A Winters Tale: Sunday Scribbling

"Do you know how to grow Zinnias?" the stranger asked me as she handed me a box of dead flowers that she had collected last fall. It was early spring, might have even been late winter. You know those tense days in between that you are ready for the cold to go away and excited to see the crocus and other colorful life pop out from the muddy slushy ground.

A lady stopped by my garage sale and was enthusiastic to share her garden tips along with the variety of seeds she had collected. I was honored that she was so willing to share with me. I had decided to have a garage sale to earn some money so that I could go to the nursery and purchase some gardening materials. I would have never bought Zinnias. I didn't know a thing about them really.

"Just pull off the dead petals from these and you will see the seeds. Sprinkle them all around your flower bed. As they start to grow, you will need to pull out the weak sprouts so that the stronger plants will thrive."

And so, as spring time arrived and summer was peaking just around the corner, I cared for the Zinnias, just as the sage woman advised. Plucking the weaker sprouts and watching them grow thicker and taller each week was amazing to witness. My daughters would watch with some bewilderment. "Those aren't weeds are they mom? Why are you pulling them?" I could hear them in the background while I continued to look for the weaker pieces.

Amazed at the Zinnias in the center of summer time, I noticed that there was another patch of Zinnias that I didn't not "pluck." I forgot that I sprinkled seeds in the corner over there too. That patch did grow, however the flowers were tiny, petite. The bed where the sprouts were nurtured and plucked on a daily or weekly basis however grew tall and mighty. My children and guests would 'ooo' and 'awe' over them. They were a delight to the eyes.

I recall the summer memories of the Zinnia's today as we walk through the evergreen nursery in search of our family Christmas tree. It's cold and I am glad I wore gloves and a scarf. I wish I would have worn better shoes though. Slip-on shoes in the slushy mud only makes for muddy socks and miserable feet. As I realize my failed shoe selection, I glance over at the baby Evergreen trees. I see rows and rows of baby trees. Cute and sweet, almost playful. A patch of crop tucked away here in the mass of natural Evergreen woods to the north and west, and seeded and toiled rows of matured trees suited for crop growing and thriving just east and south. My eye is drawn to the lonely, brown, twig-like tree in the row I am walking along.

And I wonder. Will the tree farmers come by soon to pluck this tree so the other baby trees may grow and thrive? Is it just part of nature that this process takes place? Must there be trees that have to die in order that others must live and grow stronger?

At this phase of my life, I am like the Zinnia and Evergreen. This year, I have grown, matured, thrived. The loss of my own mother and my great aunt has actually strengthened me at the core. From the depths of my heart and soul, I have become inspired, growing and filling out into the role that I have been created to be. Would I be at this place in my life without the passing of previous matriarchs in my life?

I do not believe so. The frustration, fear and guilt - all removed from my roots, the core of my being. The damage can now be plucked, pruned. A new day is here. It is Christmas and I love this time of year. I no longer wait to disappoint and feel shame and regret. For the passing of those lives lived have allowed me to open up, bloom and blossom today.

I am no longer bound by the shadow of their being.

How to Grieve

When my mother passed away, I remember many people telling me that I needed to grieve.

Grieve? I didn't know how to do that. And, for the first time ever, Google wasn't able to help me.

Someone bought me a book from Hallmark about grieving. Maybe that helped a little. I bought a CD from a Christian book store that was supposed to help too. It did a little.

How did these things help?

Do you ever have times in your life when you just need to cry? You may recall one of the shows on Everyone Loves Raymond when Deborah needed Ray to leave the house so she could just sit and cry. Here is a clip from that episode >>>



Everyone has their own repertoire of memories that can make them laugh or cry. Grieving is taking the time to revisit those memories, the good ones and the bad ones. Grieving is lonely and it's personal. There might be times when you are able to share stories about your loss with others. But, many times, those interactions are shaded by worry that you might offend someone else who is also experiencing loss.

It has been almost two years since my mom passed away. In the beginning, the pain was fierce. My heart physically was in pain as I tried to purge the loss. But grieving isn't only about the pain, it's also about renewal, turning a new chapter in your life. And, as you try to sift through the strong emotions you hope that guilt doesn't get the best of you and your memories. There are days when your life seems normal again, and then, there are days when you can hardly put one foot in front of the other.

