For about 3 years, I've struggled with this: a child who is bright and intelligent, imaginative and social, inquisitive and thoughtful. Oh, and also hyperactive and impulsive. And sometimes a little violent. And disobedient, unfocused, and obnoxious. That's all. Just that.
Many parents would be drinking by now. Many would have turned to child abuse, or demanded medication to drug this child into a zombie-like oblivion. I took him to counseling, tried with fervor to work with him at home, and spent endless hours on the internet, doing research on this sort of behavior. And I cried, certain that I had failed as a mother.
I consulted Isaac's teachers recently, after finally wrapping my mind around the fact that he may, indeed, suffer from ADHD. Some people who know us might be laughing right now, muttering something along the lines of "duh!" But those people don't get it, unless they've been through this. Mother's of children with ADHD don't admit it easily. At least I didn't. I didn't want this diagnosis, considering it's a mental disorder. What mom wants to hear that their child has a mental disorder? The pediatrician suggested it quite a while ago, but that only put me into the frenzy of research, along the way deciding to obtain my master's in child counseling because of it. The teachers' evaluation of Isaac was what really shook me. It was devastating to me. I realized that I was only hurting him further by waiting. We sat down and had a long talk, which was when this six-year old with amazing potential told me, in a nutshell, just that.
"Mom, I want to do well. My brain tells me to do things that I know are bad, and I can't stop it, even when I want to."
So all this time, maybe he could have done well, he could have struggled less...and I was too stubborn to try medication.
Until today.
He had his first dose of Adderall at about 4:30 p.m. The doctor and the pharmacist both told me it could take 2 or 3 months to level out in his system, but this was an immediate-release, six-hour formula, and I'd likely see a change relatively quickly. The first 30 minutes, I noticed nothing. He was insane in the grocery store, and acted as though he could hear me. He grabbed for everything on the shelves, begged for candy, and ran in the parking lot. Hmph...yeah, immediate release. Right.
By the time we returned home, however, something changed. He was oddly quiet. He was respectful to me while I made dinner. He asked for salad. He ate his meal without jumping up from the table, complaining about the food or making obscene noises. He volunteered to take a bath, did homework without any nagging, and even helped his brother make his bed. I thought surely it was a joke. He had to be making it up. Except for the part that he's six and has no idea what that little blue pill was for.
So I find myself, still, holding my breath. Tomorrow is a new day, another 2 pills. I am immensely curious as to how his teachers perceive his behavior. And I continue to stress, because that's what moms do. They live and breathe for their children, I suppose. And cry for them, and laugh for them, and celebrate their victories.
I'm certainly opening up to the idea that this might be one of those victorious occasions.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
To Go to Heaven: The Simple Version
We're driving to church Sunday morning, and between chattering teeth because the heat hasn't started working yet, Isaac opens up a conversation, again, about Sarge.
"I really miss that dog, Mommy. He must have been very old if God wanted him back in Heaven."
"Well, he was old," I say, "But you don't always have to be old to go to Heaven. Often, God needs to take back young people, too."
"I'm so mad that I'll be seven, soon," he says."This means, I'll be seven and my brother will only turn 4, and I'll always be older than him. Which means, I'll have to go to Heaven first."
I reassured him that age is not the only reason people die and go to Heaven. Although, I told him I hoped it would be the reason that all of us go...that we'd live a full life, grow very old, and then one day, God would come for us.
He sat quietly for a while, his six-year-old hands stuffed into his coat pockets, shoving his feet against the blower of the now-warm heater. Then he pipes up:
"Sarge probably has to protect people, even in Heaven. I think that's his new job. Like maybe he protects God, or the angels or something. Or maybe he is an angel and he protects me."
"Maybe. What made you think that?"
"Easy, Mom. He was a lifeguard."
And that, he was. And this conversation did to me what many conversations do to me. It provoked so many thoughts. Thoughts about the mind of a child, and how vast the world must seem to them. Thoughts of how fleeting it all really is.
