April 23: Earth-Hates-Me Day
Incessant snowfall
Relentlessly burying
My frozen spirit
Groundhog Day or Earth Day: A Spring(?) Haiku
April 23: Earth-Hates-Me Day
April 23: Earth-Hates-Me Day
When the going gets tough…
April is Parkinson’s Awareness Month and this is a disease that impacts me daily. About a decade ago, my husband was diagnosed with PD at the age of 44. This hit us out of the blue—there was no family history to foreshadow the condition and we were attributing his symptoms to something very mundane—a pinched nerve, carpal tunnel syndrome, etc.
I could write a lot about my husband and how terrifically he copes with the hand he’s been dealt… The man never complains or feels sorry for himself whereas I’m pretty sure that, in his shoes, I’d be the hostess of a 10-year pity party.
There are lots of nuances to his symptoms, but the upshot is this: His day is ruled by his medications and whether or not they are working. We sometimes refer to it as a Jekyll and Hyde existence but that doesn’t seem quite appropriate—while it’s “good” when his meds are “on” and “bad” when his meds are “off,” the whole Jekyll/Hyde analogy makes it sound like he turns evil, when he actually handles his off times with as much grace as any human being could muster.
Recently, he came up with another analogy—when his meds are off, he’s wooden and can’t move and when they are on he becomes “a real boy.” This seems more appropriate, and the transformation of how my husband comes to life when his medication kicks in is not unlike Pinocchio.
But I won’t presume to tell his story and instead will share my own. This is what I’ve learned having Parkinson’s “by proxy”…
1) There isn’t much I can control. I have a control-freak nature. And while having children was my first lesson in learning the limits of what I can control, dealing with my husband’s Parkinson’s is like being in graduate school. I find myself reciting the Serenity Prayer a lot. It’s a good prayer. I’m hoping one of these days it will sink in.
“I know God will not give me anything I can’t handle. I just wish that He didn’t trust me so much.” –Mother Teresa
2) There’s a method to His madness. While I think the adage, “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle” has some truth in it, I also think He likes pushing you right up against your limits at times. For example, I’m not the stop-and-smell-the-roses type. For a Midwesterner, I’ve got a rather intense East Coast approach to life and Parkinson’s is a condition that could try the patience of the most easy-going Southerner.
When I would think of my husband or myself dealing with illness, I imagined being struck with a more common condition, like cancer. This is a horrible, awful thing to deal with—no doubt about it. However, in many cases you can “battle” cancer, and if you’re lucky, you can win. Trust me, I’m not wishing my husband had cancer instead of Parkinson’s, but I sometimes think that fighting cancer would be more in line with my temperament. I like to think I would bravely don my armor and be at his side to help slay the dragons. But Parkinson’s isn’t a dragon—it’s the mosquito in the room whose buzzing keeps you up all night and slowly drives you insane.
There’s a David Byrne song with some slightly blasphemous lyrics that captures my perspective on this, “Green grass grows around the backyard shithouse. And that is where the sweetest flowers bloom. We are flowers growin’ in God’s garden, and that is why he spreads the shit around.”
Now, I don’t believe in a spiteful God, but I do think He is aware that my Serenity Garden is a bit overrun with weeds–and that my husband’s illness is part of a larger plan intended to help fertilize the flowers.
3) God provides help where you least expect it. Despite the negative lessons I’ve learned about myself, I’ve also learned that I’m not completely on my own. While testing me big time on the patience front, God has also sent some unlikely angels to support me through this process. People who accept me despite the aforementioned shortcomings. I’m very thankful for these people in my life.
4) We all need to cut each other some slack. There’s one aspect of my lack of patience that I’ll accept, and that is my growing intolerance of hatred and judgment and negativity. Life can be tough. But most of us are doing the best we can, and we all need to remember that. When it comes to disability awareness, I’m probably on the “more enlightened” end of the spectrum having worked for two organizations serving people with disabilities and consequently spending a lot of time around people with various conditions. Despite this experience, I cringe when I think about past incidents where I might have thought someone’s slowness was just disregard for other people’s time or assumed that someone’s lack of balance was the result of too many drinks. I know there are times when my husband’s symptoms are probably misinterpreted and that if others knew the true cause they would be more tolerant and considerate as well.
