Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts

Monday, January 21, 2013

All These Things That I've Done

On Mondays, I typically participate in Monday Listicles, which I love.  However, today's theme of things found in your closet....my closet is a tiny hole in the wall.  I live in an old house.  There's not much in there of interest--mainly hanging shirts and a pile of shoes on the floor.  But, I'm still going to participate with a list, just one of a different topic.  I hope you'll forgive my bending of the rules.

Do you have a constant internal dialogue discussing all the things you need to do or should be doing? I do. And yet, there is so much that I have done.

Yesterday I came across an inspiring list created by Kerstin Auer honoring the things she has done. She was prompted by a blogging link-up by Andrea B  Now, I’m inspired.



In lieu of the closet, here's a few things I've done:

*Attended a presidential rally. Forward!

*Saw my favorite rock icons in concert: Bruce Springsteen, Pearl Jam, and U2.

*Traveled from coast to coast to over 25 Dave Matthews Band concerts.

*Met my significant other online—MySpace to be exact.

*Survived two C-sections and was rewarded with two beautiful daughters.

*Survived the terrible twos, twice.

*Put my foot down and said “no” to my daughters several times, surviving the excruciating pain of knowing they were disappointed.

*Watched my oldest daughter star in her middle school musical (oh, the nerves. She did so well).

*Listened in amazement to my younger daughter practice her clarinet. She’s so talented.

*Read many poems of praise written for me by my daughters.

*Tucked in my girls at bedtime most every night for 14 years. 

*Visited Las Vegas three times.

*Traveled to London, Paris, Nice, Florence, and Lucerne.

*Taken the 3 1/2 hour boat tour around Manhattan.

*Saw Bebe Neuwirth play Velma Kelly in the musical Chicago on Broadway.

*Had “the talk” with my daughters. We aren't done, it is ongoing.

*Was runner-up in Junior Miss Ohio in 1987, which allowed me to go to college with the scholarship awards.

*Graduated Magna Cum Laude with a degree in Early Child Education in 2012.

*Have had many jobs: cocktail waitress, daycare worker, fitness center manager, pizza server, telemarketer, wardrobe consultant, retail merchandiser, and stay-at-home mom. My favorite has been stay-at-home mom.

*Confronted my perpetrators. I am a survivor of child sexual abuse.

*I've asked for help.

*I've received help.

*Gained and lost 60 pounds.

*Danced with a professional dance company.

*Danced in my living room.

*Gained and lost ten pounds.

*Recovered from an eating disorder.

*Had two photos selected by the Columbus Museum of Art to be included in their Photo Hunt installations.

*Was honored as a BlogHer 2012 Voice of the Year.

*I've been a wife and an ex-wife.

*Lived in Chicago, Philadelphia, New Jersey, Louisiana, Northern California, and now Columbus, Ohio.

*I've done punk rock karaoke.

*I've been to Bonnaroo, twice. And I want to go back!


I leave you with one of my favorite songs, so apropos:



The best way to spend Monday in the blogosphere!








  photo credit: the camera is a toy. via photopin cc

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

Wednesday's Woman: I Met My Mother


There are writers who blog and bloggers who write.  I often see myself straddling the two realms, which leaves me in a world of discomfort built on my own insecurities.  When I stop to examine these anxieties it can turn into a whirlwind of blame and self-doubt.  However, when I open myself to the rest of the blogosphere, realizing I am not the only navel gazer lurking these domains, I find comfort that there are others like me.

Today’s guest blogger is a writer who blogs.  For me, she is a superhero, navigating a writer’s world—a world I someday hope to enter.  In today’s post for Wednesday’s Woman she speaks to the vulnerability and self-doubt that can plague us when we stop to examine our influences.  But mostly, she speaks to the courage it takes to examine the most complex relationship that exists—the mother-daughter relationship.

I am honored to welcome Kerstin Auer, a writer and consultant, who writes for magazines and book publishers.  She also writes newsletters and has a talent for helping her clients “tell their story and communicate more effectively.”  She is a wife and mother.  I also have the feeling she is quite a good friend.  

Join Kerstin at her blog Auer Life for your own 2013 Personal Revelation Revolution!


Wednesday's Woman: I Met My Mother

“A woman who has spoken to you in some way or who has made an impact in your life. Stories that have a personal connection…”

My head is spinning with thoughts on who my Wednesday’s Woman could be… My best friend Renae – witty, funny, supportive and a kick-ass public defender after putting herself through law school and passing the bar exam at the age of 40. My daughter Pauline – a kind and compassionate soul, completely comfortable with herself at 15 years old and so much more than I ever was at that age. Amazing writers and survivors and inspirers I have met (even if only virtually) since I started blogging and dipped my toes into the Twitter pool.