We went to my late-grandparents' house later in the day, and I took a few pieces of Grandma's old costume jewelry, and a sugar bowl that sat on the table every day I ate there. They didn't have lavish things in life. Nothing of great value, material-wise. They were just great people. I didn't want anything of great value, anyway. I got that while they were alive, just soaking in their presence. I wanted a few things that I knew they used often...a bowl that held the sugar that Grandpa spooned into his daily coffee, and a couple pairs of earrings that not only do I remember Grandma buying (from the Avon lady, at that), but wearing. I wanted things that they touched. So fleetingly.
My Grandma used to talk about the end of the world. She read the National Enquirer and half-believed all the outrageous stories about a "half-child, half-monkey" or an "alien invasion impregnating rural farm community women." But she really believed everything about the end of the world. About the apocalypse, and Jesus' second coming. She thought it might even happen during her lifetime. Turns out it didn't, but I am not sure she was far off.
My mother noted, today, that the devastation at the World Trade Center was on 9/11/01, and the earthquake in Japan was on 3/11/11. Then I saw on a website that someone took the time to add those numbers together, reaching the conclusion of "12-21-12," the date Nostradamus predicted the world would end. Hmm...but then I did some further browsing, and noticed that the Madrid bombings happened on 3/11/04. Coincidental, maybe. I don't like being too superstitious.
However, the other day, at church? I opened our Daily Devotional. The 40 day one we are supposed to use during Lent. It has little blurbs, each day, about things we can ponder during this time of reflection. I read March 9 (Ash Wednesday) and then the 10th. It was when I flipped to Friday, March 11, that I got goosebumps. The topic for that day was "Seismic Shocks." It was all about great earthquakes, and David. The prayer? "Lord, use seismic shocks to wake us up to your Message, and use us to spread your word so that others may learn that they must turn to you for their rescue."
That, my friends, is no coincidence.
How can I tie this all together? What's the point? The point is: life is fleeting. If you've ever lost something you love, you're aware of this, all too painfully. There's nothing we can do about it, except to live well and live right while we live here. There's no telling when the world will end. There are plenty of hints in the Bible, things to look for. Either way, we have to agree, he's given us ample time to prepare...so that's all we can do. It's never to late to repent all the bad stuff and start over. If we know anything from Lent, it's that the ultimate sacrifice was made over 2000 years ago, and it didn't have an expiration date. Trusting in that, I think, is the simplest way to get to Heaven.
"I really miss that dog, Mommy. He must have been very old if God wanted him back in Heaven."
"Well, he was old," I say, "But you don't always have to be old to go to Heaven. Often, God needs to take back young people, too."
"I'm so mad that I'll be seven, soon," he says."This means, I'll be seven and my brother will only turn 4, and I'll always be older than him. Which means, I'll have to go to Heaven first."
I reassured him that age is not the only reason people die and go to Heaven. Although, I told him I hoped it would be the reason that all of us go...that we'd live a full life, grow very old, and then one day, God would come for us.
He sat quietly for a while, his six-year-old hands stuffed into his coat pockets, shoving his feet against the blower of the now-warm heater. Then he pipes up:
"Sarge probably has to protect people, even in Heaven. I think that's his new job. Like maybe he protects God, or the angels or something. Or maybe he is an angel and he protects me."
"Maybe. What made you think that?"
"Easy, Mom. He was a lifeguard."
And that, he was. And this conversation did to me what many conversations do to me. It provoked so many thoughts. Thoughts about the mind of a child, and how vast the world must seem to them. Thoughts of how fleeting it all really is.
We went to my late-grandparents' house later in the day, and I took a few pieces of Grandma's old costume jewelry, and a sugar bowl that sat on the table every day I ate there. They didn't have lavish things in life. Nothing of great value, material-wise. They were just great people. I didn't want anything of great value, anyway. I got that while they were alive, just soaking in their presence. I wanted a few things that I knew they used often...a bowl that held the sugar that Grandpa spooned into his daily coffee, and a couple pairs of earrings that not only do I remember Grandma buying (from the Avon lady, at that), but wearing. I wanted things that they touched. So fleetingly.
