This Body of Mine . . .

 When I was 10 years old, my mother told me we needed to have a talk. This was one of many of those mother/daughter talks at that age, but this one was different. It was summer, and I sat on the cold, tiled counter of our kitchen, watching Mom unload groceries as she talked. I was wearing a little flowered dress I loved. She explained to me that I needed to start watching my weight and that she had gotten groceries to help me with that. She had things like canned fruit and such, but I mainly remember that she produced a large bottle of Tab, telling me that I needed to drink that instead of Coke or Dr. Pepper. I don't think I've had a regular drink in 50 years now. The whole conversation left me feeling sad, scared, and disappointed in myself. Mom's sister, my wonderful Aunt Pat, always struggled with weight issues, as did my dad, and she didn't want me to head down that path as well. Looking back on it, that day has played in my head on a constant repeat. Sometimes I'm aware of it, sometimes not, but I've heard it almost every time I've eaten. At that time, in the early 1970s, the goal was to just be skinny, not fit, toned, or anything like that. Just skinny. With a body shape identical to my dad, from the chins to the square body, to the knock knees, I was never going to be skinny, not at 10 and not at nearly 60. I know Mom wasn't trying to hurt my feelings or establish a lifelong devastating self-image, but it happened anyway. 

This was the little dress I was wearing that day.

This isn't a long sob story about feeling fat and unattractive all my life, although I generally did. There were only a couple of periods when I felt attractive and desirable, and they have been few and far between. Like many girls, teenagers, and young women, I felt like I was the "other" one who had a lot of better looking friends. They were the popular ones, the cheerleaders, the ones who always had a date. I dated a few people in my younger days, but only a few. Although frustrating and sometimes really lonely, I chalked it up to being the "other" type of girl who was great as a friend to guys, but not one they found attractive and date material. Yes, it did have an impact on my self-image for decades later, but I grew to accept it. In college I was a little sister in a fraternity. Lots of amazing guys who are still wonderful friends, but while many of my sisters were exploring their new found freedom, I wasn't one of the objects of attraction to the guys. Again, not wanting to give a sob story I know I share with many women, but it's important to understand where I was and where I am now. Recently, I found a few pictures of myself from when I first went to college and was moving into my dorm room. When I look at myself in those pictures, I wish I was still that "fat" and "unattractive." I really wasn't that bad! I wish I could have seen that at the time.

Notice that we didn't have fancy decorated dorm rooms back then. 

So, life went on. College, teaching, graduate school, and then marriage. Graduate school, in my mid to late 20s was really my prime, and the only time that I managed to turn off the tapes in my head. I can honestly say that I not only felt good, but looked good at that point in my life. I thought, "I've beat the family curse!" Relationships were great and I had so much confidence. That period of life proved to be somewhat short-lived. I got married and had kids. My body has never been the same again! Add to that several surgeries and decades of massive cortisol inducing stress, and my body became something that wasn't just unattractive, but also something that was all but completely coming unglued and a burden. So many times I thought it just simply wasn't going to make it anymore . . . but it did.

Here's where the whining stops, and the gratitude begins. 

I will be turning 60 next year and I look back on all that wasted time, since the age of 10. The last year has been a physically tough year in many ways, but especially as I faced pancreatic cancer. I was so fortunate to have the neuroendocrine form, not the fast spreading form, and as I am currently cancer free, the events of the past year have helped me see things differently. I am now, quite honestly, amazed by this body of mine! It has been through the wringer over the last 30 years, and it's still ticking. I look at all the scars from my breasts to my pelvis, and instead of connecting the dots, it's more like connect the lines, but it's still working. I have a 6 inch scar from my gall bladder removal, scars around both breasts from a breast reduction, the bellybutton down scar from the C-section when Asa was born, a parallel bellybutton down scar from removing a grapefruit sized tumor in my right ovary, three holes from the rare (for me) laparoscopic hysterectomy, a 4 inch diameter (looks like a division sign) scar on the left of my abdomen from removing the pancreas tail, 28 lymph nodes, and my spleen, and finally a few more holes from removing the left ovary. Scars all over the place! 

