This blog will be especially hard to write, if I can even wrap my head around my feelings. I don't know if it has to do with alzyheimers, aging or just the childhood dynamics of my own family. And I will be the first to admit that these are purely my feelings and my stuff and may not even be close to reality, but they are still mine.
First, I suppose a little family history would help. We looked like the Leave It to Beaver family, but, of course, we weren't. Nobody is the Beaver family. My dad was a very dynamic individual, driven by work and accumulating money, which he did very well. Unfortunately, that quickly translated to money is more important than me. My guess is because of his own childhood, growing up in the depression, that he did not want to experience the lack of anything as did his preacher parents. Not just preacher parents, but parents that planted churches in new areas. My mom says that my grandma used to take her kids to the goodwill and when my dad would get a pair of shoes there, he would get shoe dye and take them home and dye them so the other kids wouldn't know he had bought shoes at the goodwill, possibly even their shoes. Which is kind of odd actually, because growing up he had no problem sending my mom to the goodwill for our clothes and shoes. That was actually fine with me and from what I remember most of what I did with my mom was shopping, thrift store, goodwill, yard sales, fabric stores, and finally malls. She wonders why I have problems with overshopping and over spending. Even as an 80 year old woman, it appears her highlights of the week are shopping, for herself, of course.
Christmas at my parents house was routine, it always seemed like the gift giving was totally out of obligation. It was Christmas, you were obligated to buy a present. It wasn't about what anybody wanted, mind you this is my perception, but it was fulfilling the obligation. I can remember my brother opening his package and my mom quickly saying, "I hope you like it, I bought it on sale and you can't take it back." Yes, from what I remember, we got one package at Christmas. On Christmas, the packages would be passed around, they would all be ripped apart and people would scatter. I don't remember really sharing what people got or even recalling. You unwrapped your package and quickly put it in your room; I'm not sure if that was about cleaning up the mess or taking on the "my package, back off" mode. The first Christmas I had with Mike's family, I found out that other people don't do Christmas like that; it was like party time. The day would start with the video camera rolling, everyone getting in front of the Christmas tree, bar lights (that's what was used in that day) were blaring at us from the kitchen to make sure there was plenty of light. It was happy, festive, celebratory; I knew I wanted to emulate that kind of Christmas when I had children. The first Christmas we were married, Mike's parents gave us a gift, it started with 8 little poems, first one on the tree, all clues brought us closer to the gift. From the tree to the cupboard, to the bathroom, it was like a treasure hunt. It was so fun; it brought us to the front deck of the house to a string that led to the shed and upon opening, there was a red bow almost as big as the dryer underneath it. It was joyful.
My dad was not a demonstrative guy; he died never having said the words to any of us, "I love you"; he never said it to my mom either. I don't know how you could marry someone that couldn't tell you those three little words, but my mom said she knew that he loved her. I guess that was enough for her. She must be stronger than me. I do remember though the first time I knew my dad loved me. It's really kind of a sick story when I stop and think about it; so dysfunctional. My dad was an extreme tight wad, you used to call him that and I think he enjoyed it. He took pleasure in discount everything, except for maybe his fishing or hunting stuff. I don't remember ever eating out because he used to say, "you're mom's an awesome cook, why would we eat out?" I'm pretty sure that aspect of my childhood is what caused me as a newlywed to want to eat out almost every day. Funny, how denying someone something, causes you to then crave it or seek after it. The day I knew my dad loved me was after he gave me a check, I think for $10,000; well, actually he gave all three of his children checks. I cried when I came home with that check. I remember holding it up to my husband, tears streaming down my face, "I would gladly give him this check back, if he could say those three little words, I love you". I knew that he couldn't do that, but as weird as it sounds, I now knew that he loved me. It's so twisted when I think about it and as I type about it, it's so dysfunctional, it's sick. The money gift came after I had been in a confrontation with my father and yelled, "all you care about is your money; you care more about your money than us." I remember he said, "that's not true" and I replied with "you won't let my mother call me because it's long distance, she calls my house on my toll free number". Did she not know that I was paying for those calls? Those money gifts continued year after year, each year I wept with the perverted thought that I knew my father loved me. Such an unhealthy attitude about money; yes, it would bite me in the butt at some point, perhaps over and over again.