My Grandma used to talk about the end of the world. She read the National Enquirer and half-believed all the outrageous stories about a "half-child, half-monkey" or an "alien invasion impregnating rural farm community women." But she really believed everything about the end of the world. About the apocalypse, and Jesus' second coming. She thought it might even happen during her lifetime. Turns out it didn't, but I am not sure she was far off.
My mother noted, today, that the devastation at the World Trade Center was on 9/11/01, and the earthquake in Japan was on 3/11/11. Then I saw on a website that someone took the time to add those numbers together, reaching the conclusion of "12-21-12," the date Nostradamus predicted the world would end. Hmm...but then I did some further browsing, and noticed that the Madrid bombings happened on 3/11/04. Coincidental, maybe. I don't like being too superstitious.
However, the other day, at church? I opened our Daily Devotional. The 40 day one we are supposed to use during Lent. It has little blurbs, each day, about things we can ponder during this time of reflection. I read March 9 (Ash Wednesday) and then the 10th. It was when I flipped to Friday, March 11, that I got goosebumps. The topic for that day was "Seismic Shocks." It was all about great earthquakes, and David. The prayer? "Lord, use seismic shocks to wake us up to your Message, and use us to spread your word so that others may learn that they must turn to you for their rescue."
That, my friends, is no coincidence.
How can I tie this all together? What's the point? The point is: life is fleeting. If you've ever lost something you love, you're aware of this, all too painfully. There's nothing we can do about it, except to live well and live right while we live here. There's no telling when the world will end. There are plenty of hints in the Bible, things to look for. Either way, we have to agree, he's given us ample time to prepare...so that's all we can do. It's never to late to repent all the bad stuff and start over. If we know anything from Lent, it's that the ultimate sacrifice was made over 2000 years ago, and it didn't have an expiration date. Trusting in that, I think, is the simplest way to get to Heaven.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Just a Dream
Have you seen the movie "Family Man" with Nicholas Cage? The one where he is a high-falutin' business man with everything and then after the altercation with the guy robbing the convenience store, he wakes up with a full-fledged family on Christmas morning? And...um...doesn't really dig it?
Some days I wonder if I'm dreaming...if my life, pre-kids, pre-responsibilities, pre-marriage, etc...isn't just a "wake-up" away. No, I'm not saying that I don't want my family...no I'm not saying that at all. I'm not ungrateful. I just feel like I'm in some sort of dream sequence, and I'm often unsure of why God chose me for this life, instead of, perhaps, another one.
Sitting at my kitchen counter, looking at the debits going out for bills vs. the credit coming in, living in a day-to-day panic, dealing with a child with undeniable behavioral issues (which the doctor calls ADHD and I haven't been able to fully accept, yet), having to move, pack, deal with sickness...the list goes on. And I'm officially griping, I suppose, for which I apologize. It's just, don't any of you ever feel this way? Please say you do.
I've been studying the purpose and meaning of Lent, and today I've finally reached the point that I think God has been asking us to reach. I sat here with my cheek pressed against the cold counter top, racking my brain for answers. "If I pay the hospital with this paycheck, I can wait on the car payment till next week...and still have some room for groceries..." and it happened. Turn it over. Our pastor preached about turning our worries over to God, a few weeks back, and I half-heartedly went along with it. It's a nice concept...but really? I doubt God'll pay my bills or make my kid behave. And truth is, He won't...exactly. But He will listen and He will see, that somehow, everything works out.
I found a greatly supportive quote by Ian Maclaren: What does your anxiety do? It does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, but it does empty today of its strength. It does not make you escape the evil; it makes you unfit to cope with it when it comes. God gives us the power to bear all the sorrow of His making, but He does not guarantee to give us strength to bear the burdens of our own making such as worry induces.
