reality check

I am curious about something.  I want to know if it's typical for adults to become profoundly sad when reminded of their childhood.

Today I heard a hymn that I used to hear in the Episcopal church of my childhood.  (Religion was not a big part of my life either then or now, but I attended church often enough to be able to identify music I heard there.)  My eyes filled with tears- I couldn't function for a few minutes.  (Luckily I wasn't driving- I probably would have crashed the car.)

Is this normal behavior?  Of course, everyone's story is different.  The characteristics of my story which may be causing this are many.  For one thing, I haven't lived in or near my hometown since I was 17.  The family I knew as a child has disintegrated- most of the key people have died, except for my brother and sister who both live far from home.  Only my father remains in my hometown, yet he married into a new family and barely acknowledges his "old" family.

My childhood was not a particularly happy one, although I was an idealistic child and somehow I knew how to make the best of things, and I always knew I'd leave after high school.  I was shy and lonely, reading books all the time.  My family never did fun things- my parents were unhappily married, and my brother and sister, who were teens by the time I was born, resented me.  What's to miss about that childhood?!

Well, as always, I have a theory.  The family may not have been outstanding, but it was the only security I've ever known.  We lived in the same house for all of those years.  My parents got up at the same time every morning and went to bed the same time each night.  There were no surprises.  I always knew what to expect when I came home from school- if my mother was at work, then Gram would be there.  Dinner (we called it "supper") was at 5pm each night come hell or high water.  My mother's cooking sucked, but at least it was consistently bad.  And no matter what she served for the meal, whether I ate it or not, there was always dessert- usually ice cream.  Every Sunday I was given a McDonald's Happy Meal for dinner.

We didn't have a huge extended family, but I knew a few relatives who lived nearby.  Gram was my favorite person of all time, but I was also fond of another older relative, Marion, from my mother's side.  I never knew what appealed to me about Marion, because we had nothing in common, but I just liked her.  I was terribly quiet, even around relatives, so I was sure she didn't know.  I was thrilled when one day my mother told me that she had told Marion that I liked her, and Marion had said, "Yes, I know she does."  How did she know?

 It was not Family of the Year, but it was stable- as I said, it was the only stability I've ever known.  I work in a very unstable field, and my schedule is erratic.  I can't even have a regular bedtime schedule, because I sometimes work late at night and sometimes early in the morning.  I can't sign up for anything regular, like classes or clubs, because of my work schedule.

Besides being stable, my childhood was the only time of my life during which I was surrounded by people who had to care about me no matter what.  That's what "family" is, right?  Now, I do have a child, but he'd happily throw me to the wolves if I so much as tell him he has to go to bed!

My child will not look back at his childhood the way I do mine.  He has no family- he only has a mother- that's all.  The only stability I've been able to offer is the constant knowledge that he's cared about, and that he has a house and food and electronics.  Maybe he'll be able to look back and remember the house on the park with views like the one above, the ill-behaved Chihuahua who constantly wanted to fetch, and the fretting mother who did the best she could.  I'm not sure if his eyes will fill with tears when he hears a song from childhood......

The goal of the week

I'm thrilled to have a relatively light work week.  I'm working on organizing the house.  Why does it seem that, despite the countless hours I've devoted to organizing, I'm never finished?  I suspect that my method is flawed.  Part of the problem is that I'm organizing for two- myself and the Child.  And I am unable to identify many of his possessions.  How can I organize what I can't identify?  (I'm talking about vaious assorted power chords, computer-related items, parts to game systems- enough electronic paraphenalia that I could open a Radio Shack.)  I've told him he has to participate, but it's like pulling teeth.....

I dislike going through old things.  I define "old" as anything unused during the past year or longer.  Unfortunately, I'm finding some things that I've never even looked at since we moved here 8 years ago.  Old things depress me; therefore, I have a hard time dealing with them.  I remember one time when a friend of mine came over and just walked into my closet and started telling me what to get rid of.  She ever loaded the rejects into her SUV and took them to the Salvation Army.  The funny thing is, I think she herself  is a hoarder.  She couldn't help herself, but she was phenomenal at helping me.

Oprah has had hoarders on her show recently.  I used to think I was a hoarder, but now I realize I'm just a bad housekeeper.  I really don't want to keep things, and I'm not an avid shopper like most hoarders are.  And my house doesn't look as bad as the disaster zones hoarders live in.

