A Letter to My Grown Up Kids

     Let me put it in writing-I wasn’t the best baby mom. I know I can’t be the only one who feigned sleep so her husband would get up with the baby. And how many nights did we both lay there, eyes closed, still as corpses and trying to fool the other with our shallow sleep breathing? And the baby cried on…and on.  What is it about baby crying that seems positively endless? Five minutes feels like fifty.

     Here’s something else I’ll put in writing-I think I was a damn good mom for the teen years and I’m pretty good at parenting the young adults. I love being around my grown children and at 18 and 21 they still need to hear a parent’s encouraging words and sometimes, as we say in our house, have a “come to Jesus” meeting when tough love is needed.

     The parenting dance goes like this…when the sweet, cherubic face of the toddler evolves into the sullen mask of the teen, it’s only natural that we switch up our tactics. As that teen becomes an adult, we think our parenting role is finished when, in fact, they may need us more than ever.  Carpools, field trips, packing lunches and parent teacher conferences may be over but guiding them into and through adulthood has just begun.

     Here’s my open letter to my kids. It’s a reinforcement of all that they’ve been taught. Let’s face it, the stresses of adult life can overwhelm the best of us and guideposts are always welcome.

Shore up your foundation. If you’re not happy with the real you-the person that the outside world never sees-you better put fixing yourself at the top of your to do list. The classical pragmatist George Santayna said “the loftiest edifices have the deepest foundations.” It’s your inner strength and your own strong foundation on which your dreams are built.

Be respectful of authority but respectfully disagree when someone tries to rain on your parade.  The people who tell you it can’t be done are not your friends.  The skeptics will roll their eyes. Ignore them. You are the architect of your own destiny.  Remodel. Expand. Add another story.

Put one foot in front of the other and you’ll get there in your own time. Baby steps or great leaps, it doesn’t matter as long as you’ve got forward momentum.  If you’re taking steps back in the form of a setback, and you can’t summon the strength to reverse it now, then sit and be quiet for a moment or for a day. Sometimes it’s best to do nothing more than breathe deeply. A clear head clears problems.

Don’t let anyone tell you that it’s wrong to question. You were given that brain by God.  Seek your own truth. Don’t be shackled by the beliefs of others. Find God in the mountains, music, a theater, a crowded city street or in a sanctuary. He’s everywhere…especially in your heart. Spiritual journeys can take you to wonderful places. Follow your own path to enlightenment.

If you insist on a tattoo, remember that skin sags with age. Today’s rose tattoo will be withered and wilted by the time you’re in the nursing home.

Play nice in the workplace. Never be the bully in anyone’s life. Remember the bullies from the sandbox? They’re all grown up and making life hell for their coworkers. You can confront bad behavior without stooping to their lowly level. Refuse to retaliate and remember how it felt to be bullied.  “Never take a person’s dignity: it is worth everything to them, and nothing to you.” Frank Barron said that. He was an astute thinker who spent many years studying the psychology of creativity. He’s a great go-to guy for quotes, as well.

Always give credit where credit is due.

Trust your instincts when choosing who to let into your life. True friends are happy for your accomplishments and sad for your losses. A wide circle of acquaintances is a wonderful thing but you don’t have to make everyone your best friend.

Embrace your creativity. Keep your passions alive and you’ll live a better life. It’s a simple concept but one that so many people find hard to grasp.

Most important of all, remember this-clouds lift, rain stops, and the sun will shine again. Life isn’t perfect. Sometimes we get so caught up in our problems that emotion clouds our brains and we feel emotionally paralyzed.  I feel compelled to say this, not because either of you have shown any signs of depression that would lead to suicide, but because I know how quickly and unexpectedly those signs can appear.  Don’t be afraid to ask for help. You are blessed with friends and family who love you.