So, I'm gonna try. I really will. Pastor Pat said to cast our worries upon Him and then go to sleep. He's going to be up all night, anyway.
Some days I wonder if I'm dreaming...if my life, pre-kids, pre-responsibilities, pre-marriage, etc...isn't just a "wake-up" away. No, I'm not saying that I don't want my family...no I'm not saying that at all. I'm not ungrateful. I just feel like I'm in some sort of dream sequence, and I'm often unsure of why God chose me for this life, instead of, perhaps, another one.
Sitting at my kitchen counter, looking at the debits going out for bills vs. the credit coming in, living in a day-to-day panic, dealing with a child with undeniable behavioral issues (which the doctor calls ADHD and I haven't been able to fully accept, yet), having to move, pack, deal with sickness...the list goes on. And I'm officially griping, I suppose, for which I apologize. It's just, don't any of you ever feel this way? Please say you do.
I've been studying the purpose and meaning of Lent, and today I've finally reached the point that I think God has been asking us to reach. I sat here with my cheek pressed against the cold counter top, racking my brain for answers. "If I pay the hospital with this paycheck, I can wait on the car payment till next week...and still have some room for groceries..." and it happened. Turn it over. Our pastor preached about turning our worries over to God, a few weeks back, and I half-heartedly went along with it. It's a nice concept...but really? I doubt God'll pay my bills or make my kid behave. And truth is, He won't...exactly. But He will listen and He will see, that somehow, everything works out.
I found a greatly supportive quote by Ian Maclaren: What does your anxiety do? It does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, but it does empty today of its strength. It does not make you escape the evil; it makes you unfit to cope with it when it comes. God gives us the power to bear all the sorrow of His making, but He does not guarantee to give us strength to bear the burdens of our own making such as worry induces.
So, I'm gonna try. I really will. Pastor Pat said to cast our worries upon Him and then go to sleep. He's going to be up all night, anyway.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Thank God for Creamer
...if I didn't have it, I'd be in a world of hurt. My dark chocolate breve creme in my Nantucket Blend is the closest thing I have to cake at the moment. Speaking of deprivation, I am supposed to facilitate a 30 hour famine for my teen Sunday school group. I am now realizing, after about 30 hours without my favorite desserts, but with all the other foods, how difficult that famine will be. I also realize how ignorant that sounds. Considering there are children who probably haven't eaten at all this week...or ate mud cakes, convincing themselves it tasted okay. Anything to fill the belly.
Makes 30 hours, and creamer, seem pretty insignificant.
Lent is a lot about self-discovery. Redirection. It's about learning or relearning your abilities to control yourself. On the surface, I've sacrificed something superficial: cake, cookies, pies...but deeper, I am trying to relearn my ability to devote myself to something, and really mean it. I'm thinking of ways to teach this to my children, but I still think it might be too early. Only last year did they watch (parts) of the Passion of the Christ. It moved them, for certain, because we still talk about it regularly. I'm not sure they understand sacrifice, though. How do you teach them the value of self-sacrifice, of following Jesus when it is much more convenient (and fun) to follow negative influences? It's not something I'm really trying to answer just yet. Really, I'm only pondering...
I found this quote from the writings of Frederick Buechner, and decided to re-post it. I find the idea of spirtual rebirth fascinating, if, in fact, we believe it can happen:
"In many cultures there is an ancient custom of giving a tenth of each year's income to some holy use. For Christians, to observe the forty days of Lent is to do the same thing with roughly a tenth of each year's days. After being baptized by John in the River Jordan, Jesus went off alone into the wilderness where he spent forty days asking himself the question of what it meant to be Jesus. During Lent, Christians are supposed to ask one way or another what it means to be themselves...to answer questions like this is to begin to hear something not only of who you are but of both what you are becoming and what you are failing to become. It can be pretty depressing business all in all, but if sackcloth and ashes are at the start of it, something like Easter may be at the end."
