The Entitlement of a White, American, Southern, Christian Girl

When sad or uncomfortable things happened to me, I was able to steady myself with retail therapy, lunch out with friends, dinner with family, a random tv show or movie. All sorts of “normal” things returned my mindset from anxious, grieving, disappointed or whatever, back to “normal” again. It was akin to the old bury-the-head-in-the-sand ploy and it worked fabulously. Without realizing it, there was an unconscious (or maybe not so unconscious) part of me that was thinking, “I’m a white, American, Southern, Christian girl. What could happen to me?”

Even this week, as my plane circled to land in Asheville, where the smoke from the forest fires was so bad the pilot was forced to take a couple of “go’s” at it, I was simultaneously pleading with God to get that plane on the ground, while reminding him that this, THIS, wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I’m a white, American, Southern, Christian girl.

Do I think God is impressed with this?

My oldest and dearest friend, Donna, died in July of this year from brain cancer. She was my age, and we were college roommates at Furman University. We met freshman year, the first day of enrollment, in our dorm room. That day began a lifelong friendship. You know the kind. The real deal together-through-all-the-bad-and-good-stuff-friendship.

Had I been Donna, my astonishment that this was actually happening to me, would have been off the charts. My astonishment that it was happening to my best friend was off the charts. God, I said, you can’t be serious. This is Donna, as in my Donna. As in, who am I supposed to talk too if Donna isn’t here? As in, we’re taking the grandgirls to the beach when they’re old enough (I have 3, she has 1 with 1 on the way–5 little girls and their grandmas). As in, she’s 57, not 87. We’re going to be 87 together.

I reminded myself that this was happening to her, not me, but God wasn’t hearing me. I’m so accustomed to my privileged and undisturbed life, I assume God will keep it going, though he may need a gentle nudge now and then. My nudging didn’t work, and I’m still trying to get my bearings in a world without Donna in it.

Circling in that plane, I reminded God I still had so much to live for, and I though I didn’t say it, I fear I implied it: Remember Lord? It’s me. The Southern, Christian girl? I don’t die in plane crashes. Things like this that don’t happen to people like me. Remember? (Just like brain cancer wasn’t supposed to happen to Donna.)

Then I read the news about the soccer team and the Columbia plane crash. Wow. Just wow.

My thinking is getting interrupted with reality. Donna did die, and I started following a 7 year old girl on Twitter (@AlabedBana), who is reporting live from Aleppo (via her mom), and last I read her house was in rubbles and she was trying to read Harry Potter to distract herself from her friends dying. She tweeted a picture of her dead friend, maybe age 4-5? I guess distractions do serve a purpose.

My Sunday School class thinks that the millennials don’t know hard work and believe everything should be handed to them. They refer to the millennials as a bunch of whiny babies. It’s a common topic. They feel certain Donald Trump will set those kids straight now that he is PEOTUS. (When he stops on whining on Twitter, perhaps?) I don’t follow their logic, but I’m not worried about it because I’ve got problems of my own.

My own entitlement has reared it’s embarrassing head, and yes, it involves a lot of whining. Disgust reigns.

Somehow, my thinking got very entitled. I believed that being me meant I didn’t go through what others do. And, in many ways, I don’t. I’m clueless as to what a 7 year old and her brothers do when their house is bombed. I’m protected from that, and I’m more grateful than I can say, but there was a time when I didn’t and couldn’t hear Bana’s voice. My lunches and friends drowned out her bombs, her friend’s dying and her Harry Potter books.

My plane did land, easily and without incident, but it could just have easily crashed. Why was I on the plane that didn’t crash when others were not? Why am I a white, American, Christian girl living a protected and privileged life who somehow fell under the delusional thought that I was entitled to it? Why didn’t I find it odd that some people went hungry, or without water, or that babies were born while wars waged over their mother’s heads? I didn’t find it odd because it wasn’t happening to me.

Here’s what happens when you raise your head and look around: The distractions cease to work. The voices are no longer murmurings in the background of life. They take front and center. The bombs seem like they are literally overhead, and you find yourself asking for courage to speak, to rail, to scream against all of it. You look at yourself and you no longer see a white, Southern, Christian girl. You see the world and everyone in it.

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Humble Pie? Yes, Please.

Want a piece of humble pie? Try this. Read your old journals. I’ve been reading my old journals. That I’ve written since I was 12. I can’t even.

