TV Trauma, 06 August 2012

Tonight I cried at the end of a TV episode.

Here are a few things I should explain:

1. I don't like to cry.
2. Since April of 2010 (when my mom died), I rarely cry.
3. I hate watching sad stuff on TV.
4. So I don't.
5. I do enjoy the intrigue of watching certain lightweight crime shows, solving a murder a minute.  (Three cheers for closure in an hour!)
6. I'm not sure why those don't usually feel sad to me; I think it has to do with the episode story lines not emotionally focusing on the victim, but rather on the ongoing characters.
7. I get attached to ongoing characters.
8. Sometimes, show writers opt for drama (go figure) and make sad stuff happen to the ongoing characters.
9. At which time I angrily stomp my feet and end the evening in a tiff.
10. Except for when my favorite show with my favorite characters sneaks sad stuff in.
11. Then I cry.

The particular show I watched tonight has had two episodes that brought tears streaming down my face.  Oh, there have been plenty of tiff-producing moments throughout the seasons, but these two episodes stand out.

The first episode that got me bawling shook me up pretty good.  I cried for 10 minutes straight--having not even cried at my own mother's memorial service--and thought, "What is wrong with me???  These are made-up people in a made-up show...It's not even real!!"  In fact, I was so troubled by my over-reaction that I discussed it with my therapist at my next appointment.

"Isn't it ridiculous?" I scoffed on her couch.

"Well," she said slowly, "the show was made up, but those were your tears."

That hit the nail on the head.  Something real inside me connected emotionally to the something made-up on television, and something real released the tears shut-up inside me.  That happened again with tonight's episode.  A made-up person died, his made-up friends cried on-screen, the pretend casket was sent off on a pretend airplane; but real pain in my real heart let real saltwater flow down my cheeks.

I can't unravel all the tangled emotional nerve endings that fire up inside me.  But it is comforting to know that I can cry; that feelings inside me are active and can be released, even if it takes a group of Hollywood actors and writers to do it.

Of course, I'm still angry at them.  They'd better make up for it in the next episode!

Balance Schmalance, 01 August 2012

Today's theme is "off-balance."  If I'd been watching gymnastics this week I could probably insert some kind of joke about losing balance, but that's not the kind of balance I mean.  I mean that I have felt a decrease of emotional equilibrium today.  (Try saying that five times fast.)


It started with making a list of back-to-school supplies for G, who will start first grade in two weeks.  Millions upon millions of parents have done this many, many times, but today was the first time for me.  Even while growing up, the first time I did my own "back to school" shopping was when I was getting ready to leave for college, and that included things like nail clippers and microwaves.  Before that, I was homeschooled by an extremely organized mom, and the cabinets were always stocked with paper and markers and binders, while loaded backpacks were hardly necessary on a day-to-day basis.


Last year, G's schooling was done mostly at home; the only things he needed to take with him to his twice-a-week class was a backpack with a small lunch box.  But he'll be in class four days a week this year (there is still a homeschooling component to the program) and his teacher posted a list of things I've never bought for a child before: small whiteboard, ruler, thermal lunch bag, 3-ring binders, and so-on.


Looking at the list from his teacher, I thought about just how many life changes this school year will involve.  First of all--and again, I know this is routine for scores of parents by the time their child is two years old--I've never had to pack a daily lunch for my kid before.  I've never left him at a class by himself for four hours before.  Z and I haven't had so much one-on-one time since I left the hospital with him at birth!  And the planner in me wonders: What'll it be like?  Will we all enjoy it?  What challenges will this create?  Will G thrive?  How will Z's personality develop as he spends time away from the shadow of his brother?  How will my personality develop as I only have one child at home during the day?


Wait a second.  One child at home during the day.  !!!!!!  I think I need to pause and do a little jig.


Then again, will I feel guilty that I don't have as many "kid" tasks during the day?  What will I do with my rearranged time?  Will I be resentful that another woman is teaching G during the day, or feel guilty about it, or want to kiss her feet, or somewhere in between?