Makes 30 hours, and creamer, seem pretty insignificant.
Lent is a lot about self-discovery. Redirection. It's about learning or relearning your abilities to control yourself. On the surface, I've sacrificed something superficial: cake, cookies, pies...but deeper, I am trying to relearn my ability to devote myself to something, and really mean it. I'm thinking of ways to teach this to my children, but I still think it might be too early. Only last year did they watch (parts) of the Passion of the Christ. It moved them, for certain, because we still talk about it regularly. I'm not sure they understand sacrifice, though. How do you teach them the value of self-sacrifice, of following Jesus when it is much more convenient (and fun) to follow negative influences? It's not something I'm really trying to answer just yet. Really, I'm only pondering...
I found this quote from the writings of Frederick Buechner, and decided to re-post it. I find the idea of spirtual rebirth fascinating, if, in fact, we believe it can happen:
"In many cultures there is an ancient custom of giving a tenth of each year's income to some holy use. For Christians, to observe the forty days of Lent is to do the same thing with roughly a tenth of each year's days. After being baptized by John in the River Jordan, Jesus went off alone into the wilderness where he spent forty days asking himself the question of what it meant to be Jesus. During Lent, Christians are supposed to ask one way or another what it means to be themselves...to answer questions like this is to begin to hear something not only of who you are but of both what you are becoming and what you are failing to become. It can be pretty depressing business all in all, but if sackcloth and ashes are at the start of it, something like Easter may be at the end."
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Ashes
Cookies, cakes and pies. That's what I gave up. Generic, I know. Everyone gives up sweets, or soda, or junk food...something like that. Me, too. I figured I should give up something that will be challenging, so it's actually a sacrifice. Coffee was a suggestion. Give up coffee? Me? I don't think so...that's too drastic...and I didn't figure it would be that noticeable if I gave up, say, brussels sprouts. The lack of those three desserts will hurt. Trust me. However, I still feel a little silly. It's not going to be that big of a sacrifice, in the grand scheme of things.
In thinking about it, if we truly want to repent our sins, we should give up things that hold us in sin. Vices, if you will. What's mine? Probably Facebook. I should have given up Facebook. Does it make me sin? No. It does, however, hold me in an addiction, and allows me to do things that, well, let's just say God probably doesn't promote. For example, what's the newsfeed for? Gossip! It's so we can call up our best friend and say "did you see what so n' so had as their status today?" How about profile "stalking?" Checking out your ex, or your old high school crush, or that girl you hated in high school so that you can now compare your life to theirs? Or worse, lust after times you spent together? As with all things...guns, drugs, money, etc....Facebook isn't evil. It's when people who are using it misuse it, and turn it into an escape vehicle from real life, that the trouble begins. I'm not trying to preach, friends. I'm just as guilty. And...did I give it up? No. I confess that I am weak; I love a mug of coffee and a juicy "Most Recent" newsfeed in the morning.
When our pastor spread the ashes on my forehead last night and said "In the name of Jesus Christ, you are forgiven," I felt tears prick my eyes. Because just like that, she's right, I am forgiven. Even though I know I might sin a dozen times before lunch today, I'm still forgiven.
As I listened to the rest of the sermon, I realized that in addition to giving up something, I'd like to add a conscious effort in something else. Writing is one of my passionate outlets, so why not add a documentation of my own journey to the cross? If I had been there, that day, asked to carry His cross...could I have done it? Would I have recognized, then, what this man was about to do for me?
Last night,I sang the lyrics, "the world behind me, the cross before me...no turning back, no turning back." And although I know we all fall short of the glory of God...I decided that I will use this time of Lent to focus on the cross before me, and I am praying that God will help me stay focused, in all that I do.
So that's my charge to all of my friends who are denying themselves something, this Lent. Whether it's something easily doable or something that will be a major sacrifice: pray about it. Pray for the strength and focus, and maybe you'll be surprised about the other things that seem to fall in to place when you do. I'm counting on it.
