Sisters

So my sister sent me a text today asking me what I do when I want to feel better?  Assuming of course that her query dealt with her emotional well-being because that tends to be what my siblings and I discuss the most, I immediately replied with a quick fix - sing a song, preferably a happy one like 'Somewhere Over The Rainbow' or 'Zipideedodah.'  I don't think she appreciated my advice based on her response but the question got me thinking.  What do I do when I feel bad?  Sulk; sometimes.  Piss and moan; occasionally.  Head to the mall for unnecessary spending; more often than I should.  Exercise; usually.  Then it occurred to me that the one thing I do when I feel as if I am at my lowest is call one of my sisters to talk.  I have three sisters and we all live in different parts of the country.  We are separated by highways and mountains, time zones and schedules, jobs and families but we desperately seek each others comfort and support.  We long to share a cup of coffee at the kitchen table, meet at the park with our children, sit side by side and debate our future and our past.  When I want to feel better I want my sisters.  Pretty simple recipe for happiness!

Protect us from all anxiety

Some of us may recall the line in the Catholic mass requesting that some higher being "protect us from all anxiety" and I could not help but wonder why that particular line made it into the doctrine of faith. Did the original scribes of prayers feel an overwhelming sense of hopelessness? They were not exposed to the constant rhedoric of world wrongs and evils as we are today, were they? Anxiety must be a constant in our state of humankind - a cross we all bear at one point or another.
Has it always been with us?
How does it manifest itself in our lives?
Anxiety can crush our spirits and drown out our thoughts, leaving us to wonder why we bother. Anxiety slips under our bedclothes when we are sleeping. It crawls under the doorcracks and seeps into our morning coffee or juice. It sits down to dinner with us, uninvited, when all we are trying to do is feed our family. Anxiety, it seems, is as old as the dinosaurs or the little bits of matter that came before the giant beasts, completely immune to extinction.
I have spent years, decades for that matter, trying to understand my anxiety. A subtle emotion of sort that lies just under the surface waiting to surface to remind me that everything I want or need is not possible. That I am not deserving of the life that has been given to me - the life that I try to live every day is just a fluke. Is this anxiety or is this something else? Is it anxiety that tells the little girl that she will never be good enough even when everyone around her has said she is enough? It is anxiety that pushes out creative thought for the stupidity of the notion?
I watch people every day drift into an abyss of anxiety over this silly, short, short life - myself included! I want to scream for it to leave us all - let us be; let us laugh and be full of joy - and sometimes it does depart. Angrily - with a loud door slam on its way out. And we toast and celebrate - congratulating ourselves for our personal resolve and intuitiveness. We are drunk with our possibilities and the future without the monkey on our back. But then it's back - the anxiety - and we remember we left the window unlocked as we fall exhausted into bed.

Animal Farm

I was lying in bed last night thinking about all the stories people forward to one another about cute animals. Cats and dogs caught in compromising positions, wearing hats and costumes and basically just acting adorable. People appear to be crazy about their pets. Well, I have a few pet stories of my own so I have decided to dedicate the next few days or weeks (however long it may take) to share my world of 'adorable' animal stories.

In this politically correct world I thought about telling a story about the jet black poodle aptly named Remus my family owned when I was a kid but then I wisely decided against it. After all, not everyone has seen Disney's Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah featuring Uncle Remus, so the joke would be lost on most. Then there was Mikey. Poor old Mikey. Another family pet from my youth. This Cocker mix was properly named Michael Patrick for the son my parents always wanted and never got - four daughters instead. But there are so many stories with Mikey - like the time I was practicing for cheer leading tryouts and in the midst of one of my high kicks whacked Mikey in the jaw dislodging one of his teeth sending it flying across the room. Or maybe the eye surgery Mikey underwent to remove a cataract, which ended up leaving him without a left eye instead. We never managed to take him back to the vet to remove the stitches (this was before the days of dissolving sutures) so Mikey had to spend his remaining days, one eyed, looking as if he was permanently winking at everyone with a full set of false eyelashes on. Poor old Mikey.