All those women have inspired me, made an impact in my life and even though I’m desperately trying to ignore this voice inside of me, it just won’t shut up and keeps whispering in my ear: “You know it’s your mom. Your Wednesday’s Woman is your mother.”

When thinking about women I connected with or who made an impact in my life my mother is certainly the last person I want to think about. Throughout most of my childhood and into my adulthood I considered my mother the enemy. When she got engaged to my father she was the age my daughter is now – 15 years old. She married my father when she was 17 and two years later I was born.

There are lots of memories of her in my early years and I honestly believe there are some good ones – I just can’t remember any of them. What I can remember is a distinct feeling of being a burden. Being too stubborn, too inquisitive, too much like a tomboy, too smart, not girly enough, not presentable, not obedient enough, too independent, too much like my father. I remember her telling me that she hates it when I want to know everything *exactly*. I remember her condescending remarks on my straight A’s in school because “I know you’re smarter than me, you don’t have to rub it in”. I remember her disapproval when I was pregnant with my second child, because one would have been enough. I remember her always taking my father’s side, never mine or my sister’s.

Most of all I remember feeling like being too good and not good enough at the same time. I just could not get it right. No matter what I did, my mother could not be pleased.

Yet she is my Wednesday’s Woman. She has to be.

I hardly talked to my mother for years. I moved on to live my life, a life that I chose and that was free of judgement and disappointment. I even moved to Canada – kids and husband in tow – without saying goodbye to my mother. I left and never looked back; there was just no other way.

A while after we moved to Canada my mother called me and we started to talk.

After almost 40 years I met a woman who was interested in me and who was relieved to hear that I was happy. I met a woman who was hoping to find her own identity by getting to know her daughter, because she was never allowed to live a life that she would have chosen. I met a woman who was bitter that I could not trust her. I met a woman who was a victim of a tyrannical husband. 
I met a woman who tried to protect herself and her children by pushing them away. I met a woman who admired me and was jealous of my independence. I met a woman who was a survivor and asking for a second chance.

Most of all, I met my mother.

She is my Wednesday’s Woman and I dedicate this post to her because she deserves this chance.

Wednesday's Woman is a weekly feature dedicated to spotlighting women who are role models for our daughters. . . and the world.



photo credit: Indy Charlie via photopin cc

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Wednesday's Woman: The Door is Always Open

Brandon's House
As I type this, Sophia, my 13 year-old, sits working with her tutor on Algebra II.  Antonia, my 11 year-old, is finishing her homework so that we can make it to a 7:00 pm showing of Finding Nemo in 3D

Things have been a bit overwhelming lately. . . .

I was going to fill you in, however, I think you can imagine:  two daughters, one in middle school and one in her first year of high school. 

But just like Dory, I am going to just keep swimming.

Today’s Wednesday’s Woman is from a very special person, my significant other, M.  He chooses to honor someone who was there for him during his tumultuous teen years and continues to be a steady support to him as he approaches middle-age. 

I am quite envious that he had this person in his life during his adolescence and I often wonder if I am a similar presence of unconditional and non-judgmental love for my own girls.  I do know that when he talks about her it is a great reminder to be patient, kind and loving even to those crazy teens that I like to call my daughters.


Wednesday's Woman: Susan Parr
by M.

Susan Parr
Susan Parr is my choice for Sperk’s* Wednesday’sWoman. Susan is the mother of three extraordinary people and although I am not her son, I like to count myself as her fourth. She is married to an awesome man and father Rolf, is active member at her church and holds a master’s degree in counseling.  Susan has devoted her life to helping others. She is the founder and director of Brandon’s House Counseling Center in New Albany, Indiana. While working on her degree, she approached the board at her church with a proposal that they remodel an old house behind the church. The idea was to create a space for a youth counseling center. During this time, a 17 year old member of the church, Brandon Dukes, unexpectedly died from a heart attack. With the blessings of Brandon’s parents, the soon to be completed center would bear his name. Brandon’s House opened in 1993 and to date has helped over 3,000 families by contributing over $2,000,000 dollars in counseling services. Susan’s contributions to the welfare and caring of others reach far beyond my comprehension and ability to count. However, the following story is one small example why Susan Parr is so special to me. It is a story that her husband Rolf tells people about to this day.  

Susan’s middle child, Kevin, has been my closest friend since early high school. I spent many summer days and nights at their house during my high school years. I am sure there were times Susan wondered if I was ever going to leave, although she never let on. I really never wanted to leave.  