In thinking about it, if we truly want to repent our sins, we should give up things that hold us in sin. Vices, if you will. What's mine? Probably Facebook. I should have given up Facebook. Does it make me sin? No. It does, however, hold me in an addiction, and allows me to do things that, well, let's just say God probably doesn't promote. For example, what's the newsfeed for? Gossip! It's so we can call up our best friend and say "did you see what so n' so had as their status today?" How about profile "stalking?" Checking out your ex, or your old high school crush, or that girl you hated in high school so that you can now compare your life to theirs? Or worse, lust after times you spent together? As with all things...guns, drugs, money, etc....Facebook isn't evil. It's when people who are using it misuse it, and turn it into an escape vehicle from real life, that the trouble begins. I'm not trying to preach, friends. I'm just as guilty. And...did I give it up? No. I confess that I am weak; I love a mug of coffee and a juicy "Most Recent" newsfeed in the morning.
When our pastor spread the ashes on my forehead last night and said "In the name of Jesus Christ, you are forgiven," I felt tears prick my eyes. Because just like that, she's right, I am forgiven. Even though I know I might sin a dozen times before lunch today, I'm still forgiven.
As I listened to the rest of the sermon, I realized that in addition to giving up something, I'd like to add a conscious effort in something else. Writing is one of my passionate outlets, so why not add a documentation of my own journey to the cross? If I had been there, that day, asked to carry His cross...could I have done it? Would I have recognized, then, what this man was about to do for me?
Last night,I sang the lyrics, "the world behind me, the cross before me...no turning back, no turning back." And although I know we all fall short of the glory of God...I decided that I will use this time of Lent to focus on the cross before me, and I am praying that God will help me stay focused, in all that I do.
So that's my charge to all of my friends who are denying themselves something, this Lent. Whether it's something easily doable or something that will be a major sacrifice: pray about it. Pray for the strength and focus, and maybe you'll be surprised about the other things that seem to fall in to place when you do. I'm counting on it.
Friday, March 4, 2011
When I wore power suits, I had power....
Once upon a time, I was tough. I had the proverbial "backbone." I didn't back down to people, and generally didn't mind confrontation. I remember a day, back in Savannah real estate, when I said to my then-business-partner Kim, "well this'll be a fun one," as we were dealing with an impossible, rude, demanding couple buying their first home. They antagonized me with late-night phone calls, daily complaints, and wish-lists for things that I should pay for on their behalf, since, of course, they chose me as their Realtor in a sea of other real estate professionals. I took it with a grain of salt. I didn't mind. I may have even enjoyed the challenge. I'd give assertive answers, I'd get the job done, and I'd show up to the lawyer's office for closing, in my black Ann Taylor suit, my favorite Coach heels and and my Louis Vuitton briefcase that begged for the commission check. (Insert materialistic sigh).
Today, friends, I avoid phone calls. I hate to talk on the phone, except for the "regulars" I talk to every week. I love caller ID. If I don't recognize the number, I don't pick up. I don't check my voicemail, either. I generally don't want to know who is calling, because I probably won't call them back anyway. Now, if the call is confrontational, i.e., if there is a problem that I am to somehow solve or otherwise remedy, I really don't want to hear about it. Perhaps I feel, subconsciously, that I did my time. I handled my share of conflict in life. I've been on the receiving end of some horrible calls, with horrible news, and I'm, well, done.
However, it's 1:43 a.m. here, and I awakened from my sleep with one thought: when did I become a sissy?
Maybe you think "sissy" is a bit much, considering I've only mentioned that I avoid phone calls. But I think I avoid more than that. For instance, I don't like dealing with people in person, either, anymore. I find the older I get, the more annoyed I get. Am I a crotchety old woman, at the ripe old age of 29?