A Positive Light

  
     The fresh start of the new year shines bright on December 31st and by January's end it's usually lights out for our resolutions. Lose 10 pounds or 20 or 30. Put away that pack of cigarettes...forever. No more soft drinks. Ever. Put a cold turkey stop to whatever vices we have! Or not. Resolutions are abandoned by Valentines Day.
     The tangible things seem hardest to banish. We're taunted and tempted by cruel commercials and billboards advertising the very things we've vowed to quit. The couch lovers' resolutions to get healthy and hit the gym must drive the dedicated gym rats crazy. Elliptical machines and spinning classes are over run with resolute new members. The regulars have seen it year after year. No long term worries for them because they are well aware that the nuisance is short lived.
     I stopped resolutions years ago. At first, it was because I was just too busy and stressed to make (let alone follow through on) resolutions. Caught up in family schedules, a constant need for more financial security, and the drive to help my son and daughter realize their own dreams, it was so much easier to resolve to do nothing except finish out the week, month or year without careening off a mountain of worry.
     You can only live on stress for so long before it kills you...or your family threatens to harm you. I owe my children a debt of gratitude for forcing a change in my constantly repeating negative thoughts that only served to amp up my stress level. And I owe each and every brand spankin' new year a big thanks for giving me a spectacular reminder, complete with champagne and fireworks, that positive thoughts equal a positive life. It's the time of year that I forgo resolutions and renew my commitment to positivity.
     As Eckhart Tolle has said, "your inner conversation is your outward manifestation." Plain and simple, negativity is very, very bad for us both physically and mentally. I know it's a tough habit to break but keep in mind that repeating a positive behavior or thought over and over again will train your brain to stay in it's happy place. Yes, it's as simplistic as it sounds and research proves that you'll live a healthier life if you commit to positivity.
     People with more positive attitudes show lower levels of cardiovascular risk, lower levels of stress hormones and lower levels of inflammation. The Mayo Clinic, in published reports, affirms that having a positive attitude has been shown to increase your life span and provide greater resistance to the common cold. Less chance for a cold? I would have signed on years ago based on that fact alone.
     I will be the very first to admit that, when faced with some of life's more extreme upheavals, it takes every ounce of energy you can muster to slog through the flood of emotion. The death of a loved one, a lost job, a wayward teen, a sick baby...these are hard to navigate. When the tide rises and tragedy looms, positive thinking can build up your resilience and help you deal effectively with stress and challenges.
     It takes practice to keep positive thoughts flowing. The first step is awareness. Remind yourself daily that negative thoughts can be replaced by positive thoughts. The brain, as the keeper of our memories, will, by its very nature, hold on to repeated thoughts. The key is to keep them positive.
     Practicing thankfulness automatically puts your mind in a positive place. It's impossible to be grateful and negative at the same time. I know people who keep gratitude journals. I don't need another "to do" on my list so I scatter my gratitude throughout the day in my little conversations with myself and God. Don't laugh. It's those conversations that keep me sane. I spend a good portion of the day looking for the good in things and talking myself down from mental ledges.
     Since I'm human, I know that perfection is unattainable. I'm just thrilled that I finally made that realization. Or, I should say, I'm thrilled that my family kicked my ass into realizing that there's a better way to live.


     

    

The Big Rude Girl. A Well Loved Dog.

     
     She was a Chesapeake Bay Retriever and as smart and as willful as the breed books warned. When we were looking for a dog to bring into our family of four we consulted books and our vet. We wanted a dog sturdy enough to withstand our 4 year old son and 2 year old daughter. Our narrowed list included Shepherds and Labs of all varieties. Our vet called the Chessie the quarter horse of retrievers. We were intrigued. They are strong and loyal with a tendency to be over protective and stubborn. We loved the strong and loyal part and thought good dog rearing would temper her attitude problems. Chessies are rare in Texas and we searched to find a breeder close to our Dallas home. At a farm, in the green rolling hills leading into East Texas, we found our Big Rude Girl.

