Life of a Closet Blogger

In my previous post, I mentioned I was living three lives. My life in the flesh is always wanting to be someone I am not. My life on Facebook is the superficial me where I only post the photos that make me look 20 lbs less that what I am and where my children always look happy. Facebook life is witty and superficial for me. And then, there is this life, my blogging life.

I am new to blogging and find it useful. I am able to be my true self, writing provocatively from the depths of my struggles and curiosity. However, I note that even on my own blog I don't let the boundaries rest too much. I don't use the actual names of people or places in a weak attempt to "protect the innocent." Also, I don't tell my friends and family about the blog. And, if I realize that a friend might be internet savvy and perhaps may have been able to find out about my blog, I become very red in the face.

Therefore, I am not really being true to myself. This is just the rambling of a closet blogger. And lately, I am not sure I even know who I am anymore. Here is a list of what I have discovered about myself when meeting a person for the first time... I am a blogger, mom, SAHM, retired business owner, on sabbatical from corporate burn out, designer, marketer, advertiser, writer, shopper, Christian, leader, reader, new tennis player, wife, sister, jogger, know-it-all, city girl, in mid-life, in my late 30s, artist, philanthropist, volunteer, party planner, virtual travel agent, entrepreneur, visionary, - or an All-American Wannabe? (not in order of accuracy!)

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.

Momma, did you know...?

As I read this morning's favorite blogs, my daughter Sienna stands beside me. Her blue eyes like saucers, inquisitive yet all-knowing. She asks, "Momma, did you know that the first African to walk on the moon was in 1998?"

I smile. Just last year, she wouldn't or couldn't tell me anything about what she was learning in Kindergarten. And, the year before that when I would inquire about her day, she would just throw a tantrum. There was so much disconnection between us in the last six years. But, today, the first week of first grade, she shares something that she is learning. I responded, "Really? Did you know that the first person to walk on the moon was Neil Armstrong, in 1969 - I think that was the date...?"

She responded with a smile, "I am not sure I have the right date either mom."

I googled Neil Armstrong, and clicked on Wiki's page on him. She saw the screen of his portrait. I told her that was Neil. She said,"Wow, look, he is holding his helmet while he is on the moon!"

"Hon, that is just a backdrop for the photo." And I went on telling her a little more fun facts about Neil. She then noticed that I had the Crazy Jugs setting in the china cabinet. I took them out of storage yesterday so that I could take a photo of them for this blog, then placed them on a shelf and closed the glass doors. Since then, I started remembering little things that I am looking forward to write about in future posts. I had no idea anyone would notice them. But, that girl doesn't miss a beat. She notices anything and everything that has changed from the last time she walks into a room. It is like she has special powers. She even sees every bug on the sidewalk as she walks to school. That must be exhausting yet exhilarating at times for her.

She then gets so excited when she sees the button with Neil Armstrong on one of the Crazy Jugs. It was from a museum in Wapakoneta, OH. I remember going there when I was young and eating "freeze dried ice cream" they supposedly ate in space. I can still remember the taste on my tongue! "One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind," she reads as her eyes glow from across the room. I can't wait until she tries some freeze dried ice cream too someday!

Scheduling Life and Death

I remember thinking, "Last year at this time, I was 8 months pregnant. I couldn't control my schedule of when I would actually go into labor. I knew it would happen soon. But when? I had to trust God's timing. Now, with my mother on a ventilator, I have no way in knowing when she will pass away. Life and death is inevitable. And, it is on God's time table."

Another personal value I need to give up...

OK. So, this has been a year of grieving. Grieving my mother was part of human nature. It was painful and dreadful. It was natural progression, a typical experience that although the details may differ from person to person, we all must endure the grieving of our parents and others we love at sometime or another in our lives.

But the grieving gear grinds onward. I continue to grieve my hopes and dreams.

I tell myself, "Due to a series of misfortunate events..." or "God's will for my life overpowered mine..." or "My girls and their special needs needed more from me than a career minded mother could give." Ain't that the truth.

And, as I learn more about my daughters' special needs, I realize that each day I am giving up more. I really didn't have a choice in the matter. I once was a career driven mother who strived for success so much that my goals surrounded themselves around my idea of the legacy I planned to pass down to my daughters and other women in corporate America. I prided myself as a woman who lived above the glass ceilings. The more the ceilings would surround me, the harder I would work. I was not going to give up on that, for the sake of my own daughters I would say to myself. But, I did give in. I caved. I gave up. I ran away from the prize.