In addition to all the surgeries, this body of mine has grown and given birth to two children! Pregnancy was great and I marveled at the ability to grow another human. The first delivery was very difficult and nearly killed me by hemorrhaging to the point where my blood pressure dropped to 60/40. I had a couple of transfusions and even hemorrhaged again before it began to repair itself. The second delivery caused the big c-section scar because he was sideways and not turning. Those muscles have never fully repaired, but it got better. Around the time I turned 40, I had a silent heart attack which damaged my heart. That too has actually repaired itself now. I have pumped cortisol like Spindletop, but I am better now. So, two kids, a total of 11 surgeries, a heart attack, massive stress for a prolonged period, cancer, and a history of growing things in my internal organs and removing said organs to the point that the appendix is my only spare part . . . but my body is still here, fighting, and better than it's been in years!

Since the cancer surgeries, I've felt better than I have in years and feel younger too. I am impressed with what all I'm able to do with it now! Somehow, this body of mine keeps repairing itself and giving me another go. I am grateful for that because I have so much still to do with it. Is this body of mine attractive now? I can't say yes, because remnants of those old tapes still play in my head sometimes, but more importantly, I don't really care anymore. I have no desire to be "skinny" like in the old days. What I do have is a desire to be active and feel good. I'll never be what I spent most of my life thinking I ought to be, but I'm good, and this body of mine is stronger than I knew it could be. I accept that I have my father's figure. That won't change, but who cares? It has overcome many things, but it's better than ever. and I have finally reached a point in life where I can be satisfied by just appreciating that. Yes, I'm still overweight and have an inner tube mid-section, but who cares? I'm finally so grateful for what this body of mine has given me . . . life. 

The waiting is the hardest part . . .

A year and a half ago, my sister and I, with our mother's agreement, decided it was time for Mom to be on hospice care. We knew at the time that it was the right move to make, largely because her pain management had become so difficult and we know the marrow/blood cancer was rapidly spreading. She didn't want any further treatment and made it very clear that she wanted no extra measures taken for anything and was as strict a DNR as there could be. At that time, the doctor said we were probably looking at 3-6 months. That was 16 months ago.

After accepting the realization that our time was limited, each visit became more and more significant. I live about 3 or so hours away from Mom, so came down as often as my teaching schedule would allow. I knew she was being well taken care of at home because my sister, Katharine, had already been living with her and taking care of her for several years by this point. As we went through the those 3-6 months they prescribed, we talked, went through old letters, sorted through things, organized all the planning, etc. As I say, each visit was now more significant. Neither Katharine nor I liked the idea that we would now be the "Oldest" ones in the family, the ones at the top of the tree, but we were accepting it.

Then, the 6 months passed and Mom was about the same. Yay! We were glad to get her for longer than expected! That's when the waiting really first began. We knew each day was borrowed time so we began the constant roller coaster of her decline and rally. Each phone call from Katharine was answered with me saying, "What's wrong?" I felt a million miles away knowing that any time could be "the time" and I might not make it back down fast enough to see her. Every visit might be my last, and I left with that knowledge and the sorrow of knowing that I had to leave anyway.

That six month point has now turned into an additional year. Mom has lived to see her 80th birthday last year and on the verge of seeing 81. She was able to see my oldest son, Ethan, released from prison and what we all hope will be the release from the prison of addiction. She was able to see my younger son, Asa, too, in fact, the two of them together, and has marveled at how he moves to his own drummer, but is doing just fine. She has held on as Katharine and I each had trips to various places and told her she couldn't "go" while we were away. We have each gotten what we knew would be our last "Happy birthday" from our mother and our last Christmas together. Her decline has continued, at times quite rapidly and then a long plateau. And here we are, 16 months after they said three to six, and in the early days of 2020. Nobody thought it would be this much time, and nobody could have treasured it more.

However, 16 months of waiting has taken a toll on all of us. Mom has been ready for all of this time, but clearly, she hadn't finished her business here. Spiritually, she has been completely at peace and looking forward to what lies beyond and the loved ones she knows will be there waiting for her. She is tired of the pain, tired of feeling like she doesn't offer anything to life anymore, tired of being in her bed, tired of being confused, tired of not being able to concentrate and do things . . . tired. Each night, she's prayed that she would slide peacefully away. We want nothing more for her than that peace and the arrival in the new home she's long coveted.