My problem is twofold.  First, I have no help- any cleaning or straightening up is done by me alone.  Secondly, I seem to have an ususual ability to block out the mess, to narrow my focus to whatever I'm doing, totally oblivious to my surroundings.  I guess bad housekeepers have to have that ability- otherwise, they'd get their act together.

My mother used to have her own mother and my father helping her keep the house in order.  Gram was obsessive- she'd get down on her hands and knees and straighten out each tassel on the rug with a clothespin.  Oh, I'd LOVE to have her around!  My dishes would always be clean, the sofa cover would always be in place, the food would be put away, the laundry would be done, she'd prepare meals, take out the trash, vacuum, sweep, dust and provide psychological counseling and babysitting.

It doesn't seem fair.  My mother had 2 other adults helping her on a daily basis, and she did not work outside the home during most of her adult life.  I work fulltime and have no help whatsoever- no relatives within 600 miles (not that they'd necessarily help!).  Is this a sign of the times or am I just unlucky in this regard?

I really want to reach the point where I can honestly say that my house is organized.  I wonder if that's doable.  If it is, then the next hurdle will be maintenance.......well, that's another story.

tough times

  

This is the view from my living room window.  A year ago, a senior citizen's rec center would have been visible in the upper left quadrant.  I had mixed feelings about the city closing and demolishing the building; I think it made me feel less lonely Monday through Friday during business hours if I happened to be home.  I had gotten to know the people who worked and attended classes there.  But the building was unsightly and its demise improved the scenery.

The big news in bettyworld is that The Child has what presents itself as H1N1; I couldn't get him in to see the doctor because everybody who sneezes now rushes in to be checked, making slots unavailable for those who really do have swine flu. His fever has been 102.6. He has all the flu symptoms- the medical pros say that it's too early in the season for seasonal flu- it's undoubtedly H1N1.

It sucks to be a single parent at a time like this. The stress level is through the roof- I have to decide on a minute to minute basis whether or not to call 911. And sometimes my thinking lacks clarity. What bothered me most, especially during the interminable day yesterday, is that nobody even knows when I'm going through a crisis. (Most of the time, I'm mercifully unaware of this phenomenon since I'm not in crisis.)

I've been around long enough to know that if the chips were really down- if I really needed help from another human being- there would surely be somebody there to help. I don't know this from experience; I know it from logic.

Part of this is timing. If this happened many years ago, I could have called my mother, and she would have taken the next flight to come here. I was always OK when she was alive.

And maybe, if this had happened during the 2 month window between my mother's death and my father's marriage to his mistress, he would have cared, although that's dicey. And maybe if this had happened before my sister's cancer diagnosis, she would have helped, if only via phone from Boston.

But during the years since The Child came into my life, it's been at times lonely. Usually I don't think about it- I don't have time to! The friends from my previous life slipped away, understandably.

Of course, everyone has nagging issues.  I used to be the type who would lay out my problems to anyone who would bid me the time of day.  Maybe that was healthy in a way, but I came to believe that there was a better way to deal with my problems.  So I pretty much stopped talking after The Child entered my life, and it wasn't just because I wanted to.  It was because the people were no longer around.  Now, on the rare occasions when I actually get to spend time with another adult, I don't dare talk about my problems!  I can't risk being branded as one who dumps problems.  Back in the olden days, pre-child, I could get away with it.

Now I cannot.

Changes

It has been a time of change, not just from summer to fall but from elementary school to middle school for The Child and me. He left a wonderful, unusual school where students respected individuality and bullying was nearly nonexistent.

So it's obvious where I'm going with this already, I suppose. The Child has accepted The New School fairly well, but- here goes- I CAN'T STAND IT!

The New School represents everything I balk at! It represents conventional, unexamined thinking. It represents the herd mentality- everybody is the same and should therefore think/act/dress/drive/desire the same. The teachers and administrators are so uptight that I can barely stand to be in the building with them. The students are NOT allowed to speak during lunch!!! WHAT, please explain this to me, WHAT is the POINT of squelching middle school aged students to that extent?

Now normally, I would just figure out a way to accept the new situation. I have a bit more difficulty in this case because I'm the one who brought this about! The Child could have stayed at the Old School, which is a K-8. But noooooooooo. He wanted to go to The New School, even after I explained the differences and took him to see the school during teaching hours.

Bullying. Now we know what bullying is. It happens when The Child gets off his school bus! The foul-intentioned kids sitting at the back of the bus have bullied The Child and me every single time he has gotten off that bus. I automatically shut down when I'm in a situation like that, but it seems to me that they are criticizing The Child's hair. And once, when I followed the bus in my car, a nasty boy in the back gestured in a way that sickened me (largely because he attends the same school as my son).

