In sickness…

The greatest wealth is health ~ Virgil

I’m not a good patient. I’m sure that is surprising to exactly none of you. I bring this up since the last three days have been spent in a haze of headache, sleep, and other less ah, pleasant, pursuits. Since Sunday, I have eaten four slices of dry white toast. No, that’s not correct.  Three slices of dry white toast and one buttered slice (the buttered one was this morning to see if I could “tolerate” it; so far so good). As I write this, I am having my first dose of caffeine since Sunday. Sunday people! It’s Wednesday! Afternoon!

I have missed three days of work (they really are the best!) and up until 15 minutes ago, had decided that there would be no blog entry this week. Perhaps the caffeine is starting to work, or the butter! Bacon would probably make me a superstar!

Usually I can suck it up and soldier on. Not this time. Whatever this thing is, it’s nasty and vicious.

Whoa, ugly wave of nausea there AND a brand spanking new headache! Thank you, Jesus!

Just when you think you’re starting to feel just the slightest bit human, it turns back around and doubles down on the misery.

Two of us are down now; it got Emma yesterday. She had a long, brutal night and her day isn’t faring much better.

Yikes, just had to sneeze and forgot to brace myself for the pain! (TMI Alert: Body hurts from so much vomiting) 

I’m seriously hoping that this skips the guys. I haven’t managed much more than sleeping, sipping ginger ale and going to the bathroom. I can’t imagine what will happen to the menfolk. They’ll probably devolve back to fetuses.

I’m keeping my disinfected fingers crossed…

(I’ll be back next week hopefully better... stronger... faster)

Maryann

I was already to post a blog about 2011 and what a difficult and painful year it was for my family and me. I was looking at the past year and weighing the bad against the good when 2011 decided it wasn’t through with us yet.

On Friday, my Aunt Maryann collapsed at work and was rushed to the hospital. This morning the family was told that she has no brain function. Her siblings, including my Mom, are on the way to the hospital to hold her hand while they remove her from life support.

Maryann was, briefly, one of the permanent residents of Sheridan Street. She and her son, Danny lived with us while she was going through some difficult times. Maryann was the one who brought Andrea into our lives. I remember before she got married she was, to me, to most beautiful woman in the world. I remember her wedding and being so mad that Tracey and I were too young to attend while Debbie and Patty got to be in the wedding. I remember crying when she moved to Montana.

I remember her absolute emotional breakdown when Elvis died. I remember seeing her again, when we buried her brother, Walter and her shock at learning that I had kids. (I was a charter member of the “I’m Never Having Kids Club!”).

Mostly what I remember is too much time passing without seeing her. That changed recently. She had started to inch her way back into the family and everyone welcomed her with open arms.

It’s not much but it’s all we get this go round.

Don’t let petty bullshit get in the way of what’s important.

Family first.

Family forever.

Oh, and fuck you 2011. I hate you so much that if you were a person I would stab you in the face until you died.

Merry Freaking Christmas

Christmas is a time when people of all religions come together to worship Jesus Christ. ~ Bart Simpson

Ok. I have taken a deep breath; I have counted to ten; I have counted backwards from 10; I have bit my lip; I have walked away. None of it is helping. I was just going to walk away from it this year and not engage but I tried. I failed. So here goes nothing…

Did a memo go out warning people that they would be stoned if they uttered the words “Merry Christmas” this year? I only ask because I’ve seen more pictures and status updates and news items on how people are making a stand and saying “Merry Christmas”. The hostility in some of them is barely repressed let me tell you. Did the memo go out that clearly said that everyone has to say “Happy Holidays” instead of Merry Christmas? Who sent that memo? Because, I didn’t get it and, well, I’m kinda pissed since now I don’t know what to say or how to act this holiday season.

Can someone, anyone, please tell me who told them they can’t say “Merry Christmas”. Please, it’s really making me bug-fuck crazy. And please, please, do not tell me it’s because of the jacked-up nonsense that Bill O’Reilly and Fox News are spouting about a “War on Christmas”. Really, please don’t. It’s not true. 

Christmas is not under attack. 

Christianity is not under attack.