I feel selfish in writing about my own feelings over the last 16 months, especially over the last year, and even more so over the last few months, but it's the part I need to say and I think is understandable. It's the waiting . . . the edge of your seat . . . the wondering . . . the praying for what she so badly wants and can't seem to get . . . the feeling that I should be doing more for her or my sister . . . the feeling that I just go back to my world and work and am disconnected from it, but never, ever am. I'm constantly anxious, sad, hopeful, and waiting. If it were completely up to me, I'd keep Mom with me for years to come in a healthy, active life, but it's not up to me and she won't ever be that way. I accept that. I accept that it is time for her to leave us, and I have come to terms with wanting that for her. I pray daily that she will have that release from the pain and exhaustion. I can't imagine what else she needs to do in this world. She has given so much to so many and even in these last days has made sure she has covered all her bases.

So here we are . . . last Monday, Katharine called and said the doctor indicated that she was at the end and I should come. Mom also got on the phone and said she wanted me here, so down I came. I've been here for almost a week and she has had days where she was awake and days where she slept. We've ended each night with a deep, heartfelt goodnight and a prayer. The other night she told Asa that she was going on Friday night, and there certainly seemed to be indications that she would, but then she had one more person she wanted to see so today, Saturday, she woke up. She's like that, meticulous in her responsibilities even if they are only perceived responsibilities. She wants to make sure she does things right and orderly yet she's never done anything in an ordinary way. It runs in the family. If there's a backwards way or unusual way to do something, we find it. Anyway, she now thinks that her list is complete and wants desperately to fall into a deep sleep from which she will not return to this world. I continue to pray for that for her. As much as we always need our moms, we can't have them forever. I will leave in a couple of days and head back to my other world one way or another. I pray she has slipped on by then, but if not, I know this will be my last goodbye. I take many, many treasures with me in my heart, but that won't make it any easier to leave her yet again. The only difference is knowing it's the last time. And, I will leave . . . waiting.

Once again, I wait . . .

After 2 years and 7 months, Ethan will be released from prison today!! This is my view for the day, with about another 20 cars behind me. This is where we wait for vans to deliver our people. Apparently, it’s going to be in alphabetical order, so Williamson won’t be the first one out. There’s no shelter, no port-a-potty, it’s 90 degrees and sunny on this October day. Can’t begin to say how much I miss the fall weather in Ohio this time of year. 

As I drove down here today, I felt the presence of my dad sitting in the passenger seat next to me. He was smiling and excited. From the back seat, I felt my grandmother leaning forward talking to me and Dad while my granddaddy and step- father quietly sat back smiling. I felt like I had a car full of happy people who have loved my child immeasurably in their life and afterward. I felt all the millions of prayers of people far and wide, many I don’t even know, who have prayed for my son, for me, and for his brother. We’re all here anticipating the arrival of a reborn man. All of it, ALL OF IT, has been worth where we are now. We have all learned so much and I hope our honesty about this journey has helped others. 

As always, while sitting here, I’m listening to everyone around me. I know one of Ethan’s main goals now is to help others who have no one and feel helpless. As I listen, I can’t help but think that many of these men would do well not to leave with the people who are here to greet them, that it has little chance of going well from here. There is a lot of talk about how much they’re going to party when their person comes home, how many times they’ve gone through this routine, the language, and the families who are already yelling at each other. There are people here with little kids, one mother who has been screaming at her toddler to shut up and be patient,. The more she screams, the more the baby cries, and I can’t help but cry for her too. The expletives and venom this mother is spewing is just evil. What chance does that child have in that home? 

The cycles have probably repeat in many of these families. This hasn't been the case in our family though. All that we've gone through with Ethan is unknown to us. I've been steering blindly as we've negotiated this path to this point, doing what I think best at the moment. Does this mean that this is all an anomaly for us? I pray it is. Does this mean this will be an anomaly in Ethan's life? I pray so. I have high hopes today. I can't fathom going backwards, but I know that chance is there. For now, I'm going to hug my son, love my son, and do my best to help guide him from here.  

I used to make tea for my mother . . .

 . . . . I used to make tea for my mother. I remember the routine so clearly. I was able to do it by age 8, if not before. Fill the kettle, get the green cup with the white daisies on it, put the teabag in, get the Half & Half; the tea kettle whistles and I pour the water (making sure not to lose hold of the teabag), and let it steep for a few minutes. Wrap the string around the bag to squeeze it out. Next, put in a couple of spoons of sugar and enough of the Half & Half to make it just the right khaki color, stir, and very carefully deliver it to Mom. I loved making tea for Mom because I knew how much she loved her tea and it made her happy. Sometimes when I knew she was having a particularly bad day, or was upset about something I would surprise her with that little simple gift. Such an English thing to do, just pour a "cuppa" and everything will be better. Sometimes, when it was raining outside and she was coming home after a long day and would have to walk from the garage to the house, I'd meet her with an umbrella so she wouldn't have to get wet. I liked making things for her. Some of our cherished Christmas ornaments are little wooden characters I sanded and painted and gave everyone as Christmas gifts. I wanted to please my mom. I wanted to give her a little break when I felt she needed one. As the quiet daughter, I liked making these quiet sort of efforts. 

