jennethink

ME AND YOU AND A DOG NAME BLUE AND PRETTY MUCH EVERY ONE ELSE TOO

Last Thursday I went for a run. I had to. It was such a beautiful day here - 80 degrees and sunny with a breeze. I mean, that's great weather at ANY time but right smack at the end of winter and just a mere 4 days after a big SNOWSTORM and man, that made for a good day.

There is a trail near our house - The Trolley Trail - and I love running on it. It cuts through a nice green grassy swath of land and winds pleasantly past cottage homes and quiet streets. Even though I love the trail, as I left the house I was somewhat reluctant to use it because I assumed there would be quite a few more people on it than usual. But since the trail is so perfect and it was the perfect day, I headed down there anyway and began my run.

And immediately began laughing. EVERYONE was on that trail. Every. One. Anyone who has ever gone for a run, thought about going for a run or knows how to spell the word run was out. And not just runners ... there were walkers power walking and couples casually strolling and moms pushing double strollers and dads carrying kids on their shoulders and kids walking dogs. There were people on mountain bikes and families on cruisers and little kids peddling big wheels. With every person I passed and every one that passed me I got more and more tickled. I could hardly wait to see who was coming up next and half expected to see a guy in a bowler hat sitting way up high on one of those bikes from the 1900s with the giant front wheel and tiny back wheel or a couple of kids pushing a hoop with a stick. It was just the most delightful day. And there I was running and giggling in the midst of it.

When I went through chemo life was difficult - not impossible, but difficult. I would go into treatments feeling pretty good and in a matter of a few hours feel as though I couldn't move without help - and often, I couldn't. When I would leave chemo, I would lean on The Hub and shuffle along slowly, sometimes groaning. There is a bench just outside the automatic sliding glass doors at the Cancer Center and The Hub would lower me gently down to the bench while he'd race off to get the car and bring it around so I wouldn't have to make the trek to the parking garage ... the same trek I bounded through on the way in just a few hours before. Sometimes we would leave chemo and go get a bite to eat ... we could pretty much guarantee that it would be the last meal I would eat for days so we'd make it high calorie goodness like corn chowder and gooey ham and cheese sandwiches and bowls of ice cream with fudge sauce and a brownie on the side. As the months went on and the cumulative effects of chemo caught up with me, those lunches became obsolete but in the beginning they were a bright spot in what was a downright bleak time. By the time we'd get home the steroids that I got with each treatment would kick in and I would want to start a puzzle. Early in treatment we discovered I couldn't concentrate well enough to work a crossword and although an avid reader in non-chemo life, I couldn't seem to make my eyes follow a trail of words on a page, so jigsaw puzzles became popular around here. We went to Target at some point and pretty much bought every puzzle they had ... boat scenes, flowers on a hillside, mountain peaks, the statue of liberty and even a puzzle of Da Vinci's Last Supper (which was fun to put together because my mom kept calling the disciples' robes their "costumes" ... as in "Is this part of Jesus' costume or is this someone else's costume?" Which made me laugh every time. The Hub finally and gently said, "Um, I don't think those are costumes as much as just what they wore." Poor Momme, she was so tired back then). As the steroids wound me up, we'd dump a new puzzle and begin working. Sam and Julie would come by in the evening and join in. The Hub would at regular intervals get up and get me a glass of water. I'd ignore it for a while until he'd threaten to tell my mom and/or my doctor I wasn't hydrating then I'd choke it down. Water tasted just like the chemo they pumped into me and it was all I could do to drink the required 6 - 8 glasses a day. As the night wore on, people would leave or go to bed. I'd sit hunched over for hours hunting for the next piece and the next. Slowly creating something beautiful. Sometimes I'd stay up until 1 or 2 in the morning working a puzzle until either it was done or I was. Eventually, I'd drag myself to bed, curl up and sleep.

By the next morning, every bit of that late night steroid-induced energy was gone. I'd wake up feeling hung over - only without the great memories of a fun night out. The side-effects would have kicked in and every bone in my body would ache. My skin felt thin and paper-fragile. My elbows felt like steel points threatening to rip open my hide and my muscles burned a low, steady pain. Suddenly any strong smell was too much. I'd get sick when my mother brewed coffee or cooked meals. Loud noises sent me to bed. Music actually hurt me. It was painful to listen to anything. My eyes would blur if I looked at the TV too long and even the stream of the shower would be too harsh. I would be so weary and tired but unable to sleep. Nothing helped ... not really. We'd try every remedy, every tip and trick but those days following chemo were endlessly painful. Other symptoms came and went. Sometimes I was sick - padding to the bathroom, or leaning out the car door to vomit. Sometimes my mouth erupted into painful sores. Sometimes I'd have bouts of fatigue so severe I couldn't finish a sentence. My breathing became labored halfway through chemo and the burn with every breath would make it difficult to get the little bits of air I needed. Occasionally pain would rocket through the bones of my arms or legs and I would buckle and cry out. My mouth tasted coppery and awful and my skin smelled burnt and dead. Every so often, my mind would go blank and I had trouble thinking simple thoughts. The bleomycin compromised my lungs and I suddenly was unable to yawn without pain severe enough to bring tears to my eyes and I would grab my chest and sob and gasp for air at the completion of each sneeze.

Like I said, life was difficult.

However, it wasn't continuous. Those awful symptoms that plagued me each treatment would only last for a few days - longer as treatment went on - but for the first ½ dozen or so treatments, those post-treatment symptoms would only last a week or so. And since my treatments were 2 weeks apart and since I didn't have to start taking nupogen shots to boost my white blood cell count (side effect: horrible bone pain) until a couple days prior to treatment, that meant I had at least 3 and maybe as many as 5 really good days before I had to submit to the poisoning again.

At least 3 really good days.

The oddest part of it was as quickly as the symptoms would come after treatment, they would seem to go a week or so later. Sometimes I would go to bed feeling the heat and pain and heaviness of those awful side effects and wake up feeling light and calm ... as if the symptoms stole away in the dark of night. They all got together hitched a ride out of town. Stow-aways. They snuck in then slipped away. I'd wake up and wow ... I'd feel like myself again. At least for the time being.

