everything else for these two, dealing with the loss of Dad comes differently. Gabe was more in tune with Mr. 1inamillion's illness and wanted to be near by to help in any way he could. He asked more questions, talked about things more along the way with me and their counselors. He is in fact wired very differently than all of us, his unique operating system giving him the ability to process things in another manner which in many ways helps. Diva, however, has mastered avoidance better than any other kid their therapist has met. She manages to keep it sunny and 70 in Lucyland nearly all year round. Therefore I am usually caught off guard when something does seep through her barrier and hits her hard.
The first instance with Thing 2 that I did not anticipate resulted in the damn sticker family on my van. Thing 2 decided at some point a year or so ago that she was a Jayhawk fan. The only one living in this house...or riding in my van. Daddy bought her one of those KU sticker family sets, assuring me that she would be able to put them in her room and not on the van. Unfortunately, there were brain mets before Mr. 1inamillion could give her said stickers with the explanation that they were NOT for mommy's vehicle. After she put them on the van and I later began taking some of them off, there were tears. But Daddy bought those for me! (My first year of college was at MIZZOU, Dane worked years for the K-State sports network. I just can't display that kind of devotion to KU. Sorry, but just. can't. do it.) We have since compromised with a WSU Shocker family that includes one KU cheerleader and pack member. (But I still have a stinkin' sticker family on my van, because a minivan in and of itself just doesn't cover it.)
There was fear and tears with my first business travel, which used to be business as usual. But you're my only parent now. There was pure hostility at the prospect of me meeting new people. You KNOW you're still married right? Daddy just died and is in heaven. It doesn't mean you're not still married. Now that last one was dripping with such venom, my eyes nearly popped out of my head, but on these occasions when she speaks, I get her in to the therapist as fast as I can, we listen and try to get her to speak more. It's a rare occasion that she expresses anything, so regardless the tone, it is welcomed. Most of the time, she bottles it and avoids to the point she physically hurts.
Yesterday was a big day. Thing 2 had her tumbling recital and last night was the listener appreciation show for the station at which Mr. 1inamillion worked. We were invited to attend several weeks ago and both kids were excited about attending at that time. As I reminded her we were heading to the show after lunch, I visibly saw her simply sink as the thought absorbed. She said she didn't want to go and remained just silent and visibly down as we ate, regardless of any attempt to compliment her performance or engage her regarding the recital. When I asked if she would rather leave with Aunt Shel, Thing 2 began to instantly lift and return.
It took a large effort to get Dane out of the house and to her recital last year. It was the first outing in the wheelchair and the last performance of any kind he would attend. During Friday's dress rehearsal I stood at the handicap seating where we sat the year before and soaked in the fact it was at this time we truly hit the beginning of his end. Following that with a station event was a bit much for me to handle, so it was no doubt too much for her and definitely a huge downer on her big recital day.
Thing 1, of course, operates on an opposite spectrum. He wanted to go to the concert, see Daddy's friends and be back in his world. He accompanied Mr. 1inamillion to work on many weekends, so it was a chance to see his friends, too. He seems to welcome those reminders and processes them completely differently.
So yesterday following lunch I walked sideways. I watched as Thing 2 headed off with Aunt Shel for the safe comforts of home and watched as Thing 1 walked to the van (easily identified by our sticker family) so we could head to a radio station event without Mr. 1inamillion.
As with everything else for these two, dealing with the loss of Dad comes differently. Gabe was more in tune with Mr. 1inamillion's illness and wanted to be near by to help in any way he could. He asked more questions, talked about things more along the way with me and their counselors. He is in fact wired very differently than all of us, his unique operating system giving him the ability to process things in another manner which in many ways helps. Diva, however, has mastered avoidance better than any other kid their therapist has met. She manages to keep it sunny and 70 in Lucyland nearly all year round. Therefore I am usually caught off guard when something does seep through her barrier and hits her hard.
The first instance with Thing 2 that I did not anticipate resulted in the damn sticker family on my van. Thing 2 decided at some point a year or so ago that she was a Jayhawk fan. The only one living in this house...or riding in my van. Daddy bought her one of those KU sticker family sets, assuring me that she would be able to put them in her room and not on the van. Unfortunately, there were brain mets before Mr. 1inamillion could give her said stickers with the explanation that they were NOT for mommy's vehicle. After she put them on the van and I later began taking some of them off, there were tears. But Daddy bought those for me! (My first year of college was at MIZZOU, Dane worked years for the K-State sports network. I just can't display that kind of devotion to KU. Sorry, but just. can't. do it.) We have since compromised with a WSU Shocker family that includes one KU cheerleader and pack member. (But I still have a stinkin' sticker family on my van, because a minivan in and of itself just doesn't cover it.)
There was fear and tears with my first business travel, which used to be business as usual. But you're my only parent now. There was pure hostility at the prospect of me meeting new people. You KNOW you're still married right? Daddy just died and is in heaven. It doesn't mean you're not still married. Now that last one was dripping with such venom, my eyes nearly popped out of my head, but on these occasions when she speaks, I get her in to the therapist as fast as I can, we listen and try to get her to speak more. It's a rare occasion that she expresses anything, so regardless the tone, it is welcomed. Most of the time, she bottles it and avoids to the point she physically hurts.
Yesterday was a big day. Thing 2 had her tumbling recital and last night was the listener appreciation show for the station at which Mr. 1inamillion worked. We were invited to attend several weeks ago and both kids were excited about attending at that time. As I reminded her we were heading to the show after lunch, I visibly saw her simply sink as the thought absorbed. She said she didn't want to go and remained just silent and visibly down as we ate, regardless of any attempt to compliment her performance or engage her regarding the recital. When I asked if she would rather leave with Aunt Shel, Thing 2 began to instantly lift and return.
It took a large effort to get Dane out of the house and to her recital last year. It was the first outing in the wheelchair and the last performance of any kind he would attend. During Friday's dress rehearsal I stood at the handicap seating where we sat the year before and soaked in the fact it was at this time we truly hit the beginning of his end. Following that with a station event was a bit much for me to handle, so it was no doubt too much for her and definitely a huge downer on her big recital day.
Thing 1, of course, operates on an opposite spectrum. He wanted to go to the concert, see Daddy's friends and be back in his world. He accompanied Mr. 1inamillion to work on many weekends, so it was a chance to see his friends, too. He seems to welcome those reminders and processes them completely differently.
So yesterday following lunch I walked sideways. I watched as Thing 2 headed off with Aunt Shel for the safe comforts of home and watched as Thing 1 walked to the van (easily identified by our sticker family) so we could head to a radio station event without Mr. 1inamillion.
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