While driving home late one summer night, I decided that even though Kevin was in France, I would stop off at his house. I was aware that Kevin was not going to be there, but I was feeling hungry and Parr residence was on the way.  When I arrived, the lights were on so I walked through the front door as I had done hundreds of times before. Susan and Rolf were in the living room watching television. I said hello but did not stop as I made my way to the kitchen and found the refrigerator. I spotted a tasty looking pot of chili. (Susan makes the best chili.) I got a bowl from the cabinet and filled it. While my meal was heating in the microwave, I poured myself a glass of Hawaiian Punch. I always gave Kevin flack for drinking the stuff but I always held a secret love for it.  I took my food and drink to the kitchen table. When I finished my meal, I placed my dirty dishes in the sink, said goodbye to Susan and Rolf as I passed them in the living room, and drove to my parent’s house.

When I spoke with Susan to ask permission to write about her for Wednesdays Woman, she asked me why I came over to her house that night. My answer was because I felt safe. Like what home should feel like. A home where the door  would always be open, a place where I could be myself, a place where help and advice was always there but never thrust upon me and a place where I was accepted and not judged but where subtle caring guidance was a constant. I imagine that she has provided this to the many families and young people who have been to Brandon’s House.

Susan remains a phone call away when life has my mind in a mess and I need someone to talk to. She always listens to whatever comes out of my mouth. Whether I am in tears or in a manic frenzy, Susan always listens. She does not offer unsolicited advice. She does not judge me. She listens and asks how I feel. Susan Parr stands for everything that a Wednesdays Woman is. Just yesterday, she let me know that there was a pot of chili in her refrigerator and that I was welcome to it at any time, day or night. And for this, I love her.




Wednesday's Woman is a weekly feature dedicated to spotlighting women who are role models for our daughters. . . and the world.
 






photo credit: waferboard via photopin cc

Monday, August 6, 2012

10 for Dinner



Monday Listicles and Bridget are sharing who they’d invite to dinner--people either living or dead.  I’m playing along, but staying within reality, somewhat.  The people on my list are alive and possibly would accept a dinner invite from me.  Possibly.  I do think they would all be willing to eat a delivered pizza, so they're in...and for some other reasons as well.




10 People I’d Invite to Dinner


I - IV Chumlee, Rick, Corey, and the Old Man 

Gold and Silver Pawn Shop
     for interesting stories
...



V   Lolo Jones

Lolo
     for inspiration
...




VI - VII  Corrie Ortner and Christa Weber

Corrie, Me, Christa, hot tub
     for old times and friendship
...



VIII - X  My family

Family
  for love 
...





Who would you invite to dinner?
The best way to spend Monday in the blogosphere!


















photo credit: PetitPlat - Stephanie Kilgast via photo pin cc
photo credit: Sportech via photo pin cc
photo credit: Robert Rosenberg photography via photo pin cc

Monday, May 21, 2012

Prince Charming's 'To Do' List


This week's theme for Monday Listicles is 10 Things Husbands Should Do.  I don’t have a husband.  I have an “other” and he is significant.  But I won’t marry him.  Not right now, anyway. 

Don’t get me wrong.  Every now and again, I browse wedding gowns on websites of the top designers.  Sometimes I peruse travel websites with Eiffel Tower destination wedding packages.  I still have that little Disney Princess lurking within, wanting a Cinderella ending.

However, what happens to ol’ Cindy and the Prince after the honeymoon is over? 

The scenario is a long one, filled with in-law trouble, financial woe, and infidelity.  But, because you came here for a blog post and not a novel, I’ll skip to the part where Cindy emails a “to do” list to Charming.

Prince Charming’s To Do List
 by Cinderella

I ~ Check on salaried positions in the castle for my talking mice. 

II ~ Fire the servant who spilled gazpacho on my pastel pink gown. 

III ~ Revoke my step-mother's and step-sisters' invitations to our 10th Annual Memorial Day Garden Party.  

IV ~ Buy me a new horse.

V ~ Hire me a new horseman.  (He must be between the ages of 25 - 30, in the height range of 6’ and 6’4”, and in fine physical condition.)  

VI ~ Send messenger to Gucci boutique informing the head shop girl that I will be arriving tomorrow promptly at 10 a.m.

VII ~ Don’t forget to have messenger give statement of credit to Gucci boutique. 

VIII ~ Fire the queen’s lady-in-waiting.  (If you don’t, I’ll post those pictures I found in your satchel on Instagram.)