One of these renewal days, a few treatments in, I felt good enough to make lunch plans. I can remember driving downtown to pick The Hub up for lunch. I can remember having a normal conversation at lunch. I can remember seeing a few people on the way back and actually enjoying talking with them. After I dropped The Hub off at the office I started home. The day was nice and I rolled down the windows on the car so I could feel the warm air. As I drove the song "Unwritten" by Natasha Bedingfield came on the radio and I freakin' blasted it. The song sounded great. The sun looked great. My lunch tasted great. And I felt ... GREAT. I felt SO GOOD. Nothing hurt. I could think. My body wasn't rebelling against me. I might go for a walk later. I wanted to talk to people. My bones didn't hurt. I'd eaten spaghetti and meatballs for lunch. I didn't need a nap. And I LOVED THAT SONG. And it was at that moment, as I was flying down the highway feeling the wind whip over my bald head that I began weeping. Big, fat, wet tears slid down my cheeks and I did nothing to stop them. I wasn't crying because I was broken or because I hurt ... I was crying because it was all so good. Life was so very good. And I felt ...good.

That was the most dramatic example of renewal, but it happened every time. Every treatment I would have a moment - after the side effects subsided and I started to feel normal again where I would just marvel at how good it felt to feel good. More than once I would turn to The Hub or my mom or a friend and say "I can't believe you people feel like this all the time!" It was a wonder, a miracle that anyone - let alone most of us - could feel this good and this was NORMAL.

And then ... just a few days later ... the normal was gone. And I was back in the quagmire.

26 months ago, I had my last treatment and felt those horrible side effects for the last time. That means 7 - 10 days after that treatment I felt good again. But for the life of me, I can't remember that feeling of feeling good. The amazement I felt that day in the car and all the other times is only a memory for me. Just like I can't remember the bone pain, only that I had bone pain; I can't remember the feeling good. I only know this feeling that I now feel every day once made me cry with happiness.

I went for a run last week when the weather was perfect. When I went, there were so many others out with me - enjoying it, loving it, drinking it in. And it was no wonder. Weather like that is not to be taken for granted. That was Thursday.

Saturday it was just as beautiful. The sun was shining, the breeze was light and lovely, the temperature was perfect. Trees were budding and my tulips had poked through the ground. It felt like spring was here to stay. It seemed the snow and ice was a memory. At 3:30 in the afternoon, on this perfect spring day, I drove by the Trolley Trail.

It was empty.

And maybe that emptiness should have made me sad. Made me angry that people weren't taking advantage of the beautiful day. Made me upset that people were just taking the nice day for granted when just a few days before it was so special they just had to be out in it. Maybe it should have bothered me. But it didn't. Because part of life is taking it for granted. There is beauty in that. Beauty in the hope and confidence that I can let a gorgeous day slide by without notice because there will be others just as gorgeous that follow.

And as much as I wish I could remember the feeling of feeling good enough to cry ... I'm grateful that I don't. Grateful that I take it for granted.

There is more than beauty in that. There is mercy.

DEGREES OF SEPARATION

Everyone who lives in Missouri has heard that old joke "if you don't like the weather – stick around". That has never been more true than in the past few weeks. Here in the heartland we've had 40+ drops in the temp in just a matter of hours multiple times. One evening The Hub and I went for a run in shorts, long-sleeved t-shirts and mittens – but WITHOUT hats, coats, long-johns and scarves the way we had been running. It was a glorious run – the temp was bouncing around 60 degrees even after the sun was down and it felt like spring was right around the next corner. Actually what was around the next corner was a blast of cold air. It hit me like a kick in the teeth and I said out loud (okay, panted out loud) … well, here comes winter again… and by the time we got home, the temp had dropped about 15 degrees. The next morning there was snow on the ground and my eyelids nearly froze together when I went outside.

 

It's frustrating. Frustrating when you don't know how to dress or plan or prepare. I feel badly for the weather forecasters around here because I think they are just blindsided half of the time.

 

I've known people in my life who are like the weather in Missouri. Hot one moment, cold the next and going back and forth without warning. Unpredictable. Irregular. Volatile. It's frustrating. And, if I were being honest, I'd have to confess I have problems with this myself. I experience times when I'm up, happy and silly and then, just like that, I'm down. I rarely get angry but I do get upset, distressed, sad. And, sometimes, irritable. Truthfully, I don't ever want to lose those extremes because I think it add characters to my character. I don't want to be steady Eddie, mellow yellow or just "take it as it comes jenne" but I think I do need to learn how to be a tiny bit more predictable. I think it should be easier for people who love me to forecast my moods. I don't think people I care about should go for a run with me, take a corner and get kicked in the teeth by my attitude.

 

Then again, maybe that's just their problem. Geez. Lay off me already.

MIRROR MIRROR

I'm not sure when we started doing it but The Hub and I like to leave notes for each other on the mirror. We use a dry-erase marker which works exceptionally well. In fact, if you are ever hurting for "thinking space" and are just achy all over for a chalkboard or a white board but have neither, remember dry erase cleans easily off of mirrors and windows. This has come in handy for me a number of times and must be something I do often since recently The Hub was working on a logo for a client and asked The Kid to help him brainstorm. She promptly walked to my desk, picked up a dry-erase and headed to the full-length mirror on the back of the door to sketch out some concepts.

 

Man, I love that kid.

 

Anyway, we keep a dry-erase marker in the bathroom. Mostly I use it to keep track of if I've taken my vitamins and medicine that day. If I don't write it down, I forget. And I know you are thinking "why not get a pill case?" and obviously the answer to that is "because I'm not 65" (no offense, honey). So I simply write it on the mirror up in the corner when I've taken my pills. Of course, once a marker is in my hand, it is certainly hard to stop with a pill notation. So often I will shift my focus from my side of the mirror to The Hub's side and write a little message. And often, he'll do the same.

