The Lesson About the Dog and the Lube

Last December I decided to become a Pure Romance consultant. I may have mentioned this. I may have asked all of my friends to hostess a party for me. What I haven't said is how much fun I'm having with it, how supportive everyone is, and how much I already love it. But this post isn't about that. It's much more disturbing than that.

Ruby Tuesday has always had a fascination with candy and lip gloss. She's such a girl. Even for a Boston Terrier. D can tell you how many countless times she's found a ruined, chewed-up tube of chapstick or lip gloss, guilty dog still smacking her lips in the near vicinity. My response is always "Don't leave your crap lying around where she can reach it." Because, clearly, it is never the dog's fault. 

I had a party over the weekend, with another one planned this week. So I didn't put my demo products away knowing I would be using them so soon. I went to Zumba and thought I'd leave the dogs out of their crates since I'd only be gone a couple of hours. 

Do you see what disastrous conclusion is just ahead?

Yes. Ruby Tuesday got into my demo products because they were just sitting in a bag on the floor well within the reach of her tongue.

I'm not sure what she started with. The cap of massage oil had been chewed off and dumped into the carpet. I think the mango scent was more delicious than the taste. For future product sales reference, it cleaned up nicely with no oily stain. 

She tore quite a bit into the Whipped lubricant. It's vanilla cupcake flavor, I really can't blame her.  I don't know if she had just gotten into it or got bored since it's mostly intact except for the hole near the cap and the teeth marks. I can save it for personal moisturizer use at least. 

Great Head appeared to be the favorite. She managed to chew a whole through the side of the tube and lick about two-thirds of it out. Strawberry must be her favorite. What really worried me about that one is the muscle-relaxing effect it has. I didn't even want to know what part of her might have been relaxed. Sleeping with her felt like it might be more of an adventure than I was looking for, but I was afraid to let her sleep alone in case she had any kind of toxic reaction. Which would have served her right, but still. 

Pure Romance products are not tested on animals. My dog tested them on herself without any negative side effects (other than the horrible shame treatment I gave her). However, I recommend not leaving your crap lying around where your dog can get to it. 

If you do, just do what I did. Pour yourself a glass of wine and get into a nice hot bath. With a few spritzes of Body Dew, of course. 

Topics of Conversation

Girls' road trips are always fun. There's the going somewhere, the music played loudly, food you don't normally eat, and the girl talk. W and I went on a quick road trip this weekend to our friend P's bachelorette party. Bachelorette parties provide great fodder for car conversations. These are some of the topics you may have enjoyed had you been a fly on the window.

1. The bittersweet melancholy of our children growing up.
2. Matchmaking.
3. Gossip. Of course.
4. The level of attractiveness of penises.
5. Delightfully morbid speculations on cannibalism.
6. How we would be haunted by whoever we eat.
7. Irrational yet completely normal love of cats and dogs.
8. The pitfalls of the wrong marriages.
9. The value of waxing.
10. The benefits of growing up.

Reacting to Today's Loss

I don't have anything to add fact-wise to the event that occurred at Bend High School today. I can't comment on this particular student or the parents. What I can surmise is the tremendous amount of pain that this child was in. What I can expect is that these parents are now in pain that we, especially those of us who are parents, don't want to imagine. Beyond that, I will not conjecture on the details surrounding this incident.

However, we live in a world of instant information, where everyone who thinks they know anything is willing to send it out to the ethernet without thinking about how their words will affect others. There is judgment. There is second-guessing of the school's actions. There are solutions being proposed based on anger. Anger born out of fear.

Again, I don't have those answers. But I am going to plead with you to stop. Stop and think about what you are saying. This isn't a television show. Nobody in that room today chose for this to happen to them. Nobody in that school could predict the reactions of every single person outside those walls. Please don't react with criticism but with compassion.

I have a feeling that today's tragedy will linger with me longer than most of this type. It happened at a high school in my town. So, yeah, there's that. It's close to home. But it's close to home in another way.

We think that these things can't happen to us. We think our kids are invincible to such damaging emotions and damaged psyches. But we're not. You're not. I'm not. This was D and me just a few months ago. Even knowing what she was struggling with, I never imagined that she could take her own life. Not for real. Not until she told me that she didn't feel like she could control or trust herself not to do it. I didn't want to believe it, who does? But I finally had to.

We don't want to think our kids can hurt so much. We think that buying them warm coats and feeding them pizza and going to their games and dances is enough. That's what parents do, right? Of course.

But there's more. We have to listen to them. We have to pay attention. Don't assume that sudden moodiness is just common teenage asshole behavior. It very well could be, but don't take the chance at missing something. Talk to your kids. Let them see you fail. Oh boy, that was a hard one for me, but they need to know that parents are also just people. That they don't have to live up to perfection or unrealistic expectations.

Know your child's friends. Notice when these friends change. Ask. Ask why. Ask about school and ask about activities and ask how they feel in their own skin. They want you to. They want to know that you care about more than just grades or game scores. They want to know that they're loved.

Tell them you love them. Every day. Hug them when they need it. Hug them when you need it. Hug them when it will embarrass them because they secretly love it then too.