All I know is, last year was hard.  With a violent death and three weddings and a baby and two crazy kids and other major stuff, our first year of homeschooling was NOT ideal.  Not that any year is, necessarily.  The point is, even with all of the logistical and emotional changes this next year will involve, I think school this year will be easier than the last.


Notice I say "school this year" will be easier; I am not counting on other external circumstances being easier.  Life is too unexpected to plan that.  But I can plan on whiteboards, rulers, and lunch bags, even if the need for them makes my feelings a little topsy-turvy.  At least topsy-turvy is a part of parenthood that's expected!

Nineteen Hundred Thirty-Something, 20 July 2012

        Peering out from beneath the tilted brim of her close-fitting hat, a slender young woman scanned the castle ballroom as she entered through its large doorway.  Heavy chandeliers cast a warm glow over the room, and the shadows of dancers flickered over arched ceilings and towering Gothic columns.  Catching the newcomer's eye, a dapper gent in a snappy pinstripe vest and black patent shoes crossed the room toward her.  Her scarlet lips parted in a friendly smile, and with a little bow, the gentleman took her arm and they sailed across the gleaming dance floor together, swinging in step to the tooting of jaunty trumpets and the swaying song of saxophones.

        Later that evening, after dance and laughter, the young woman said goodnight and ascended to the castle's fourth floor with a cup of hot tea.  She stepped softly over lush Persian carpets lining the hallways, walking past quiet rows of dark wooden doors.  With a click of her metal key, she unlocked her door and entered the small room.  Before drawing a mineral salts bath, she leaned out her window one last time and looked down at the softly-lit, plant-covered terrace below.   She could still hear music floating through the ballroom's open doors, and sighing happily, she latched the window and swished the flowered curtains closed.

        When at last ready for sleep, she eased into a small bed layered with white linens.  The bed's springs creaked underneath her, but were still as she leaned back into a pile of pillows.  She dropped off into a peaceful sleep.

        In the middle of the night, she awoke with a jolt.   The music below had stopped and all was quiet, but she was sure she had heard her children knocking on the door.  The knocking must have been a dream—or perhaps a door closing down the hall—because her kids were seventy-five miles away.  Jay slept quietly in the small bed next to her, and she snuggled back down under the white linens.  A glance at the time on her iPod showed she still had hours to sleep until breakfast, so she closed her eyes again and let the memory of the evening's dance steps sway her back to sleep.

And that, my friends, is a true description of the first evening of our hubby-wife getaway!  Okay, so I left out a few details—like the fact that Jay was the gent in the pin stripes—and I skipped over a portion of the evening—when Jay and I sat on the plant-covered terrace and played Scrabble on a table-sized board—but everything I described is factual.

Plant-covered terrace: The view from our 4th-story bathroom window!

Yes, we stayed in an historic hotel (the architect called it a “little castle”) for two nights this week.  It was built in 1930, and they have kept the décor true to the period, even down to the original steam radiators in the rooms and fresh flower arrangements on every breakfast table.  On Wednesday night, the two of us dressed up to match the era (I with tilted hat, scarlet lipstick, and frock; Jay with vest, patent black shoes, and fedora) and joined a Lindy Hop dance class.  The big band music was broadcast via mp3 (I didn't say above that it wasn't), but it was still a hoot.  We really did feel as though we had stepped back in time!  I also stepped on some toes during the course of the Lindy class, but I think I was forgiven because of my darling hat.  Or maybe because of the scarlet lipstick.

The hat's the thing

The hotel provided a packet of mineral salts to go with the tub

Because historic hotels tend to be in places without much parking, we parked our car a few miles away and used public transportation to reach the hotel.  So for two days we spent time walking around the old town, discovering restaurants and brick churches; we sat on antique chairs with computer or book in hand; we wandered through the lush gardens tucked around the hotel; and generally drank in the aura of classy history.  (Not to be confused with unclassy history, multiple examples of which I will not cite here.)

Views from the Breakfast Room windows

 

As you can see from how I've rambled on about it, we had a truly lovely time!  Our seventy-five-mile-away children had a fantastic time with their papa, too.  In fact, they didn't want to leave him when it was time to come home tonight, and I was tempted for a moment to turn around back to castleland and leave them there longer.  But tomorrow is Z's birthday, and we wouldn't want to miss that—shaded terrace notwithstanding—so we came home and brought the kids with us after all.