5) It’s anybody’s guess. Parkinson’s is a very individual disease. While there’s a typical progression to the illness, not everyone experiences their symptoms the same way. Some people’s illness progresses very quickly, others more slowly. I have no idea exactly what’s in store for my future–but then again, does anybody? I also have no idea how well I’ll continue to cope with it all. My only hope is that I continue to recognize the blessings in my life and appreciate those who are helping my husband and me along this journey.
Can you read this?
You may be noticing by now that Stormy and I both have a few quirky traits. Or perhaps a long running list of them is more accurate. One that I haven’t mentioned yet is my actual list-making/note-taking methods. To keep me on task, I prefer jotting my thoughts or reminders on random scraps of paper. You can often find multiple documents torn in weird shapes spread over my desk or kitchen table. My handwriting also is considered what some call “chicken-scratch.” Even my husband, after 13 years, has never made it through a full shopping list of mine without having at least a few words for me to decipher.
I think it may be because having one organized list that looks clean and neat is too easy to ignore. It isn’t begging for attention. Random notes tossed all over are a good reminder about what needs to be attended to. If I am in a meeting and having to use a professional-looking notepad, I never write on the lines. My takeaways are jotted in all different angles across the paper. People are baffled that I can read and follow my notes. If I haven’t proven myself to be very organized, it may be a source of concern for many in my office, but it eventually turns into a constant source of amusement.
This weekend at the cabin, my girlfriend looked down at one such list on the counter while making us a Bloody Mary. Shaking her head about my writing, she challenged me to come read what I wrote. I walked over and rattled off what it said:
- Planting trees
- Ant Dr.
- Charlie’s Angels
- Hair off Barbie
- Advice from Grandma
- Bumping into the sign
- Naked PowerPlate
Her response? First there was silence. A bit later with a grin, she mentioned “I don’t even know what to say or ask. You left me speechless.” I think she was a bit scared to know how I would explain that random list–which made perfect sense to me. See, there is a reason no one should be able to read my notes!
I’d be interested if anyone could figure out what that list was for. Come on, take a guess!
True Confessions III: Bad parenting
A few weeks ago, a Facebook friend posted about a traumatic parenting incident. With a toddler at home and a job that requires working odd hours, she had dozed off while her toddler napped and forgot to meet her other young daughter at the bus stop. A conscientious mother, she felt terrible and was beating herself up a bit over her all-too-human lapse.
I sympathized, but inside I thought, “Oh honey, if that’s the worst you can come up with you’re doing pretty good…” Which leads us to our next True Confessions topic: Bad Parenting
Stormy: The little nipper – As a brand-new mother with a brand-new son, I decided to clip my newborn’s long fingernails. With 20 nieces and nephews, I was no stranger to taking care of babies, so I took out the tiny nail clippers and “CLIP!” snipped the end of my son’s thumb. He wailed, I cried, and I quickly handed him off to my husband who finished the job. A half-dozen years later, as a frugal young mom, I was giving my son a haircut once when I very cleanly snipped the top of his ear. It was one of those moments where I immediately registered what I had done but there was complete silence for about 10 seconds as my son scrunched up his face and I braced myself for what followed. He wailed, I cried. After that, I was willing to “cut my losses” and pay the Children’s Barbers for future trims.
KitKat: Just shake it off – I took pride in the fact that as a first time mom I didn’t get panicky over every little bump or fall. My son would take a tumble and I would tell him to “shake it off” instead of running to his rescue. This worked well for awhile. My son didn’t dramatize every little bump. Like most two-year-olds, he loved to run. Though still would trip over his own feet quite a bit. One day, pretending to let him win a race we were having down the sidewalk, he fell over (like many other times). He got up, I said shake it off and he took off running to win the race. Proudly, he turned around with a huge smile and blood covering his face.
Stormy: No really, I’m sick – My older daughter has an unusual relationship with pain. She has a crazy high threshold for physical pain: Shots when she was a toddler, broken bones, acute appendicitis, all hardly elicited a wince. At the same time, she has a low threshold for emotional pain or drama. So in grade school, when she told me she was sick and wanted to stay home, I chalked it up to “school-itis” and insisted she go. An hour later, I got the call from the school nurse. My daughter had thrown up in the hallway on the way to class. Discomfort and embarrassment. Way to go, mom.
