June 6 ... of comfort and mothers...

What a miserable, cold and rainy day we had today. It was beautiful. I have spent a total of two hours out of my pajamas. I watched a bunch of SYTYCD (the dance thing) back to back, interspersed with the movie Crouching Tiger, Something or other Dragon - which by the way is a beautiful movie, even if you're not into that sort of thing - and finally watched some golf. We took a two hour break to visit the folks, they tempted us with home made rhubarb pie! Who could resist?

For dinner Honey and I foraged in the fridge. Once in a while, and tonight was one of those nights, we don't have a "formal" dinner, no three food groups, no organized process, more like left overs, or something we each make for ourselves. My treat tonight was "noodles and eggs".

Do you remember any foodie things your mom used to cook you when you were a kid? My mom used to make us noodles and eggs, and I pretty much stay true to form except I take mine up a notch by using yummy Udon noodles, hot sesame seed oil, and curry spices. She used to make us sweet rice - white Dainty rice, cooked in milk, and served with either sugar and cinnamon sprinkled on top, or with fruit cocktail. Makes me gag to think about it now - but I used to LOVE that! Or cream of wheat the same way. She used to make us "spaetzle" - German home made noodles, and then fry that in brown butter, with bread crumbs. What's the nutritional value of that?  But I would eat it so happily - until I felt ill and ready to bust! Sundays at the cottage, she would always make us her French toast - that was always such a treat for us. She made pfannenkuchen - thick crepe like things - which we had with a host of different fillings - creamed spinach, or potato salad, or cut fruit into the batter and then sprinkle that with sugar, bizarre, but all in their own right yummy believe it or not. And I realized while making my noodles tonight, thinking about this, how nice was it to have come upon a good memory of my mom.

May 24 .... Parallels.. Redux

I live in a bubble. I have long lived in a bubble. Living in a bubble let's me believe things that otherwise aren't necessarily quite true. Ya, whatever.. While my mom was alive, I had the great gift of being able to convince myself from time to time that she had managed to get her drinking under control. I would call her, a couple of times a week, at whatever random time - not as a test but as a function of whatever my schedule was like. If I "caught" her sober a number of times in a row, my balloon of hope would grow. Once my balloon of hope grows, I'm pretty much a goner. I dream of dinners, outings, family time, cooking together, Christmas time, what the hell ever. I once almost bought my mother tickets for Aida. When I told her of my intention she asked me if I had lost my mind (me forgetting she was agoraphobic along with everything else). My mother owned her "disease" with no shame at all.

When my mom was 62 or so, she lost her factory job and had to go on welfare. From 62 to 65, until her pension kicked in, she was relatively sober. Dirt poor, but sober. I took care of her then. She wouldn't take my money outright, so she was my "housekeeper". And when that wasn't enough - because welfare just isn't enough for anyone, I would take her grocery shopping and whatever. Those were my favourite years I'm sorry to say. My mother's poverty was the one key to her sobriety. When her pension kicked in at 65 I lost her, good and hard. She died two years later.

I have thought a lot about my mother this past weekend. I remember those times, my balloon full, including her in some family shindig. The anxiety surely too much for her, me oblivious. Like when we went to my sister's. Me thinking what an awesome outing this will be, what a spectacular family get together this will be (yes, I really thought that) - and it was awful, horrible, scary as hell - all to me - something I wouldn't wish on anyone. I had been fooled. I had hoped. It begins lovely enough - we're all in the car chatting merrily. Can we stop for lunch? Sure - a beer please. My anxiety begins... by the time it's evening my anxiety is cranked up to high, the sobriety has disappeared like the morning dew. I'm scared. It's how it is. Again, and again.

So what's my lesson? Appreciate the growth that is there? To be sure. Stop hoping? I don't think I can. Focus my energy on what is in fact working? Yes. Keep loving? Of course, it's not an option. I hate addiction.

I can't let it go at that. Because some amazing stuff comes from all this. Not before seen pride in a job well done. The beauty of the connection when it's real and authentic. I'm very grateful for that, I am. Cooking with Grandson Number One, playing with him, watching his eyes sparkle as he rides a plane, holds on to Honey's hand, tells us a story. A note at the end saying we can do better together. The pride in taking care, in standing tall, in doing better. It's all there. Whatever it is we are longing for, it's really all there.

May 9th... The Mother in me.

I remember for the very longest time, always finding myself sad around Christmas. That Visa commercial, the animated one, with the decorated house, smoke rising from the chimney, the dog and cat happy around the hearth, big family, lots of love and turkey - always seemed to point out everything that was missing in my life. It would prevent me often, from feeling grateful for what I did have: a solid, good relationship with Honey, my kids may not all or any have been around, but they were reasonably OK somewhere, my dad always participated, our pooch was with me, food was good and plenty - there was an awful lot to feel grateful for. And yet I managed for many a Christmas to miss that and feel sad anyway. I'm not going to be to hard on myself, because our consumerist society, that pummels you to no end about family and Christmas spirit, does a number on the best of us.