Tonight, perhaps instead of dreaming that the boys are knocking on the door, I'll dream that I'm a brilliant dancer, laughing my way through a castle ballroom.  And when I wake up tomorrow morning, it will be real-life birthday time, which has a fairytale quality all its own.

The Camping Experiment, 13 July 2012

Right now I'm sitting on my couch, surrounded on three sides by a 3-foot radius of folded laundry.  My washing machine is quiet for pretty much the first time in two and a half days and there's still one load left to fold.  The total number of loads washed--full loads, mind you--was 15.  Yes, 15.

This morning my sister Clare asked me incredulously, "How do you have that many clothes??" and I explained that sleeping bags and pillows and towels contributed toward the brunt of it.

But that's getting ahead of my story.

The four of us went camping for the first time this week.  As kids, Jay backpacked with his family and I did trailer camping with mine, but we had not yet attempted a camping trip with our own kids.  It was an experiment and I think it was largely successful!  The kids got good and filthy, I had a ball being in nature, Jay found time to relax with his computer in tow (yes, he hiked with his computer strapped across his shoulder; not my idea of fun, but it's his, so okay!), and we all loved not being in a hurry for anything.

My view from a picnic blanket

Before we left, I consulted a couple friends about tips they might have.  One of them suggested finding a four-star hotel.  The other one brought an index card filled with nuggets of simple ideas she'd gleaned from years of camping with her family.  I decided to stash the hotel idea for another time and eagerly went over the index card.

Some things I had already figured on, like bringing simple food and using paper plates, but here are other tips from her that I really loved:

1. Pack cooking gear in boxes [I had been thinking of stuffing plastic grocery bags].
2. Have one box for cooking supplies and one box for food, so you know where everything is.
3. Bring an empty oatmeal container for holding utensils [and lighter and can opener].
4. Bring two floor mats: one for outside the tent and one for inside, for boys who forget to take off their shoes before entering and for the shoes at night.  [This cut down on tons of dirt and sand in the tent!  The mats spent two hours in the washing machine today.]
5. Make lunch right after breakfast to cut down on prep and clean-up time.  [I seem to recall my mom doing this on our trips of yore.]

I'm sure you veteran campers could contribute many other wonderful tips, but this was just enough to get me through the stress of planning.

Food supplies box in progress

I'm not yet sure that we are going to be a camping family, but I'd say the positives of this trip outweighed the negatives.  Because they're kinda-sorta funny, I will just briefly mention what I'd say were the three main negatives of the experience:

1. The kids complained about walking during our 30-minute hike.  Really guys?  You walk/run a good five miles a week!  And there aren't even trees to climb on those walks!
2. For my entire life--yes, diapers onward--I've had to pee in the middle of the night.  Next time we camp, I might bring back the concept of a chamber pot.
3. Sweet Jay was superman and stuck with his low/no-carb diet during the trip.  I'm sure he lost weight and I'm sure I gained some (Oreos and marshmallows anyone?), but one of us was generally a lot more chipper than the other.  (Fig Newton?)

To close this post on the sweet side, I'll share my favorite camping story about Z.

Our campsite had a water spigot in the ground, perfect for a quick wash or water bottle fill.  Before one of our meals, I asked Z to come over and wash his hands, which he obligingly did.  After I turned the water off, he looked down at the dirt it had drained over and said with curiosity, "Is this mud??"  He poked it firmly with his clean finger.  "Oh!  It is mud!  I love mud!" and both hands promptly squished into the gooey earth.

That's a happy camper for ya'!

How Do I Feel? Let Me Name the Ways, 28 June 2012

Today I plunked down on my therapist's couch and said, "Tell me how I feel."  We laughed at the absurdity that she could simply unscramble the crazy cocktail of emotions built up inside me, write it down, and hand it to me on a piece of paper; but really, that is kind of what I was hoping for.