Mom didn't always have it easy raising us. She was a divorced mother by 1971 when there were very few of those around. I don't think I knew anybody else who had divorced parents. She had to work to provide for us because my dad wasn't reliable with child support. It was a struggle on the salary of an Exxon secretary. For about 5 of our younger years, we were fortunate to have our grandparents living five blocks away. I can't imagine what we would have done without them. I felt so safe just knowing they were there. My sister and I would go to their house after school until Mom got home. We'd drink Dr. Pepper and I'd eat marshmallows. Life wasn't too bad for a kid in these circumstances, but I could always feel the struggle for Mom. I didn't fully understand it at the time, but when I was a single mother myself, I recognized what she went through. When I was 11, she married my step-father, Walter, and he continued to raise us well and loved us, considering me and Katharine his own daughters all along until the day he died. My growing up years had other issues which were difficult, but they're not important here. My focus here is Mom and all that she has given me through the years, a life I've often tried to thank her for, although inadequately, and a love I always wanted to feel worthy of. 

My mother gave me many gifts. The gift of life is an obvious cliche, but in my case, that wasn't an easy gift. I was premature, had to be delivered by c-section, and was completely enclosed inside the placenta --- not the amniotic sac, but the actual placenta. I weighed just a little over 5 pounds, and clearly, I was a little weird from the get go. My older sister Katharine was the show-stopper in the family and I was quite content to be the quiet, smiling one. I was a happy child, and I liked peace. I didn't always have peace, but Mom taught us ways of distraction I have carried since. She gave us music and books, maps and culture. Katharine and I spent endless hours listening to records of Camelot, My Fair Lady, The Sound of Music, and Romeo & Juliet. When she was able to, she took us to a symphony or opera. It was so much fun to get dressed up (as people used to do) and go to the symphony. She read to us always and in the usual parental fashion of tolerating multiple readings of my favorites books such as I Wish I Had Duck Feet. We had a set of  Time-Life books on history with beautiful pictures which we studied laboriously and dreamed of stories about the castles, Charlemagne, and knights. We had a giant world atlas and were fascinated by the maps, wondering what it was like in all those places. Mom taught us a certain level of sophistication and culture which I treasure. The desire to see and learn was reinforced by her. We had opportunities to travel and go on little adventures. We went on vacations to the beach, which I know were a struggle for her. After she and my step-father married, the four of us took a road trip to Portland, Oregon, to see Walter's parents. We crowded into a little Toyota Corona, a suitcase between me and my sister in the backseat, and drove from Houston to Portland and back. Adventures! 

Sometimes I was a little afraid of her sternness when we were in trouble. We knew we were sunk as soon as she paused and licked her lips. It's still the tell-tale sign. Mom and Katharine used to fight a lot when we were young and I remember one time when Katharine declared she was going to run away. Watching from my bedroom door, I remember Mom licking her lips and saying, "Then let me get your suitcase for you." Katharine defiantly packed something in it and walked out the front door. To be honest, it scared the hell out of me because I thought she was really leaving! I was probably 6 and Katharine 8 at the time. Of course, Mom knew what she was doing. When she walked out the door, Katharine marched promptly over to the driveway and sat there until she finally decided to come back in. It seemed like hours to me, but it was probably about 20 minutes. Every time they fought though, I was a little afraid that Katharine would leave, like my dad had left. I tried to keep everybody happy. Perfect time to make a cup of tea for Mom. Mind you, I wasn't a perfect angel myself. There was a time when I was in elementary school and a member of the Girl Scouts. I loved being in Brownies, but Girl Scouts wasn't the same, so I started skipping those meetings and going over to my friend Kendall's house to listen to Carly Simon and John Denver records instead. I was always home on time and figured it shouldn't really matter, but deep down knew I wasn't where I was supposed to be. So one night at dinner, Katharine says, "Where were you at Girl Scouts today? I didn't see you there." She had gone with a friend to help, but I wasn't there. I immediately got the "look" from Mom and then gave the most stupid answer possible, "I guess I was just on the other side of the room" That did it. I was ordered to my room, got a spanking, and then she told me about how frightening it was for me not to be where I was supposed to be, and then she told me that Girl Scouts was something she had to pay for and it wasn't easy. I earned that spanking. Then there was the time when I was a senior in high school and on one of our college tour days, a bunch of us went to the French Quarter instead of going to LSU for the day. When I got home, she was sitting on the living room sofa drinking a cup of tea, and looking down, she calmly asked how LSU was; I said it was fine. She licked her lips and told me to go get in the car. She drove me back up to school and turned me in for skipping out. I got 3 days of detention. I earned that detention.

