Tag Archives: children

Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch…

Hey look, I’m a whole 2 weeks earlier than I was last time…only 2.5 months between posts.

I am still rocking the wheelchair. We got the lift adjusted so that Beloved can stow and un-stow it for me. I’ve been food shopping with him at the Co-op for the first time in months. And I’m actually doing more of the food shopping because I go across the street (and down the block) to Murphy’s to pick up what we need. They carry about 40-45% organic items, so it’s easy to do our shopping. They also have an “international” section with British food–and I get us British candies. They are generally all natural (nearly organic), using fruits and vegetables to give color and / or flavor. They are not as sweet as American candy, which he and I both like.

I am STILL waiting for the wheelchair ramp…6 months later. I see my doctor in another month and I’ll let her know it’s not shown up yet. I go for a “Functional Capacity Evaluation” in a couple of weeks; it’s a 6 HOUR testing session, without breaks. I’m figuring I’ll break…maybe an hour or two into it. I’ll do my best, but I AM disabled, no matter what anyone else thinks. And I am already anxious about the fact that the exertion WILL cause a fibro flare–but it is worth the price if I can get an unbiased, professional opinion/evaluation report to give to SSA and the LTD insurance company. I am NOT making this shit up–believe me, I wish it wasn’t true, but it is and I get very worn out, trying to prove it to people who just want to stop (or never start) paying me a disability check.

I have started pool therapy–which mostly involves going into the water (heaven!) and moving around without gravity pushing on me. The staff uses an electric lift to put me into and out of the pool, which means I don’t have to walk the length of the pool (40 ft or so) to get in OR out–which is what stopped me from going the last time I tried this.

I saw the neurosurgeon and he suggested it. Of course the first thing he said to me was, “I’ve looked at your MRI. It’s not good.” DUH! So I got to see my innards…I have bone spurs all up and down my spine. (And probably anywhere else there is bone, from degenerative osteoarthritis and spondylosis.) I am basically missing 2 discs in my neck (that used to be next to each other) as well as having a slipped disc in the lumbar section of the spine. No surgery, because if the surgeon were to fuse the missing area, it would be bolted to the vertebrae above and below–and put more stress on them. They also have the arthritis. So instead of helping, it could very well end up hurting me even more than just leaving it alone. Leaving it alone is what I’m gonna do!

I have a new psychiatrist as my “old” one retired. The new doctor took me off of 4 anti-depression meds (that I had been on, ostensibly for mood augmentation and stress/anxiety) and left me on just one. (Wellbutrin, 300 mg each day.) I still don’t have anything for panic attacks and apparently, that’s just fine. For everyone else. I get anxious about having a panic attack… So my latest medication regimen goes like this: Pain, Morphine, 5mg; Fibromyalgia, Duloxetine, 60 mg; Vitamins D and B12 all in the morning. Bedtime has another 60 mg Duloxetine, the Wellbutrin, GERD med, my omeprazole, 20 mg and for sleep, Trazadone, 100 mg. It all seems to be working pretty well and getting rid of unnecessary anti-depressives means I’m able to concentrate better, not as foggy in the brain, and not falling as often. (I fell TWICE within 5 minutes of each other about a month ago. It was not fun.)

I am also the poster child for using the safety glove that comes with a food mandolin. I didn’t, and was trying to cut jicama. Being a root vegetable, it was hard, hard and then flash! through the blade. I cut my right hand, at the base of the thumb (where thumb and palm hang out together) — cut it about an inch long and deep enough that I won a trip to the ER to get stitches. 5 of them pulled the wound back together…and I removed the stitches myself 2 weeks later. Sigh. I WILL be wearing the “almost uncut-able” glove when I slice veggies from now on. Or my husband will beat me. Wait…that could be a good thing…nah, it wouldn’t be *that* kind of beating, HAHAHAHA!

I’ve done 2 more courses on Coursera.com–Introduction to Psychology and oh boy, was it really different from the first time I took it, 30 years ago. They’re into something called “evolutionary psychology” now, and we actually spent time discussing the physical make-up of the brain and HOW feelings/thoughts are transmitted. It’s all chemicals and cells that receive the chemicals and turn them into electrical impulses. I also did “De-Mystifying Mindfulness”, which was totally awesome. I am just starting 2 more classes: “Magic in the Middle Ages” and “Healing Through Art”. I enjoy learning, especially about subjects that already interest me (like Psych) and the cost (free!) is just right for me.

