Juggling Life

Best Dying Words Ever

Friday, May 1, is the 7th anniversary of my mother's death. To appreciate this story you must understand the following:

1. My  mother, while generally extremely classy, knew her way around a curse word.

2. My mother did not like to be nagged.

3. My mother's cancer had metastasized to her brain, so her filter was not in full working order.

When my mother was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer and given 2 to 6 months to live I dropped everything to be with her day and night. She did not want any treatment, but a radiologist talked us into some radiation on her brain which I am certain hastened her decline; I really wish we had not allowed ourselves to be swayed. Still, nobody could have predicted how quickly she would fail.

Once it became apparent that she was in a rapid downward spiral I put out an all-points bulletin to her friends to come say good-bye. One friend, Gale, had to fly in from Massachusetts. She was due to arrive on Tuesday.

On Monday, as my mother drifted in and out, and I brushed her hair as she absent-mindedly smoked cigarettes I reminded her throughout the day that Gale was due to arrive the next afternoon. I didn't know if she was retaining what I said, so any time she seemed alert I reiterated that Gale was coming.

Around 7 p.m. my sister, Grownup Girl and I helped my mother shuffle down the hallway and into her bedroom. We pulled back the covers and lowered her into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. I knelt in front of her and removed her slippers in anticipation of lifting her legs onto the bed and tucking her in.

Me: Mom? Remember, Gale will be here tomorrow.

Mom (Sitting upright and looking directly at me): If you say that to me one more time, you bitch!

That was the last sentence my mother spoke. Gale came and we spent the day around my mother's bed, along with several other friends, telling stories and laughing. I'm sure she heard us. On Wednesday evening my mother died, 3 weeks after her diagnosis.

The Times They Are A Changin'

I haven't written about this before--you know how some things are your story, but they are someone else's story more, so you have to wait until they want you to tell the story? Or you don't write the story at all? Yeah, it's like that.

GrownUp Girl and Music Man broke up--about a month ago. For our family this is like having a divorce happen--they've been together for 7 years. GuG feels like she wants to experience life a little more widely and independently--it's hard to argue with a 24-year old feeling like that. This would not be Music Man's choice, but we all know how those things go.

For right now they continue to share a home--GuG will come home when she finishes classes in June; hopefully we'll know soon if/where she's going to grad school in the fall. Music Man will find a different rental situation. They are being as mature as possible and actually went to a couple's counselor to help sort this out. Kids today!

GuG was down for a few days for her spring break, but then had to work this past weekend so she was not able to join us for Thom's day. Music Man was able to come and for that we all were so grateful. MM will never cease to be a member of our family--he is an amazing and wonderful young man and I am so grateful that we are free to define family so much more broadly these days.

MM has also been invited to join us for part of our family vacation in Mammoth this summer, and he says he will come. I sure hope so. We would miss him so much and he loves the Mammoth experience as much as the rest of us do.

MM and I have always had a mutual-confidante relationship and it was a little awkward this weekend at times. My top priority must be to support my daughter--she deserves that. So MM and I have to navigate how much we can talk about the specifics of their breakup and the different directions in which they want to go. We are doing it though--figuring it out as we go along--which is all you can do in a situation like this.

Remembering Thom

 

                         His initials were T.W.O.

 

                           Thom's shirt, Thom's hat

 

                                        Thom's Girls

                                   Thom's Memorial Posse

(photo credit for this one goes to a nameless handsome young Russian tourist)

Last Week in Review or I'm Not Kidding About the Juggling!

Monday through Wednesday last week were pretty ordinary--just school and work. Then along came Thursday . . .

Normally I work at the school on Thursdays, but they had a field trip scheduled so I was going in on Friday. So luckily I was home (stinky from exercising and wearing fuzzy slippers) when I got called from the nurse's office for someone that I was an emergency contact for at the high school. Long story and not mine, but there ended up being an ambulance involved. I ended up being late for my lunch with . . .

The ever-so-lovely Leslie from Part of the Precipitate. She's fairly new to blogging and she lives in Phoenix. We arranged to meet after she decided to pack her very pregnant self in her husband's suitcase when he came to La Jolla on business. Proving to me once again that all bloggers are amazing people, we hit it off and talked for hours as we lingered over lunch at Alfonso's, one of my favorite Mexican restaurants. She's promised to bring me a newborn to cuddle next time she comes and I'm holding her to it!

Friday brought my rescheduled day at school. The plan was to finish off the photo art project we'd started the week before. The art project that I'd done from start to finish on a student's laptop to ensure everything went smoothly. Thank you school district for upping the network filter to a level where the computers can barely be used--and it was nice of you to let the teachers know. The upside? I punted and successfully redesigned the lesson plan on the spot.

Friday night I was driving up the street to OMomK's house to begin our weekend of celebrating Thom when what to my wondering eyes should appear, but my oldest son, MVP. OMomK pulled off the surprise of the century by flying him home so he could be with all of us for the weekend. Much celebratory Champagne was consumed. Perhaps some of us consumed a bit too much. Perhaps.