For birthdays only, my mom would purchase a gift, it was always to be under a certain limit that she said my dad put on her. I remember $10 a gift, then $25 and up until he died, $35 gift. My mother each birthday would remind me that she would do more than that if she could, but my dad puts a limit on the gifts of $35. Now, that's not necessarily a bad thing, having a money limit, that concept probably would have benefited me with my own children or even my gifts to my family, i.e. my mother, than to just buy them what I know they wanted, needed or loved. As perverted as it may sound, I looked for ways to make my children's lives easier by buying them what might help them reach their own goals. Perhaps overspending, but enjoying the spirit of giving. Now this probably wouldn't keep coming up in my head, beating me over the head with the thoughts, if it didn't seem like my family was all about the money. You see telling me for years and years, about this money limit and "I would do more if I could, but your dad won't let me" and then having him die and you not buying me a birthday present since is messing with my head. It's sending me messages that I don't want in my head. Messages like, "you're not loved, it still is all about the money". I'm trying to wrap my head around this, I'm praying about it, I really am trying to move on, I'm trying to let go of it but obviously, it continues to come up, to wake me in the night and to leave me weeping myself back to sleep. It's no longer about the gift, it's about something else. Oh wait, I did get a birthday present last night, it was Hickory Farms sausage package, (1/2 off after Christmas), $13.00 to be exact, I'm glad she didn't go over her self-imposed, at this point, limit of $35.00. This is inconceivable to me since I put a lot of thought into my mother's presents (except this year), I enjoy buying her things. Her last birthday, I believe I got her one night's stay at a bed and breakfast on the Oregon Coast that was a lighthouse because lighthouses are one of her favorite things. Now, I know I sound ungrateful, I'll be the first to admit that and that is so discouraging to learn about myself. That's part of the reason I'm writing this blog, I'm trying to let it go but somehow it has attached itself to me and won't let go. I know in my head, that she's old, not thinking well, but she hasn't bought me a present since my dad died 5 years ago, but this year she buys me a sausage log gift package. If she knew me, she would know that's not even something I would eat. Oh well, Debi, let it go.
My tightwad dad had amassed a fair estate, he was good at making money, no doubt about it. Part of his estate planning was to each year gift us the maximum allowed money gift so that when he passed, he wouldn't have to pay so much estate taxes on the money. If he didn't gift us money, it would be taxed in the estate which would be costly. He didn't like that thought at all. He did his gift giving at Christmas, probably because it saved on getting another gift. So, my dad dies and what does my mother do, she makes up her own rules. My oldest brother is her co-trustor person, but he just repeats over and over, I just do what mom wants which is asking a lot for a 80 year old woman, who didn't know where all of her accounts were when my dad died. So, each year, it's a different amount, based on her whim, I guess. Who knows. But again, as warpped as my thinking may be, what this tells me now is she must not love me. I know it's wrong, it's stupid, it's silly, it's perverted, I can acknowledge that, but it still haunts me. Last year, I brought it up to her that the maximum amount was a certain amount, she had decided less than that amount. She had no reason for her decision, she said to me: "well this is the amount I've decided on and I'm going to stick with that". Perhaps that was the first time I understood what my dad said when he used to say, "don't confuse her with the facts her mind is made up". Ok, then. No logic, no plan, whim estate planning. I believe that my dad was a bright guy and he sought out wise counsel and gifted the maximum amount because he could and because it saved him estate taxes in the end (no pun intended) and because he "loved" me. So, this year she hands out a check for a $1000. I know, I should be happy, ecstatic perhaps, but all I feel is unloved. Don't remind me, I know it's sick, I know I have money issues; why is this the message I hear. My dad had it all figured out and now my mom who has said a zillion times to me, "I'd do more for you kids if I could, but your dad won't let me" does her "whim" estate planning and changes what she does. There's no rhyme or reason to try and talk to her because like last year, "her mind is made up". So this whole situation now makes me feel like I lived my life with my feelings and attitudes about my dad from what my mother said about him; I feel like I, perhaps didn't really know him at all. And who is my mother? Was she lying to me all those times or is she just slipping or am I just slipping? Like slip sliding away. That's me!
I think I've been an amazing daughter and I have amazing children. My mother-in-law died many years ago; my mom and dad were in Arizona for the winter. I called weeping and asked her to come home. Her reply was that it was a waste of money, she was already dead, my dad wouldn't let her fly home for the funeral. The day after my mother-in-law died my sister-in-law who had decided to stay at her mother's apartment (and now we all know why) rented a U-Haul and had it half loaded before we got there. Mind you his mother died on a Tuesday, 6:30 p.m., Wednesday morning 11:00 a.m. we drive over to the apartment to a half loaded U-Haul. Needless to say, it was not a good experience. Her perception was she was the daughter and she deserved whatever she wanted. My husband was unwilling to take any kind of stand although he was the executor and so he did nothing except watch me rant about her. Most disturbing to me was the costume jewelry; Mike's mom had 3 big boxes of it that my kids used to play with every Friday when they would spend the night there. Mike's sister let them each pick out one necklace. Really, out of three big boxes, you're going to give them one necklace each and take anything of value and leave the tupperware, worn out linens and old lady clothes for our "inheritance". OK. I tell this story as a preface to my next hurt. So, jewelry goes to the daughter no matter what, that's what she said.