I understand that true parental love is unconditional, as I know my mother's has been for me. However, it is my nature to doubt myself. In so many ways, Mom taught me to be a strong, independent woman. I have to laugh when I think about my ex-husband saying to me that one of the worst things my mother did was to raise me to be so "independent!", like that was a bad thing. Thank you, Mom! I'll be completely honest here though and confess that for much of my life I felt that I fell short of pleasing her. We have many differences of personality and I have a fair bit of my father in me too. As I grew older, I made fewer cups of tea for Mom. In that natural way of the teenager and young adult, I was focused on my own world, my own problems, and trying to muddle through my declining marriage while raising two boys of my own. I worried about disappointing Mom by not keeping my house "clean enough," by not going into a profession where I could be more successful and self-reliant, by not handling money well, but failing at marriage, by not disciplining my kids as she would have done, by having a child who became a drug addict and went to prison, and by raising another child who didn't get in trouble, but enormously NOT independent as she had raised me to be. Through all of that though, even though I so often felt like a disappointment, she was there, loving me all the way through and telling me she was proud of me. Eventually, I started letting go of my insecurities and believed her. Unconditional love is a grace and a blessing and I wouldn't have survived without it. 

Now here we are in a different stage of life. Mom went on hospice care a couple of months ago and I've tried to make more frequent visits to spend time with her. On one visit, she asked me to make a cup of tea for her. In the years since I was a child, her tea routine has become considerably more elaborate. As I headed toward the kitchen, Mom asked if I knew the routine. I asked her to remind me. Now it involves more steps and greater precision. As I fixed her tea that day, I felt sad thinking of the old days when I could make her happy with the simple gesture. Now I felt inadequate and worried terribly that I didn't have it just right. She deserved to have it just right. I don't think I was fully successful, but she thanked me and drank it anyway, smiling. Since then, tea doesn't taste very good to her anymore. It's a clear sign of the changes coming. I wish I liked tea. I wish I liked it and someone would bring me a cup to make me feel better. I'm sad, terribly sad. I'm not ready to lose my mother. I want more time. I want more time to tell her how much I love her, how much I appreciate her, and how thankful I am that she is my mother. I've long since figured out the great secret of life, that our parents aren't perfect and don't really have all the answers, that they are flawed humans just like the rest of us. It allows us to see beyond the role of parent and into what else they're made of. My mom has devoted her life to Christ and spreading that love to all she encounters. I've watched her be the "strong friend" to countless people when needed. I've seen her open her home and her heart to others. I've watched her teach about spiritual direction and even begin a school for others to spread the calling. I'm so proud of her, all that she's done, and all that she's been to others. I'm proud of her for being an excellent writer and even writing a couple of novels, even if they haven't (yet) been published. I love my mom. I don't have much time left. I can't possibly say everything I want to say, express everything I feel. My step-father passed away nine years ago, my dad two years ago, and now I'm losing my constant magnetic north. My sister and I will be left with the gifts of life she gave us, and with each other. I'm so glad to have my sister in this last part of the journey of Mom's life. We have been so fortunate. Maybe I'll make Katharine a cup of tea to make her feel better. We'll make our new lives without parents, but Mom will always be with us. She has been a good mother. She has been a loving grandmother. She has lived a good life. I know she has unfulfilled dreams which are now put aside, but she treasures the life she's had. She is weary, but feels joy about her life. I suppose ultimately, you can't really ask for more. There's not much to do to make her happy anymore besides just being there. It's frustrating not to be able to do more, not to be able to do something. I have to just let it happen. All I can do is tell her how much I love her . . . . and, if she decides one would taste good, I'll make her a cup of tea. I love you, Mom.  

When you're a failure at parenting . . . .

"All hope abandon, ye who enter here."

