The Year In Review

So, I was thinking about all the things that have happened in the past year. I was remembering where we were this time last year, all of us scattered to the wind, peddling as fast as we could. I was feeling grateful that I could remember so much of what the year was like. So many of my first 28 years got lost after Betty was born. I still have large gaping holes from my youth. Jim, my best friend for the last 38 years, is often called upon to fill in my gaps, reminding me of all the things I can no longer recall. If he didn't bear witness, often all is lost. My friends, with love, tell me what my life was like when my mind fails me. With arms open and lots of patience, they gently remind me of facts, people and places that have remained buried deep within the dusty recesses of my brain.
This time last year, Mike and I were covered in drywall dust and mortar.We hadn't put the house on the market and giant questions without answers were all we had.
Our eldest son hit a rough patch that drove him back to us, he feeling failed and broken. I watched my son, as he came back to us thin, pale and feeling as if the whole world was against him. I saw him tonight, pink, happy, fuller in the face than he has been in years, newly employed, back in school.
Our eldest child graduated from college. She had spent time with us this past summer while we lived in Apartmentistan, squeezing every minute out of every day so she could earn the degree she has made so many sacrifices for.Now she works out of town, but plans to move home, but not for very long.
Our youngest boy made a mistake that now follows him around like a stray dog. He is fighting his way out of a mess he never saw coming.He is turning the corner to adulthood, seeing things no person his age should see, seeing things nobody of any age should really see, but with the support of his family he will get through.
Our youngest child, is in college after having graduated from high school. She passed her first semester while working, growing and figuring what is important to her as a person.
Our "adopted" son is moving out, with our blessings and the promise he will visit when he can.
Mike is getting prepared to face challenges in a new job. We watched the demise of the company he has worked for over 26 years. Hard choices had to be made in order to preserve all the sacrifices he has made over the last several decades. Once again we have an enormous amount of questions with very few answers.
Me, well, I recently started my own new job. A new column in a newspaper here in the place we call home. I am working on several books simultaneously due to my inordinate need to keep moving forward. "Moving forward", an ironic turn of phrase considering how many U Hauls were rented and how many times we packed and unpacked our entire lives.

I have always told my kids,"The only thing you can truly count on is change". Never in all of my years has that been as true as it is now.

I dread anyone who asks, "What have you been up to?" Immediately my head begins to swim as I fight to find some shred of a pat answer that will make that question go away. It isn't so much that I don't want to answer it, but rather because so much has happened I fear I may overwhelm them. I, myself, feel overwhelmed at the answer, so surely their head will explode.
We live in what Mike and I call the clown car. If the door is open, people come spilling out in every direction. As we continue to purge some of the 10 pounds of crap that we no longer want to stuff in our 5 pound bag, I find myself drifting further and further away from the life we had when the kids were young. It is bittersweet, this change our family is going through. The metamorphosis of our family is happening right before my eyes.It is like watching a nature special where the butterfly escapes the chrysalis, crawling out one leg at a time, expanding it's wings taking flight. There is wonder to it, but also a little sadness that process of growth is over.No longer is the butterfly dependent on it's cocoon to protect it.

2010 will go down as the year we were brought back together, if only for a short time. It will be seen as the year we all worked long hours, made many sacrifices, suffered many hurts and left our former selves behind us. It will be the year we lived in an apartment so small even the dogs couldn't turn around, sold the family home in exchange for the retirement home Mike and I are so hopeful we will get to keep.
2010 will be about the end of an era, the time when the our kids became our adults, Mike's company changed it's name and identity, my dream became a reality and our future began to look very different from the one we had imagined when we married a decade ago.

Christy came home one weekend and said,"My God, Mom, when did you and Mike get so old?" I looked at her 22 year old face, so shiny and young and sighed,"This year. We got old this year." I envisioned the road map of the past 12 months firmly imprinted on our faces. We laughed then, my girl and I.

A woman asked me, "So are you still?" I looked confused for a moment, eyes squinched, a perplexed expression on my face, "I'm sorry, am I still what?"
"Advancing Backward?" She smiled warmly at me. Laughing, I nodded and thought "My dear, you have no idea..."

You Do the Math.

I looked up the definition of "remainder" today. I needed to know what the series of tubes thought it meant. I knew in my heart what I thought it meant, but I guess, being slightly masochistic, I needed to be assured that I was correct in my thinking. So here it is; remainder-something left after other parts have been taken away, the definition according to Google, which I hear, is never wrong.
It is what I had become after Danny died for my kids, the parents and myself. I was what was left over.
I have in every literal sense apologized to my children for being the remainder. I knew I was ill equipped for the job when I got it, although I had the feeling I had been the remainder before in my life. In several of my relationships I had been the remainder, so why I couldn't wrap my brain around it being so hard then is beyond me.
A remainder in math is not telling of the number(s) in the equation, but the remainder in a relationship seems very telling to those who witness the demise. It became my definitive moment. It became the obsessive point that others felt they needed to remind me. As the remainder I was constantly doing my own mathematical equations of risk factors. Could I afford to do something, bearing out the physical, financial and emotional risk? Could I put the consequence of my action on my family, if I were wrong? These were the haunting questions I rolled in my noggin every time I made a decision about my life. Would the risk be worth the benefit? It was much like flying with no net. One wrong step and I would plummet to my demise leaving the the little ones to then become, yes, that's right, the remainder. Irony can be so cruel.
My hopes and dreams for myself became less important than my worth as the remainder. Here is an oldy but a goody, "Patience is a virtue". Truly, it is an absolute virtue, one I admire in others and recognize as missing in myself. Any patience I have exercised over the years has been merely because of my new title, my status in our family, not because of any great character trait I instinctively had.
I am the least patient person I know. I figured I was given great challenges in order to strengthen my resolve in patience rather than use what I already had.
Being a verbal blurter points out quite clearly how very little patience I have. It shows my immaturity in thoughtful expression, instead letting others know in an instant that immediate gratification is my preferred mode of operation. As a writer, I have to take my time, think things through, mostly, but there are times when even typing or scribbling doesn't slow me down.
I was recently reminded of a time in my life where I was a remainder in a different scenario. I had been left behind, leaving me to believe it was my lack of what ever was required at the time in order to sustain the relationship. I had covered the hole of being left behind with all the usual things one does in order to survive. The hole, being completely plastered over, was now safe to walk on, over and stomp through...until recently when quite unexpectedly it was broken open. My immediate gratification came to the foreground in my head as I rattled around for answers. I wanted to figure out the algebra of what I had done, causing my remaindernous (not a word yet, but maybe Webster will take a second look at it). Was it youthful inexperience? selfishness? ingratitude? All of the above? Yes, it was all of those. I guess, I have always known it was all of those, which is why I have actively tried to evolve in my thinking, my compassion, my expansion of my heart and mind. But what of the subtracted portion of the relationship? What is their role in all of this?
In a subtraction problem there are named components. I believe this particular relationship is more about subtraction than algebra, so this is the equation I am going to delve in. The first value is called the minuend it the total that the subtraction is going to come from. In math it would be the first number in the problem ie., 10-8=2, 10 is the minuend. The second value is the subtrahend. In the example 8 is the subtrahend. The last number is called the difference. So what is the difference? This is the question I have been asking myself the last couple of days. What is the difference?
Here is my solution, thus far. The relationship I had back then was not the minuend. The minuend was the person who left, I was then the subtrahend, the thing subtracted out, and the difference? Well, the difference is anything I want it to be. If I live out the hurt , disappointment and keep all the sadness, then the difference is a broken heart. If I choose to think of all I learned because I was subtracted out, then my difference is growth. If I choose to think in terms of how happy I was having that person in my life for however long I got to have it, then my difference is gratitude. If I were to take all the differences and create a whole new math problem, adding each to the other than my differences become something entirely new. My differences will become an addend, an augend and become the sum total of my experience, which for me turned out to be love. By the time all the equations were done, what I was left with was love for them, for me, for what was and what could never be.
What now, you ask? Much like my second grade blackboard, these current equations will be erased in time to make room for more problems. And just like my second grade self, I will try my level best to figure things out and listen to the instructions. But bottom line, I am just a writer. You do the math.

It Is Indeed a Merry Christmas!