KitKat: Full moon – As an over-scheduled family, we are often running out the door in a panic to make it to different events and activities. My kids learned early that they better be able to fend for themselves to get ready for anything they deemed important enough to show up on time. For the most part, they show up presentable. One Saturday after arriving at gymnastics class, I learned my daughter didn’t have on her required shorts over her leotard. She just turned five so I do usually check her out before leaving the house, but it was an extra crazy morning. It might not seem like a big deal. I didn’t think so as I sent her in with a quick apology to the teacher and took my spot with other parents to watch from behind the glass. I saw my sweet daughter run out. As she turned to face her teacher, all of the parents were faced with my daughter’s now-turned-thong leotard. I spent an hour listening to the giggles of the other parents as my daughter mooned us in a variety of positions.
Stormy: Bad day on the playground – My newly adopted Chinese daughter was 5 years old when she had an unpleasant encounter with a wood play set. We picked her up from day care and my usually sunny girl was crabby and whiney for the next hour or so (but whining in Chinese, so we didn’t really know what she was complaining about). Finally, at dinner she was scowling and wincing and gesturing to her bottom, so I took her into the bathroom and made her “drop trou.” There, embedded in her rosy little behind was a 2×4. Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration, but only slight. It literally was the equivalent of half a toothpick. I yelled for my husband (do you see a theme here?) who extracted the offending splinter from my grateful daughter’s delicate derriere. In fact, after removing it and washing it off, we taped it to a piece of cardboard and labeled it, for posterity. Or for posterior-ity, if you will.
KitKat: Time to learn a lesson – My son is careless with his things. Off our watch and at school it is even worse. His desk and locker is a disorganized mess. We have missed conference appointment times, homework, and teacher notes that were crumbled in his desk. Numerous water bottles and clothing items have left for school and never returned. It is a constant battle we have with him. Take care of your things. Be responsible. When it was time for a skating session in P.E. class and he wanted to bring full hockey gear, we sat down and discussed that his equipment is valuable and he has to bring it home each night. Sure enough by the fifth day he showed up at home with no gear. Instantly he started his defense, how he put it nicely away after class and someone must have stolen it. He did look for it. It wasn’t his fault. That is when my tirade started about how careless he is with his things and always had an excuse. After making him sit through a lot of talk about responsibility, telling him he could help pay to replace it and adding on the dreaded no electronics punishment – I stormed off saying maybe he would finally learn his lesson. It was a long weekend. Then, the following Monday, we got a call from school saying they had found his equipment. It had accidentally got moved by a janitor when moving some tables around and they were sorry for any inconvenience. They had found his nicely packed bag, safely tucked into the other classroom. My lesson ended up in being how to say sorry when you are wrong.
Stormy: Putting the teeny in Martini – And my greatest shining moment, my crowning achievement of parenting, was the time my family and my sister’s tried to escape the relentless winter with a hotel water park getaway in downtown Minneapolis. After several hours in the water park, my husband was in my sister’s room watching the hockey game with my brother-in-law and the kids were in my room watching Nickelodeon. I jumped in the shower to wash the chlorine off of myself and came out to find the kids huddled around my youngest who looked positively green. “What’s wrong?” I asked my son. He responded that my petite 5-year old daughter had poured a glass of Kool-aid and wasn’t feeling well. I looked at the plastic pitcher no longer full of the bright, colorful liquid inside—not Kool-aid, but premixed Cosmopolitans. Nearly 100% booze. I panicked for a bit: How much had she drank? How would I explain this to the paramedics? I spent several minutes debating the lesser of two evils: Having the Department of Human Services questioning my obviously neglectful parenting or having my daughter experience alcohol poisoning. When I looked at my little girl, her skin was pale and her eyes were glassy–this wasn’t good. Then, she promptly threw up the bright pink poison. Immediately, the color came back in her face and her eyes brightened. Crisis averted. I could keep my terrible parenting a secret. Well, until now. But since my daughter is now a beautiful, happy 18-year-old, I managed to get her to adulthood in spite of myself.
KitKat: On the rocks – Stormy isn’t the only mom who inadvertently provided their child with a taste of liquor well before appropriate. In the summer, often after work I go up on my balcony to enjoy some fresh air, a VO Manhattan and page through a magazine. Once in awhile the kids will follow and my daughter would always ask for ice. I’d grab one from the glass and suck off any lingering whiskey (or so I thought) before feeding it to her. This would keep her quiet for a bit, which was a big deal at three. One morning, she asked for ice and my husband grabbed one out of the freezer. We were quickly told his ice didn’t taste good like Mommy’s. No wonder she was quiet! From then on I remembered to bring a cup of pure ice out with me.
