Happy Birthday To Me. I've Earned the Right to Ramble.

The older I get the less I need and my list of wants has dwindled to just a few. I am genuinely horrified by that materialistic young woman that I used to be and she, in turn, would be horrified by the birthday gifts for year 53. If I could go back and talk to the 1980s me I'm not sure I could convince her that she would be thrilled to get tomato plants for our sunny balcony, a salad spinner, chewy fudge chocolate brownies and a low key dinner at the favorite sushi place just down the street. The 2011 me is awed by the gifts because they all mean so much more than they appear. My son, who should be used to my crying over the oddest of  things, looked a bit uncomfortable at the tears in my eyes when I opened the salad spinner. I know it's silly but I will use that thing every day and always think of him. When my husband took me out on the balcony at midnight to show me the tomato plants I, again, had tears in my eyes. He knows that I love urban living but miss having a yard. I was smiling this morning when I had my daughter's chocolate brownies for a birthday breakfast. I am a cook and not a baker and am blessed to have a daughter that fills the brownie and cupcake void in my life.

Reversals of fortune can make you bitter or make you better. I choose better. 

Let's look back at the journey and applaud how far we've come.  I'm hard on myself. Woulda, shoulda, coulda is a tough habit to break. I'm going to spend the day looking at how far I've come, the jobs I've mastered (even though I was scared to death on those first days of work) and how scary and thrilling it was to click the "publish" button the first time I put my words out there for the world to see. Today, I'm going to pat myself on the back for allowing my children to follow their creative dreams and hold off until tomorrow the worries that accompany raising children who veer from more traditional career paths. I'm going to look back fondly on the missteps and the bungles that seemed insurmountable at the time but proved to be sturdy stepping stones.

The perfect Texas salsa cures almost everything. It really does and you don't think I'd make that statement without giving you my recipe, do you?

2 cans Ro-Tel brand tomatoes
one big handful of cilantro leaves
one big jalapeno pepper, cut into chunks (remove seeds for less heat, leave 'em in for more heat)
one clove of garlic
1/4 of a small onion
small dash of salt
And that's it...just dump it in the blender, puree until smooth and enjoy.

It's my birthday so I'm cutting this post short to enjoy the day and follow my own advice. Maybe I'll make some salsa, too. It always reminds me of home.

Character Lessons

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Holding up that looking glass to childhood I see a cast of characters that have, for better or for worse and in comedy and drama, shaped my life. Some are goodness magnified and some are like the small, fine print that serves as a cautionary tale in what not to do, how not to act and, most importantly, as warnings that you better behave because people's memories are long.

Our house was small and sat on a large lot smack dab in the middle of our street. Houston's warm just about year 'round and I seem to remember that the grass was always green, the azaleas bloomed in the spring, the pine trees were really tall and the row of maples along our back fence line had been brought in coffee cans all the way from a family reunion in Illinois and tended by my older brother until they grew almost as tall as the pines. The mimosa tree in the front yard was bent and crooked and a perfect place to hang upside down or sit and watch the neighborhood go by. When I look at old photos I gauge the years by the height of shrubs and whether or not the palm tree in the front yard is still standing.

From my perch on the limb of the mimosa tree I'd watch the two feuding families that lived across the street. It amazed me that they could live next door to each other for twenty something years and never speak. They'd unload groceries in driveways side by side and never even offer a nod of the head. Their children would pass on the street and never even cast a sideways glance. When one of the moms died and the coroner came to take her to the funeral home, they still didn't speak. Lesson One: holding a grudge for that long makes you look crazy.

It was a big city but my street felt like it had been plucked right out of the movies. Just like the movies, it was full of characters. When I was in elementary school one of my best friends lived catty corner from us with her two moms.. This was in the 1960s and I remember little talk about their same sex relationship and I never remember anyone not accepting them. They were just a part of the neighborhood. One of her moms would stroll over and look under the hood when my dad was trying to fix one thing or another. When the car battery was corroded she went and got a cold Coca Cola, poured it over the bad spots, and she and my dad stood there and watched the fizz eat away the gunk. Lesson Two: Tolerance and acceptance is always a good thing.