I write about grieving today because I am scared right now. My Great Aunt Midge passed away two weeks ago. She was very sick and had been living alone for many many years. I had a special relationship with her, but in the past two years or so have moved away and have not been able to be there for her. When I moved away, I remember starting to grieve Aunt Midge. I knew in my heart that our holidays would not be the same and that I would disappoint her with my limited visits. She had been sick for a few weeks. We did drive up to see her, and the time we shared with her was very special. I wish I had a last visit with my mother before she had passed away.

Today, my darling husband is on his way back from her apartment where he moved out all of her furniture. He should be home any minute and I am terrified of his arrival. I am scared to grieve yet I know it is necessary.

Taking it one day at a time,
Life of a Juggernaut.

Chicago Fairy Tale: The Good and the Bad

On Friday, Fred was a presenter at a conference in Chicago so the girls and I tagged along with him. We thought it would be fun to have a girl's outing in the big city and so off we went!

The one-night stay was a perfect revelation on why we had to make the decision to no longer call Chicago our home and move away last year. I was reminded of why I loved it and yet, why I also hated it.

First things first. This is why I loved it!


Girls are up and ready to go!


Let's go to the 95th floor of the Hancock building and use the ladies room!


On the elevator, sitting on the floor, chewing gum, "Going Up!"

Then, a table for three at the Cheesecake Factory. "We'll take some cheesecake home to Daddy for later. Now, let's go see Madagascar II"


"Taxi!?!" Sarah's first ride in a cab. Girls gone wild, windows rolled down, screaming hello to every pedestrian and cross guard in the street.

We watched Madagascar II in the front row of the theater, walked about a mile back to our hotel in the brisk cold evening. We oo'd and awed at the Coach bags and fancy shoes in the store windows. Sienna wanted to know where the faces and heads of the women in the windows were. I told her, "They're mannequins."

She'd say, "No. They're women-iquins." We stopped to pet a horse. The horse tried eating her leopard coat. She screamed, we laughed. She took her coat off because she said it had horse slobber on it. We ran briskly to our warm hotel room. We got ready for a slumber party, Daddy came back from his conference. We snuggled while sharing the cheesecake and we...


... watched pay per view, "Kung Fu Panda," more like Kung FUN Panda. He's so cute when he says "dumplings" and "noodles."

Then, after a night of slumber, we woke up. Walked to a pancake joint just up the street if I remembered correctly. But I didn't remember correctly because it was 12 blocks away! We still walked there and Fred forgot his coat so he was freezing!!! We shared a dutch baby pancake and other yummy breakfast food, grabbed a couple of balloons and headed back to our hotel room, walking running and rushing trying to find shelter from the wind blasts blowing from the tsunami lake effect wind along the Magnificent Mile. We went through the rotating door and the girls took turns pressing the elevator buttons up to our room. We settled into our hotel room for the morning and waited for the shops and Navy Pier to open in a couple of hours.

I found myself staring and adoring the art and design elements of the metro styled interior of our hotel room.

Artwork on the wall.

More Artwork on the wall.

Design on the pillows - which I hope to 'refabricate' when I get home!

And, there is artwork that Sienna created.

Clearly, this is a butterfly resting inside a butterfly house. As soon as we plopped down, I was ready to relax for a little while. My seven year old had another mission. She asked for a Sharpie so she could draw faces on the balloons. No Sharpie, how about tape? Stapler? Glue? Crayons?

After I searched through my purse like Mary Poppins, I pulled out fantastic chewing gum wrappers. I imagined Sienna would be so thrilled to design some origami, but she looked like I just pulled a booger out of my purse, her lip curled up and her eyes rolled in the back of her head. I told her that was the best I had. Minutes later, she showed me the butterfly artwork that she created out of bathroom paper items. Inspiring.

(How come she can work on this, with zero assistance but cannot do simple things like her easy homework or brush her teeth?)

Now, this would have been the best time to drive home. Right about at this moment, we make a serious pivotal point from happiness to disaster in our journey in the city...

We then check out, go through the revolving door (I love this act just as much as my girls do! Don't ask me why, I am a city girl I guess!), hop in another cab, walk into the Navy Pier. Instantly, I hear grumbling and whining and arguing and I start nagging and people start glaring! Oh joy.

I get eye level, tell the girls that if they are both very good during this fun adventure, I will buy them the mood rings that they are oodling over right before we leave. It will help us to remember what a fun time we had. But, if they argue or whine any more, then, no ring.

We then tried to find the elevator up to the Children's Museum but got distracted by all the shops that glimmered in my eyes like jewels in a treasure chest!

I love shops.