Okay, it’s clear that neither of us are going to be getting Mother of the Year anytime soon. Does anyone else have a good story to share? After all, this whole parenting gig is Easier Said Than Done…
What goes up must come down: A Spring Break fairy tale
Well, I am back, and not too happy about it. As Stormy mentioned in her last post, I was off enjoying Spring Break with my family. Now usually, I would say “enjoying” a family vacation is a bit of a stretch. It usually means whiny kids out of their element, too much together time and expectations set way too high on the quality memories we would create together. Plus, family also includes my parents who we stay with in Arizona. This adds to my personal stress of keeping my children from disrupting their calm lives and of wanting to show off how great my children are turning out due to our fabulous parenting skills. (This usually is when my parents witness all of us at our worst, as I try to force the unrealistic image of a perfect family which then turns into a complete family meltdown.) Toward the end of vacation, I usually start dreaming about my escape back to work. But, this trip was different.
Perhaps my children have reached a new stage. Now they are old enough to also appreciate the difference the warmth of the sun and relaxed schedule can make to them and their parents’ mood. Nor, do they need the same strict routines to function like somewhat tolerable human beings. Or, it could be that I have
relaxed a bit and decided if my five-year-old daughter wants to do her normal nonstop morning chatter to her grandparents, instead of me, there is no need to intervene. Instead, I took the selfish approach of picking up my book and enjoying the morning quiet. After a couple days, it became the morning routine and household joke as I stumbled through the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, waved to all (without a word) and headed outside to my lawn chair to read. “There goes Mom again.” I’d be joined a couple hours later as the kids jumped into the pool. Which leads me to another great stage, I didn’t have to be in the pool morning till night watching the kids play. They both can swim on their own now. I could pretend to watch (with my sunglasses masking my gaze) all the “look at me” and “watch this” tricks poolside. Once in awhile I would make my appearance as the special guest jumping in and getting lots of excitement and applause for it.
Aside from a few outings, we pretty much just hung out, relaxed and enjoyed the setting. (One outing was on horseback, a favorite activity since childhood of mine that I will post about in more detail later.) I didn’t even check in at work more than filtering through emails once a day. Pretty impressive with a new website launching the day I returned. I do have to give my unplugged-from-work credit to my great and completely self-sufficient staff, who told me (and meant it) to STOP whenever I tried to check in. It was the only time I actually liked being told to “STOP” and I paid attention and took the advice to quiet my rambling thoughts. For ten days, I truly relaxed. I won’t get into full boasting of all of the luxuries and other tidbits that made this trip so perfect, but it was simply a fabulous escape from reality.
What goes up must come down. And I realized this up in the air, just before midnight on Sunday and about 30 minutes away from landing back in Minneapolis. I had planned the late return thinking the kids still had the following day off to catch up on sleep and after all of my rest, certainly one day short on sleep wouldn’t be too hard to handle in exchange for taking full advantage of my vacation time. But on that last leg of the plane ride it suddenly all hit me. Tomorrow, instead of leisurely walking outside groggy from so much inactivity, I would be running to a work in 30-degree weather after only four hours of sleep. I would be faced with issues from a website launch, a frantic pace of catching up on all that sat idle waiting for my return, and to top it off, it was my birthday. Yes, I was turning 44 up in the air and I certainly didn’t see it as a something to celebrate. As I mentioned in a previous post, I had lost an entire year and only recently realized it wasn’t my 43rd birthday. With midnight looming, it looked like I was facing my own Cinderella story.
It was no fun realizing I was right. I kept a good face on at work but inside I was miserable. All of the things that had made me so happy had been swept up and taken away. I kept trying to be mature and told myself I was lucky to have had that time to enjoy, but the more rational I tried to become, the more irrational I felt. I wanted my fairy tale back.
It would be a shame to end the post that all was lost and it was a horrible, no good, very bad day (I loved that book as a kid!). There was a slight happy ending that I made for myself. I did what any mature working woman/overstressed mom would do. I came home, put on my pajamas, and hid in my bed with a bottle of wine. Under the birthday disguise, I claimed a free night and wanted my servant children and husband to bring me food as needed. After spending my night with hours of T.V. (all favorite shows I had recorded but never time to watch) and a few too many glasses of wine, I finally dozed off, content.
Looking at the forecast ahead, the temps are rising so hopefully my mood will follow. Onwards and upwards! I won’t give up hope on for my own happy-ever-after ending though.