I was also friends with a daughter from one of the feuding families. She was a nice girl with two wild ass older sisters and bad boy big brother. The carnival came to our neighborhood once a year and set up shop in the mall parking lot. The carnies always seemed kind of creepy to me but apparently one of the older sisters didn't seem to think so and she ended up knocked up. Her parents shuttered her in the house for nine months and her siblings were instructed to not let anyone enter. They slipped me in one hot afternoon while their parents were at work and there she was, sitting on the cool linoleum floor, barefoot and baby bellied, with her jeans unzipped and her tee shirt hiked up. My elementary school self tried not to stare. When the baby was born they told everyone he was adopted but I'd seen the truth. Plus, genes don't lie. Playing in their front yard one day I looked down and noticed that the little boy had the same webbed toes as his teenaged "sister." Lesson Three: You may think you're hiding the truth but odds are someone knows your secret.

 By the time I was in 8th grade one of my best friends was a bad influence whose father was a prominent physician in town. He was having an affair with the socialite daughter of a nationally known attorney. My friend's dad drank too much and her stepmother was a saint for putting up with him. When we weren't swiping her step mom's Salem cigarettes and climbing out her bedroom window to sit cross legged on the roof and practice our smoke rings we were crouched on the landing overlooking their living room and watching the two women fight over a man who didn't deserve either one of them. Lesson Four: Females look ridiculous when they fight over a man...and many times women are better off alone.

When I was really small the old lady who lived next door was an alcoholic whose live in boyfriend ran the gas station just outside the neighborhood. They'd get liquored up at the bar next to the grocery store. We'd leave our garage entrance unlocked if my brother or sister were out late and one night the live in boyfriend stumbled into our house by mistake. My father, an amputee who was as agile on one leg as some men were on two, sprang into defending the homestead mode and hopped into the den, rifle in hand. He threatened to shoot the intruder. Lesson Five: I may not have heard my father say "I love you" but his actions spoke louder than words.


There was a mean dog named Rip that lived down the street. He was always on a chain. When we'd ride our bikes past his house he would leap and snarl, mouth foaming and teeth bared. Every now and then he'd break free and I vividly remember how he attacked a small white dog. He wouldn't release the limp little dog's bloody neck until a neighbor turned on a hose and leveled the nozzle right at Rip's eyes. That chain changed the course of Rip's life. It made him mad and mean. Lesson Six: Living things shouldn't be chained.

I spent most of my teen years in trouble for various and assorted offenses. Habitually late for curfew? Yes. Dating boys my parents couldn't stand? Usually. Changing that F on my report card to a B? Uh huh. Claiming the cigarettes in my purse belonged to a friend? Guilty. No wonder my parents introduced me as their "problem child." Or, maybe I was the problem child because my parents always expected me to be the problem child. Lesson Seven: I know parents usually do the best they can with the skills they have but they need to remember that children meet expectations-high or low.  (Lesson Seven and a half: You can change your path.)

Silence, Please! I'm Trying to Make Some Changes!

Sometimes, the changes you make in your own life are not nearly as difficult as getting everyone else to accept how your changes will change their life. I'm embarking on a new adventure, and even though it's taking place in my own home, while I sit behind my own computer, there is a downward shift in the amount of laundry, cooking and cleaning that I'm doing. The rest of the family is supposed to pick up the slack. Old habits die hard but no clean underwear jolts them back to their new reality.

Trying to work while my family carries on around me and without me is tough. I get up for a cup of tea and I'm very surprised that no one else notices that the faucets don't sparkle. Does anyone else care that the sink is full of coffee cups, plates and a knife still sticky with peanut butter? Apparently not. And since I've stopped picking up every single thing that they place on the kitchen counter every single time they walk in the house...car keys, mail, the pizza flyer that was hanging on our doorknob, over the counter sinus meds, the latest issues of Rolling Stone and AARP magazine (we're a diverse household), a Netflix movie that should have been returned 2 weeks ago, an empty gum pack and an empty Starbucks cup...it's beginning to look like a prop house for a bad sitcom.

