What Is Real?

There are game changers, paradigm shifts, that leave a person grasping for threads of reality, some shard of a comfort zone, a leg on which to stand. One of those turning points happened to me seven years ago when my first child was born. My whole world changed hue: my eyes saw differently and my brain processes were permanently altered in ways to multitudinous to enumerate. That was an incredibly difficult time period for me - over two years of feeling like I was on a flaming, sinking ship rather than "over the moon" (which was how I thought I should feel about the beautiful little boy I'd been gifted with.)

Almost seven years to the day later, I've reached another long-sought-after pivotal event: I had a real conversation with my father. A genuine heart-to-heart, devoid of the amorphous tension that has plagued our interactions for too many years, wherein I got to ask some of the hard-to-ask questions I'd only recently been able to formulate coherently and to which he responded openly. There was no sense of judgment, no feelings of regret or necessity for apology; I had no attachment to or desire for any specific answer. We just talked.

I opened the conversation via email because it was comfortable to me to do so. That gave me the opportunity to carefully craft what I wanted to express, give all the background I felt was pertinent, make sure I meant everything I said and that it held both the gravity and genuine curiosity which I felt without laying any blame or pointing any fingers.

What I truly felt was needed for my healing to progress was for some gaps to be filled. What I experienced was infinitely more profound: the entire story required intense revision. I'm still working on bits and pieces of it but the basics have been modified so wholly that it's left me a little lightheaded. My husband even commented that my conversation must have gone well because I seemed much more happy than I'd been in a while. He was right on the money.

In its grittiest short form, the story I'd believed for so long that I'd simply accepted it as whole cloth, was that, as I was nearing the end of third grade, I had to go live with my grandparents because they were the only ones who could take me. There were multiple, emotionally charges layers in my mind as to why this was: I was too much of a burden on my stepmother because she had two small children of her own with another coming in a few months; my mother didn't have the financial resources to care for me; my grandparents only had one of their four children still at home so they were stable enough to take me in. All of these factors, for me, carried a sense of me being a hassle, a challenge to be dealt with, a frustration that needed to be handled because it couldn't easily be gotten rid of all together rather than a child who needed to be loved and cared for. Of course, it was never said to me in so many words - these are concepts that I applied later as I tried making sense of my memories as my mental processes matured. Not having any other evidence or input than my experience (which no doubt included things the adults in my life said to me without realizing the impact they'd have for me), I went along for the better part of three decades with an omnipresent sense of abandonment, perpetually questioning the love that should have been obvious but which was, for me, always in doubt.

What my father gave me was context. My mother had surmised much of what we discussed, but he filled in many of the varied circumstances and situations at play at that particular time in our family's history: extenuating financial challenges, intense work stresses, family in-fighting, the crossroads he was at personally in his career. The decision for me to go live with my grandparents, at its most basic, was based on everyone's desire for me to have a stable school environment. I'd already been in four schools in three states (VA, FL and MI) over the course of my first through third grade career so this factor alone had significant impact. The other obvious benefit was that my grandparents, my grandmother in particular, doted on me so it was understood that it would be a loving home for me. I admit that I was spoiled while I was there, but it certainly was a place where I felt fully loved.

What I missed was the sense of belonging - when I left my sisters and my brother-to-be, the home and parents I'd known for so many of my very early years, I never again felt like a proper part of that family. I was a guest, a visitor, more like a close cousin than a sibling/child. Strangely, however, my sisters and brother have always felt fully my siblings despite the fact that they share a mother with each other and, biologically speaking, I only share a father with them. I don't know whether that feeling is as strong for them since they were so little when I departed their daily lives, but they've never seemed like "half-siblings" to me.

My challenge now, my opportunity for growth, is to use this chance to make my personal history revisions and move forward with more confidence, more solid footing that this greater understanding of my life brings to me. It's a gift that has great potential for outward expansion; in what ways might I use this knowledge to be of service to others, helping them heal from their old wounds? Yes, mine own wounds still need careful ministration, more healing salve, more holes need filling in. And that's just fine.

I can say with certainty that this one conversation will ultimately prove integral to the next steps in my spiritual and emotional evolution - with any luck at all, I'll be able to permanently dissolve some of the angst that's nipped at my heals incessantly throughout my adult life. Exercises like this post will help me document those feelings so I can recognize them should they start stealing their way back in as well as solidifying my new story. I like it.

In what ways might you be able to examine your story and act as your own life editor?

It CAN Be Done



My Little One Playing in the Trees

I'd like to take a moment here to pat my family on the back for a job well done. We've just returned from a whirlwind 4-day road trip from our Atlanta suburb to Charleston, South Carolina, during which we logged approximately eleven highway driving hours as well as a couple hours per day visiting local attractions. Not once - repeat: NOT ONE TIME - did we eat from a fast food restaurant of any variety! It took some planning, some putting down of the foot, and a little restraint, but I'd count it among the largest measures of success (besides arriving home with the same number of fingers and toes with which we departed) of any vacation we've ever taken.

Our victory was due in large part to a new cooler that I received at work as part of a safety reward giveaway, which means it was FREE - Yippee! We had a perfectly serviceable cooler and I nearly turned this new one down except for the fact that it has wheels and a thick, large handle. I couldn't have made a better move - it seems to keep its cool (heehee) far better than the old one. We filled two 2-gallon Ziploc bags with the ice from our icemaker, threw those in the bottom then strategically placed smaller ice packs amongst the various foods.

