S'mothering Day

Early in life, my instincts were that I would be okay remaining childless and never being a mom.  Might have been my doubts in my ability to handle that level of responsibility for others well-being, manage my own frustrations when things don’t meet expectations, or the prospects offering to share their gene pool were a little shallow – in more ways than one.  It took a leap of faith, one hell of an epidural and the support of many good moms to bring me to the decision to co-mingle, wrangle and bribe my way into the motherhood tribe.

There are many parenting styles that have been lampooned and promoted over the decades  - we saw the rise and fall of the tiger mom, the helicopter parent, the squabble over nature vs. nurture, logical consequences, rationalizing with toddlers (also known as sabotaging your sanity) as well as any number of theories and philosophies in between.  My personal favorite hovered somewhere between the hands off approach, shameless bribery and what my boys call s’mothering.  On the plus side – everyone was weaned and potty-trained by the time they went to kindergarten, but there were some ongoing issues with unreal expectations of myself and others.  Once I was able to let go of those, the issues completely changed focus.  My new mantra became, “As long as the kids still want a hug at bedtime, it’s been a good day.”

With the adjusted expectations for parenting, the expectations for Mother’s Day also evolved.  A lifetime supply of macaroni jewelry, construction paper flowers and popsicle stick photo frames in exchange for expelling a watermelon sized human from a space designed to house MUCH smaller objects 90% of the time.  The luxurious spa, jewelry and floral ads suffice to provide amusement. I have no expectation of ever receiving those options and am fine awarding those to myself for personal achievements - such as permitting stupid people to continue usurping air.  The first 30 minutes of Mother’s Day, you usually feel particularly appreciated until the laundry needs changing, dishwasher needs emptying and people demand to be fed… then it’s just another Sunday.  

About a decade ago, the gals in my family proposed that we take a day off instead of expecting to be revered and go see a movie, get mani/pedis, have lunch or whatever appealed to us.  As we all grew weary of the caregiving roles we each fulfill on a weekly basis, we grew to look forward to uninterrupted chick time.  This last month, we took a staycation in a nearby small town and wandered a farmer’s market, antique stores, chillaxed in our hotel room with wine, snacks and ice cream and chatted about matters big and small.  The guys like that they have little to do with our preparation and get to have their own time together.  We get to sleep in, not cut anyone else’s food and spent time in the bathroom alone.  Moms of toddlers will testify, this is a rare and beautiful thing.

As our sons grow older, I plan to hold them to the same ideal that I raised them with – spend more time WITH me than money ON me, and I will be well blessed.  Since both of them have more time than money at this point in their lives, that should be an appealing notion all around.  Not that I wouldn’t be thrilled with a bauble in a jewelry box; my gems walk the earth and make me proud of the way they sparkle in the face of adversity, care for others and convey their ideas.   We head out next week to assist our oldest in launching the next chapter of his life – learning to survive on his own in Southern CA.  Aside from obtaining a job and balancing life skills with the responsibilities and rewards of successful adulting, he’ll be relearning how to interact with new roommates, drive again and maintain his equilibrium in the everyday world outside of academia.  

In sorting through all of the shrapnel in the room he inhabited since age 10, I’m realizing one suitcase cannot encompass it all.  There are things I want to send with him going forward and things that just aren’t practical in his new life.  He does want all 20 lbs. of Steven King and Harry Potter hardback books, but the cub scout awards, dramatic production posters and outgrown clothes will get trashed or recycled into someone else’s formative years.  Like a snake, he has outgrown this skin and needs to slough it off to make room for the growth he’s achieved in three years away at college. 

We’ve all grown and changed in countless ways with his distance – mom returned to full-time work in some strange and interesting industries, he learned to live meagerly and conserve his budget, dad learned that it feels good to be able to contribute to opportunities we didn’t have at his age.  He learned to tell a complex story in 6-10 minutes of film.  He still can’t tell a story orally in less than 15-20 minutes, but that’s a whole nother story in and of itself.

Son #2 is preparing to attend prom with a pal he has known since sixth grade.  He developed an elaborate prom proposal "promposal", enlisted the help of a squad and they will go as a group to a simple restaurant all decked out in their duds and hopefully have a safe and memorable event.  He likes to explore nature and took the opportunity to drive to Mt. Rainier this week at a good weather break.  