Describes me from age 12 to say, 45: Narcissistic. Silly. Ridiculous. Delusional.

I know, you’re thinking, uh, yeah. We knew.

Then why the heck didn’t you tell me? But you were narcissistic (and often the victim), you say. True. I’d have thought it was like, so your problem not mine. Like NBD. Learn some boundaries, people. I’m on my journey. You’re on yours.

I wish age wasn’t the thing here. The thing that allows you to stop. Stop the obsessing about yourself. Stop the insanely, crazy idea that you must be happy or well, well, you just must. (Truly, happiness is a state of mind.) I wish age didn’t soften the edges or turn the mind toward others, but it does.

I used to love watching my mother with her friends. They were so very careful with each other’s lives. Their conversations brought ease, distraction, laughter, encouragement, help, or just passed the time. Certain subjects were off limits. The child that died at 40 from cancer. The husband with Alzheimer. The best friend with stage 4 colon cancer. What was the need to discuss, ad nauseam, when nothing changed, and there was still life to be lived?

I hear my younger self’s voice, and she and her friends discussing everything–husbands, kids, parents, jobs, houses, siblings–always purporting to know everything and even better, how to fix everybody. I am glad my silly, narcissistic, ridiculous, delusional self wasn’t completely alone.

Now, like that horror movie you just can’t turn away from, I find myself face buried in my journals, flipping page to page. Humiliation burns into my soul with each new paragraph, but I can’t stop myself. What was I thinking? I wasn’t. I wasn’t thinking or truly, would my rational mind write such dribble?

I want to scream to everyone who knew me then: I AM NOT THAT PERSON NOW.

But is that true? Something to journal about, I suppose.

My prayer, these last 4 years, has been for humility. These journals are a huge slice of humble pie, so prayer heard. I’m not alone. As FaceBook so often attests these days, a piece of humble pie would benefit us all, but I’ll take mine first and I want a large slice, please.

I’ve reached an age where I cannot fathom unkindness, no matter your political affiliations or religion or how right you may be, though I haven’t learned to love the one who is unkind, yet. Name calling and finger pointing make my stomach turn, though I am still stuck on so many stereotypes. Vulgarity makes me cringe, and words that serve no purpose other than to show the foulness in our hearts are simply words I don’t want to hear anymore, though I wonder, especially with my children, do my non-vulgar words build up or tear down?

I ask myself this question, am I still absorbed in me? Unfortunately, yes. May I have another piece of pie?

Am I able to say, I am not that person now? Could I, with confidence, say I have changed?

Maybe I could whisper those words, just barely utter them, but a declaration?

No.

My journals expose the truth of how wrapped up in my life I was, how tormented by my own thoughts I was. It was a vicious cycle. One that had the simplest answer. Put the pen down, close the journal, and GO DO SOMETHING PRODUCTIVE. My, how I whined. My, how I did not proactively change a thing about myself or my circumstances. My, how I was waiting on everyone else to change. They didn’t.

The lesson I’ve learned, besides my big dose of humility? I’ll quote the psychiatrist who gets credit for me not whining anymore: “Why journal? You obsess enough without it.”

Touché.

The one positive about all the volumes of handwritten agony? They’ll make great fire starters this winter.

I know some of you are thinking, journaling helps me to process. It’s a good thing. I hope it is for you. For me, I have learned that so much of life isn’t to be analyzed, but to be lived. I’ve learned by showing up and doing. I’ve learned to live a life that doesn’t match my dreams, and to make this life my dream. I’m learning to love people who disappoint me. I learning to love myself when I disappoint me. I’m learning that while words are incredible, couple them with actions and you have healing.

My Uncle died yesterday and my cousin remembered him this way, “He hugged you like he never wanted to let go.”

That’s the best way to be remembered, isn’t it? Let’s live that life, then maybe journal that.

 

 

How Long Do You Get to Live?

Just yesterday.

A woman said.

“I can live until 77.” Cracking a joke everyone over 50 identifies with.

I thought, when is the value of a life measured in dollars and cents?

Of course, she was referring to her retirement account and it’s longevity. Which seems to be the determinate of a lifespan (at least among my crowd) these days.

Saving for retirement is a lot like saving for a child’s college. Completely necessary, often forgotten, and, I would add, not always realistic when college tuition is skyrocketing, and stocks are dive bombing. I was told 2 things regarding old age.