I was thinking about all the changes that happened this year. So many things are once again shifting to another place, another way to live, more to be awe struck by. New jobs are on the horizon for several of us, the new house is somewhere we love being, my new attitude about waking up every day happier, more grateful, trying to ring all the goodness out of the day. It is all so very important to me right now.
I have no idea how all the things that have changed will effect us in the end. What I do know is how excited I am to be a part of it, waiting, watching for every new step we take as a family, and the ones I get to take as a woman, wife and mother. Where I once stood back, with great trepidation, thinking about the looming changes, now I am able to see that the "unknown" is merely part of the adventure.
I was remembering where we were as a family, just last year at this time. Our house was torn up, being re-constructed inch by inch, in order to get it ready to sell. We had so many questions back then. Would it sell? Where would we live? What would we do in the mean time? I was driven back then, as I sported my "work" clothes, splattered with paint, hair often plastered to my head, smelling to high heaven, by a quote I learned from a famous contemporary artist Chuck Close. He said, "Other artists wait for inspiration, while the rest of us get to work."
So that is what Mike and I did this past year, we got to work. I wouldn't say this was an easy year by any stretch, but I am grateful enough to know it could have been so much worse. The truth is, it could always be much worse.
Our house is decorated and smells of cinnamon, wreaths dangling, Christmas trees lit with multi-colored twinkle lights, while a 3 foot Santa smiles down from his perch on our "plant shelf". The dogs are snoring, each in their little beds, covered in their very own blankets. The bratty cats, are sleeping, fat and happy in their new kitty bed, yawning as they look up at me when I enter the hall. Jeepers, the sugar glider chatters from his cage until I go and get him his favorite dried blueberries to keep him quiet and happy.
I love my new house. We had friends over who wanted to see the house. As we walked them into the foyer we told them to turn around and have a look. In my head I was thinking "tadah". "This is it," Mike and I both chirped at the same time. There would be no tour from room to room. We have one open area that is our house; the only thing not visible are the bedrooms. The rest can be seen as soon as you hit the front door. Our house is easy to clean. It invites folks to sit and participate in whatever activity is going on. There is nowhere to hide in our house, but then again, I see we don't need one.
Our house is not perfect, it is perfect for us.
It's Christmas Eve and there are few presents under the tree. Living within our means, we must all be happy with what is, rather than what we think we want. The requests were simple, mostly of time spent. I have no regrets about not having stuff. Living simpler, smaller has allowed each of us to realize how very little we require. Stuff needs space and space for us is at a premium.
I feel happy. I realize how fortunate we are to have had the experiences we had this year. I went on-line and some of the houses that were our competition, when we were selling, are still on the market for much less. Everything that has happened for us and even to us, feels somehow divinely inspired.
Tomorrow is our Christmas. We plan to hang with our college kids tonight, unwrapping gifts, playing games chilling by the fire, letting them sleep in tomorrow. Mike and I plan to go to mass to thank our God for all we have been given. We will go early, just the two of us, hand in hand, remembering to sink into the moment, feeling every ounce of the joy.
Tonight will be about cheesy dance moves to corny Christmas music. It will be about celebrating traditions I have given to our children all of their lives. Tonight will be about remembering those who we will not see, but love so much. Tonight it will be joyous in our new house, all of us celebrating the gift of being together.
I wish you all a very Merry Christmas!
I wish for you the gift of miracles and Santa Clause. I wish for you a deep, peaceful sleep filled with wonderful dreams of loved ones, near and far. May you all be filled to the brim with all the happiness your heart can hold.

Simple Gifts

I was on the phone last night talking to my eldest child, who much to my dismay lives two and half hours away. We have been watching television together, via the phone. "Ooh, here it comes, my favorite part," I say as we both sigh at the upcoming events on the movie we are sharing. "I know, this part is brutal,"my beloved child says. We talk about the days events, about her future, which seems so open it's overwhelming, and share our time, our hope with each other. I tell her I watched the special about the White House Christmas, whose theme this year is "Simple Gifts". The irony of the pageantry, pomp and circumstance of the doings in the people's house and the theme is not lost on me. "I suppose they have to decorate that way," I sigh. My child says back sarcastically,"Do they?" I hear the sneer in her voice at the unfairness of where we as a country are, and how split we seem to be.
Both of us digressed into our own Christmas memories and how we were able to celebrate with very little money. A few meaningful gifts, homemade cookies, and trips in the car viewing others lights since we could never afford our own. Our Christmases were simple back then because they had to be. "Remember how we had to get up at four o'clock in the morning before you had to go to work to open our gifts?" my girl recalls. "Yeah, I hated that but I didn't want to miss Christmas", I say back with the smallest amount of regret in my voice. "You always made it fun", she says. I drifted back to the time when time and money were commodities we never seemed to have enough of.
Christy, my oldest of the four children, is in a place where the simple things mean the most to her. All she ever wanted for Christmas was to be loved and time, as much time as she could get. We laughed at the time my friend Judy and I got together, when our kids were really small, we decided to bake cookies they could decorate. In our heads, it was a simple heartfelt activity for our small children to participate in. We spent hours in the kitchen baking little ginger bread men and women for the kids to ice and sprinkle to their hearts delight. We imagined them spending at least an hour painstakingly decorating the little people, while we got to watch the wonder of the holiday spirit. In our heads it was all so magical. The reality was the kids got bored of our heart felt activity after about five minutes and ran off to play in the other room. Judy and I looked at each other and laughed. All our efforts were for absolutely nothing. That is the thing about kids, they require very few organized activities when they are small. Their imaginations are far more entertaining than anything we could dream up. In the end Judy and I shared some wine, decorated cookies to the point of ad nausea, ending up making our population anatomically correct and rather crude. The more vulgar we were with the cookies, the more we laughed. We of course, hid the cookies that were most explicit from the kids, not that they would have known what was going on anyway. Laughing hysterically, my husband Danny walked in the door from work. "What is so funny?" Judy and I busted out into fits of laughter, tears running down our faces. Danny seeing the naked village of cookie people, picked one up, taking a large bite, headed for the shower. I have to tell you, that is still one of my favorite Christmas memories. Many years later, I went to see my daughter, Christy, where she was sharing a house with several friends. I had taken stockings for the fireplace, a Christmas tree with boxes of decorations and things to make cookies. We baked and decorated our new version of the ginger bread naked village, inspired by a bottle of wine and the memory of what I had told her actually happened the night Judy and I laughed so hard we couldn't talk.
I believe in Christmas miracles. I never expect to win the Christmas lottery; I just wait for the moment when clarity of what Christmas really means to my family shows itself in the simplest of gifts of having each other to love. I have over the years made thoughtful gifts, instead of racking my brain to figure what to buy for people, who are perfectly capable of buying themselves their wants, needs and hearts desires. I choose instead to make picture calenders, memory quilts, home made salsa, and, of course, Christmas cookies. There is some pageantry in our house. I decorate with the things we have acquired over the last 25 years. I make homemade soups for the cold nights by the fire. I bake yummy desserts to be shared and gobbled by passing grown children as they head out the door. Having them stop for five minutes to kiss the top of my head and share a joke is the simple gift I hope for.
As the season comes to a close this year, I will look back on the nights I spent with Christy, on the phone watching movies on TV. It was the simple gift she gave to me this year, her time, her attention, and as she always so graciously gives me, her love.