All of these experiences, attending school out of state, going to prom, taking a 140 mile drive on a whim, required the calming of my smothering response and lengthening of the proverbial umbilical cord to trust their roots to ground them and their wings to carry them.  All the while, hoping that their common sense had strategic weight and would win out when challenged.  The challenge to sit back and see how things play out has been the most challenging part of parenting, but also the most rewarding  to see the way that trajectories are gently corrected to even out the course.

This Mother’s Day, I wish all who nurture in maternal ways whether to humans or animals, ideas or ideals, biological or adopted - peace and blessings in a job well suited to your individual gifts.  Many nurture people and projects around them without even realizing the impact that caring for each other has in the world.  It makes a difference to spread that blanket of care wider for the greater good. 

My Very Special Size 6 Dress... You're Really Wearing THAT?!

When I worked at the funeral home, one of my responsibilities was taking in clothing to dress the deceased from families and getting that clothing to our care team on time for the deceased to be fully decked out for his or her services.  Over the time I was there we had full Scottish kilt regalia, military uniforms, tuxedos, ball gowns, wedding dresses, karate gi, cultural garments of all nations, sports team apparel, special dresses, a toga, Hawaiian shirts with flip flops and sunglasses, and every imaginable outfit in between.  For funeral and memorial services, anything goes.  For cremation, the only thing that folks cannot wear is clothing with a large amount of elastic or latex in its construction – so scuba suits are out.  Bike shorts are at the discretion of the funeral director and SPANX are nixed. No shoes for the same smoldering reason.  Our loved ones will exit the world as we enter, barefoot.

At the front desk of the funeral home, my standard answer when asked, “What clothing should we bring to dress (the deceased) in?” was  “Bring whatever you feel would make them comfortable – we will use whatever you bring and people bring everything from pajamas/robes and slippers to formal attire.”  When asked about undergarments, “Whatever you bring, we will use.  Whatever you don’t bring, the team can accommodate or improvise.”  Just enough left unsaid so that if Depends or an Ace bandage wrap was needed to keep one’s accoutrements aligned and presentable, no one was the wiser.  No one needs to know ALL the tricks of the trade.  That’s a whole nother story…

After sharing this information with my mom and some pals, we devised a plan to determine that A) we would not be subject to any undesired viewings in the event of our untimely demise and B) that we would have the last laugh.  Since clothing is often adjusted to fit the current state of the body at death, we determined that this is the only time we will all fit into a size 6 dress.  We give full permission for it to be slit up the back, pinned in place and positioned to cover the major necessities.  Thus, we will be buried, cremated or otherwise disposed of in a size 6 dress, thereby achieving a life-long goal.  

We decided this for a few reasons.  I was surprised how many people desired their family member to be adorned in full undergarments – girdle, bra, pantyhose, slip, shoes, full makeup, false eyelashes, etc.  I’m opting for comfy granny panties and bra to be utilized at the discretion of the care team. For all intents and purposes, we can be shrink-wrapped to keep the attributes in place and the dress pinned and stapled as necessary.  I used to look at folks who brought all the underpinnings in slight disbelief thinking, “Really?  Do you know how hard this is to put on a LIVING person?”  Then there were those who brought NO undergarments.  At all.  We just want him to be comfortable.  Again, I’m thinking, “If he ‘went commando’ (sans skivvies) in real life, I do NOT need to know THAT.”

In the back of my closet is a navy silk sheath made by a classic designer in a chic style with a fabulous navy floral scarf acquired in a trip to China.  The dress is a size 6.  Now I have not comfortably WORN a size 6 dress in several decades but this dress is for a very special occasion.  I won’t be wearing shoes, panty hose, girdle or possibly even a bra, but it will likely fit because it will be the last dress I ever wear and the people dressing me will take liberties to make me look good.  I am being buried in a size 6 dress come hell, high water or act of God, because I believe in their ability to work miracles.  And, because in no way shape or form, will I be viewed at my memorial service.  