We ventured into Build-a-Bear shop and even I was on sensory overload. Their florescent lights hummed and, in pure Dr. Suess style, I would describe the experience like this:

"The lights zimmer-zammered and bizzer-bammed in my ears."

Then this happened:

Sienna threw a tantrum in tsunami proportions.

She screamed at me, told me she was hungry. We bee-lined it to Mc'Ds. I stood in line, four people back and made sure the girls were both within eye-shot. With one eye on Sienna and the other eye on Sarah, cross-eyed I paid the lady, took a deep breath and waited for our tray of fat and carbs. Then, I lost sight of Sarah as she ran faster than a bolt of lightening to the other side of the food court so she could take shelter under the high chairs. I left my tray at the counter. As I wrestled our coats, shopping bags and stroller and tried to navigate through the crowds, I lost total sight of Sarah. I panicked and started calling out for her. I then could not find Sienna either. Imagine the chaos. All I could see were people staring at me. The room swirled around me and I felt like I was in a sinus commercial, everything went fuzzy. I was seconds close to calling for this:

When I tried asking for some help from some of the ladies working at McD's I realized that the only English they knew were Big Mac and Diet Coke. As they looked at me puzzled, from afar running out of the food court I spotted little Sienna in a rampant escape! I caught up with her, picked up the 40 pound 2 year old. Her back arched tight and stiff like a femaldahide-injected banana.

Then noticed big sis Sienna was hiding and crying nearby all the while trying to keep tabs on her little sister. I tried to ask big sis to get the tray but by the first word I muttered towards her, she shook with fear (in an autism coma as I call it) and I could tell she was not able to communicate with me. With my weak arms full of stiff banana toddler, stroller overflowing with coats, I knew I could not manage retrieving the tray. I considered leaving the tray at the counter and walking outside with both girls towards Indiana. But, I tried a more challenging approach and asked several ladies behind the McD counter to help me with my tray. I finally was able to get one lady, an African American to help me with the tray and bring it to the first booth I could find. We plumbed down, dumped our coats as the stroller fell to the floor, backwards as if to mimic my own exhaustion.

I overheard an African American gentleman mutter to the nice lady who brought us our tray of food as she put it on the table, "After Obama is president, we won't be required to do things like that anymore. Right on?" They both laughed. Although, I found no humor in their banter.

A deep breathe and a cold-fish-filet-chased-down-by-a-Diet-Coke-moment later, we relaxed in our booth. Sarah fell asleep in her stroller, now upright - symbolizing the next few minutes that awaited before us. We then, took a walk outside in the quiet coldness of the pier. Sienna, on her own terms, clutched onto my arm, fearful yet safe by her mother's side. In an attempt to absorb this moment of sheer sanity, I admired the stoic skyline. Frozen from the wind and the current stark reality, in my head I played dot-to-dot as I traced all of the positions that my career moved me from company to company and building to building through the chapters of my life:


Historic moments in my life, historic and memorable, the good and the bad. Mostly good though.

The cold air blew us indoors, we found the elevator up to the museum and paid the $4000 for admission. Sienna played and hopped from one exhibit to the next. I tried to keep Sarah resting in her stroller. Minutes later however, when she woke up, she threw an hour long tantrum. We could have started our own exhibit and called it, "Sensory Overload." With the many people watching, I could have charged admission for the freak show. The Nature Channel's narrator would whisper, "Watch as the angry mother tries to chase her wandering arm-flapping off spring... Now, what are they doing? Oh, the child is licking the floor. Why doesn't that mother do something to protect her child from the infestations of germs and infections?"

Ignoring the assumptions and judgments from the metropolitan peanut gallery, I finally forced a rain coat on her flapping and slapping arms so she could play in the water exhibit. Seconds later she realized that I was not that awful after all:

After playing with water for two hours, seriously, both girls played for two hours...

I encouraged them to try to see the other parts of the museum. They did, although, I was not the graceful mother I wanted to be. Every transition from one exhibit to another was a major feat. I wanted to be like that mother over there... the one with the tight size 4 jeans, sexy boots, turtle neck and metro beret cap, the one with four obedient children AND their play dates all going when she requested in a calm voice. The same mom who had the perfect stroller that could turn on a dime and looked like she just came fresh faced from the Sephora counter. I wanted to be a mom like this:


Instead, I was more like this mom:

... a sweating screaming tired psycho-mom who just wanted her girls to have a good time, damnit.