     Of course, she wasn’t a big rude girl back then. She was the runt of the litter who we mistakenly thought would grow to a medium size. Her mom was 75 pounds and her dad was 125. We were convinced she would take after mom. We were wrong. At her heftiest,  her muscled body was 125 pounds with a strong neck, wide shoulders, big square head and long legs. The dog books say “the Chessie is a handsome dog, not beautiful.”  True. But to us, she was a beauty. Love is blind never rang truer than when applied to dog ownership.

     That day at the farm we watched the momma Chessie walk our two children to a pond and watch over them. The big Texas sky was clear and the small pond sparkled. Momma dog sat patiently as my son threw pebbles into the water. My daughter plopped down beside her and stared happily at our new puppy’s mom. The deal was sealed.

     Reality hit on the car ride home. The darling puppy vomited for 60 miles. The children refused to get near her. My husband had lucked out with driving so I was left to deal with the puppy puke. Almost home and my optimism kicked in. Thankfully, I was born with optimism in abundance. I was going to need it.

     We named her Jackie. It was short for her very long official name, Jacqueline’s Trumpet of Waldorf. She was so named because my preschool son wanted a dog named Trumpet. I’m not sure why. For the longest time he wanted a green dog with brown legs. He was a creative little guy. Since his number one dog choice was never going to happen we decided to let him have naming rights. I figured Trumpet meant “to herald the arrival” and the name Jacqueline meant “protector” and Waldorf was our street name. It all worked well together. Everyone was satisfied and she was called Jackie for short.

     The vomiting subsided and she eventually became a car loving dog. She loved to ride to school to pick up the kids. She even loved rides to the vet. If only the rest of the dog rearing was as easy. She was a chewer and in the first few months she gnawed through power tools and AC wires. She was lucky it was winter and the system was off.  My husband said he wished it had been on. Of course he was kidding. At least I think he was. She unplanted and shredded an entire row of Red Tip Photinias. She looked so proud that day.

     Of course, all of the dog books say dogs are destructive because they are left alone and bored. Jackie rarely left our side. She happily trotted from room to room and wherever we were, there she was. She had a big back yard and parks to run through. We supplied her with dozens of chew toys but she preferred to make her own fun. At our expense. As a matter of fact, the day she ate the plants, we were outside with her. The plants were on the back side of the garage and I swear she knew she could get away with it because she was out of sight. Did I mention Chessies are smart?

     Again, ever the optimist, I knew this destructive behavior would pass. And it only cost us hundreds of dollars at doggie reform school. It really was the best money we ever spent. She came home happy and reformed. She was leash trained and knew her commands. We had loved her before but now we were so proud of her.

     Her remaining vice was mouthiness. She loved to talk. I know it was actually barking but she did it with so much personality and conviction, all the while looking right into our eyes, that it seemed very conversational. And when it was her turn to spend time with my husband (she adored him above all others) I was not allowed to speak to him. If I ventured outside on a beautiful summer evening and wanted to spend some leisure time with him, and if she was by his side, I was not permitted to utter a word. Every time I would start to speak she would bark over my words. And I mean every single time. This went on for years. It would get so bad that I would put her inside but she would run from window to window barking her pleas for freedom. Sometimes we would wait for her to fall asleep and sneak into the yard. We felt as if we were having some clandestine affair. Don’t let the dog know.

     I’m not sure there is a delicate way to explain the Big Rude Girl nickname so I’ll just come out with it. She burped and passed gas like a trucker who loved bean burritos. She had taken a liking to beer during one of our parties. If we popped a top her ears perked up and she came running.  But these digestive problems went way beyond the occasional can of brew. Her gaseous tummy became such an issue, and she was so aware of it, that she no longer waited for us to shoo her from the room after an incident. She farted and left, knowing full well we were going to be shrieking with disgust in mere seconds. Change in diet never helped. She never ate table food except for the trash can tidbits that she stole after learning how to open the lid with her nose. We tried every vet recommended food for sensitive dog tummies but eventually learned to live with her episodes. Not nearly as horrible, but very funny, were her loud, open mouth burps. She could hold her own against frat boys.