Along with that, I had to give up the six-figure income that I alone provided to our family. I gave up my wardrobe and my designer purses. I gave up my Chicago office address. I still keep my business cards though. No one cares but me. I tried to drag along my professional network but realized soon enough that the professional circles I surrounded myself around didn't have the attention span to keep up with my juggling acts of dropped balls. I give up. Can't run with the wild. It was time to exchange the heels for crocs.

Now, a year later, I realize more and more that I need to give up. I learned at my last counseling session that I needed to "Stop caring what others think of me."

Well. How the hell do I do that? That shakes me at the very core of my existence. I admit, it would be a lot easier to not worry about other people's stares and judgement and opinions on how I parent my children and react during their public explosions. My therapist says that I spend way too much energy being embarrassed and trying to 'control' how other people think of me and my family.

It makes perfect sense. Don't worry about what others think of you. I just don't know how and I don't know where to draw the line. Help.

My Plan VS. God's Plan

We had Sienna (now age 6.5), moved to far west side of the Chicago and bought our first house. Lived there for a couple of years. I started freelancing and that grew into a consultancy, which meant the same thing, I was just able to charge more and feel more important about myself. I had offices all over the place, from the 83rd floor in the Sears Tower to a cubicle in Oak Brook. I enjoyed traveling for business and went to DC, San Diego, Las Vegas, and New Jersey frequently. I was very ambitious and felt more in control of my career than in motherhood. Sienna was in day care and Fred started working at Elmhurst HS. We then moved to Oak Park and Sienna has having a lot of troubles in school(s). So, we had to have her assessed and she received special services to help her with her behavior and sensory issues.

While Fred and I celebrated our 5th anniversary in Aruba, we got pregnant with Sarah. I was scheduled to develop a large trade show exhibit during my pregnancy and when she was 6 weeks, I brought her along with me to Toronto. I was absorbed with being successful and thought that God had a plan for me to grow my business and help other women, especially my own daughters as they grew older, flourish in corporate America. I had a corporate board of directors and we met monthly to help meet my business objectives.

Little did I know that God had another plan for my life. Last January, my mother called me from ER AGAIN. You may remember that she had a lot of issues. One of the most annoying was that she was a hypochondriac. She had checked herself into ER on a monthly basis and this time seemed to me like just the same as the other times. However, an ER nurse called me one Sunday morning while we were at church. We started attending Willow Chicago, one of Willow Creek's satellite churches that met in the loop in an old theater. The nurse told me that due to my mom's diabetes and other ailments that she is having difficulty healing from a bad case of pneumonia and it is possible that they may have to put her on a ventilator. After talking with Fred, we decided that I would take a trip, once and for all, to see just how severe this particular drama trauma really was. Five hours later, while driving down to Cincinnati, she had been placed on a ventilator and was in an induced coma. She finally passed away about 6 weeks later after I convinced my stepdad that she wasn't going to get any better.

During these 6 weeks, I spent a lot of time in the hospital with them. I didn't realize it, but my value system was really being challenged and turned upside down. I reevaluated the quality of life, motherhood and self care. I no longer thought about the new patterns on this season's Coach bags. One evening, after we met in Cincinnati to turn off the ventilator, I had about 20 voice mail messages. Some of the messages were from clients who knew where I was and what I was doing on that day yet they still thought their needs somehow took priority over mine on this dark day. I told Fred that I needed a break and didn't want to return to work for a while. Being the boss of your own agency does not allow for any sick days and there are certainly no days available for bereavement.

There were also no days available for childcare issues. And it seemed that I got weekly phone calls from Savana's preschool about her behavior. As one discussion was said, "She is a danger to herself and other students around her. We need you to pick her up." Another presentation to a team of directors at a Fortune 500 that I had spent months pursuing - cancelled. Vaporized just like that! I just couldn't keep up with the pace of my career. I slowly watched it fade away in the distance behind me. As I pursued my exit strategy, Fred and I decided that I would stay at home with the girls. We were paying over $1000 a month in childcare and we would still need to downsize and move to be able to live on his teacher salary alone. So, we sold our gorgeous home in Oak Park and moved to rural Ohio into a house in Laketown.