So, I get a call from one of my children a couple of weeks ago, they witnessed the whole demise of Mike's sister and her selfishness when his mother died. My daughter says, "you better get over to grandma's, she's giving away some of her jewelry to your sister-in-law. Now, I've already experienced my mother passing off a few of her jewelry items to me, everyone of them with the name of one of my daughters on it. Not to me, but directly to them. Even the diamond necklace and earrings I gave her, she gave back to me and told me to give them to _____ designated daughter. I've discussed with her numerous times about my incident with Mike's sister, how hurt I was but now she's handing out her jewelry to said daughter-in-law. Let's see the daughter-in-law that you have been complaining of for years about "she practically drives right by my house on her way to work and never stops to see me". Well, the last 2 months she's been visting my mom regularly and now she's getting the jewelry I guess. Well, that may be an exhaggeration somewhat. After I was told about her giving jewelry away, she asked me over to her house. She has laid out various earrings and says are there any of these you want, I've already decided I'm so hurt, I can't even go there. I say no, ask Amy and Anna. So, today I go over there to pick up my birthday present, half-off Hickory Farms gift package, ($13) and again she has jewelry laid out. She asks me to come see if there is anything I want. I don't look, I just say, "No". Fifteen minutes later my brother shows up, husband of said sister-in-law, and my mother immediately takes him into the bedroom to ask him what he wants. What the hell? What about my children?
At this point, I'm feeling unstable. I leave and get to my car to weep alone. I wonder why I have these feelings? Why can't I just let go of this stuff? Why am I so hurt? I think I've been an amazing daughter, I actually think I've been a hell of a lot better daughter than my own two daughters, but why does this hurt so much. Is it watching my mother, the one I thought to be so strong, slipping away. Her feelings for people shifting based on who spent time with her last. Is it watching and observing the "probate hell" that I've seen so many times as a legal secretary: someone dies, first one to the house gets what they want. Or is it the behavior of my siblings and their spouses? Is it my brother's wife buying my mom's silver dollars for a dollar a piece? (those were returned) Or my other brother after my dad's death saying all of the coin collection was his? Or my other brother taking most of the cowboy boots, 58 pair of them or whatever? Or is it my oldest brother, the designated co-trustor with my mother, never sharing any information about the status of the trust or anything? When asked a question, his standard reply is "I just do what mom wants". That's no comfort considering her state of mind. Or is it my mom telling one of my children they can have her computer and then letting my brother take it home? Or is it my mom telling my children if they come over and clean or take her to run errands and then she either forgets to pay them or pays them and then says something like, "I feel like they only come over here for the money". That's because that is what my family of origin is all about, the freaking money. Well, here's the thing, my children were calling and visiting you regularly before she ever started handing out the $10 and $20 for cleaning or running errands. And although they are awesome grand daughters, she decides not to give any of the grand children money because four out of the six of them, don't deserve it. How is that fair?
I thought that I had developed some maturity and spiritual depth in the last 15 years, but now I'm not so sure. I am so hurt and angry. I know my feelings are irrational, ungrateful, ridiculous, embarrassing, but they are still my feelings. Was I not a good enough daughter? I feel like I spend my life investing in others but am I ever going to get a break? I don't think so, not on this side of heaven. This is my lot in life.
I realize that I would do things differently. First off, as a grandparent I would love to do things for my awesome grandchildren, for example, my children desperately need new computers, it is their livelihood. As a grandparent, I would love to do that, it would have brought me great joy knowing everytime my grandchild used that computer, she would think of me; when I was gone, she would have found memories as to my love for her. But, there I go, that's me. I have to realize my mother is not me. She lived her life for my dad.
My mom came back from visiting my aunt in Washington, her sister. Growing up everytime her and my dad returned from one of their many trips, my mom was sick for a week or so. So, she comes back from visiting her sister and she's sick, no according to her she's dying. She tells my children she's ready to go, she doesn't think she has long to live. I call my aunt who tells me my mom is just feeling sorry for herself. She says don't give into her. I believe my aunt and carry on. Not the rest of the family, after all there's a lot at stake. So, my oldest brother starts showing up twice a day and my other brother sends his wife over there almost daily. And guess what? My mom has this miraculous recovery. So, I ask her about a month ago, "so you want to go check out the senior citizen, it's less than a mile away, we can go check it out?" She says, "no, I don't want to do that, I'm content being in my house". What she is really saying is: "I've trained my children, well, not this one, to be at my every beck and call. I no longer need to hang out with people my own age, because my children, except this one, will keep me company everyday." It's to the point where when I am going to stop by other there, someone else is always there and I continue driving. I'm not going by there to visit anyone but her. I would probably discuss some of these things with her, but I'm sure half-way into the conversation, company would show up.