As my cell phone rang, I was wishing it was Fred telling me his conference got out early and he was on his way to pick us up. Instead, it was Fred just checking in. I gave him the Cliff-note version of our experience and he told me he would come pick us up in an hour.


Apparently, the fairy god mother forgot to tell us we needed to leave the city before the strike of ten or else everything would turn into a pumpkin.

And that by the three o'clock hour, the glass slippers shoes would be kicked off and fly around the museum, and the pumpkins would be more like this:


But luckily, our Prince Charming Daddy arrived right out front, drove us out of the windy city, bought us ice cream and...

... we all lived happily ever after.

The End. To Be Continued...

My Aunt Midge Passes Away, Age 98

My Great Aunt Midge passed away last night, six minutes past midnight at the age of 98. Pictured here is a photo of my first daughter, being dedicated six years ago with my Great Aunt Midge, my two uncles and me on Mother's Day. Aunt Midge did not have any children and last week when Fred and I visited her in the hospital, she told us that children are so important. How sad that she did not get to experience the joys and triumphs of motherhood. What a blessing though that she was able to be a mother figure to me and to my oldest daughter, Sienna in the last few years.

I have always had a special place in my heart for my Great Aunt Midge. I loved hearing stories about how she and my grandmother, Naomi would get along or not get along which was more likely. They were very alike in many ways. My husband, Fred can remember visiting my grandmother Naomi, she would always offer us a Diet Rite. Years later, we would visit Aunt Midge in her apartment in Oak Park and she would also offer us Diet Rite. Interestingly, we once had Thanksgiving at my cousin Stephen's when he lived on Lake Shore Drive, guess what he offered us to drink?! Yes, Diet Rite - it must have run in the family! Another drink that we enjoyed with Aunt Midge on occasion was sherry.

We'd sit in her gorgeous green apartment in Oak Park, burning up from the radiator heat - although she always complained her apartment was cold - and sip sherry together. We once took a drive to her birthplace in downstate and met with a genealogist there. I recall the genealogist sharing news articles with us about a relative who had been shot in Chicago from a lover's quarrel. I also think I remember hearing something about our family settling down in Kentucky and starting a Baptist Church. Midge, of course did not want to have those parts of history be part of her lineage, so she dismissed much of that information as scandalous nonsense. It was somewhat surreal to uncover our Davidison genealogy with Midge!

Another special bonding time we shared together was on my wedding. I hosted a bridal tea party at the Drake. I have a picture framed on my dresser of Midge and I on this special day. She looks so proud to be at the Drake, right where she belonged all along but would never feel important or special enough to go on her own. Whenever I see classy tea settings or old Asian style home decor, I am reminded of Midge. She was classy and had the best taste!

And she loved to shop! I have a funny memory of taking her shopping to the mall a few years ago. We borrowed Marshall Field's wheelchair while we shopped. And, boy, did we shop till we dropped! She tired me out! We needed some lunch and as we were headed off to the food court, the door alarm went off. I assumed it wasn't us since I didn't think Midge was a shoplifter and onward I pushed her down the mall pavement towards the food court. It wasn't until we returned to Marshall Field's an hour later that I realized we were considered wheel chair thefts! Apparently, we weren't supposed to take the wheel chairs out of the store!

I guess you could say that I owe my relationship and marriage to Fred to Midge. All through college we dated and would visit Midge from time to time. When she moved to Oak Park, I had graduated from college and moved to Chicago shortly after while Fred stayed in school to finish one more year. I thought I was all that and a bag of chips, working at an architectural firm in the Loop. So, I broke up with my boyfriend from college. Until, the one day, I was talking to Midge and she asked about Fred. I told her that we had broken up. She told me, "Well, I don't know what you are thinking. There are a lot more girls prettier, thinner and younger than you are down there at that school of his." Insecurely, I picked up the phone to 'reconnect' with him and we ended up getting back together and marrying within six months!

It was so typical of Midge to tell me that there were girls prettier, thinner and younger than me. She would put me down many times for my weight and I always felt like a rag muffin around her. For some reason though, she was family and because I was used to this treatment from my family, I stayed around. I kept visiting her and taking the verbal abuse. I also forgave her constantly, understanding her value system and its high regard to appearances and thinness in the social world. This was a trait I had also inherited but have worked hard to suppress it and purge it from our family value system so that my own girls know in their heart they are loved and accepted, in hopes they won't struggle with outward appearances and the need to perform socially.