Silver Bells

My grandmother is on the right. She is my dad's mom.
My parents have always been social creatures, going to parties, volunteering for groups, belonging to clubs, that sort of thing. When I was young my grandmother watched us when they went out. I remember sitting in my grandma's house watching TV or listening to her play the piano. I had always envied my grandma's ability to play. During Christmas time when my folks went to different sundry events, my sister and I would go to grandma's house and usually spend the night, hardly a hardship. It was a time for us to have her all to ourselves. It was a time for us to be spoiled, make cookies and sing around the piano.
Grandma would pull out Christmas music and ask us to pick our favorites. Mine changed every time I was asked, being fickle, one week it was Frosty, the next time it was The First Noel. I had never really had a favorite Christmas song, I loved them all, so choosing a specific tune on any given night was tortuous for me. Grandma always chose Silver Bells, pulling the dog eared pages out, setting them up on the piano, asking Kim to turn the page when necessary. I wasn't asked because I couldn't seem to gather my coordination about me enough to do it. When I tried turning the delicate paper pages, inevitably everything would fall to the floor and things would come to a halt.
I would sit next to my grandma on the piano bench and listen as she warbled her way through Silver Bells. The three of us would be singing full out, under the small light that stood on the piano, looking on over the small hard candy Christmas tree that sat next to it.
Grandma's house was always warm mainly because she was always cold. My grandmother had an assortment of sweaters, primarily pink ones for every occasion. To this day, I still have two of those sweaters, stored away but easily accessed when I feel like I really need a dose of unconditional love from the woman who treated me as if the sun rose and set just for me. I guess, today was one of those days, when I really missed my grandmother and all her idiosyncratic behaviors, traditions and warm loving hands.
She had a tiny two bedroom house across town from where we lived. Being small, it seemed to take forever to get to Grandma's house on the west side. I felt as if I had traveled some great distance to get there, where in truth, going back I could have walked it if necessary. It wasn't right next door, but it was hardly the journey my tiny mind had set it to be. Being at Grandma's house felt like a vacation from real life when my parents weren't there. We still had bedtimes, childlike responsibilities, but it was just different enough to allow for me to feel relaxed, comforted and loved.
The phrase "comfort and joy", I guess, describes it best for me, that is how I felt, comforted and joyful, soothed by Grandma's soft hands on my back as I drifted off to sleep in the soft bed in the spare room. I will tell you though, my grandma made doll cakes as a hobby, where she use a doll torsos complete with a head and insert it into a half round cake, where she would decorate it to look like a princess in a ball gown. These disfigured torso creatures were kept in the top drawer in the bureau in the spare room. She would open that drawer and I would see not pretty dolls but dolls who looked chopped in half and it really freaked me out. If I saw them before I went to sleep, I would have nightmares about "paraplegic Barbie" the rest of the night. When I first told Grandma of my fear of the halfings, she scoffed and said, "there was nothing to be afraid of." She soon learned after having to spend the night with me, the drawer was best left shut until daylight hours.
My Grandmother was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease when I was still in grade school, about 342 years ago. I had the misfortune of watching as she lost her independence, having to sell her little house, so she could move in with us. As much as she loved all of us, it chipped away at her, that she no longer could have the life she had built. I saw the sadness, witnessed the frustration as her hands shook a little more, and her legs became like lead weights, she would have to drag around to get from one place to the next. She had hardening of the arteries and began the telltale signs of geriatric onset dementia. One day when she was driving she had gotten lost in the town she had lived in for well over 20 years. It was then she was once again informed it was not safe for her to drive anymore. She was heartbroken, but I saw fear in her eyes; she knew that my parents were right and she would have to give it up. My parent's had to handle all of my grandmother's illness with her and eventually for her. My father being an only child was forced to make hard, ugly decisions when it cam to his mother. He guarded her safety, her privacy, her dignity until the day she died. My mother took care of her as if she were her own, because to my mom, she was. I still feel the weight on my parents as they made daily decisions for her care. Grandma lived with us for seven years, and in those seven years she slid down the constant hill of decline, eventually requiring full time care. My parents did everything they could to keep her at home, with us, where they were certain she was safe, and loved. My parents lived a tortured existence during this time. They never gave themselves a break from the constant demands of grandma's welfare. They second guessed every decision they made, because they made the toughest decisions they would ever face. I will tell you, the respect and admiration I have for my parents and what they did for my grandmother is immeasurable. This was the very reason I became a nurse who specialized in elderly care.
When Grandma moved in, her piano moved in with her. I was in high school, so going to Grandma's house had lost it's magical appeal, anyway. Having her close meant sitting at the piano in our blended home, once again picking favorite Christmas songs. As she had done a thousand times before, she had chosen Silver Bells.
I miss my Grandma. I miss the way she thought I was the best thing since sliced bread. I miss her stories of her family and my grandpa, who died of Leukemia long before I was ever born. My recurring question about him was always if he would have liked me. Grandma always said the same thing, reassuring me that he would have been proud of me and loved me dearly.
At Christmas time I listen to Christmas music all day every day. Silver Bells comes on the radio and I immediately go that place where memories of Grandma fill my heart and tears fill my eyes.
I miss my grandma's physical presence, but she gave me the gift of music that stays with me everywhere I go. If I close my eyes and listen really hard I can still hear her sing.

My Reason For the Season

Someone was recently over to my house during the process of me decorating for Christmas. "Why so many Christmas trees? And stuff?" this person asked. I answered we had a bigger house before and some of it was from that. In truth I just wanted the question to go away. "Why not pare it down, then?" another question came at me. I felt my face grow hot and looked down to avoid eye contact fearing I might sear a hole through this person with my over enthusiastic Christmas spirit. I mumbled,"I like it." I then kindly began moving the person toward the door. I smiled a little too broadly as I said, "Thanks for coming, enjoy the holidays, talk to you later..." I could not shut the door fast enough.
Earlier this season I was "reminded", that the reason for the season is Jesus and all the Christmas decorations seemed gaudy. I again, head down so as not to harm anyone mumbled my way out of the situation. The truth is I know my house is over the top. It is meant to be as festive as I can possibly make it. I know how much work it takes to do all this and have to take it all down in a month. I know because I am the one doing the work. Why others feel the need to critique my work when it really doesn't effect them, their life or intrude on them in any form or fashion is beyond me.
The truth is I like my Christmas stuff. No check that, I love my Christmas stuff. Once a year I haul out box after box after box, just so I can put all the things I have acquired over the years out for ME to enjoy. Personally, I hope others like it, but in truth, I really don't care too much what they think when they are negative. The season is so much more to me than just Santa or Baby Jesus. I realize that reducing Jesus to merely part of the season is sacrilege to some, but originally December 25 was about Pagan and Roman holidays anyway. Jesus got thrown into the mix later by a Pope who jumped on the already celebrated day. Just sayin'.
I love the whole history of Christmas and how it evolved into a uniquely American holiday. The Puritans tried to take the hearty celebration away from the peasants and ended up joining them since they found they could not be beat. Santa Clause, although derived from Saint Nicholas, looks the way he does to us now because of American illustrators. And Rudolph, well, don't get me started. Rudolph is and always will be an American icon.
I hear ramblings of how commercial the day is, but it has been that way since the Druids and Romans partied like it was 199. I understand why people buck the cash flow situation this time of year, I don't buy a lot of gifts, so that isn't an issue for me. I never over spend because I hardly spend anything to begin with. I don't believe in that kind of Christmas. My kids have had the same monetary limit on Christmas now that they have had all their lives. Christmas isn't about the money for me.
I love the pageantry of Christmas. I love the decorations, twinkle lights and absurd music that fills every square inch of air. I love the fact that I can justify spending an entire month creating things for around the house, only to finish with a flourish New year's Eve. I put Martha Stewart to shame this time of year. Got an old bucket, pair of tweezers and a flashlight that doesn't work? I will McGuyver that thing into a rustic lighted wine cooler. I am merely stating my talents come to full fruition this time of year. As I sugar my last pine cones of the season (gluing glitter to them), I leave them in the corner to dry before getting the wire out to tie them into greenery, I notice a rather large spider crawling out of the one in my hand. My daughter looks up stunned, "Is that glitter on the spider? Did you glitter a live spider?" She looks on horrified. "I didn't do it on purpose, Silly, I didn't even know it was there. But it does look nice with it's holiday adornment, don't you think?" She leaves the room with a look of disgust on her face, shaking her head. I "dispose" of the unwanted guest and resume looking for the forms for my giant ornaments I want to make to hang from the roof line. The family doesn't usually ask me what I am doing this time of year, for fear I may ask them to join me. I no longer take that personally, since I have been aware of their apathy for holiday decorating, for some time.
I keep my craft pliers, glue gun and assorted fine grain glitter to myself.

The reason for the season for me has been the same for as long as I have had an addled brain wave; the love, lights and charitable attitude are what I surround myself in. I wallow in dreams of Christmas miracles, moments of joy in children, and the beauty of the lights reflecting heavenly stars. I am over the top in all things Christmas, none more prevalent than my hope. This is my season of feeling hopeful next year will be even better, that my family will remain healthy and be happy, and I will continue to grow in wisdom, kindness and compassion, and always remembering when things get tough, Christmas is right around the corner...