Are Christians not free to practice their religion? Are Christians not free to go to the house of worship of their choosing and worship their god in their way? Of course not because that would be un-American! Here in America, you can practice any religion you like or none at all. You can try a different one every week if you choose. There is nothing stopping you from pursing your religion your way. In private. As a private citizen. We have no state sponsored religion in America. Remember?

We are not a Christian nation! Sorry kids it’s true. I don’t care about the recent surge to modify history to prove otherwise. We are not, nor have we ever been, a Christian nation! I've said it before and it bears repeating: This nation was not founded for Jesus or the spreading of his gospel. It was founded on the premise that men are able to self-govern. 

Can someone, in a reasonable manner, with appropriate documentation show me where Christianity is being attacked. I’m pretty plugged in and I don’t see it at all. Is it because we can’t have a crèche in the town square? Or pray in schools? Or the ten commandments in the courthouse? Are Christians being fed to the lions again? Honestly. What’s the issue?

I have an idea if you don’t like the “holiday” trees or the “holiday” decorations that cities and towns expend time and energy on, let’s stop doing them. All of them. Christmas, as we are so often reminded, is a religious day and as such has no business being promoted or endorsed in any government building. No religious holiday does.

We have real problems that face us. Let's not get distracted by the bogus ones. 

Enjoy your families and your traditions. If you want Christ in Christmas that's your right. For me and mine, we're content with the Fat Man.

I'm Just a Girl

I can bleed for five straight days and not die; I can also make people. What are your superpowers? 

I love being a girl. Honestly, it’s been a pretty awesome gig. Free drinks, dinners, and shows; wearing kick-ass shoes and short skirts. Well, not anymore but I still remember when! One of the unexpected joys of having a daughter is it allows me to examine my experiences as a girl as I help her understand how she will make her mark on the world. 

Recently, I was thinking about how women have impacted society and how much it has changed in my lifetime. For centuries, we have gotten the short end of the stick. We are covered and clothed and, in some parts of the world, mutilated. Even now, any overt expression of sexuality is sneered at and labeled. We are still marginalized. We are still victimized. We still don’t have equal pay for equal work. We still bear the biggest burden of domestic chores even in two income families. Certainly, it’s gotten better but there is a lot of disparity and hostility. 

There is no doubt that girls have way more opportunities for advancement in both academics and sports than they did in the past and we (as a group) have made tremendous impact in just about every field we’ve entered. When I was growing up, I believed that women who do exceptional things were rare. I also believed that in order for a woman to be noteworthy, she had to have risen above her inherent girlness to embrace greatness; that exceptional women were somehow different from other woman. Honestly, I’m a little ashamed to admit it. 

I remember the women that stood out to me as a child: Eleanor Roosevelt, Clara Barton, Rosa Parks, Betsy Ross. That was it. Four. That was the sum total of the exceptional women that I remember from childhood. Apart from being examples of exceptional women the only other thing they had in common, they were all dead. 

I recognize now that obstacles and other more complex reasons prevented more women from realizing their potential. What shocked me was that I still harbored the thought that women had to overcome their girlness in order to be exceptional. I’m still kind of annoyed at myself for letting that fester in my brain for all these years. I believe that our girlness is our greatest strength and I hate that it seems to be settled that women need to be more like men in order to run with the big dogs. I think the whole world would be better off if we embraced the feminine. It’s an incredible viewpoint and an important one; one that we need to stop squashing to fit in a patriarchal world. 

Dudes, don’t go all getting your back up, this is not a male-bashing blog. This is about ownership of self and me, finally, at long last figuring some stuff out. So, squash it. This ain’t the place for your pity party so move it along, k. Thanks. 

This is about me realizing that the beauty of being a girl is that we are exceptional because we are girls. 

We raise the bar.

We raise the standard. 

We raise the future. 

This is a work in progress and it is not the sum total of my thoughts on feminism or being a girl. This is about me starting a conversation with myself and hopefully, getting an assist from some of my friends – male and female. I expect that my thoughts will continue to expand and shift as I continue being a girl.

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

Christmas is a time when you get homesick - even when you're home.  ~ Carol Nelson

This is my favorite time of year. I love Christmas. The spectacle, the decorations, the music. All of it. The only thing that could make it any better is if it were warm. Oh, and if Dad were still here.

