Mother's Day. Happier Please.

So.

(ahem)

So. I've been told I'm a holiday ho. And not the whole santa laugh either. But, I require holidays. Period. I celebrate them. Hard. And I fall hard when they're empty.

So, now that we've met...

Mother's day is, well, upon us (ok, its tomorrow). And I'm happy/sad/anxious/overdoing it with the whole thing, yes, already. But (yes, there'll be plenty of buts) it's a decently important holiday... though I acknowledge , that I have a problem, so I'll need to say this in hushed tones.

I don't think I need to change. I mean there are plenty of other news outlets out there that get off (way off, nasty style) on bad news, and I'm sure going overboard for valentines day (think 17 elaborate gifts for a cubby full of toddlers), and what isn't worth celebrating more than earth-day?! Three kings day?! Sheep Shearing Saturday? Err... the second coming of my 26 and a half birthday?! I like to think I find the god in small things. And god is so embedded in celebrations.

Obvious bias: I like to find things to celebrate. I can celebrate (and nearly do) ey'thing.

When I was a kid, my mom always got me "surprises". I'm talking before her strangely assembled bags of random items, but one, maybe two desired gifts inside. A pinwheel. One or two Andees. The Do the Right Thang VHS (no comment). But things I wanted and that were in fact surprising. It's genetic you know, even Zora's second favorite (or most used word) besides no of course, is SURPRISE.

But I realize not all folks have it in them to celebrate. That, as I said in my last post, some celebrations just don't make sense considering context, relationship; reality. And I get that. I understand.

Even how I approach wanting to get to happy is likely a lot (hi Brian), and so, I get that too.

I understand.

And I will continue to hunt for happy, for celebratory, for mother's day and evacuation day alike, cause thats who and where I am.

Mazal tov and #Kanyeshrug

D

It's (darn-near) Mother's Day. Holla at me now.

At a recent monthly meeting that I manage (the same meeting I call from the heartbreaking comfort of my bed big-scary-monstah-meeting), my awesome co-chair began the ice-breaker.

Now, before anyone e-frowns, I’m all about ice-breakers, on-boardings, and any other hyphenated collaboration of creativity and wit to a burdensome process. I am however not as clutch with the icebreakers, and so dear colleague began:

“As we are approaching mother’s day, this is a good opportunity to share what about our own mothers have we inherited, gained, or what about the relationship has supported who we are today”

See. I couldn’t have done that. And so dear colleague shares fun and poignant story. I go next, nearly reciting verbatim my previous blog entry about my 2 year old and Mummi. A few coworkers others share. It’s really some-kinda-gorgeous the variety we get.

But one person doesn’t share. And she doesn’t have to. And I feel terrible that she’s on the spot. And I feel good that she says what she does “I’ll pass.” She was and is entitled to do so.

Holidays can be hard. Before my blog-days my own were decently shitty. I was very lonely sometimes, and other times not so much, but annoyed at the expectation. Hurt by the expectation. All kinds of crap by the expectation.

And even now that I’m less annoyed and more joyous to the point of bubbling over, my story isn’t exactly what folks may have had in mind when discussing mother’s day… I mean, it started with “As many of you know, or well, know now, my mom has a mental illness and it characterized how I grew up. It impacted our reality…” and my ending that my own two year old gets the true version of Nana having a certain kind of day post-episode wasn’t exactly what they wanted to conclude with. #Kanyeshrug I've said this before, but we are as we are made.

Ultimately, what folks can’t say (in general) with the same level of pride I can (most days) is that: I have the onliest Mama who wore mink coats (from who knows where) to the grocery when we bought spam in the lean-late-80s.So, well, holla at me now.

That, and of course: if you celebrate it, if you beleive it in, if it works for you and yours: HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!

Epi-Bio. Or maybe thats a typo.

Maybe I meant epic bio.

#shrug

i was sitting on my back porch today. Half-(a smaller half) attempting to work. Letting some sun-shine in. I watched my daughter (a very two, two year old) run, on her very new legs happily through the grass. I had Internet access. My phone takes awesome pics. My blankets were warm, within inches from me. I had a full belly.

I realize I was/am blessed.

You see how far you've come, climbed or carried, on days like this. It felt good to smile and not question, and so I did that too. It felt good not to have to remind myself to do so.



And I mean.. I realize I have an anchor, I'm writing a blog about caretaking, and schizophrenia, and moms, and other stuff, and I realize those things involve hardship, and tiredness, and are soul-cracking and other things too.

But here is the other side: I'm ok. My family is ok. Today was wonderful.

Things can feel good. And they do.

And... well perhaps that isn't epic enough of a biographical sketch... but its mine, today.

Admitting it. I feel: _______________ .

I am certain this isn't limited to folks who are caretakers.

Or folks who are worried/worriable/nearly spent with worry.