I am continuing to do most of my writing on Medium.com–which isn’t saying much. Most of what I “publish” is responses to other authors’ posts. I’m sitting here trying to think of what I have been doing and other than putting together 630 piece puzzles on a regular basis…not much of anything. I am working on crocheted blankets for the grands…I like to give blankets to the kids on their BIRTH day and I’m 3 kids behind. In fact, the grandson turns 6 and hasn’t gotten his yet. Part of what takes time to make them is the size I make–about 6’x8′ — large enough to go to college and fit on a dorm bed. Eventually. (Or as a great afghan on their new sofa when they move into their own place. It’s a forever blanket!)

The weather has finally stopped raining and raining and raining…we’re actually seeing the big yellow ball in the blue room. And we’re also able to open up the house, with temperatures in the low to mid 70’s. It still gets chilly when the sun goes down; I turn up the heat in the morning to take the chill off the house until we can open the back door and let the sunshine in.

Beloved has been running his RPG on Friday nights for over 13 months–and was apparently not getting enough gaming. He’s now also running a Star Wars RPG on Tuesdays–and I’m playing in it. So far, so good. The rest of the players are pretty much okay, although we have one who argues with everything the Game Master says. Bad idea. The Game Master is God in this game universe and bad things might happen to someone who is an ass. As he said, “(This player) likes to split the group up–and bad things can happen when you wander off on your own.” <snicker> But at least this player’s energy is not toxic, as was the one player in the game we were in a couple of years ago–that I had to leave because I just couldn’t withstand an entire evening of being around them. Harmful energy–lots of anger in them and that came out during the game. I don’t have the strength or the desire to put up with that crap.

So the story for this game goes like this: The captain (played deftly by the GM as a “non-character player” (NCP)) has a freighter and has hired the rest of us to be the crew. I am the ship’s doctor who just “happens” to also be pretty good with a computer–which means I am also the one who can break into or out of security systems, find information and locate likely sources of whatever we’re looking for in any computer that just happens to be around. (Okay, so I’m a hacker and a quack(er). HAHA) Here’s the photo of what I look like (in game):

My name is Q’ez’ru and I am of the species called “Chiss”. We have the distinction of being the only real ally of the Empire–but not me. I’ve been exiled from Csilla (home planet) and will end up fighting with/for the Republic. It may be hard to see, but my eyes are red–all of the eye–the skin is obviously blue and it gets darker the more oxygen is in the air.

We’ve had our first bit of adventure this week: going to a planet to deliver something the captain had on board when we signed on…and finding out that there’s a person here with a bounty on his head. Did I mention that we like money and turning in someone for money is a great way to make it! We’ve had some fighting–and my pistol was set to “stun” because I’m not a soldier, dammit, I’m a doctor. But I was very happy to drug the bad guys into telling us all we needed to know and then put them to sleep for about 2-3 days and hid them in a convenient dumpster.

We’ll pick where we left off on next Tuesday–on another planet, looking for our bounty prize. So far we’ve managed to waltz in–we had the password for the planet security system (funny that…it was just there, on a data pad we found on a dying droid) and we’re going to bluff our way in–and out with the mark, if we’re lucky. I don’t count on that! I am enjoying this–and a lot of that has to do with the way my Dearest runs a game. He’s OCD about stuff, and gaming is one area that it really shows up. He made each of us a name sign, in a plastic frame, that sits in front of us with our real name on top and our game name across the bottom, with our picture in between. He’s got tokens to represent us, the bad guys and blood spatter tokens to represent the dead. The system for the game is a new one–it’s still got the ubiquitous dice, as any D&D/Pathfinder game would, but no dots to count. There are symbols–some are Jedi, some are Sith. The same symbol but opposite sides cancel each other out. There is success, advantage, and triumph — or failure, disadvantage and trouble. I’ve been rolling pretty well for my medical actions as well as the computer ones. Not having to remember how many dice of what size (4 numbers, 6 numbers, 20 numbers) and having to count the dots makes it a game that I can participate in without the anxiety of keeping up with everyone else and their counting the dots.

