It's Sunday. We are about to watch Spiderman, so I'm glad I established the bullet routine last week. It will make this quick.
Oh, November. I am so sleepy tonight. I don't think I can possibly come up with a post.
I've been sewing all day in my "ree time." Free time = the time that the boys were either napping or agreed to be occupied for 20 minutes with the Nintendo DS.
Colin demands to choose his own clothes. It's fine with me - I'm just not used to it. Christopher has always been my little fashion model, letting me dress him in whatever I wanted to. But not Colin. He has his own ideas about what to wear.
He's not terribly picky. As long as it's not a smocked jon jon (there goes his entire church wardrobe) or a pair of plain pants, he's happy. Yes. I said plain pants.
Colin likes for his pants to be flamboyant. He likes patterns and prints. All the time. So, I obliged today. I made him a pair of British flag pants, some pants with London double decker buses, and some pants with bicycles all over them.
He's a weird little dude.
And this post should have pictures. But I'm so tired.
Today's post is a gimmie.
Susan loved science fiction. There were whole series of books and authors she collected, scouring used bookstores wherever she went. She found used bookstores in Raleigh that I didn't even know existed.
She tried recommending science fiction books for me, but being the stereotypical dumb blonde, I just couldn't get into them. It was, of course, because I couldn't understand them. We eventually stuck to the other books we read, trading them, discussing them, and every now and then, just randomly mailing them to each other. "This one made me think of you," as the inscription.
After she died, I did so many things to try and hold onto her. Some involved Google, others involved comfort food (read: donuts), but there was one thing I found that actually did make me feel like she was right there with me. Reading. We were always talking what we had read lately.
I bought Madeline L'Engle's Time Quintet on my Nook, and I read them all over again. I have always loved A Wrinkle in Time, and I know I've tried reading A Swiftly Tilting Planet and A Wind in the Door, but I never understood them. This time, I did. I loved them all, and I felt like Susan was right there with me on every page.
This past week, I sent the books to my nephew for his birthday (which was in July, but I'm random that way). I know they will be hard to understand at first, but he is already looking at the stars and asking questions. His telescope sits in the dining room, waiting for him to discover how much is really out there. I find myself hoping that he will be able to have a conversation about books the next time I get to visit him - I do so love to talk about books with someone who loves the stars too.
Tomorrow I will try again. I will start over in the morning and try harder not to yell. When they prance into my room just before daylight, I will be happy to see them. If they need something even earlier, I will get it for them and remember that they are only little for a short time.
Tomorrow I will start getting everyone dressed earlier so that there is no rushing to get out the door on time. I will put muffins on the table and milk in their cups and sit with them before we start our day. By 8:00, we will be upstairs, picking out clothes and brushing teeth because there is no need to rush two small boys who have been up since 6:00.
Tomorrow I will plan ahead for an earlier lunch so that the littlest won't be hungry before we have to pick up his brother. I will feed him on time so that he won't have to melt down. He will be more comfortable with a full belly, and he won't be so short tempered.
Tomorrow I will vote. I will take my boys to the polls with me and explain to them the importance of what we are doing. I will vote for all families. I will vote for women. I will vote for my daughter. I will vote for continued economic revitalization. I will have hope instead of fear. I will anticipate instead of worry about the outcome.
Tomorrow I will make time to play. I will prioritize my own responsibilities to include at least one puzzle, one round of Candyland, and a half hour of swingset time with my boys. I will enjoy their laughter. When they insert the word "poop" into song lyrics, I will laugh with them and add a verse about boogers.
Tomorrow I will get up and try again. I will try harder. I cannot fix today. I can only hope to outweigh the days like today with days like tomorrow will be.
Because as of right now, tomorrow is all I can do.
Sunday isn't a day I usually blog. Couple the scheduling conflicts with the time change and then toss on the frequent night visits from Colin - and you get my November posts for Sunday. Now with BULLETS!
Today I put money in a jar for judging myself. It's my work. For myself.