I'm certain it isn't exclusive to psychopaths, sycophants, and the psychotic... though with that I could be wrong. Overly boastful folks, neurotic folks, folks who don't know which applies to them, if not all... it's about admitting how you feel.

That crap is harder than I can in my gut admit that I am committed to feeling about it.

What?!

So, its like this, I started today, at about seven-twenty-eight, feeling... down. I was late. I had a meeting. It was off site. I was thinking about my reputation.

Now, no, reputations aren't completely based on being late or early, but new ones, and my relative external brownnes (and extreme brown in-ness) make my lateness a genetic/africanish thing... but that's a whole notha blog. And it's sufficient to say: i didn't want to be late, I didn't like how I felt about being late. I took seriously that I was... you get the point.

By noon-thirty, I felt proud. I walked straighter. I'd sealed a deal. I was future-thinking. I was in a suit (kinda, a blazer) but still. I was suit-able. And I did so solitarily.

By three, I was borderline. I was anxious over the maintenance of a few things. Overly planning several other things. And dammit, I forgot my phone. It was internally ugly. Though, when I bumped into someone I know who complimented my half-way suit, I smiled, big. When another person said (seriously) I resembled Jordan-Somebody, a newscaster from somewhere, I smiled again broadly and said "I'll take that". I told the guard it was a great day.

Lord have mercy, how the hell do I feel today? How the hell do any of us feel?

What separates this from a rant is that I have no clue if I'm necessarily angry or sad (though it may be time to let up OFF the caffeine), and that I'm really asking the question to any given one of us (given there is more than one of us reading this blog)...

Why is it so hard to really get in touch with how we feel, ruminate on it, speak on it (truly speak on it) and get over it (truly get over it)?

I mean, I realize some things are big... and take time... perhaps forever, but not every-damn-thing.

So, I guess this is where I admit it. I friggin feel: (pause...pause...)

I feel: _____________________.
(like I need to figure it out)
#crap.

Today I went to a party. Yesterday I ordered groceries online. #Mundane but #notsomuch

So, as the title suggests, I did some pretty normal things. I partied and purchased. I don't do as much of one as I do of the other, and unfortunately I guess... the things I do purchase aren't exactly as sexy or as fun/wild as they could be either.

Most will laugh when I say this: it's par for the course; I'm 31 not 21.

That's supposed to mean something. (#Kanyeshrug)

Back to the party I went to...today actually... I had a side conversation with someone who jokingly showcased that she was 24, but it was very much in a "go tell THAT to your 31" kind of way. I know it was meant to be cute, and it was, though I just didn't get it completely. I had liked my 24-days too. 31 is aiight, right?

I mean, at 24, I like her was finishing my first masters. I could probably eat a few more hamburgers and get away with a bit less sleep than I could manage at this point in the game (FU 31)... but I was missing something. Some longing (that I simply don't have) for me to be there again.

I think that there is a time for things... I'm not certain there is always a place (I mean, outside of the whole pee pee belongs in the bathroom kind of thing) but time is an important anchor, for me at least. And 31 is good to me right now.

My mom was 24 when she and my father got married and had me. I'm certain it wasn't easy. It was when my parents were in this whole "wilderness phase"... which involved a lot of greenery: they lived in the Salem Willos...a lot more greenery.... they were plant based people (diet)... and a whole lot more greenery... its rumored weed (and then some) was involved, with less of the bill-paying kind of greens, and kids, baby kids, like milk, not weed (which costs cash not crop). So, these were hungry years,quite a few of them. Theirs, my parents, was a hard 24. It just was.

And so sometimes, my 31 is anxious. Sometimes it's (very) fed up. Sometimes it just wants my family to eat with ease and organically. Sometimes it just wants to go out and do what the hell it/I want to do without all the damn snarkiness. The semi-bold-anti-cuteness. The ill-informed and ill-timed stuff too.

Just yesterday, my 31 went grocery shopping online. Chose spicy hummus and tabouleh for a dad (who fibs about his age) but who deserves to shave a few years off, just as he deserves a rich chickpea dip. My 31 ordered my mom diabetic friendly foods that (hopefully) won't go to waste. My (ancient-ass) 31 called twice, perhaps thrice to ensure they let the delivery guy in. Swallowed a sharp shard of pride when Mummi thinks the food just showed up, dropped down from the Divine and into the fridge... when in fact the source of that divinity was due to the parting in my e-checking. And so, sometimes my 31 goes a bit unthanked.

But it's my 31 that lets me do what I can do, and care in the way that I can, and caretake as I do. Even if pissily, grumpily, and humbly so.

So, I appreciate that.

And this is just where I'm at.

Telling the Kids. Oh yeah, and Charlie Sheen.