And even if you do all of these things, and you still can't stop the pain of depression, know that you did your best. That we don't win all the battles. We just do our best. When one of us loses the battle, show up for them with love and compassion and kindness and acceptance.

Open your hearts to those affected by today's tragedy. Trust that people did their best. Be extra kind to those around you.

Tonight, hug your kids a little tighter. Feel the gratitude.

The Taste of Memory

I don't remember what it was, but a year or so ago D smelled something and remarked that it smelled like her childhood. Which is funny because she's still in her childhood. And also I couldn't think of anything that particular smell could be evoking.

Today I had a Jolly Rancher watermelon-flavored candy. It wasn't quite as strong as a scent would be, but it did take me back to my childhood. Which I am far from and I have the gray hair to prove it.

Anyway, it got me thinking about what flavor my childhood would be. There are a lot that I remember and I'll list them for you. (An excuse to make a list!!) Notice this will not be given in any order of favorites, i.e. I despise liver.

1. Abba Zabba. Aside from Jolly Ranchers, these were my favorite candy. My friend Jenny and I would freeze them before eating them. I lost a tooth in one once at the beach.

2. Liver. My daughter has never had this forced down her throat. I have neither eaten it nor made it as an adult.

3. Canned spinach. Mom, really? I don't think D even knows that this exists. Stringy grossness at its slimiest best.

4. Tacos. I asked for them every birthday.

5. Spaghetti. My sister asked for it on her birthdays. My mom made it out of the paper packet.

6. Oily meat. We experimented with a fondue pot for a while. I have vastly improved on the method.

7. Cheerios. My grandma made sure she had some every time that I visited. Until I was 21.

8. Chicken and dumplings. Family recipe.

9. Caramel cream pecan pie. We had this at Thanksgiving instead of pumpkin.

10. Lima beans. Another thing D has never been force-fed.

11. Fried catfish. Freshly caught by my grandpa.

12. Fish sticks. I was never a gay fish.

13. In-N-out cheeseburgers. The single defining meal of my California life.

14. TV dinners. My father, as a single man, was only capable of fortifying me in this inhumane manner.

15. Hot chocolate with vanilla ice cream. Because it was never that cold in California.

16. Fried chicken. I have yet to fry my own, but I'll beg to be invited anywhere that it's done.

17. Biscuits. The kind only my grandpa could make.

18. Pillsbury cinnamon rolls. We had them for breakfast on Christmas mornings.

19. Steak. The grill was used every weekend of the year, no matter the weather. Complete with wood chips.

20. Popcorn shrimp and hush puppies. Until I could no longer order from the kids' menu.

The Single Girl's (or anyone's) Guide to Happiness

A few months ago the wife and I started to keep a gratitude journal. Every night we would each (separately, in our own homes) write three things we were grateful for that day. The only rule was that we couldn't use the same thing more than once. After just a few days, I started to see little things that I wanted to write down that night. A co-worker's laugh. Sushi. The smell of my dogs' feet. How comforting it is to listen to guys talk about sports (even though I usually tone that shit out). After a few weeks it started to make a real difference.

I started to look for other opportunities for gratitude and happiness. And, when D went through her serious suicidal thoughts, we looked for her happiness too. She did something brave that day. She asked for help. Someone told her she was pretty. Someone told her they want to be like her.

You see, if you look for the positive, that's what you will find. Even on my down days, I didn't have to reach that far. It could be something simple like a pair of fluffy socks because you don't have to conquer the world every day. When you open yourself up to positive, it walks right through your door.

As I mentioned before, being so close to losing D put things into perspective. It made me more willing to take risks. Failure sounded more like an inconvenience than an obstacle.

So I talked to my friend M who is a Pure Romance consultant. It sounded fun, I have student loans to pay off, and I couldn't really think of any reason not to do it myself. Someone doesn't want to do a party with me? No problem, my kid is alive today. It really is that cut-and-dry.

What I found, is that when you remove fear of failure, you open yourself up to real possibilities. The company is offering an incentive for new consultants. Book six parties in 60 days, get free product. I started with the idea that I would just see what happens. No agenda, no expectations. Still, six sounded like a big number and outside my realm of possibility.

You know what? I got those six parties booked. I worked the booth at a wedding expo and booked two more. It is almost falling into my lap. Which only makes me want more. I am very close to believing that I can have everything I want. I do believe that I can be really happy.

Last year the wife and I decided to move to Nashville this year. When I was saying "next year" it felt very far away. Now that it is just a few months away, I canNOT wait for it. It feels like letting go and taking a leap and I have all the faith that I am going to land as light as a feather. (Although don't ask me to think about the actual logistics of moving because I will break out into a panic-induced sweat.)

The wife has the most fantastic job opportunity there and is interviewing today. It just feels right. It all feels right and good and the way it's supposed to be. I told her I have everything crossed for her but I know she's got it already. It's time.

I'm a Disney girl. I love Disney - the man, the movies, the park, all of it. I used to think that I believed dreams could come true. I wanted to believe it, but I didn't really. Because I wasn't open to it. But they can. Sometimes you create them and sometimes you just open yourself up and let it come to you. Don't think this doesn't take work, because it does. But even working your tail off will never work if you aren't really open.