     As is common with the breed, Jackie was diagnosed with arthritis when she was young. She had come with a guarantee and we could have returned her for another puppy or a refund but who could do that? To give up the dog that you loved, the dog that made you laugh, the dog that sensed sadness in any part of our house and went to sit with whoever was crying would have been an unimaginable and unthinkable act. She was a treasured member of our family who deserved great care. Over the years we would spend a small fortune on vet bills. For a long time she was comfortable and seemed only annoyed by her aches and pains. She was a popular patient with our vet’s team of technicians. Her tail wagged at each and every visit. Even at her last.

     She faded fast at the end. She would drag her hind legs behind her when attempting to walk. My husband would have to carry her still large body into the yard to do her business. We knew it wasn’t fair for her to exist like that. On the eve before he took her for her last car trip, my husband popped the top on a beer and her ears perked up. He poured a small amount into her bowl and she slowly lapped it up. She slept through the night and the next day, as my husband lifted her into car, the beer from her bladder drenched his clothes. Gross comic relief. He swears the Big Rude Girl looked at him as if to say “sorry.”

Dinner for Two

   

     That crystalline lake matched the sparkle and hue of my children's eyes and the tip tops of the jagged peaks were still dusted with snow. Just out of frame were cherry red canoes that dotted the blue and, from our perch high up on the hotel balcony, they looked as if they were barely moving. Seems like yesterday that the photo was taken. Those now adult children were 10 and 8 and we were vacationing in the Canadian Rockies.  Thousands of mental picture postcards, as well as the days and years, can rush by like a slide show on fast forward.
     From the moment our babies were born we knew the days would come when they would make their own way in the world. The family vacations would be farther and fewer between. The dropping off and picking up would abruptly stop when the drivers' licenses were earned. Family dinners for four would be replaced by romantic dinners for two. Romantic? Yes, I said it. Romantic. My husband and I have been planning and looking forward to our days alone for a long, long time.
     Don't misunderstand. I've loved every stage of raising children. Granted, I wish my son's terrible twos hadn't lasted for four years and I think I could have happily skipped, or at least shortened, my days spent with an adolescent girl, but all in all it's been a very sweet ride that we knew wouldn't last forever.
     When those kids were babies we promised each other that our goal was to give them life, raise them right and increase their responsibilities in ever larger increments so that once they hit 18 they didn't go plunging off a deep end and drown in stupid decisions. And we committed to making our marriage the number one priority and our children the second. I know that sounds backwards but we believed that a happy couple makes better parenting decisions. And for all the times that we weren't happy, when I foolishly swore I'd pack a bag and leave, better sense prevailed. We remembered our promise to stick it out for richer and for poorer, in good times and through wildly raging hormones. They're grown and the hours they spend with us are dwindling fast.
     New parents are always to told to cherish every day and every moment because time flies and you can't get it back. But they also need to know to nurture their own relationship because once those kids are gone it's just the two of you staring across the dinner table. It's easy to get caught up in the kid's schedules and never pencil in a dinner date or weekend away with your partner. When you feel like you're ragged around the edges and mentally frayed and when you're too tired to even think about a romantic dinner...that's the exact time you need to plan one.
    