Rules were made to be broken… even those of our own design
According to our blogging schedule, it’s KitKat’s turn to write a post. However, she’s on vacation with her family, enjoying the sunshine and warm weather. Rather than drag her away from the fun, we’ve decided to mess with our sequence and have me post instead.
Coincidentally, this is an excellent lead-in to my topic. Some of you may be able to relate to this, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve found that I’ve settled into a few routine “tendencies.” For example, let’s consider the subject of direct-selling parties. As you probably gathered from my previous post on the topic, if I get an invitation to one, I have a tendency not to attend.
Other tendencies include:
- Not helping my kids with school fundraising. (I would perhaps buy something myself, but I wouldn’t go to any lengths to promote the fundraiser du jour among coworkers or family like some parents might.)
- Disregarding charitable appeals that don’t fall into my selection criteria (which is fairly narrow) unless it happens to be a case of supporting a friend’s cause (in which case, it’s actually about supporting the friend more than the cause). The fact is, there are millions of worthy organizations out there competing for the same buck and giving it any more thought than that would cause my head to explode.
- Not buying any white bottoms. That’s an easy one to explain. I’m a klutz and buying white pants or a white skirt is just asking for trouble.
- Only watching “non-taxing” movies on Friday nights. These would be romantic comedies, slapstick comedies, classics I’ve seen 20x before, etc. Nothing with a complicated plot or that otherwise requires full attention. After putting in a full week at work, I simply don’t have enough brain cells left on Friday night.
And last, but not least:
- A policy against having policies. I’ll call these tendencies “preferences,” or “guidelines,” but I don’t like to think of them as “policies.” While these kinds of rules can form a code of conduct that simplifies decision-making, I’ve seen a number of people apply their preferences too rigidly, disregarding the consequences of their inflexibility or its effect on others. As a result, you might say that I have a policy against policies.
Surprised by that last one? Here’s an example from close to home: My dad won’t wait in lines—which he is quick to point out if he encounters one. Like most of his Greatest Generation peers, he enlisted for WWII as soon as he could. Dad left for basic training the first day after the end of his senior year in high school, and at the age of 17 he was immersed in a new world—one that apparently included a lot of lines. As he explains it, “The guys would have to wait in line for hours to go through the chow line for breakfast and then after eating would get back in the line again for lunch. I swore when I left the service, I’d never wait in line again.”
And as far as I know. He hasn’t.
That’s an exaggeration of course. Realistically, I’m sure my dad hasn’t been able to avoid every long line he’s encountered during the 68 years since this “policy” was formed. But I’m sure he did if he had any say in the matter. Which is why—when my family went to Disneyland in the late 70s and the line for Space Mountain was “too long”—we skipped what was then the hottest ride in the theme park. And I still remember the omission 30 odd years later. (You’re probably thinking here that I need to learn to let things go—and I do—but that’s a topic for another post.)
Today, my dad’s policy is usually cited when my mom wants to eat at a popular restaurant. Would it kill him to wait it out once in a while? No and doing so would make my mom happy. So I try to keep this in mind whenever I find myself clinging a little too stubbornly to my own “tendencies,” and remember that every rule has its exception. Because knowing when it’s okay–or even necessary–to bend the rules is key to living a balanced and exceptional life.
“The wind does not break a tree that can bend.” – African Proverb
You’re never too old to play hooky
As my previous post might have implied, I’ve had a worse-than-usual case of cabin fever/winter doldrums due to a worse-than-usual winter. In fact, I was seriously considering finding a last-minute airfare bargain, ditching my family and leaving town for someplace warm. I mean, I was SERIOUSLY considering this. But it smacked of “running away from home” (admit it, you’ve wanted to do this at times) and seemed…well…just a wee bit…unbalanced. So, I resisted the urge and dragged myself into work, as a responsible middle-aged woman should do. This may have been the same day I texted KitKat the line that prompted her recent post, and apparently great (though rebellious) minds think alike, because I decided to do what any defiant teen would: Play hooky.
I had learned a few days earlier that my middle child—a junior in college—would be coming home for a few days over spring break and knew seeing her would lift my spirits. I decided to “seize the day” or more accurately “the next day” to spend it with my darling daughter.
Okay, here I confess that I am—at heart—an extremely conscientious person with a self-detrimental work ethic. So, I didn’t fake being sick. But since I had no pressing meetings, I scheduled a spontaneous vacation day.