Saturday morning was water polo. The Regional Junior Olympic qualifying tournament to be specific. If you live in San Diego and you know water polo the fact that Scripps beat Carlsbad will mean something to you. If not, long story short, Scripps was the Cinderella Story of the tournament and is going to the Junior Olympics--and not on a wild card slot either.

Saturday afternoon was a glorious time at at the beach--Thom made sure the weather was perfect. Pictures to follow on Wednesday. The evening was laughter and great pizza and informing the college kids that you do NOT make Mimosas using Moet & Chandon White Star Champagne.

Sunday was even more water polo, birthday shopping for MVP and a trip to the airport, followed by an attempt at relaxing in the tub and a 7 p.m. bedtime for me. A 2-day recovery from 1 night of drinking is a sad thing indeed.

Did I mention that I read Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart over the weekend?

Blame It On The Mother: A Play in One (Or Two Or Three or Four) Acts (Depending--You Know)

Our heroine Jenn is usually engaged in some innocuous act of housewifery or stundentry, or as in this scene, attempted relaxation. Today she is in the bath. She hears loud, angry footsteps climbing the stairs. The door is flung open. Enter Social Butterfly.

SB: What did you do with my water polo bathing suit (that's today's scene--you can easily substitute skinny jeans or Ed Hardy tee for bathing suit)?!

Jenn: I haven't seen it.

SB: You had to--it was in my towel in the laundry after practice.

Jenn: Sorry, I haven't seen it.

SB: It would either be hanging on my shower door or in the laundry. It's not on my shower door, so you must know where it is.

Improvise wailing and gnashing of teeth and long-winded discussion of whether or not Jenn "disappears' things from the laundry as a form of recreation.

Jenn: Maybe it's at Baby Cheetah's house?

SB: Oh. Yeah.

If this post hasn't convinced you of my stellar parenting skills, I don't know what will. I'm under strict orders from Suzy (who kindly nominated me) to beg/order/direct/shame you into voting for me Best Parenting Blog. I don't know if I can be quite that aggressive, but if you are so moved to do so, you can click on the button on my sidebar and cast your vote. It would make me happy. You could also cast a vote for Suzy for Best Humor Blog while you're at it. Because really, is there anything funnier than Everyone Can Bite Me Fridays?

As Time Goes By

Today is the anniversary of my dear friend, Thom's, death. We are celebrating his life today with a trip to the beach, some togetherness, some goofiness and lots of great stories.

When I talk about Thom I usually describe him as "My best friend's husband." This is true, but is total inadequate to describe the relationship Thom and I had.

I've always had girlfriends, but I was also a "one of the guys" kind of girl. It's not a coincidence that my husband was my best friend before we ever dated. One of the things that is unfortunate about growing up and getting married (I think this is less of an issue with the current generation) is that the opportunities for opposite-sex friendships are not as frequent. This is especially true if you're not out in the workplace.

Thom and I were friends. We met because of my friendship with his wife (and we met because of the friendship of our youngest daughters), Thom became my husband's best friend, and our families are each other's best family, but Thom and I had a friendship independent of all that.

We were alike in may ways and our spouses were alike also (yes, it's kind of funny that my girl best friend is so much like my husband best friend). We shared similar opinions on child-rearing, work ethics, politics, and on how much we liked sharing our opinions. We were both writers and expounders and lecturers and hold people accountable-ers. We both liked to let our hair down (and he used to have some serious hair to let down!) and party a bit. We both put family first and pushed our children beyond where said children wanted to be pushed.

Thom was gone a lot, but when he was home he did a lot of the child-ferrying, so I had those times with him that all SAHMs will understand. You drop off a child, or a book, or a dish and an hour and a half later you're still talking.

You can read one of my favorite Thom and Jenn stories here. It exemplifies another thing Thom and I shared. We weren't overly concerned with what other people think.

Sometimes, in the middle of the day, the thought hits me that Thom is gone. That Thom and OMomK and Mr. Fix-it and I will never go to Mammoth a week before our grown kids and their kids and stay in the teeny, waterfront cabin that would never accommodate our huge, communal brood and drink and fish and play Rummy and enjoy having put the hard work of child-rearing behind us. Among other things, I would proofread the script Thom was working on and he would teach me some new photography tricks. When that thought hits me it is as though I've been punched in the stomach.

OMomK and the girls, Care Bear and Bugs, know that I know that my loss pales in comparison to theirs. I can't even begin to comprehend what they feel. One thing I can say though is that I miss Thom terribly and every day. His life was one for the books and one that ended unfairly soon. My life (and that of countless other people) was richer for having known him and poorer without him.

In Which I Am NOT Healed

I saw this video over at Mad Madge's the other day. In addition to disturbing me--in the same way I'd be disturbed if I saw a toddler belting out Beyonce--it brought back a very strong memory for me.