It also lets me get out of the house and be social (in a regimented sort of way) AND spend time with Beloved, doing something he loves (and I like pretty well). Of course it’s me and 5 guys … and most of them are just as socially apt as you’d expect a gamer to be…which is not much at all. But it sure beats staying home and putting together yet one more puzzle!

I’ve got some projects I want to do–including those kid blankets. I need to purge my closet and get rid of whatever I am not wearing regularly. I’ve been moving things around in the kitchen so that the foods–and the dishes/glasses I use–are more accessible to me. I got a shelf system that goes over the top of a door, and have loaded it with food that I got out of the cabinet, which leaves me more room to rearrange what’s left in there better. I have moved my spices–I once had a rolling cabinet that had 7 drawers and I put my spices into that. I had forgotten (but have since remembered, obviously) that I really like to have the spices laying down in a drawer–you can see what you want to use without having to paw through other bottles. So I now have all my spices in 2 drawers, easily accessible, in the dark (the best place to store spices/herbs), and neatly organized. Yay me!

Went on a date with the hubby last weekend, to the Minor Theatre for a movie and late lunch. It was an experience! The Minor is the oldest movie house in the entire US for feature-length films. It was built in 1914 to be a movie house and has not been anything else, ever. We saw “Wonder Woman”–I recommend it! We’ll do that again sometime since we enjoyed it so much. There’s nothing else of great importance coming along, except for that evaluation. So life goes on, as it just happens to do…I’m still breathing and that’s enough for me. Talk to you all again … maybe in only 2 months!

Namaste!

Family Does Not Mean Common DNA

We talk to each other on the phone
Nothing much of nothing

So many topics not to be discussed

Stepping around the land mines of opposing views

The things we say don’t matter, have no connection

The only thing we have in common is the past

Mother, father and child

Years later and light-years apart

Idle chit chat of dinners out and what the lawn man said about the hedges

Have you heard from your children

And I pass along the news of the next generations

As we talk, I find myself wondering

Why do I even bother to talk to them

I owe them nothing, I have no debt to the past

I have fulfilled my childhood obligations

An obedient child, bowing to their authority

Learning how to lie and be sneaky to get past

The eyes of parents who don’t like small children

We have less to say to each other than

The conversations we have with strangers

I am not that child; I have changed more than they can imagine

They have changed into sad people, waiting to die

I feel sorry for them

Mother is a complainer, nothing makes her happier than to

Grouse and mutter about her health, the clerk who was rude

My father’s staying up all night on the computer

My father is trapped in the house with her and

He hates confrontations so he hides in the Internet

He’s not as vocal about her shortcomings to me

As she is when she speaks about his; even as she laughs

You can tell it makes her angry

Two strangers living in the same house

Even after more than 50 years of marriage

To be honest, I don’t really know these two people

That I call my parents

Our lives diverged when I left home at 18

Thirty-six years later and we’re all of us new people

I have come to a deeper understanding of myself

And I know that the “me of me” is not someone they’d want to know

I think maybe they suspect that as well

So we maintain the façade of familial ties and emotional connections

Where there is none, not any more

And we talk on the phone, speaking nothing much about nothing

Our only link is the past; and our relationship has no future

~~KGChmielewski 2016


Family: fam-i-ly; fam-uh-lee, noun

~~a group consisting of parents and children living in a household.

~~all the descendants of a common ancestor

“We are family”; family honor; family dinner; holidays with the family; family time; family rules; family movies.

We have a fairly common idea of what a family is–you know, Mom and Dad, the 2.48 children, house. white picket fence and a cute dog or cat. We buy into this concept of family as the only form that “family” can take. We recognize all the labels of family: mother, father, sister, brother, aunt, uncle, cousin, niece, nephew, grand(label) and if you live long enough, “great-grand”(label). We compare strong relationships to those not related to us with some version of those labels–my “brother from another mother”, “the daughter I never had”, “like a grandmother to me” and so on.