  1. Marry well so someone can take care of you in your old age.
  2. If you don’t marry well, have a lot of children so they can take care of you in your old age.

I did neither. I’ll add that neither did I work for the state, so they could take care of me in my old age. The conclusion: Someone is necessary to take care of me in my old age. I rebel at the thought, while recognizing the changes age is definitely bringing with it.

Vulnerable.

That describes my emotions as I move into this last 1/3 of my life.

Planning.

That’s the word I hear from financial planners to insurance salesman to my AARP magazines. Plan for retirement, plan for long-term care (they turned me down), plan to downsize so my expenses are less. You cannot plan enough. Who can plan all of that and even hope to get it right?

I don’t really want to know when I’m going to die, but truly if one did know, and the means thereof, the planning would be a tad easier.

Enjoyment.

I’m told to enjoy these final years. I find that word a bit pandering.

Someone recently told me that life was not a spiraled progression but a series of circles. We stay in one circle until it’s time to go to the next one. And then we must leap to the next one. The time immediately before leaping is the hardest. We don’t often know what circle is next or what to expect when we get there.

I don’t like the stereotypical circles for “elderly,” retirement communities, cruise ships, nursing homes. I can’t see myself in any of those circles. They remind me of the show my College Son watches, The Dome. an encapsulated place predetermined by God knows who that is supposed to meet my needs, but doesn’t quite, and even separates you from family in some cases. But, I don’t think I’m so smart I can outwit old age, and avoid those places. Sometimes life is about finding meaning and purpose right where you are, encapsulated in a dome or not.

If I had a bucket list, it would have only one thing on it: Purpose.

I want my last years to be an exercise in addition not subtraction. What can I add too? Where can I give? Where is the circle that accepts what I still have to offer? I want my days, when I am laid to rest and the reminiscing starts,  to be added together, each day added to the previous one to equal the sum of a life with purpose. Giving, loving, blessing, contributing, belonging. If subtraction enters the equation, I only want it to do so based on what I gave, not on what I depleted.

And, if there is any money left in any accounts (and, hey, don’t forget all those off-shore accounts :), then oh, do spread it around. Don’t stress over it’s longevity. Cast it onto the waters,  and see how it returns.

Skinny Girls and Over-50 Girls

You know what I really don’t like? Women who post pictures of their food and it’s pancakes piled high with syrup dripping everywhere, bacon, eggs, and a slab of ham for good measure, and that woman is a size 2. And then, later that same day, she posts pics of her peanut butter pie with chocolate sauce on her face, captioned, “Peanut Butter Pie!!” As if we can’t see that. It’s all over her social media. You can’t escape it.

I’m sorry. I’m 56. The word metabolism left my vocabulary just like it left my body somewhere in my mid-40’s. Listen it’s a 19 year old’s world (and girls, enjoy it now), because once you’re over 50, unless you’re fasting the other 6 days a week, there is no eating like that. If there is, something ain’t right.

On our first snowy morning, I delighted Micah with French toast, eggs and bacon. I watched him devour whole pieces of bread in one bite, while I sat with my Greek yogurt and walnuts, blueberries and pears. It was a sad, bitter breakfast for one of us. The other one (22 and into the whole extreme workout thing) wolfed down 1/2 loaf of bread, 1/2 lb. of bacon, and 6 eggs. You’re wondering why didn’t he just go for it and eat all of it? He wanted too, but I held him off. We can’t get to the store until Mr. Muscle shovels our driveway, so I’m conserving resources. Plus, I don’t have a cool snow shovel like my neighbors, and well, I am going to look a little stupid out there with my trowel shoveling 2 1/2′ of snow. I’m waiting until they go to bed, you know, when the snow turns back to ice.

Unlike my neighbors, whom I have new found respect for, I did not park at the very edge of my driveway, leaving me about a 1/2″ of 2 1/2′ of snow to shovel. I parked all the way down the drive, by the garage (it’s full of my gardening gear, so I can’t actually park in it), leaving me at least 20′ of the pure white driven stuff to shovel. It’s doesn’t looking promising as Mr. Muscle is presently doing pull-ups on the pull-up bar that’s wedged into the door frame between the kitchen and living room. He can’t be bothered. If he needs to go somewhere, he’ll just put on his ski gear and jog there. No biggie.