No, today I will start with the humpbacked fancy rat, Prince - God rest her soul. Now Prince was not always a humpback - she started out as any normal, rat-like-rodent would - twitchy and delightfully clean. My youngest son acquired the rat after announcing he wanted a pet snake. I am a pretty good sport, all things considered, but I had to draw the line somewhere and there was absolutely no way I would voluntarily allow a snake into the house. So, Prince the female rat came to live with us. Over the months, Prince grew quickly, maturing into a well-behaved and likable rodent. All the children loved carrying Prince around on their shoulders and creating intricate mazes for her to master. A perfect pet and so easy!

While away on summer vacation with the children I received a call from my husband who had stayed at home to work.
"Prince has this weird bulge on her neck. She didn't have that when you left did she?"
"No bumps that I ever noticed. What does it look like?"
"It looks like she is hiding a jawbreaker under her fur. Should I take her to the vet?"
"It's a rat. I don't think vets see rodents. Why don't you just watch her - I'm sure it will go away."

My husband did not want anything to happen to Prince while we were gone. Not because he necessarily felt any major concern for the rat but, rather he did not want the kids to hold him personally responsible for the demise of a pet.

Within a few more days my husband called again.
"Okay, this thing has tripled in size - it looks like a golf ball now." He sounded slightly panicky.
My questions did nothing to reassure him.
"Is she acting sick? Is she still eating and drinking? Maybe we can talk to someone at the pet store to see what we can do."
"No, she is acting fine but the bump is kind of pulling her body sideways." (Yuck, I thought.) "I already called the pet store and they gave me the name of an exotic pet vet. Do you think I should take her in?"

To be continued . . . .

Time for school

I haven't written anything in a long while now - waiting for inspiration or something like it to strike me but no such luck. Writers block? Maybe. Too many distractions - definitely!

My oldest child leaves for college next week. First one out of the nest and I have yet to shed a tear. Practically every day for the past year friends and acquaintances have been informing me of the tears I will cry when she finally leaves. I have assured everyone that this is a natural transition; one that I am well prepared for which will require no wailing or tissues. Up until the last few days I have thought only about how much fun she will have in college - how much she will grow as an individual! My sister wept and finally had to leave the room as we watched my daughter's senior video - but no, not me. An emotional void is what I am - not a mother! I question my lack of emotion daily. Why don't I cry? Why don't I sit on her bed and sob as she packs and organizes her stash of dorm paraphernalia? I'm practically packing for her! I'm not worthy or so it would appear.

But luckily redemption. And just in time. Less than a week to go before she leaves and I happen upon a Wal-Mart commercial on the television showing a mother dropping her son off to college. The two are unpacking boxes, carefully arranging his dorm room and exchanging melancholy glances. As mother turns to leave, she stops and presses into his hands a framed photograph of mother and son embracing. Jeez - okay - that did it! I felt moisture in my left eye which momentarily blurred my vision. As I wipe it away I realize that this might actually be the physical sign of emotional maturation! I'm crying! Yippee! Now I just have to find a good photo of my daughter and me before she leaves.