In the last two weeks, I ran my youngest sister's wedding (sorry Em, but that's basically the truth); said hello and goodbye to close family from across the Pacific; coordinated a week of meals for over a dozen (and cooked a little too); managed transporting and coralling my kids with Jay; socialized with friends and family through my dad's wedding, which was also attended by my widowed father-in-law and his new gal; and received word that the homicide trial for my MIL is being delayed by an insanity plea (not surprising, but annoying and disappointing).

To experience all this at once has been...not easy.  And weird.  And sad and happy and confusing and tiring and--help!  During my appointment this morning, I related these activities to the therapist and told her I really haven't known how I've felt in the wake of all this.  People have been kind-heartedly asking me, "How are you doing?" to which I answer, "Uhhh..." and try to change the subject.

But I like things to have labels and I'd like to be able to tell people how I'm doing, so between my therapist and me we worked out some descriptions to use.

I'm confused.

Disorented.

Experiencing "complicated grief" (an actual clinical term).

I'm completely exhausted.

Convalescing from a difficult time.

Growing.

Yes, she said that the greatest times of growth often come after a period of significant disorientation, when life as we understand it is challenged.  That's nice to hear, but what do I do?? I wanted to know.  Her answer?  "Take care of you and recover."  Oh.  I don't have to cry or journal or do some sort of worksheet?  No, I just need to do what's best for me in the moment.

Since Jay's got my back (and the boys for about 28 hours), that's what I'm setting out to do today. Taking care of oneself looks different for each person, but here's what my Take Care of Me campaign has looked like today:

1. Didn't get out of bed before I was ready this morning.  (Jay made me French toast as a bonus.  He's a keeper.)
2. Chatted with Clare on the phone.
3. Spent a valuable hour with my invaluable therapist.
4. Grabbed a book (Putting a Face on America, about a walk from coast-to-coast) and had lunch at an Indian buffet.  Naan and chicken marsala are great healers, by the way.
5. Started laundry.  Oddly enough, that does takes care of me!  It eliminates a nagging chore, and as I hang things to dry on racks outside, I remember packing this clothing article or sweating in that one, and I feel a relieved sense of "reset" as I see them washed and airing out.
6. Sat on the couch with the book.
7. Sat on the couch with the blog.

Pretty soon, I think I'll be lying on the couch with a nap.  Maybe ice cream is in my future, or perhaps a travel show, or maybe a library visit.  But the beautiful thing is, I'm not making any plans for the rest of the day because I don't have to.

I don't have to figure out what I'm feeling or what I'm going to do or what I'm going to say.  Today, I'm taking care of me by taking the day one hour at a time.

Or maybe two hours, if I sleep that long.

Steamy Clean, 10 June 2012

Today started for me last night at 11:30 p.m. when I got the idea to steam clean my carpets today.  Jay and the boys are staying with his dad for a couple days, so this did seem like an ideal opportunity.  Unable to sleep, I popped out of bed to look over The Machine which sat, dusty and neglected, in a corner of my garage.

This steam cleaning Machine was a gift from my MIL a couple years ago.  She had used it in her own home for several years and passed it on to me when she decided to upgrade, but it still worked perfectly fine.  Or so I assumed, being that until today I had never turned it on.

There was a problem, however.  I had no idea how to use the thing and didn't have a user's manual.  When Mom gave it to me, I simply figured I'd call her and ask how to use it when I got around to it, and last night as I bent over the cleaner in my dim garage, I felt so sad that Mom isn't here to call anymore.

But I was increasingly determined to carry on her tradition of using this thing, so I Binged around until I found a manual I could download.  Now I was in business!  Terribly excited about the idea of steam cleaning my house--don't ask me why--I stayed up until 1 a.m. cleaning the machine and figuring out its mechanisms.

After church this morning, I ran to Target to get the proper cleaning solution and then began the exciting task of moving furniture and clutter off the floor.  When I say moving, I don't mean putting away.  I mean moving to higher surfaces.  In piles.  Many piles.

I'll spare you the blow-by-blow account of the next 10 hours.  Yes, between vacuuming everything first and having two years of accumulated grime on the floors and upholstery, I worked for 10 hours.  Did you ever see "Lady in the Water"?  There's this guy who only exercises one arm, and I'm pretty sure that when I look in the mirror tomorrow my right arm will look something like this:

I'm just talking about the arm, not the beard or sideburns.