Yesterday I couldn't take it anymore. As the bus driver pulled away, I ran after the bus to tell him about those kids in the back bullying my son. The driver listened and said he was aware of the problem, and then as I walked away, the bus sat there for a long time. Then it moved a few yards and stopped again, for an even longer time.

I fear that the kids who were obviously being reprimanded will punish The Child at school, where I won't be around to protect him.

There's more. The Child is smart- he's in the Gifted and Talented program and he has skipped a grade in math. There is a course at this God-forsaken school called "College Prep." Well, The Child's grade in College Prep is D-!!!!! He has never had a grade anywhere near that level before, so of course I questioned him about it. He said the teacher, who is intimidating, did not clearly explain what papers he wanted turned in. The Child failed to turn in all the papers he wanted even though he had all of them right there in the room, and that's why he was given a D-. Infuriated, I wrote an email to the teacher, carefully expressing my dismay that such an appalling grade was given as a result of a problem with paper shuffling! The teacher never responded to my email.

My blood boils as I write this, and I cry every time I think of the Old School. This is the price I pay for allowing The Child to make his own choices.

another birthday

Yesterday was my birthday. For some elusive reason, I decided to have a party, which in retrospect seems highly egotistical. Well, my stab at self-glorification certainly backfired.

First, some background. I was never one of the popular girls. I was no cheerleader. I was the dunce of gym class, wanted for nobody's team. Other than gym class, I was a geek, but fortunately, nobody made fun of me because I was ever aware of my goal of behaving in an innocuous fashion so as to fail to draw attention.

More accurately, I was innocuous until I discovered the wonders of alcohol. Liquored up, I could be the star of any party. That went on until I realized that I had a problem with alcohol and I stopped drinking. Rewind to innocuous.

Ever since my mother died, my birthdays have fallen by the wayside, unnoticed. My father, who has immersed himself in the family of his current wife, doesn't even mail a card or spring for a long distance phone call. Doesn't it make sense for someone in my situation to plan a birthday bash? It sure beats wallowing in misery for the 24 hours marking the date of my birth.

I spent every free moment during the past week cleaning my house for the party. I was on my hands and knees scrubbing forgotten corners with a toothbrush. I even cleaned the walls and ceiling, wondering how it is that dust can collect in such places. Seriously- where does it come from?

Then, the day before the party, I started cooking. Mind you, I'm no chef. I need a detailed map to find my way around the kitchen. I attempted to produce homemade gnocchi (delicate Italian potato dumplings). Something went terribly wrong, and the dough totally stuck to my hands, and eventually to my arms, face, hair and clothing. I stood there in my kitchen in tears, not knowing how to proceed, not wanting to even think about any plan B, never wanting to cook again for the rest of my god-forsaken life.

I looked like the Pillsbury dough boy, covered with a gooey potatoey mess (which I still haven't managed to completely remove from my hair). I was afraid to shower it off, for fear of clogging the plumbing. I went outdoors and hosed myself, to the amusement of the neighbors and passersby.

Hours later, I had finally put together a concoction defying recognition. This is why I had to start cooking the day before. I know myself well enough to be able to anticipate kitchen disasters. It turned out to be a casserole-looking thing, so I shoved it into my refrigerator intending to cook it just before the party.

Over the past couple of weeks I had spent a good deal of time analyzing this upcoming party. I had no wine glasses, so I bought a set. In case some people wanted water or soft drinks, I bought one of those colorful plastic beverage tubs to be filled with a large bag of ice from the gas station the next day. My house is small- too small for comfortable partying, so I decided to hold the party outdoors, and made arrangements to borrow extra lawn furniture. I neither cook nor eat meat, so I found a gourmet grocery where I could purchase high quality pre-made meatballs to add to the concoction.

Just in case the concoction proved to be inedible, I added tortellini to the menu- a double batch to ensure that I wouldn't run out of food. Everybody except me seems to eat bread with Italian food, so I found frozen garlic bread that looked somewhat appropriate. I had to write out an hour by hour timeline for the day of the party so that I would have a fighting chance of pulling off this party. Oh, and did I mention that I baked my own birthday cake? Not wanting anyone to feel obligated to bring a birthday gift, I didn't tell any of the guests that it was my birthday, and I made sure the cake didn't look birthday-ish.