At 56, soon to be 57, I want to say that my early years of bike riding 36 miles round trip on a Saturday up to Mt. Mitchell, running marathons over tree roots through the woods, hiking up mountains, or heading to the gym when everyone else was heading home, has allowed me to rest on my laurels, but it has not. I did think, silly me, that all that crazy exercise would insulate me when I got older (as in, my current age) from the dreaded weight gain of a mid-to-quickly-becoming-elderly-lifer.

But, food is no longer my friend.  

I’ll be honest. I didn’t work out for my future health. I worked out so I could eat that plate of pancakes, bacon and eggs, and not gain any weight. It was with sheer pleasure that I gobbled down red meat, french fries and yes, a salad, basically, whatever I wanted, then finished it off with a bag of Cheetos, and remained a size 2. I was that woman who would have if she could have, posted pictures of her scrawny self alongside pictures of her heart-attack inducing food. But that was 20 years before the internet. I’m thankful because that time-lapse ensured I still have girlfriends.

Now, my food choices are based on my grandgirls, ages 4, soon-to-be-2 and 9 months. I think, as I am picking up the bag of M&M’s, do you really want to die of a heart attack and miss one of their weddings? When did my food choices become my life expectancy choices?

My daughter-in-law and I were chatting about the girls getting bigger and how fast they’re growing and when they leave for college (since they’re not even out of pre-school yet), and I realized I would be 68 when that happened. My response? “Oh good. I could still be alive then.”

Woah. When you start determining your RSVP choices based on how long you think you have, what is going on? 

I know. This post just went dark. From pancakes to mortality in 700 words. Don’t blame me. If I were in charge, pancakes would be health food.

All of this is to say, come on women over 50 who manage to stay a size 2. Are you really gonna post another picture of pancakes and peanut butter pie?

Star Wars VII: My Fan Theory

This past Christmas week my family gathered at my house, and Star War’s fan theory was the topic for most of the week, primarily the potential love interest. I never heard so much blah, blah, blah over who would end up with whom. I finally piped up and said what I thought. I sort of stunned them with my brilliance, but won them over with my theory.

So, my fan theory on the love interest of the new characters introduced to us in Star Wars VII.

It’s simple. Ray and Kylo Wren.

Fan Theory Point Number 1:

I’ll start with the pause. That moment when Kylo Wren took off his mask at Ray’s request. That moment lasted enough time for me to think: Oh, they’ll end up together. Not a big surprise. How many times has a good girl tried to save a bad boy and a bad boy tried to turn a good girl bad? Oldest plot line in the world.

Her expression summed it up. She expected a face twisted with evil, but instead she saw a young man with soft features and nice eyes. She looked surprised but also attracted. He takes his mask off for her and the audience is also caught off guard. This sort of blew the whole climatic bridge scene with his dad, Harrison Ford. As a movie go-er I would have preferred the big reveal during the bridge scene, but Kylo removing it for her just makes the whole moment thing a definite.

Fan Theory Point Number 2:

For a spoiled rotten villain who pitches temper tantrums and doesn’t mind mass murder and torture, his treatment of Ray is almost touching. He carries her like a damsel in distress. He does not allow her to be tortured (unlike Poe), and he is her interrogator. During the interrogation, he tries to connect with her, offering comforting words regarding the force. And finally, in their battle scene, for a guy who is trained in the force, whose family is practically the force, whose Uncle and Grandfather are famous in the force, he pretty much lets her win. Come on, there’s no way this guy couldn’t have destroyed her no matter how much the force was with her. He even offers to train her in the force.

Ray already has the makings of a girl who will go a long way towards helping a guy she’ll see as a victim of the dark side and not a convert. And Kylo Wren? He is already smitten. Done deal for him.

So, there is it. My fan theory. As my dad used to say, bad boys and good girls will always be drawn to each other.

(Some credit goes to my son, Joffrey Bagwell, who wrote a three page draft of the points I outlined above. Clearly, he is obsessed.)

 

Gather the Moments of Your Life

Gather the moments of your life.

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I mean this literally. Find something to gather with. I have so many gardening baskets, I’ll use one of those. For you, maybe it’s a tailgate basket. Or a big, beach bag. Or a grocery bag. It doesn’t matter. Take something, because this is important. It is important because it is your life, and it tells a story. I want you to see your beautiful story. I want you to see how beautiful you are. So, take whatever it is, and grab a notepad.