I found myself in the check out line of the grocery store, in the deceiving "20 items or less" lane the other day. Everybody always has at least 21 things. Maybe a few more, but, I figured it would be my best bet to at least try to get out of there quickly. Friends, I loathe the supermarket. I love food; I hate buying it. Let's not start me on that tangent. Anyway, I'm behind Little-Miss "I can fit all my needs in one of those little baskets and carry it home in my one little earth-friendly recycled fabric bag." I have never been able to fit all of my stuff in one of those baskets. In the few times I've attempted it, I've nearly killed myself trying to lug it around, obviously full beyond capacity, and left serious track-marks on my forearms from trying to distribute its weight. I regress. Did I mention it's like 1:45 a.m.? My point is, this gal ended up arguing with the cashier over a box of too-expensive teeth whitening strips. She had a coupon. The cashier wouldn't take it. I was immediately annoyed. I would have backed out of the lane, chose another one, and cut my losses. But I'd already used the little separator thing, and put my groceries on the belt. Reloading my cart was not an option. I stood patiently for about a minute. This is a personal record. I tried to soothe my antsy children. I felt an edge in my voice as I told my son "NO" for the one-hundred-ninetieth time he asked for a Ring Pop. They're sticky messes, I'm telling you, Ring Pops. They make for sticky, messy little boys. I shushed my daughter and felt my hands growing sweaty on the handle of the cart; my forehead prickling with sweat as well. It wasn't hot. I was becoming that irritated. Something happens to me that never did before. I get anxious. I get this bewildered sense of...I don't know...craziness. It's a short trip from patience to losing it. The final straw was when the cashier put her flashing light on, for assistance. Little-Miss platinum highlights in front of me was insistent upon using her coupon. It had expired, I overheard. My inner-sissy was telling me to calm down...it'll pass...mellow out and avoid conflict. Then it hit me. Suddenly I was not wearing Adidas track pants, running shoes and a hooded tie-dye sweatshirt. I was in heels, a pencil skirt and pantyhose, and gol-darn-it, when I'm in pantyhose, I mean business. I heard a voice say "Excuse me, dear. I would guess that you have better things to do than stand here and wait for another Meijer employee to come and verify that it is not acceptable to take an expired coupon, and frankly, your teeth appear white enough already. I,in fact, also have better things to do. I'm not exactly sure what those things are, because my life consists of doing things like laundry and changing diapers, but it wasn't always like this, I used to be a little like you. You know, before...this," as I swept my arm over the cart containing my children and groceries. "If you look into my eyes and see the crazy woman behind them, at her breaking point, I am certain that you will end this ridiculous rant and be on your way." Did I just say that? I think I did. Okay, I didn't say the last part, about the eyes and the crazy woman, because, really, they might have called the cops, and I'd be typing from a rubber room right now.
Friends, here's the long and short of it. I always like it when people say "the long and short of it," even though I don't get it. At all.
I have, somewhere along the line, mellowed into some passive-aggressive wanna be of the old me. I'm not confrontational anymore, at least, not right away. I'm now the type who becomes sick, physically, at the thought of having to address "an issue" with someone. I hold on to bad associations way too long simply so I do not have to face them. I am overwhelmed with motherhood, housewifehood, groceryshoppinghood and all of the 'hoods in between, leaving me no time to be the power suit-donning fireball I once was. Maybe, just maybe, a piece of her is still in me, though...and maybe that's enough to someday spark up my "old ways."
On the flip side, though, since I traded pantyhose for track pants, I don't have to shave my legs as often.
Today, friends, I avoid phone calls. I hate to talk on the phone, except for the "regulars" I talk to every week. I love caller ID. If I don't recognize the number, I don't pick up. I don't check my voicemail, either. I generally don't want to know who is calling, because I probably won't call them back anyway. Now, if the call is confrontational, i.e., if there is a problem that I am to somehow solve or otherwise remedy, I really don't want to hear about it. Perhaps I feel, subconsciously, that I did my time. I handled my share of conflict in life. I've been on the receiving end of some horrible calls, with horrible news, and I'm, well, done.