I am trying to blame alzyheimers for my mother's mind, her feelings, her confusion, her making no sense to me, her decisions that hurt and devastate me. But what am I to blame my own feelings on: hurt, anger, distraught, resolve, helplessness, loss, disgust, etc. I'm doing my best to try and lay these things at Jesus' feet, "this world is not my own, I'm just a traveling through", but, the pain, the almost anguish consumes me. I can't go to her apartment without having these overwhelming feelings of being unloved and not measuring up. I need a breakthrough in this area of my life. I don't know why, at this point of my life, I am having these feelings, perhaps that's the bigger question. God puts me in places to teach me, to mold me, to make me more like Him, but through this whole experience of hurt and pain, I feel far, far away.
I think my mom's alzyheimers is making me crazy, one crazy bitch!
Friday, December 31, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
Help! My son is a drug addict.
I have a son, his name is Robert, he's an alcoholic/drug addict. About three and a half years ago, my daughter called me from Los Angeles where she was living. "Mom, I have a friend whose mom overdosed again, he needs a mother. Would you be his mother?" Without a thought, I said, "Of course." I had some knowledge of Robert, he was Anna's friend, well really more of an acquaintance. She met him while she was working at a make-up counter and he used to come in to shop for make-up and they developed a friendship of sorts. The first time he came into the store and to her counter, he was dressed in a skirt and high heel women's shoes. Anna is someone who can look past someone's outside appearance and love them no matter what, which she did. So, I knew a little about him but didn't really know him; basically had met him once, but never talked.
So . . . without further thought, I called him up and asked him to lunch. He was ackward on the phone, shy, polite, apprehensive most likely. I would have been, some middle age woman calls out of the blue and wants to take me to lunch; WEIRD. But, we made plans; I really thought he would cancel. But the day arrived, I drove to his apartment to pick him up, and my mothering relationship with him was birthed. That first meeting was over lunch, sushi, which I didn't partake of but stuck with something of which I was more familiar, cheeseburger. Not really. I probably did most of the talking, let's not misrepresent here, I did most of the talking. God's been telling me that area of my life needs work, that means basically, I need to shut up and listen more. Neither one of us will ever forget that first fateful meeting. We talked about, OK, I talked about guarding your heart in relationships, getting to know the other person before you give your heart away, protecting yourself, and safe sex. I suppose those were some ackward ice breakers for a 51 year old woman and a 17 year old gay boy. But, like I said, that fateful meeting gave birth to the relationship we now have, mother and son. I'm not going to share at this time, all that happened up to now, I'll share that later. But, for today, I shall share about his addiction.
He's always dabbled in substances, occasionally overindulged in alcohol. Because of his health, he took a lot of prescription drugs which he wouldn't take as prescribed, but it was the suicide of his mother that began his quick and fateful downward spiral into the dark and seedy world of addiction. It's been eleven months since I dropped him off in Los Angeles, California at a rehab center. I was so relieved that he would finally get the help he needed and that I would no longer have to worry about where he was and what he was doing. But unfortunately, that lasted only eight days. Yep, eight days before he walked out of that rehab facility and got picked up at a Starbucks by his new sponsor, Ms. Elliott. From that day until now, ten and half months later, it has been nothing but a roller coaster, seeing how close he can cheat death with his wacked behavior. It didn't take long for his addiction to pain pills to spiral into meth use and end him up in the mental hospital, twice now. He has been to the emergency room more times they I could count on these hands, but he leaves the hospital and immediately returns, as the Bible would say, like a dog returns to its own vomit.
I have a new appreciation or rather a new hold on my heart for the parents of addicted children. Never before have I felt such pain, loving and desiring what is best for a child, and at the same time waiting their death at any given moment and there being nothing you can do about it. So many nights I go to bed and cry myself to sleep as if I will awake to the police at the door to inform me of his death. And then again, time goes on and he leaves me a message; I know longer answer his phone calls because I never know which Robert I will get, the drugged out, abusive Robert, the weeping uncontrollably because of his poor choices Robert, or the I'm doing awesome, I have this many days Robert. Each one either bringing hope, frustration, or resolve. So, for my own emotional health, I let him talk to the answering machine. As ridiculous as it is, it lets me know he lived through another night.