The Type A voice that's locked inside of me is white knuckled and frantically banging on my brain with clenched fists. "Pick up the clutter, wipe down the counters and polish the faucets!" But that voice that puts my compulsive behavior on overdrive is drowned out by another voice that we all carry within us. It's the one that whispers "You can't!" over and over and over again when we step outside of our comfort zone and strive for bigger, better and not so easily attainable dreams. These two voices are competing for my attention.

I know that the little voice that says "you can't" can be silenced. I also know how hard it is. The voice is part of our survival instinct. It yells when we're too close to the rocky ledge and it persistently murmurs and whispers "stop" when we try to make changes in our life. That little voice loves the status quo.  But, we've got the edge.

The voice may be pesky and repetitive but it's not smart enough to know that some risks are worthwhile. We're the ones who are smart enough to know when to take meaningful risks and it never hurts to remind ourselves of that every day. It's no secret that I'm a big fan of repeating positive thoughts so we can banish the negative. I've been on a status quo life path for quite some time so I know it's going to take a while to shut down the negative voice that tells me that I can't accomplish my goals. Some days I manage to take  little steps and others day I make great big strides but I am expanding the boundaries of my life. My actions are proving that little voice wrong. I can do this.

Laugh Longer, Love Better.

I posed a question to an assortment of people:  my good friends who hold nothing back; acquaintances; the checker at Target who rang up my nail file and the cute pants that were on sale; my husband; my daughter's smitten boyfriend; and a waiter named Amir. The question? Why do couples stay together? God knows there are thousands of opinions on why people break up but I'm intrigued by what binds couples together. Why do they beat the odds when their marriages are shattered by infidelity or mucked up by messy finances that overshadow love  and affection? I'm curious to know why some couples can reignite after months or years of shuffling through cold ashes.

Laughter.
The common thread that stitched together every response was laughter. Even the young checker at Target, who had hair with streaks the color of Peeps, smiled and laughed when she said "men are the devil" but I'm willing to bet, by the time she becomes a blue haired old lady, she'll understand that it's that laughter that can keep a relationship alive.

After shouting and door slamming or agonizing silence and a cold shoulder instead of a warm embrace, laughter can prevail. A little too much insight into my own marriage? Maybe, but I'll let the sentence stand as is because I'm pretty sure most romantic partnerships go through the same thing.  My friend Natalie quotes her own mother when she says "Divorce? No. Murder? Maybe..."  Laughter's good and a morbid sense of humor is underrated.

How do we get to the laughing part? For me, there's something in my brain that eventually kicks in and overwhelms the anger or the complacency or the annoyance. It's like a switch that turns on light and positivity. I've learned to anticipate it and it's never let me down. It doesn't always happen right away but I've found that the lag time is needed to help me sort through the issues and look to my heart for forgiveness or understanding. My friend Stephanie says her husband better worry when, after a disagreement, she passes him in the hallway and she doesn't smile at him. She says she just can't help but smile when she sees him. That must be her own little switch clicking on and signalling that it's all going to be okay. That, and true love.

Make time for each other.
Connie says make time for just the two of you whether it be a walk by a creek or a romantic vacation. I agree. My husband and I decided, before we had children, to put our marriage before everything else. I love my children but without loving my husband I wouldn't make a good parent. We've always parented together and tried to present a united front. That's not always easy because parenting throws some pretty serious curve balls. It also wreaks havoc on romance so we always made sure to use the rare times both children were away to do something together rather than alone. A day on a lake, spent with my husband and an ice cold pitcher of margaritas, is a wonderful problem solver.

Look for perfection.
My daughter's boyfriend says staying together is "simple, just date the perfect girl." There's more to that statement than the idealism of the young. It takes work, but as our relationships age, it's essential to continue to look for the perfect in our partner. It's there-it's just hidden beneath the stress of the work week and the big and little tragedies that we all experience year in and year out.