Sleep Number - Winteer 2009

This morning as I was walking my dog Winnie I found myself repeatedly yawning as the sun shone down on my face and a gentle yet crisp breeze scattered the freshly fallen leaves that mark a typical winter in Arizona. I’m utterly exhausted I thought as I wiped away the streams of tears that predictably followed the series of yawns. I had no reason for being tired, no reason at all. After all I had only been awake for an hour or so having dropped the children to school and promptly returned to my prone position on the couch to ‘rest my eyes’ for another few minutes before attacking the day.
A few minutes invariably turned into almost two hours in which I slumbered peacefully on the sofa with the national newscast playing softly in the background and filtering into my dreams. I had visions of standing alongside the other reporters in Washington D.C., faithfully waiting for my turn to catch a sound bite from Roland Burris, the recently appointed and highly controversial junior senator from Illinois who had now officially been ejected from reporting for the first day of his term in the U.S. Congress. “Medir Bur . . .” I trailed off, my voice slurred within my nocturnal state. I tried again while pushing past the large fellow in front of me whose face looked strikingly like the mug shot of Ryan O’Neil whom they had profiled during the entertainment segment the night before – “Fallen Stars and other Hollywood Abnormalities.” “Meder Brrrriz! Medir Buruzz?” Jeez, I was still slurring. “Ow comma yuz not wowkin?” I managed to piece together and quite proud that I successfully pushed the O’Neil look alike out of my way to reach Mr. Burris. And then nothing – before Mr. Burris could respond I found I had magically been transported to the grocery store, with my hand-held mic still in hand of course. Surely the location was a manifestation of the list of things to do I had made the night before and now, inconveniently interrupted my award winning interview with Mr. Burris. Shoving the microphone into my purse, which looked more like a diaper bag, I proceeded to push my cart directly to the medication isle to pick up about twenty cartons of Niccorette. I don’t officially smoke but smoking cessation medication seemed to be the item of the day. Interestingly enough, I never accomplished anything in particular in my dream – each activity abruptly cut short for another new and confounded scenario.
My unconscious guilt for sleeping must have eventually roused me back to the living room. Either that or the dog licking my hand which had fallen down to the floor next to the couch. Whatever the method, I was back trying to piece together the wonder of my dreamy revelations. Had I really communicated with Mr. Burris? And if so, what did that mean? When did I start smoking and what did I do with all that Nicorrette? Was I late for work? Did I even have a job? The questions would go unanswered as I quickly jumped up when I saw that two hours had passed since I laid down.
So there I was walking with my alarm clock dog – trying to wake up under the guise of getting some exercise. It was then it struck me. I love to sleep! I think I love to sleep more than I love anything else – even my own children! Yikes, did I just say that out loud. Gasp. While others daydream about sex or money – how to get more of either – I plot and plan for getting more sleep. The fantasies about napping catch me off guard sometimes. The location varies but all are equally seductive. Usually I’m alone or at least I think I am. I’m dressed in something loose fitting, yet snug enough to establish the outline of my body. Sometimes I’m barefoot other times I’m wearing slipper booties with rubber bumps on the bottom to prevent any slippage on the tile floor surrounding the couch or bed. The room is dimly lit. The sheets on the bed are tousled and disorganized, still in disarray from the night before yet completely inviting. The pillow is softly calling out to me, pleading for me to lay with it and warm its cold exterior from the hours it has been left alone. I protest at first, claiming that I have too much to do – I’m not even tired. I will not be seduced in such a manner – my resolve certain. Then the second pillow chimes in with the first suggesting that maybe a small adjustment might change my mind – it would provide my heavy head comfort while its counterpart will slip softly between my knees – oooh, doesn’t that sound nice. I’m intrigued. Well, I think, maybe a short break wouldn’t hurt anything. After all, sleep is good for my complexion I reason – I guess I don’t have that much I have to do right now. Then, of course, the icing on the fantasy is when the large quilt that covers the bed, which has remained typically silent until now begins to recognize I am bending to the pressure. It gently calls to me, whispering my name and promising nothing short of ecstasy if I only slip under it for a few minutes. No strings attached – it won’t ask for anything more. I fall for this one every time. My logical side reminds me what happens when I agree to ‘a few minutes’ of such behavior. Inevitably I am lost for hours. But I ignore the risk and go with the moment reassuring myself that a life is not worth living if no risk is taken.
I climb into bed at night calculating how much sleep I will get before the alarm drags me awake the next morning. Often I prep for a ten o’clock bedtime promising myself that even if I allow a half hour of reading before the lamp switches off I will be guaranteed a good nine hours of sleep. Now of course, having teenagers has not helped my plan for guaranteed sleep. I thought I was through the sleep deprivation stage when each child left the baby stage. Oh, how wrong I was. It has been hard to relinquish control of the household to my seventeen and thirteen year olds who have no intention of going to bed until at least midnight. But somehow I manage. Sleep means that much to me. I leave the children with the following instructions as I make my way up the stairs: don’t stay up too late, the kitchen is closed so don’t make anything to eat, don’t leave the house, don’t let anyone in, don’t unlock the doors, don’t unlock any of the windows, don’t start any fires or light any candles (this one is really directed at my thirteen year old son), don’t watch MTV or The Girls Next Door, finish your homework, don’t get on MySpace, don’t buy anything on-line with my credit card, don’t text past midnight, put the dog in her kennel, turn off all the lights when you go to bed, and finally, please, please don’t wake me up unless someone is bleeding (I have actually been awoken with the question, ‘do we have any more salsa mom’ thus necessitating the instruction.) You’d be surprised how many times I have to repeat this list of directions. I revise the instructions every now and then depending on the circumstances but that is the standard disclaimer that leaves me comfortable enough to go up the stairs for the night.