 

It's nice. Nice to wake up in the morning or come home at night at find a little note on the mirror. "xoxox" on his side or "Hot Chick" with arrows on my side or a simple "I love you!!!!!" excessive exclamation points running right off the side of the mirror. Most of these messages have been in the margins of the mirror but there are a couple that have been scrawled right across the middle. I love it that we do this. I think it says a lot about us as a couple. I love it that we find these messages. I love that we leave these messages. Each message stays up for a while but eventually, they get wiped off. Wiped off and forgotten.

 

Sort of.

 

I say sort of because the messages reappear with every hot shower taken in that bath.

 

I never noticed it on any other mirror – I guess because no other mirrors get steamed up the way a bathroom mirror does – but every time I get out of the shower I can see there in the foggy mist on the mirror the messages that have been left for me and the messages I've left behind. I giggle. Every time. Not just because of the message itself but because I like to think about the people who someday will own this house. The people who will come after us. The people who will unknowingly one day take a shower in this bathroom, peel the curtain back and be greeted with "STUD MUFFIN" and "SEXY DOWN TO YER UNDAPANTS!" on the mirror. That just rocks.

 

Not long ago I was on an airplane. I desperately wanted to sleep on the flight. I really, really needed to rest and I really, really had a long and tiring day. I brought nothing on the flight with me to do. No notebook, no puzzle, no book to flip through. All I wanted to do, the only thing I intended to do was either sleep the sleep of the dead or bob and nod the whole way home. All of this, of course, made for a perfect time for someone to sit next to me and talk to me.

 

I knew it was going to happen. I knew it as he came bumping down the aisle. Even though he gave no indication, yet, of where he was sitting, I knew he was going to be in the middle seat next to me. And even though he looked as tired and weary and beat up as I felt, I knew he was going to talk to me. Don't ask me how I knew. I just knew because I know. Because it happens all the time. Call it the universe, call it empathy, call it divine intervention all I know is something happens in my insides when I see someone that I'm going to be asked to connect with. There is a recognition. A knowledge. And I know at some point the person will reach out to me in some way and I will have the chance to say yes or no. Fast forward 30 minutes into the flight … 30 minutes into me pretending to sleep … 30 minutes into me doing everything I can think of to NOT connect with the gentleman next to me when he says quite out of the blue, "So tell me what you do for a living."

 

And I, still not wanting to acknowledge the giant tap tap tap on my shoulder, made exactly zero eye contact and said, "Oh, I'm a consultant." Thinking this was the least interesting of all of my job titles.

 

"A consultant!" he cries, "Well, tell me all about that."

 

And I looked up to the heavens, whispered you win and turned in my seat to have a conversation. And converse we did. For the rest of the 3 hour flight home. We talked about kids and spouses and parents. We talked about divorces and his marriages and high school and business. We talked about health issues and past failures. We talked and talked and talked. And, like always, I was so glad I didn't stay tucked up inside of myself. I was so glad I didn't resist the opportunity to connect. I was so glad I listened. At one point, after confessing to me that he never talks to people on planes and didn't understand why he was talking so much to me, he told me about a meeting that was coming up for him and how anxious he was about it. Maybe he thought I'd let him off the hook because our flight had begun descending but nothing doing. I dug a little deeper on this (it takes forever to land anyway) and I asked him what he was worried about. Asked him what the big deal was. Asked him, "What's the worst that can happen?"

 

He chuckled, tried to make light of it, waved it away with his hand and said, "Oh you know how people are." I said I didn't know how people were, he should tell me. And then I waited. He shook his head briefly and then changed his voice. He dropped it down into a baritone. He pulled the corners of his mouth down and grumbled out, "What a waste of time this was … was that the best you can do? What a total joke."

 

There it was. And before he could roll past it, before he could laugh it away, before he could change the subject or turn to pack up his laptop and papers I said, "Hold up … whose voice was that?"

 

Blank. Just a blank look back at me.

 

"Just now," I said, "when you said 'what a waste of time, what a joke' you were imitating someone … who? Whose voice was that?"

 

I think we descended 1000 feet just staring at each other. And he didn't break that stare as his eyes welled up and he said, "My father … that's my father's voice."

 

 

And I guess all I'm saying is this: as a leader, a spouse, a parent, a friend … be careful what you write on someone else's mirror. It will be reflected back to them for a long, long time. And other people … well, we can see it too.

TRACTION

I think a lot of life comes down to traction.

 

Think, for example, of a truck stuck in the mud or a car slipping on ice. It's not a lack of power that's keeping the vehicle from moving forward, it's a lack of traction. So it goes with life. It's not a lack of ability that keeps me from accomplishing what I set out to do or even a lack of intent, desire, fight or passion. Many times, it's a lack of traction.

 

I don't ever get the basement completely organized because in order to organize it, I have to make it messy – no traction.

It's hard to drop the lbs I put on over the holidays because it takes so long to see any improvement – no traction.

The car stays dirty because every time I go somewhere I take 2 things out but bring 3 things in – no traction.

 

I guess the trick here is to figure out how to get some traction. I don't have to be better, do it better, see it better or perform better. This is not about applying more power – it's about tossing some kitty litter under the slipping tire. Once the traction is there, the rest is easy. And so the question as I'm setting out to achieve my goal (large or small) is: What small thing do I need to do or accomplish in order for this goal to catch and grab hold? What mini-goal or accomplishment do I need to achieve in order to see progress? What small success is necessary to seed the pot for other successes? In short, what's my kitty litter?

 

The answer is, clearly, I don't know. But I'm working on finding out.

 

 

The rest of life, of course, comes down to wardrobe.

SOME PEOPLE NEVER LEARN

One of my favorite places to go in the whole ding dang state of Florida is the Sugar Mill pancake house in DeLand.  First, any pancake house would be a good place to go as far as I’m concerned but this one … this one takes the griddle cake.  There is just too much good about it.  For one, it is inside a state park.  Actually I’m not sure why that makes it good except that there just aren’t ANY other restaurants around … in fact the only other thing around is well, water.  And trees. Spanish moss.  You know, that type of thing.  Oh oh, and the water that is around is a hot springs so sometimes, in the winter when it is very, very cold in Florida (read: 70 degrees), some manatees will come up to the dock because the water is so warm. And frankly if I could figure out someway to make a deal with the manatees to keep them warm if only they would come see me at every chance, I would spend nearly all my off hours knitting giant manatee scarves.