I skipped out of work that evening feeling a bit lighter than I had when I dragged myself in. When my daughter arrived home, we discussed potential options for our mother-daughter outing the next day. Now, my daughter is attending college in the Fargo-Moorhead area, where fewer trees dot the landscape to offer a break from the cold and blowing snow, and the fierce Minnesota winter I complained about in my last post has been magnified. So for our Cabin Fever Play Day, we decided to seek out green plants, blooming flowers, chirping birds, tropical fish and exotic animals.
Our first stop was the Minnesota Zoo. Since it was a school day, I think I was the only mother there with a child over the age of five. I had not been for a zoo visit myself since the kids were…what? Preteens? A long time, anyway. Several new attractions had opened since then, and we walked through all of the indoor exhibits. Kids on field trips swam by us like schools of fish, and we saw plenty of real ones in the large aquarium (fish that is, not kids).
After a couple of hours we had exhausted our options for indoor exhibits, but not our desire to stay in the warm, green surroundings. So, we decided to hit another zoo in town—a favorite destination of my childhood: Como Zoo, which also has a lovely conservatory.
First, though, we needed sustenance, so we made a detour for lunch in St. Paul. As we dined, the announcement that the new pope had been chosen was breaking news. As the major stations showed coverage of an empty balcony for an hour (seriously!) while waiting for the new pope to make his appearance, we discussed the challenges he would face and speculated on what name he would choose. I guessed John Paul III would be the choice (to build an association with the more popular of the recent popes), but my prescient daughter thought St. Francis would be the best choice, as that was her favorite saint–exemplifying peace and humility.
Afterward, we headed to the conservatory to bask in the humidity and sunshine, and when we got to the wing with all the spring flowers, I was struck by two things: 1) The explosion of color, which was almost an assault on my color-starved eyes. In the dead of winter, the Minnesota landscape is white and gray and its residents follow suit, clothing themselves in black, gray and other dark, drab colors. 2) The intoxicating fragrance. Winter has no smell. Well, actually when you live in the city it smells a lot like car exhaust. Yuck.
We headed home feeling a bit more optimistic. Spring would return, we just had to wait a bit longer. I also realized that I had spent a full day with my daughter—the longest time alone together I could recall—and I genuinely enjoyed every minute of her company. Not just because she’s my daughter and I love her, but because she’s a genuinely cool person. The flowers were a lovely bonus, but I was more enchanted by the girl who had blossomed before me into a confident and compassionate young woman.
It turned out that my day of playing hooky was just what the doctor ordered. For as KitKat pointed out, one of the privileges of being a grown up is deciding when it’s okay to act like a kid.
I don’t want to be a grown up
Texting and venting with Stormy the other day, she sent me a line that goes through my head often: “I don’t want to be a grown up!”
I believe the only people who think being a grown up is fun are those who are not grown up yet. What does being a grown up mean?
- Paying bills (When there is money to pay them.)
- Working – at work and/or at home (The to-do list just keeps growing in both spots.)
- Setting a good example for your kids (Still working on that.)
- Biting your tongue in certain situations, even if you know you are right (That’s a tough one.)
- Making responsible choices (That’s boring.)
- The aging process (That’s horrible and can be its own blog post.)
- Giving up things you want for the sake of the greater good (e.g., I can’t run off and sell toe rings on the beach.)
That list does not sound enticing! As a kid, you get to make selfish decisions based just on your wants; you can be impulsive and not overly worry about the outcome. You have your whole life ahead of you to make bad, and fun, mistakes … and a life ahead of you to then fix them. There is plenty of time later to figure out your perfect path.
And to think how I wistfully waited forever to become a grown up. Spent much of my childhood trying to be a grown up. I remember each year seemed to take so 
long to pass. I couldn’t wait to be in my 20s and do what I wanted, when I wanted it – never having to ask permission. I’d picture myself in my 30s, all wise with my life perfectly figured out. Well, I am now in my 40s and still waiting on this. I don’t have complete freedom as people are dependent on me. I still often have to ask permission. And, I seem to be even further from having my life figured out. A big problem now is that the years are flying by. I actually even lost a whole year. I was certain I was 42, but with an approaching birthday, I have now been told I am about to turn 44. I seriously do not remember turning 43, and I can’t afford to skip any years at this point!