Keep the bathroom door closed.
Yes, I'm going there. Before we were married we made a pact to keep some things private. I don't care what we're doing in the bathroom-flossing, clipping our toenails or...whatever-keep the door closed. I don't think "familiarity breeds contempt"  was intended for this scenario but it isn't too out of place here. Romance loves a little mystery. That's my deep contribution to this conversation.

Little things shouldn't turn into big things.
One of my dear friends is Vickey and that's her advice. She's a Texan with a heart as big as the state itself and she's an expert at not letting the little things get under her skin. I'm still working on not letting the little pile of dirty socks turn into a Mount Everest of animosity because that anger seeps into other parts of the relationship and before you know it there's a fight and then I'm back to waiting for that positivity switch in my brain to click to the on position. I'm going to make a supreme effort to remember that this week.

Fight for your marriage.
Infidelity. I am always amazed that couples can survive it. For my friends who did they have all said that the years following were tortuous but that they eventually reached a place of deeper understanding and better communication. Admirable and I will be totally honest and say that I'm not sure I could find the forgiveness, and if I did, then I'm not sure I could ever forget and find a place in my heart where love would thrive. Those that have survived tell me that they were able to see where they had both made mistakes before the affair began. They say they survived because one partner ferociously fought a battle to save the marriage and through counseling, prayer, endless nights of talk or whatever they chose as weapons, they were able to slay their demons. They were blessed that their partner was the listening kind because so many are not.
 

 ____________________________________________

Just about everyone I heard from also said that they wished they had spent more time talking about parenting, household chores and finances before getting married. It seems to be universal to think that love will conquer all when, really, it's good planning that clears the clutter from a relationship and makes room for love to stay.

I love that my friend Melanie contributed her thoughts on what to look for before you get involved. She says that people reveal themselves to be exactly who they are early in the relationship but we do the whole "that's not really who they are thing." She continues by saying "yes, it is. It really, really is. Who people truly are is revealed by their actions." Perhaps I watch too much Dateline or 48 Hours but for every murderous spouse there must have been telltale clues. I'm thinking Melanie would make a great detective.

Robert Browning said "Grow old with me! The best is yet to be." I am forever grateful that I had the sense to stay the few times I wanted to flee. Laughter comes easier the older we get and even though there are times that we can't see the light we know to wait for it.

No Lapse in Faith

I have never lost my faith. I may have, for a while, lost my faith in the brick and mortar churches, but that forfeiture made room in my life for a spiritual journey that I don't regret.

I just stumbled across author and priest Andrew M. Greeley's website and his "Why I'm Still A Catholic" article. I really do believe, even though I haven't attended mass in probably 10 years, that once a Catholic always a Catholic. I have rosaries scattered throughout my home. I sleep with a leather scapular and two of the rosaries hanging from our headboard-one on my side and one on my husband's. During a recent health crisis I prayed to Father Solanus Casey and held close to my heart a bit of cloth that had touched his tomb. Father Casey was known for his miraculous healing and is well on his way to clearing the Vatican's hurdles for sainthood.

I was just barely a cradle Catholic. That's church slang for Catholics born and raised in the Church. We went to Mass on most Sundays and I attended CCD (the acronym for Catholic Children's Doctrine), I was baptized, had my First Communion and I was Confirmed. When I was a little girl in the 1960s, women still covered their heads and I had mantillas, the little lace head scarves, in white, pink and black. My mother made sure we dutifully met the guidelines but there was no real appreciation for the Sacraments. There was no family prayer and certainly no talk about what it meant to be a Catholic. My strongest memory of growing up and going to church is getting caught, at 14 years old, swilling strawberry wine in the bushes outside the St. Cecilia church rectory. My father stepped foot in church for weddings only. He would jokingly say the pews were too hard and his wooden leg made it too difficult to stand, kneel, sit and repeat.