So . . . without further thought, I called him up and asked him to lunch. He was ackward on the phone, shy, polite, apprehensive most likely. I would have been, some middle age woman calls out of the blue and wants to take me to lunch; WEIRD. But, we made plans; I really thought he would cancel. But the day arrived, I drove to his apartment to pick him up, and my mothering relationship with him was birthed. That first meeting was over lunch, sushi, which I didn't partake of but stuck with something of which I was more familiar, cheeseburger. Not really. I probably did most of the talking, let's not misrepresent here, I did most of the talking. God's been telling me that area of my life needs work, that means basically, I need to shut up and listen more. Neither one of us will ever forget that first fateful meeting. We talked about, OK, I talked about guarding your heart in relationships, getting to know the other person before you give your heart away, protecting yourself, and safe sex. I suppose those were some ackward ice breakers for a 51 year old woman and a 17 year old gay boy. But, like I said, that fateful meeting gave birth to the relationship we now have, mother and son. I'm not going to share at this time, all that happened up to now, I'll share that later. But, for today, I shall share about his addiction.
He's always dabbled in substances, occasionally overindulged in alcohol. Because of his health, he took a lot of prescription drugs which he wouldn't take as prescribed, but it was the suicide of his mother that began his quick and fateful downward spiral into the dark and seedy world of addiction. It's been eleven months since I dropped him off in Los Angeles, California at a rehab center. I was so relieved that he would finally get the help he needed and that I would no longer have to worry about where he was and what he was doing. But unfortunately, that lasted only eight days. Yep, eight days before he walked out of that rehab facility and got picked up at a Starbucks by his new sponsor, Ms. Elliott. From that day until now, ten and half months later, it has been nothing but a roller coaster, seeing how close he can cheat death with his wacked behavior. It didn't take long for his addiction to pain pills to spiral into meth use and end him up in the mental hospital, twice now. He has been to the emergency room more times they I could count on these hands, but he leaves the hospital and immediately returns, as the Bible would say, like a dog returns to its own vomit.
I have a new appreciation or rather a new hold on my heart for the parents of addicted children. Never before have I felt such pain, loving and desiring what is best for a child, and at the same time waiting their death at any given moment and there being nothing you can do about it. So many nights I go to bed and cry myself to sleep as if I will awake to the police at the door to inform me of his death. And then again, time goes on and he leaves me a message; I know longer answer his phone calls because I never know which Robert I will get, the drugged out, abusive Robert, the weeping uncontrollably because of his poor choices Robert, or the I'm doing awesome, I have this many days Robert. Each one either bringing hope, frustration, or resolve. So, for my own emotional health, I let him talk to the answering machine. As ridiculous as it is, it lets me know he lived through another night.
Mistakes were made, yes by me
I have a book I bought, Mistakes Were Made, But Not By Me, I haven't read it most likely because I wasn't buying it for me. I buy a lot of books that look and sound good and I actually want to read, but I just never sit down long enough to get any of them started let alone finished.
I've always believed I was an amazing mother; I literally poured every ounce of myself into being the best mother I could be, teaching my children every conceivable thing I thought would help them in life. I was not going to make the same mistakes as my own parents leaving me scarred from years of "get tough or die, children are to be seen and not heard, or can't you do anything right." I didn't say those things to my children; I did not make those mistakes. I believe I corrected all of those "errors" from my own childhood. I said things like, "you're the one in a million kid, you don't do things like everybody else, you're not like everybody else. You think differently, you don't follow the crowd, you think for yourself, you're your own individual, you're amazing." Now those were some pretty cools things to hear all the time growing up, I would imagine. But there were still those teen years when they would individually come into my office crying about being a freak and they weren't like other teenagers, no boys liked them, they were goofy and weird, which to me was like music to my ears. I wanted them to be who they were, whatever that dressed like, whoever they were, thinking about it now, what ever that was to a certain degree. I assured them that the day would come where they would be admired and embraced for their own individuality and creativity; that they needed to just trust me. There were times I doubted myself in the midst of their meltdown of questionning themselves. I wondered if there would ever be a time when they would embrace their own individuality or if they would end up like their mother, a young woman with no self-esteem seeking for any attention to confirm who she was because she didn't know; I know now. I promised them the "one in a million" boy, yes I did, knowing that if they became who they were destined to be that there would be a boy, so different than the other boys, that they would see the beauty of them for who they had become. They would be seen for just being who they are without them changing to be what another person wants or needs.
