I hope my second chances never run out

I'm a Monday person. Everything starts over on Monday. It's a new week, a new chance to do better and be better. Why wait for the new year to make resolutions? I make them at the beginning of every week.

I'm going to exercise. 
I'm going to drink a green smoothie every day.
I'm going to be more organized. 
I'm going to be a better mom and a better wife.
I'm going to cook more meals.
I'm going to go to sleep at a decent hour.
I'm going to have a plan for writing. 

I'M BASICALLY GOING TO DO ALL THE THINGS AND ROCK THEM!

And then the week gets going and, well, "the best laid plans" and all that garbage . . .

One huge plan I had was "no yelling in the new house." That was for all of us. We'd been yelling a lot before the move.

Guess who was the first person to yell in the new house? The Mommy who brought her stress with her, that's who.

But as I unpack one box after another, I'm doing better and my stress is dissipating. I'm taking the second chance that has come to me. I believe in second chances, even though I'm a stubborn, bull-headed Taurus.

As a teacher and as a mom, I've always given kids second chances. It's inevitable that they are going to make impulsive or even uninformed decisions that lead to poor choices. They are still learning, and it's my job to teach them.

But what about myself? Shouldn't I know better? Shouldn't I know that when I stay up late with the intention of writing or searching Pinterest for new recipes that I am so tired I just end up either falling asleep on the couch or zoning out on HGTV? And then the next day I am so crabby that I snap at everyone?

Shouldn't I know by now that when I exercise I feel great and energized, and when I binge eat Oreos my digestive system is really pissed off at me the next day? Shouldn't I know that anyone can get cancer and other illnesses - especially at my age, and that sleeping well and exercising regularly and having a good diet can help prevent all that?

Shouldn't I know with more clarity than most that anything can happen at any time to anyone I love? Shouldn't I know not to take my family and friends for granted, to enjoy every moment, to hug more, yell less, be generous with the 'I love yous,' and document everything that happens for memory sake?

But yet, I don't do all those things. I know. I know it all, but that doesn't mean I do it all perfectly every time. I can't help thinking that a person's inherent worth shouldn't be based on their ability to be perfect. We are all flawed. I should give myself the same breaks that I give to my children, but hold myself to the same expectations. If I expect them to learn from their mistakes, I should expect to learn from my mistakes, too. A huge part of life is growth, constantly making small changes to be better, do better, and live better. Even if it is week to week, day to day, hour to hour, or even minute by minute.

I know life can change in an instant. But I also know that life is about second chances, and I hope mine never run out. I hope I never run out of chances to be a better person. It may be fatalistic to say that, but I'm saying it anyway.

So that's why, instead of making grand resolutions, I'm grabbing every second chance I can get at any moment I can get it.

Tiny Garden, Tiny Talent

I remember once when I was in high school, three of my friends were in a pageant (beauty contest?). Of course several of us went to see them and cheer them on. As I sat and watched all of my peers dance, sing, and play instruments, something struck me: I have absolutely no talent whatsoever.

I never took dance lessons, I couldn't play an instrument, and I certainly couldn't carry a tune in a proverbial bucket. I went home and begged my mother to get me my grandma's old guitar so I could learn to play. The thing was it was so badly out of tune, it would have cost a fortune to repair; so I just let it sit in our attic instead of hers.

As I look back now, I had plenty of talent. I was a decent soccer player, but I blew off varsity try-outs. I was a great speaker and actress, but I never tried out for a single part or joined the speech team. And of course - writing. I never took journalism or let anyone see any of my creative writing pieces.

It was simply all about confidence and fear of failure.

Sadly, it still is that for me.

But when a simple little task comes along and it doesn't matter how I do because no one is looking, I thrive and enjoy. And of course write a blog post about it. You can find that here.

And tell me, what is a talent you have that you either hide or proudly display?

We're More Alike Than Different

I've spent the better part of my life comparing myself to other people and coming up short every time. Someone else was always prettier than me, smarter than me, more talented, more popular, whatever.

That has not stopped now that I am an adult. She is thinner than me, a better mother than me, more successful than me.

This even extends, unfortunately, to my children. That kid is more well-adjusted than my kid, that kid is a better athlete than my kid, that kid is more normal than my kid.