My Life In Pee

(This is the piece I wrote exclusively for 24-Hour Stake-Out November 9-10, 2010)


My Life In Pee
I had been asked to write for the 24 Hour Bully Stake-Out. “Wow”, I thought, what a compliment to be included. Then, at that very moment my writing froze. I was completely stumped about what to write. I read other articles, listened to videos, watched others step up and tell their stories of inspired courage. I sat in front of my computer screen day after day waiting to be inspired, myself, and write the story I knew I had to tell. I could not for the life of me get started. I could not begin with the first word, first sentence in talking about something I had always thought would maybe relate to anybody being bullied now, or who had been altered by bullies earlier in their life.
My friend, Ron, had introduced me as a humorist. Again, I thought of what a giant compliment that was. Then, I thought, “How in the world do I make Bullying funny?” What I ultimately figured out as the dead line loomed in front of me is that I couldn’t do it, knowing my own history.
“When I was a child, I thought like a child, acted as a child, but when I became a man, I put away those childish things.” That is the quote I use on my kids all the time. That and, “You can’t un-ring a bell.” The reason those quotes mean so very much to me is because they are the very quotes that helped me decide just exactly who I was. Years ago I had to decide what kind of person I was. I had to make big changes in my life or I was certain I would become someone I didn’t recognize.
Back before there was fire, growing up, I was a bed wetter. I wrote it in my book, but I didn’t go into detail about what that meant for me as a child. Evidently, the devil really is in the details. Being a bed wetter meant I had the opportunity to get my butt kicked by anybody who viewed me as weaker, less “cool”, weird, queer or unwanted. Being a child whose life was dictated by pee meant I was all of those things, especially to my tormentors, who ironically lived right down the street from me. This family of thugs felt as if they had the right to determine who I was to them, to others and ultimately to myself. Everywhere I went, and as a child the places I went were all close to home, there they were laying in wait to push me around, kick me, punch me, throw my belongings down the gutter, call me names, and generally abuse me. My mom sometimes dropped me off early to school, when few people were there. Quiet and eerie, I walked the halls, went to the gym and wandered off in my own thoughts until I would hear the sounds of the thugs bounding in the door, just looking for an opportunity to start a fight. I spent a great deal of my childhood, elementary school, praying to escape, what I was certain was inevitable. I spent years being treated as if I had a giant “less than” sign in front of my face. In my head it looked like this…Everybody else=>….Kellie=<. I had made the mistake of explaining my dilemma of being ruled by pee by telling my childhood comrades about my kidney problems, which lead to the bed wetting, several surgeries, drinking gallons of water during the day, medication that I had to take and many visits to my specialist. I found out all that did was make things worse for me. Another lesson learned the hard way; there is no sympathy on the playground.
I could spend this paragraph telling you all the gruesome details about how I was physically hurt, mentally tortured and even spit on. I could write an entire book about how diminished I felt. How I had cursed God for cursing me. I could tell you about the kids, who were not technically my tormentors, who pretended to be my friend, only so they could join in the fun of abusing me in the privacy of their “parties”. I went because I thought I was being included, but the truth is, I was invited, so they had someone they thought was more pathetic than they were. You get the picture; I am sure by now, you understand how most of this went down. Who amongst us hasn’t seen or heard it in our life time? What I want to tell you is how it almost altered who I would become. Being bullied almost changed who I was as a person, and who I would become as an adult.
I could change a bed, the sheets, blanket and bedspread in commercial time back in the 1970’s. Now, kids, let’s remember that back then commercials were only 30 seconds to a minute long. Be impressed, because it was an impressive talent to have. I was able to do this by the time I was seven years old. I was also able to leap IV poles in a single bound, race wheel chairs when the nurses weren’t looking, and even get green colored, pine tasting jello to stick to a wall for over a minute. These were my childhood talents. Being hospitalized regularly, I had acquired my own unique gifts. I treasured the moments, being with my people. Many of these kids were sicker than I was. Many were there when I arrived, and there when I was discharged. They had faced all the abject cruelty of healthy kids who picked on the weaker ones. I was one of the lucky ones, able to come in and out, drifting between the medical world and the healthy world. I just didn’t feel lucky at the time. I viewed my plight as a plague, a lifelong member of the broken club.
After years of being hurt on every level, I made the decision to not care about me anymore. I decided, if the world thought I was broken, useless, stupid, ugly and unlovable, then so be it. I was 15 years old when the heart in me gave up on loving the “pee girl”. I became self destructive, using drugs, hiding from accomplishment, hating everyone I came in contact with. I stopped taking my medication abruptly, against my doctor’s wishes. I sneered at my parents, and began loathing anyone who had ever hurt me. I actively hated, turning my heart to stone, numbing my feelings, and using my intelligence to turn on anyone who dared say anything mean to me, about me and around me. I became the very thing that had once broken me. I didn’t bully anybody else, but I did become a hate speaking, verbal vomiting, and self loathing caricature, of the innocent, loving joy seeking child I had once known myself to be. I set about destroying myself, one horrible mistake at a time. By the time I was in high school, I dated only those who would join in and hurt me. I made sure I had key players in the “Deconstruction of Kellie”. I kept a few friends who still cared, but I was well on my way to insuring my demise. These thugs, these bullies, who had spent years of my life making absolutely sure I felt like a worthless piece of sh*t had won. I couldn’t beat them, so I joined them. If I was to be looked at as the waste of space, then I would make certain that I held that title with pride. I kept up this behavior just waiting until something would happen that was bad enough to kill me, then we could all call it a day. I made the active decision to do nothing to stop the avalanche of abuse by them and I, destroying what was left of me. It was a slow suicide, a punishment to me for being the nasty piece of crap that I was.
The following year, I had grown tired of running. Adults were suspicious of my self destruction and it was becoming harder and harder to keep up the hate. I was very much alive and not seeming to go anywhere but to jail if I didn’t change. Dying I was OK with, but jail was another story. Even in the depths of my self- hatred, I knew I wouldn’t fair well with actual criminals. I was out to destroy me, but they were out to destroy everybody else. I cleaned up my act, got good grades, stopped dressing like a hoodlum, and pretended that I was well on my way to a total recovery. Even when the boys barked at me in hallway, or someone would threaten to kick my *ss after school, I pretended that all was well. Secretly, I still gravitated to men who would physically hurt me. Like a magnet, I would find the boy who liked to punch, hit, push and torment. Eventually, it was that boy I would pick as my boyfriend. The adults around me talked of their pride in who I was becoming. They congratulated me on accomplishments, my talents and my effort, but I knew the truth. I knew that I was no different than the skanky little garbage heap that had existed in my body before.
I kept my little secret, that the bullies had instilled me, that I was a fraud, a useless, ugly, worthless pig. I could dress up, act polite, stay sober, learn new things, all while harboring the largest lesson I learned from the thugs. I never told anyone about all the days when I had to run for my life from the thugs. I never once, sat down with my mom and told her how I felt. I never confided in a teacher, a minister or a friend about the excruciating fear I had faced day after day that had literally altered who I was.
Something happened my senior year, making me stop in my tracks and defend myself. I had a teacher, who hated me. I mean, she disliked everything about me, picking on my clothes, my intelligence, and my ability to learn, even my musical ability, which had nothing to do with her. Somewhere from the depths of my belly a gnawing had begun, I felt my face grow hot, and tears filled my eyes as she berated me publicly for the umpteenth time. I felt sick inside,

because this was no thug, this was an adult, who was bullying me. This person was paid to be a role model in school. She was at least paid to do her job and not actively pick on a kid. At first, I agreed with her, keeping the thugs lessons alive and well in my life. But one day, and I am not exactly sure why or where or how, but something inside of me snapped. It was one thing to have a kid pushing me around, or a boyfriend knock me into submission, but an adult? Why this dynamic is what changed my course, I have no idea. Maybe it was because I had seen good teachers all my life, and this one stuck way out, being the exception and not the rule. Whatever it was it caused a chain reaction in me. I began to fight for the little girl in pee. I started to defend myself from the posse I had surrounded myself with in order to keep the abuse going.
It took years to unravel the damage the thugs had inflicted on my child side. It took an abusive husband, four beautiful children and best friends who stuck by me encouraging me to be the person I was born to be. It took hard conversations with my parents, telling them about my ugly, terrifying past, tears running down both our faces at the price we had paid due to my silence. I had been too afraid to speak, my mom speechless herself at this moment, wishes she had seen more, done more, but I had been certain there was nothing for her to do.
I was wrong.
My fear paralyzed my voice, but I had people to talk to. I had doctors, family, family friends, counselors, all waiting for me to come out of hiding. I cannot change all the years it took for me to rid myself of the scars of the thugs, but I can tell you that there is hope. It doesn’t have to take 20 years of your life to figure out that if someone is bullying you, hurting you in any way, IT IS WRONG!!! Find anyone you can talk to, your parents, your friends’ parents, teachers, principals, the authorities, anybody who can lend you their strength until you can garner some of your own. Keep talking until you get the help you need.
I wake up happy every day. I know what you are thinking, every day? Yep, every day, I wake up just happy that I lived long enough to see all the good things that happen, just because I am me. I have managed to build lifelong friendships with people who adore all my quirky, dorky personality traits. They find me very lovable, adorable and mostly hug-able. Had I had my way years ago I would have missed out on this. And by this I mean the pure love, joy and happiness I have to wake up to every day. I am still the girl in pee. I don’t wet the bed anymore, but if I have enough ice tea at night, I still think it might happen. My husband just laughs and tells me he will sleep in scuba gear if necessary, just so we can be together.
I was never alone, even when I thought I deserved to be. You are not alone either. We are all here, when you need us.

Halloween 2010-Epic Win!