A few weeks back, I begin our typical Saturday to Boston from Uberbia. Zora awakes whenever the heck she likes, we eat vegetarian sausage, over-syruped, non-homemade waffles and drink carrot juice. She dresses in her best princess outfit over jeans, over a diaper, over whatever else she decides shed like to also wear, as they are all "must-haves" and she is a must-do kinda kid. We, as usual, are overdone.

I like to think we're genetically predisposed to being so.

We finally get out of the house, into the green car (which of our two, Zora refers to as her own) and drive to see Nana and Papa. My parents. I type this proudly as a little over two years ago, I certainly didn't think I'd refer to them so lovingly. But I do, and I am lovingly loving them.

But back to the today. So, Zora is happy. She hasn't seen Nana in days. She knows Nana will have her "interesting" concoction of a surprise for her: a bag of second-hand (if coffee and cigarette scented) surprises. Perhaps they'll be in a pillowcase; a reused lingerie bag; a gucci store canvas... it's always a surprise for us all. An endearing one. An expected one.

We pull up to the brownstone and Zora is giddy. Nana emerges from the doors; she isn't glowing. She isn't smiling. There is no bag.

Shit.

So, it began, Nana's first low day in 2 years since she's first laid eyes on her granddaughter, whom, in my mind I refer to as my mother's "cure". She has been on a high with love and affection for my little one, and most are: the kid is hilarious, engaging, and well, a bit overdone. She inspires the overdoneness in all. Which, is what she's done for my Mummi. Her Nana. Just perhaps not today.

Zora doesn't understand whats up, but she realizes its something. Now none of my bubbles are bubbling, not Zora, not her Nana.

So, I'm annoyed, and I don't navigate well annoyed. I try to get food, to coax them into a compliant happiness with music. I'm driving them from park to main street and realizing I'm getting miffed about lost gas. Which isn't the problem. It's just an off-day in all of our lives.

So I end it. I get Nana/Mummi some food, diabetic-friendly, no fructose, closer to the grain organic, which I'm not convinced anyone in her household will consume. I let everyone know the visit is going to need to come to its end. Politely. I love everyone, Drop Nana/Mummi off and drive a little bit faster than I should back home.

Zora, looking out the window in our now quiet car says: "Nana sick?"
Startled, I say "Yes baby"
Z: "Her head hurt?"
Me: "Yup. And maybe some other stuff does too."
Z: (long pause). "Oh. She need her doctor?"
"Perhaps sweetie she does"
Z: "Why?"

So, this is where it ends and begins. How to melt the reason why into something a 2.5 year old will get, will or won't share, will or won't ask me about constantly. And since she doesn't believe in Santa, does believe in princess magic, knows God makes everything including Mummah's purse and Noah's arc, I give her the best of a response I can offer:

"Baby, everyone is a little different. Nana too. Some days when Nana doesn't feel good; she sounds like she did today. Some days she doesn't. But we love her anyway. And we maybe love her more on these days. And she loves us all the time. But maybe something inside her doesn't feel good today."

In traffic. En route to our burbs, Zora's accepts this response, almost relieved by it. She falls asleep. We go home. I cry a little.
Ultimately though, its more than ok. We are as we are made.

I threw the Charlie Sheen piece in there for good measure.
But...Someone please help him now. He needs it. Perhaps now more than most times/most days.

And help doesn't come on a stage, it comes in a car, from a conversation with your kid, and a head-not towards your most humbled self.

Mine did.

-D

Bio-feedback (kinda)

So, I'm decently active on Twitter (as in constantly on), and a Twitter friend graced me with a wonderful compliment:

I haven't tweeted you in a while, but I've found NAMI and disability caretaker wisdom from you to be in invaluable...

She shared with me that her life is taking on a new path, as a caretaker for a loved one (a very loved loved one) with psychosis. I wish you well on your journey sis, and I'm really touched (seriously, I am) that you're on this path, and what I've said will in any way help.

I think (not to sound cliche) that if we all (each and every single one of us) realized our fragility, and the overwhelming community we could gain by saying: hey, I hear you, I am there. I am there too. A space would open up, just large enough for us to fit, not be judged, and be at home.

I look for that space every day. Most days I find it. Some days, its an awkward lonely run.

Recently, at a friends party, I mentioned (if its the kind of thing one mentions) as part of a preface to something that my mom has mental health issues. We both cringed, albeit for different reasons. I hate that its an issue, they were weirded (and likely saddened, and later alert) to a strange and startling acknowledgement: crazy.

I mean, it is what it is. I can't necessarily fake a former life, I was a kid, we ate hotdogs and went to the vineyard. We also scoured the bowels of the south end at night, dug in trash pails, gorged and purged, searching for things my mom never could communicate to me, things I somehow kinda always got. And that reality is (at least now) mine, acceptable, a part of my place of origin. Largely because it must be now. Largely because it no longer makes me cower, and in part, because I'm proud/humbled by it.

But ultimately, it makes for interesting conversation.

(or palpable silences).

Sometimes you need both.