I wholeheartedly came to the Church after a divorce. I do realize, considering the Catholic stance on divorce, the humor in that. When I met my second and current husband he was a much more devoted Catholic than I was. That makes it sound as if I'm shopping for number three but we're on year 23 of wedded contentment/conflict/contentment. I knew when we were dating that we would never be married unless I had my first marriage annulled. I won't go into the controversy surrounding annulments but I will say that it was one of the most emotionally cathartic experiences of my life. It made me dissect every aspect of my failed marriage and take a good hard look at every other aspect of my life. The original intent of annulment is to dissolve a marriage that is contrary to Divine Law. I'll spare everyone the icky details but if that's what it takes to qualify for an annulment than my first marriage certainly met the criteria...and then some.

We married and I was very active in my parish. I was president of our women's group, I worked with our Monsignor on community tasks, I cooked casseroles and tossed salads for funerals and anniversaries and I headed up a building fund committee. My children attended the parish school. I hosted rosaries in my home. But all the while I had a nagging, unsettled feeling that just wouldn't go away.

Andrew Greeley says "those who leave the Church because they have discovered how flawed are many leaders, are ignorant of history. Jesus never promised us saints. Nor did he promise that the saints who on occasion might be in charge would be either effective administrators or wise leaders."

Unlike Father Greeley, who has had his own conflict with the Catholic Church, I found it impossible to ignore the blaring headlines that screamed of sex abuse scandals. When grown men molest small children and when those committing the mortal sins of child molestation are shuttled from parish to parish and country to country and protected from the law it makes me sick. It's old news, isn't it? How sad that we are barely even shocked when another scandal arises. It's just more fodder for the late night hosts.

I found it impossible to shake the feeling that it was about big business and that the business was corrupt.  I suppose I could look back at Catholic history and see that the church has always been embroiled in scandals and I could just accept that the scandals were further proof of man's fallibility. But, I didn't accept it. 

On a beautiful Spring day my husband and I attended a funeral. As usual, we sat front and center. We watched the priest preparing the Eucharist.  "This is my body … this is my blood." The Catholic understanding of these words is literal. The word for it is transubstantiation. The Communion bread and wine become the body and blood of Jesus Christ. On that day, I felt so many questions bubble to the surface and the most important one was this: How did so many soiled hands perform this beautiful ritual and why would the Church allow it to continue?

"Doubt is part of all religion. All the religious thinkers were doubters." So says Isaac Bashevis Singer.If you're not familiar with Singer, his is an interesting story. He was a Jewish American writer and Nobel Peace Prize winner. I felt as if I had the lion's share of doubt and, for many years after walking away, I was in mourning. I shed tears over my decision. There were lost friendships that accompanied my leaving but the loss I felt most strongly was for the rituals and the beauty of Catholicism and the Mass. To my Catholic friends who didn't abandon me, I say a belated thank you.

I let doubt propel my journey. I have always been uncomfortable with the notion that any one group held the keys to Heaven. Since stepping away from the Catholic Church I have tried on other religions. The Presbyterian services in Texas, where I truly felt a connection to that church home, were a blessing when I first felt adrift.  It was there that I met many other Catholics and one woman who said "I am a Catholic who attends the Presbyterian Church." No wonder I felt at home. When I moved to Los Angeles, the time I spent attending no services at all-just me and God and little talks scattered throughout every day of the week-was spiritually freeing and gave me time to read and explore religious history. Those little talks with God continue. The visit to a non denominational church in a California strip mall where the preacher screamed and told his followers that Jews, Buddhists, Catholics and anyone with different beliefs were destined to Hell was, well, scary as Hell. And if there was a place hotter and lower than Hell he was certain that the entrance was marked for homosexuals. I ran from that place. The churches where the members raised hands and spontaneously proclaimed Hallelujah were joyous but, quite frankly, they startled this lapsed Catholic woman, who was used to quiet sanctuaries.