Now of course, that is just the older two. Usually as I make my way to the top of the stairs, by ten-fifteen or so, my pre-teen insomniac daughter who was put to bed at least an hour "But mommy, all my friends hate me," she says. Groaning I make my way into her room to sit on the side of her bed and listen to her plight. Listen, comfort, listen some more, offer advice, listen some more, ask for her ideas on making it better, listen some more, start to get irritated when she changes the subject informing me that she doesn’t have any clothes that fit, tell her we will talk about it tomorrow after school, changes the subject one more time starting to cry again over the death of her hamster two years ago. Heavy sigh of exasperation. Give her a hug while standing up and begin to slowly back up toward the door – hoping she won’t catch on to the fact that I am leaving her room. Wish her good night and sweet dreams. As I walk off she hollers after me that she will never have a good night nor sweet dreams because her life is ruined! I holler back that I am sorry but we will talk about it tomorrow.
Looking down at my watch – now ten forty. Okay recalculate. If I get to bed now I will still get a full eight hours of sleep. Peek in at my youngest boy – sound asleep! Goodness gracious, a boy who takes after his mother. Off I trot into the bedroom, gleefully slipping into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin, pushing the sleep number vibrate control (just the lower leg vibrate because the whole body vibrate control inevitably makes my lips itch) and reassuring my husband that his reading next to me his light on will not in any way disturb me. I’m asleep in minutes.
I awaken ready for the day fully resolved that a nap will not be necessary today. I slept soundly and feel good. Yet within an hour, while cleaning the kitchen or reading the morning paper with a fully charged cup of coffee already downed my eyes begin to droop just like they used to in my constitutional law class back in law school – you know, when your vision begins to fade in and out of focus and although your hand keeps moving, taking notes on the paper in front of you, your handwriting is slipping into a continuous line of indecipherable scribbles. This continues until the drool from your mouth drops onto your hand jolting you back awake and you look around hoping no one noticed or that you didn’t snore. This is when I begin planning when I can take a nap. Just to rest my eyes for a bit and recharge. I guess the eight hours did not quite cut it! This is how it goes for me day in and day out – planning to get some much needed sleep. I will rearrange appointments and plan my entire schedule around catching a nap. I scurry around the house finishing chores so that the nap will be less guilt ridden. I answer the telephone with a perky voice in an attempt to hide the fact from the caller that I have actually been deep into a dream in my favorite chair. Sometimes I even forget someone called because I fall back asleep so quickly after taking a call – how’s that for lazy! My sisters seem to always catch me at this trick though immediately identifying my overzealous and totally unnatural phone mannerisms when they interrupt a nap. I try to act offended by their accusations but ultimately admit that I may have been resting when they called. Oh well – someone has to know the real me.
Today, as I trotted around the park with the dog, I realized the extent of my love affair with sleep. I wondered briefly whether I was afflicted with narcolepsy and then quickly dismissed the idea sure that I must not have such a condition – otherwise I might need to lay down right there on the sidewalk and catch a few winks while the dog lay in the shade of the mesquite trees lining the road. I doubt that was the situation. But on the other hand I can recall times when I was driving to work, sitting in the heavy morning traffic creeping along with all the other commuters and thinking to myself that if I could just stay awake long enough to get to the parking garage of my building I could close my eyes for a few minutes before going into the building. I did this maybe every other week. Once I actually fell asleep - ever so briefly - while sitting at a red light. That’s pretty bad! Maybe I do need to see a doctor!
Just the same, I don’t admit that sleep is a problem for me. I jump into my bed at night and snuggle – not with my husband but with my pillow. I tell my bed how much I love it and how I’ve missed it during the day. I don’t ever mention my time on the couch downstairs lest I hurt the bed’s feelings. No need to start a competition in the household or create unnecessary jealously.
Recently my sisters came to town. Two of my sisters have toddlers who still nap. There is actually a mother’s training on sleep that starts well before the infant is born. The admonition informs the mother (and sometimes the father) how extremely tired you will be when that baby comes home from the hospital and how you will never get a full night’s sleep again. Maybe this is where my love affair with sleep began. Something you desperately need and want but are told you will never have or enjoy again. So you learn to sneak in a nap when the baby sleeps – I mean every time the baby sleeps no matter what time of day. There remains this underlying fear that you will be tired forever – even though my kids are older I still fear being tired. Finishing with a full eight hours of night time sleep I still wake up worried that I will be tired so I better get a nap. Anyway, when my sisters were in town with their little ones I found myself jealous of their ability to just declare that it was time for the baby’s nap and they were going to lay down too. I want to do it I wanted to scream out. I’ll babysit the naptime for you. Please. No luck at all.
At times when my children were younger – sometimes even now – they get so overtired that their behavior begins to disintegrate into manic bi-polar emotional outbursts which inevitably lead either my husband or I to suggest that they need some time in their rooms alone, maybe even a nap. Well, for obvious reasons the affected child vehemently disagrees to the point of tears thus leading to threats of earlier bedtimes or full-blown groundings. After many minutes of debate the child will ultimately retreat to their room as directed but they never sleep! I figure I might start throwing fits on the weekends when everyone is home and then someone will send me to my room for a nap – I would even promise to sleep! One day it will make sense to these children.
So the dog and I continued on our walk and I tried to breathe in deeply gathering as much oxygen into my lungs as possible. I think most people have heard at one time or another that yawning is a result of low oxygen in the brain. Whatever the cause, the deep breathing just made me tired. At least I already got a nap in today.