My  mother was not a church-goer, but she did take care to expose us to religion. We went to bible school in the summer and we were always going to church with friends. So when a new friend's mom asked if I could go to church with them, she didn't ask too many questions. Big mistake.

Up until then my exposure to church had been of the Presbyterian or Lutheran variety with some Temple exposure thrown in for good measure. This church was (I presume now) Baptist (Edited to add--Stacie suggests Pentacostals--she's probably right). Fire and Brimstone. Speaking in tongues.

My mother's friend's ulterior motive in taking me to church was that she was sure her preacher could heal me. For about 7 years when I was a child I suffered from Petit Mal epileptic seizures--also known by the moniker, "Drop Epilepsy." The seizures lasted as long as it took me to collapse to the ground and then I was alert. I took Dilantin until I was 12 then tapered off and have been fine since.

Back to the church--I was nine years old and I had NO IDEA what was happening. There was lots of singing and some screaming by the preacher and then I was being pushed up to the pulpit by my friend's mom; there was talk of my "affliction," some prayer and then the preacher "laid hands on me." Where "laid hands" equals whacked me so hard on my forehead with the palm of his hand that all 60 lbs. of me flew backwards and I hit the opposite wall.

No, I was not healed. Plus I now a headache so bad my ears were ringing for days. In retrospect I may have actually had a concussion. The friend's mom? She was lucky my mother didn't tear her limb from limb.

One Hundred Years of WTF?!

I came, I saw, I conquered. It was not easy or enjoyable. I tried to read this book a couple of years ago--when you're a reader and the New York Times (and Oprah) say that it should be required reading for all of humanity, you give it a try. I gave up, abandoned it, something I don't frequently do. This time though, it was required reading for my Global Lit class. Being a dedicated student and hard-wired rules follower I read every word. Every confusing, convoluted, complicated word. In honor of completing it, I give you this, a poem:

                         Lit Speak

          Posit a position on the duality of man?

   Construct a commentary on human consciousness?

Identify the agency by which the matriarch rules the patriarchy?

           Negotiate the constellation of self

without privileging the perspective of post-Colonialism or

    Marxist Theory or Feminist Literary Criticism?

Are you sure I can’t just read the new Jodi Piccoult?

Nanny Nanny Boo-Boo!

Edited to add: The Nanny Nanny Boo Boo was a reference to the way the flower looks (to me) to be sticking its tongue out and mocking me. A couple of hours after I posted this I was brushing my teeth and started thinking that someone who was still getting snow might think this was some mocking weather reference, which it was/is not.

Thinking about people in less-temperate climes got me to thinking about how Rebel, MVP's best friend from childhood, who goes to Harvard, and I used Facebook to ruin the weather in both San Diego and Cambridge this past week. This is how it went down:

Friday: Her Facebook status says that Cambridge is warmer than San Diego. I correct her by saying both San Diego and Cambridge are at 66. Saturday: I Facebook her that Cambridge is down to 39 and we're up to 85. Sunday: San Diego is at 96 and Cambridge is in the 30's. We should have both let it be when we were sharing 66! Sorry, people!

To Everything There Is A Season

I'm a fan of the Motherlode Blog written by Lisa Belkin and posted on New York Times.com. This column of hers referenced another of my favorite reads--Dear Prudence on Slate.com. The links are worth following--but long story short it has to do with mothers being jealous of their daughter's looks.

To which I say . . . WTH? I am no stranger to having daughters whose looks surpass my own--which is exactly as it should be. I cannot begin to fathom being jealous of my children over anything--and certainly not our respective appearances.

I had my day. I was young. I was hot. I was Miss Thang--if only for a few years. I was 18 when I wore a dress sans bra (this was when it was in bad taste to have bra straps showing) and my friend's mother commented to her (in Japanese) that I had beautiful, perky breasts for someone so "well-endowed." I think you get the picture when I tell you that 27 years, several pounds and 36 months of nursing have rendered that statement no longer applicable.

I am truly bothered by the insane need for women to try to hold onto their youth and beauty when that day has clearly passed. I consider it to be the natural order of things for a mother to hand the mantle of youth and beauty to her daughter(s) and move onto to something more appropriate. Maturity and wisdom have their own rewards; enjoy them and don't rail against what is gone.

I'm not advocating giving up completely and falling into decrepitude (unless you want to). Lord knows I color my hair, have facials, and wear make-up. I do everything I can to look good for my age. Which happens to be 45. Not 24 or 14 like my daughters--who are young and beautiful with bright smiles, dewy complexions and perky parts. My younger daughter has legs a good 6 inches longer than mine--she got what any almost 5'4 woman with squatty legs dreams of--height and legs that go on forever. Am I happy for her? Absolutely. Am I jealous of her? Not a bit. Would I ever, in a million years, want to feel as though I was competing in the looks arena (or any other arena for that matter (except for maybe Scrabble) with my own daughters? NO! Ick. Yuck. Gross.

Of course this whole discussion is indicative of something more--something not quite right in our society; something that would require a dissertation rather than a blog post, so I'll leave it at this.