IX ~ Hire the queen a new lady-in-waiting.  (She must be between the ages of 50 - 65, short, and stout.)

X ~ Please, please, please, start listening to your advisers and try reading over staff memos.  (The Kingdom’s current decline is embarrassing to me.  Possibly that lady-in-waiting being out of the castle will help?)



What do you think a husband should do?

The best way to spend Monday in the blogosphere!

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Altered by Fire

We have a routine.  In the morning, after the kids are off to school, I sit at the kitchen table and write.  M watches The Dan Patrick Show upstairs in the office.  If I hear the floor creak, I know M is coming downstairs.

He passes through the living room, opens the blinds, strolls by me at the table, and grabs some water from the sink.  As he retraces his steps through the kitchen, under his breath he asks me how I am doing.  I typically respond as I hear his footsteps returning him to his comfortable spot in front of  Dan Patrick, which turns into Colin Cowherd, which turns into the girls being home from school.

It was at that time yesterday, as I was in the ferocity of engagement that comes with the kids needing snacks, help with homework, and rides to practices, that M escaped the commotion by doing maintenance outside in the yard.  I was pleased because our lack of curb appeal was an item of embarrassment for my 13 year old.  What was more, it was good to see him going—plowing through months of depression with fervor and ease.  He seemed to possess the joy of a child outside for the first time since the thaw of winter.

In my distraction with the kids, I failed to keep watch over what was transpiring in the yard. 

As soon as I had the girls settled in their rooms for homework and while our dinner’s fresh green beans were steaming in the microwave, I heeded my instinct and looked out the back door.

M had moved a pile of sticks and branches from behind the dog house to the middle of the yard.  Only, it was no longer a mound of natural debris.  It was a carefully crafted sculpture of the picture-perfect bon fire—minus the fire.

I heard the microwave alert me to the fact that the green beans were done and ignored it.  I was too curious.

I said, “You aren’t going to light that on fire are you?”

M lifted his Budweiser-holding hand in my direction and waved it around as he replied, “I grew up in the country.  I know how to handle a fire.  I have the hose ready.”

My eyes scanned the tall grass for our garden hose to find it in a circular heap at the edge of the yard.

He pointed the beer can toward the hose and said, “I got it. Is dinner ready?”

Food was enough to give M motivation to set that wood on fire.

I could smell it as I was loading the dishes into the Maytag.

I could hear our neighbor's voice bellowing from the direction of the rusty chain-link fence.  He told M that it was against city code to have a fire in the yard.

M replied, “I got it. I grew up in the country.”

Responding to the urge to go out back and intervene, I closed the door to the dishwasher, shut off the faucet and grabbed the hand towel, drying my hands as I walked to the back door.

Instead of reaching for the knob, my hands remained in the towel.

M was using the garden hose to put out the fire.

This morning, as I sat at the table to write, I heard the creak in the floor upstairs but no television.  M got some water from the sink, retraced his steps through the kitchen, but stopped at the table.  He pulled out a chair and sat.  He asked, "How are you doing?"

His fire for life is returning.  I just hope it stays out of the back yard.





photo credit: MarkGregory007 via photo pin cc

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Stuart Smalley, Grey Hair and a Promise


The morning was typical with the exception that M got up.  He usually gets up in the morning, but not during the time I am supporting the girls in their independent efforts of getting ready for school.  I was pleased to see him earlier than expected.
 
Me: "Good morning!  You're up!"
M: passive aggressive comment
Me: "What?  What do you mean?"

My voice escalated which was followed by a small amount of banter, followed by M going back to bed. After the girls were off to school I cried, slammed some cabinet doors...you know the drill.

“Insanity is doing the same thing, over and over again, but expecting different results.”
― Albert Einstein

M and I have been struggling with changing routines and habits, personally and as a couple, in order to be more successful—personally, as a couple, and as a family.  This morning's appearance in advance of his typical time for waking was a shining ray of hope that modifications could indeed be made.   

But I forgot.  We have an obstacle.

We struggle with personal kindness--not a battle to be kind to others, but one to be compassionate to our individual selves.

We lack the ability to engage in self-forgiveness and get caught up in beating ourselves up (not like Fight Club, like in our thoughts).

If we aren't careful, this phenomenon leads to a build up of anger and self-doubt that is expressed in the wrong direction.

Instead of embodying Stuart Smalley and addressing ourselves in the mirror, we lash out at each other, usually when it is least expected.

And that’s what happened this morning.