--- Inferno, Dante

Today is one of those days when I feel like a complete failure at parenting. To be honest, I am always uncomfortable when people say I'm a "strong" mom or other complimentary words. I kind of feel like a fake because deep down I think I should have done better. While struggles with Ethan and his addiction are pretty big to feel the parent guilt on, there are so many more which plague me, and while Asa isn't typically the focus of problems, I know so much guilt with him too. Parent guilt sucks! I wonder, does anyone NOT have it? I have many good days when I can rationally tell myself, "Leigh, you did the best you knew how with what you had." But, I also have many days where I say, "Bullshit! That's just a cop out! You should have done this or you should have done that . . . . "

"…But I would
not have you, reader, be deflected from
your good resolve by hearing from me now
how God would have us pay the debt we owe.
Don’t dwell upon the form of punishment:
consider what comes after that; at worst
it cannot last beyond the final Judgment." (Purgatorio. X, 105-111)

---Dante

Look, I'm just giving some truth here. Haven't we ALL felt that way probably many times during our tenure as parents of the little darlings we so looked forward to having? I know I'm not alone. I know that parents who parent together (married or not) also feel this way at times, but I can't really speak to that because it's not something I've ever known much of. Not really as a child or as a parent. So here, I mainly speak to those of us who have been in the single-parent realm of Purgatory. It's not a permanent state of Hell or Heaven. It's somewhere in between, hence, Purgatory. Referring to Dante's words above, don't dwell upon the debts we're paying now, just know it won't be this way forever. Or so they always say.

Remember how we thought it would be so wonderful to have children? The babies were precious! My own two boys were absolutely beautiful and I couldn't have enjoyed them as babies any more than I did. I nearly died giving birth to the first one and had it not been for living in the modern world of surgery I wouldn't have survived the second one either. That was the price for these amazing beings and I happily paid it. Do you also remember when they were young, toddler through 5 perhaps, and we thought it would get easier as they became more independent? No more diapers, diaper bags, blah-de-blah. Looking back, those were the easiest of times. It all started turning downhill not long after that. For me, I think I was managing pretty well until Ethan was in 4th grade. That year his father and I got divorced. It was also the year Ethan had a really horrible, mean teacher. The combination of everything was tough. Asa seemed to be weathering that storm a little easier at age 5 or so. Then, I actually thought I was doing pretty well, until it was clear that I wasn't.

Yes, I actually thought I was kind of rockin' it as a single parent. In many ways, our lives were much more relaxed at that point and we seemed to be on the upswing. I thought it would probably get easier from there. LOLOLOL!! Boy, was I wrong. What followed was moving across the country with the boys and starting all over again. Then, again, just when I thought I had it down . . . . BOOM!! Addiction! If anything will make you question your parenting skills, it's discovering your child is a drug addict, your child is in juvenile detention, your child is in the state hospital, your child is in jail, your child is in rehab, your child has overdosed multiple times and only alive by multiple miracles, and then your child is in prison. Yep, that'll make you think twice! How did I not know? Why was I not able to fix it? What the hell am I doing??? This must be a result of something I did terribly wrong! As if addiction doesn't have enough of its own stigma, parents of addicts get a big dose too! "MY kids would never do that!" "How did the parents not know?" "That's bad parenting right there." You get the picture, and many of you have probably said these things. It doesn't matter how many times anyone, including Ethan, tells me it's not my fault and NOT a result of something I did or didn't do, I will never completely believe there wasn't something I should have done differently. I just can't let go of that little bit of paper firmly super glued in my brain that says I should have been able to do something.

Ethan isn't the only issue though. Asa has his moments! Although he has never ventured down the dangerous path his brother went, he is on his own frustrating one. It was such a struggle to get that child to school, get him to do his work, and get him through graduation. He was bored at school and just didn't want to be bothered by any of it. His room looks like a disaster area, but I let it go, rationalizing that the battle wasn't worth it and at least he wasn't doing drugs or anything. He's one of those kids who does everything in his own time and although I stress obsessively, he typically accomplishes whatever it is by the deadline, barely. I have to nag at him about everything and I feel like a total bitch doing it! I had to practically force him to get a driver's license. We've had knock down drag outs about him getting a job! Bad enough that for a split second, he even thought about going to his dad's (he got over that after 2 hours with his dad the other day.) I don't know if it's a generational thing or what, but kids these days (yes, I'm officially an old person for saying that) just don't seem at all interested in independence. When I was a teenager, we couldn't wait to drive, to go off to college, and to get out of the house! We craved all that adulting stuff, of course, we also regretted some of it when we got it. These kids are in no hurry at all. Asa has absolutely no idea what to do with himself for the future or even a starting point from which to launch.