As I became a mother of two highly spirited children and my life became more busy, I slowly spent less and less time with Aunt Midge. In hopes to share my children with the eldest of our family heritage, and to make sure Midge knew she was loved by us, I would make every attempt to include her with our holiday celebrations. As I started to respect myself more, she started to too. She became more forgiving of our lessened visits and more caring to me and my family. We spent most of our time together commenting about our memories together.

And, I am fortunate to have many memories with Aunt Midge. She had a spunk about her that I hope to have well into my 70's let alone, late 90's! She always did look good, classy. As her passing marks the last of her generation in our family, I step up in my own lineage to be the woman I want to be when I get older. I have learned from both her mistakes and her beauty and zest and I am grateful forever for the hardships and blessings her life impressed on me and my daughters. My memories of her will last for a long time. I hope my daughters will remember her and the fun we had together as we all turn a page into the next phase of our heritage.

Relax Mom, Let Your Kid Be a Kid!

While driving home from a counseling session and lunch with some girl friends, I was enjoying the fall scenery and listening to the radio all alone, at the volume I wanted! When you have two daughters with sensory disorders, especially auditory processing, most of the time, the van needs to be a quiet place, free from audio stimulation, much to my own chagrin.

Feeling free and alive, my thoughts took me back to a scene from Finding Nemo.

Remember Marlin, the scared yet determined Daddy to Nemo when he is talking to the Daddy Sea Turtle, Crush? In a panic, wide-eyed and frazzled, as he is in almost every scene, he is worried for Crush's son, Squirt who just fell out of the current into an ocean abyss. Here is how the conversation goes:

MARLIN: [gasps] Oh my goodness!

CRUSH: Whoa. Kill the motor, dude. Let us see what Squirt does flying solo.

SQUIRT: Whoa! Whoa! That was so cool! Hey dad, did you see that? Did you see me? Did you see what I did?

CRUSH: You so totally rock, Squirt! So give me some fin..noggin..

CRUSH/SQUIRT: ..dude!

This picture paints the perfect model of my current parenting world. I am Marlin, neurotic, not able to fit in and meeting only friends that aren't quite my type like Dory or the sharks. My daughter, is little Nemo, cute and spunky, with a "Lucky Fin," (a/k/a Autism and ADHD and Mood Disorders) who despite her circumstances is making friends and growing up.

It was like God was speaking to me today on my drive home. He was saying, "Kill the motor."

Remember Nemo's first day of school for Marlin? I still want my little Nemo to go and play in the toddler bouncy area - not travel with the sting ray teacher to the drop off!!! What if she can't swim like the other kids? What if she needs a sensory break?

God is telling me, "Let's see what she does on her own..."

And, so, I will. At least I will try. Good idea God. Thanks for meeting me today and speaking in my language! You rock!

Are these Jugs Real? The Legacy of the Step Child Part IV

I am not sure if I will ever really know if I have the real Crazy Jugs or not.

There are a couple of pieces, trinkets that I recognize from the three bottles, but I think the three jugs that I have in my possession are not the original Crazy Jugs that my mom and her mother created. Ironic.

I do remember specifically asking for the Crazy Jugs during one of our phone calls. It was the time when my step dad asked me if I was interested in my mother's clothes. I said that I was not, but felt guilty about it. Like I was supposed to want my mom's size 3X older lady clothes that she probably bought on the clearance rack at KMart! Does that make me a bad, selfish daughter? She was always trying to get me to share her clothes with me. She would even buy two of the same outfits so she could keep an outfit for herself and give me the same outfit for my birthday. "No, I don't think I want any of her clothes, Tom," I answered. "I would like to have my Miami diploma and her Crazy Jugs though. They are probably in some of the boxes from the garage. I am going to try to come for a visit some time this summer for a few days and help you go through those boxes. I have to find someone to watch the girls though."

Not only did I have to find someone to watch my two children, ages one and four. But I also had recently learned during this time that my four year old daughter was diagnosed with Sensory Integration, ADHD and Autism. Finding someone to care for them would be challenging. I also had my own failed business I was trying to dissolve and we were in the midst of a move, buying and selling our house! Tom never seemed too concerned for all of my issues though. He did however keep some pseudo jugs for me. I found them in special boxes in the garage later that year that he so carefully set aside for me.

It was in one of those boxes I found the three Crazy Jugs that I have now. However, just as my step father hid my mother's real gold and diamond jewelry from me and tried to trick me with all of her costume jewelry, he didn't want me to have the original Crazy Jugs. My step father probably kept them or sold them for a quarter at his garage sale.