A month ago I told my therapist that I don't think I'm allowed to be this happy. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. But that is stupid. I deserve to be happy. We all do. There are going to be challenges and frustrations and setbacks. That is part of life.

The cliches are all true though. Life is what you make it. And I'm going to make mine great. Really, really great.

Discretion Is Overrated. Apparently.

There seems to be some kind of correlation between my heater going out and my vibrators making an appearance. Or maybe it's having uninteresting men in my house?

So a month ago, my stupid heater went out. It was blowing cold air and this was during that 50-below-freaking-zero cold snap we had. What I didn't realize is that the access to the vent is in my bedroom closet. The closet that holds my dresses and shoes. Luckily, most of my really good shoes are in boxes but I was worried about my babies.

What I was not worried about, because I didn't even stop to think that someone crawling around in dust and spider webs and whatever other god-forsaken things are up there, was that he might use my bathroom to wash his hands. And I didn't even think about it until after he was done and left. And wouldn't look me in the eye. Whatever, weirdo.

But no. I'm the weirdo in this instance. Or the sexual deviant. Because after he left I went to the bathroom and saw my vibrator out there on the counter for all the world to see. TOM. The big one.

Last week the damn heater stopped working again. Another guy came out. Thank goodness. I also was very diligent in making sure that all vibrators were safely put away and there was no underwear on my floor. Yay, good for me.

When he looked at the thermostat, it showed the battery was low. He asked if I had batteries. AA batteries. I panicked. I knew that I had already scoured the house for and stolen from other devices for my newest friend. I pretended to look in my kitchen drawer, hoping against hope that they would magically appear there. No. Of course not. So I crept to my nightstand and, as-discreetly-as-I-possibly-could, pulled two batteries out of my new toy. Of course he knew. Everyone knows what it means when you take batteries out of something in your nightstand.

I'm not sure what the lesson is here. I don't think there is one. It's more like some perverse Murphy's Law. If my heater needs to be repaired, a vibrator will make an appearance. Live and learn kids, live and learn.

Defining Self-Harm

I opened up publicly about something that D and I have been going through yesterday. Because of the responses I got, I wanted to talk more about her self-harm. This is going to be long and might contain triggers, so please proceed with caution. 

Also, I want to add the disclaimer that I am telling you this from my perspective as a parent. I have not self-harmed, although I have been in dark enough places at some points where I could see the attraction of it. I am not a medical professional so I can only answer questions based on my experience and suggest that, if this ever happens in your family, you need to talk to a professional. 

D told me herself that she was cutting. This was after she told her school counselor and her pediatrician. While I was hurt that she didn't tell me at first, I was proud of her for standing up for herself and asking for help. I had to put my ego aside. 

To learn how to cope with this, I talked to her school counselor and her therapist. I scoured the internet for information. I read groups for parents and cutters. I read medical reports. And I still couldn't wrap my head around it. 

Her counselor's opinion was that, since her cuts were so neat and symmetrical, she wasn't suicidal. She was looking for control. A lot of what I read confirmed that cutting isn't necessarily a suicide attempt. Because she had only been doing it a couple of months, I thought maybe it was just a phase. Her counselor also told me that it comes in waves at the high school. A group of girls will suddenly start doing it at the same time. 

In that first year, I went through a thousand emotions. I'm not proud of a lot of it, but then I was coming from a place of fear. When I felt she was doing it just for attention, I threatened to take away privileges. When I was really scared I yelled at her and told her I didn't understand her, that she was just stressing me out. I pleaded. I cajoled. Once, when we were in the dressing room while she tried on a bikini, I fought back tears when I saw the lines on her hips. I blamed myself over and over and over. I defined myself as a failure. 

I tried to be reasonable. I tried to be understanding. I shamed a lot. I researched more. I asked her why. Why? 

D is somewhat of a control freak. If we have an argument, she can't leave it to resolve itself later. She has to have it all smoothed over the moment she wants it. Which isn't realistic when I'm still angry. So some of the way that she chose to cut convinced me that she just needed that control and that was the way she found it. And some of that was true, but she also explained that it was a way to punish herself. She hated that she was depressed and felt sorry for herself knowing that there are so many people with "real" problems who have it worse. So she hurt herself. 

In my more reasonable moments, I told her that it scared me. I told her I didn't understand. I told her that everything I do is just because I love her and I want her to be happy. I let her know that I was wrong. Her response? Gratitude. Gratitude for telling her that I too make mistakes and I don't expect her to be perfect. 

In the really good moments, she expressed that she wanted to stop. One month she said she wanted to cut deeper, that she wanted to see how far she could go. She told me she liked it. I know that sounds like a horrible moment, and it was truly terrifying, but it told me that she was really working it out. She was testing her limits. Until, one day, she did cut too deeply. And it scared the shit out of her and she really wanted to stop. 

So then, like an addict, she started counting how long between cuttings. Two weeks. Several days. A month. When she made it to six weeks and then self-harmed again, she told me she was ashamed and worried that I would be disappointed. "But you said you were proud of me for making it so long." I hugged her and told her I was proud of her, no matter what. I was proud that she kept trying and I was proud that she opened up to me. 