I have loved Halloween since I was a kid. I had parties every year, kids coming over and in Junior High, it usually ended up with a rousing rendition of spin the bottle. Maybe that is why I like the scary holiday so much.
When the kids were little, I decorated with little things, keeping the macabre to a minimum. My girlfriend, the one I hung out with all the time, started having parties with her friend, who lived in the country. This allowed for hay bails, large fields and all the treats a kid could ask for. We went for years, until the adults decided it now was more for them than the kids. It seemed logical at that point to give it a rest.
The house I bought for myself, after the divorce, was on a long street, populated by mostly children. I made the purchase of the house because it was affordable, and it felt right to me. Ever get the feeling like you feel right at home, even though you don't live there? That is how I felt when I saw my house for the first time. The first Halloween we spent in the house, we noticed something exceptional going on. Almost every house went above and beyond your average decor. There was a haunted garage, haunted driveway that led back, back, back deep into the yard to the garage where the candy was hard earned for the kids brave enough to travel that far. One house had a high school kid, who saved his money all year long to create elaborate scenes in his front yard. We had a haunted front porch. I knew then, I was on an exceptional street and felt lucky we all took the unspoken oath to make it fantastic for the kids(and us).
The next house we lived in, the one Michael and I bought as newly weds, in a different town, had a u street that was perfect for Halloween. Once again we were not disappointed by the grown-up interaction, the participation was over the top. I took all of my dead bodies, bottles of fake blood and began to establish myself as a full blooded (Pun intended) Halloween Queen.
The move to Texas might as well have been across the world. We knew little if anything about Texas, or the south in general, as far as traditions, holidays or Halloween , in particular. The first year there, I looked at the monster of a house we had bought and shook my head. Halloween would be tough to decorate here. I took my bodies out of their boxes and placed them through the yard. The skulls came out of hiding next, then the bats, then the ghosts, and finally the tomb stones. As I spread out the ghouls of Halloween past, I went outside to survey the layout. I noticed not one decoration was in sight. Daunted, but not given in, I put up my decorations the best I could, in preparation for the big day.
A neighbor came over while I was adjusting a ghost here and there, fussing with the sheer fabric, tucking in the props through out the yard, making things look "perfect". "Excuse me..." the neighbor hailed, while waving her hands at me. "Oh, I am so sorry. Hi, I'm Kellie. I was just fussing with the decorations," I called back, walking toward the woman at the curb. "Hmm, yes, about that," she rolled her eyes and sighed deeply before she finished her thought,"I think you should know, we don't do that here." I stuttered and stammered, feeling my face grow red, "Wha, what? I am sorry, what don't you do here?" "We don't put up Satanic decorations here. We don't believe in that sort of thing. I know you are from out of town, I thought you should know." I stood looking at this condemnation in this woman's face and thought to myself, "What the hell have we done..."
Later after Michael got home from work, I told him the story with tears in my eyes. "I don't belong here. I don't fit in," I told him as the tears fell down my face onto his shoulder. "Baby, screw them," Michael said soothingly. " I felt so down, so belittled, "I just want to go home," I cried.
The next couple of years I did nothing for Halloween. I bought candy, very few kids came down our busy street, so Halloween night was spent wishing I were back home celebrating with my friends, laughing at the funny ideas we had to make things even grosser.
When the kids got to be in high school, I decided to have parties at home to keep them off the streets and out of trouble. We taught Texans to bob for apples, did the donut on a string game, all the while keeping my decorations to myself in the back yard. One year after I had lived in our house for some time, I decided, I didn't give a crap if "They didn't do that here." I decorated the yard and added a few more acquisitions to my already packed boxes. I hung ghouls, brought the ghosts out of hiding and proudly displayed my tombstones with the skulls being lit from the inside. The few kids that did show up loved it! The next year more came to see the house that had the bodies in the yard, the sound track from the windows and the blood dripping down the door.
When we bought our current home in the summer, I looked at Michael and said, "This is a great Halloween house." Our Realtor looked momentarily puzzled, but Michael knew exactly what I meant. The street itself has very little traffic. The house has an island of sorts surrounded by pine trees in the front and we have a courtyard leading to our front door. From the moment we moved in, we have done nothing but work on the house. We have had to fix the broken, add storage, rearrange several times, and just generally try and figure out how to make it ours. I didn't have much time to get ready for Halloween this year, but I did take everything I had, plus my newest acquisitions, and decorate the front the best I could for now.
At first it was slow Halloween night, a few kids here and there, and then it happened, kids filled the street, parents were dressed up, too. Glow sticks, pillow cases, kids large and small, all started to come. With only strobe lights, candles and the talking ghosts with glowing eyes for light, they all "oohed and ahhed" at the decorations. Pictures were taken, the parents complimented us, the neighbor stopped by for a chat and some wine, it was the Halloween I had dreamed of since moving to Texas. As the crowd thinned out, Michael and I waved and yelled back,"Happy Halloween", my beloved looked at my smiling face and said, "Next year it will be even better."

Renovator Guy, our hero!

The weather was very hot sweet and sticky, even for Houston. The scorching sun beat on our heads as we loaded one truck full after another, moving our large family's home from a two story mammoth to a small apartment and storage unit. I was soaked head to toe in my own perspiration. i caught a glimpse of myself in a window and winced. Sweat poured from me as if i were a walking waterfall. My bones ached, as my muscles flexed to their full capacity lifting boxes, moving furniture and packing away the last few items that didn't have certain homes to go to. My head was throbbing, as the blood pulsed hard in my veins, my eyes bugging as I strained to keep going. Hours passed and it was finally time to go sleep in the apartment before heading back to the house for the next batch of stuff heading to the storage unit. I felt weak form the heat, cursing the thick air as it clung to my hair, clothes and face. I felt the sweet relief of air conditioning in the apartment we had rented for our temporary housing needs. We barely ate that night , all of us spent and quiet. We didn't even have the energy to talk to one another. There was no nostalgia about moving from our home, there was only silence as we individually nursed our wounds.
I was sitting in front of a fan on the "patio", a small slab of concrete separated from the sidewalk by a fence filled with wasps nests and beetles. I had just let out my most recent sigh when Mike came to the sliding glass door and yelled,"Kel, we have a leak in the kitchen!" I got up and began walking to the kitchen when all of sudden I heard the rush of an immense amount of water falling from the ceiling. "Oh my God!" I yelled as water came rushing through the light fixture attached to the kitchen ceiling. I had never seen so much water flood through like that before. I had expected there to be a slow drizzle at most, but this was an incredible gushing mass pouring without any signs of stopping. "Call maintenance!" I yell as I began to gather bowls on the floor to catch any amount I could. "I am already on it!" Mike grabbed the phone and began frantically dialing to find help. Bailing as fast as I could, I made note I was in a losing battle, as inch by inch the water began to rise on the floor. I looked up to the light fixture filled and heavy with water that continued to come at full speed. I grabbed bowls, two at a time, to empty into the kitchen sink, hurrying as fast I could to put them back to be filled to overflowing again. "I can't keep up! Mike is help coming?" I call out as I throw water at the sink. "Yeah, someone is on their way over now." Mike says as he began to bang on the ceiling yelling for them to turn off the water. He had gone upstairs when the leak first occurred to no answer. He banged furiously on their door, screaming for them to turn their water off. They never responded to us.
The renovator guy for the apartment complex finally showed up and saw our new water park in the middle of the kitchen. He flew up the stairs and used the master key to try and get in. When he was finally able to enter the upstairs apartment, he found that the washer hose was out of the drain and all the continuous water from the washer was going through the ceiling into our kitchen via the light fixture.
RG, renovator guy, turned off the water and came back down to our apartment to assess the damage. Water continued to flow from the light but slower, without as much force. I stepped from my bailing position under the light and looked at the ceiling with RG. All of sudden the ceiling fixture came crashing down and shattered full force on the floor. I stood stunned. I had just been standing there bailing. I was looking at the heap of glass and plastic that exploded on impact, when I noticed one of my stainless steel bowl had been crushed, crumpled like a piece of paper under the mess. Immediately RG began to clean up the pieces of glass, plastic, and fluorescent light bits amongst the water. I bent down with him as we began the ordeal of cleaning up a flood that would have impressed Noah. Mike had left to retrieve one of our kids who needed a ride home from work. They arrived back at the apartment and our youngest mouth flew open. "What on earth happened?" Mike and I told her the story as we continued to sweep and mop. RG, got a wet vac and got most of the water immediately. He then threw the light fixture, or what was left of it out the front door to a patch of grass, to be retrieved later.
I am not at all sure what we would have done if not for RG. He really was a hero to Mike and I that night. He helped make sure we were OK and everything was capped off, swept clean and tucked away. We have befriended our RG. He has come for dinner, we laugh and make jokes and wave "hi", when he is out walking his dog or en route to another disaster.
RG is a great guy. He does what he says he will do, and for a renovator guy, that is pretty spectacular. Not all construction guys are good to their word, but RG is. He re-built our ceiling and eventually we got a new light. RG is a friend we will be taking with us to the new house.
For everyday heroes who run the rescue of flood victims, or runaway washers, I thank you for being honorable, decent, kind human beings! The world is a much more comfortable and aesthetically pleasing place to be because of your conscience attitudes.