I am still so angry towards him. I know that he is elderly and that he loved my mom very much for 15 years. He was very special to my mother. He swept my mother's heels off the floor of single-hood and was a world traveling partner to my mother. I also recognize that he added value to my life in other ways along my journey. He made the opportunity for me to travel to Europe one summer in college. I made memories that summer that will last my entire life!

He was a good guy. He once was very accomplished engineer for the city of Cincinnati. But, with the stress of losing my mom and his years of life pushing upward to 80, the dementia has started to shrivel his character and his heart I once adored. I once admired him for his advice and would seek his guidance in the areas of my career and matters of the heart. He was the warm fatherly figure that my own dad could not be for me. He was supportive and stable for both my mom and me. He's pictured in my photos with me from my first college dorm room, graduation from Miami University, my first job overlooking Michigan Avenue in Chicago, my broken hearts from all the chaps before I met Fred, my courtship and wedding with Fred and the births of my two children. He has shared an important role in some of the most significant chapters of my life.

Yet, the role that he has played since my mom passed away has been far from fatherly towards me. More like a villain and a shrewd thief.

I haven't talked to my step father since we left last Christmas time. That was the time when I first learned about my mother's will. The will only allowed me to have her jewelry and day to day belongings. The day to day belongings that he had boxed up for a garage sale to sell shortly after she passed away.

There were a few boxes that were set aside in the garage and were labeled "For Andrea." When I saw the tattered boxes, I was hopeful and dare I say, even excited. Alone in the cold smelly garage, I smiled like a child who just caught her mommy's attention after months of absence and neglect. I had hoped that my mom had branded certain items that she wanted me to have someday. I was hoping to find special items from my childhood. And when I started to unravel the items in the boxes, I admit that there were a few items that indeed took me down memory lane.

The large green Mother Goose book that my mom and I read every night before bed was in one of the boxes. That was the same book that I had resting on my knee one wintery night as I hopped into the bed and the top corner of the spine poked my upper lip. I still have the small scar underneath my nose. I can still recall my mom holding me like a rag doll as she ran frantically up and down the hallway not knowing if she should take me to the hospital.

Setting in the same box, I recognized some old oafy stuffed monkeys from my grandmother. She would bring me big stuffed monkeys she'd buy from the corner drug store just before arriving for her visits with me while my mother took weekend trips with her boy friends.

There also were photo albums. I was looking forward to spending time on those only to find out of the 20 albums, several of them were full of photos of my mother with male friends whom I didn't even know. The other albums are priceless to me - at least I think that is the way I am supposed to feel about photo albums from my childhood, right?

And, then there were a lot of other things in the boxes that I couldn't decipher. What were they? Were they garbage? And, why were these items marked just for me? Broken picture frames, papers from my mother's college days, reams of paper and notebooks from my step father's surveying business. And, at the bottom of each of these shredded, mildew-infested boxes, were droppings, maybe from rats, most likely from the demons who lurked around me while I tried to grieve and cry out to God to heal my broken tattered and wounded heart.

Needy. Control.

Needs.

Special needs? Everyone is special.

Too needy? Aren't we all?

Need a friend? But my friends are spread too thin as it is. I just moved here. Potential friends see my heavy baggage and they don't want to be friends with me. They all have their heavy burdens that they need to unload on me. So, I run away from them, withdraw into a cave. I only come out when I can leave my heavy load behind in the darkened lot that God has given me for today.

Today? Only today? Hoping for a brighter tomorrow? But when? Then what?

Oh how I wish I had more control. Control of my own life. Control of my thoughts just long enough so that I could put away the dishes without being interrupted or distracted with another task in my brain. Control over my home so that I was organized and my home was clean and tidy. Control over my temper so that I didn't explode like my kids with autism and ADHD! I wish I had control over my body so that when I cut back on calories and added additional exercise I would actually lose weight and feel some sort of reward.

Rewards. I thrive on them, just like my kids. But I can't organize our lives long enough to make a reward chart. If and when I do, I can't follow through on it. It falls off the fridge and gets thrown away. Or, my kids scribble or rip it. Or, when I try to show my kids the reward, I can't capture their attention long enough.

I could use a reward. Not in the form of stickers though. More like vacations, weekend getaways, date night, manicure or pedicure, shopping for a winter coat that I have needed for three years, someone to just call me and let me ramble without me feeling like I owe them.