Walk through your home. What do you see? Pictures, books, journals, toys, a table, a chair? Notice it all. Pick it up, examine it. Let your mind go back to the day of significance. Open up photo journals, written journals. Read them again. Visit the places in your pictures one more time. Explore your life. And don’t forget your dreams. The ones that came true and the ones that didn’t.

Write the moments down. Or draw. Or scribble. This is important because you are important. Did you know that? That you have not been forgotten? I want to say this to you, you are not forgotten.

You matter. Write that down. Gather the importance of you.

Don’t censor this exercise. Fill the bag full of the moments encapsulated in pictures and memories and furniture and streets and toys and dishes and, oh, all of it. Tear each scribbled down moment off, and place it in your bag. And not just THAT moment. Don’t separate the magnificent from the mundane or the horrific from the glorious.

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My boss was the captain of Duke University’s football team during his college years. So, he should gather that, you’re thinking. Absolutely.  It counts because it is accomplishment, dedication, and hard work. Time invested. Gather it. Be thankful. Be proud.

But, gather these moments, too.

My College Son drives a local lady once a week to do errands. He doesn’t have time. College is consuming, Then there’s his job at the grocery store and his girlfriend. “Who else will do it, Mom, if I don’t?” I shrug. I see them sometimes, in his old Ford Escort. That goes in my moment’s basket. I hope it will go in his one day.

One of my moments is a coffee cup, a table and a Bible.

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Another moment is Jekyll Island. 608

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Gather the tragedies. None of us are without them. There are no words for some of this called life. Just tears. Maybe that slip of paper is just wet with tears. Place it in the bag.

Gather the sacred and the scared. See the letters? Not so different.

Gather the mundane.  You think only the exciting, the highlights, the obituary stuff counts as gathering material? Gather the everyday. Gather the days the unproductive days, the listless days, the bored, restless, aggravated days. The what’s for supper, piles of laundry, and dirty bathroom days.

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I’ll gather family too.

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Do this now, before the new year rolls in and you are examining your life under the lens of what’s not right. The lens of what needs doing, improving, and changing. Before the New Year’s resolutions, gather. Sit in the quiet of Advent, waiting and gathering.

Then, take those pieces of paper, written on, drawn on, scribbled on, laughed over, cried over, so hard to write, so wonderful to write, and place them all on a table. See the puzzle? The pieces of your life? See how beautifully they all fit together? See the perfect magic of each one? See the wonder and the see the sadness? Bring their torn, scared edges together. and like a puzzle, let them create a picture. Let them touch. Read the words as the journey of your life.

Read the story of your life.

Go gather, friend.

 

 

From a MIL to all you DILs: Some Advice

During my child-raising years, I led a women’s weekly Bible Study. I was blessed to do so.

It was a large group of women and, as you can imagine, many came to me with prayer requests. To my astonishment, the primary request was, “Pray for my relationship with my mother-in-law.” When I inquired as to the problem, not surprisingly, the problem was always the mother-in-law. As much as I loved every woman in that group (and I did, with great devotion), I gotta say, most of the complaints were downright petty. I wondered who the problem really was.

My mil said this, she did so-n-so with the kids, I hate her food, she hates mine, the holidays, and on and on the grievances went.

As my mom used to say, “Don’t take offense where offense is not meant, and generally speaking, it is not meant.”

Touché. And love covers a multitude of sins, people.

My own mother-in-law was the epitome of the meek-and-mild-mannered sort, so if she wanted to strangle me, I never knew it. I can be blissfully clueless, which in family matters factors greatly to my advantage. As it happens I liked my mil. Beneath that quiet exterior was a funny, smart woman, so maybe I just didn’t get what the big deal was with my Bible study ladies.

Now, I have a dil of my own, and well, I haven’t exactly nailed the mil role yet, just like I didn’t nail the mother role before the car rolled away from the hospital and the baby seat was finally secured. I am learning, but what a learning curve. We’re sorting out our roles as we go. I’ve got a history with my kids that literally started in utero. I’m creating a history with my dil that started when she was 22.

I’m their mom, but I’m her mil. Heck, just the difference between a mid-Western girl and a Southern mil is well, big-hair-huge, but we’re making it. I’m proud of us.