I think that’s backwards. Based on my own (dysfunctional) family, I strongly believe that “family” is NOT “all the descendants of a common ancestor”–or a commonality of genetic information. Just because we share the same genes does not mean I HAVE to love you–or even like you, and they are different things. In theory, families are the ones to whom you can turn to, no matter what, and they will respond in love. In reality, we all know that it doesn’t always turn out that way. And just because we have common DNA doesn’t mean that I have to stop my life to get you out of some mess or lend you money without expecting it to be repaid. You can swap the personal nouns in that one and it would still be true: you don’t have to stop your life and etc.

The concept of family, especially the Norman Rockwell version of American Family, is such an ingrained part of our society’s structure, that we don’t even question it. Most of the time. I have had to question it for several different reasons. Let’s do this chronologically: my parents do not actually like children and probably shouldn’t have reproduced. But that was a part of their generational expectations (marry, have kids, in that order) so it never occurred to them to not have children. And I am grateful to be here (as is my brother, I assume). So I was brought up by an overwhelmingly authoritarian mother. Example: when I was still a baby, when we went to someone else’s house, my mother would spread a small blanket (say, 2 feet square) and place me and my toys on it. I was not allowed to go off of that blanket. People were impressed by my ability to not get under their feet or demand things from Mother, just sit there and play quietly. (The thought of doing this to my children still gives me the willies.)

As I grew older, there was still the hard-line rules and the unspoken but definitely understood requirement of complete and immediate obedience. I got spanked if I didn’t do what I was supposed to–or if I did something that I wasn’t supposed to. My mother usually punished me–she used a wooden spoon as her method for spanking. One time though, I did something real bad (and in hindsight, it was something very foolish–but childish) and my father spanked me. With a leather belt. I was 7 or 8 years old at the time.

We lived overseas for several years and at one point, there was no English-speaking school. So my mother home schooled me. Three or four hours in the morning, then we’d have lunch, then she let me go outside. I wandered all over the local area, for hours at a time. I was allowed to go to the beach by myself but with very strict instructions of NEVER entering the water. I was smart enough then to know that if I did go in, I’d have to dry off before going home. (The only time I ever broke that rule wasn’t even for swimming–I was offered a chance to water ski. Complete strangers (but a woman, if that makes a difference) and she asked if I’d like to try–they were using a sort of beginner’s skis–one wide ski with two foot holders. I got on in the surf, rode out and around and landed back up on the beach. Not a single drop of water on me!)

Let me reiterate that for you: I was out of the house, beyond my mother’s vocal range, doing whatever with no supervision. I went to the beach and built sand castles; I played in a little group of evergreens that made “rooms” between their trunks. I walked around the other houses and made friends with an old lady who spoke no English and I spoke very little Thai…but I’d go inside her house, she’d give me cookies and a drink and we’d watch some Thai kick-boxing together. Then I’d go home. I don’t know if I ever told my parents about her. I learned from a very early age to be sneaky (and to lie).

Fast forward 20 years and I have my own children. The thought of them being somewhere that I didn’t know where they were, and doing the same sort of things that I did at there age…made me have nightmares, so to speak.

So under my parents’ regime, I was outwardly obedient and inwardly rebellious. I came home drunk once–a cast party for the spring musical, I tried every single drink that came around and my friends had to carry me into the house. I was grounded for 6 weeks and missed the Junior-Senior Prom because it was during that time. A little bit after my sentence was over, I mentioned not being able to go and my mother looked all shocked and told me that I could have gone to that! No, I couldn’t because you didn’t tell me that PRIOR to the dance.

I think you get the idea. I usually sum it up as “I never had a childhood”. I lied to do the things I wanted to, especially during those rebellious teen years. I freaked out other adults when at the ages of 7 or 8, I would sit in the room with the adults and occasionally added something to the conversation–pertinent and not the sort of thing you’d expect from a child. Things didn’t improve when my brother was born–7.5 years between us and I became his 3rd parent. Poor guy.

At 18, I joined the Air Force and left home. The first 6 months of freedom were spent on the stupidity that comes with freedom from the jailers. I drank, I had sex, I got pregnant. That “sobered” me up pretty fast. (Side note: I told my parents about being pregnant; I’m pretty sure they think that I lost my virginity to my child’s father. Sorry, folks. Did that 2 years prior with my boyfriend.)