I think her real suicidal moments came when she stopped cutting. Because she no longer was allowing herself that release, she was just stuck with all of the ugly thoughts bottling up inside of her. I told her that was pretty normal. Often, it gets a hell of a lot worse before it gets better. 

And, just like with the suicide, I don't think her self-harm is entirely behind us. I hope it is, but it served a purpose for her and she might find she "needs" it again. She has said that she doesn't want scars that she will have to one day explain to her children. She makes lists of reasons not to do harmful things. 

Now, why have I told you all of this aside from my own catharsis? Because there are dozens upon dozens of reasons that people do things that we can't explain. And if you're one of those people, or the parent of one of those people, it is really scary. And people judge. However, the biggest reason that people judge is because they just don't understand. It's simple ignorance. If you're up to it, you can try to educate them. If it's not in you that day, just walk away and take care of yourself. 

If someone you love is hurting, get help. Get help for them and get help for you. I went back to my therapist to help me cope and be able to better support D. Talk to people you trust. Gather the wagons, build your cocoons, and trust that it will get better. Communicate, communicate, communicate. 

Whatever It Takes

A few months ago my world came crashing down around me. I came home to D crying and telling me she wanted to kill herself. We've been working on and dealing with her depression for nearly two years and that included cutting, but I didn't realize just how bad she was feeling. While I hated her cutting, I told myself that, because it was out in the open, it didn't indicate any actual suicidal ideation.

She didn't want to tell me at first because she didn't want to scare me. She asked a friend to come get the knife that she had previously used to cut herself. The one she found hidden in her room. But when she found that she was afraid to be alone because she might really hurt herself, she had to tell me. I did my best to remain calm and supportive for her, but on the inside I was shattered.

We made appointments with her therapist and psychiatrist. We discussed inpatient treatment and we added an additional medication. We evaluated the options and decided that we would work to avoid the inpatient option. First, there isn't a facility in our town and she would have had to go away and neither of us was in love with that idea. She's also been behind in school and missing another large chunk of time didn't feel right. Still, we left it open as a backup. Because I would do whatever it took.

Those first few weeks were incredibly painful. My baby girl was miserable inside her own skin and I couldn't do anything to change that. I was terrified that I would lose her. Every morning I went to wake her up I would pause at the door, hoping against all hope that my worst nightmare wasn't about to come true. I canceled plans with friends so she wouldn't be home alone. I rearranged my work schedule, I let her break the normal rules of hanging out with friends after school. I did whatever it took to make sure she felt safe. Safe from herself.

In the beginning, she didn't want anyone to know. I wanted to respect her wishes so I didn't talk about it. And, although I wasn't ashamed of her and her feelings, I felt like I had failed as a parent. Where did I go wrong that I didn't protect her from this?

And then I had a Halloween party. I had fun. I laughed, everyone else had a good time, it was successful as far as parties go. When everyone left, I fell apart and sobbed to my best friend. Because if I'm going to lose it with anyone, it's going to be her.

A few days later I opened up to the few people I trusted. The amount of support I got was overwhelming. It gave me hope and enough strength to keep trying and to feel less alone.

D also talked to friends and received the support she needed. Her new meds started to kick in a little bit. I checked in with her daily, asking her to rate her emotional scale. Anything below a five required a plan of action and we knew what those actions were. While most of us can handle a low of four or even three or two, D spiraled to zero almost immediately from that point. We evaluated the reasons for her ratings and how we could change them. The important thing was to be in touch and communicate every day.

A couple of months later she thought she had it handled. She put off therapy appointments, she even canceled one at the last minute to go to play rehearsal instead. A couple of days later she walked in the house and fell into my arms crying, saying again how tired she is of feeling this way. So we talked about how we're stuck with depression. This is a thing that we have, like some people have asthma or any other physical disability or health issue. We have to take care of ourselves, we have limits that we have to respect in order to take care of ourselves. Some things are too much sometimes and that's okay.

Now, a few months later, I think we're over the hump. We've learned what we need to do and what to look for. And, while I can breathe again, I'm not naive enough to think we're past this for good. We're just not. D, as a high school senior, is dealing with a lot of emotions and fears and doubts and excitement about what will happen in the next few months and in the future. It's all very normal and expected. To someone with a tendency towards severe depression, these stresses can send her spiraling down again. My hope is that we have both learned what to look out for before it gets to that bottom level.

The greatest lesson I have learned through all of this is that there is a lot of shit that just doesn't matter. During those dark weeks, I couldn't even focus on my weight like a normal neurotic woman. Because who cared if I lost those 15 pounds and looked amazing? What does that matter if my baby girl is gone? My job seemed nearly pointless. My friends, who I have always known that I appreciate and tell them fairly regularly, meant the absolute world to me. I gained enormous perspective. I became less afraid of a lot of things. Because the scariest thing in the world is losing the person you love the most. Everything after that is just an afterthought.

I think D has learned the strength she has. It takes real courage to ask for help. It takes a hell of a lot to tell someone the ugliest part of yourself and risk not being understood or, worse, ignored. Not only did she ask for help, but she kept asking for help until she got what she needed.