My daughter asked me the other day if I ever get tired of being big and said she was tired of being little. Oh sweetie, I sure do. I wish I could have made her understand all the things she should be enjoying right now. But, I knew it was a lost cause. It would be just another rambling of an adult not getting it. It would be that Charlie Brown teacher’s voice making no sense and just a background noise. It is not something adults, or children, can explain to each other – that wish to be exactly what you aren’t at the time. Looking at that little face, I knew we would 
both be totally up for some Freaky Friday action.
Now, I suppose I should end with something about why getting old is better. Instead, I want to take a different approach. I am going to make a few decisions that I simply can because I am an adult with a car to get around and a credit card to splurge in case of emergency. I am going to set the appointment to cover my grey peeking through, call my aesthetician to discuss more miracle cures for aging skin that I can sink some money into, and ask a girlfriend to meet me out for a glass of wine and laughs. I am not mature and wise, yet, so instead I’ll embrace where I currently stand and with childlike hope continue to imagine all the places my selfish self would bring me. And as I am doing all the “grown up” things I am mandated to do – I will hope I don’t forget another year!
Turn, turn, turn … that clock forward!
KitKat and I are native Minnesotans. Growing up in this state, I’ve made some interesting observations about how a dark, cold winter affects the local psyche. During the months of December/January/February, you encounter a spectrum of viewpoints about our longest season. For many of us, our attitude evolves as the season progresses:
- December: We love the snow! Everything was so dreary in November, but now it looks so Christmas-y! A winter wonderland!
- January: Brrrrr. It’s cold and snowy, but that’s Minnesota. Twenty below zero might be unpleasant, but just think of our forefathers having to endure it without down parkas and heated seats! Basically, we’re resigned to it. We hunker down and watch a little too much TV.
- February: We’re over the worst of it. The days are getting longer. There’s still a lot of winter before us, but we’re hardy Minnesotans, after all. We’ll survive. (This is typically when I go to my annual conference in a warm destination, so that well-timed respite from the snow and cold usually keeps me off the ledge, so to speak.)
There are even a number Minnesotans who manage to maintain their December enthusiasm right through February. These are generally the outdoorsy types—people who take full advantage of the season for skiing, snowmobiling, ice-fishing and hockey.
However, regardless of one’s view of winter, I’ve noticed that there’s a point where everyone eventually reaches their limit. And, interestingly enough, this happens to everyone at approximately the same time. Suddenly, we’ve collectively had ENOUGH.
“Enough” arrived last week in the guise of a March snowstorm, whereupon Mother Nature (that bitch!) dropped 10 inches of the slushy white stuff on us over a period of two days. Although this was a beautiful snowfall–coating trees and houses in a tranquil blanket of white–the general consensus of coworkers and friends was, “Auuuuugggggggghhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!”
Having had a glimpse of summer during my recent trip to Florida, this sunk me into a particularly foul mood. Spring seemed distant, I’m sick to death of wearing wool skirts, cashmere sweaters and boots everyday, and I long to sit on my patio and feel the sun on my face. What’s worse, my gloomy outlook is matched by an inner malaise. Everything seems hard and I don’t have a clear sense of purpose.
The other morning, fortunately, a harbinger of spring arrived: Daylight Savings Time. The annual mandate to “Spring Ahead” always cheers me up, even if I lose an hour of my precious weekend. It provides a much-needed kick in the pants to rouse me out of my winter funk and get me thinking about the possibilities that lie dormant—much like my garden. After all, I never know which flowers are going to appear from year-to-year, but the arrangement always delights me (at least, until August when the weeds take over).
So even though I’m not feeling very sunny these days, I’m going to do my best to have faith in the spring. As we’re reminded in Ecclesiastes (or by the Byrds, if you prefer), there is a time for every purpose under Heaven. Even those that haven’t been discovered yet.
Fear the Yeti
If you’re wondering what the hell a Yeti is, you’re not alone. I found myself googling it during my son’s hockey game as I heard the parent next to me shout it out as our boys came onto the ice. I was already having trouble keeping up 
with understanding the game … icing, offsides, cross-checking … I never could figure out why the referee was blowing the whistle. (I called him an umpire till my son scoffingly corrected me on a drive home one evening.)
I’m assuming you’re already getting the impression I am not the world’s best hockey mom. And, if you had asked me what sport I would be managing my life around—that is if I actually had to choose one—hockey would not have been it. For starters, I hate the cold. I already live in Minnesota, so why would I add on the torture of standing inside a cold arena? There’s not even a chance to warm up from the below-zero walk from the car. Plus, I was not so ignorant about the sport to not know that the costs and time dedicated to it were much higher than for those of many other activities my son could choose to participate in. But, in tandem with how the rest of this parenting gig has seemed to go, nothing turns out as I would plan it. He fell in love with hockey.