When I told them they were "one in a million", I believed it and I still believe it, but never did I imagine that they would really embrace that concept and believe it themselves. They believe it on some level though, because they ask me, "where are the one in a million boys?" A young man who is different, followed their own dreams, not the crowd, says what he means and means what he says, a man who follows through on things after the feelings are gone (my definition of character), a man that pursues and not waits for the female to make all the moves, and most importantly a man who pursues God, character, and integrity with all his heart. Where are those young men? A young man who opens the doors, both car and house, not because he has to but because he desires to respect them and to be different also, a man who doesn't look and oogle over the cute, skinny, pretty, cookie cutter girl that will become whatever the man wants. I ask you young men, if you want to be different, perhaps you should learn now to really dance with a woman, I don't know a woman who doesn't love to dance, but most men will be content watching girls all dance together with each other than to put any effort into learning something women in general love. Hello, boys, time to become men and wake up. But, I don't want to fully talk about that today, I'm going to save most of what I say on that topic for another day. What I want to talk about are the mistakes I made, yes mistakes were made by me.
When my children were little they were so helpful, my mother used to complain that I shouldn't let them empty the dishwasher at 3 and 5 years of age, "you know they might break something." My mother raised me a "cripple", not to be politically incorrect by the use of that word, but she crippled my own development and feelings about myself by doing everything for me and allowing me to not do things for myself. So, I believed that if someone does everything for you, you won't know that you can do it yourself. So, as children, I had them do things like put away dishes, make their own lunches, do their own wash, etc. But somewhere along the way, I lost my way, and therefore, they lost their way.
I used to be the most selfish person, I used to say: "When you're the mother, everything will be all about you, but I'm the mother now and it's all about me." Somehow, that hasn't translated well from childhood to adulthood for my children. Now don't get me wrong, I have amazing children who are "one in a million", it's just at this point in life, "Christmas time", it exhausts me because I feel, mind you I said I feel, (which doesn't mean it's necessarily reality) like my children are not helpful or considerate of me, or perhaps it's just me at all. I shall offer a few examples. We're in San Francisco for work for one of my daughters, we're doing some Christmas shopping and it's later in the evening and I'm tired. We are walking up towards Union Square, they are walking and talking and don't even notice that I am half a block back, this is at night mind you, and they go ahead and cross the street without even looking for where I am. My first thought is "wow, I don't do that to my own mother and I can't believe they have done it to me." It may be petty, but it makes me worry about my "sunset" years and what my free spirit, one in a million children will do. Perhaps I just witnessed what these two will do.
Earlier in the evening, we were having dinner with a friend of one of my girls, she was talking about her parent's 30 wedding anniversary and this beautiful party they had planned for her parents, One hundred sixty people her parents know from around the world sent pictures holding a sign that said happy anniversary. They were going to make the pictures into a book for them. They also rented a restaurant, invited family and friends and it was all a surprise. For my own parents 25th wedding anniversary, (when I was 17 years old) I planned a full on wedding, renewal of vows, a wedding dress, my mom's best friend flown in and a bride's maid/s dress, full reception, because my mother got married in a suit in a "dinner house" more commonly known as a bar. For their 50th wedding anniversary, I put on a reception, sent invitations, catered, etc. and I'm really proud of what I did. But for my husband and I on our 25th wedding anniversary, my children had my mother fix dinner which was Costco potato salad and tri-tip and for our 30th wedding anniversary I got a card from one of my children with a gift certificate for a new restaurant, which we haven't used yet but we will; I don't think I got anything from my other daughter. See now, here's where my codependency kicks in, I'm being ridiculous, it's not that big of a deal, they are busy girls, they don't have any money, blah, blah, blah. But you see, it's not just the anniversaries, it's life, it's my life.