Mother's Day

Here's what I am certain of, Good Luck=Preparedness meeting Opportunity.
Mother's around the world spend the bulk of their life teaching their children to be prepared. The moment a child is born, their mother begins to teach. Mother's teach their children how to nurse, what sounds get the fastest response and that sleeping is very, very important. Mother's teach comfort to their children, holding them close, gently bathing them in warmth and light. Mother's teach love.
I have always considered myself to be lucky. My life's work has been about preparation for those I spend the most time with. When I was a nurse, working hospice, I helped prepare the patient and the family for each phase of their illness, up to and including the final passing of the one they love. Ironically, for me, it was the mother most often. I would console husbands, sisters, brothers and children, as they watched their beloved family member slowly drift from this world into the next.
As a mother I have spent my entire adult life preparing my children for their own lives and living free and independent of me. "Be the boy scout", I would tell them. I have advised them on academics, religion, relationships, jobs, and personal growth. I have encouraged my children to be themselves with little worry about what others expect, even me. Their lives aren't about what I want, it's about what they want and who they are as individuals. The most important lesson I have tried my children has been about how to keep organized and prepared for any and all opportunities that may come their way. Regret comes from chaos.
My own mother continues to teach me how to grow older gracefully, either by example of what she got right or by advice of what she feels she could have done better. I soak up what my mother has to say like a sponge. It is in that way I honor her life's work every moment I draw breath. I don't always do what my mother says exactly as she would do things, but that isn't isn't the greater point. She knows I heard her and am paying attention, and for her, it's all she ever really wanted anyway. It is the same for me. It isn't so much that my kids do what I say exactly as I say it, but rather that they listen and interpret it the way that is best for them. They honor me by being true to who they are and living happy, full lives.
For every mother who has spent sleepless nights worrying for their child(ren), for every misstep that led to greater understanding, for every lesson taught because of hard earned experiences, for every time she nagged, reminded, and cajoled her child(ren) to do the right thing, know that your life's work is not in vain. Your children are your greatest achievement, not because of their personal accolades, but rather because of the expansion of your heart.
As everyone prepares to celebrate Mother's Day in one way or another, be it by cakes and gifts, flowers to a graveyard, or a telephone call just to hear each others voices, I wish you all a wonderful and loving day. For those of you, whose mothers have passed on, just know that she is with you. Every time you think of her, it is her way of letting you know she is with you and continues to love you. Today is a wonderful day to celebrate just how lucky we have been to have mothers who care so very much.

15 Seconds Can Seem Like a Lifetime

Every year my kids that were going to high school would come home in the spring and bring a permission slip for a program named "Shattered Dreams". I would look the paper over, sign it and send it back to school. I knew that the program dealt with the subject of drinking and driving. Prom season is coming up and as high school parents, we all worry about our kids making a life altering, possibly ending mistake. This year when I got the paper it was different. Betty, my youngest child, had sent in an essay asking to participate in the program with the staff to bring home the point of how devastating drinking and driving could be. This year, I found out exactly what goes on during the program and how much effort goes in to making a realistic morality play of what can happen if students choose to drink and drive.

Betty was chosen to be one of several "living dead". The program has many selected students who participate in a mock fatal car crash. They tape a "party" where they are drinking and then a car full of students are seen driving away. The screen goes blank and all that can be heard is screeching tires, bending metal and shattering glass. They record a mock trial where the drunk driver is sentenced for the murder of the students in that car and the other car involved. A real car is brought onto the campus that is twisted steel. The student body watches the whole movie play out and visits the car during the day to see what can happen. My beautiful girl was one of about 50 kids who were pulled from class throughout the school day as if she had been a victim of drunk driving. We made a poster of pictures of her throughout her life and after she was pulled from class, her teacher read an obituary for her, that I was required to write. They then painted her face white and she could not talk for the rest of the day. She didn't come home that night. She stayed with the other participants at the Y. They were not allowed to communicate with the outside world at all, no cell phones, no computers, no talking of any kind. Once she became one of the "living dead" she was gone to all of us until the program was over.

In my book "Advancing Backward", I write about Betty's suicide attempt when she was fifteen years old. That seems like a million years ago now. She is eighteen and absolutely stunning. Her large heart and healthy sense of decency and justice hold her tiny frame up to it's full height of 5 foot 4 inches. We are the same height. She looks me dead in the eye when we talk. The name of Betty's chapter is "15 Seconds Can Change Your Life". The Shattered Dreams project shows that sometimes it takes less than 15 seconds. I went to the meetings for this program and felt so squeamish during the whole process. No one, outside the immediate group, could know who was participating. The element of surprise was key in driving home the point that no one is exempt from a drunk driver's bad decision.

As I sat in my office putting together the poster of pictures of my girl, I felt sick. Just pretending that she was dead hit home for me. It's nearly been my realty twice. The first time was when she was born during my medical storm. Had they not delivered her when they did, she would not have made it. Pictures of her was what truly saved my own life, as I lay in ICU. The second time was during her crisis. The image of her face when I walked in the room and saw her hanging there... it is one that I work very hard to push deep into the recess of my aging brain. The process of pretending she was killed by a drunk driver, well, I really got worked up over it. I can honestly say, if that did happen the driver had better be dead or in jail for their own protection, because I am quite sure I would be out of my mind, grief-stricken crazy.

I wrote a short obituary as if it were to appear in the paper. I did not write her life story. The kids she goes to school with have known her since middle school. They know most of her life story. Betty is open. Her heart is open, her mind is open and her mouth is usually open, in a good way. She carries a light inside her I can't seem to put into words to my own satisfaction. Ever meet somebody that radiates so much warmth and love, you wonder if they are real? You find yourself gravitating towards that person and have no idea why? That is in very small part what being around Betty is like. For me, writing about the death of my child, my miracle baby, brought me to tears. I put the picture of her father's head stone on the poster as a reminder of where she would be. I put the words from a huge poster in her room, John Lennon's "Imagine" on the poster too. The interesting thing is while I was doing the work, I felt sickened by it, but I did not cry. The tears for me came after they pulled her from class and I could no longer hear from her. She didn't go to work that day, she didn't come home from school, bound down the stairs, light up the room with her smile, run around the house with hair and backpack flying, she didn't go into the kitchen with her boyfriend on the phone, while making a cup of tea. There was no tippy tapping on the computer in the family room, where she would sit, listen to music and check her facebook. There were no updates or sign of her anywhere. I walked around the house and cried. I didn't know if the high school kids would get with the program and understand even a fraction of what the staff was trying to bring home, but trust me when I say, I felt it all the way to my bones.

I am so grateful for the high school staff who pushes so hard to keep this program alive. the work tirelessly, sending emails, letters, having meetings, using their own homes to film the mock party scene. They push these kids to understand on any level how important it is not to take their lives for granted. I am certain they have saved a life. If you have kids who are in high school, this is something to look into. The life you save may one be your own child.

Say What You Mean

I haven't been able to write in a very long time. It kinda stinks, but it is what it is.
I wanted to remind anyone who reads this to say what you have to say today. My big thing is of coarse the soft and cuddly things. I am not a fan of blurting out horrific, life altering insults that damage a person or relationship for years, or even their lifetime. That stuff can always wait, because usually, it passes like a bad dinner. I speaking about the "I love you", "I am sorry", "I think you are magnificent" stuff. Wait too long to say how you feel and I guarantee you lose the opportunity and be haunted by it forever. Ominous, huh? But it's true, unfortunately that our last words to somebody had no significance or meaning. "Don't forget the milk!" is hardly a substitute for " I need you in my life".
I know my point is obvious. But think to yourself if you really have it down or just sometimes, because you are so busy. Do the kids always get to hear it, yet your spouse gets it occasionally? I am not preaching, I just want to get the word out so no one has to live through the excruciating feeling of regret. Not telling your loved ones you love them everyday as if it were all your last days is a mistake in my opinion. It is my opinion because I have lived through losing someone and doubling back over the years thinking of every word I ever said.
Mike and I say "I Love You" every day before he goes to work, we go to the store, we go to sleep. Excessive? No and here's why. I am not so arrogant to think we will live forever. That has never been the deal. The real deal is today. That's all any of us have. Just today. I am not a complete success at living each day as if it were my last, except when it comes to my family. I never miss an opportunity to tell them how much I love them.
Losing Danny, so young to cancer, was the best and worst thing that could have happened. The worst is painfully obvious, but the best cam e later as the realization that I had the chance to live differently. I had the opportunity to be different, more open, more loving, take bigger chances, go big or go home.
Go big today. Call everyone you know and tell them how lucky you are to have them. Tell them how much you love them. Shock the bejeepers out of them and squeeze the stuffin' out of them. Then sleep per chance to dream of the bigger things you can do tomorrow.