Why, oh, why, have I not learned that this is a waste of my precious time and sanity?

Appearances can be so deceiving, people. We all know that. We've all fallen victim to the "highlight reel" of someone else's life via Facebook. The beautiful family pictures, vacation photos, status about someone's wonderful husband, perfect kids, or killer run (gag).

But what is really hiding there in the shadows? Is everything as it seems? Or does everyone have flaws and "issues?"

I think the answer to that is a big fat "Yeppers!"

I worry a lot about my son Slim. About him fitting in, having friends, being quirky, not being like all the other kids.

He has a lot of qualities that I had when I was growing up. I preferred to stay inside reading a book rather than playing with my siblings and the neighborhood kids. I loved television and would recite commercials and jingles. I didn't like crowds of kids all competing to talk. And I was never one of the cool kids.

I went with Slim's third grade class to the zoo this week. All 90 kids were in small groups of about five or six with one adult. I wasn't going to chaperon because I didn't have a babysitter for Lil' C and Baby E. But every day in Slim's assignment notebook was a note from him saying, "Please come to the zoo, Mom."

How could I possibly say no to that sweetness? Plus, I figured I could help keep an eye on Slim so he wouldn't wander off from the group. So, I told the teacher we would meet the class at the zoo and walk along with the group.

Over the course of the day, I noticed things that I have noticed before, but they were needed reminders for me. At times, like during lunch with 90 chaotic children, Slim was walking along the outside edge of the group, picking up all the lunch trash that was getting blown by the gusty winds. So, he was alone, but doing something good.

And even though he wasn't hanging out with a group of guys, from every group that passed by us came genuine calls of, "Hi Slim!" The kids in his group were even asking him some questions about animals because they know how much he loves and knows so much about so many of them.

And in looking around at the other children, there were some other odd little ducks as well - kids with their own sets of quirky behaviors.

And there were kids who were naughty and out of line in what they were doing. And if their moms would have been there, they would have been appalled.

My child, well, he was a perfect angel all day. It was just his kind of field trip. His kind of perfect day looking at animals on a day that the zoo was not crowded at all.

Photo by Stuart Semple featured
on veggierevolution.blogspot.com

Pretty "normal" stuff.

Yep, he's pretty much a normal eight-year-old kid. Because they all have quirks, you know.

We all have quirks, you know.

And that makes us all more alike than different.

A lot of the animals had babies with them. I am always fascinated watching the interaction of mama animals with their babies. There was a mama monkey who had two young monkeys swinging and playing near her while she watched. The smaller of the two swung over to her and started climbing on her. She pushed him away and bared her teeth at him.

What a bitch, I thought as a first reaction.

But then, this little monkey started to fall off the branch, and the mama caught him and held on to him until he was steady. And then she pulled him in to a quick little hug.

And my heart melted into a knowing smile. I saw myself in that mama. My kids bug me when they won't knock off their crazy behavior, but I adore them and would do anything to keep them safe.

I am not a monkey, nor am I skinny or perfect or any other woman but me. Just because I don't know someone well or at all, doesn't mean that I can't find a connection between us. That I can't find something that is alike about us rather than all the ways we are different, just as Slim is more like kids his age than he is different.

And at a time when everyone wants to be different and distinguish themselves from everyone else, I tend to think that it would help us all, as children and adults, to see ourselves as not so different from one another after all.



What about you? Are you more comfortable being different and unique or alike and blending in?

Let's talk about it on Facebook!

Simply Slim Part 3: I Should Never Doubt Him

My eight-year-old son, Slim, is . . . unique, to say the least. I knew he would be that day long ago when I was twenty weeks pregnant and the doctor said to Hubby and me, "Baby B has a complete bilateral cleft lip and palate."

I didn't quite know what that meant, but over the next fourteen and a half week weeks, I learned from Hubby, who was an oral surgery resident, just what it would entail. Read Simply Slim Part 1 and Part 2 to find out.

Everyone who meets Slim has one of two reactions: they are either delighted by his quirky personality or completely puzzled by his behavior. There really is no in between. I find myself constantly apologizing for him or explaining him. He is such a bright, smart, creative child, but he definitely has his own interests and own way of looking at the word.