Okay so that’s two good things – the park and the manatees.  Another is that it is all atmospherey and what not.  The restaurant looks like an old sugar mill and is made like a log cabin and has a big fireplace in one room. And they cram you into this place.  Often you are sitting at a table with another group of people so it feels very homey.

And it has the craziest gift shop you’ve ever seen shoved into one teeny tiny corner of the restaurant.  Crazy because it is the most hodgepodge grouping of items I’ve ever encountered.  Where else can you buy a clay pitcher made by disabled adults AND a stuffed possum – that unzips to become a purse?  And clogs.  See what I’m saying?   

But the best reason to love this place is … YOU MAKE YOUR OWN PANCAKES!

WHAT???!

I KNOW!!!

Once you get there and are seated (and believe me, this is a chore.  Sometimes the wait is THREE HOURS!) the waitress comes and hands you authentic tin plates and turns on your table.  Meaning she flips a switch ... not that she does a naughty dance or something.  Once she does, the middle of your table … WHICH IS A GIANT GRIDDLE … becomes hot hot hot.  Then she brings you a couple of pitchers filled with pancake batter and then, well, you can probably figure out the rest.

I’m not sure exactly, now that I’ve typed it out, why this is so delightful.  Clearly this whole “make your own pancakes” is something that can be done at home but somehow … maybe it’s the size of the griddle, maybe it’s all the delightful “add-ins” you can put in your pancakes, or maybe it’s just that you can flip a flapjack while sitting down… it’s just magical.

And I love it.

Last weekend HOLLIE and I were in Florida for our annual “It’s a technology convention at Jelly Rolls thing, you wouldn’t understand” trip.  We, of course, visited the pancake place and were in the middle of what turned out to be nothing short of a gluttonous breakfast when a man came in with his two boys.

I tend to always notice men with children.  Maybe it’s because The Hub did the father thing by himself for a few years I don’t know but I’m keenly aware of men in public with kids.  I don’t give the same attention to women with children because it seems to be more common but men … well you just don’t see guys out alone with their kids as much.  So I noticed this guy.  I noticed his long mulletous hair.  I noticed his bushy mustache,  I noticed his faded jeans and chain on his wallet and oversized Coors Light t-shirt.  He sat down. The boys – probably 5 and 9 – sat down.  Their breakfast started.  They poured out 3 large pancakes onto the hot plate to cook and about 2 minutes later, I wasn’t the only one noticing them.

The younger of the two boys spilled his water right onto the griddle.  And in an instant, the whole room filled with steam.  The usual hub-bub ensued … the waiter brought some napkins, the cup was turned upright, the steam dissipated, and I waited for what was next.

I’ve known people who have stepped in when a child was getting overly disciplined.  I watched my father take issue with a man one time.  I’ve seen people in malls and at football games get out of hand.  When that water spilled, I immediately began prepping myself for what I was sure this redneck was going to do to his son.  I didn’t know exactly what I would do but I knew I would somehow make that man feel ashamed.  Just as ashamed as I was sure he was getting ready to make his little one feel.

I used to spend the summers with my grandmother in West Virginia.  Often we would walk from her house to the little downtown to window shop.  Occasionally we would go into the small grocery and pick up a few things.  Any trip was fun because Grammy would make it fun.  We’d talk along the way.  We’d run into people.  She’d always introduce me.  I loved the way she introduced me, like I was more than her granddaughter … like I was someone.  It was neat.  Every so often she’d get caught up in a conversation and I’d wander off.  It was a small mountain town, no worries, when I got bored, I’d come back.  One time as she was chatting with some old lady inside the Five and Dime, I wandered off to see what was going on outside.  I didn’t stay gone long. There was a crazy man outside.  He was dressed in all kinds of clothes in the middle of summer.  Most of them were dirty.  He had long hair and a ratty beard.  And he was singing.  Loudly.  And sort of dancing … I guess.  Every so often he would fall completely silent and still and then in a couple of seconds, he’d be at it again.  I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew this guy was weird.  And that’s what I said when I ran back in the store and found Grammy. “There’s a really weird guy outside!” I said gleefully, “You should SEE him! He’s SO WEIRD!!!”  and nearly dragged her out onto the sidewalk.

The instant we were out and she saw him her whole demeanor changed.  She stiffened.  She grabbed my hand and we turned for home.  I wasn’t sure what happened.  Maybe she was scared of the man.  Maybe the man was dangerous.  Maybe she was trying to protect me from the dangerous weird man.  We walked home silently.  When we got to the house, Grammy started dinner and I was told to set the table.  Which is Grammy for “get lost”.  Later that night as we were washing and drying the plates my grandmother changed me with a few simple words.

“That man you saw,” I knew instantly what she was talking about, “he was in the war, child.  That man has a family.”

It wasn’t much.  It didn’t need to be.  I learned my lesson – don’t judge a book by its cover.

At least I thought I learned it.

The moment the steam dissipated in the pancake house that long-haired, boot-wearing, chain-on-his-wallet dad took over mopping up the spilled water and as he blotted the griddle in short quick pats he looked down, smiled at his little boy and said brightly, “Well, at least we know the pancakes won’t be dry!” Then he leaned over and kissed his son on top of the head.

I’m amazed at how far I have to go
to be right back where I started.

THINGS TO DO WHEN I FINALLY BUILD MY TIME MACHINE

#1 Travel back a few years and kick Walt Disney’s ass.


We went to see Enchanted this weekend.  Me, The Hub and my mom.  All adults.  We were in a theater with mostly children and parents.  We loved it.  It’s a charming and cute movie about a princess who gets banished from her kingdom to a place "where no hope exists" … real world, modern day, unanimated, New York City.  What follows are her madcap adventures in the Big Apple including trying to avoid a big poisoned apple as well as find her prince and eventually conquer the evil queen with the help of one very talented chipmunk.  It made us laugh and didn’t require too much thinking and all in all was the perfect way to sit and digest our thanksgiving meal.