I asked her permission before sharing this with you. She didn't hesitate to say yes and that tells me how much she has grown and how much self-acceptance she has gained. My reason for telling you is that if you feel alone, you're not. If you're afraid to talk, don't stay quiet. If you're not heard the first time, try again. Try someone else. Do not lose what is important to you because of fear.

Most of all, don't lose hope.

Creating Compassionate Change

I need to say something. This may not be something that you care about, so you are free to ignore me, but I hope you do care. I think it's important to care about the creatures that we share our planet with.

You may or many not have seen The Cove. You may or may not have seen Blackfish. If you haven't, I think it's important that  you do. If you have, I think you need to take time to think about what you have learned in order to make the right decisions regarding any action you may take.

When I first watched The Cove, I was so horrified that I swore I would never again attend a marine park. Ever. The images were absolutely heartbreaking in a way that I can't even describe. There was a lot of information presented at the beginning of the film, but all I could focus on afterward was the blood (SO much blood!) and the screams of the dolphins. I recently watched Blackfish. I found it more informative, less graphically disturbing, but just as important.

What both of these films tell us is that the way we treat marine mammals is wrong. Taking animals from their homes solely for financial gain is wrong. Separating families is wrong. Requiring animals to perform for sheer entertainment is wrong. Forcing groups of animals together in small spaces is wrong. This is all wrong and it is all cruel.

I went to Sea World as a child. I went as an adult. These are good memories; they were good times with my family. What I was taught from these experiences was that this treatment was okay. It was glamorous. There was the star of the show, there was the music, the leaps out of the water, the power of their splashes. I thought that these animals loved what they were doing as much as I loved watching them perform. I was wrong.

There is a saying that when you know better, you do better. I think we now know better. Marine biologists and behaviorists have made enough discoveries about the emotions of these animals that tip the scales in favor of change. I don't think that can be debated.

However, what most people are suggesting and urging and asking for is probably not the answer. Boycott Sea World and parks like it. Hit them in their pocketbooks where it really hurts. Close them down and end the cruelty forever. I admit that this was my first reaction, as I said.

But stop and think about this.

If Sea World and its likenesses close, what happens to the animals? Those born in captivity won't survive in the wild. Who is going to pay to locate a whale's pod and have it transported from California to Norway or from Florida to the Pacific Northwest? Who is going to oversee these assimilations? Forcing any park to shut down just to cease existing will cause more harm to these animals. This can't be the plan.

Sea World, being in the biggest spotlight, is in the best position to affect change for marine life. They have the financial resources to transform the existing entertainment platform to one of a sanctuary. Sanctuaries are the best option for the majority of these animals. Trainers and other park personnel who have known these animals and come to care for them could best help them through the transition. Observing them in a habitat closer to their natural environment would allow us to learn more from these wonderful creatures. Wouldn't it be wonderful to witness the birth of a whale not born in captivity, from a relationship between two animals instead of artificially?

Now, I don't have all of the answers. Obviously. I'm not a biologist. Or a zoologist. I do know that radical, reactionary behavior doesn't work. I think if we really care about these animals, that we can come together to create a solution that is more beneficial than harmful. One that opens up a dialogue where we all learn something and we create a better world for all living creatures.

This is the action I would encourage you to take. Boycotting can be a powerful tool, but communication can bring about real change. Talk to the decision makers and ask them to make better decisions. Educate yourselves on all of the options. Open those dialogues. Speak from caring and compassion rather than fear and judgment.

We now know better, it's time to do better.

I Suppose I Could Just Shave My Head

I have a lot of hair. It's like my hair took being a Leo literally and grew itself to epic proportions. On a daily basis. I have pregnancy hair, but permanently. It never goes away.

What this means is that I regularly kill hair dryers. I have to get a new one every two to three years because no mere mortal appliance can maintain the stamina it requires to dry my hair on a daily basis.

I killed one a month ago. It didn't actually die, it just gave up on warming up to hot air, like it just wanted to go in peace by blowing out arctic blasts instead of completely giving up. I let it. However, I still needed to dry my hair so I borrowed D's. For a month. It was one of those little travel-sized things and she hardly ever used it so it only lasted a month. Barely.

Finally, last week I bought a new hair dryer. It's cute. It's pink and black. I think it heard the rumors about me and hasn't worked its way up to full power yet, but we're getting along. So far.

Anyway, this was the conversation about the new hair dryer.

D: I like your new hair dryer.
Me: Thanks.
D: Did mine die too?
Me: Yes.
D: I like our new hair dryer.

Like Mother Like Daughter Like Grandma

I got the following text this morning from D.

"I have a gig tonight, it's an outdoor gig, it would be really nice to come home to hot coco and egg nog.... :)"

I glossed over the misspelled word and replied, "It sure would...."
She answered, "*cough cough* yes mom, it would *wink*"

I shared her message with my podmates and J said, "She is so like you."
Ha ha.

A few minutes later, there was this conversation.

Me: "What are you going to do without me on your own?"
D: "Probably die."
Me: "Probably."
D: "Haha. We will cross that bridge when we come to it."

And suddenly I was talking to my mom.

Pros Only

Winters can be hard. Winters can be really hard as a single person. It's cold, the holidays happen, etc. It can suck.