Kickin' Class and Taking Names

I want all of us to stop for a moment and think about your favorite teacher. Think about why they were your favorite and how you felt when you were around them. What was so important about them that you remember them as if they were in the room with you?

Teachers can make a real impact on a child. I realize the bad ones are just as memorable, but as always the optimist, I'd rather discuss the good ones. The favorites, are people who went to work one day and changed the life of a child, namely you and me.

My grandmother, several uncles and aunts, and cousins were and some continue to be, teachers. I was surrounded by educators. This made holidays interesting. God help the poor buzzard whose grammar was off that day, or couldn't tally the score of the card game fast enough, or even worse, misquoted someone in making a point. The room would become a hotbed of teachers making corrections, quoting their sources and grading the final outcome. It wasn't always an easy environment, but I love teachers because of my relativity to them.

I could never imagine myself as a teacher. I was telling a friend that I was going to go back to school and finish my degree. Teaching came up as what she thought was a viable option. While she was telling me what a great teacher I would make, I pictured myself being stuck by a thousand pins as a better alternative. I have seen people insides come out and say hello. I have touched actually bones, including a spine, dealt with gangrene, projectile vomiting that reached the doorway from across the room and pulled toes off with a sock from a homeless person and I am telling you, I do not have the stomach for teaching.

Teachers are people with infinite patience, commitment to the future and eternal optimism. These people make me look like a complete cynic. They show up early, stay late, and make call after call in order to help their students. They deal with drugs, weapons, fights and algebra. It boggles my mind as to what motivation they have to keep showing up. Being a teacher sounds great in theory, having summers off, until you get a look at their pay. The lack of funding has these poor folks (literally poor) buying school supplies out of their own pockets.

I know teachers already have an assigned week of let's all get together and bring them cookies. But I want is something more than just a luncheon. Please this week, thank them for showing up. Sometimes the greatest thing a person can do is simply show up. Let them know how much you appreciate their hard work and ability to keep from killing certain children (everybody knows which kids these are). A simple "Thank You" note may just be the thing that reminds them why they became teachers in the first place. In mine I plan on letting them know, if it were left up to me, the kids would run amok and be dumb as mud.

You've Got a Friend

I have been distracted lately, so writing has gotten difficult for me the past few days. Usually, the words pour out of me like water from a faucet, but recently, I notice I am having a much more difficult time. Whom shall I spot light today? I wondered to myself. There I was rattling around in my own head when it occurred to me that maybe I was trying too hard. Maybe, just maybe the answer was right in front of me and I was "over thinking" it. It wouldn't be the first time that has happened. Matter of fact, I tend to do that more often than not. I took several deep breaths and allowed my mind to wander and think of all the people I admire and would want to highlight. My answer was as obvious as the nose on my face, which is not at all hard to spot.
Today I want to write about friends. The people I admire the most are my friends. My friends and I am certain, yours too, are the people we depend on the most, trust with our darkest secrets and allow our hearts to accept, warts and all. My best friends are amazing people with incredible lives made up of resiliency, passion and intelligence. My friends have changed my life in every way imaginable. They are my family by choice. They are the ones who have talked me off the ledge when things got really bad. They showed me unconditional love and forgiveness when I was deserving of neither. They are the strongest threads that have held my life together creating a rich tapestry that I am in awe of every day of my life.
I think we are all guilty of taking our family for granted, that they will love us and be with us no matter what we do or where we end up, but friends have the choice and the ability to walk away when we fail miserably, act out or fall apart. Mine have been there for me every step of the way. Mine have held my hand, allowed me to cry from the depths of my soul and confessed their own horrifying actions in order for to learn from their experiences in order to spare me any unnecessary pain, if possible. My friends have traveled the world, seen unbelievable pain and triumph and shared these moments with me due to their generous nature. Friends are what keep us going when we feel the entire world is on our shoulders.
I feel so lucky to have my friends for all these years. I have known most of them either all of my life or most of my life. My friends accept exactly who I am with no expectations forced onto me to become something different. They celebrate me in a way that allows me to see myself through their eyes. It is the greatest gift I have ever been given. They have acted as minister, counselor, cheerleader, parent, child and conscience. They motivate me to be a better person, pushing me to be mindful that the work is over the moment I take my last breath and not one minute before. If it is true that my family is my foundation, then truly these friends of mine are my walls and roof, sheltering me from the cold. They have protected and guarded me many, many times and there are not enough "thank yous" to express how important they have been to my life and the lives of my children. I never questioned if something were to happen to me whether or not they would step up and do the important job of teaching my kids in my stead. I have always known that if I were no longer around , my kids would have remarkable people to help them in any way they could. Here or not, my kids would have learned about their mother and her morals, ethics and beliefs, thanks to her band of friends she held tightly in her heart.
When Danny died I realized how important it was to say what needed to be said to the people we love. I have worked diligently at telling people in my life, "Thank you, I love you, I couldn't have done it without you", because we never know when we won't have that opportunity again. My friends know how important they are to me because I tell them as often as I can. Not everybody gets to write a book naming their friends. I have been so fortunate to have that. For all my faults, and listen, we don't have the kind of time it would take to list all of them, the one thing I am most proud of is the change I made in telling people I love, just how much I appreciate all they have done for me and my family.
In that spirit, I think today we should tell our friends just exactly how grateful we are to have them. Call your friends just to say "I love you, thank you, you mean the world to me". Spend a moment and think about all the times your friends were there for you, even when they may have not known that their phone call changed your entire day. Send a note, card or flowers. Let them know that you are so very happy that they chose you.
To Christy, Bitsy, Shelly, Jerry and Jim: Thank you for all the days and nights when I felt alone and you reminded me that I was loved whether I felt it or not. For all the times you made me laugh when I had spent much of the day crying, for every time you reminded me that nothing is forever and I could be anything I wanted. For believing in me when I had all but given up. For spending time with my children showing them first hand what a real friend looks and acts like and for teaching them loyalty, honor and love. For choosing me to love. It has been an honor and a privilege being in your lives all these years.
To my hometown friends who I have recently gotten back: thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the love and support you shot my way as I start this new leg of my journey. For forgiving my childish past and applauding my adult growth. For every FB gift, comment and joke. For being my connection to my past in a way that allows me to continue growing, learning and laughing.
To my very best friend and husband Michael: Thank you for every time you propped me up, so I could be a better mother, woman, wife and friend. For loving me so much you made me a part of your family. For telling me everyday without hesitation how much you love me and celebrating who I am in whatever state I happen to be in. I love you more than words allow.
If you are reading this, then you and I are on this journey together. If you need a hug or some support or even a little prayer, just say the word and know I have your back.

God Bless Us Everyone

I am a little late doing this blog. I usually have it up and done by early Sunday morning, but my family is with me and I found myself strapped for time. My parents travelled 1200 miles to be with Michael, the kids and me. They try and make this drive every year. Every year, I patiently wait for their arrival. I miss my folks so much, now that we live so very far away.

My parents and I are diametrically opposed when it comes to politics and argue often about the correct course of action of our beloved country. The one thing we can agree on is we live in the most generous country on earth.

So, today's folks that we will pay tribute to are the middle Americans, who as George Baily put it,"do the working, the living and the dying in this town". It is the middle class that supports the country in their efforts to stay afloat as the best place to live, the protectors of freedom, and the community that takes care of their own. It is the middle class that do the dangerous jobs, be it police, firemen or factory workers, they lay their lives on the line for the job and for the people of this great nation.

I am a bonafide flag waver. I have been to enough foreign countries to know how lucky we are to have a place where we can believe what we want, say what we want and vote for whomever we please. I was raised in a small, factory town where the people of the town worked hard, played harder and loved deeply. My hometown was filled to the brim with middle class Americans, who were always the first to step up when they were needed. They were the ones who sacrificed for their families, their churches, their friends. I watched my entire childhood, as the adults lived the lives of generosity, charity and hard work. They lived by example, not having to lecture us on what was expected but, rather, quietly going about their business doing what was right and knowing that the pay off of their efforts was knowing the next generation would step up without even being asked. It was as it was. I honor the sacrifices I witnessed, by teaching my children to be charitable, generous with their time, talents and money when they can. I show them daily the right path to take in order to protect their family, their community and those who are unable to protect themselves. I live the life I was taught to live. I am a proud middle American.