I was sitting with Dylan last night waiting for our dinner to be ready when I started wondering what I could write about this week. I had already had Christmas on my mind when I started telling him some stories about his grandfather. I told him about the time that Dad thought it would be a great homage to his five daughters to immortalize their initials as Christmas decorations. This is one of the favorites of all the sisters.

I can’t remember how old I was when this story took place but I do remember it happening. The tree was already up and the entire second floor looked as if a bomb of tinsel, glitter and lights exploded. Dad, as usual, was in the thick of it. Cursing and laughing and yelling and making the spectacle even grander. I don’t remember how the idea came to him but I do remember having to get wire hangers. Lots and lots of wire hangers.

He sat there in his chair, bending and twisting, cajoling and finessing, forcing the wire to his will. Some initials were easier than others. The L for example was pretty straight forward; the B not so much. I don’t know how long it took him or how many innocent hangers lost their lives that night but the carnage was immense. After creating all five initials (D, P, T, B, L) it was time to decorate them. With garland. Miles and miles of pretty garland.

Where, you may be wondering, was Dad going to put his masterpiece(s)? Not just anywhere. No. They were going to have prominence. They needed a place befitting of their magnificence. Naturally, they were hung over the sofa in the living room. Yes he did. Not only did he hang them, he hung them fancy. In a V pattern. Starting on the left with Deb, the Patty slightly below and to the right, Tracey made the low point in the V pattern, Barbara (that’s me) directly across from Patty with Laura mirroring Deb at the upper right.

It was as horrifying as it sounds. The letters were easily a foot and a half tall and he didn’t even use the same color garland for each letter. Nope. Each letter had it’s own color. In the intervening years, I decided he chose each color to reflect the uniqueness of each daughter but it's more likely that Dad’s mantra of “more is more” won out. He was also color-blind so I can only imagine what it looked like to him. I’m sure it was amazing. To everyone else it was kind of a hot mess but in a good way.

We’re busy making our own Christmas memories and traditions. One of my favorite (and Dylan’s too) is when we all pile together in the living room to watch “It’s A Wonderful Life”. We have homemade snicker doodles and fancy hot chocolate. But we can’t do that until we decorate. Hmmm, guess I know what I’m doing this weekend. Although I can almost guarantee that no wire hangers will be harmed in my Christmas decorating this year but ya never know.

Enjoy your moments where you find them; you never know when the memories you’re making are the awesome ones. I really miss Dad and his crazy ideas. I miss his big mouth, his bigger laugh and his absolute delight in his family.

Merry Christmas Dad wherever you are. Your spirit lives on in each of our hearts especially at Christmas.

Ramblings of a Mad Woman

I love being a writer.  What I can't stand is the paperwork.  ~Peter De Vries

A friend asked me recently how the writing was going and if I was starting to run out of ideas. I laughed and then I thought for a second and said, “No, I’m not running out of ideas but what is getting hard is keeping track of what I’ve already said and which anecdotes I’ve shared and all my insightful witticisms.”

I have tons of ideas and I can crank out the first 200-250 words pretty quickly. It’s the finishing. The polishing. The trying to make sure I don’t say the same thing over and over and over.  You know, belaboring the point.

Writing never came naturally to me, talking that’s another matter. I swear I was born running my mouth. And loud. Hahaha. Extra loud. I’m from a large, extended family if you wanted to get heard you had to get loud. I have a paper trail now and that’s a little daunting. People can actually go back and check on what I said. I imagine my words floating out on the interwebs being read, eagerly, by adoring (and not so adoring) fans who will then turn on me and fling my words back in my face.  What, I have performance anxiety.

Just hit the 200 word mark and I’m starting to flounder. I have my ending; I have my beginning; I need to tie them together. But how? Another story about the kids? Something that Pat did that drove me crazy? A sarcastic take on a current event? What? I’m starting to think I should pop on over to Facebook and see what’s up. Maybe one of my awesome friends will inspire me. Wait, the dog needs a walk. Maybe I should call my Mom to see how she’s doing. That’s when I know I’m desperate!

Hahaha. Anyone still reading?