I want to be a box of ashes to be shared with the adventurous to spread on every beautiful beach that my friends and family encounter.  I want to be made into a beautiful piece of glasswork and kept somewhere special by my sons.  I want to be submerged in the Great Barrier Reef and mingle with the tropical fishes off the coast of Northeastern Australia.  I want a small amount of my remains to be interred in a wall niche in South King County so my descendants can find my grave easily.  Inside the cemetery gate, turn right, end of the wall.  Eye level, and chosen specifically for that purpose.

Because my death will most likely not occur subject to my demands and expectations, I have made darn sure that my best gal pals and family know the modus operandi for the post-mortem arrangements.  There will be fashionable dresses, fabulous hats, cocktails, appetizers, chocolates and decadence for damn sure – because in the Taoist tradition, death is a celebration to another form of life. 

When my sons were young, we had cake and ice cream to make them unafraid of death.  It worked.  I had to coach them to wait until I had COMPLETED a phone call learning of a death to revel in the fact that refreshments were in order.  The first time we celebrated was after a close neighbor died a brain tumor and sustained a coma over a period of several months.  While she was ill, our oldest son would read Harry Potter books to her in her comatose state when I gave her husband a respite break to run errands.  She never corrected his pronunciation, for which he was happy to keep reading as long as she was quietly listening.  Not a problem.

I’d always feared death before spending much time with dead people at the funeral home.  Those who had lived full lives looked peaceful and like their life’s work had completed.  Those my age or younger gave me more unease.  Deaths due to accident, violence, sudden illnesses or ravaged by disease at young age were harder to process.  Even the paperwork would cause awkward feelings.  In my current job providing home health care to home-bound patients of Medicare age, we have patients well in to their 80s and 90s who are dependent on skilled nursing care to balance the medications and conditions that keep their health from degenerating. When they die, it is often a question of how much medical intervention is the right amount. 

My next job tasks will branch into providing hospice care for those coming to the end of their life span.  It is my hope that at some time in the future, I have the opportunity to be with someone at the hour of their death.  I think that would be a great honor and privilege to be welcome at the end of life to bear the responsibility not to let a person die alone.  It is a promise I made that I was not able to keep once and I feel a deep need to fulfill it within my lifetime.

However, when my time comes, any person with me is going to know the story of the size 6 dress in my closet and that it should be sent with me to the funeral home when I am called home to my eternal reward.  I certainly won’t need it where I’m going, since I will be spending eternity on a stunning white sandy beach on the coast of Australia, my personal vision of Heaven. 

MomStar how may I assist you today?

Some people rely on OnStar; my boys rely on MomStar.

This year, our youngest son will be 18 and our oldest will be 21.  By most people’s estimations, the parenting job is done.  The boys are both adults in different frames of reference.  They can both vote, one can legally drink, they can both be drafted, they can enter into sales contracts and manage their own medical information.  Seriously?  The only difference between being 12 and 21 is the proximity of mom to help out when they get in over their head.   The level of  common sense growth only increases in due course and proximity to actual failure and learning curve.We determined this service to be as useful as OnStar available on most late-model vehicles.  WE call it MomStar. Their phones have a direct dial button with this label, I'm almost sure.  It will start with a text, usually in the middle of a workday.  “Is MomStar available?”

Over the course of the text discussion the nature of advice may run from diagnosing a sinus infection, laundry stain removal, recipe consulting, on the fly budgeting "I have $43. What groceries should I get for a week?", GPS location of misplaced objects in the home, how to accomplish too many things in a short time frame - also known as our genetic trait coming from the Mr. of PROcrastination - but that's a whole nother story.

 

The amount of topics on which I have levied advice through text parenting would astound Dr. Spock. He would surely say that parenting through text is not an effective method of spending quality time and interaction.  Has he ever tried to impart common sense, knowledge or advice on a child between 12 and 20?  If they are not in the mood, the only way to reach is through text mode.

Over the last ten years, parenting by text mode has been the preferred method of parents who want to extend the distance of their umbilicus.  For those of us who fancy having a life while parenting, the cell phone has been both a curse and a blessing.  It's the first thing we can take away as punishment, but usually find it punishes us more if the kid doesn't have it and we need to impart wisdom, advice or instruction.  As with most punishments, it's harder on us than it is on them.

There was a term called helicopter parenting that I was loathe to admit was my tendency - swooping to avert disaster when natural consequences would have been a better life lesson.  I think I have adjusted my trajectory over the years to the point we haven't had any tragic consequences but we have had some costly mistakes both in ego and finances.  