In those reactionary moments, I forget that M and I are into our own personal journeys of healing from child sexual abuse.  It is complicated and complex, to say the least.  On its own, healing makes a plate full.  Add the stress of daily life, which includes  economics, education, careers, housework, failing appliances, and kids (although they fall into the category of "good stress"), and we've got a delicate situation.  Delicate?  I mean, combustible.  Oh, and my hair is turning grey.  

I know we are working on something very heavy and very important.  There is beauty in our courage.  But I would like to be OK as I watch other things go unattended.  I would like to, you know, not get so stressed out when things do not change as fast as I think they should.

I mean, all these "things" will be here after the Sword of Trauma is removed (thank you Angela Shelton).


Or, at least, I hope so.

So, I am choosing to let go of the passive-aggressive remark that for some reason caused me to overreact like a two-year-old being sentenced to time out.  I am also excusing my behavior (after six hours of pouting, crying, and throwing dishes in the sink).

And...

Right now, I am asking you, dear readers of Sperk*, to witness my promise:

I promise to be kind to myself as I continue my trek of transformation.  

I promise to be kind to M.   

And I promise to call the salon to resolve my issue with grey hair.

Yes, that was more than one promise.  Be kind.  Be compassionate.  Forgive me.














Mama’s Losin’ It
photo credit: thisisbossi via photo pin cc

Thursday, April 12, 2012

This is Your Journey


You stood in the middle of our bedroom, fully dressed, wearing the coat I bought you five years ago. As you shifted from foot to foot, rubbing your forehead, looking around the room and to me in the bed, I wondered what was inspiring the nervous dance.  I contemplated mentioning that next winter we should get you a new coat, because that would have been an easy thing to say.  Instead I said, “Hon, are you OK?”

You replied, “Yeah.”

I said, “Are you planning on going out? I see you have your coat on.”

You said, “No.”

Your face contorted, your chin dropped, you began to cry.  It wasn’t a sob.  It was the type of tears that are bittersweet because from them flow both joy and grief.

You said, “I am not going anywhere.  For the first time in my life, I feel like I am home.  I have never felt home, ever.”

You went on to say you just wanted to sit in our house, on our couch, and that you wanted to paint.

With tears still streaming down your face, you said, “What color do you want this room to be?”

I remember early in our relationship listening to the stories of your childhood and recognizing the similarities to mine.  But you were not yet at the place in your journey where you could say, “He molested me.”

Throughout our struggles as a couple, I watched you battle with allowing yourself to reveal the facts.  Over the years, I listened as you added description to the details when they unexpectedly were in the forefront of your mind.  And even though I wanted to so badly, I would not say it for you.

I was by your side the night you said the words.  I was relieved and wanted to rush you off to therapy with my library of books on the subject of healing stuffed in your suitcase.  I wanted to celebrate and I wanted to die--for you.

This is your journey.  It’s beautiful.  I am honored to be your witness.

Now go on and heal.



photo credit: Corie Howell via photopin cc

Saturday, March 31, 2012

Five Minute Friday: Gift




I have been given gifts and I have given gifts. When I was little I enjoyed getting them. Now that I am grown, I prefer to give. It makes me feel good.  So do I give gifts for me or for the recipient?  And if there is a God, does he give so that he feels better or for the recipient?

I believe he does it for the greater good of life itself.  Which is love. Which is God.

The greatest gift I have ever been given is someone coming back for me when he knew I was in trouble.  I tried to call, but didn’t have the number.  He just knew.  And got there just in time.  And called 911.  And because of him, I lived.  Or because of his intuition. Intuition is a gift.  It is possibly God speaking to us.  And God spoke to him and now I live.  A gift.

Some days I forget to have gratitude for this most special gift I have been given and get upset about the little things, like the shower that needs fixed, or the kitchen that isn’t yet fully painted.  But really, if I wasn’t here, if he weren’t here, what would a shower or painted wall mean?  Are they significant?

Of course, it would be a wonderful gift to have those things done.  But hasn’t he done enough? 

I’m laughing.  I’m glad to be alive.

Note: This is my first stream-of-conscious writing (or free writing) post.  I have engaged in the activity before, but being a perfectionist, chose not to post any of the outcomes.  I was inspired by Kimberly, Rubber Chicken Madness, who linked her Five Minute Friday post from last week to Yeah Write #50.  She was able to access the emotion I feel when my girls are away for the weekend at their dad’s, which I haven’t been able to do successfully.  