I'm ready to step into a church community again. I hold my Catholic roots close to my heart but I'm not stepping back in that direction. The term "Cafeteria Catholic" is used to describe a Catholic who picks and chooses, from the list of Church rules, what he or she wants to believe. The Church is filled with Cafeteria Catholics. It can easily be applied to all other religions. I don't want to pick and choose what I will believe. I want to totally immerse myself in spirituality. I want a congregation that shares my belief that good people go to Heaven and that God doesn't discriminate. Is that easily dismissed as simplistic? I think it's one of the hardest things to wrap your brain around. Opening your heart to others and finding the good is actually a great challenge. My religious past has made me who I am. I'm grateful for God's direction on my journey.

Seize The Day

My father was going to retire and then go to Europe. Instead, he retired and then he died.  "Men for the sake of getting a living forget to live." That quote by Margaret Fuller pretty well sums it all up. The only thing you will regret on your deathbed will be the things you didn't get to do. He had made the trip once and very much wanted to go back, free from the time line dictated by the workplace. For my dad, there would not be another stroll through Piccadilly Circus, no cruise along the Seine and no view from the Eiffel Tower. 

I was 24 when he passed away and, even though I wasn't a child, I was certainly in my formative years for learning to become an adult. His death shaped and formed my outlook on work and life and my adamant belief that if I don't get to do something right away I may never get to do it.

My dad, God rest his friendly soul, drove over 90 miles round trip on his commute to his contracts administrator job. East on the flat I-10 from Houston's western suburbs, past the skyscrapers and south on I-45 to the marshy bay area, almost to Galveston, and then back home at 5 o'clock  to our little ranch style house. He ate dinner and watched the news in his burgundy leather chair. He ate an apple and tossed our dachshund the core. He was off to bed by 10:30. It was the nightly routine. 

He was a model employee who sat behind the same gray metal desk for 47 years. His sense of loyalty was born from the fact that his employer hired him when no one else would. He was an amputee who lost his leg to gangrene when he was 12 years old. It was horrible timing; penicillin was discovered a few years after the infection claimed his leg. When he landed his job there were no laws protecting the disabled and I can imagine how grateful he was to be hired.

I think he was happy. I can't imagine doing something you hated, day in and day out, for 47 years. I believe a lot of what kept his pedals to the work a day metal was an abiding fear that he would never find another job. Looking back, I am immensely proud of his dedication. Growing up, I swore I never wanted a life like that.

His death had a profound influence on my own life strategy. I never wanted to put off until tomorrow any experience that I could have today. I'm sure I was deep down worried that my own retirement age may never come or that I would hit 65 and they'd be pulling the sheet over me.  Always, in the back of my mind, was the thought that I had to seize the day and make it all count because my days may be numbered. Henry David Thoreau said "you must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment." 

All children take something from their parents' lives and make it a part of their own. They also refuse to go down certain paths that their parents have paved. That addition and subtraction, the traits embraced and those that are pushed away, make an adult child complete. From a parent's loss, a child can learn.

How Much Do We Tell Our Children?

There is a grove of pines so lanky and tall that each one is trying to outgrow the next to reach their piece of open sky. Below the trees no grass grows and the dirt is carpeted with the pines' discarded needles and cones. The air may be muggy but the grove floor is cool and shaded and attracts a daily pilgrimage of teens who sit in a circle to talk, solve the problems of their world and pass joints 'round and 'round. It's not 2011. It's 1976. Those high school kids are now grown and most are, will, or have been parents to their own teens.

The visual sensory overload of the sixties swung back and forth on our black and white TV sets.  The pendulum tick tocked  from Bonanza, The Beverly Hillbillies and The Andy Griffith Show to horrific images of Vietnam, the setbacks and promise of the Civil Rights Movement, Free Love and the tie dyed drug culture of Haight-Ashbury. The young children of the sixties sat cross legged in front of their console TVs and watched it all unfold.