And truth be told, Mother's Day is not much different for me. I set myself up. I get excited, especially this year, when most of my relationships with my kids seem better than they have ever, ever been. I set myself up with stupid anticipation, merciless expectation. And even worse, God help me if I'm pmsing - the emotional heights I take myself to, or depths I guess, are painful and horrible. I set things up in my head: who will call, when the calls "should" come, a card, an acknowledgment, and when these things don't show up in the form I hope them too I fall from such a high precipice. I give myself a broken heart, that literally feels like a torn ligament in my chest, it's awful. Even more so because inevitably the call comes, the cheerful happy voices, the well wishes. And I crumble from the intensity of it all. It shouldn't be this way. I shouldn't be this way.

I realize I am the one that creates the space for this pain. I think I was trained by my own mother, and her alcoholism - somehow there is a link for me. The inevitable disappointment in my deep, deep wish for her sobriety. It never came. Maybe my fear (irrational as it may be) is the "reality" of the relationships I have with my kids are not what I imagine (wish, hope) them to be, and that the slightest indication of that (not getting a call when I think I should) sets me into despair. Holy cow - that's a lot of therapy for one Mother's Day.

And now both my daughters are mothers (almost!!) themselves and I have a wish that we share joy among us. I have a wish that we respect each other, hold each other in high regard, celebrate the fact that we can love each other, that we don't in fact cause each other grief, that we can count on each other, that we each know deep down we are loved. As a matter of fact, I realize now, this is not a wish, it is what already is.

I will forever be your mother. Happy Mother's Day to you.

March 27 .. I dreamed a dream....

I dreamed of my mother last night. This doesn't happen often. Even less often, the dreams in which I see or meet her sober. Actually there have only been two. The first one, I found myself in an unlit apartment. My mother came through the front door, looking beautiful actually. She turned on the light and walked right by me as though I wasn't there. I thought it what, ironic? fitting? not sure how to qualify it, that the one and first time I ever dream of my mother sober, she should not acknowledge me.

Clearly my relationship with my mother is/was somewhat loaded. This year will mark the 5th year anniversary of her death. I still wait for a dream of comfort and connection, just like I did when she was living I guess.

Last night's dream was not much of an exception with regard to the lack of comfort I'm sad to report. I saw my mother sober, with huge breasts (in all fairness there have been hormonal things going on in my waking life, and just yesterday I was speaking to a girlfriend about the state of breasts during menopause, but I digress). She was telling me (talking to me!) that she was going into nursing (!?). I was surprised and happy for her, encouraging her. At one point she pulled out one of her huge breasts and there were boils all over it. She was applying some kind of salve to the area. The psychoanalytic fodder inherent in this dream is not lost on me. I remember feeling a little left behind, a little ignored, a little not acknowledged, again. How could I compete with such an enormous breast, such painful boils. And while she spoke to me I felt had I not made my presence known, she would just as easily made like I wasn't there.

I always have a bit of a heavy heart after dreaming about my mother. The dreams where she is riotously drunk seem to affect me less, I guess I sort of expect those. But believe it or not there is something that I am grateful for in all this. I am grateful I have access to these feelings that come up. I strongly believe that ignoring them or pretending them away, would cost me a lot more in the long run. I have developed a strength I like to think, in that I can carry these feelings. They are no doubt a part of me. My story is my story and there is no denying it, no making it go away, no making it prettier.

I am grateful for my strength.

March 12.... lessons

This has been a tough week. I'm glad it's Friday. I'm glad I'm home with Honey, we're having a quiet little dinner, glass of wine, Johnny Cash, it's all good.

This week I learned that I am grateful my mother .. was it my mother???? taught me to stand up for myself, to use my voice, to say hey, what I'm feeling is important. And while doing that - standing up and all - may cause a hornet's nest worth of poo to stir up, and feels awfully uncomfortable, it's gotta be done people, it's gotta be done. I met a woman this week who never learned that, and it's sad, sad in the saddest of senses. What's sad is that woman reminds me I'm grateful for my voice, in the same way thinking of my mother reminds me I'm grateful for my voice - it's the lack of their own that shows me the power of mine. I feel like there may be something not right in that... but I'm grateful for my voice none the less.

And after this long, stressful and weary making week ... I'm grateful for my home, my Honey, my life, my strength, my ability to make choices and understand things; I'm grateful for change, for friends, for the love in my life - cause really, I realize, it sustains me.

Happy Friday.

February 7 ... Dialogues between daughters and mothers.....

Before I begin... what a great day! Beautiful blue skies, wonderful walk on the mountain again! An intense swim at the gym, a delicious soak in the tub... and soon a lovely pasta dinner. As if that wasn't enough to be grateful for ....

I know I have already mentioned the fact that my middle child wants to write a book with me. At the moment the working title is: How we got here: Dialogues between a mother and daughter. As part of this project we are mailing "letters" to each other, letters from our perspectives "then" and "now". My daughter worries she will offend me, hurt me .. when I want her to know .. nothing could be more freeing, more inspiring, than how we are sharing our real stories. If this idea ends up only flowering between her and I, it will be a gift beyond all gifts.

My daughter, determined to follow in my foot steps, has travelled a hard road. I have prayed and hoped and waited .. and voila, here she is. And voila, here I am ready to be with her. What a joy. What a wonderful gift. What gratitude!

Going forward, we will probably be sharing some of this writing so stay tuned.

I'm grateful for the journey we have had. We are both strong women now. We understand each other. We can openly love each other, disagree, agree, play, question, revisit our past to help each other heal! Much to be grateful for.