The big day arrived, with rain. The interior of my small, ill-designed house would be the setting whether I liked it or not. The phone rang, and while I tried to untangle myself from tortellini, my favorite party guest left a phone message stating that he had been called out of town and couldn't attend. I still had some tears left even after the previous day's events, and I indulged in another crying spell.

The first guest arrived 3 minutes early, and I was not amused. My kitchen is the worst feature of my ill-designed house- it lacks space for more than one person at a time. I shooed her out of the kitchen and into the ill-designed living room, explaining that cooking required more concentration than I was in possession of.

But it was too late- things had started to fall apart, as I lost track of what had to be in the oven for how long. I managed to start a fire on the stove. I asked my early arrival to take over the kitchen before I ruined the entire production, and I just stood near the door, dazed, as people showed up.

After a few minutes I regained consciousness and took over the kitchen again. While everyone was eating, I cut the cake and started the dishes. I was too overwhelmed to think about eating myself.

Not one person took a bottle of water or a can of soft drink of the huge plastic tub with the 33 pound bag of ice in it. They all drank wine. I had told people that we'd go for a walk in the park or play Pictionary after eating; we did neither, with thunderstorms raging and Pictionary forgotten. When I finally went into the living room to attempt to converse with guests after the meal, I was too exhausted to be conscious of what I was saying, and I said things I later regretted- gossipy things having to do with work.

The guests left as soon as the lightening let up enough so that they could run to their cars, arms laden with leftovers which I begged them to take. As I entered the kitchen to resume the endless task of cleaning up, I noticed that the floor was flooded. (I noticed because I slipped and fell.) The huge plastic tub which was intended to hold ice and drinks during parties apparently had a hole in it. All 33 pounds of ice, now in liquid form, seeped into the floorboards of the ill-designed kitchen.

I'm not sure what line of thinking led me to believe that throwing myself a secret birthday party would be in any way enjoyable by me. It was a lot of work and even more stress. It consumed the day completely, not to mention the preceding days. That's what I mean when I say it backfired. Ironic, eh?

climbing mountains

I know people who do things like mountain climbing and hang gliding for adventure. I know people who have jumped out of airplanes. I know people with pilot's licenses. I know people who move overseas, having mastered 8 languages. I know people who have started businesses, thereby creating their own livelihoods. I know people who have adopted troubled children whom nobody else wanted. And when I think of these things, I feel limited. I feel as though I haven't really lived my life- I've just sat on the edge, dipping my toe in now and then, admiring all the swimmers and divers.

This morning I sat outside with my pen and notebook. I wrote about this and came to realize that I did climb mountains. One of them was named "be the first in your family to attend college." One was "make a conscious decision to become a single parent." One was "choose a career in a highly competitive field, where the financial rewards will never match the sacrifices, dedication and training required." One was named "against all odds, get yourself out of the small town and dysfunctional family you were born into." And there's one which I keep on climbing periodically: "Establish yourself as an independent, self-supporting, capable individual."

It's not important for others to know of my mountain climbing prowess. But it's critical that I know.

can't let go of blogging

I have toyed with the idea of quitting blogging. I've been at it since 2005, and lately it has seemed as though my blogging phase has run its course. For some reason, though, I am not ready to let it go.

It has been disappointing to me that some of my former readers have dropped away. Blogging has at times reminded me of high school, when I fretted over not being popular. My blog has never been popular; however, I have enjoyed a small loyal following.

One of my favorite bloggers has quit. Certainly I have been influenced by her decision- for one thing, it's depressing to have her not be a part of my "small loyal following."

Another favorite blogger of mine quit a couple of years ago. I never fully recovered from losing her virtual friendship. It's amazing how attached I have become to my blogging community. Like neighbors, you can't bank on them being there forever.

Which reminds me- my next door neighbor died last week. He was more of a father to me than my bio dad. He cared about me, he worried about me, he cut my bushes, he loaned me tools, he fixed my bike, he gave me tomatoes, he tried to be a father figure to The Child, he went to court after The Child's father pushed him in my driveway (making it easier for me to prevail in the custody battle), he took care of the fallen tree in my front yard, he rushed my dying dog to the animal hospital.

How do you sat goodbye? I remember the day 2 weeks ago when he stood in his driveway, holding onto his garbage container because the bone cancer had made him so weak, while we talked. I remember saying goodbye to him that day, not knowing it would be the last time.

Every time my doorbell rings, I think it's him. He was always checking on me.