During those 10 hours shoving the steam cleaner around the house by myself, I had lots of time to think, and the first things I thought about were memories of my MIL using the machine.

The earliest memory of The Thing I have is when Jay and I were moving out of our college apartment.  In an effort to get our precious rental deposit back, we scoured that place up and down, and Mom brought over the steam cleaner.  I remember she wore a loose white T-shirt, baggy denim shorts, and white tennis shoes.  She wielded the cleaner masterfully, and when the management came to check us out, they asked in awe, "Did you repaint??"  No, but we steam-cleaned the carpets.  I logged that nugget away.  Clean carpets = impressed management.

Another thing I remember is that whenever Mom was anticipating some event-or-other she was going to host, she'd remark with a little urgency, "I need to steam-clean the carpets."  I loved how her light-beige carpets looked every time she steamed them!

When I cleaned the machine up last night before using it, something else reminded me of Mom.  Dog hair.  Don't take that the wrong way; I am referring to the fact that my MIL and FIL had an indoor dog, and Mom was always fighting a battle against dog hair, dog poo, and dog vomit.  Eew.  (All I saw evidence of on the machine last night was the hair, thank goodness.)  She would get so frustrated at the dog, but she didn't spend much--if any--time complaining.  She'd get out her steam cleaner, fill it with carpet solution, and clean up the mess.  Again and again.

That's one thing I really like to remember about Mom:  When there was a job to do, she knuckled down and did it, most likely with a smile.

I don't have any photographs of Mom using The Machine, but I took one of it today.  The steam cleaner's in the foreground and my trusty vac (also a hand-me-down from my in-laws!) is in the background next to a pile of couch cushions about to be attacked.

I did the cushions outside while the rugs dried inside.

The attacked cushions.  Or are they mechanized toadstools?

Although my arm is sore and my fingers are raw and every flat surface has piles, I feel very satisfied that I have sucessfully carried on the legacy of the steam cleaner.  At least, I hope it's successful.  Jay, if you read this before you get home tomorrow, please be sure that when you walk in the door you say, "Wow!!  It looks amazing in here!  Did you repaint?"

Holding On, 06 June 2012

In an unexpected life, by definition unexpected things happen. Like one of your children getting what appears to be salmonella. But that can be dealt with by fluids, rest, and doctors appointments (we have one scheduled for the morning, poor G).

What is more unexpected and more difficult for me to grasp is having a friend cry on my shoulder today and ask for advice in dealing with the news of her friend's son and mother who were just murdered by another family member. I never thought I'd be someone to come to for that.

But I guess I am, seeing as that is what happened in my husband's family six months ago. Heh. I doubt any of my college friends who viewed me as an innocent, angelic creature ever imagined that a decade later I'd be talking about murder and victim-witness organizations and prison health care.

The difficult thing is that the more grief I experience and the more suffering and evil I see, the less I know what to say. I tried to pray for my friend and her grieving friends today, and I didn't even know how to do that. Oh how I want to have magic words that give comfort, or profound wisdom to ease the confusion of "How could this happen???" but I don't.

What I have are hugs for her, tears in my heart, and a scream against the evil in the world, "MAKE IT STOP!"

Playing in my ears right now is Soundgarden's "Live to Rise" (from the Avenger's soundtrack--yes, I broke down and bought the song for $1.29) and there's a line that really resonates with me:

We're insane but not alone

We hold on and let go

That just about sums it up for me. Things don't make sense and the world spins out of control around us, but we are not alone. We hold on to the One that is anchored in place as we let go of everything else, releasing our attempts at control to His loving care.

Of course, then I hear the question, "Where was His loving care when that young man was shot to death?" and there is nothing to say to ease the pain of that gut-cry of anguish. But I'm back to Soundgarden's song again:

Like the sun we will live to rise

Like the sun we will live and die and then

ignite again

God has eternal plans for us and these poor bodies are going to rise again to no more pain, no more tears, no more loss. Eventually.

But for now, I'm just holding on tight and letting the tears flow.