You either "get" this or you don't. And what I worry about the most as he gets older are his teachers and classmates.

In kindergarten, he had the epitome of kindergarten teachers: sweet and extremely sensitive to the fact that he came to school with a brother who was dying. All the kids in the class loved him and thought he was so funny.

At his first grade fall parent-teacher conferences, his teacher said to me when I sat down, "I believe all children are a gift from God. I would never try to make any of my students fit into any kind of mold." Since the mold was broken when Slim was made, this is exactly what I needed to hear. It was all I could do to keep myself from reaching across the table and kissing her.

Things changed quite a bit in second grade. Wanting to start the year with a positive connection with his teacher, I spoke to her right away about his new ADHD diagnosis. Instead of helping, it kind of felt like his teacher was already biased against him from day one. It took her the better part of the year to figure him out, and he had a miserable year.

Slim is in third grade this year, and so far, it's been kind of tough on us all. He has lots of homework every night. Quite often, either Hubby or I spend from about 4:00 to 7:00 working with him. It frustrates us all: Slim, who obviously wants to be doing other things, me because I have three other children to care for and dinner to fix, and Hubby because Hubby gets frustrated with Slim and homework.

His behavior is often a source of tension for all of us, and we yell at him quite a bit. We hear each other yelling at him, and it saddens both Hubby and me because we each know that's how we sound when we talk to him. Despite behavior therapy and meds (which, when I was teaching, I said I'd never give my own child because, after all, ADHD was just the result of lazy parenting), things with him are not getting much better.

And while plenty of kids still like him, think he's funny, and say hi when they see him, I have seen the way that some kids ignore him and have had the teacher tell me other kids in the class have complained about his constant talking and interrupting.

And he is getting more defiant and frustrated as well. It makes me miss the sweet little boy he once was.

But just when I get so sad and so frustrated, I get little glimpses and reminders that he is still that delightful, unique child that I fell in love with at first sight.
 

Saturday morning, Slim had Tae Kwon Do. This is a fairly new activity for him, one we're hoping sticks. He briefly played soccer, but he was more interested in running up and down the sidelines "entertaining" the parents. He played xylophone for a while, but was more interested in playing freestyle than following his teacher's lessons. And he has quit and rejoined Cub Scouts twice. When  he arrived home, he was pink with glee. He had a received a yellow notch in his belt after only his third class. The look of pride and excitement on his face was priceless.

Later that evening, I was helping him with the first step of his science report, which was to choose three animals not common to our region, about which to possibly write his report.

On his paper he wrote:

1. goblin shark
2. fat tail scorpion
3. sea krait

Now, I have heard of a goblin shark. It is the oddest looking shark, and Slim's favorite.

            
                          

 





However, never having heard of the other two, I was sure they were made up and/or spelled incorrectly. So we took to Google, and here's what we found:

 

 

 

Fat-tail scorpion:






source

Sea krait:



 



source

I don't know why I doubted him. I don't know why I doubted that he knows more than I do when it comes to exotic, unique animals.

Sometimes I don't know why I doubt that he will be okay or find his niche in life. I just need to remind myself of it more often.

 

I need to have faith in him and show him how to have faith in himself.

 

 

Read more about Slim here and here.

 

And if you're not already following me on Facebook, "like" me there and always be up-to-date on the crazy things life with four boys brings.

It's Time for a Change in Direction

 

We were sitting in the pharmacy drive-thru. My head was half hanging out the window of the van, my eyes closed. I could hear the soft bing bongs and bleep bloops of the boys' video games.

 

I was tired. I felt myself drifting off, and then, "Can I help you?"

 

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Driving off with prescription in hand my fog continued. We were stopped at a red light when it dawned on me: I can't remember what clothes Joey was buried in.

 

I know they must have been green - his favorite color was green - but I can't remember exactly which ones. I know we didn't put shoes on him. The only shoes that fit his swollen feet were his tennis shoes, and I didn't think it was appropriate to bury him in tennis shoes. Besides, no one would see his feet anyway.

 

I searched my brain for the visual of Joey, but all I could remember was touching him in his coffin and feeling his cold, waxy face. I couldn't see what the shirt looked like, but I remember hearing crinkling when I touched it, like Joey had been wrapped in Press 'n Seal before he was dressed.

