You Can Count on Me

I started counting recently. Sometimes counting. Sometimes timing. Just keeping track of the time. For instance, six seconds seems like much longer when you’re rushing out the door. Really? Only six seconds to put your shoes on. When I count, I don’t scream at Lily to HURRY UP. What is six seconds in the grand scheme of this journey?

Now, I haven’t always been a counter. In fact the concept of counting to ten before verbally decapitating someone has always been foreign to me. I scream, feel immediate guilt, apologize and then carry the shame around for…well, I’m working on it.

Anyway, I started counting at the elementary school. At morning drop-off, people zip in and out of that parking lot as if they are rushing a hemorrhaging gunshot victim to the ER. If someone stops, holding up traffic to let the buses exit, said person gets unfriendly hand gestures. People. Lose. Their. Minds: throwing their hands in the air, flipping you off, pounding their steering wheels, etc. Now, I remember what it was like to have to rush to a job, so, one morning, I took out my phone and timed the buses leaving. It took 35 seconds.

Perhaps if you do have a gunshot victim in your backseat, that 35 seconds would be the difference between life and death. If not…1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.9.10…calm down.

I counted to 10 so I didn’t say calm the f#$k down. This counting business WORKS. Let’s take it on the road!

Today, I took my mom grocery shopping. She has been home now for a few weeks and doing much better. Still, I don’t want to just set her loose on the road after our recent scares. She is still moving pretty slowly. Lots of people move slowly at Walmart and not always because they’re 83 and recovering from a hospital stay. Sometimes they are inconsiderate and rude and don’t even realize that they’re standing in the middle of the aisle blocking everyone’s progress while they decide which cereal to buy. 1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8. Not so bad.

In the past, I scooted my mom through the store, apologizing repeatedly to everyone whose hurried progress we impeded. Today, I helped her navigate through uncrowded aisles and gently pulled her cart out of the middle of the aisle.

We made it through without incident.

I guided her to a non-crowded checkout line with a cashier I know–because I’m at Wal-Mart all. the. time–is very sweet and patient. My mom always writes a check, and it takes longer than it takes to swipe a card. Normally, I rush her through this process, “Mom, you can just give your check to the cashier; you don’t have to fill it out.” But today I realized that at 83 having lost her husband of more than 50 years, two sons, most of her hearing, many friends, a lot of her independence, and nearly her life a month ago, she could write a check if she wanted.

Then I counted. 1.2.3.4.5…the woman behind us rolled her eyes. 6.7.8.9.10…she sighed loudly and looked at the person behind her for commiseration. I stared at her and felt my blood pressure rising and angry words catching in my throat. 11.12.13.14.15. the guy in the next line lobbied for my agreement on something, “Isn’t that right, Blondie?” Shut. The. F#$k. Up. Start again: 1.2.3. Oh she’s done.

It took her 18 seconds to write a check. I apologize to the woman behind us in line if she was 18 seconds late for her next important appointment, or if the gunshot victim in her car died during those 18 seconds or the subsequent 6 it took my mom to produce her id. I met her glare with a smile.

I can’t tell you how many times I’m surprised that what seems to be taking so long is often just a few seconds. It’s often something Lily or my mom is doing. I’m trying really hard not to rush them anymore. I feel like I’ve been hurrying Lily since she was born–even before she was born–and the other day I watched her swinging effortlessly across the monkey bars. She no longer needed me to walk beside her or catch her when she jumped down or just “be there.” A big old lump rose up in my throat as I thought…Oh no…I rushed it all away.

So, I’m counting instead rushing today. Because sometimes those seconds seem so long, until you’re on the other side looking back and wishing you had just a few more.