Almost.

I guess no movie is perfect.  I guess there will always be something you don’t like or wish wasn’t part of the movie or think could have been left out.  This is not uncommon.  We all have our issues.  For example, if you ever ask my mom about a movie and she says anything like, "It was good," and then looks away and says, "I mean, it was okay ... I mean there was some stuff, you know, I could have done without .." You can durn well bet someone was either getting or giving oral sex in that movie.  Or masturbating.  And you can also bet that she just shut the lid to her laptop after reading that. That's not to say Enchanted had either one of those in it.  It didn't.  It doesn't.  Thank goodness.  But it does have a doozy.  Not my mother's pet peeve, but the mother of all pet peeves of mine.  It had the ONE THING that could make me want to burn my glass slippers in protest.

The evil queen is a stepmother.

I get really, REALLY tired of this.  Even before I was a stepmom, I didn't understand.  Now, as a stepmom, I'm livid.  Why?  What’s the purpose?  Why does the villain have to be a stepmom?  Isn't it hard enough either being a stepmom or having one without having it blown all out of proportion in movie format?  I'm a stepmom and I can honestly say that I've never ONCE fattened any kids up to be eaten at a later date. I already have a bug up my behind over the fact that there NEVER is a complete, happy family in a Disney animated movie and it is almost always the mom that is absent but why on top of that, do we have to make the stepmother evil?  To what end?  Sure there needs to be some sort of nemesis. But why does it have to be a stepmother?  Why can’t the evil queen be an aunt?  Or a nosey neighbor? Or, if it has to be a mother figure, why can’t the regular mother be the evil one?

I once discussed this with someone over drinks and the reply was, “Well, it wouldn’t be believable if it was just a regular mother… because no mother would do those kinds of things to their kids …”

There are so many problems with this answer I don’t know where to begin.  First, have you READ a newspaper lately?  I’m going purely on memory here but as I recall, the people who are making news for mistreating their children are MOTHERS not stepmoms.

Second, fish don’t talk, mermaids don’t exist, princes don’t prick their fingers and become beasts and pink elephants – last time I checked – could not fly.  I don’t think suspension of belief is difficult here.

Third, shut up.

Before I had uttered a word the other person saw my expression and spouted, “Well, what I mean is, the PUBLIC wouldn’t tolerate THAT in a kid’s movie”

Me:  Wouldn’t tolerate WHAT?

Her: A mother (said with great emphasis) mistreating her children.

Me:  Why?

Her:  You know why.  Mothers naturally love kids.

Me:  And stepmothers?

Her: (after a pause and a long drink) I think we should change the topic.

So do I.

I mean, I guess I shouldn’t blame Walt himself. The whole “hate your stepmom” thing has been around a long long time.  For proof, see this quote from Euripides who back around 400 BC was pissed ... probably about being told to clean his room: 

“Better a serpent than a stepmother.”

And we all know Grimm kept things that way with his take on stepmoms in Hansel and Gretel … you’ll recall it was in this gem of a story where the stepmother convinces H and G’s dad to take them out in the woods and leave them.  Um, doesn’t dear old dad have any responsibility here?  Shakespeare didn’t help things at all with a couple of his yarns and the classic tale of Cinderella is as old as dirt with the most popular version being written down by Frenchie Charles Perrault in 1697.   

So I guess Walt didn’t start it.  But without finding a soapbox to stand on here I have to say, it is time to end it.

It is time to get rid of the evil, wicked stepmother. I mean with something other than a magical sword.

“THE BODY NEVER LIES.” --MARTHA GRAHAM

This past weekend I went to my 20 year reunion.  It was the first reunion I’ve attended.  In most cases, I haven’t seen these people for … well, 20 years.  I, like most everyone I suppose, wanted to make a good impression.  I wanted to be on the “improved” list and not on the “yikes what happened to her?” list.  I spent a lot of time thinking about what I would wear, how I would fix my hair (as if I could), whether I was tan enough or thin enough or if my body was tight enough.  I spent a lot of time wanting to highlight the good parts of my body and camouflage the … um, the not so good parts.  Nothing like a reunion to bring out the insecure high-schooler in all of us.

It took a grand total of 3 minutes after arriving for me to forget all of that and go back to just being me and hating all that superficial crap I so easily get caught up in.  Why is it so easy?   

I am not my hair.  Good hair day, bad hair day, no hair day … I am not the dead protein that hangs straight and oily without life or falls flat in the middle of the day or curls up like unruly Christmas ribbon zipped through the open scissors.  I am not my hair.

I am not my nails – my nails that turned black or showed the signs of chemo in zebra like stripes on the beds of my fingers or lifted without pain one day from my big toes only to be replaced with bumpy topographical toenails – toenails a blind pedicurist would dream about.  Toenails so thick and strange I’m wearing closed toed slippers.  I am not these toenails – or the ones before them.

I am not my breasts – small, round and happy it took me years to learn to love them.  Years of crying and begging and stuffing and years of buying push-ups and water bras and gel bras.  Until one day I was convinced.  They are good breasts.  They don’t sag.  In fact, they can’t sag.  They are exactly the breasts I’m meant to have.  I cherish them.  And ache for any woman who has to give hers up to cancer or disease or age.  But as much as I love them, I am not my breasts.

I am not my insides – my lungs and liver and spleen.  They function as good as any other set of lungs, liver and spleen.  Once a few years ago an enlarged spleen sent me for a round or two of tests.  It was big.  It got smaller.  All was said to be okay.  Was it early signs of my cancer diagnosis?  Maybe.  Did I spend quite a bit of time thinking about my spleen? Yes, certainly.  Just as for 6 months during chemo I thought about my lungs with every burning breath.   But I am not my lungs, or liver, or spleen or any other of the squishy masses residing in that dark space above my hips and below my necklace. 

My ovaries and my uterus and the space between my legs are important are physiological indicators of my sex.  But they don’t make me a woman.  I picture them much larger than they really are.  In my mind my uterus is about the size of a watermelon and my ovaries are twin baseballs.  Once during an ultrasound of this area I asked, Is that life-sized? and the technician laughed.  That’s when I realized we were looking at a 24 inch screen.  I hope I get to keep my ovaries and my uterus and all the other obvious womanly things … but I am not these spaces, these areas. 