Sadly, the only advice I was given when I became a mil was to wear beige and shut-up. Okay. Clearly, I am not so stupid as to wear white to the wedding, but here’s my response to that sage advice: Beige looks horrible on everyone, and telling someone to shut-up is the equivalent of silencing their voice in the family. Making them invisible. Translated, it means: unwanted and excluded. Try those shoes on and see how they feel. So, this is me not being invisible. Some thoughts for the dils.

  1. I went from being mom-in-charge to being mom-not-in-charge. That’s like 0-60-0. Try putting the brakes on that. It ain’t easy. And, yes, I know that letting go of my children is a process that should’be started around age 3, but it took me until age 18 to know that. Sorry. So, cut the mils some slack when they don’t shut-up, yet probably should.
  2. This one is from my dil: Let the mil spoil the grandchildren. In her words: “Kids should have happy memories with grandparents without parents butting in. We may not agree with it, but it is their time with the kids, and the kids will remember it.” (Yes, I’m allowed to spoil three adorable, little girls, and who doesn’t want to do that?)
  3. Have some empathy. When I met my dil I was going through a divorce. She met me at my worst, without knowledge of what my best looked like. While your mil may not be going through a divorce, she is quickly becoming an empty-nester, which is huge. I know you dils already know this because I know you’re amazed at how quickly the children are growing up, and you’re counting down the days until they’re gone.
  4. Your mil is going to get it wrong. Let her. Oh, give the woman a break. We all need room to mess up without fear of judgment. Don’t we? Some of what she does may be stupid, but you can choose to let it go. You haven’t met the the situation where you don’t have a choice. Choose to ignore some of her antics, be it martyrdom, passive aggressive comments, or just plain-old foot-in-the-mouth, and let the awkward go.
  5. And, yes, unfortunately, your mil wants the family at her house for Christmas. Find me a mil who doesn’t. She wants the Over-the-River-and-Through-the-Woods-to-Grandmother’s-House-We-G0 experience. For heaven’s sake, give it to her one Christmas, or two–it doesn’t have to be all of them. It will be a hassle, a long road trip with whiny kids, and you’ll want to kill yourself before its over, but your mil will be forever grateful, with a heart full of memories and gratitude that no road trip can measure.
  6. Ask her for advice. Seriously, do you think she got this far in life without gathering some wisdom along the way? You may even decide to take it.
  7. Do something with her minus the kids and husband. A little bonding never hurt.

I’ll share my heart with you here. The older I get the more invisible I feel. Recently, at work, my boss was talking to me and he said, “We’ve just aged out of the work force, we need these younger people.” I felt so defeated. I still need to work, but if my contribution isn’t needed anymore, then what? Unfortunately, being a mil, the same message is given, wear beige and shut-up. You’re no longer needed. It feels as though a giant eraser is slowly and silently removing my presence here. As I watch my children create families of their own, I am proud of them, but I wonder where I fit into that picture, or if I do. Is it really my job to wear beige and shut-up? All of this is so very new to me, and I imagine your mil too. And, it comes at a time when everything is changing, not just children marrying. Widowhood or divorced. Empty-nester. The work force slowly pushing you out. Calculating how long you can live based on how much money you have in retirement (yes, there is an actual calculation for that). Wondering what would happen if you ran out of money before years. Aging and health scares. Dying parents, dear friends or siblings. The eraser just keeps removing. In the midst of that, squeals of grandchildren happy to see you is pretty awesome. Being welcomed to their home by their mom is just as awesome.

A final thought: If Endora from Bewitched, or the chick from The Good Wife, Jackie Florrick, is your mil, then ignore all the above and plot away. But, aside from the downright crazy mils (and that is a thing), most mils actually do like their dils. My dil is a better mother than I ever was. She’s a strong, beautiful, independent woman that keeps the grandchildren connected to family, and loves my son. I am on her side. I want her marriage to succeed, and her family to prosper, no matter who cooks pot roast what way, or eats vegan. I’d bet my last dollar your mil would say the same. Maybe, she just wants to feel included and sometimes needed. Whatever the issue, consider flying the white flag of truce and letting go of projections and stereotypes. Remember karma is also a thing, and one day you’ll be her.

Okay, lecture over. Next one will be for the mils on playing nice with the dils. How’s that? Look for great thoughts from my dil to be included.

(Header picture: My favorite wedding day of picture of dil, son and granddaughter.)