21 Days: Day 3

Today started out wonderfully. Last night, we prayed that school would be canceled today, and lo and behold at 5:45 a.m. it was. We (or I) were super excited for a day of doing nothing but watching movies and snuggling. That is a pipe dream because my little dynamo girl wants an itinerary and a social director, not her actual mom who prefers to sit curled up in a chair trying to cajole her into watching a movie or reading or just snuggling. Anyway, this morning my own mom quickly snapped me out of that daydream by sending me on a drug store errand. I won’t go into detail about said errand, but suffice it to say: It was unsavory. The kind of purchase that might send someone to Walgreens incognito. Fortunately, in my advancing age, I’ve reached a level of self-awareness that no longer lets my self-image get wrapped up in cashiers’ opinions of me and my purchases. Still. The only snuggling was with the cat.

1. I woke up easily because I was anticipating that I’d be able to go back to bed as soon as the superintendent called. So, I drank my hot water with lemon and ginger, counted lots of blessings and was supremely grateful to crawl back into bed at 6:15 a.m. and count a few more.

2. My goal is always to be real and genuine and truthful, so describing today’s meaningful experience also involves divulging that I was nasty today. I was short-tempered with my mom, impatient with Lily, irritated with the geriatric dog and just an all-around bitch. P was wise enough to stay in his room so he didn’t face my wrath. Then, this afternoon, I spent a blissful hour and a half talking to one of my dearest friends on the phone. We laughed until my sides ached and then talked about some serious stuff too. It was like a therapy session and coffee date combined. She is also my best coffee friend. When we worked together, we hit every Starbucks in northeast Ohio and western PA. Although we live states apart now, we still manage to have coffee dates a couple times a year, even if they are only on the phone. So, while I was talking to her, I had a cup of coffee. Yes, I cheated on the fast. I put cream in it too. I’m not feeling horrible about it though as my little perfectionist self would have in the past because you know what? I have been a lot nicer since then. I’m not sure if it was the delicious caffeinated delight or just laughing and chatting with a dear friend, but my soul got some much-needed nourishing.

3. I did better today with my Thank You note. It’s the coffee. I am admittedly smarter when I drink coffee.

Last year, “cheating” on the fast would have filled me with guilt and shame. This year, I realize: There’s no shame in knowing and admitting that I chose to drink a cup of coffee. I didn’t smoke a cigarette or use any illegal drugs. It’s coffee. And God still loves me. And it was soooooo good. I’m not sure if I’ll drink it tomorrow or not. School’s already been cancelled so I might. I’ll be a way better social director if I do; That. Is. For. Sure.

Oh, I forgot to mention: I gained 2.5 pounds. Isn’t that awesome? Not even sure how that happens? I stayed away from nuts today. Stupid. Freaking. Scale.

Despite some shortcomings, it was a pretty good day. I made spaghetti squash with peanut sauce that was absolutely phenomenal–I don’t know how I could be gaining weight :). How are you guys doing? I have talked to several friends who are doing way better than I am. Good for you, you bunch of overachieving show-offs 😉 I still love you. And thankfully, I’ve also heard from some people who, like me, are struggling. I’m praying for you, my sisters. And by the way, I’m super grateful for all of you who are with me on this fast, cheering from the sidelines, and even those of you who are reading this simply to fuel your loathing. Keep on keeping on, my lovelies!

xoxo

I’ll Do Better Next Time.

We got a hot tub a few weeks ago. It is perhaps my most favorite thing we have ever owned. Mostly because one of my most favorite things to do is nothing, as evidenced by my repeated pleas, “Can we just sit and BE?” My babies are antsy, though, so that is usually met with, “That’s BORING! Can’t we do something fun?”

There is not much you actually can do in a hot tub. Granted the kids manage to kick each other, splash, steal seats, turn off all the jets, make amazing light shows, play charades (the only mom-approved hot tub game), turn water bottles into guns and projectiles, and so forth. Occasionally, though, they sit and look at the stars or try to catch snowflakes on their tongues. Occasionally, they are able just to sit and be.

I treasure those rare moments.

When we were young and naive and had Chloe, every experience was new and fun. Parenthood was like being a kid in a candy store. Again with Peyton, even though we were older and more experienced, trucks and dirt and boy stuff was delightful in a whole new way. Now, I’ve mentioned a million times that Lily was a surprise baby. And despite my love for babies, I planned to love them from afar.