I like my brain.  It thinks funny thoughts.  It keeps me company in the dark of night when the dogs and The Hub have created a rhythm of breath beside me.  I like the images it supplies me during tedious meetings and the witty comebacks it flips into my mouth at just the right moment.  I like the way it works the sudoku puzzle and is often challenged by the USA today crossword.  I like my brain.  Even now when it struggles to remember names it should know.  Even now when the effects of chemo still linger on the edges and cause me to screw up my face and dig for the right phrase or word.  Even now, I like my brain.  But I am not my brain.

My face, my eyes, my hands and feet.  My gait – the way I lope along.  The big feet that get caught up under tables at restaurants, the wide-swinging arms that wave frantically when talking, the knees, the ankles, the too pointy elbows – I am not these things.  They are not me. 

All of these things I got without trying.  They were the price of entry. They were the unwrapped presents handed to me when I slid wet and naked and (unsurprisingly) screaming into this world.  Like those over the top gift bags given to celebrities at award shows – I did nothing to deserve such finery. 

I am not defined by these possessions.  For the most part I have the same equipment you do – give or take a few choice items.  It’s a pretty standard package.  These things do not make me special or unique.

But my scars … my scars are mine. 

I was sliced open when I was 14 months old.  An inch above my pubic bone lies a railroad track that has depots on both hip bones.  It seems large now, on my adult frame, I cannot imagine the sight of it when I was pink and nearly new. When I was just beginning to string words together. When I was still in diapers.  Diapers that had to be changed to expose a mess of tissue sewn together, red and raw, trying to heal in a most difficult place.  I love that scar.  It reminds me of the stories.  The stories I heard all growing up about how sick I was and how devastated my mother was and how difficult it was for my father and how my sister at 4 nearly made herself sick with worry over me.  I love that scar because it sealed me into my family.  It is my proof that I was fought for, longed for, cared for and loved. 

Just above my collarbone lies a 3 inch long whitish pink line.  It is only a year old.  It has healed so nicely – you wouldn’t notice it unless I pointed it out to you.  And then you’d ask and I’d tell you it was a biopsy – a biopsy that was positive for cancer.  And if you didn’t already know the story your face would fall.  And you might gasp and you’d want to hear the story.  I will, of course, tell it to you.  You will forget the scar because you think the scar isn’t the story.  But it is.  It’s that scar that reminds me that no one knows my body better than I do.  I fought for that scar.  I made myself a nuisance for that scar because I knew.  I knew something was wrong.  That scar could be twice as long and half as concealed and I would still love it because that is so me.  Push.  Make them hear you.  Don’t quiet down.  Don’t take no for an answer.  Push.  I’m alive because of that scar.  That’s a good scar.

When I was 14 I carried water in buckets from the house to the barn when the water pump froze.  When I would open and close the fence, the water would slosh.  It was winter.  It was cold.  It took all of 10 minutes for that water to freeze into a solid patch of ice.  About the third trip I slipped and fell onto a ragged pipe jutting out of the ground.  I probably should have gotten stitches, but I didn’t.  And that’s okay because the scar that is left is interesting.  It’s on my right leg and is a strange slick patch of skin about the size and shape of a quarter.  When I tell the story of the scar I explain the water and the ice and the jagged pipe, what I don’t say is I fell because I was trying to run.  Why was I trying to run?  No reason.  Just because running is better than walking.  And even though walking is safer, running is more fun.  That scar reminds me that at my very core, I run.  Given the choice, I don’t choose safe.  That’s me.

If you look very closely at the tender underside of my left arm you might see the remnants of scars long faded.  I never knew it had a name, not until I was an adult.  But long ago, when I hurt so deeply and thought I would explode from the pain I took a single blade from a razor and made thin cuts into my skin.  I took good care of those cuts afterwards, always cleaning them and taping them up if needed.  Those scars remind me of that girl – that girl I was.  They remind me that people hurt and need to be heard.  They remind me to look a little closer at the quiet ones, listen a little longer to the angry ones and love a little deeper with everyone. 

I have crazy scars on my left knee.  After the skiing accident the surgery went fine but a month later a staph infection nearly took my leg.  The infection caused my scars to widen and fatten up.  They aren’t thin and lovely and that’s okay.  Every time I look at them I’m reminded I’m not invincible.  That risky things sometimes hurt.  That I’m somewhat fragile and despite my every attempt to appear otherwise to most people, I’m delicate.  There are times I need to be treated gently and there are times I need to do what I’m told.   

My port scar is prominent.  You can see it from across a good sized room.  It is still quite red and much too bumpy.  That skin was cut open twice – once to insert the valve that would deliver the poison and once to take it out. As much as I hated that port, I don’t mind the scar it left.  Because it means I survived.  I didn’t have to have it.  It was my choice and I took it. It was like being hazed into some sick sorority. It is my brand, my burn mark, my purple heart.  I see that scar every day in the mirror and I stare it down.  I always win.

I have other little scars … a fall here, a peanut jar to the forehead there, a scar left from a chemo med test spot that will go away in about a week (said the doctor a year ago). I have a rope burn on my ring finger and a puncture wound near my palm and a dozen or so other little imperfections.  And I have scars I chose … skin that is inked.  Designs I drew and asked an artist to needle into my protective layer.  I love them all.

I am not my body, but it holds a roadmap to my life and hints of who I am – not in its beautiful perfect parts, but in the ugly ones. 

It’s the ugly that makes me real – just like it did 20 years ago.

WHEN A FATHER DIES

I was 13.

I was 13 the first time I realized the impact of a father’s death.  It was the first time I grasped just how big the stone is, just how small the pond is and just how enormous the ripples are that pulse out from the point of that impact.