 

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I'm so tired I can't remember what I buried my son in.

 

I'm so tired I can't complete a task without getting distracted.

 

I'm so tired that my brain is having trouble thinking of the words my mouth wants to say.

 

I'm so tired I can't even be patient with my children.

 

I'm so tired I don't want to spend time with my husband.

 

I'm snapping and negative and yelling. And then I wonder why they talk to each other that way. I'm not too tired to realize they are learning it from me.

 

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I'm tired because my house is a mess. Papers are everywhere. Toys and clothes and junk we don't use anymore have piled up and a house that once seemed big is shrinking from too much stuff.

 

I had a baby a year ago. A year's worth of no time to organize, clean out, start fresh.

 

Now, I have made lists and planned my time and I know what I want to accomplish.

 

But it's not happening and I feel like I am chasing my tail.

 

Chasing it into the wee hours of the night.

 

Falling asleep in a chair.

 

School lunches unmade.

 

Dishes in the sink.

 

The pile of photographs from summer 2011 still sitting unlabeled on the dining room table.

 

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I'm heavier than I have ever been in my life. There is a least fifteen pounds of extra weight around my middle that has no business being there.

 

But I'm too tired to do anything about it.

 

And my treadmill broke and my gym membership expired.

 

My husband asked me if we were still married.

 

I need a girls' night out.

 

He wants a date.

 

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It's all swirling in my head along with the fact that I am doing nothing that I should be doing.

 

Sleeping.

 

Cardio.

 

Yoga.

 

Nourishing my body with healthy food.

 

Starting my novel.

 

Seeking out paid opportunities to write.

 

Spending time with my family before they are all grown up and gone.

 

What I am doing is getting lost. I'm getting lost along a path that I thought I knew. A path I didn't need a map for. A path that came out in a clearing.

 

But somewhere along the way I got distracted by the scenery, led off course to somewhere I thought I should be going.

 

I'm stumbling. I'm drained. I'm flailing. I'm failing.

 

I'm losing myself.

 

And now I need to find my way back.

 

 

 

 

 



My Way Back from Depression


 


Last week, I was out of my little white happy pill.  The pharmacist had to call my doctor, and I knew they would play phone tag all week.  I've been out of my Lexapro before, and I knew what was going to happen...

One morning, I wake up feeling sad for no apparent reason.  A sadness that has nothing to do with any tragedy I've experienced.  I'm never sure why I am feeling sad, but I sink into it.  It lays over the top of me for a day or so, until it worms its way deep into my heart and mind, festering, slowly turning into anger and despair over every. little. thing.

Anger at all the things I can't seem to control.

And then it resides there, refusing to leave, affecting my every thought, every action.

My patience with my sons quickly wears thin.  I snap at the smallest mistake, yell over the tiniest indiscretions.  I take out my anger and feelings of worthlessness on them, innocent victims incapable of fighting back.  I scream and yell and say regrettable things that I know I will never be able to reverse.  

I yell at my four year old to 'Hurry up!!' We are late for preschool again.  We are always late.  Why can't I ever be on time for anything?

The baby is getting into everything, and I yank him away making him cry.

With every angry reaction I think,  'I'm a horrible mother.  This is how they will remember me.' This plunges me further into my pit of self-pity and negativity.  I can't believe how quickly I have descended this time.

When Hubby asks me about my day, I don't even want to talk or even let him look at me and see the sadness and anger in my eyes.  I am ashamed of myself.

My head is jumbled.  I can't think.  I can't remember anything.  I can't organize my thoughts.

I haven't written my weekly post for Her View From Home, and I can't think what to write.  I write sentences that make no sense and then delete them in a frustrated and angry tirade.  I know I should write a new blog post, too.  But why should I?  No one reads it anyway.  Every e-mail I get from other blogs I subscribe to makes me angry and depressed.  Why does this blog have so many followers?  Why did everyone comment on this post when no one comments on mine?  It defeats me.  I think, 'I am stupid to think that I can write, that I have talent, that I have anything to say that anyone wants to hear.'  I resign to just give up writing altogether, thinking only of the pieces that have been rejected.

'I am a miserable failure at everything.'