I gave my child up for adoption and went on with my AF work. I married a co-worker and when my term of enlistment was up, got out of the AF so that we could start our family. My son was born in ’86, my daughter in ’88. We moved as the AF sent him and then at 11 years’ of service, he chose to get out of the military and return to civilian life. We ended up living in the same city as the rest of his family…but our marriage is best left for another time. Let’s just say it ended long before I gave up and divorced him.

My mother had the unmitigated gall to tell me that perhaps (he) would accept God’s love into his heart and “take me back”. I told her in no uncertain terms that I was never going back, that he hadn’t pushed me out, I had left him. (And when I did leave, I lost the family (of in-laws) that I had belonged to for almost 18 years.)

Leaving home and having my own life did not stop my mother from trying to tell me what to do. It took her about 25 years before she realized that my brother and I would listen to her telling us what we needed to do and we’d just go “uh huh” and then do what we wanted. She was not happy about that. And the biggest reason for that unhappiness is that, as I have come to realize, she is a narcissist. One of the main characteristics is strongly identifying (yourself) by the job or title you hold. In other words, you are your job. My mother wants to be a mother, NEEDS to be a mother, in order to have any sense of identity.

I haven’t spoken to my brother in almost 6 years–not because we are fighting, but because our lives are so different, there is no common meeting ground. All of my grandparents are dead, my favorite uncle, too. The only living relatives (all cousins) I have beyond immediate family are completely unknown to me, scattered who knows where–and there’s very few of them. I am, in a very real sense, an orphan.

However. For a long time, I had a group of friends that were closer to me than my own DNA-related family. Then circumstances changed and we all moved on. I met and married my Beloved, and have become part of his family. In fact, my mother-in-love told me that she did not think of me as a “daughter-in-law”, but as a DAUGHTER. His parents have been more involved in our lives than mine ever were. And I don’t mean the bad kind of involvement–I mean emotionally AND financially supportive. For various reasons, he and I chose to move across the country from them–and while they miss us, they absolutely agree that we had to do it. We talk to them almost every day. I talk to my parents maybe once a month.

They say that “home is where, if you go there, they (family) *have* to take you in”. WTF is that? A mandatory obligation to take in someone just because they happen to share DNA? Let’s put this in really simple terms: you do not have to accept anyone or anyone’s behavior “just because” you are related. If your DNA family treats you in a way that you would not tolerate from a stranger, you do not have to tolerate it from them–even if it means cutting of contact with these (poisonous, negative, judgmental) relatives.

If your DNA family is not supportive of you and your goals; if they do not give you respect; if they denigrate you or in any way make you feel bad about yourself; if they treat you as a child even after childhood; if they don’t like your chosen friends or mates and say so to you; if they don’t accept your choices; why on the gods’ green Earth would you bother to spend time or the effort of any contact with them?

Those who you spend the most time with–happy or sad time? THAT IS your family, regardless of genetic codes. The people you rely on, the ones you can trust, those who support you being you…are family. And the best part about a chosen family, instead of an accidental one is that you can have endless amounts of “relatives”–no limitations on how big (or how small) this healthier family is!

Your Mother Wears Combat Boots!

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day.  All across the nation, kids are going to burn the toast and undercook the scrambled eggs, both of which Mom will eat with a smile.  Dads will take the family out and the restaurant business will boom so that Mom doesn’t have to cook at least one meal this year.  The florists and Hallmark will also rake in big money.  By the way, this is the phone companies’ biggest day.

As a country, we still sort of have a Donna Reed/Harriet Nelson view of Mother’s Day…wonderful sentiment but does not address the fact this can be a day that causes pain for many, many women.  Motherhood can be a wonderful thing or it can be a nightmare, from both sides–mom or child.

What does Mother’s Day mean to the population of mothers who have to visit their children…incarcerated in prisons, institutionalized in psych wards or living in a state run home?  Or worse yet, have to make a trip to the cemetery because their child is no longer living?  Or have a child that was given up for adoption because they could not raise it, for whatever reason?  What does Mother’s Day mean to the population of women who either cannot conceive or carry a pregnancy to term?  Who have had a miscarriage (or more than one)?  Who gave birth to a stillborn child?  Or because of their own health issues, were never able to even try for a child of their own?  What does Mother’s Day mean to the population of women who became mothers through marriage?  They have had to learn how to combine the honeymoon period of a new husband with instant children that they did not give birth to but must mother (nurture and care) for?  And who resent her and remind her frequently that she is not their “real” mother and cannot replace her?