When I was called to the office of my Jr. High School I was not concerned.  I was a good student.  I was liked by the office staff.  Perhaps I’d won a special award or was needed to show a new kid around school.  Things like that happened.  When I saw my sister was already in the glass walled school office, I was not concerned.  We were from a small town.  Jr. High and High School shared the same building.  I often saw my sister during the day.  Perhaps she too had won an award.  Perhaps she was needed somewhere for something.  When I realized my sister was there waiting FOR ME a creepiness started at my toes.  When I saw she wasn’t smiling … when I saw no one in the office was smiling, the creepy grew.

“Grandpa died.”

Oh.  Okay.  This was not a shock.  We’d been warned, properly prepared.  We’d had the run-down given at the dinner table a handful of nights before.  Grandpa not doing well…Not much longer left…Loves you both very much.  And then back to not eating my peas. 

“Dad’s coming to pick us up.  We’re going to Ohio.”

Now this was news.  I hate to say it now but I had a much more powerful reaction to the news that I’d be leaving school in the middle of the week than I did to the news that I’d never see my grandfather again.  I’d known other kids who left school in the middle of the week.  Kids who for one reason or another were set free for an unheard of 2 or 3 days in a row – without being sick.  I even had a friend who once went on a week long vacation right in the middle of the school year.  But I was never this kid.  I wasn’t the kid who missed school.  Ever.  Even my dentist appointments were scheduled on Saturdays.  So hearing that I’d be leaving on a Wednesday, traveling to Ohio and quite possibly not returning to school until the next … what?  Monday?  Maybe Tuesday?  Well, it rocked me.

I loved my Grandpa, of course I did.  And as my sister and I gathered up our things and waited on the curb outside the school building I thought about what it would be like to have no grandfather.  My mother’s father had died long before I was born so this grandpa – my dad’s dad – was my only grandpa.  And now, I was Grandpa-less.  I was without a Grandpa at all.  I already felt a little gypped in this area what with only having one grandpa to begin with and he lived 4 hours away.  And now … zilcho.  No Grandpa for you.  No funny faces at the holiday dinner table when he’d take out his teeth just far enough to make me scream.  No more checkers with Paw-Paw in the middle of the night when we visited while he sipped scotch – ice cubes clinking in the highball glass.  No more going to sleep with the sound of the CB radio crackling and hissing in the corner of the kitchen.  No more silver dollars flipped from his pocket into the palm of my outstretched hand.  No more.

It was a bummer.  And I sat there on that curb, with my chin on my knees, hugging my legs and thought about how sad this was for me.  And I waited for my father.

When he pulled into the parking lot, my sister and I stood.
There was a glare on the windshield as the Buick approached us.
He was driving slowly – as he should in a school parking lot.

As he came closer, the glare lifted.  And I saw my father through the glass.  His left hand was on top of the steering wheel.  His right elbow rested on the console.  He was shifted to the passenger’s side and his lips were pressed against his right fist.  His handkerchief was laying on the dashboard.

He was crying.

It was that moment.  That very moment when I realized – my grandfather is my father’s dad.  He’s crying because his dad died.  He’s crying.  His dad died.  His dad.

It was the first time I got it.  The first time I realized how huge death can be.  The first time I realized the man that used to carry me piggyback was once carried himself.  My father was strong and wise. But once upon a time, he was small and skinny and his father held him in his lap and played catch with him and taught him lessons and told him stories.  My dad was a grown-up.  And he’d grown up under the watchful eyes of his father.  My dad was one of the best parents I knew – and he’d once been parented by this man who was now dead – with whom he could no longer ask questions, or share joys or play cards or talk politics.  My dad was shaping my future.  His dad had formed his past.  He’d raised him, kept food on the table, a roof over his head, kept jokes in his ears and challenges in front of him.  He did some things wrong.  He did many things right.  Through the years they’d fought and argued and debated.  And they’d laughed and sung and cooked.  They were alike.  They were completely different.  And my father would now have to put him in the ground.  His father.  His dad. 

The next few days were a blur.  I don’t remember the drive over or the funeral or the drive back.  I don’t remember much from that block of time.  But I cannot shake the sight of my father though that windshield.  Just a broken boy who lost his dad.

Adulthood changes so many things. But men were always once boys.  And boys need their dads. 

And every child will share the long, lonely night.

SURVIVAL GUIDE FOR STEPMOTHERS ON MOTHER’S DAY

Remember when you were a little girl and you’d take your mom to Mother’s Day brunch?  Remember painstakingly creating a card with your handprint and misspelled, scrawled words?  Remember suffering over the stove trying to scramble eggs and flip pancakes to present the perfect breakfast in bed to your mom? 

Me too.  And I remember thinking, Someday this will be me.

Growing up I kept a scrapbook of sorts.  It was called “School Days” and it had a page for each grade.  Along with a place to glue that year’s school picture there were questions to answer:

My name is
I am ___ years old
My teacher’s name is
My favorite subjects are
My best friend is

And, my favorite, When I grow up I want to be ___________________.

I still have that little book.  Sometimes I flip thorough it.  Some things are disturbing – my handwriting hasn’t gotten much better since 3rd grade –but mostly …it’s really cute.  You can imagine how things change year to year.  Someone who was my very very very very best friend (I added all the verys in crayon) in 2nd grade was not even listed as an “other friends” by 3rd grade.  My favorite subject never stayed the same and of course, the hobbies and interests changed radically from year to year.  But one thing stayed the same all through grade school – the When I Grow Up I Want to Be line. 

It always said “A mommy”

Sometimes I added other things – a ballerina, a doctor, a famous horseback rider – but always I listed “A mommy” as the thing I most wanted to be when I grow up.

Fast forward …
I’ve had 5 miscarriages and (due to my cancer diagnosis) a failed adoption

Some things don’t work out the way we think.

Painful.  Disappointing.  Crushing.  Those are understatements.

At the same time …AT THE SAME TIME … I have to acknowledge the unbelievable joy that my stepdaughter has brought into my life.  I cannot describe adequately the love I feel for her.  I cannot put into words what goes on inside my chest when she runs across the room to me or when she reaches for my hand or when she snuggles in my lap.  And every day of the year I’m grateful to her father and to her mother for bringing her into the world.  Every day I am grateful.  Every day I am happy.  Every day I am okay.

And then comes Mother’s Day.