Every time I judge myself or think, "I should . . ." I'm supposed to put money in a jar. The only problem with it is that when I put the money in the jar, it starts a vicious cycle of, "Why am I such a dumbass that I keep being so hard on myself and having to put money in this jar? I suck at this."
Oh, wait. More money in the jar.
I'm not sure this is really working that well.
He's in my bed again. The little one, Colin. Somehow he knows when I go to bed before his daddy does. Some toddler sixth sense.
"Why you wear Elmo pants to go downstairs?"
Because they're comfortable.
"Can I have some water bottle?"
Yes.
"Do you remember when I was a baby? I a big boy now."
Yes. I remember. You are so big now.
"Mommy? I really want a snuggle."
Alright.
I can't resist him. I can't resist the questions, the requests, or even the screaming. He is irresistible.
"Thank you, Mama, for taking me to Trick or Treat."
And then I melt. He thanks me randomly throughout the day for things that I would think were just passing events. Dinner, a kiss, changing his diaper, buckling his car seat are all worthy of a "thank you" sprinkled into our daily life.
He is so sweet. Until he's not. I have learned that in my family, you don't get one extreme without the other. The sweet it worth it. Possibly not in the exact moment that I'm being whacked in the face by him mid-tantrum, but in the end, the sweet is worth it.
November. That month where we torture ourselves by promising to post every day.
I'm in. Because I love this place and hate that I neglect it so for the ease of popping a picture with Instagram, checking in on Twitter, or quipping away in my Facebook status.
Thanks to Issa, I'm in this year for posting everyday in November. She is too, and I'll link when I'm not on the iPad.
This is what I've bee doing. Lots of sewing. Some Captain Americas and an outfit for a little girl I wish I got to see more often. Keeps me busy and feeling creative, even when I'm not writing.
Happy NoBloPoMo. I never get that right.
Today, October 17, is Metastatic Breast Cancer Day. Only one day out of the whole month of Pinktober is dedicated to metastatic breast cancer, which is technically, the only breast cancer that kills women. If you die because of breast cancer, then you die from breast cancer that has turned metastatic.
"I am a woman with metastatic breast cancer. My cancer was first detected as inflammatory breast cancer nearly 4.5 years ago, although I’ve also had invasive breast cancer, Paget’s disease, and recurrences as the cancer spread to lymph nodes under my left arm (2010), to lymph nodes in the center of my chest (New Year’s 2011), and then to my bones in March 2011.
Metastatic breast cancer means that cancer cells have spread from my right breast to other sites, made themselves at home, and reproduced so many times that now each cell has become a mass of cells detectable by today’s x-rays, CT scans, PET scans, and MRIs. I have those tests frequently now, to determine how well my current treatment is proceeding, whether the cancer is progressing or held at bay, and when we should change treatments to something that might be more effective. Last week’s tests and scans showed that there is still cancer in my neck, spine, ribs, and hips. The blood tests had been showing a reduction in the total load of cancer cells in my body, but as the numbers slowed to a standstill, they agreed with the increasing pain in my hips, left ribs, and neck, one that agrees with the scans; we will have to change treatments."
Back in April, one of the things I decided to do in the healing process was to take better care of my body. To not take my health for granted and to celebrate aging.
Because, you know, some people don't get to. Age, that is.
I stopped dying my hair so that I could watch the grey come in, and I actually kind of like it. It's interesting. I started getting waxed regularly, which is another story for another day. And towards the end of April, I joined Weight Watchers.
There has never been a time in my life where I needed to lose enough weight to do something like join Weight Watchers. That was part of the reason it took me so long. I didn't want to admit that I needed to do something I considered drastic.
I set a goal of 35 pounds by September 9, 2012. That's tomorrow. And unless I lose seven pounds in my sleep tonight, I didn't quite make my goal. However, I'm pretty happy with the 28 that are already gone. I even bought a two piece to take on our trip. I'm not going to look 18 again in it, but that's not the point.
The point is, I'm going to look like a 39 year old mother of two and look extremely happy in it. And I'll be praying that my boobs don't fall out of it in the pool. Because let's just get it out there that the girls haven't joined in the dieting quite as much as I had hoped they would.