During this transition, before we made the big move, I thought I would tap into the rich medical metropolitan resources to see why Sienna was having so much difficulty. Through this time, we received a diagnosis of ADHD and Sensory Integration. After we moved to Ohio, we then got a diagnosis on the Autism Spectrum which is probable Asperger's. Our youngest daughter, Sarah is only two now and is also experiencing very similar sensory challenges.

Our lives have changed so much in the past year. One of the million things I have learned through this chapter of our lives is that you cannot predict or control your life, you can only manage how you respond to it.

What are Crazy Jugs?

I was raised by a single mother. She was raised by an alcoholic mother. We moved around a lot throughout my childhood. When ever someone asks me, "Where you from?" I always stumble. I used to say, "I moved around a lot as a child."

To which people would then consistently respond, "Oh, was your father in the service?"

I would answer, "No, my mother married and divorced a lot."

As I matured, I realized this was not something to share. It was something to keep privately.

I did move around a lot. Born in Cleveland, Ohio, my parents then moved to Cincinnati when I was two years of age. This is when my father fell in love with a red head friend of his from med school and told my mother he wanted a divorce. My father then moved to live and plant roots with his new love in Saltville, a small town in central Ohio. I now tell people that I am from Saltville even though I only lived there from ages 14 to 17. From the day I was born, I didn't live in a town longer than two years.

Every time we would move, ever since I can remember, my mother has placed the crazy jugs prominently in our apartment. I can barely remember making my own crazy jug with my mom. I must have been about five years old. I do remember wanting to make another one and asking my mom over and over to make another crazy jug with me. To this day, I have a stash of small items that I collect hoping to make another crazy jug. Small mementos, like political campaign buttons, little favorite toys or anything that might resemble some sort of a pop icon or special memory. They are then stuck on a sort of caulking substance that is spread all over a wine bottle. To me, they mean a lot. I have examined them even meditating on them for decades.

To an innocent person, they may look like junk. Trash that was smeared on an empty wine bottle. As I continue to mature, I realize that these crazy jugs symbolize three generations of women struggling to find fulfillment and survival. Through the struggles of a variety of mental illnesses and both personal and interpersonal conflict, these crazy jugs prove to withstand time and change even though the actual bodies and minds of the women who created them do not.

Life's a Beach

At the beach on Thursday, Sienna was enraged because her toddler sister, Sarah was getting all the attention from the family and me. Sienna went to grab an adult sized raft that Sarah, looking as cute as a spring bunny, was relaxing on. I saw the vengeance in Sienna's eyes and before she grabbed the mattress out from under her little sister, I stopped her and quietly told her if she didn't get control of her anger, she would have to sit on the blanket in a time out. She screamed or groaned or did something inappropriate, I actually forget some of the details because my adrenaline kicked in.

After I ushered her over the our blanket, I told her to sit down until she could get control. Like a hurricane, she growled, kicking sand, fluffing our blanket while sand blazed everywhere. We had friends and family sitting around with babies who were getting sandblasted. I tried to ignore her until I realized this, I walked up to her and told her we would have to go to leave and sit in the van until she got a grip. I had to toss her long body, arms and legs flailing over my shoulder and carry her up the van. Subtlety was no longer an option.

Sienna kicked and screamed in the van. She put a whole new spin on 'if the van is a rockin', don't come knockin'!"

Five minutes passed, it seemed like five hours to me. She was animalistic. I had to spank her bottom, just to send a shock to her system and for her to get into reality mode. After that, she kept saying repeatedly, "I'm bad. I need to be in jail..." while slapping her face and punching her head. Something that my therapist told me was typical with spectrum disorders. (When he told me this at our recent appointment a couple of days ago, I got teary-eyed. I am still in denial over having girls on the spectrum - I can convince others that they have it but not myself- still!!! I guess I am still hopeful.)

We then walked back to the beach. Friends and family offered condolences as if they just witnessed tragedy. Every encounter was as awkward as hearing conversations in a funeral home. I was consumed with embarrassment. As if the energy burned on being a good mom dealing with a child's tantrum wasn't enough, I had to expend extra energy worrying what everyone thought of me, hoping they'd still be my friend. I stewed on people's "friendly" suggestions on how I might have handled it better.