I am an intelligent woman with two college degrees. Their father is a PhD in English. Both sides of our families were educated. How did I end up with kids who weren't interested in college? Ethan kind of has an excuse. Had things gone differently, I think he would have been happy to go and now that he is older and clean, he would like to give it a try when he's released. But Asa? How did I raise two kids who really don't know how to do basic things even though I made great efforts to teach them? Where did these children come from?

I do believe that an overriding factor in my failed parenting is the fact that I didn't provide them with a good male role model. Should I feel guilty because my ex-husband was rather a disappointment in this department, or is it on him? Well, I feel guilty. I feel like I should have done more to provide them with someone to fill that "dad" role after our divorce when it was clear that their father wasn't going to do it. Instead, I tried to fill both the mom and dad roles as much as possible. In some ways, it was kind of fun, but I was enormously inadequate at being a dad. I had the sex talks with them, I primarily did the Scouts stuff with them, I tried to do some sports with them. But, I wasn't a dad. I know many women who remarry for lots of good reasons, one of them to fill that role. I wouldn't have really wanted to go about it that way, but I should have done something. We tried Big Brothers with Ethan and that was a disaster. Essentially, either through death or divorce, every male role model in their lives has left them. I do realize this isn't necessarily my failure, but sometimes it sure feels like it.

Should I have been harder on them about some things? Easier on them about other things? How badly have I damaged their future relationships by my actions? Parent guilt . . . .

So, while you all are often so quick to offer positive words about how I've been as a mom, I fight all this other stuff in my head. Believe it or not though, I am much better. Now that things with Ethan have settled some (hopefully for a very long time) and Asa made it out of high school, it really is pretty much on them, so there's not a whole lot more I can do or fix. I wish I had provided them with the same parents/steady home nuclear family, but I didn't. I wish I had provided them with male role models, but I didn't. I wish I had known what was going on with Ethan, but I didn't. I wish I knew how to motivate Asa, but I don't. And now, it's down to to them, so I pray . . . . a lot. I pray that some things I did were good. I pray that I gave them enough skills to do better than I did. I pray that they won't one day feel the amount of failure I feel. I pray that I did well enough. I love those men I've tried so hard to raise on my own for the last 14 years. When I step back and look at it all, we did accomplish something really important . . . we're here, we've made it this far, and most importantly, they have NEVER doubted my love for them. Even though some days feel terrible, I guess I haven't been a complete failure after all. I love them and they know it.

"If you give people light, they will find their own way."

---  Dante

Post-Travel Depression: It's a real thing . . . .

Just returned from a wonderful vacation! Happy to be in my own bed, my own shower, air conditioning, and the regular use of such novelties as ice. All good, right? Not so fast for some of us.

I love to travel. I'll travel just about anywhere but I really love traveling in Europe. Last week I returned from 10 days in Eastern Europe with two friends and ten of the best high school students I could have ever traveled with. We went to Berlin, Prague, Krakow, Budapest, and even to Auschwitz-Birkenau. It was a pretty much perfect trip. We walked so much my 54 year old feet thoroughly hated me by the time they were given a reprieve, but I could have done more. I could have happily remained traveling for much longer. At 10 days, you're really just hitting your stride, right?  But alas, the day comes and it's time to go home. Traveling home is always unpleasant because it doesn't have the anticipation of beginning a trip but instead the realization that it is back to reality. Yes, I miss my bed, but do I really have to go home? Yes, I miss my A/C and ceiling fans, but I'm adjusting; can't I just stay a little longer?

For me, the depression (and I don't use the word lightly here) begins on the journey back but then really hits about a day later. It's not that I don't want to come back at all, it's the lack of new stimulation, of seeing beautiful and exotic things, of learning about other parts of the world, and no longer being a part of the traveling tribe. When you're traveling in groups, the dissolution of the tribe is much more obvious, but it even happens if you've been traveling alone. In that case, the tribe is the people you've met along the way, the friends you've seen, or even the nice person in the train station who helped navigate you in the right direction when you were lost. The camaraderie of traveling with others is unique. Anyway, I miss all of that.