So, in honor of shared experiences that sometimes are better articulated by our fellow-bloggers, I checked out the Five Minute Fridaylink-up at Gypsy Mama.  This week’s word to use as catalyst for free writing was “gift”.  There are many great outcomes found in the link-up authored by great bloggers, and I encourage you to check it out.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

Two Writing Prompts, a Bridge, and the Truth


The Bridge (photo credit)

 
Every Thursday I look forward to Mama Kat's Pretty Much World Famous Writer's Workshop meme..  She gives great prompts and the list of bloggers that link up is extensive which means a lot of good reading.  I have been contemplating this week’s prompts since Monday when they were posted.   I’ve had a few days to envision, imagine, muse, and choose a prompt to create something for this post.  And yet, I am stuck—not for lack of ideas but for lack of courage.

When I started Sperk* in October, I wasn’t sure if it would be a journal, a mommy blog complete with giveaways and funny stories from the home front, or a creative writing space.  I just started writing.  It began to develop into observations on parenting adolescents with commentary here and there about education and educational technology.  So Sperk* became A parent’s view on adolescent development and education.
 
My tagline, or niche, sometimes can limit my expression.  It also keeps me safe from sharing things too personal.  This can be a positive, though, because it’s good to stick to one’s niche.  But today I find myself unable to write anything relating to parenting adolescents, education, or even the damn weather.  I blame this on Mama Kat's prompts.  They are getting in my way.  I can’t stop thinking about them.  I need to write in response to them.  Therefore, in order to keep Sperk* going, I am ignoring the voices in my head saying, “No, no don’t write that.  It’s not what you do.” 

Writing prompt 5: Write about one of your childhood heroes.

Grandpap S., my paternal grandfather, is my one and only childhood hero.  He grew up the son of Czechoslovakian immigrants in a tiny Ohio River town in West Virginia.  He never left that tiny town in the Rust Belt.  He worked and retired from Wheeling Pittsburgh Steel which was at the south end of Main Street, situated under the bridge that led to Ohio.  Heading home from the steel mill, walking north on Main, he would pass homes of his cousins, aunts, uncles, brothers and sisters.  He would pass the Catholic Church where he was very involved as a volunteer for many years.  He would pass and usually stop in to talk to the dwellers at the TV repair shop, the tiny market, and the neighborhood bar.  Arriving at his home, he would climb the stairs of his front porch and take a look at the marks on the cement support beams that indicated how high the water rose during the Ohio River flood of 1937.

As a child, my family visited his home every Sunday.  We went to Mass together and then had family dinner.  His prayers before meals were the best.  After we reverently recited the traditional Catholic prayers he would add, “Rub-a-dub dub, three men in a tub, hooray God!  Whoever eats the fastest gets the most-est!”  And we would all dig in to chicken, pierogies, and succotash.  Polka music would be streaming from the radio left on in the kitchen by my grandmother, the cook.

If my mom and dad had plans for going out on a Friday night, my sister and I spent the night at Grandpap S’s house.  I loved those nights.  He was the bingo caller at the church’s weekly bingo night.  He sat up on the stage of the school’s auditorium, called numbers, and told jokes.  He was funny.  All the lady bingo players loved him and he seemed like a celebrity to me. 

If we arrived at his house and he wasn’t there, my grandmother would tell me to walk down to the church.  He always could be found there hanging out with other church members.  I did not know what they were doing.  I wasn’t old enough to know what church goers did besides fast, pray, and feel afraid of God.  I didn’t care, though.  When I would find him there, he would always welcome me with a huge smile and open arms.  I can remember many times running through the church hall to jump in his arms for a hug.

One day at Sunday dinner, I choked on a piece of chicken skin.  He yelled at my grandmother for not cutting my piece of chicken fine enough.  One Friday evening before bingo, he hung a play phone on the side of the kitchen cabinet and my grandmother found it to be in her way.  He yelled at her for being silly and said, “The girls need this.  They need to make calls in here.” 

On another Sunday after dinner, the adults sat around, poured their drinks and got out the cards to start a game of Pinochle.  Instead of leaving my sister and I bored in front of the T.V. he took us up the street to the new putt-putt golf course.  He taught me how to hold the club.  He taught me how to line up my ball and put it through the miniature windmill into the little hole in the ground.

Grandpap S. knew about kids.  He knew that I needed love.  He knew that I was not the pain in the ass that everyone else seemed to think.

He also knew I was afraid to cross the giant bridge that towered over Wheeling Pittsburgh Steel connecting West Virginia to Ohio.  One day, he walked my sister and I south on Main to the foot of the pedestrian steps that led up to the walkway that went across the bridge.  Once we climbed to the top, I looked across and couldn’t move my body.  I was frozen with fear.  He said, “C’mon, we are going to walk to Ohio.  You’re not going to fall in.  I’ll be right by your side.  Your sister is going to do it.”