I will be intrigued to see what the next generation of parenting will bring.  Blue tooth headsets with visual capabilities so we can avert disaster at a moments notice - "Billy!  Do not touch! HOT!"  Applies to both appliances at 2 and wayward females at 15 with equal clarity.  We already have video baby monitors and safety bracelets that beep if child is more than 5 feet away from caregiver's bracelet.

The protection of our human investment in our progeny is one that takes much focus and energy.

The constant battle to save our children from mortal peril as opposed to letting them learn by exposure and come to terms with making decisions on their own has been a challenge through the ages.  Thankfully, we no longer have to worry about ravaging nomads and prehistoric creatures carrying them off.  But sometimes I was tempted to put them on the market for a bargain price.  In retrospect, I'm glad I kept them both, they could end up to be a good return on my investment at some point in the future.

Kinetic sculpture video - a bit long, but intriguing

Every so often, I look for out of the ordinary kinetic creations that just make you look twice and wonder "how in the heck does that work?"  This has an inside look at the workshop and interview with the creator as well. 
He even makes a small kit version...

Even Gay Bingo has Rules, Missy

Still dragging after travels last weekend and a long week.  I've started 3 posts and they just don't have the spunk and panache to appeal to me enough to post.  Reaching back into distant history for some self-deprecating humor and a few snorts.  JB, the check is in the mail...

In the early 2000s, gay activism groups were all over fund-raisers that were in fact, fun.  Drag shows, karaoke contests, dances with drag queen guests were all the rage.  Our local AIDS Foundation hosted a monthly event called Gay Bingo, complete with an Amazonian drag queen host(ess), cross-dressing nuns as bingo verifiers, and full on show tunes themes for each occasion from Pajama Party to Wizard of Oz night.  It was a highly entertaining evening with a few games of Bingo thrown in for good measure.

My group of stay-at-home mom pals decided it would be a good evening excursion to attend and escape for an evening to blow off steam after wrangling our respective yard apes and ankle biters all day.  We were regularly getting to the point when one more episode of Barney or reading one more Dr. Seuss book could send us over the edge.

We piled into a minivan for the drive to Seattle, paid our admission fees and found a table to inhabit.  The costumes surrounding us ranged from the simple to the eccentric and elaborate. We attended on Wizard of Oz night and found everything from Dorothy and Totos to witches and Flying Monkeys.  There had been a recent addition of bar drinks and appetizers with decidedly festive and flamboyant names – and well blended.

The games began and periodically lithe young men would rip off their shirts to hoots and hollers as prompted by the crowd or host.  At one point, after 2-3 of these little flamboyant drinks, I thought it would be fun to do as well and whipped off my shirt in one swift motion.  Ever have that feeling RIGHT after doing something bold that says… how long do I have to commit to this?  Yea.  At the point I realized I was wearing my most dilapidated MOM bra, while twirling my shirt above my head, there was no going back…  Then someone at my table whipped out her cell phone and got a photo.  Oh hell no.  Captured for posterity.  But that wasn’t the worst part.  Apparently, in the middle of my wallowing in regret the “gay bingo security” asked my friends to keep me fully clothed for the rest of the night.  The effect of “Put those away lady, no one wants to see that.” 

Being of the blessed with buxom bosoms club is not without its perks and proclivities.  A good rack gets you efficient customer service at Home Depot, but really cuts into an effective golf swing and prevents more than a casual jog. But that is a whole 'nother story...

We continued our games of bingo after I was suitably dressed.  But we always have a lull in the conversation breaker when someone says, “Remember when we almost got kicked out of gay bingo.  That was a fun night.”  When your days are filled with play doh, cleaning up after toddlers and LEGOs scattered from one end of the house to the other like a tropical fire pit when barefoot, it doesn’t take much to cause excitement.

Real hopeful that the mom in question has since upgraded her phone a generation or two and that said photo has gone the way of floppy discs and Polly Pocket dolls in our lives... but stranger things have happened.