So the Wife and I thought we'd make a list to make ourselves feel better about being single. Like a Gratitude List only for being single. The things we appreciate about being single. It was supposed to make us feel less sad, but it's had kind of the opposite effect. I don't feel less sad. I feel more happy. I feel really appreciative. At first it was just little things. But then it was just an overall feeling of, "I am really okay. Really." As in, I actually prefer this life. For now. I don't know what will come later, but I am really good right now. Without any convincing, I'm good. I'm good with me. I'm good with Now.

If you're not okay, or you need a little reminder that you are, here is a little list of some of the things we've come up with. We add to it regularly.

I can go home when I want. I have nobody to answer to.
I can flirt whenever I want with whoever I want. Everyone is fair game and so am I.
I can complain about being fat while stuffing my face with apple pizza and there isn't anybody to judge me.
My relationship with my kid is mine. Right or wrong, we will figure it out together.
The possibility still exists. I'm not stuck. Hope is good.
My future is mine. It is limitless.
The mistakes I make are mine and I only have to answer to myself.
I can set the heater at whatever temperature I want.
There is no video game talk in my house.
I can watch whatever, whenever I want on T.V.
My dogs sleep with me and I don't have to explain that.
No sports. I only watch the Kentucky Derby and the Super Bowl, and the latter for the commercials only.

If I get too cold, I have two very willing puppies to snuggle with.
Life is good.

Here We Go.....

Senior year. I have had thoughts about this year since D was born. There are emotions and stresses and all of that blah, blah, blah. Etc., etc, etcetera! The things is, shit's getting real, ya'll.

This week was kind of major. Not in a really life-altering way, more of a reminder of what's coming up. To-do list check-offs. We ordered her cap and gown. She thinks it's funny to tease me and said, "Are you ready to cry?" as she handed me the order form. As if. I don't cry when I have to shell out money. Okay, I do, but for different reasons. Last night we chose her senior pictures. Also last night, for the first time ever, she came home at 2:00 in the morning by herself. (Catching Fire premiere. Very important stuff.) And then she got up early and went to school. Like an "adult."

See? It's not that big of a deal. And yet it is. Every step takes us closer to the End. The end of childhood. The end of my days as a "mommy." It's terrifying, and heartbreaking and freeing. All at the same time. I'm glad there are these little steps to inure me to the idea that my little girl is going to go away soon. If we had to jump off the cliff all at once, I don't think my heart could take it. I know my sanity couldn't.

How to Tell if Your Dog is Losing Her Freaking Mind

The carbon monoxide detector starts beeping at 4:30 in the morning because its battery is low. Like smoke detectors, these things only happen during the hours you should be fast asleep. You know that it's beeping, not because it wakes you up, but because your dog is clawing at your face to tell you that it's beeping.

You get up, unplug the damn thing, throw it in the coat closet, and head back to bed. Since both dogs are up, you let them out to potty and then call everyone back to bed. You think that you still have plenty of time to get a decent amount of sleep before you have to get up for work.

You are wrong.

The boy dog never realized that there was pre-sunrise drama, so he settles back down to sleep like a Good Boy. The girl dog thinks that the beeping signaled the end of the world and she wants to you stay up and freak out with her until that happens.

You pet her and tell her it's okay. That's not enough and she continues to pant as if the bed were on fire. You try to pull her close to you to reassure her. She pants her bad doggy breath right into your nostrils. She won't stop shaking. You try to ignore her and turn to the other side. She walks across your head, pulling your hair out along the way, so that her breath can be directly fanning your face again. You pull the covers over your head, thinking she'll eventually give up. No. She starts to walk in circles over you, walking across your head, your side, your head, your hip, circling faster and more frantically each time.

After about 30 minutes, she finally gives in and lays next to you. Only you can feel her staring at you because her face is half an inch away from yours. It's like her line of sight is boring into your cheekbone. At this point you are starting the countdown until your alarm will go off so you close your eyes and hope for the best.

You never go back to sleep.

When you get out of bed to take a shower, she goes with you. At this point the boy dog thinks it's just time to get up so you let them outside one more time but inform them there is no breakfast until after your shower. For which they follow you into the bathroom. Both of them. When you get out, you have to avoid stepping on dogs. One of which is perpetually ravenously hungry and the other of which is still shaking and insists on walking between your feet. For the rest of the morning. You nearly kill yourself tripping over her a dozen or so times and you would throttle her if she didn't have such big, sad eyes that look at you with absolute trust that you will make her world right again.

You sigh. You crate them both before leaving and just hope that your neurotic dog doesn't give herself a stroke while you're at work. And that she will allow you to nap when you get home.

When Good Friends Go Bad

Last week, at book club, the subject of age came up. With the exception of one, we are all over the age of 40. A couple of us were talking about how our eyesight has changed just over the last couple of years. The skin under my eyes has gotten thinner this year. We are noticing small changes that amount to our impending mortality.