Tit for tat. And that's that.

Sugar and spice and everything nice. That's what little girls are made of. Yeah, right. Whateves.

What about the effect that autism, ADHD and mood disorders have on the parents?

I think if I had a job again, it would give me structure, some form of control, self esteem. It would give me a break. It would give me adult interaction. It would just be a Band-aid. A Band-aid for this big boo boo that God is allowing me to suffer through right now.

It's back to the basics for me for today.

"Out for a Walk, Be Back at Noon"

Heart of Gold

I AM NOT THE PERSON I WANT TO BE!

I have always believed that when life is at your toughest, that is when your true self is revealed. Your true character is manifested in your responses to your trials and tribulations. Not only do trials and tribulations serve as the touchstone of your character, they also help create and stabilize your character. Just as a smelting heat is used to separate gold from rock and refine that gold into a precious metal, God allows us to endure trials not only to test our character but to refine it. And through these trying circumstances, He redefines us, purifies us.

So, after all of the tests, the trials and the tribulations, I should be more refined right?

Nope. Not yet. Must still be getting burned. I swear more. I withdraw more. I drink more. I remember that I used to go to church every Sunday. Look forward to it. We don't go to church anymore. I used to smile all the time. I don't smile any more. I don't even make eye contact. I used to initiate play dates and girls night outs. I used to reach out and welcome people. I don't play. I don't reach out any more.

Where did that woman go? Who is this in my skin today?

Just call me the female form of Job, you can call me "Joba."

I might just change my Twitter profile to Joba. Seems fitting.

Lord, why have you forsaken me? I used to love you and adore you with all of my heart but lately, you have given me too much to bear. There isn't enough love in my tank to care the way I want for my husband, my children, myself. The baggage of burdens are mine alone to carry. It makes my journey so lonely. I don't want to drag down others with my heavy load. I beg you to take over. Take this heart of mine. Take the grief and sadness I bear for my daughter as she struggles through her own life. The grief I have for my family as we shift our dreams to fit into our current circumstances. Take the disappointment I am faced with longing for laughter and friendships. Reduce my vision to accept this lot you have put at my feet. Help me to sort out my thoughts, to check off my to do lists, to sit long enough to write my to do list. My thoughts are scattered. My mind dizzy. My heart heavy, saddened. Awaken my heart to love you like I once did. Lift my eyes to see you and meet you again.

Fred and My Homestead of Bitterness

Just when I thought the fog was lifting and I was feeling more organized and in control of my life, I hit a funk.

I am not sure where it came from but all of the sudden, I was so angry. My anger, deep within, outwardly was pointed towards Fred. It all started yesterday afternoon when he decided to work late - AGAIN.

You see, Fred is a wonderful man. I believe he is my soul mate and that we have a special, true love that God has blessed before we even met one another. We adore one another and are completely honest with each other. We have walked hand in hand through all of the challenges during our 15 years together. We "saved" ourselves for our wedding night, we endured a major Roller Blade injury where Fred almost lost his leg in college. We kept strong through my mother's tumultuous visits, my new business start ups, his inner city school teaching and three houses needing new roofs AND new water heaters, a flood, several snow storms, the typical in-law stresses, two pregnancies followed by two births followed by two daughters on the spectrum. And through it all, we prayed with one another. We loved one another. We accepted one another.

Now, today. I struggle with bitterness. I remember hearing a Christian speaker once in college saying that men will struggle the temptations with sexual immorality just as women will struggle with bitterness. It is one of those flaws from the fall that we were just 'programmed' with.

So, they say the first step is admitting it. Here is my confession. Brutal honesty. I am bitter today because, for the first time in a year and a half, I realize that I gave up my career and my dreams. I gave up my chance at being someone important as the world sees it. I gave up my business lunches and the freedom to meet interesting professionals. My power to influence and my Coach bags are in storage now.

I guess I wouldn't mind it so much if I saw others in our family like my husband and his parents who live only 15 minutes away also giving some things up. But no one else has sacrificed anything, only me. More about my feelings and disappointments about my in-laws in later posts... I feel like I have sacrificed it all for my daughters' special needs. Those special needs that apparently I am the only one who recognizes and is forced to deal with them day in and day out. The school professionals all think I am a gook. They don't respect me or recognize my daughter's diagnoses. Even the other mom's remain an arm's distance from me as not to catch my white trash mothering techniques. (Again, I use that phrase "WT" but I don't like to because I don't think God makes trash. I just use it because it is a term that describes judgement and misunderstanding in social classes.)