     
    
    
   

Raised on White Bread

  

  We love food. We have issues with food. Food sustains us and some of it's killing us. I was raised on white bread, butter and preservatives in a home where canned was best and salt was king. Sure, we used different spices. Seasoned salt, garlic salt, and onion salt were rotated and sometimes they even made it into the same dish at the same time. No wonder my dad loved to eat out.
     We'd stand in line at the Piccadilly Cafeteria and pick out food that looked like it may have been under the warmer for a bit too long. Seafood gumbo with a thin layer of grease on top and served over steaming white rice, fat yeasty rolls swathed with melted butter and a Salisbury steak floating in an oily broth. Sometimes we'd make the long drive across town to eat at the much fancier Luby's Cafeteria. They had Trout Almondine and Chow Mein...fare that we deemed better but was certainly no healthier.
     A couple of years ago I revisited the South with my daughter. This time it was Shreveport, Louisiana and as we drove aimlessly through town I spied a Piccadilly. No way was I going to drive right by. I had to go in. The gumbo tasted just the same and that roll triggered some strong food memories. My daughter has a healthy attitude towards food. She loves every vegetable under the sun and an occasional baked potato. She hates fried chicken but will admit to a borderline addiction to Pillsbury Cinnamon Rolls. I like to think her mostly healthy choices are because I realized, by the time my kids were born, that food can be a problem of the worst kind. I tried to fill the pantry and fridge with healthy choices and I never put limits on food or made them eat everything on their plate. She thought the Piccadilly was okay. I guess I'd be worried if she loved it.
     Over the past couple of years I've made a huge effort to eat healthy. I really kicked it into high gear about 6 months ago. Nothing like a health scare to make you feel like the grim reaper is ding dong ditching you. A move to the West Coast a few years ago also helped quite a bit. Fresh food is fresher and every little town and suburb has a great Farmer's Market. The weather is mild for most of the summer and balmy in winter so there's really no excuse to not get out and burn some calories. I've heard plenty of "land of fruit and nuts" jokes but I can roll with it.
     With that said, I can readily admit that the Taco Bell Crunch Burrito with spicy Fritos has occupied a very unhealthy amount of space in my brain lately. I'm a little obsessed with it. The commercial is enough to trigger really happy food memories from the old days when I had a faster metabolism and the imagined invincibility of youth. When that craving kicks in I quickly kick it out and replace it with some pretty potent visuals of hardened arteries, a stronger blood pressure med, and the tsk, tsk, tsking of my doctor. Old habits die a slow death and food issues are all about control issues. Those are two facts you can etch in stone.
     When we're raised on unhealthy food (or with an unhealthy attitude toward it) and then the angst of adolescence and the uncertainty of young adulthood makes us feel like we're careening out of control it's no wonder that so many of us see food as the one thing we can control. We say how much we eat, how little we eat and what we eat and no one can take that away. I remember starving myself in my twenties. I was in a miserable first marriage and starving my feelings but food was the outward sign. In my thirties I was overwhelmed with two small children and not enough money but bad carbs were cheap and food was something that was in my control. Ever aware that food was an issue for me I realized even then, when I loved a Brahms chocolate malt  and a Sonic chili cheeseburger more than anything in the world, that I never wanted my children to share my issues with food.
     I really do love healthy food. That was a long time coming. I'm making it a lifestyle and not a diet. And what they say about it taking three weeks to start a new habit? I think it takes a lot longer than that when trying to adopt a healthy eating habit. Food memories are strong and so much of who we are is wrapped up in what we eat, who we ate it with and where we were. I remember a delicious Italian meal when my husband and I first started dating. And I remember anniversaries eating prime rib, mashed potatoes and creamed spinach. It wasn't until I started making new food memories that I was able to push the old ones out. My food memory for today? Planning tonight's dinner while still lounging in bed with our coffees this morning and then walking up to the farmer's market and picking out fresh vegetables and herbs. New memories. Keep 'em coming.
    

    
    
  

I'm Pretty Sure This Isn't What Facebook Had in Mind

     I know Facebook gets a bad rap for being a brain suck and I plead guilty to spending way too much time checking out my news feed. But, in the social media monster’s defense, I have to say it has also been a catharsis for me. I can’t be the only tail end baby boomer who grew up in a house where emotions were stifled.