I shared a story from my late teenage years. I worked at a Hallmark, where I rang up many, many old women. Old women are always buying cards. Or at least they were back in the day before they started costing upwards of $4.00. I digress. I would hold my hands on the counter, watching them write their checks, comparing my smooth skin with their wrinkles and age spots, their gnarled knuckles. My hands became a source of pride, a symbol of my youth and vitality. And, because of this foolish pride, I have watched my hands age over the years with growing sadness.

After telling this story, M asked if that was really such a difference. I had her lay her hand down flat on the table and laid mine next to hers. "See how I have more wrinkles?" She looked down and gasped, exclaiming loudly, "Oh, WOW!!!" Um, okay. They're not that bad. It's not like they're all shriveled into dry tree branches. Plus, the weather here is very drying and I hadn't recently moisturized. No need to make me cry!!

I think I'm just going to wear gloves around her from now on.

Teaching the Birds and the Bees

Note: This isn't going to be very interesting, I just had sort of a random memory the other day that led to other thoughts and this is just how my brain works.

I learned where babies come because my sister was born when I was seven. I thought it was pretty disgusting. Once, when shopping with my mom, she asked me what I thought about black bras. Who asks a nine-year-old this question? My mom, apparently. I told her I thought it would make her a slut. She didn't buy it.

One day, when my sister was five, she came into my room, dropped to all fours on my bed, and started humping the air. "I'm making babies!" This is what happens when you take your five-year-old with you to breed your dog. Any time she wanted to annoy me from then on, she would hump the air on her hands and knees.

Because my mom had been so open about sex, I wanted to be that way with D. Except I didn't feel open and I was never really prepared. One night, when she was four and taking a bath, she asked me the dreaded question. "Where do babies come from?" I tried to answer as calmly and as simply as I could.

Me: Well, the man has a sperm and the woman has an egg. When the sperm meets the egg......
D: Ha ha ha ha..... The sperm meets the egg!! Say it again!!
Me: The sperm meets the egg.
D: hee hee hee, ha ha ha..... Say it again!!!

Yes, hilarity ensued. That was the end of that.

When she was nine, I was slightly concerned that she hadn't asked again. She had a friend who recently gained a baby sister. Concerned she might get wrong information from friends, I asked if she had any questions about that baby or birth and told her that she could ask me anything, secretly hoping that she wouldn't. We happened to be out at lunch and she said a quick okay, then took a bite of food. I thought that was it until she said, "Okay. So how does it happen? That thing, sex." Again, I explained as simply as I could using the physical description of the act rather than the "when a mommy and a daddy love each other" bullshit. She just sat there, staring at me. Finally she said, "Okay. That is even grosser than I thought." Which was the end of the conversation.

Over time, I did get used to talking about the subject. Mostly because I'm a smart ass and the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. D thought she could embarrass me one night. While she had a friend over.

D: What is 69?
Me: It'a a number.
D: But what is it?
Me: A number between 68 and 70.
D: But what else? (while giggling and looking at her friend.)
(Oh, we're going to play that game are we?)
Me: It's a sexual position.
D: That's what I thought.
Me: Would you like me to draw you a picture? Are you sure you know? Maybe I need to make it really clear for you.
D: Ew, gross! No!! Mom, you're sick!!!

At least she left me in peace and went to her room.

I Guess I Can Try the New Beehive Hairstyle Now

J: Do you have aerosol hairspray?
Me: No.
J: Why not? How can you not have aerosol hairspray?
Me: Because I care about the environment. Besides, I don't use that much hairspray. Also - I'm not my grandma.
J: I can't believe you don't have aerosol hairspray. Everybody has aerosol hairspray.
Me: Apparently not everyone.
J: I can't believe you. Seriously.

A couple of days later:

Me: What is the deal with stupid aerosol hairspray anyway?
W: I have some. It's different now, it's not like it was in the 70's.
Me: Oh. Nobody told me that.
W: Yeah, you can join the 21st century now.

Excuse Me, What?

This conversation happened between D and me this morning. Please note that she asked me to make her breakfast before this conversation took place.

D: Does it seem crazy to you how grown up I am?
Me: How what you are?
D: Grown up.

Me: Um.

D: .......

Me: When was the last time you made a grilled cheese by yourself?
D: At E's house. It took us like half an hour and we burned the first one.

Me: Yeah. So what were you asking me? 

Red Lipstick

When I was in college, I had a particularly difficult class with a particularly difficult professor. The only way to write a paper that would pass would be to write the paper that he would have written. In other words, I had to read his mind, which was nearly impossible as I am not someone who enjoys spending large quantities of time with lab rats. I did spend many hours sitting outside his office waiting to review papers before I turned them in. I spent hours inside his office while he scribbled red marks all over what I had already painstakingly written. Only to repeat the process.

The weeks spent in that class resulted in a few nightmares. It was my waking life, however, that became really bizarre. Any time that I couldn't get past a paragraph or a sentence for any paper I was writing for this class, I would go clean something. The bathroom I shared. Another roommate's dishes. The kitchen sink. My closest. Myself. I was taking up to three showers a day that I didn't need. My roommates loved me. My developing OCD would have frightened me had I been able to take a step back and see how crazy I looked from the outside. Instead, I was tunnel-visioned and head-down until the class was over and I was able to return to a state of normalcy.