Although the melancholy is different between group and solo travel, the solo travel is almost harder to recover from for me. In the course of daily life, I often lose sight of my confidence in various things. When I travel alone, I have to navigate everything myself. It can be frustrating, but once done, I always feel confident that I've done so. Most of my individual travel overseas has been in the British Isles, so there hasn't been much of a language barrier. However, one year I decided to go to Italy for a week by myself. Everyone kept asking if I could speak Italian. No. How are you going to get around? I'll figure it out, and I did. I went to Perugia, Florence, and Rome. One slight error along the way though . . . . if you ever go to the amazing little town of Perugia, be sure NOT to get off the train at the first Perugia stop. Wait until you get into the city! I had fallen asleep on the train from Rome and woke up when I heard "Perugia." Naturally, I got off, only to find myself at a small, one building stop in the middle of nowhere with nobody able to speak English and the next train not coming for hours. Well, let's just say that I made it to the city, but it was really stupid of me all the way around. Didn't make that mistake again. Lol. In 1987, the summer after my first year of teaching, I went to England for a month, bought a BritRail pass and just hopped on and off the train wherever I felt like going. It was wonderful! But, I'm getting lost in the adventure again . . . .

My point is, for those of us who really love traveling, whether it's a big trip or a small one, you'll probably experience some post-trip depression, and it's perfectly normal. It means you had a good time. It means you are reliving experiences and people. It means you want to do more. It also means you're now back in reality. It will subside . . . . . as you start planning the next adventure.

Life is Jenga . . .

The past 12 months have been a bit stressful. New job at a new school, new classes, new colleagues, the day-to-day life struggle of my oldest son, his arrival back in Texas, his almost immediate arrest and 4 months in Tarrant Co. Jail, his release and almost immediate arrest again, now in Denton Co. Jail awaiting a few years in prison, my father's death in November, etc. Then school got out and I thought, "Ok, the year went well, I don't have to worry as much about Ethan's potential death, Asa is good and now going to be a senior. Ok. I can relax now." I was wrong. Nothing else bad happened, it just all hit. The last year, the last 8 years, the last 14 years, it all hit.

In June, I was in Salt Lake City reading AP exams and got altitude sickness. The shortness of breath threw me into an anxiety spin. I've never experienced this before, at least not that I've actually identified. I was afraid I was having another heart attack. I was afraid to go to sleep because I couldn't breathe. I was afraid. Long story short, it was time to get my head back straight with a little help from anti-depressants again.

So, I was telling this story to a friend the other day and the best analogy I could come up with was playing Jenga. We all start out like that firm, sturdy block tower at the beginning of the game. When you first begin to remove and replace the pieces, most people will remove a piece from somewhere in the middle. You choose one that isn't going to dramatically shift the balance because if the tower becomes too unbalanced, it will fall down. So, you very carefully remove a block, place it on the top, and hold your breath for a minute in hopes that the tower remains upright. Whew! Ok, a shift, but still standing. All players continue this routine of removing a piece and placing it on the top of the tower. Each time, there's a little more fear that the tower will fall, which is fine, as long as it's someone else's turn. Lol. In thinking of this analogy, those first, easy to remove blocks are the normal slings and arrows of life which we face every day. They can knock the balance a little, but not enough to knock us all the way over. However, there comes a time in the Jenga game where it's harder to find a piece to remove and when we do find one, it leaves a bigger gap and when placed on top of the tower, the tower sways just a little more. There is still a core of strength, but that strength has been stretched to a height which makes it much more unsound. The problems, the bigger ones are now disintegrating the stability. Yet, still standing, just harder. Eventually, there is no choice but to start pulling blocks from the bottom of the tower. This is the riskiest stage of the game. Every slight finger tap and movement can send it falling. As we go through life, we take hit after hit, problem after problem, sadness after sadness, each time chipping away at the strength of our tower. We get through, we keep going, we don't topple until those bottom pieces bring it all down. Finally, one too many blocks are pulled, and the tower falls. 

In June, my tower had one too many pieces moved and it fell. We all hit that point at times. We all have our gaps of strength and they're all relative. What is a big empty gap for me is someone else's easily moved piece and vice versa. What is important though is what you do with that toppled tower. Just as in the Jenga game itself, you set the tower back up, carefully replacing the pieces, and rebuild the sturdy tower. Then you start playing again. Isn't that life? That center core is the key and if you have a strong one, you can stretch farther, but eventually, the core needs repair. The tower needs a reset. Don't ever just leave your pieces on the floor. If they fall, stack them back up and keep going. Life is Jenga.