I didn’t move.

He said, “Okay, we won’t go all the way to Ohio, we’ll just go to the middle of the bridge.”

That didn’t help.  Ohio meant land which was better than standing on the bridge suspended over water.

He said, “Well, you wait right here.  I am taking your sister.”  And off they went.

They walked to the middle of the bridge.  I could see Ohio beyond them and the river below them and I was afraid a great wind would come and knock them both into the water leaving me completely alone and frozen on that giant bridge.  My sister was giddy with excitement and leaned over the side railing to point to the coal barges passing below her.  Grandpap S. was smiling and proud of her.  He yelled back to me, “See!  Your sister is okay. C’mon.  Don’t be a scaredy cat!”

I still couldn’t move.  I wanted to. I wanted him to be proud of me. 

The day Grandpap S. died my neighbor picked me up from school and brought me to her house.  I knew something was wrong because I usually walked home and my mom was usually there to greet me.  Time moved very slowly that afternoon.  I asked many questions about the whereabouts of my mother and father.  My neighbor’s only response was, “Your mom will be here to get you as soon as she can. Go play with the kids.  Everything is okay.”

My mom finally arrived well after my regular bed time.  I remember standing in the entry way of my neighbor’s house, looking up at her, and hearing her say the words, “Grandpap S. has died.”

I was only six years old, but I knew the detriment his death would bring to me.  There would be no more grown-ups that understood kids were not an inconvenient annoyance.  No more walks up and down Main Street, no more faces that lit up with a smile simply from me walking in the room.

Writing prompt 3: You know the stories that are retold a million times at family gatherings?  I call them Life Stories that you just never live down. List your Top 10 Life Stories.  

This prompt contains the words that have made it difficult for me to write this week: family gatherings.  When I read “number three” I became angry and sad.  I thought, “I don’t have to participate in these silly writing memes.  Sperk* doesn’t need to.  Sperk* will focus on parenting and education and this has nothing to do with either.”  But then it became difficult to write anything related to anything.  I forced out some posts, but my heart wasn’t in it.  And today, I came back to Mama Kat's meme, remembered Grandpap S. on the bridge, and decided to walk bravely with him.

(Photo Credit)
I have some life stories that used to be shared at family gatherings.  Most are from my first six years of life when Grandpap S. was alive. They are amusing and I remember them fondly.  But my family no longer gathers.  Well, they gather, but without me.  I choose not to participate.  And during holidays and birthdays, I can imagine the stories about me that are shared.  In my mind, they are not good.

One could say I am the black sheep of the family.  But I choose to not take on that label.  I am the one in the family that has chosen to not deny truth.  Because of this, I sense my family is uncomfortable in my presence.  For years, I faked my way through gatherings pretending that just being together in the moment was all that mattered.  But, for me, it has become impossible to pretend things did not happen.  The chatter becomes meaningless.  The words “I love you” become empty.  I guess I am the one uncomfortable in their presence.

My father is a child sex offender.  My sister and I were his victims.  I didn’t remember it until I was 21 years old and after my mother and father had been divorced for a few years.  Upon sharing the memory with my mother she questioned, “Are you sure it was your dad?  Are you sure it wasn’t your grandmother or your grandfather?”  What?  Grandpap S.?  The memory had been suppressed, but once it had surfaced the identity of the perpetrator was very clear.

The years that followed were tumultuous for me.  I would describe them in more detail if time allowed.  But I want to get this post linked up with Mama Kat before the clock strikes “link closed”.  In brief, my mother denies knowing it was happening and resents me for my behavior following recovering my memory.  I question her lack of knowledge of what was going on.  Some days I believe her, most days I do not.  I no longer speak to my sister because of an argument we had three years ago.  I no longer remember what the argument was about and it is not what keeps me from reaching out to her.  She still talks to my dad.  It’s her choice, yes.  And when I was younger, in my twenties, I respected that.  But I no longer think it’s healthy.  I’ve seen her struggle and I think if she would face the enemy and tell him to get lost, she would find room in her life to heal.  It's complicated.  More complicated than I can articulate.

I have spent over 20 years healing.  I still have work to do.  Some days are difficult, really difficult.  Some days are not.  Being a survivor of child sexual abuse does something to the brain that at times feels impossible to conquer.  And sometimes being a mother, being in a domestic situation, is like a war veteran being back on the battle field.  Not always.  Just sometimes.  But I never know what will trigger a memory.