Yesterday, I had to weigh my English Setter, Aja, to get a prescription filled for her. I stepped on the scale without her and then stepped on again with her. As I put her down, I realized that I was putting down all of the weight I have lost since having Colin in 2010. Losing it gradually kept me from appreciating just how much better I feel. Picking up Aja and getting to set her back down again made the weight loss pretty tangible in an instant.
The best part of finally joining Weight Watchers isn't actually the weight loss. It's that I finally feel like I've learned to eat right. I've cut out at least 80% of the sugar I used to eat, and I feel so much better. I've added back more fruit and vegetables than I've ever eaten, and cut out the carb laden snacks and dinners. I've learned to make decisions about what I eat - that everything I put in my mouth is a choice. A choice that will be in line with my desired lifestyle or out of line with it.
The past few months have been about laying down the weight I've been carrying and making decisions that are beneficial to the life I want to have. That is, of course, only a little bit about dieting, and a lot about moving forward. But I probably didn't have to tell you that, did I?
It began on a whim. August always makes me long for change. Summer isn't welcome anymore at my house. There are coughs and colds to keep us from the pool. Friends are traveling. Sister is busy with summer reading and band camp. Every morning, the boys pelt me with,
"Can we watch TV?"
Yes.
"Do I get to go to school today?"
No.
"Where is Daddy?"
Work.
"Can I have some yogurt with cereal on it?"
Yes.
In writing, the words are neatly spaced and quiet. In person, all questions overlap each other in rapid fire succession. No matter how I dodge them, one always manages to graze me, causing me to lash out, growling at them to just give me a minute.
I always want something to change in August.
With the beginning of preschool (finally!) this week, I am now getting dressed everyday, which is new for 2012. It is my change in August so far. I will get up, get dressed, and leave the house everyday no matter how sad I am or how lonely I feel. There is life to be lived.
Back to my whim. My whim was school. Being one to detest school, I was delighted to finish college and never look back. Now I'm almost 40 and wondering what I want to be when I grow up. But I don't want to decide on a whim.
So much of my life has blown in and out with the changing seasons and a shrug of, "Why not? What else am I going to do?" I've fallen into opportunities by tripping over a little talent, a little more skill, and a lot of luck. Fall finds me dragging a Fender Rhodes into back alley night clubs, and by Summer, I'm arranging for the symphony and playing for a little crowd of 10,000.
There is no grace to what I accomplish. I stumble into success much like I run into walls or fall over trying to zip my boots.
This time, I want to plan. I have this desire to make goals and figure out a graceful way to reach them. Saving the whims for trips to the park or a mid morning doughnut date with my littles, I would so much like to reach 40 with a plan in place.
Or, if not a plan for graceful entry into my midlife, then I would like to reach 40 with the peace of accepting my midlife just the way it is. Maybe that is goal enough.
My Aunt May is dying. She is 94 years old and has been in a nursing home for a few years. She is the last of the Carter siblings for whom my oldest son is named. She is a fireball. She is strong. She is smart. And now, it is her time to go.
Over the past few years, I've experienced death in many different ways. My grandmother had Alzheimer's and experienced a very slow and difficult decline. She was the first family member or friend that I lost. I was sad but not destroyed.
My other grandmother, Honey, moved to California with my parents when she was around 90. I didn't get to see her much or talk to her in her last years. She was 97 when she died. She died in much the same way that her sister, my Aunt May, is going. She was just worn out of living. Again, I was sad - I lost a great champion in Honey. She believed that I was as close to perfect as God ever made, and I loved her dearly for her belief in me and the strength she taught me.
Next to go was my grandfather. He was one of my dearest friends. It was the first loss that sent me to the floor, knees buckled, tears streaming, and actual physical grief coming forth with no way for me to control it. He told me that he didn't want to go just days before he died. I didn't want him to go either. I was pissed off at God for a long time even though Granddaddy was 94 when he died. It wasn't exactly a surprise
Then, my daddy got sick. So very sick. Parkinson's and dementia took him slowly and cruelly. He died in February of 2011, and I felt relief. I felt relief for him and for my mother who was his primary care giver in spite of her ongoing battle with ovarian cancer. I missed my daddy for a long time before he died. I mourned his death, and I still miss him now, but again, I managed.