Dandelion, Big People Jobs and Devils, Transplanted and Still Blooming, Cinthia Milner

Big-People Jobs and Devils

I need to find a woman named Sheila and say, hey, thanks for all the truisms. She came through again this week.

I was panicking over the fact that I still have absolutely no plan for my life and should probably come up with one. (This is a regular on my panic list.) I was contemplating applying for a big-people job (regular hours, regular pay, air conditioning, french manicures, benefits, etc.) but the potential place of employment is known for its bad politics and a chick that is simultaneously powerful,  power crazy, and just plain crazy.

I’m gabbing away to my friend, Jen, about this potential big-people, albeit disastrous job, and she quotes Sheila. (Sheila is Jen’s friend. We’ve never met, but I love how women know each without knowing each other because we’re friends with each other’s friends.)

Anyway, here’s Sheila’s quote. The devil you know is better than the devil you don’t know.

My, my.

That one fits right up there with the grass being greener. Oh, the applications.

Because the devils are mine. The one I know and the one I don’t know. They’re a part of myself that is just as cra cra as the power hungry chick, and they’ve had a recent field day with me over the big-people job and my reluctance to go for it.

  • You’re afraid of that woman. Yes, I am. Everyone is. It is right to be so.
  • You’re afraid of change. You betcha. I’ve had enough change in the last decade to, well, last.
  • You’re afraid you aren’t smart enough. I am smart, but smart enough? I don’t know. 
  • You’re afraid someone will find out you aren’t who you say you are. Surely to the Lord everyone already knows that, don’t they? 

I leave my devils to their conversation. It’s not a new one, anyway.

I decide I don’t want the job because, air conditioning and all that, I’m not ready for change. It’s good to have an actual reason when not going for french manicures and health insurance because the devils can make me doubt myself, cause me to wonder if my decisions are based on how the wind blows.

I give myself permission to skip the big-people job and go home, where I’m the only crazy woman in residence. I decide that conquering my devils is befriending my devils, both those known and those unknown. It’s like the monster in the closet. When you turn the light on, you discover it’s only your shadow.

 

 

Dancing through a Mid-Life Crisis, Transplanted and Still Blooming, Cinthia Milenr

Dancing Through a Mid-Life Crisis

No, I’m not taking a ballroom class. I plug my earphones into my IPhone and hit play. I hit play in the parking lot, before I even get to my car. All day long I help people solve plant problems. What to plant where, what plant best matches the porch cushions (really?), what works in shade, in sun, on an embankment, and so on. I answer questions politely and hopefully, informatively, but if you could read my thoughts, I’m looking forward to the music.

So why the music and the mid-life crisis?

Because life gets hard about this time in the journey. For some, it starts out pretty darn hard. For others, hard things happen along the way. But by mid-life, the ball really gets rolling. At least, that’s what I’m finding out. My mother died so unexpectedly and suddenly last July, that I am still reeling and forever picking up the phone to call her. She missed Jordy’s birth, my 3rd granddaughter. And now, my dearest and oldest friend is facing brain cancer. Weren’t we just decorating our college dorm room? It goes fast. There is no other way to say it. A blink and it’s gone.

Here’s the weird part. Once great, grand, and parents are dead, you’re up next to bat. Yes, if family history prevails, I have 20+ years still, but the generation before me is gone. They were my buffer. Now, I’m the buffer for kids and grandkids, and well, that my friends is a sobering thought.

Add empty-nest, jokes about how long we can live based on our IRAs, grandchildren we never see, working long hours in hopes of increasing that IRA a little and then the dang downsizing. I hate the downsizing.

When did life become about downsizing instead of building? When mid-life showed up, that’s when.

You see what I mean. Full on mid-life crisis. I read some articles about it. Not much there. Did glean one gem. That my brain can’t process everything happening at this stage of life. Agreed. So, I gave up reading the self-help stuff and hit Crazy on You, or Hooked on a Feeling, or Spirit in the Sky or I Want You Back (yes, the Jackson 5), and tuned it all out. When I open my front door, I dance. I dance while preheating the oven. I dance in the shower. I dance and vacuum. I dance around my house to everything from Queen, the Eagles and yes, even PitBull.

And I remember. I remember dancing with Donna in our college dorm room, dancing with my sisters in our childhood bedrooms, dancing with my toddlers and boys and even teenage sons in our family living room, dancing with my mom and dad in our family living room. I had forgotten that my family–that I–love to dance.

