A Degree in Parenting

Did I spend long hours and countless dollars earning a college degree to prepare for making homemade baby food?  Did I spend weeks, months, and years studying statistics, psychotropic medicines, and 19th-century American poets so I could read Goodnight Moon a thousand times to a two-year-old?  Did I work fifteen years, trudging my way to management so I could negotiate potty time with a power-hungry toddler?  Did I walk away from a salary, title, and freedom to wipe sticky noses?

Turns out I did.  Seminars on Dealing with Difficult People are perfectly suited to the stubborn toddler. Sharp organization skills make for an efficient home. I don’t budget millions of dollars or compete for high-dollar contracts anymore, but I stay on top of the family checkbook and clip a few coupons these days.  Hours of research I did on breastfeeding, nutrition, childhood sleep patterns, vaccinations, and infant brain development remind me of late hours at the office with the cleaning crew giving funny looks because I was interfering with their routine of privacy.

My husband is CEO and I’m the Operations Manager and our board of directors consists of God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.  Accountabilities are high!  Countless experiences firing incompetent staff, however, seem very appealing when the family is not cooperating with my 5-year plan.  But then again, they can’t fire me either!

I used to dream about quitting my job to be a stay-at-home mother.  I envisioned a perfectly weeded garden stocked with cucumbers, carrots, and squash.  Me in a floppy hat picking fresh green beans. My “young’uns” playing in the sunshine nearby.  Then I would wake up and look around at my friends.  Many of them had aged rapidly since the onset of parenthood.  Then I began to get scared and wondered who I would be if I wasn’t “Director of So and So” anymore.

My husband reassured me that I would be an excellent Mother.  This is why he married me, he said.  I wasn’t so sure.  Men usually get to add Father to their resume without giving up the old titles.  Other women tell me that while motherhood may require you give up the titles, you get to keep all the jobs.  And eventually, you learn to live with the fatigue.

So here I am, President of Home.  It’s just like when I first entered the workforce and I had so much to learn.  It’s exactly like that.  I’m starting over.  Well, now that I’ve figured that out I feel so much better.  I hope my family can survive the training period.  I’ve heard it could last well over 18 years!

The Autumn of My Year

It is starting to feel like the end of Summer now. The cicadas sing their shrill music in the tree tops, vibrating in synchronized melody. It feels like I have been sleep walking through most of this year. First with my Mother's sudden death, then my Aunt's longer passage. So I take a breath, lean my shoulders forward and push into the next years of my life, changed by the experience but determined to live well in the time I have with my own children.

Autumn seems to be as good a time as any to put some things to rest. There has been time to cry, pray, and remember. Now I lift my eyes and look forward. I cannot see what is ahead. None of us can! But I have hope. Hope that is seen is not hope. We walk by faith, not by sight.

I started this blog because I love to write. But mostly I love to write satire. I prefer to focus on the irony of life, the part that can be so comical at times. Unfortunately, this year has offered few opportunities for that. Instead it has offered little laughter, much grief, and circumstance for reflection. Growth is good, but we are all due for a healthy dose of joy. Perhaps I am ready to write again.

Aunt Joyce

Most people know by now that my Aunt Joyce has brain cancer. To be exact, a stage four glioblastoma. People I know in the medical field get a real funny look when I share that, because they know what an ugly kind of cancer it is. When we were told the news about her tumor, it was a terrible shock. "How does this happen?" We asked. Then just 3 weeks after that, my Mother died suddenly. Actually, when the call came in late, I thought it was my Mom calling to tell me bad news about my Aunt. I saw the number on the caller ID and said out loud, "Oh no! Not already!" But the voice on the other end was my Dad. And even as he spoke the words, I couldn't hear them, because they were so unexpected, "Your Mother has just died of a massive and sudden heart attack. Your Mother..." What? Say that again...No! Don't say it again. No! No! No!

Now my Mother and my Aunt are indelibly linked. I will forever look back on this period of my life as a time of bad news. My Mother and my Aunt were good friends and sisters-in-law, linked together first by my Father, and second, by a time when my Mother took care of my Grandmother while she too died slowly, and so unfairly, of a merciless disease called cancer.

In later years, after Mom and Dad moved to Minnesota, Mom and Aunt Joyce chatted about grandchildren and hobbies on the phone, exchanged photos, took vacations together (with the husbands of course), and maintained a close and loving relationship. My Mother was gone before we could say goodbye. My Aunt will suffer a long goodbye. Two same but different losses reminding me of the fragility and unfairness of life.

My Mother was very worried about my Aunt. She asked me to check in, be her hands, eyes, and ears from afar. Of course Mom is gone now, but this is all I can do: go by for visits with my Aunt, try to remember something interesting to chat about, make an effort to be a comfort, let her know I am listening, and remind her that Mom is waiting, along with Grandma, to greet her with arms open wide, a familiar smile, and an assurance that we will all be together again someday.