Morning time

So this morning my alarm screamed at me to wake up and I told my alarm to shut the h... up. There is absolutely no reason for anyone (or anything) to talk that way to me - especially at such an ungodly hour. I think it was six or something. Anyway. After dragging myself from my habitat for humanity, ingesting a couple of cups of coffee I decided the day might be worthy of my attention after all. Then my eight year old poured a whole box of Cheerios out onto the floor. When I laughed he started crying and informed me how cruel and mean and horrible I am that I would laugh at his expense. What can I say - it was funny! Anyhoo, we retrieved a few tasty 'o's from the floor - the ones that had not actually touched the ground and the breakfast was salvaged. But then the next round of chastising began. It was seven fortyand I had not yet forced all the children into the car to leave for school - as I allegedly promised I would do the night b4 so the eight year old would have time to play football with friends b4 the bell rang. What can I do - I'm ready to go - see I have keys in my hand. But I'm the bad guy bcuz the sibs aren't ready yet. Jeez. Bad mom - bad mom! Exhausted and debating returning to my bed for the day - I manageto get the kids out of the house and to school. Then I get a text from my high schooler - she's exhausted, needs more sleep and would I please call in and excuse her so she can come home and go back to bed. Like NO! I don't respond pretending my phone is dead. I managed my senior year sleeping through class, so can she! Sitting down with more coffee and the newspaper - I scan it every day to see if it mentions my name. No luck. I down my vitamins for the morning and then realize I have just taken the dog's fish oil pill and her anxiety medicine! Yikes - at least my coat will be shiny and I won't chew my fingernails all day. So, did you really want to know what was on my mind!

So I discovered I have an opinion!

I have met some of the most opinionated people over the years. Opinions on politics. Opinions on religion. Opinions on relationships. Opinions on other people's opinions. You get my drift. Well, I never really had many opinions - fairly uninterested in most issues. Apathetic and disengaged most of the time. I took the childhood lessons to heart - never discuss sex, politics or religion in public or among friends so as not to insult anyone or God forbid, lose friends. I have listened patiently to family members spout off on all sorts of issues and then gaze at me dumbfounded when I have nothing to add. Something must be really wrong with me. Don't I care about significant issues in our world: Republicans versus Democrats; Gay versus Straight; Dogs versus Cats. Pretty sad - I know! At times I would make up an opinion just to feel like part of the crowd - let me tell you - it isn't pretty when you have to stoop to that level. But my historical lackadaisical attitude may have turned the corner when I found myself in a full throttle, heated argument with the television the other day - wait, could it be - I have an opinion! Yippie - now I can join the rest of the normal, functioning world and care about something. Brett was a fool for not picking Mindy!