The sixties flowed into the seventies and the teens in my neighborhood, who were raised on that visual feast and famine, had cars and a little too much money. The grove of trees wasn't tucked away and secluded; it was on high school property and the number of students who sat in that circle was way too large for teachers, or the police who parked and watched from a block away, to disperse.

Crazy times. And just how much of your past do you share with your own children? I've told mine my life story. I've doled out information in snippets and parcels in moments that I thought would have the most impact. The piece of information that I have made abundantly clear is that I always had a mooring and a moral compass deep within my soul and that if there was one thing I would wish for them it is that they hold fast to their anchor and follow their own moral compass when life and times get crazy. Not if. When.

I've slogged through some swamps and scaled some proverbial mountains. We all have. My children will, too. I can tell them what may lay ahead but I can't live their lives for them. I can show them the way but I can't go with them. I can share my faults and my transgressions and the impact they had on my own life. I can stand beside them when they falter and celebrate when they're back on their feet. I can help reset their compass and drop their anchor in calmer water.

Hold Your Own Hand

  
"Friendship with oneself is all important because without it one cannot be friends with anybody else in the world."

- Eleanor Roosevelt

What a smart gal that Eleanor was. Of all the things I've tried to teach my own children this quote is at the very heart of my big lesson plan for life. Being your own friend is hard. It means you have to accept your flaws and your quirks and love yourself anyway. You have to know that absolutely no one is perfect, yourself included. You have to take a good hard look at yourself and refuse to look away until you take it all in...and you have to carry that mirror with you all the time. See the faults and imperfections? That's what makes us human and since we're human we have the ability to smooth our rough spots-no matter how long they've been there. Are we going to slip up and screw up time after time? Of course we are.

I'm certainly no psychologist but I like to think I have common sense. As parents, we set the tone for our children's inner monologue.  I've noticed that the people with the harshest inner monologue are the ones who want to look away when faced with the mirror. They have a difficult time keeping and maintaining friendships because they never learned how to be their own friend. Their parents outer monologue, directed at them, became their inner monologue.

"You're fat."
"You're spoiled."
"You're stupid."
"You're trouble."

It sure would be nice to end all that negative dialogue but I'm not Pollyanna enough to believe that it's going to happen. Success would be just one person holding up a mirror and daring to not turn away. Success would be one person shutting off the negative thought stream and learning to hold their own hand.

    

     

     

Not So Secret Admirer

   
     I supposed I fancied myself as some little fairy godmother or a bespectacled guardian angel. Even though my attempts to do good were usually bungled, my motives were sincere. In 1969 I had brown hair and crooked pigtails every day and my closet was full of plaid jumpers that were always paired with pastel blouses that had dainty peter pan collars. I wore brown glasses to correct my amblyopia and the left lens was noticeably thicker than the right. I was a piece of work.

     My 5th grade classmates were the same as 4th, 3rd, 2nd and 1st.  I had gone to school with the same group of kids since kindergarten. There wasn't much change at Bunker Hill Elementary School. Our classes celebrated all the holidays with parties and homemade treats. I don't ever remember peanut allergies or gluten intolerance being an issue, but I do remember the horror of Valentine's Day and how I would feel so sorry for the kids who got fewer cards dropped into their brightly decorated paper bags.

     There was one boy in particular who bore the brunt of most teasing. He was a notorious nose picker and had less fashion sense than me. I never picked on him. I'm not sure where my empathetic gene came from but to this day I am bothered by cruel practical jokes and sarcasm.

     On this particular Valentine's Day I thought it would be a good idea to make him feel like someone cared. I signed my name to most of the store bought cards but, on his, I used my mom's electric typewriter and wrote the words "From Your Secret Admirer." It was a masterful plan and I was thrilled that my actions would give the boy a smile. Now, I really wasn't his secret admirer. I had no crush on him. I thought his nose picking was disgusting but, ever the wanna be psychologist, I attributed his nasty habit to poor parenting. (I was the child who pored over my sister's college psych books so I could find out what my parents were doing wrong. I like to think I did most of my raising myself.)