What came next was completely different. 364 days after my daddy died, my best friend, my soul sister, my person, she died. Gone. Left this world. Left her husband, her kids, her parents, her brother, and her friends. Some days I'm so angry. Most days I'm just sad. Often it feels like we are all just kind of standing still, holding our breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Susan is gone. What happens next?
What in the world are we all supposed to do now?
It's like that when someone young dies. You don't exactly make long term plans with your daddy who has a degenerative disease or with your 97 year old grandmother. But with your best friend of decades? You plan things. You plan trips. You plan things for your boys. You plan retirement. You dream together because you are peers. I can't imagine the plans that she had with her family.
What do you do with all of those plans?
I know I have to let it go. I have to send it down the stream.
It's just not that easy.
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Kevin and I made a trip down to Georgia for him to meet my relatives there. They are awesome people, and I wanted him to spend a little time with them. His favorite story to tell from that trip is about meeting Aunt May. We got to talking about my grandmother, May's older sister, and her nickname, "Honey." Kevin asked Aunt May why we all called my grandmother "Honey," and Aunt May replied without a moment's hesitation,
"Well it won't because she was sweet."
I love that woman. Thank you, Aunt May, for all you did in helping raise my momma to be the woman she is today. I wish you peace and comfort.
Throughout history, a woman's body has been a commodity. Men have used women to buy, barter, and force their way into power.
It's not a new thing.
The Old Testament is full of women being traded for land or livestock. Fathers bartered with their daughters and sought out valuable deals to obtain wives for their sons.
Monarchies used marriages to create allies and gain strength in their kingdoms. Marriages needed to create sons because the son could take the throne, whereas the daughter was possession for trade. A negotiating tool.
Even in Jamestown, the first English settlement in America, a group of women from England were auctioned off as brides to the men who had settled there. For 150 pounds of tobacco, they bought themselves a new wife.
We didn't belong to ourselves for a very long time, ladies.
Now, the Republican party wants to use women's bodies to barter again. They are selling us out to try and gain votes. They are trading away ownership of something they don't own unless we give it to them.
Do you hear that part? We have to give it to them. Republican women, especially. I won't tell you how I think you should vote. That is up to you. What I will tell you is that if you are a woman, and you still want to be a Republican, then you have to start demanding more from them. You have to maintain ownership of yourself and insist that they quit using you as a commodity.
The economy is a driving force in this election. The economy should be about dollars and cents though, not about rights to the female body.
Y'all, it's not an abortion debate. It's not a contraception debate. It's about the fact that Republican men are using women's bodies to buy votes. It's insulting, it's wrong, and we have to make sure that it does not work. We cannot let them continue to pimp us out for their right wing smoke screen.
Terms like "forcible" and "legitimate" in front of the word rape have got to stop. Blaming women for being victims has got to stop. Impeding access to contraception has got to stop. And while we are at it, abstinence only sex education has got to stop. AND let's go ahead and start reforming the birth industry in this country, because I'm pretty tired of that woman as last priority business model too.
The choices a woman has to make regarding her body are so much more than abortion. We have to be free to choose what kind of birth control we will use. We have to be free to choose if, when, and how we will have children. We have to be free to choose the kind of prenatal, labor, and delivery care we will use, birthing those children. We have to be free to feed our children whenever, wherever, and however we see fit.
Perhaps above all else, we need to be free to be women. Free to be women who are not sexually abused and then attacked over and over again for it for the rest of our lives. It's time we were safe, strong, and respected in our own country.
We can do better than this, y'all. We can do much better.
So. You want to start a blog. Or maybe you have already started a blog. Good for you. Everyone who wants to blog should absolutely do so.
I'm no expert. I have been blogging what is considered a "long time" now. That's funny to me, because I'm still pretty much just swimming in the same little pond with a handful of readers and no ambition to change that.