Grieving

So I have now begun to move through this thing they call a cycle of grief. And because each loss is unique, each person experiences it differently, so they say. At first, just a numb fog. Then lots of emotions, all the time. Each day is unpredictable. But what has impacted me the most is how terribly ill equipped most people are for being with someone who is grieving. Oh sure, the first couple of weeks people expect you to cry, and they put their arms around you and listen to you. But then, suddenly, people think you should be all better now. And they begin to try to cheer you up. They say things that are completely insensitive, like, “Are you all better now?” or “Look at the bright side.” What? OK, my dog didn’t just die, it was my Mother. Or they say nothing. Do nothing. Avoid the topic. That’s harder to take. It was my Mother. It’s me. It’s my Dad. We deserve acknowledgement, validation that it’s OK to feel this loss. It’s easier for me to avoid people than feel the pressure to be OK when I am not, or worse, to be alone in the crowd. The real truth is: people are ready to stop listening long before you are ready to stop talking…

TERRIBLE NEWS

Two weeks ago I lost my Mother. Not lost really; she died. Passed away, lost, no longer with us; all nice ways to say a terrible thing: she is gone, suddenly, without any warning. Gone.

Usually writing has a cathartic effect on me. But I can’t even write about this. Not this. It’s too soon, too awful, too raw.

Two days ago, I cut my hand. One of those deep, jagged kind of cuts that just won’t stop bleeding. Then I thought this is how it is with my Mother. People want to give me advice or encouragement to help me cope, or heal. But I can’t do that. Like my cut, I cannot begin to tend to the wound, until it stops bleeding. Something I have no control over. It’s not ready. I can only apply pressure, but it continues to bleed. Each morning when I wake, I think “could it be…?” No, then I remember: it’s not a dream; it is real.

The bleeding finally stops in my cut and I began to tend to it, change the dressing twice daily. Wash it gently, apply peroxide, a thin layer of antibiotic ointment, a clean bandage, and then wrap securely. It starts to look better. The healing begins. Over time it will mend, leaving a jagged mark in its wake. A cut like that never repairs itself invisibly. The scar is forever. Just like my Mom. I’ll never be the same.

Valentine's Day

So today is Valentine's Day. My husband and I have a pact not to celebrate these holidays. In fact, I consider it a gift to both of us, as men often struggle with how to handle these days, and then the women get disappointed unnecessarily, as a perfectly loving man can still fall on his face when it comes to picking out the ideal gift. I think the forced "opportunity" to express their love ends up stressing them out and thus backfiring in the end anyway.

But I am lucky. I have a husband that stays home on Wednesday afternoons so I can go shopping, have lunch with a friend, or go to the doctor (alone). I can wear real clothes that I don't have to worry about getting dribbles on during these trips, and it is glorious. For that, I don't need a holiday...I am grateful everyday.

Let's get started

I named my blog "Life is Funny" because there seems to be no end of humor (or at least irony) in my life. Plus I really enjoy writing and it often ends up being in a style of satire, as I have a hard edge after years of working in social services, so here goes. My kids have been sick for about 10 days. Toward the end of my sequester, I have begun to feel as if I could have a nervous breakdown, however, we have all managed not to do or say anything regrettable during our time of togetherness. Today I got to vacuum (yes, you read it right, after a long quarantine I actually felt privileged to do some housework). The kids have a pretty good sense from their father and me about work vs. playtime. They know that when I am doing my chores (usually the hour during Sesame Street) that I am unavailable for play, although I am always on retainer for potty trips or drinks of water. Today I might have spent too much time paying attention to Dr. Phil because my chores spilled over into the time after morning TV that I try to make myself available to them for activities like play-doh, puzzles, or games. I noticed that while I vacuumed, the kids (not liking the noise) went into my daughter's bedroom, closed the door, and played independently. This could end up being a bad trend for me, as I am very tempted to turn on the vacuum and sneak into the closet for a private phone call to a friend. The thought of an uninterrupted girl chat is enticing.

2021 Postscript…I named my blog Life is Funny because at that time in my life there was much joy and laughter, especially with having young children and all the antics they bring into a household!  There has been a lot of joy and laughter in my life but unfortunately, there was also a lot of suffering and difficulty after starting this blog and thus many of the topics were quite serious. Joy is not something to be found, but something to be created and experienced even when life doesn’t supply it through circumstance. Laughter in the face of suffering, if it can be found, is a salve that heals. A truly joyful person understands that happiness is not found within a momentary condition but through a connection to the spiritual, which transcends the temporal and fleeting events of this life, especially the suffering, and connects us to the eternal and everlasting, and fills us with hope for that which comes.  Life is hard, and it is suffering, but it is also ironic and funny, depending on our perspective.