     The great flaw in my plan occurred when I neglected to get up from the old IBM Selectric typewriter and I lazily went ahead and typed my name, rather than writing it, onto the remaining couple of Valentine cards. It doesn't take a middle schooler to figure out what happened next. The classroom was on a sugar high. Envelopes were ripped open and thrown to the linoleum floor and each 5th grade recipient eagerly read their cards and turned them over to see who had signed them. In no time at all, the most picked on boy in school was waving his little card from his secret admirer. All the boys and girls buzzed and chattered and tried to figure out who she was.

     I sat proud and smug...until the smartest boy in class opened up his card from me...and I had typed my name.  He was now sitting proud and smug after putting two and two together. As I said, my intentions may have been bungled but they were very, very good. Those good intentions don't mean much during a 5th grade scandal. In no time at all I was known as the girl who had the big crush on the most picked on boy in school. The teasing only lasted a week or so but that wasn't the worst of it. The worst part was a boy finding out that he didn't really have a secret admirer after all.

     Life lessons are hard albeit some can be quite funny in retrospect. I still carry my biggest life lesson from the 5th grade debacle deep within my heart. If I have raised my own children to follow this mantra than I will consider my parenting a success: Never be afraid to publicly declare your support, your love and your compassion for those less fortunate and less understood. When all is said and done you will know that doing the right thing for all to see is always the right action. If only my little 5th grade self had known that.

Life's Quilt

     "When I was a child I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man I put away childish things." I love that passage from Corinthians. Every time I read it I think of the evolution from child to adult and how, even when we become adults, our hearts, our souls and our minds can continue to flourish. Of course, the childish things of our past are not cast out the moment we step into adulthood. Damn, wouldn't that make it easy. Instead, the remnants of our raising are woven so deeply into the quilt of our being that we must learn to stitch those tattered pieces together with new experiences.
     From the sweetness of childhood springs the angst of the teen. Isn't everything bigger than life? And so dramatic? A breakup means you just might die from the sadness. Grounded really does feel like grounded for life. A date to the prom is the best thing ever. If you don't get that car for your sweet sixteen your life will officially be over. And while the rest of your life feels like it passes by in the blink of an eye, the teen years seem to go on forever. The tumult from those years serves a greater purpose as we learn to navigate relationships and process and solve problems. Our life's quilt is getting bigger.
     The twenties. We're adults but our brains are only halfway there. We're expected to earn a living, pay our bills, and live like we're all grown up. The weekends are for partying and our bills haven't piled so high that we feel the strain of debt. For many of us, our parents are alive and kicking and our role as caretaker won't start for years and years. I've probably just managed to depress every twenty-something reader, but my true intent is this: love your life, love your friends, and live your dreams every day. Surround yourself with positivity. If there's a person in your life that makes it hell it's time to reassess. Keep the good, banish the bad.  Make your quilt stronger and more colorful.
     The thirties. We're putting it all together now. Maybe we're feeling a little cocky, too. The career is on track. We're starting a family. I'm still a bit mortified by some of my pit bull actions when I was thirty-something. In the workplace, I didn't take into account how my deeds affected others. Although I've never been to AA I admire their philosophy of going back and setting things right with people from your past. Maybe I should start my list. I should have used my quilt to warm and sustain others but I was pretty stingy with the life I was building.
     The forties can slap you in the face. What a wake up call. Growing kids are expensive and very, very complicated. Houses are money pits. My body ceased to defy gravity. Marriage required more work. Problems that I never saw coming threw us off track and it was harder and harder to steer back to the course. If you get through your forties with the marriage intact and your sanity in place you are blessed with the fifties. That quilt is life size now and the seams are strong from the reinforcing stitches.
     At the mid century mark I've adopted the se la vie attitude. Pick your battles never had more meaning. At this point in time, I've seen the blessings and tragedies of life and I say bring on the blessings because wallowing in the tragedies becomes tiresome and pointless. I love the fifties. My quilt is big enough for my family and friends and I choose to embrace the people that make my life richer.