So this is a Mother’s Day blog for all women, trying to acknowledge all of the facets of this most feminine of roles.  If you’re not a mother, you had one.  She may have been Donna Reed or she may have been the bitch from hell, but you had a mom.  She has a lot of names: Mom, Mother, Mommy, Mama, Ma…and lots of other interesting names that are as individual as the person to whom they refer.  Erma Bombeck had a wonderful description of mothers that included such tidbits as “she was the only person in the house who knew how to replace the toilet paper on the spindle” and “she lived on coffee and leftovers”.  What else is particular to moms?

How about the fact that it is assumed she will handle all of the nasty parts of the little people?  She deals with vomit, blood, snot, urine and feces on an appallingly regular basis.  She cleans up spit out and spattered deposits of refused food…that strained spinach, the butternut squash.  She also deals with the anticipated results of attempting to blow a raspberry with a mouthful of pureed beets.  She gets used to wearing shirts that had permanent “spit up” stains on the shoulders.  She learns how to remove a dry pea from a child’s ear using common household implements and to overcome the normal childhood fears of being flushed down the toilet or going down the drain with the bath water.

Another Mom trait is the ability to see from the eyes in the back of her head…and arms that stretch to pop a smart mouthed kid where it counts–from across the room.  Moms know if you’re lying, the fact that you sneaked in late and that your best friend is actually a thug…a thing that you will agree with in about a month.  Moms stay up late with the crying babes which gives them the experience they need to sit up and watch for your return by curfew when you’re a teenager.  Moms get by with just a couple of hours of sleep for like years…and you wonder why they are crazy.  Sleep deprivation is a bad thing…

Moms yell the loudest at the basketball games, cheer the most when you make the winning touchdown and never say a word when you’ve lost other than “You played a good game”.  Moms let you get that pet turtle and then help you bury it because you forgot to feed it.  And then let you get another turtle.  (Which she secretly feeds so that she doesn’t have to dig another hole in her flower beds because Raphael just didn’t make it.  But this time you’re feeding it too…so it dies, the fattest turtle ever seen, of undiagnosed turtle diabetes and heart attack…sigh)

And I know at this point, some of you are going, “Yeah right.  MY mom wasn’t like that at all.”  I know.  There are moms who yell at the kids more than at those basketball games.  Who are self-medicating their own pains with alcohol or drugs which obviously interferes with their ability to nurture.  There are mothers who really don’t want to be moms…and if they are forced to keep the baby, take out their frustration on the child.  There are mothers who inflict pain, mental or physical, on their children for a variety of reasons, none of them good even if the reason is perhaps understandable.

It may come as a shock to you, but (and I’m warning you, this is going to very shocking!)….mothers are human, too.  (Please don’t tell anyone I let the secret out.)  So if your mom was not a good mom, it’s okay to say that out loud.  And to learn from her mistakes to be a good mom to your own children, if you choose to have them.  (Even good moms drive their kids insane with their weirdness…especially from a teenagers’ point of view.)  And it’s okay to NOT call your mother on Mother’s Day if she is toxic to your well being and undermines your life with her negativity.  As my friends have heard me say often enough: Just because you share DNA with someone doesn’t give them the right to treat you worse than they treat a stranger off the street.  You are allowed to let go of those people who have common chromosomes to choose a family of your own–the people who support you and want the best for you.  If it cannot be someone who is related by biology, it can be someone who is related by love.