The recent experiences with D and her (fucking) depression have brought some of that back. I don't have the energy to scrub my toilet four times a day, but I have made the effort to return to my former Self. The Self I was before I was aware of my own depression and before I lost myself in the Bad Relationship. This Self paid bills on time (with less money than I have now), made and cooked weekly menus with groceries bought specifically for that purpose, and generally had her shit together. She even invited other small children over to bake and decorate cookies, something this current Self would run shrieking from.

I still am not about to invite small children mess into my home, but I have started picking my clothes up off the floor more than bi-monthly. I washed sheets and put them back on my bed in the same day. I planned a week of meals and bought the necessary groceries. On a Sunday no less, instead of lying on the couch alternating between napping and watching other people cook on Chopped.

Finally, in order to complete the transformation of this New Self, I made a small purchase. The Old Self, while she had her shit together, did not pay much attention to her own appearance. She went days without putting on a spot of makeup. She expunged most semblances of femininity in favor of raising a daughter who valued her internal worth over her outward appearance. (Which, by the way, was completely futile as my offspring has always been the girliest girl she could ever be.)

My New Self, as she grows older, embraces her femininity. Her shoe collection alone can attest to this fact. She understands that she can be both strong and fallible whether she's wearing a dress and heels or going out as Plain Jane. She's a woman and she enjoys it.

To that end, I attended a lipstick party over the weekend with the sole intention of finding the perfect shade of Red Lipstick. I've tried to wear red before, because I think it's powerful and sexy, but never quite thought I could pull it off. Any red I attempted I immediately covered up with lip gloss to tame it down, silly it up, dilute the power, erase the real woman I wanted to be.

Don't misunderstand; I don't think that Real Women are defined by something as superficial and trivial as their lipstick. Or their hairstyle. Or their professions, their relationships, or their parental status. For me, this is my symbol of the woman I want to be. Put together. Strong. Capable. It's my new cape, the symbol of the hero I want to be for my daughter and for myself. It's smaller than a breadbox and will melt in the sun, but it represents more to me than just a stick of what is, essentially, colored wax.

My red lipstick is the detail that reminds me to pay attention to the details. It's the personal touch that tells the world I'm ready. And, more importantly, that I got this.

Not Today

“There is only one god and his name is Death. And there is only one thing we say to Death: “Not today.” 
― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

I love this quote. I think it is my favorite line from this whole series and, if you're watching it, you know there are some really, really excellent lines. Like anything that comes out of Tyrion's mouth.

So this may be disjointed because there are things I feel and there are things I want so say and there are things I can't say and they're all competing in my head. The main thought and concern is how desperately, painfully unhappy my Bugabooga has been. Depression is a motherfucker and it has a tight grip on her at this point in time and I hate it more than anything else. More than snow and the inventor of Crocs, more than people who hurt animals and even more than 50 Shades of Grey. But you know what? Depression doesn't give a shit. It's nastier than Honey Badger, who at least offers some entertainment and inspiration to be a Bad Ass. Depression just takes over and ignores all attempts to thwart it.

What depression is really good at is creating barriers between the depressed person and anyone who cares about her. This is what it has done with D. No matter what I say, or how hard I try, or how much I will her to be better, none of that gets through. She's under the invisible shield of depression. Except it doesn't work the way that a shield should, it doesn't protect her. It hurts her. It lies to her. It tells her she's worthless and useless and dumb and a waste. None of which is even remotely true. She's beautiful and talented and wonderful. She's loving and sensitive and this is how it takes advantage of her. Damn it.

And then there is my own depression, which acts more like a door. It shuts me in, and turns down the blinds and makes it darker for a while. Only doors can be opened, even if I have to pick at the lock for a while to get out. I think, however, that it relishes in the fact that it takes me away from her for a little bit, that it uses up the energy I need to help her. I hate it for that.

If the universe worked in the way that it should, D would feel better because of the simple fact that I love her enough to make it so. I'm the mommy, I'm supposed to make the boo-boos go away. I lost that power a long time ago and I desperately want it back. It's my right and privilege as a mother to make my child's life better.

But here is the thing I have learned, which was reinforced yesterday. We are not alone. If you are reading this, and can relate to what I am saying at all, and if you take nothing else away from my rambling, know that you are not alone. You are not alone in how you feel and you are not alone in that you have to go through this on your own. The thing is, that when you ask for help, you get it. I can ask for a million dollars or a pony until I'm blue in the face and it isn't going to happen but if I ask for help, it's there. It just is. In the form of friends, family, discovering that other people feel this way or have felt this way, or those who can't even comprehend what you're trying to say but still care and want to help and offer to help and do help.

I think D feels like she is the only one affected by her depression. She's not. It breaks me into a thousand pieces on a nearly daily basis knowing that she is so miserable and I can't change it. And then I feel like since I'm her mom, that it's up to me and me alone to Fix It and help her but that gets overwhelming and I get tired and I want to stop even though I know I can't. So I ask for help. She asks for help. And what an hour ago seemed insurmountable suddenly feels a little more manageable. Even if it's just for a little while. An hour, a day. It's enough to keep me going. It helps her stop crying for a little while.

It helps us say, in the loudest voice we can manage in that moment, Not today.