I thought I could avoid facing the stuff blocking my ability to write by focusing on Paterno, twice.  I thought I could avoid facing the stuff blocking my ability to get words on a page by expressing my inability to sleep.. And I thought THAT was bordering on too personal. 

This morning I read this comment left by mannahattamamma.com, and it lingered with me until about 2 p.m.:

Ah those voices...Anne Lamott, in Bird by Bird, calls them the "anti-writing voices," but they are the anti-calm voices, the anti-be-yourself voices. She advocates visually those voices as tiny mice, then dropping them one by one into a glass bottle. Seal the bottle, put it on a shelf. Breathe. Kind of a disgusting image but...effective. Breathe, breathe, breathe...

So, readers, what is Sperk*?  Is it a parent’s view on adolescent development and education?  Is it a journal or a creative writing space?  Whatever it is, it will not come into fruition unless I allow my truth to be written.  Thank you, Mama Kat.







Mama’s Losin’ It






Sunday, January 15, 2012

Relationships, Weekends and My Blended Family


photo credit
Weekends are a bittersweet time for me.  On one hand they are a welcome respite to the weekday schedule.  I can tackle larger projects around the home, catch up on reading, and take time to assess scheduling and family management strategies that are in place during the week.  On the other hand, because we are a two household family and my daughters go to their dads on the weekends, I feel an underlying sadness due to missing my girls.  If I let it, the feeling can deplete my enthusiasm for all the things I like to accomplish during my two day hiatus from parenting.  

But typically, my motivation to have a house with groceries stocked in the kitchen, clean sheets on the beds, and promised tasks completed by Sunday night pushes uncomfortable feelings aside.  In my haste to create a welcoming environment for my daughters' Monday, I have overlooked an opportunity provided by the weekends without them—reconnecting with my significant other, M. 

This weekend, like any weekend, I had numerous personal and familial related tasks to complete.  M and I began painting the kitchen two weeks ago and I wanted to finish it.  There were shelves for the girls’ room to be painted and hung, groceries, meal planning, scheduling of activities, laundry and vacuuming.  In my obsessive quest for the home to seem “normal” and welcoming on Mondays, I wanted everything crossed off the to-do list. 

It’s 6:00 p.m. on Sunday evening and the shelves are not hung and the groceries are not purchased.  The house is not vacuumed and kitchen cabinet doors we removed for painting are still on the floor. But unlike my customary worry about how the girls will perceive their home upon Monday’s reentry, this evening I feel refreshed and calm.  You see, instead of tending to the typical, M and I tended to our relationship.   

photo credit
We reconnected through a marathon conversation that lasted over 24 hours beginning on Friday night and ending in the wee small hours of Sunday.  We talked about the things that we have been hiding away for months:  blended family parenting issues, adolescent parenting issues, personal issues, worries, hopes, dreams, and goals.  We cried, laughed, argued, and agreed.  We also talked news, friends, dogs, technology, exercise, music, food, places we’d like to visit, and whether or not we’ll ever make it official and marry.  I feel as if I reconnected with an old friend.  I feel less alone.  I feel loved.  There is no other bliss like knowing one is loved and if I wasn't so tired from staying up, I'd probably be singing.  Why the need for the all-nighter?

My main goal in life is to be a great parent.  This was not an ambition of mine when I was a child or even when I was a young adult.  This became my mission upon the birth of my first daughter--good timing.  And due to my guilt over my divorce, I have made it my sole purpose in life.  But I have failed to acknowledge that my relationship with M has a significant impact on my success as a parent. 

Newly remarried couples without children usually use their first months together to build on their relationship. Couples with children, on the other hand, are often more consumed with their own kids than with each other.

M and I are not married.  Maybe this is why I allowed parenting to be more important than our relationship.  And maybe I’m not married because I am afraid it will distract me from parenting.  Maybe M and I fail to take the plunge because we are unsure if the girls will like the idea.  But, the "maybes" do not matter.  He’s here.  It’s our house. We are a family.

You will no doubt focus a lot of energy on your children and their adjustment, but you also need to focus on building a strong marital bond. This will ultimately benefit everyone, including the children. If the children see love, respect, and open communication between you and your spouse, they will feel more secure and may even learn to model those qualities.

I do not recommend staying awake for more than a normal amount of time in order to reconnect.  I truly am a bit stressed about the groceries that are not purchased.  But for couples in blended families, whether your relationship status is married or living together, I strongly recommend you and your partner stay connected.  How the girls see M and I in our relationship is much more impactful to their development than if the refrigerator is fully stocked.  Peanut butter and jelly for dinner is always an option.