So, although I try to be the homemaker diva goddess and manager, I am oppressed to be the garbage collector and the punching bag. I am the one who gets the brunt of my first grader's verbal abuse. I know, I am the parent and I shouldn't allow her to scream at me when she comes home from a stressful day at school, but I really don't know how else to handle her moods and behavior other than leaving her alone. The more I try to discipline her as an exchange, the more it turns into a fighting match and her mood excels and spirals really out of control.

Then there is my two year old who gets special services from the state due to her sensory needs. Two days a week an occupation therapist comes to our home to visit. This OT's voice is so high pitched that is sends chills down my spine like nails to a chalk board. Every time she visits Sarah, Sarah screams and throws tantrums. For a two year old with auditory sensitivities, the OT's every word is a train wreck. I see it as clearly as the nose on my face. But then, the OT writes in her report that all of my daughter's outbursts are from behavior alone. And, I have to endure these visits two days a week. These outbursts, I am told by the 'professional', stems from my parenting.

I just take it all in. These thoughts consume me while I try falling asleep at night and while I try to do housework. Housework that my brilliant mind was not created to do! There has got to be something more interesting than trying to create neat lines in the carpet while I vaccum. And, by the way, I hate carpet. It is so country and suburb like! I am a freakin' hardwood floor city girl. I am supposed to have a cleaning lady that I complain about during my lunch dates in Greektown! Boo hoo. Those were the days. I miss them!

I continue to grieve my life of broken dreams, all while my husband works. Did you know that he leaves the house before we all wake up? He gets a fresh day on his work load. He is climbing his career bent ladder to the top being recognized for his achievements as he works 60 hour work weeks and gets paid peanuts as a private school teacher. He claims that he is working to earn more of a salary. I claim he is working to keep from being part of our circus acts in the home. He has to work dorm duty tonight, Friday night. Another evening that I stay home, alone, with the girls. I used to be social. I thrive when I am networking and making things happen. But, in the home I sit. Waiting. No improvement. Little to no action other than outbursts and anger.

And bitterness.

Feel free to comment how you want - just don't nag at me. Don't tell me there are worst situations out there. I know that I should count my f'ing blessings but right now, I am bitter. Your 'encouragement' won't help. I will come out of my funk in a few minutes. Planning to take my youngest apple picking. If we can do it without a tantrum - PTL. If there is a tantrum however, oh well it will give me something interesting to blog about!

Toodles Blawgers.

It Ain't Easy Being Me

Today, as I spring clean in the month of August, I realize that I am living a triple life. One in the flesh. One in Facebook. And, one here on my blog.

My life in the flesh is constantly trying to contain my true self. I try to not be too competitive. I try not be too loud or too fancy. I always feel fat and not sexy. I want my kids and I to match the pictures in the magazines. I make my decisions, life impacting decisions based on what others will think. I think that is the real reason I lived in Chicago in fact. I thought how cool it would be if I moved there. Then, once I was there, I picked a home based on what my address would look like on a Christmas card list. If I were to be completely honest with you, I even believe that integrity means looking nice. I had a personal coach last year and we were supposed to spend one week defining what integrity meant to me and a plan on how to get that. It took me six months because I would try to tell myself that integrity was about being virtuous, pure and honest. It was about being a good mom and wife. That is what I wanted it to be and how I thought it was supposed to be. But, when I dove deeper into my value system, I realized that integrity to me at the time meant what I looked like. Did I look poised, self controlled, wrinkle-free and together? I realize this is shallow. I am working on changing my value system, but for now, I have to make sure that I have a nice wardrobe or else I don't feel very good about myself.

Then, there is the life I lead on Facebook. In this life, I feel pretty good about myself because Facebook is a perfect spot to be witty and have fun. This fits me to a tee! But, I also have realized that making witty and friendly comments and status updates isn't the true me. And, the Facebook life doesn't satisfy me enough. It is just as shallow as some of the long lost friends I have found again through Facebook. I guess it is OK to have a light and lively outlet, but my Facebook life certainly represents the old me.

Then, there is my blogging life. This is where I let it all hang out. I tell it just as it is. No sugar coating. Sometimes I wonder if I am too dark and dismal, or too into myself here on Crazy Jugs. Then again, it is who I am. I wish it wasn't so Debby Downer-ish. I wish I were cooler. But maybe just being myself is good enough... My therapist would be proud.