With three practices a week and at least one game, hockey has become the center of family activities. We plan around it. The schedule hanging on the fridge at home is synched with my Outlook at work. There have been times we have been dragging kids out of bed for a 7:30 a.m. game and others starting a long drive home from an outlying rink an hour past normal bedtimes on a school night. My daughter’s most whined phrase has become, “Do we have to go to hockey again?”
And let’s not forget the mandatory volunteer duty. As my son moves up the hockey ranks, so do the hours as parents we are committed to serve. Twelve hours this year that my husband and I had to work off at the concession stand. Looking on the bright side, it saved me a lot of snack money and calories once I actually had a behind-the-scenes look at the preparations. 
It was looking to be a long season. Never having been an active sports participant or fan, I just didn’t get it. Well, then I started to.
Something happened as I watched these boys play together as a team. It was something I had never before seen in my overly competitive and fairly self-centered son. Everything was bigger than him when it came to this group of boys. It was all about The Team. If one of them had a bad game, there was no finger-pointing or griping as I witnessed too many times in even a casual game of kickball in our front yard with friends. These boys rallied around each other. Every scored goal was an exciting win for all. I would hear detailed recaps of all the parts played by each team member in getting that puck to just the right position. I would watch the team hurry back to protect their goalie when the other team grabbed the puck. Never was a goal blocked or scored without everyone on the ice patting our goalie in congratulations or “good try” before lining back up for the next face off. And they weren’t the best team. In fact, the season started with a 12-1 loss to a farm team who towered over ours and skated rings around all our players. But these boys grew together as a team. Soon I found myself cheering and yelling for each of the boys by name right along with the others. I took pride in watching each of their huge strides in development as individual players and as a team: Proving their growth as they lost only 5-4 in overtime to the same team two months later.
And it wasn’t just on the ice they were a unified team. These boys bonded as friends. It was very different than their relationships with school friends. There were no pretenses. They didn’t have to act cool, dress a certain way or have a pecking order. They were just the crew. At an out-of-town tournament, I would watch my son wake up in the morning grab a hotel key and throw on a hat to meet the other boys at breakfast. This was the same boy who normally would want me to find out where the other kids were, determine whether or not they were they in their pajamas and wouldn’t join others till invited in the group. I heard other parents on the team saying the same thing. There were no insecurities. They could fully just be themselves and fit right in.
I met some great parents, too. None of us were too intense about the standings, but we all would be jumping up and down on a good play and nervously pacing as we watched our kids in a final shoot out to end the game after two overtimes had past. (I did learn some of how the game worked!) We knew each other’s kids and cheered for them as loudly as our own. We knew how each boy would react to a win or a loss.
Well, the season is now coming to an end. At our last game, the kids were begging the coach to get them all on the same team again next year. They didn’t 
want to play with anyone else. Well, that isn’t how it works, and the coach promised them they all had a lot of hockey ahead of them including other great teams to be part of. I found myself feeling sad, and I can’t believe I am saying this, but I’m already looking forward to starting it again next year. It was fun to be part of something. Working (or cheering) together and sharing in both the wins and the losses. I also now understand why you hear so much about the importance of girls also playing team sports, especially during high school years. A feeling of being part of something beyond yourself is so important, plus feeling like you belong somewhere. That team dynamic I had never experienced. (It was pretty amazing just witnessing it.) But, I will make sure my daughter does, and I am happy to tag along on my son’s journey for now.
One thing I won’t mind is a small break from the dictating ice-time schedule. This week, as I invited friends over for dinner, I had to add the caveat, “…that is, if we aren’t placed in the evening bracket.” Though my friend’s response was, “We’d love to. But, I can’t say for sure till I know how my son’s basketball tournament pans out.” With the end of the season, I can take back control of my schedule. That is until baseball starts.
And, if you haven’t googled it yet, a yeti is another name for the “abominable snowman” who is pictured on our Storm team’s jerseys. “Fear the Yeti” became our team chant. It may also make for a good vision board slogan next year, I find it seems to help me as a meditative chant in my mind that both makes me smile and feel some power. Much better then that “ohm” stuff that has never worked for me.
Easier Said Than Done 