I don't return phone calls, I ignore e-mails and texts and messages on Facebook.  I don't feel like subjecting anyone to my negativity.  At my son's soccer game, I set up my chair far away from all the other parents.  I can't be social.  My friend Katie walks by and asks how my day is going.  Near tears, I tell her, 'Not good,'  and when she gives me a tight hug, I bristle.  I'm angry with myself for letting people see me like this.  Seeing me weak and ungraceful.

At the next soccer game of the day, my friend Heather sets up camp next to me and babbles happily in her enviable way.   I wonder if she can tell; does she know how I am feeling?  She has said that she needs to run every day.  It is her sanity.  What is my sanity?  Why is my sanity a pill?

At baseball games later that day, I get a rush of joy seeing my six year old make a good hit and run to first base.  My heart warms watching my four year old play for the first time, seeing his short legs run the bases and follow directions and laugh happily.

On Sunday, Hubby asks me to help plant annuals in the flower garden.  The hard work satisfies me for an afternoon.  I'm unsure whether it is because I am learning more about something I've always wanted to know or that Hubby and I are working side-by-side on a project, but it brings me temporary reprieve.

But later, I want to be alone with my thoughts, away from everyone.  I know this is dangerous.  I've been alone with my thoughts too many times in my life.  Alone with the thoughts that tell me I am worthless, I'm a bad mother and a terrible wife.  I can't cook or write or take care of my house or maintain friendships.  I'll never be able to run a race or write a book or complete a goal.  These were the same thoughts that plunged me into a scary darkness three times in my life.

Once in high school when I was so paralyzed by feelings of inadequacy that I stayed in my room wallowing in misery, sure that I was so far beneath everyone else that perhaps I shouldn't even exist.

Next, after I graduated from college and couldn't find a job.  I hated substitute teaching, so I stopped answering the phone at all.  I stopped getting dressed in the morning and stayed on the couch all day.

And when I desperately wanted a baby after I was married, and everyone but me seemed to be getting pregnant.  I stopped talking to my friends and avoided social situations.  I remember crying to Hubby, begging him to let me stay home from his high school fund raiser because we would be seated at the same table as someone who was pregnant, and I didn't want to stare at her swollen belly all night.

Hubby would often come home from work, and finding me in tears and on the couch would say to me, "You sat home and thought all day, didn't you?"

It feels like the cartoon image of the devil on one shoulder and the angel on the other. It's the classic battle between light and dark, which both reside in all of us.  But in someone who suffers from depression, the dark mostly wins.  That little devil tells me awful things about myself, and I believe him.

In my twenties, my doctor suggested I see a therapist.  I carried around the name and number for about a year before I threw it away.  It was just another thing that made me feel inadequate, that proved I was a failure.  I always thought it was something I had to live with.  It wasn't that bad, was it?

But as I look back, it was.  It did paralyze me, it does keep me from doing the things I want to do - mainly loving my family and friends and pursuing my dreams.

Monday, I picked up the pills, and took two right away.  Slowly my head cleared, but I was still screaming at my sons and deleting every blog update from my e-mail.  I got back on my pattern of taking five milligrams every other day.  Any more makes me feel like a fuzzy-headed zombie; any less isn't quite enough.

I have found time to use my treadmill a bit each day this week, and when I am tired, I have gone to bed before exhaustion hits.

This morning, I gave gentle reminders about backpacks and glasses and dressing for preschool and laughed when Baby E took the dirty clothes out of the washing machine.  I feel like my sanity is slowly returning and lightness and calm are winning once again over darkness and anger.  I feel like I am returning to the person I want to be, that I know I am in my heart and in my beautiful mind.

I have three, maybe four posts I want to write, and I am reading all my favorite blogs again for inspiration.  The words are forming themselves in my head, and I can't type quickly enough.

I do hate that this sanity and clarity comes from a pill, but I thank God I can recognize this.  I thank God that I can recognize when my mind is jumbled and crazy and the darkness is winning.  I thank God for giving me a situation that forced the introduction of the medication.  I thank God that I will never be the type of mom who does the unthinkable to her children because she didn't realize that she needed help or refused to seek it.