See Something; Say Something

Blog post is delayed this week because I pulled off a surprise visit to our son in CA.  He has been a producer in campus production of the MENding Monologues - a by-product of the Vagina Monologues.  No, the guys don't talk about their junk; something far more intrusive, their feelings.  I saw the show twice this weekend and the takeaway messages invite deep thought for much time after the curtain falls.
MENding is a college campus version of a movement that involves men in the process of promoting gender equality, advocates activism against violence against men, women and children throughout the world and coaches responses to prevent campus rape, date rape, bullying and hate crimes against LGBTQ students by empowering all to stand as ONE and stand up proactively against those who commit these acts.
The production has some humorous performances, some very hard-hitting social commentary and challenges the audience to stand up and resist the opportunity to just ignore things and not get involved.  Some portions are written and performed by students from their own experience.  These kids are in their late teens and early 20s.  They have a vast amount of experience on the subject and have strong commitment to ongoing activism.
In line at the airport for the remove your shoes and show us all your goods dance, I noticed the "see something; say something" sign regarding suspicious activity. It was in another airport that I did, but not regarding terrorist activity; or was it?  
When traveling, with ample time to kill, I people watch.  I had the opportunity to spend a great deal of time people watching due to my mom's tendency to overestimate the time needed to arrive and get through security.  The airline wouldn't check our bags until 3 hours before the flight - which gives you some idea of the magnitude of the time I had at my disposal.
While people-watching, I noticed that several teen-aged girls' volleyball teams were assembled in the airport in groups. It looked like they were returning or traveling to a regional competition.  Many of the girls were wearing very short shorts and I kept noticing the same guy around them - but not in a good way.  
He wasn't the coach or a chaperone.  He was furtive.  He always had his cell phone out like he was filming or taking photos and I maneuvered around with the intent of seeing exactly what was going on.  I hoped that my suspicions were wrong and he was just reading texts or something.  
From behind him about 2 feet I watched him film 2-3 girls in short shorts from behind as they bent over to adjust their bags, stretched to pick up something off the floor or tie their shoes. HE was DOING exactly what I suspected and the hair on the back of my neck stood up.  The bile in my gut jumped to my throat.  I thought for about FIVE quick seconds and then I acted.  I walked right up to a FEMALE SECURITY/TSA agent and asked her to look over my shoulder and described the guy and his activity I had observed.  He was doing the same thing again WHILE she watched.  She left and returned a short time later with three LARGE male federal marshals.  
By this time, he was already on board the plane, on my flight and we were herded into the jetway like cattle.  The marshals came through and asked us to stand to one side as they entered the plane.  I was nervous, I was anxious - I knew I was doing the right thing, but it was unnerving.  I took off my jacket to disguise myself a bit and squeezed closer to the people in front of me.  I told the imposing guy closest to me what was going on.  HE was shocked, repulsed and appreciative that I had alerted authorities.  He and his two sons put themselves between me and the marshals deplaning with the suspect.  One had the phone in a clear plastic evidence bag and the perpetrator was sweating buckets.  I don't have any idea what happened beyond that. 
Thankfully I don't think the girls he filmed ever even knew they were being filmed, photographed, observed and exploited.  
Would their clothing and naivete be called into question if they had known?  WHY?
How many of their chaperones had missed this event?  HOW HAD they not noticed?
Would one of them have had the courage to handle this?   WHY NOT?
I didn't wait to find out. I made it my business to act up and protect them.
I was proud my maternal fierceness took over and said, "OH, HELL NO, this is NOT OK!"
I acted in the manner I would want someone to act to protect MY children from being exploited. Until we ALL act in ways to protect each other from acts of violence, exploitation, intimidation, hatred, oppression and bullying, WE are victims as well as perpetrators.  In the past, I would have thought, 'I don't want to get involved', 'I don't want to raise a fuss', 'I do not have time for this', 'Someone else will step up, someone else will know what to do.'  The action took a total of 2 MINUTES. 
DON'T CHOOSE TO DO NOTHING. Even if you are wrong, it bears further investigation.  Choose to no longer look the other way.  The scarred psyche you save may be your own.  No regrets about doing the right thing.  Inaction will haunt you for choosing the cowardly path and choosing to be blind to the wrongs. How many people looked the other way and let children in our generation down?  How many of us needed someone to see something and say something.  Silence is no longer a solution, and has long been part of the problem.  SEE SOMETHING; SAY SOMETHING.
At the end of Mending Monologues, the audience is invited to stand if they or someone they know is a survivor of sexual assault.  1 in 3 is the statistic; everyone stands.  It touches all people in all forms of life of all ages.  SEE SOMETHING; SAY SOMETHING. 