Now I have both of them back home, 25 and 23 year old women, strong women, opinionated, bright, engaged, intelligent, goofy, amazing, articulate, "one in a million" women, it's hard. Right now, I am so disappointed in myself as a mother, I have children who I have to threaten them practically to do the dishes, empty their kitty litter boxes, clean up after themselves, put away dishes, empty their own garbage which overflows in their own bathroom and hallway. My youngest helps herself to my clothes, my shoes, whatever else she wants or needs and fails to put anything back; I have to go around the house and round up MY stuff. The other one has a small job, I don't know, 3-5 hours a week and a college class, but she never has the time to do any of the painting we're doing, or help with clean up (although they have no problem complaining about the mess), with stuff, (and they do a lot of complaining about the mess), in our old house that always needs work and repairs. But if you ask for a couple hours of work, everybody's busy. My oldest daughter although she's been told over and over again to quit turning the central heat up because I can't afford it, she does it anyway and this morning I woke up and the thermostat was turned up, she had a space heater going all night long in her bedroom and she lay on her bed with no covers on. My youngest daughter just moving back from Hollywood, is adamant about she's not living here, "I can't live here, I won't live here." She can't afford to pay her bills, doesn't have a job, hasn't had regular work in ten months, but we must be the worse family in the world with which to habitat. She has no clue how lucky her life has been. I told her at first that I would help her with her expenses while she pursued her acting and makeup work, I notified her in August that I couldn't help her anymore, couldn't give her anymore money, but every month she needed rent money and regularly transferred money, at her every whim, out of my checking account. Oh, God, reading this here, I'm so codependent, I should be committed to a mental hospital, come to think about it, that might be a welcome break (after Christmas maybe). It's all about them; that's the problem with being a codependent mother; I have spent my life on them and for them without taking adequate care of myself. I'm not sure it's more about the lack of help with anything required around here, or just their lack of respect for me. I fear it's just a lack of respect because when you're codependent and you put your children first, they grow up and put themselves first. I was raised in the "do your own thing" generation, I chose differently, I made sacrifices for my family and my children. But somehow I raised "do your own thing" children.
Don't get me wrong, I did may things right, many, many things, but for today, thirteen days before Christmas, with painting left undone, with boxes of Christmas decorations that they want someone else to put up, it's just a feeling I can't shake. It's the feeling of being left half a block behind my children and them crossing the street without looking back. What was I thinking? I hate being codependent.
I've always believed I was an amazing mother; I literally poured every ounce of myself into being the best mother I could be, teaching my children every conceivable thing I thought would help them in life. I was not going to make the same mistakes as my own parents leaving me scarred from years of "get tough or die, children are to be seen and not heard, or can't you do anything right." I didn't say those things to my children; I did not make those mistakes. I believe I corrected all of those "errors" from my own childhood. I said things like, "you're the one in a million kid, you don't do things like everybody else, you're not like everybody else. You think differently, you don't follow the crowd, you think for yourself, you're your own individual, you're amazing." Now those were some pretty cools things to hear all the time growing up, I would imagine. But there were still those teen years when they would individually come into my office crying about being a freak and they weren't like other teenagers, no boys liked them, they were goofy and weird, which to me was like music to my ears. I wanted them to be who they were, whatever that dressed like, whoever they were, thinking about it now, what ever that was to a certain degree. I assured them that the day would come where they would be admired and embraced for their own individuality and creativity; that they needed to just trust me. There were times I doubted myself in the midst of their meltdown of questionning themselves. I wondered if there would ever be a time when they would embrace their own individuality or if they would end up like their mother, a young woman with no self-esteem seeking for any attention to confirm who she was because she didn't know; I know now. I promised them the "one in a million" boy, yes I did, knowing that if they became who they were destined to be that there would be a boy, so different than the other boys, that they would see the beauty of them for who they had become. They would be seen for just being who they are without them changing to be what another person wants or needs.
When I told them they were "one in a million", I believed it and I still believe it, but never did I imagine that they would really embrace that concept and believe it themselves. They believe it on some level though, because they ask me, "where are the one in a million boys?" A young man who is different, followed their own dreams, not the crowd, says what he means and means what he says, a man who follows through on things after the feelings are gone (my definition of character), a man that pursues and not waits for the female to make all the moves, and most importantly a man who pursues God, character, and integrity with all his heart. Where are those young men? A young man who opens the doors, both car and house, not because he has to but because he desires to respect them and to be different also, a man who doesn't look and oogle over the cute, skinny, pretty, cookie cutter girl that will become whatever the man wants. I ask you young men, if you want to be different, perhaps you should learn now to really dance with a woman, I don't know a woman who doesn't love to dance, but most men will be content watching girls all dance together with each other than to put any effort into learning something women in general love. Hello, boys, time to become men and wake up. But, I don't want to fully talk about that today, I'm going to save most of what I say on that topic for another day. What I want to talk about are the mistakes I made, yes mistakes were made by me.
When my children were little they were so helpful, my mother used to complain that I shouldn't let them empty the dishwasher at 3 and 5 years of age, "you know they might break something." My mother raised me a "cripple", not to be politically incorrect by the use of that word, but she crippled my own development and feelings about myself by doing everything for me and allowing me to not do things for myself. So, I believed that if someone does everything for you, you won't know that you can do it yourself. So, as children, I had them do things like put away dishes, make their own lunches, do their own wash, etc. But somewhere along the way, I lost my way, and therefore, they lost their way.