This fascinating glimpse into my writing process is not how I thought this would go. I was going for witty and breezy and I fear that I’m starting to sound whiney and desperate.

The family is over the novelty of me writing. Totally over it and over me. What they’re tired of is listening to me read every article out loud to them 872 times then making them sit and read them. Plus, they’re tired of me hogging the computer. I still ask for permission before I write anything about the kids and they appreciate that. I appreciate that they haven’t ever said no. Yet.

I can’t imagine my world without writing. Maybe one of these days I’ll tackle something longer. Perhaps the book that Aunt Carol is telling me I need to write. For now, I’m content to write for Patch and keep up my blog. It’s way more fun than my day job that’s for sure!

Not sure what this rambling mess has to do with parenting or anything really. Perhaps I can talk to them about persevering.  About being open to try new things. About having the courage to commit to something new.

Or maybe I'll just demand they do something clever and cute so I can write about that.

Día de los Muertos

Mexican tradition holds that people die three deaths: The first death is when our bodies cease to function, when our hearts no longer beat of their own accord, when our gaze no longer has depth or weight, when the space we occupy slowly loses its meaning. The second death comes when the body is lowered into the ground, returned to mother earth, out of sight. The third death, the most definitive death, is when there is no one left alive to remember us.

November is, for me, forever affiliated with death. I was fifteen when Nana died. It was November 1, 1980 and until then I had known death only superficially. Most of my grandparents had already died. I don't remember them, not really. I have vague impressions, but mostly other people’s memories masquerading as my own. 

But Nana, Nana was different; she was in my life every day. We never lived more than two blocks away and it was a rare day when I didn’t see her. It became more than once a day when she finally left Mozart Street and moved across the street from Casa the Crazy.

Nana was a hard, unyielding woman. She was raised in foster care after the death of her parents and sister and life was not always very kind. I have memories of her both good and not so good. Most of my favorite Nana memories center on summers at Newfound Lake in New Hampshire. Up-country.

She kept a cabin, well cabin is a generous term since what it was really just a raised platform with four walls, a tarp ceiling, and three “rooms” delineated with fishing line and shower curtains. Quainter and cozier than I’m describing. It had a propane stove, a couple of bunk beds and a kitchen table. I learned how to play cards at that table, by candlelight. I also learned that I hated peas and had a bit of a stubborn streak.

We, the sisters and the cousins, spent most our time at Newfound Lake swimming, playing in the sand pit, exploring the woods, hauling water from the well, and just being kids. I remember camp fires and marshmallow roasts; Uncle Wally telling ghost stories and scaring us half to death; daylight trips to the outhouse; never – ever – after dark; diving off the big rock for Uncle Bobby’s change.

November makes me miss them all. It’s not grief that November provides but introspection. Autumn seems suited to melancholy. When the dead demand their due. We’ve lost so many, family and friends. Aunt Chris, Dad’s sister and a major player in the Joan of Arc saga (click here). Chris died a few short months after Nana. In the middle of her life. She was only forty when she died, younger than I am now and a mother of six.

Uncle Bobby. He broke my heart. We watched him die. Slowly. He never gave up and he never let you know how sick he really was. He was my godfather and one of the giants of my youth. I miss him still. His joy. His smile. His laugh.

Then Walter, Uncle Wally to just about everyone in the world. He was the best, quick-witted and funny as hell. He also gave me my love for funk music. Funny, I never think of him with sadness, thinking of Wally brings a smile every single time.

We’ve lost Dad and Al and Claire and Bernie. We lost Diane and Hazel. We lost Grandma Doris and Uncle Jim. Aunt Mary and so many others. We've lost fathers, brothers, mothers, sisters, husbands, wives, children and friends.

Each death diminishes our daily lives but expands our capacity for living. For where we find heartache and sorrow we also find perseverance and strength. By losing someone we love, we internalize their best features and realize that we get to hold that forever in our hearts. We visit at our leisure. Sure sometimes they demand our attention but generally they are content to wait. Wait for us to pause in our living. Wait for us to realize that they still have lessons to teach us. And because they live in our hearts, we help keep them from the third and final death.

It’s important to remember the dead but more important that we embrace the living.

One is the past, the other the future.