My cooler packing list was ambitious:
Shredded carrots and zucchini
Sliced cucumbers, bell peppers, celery and red onion
Boars' Head sliced turkey and chicken
Cheddar and mozzarella cheese sticks, sliced Colby-Jack, and cream cheese
Grapes, grape tomatoes, and pineapple
Homemade hummus & tzatziki
Peanut butter & grape jam
Freshly juiced Kiwi Pear Zinger & Honest Organics beverages
French Onion dip
Hempseed shaker

Additionally, we took two reusable shopping bags, one with a zippered top, with:
Two boxes of Triscuit Thin Crisps and a box of Wheatables
Toufayan Lavash bread & regular wheat bread
Bananas, pumpkin seeds, raisins, Craisins, chocolate-covered fig bites
Fruit-filled cereal bars, protein bars, bottled protein shakes
Chips Ahoy & gummy fruit snacks (hey, I didn't say it was all healthy - And I didn't buy those)

I should mention a couple things here regarding logistics. We took my Honda Fit for this trip since gas prices are ASS-tronomical right now. This was feasible for a few reasons: Our boys are only 6 and 2, so they don't take up much space. We were going for only a few days, not weeks or months so we only had two bags of clothing for the four of us. Despite the fact that my spouse packed TWELVE library books* for the 6-year-old, all told, the toys only took up about 2 square feet of the Fit's formidable cargo area and backseat. Finally, I'm an awesome packer. Yup, I claim this title by birthright. My dad taught us all how to pack so I have my hubby help bring everything to the curb then he knows to just stand back.

There were a few inevitable fails: forgotten camera battery charger, forgotten salt and mustard, forgotten advice to ALWAYS pack a hoodie, forgotten shoes (What? Flip Flops aren't appropriate everywhere?), forgotten paper towels and plates. Some we corrected during the trip; some we managed (oh the horror) without. At least I remembered to pack a bag of yarn and grab my hook case just before we ducked out the door.

About an hour and a half out of town, I spotted signage on I-20 East for the AH Stephens state historical park in Crawfordville, Taliaferro County, Georgia, and convinced my husband to make a detour. According to Wikipedia, Taliaferro (pronounced "Tolliver") is the least populous county east of the Mississippi River, a distinction that seemed borne out by the ghost town nature of the Crawfordville city center. Still, the park's pavilion was a lovely little spot in which to enjoy a picnic and some much-needed playtime for the boys. The 2-year-old kept pointing to the slide while we ate, saying, "Whee? Whee? Whee?" ('Cause that's the sound you make going down a slide, right?)

Now, I know there's one thing (at least) on my list that likely caused a raised eyebrow: lavash bread. It's a Middle-Eastern flatbread that I've come to adore because it's flatter and more pliable than pita bread - though not as thin as a flour tortilla, you could still use it to make rolled sandwich wraps. I usually fold each piece and tear it into halves or quarters. Squishy stuff has a tendency to ooze out the ends, though no worse than any other wrapper-style bread, which makes it a fine bread to use for deli meat and cheese sandwiches for children. Plus, it doesn't fill you up as much as traditional bread. My creation during our park picnic had hummus, tzatziki, zucchini, carrots, cukes and red onions on it so I had a bit of a mess to clean up but I was so happy with the breeze, the park and the meal that I couldn't have cared less.

*The boy did well - he got through almost four Magic Tree House books during the trip.

**Update: Dunno where "Mom" was hiding, but the boy actually read EIGHT of the MTH books and knocked out another two after we returned home - that only leaves two remaining and he still has a couple weeks until they're due back at the library. Sweet boy.

Once and Future Queen

Queen Bitch, that is.

I have been losing whatever patience I had with the Noodle Dude lately. Seems he's lost (or stifled) the ability to L.I.S.T.E.N. It doesn't much matter what I am saying, he apparently hears, "Wah, wha, wah, wha, wha" like the Peanuts adults.

Grrrr!

So, enter my past and present BFF: Bach Flower Essences Rescue Remedy!

These little bottles contain liquid calm - it is so effective that when I was smack in the throes of PPD after Noah's birth (gawd, that was an AWFUL time) and I took this stuff, I almost invariably passed out. Knowing it's effect, I was careful to take it when someone else was there to mop up the spit up and change the shitty-bum diapers.

Now it's more a matter of threshhold resetting. When my tolerence for the life of a 4-year-old is on a razor thin edge, I place a couple drops under my tongue or pop in a pastille and the borderline recedes to a safe distance. Flying blocks and banging magnets, scooters in the living room and random too loud noises are much less stree-inducing.

Funny warning comes with the pastilles - appears they have a slightly laxative effect. Good thing it usually only takes ONE to do the job! (Of keeping me calm, not getting things moving.)

Family

It's a totally simple yet utterly perplexing premise.

It's the people with whom you share genetic material, right? Maybe. Maybe not.

It's the people who raise you, right? Maybe. Maybe not.

When a concept can be defined with nearly unlimited variants, you have to wonder about the viability of the word to be able to convey a unified idea to anyone who hears it.

And yet. (Yes, I started a sentence with a conjunction. And I'll likely do it again.)

And yet... say the word family to anyone in the world and they will know know deeply. They will first think of their own family. If they can get past all the thoughts that process engenders, they may be able to conceive that your family (in all likelihood) differs a great deal from their own.

Beyond that, well, that's where all of life's greatest triumphs and tragedies reside, no? There are people related to me by blood for whom I have strongly negative feelings, while there are people I've known less than a quarter of my life for whom I have the fondest of feelings.

Your family is comprised of all those people you love - whether that be one person or a hundred and fifty. The people to whom you can turn for help, even if asking for that help is the hardest thing you've ever done. The people, regardless of their genetic composition, that form the basis of your life. You never know when they'll enter your life... or when they'll leave it.

I'd like to think I have something profound to say to close off this post, but I don't. I've just been thinking lately about all the folks I love and it's quite a list. A list I'm very proud of, at that!