However.
I have advice for you. You, the newbie. You, the brave soul looking to open yourself up to the internet and see what happens. I have some advice which I offer for free and which you may take or leave. It is what it is.
1. Determine why you want to blog before you start. That doesn't mean you have to have a business plan, an outline, or flow charts of all possible outcomes. It means that you should know if you want to be a storyteller, a memoirist, a reviewer, a tip giver, a fashionista, a cook, a crafter, a parent, or whatever else you might strike your fancy.
You can be more than one at a time. You can evolve from one to the other. You can add or subtract reasons as you go. But know when you start, what your heart's goal is.
Here's why. People want to know who they are investing their time and feelings with. If you are going to be a storyteller, then tell me stories. Don't tell me a tale of your life one day and then offer me a sponsored post about coupons the next day. I will feel betrayed and never come back. If you are going to be a cook, then give me wonderful recipes, and do tell me about your family and life and why you like to eat this. Then I am invested, but I knew from the start that you are going to teach me how to cook.
It's about the transparency. You will hear that a lot if you start going to conferences. Authentic voices. Honesty. No one likes to feel like they have been duped.
2. Determine who you are willing to let pay you for your work. Even the people who "just blog" and do so well deserve to be paid. We pay for television. We pay for music (or we should). We pay for the art on our walls. The stories we read also deserve to earn a living for their authors.
You can be paid a variety of ways in the blogging world. You can post ads. You can write sponsored posts. You can do giveaways. Or so I hear. Honestly, I don't really know how you get paid because it's not on my radar. I do know that you need to be careful about where you sign away your license though.
Here's why. Companies aren't paying you because you are a fabulous and creative writer. They are paying you because in doing so, they think they can sell more product. They are investing something in your blog because they believe there will be a return on their investment. There isn't anything wrong with that, but I'm not going to connect as deeply with a writer who sprinkles in links and advertisements as though they are just natural parts of the essay. In fact, I'm going to click away and not come back because I will feel used.
Freelance writing gigs exist. If you have the know how, then you can get them. If you don't, then hire an agent. But if you want for people to take you seriously as a writer, then don't let a product be the driving force behind your blog revenue (excluding sidebar ads, of course). Know your strengths. Not all writers are good business people. That's fine. If you want to have a beautifully written blog that earns a living for you, but you don't know how? Get help. Be patient, get help, and don't dilute your voice by becoming a brand ambassador. It will feel terrific at first to get attention from companies, but I guarantee you, making a connection with a real person and knowing that they care about you and love you? Feels a whole lot better than knowing that a company loves you. Because they don't. Not really.
3. Be alright with who you are online. You are okay. Maybe your blog is small. Maybe your blog is big. What matters is that you are getting the satisfaction of creativity or community or revenue that you want out of it.
You can have thousands of Twitter followers, but if you don't have ten who you could call up, on a real phone, and talk to when you needed them, then what's the point? Because even if you are blogging solely for business reasons, you have to have a network in order for your business to grow. So make friends. Make connections. But don't let the number be your driving force.
Here's why. If you focus only on the numbers and stats, then you will miss the value of the connections you have made. Be alright with your 19 blog hits. Connect with the 19 people who read your post. Be alright with someone else having 19,000 blog hits. They are obviously doing something to which people are drawn. Go there, see what it is. Enjoy it.
Give yourself the chance to enjoy the community instead of competing with it. It has been said frequently that there is room enough in the blogosphere for everyone. It's true. You just have to find a place to root. Then you can grow high enough to spread your branches.
There you have it. Stuff I think about while I'm cutting up fruit for the week. Or while I'm sewing. Or trying to sleep.
I'm okay. You're okay. We are all okay. Just be clear about who you are and what you want. Then go for it.
It's totally worth it.
I'm sorry you weren't here to watch Colin eat almost an entire length of Dreamland sausage by himself tonight. He is so you reincarnated.
I love you, and I miss you.
I only met Susan one time. We were at the Type-A-Mom conference, and I had my baby with me. Susan got down on the floor with her and started to play. It was so cool.