I vow to never let my prescription lapse again.  I vow to not care if society thinks I am weak or lazy for taking antidepressants.  I vow to never think that they are the only answer for these dark feelings.  I vow to take them for as long as I need them, for myself and for my family. 

Most importantly, I vow to be honest about my use of them for other women who might think as I used to - that they just have to deal with that devil character on their shoulder telling them awful things about themselves and believing it.  I vow to talk about it because if I had known anyone else felt this same way long ago, things might have been different.  Different as they are now.  Better.

All I have ever wanted was to be happy; but I have to fight for it, and I always will.  The more I fight, the more I learn.  The more I learn, the better I get.  If that means I need some medicinal assistance, then so be it. That little white pill and I will just keep knocking that devil right off my shoulder.

I'm Already Taken

I have a favorite quote that rings so true for me: Be yourself. Everybody else is already taken. 

I've battled self-esteem issues my entire life.  I've often looked at other people and their lives and wished they were mine. This was especially true at the all-girl high school I attended, where it was so easy to compare myself to everyone else and fall short every time.

Even now, as an adult, I see a woman who seems to own effortless beauty and endless confidence, and I want that for myself.  I see children who are darling and well-behaved and kind, and I wonder why my boys aren't.  I see a family that is whole, happy, and complete, and I burn with jealousy that mine is broken and fragmented.

Some days it seems as if everyone else is better-off than me, and I wonder what it would be like to change places, if just for that day.

And then, I hear stories and I learn things that make me take pause and re-evaluate those thoughts.

One such story came to both Hubby and me late the other night.  We each received separate e-mails from a couple we know from Hubby's time in dental school and residency. J&A can be described as the perfect couple; soul mates if that concept actually exists.  They dated off and on in college, only to go their separate ways post-graduation.  Years later, after the break-up of J's marriage, he found A again, only to rekindle their college spark.  Their wedding was a storybook affair, taking place on one of Napa Valley's most beautiful vineyards.  In the ten years they have been together, they have traveled all over the world.  And although they chose to remain childless, every Christmas they would remember their friends' children with hand-picked, perfect gifts.  This past summer, they welcomed a darling baby boy into their family, and their charmed life became truly picture-perfect.

Until recently when they learned that J has a brain tumor.

Obviously, having been through it ourselves, I would never wish this on anyone else. It's terrible news, and I would never change places with them.

So why is it that I would change places with someone else?

Tragedy is, unfortunately, inevitable.  Accidents happen, diseases are incurable, and death is, undeniably, imminent for all of us.  Something bad happens to all of us at one time or another in our lives.  The people who write about 'life being so wonderful' on Facebook are probably just having a good day.

Or nothing bad has really happened to them... yet.

Or they are just fooling themselves...and everyone else.

We can't really know what someone else's life is actually like when we look at them from afar.  Some people make it point to paint a pleasant image.  I should know - I think I have perfected that.  I've had people tell me, "Kathy, you always look so put together." or "You are so calm with your boys.  I'm not sure I could be like that." Or, what I heard all the time when Joey was sick, "You are handling this with such grace and strength."

What other choice did I have?

I've learned from first-hand experience that people don't like to be around someone who is always angry, sad or depressed.  It makes us uncomfortable when a person is always crying or yelling at their kids.

So, we put on a happy face and present an image that we have it all under control.

My mother has always said, "Never be jealous of someone else because I can guarantee you that they have something in their lives that you would not want to contend with.

Some people wear their feelings on their sleeves, bitch to their girlfriends - or perfect strangers - about it all.  Some people send it out to cyberspace by blogging about it.  🖐

And some just hold it all inside a pretty package, hoping no one will see what's really going on.  Hoping they won't be judged because that would add to the hurt they already feel.

Last night, Hubby and I heard that J's surgery went well, that the tumor is low-grade and treatable. But I still wouldn't trade lives with him and A.  I wouldn't want that for Hubby, and he wouldn't want that for me.

I think we can all look at a part of another person's life and feel a twinge of jealousy.  But while we are envying someone else, another person may be envying us.

Being put together or being calm, and strength and grace aside, I seriously doubt anyone would want to trade places with me if it meant they would have to lose a child.  So, I won't wish to be you, if you won't wish to be me. 

After all, I'm already taken.