I can’t lie to you.  Mother’s Day is a toughie.

I have a cousin who is also a Stepmom – she’s awesome and she gets it and once she told me that a friend of hers who also carries the Stepmom title refuses to go to church on Mother’s Day – know why?  Because they always ask the Mothers to stand … and she doesn’t know what to do.

Another Stepmom friend tells me her stepdaughter bounds into the kitchen on Mother’s Day mornings and says “Happy … Day” to her.  Carefully leaving out any reference to her as her mother.

And still another friend confides that she feels abandoned on this day when her phone stays silent and there is no one to take her to brunch – after all, they are busy taking their real mom to breakfast.

If you aren’t a Stepmom, I’m sorry but you really don’t understand.  And that’s okay because this post isn’t for you.  This post is for those of us who live it, who get it, who will awaken Sunday morning with a little bit of dread, a little bit of pain and a lot of choices.  I’ve blundered Mother’s Day in the past.  I’ve had some downright awful ones.  But I’ve had some really great ones too and I’ve learned a few things in my short tenure as a Stepmom. 

Here they are …

JENNE’S SURVIVAL GUIDE FOR STEPMOTHERS ON MOTHER’S DAY

Focus on your stepchild, not on you. 
Well, here is a big life lesson.  If you want to feel better, about anything, quit thinking about how badly you have it.  Instead, focus on what you do have – you have a stepchild.  You have an enormous opportunity to make a difference in a child’s life.  You have a chance to reinforce in that child what is good and pure about them.  Focus on them.  Not on you.  Here's an idea - give your stepkid a card.  A "thanks for giving me a chance to be a mom" card.  You might have to make one yourself, this isn't a big money-maker for Hallmark. 

Do something nice for your stepchild’s mother.
This one is easy for me.  The Kid has a great mom and we all get along famously.  But even if we didn’t I think Mother’s Day would be a great time to let her know i’m grateful.  It doesn’t have to be much - a card, a call, maybe some flowers.  Even the smallest of gestures will be noticed by your stepchild and will communicate a powerful message.


Take cues from your stepchild but don’t assume. 
I used to introduce The Kid to people as my daughter.  I did this because I didn’t want her to think I thought less of her.  When she was seven I actually thought to ask her, Do you want me to introduce you as my daughter or step-daughter?  I was shocked when she answered, Step-daughter!  I was a little hurt but I asked her why.  And she said this, Because being a step-kid is really cool!  Well, there you go.  If your stepchild acknowledges the day – go with it.  But if they don’t, don’t assume it is because they have something against you.  They’re kids. It might not have dawned on them to include you.  After all, they still haven’t figured out where the laundry basket is.

Be grateful.
Look at how much you’ve grown since this kid came into your life.  Yes, I know it is hard sometimes and yes I know you get taken for granted and yes, it WOULD be nice if someone would notice but really, you don’t have it so bad.  And if it weren’t for that kid (or kids) you’d still be the same flakey 30-something you were all those years ago. 

Don’t expect your husband to buy you a gift, a card or even acknowledge the day for you. 
He might.  And if he does – good for him, I’m really proud of him.  But he might not.  And that’s nothing against you.  And it doesn't mean he doesn't appreciate you.  It’s just that he’s not used to thinking of you this way and really, come to think of it, you aren’t his mother … right?  You are his wife.  So give him a break.  After all, he still hasn’t figured out where the laundry basket is.

And finally, if you do go to church and they do ask mothers to stand, go ahead and stand proudly.  You deserve to.  You wipe the snotty noses and drive the minivans and stock the fridge full of chocolate milk and do every other thing a mother does.  And being a mother is so much more than pushing a baby out your hoo-ha … it’s the everything that comes after.  And you do that.  You do it so well.

Happy Mother’s Day – to you.

CHILDLESS STEPMOMS

I'm bugged.

I told you recently I sometimes check to see what keywords bring people to my blog.  Always interesting, but recently a certain set of search words really set me off

Childless Stepmom

At first I didn’t understand – it read like an oxymoron to me.  How can you be childless AND be a stepmom?  And then it hit me … Ohhh.  Childless as in “I don’t have my OWN kid”.  It hit like a locomotive – a locomotive full of poop.

So then I did my own search.  I keyed in childless stepmom and childless stepmother into my google and what do you know?   It’s pretty common.  There are chat rooms and books and message boards and blogs and articles and entire websites dedicated to this topic.  Some of them were using the label simply as a designation – a way to identify a circumstance or choice.  Others – most in fact – used it as a lament.  And man oh man did that stick in my craw.

Now I know I’m dangerously close to sounding un-empathetic here … not to mention dangerously close to being named the A-numero-uno hypocrite since I’ve posted my own struggles with being a stepmom here and here.  But honestly, the whole thing just frosted me. 

I just think it is such a perfect example of how your perspective can have a major impact on your attitude.

Poor me
I have no child of my own
And I have to parent this child that isn’t mine
See how terrible my life is?

Vs.

If it weren’t for this man
And the child he brought into this world
I wouldn’t have the joy of parenting at all

And maybe because I technically fall into this category I feel okay being somewhat bitchy.  So here are a few things I would like to say to childless stepmoms.

• In most cases you knew what we were getting into – most men don’t lean over on the wedding day and say, oh hey, by the way, I have a kid – or three. 
• While being a stepmom presents unique challenges, you do have the opportunity to share in the crazy wonders of raising a kid – there are oceans of women who never will get to do this in any capacity – ever.
• I understand you are hoping that the “childless” part of your label changes, but maybe you really should consider not ever having children with your husband.  It could be that’s the best thing for his current child(ren). 
• To follow that up – when you get into a marriage with a man who has children you no longer get to be your number one concern.  There is a whole human being that needs you to be the bigger person and think about what’s best for them, not what you want.
• You aren't childless.  So knock it off.

I just can’t ever imagine labeling myself as a childless anything.  Especially since I cannot imagine ever looking into that Kid’s eyes and saying, You’re my step-daughter, but you don’t count. I am childless. 

You couldn’t pay me enough to do such a thing.

Rant over.