"Ah," I say. "You must be @mamadweeb."
This is how is was this past weekend without Susan. I could not sit with her. I could not hold her hand. I could not laugh with her until we both cried.
But she was everywhere. Everywhere.
I remember walking into the Serenity Suite and finding Susan laying on the bed with her hands folded on her chest. She was sleeping, and I was thrilled that the Suite was being used so perfectly. I took out my phone to take a picture, and she opened one eye big just enough to give me the stink eye. The stink eye, and permission to go ahead and snap a picture.
"I remember this. It was right before she was to go speak on a panel. She needed to rest so badly. She laughed about that picture you took, Maggie. She told me about it."
I sat in the Serenity Suite and clutched my tissues as story after story as told from the other perspective. And I realized more and more all weekend long that she had told me every single bit of it.
It's not just that she wanted me to know because I couldn't be there with her that year. It is because every moment of her time at those conferences - no - every bit of human interaction at those conferences meant something to her. She loved people. She loving meeting you. She loved seeing your babies.
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Thursday afternoon, Amy and I were in front of the American Cancer Society's Hope Lodge, a place where cancer patients can stay for free while receiving long term treatment. We were about to go in for a reception honoring the #morebirthdays campaign and also honoring Susan.
We stepped onto the sidewalk, and I felt the panic rise all the way from the tip of my toes. In pulses, it moved through my abdomen, calling up my recently finished lunch, made its way to my throat, closing it tightly, and finally tried to escape through the tears welling up in my eyes.
I stopped. Amy stopped. She waited on me. Calmly. Patiently. It didn't take that long. I called up the techniques I've been learning in therapy the past few months, and in few deep breaths, I could move again.
That was how it was at BlogHer without Susan. Without Susan, but with friends who understand.
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Friday morning, the first panel I attended was Blogging for the Love of It. Bon was the moderator. She was one of the first bloggers I started reading in 2006 as per the advice of Susan. We love Bon, and Susan had the privilege of meeting her in D.C. one afternoon. Bon's posts were often a conversation topic for us, and Bon has been a tremendous support to me over the past year.
Walking towards the front of the room to hug Bon, I lost it.
Big, ugly, gasping, sobbing, tears. It came without warning and without being able to stop. I cried on her shoulder (great way for her to have to start her panel), and then excused myself to find some tissues.
With cocktail napkins in hand, and Sarah by my side, I began to pull it back together. Sitting in that session, I realized, this was going to be it. This weekend would be the weekend where I could cry freely because people would get it.
And so I did. I cried when I needed to or felt like it. Jean reminded me that it was okay. Kristen held my hand. Jess cried with me. Amy waited with kindness.
And they understood why I miss her like I do.
And so this happened at BlogHer.
I met Sarah.
Sarah has a fabulous parenting magazine. It doesn't contain one single illustrated recipe for how to make your food look like teddy bears or monsters so that your children can not only refuse to eat it, but also insult your visual artistry at the same time.
What it does contain is brilliant writing and beautiful photographs. Parent centered without being dumbed down and surrounded by ads for hair color and diapers. It's called Stealing Time, and you can subscribe for just $20. I already have.
Anyway, I met Sarah.
There were about 5000 people at BlogHer. Saturday night, nine of us went to dinner together. Sarah picked the spot, and we headed out - me, Amy, Bon, Kristen, Neil, Vicki (who I'm sorry I didn't get to meet because we were split into two tables), Jean, and another Sarah (who I might have mentioned that I met).
After dinner, most of us ended up at CheesburgHer together. Sarah and I were the only ones who had willingly donned paper bag hats. I could tell she was my kind of person. By the hat.
We had not sat at the same table at dinner, so I asked her my jumping off question for the weekend, "Where are you from?"
Sarah was from Portland.
I knew better than to follow up my jumping off question with, "Oh, do you know the one person I know in the very large city from which you come?" Because, no. They do not know that single person who does not blog, is not married, has no children, and plays guitar in a Pink Floyd cover band.