     The learning curve when it comes to my feelings has been a long and bumpy road.  I’ve envied my children's ability to connect so easily with friends. Granted, I made sure from the moment I first saw their pretty little faces that they would grow up in a family that said “I love you” every day.  Sure enough, by breaking the cycle of emotional neglect that ran generations deep, I ended up with young adults who have way less emotional blockage than their mom.

     I didn’t have a clue when I signed up for a Facebook account that it would become not only a way to reconnect with friends but an outlet for feelings. (Resist the urge to break into the maudlin tune by the one hit wonder Morris Albert.)  You know how Internet trolls can hide behind a computer and spew verbal garbage at their targets? Slam that concept into reverse and you have a bunch of men and women sitting at computer screens confessing how much they love their kids, old friends and making wishes on dandelions. It’s lovely, really. As a self confessed lover of the Christmas letters that everyone else hates, my Facebook news feed is like one big guilty pleasure.

      As much as I love reading about what everyone is doing, it’s not all about voyeurism and stalking profiles.  Facebook has been a way for me to practice putting my own words out into the Universe and hearing back from friends and acquaintances that they’ve felt the exact same way. It’s a validation of my own emotions. While that may sound narcissistic I certainly don’t mean it that way. After a day spent working or tending to the emotional needs of others it’s pretty nice to know that I can write a post that makes people smile or relate to how I’m feeling. I think we all owe ourselves the freedom of expression and Facebook makes that so much easier. Just resist the urge to share your digestive ailments and hormone rages. None of us need to know about your gas and water retention.

    

    

Not so Fondly

    

      Houstonians wear the one hundred percent humidity that shrouds the city as if it were a second set of fine clothing. They’re proud and tough. “If you can live with this humidity you can live anywhere.” I heard it said no less than a thousand times while growing up. The muddy Buffalo Bayou runs through town and the city is blessed with tall pines that graciously obscure the miles and miles of flat and boring terrain that flow to Galveston and the brown waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

     I remember two water fountains that sat side by side in the back of the Lewis & Coker grocery store. “Don’t drink out of that one. Use the other.” By the late Sixties the signs with the words “colored” and “white” had been removed but the screw holes and the yellowed outlines remained. Some parents still instructed their little ones to use the “white” fountain. I grew up going to that grocery store every day. Opal, Mary and Cora were the checkers and Jimmy was the smiling bag boy who pushed our cart to the car and unloaded the groceries into the back of our Pontiac. 

     We called Jimmy “the bag boy” but, in reality, he was a grown man with the mental capacity of a 10 year old. When I was in junior high he drank a bottle of drain cleaner in an effort to end a life that we all thought was uncomplicated but must have been plagued by demons and depression. It was my first glaring realization that people are rarely what they appear to be and life is not as simple as nostalgia paints the picture. 

     Problems were whispered and hushed. Dads went to work and moms stayed home and barefoot children had the run of the neighborhood from morning ‘til dark.  They raced from one green lawn to the next and from tree to tree on makeshift baseball fields. Every yard in our neighborhood had a small ditch at the end of the driveway and, when it wasn’t filled with muddy water running off our below sea level yards, it made a perfect resting place. Our skinny little backs bent in unison with the slope of the yard. Our lazy moments were laced with gossip because the kids in the neighborhood always know the truth. Behind the little ranch style houses were families with secrets they never talked about.

     I always thought it was the muggy air that made people do crazy things but now I know that families and their problems are universal. Mr. Lydell lived one block over from us.  On his forty sixth birthday he got up from the dining room table, calmly walked into the hall bath and shot his brains to smithereens.  His family was eating meat loaf and mashed potatoes and the candles on the chocolate sheet cake were ready to be lit. I don’t ever recall anyone saying he had been unhappy.

"The times they are a changin'." Bob Dylan was right and thank God for that. When my own kids look back on their childhood what will they remember? We're better equipped to recognize and deal with depression but suicide remains a scourge. Segregation and the separate water fountains have given way to other social injustices but the outcry of collective voices seems much louder in 2011.