The problem…

with this cell phone, tablet, facebook filled world is it makes you have the expectation that you can get ahold of someone all the  time.  And then, when you cant, when you have exhausted all the wonders of technology and they dont pick up, text back or respond to an IM,,,  your head goes to the worst place.  Ridiculous.  Only to be cured by a ringing phone.

chillin with Ava

Tonight I went to my son’s house and spent some time, just talking with my granddaughter.  We have seven grandchildren, blessings all, and I am fortunate that I get to see them each week, they have grown up surrounded by grammy and pop’s arms.

Tonight I needed some time with Ava.  It was a horrible day.  The air hung heavy with the killings of two black men, a friend of mine was arrested for a horrendous crime…..I felt dizzy and dark and so so sad.

But Ava and I went out and played with the fairy garden for a bit.  and then we went up to her room and looked in her treasure box and talked about life, and disney world and summer camp.  and nothing.  just talked about nothing.  And I was so happy that her world is still full of enough light that she can just do that.  Spin in her chair, make fun of my singing, and hug me with those wonderful little arms when I have to leave.

Thanking God tonight for my babies.  Praying that we can find a way to change this path our society seems to be running down.

 

Not my mother’s daughter

I am SO not my mother’s daughter.  I tell myself this regularly.  I pray at night that my wish will come true and that I can hold on to the precious few memories of bonding with my mom and let loose of the pain and the wound tight persona she embodies.

And, today I am reminded of just how much I am not my mothers daughter.  Packing one more box for the dual moves we are making over the next month,  I came across two poems written to us by our daughters.  the first, from our oldest, musing about her memories of car rides and long talks, full of joy and melancholy and family.  The second, a sort of apology and gratitude piece from our youngest, who often feels she has to apology for her past.  This is not true, she does not have to apologize.  She is the most caring, involved, loving person I know.  her passion has led her astray a few times when she was young , but she has nothing to apologize for.  her experiences have made her the amazing woman she is today.

But, anyway.  As I picked up these two poems and read them, I remembered the last notes I had found tucked away in drawers and boxes.  The hate filled notes my mother had written for me to find when, she assumed, she was dead and I was organizing her life’s clutter.  I found them early, but their bite was just as strong.

And I am happy that the notes I have chosen to save are filled with hope, and joy and love.  With good memories and praise.  Notes that will make everyone who reads them, now or in years to come, know that this family faced things together, and loved each other through every heartache.  I am SO not my mother’s daughter….

drinking games

Parenthood.  When your kids are teens you don’t let them drink. you let them have a sip of wine on Thanksgiving, just to see what it tastes like, but you don’t let them drink.  their friends cant give you their keys and drink at your house, you don’t tell them “its OK as long as you don’t drive.” You don’t give them alcohol at the pre-prom dinner.

then they go to college.  You play beer pong and flip cup when they come home for holidays.  you buy silly shot glasses.  You call on their 21st. birthday to see if they are with someone you trust ( yeah, right). You pray they will call on Sunday morning so you will know that, at least for that weekend, they survived.

They graduate.  and they drink WAY too much.  You worry.  You give them the stink eye and count the beers in your refrigerator.  Nights when you should be asleep you sit and look at the clock waiting for the graduate — who has moved back home, to get home from whatever club they are at that night.  you pray they aren’t in Philadelphia.

Then, suddenly, they are thirty something.  They have a glass of wine, or a couple blue moons.  and then they stop.  They have kids, and spouses and jobs.  They share your love of a smooth shot of anisette or a nice bloody Mary.  and then they go about their day.

drinking games.  One of the rights of parenthood that no one ever tells you about.

She’s in

mom is in the Assisted Living home.  She has a sweet little apartment, complete with refrigerator and microwave, coffee pot and toaster. And most of her beautiful stuff, her antique desk and her grandmother’s rocker were the first pieces of furniture we brought in.  I had them all set up before she came into her room.  It made her smile, and I like to think, gave her a sense of home.

I am left to clean up the mess that was her home.  whenever you walked into moms it was dark.  Since I was a child she avoided turning on lights in the house.  her home always looked neat and tidy.  When we began to ready her move and I had to open drawers and cupboards I found out that she has kept every piece of paper to enter that house since dad died over 5 years ago, along with a multitude of bills etc. from when he was alive.  And, among these bills, checks, receipts and contracts, I found no less than 15 letters and notes   where she detailed a variety of wrongs my brother and I had done to her.  Hateful notes full of self pity and accusations of neglect and anger.  Not one, not ONE of them spoke of her great grandchildren, or her grandchildren.  Of visits to dads grave, or shopping trips or Christmas meals.  None of them spoke of her sorrow at dads passing or her memories of their past together.  Each was a scathing hit at one of us, or dad. She kept one from 1956 that she wrote to dad, a private note between a young wife and her husband, full of hatred and threats.  And they were scattered throughout her troves of papers.  You couldn’t miss them, and, for all except one dated October 2012 and the one written to my father, you couldn’t tell when they were written.  And even if now she doesn’t remember they are there — if her fog is that deep— when she wrote them, when she placed them in with these papers, she knew we would find them  .  She wrote them to cause us pain. We were meant to find them after she died, when we couldn’t confront them or her, when we couldn’t question her or dispute.  She wrote them to cause us pain.  What a pitiful, angry life.

And a lesson for me to surround myself in gratitude and joy and let the anger and pain roll off. It is just cruel to cause pain to those who love you — and to do it when it is too late for them to make it right.

Details to follow

today we move mom into her assisted living apartment.  Even as i write this I have trouble believing it.  She should have moved in with me sometime in the past 5 years.  She should have sons who care enough to help with this massive undertaking.  I should further appreciate this husband of mine, who, once again has jumped in to make my life bearable.  Details to come.

I have accepted

that I am part of the “sandwich” generation.  However, right now I am about out of peanut butter and this whole “caretaker” roll is getting stale.  So self involved, I know, but, I’m exhausted.

This weekend

Brought sunshine, family, green grass and a sale where I was able to sell yarn!  Excellent weekend — full of joy.  I shall file it under, it doesn’t get much better than this.

waxing so not poetic

I’m sure the site is bursting with Mother’s Day musings.  Emotionally packed tributes to children, sad accounts of the phone call that didn’t come, hopes for a brighter future.

This is not one of them.  Oh, this is  about Mother’s Day, but it may be a little off sync…

Mother’s Day is not about presents. But, I always get gifts.Some years I have been inundated with handprint pictures and potted geraniums.  Some years the gang banded together and presented me with gift certificates and Hallmark’s best.  A few years back it was a plethora of gym bags/clothes/socks….

But this year was one of those years that demonstrates just how in tune  our kids are with George’s and my life.  Its a transition time for us, moving mom into assisted living, selling our home to our youngest, looking for a small place to live up here.

AND THE BEACHHOUSE.

Our dream — always — has been to own a beach place.  Originally it was supposed to be in Cape Hatteras.  My happy place, the place I call home — where I spent weeks on end growing up.  But, its a bit far from the “homestead” where, for now at least, all of our children live within a 10 mile radius.

So, we are doing it.  We are in process of buying a second  home, at the beach, in Virginia.

And, after the phone calls, the facebook messages, the memories of Mother’s Day past…they showed up yesterday, bearing gifts.  A beach mug for my cups of coffee on the deck, two toss pillows — adorned with sea horse and blue crab, a lighthouse wall hanging, our Initial for the door, and a tropical plant.

They get it.  After the teen years, full of angst and self involvement, after the toddler years where their physical and emotional needs could overpower — they adult up on me and find tangible ways to tell us they get it.

loved and bless, that’s this girl.