I used to be the most selfish person, I used to say: "When you're the mother, everything will be all about you, but I'm the mother now and it's all about me." Somehow, that hasn't translated well from childhood to adulthood for my children. Now don't get me wrong, I have amazing children who are "one in a million", it's just at this point in life, "Christmas time", it exhausts me because I feel, mind you I said I feel, (which doesn't mean it's necessarily reality) like my children are not helpful or considerate of me, or perhaps it's just me at all. I shall offer a few examples. We're in San Francisco for work for one of my daughters, we're doing some Christmas shopping and it's later in the evening and I'm tired. We are walking up towards Union Square, they are walking and talking and don't even notice that I am half a block back, this is at night mind you, and they go ahead and cross the street without even looking for where I am. My first thought is "wow, I don't do that to my own mother and I can't believe they have done it to me." It may be petty, but it makes me worry about my "sunset" years and what my free spirit, one in a million children will do. Perhaps I just witnessed what these two will do.
Earlier in the evening, we were having dinner with a friend of one of my girls, she was talking about her parent's 30 wedding anniversary and this beautiful party they had planned for her parents, One hundred sixty people her parents know from around the world sent pictures holding a sign that said happy anniversary. They were going to make the pictures into a book for them. They also rented a restaurant, invited family and friends and it was all a surprise. For my own parents 25th wedding anniversary, (when I was 17 years old) I planned a full on wedding, renewal of vows, a wedding dress, my mom's best friend flown in and a bride's maid/s dress, full reception, because my mother got married in a suit in a "dinner house" more commonly known as a bar. For their 50th wedding anniversary, I put on a reception, sent invitations, catered, etc. and I'm really proud of what I did. But for my husband and I on our 25th wedding anniversary, my children had my mother fix dinner which was Costco potato salad and tri-tip and for our 30th wedding anniversary I got a card from one of my children with a gift certificate for a new restaurant, which we haven't used yet but we will; I don't think I got anything from my other daughter. See now, here's where my codependency kicks in, I'm being ridiculous, it's not that big of a deal, they are busy girls, they don't have any money, blah, blah, blah. But you see, it's not just the anniversaries, it's life, it's my life.
Now I have both of them back home, 25 and 23 year old women, strong women, opinionated, bright, engaged, intelligent, goofy, amazing, articulate, "one in a million" women, it's hard. Right now, I am so disappointed in myself as a mother, I have children who I have to threaten them practically to do the dishes, empty their kitty litter boxes, clean up after themselves, put away dishes, empty their own garbage which overflows in their own bathroom and hallway. My youngest helps herself to my clothes, my shoes, whatever else she wants or needs and fails to put anything back; I have to go around the house and round up MY stuff. The other one has a small job, I don't know, 3-5 hours a week and a college class, but she never has the time to do any of the painting we're doing, or help with clean up (although they have no problem complaining about the mess), with stuff, (and they do a lot of complaining about the mess), in our old house that always needs work and repairs. But if you ask for a couple hours of work, everybody's busy. My oldest daughter although she's been told over and over again to quit turning the central heat up because I can't afford it, she does it anyway and this morning I woke up and the thermostat was turned up, she had a space heater going all night long in her bedroom and she lay on her bed with no covers on. My youngest daughter just moving back from Hollywood, is adamant about she's not living here, "I can't live here, I won't live here." She can't afford to pay her bills, doesn't have a job, hasn't had regular work in ten months, but we must be the worse family in the world with which to habitat. She has no clue how lucky her life has been. I told her at first that I would help her with her expenses while she pursued her acting and makeup work, I notified her in August that I couldn't help her anymore, couldn't give her anymore money, but every month she needed rent money and regularly transferred money, at her every whim, out of my checking account. Oh, God, reading this here, I'm so codependent, I should be committed to a mental hospital, come to think about it, that might be a welcome break (after Christmas maybe). It's all about them; that's the problem with being a codependent mother; I have spent my life on them and for them without taking adequate care of myself. I'm not sure it's more about the lack of help with anything required around here, or just their lack of respect for me. I fear it's just a lack of respect because when you're codependent and you put your children first, they grow up and put themselves first. I was raised in the "do your own thing" generation, I chose differently, I made sacrifices for my family and my children. But somehow I raised "do your own thing" children.
Don't get me wrong, I did may things right, many, many things, but for today, thirteen days before Christmas, with painting left undone, with boxes of Christmas decorations that they want someone else to put up, it's just a feeling I can't shake. It's the feeling of being left half a block behind my children and them crossing the street without looking back. What was I thinking? I hate being codependent.
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