The kitchen is the best place for it. The floor is slick. After dinner, I crank it up and stand Aggie up on her hind legs and dance around with her. She doesn’t like it, but she tolerates it as one would expect a good dog too. I dance until way past bedtime, and for a few hours I’m not the grandmother with grandchildren way too far away, or the divorced wife living paycheck-to-paycheck, or the 56-year-old looking straight at the fact that mid-life is really just a term for what I’m experiencing.

Because I passed mid-life a decade ago.

My oldest son says our goal is not to be successful. Our goal is to come to terms with ourselves and the choices we make, or, I would add, perhaps the choices others–or life–make for us. Mid-life has definitely been a choice-evaluating-time for me. To consider where I stepped wrong or maybe right, but mostly, I’m just dancing.

P.S. This one is for Carol. 🙂

 

The Pocketbook, Transplanted and Still Blooming, Cinthia Milner

The Pocketbook

My mom, Frankie Ann, was the worst gift-giver.

I’d tell her exactly what to get–say a new book. I’d give her the title, the author, the date of publication, and I’d go by the store–the one that wasn’t “weird with no parking”–and tell the salesclerk to hold it for Mom. Her one task? To pick it up and pay for it.  Then gift day rolled around, and she’d proudly hand me some useless kitchen gadget. I don’t cook. And no, it wasn’t a hint to start cooking. She didn’t cook, either. She just tanked at giving gifts, and seriously there was no following her thinking on this, though she had a thought behind it. It was always a puzzlement to me. But, I did inherit this trait. My gifts are always last minute and so lackluster. (To all my dear friends, I apologize.)

But, Frankie Ann was stylish. One day we were having lunch at a favorite spot, having what she called, “our expensive salads,”  and she randomly pulled out a new pocketbook and said, “I can’t stand that purse you’re carrying, here I got you this one.” It rocked. A hot, little neon-blue number that I got a billion compliments on.

Thus, began the years of the purse-gift. From that day on, the only gift mom was allowed to give me was a pocketbook.

Solved her problem of tanking at gifts, and my problem of picking out ridiculous and cheap pocketbooks. (I hate dropping cash on a purse. I’ll spend whatever on shoes or a shirt, but a pocketbook? I’m always like, don’t you have one for $10? No. Of course, they don’t.)

The purse-gift became famous with my friends. When they saw the edgy-cute camo bag from Charming Charlie’s hanging over my shoulder, they said, “Frankie Ann?”  Yep.

We kept the purse-gift up for about a decade. Then she died on July 28 last year, very unexpectedly, and when fall came, I didn’t know what to do. I stood in Kohl’s just staring at the pocketbooks.

I dug out an old one and carried it–seams torn, and straps unraveling. (I’m pretty hard on a purse.)

Skip ahead to April 4, my birthday, and yet another pocketbook dilemma. My birthdays aren’t much fun anymore. One, I’m getting way too old way too fast. Two, my kids aren’t around to help celebrate. Three, mom isn’t here and, you know, when the other person who was there with you on the actual day of is gone, it’s just wrong.

But friends help, and plenty of mine showed up to wow the day. My friend Debbie and I share what I call the birthday week, meaning we can technically celebrate all week, if we want. I’m the 4th, she’s the 10th. I made the dinner reservations. She drove. The minute I got in the car, and saw the gift bag, I knew I’d been up-gifted.

She said she tried to channel Mom to give me just the right gift. You’d think I would have figured that out immediately, but I didn’t and was curious if I was going to get another useless kitchen gadget. (Channeling can go so wrong.) But Frankie Ann showed up in the channeling, and I got my birthday purse. The best, most thoughtful gift ever. Mom would’ve approved.

The Pocketbook, Transplanted and Still Blooming, Cinthia Milner

Love the color. It’s smiling because it found it’s happy home.

 

I often say, because my mom’s death was so sudden, that I feel as though someone opened a door and pushed her through it. My granddaughter, who loved her Maurme (Frankie Ann), asked, “When is Maurme coming back?” Oh my. I keep asking the same thing. Will someone please open that door and push my mother back through?

But for that moment, in the gift of the pocketbook, Mom did come back. Debbie did channel mom, though maybe not as she thought, by picking out the coolest purse ever. She channeled her because she did something only moms do. She remembered.