I am a mother with three children.  My eldest, a girl, I have seen exactly twice in her life–when she was born and 29 years later, when she came to visit me.  I also have a son, who is 4th generation military service with a wife and son–who looks just like him and acts just like him as well.  Look out, world!  My youngest, also a daughter, has a daughter of her own and already informed me, with some acidity, that the Mother’s Curse works.  (“May you have a child JUST LIKE YOU!”)  If I do nothing, absolutely nothing else of any worth in my life, I have given 3 amazing contributions to this world each of whom I hope will make a difference to those around them.  They are all intelligent, witty and achieving things in their lives.  I am insanely proud of each of them and proud to call them “friends” as well as “my kids”.  Like most other mothers, I did the best I knew how–in the case of the oldest, in choosing to give her up for adoption rather than trying to be a single mom in the military, across the country from my family and with no real support for such an undertaking.  With the other two, I raised them, as I have always said, without repeating my mother’s mistakes.  I made plenty enough of my own, new ones!

I take no credit for child #1; her adoptive parents gave her many opportunities I could never have.  She is a skilled musician (plays piano and bass (in an orchestra, not a bass guitar) and sings); she is currently a rather senior marketing and events coordination person for the MS society in CA.  She is getting married to the love of her life this month and I am so happy for her.  I have dealt for years with the consequences of voluntarily letting go of a child but I consider it to have been the absolutely right choice and still is through today.

My other two were wonderful additions to my life.  I was fortunate enough to be able to stay at home with them until the younger was about 10.  I got to see the “firsts”–first step, first words, first day of school.  We had a lot of good times, doing nothing of great importance.  Playing video games together.  Making popcorn and watch Warner Brothers cartoons for hours.  I got introduce them to all sorts of things: new foods, new ideas, new ways of thinking about something.  I taught them that the most important question is “why” and worth looking for the answer.  I encouraged them to be who they were, without apology or excuse.  I gave advice and (I’d like to think) even knew when to be silent and let them learn it themselves.  I truly enjoyed every phase of their growing up and it has all passed so quickly that I’m not sure where the years went–and then I look into the eyes of my grandchildren and see myself peeking out.  I have loved and still love being a mother, being their mother.  (Although I am glad that the intensive “hands on” portion is done.)

So on this Mother’s Day, I’d like to honor all mothers, stepmothers, “real” mothers and those who gave up their chance for mothering to someone else; the women who want to be mothers but can’t, and yes, to the dads who are moms too.  To the moms who stay at home and those who do all the work at home while holding down a 9 to 5 “out of the house” job (or two).  To the moms who try each day to gently lead their children from being unsociable wild animals into people who eat with forks, say “please” and help old ladies across the street.  To the moms who stand back, chewing on their knuckles and let their children learn some new (dangerous!) thing like riding a bike without interfering.  To the moms who mother without smothering.  To the moms who let their kids mess up the kitchen, the basement or the house with their first attempts at cooking, blanket forts and sleepovers.  To the moms who let their kids get away with stuff without ever letting on that she knew.  To the moms who kissed all the boo-boos, made peanut butter and jelly sammiches “just right!” and made the house a home.  To the moms who wore skirts and high heels to work and the ones who wore jeans and sneakers.  To all the other moms who also encouraged her kids to ask “why”? but didn’t pretend that she had all the answers.  (That’s why there is Google.)

And  on this Mother’s Day, I want to especially honor the moms who wear camouflage and combat boots, work half a world away from home and are serving our country rather than being at home with their children.  Theirs is a special commitment to patriotism that supersedes motherhood–or in a way, ensures that our country will continue to be a place to have and raise children.  They give up something that cannot ever be replaced and I hope that their children will understand the reason and honor their mom for that choice.

A salute, a toast to moms, all moms everywhere.

Oh and a quick history lesson of the title I chose:

“Your mother wears combat (army) boots!”

A Dictionary of Catch Phrases (1986) by Eric Partridge has an entry for the expression, which says that “your mother wears army boots” was first used in the US during World War Two and was originally “very derisive, then jocularly derisive.” No speculation on the origin of the term is given, but the article quotes from a source which gives the following as variants: “your mother drives a tank,” “your mother eats K rations,” “your mother works in a dime store,” and “ah, yer mother wears cotton drawers.”

Generally used as a schoolyard taunt, like the phrase “go jump in a lake” or “go soak your head” and what we used to say to insult someone else before the phrase “fuck you” was invented. (Not really.  The word “fuck” has been around longer than “your mother wears combat boots”. LOL)  My kids rapidly figured out it couldn’t be that dreadful a thing since their mother did, indeed, wear combat boots.

Namaste!