I wish I could start charging admission for the public entertainment, or at least have someone produce our lives in a reality TV program. I could use the money to pay for my therapy! My current issue I am struggling with is that I am trying to not let other's opinion ruin my life. I try to hard to impress others and when I have two kids on the spectrum while being new in a small town, I have to just let that go. How? I still don't know. I am a work in progress. I am sad that I had to let my career and all of the dreams surrounding a successful career go along my life in Chicago and now, my reputation in a new small town. I focus on stress management and continue to grieve it all.

God continues to mold me. Ouch.

Making Memories Everyday

I realized while rinsing the plates off after dinner that I have a random glass plate that I usually use to serve meals on for our ordinary dinners. I wonder if someday the girls will have some sentimental value on this glass plate. Then I realized, every day is a possible memory that will stick in the girls minds and hearts for many many years.

What will they remember? What will stick? I want them to remember the good times. I am going to vow to take more time making good memories and be proactive about my motherhood.

Sometimes, I go through the days looking for every opportunity for convenience. I am going to try to relish the moments that make my life rich instead of rushing through and looking for easy ways out.

Swim Class

I lug the girls to swim class at the beach. Today is the first day. We have enjoyed our daily visits to the beach and I thought today would be no exception. However, as soon as Sienna sees the social setting of her swim class, she regresses to baby talk and shuts down into utter avoidance. There she stands wimpering in the corner near the showers next to the concession stand terrified to take one step closer to the water and children. Sarah, my zestful toddler is wanting to push her stroller and take a walk far away - away from the crowd - away from the upcoming conflict with her older sister and away from any person. She walks and walks, in the zone and will not listen to anything I say. It is as if she can't hear me. Although, I know she can hear me because she has acute hearing. She can hear the train from the town 20 miles from us before it is humanly possible for anyone else to hear it. With her super sonic hearing, she is startled by the choochoos in her little ears that it will wake her up from deep sleep. I know she can hear me say, "Sarah, stay where I can see you. Sarah, why don't you play here." I realize that I need to get my oldest daughter settled into her swim lesson before I can deal with the toddler so I bargain. I barter. I bribe. There she stands, stiffened with noncompliance and fear. Feeling so frustrated that little Sarah keeps walking away from us, I sternly tell Sienna that we are leaving and she will spend the rest of the day in her room. For a second, I can feel all the eyes on me from all the mothers along the beach. The mothers that sit, so relaxed on their lawn chairs, flipping through their People magazines while their two to three children sit in obedience waiting patiently for their older siblings to finish swim class. I wonder what the other moms are thinking. Are they forgiving or do they take pity on us? Desperately wanting answers for my ever-changing yet always existing circumstance of autism, I welcome suggestions. I feel so awkward as a mother. Yet, somehow, when ever anyone gives me a suggestion, I resent the advice and the person for not understanding the full breadth of my situation.

The next 30 minutes I spend in constant trouble shooting mode, sweating. I don't like the term, 'white trash' because I believe that people are created by God and He doesn't make trash. I have never liked that term but unfortunately, it is a term that others can relate to. I feel like a white trash mom. A mom who probably didn't graduate from high school and she is probably on food stamps. She is usually seen slapping her kids at Walmart and screaming at her kids saying 'Shut up stupid!' I don't do that but this dose of autism has roughened me up. I am not the mom I thought I would be. I am only one iota away from being a mom like that at times.

Other than our own white trash freak show, all anyone can hear on the peaceful morning at the beach are the kids splashing as they enjoy learning to swim. I then hear a girl I recognized from Sienna's kindergaren class run up to her mom. Her name is Ann and she throws her arms around her mom as her mom holds a nice fluffy towel out to wrap around her. Ann tells her mom how fun class was and that she met a new friend, Tricia. "Tricia is is seven too!"

Oh how I wish that Sienna would have been in Ann's swim class. That is one of the reasons I signed her up for that class. I like Ann and her mom and I had thought that Sienna meshed well with Ann. I have invited Ann over for play dates. She came to our house once. She has people over to her house a lot. She lives in one of those houses that has a pool and lots of things for kids to do. Her mom used to have play groups over at her house. I think she might still have play groups over, but we aren't getting invited. It seems like we invited people over but don't get invited to other people's homes. That is what happens when you have two children with autism.

I pulled Sienna out of swim class for the rest of the summer. Most moms would give it another try. I know my limitations. Most moms would chalk it up to a bad morning. I have had too many of those. Instead, I throw myself a pity party and cry in front of the girls all the way home.