However, it's 1:43 a.m. here, and I awakened from my sleep with one thought: when did I become a sissy?
Maybe you think "sissy" is a bit much, considering I've only mentioned that I avoid phone calls. But I think I avoid more than that. For instance, I don't like dealing with people in person, either, anymore. I find the older I get, the more annoyed I get. Am I a crotchety old woman, at the ripe old age of 29?
I found myself in the check out line of the grocery store, in the deceiving "20 items or less" lane the other day. Everybody always has at least 21 things. Maybe a few more, but, I figured it would be my best bet to at least try to get out of there quickly. Friends, I loathe the supermarket. I love food; I hate buying it. Let's not start me on that tangent. Anyway, I'm behind Little-Miss "I can fit all my needs in one of those little baskets and carry it home in my one little earth-friendly recycled fabric bag." I have never been able to fit all of my stuff in one of those baskets. In the few times I've attempted it, I've nearly killed myself trying to lug it around, obviously full beyond capacity, and left serious track-marks on my forearms from trying to distribute its weight. I regress. Did I mention it's like 1:45 a.m.? My point is, this gal ended up arguing with the cashier over a box of too-expensive teeth whitening strips. She had a coupon. The cashier wouldn't take it. I was immediately annoyed. I would have backed out of the lane, chose another one, and cut my losses. But I'd already used the little separator thing, and put my groceries on the belt. Reloading my cart was not an option. I stood patiently for about a minute. This is a personal record. I tried to soothe my antsy children. I felt an edge in my voice as I told my son "NO" for the one-hundred-ninetieth time he asked for a Ring Pop. They're sticky messes, I'm telling you, Ring Pops. They make for sticky, messy little boys. I shushed my daughter and felt my hands growing sweaty on the handle of the cart; my forehead prickling with sweat as well. It wasn't hot. I was becoming that irritated. Something happens to me that never did before. I get anxious. I get this bewildered sense of...I don't know...craziness. It's a short trip from patience to losing it. The final straw was when the cashier put her flashing light on, for assistance. Little-Miss platinum highlights in front of me was insistent upon using her coupon. It had expired, I overheard. My inner-sissy was telling me to calm down...it'll pass...mellow out and avoid conflict. Then it hit me. Suddenly I was not wearing Adidas track pants, running shoes and a hooded tie-dye sweatshirt. I was in heels, a pencil skirt and pantyhose, and gol-darn-it, when I'm in pantyhose, I mean business. I heard a voice say "Excuse me, dear. I would guess that you have better things to do than stand here and wait for another Meijer employee to come and verify that it is not acceptable to take an expired coupon, and frankly, your teeth appear white enough already. I,in fact, also have better things to do. I'm not exactly sure what those things are, because my life consists of doing things like laundry and changing diapers, but it wasn't always like this, I used to be a little like you. You know, before...this," as I swept my arm over the cart containing my children and groceries. "If you look into my eyes and see the crazy woman behind them, at her breaking point, I am certain that you will end this ridiculous rant and be on your way." Did I just say that? I think I did. Okay, I didn't say the last part, about the eyes and the crazy woman, because, really, they might have called the cops, and I'd be typing from a rubber room right now.
Friends, here's the long and short of it. I always like it when people say "the long and short of it," even though I don't get it. At all.
I have, somewhere along the line, mellowed into some passive-aggressive wanna be of the old me. I'm not confrontational anymore, at least, not right away. I'm now the type who becomes sick, physically, at the thought of having to address "an issue" with someone. I hold on to bad associations way too long simply so I do not have to face them. I am overwhelmed with motherhood, housewifehood, groceryshoppinghood and all of the 'hoods in between, leaving me no time to be the power suit-donning fireball I once was. Maybe, just maybe, a piece of her is still in me, though...and maybe that's enough to someday spark up my "old ways."
On the flip side, though, since I traded pantyhose for track pants, I don't have to shave my legs as often.
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