Wit and Wisdom Behind Health Choices

Spending time with parents, our sons and a nephew who is on the verge of turning 3 has given me much opportunity to reflect on the passage of time.  It seems just recently that our own son, who will be 18 soon after the nephew turns 3, was a toddler on the verge of entering kindergarten.  Our oldest son will be 21 three weeks after he graduates with his second degree.  And my parents celebrate their 50th Anniversary in a few months.  But I'm still barely pushing... 49?!  When did that happen?
   This month I have a not so nifty fashion accessory called a Holter monitor to examine ventricular palpitations.  These have been occurring so long that I have lived with and grown used to them for most of my life. It's a two part system with a dedicated cell phone that transmits readings to a monitoring center periodically through the day and night.  And I get to wear three adhesive snaps across my chest to attach the sensors.  Wired for sound, as many of my family have joked.  Flashing lights tend to kill romantic notions, just as an aside, so I don't know if "extracurricular activity" makes the bells and whistles go off yet.  Will need to watch a Johnny Depp or Hugh Jackman movie to gauge that one.
   Funny that the closer you get to 50, the things that have always been mild annoyances suddenly become "we better get that checked out" issues.  It's enough to make one want to vacillate towards the extremes of everyone is going to die of something, I'll take my chances and have another cocktail or make mine a double wheat grass and kale smoothie.  That which doesn't kill us, makes us stronger.  Not sure which option I'm referring to here, but that could be a whole 'nother story.
   Having spent extensive time with this monitoring situation has given me the opportunity to realize that my current level of commitment to diet and exercise needs a reboot.  Before my cardiac system needs defibrillation and an enforced diabetes and heart condition sensitive diet.  There is a saying that if you eat and are as active as a healthy 80 year old heart patient with diabetes, you will most likely never be one.  There may be some sense to that, to which my old pals Wit-sardonic sarcasm and Wiz-realistic logic have a great deal of opinion.
WIT:  Did you hear that?  Here we go again on another health kick.  If I see kale, I am alerting the stomach that we need to mutiny that business.
WIZ:  Now, there is some sense to this thinking.  Remember how good we feel when we are fueled with wholesome and natural food?  Garbage in, garbage out.
WIT:  You can have all the natural food you see fit to eat.  I never met a carb or preservative I didn't like.  WHOA!  Did you see THAT?  NO ALCOHOL for the first two weeks??!! We cannot survive that option.  Hecks to the NO on that one.
WIZ: It's two weeks.  We obey a two drink maximum most of the time anyway.  It only bothers you because it's being restricted.
WIT: You bet it is.  You can also bet that work won't be any piece of cake during those two weeks and speaking of cake, don't we have an office birthday in that time? I am not skipping a serving of cake for any reason.
WIZ:  No one's saying you can't have it ever again.  Just letting your system get used to using its stored fat instead of providing a constant supply.  And wouldn't it be nice to go back to the pool again?  We feel so much better when we've had some float time and when our core is engaged.
WIT:  The prep to go back to the pool is going to require some serious leg hair shaving time.  It's been a VERY LONG winter.  And we're going to squish into a swimsuit on a weekly basis?  RIGHT.  How long is that going to last?
WIZ:  Do we have to duct tape you to go along with this plan?  It CAN be arranged.  I'm on board and looking forward to the raspberries on the treat list there.  See them on the treat list there?
WIT:  If it's raspberries you want - bbbhhhttthh! There.  Bronx cheer to you, chickie.  I give it a week. 
  You see what I have to deal with on a regular basis?  No wonder I need naturopathic supplements for mind chatter.  I may have the tenacity to commit to new and healthier options, but contending with these two while making choices, can be enough to drive you to drink.  We'll see how the plan goes.  We're launching Monday on an effort to rebalance natural insulin levels and function out of our fat stores.  I'm hoping it does not require living like a camel and chewing and redigesting food multiple times.  Wit and Wiz will have much to debate in the coming weeks and I'm sure there will be plenty of food for though.  Bon appetit - will report on the progress in coming weeks.