It would be nearly impossible for us to honor every single middle class American, especially since most of us are middle Americans. So I will ask only this: Stop everyday this week and think a thought of gratitude for all that we have in this country. Even though we are currently in quite the pickle, we still have it better than any other country there is. Plus, we have each other. The strength of this country has never been about the politics or the leadership, but the people who run their lives everyday, defending and protecting the precious rights that our military lay down their lives for. Every morning, think for just a moment about all the folks going off to work to power plants, coal mines, hospitals, fire stations, police stations, office jobs, trucking jobs, grocery stores and post offices. Think about all the people that contribute to the strength of the fabric of the flag we wave everyday. The tapestry of our stars and stripes are made of the flesh and blood of the people who do the living and dying here in this country. I am in awe of the people who call themselves American. They are the ones who protect an idea of freedom with their every breath so we can live in the reality of it. I am blown away by the generosity of Americans who often live pay check to pay check and yet when needed during a crisis will give their only extra dollar for a good cause in order to help perfect strangers in need. It continues to amaze me every single day how kind people are to our most vulnerable populations.

We are Americans. We do it for no other reason than it is the right thing to do.

Rescue 911

We have all had a time in our lives when we have either witnessed or been on the receiving end of a rescue. Today I want to stop and write for a moment about those who put life and limb on the line, in order to save someone else's life.

The news is filled end to end with news of Haiti. Another mind numbing, catastrophic, natural disaster. The images coming in from the news is enough to put you to bed for a month. I can't wrap my brain around it. Only a year ago I was in the middle of the wrath of Hurricane Ike. I was numb, like everyone else down here from all the barrage of information of devastation of another community. We all knew someone who had been wiped out in one form or another. Before that, it was tsunami, and Katrina.

We as Americans will do what we always do. We will send billions of dollars and fly volunteers down to try and unearth what is left of an already devastated and impoverished nation. I watch the news as they interview professional rescue workers who flew down on a moments notice into a foreign land, that has no food, water or resources in order to help in any way possible. I can barely grasp the concept of cutting an injured person out of a car wreck here, where all the modern conveniences are at their finger tips, let alone flying with nothing but a passport and a few provisions. The bravery it takes to do that I personally feel, is nothing short of divine.

Having written that I ask this of all of you. For those of you who are the praying kind I ask that at 8pm EST we all light a candle and say a prayer for those who are sick, injured and working desperately to help those in need. For those who are not the praying kind, I ask that you take a moment of silence and send good wishes at 8pm EST, to those who need it most right now. It is a small gesture with the potential for big impact. What we focus our attention on gets bigger, and I think just sending out the vibe that we are all so grateful and humbled by the tireless efforts of those who spend their lives helping others is the perfect ending to a Sunday evening.

Ringing In Your Ears

This week we are going to focus on volunteers that help the homeless, feed the elderly and spend many hours giving of themselves to those who need help the most.

Like most fortunate folks, I have spent many hours of my life in service. Some of that time as a professional and some as a volunteer. I have been amazed in my forty six years as I have watched so many give so much. My parents were brilliant examples of giving time to those who required the help. They were my constant reminder that the world didn't revolve around me. Personally, I think it should have, but I get the point they were trying to make. In my book, "Advancing Backward", I write about the volunteers for the Salvation Army. Year after year at Christmas time, I would see folks ringing bells in freezing weather in order to help get donations for shelters, food and clothing. Providing basic care to those who are unable to provide for themselves seems so simple and yet takes a village to do it.

I remain awestruck by the generosity of my country and amount of Americans who spend their entire lives giving to others. I live in the most generous country on earth. It is unparalleled, the amount of compassion that pours from this country everyday.

Do you know someone who volunteers so much of their time that maybe they could use a hand, prayer, or a day off? Have you passed the same person day after day, as they spend theirs in service of others? Ask them about themselves. Tell them how fortunate we are to have them. Pray for them and the cause they support. Have you ever thanked the volunteer on the phone who calls for clothing donations? Most are volunteers and have to face a weary public, who may not realize they are merely trying to help the indigent. I thank each one, even when I am completely annoyed by the phone and unable to donate goods. I try and remember that people are trying to do the best they can in order to help in whatever way they have.

I ask that you take a moment and feel the gratitude for these people to your bones. We all hope we never become someone who requires that kind of help, but one never knows when that day will come, or if it will come. Be it at schools helping teachers, church helping children and the elderly, or standing ringing bells by a red bucket, these are the people that work diligently to keep our country the best place in the world to live. They are the reminders that Americans are all heart.

"Become the change you want to see"-Gandhi

This year I want to become better, work harder, think faster, listen more intently, see the smallest details and always, always, always remember that I have a purpose here and I get to choose what it is. I believe my purpose is as a writer. In that spirit, this new blog will be one of gratitude and remembrance. It will be a weekly reminder for all of us that we are the ones who can change lives, inspire hope and acknowledge miracles. We are the ones who can extend a hand out to those who might feel lost and empty, so that they know they are not alone. We are the ones who can actively promote gratitude for even the smallest kindness, simplest pleasure, pointing out how even a singular sunrise can change an entire perspective.

This blog will be produced once a week as a way to keep us all joined together in a place of love. Every week I will ask you to pray for, think kindly of, remember, or take action for a group of people , who might other wise go unnoticed. For the next 52 weeks we will acknowledge those who deserve our love, praise and appreciation. This is not a cause as much as it is a call to action, real action, not politically motivated action. How you answer is up to you. There are no "wrong" ways to extend gratitude and appreciation. Some of the best gifts I have ever gotten didn't cost a thing.

Today's group is single mothers. With a divorce rate rapidly approaching 60%, the number of single mothers out there are multiplying at an even higher rate to due relationships outside of marriage and the number of teenage pregnancies. The bottom line is single mothers are becoming more common than those who are and remain married. Regardless of any moral issues felt by the climbing statistics, the bigger issue is there are moms out there doing their best with little money and even smaller amounts of help. As frustrating as it is to raise kids with two parents, I want to take a moment and recognize those who are forced to do it alone. I obviously, have close ties to this group because of my own past. It is why they get to be number one on the hit parade. I should correct this and say I want the single fathers out there to be included into today's moment. There are men out there raising their kids alone. They are often forgotten even more than the women, for no other reason than there are so few of them.

I was embarrassed of my tiny salary as a single mother and unfortunately there were those folks who found great joy in my inability to provide more for my family. People introduced me as "the divorced one up the street". My job was on the line more than once because of sick children. My personal favorite was when women would circle around their husbands, as if I was going to kidnap them in the middle of a dinner party just so I could have a man of my very own. Eventually, I stopped hanging around married people,because I was looked down upon. Yes, it stinks! But here's the thing, we have the chance now to eliminate the stereo types, treat others respectfully and offer help in whatever way we can. Even if it's merely a compliment about how hard they trying, or a batch of cookies, or an extra car pool or a quiet prayer for their health and safety and the safety of their children.

Think! Do you know a single parent? Do you know of a parent who looks as though they are hanging by a thread? Have you passed the same person a hundred times and noticed that they always look as though they may fall apart right in front of the school they are dropping off their kids at?

Call to action! What CAN you do? It is never about money when we give of ourselves. Sometimes it may require currency, but chances are, it is simpler than that. Can you drive their kids to school one day to help them out? Can you make a dinner and deliver it, so they don't have to cook every night? Leave them clothes your older kids have outgrown? Trust me, that was one of the greatest gifts I ever got. Take a bouquet of home grown or grocery store flowers with a note that says, "I see how hard you work to raise your kids. You are an inspiration." If you see them at church, send them a note in the mail that says you are praying for them and hope this year brings happiness and continued good health to them. If it is not someone you have ever talked to, then say "Hi" and pray for them at home. Maybe in time, ask them to go out for a cup of coffee and then treat. Remember, we have a week starting Sunday, January 3, 2010. Next Sunday will start a new week and a new group.

OK, my darlings, you can see where we are going with this. Join me in making this year about becoming what we want to see? I sincerely hope you will. If you have ideas or stories you want to tell about your call to action, please leave your comments on the blog to share. My hometown friends inspired this blog. The way we have learned how to care for each other (and me) even when we are miles apart is nothing short of miraculous. This blog is in honor of them.

On a side note---the name of this blog is All Heart. I named it that because in the movie "Jerry McGuire", Cuba Gooding Jr.'s character yells, "I am all heart, M***** F*****!" Yes, it is very crude and slightly vulgar, but it describes me to tee. I personally, know that I am crude and slightly vulgar, but am ready and willing to put my money where my mouth is, whenever there is a chance to do a good deed.

Welcome to my first attempt to become something I would love to see in my future.