A funny thing happened though. Chloe grew up and moved away and taught me how fleeting childhood is. I am so grateful to have another little one. A couple more years of school parties, tooth fairies and Christmas magic. Chloe taught me how to be a mom. She was my guinea pig. I did so many things wrong and made so many mistakes, but she didn’t know because I was her only mom. One time I read somewhere that if you just love them enough…if you just love them enough it makes up for those mistakes. I think that’s true because she’s all grown up and she’s my best friend.

Course it could be that she’s super-forgiving, having secret intensive therapy, or writing a Mommie Dearest kind of tell-all. That’s cool too.

Anyway, I still make too many mistakes, but I believe that Peyton and Lily are blessed for the mistakes I made with Chloe. I believe all my kids are blessed for the mistakes my parents made. I believe that mistakes aren’t for making you feel guilty and inferior but for helping you learn. I believe in owning your mistakes–not just saying you’re sorry but meaning it and doing better.

It’s interesting when I consider how God answers my prayers. If I pray for patience, He gives me strife so I can learn…what? Patience. If I pray for strength, He guides me through difficult times and reminds me of the source of strength. When I pray for forgiveness, God shows me so many opportunities to give it.

As long as we are on this planet, we will make mistakes. People we love will make mistakes. Each time we have choices. Guilt or grace. Forgiveness or resentment. During this month of gratitude, I’m grateful for millions of mistakes and the opportunities they bring to do better.

Guilt-Free

I am just going to preface this by saying I am in no way looking for sympathy. I love my life, my family, and feel very blessed even though I feel slightly overwhelmed today. In the past month, we moved Chloe to Pittsburgh and sent Lily to kindergarten. After a two-week reprieve, Peyton broke his arm, kicking off an ongoing ordeal of xrays and surgery and more xrays and doctor’s appointments. Thankfully, P is good, his arm is healing, and his spirits are high.

Now, in between all our normal activities of work, school, dance, gymnastics, football–Peyton still wants to go to practices and games–and doctor’s appointments in Akron, we are moving my mom into our house. This requires packing up my family of origin’s home and locking the door on that chapter of life. Thankfully my sister has been vigilantly helping my mom pack because I have been little or no help. To thank her, my mom is giving her a lot of crap and referring to her as the “slave driver.”

Normal right, everyone’s life is busy and hectic to a degree, but I feel like lately there has been a larger than normal chaos cloud centered over ours. I attribute part of that to my quitting smoking. Again. After writing about how I treated myself to the Birchbox, I thought it was pretty bad to enjoy a reward for something I hadn’t done. So I stopped smoking. Like last time, I prayed that God would give me strength to make it through the cravings, that He’d help me not to kill anyone or gain 50 pounds. And He has. Sorta.

But, I should have been prepared. I have been smoking off and mostly on for about 25 years, so I’ve quit lots of times. Every time, Satan freaking unloads on me. It’s as if there’s a little group of evil minions whose sole job is to make sure I never successfully quit. “Come on, she quit again! What are we gonna do this time? Her dad’s dead…Chloe went to college…Lily’s in school…Her mom’s all ready moving in…Let’s break Peyton!” Really, you bastards?

Additionally, every time I quit, I get sick. Really sick. This time, it was the worst respiratory nonsense I’ve had since, well, the last time I quit smoking two years ago. I’ll admit I am a dreamer, an idealist, and often an idiot. I wholeheartedly believe that each time I quit it will be the last time. I truly trust that I won’t gain weight, I will feel like a million dollars, look 10 years younger, and be able to roll around in my bed throwing all the money I save into the air. I don’t have unrealistic expectations. Not at all.

I’m Mary. I’m a nicotine addict. Today is my 9th day clean. I have not killed anyone, but I have gained 5 pounds. Yesterday, I opened my Birchbox completely guilt free.