Instead, I was leading into asking her about things to do with kids in Portland because I desperately want to take my children there to see the West Coast and visit this one wonderful friend of mine. And because I'm awkward with conversation in a crowd, over loud music, and with someone I have predetermined to be far cooler than I could ever hope to be, I say,
"One of my very best friends was transferred from the Guitar Center in Raleigh to the one in Portland."
Which is essentially, what I had tried not to do in the first place. That one person I know game. I am so socially awkward. However.
Sarah has a friend in her writing group who works for the Guitar Center in Portland.
I cock my McDonald's bag hat head, raise my eyebrows, and say,
"And his name is Dave?"
Sarah lowers her eyebrows and says that it is.
We both sort of nod in some sort of acceptance that this is one of the more unlikely meetings among 5000 people in New York City for a blogging conference.
And it was.
I know about her writing group. I know there is another mama named Rebecca who also writes and is interested in natural parenting. I know about Dave's story (that one) that we both agreed was our favorite (finish that puppy, Dave).
I told her about our super fast weekend to Portland to see Dave and Crowded House (Dave was not playing with Crowded House, he just went with us). She told me that there were lots of things for kids to do in Portland.
Then, we took a picture together in our hats, and I messaged it to Dave. With no caption. Because what would you do if you got a picture on your phone featuring two of your friends who live on opposite ends of the country, and you have no idea why they would have met? Or why they are wearing McDonald's bags on their heads?
I am back.Around the corner from our house is a delicious and locally owned yogurt store. We used to frequent it at least once a week. The flavors were unique, they always had a vegan option, and we felt like we were supporting our neighborhood.
A couple of months ago, I stopped in at the local butcher to pick up dinner. The butcher is a couple of doors down from the yogurt shop. In the parking lot, in front of the yogurt shop, was a Nestle truck. It was unloading cases of yogurt mix.
I nearly cried.
The first thing I said when I walked back in the house was, "Well, we can't eat at Skinny Dip anymore."
Protests arose. The biggest was from Mallory, who raised the valid point of, "It's just yogurt. It's not like Nestle is really hurt from you not buying yogurt."
It's true. Nestle could care less if I buy their products. If they did care, they would have changed their ways decades ago since the Nestle boycott has been going on since the 70's. Nestle isn't hurting because of the boycott.
Which begs the question, why boycott then?
For me, it's simple. It's my money until I give it to someone else in exchange for goods, services, or the emotional satisfaction of charity. Once I have given someone else control of my money, I don't have any right to say what they should or should not do with it. I have chosen to let them have it, and it is theirs to use however they see fit.
That means, if I believe really strongly in something, like I do breastfeeding and the care of mothers and infants, then I won't give my money to a corporation who makes decisions that are detrimental to that cause. Actions that are repeated with the known outcome of death to babies and the cause of untold cases of failure to thrive and untold cases of undermined breastfeeding attempts - these are actions that I choose not to fund through purchasing products from Nestle.
It's true. The fact that I never buy another Nestle or Nestle family product doesn't matter to their bottom line. It will never change their actions. I know this.
It's about my conscience. It's about me making an active choice not to support such a corporation who does business around the globe without out any concern about the well being of the people. I choose not to support them, and I sleep better at night because of it.
It's also true that I have supported corporations who don't hold the same values that I do. I use UPS, and they have donated money to political candidates who make my skin crawl and my teeth itch. Their choice. I don't see that value difference as actively hurting other people.
And so we come to the chicken sandwich. The chicken sandwich my children love to eat. The chicken sandwich I love to eat. That perfect pickle and adorable cow.
There was a time that I simply disagreed with Chick-fil-a. I knew their position on marriage and their idea of a traditional family. I didn't agree, but I still purchased their tasty chicken and chugged their unlimited Diet Coke refills.
Things are different now, though. Bringing to light exactly where their money is being placed and the fact that the organizations receiving money that I willingly gave to Chick-fil-a are actively hurting people has changed my mind. It took all week, and watching streams of people thumbing their nose to the pain caused by the organizations funded by millions of Chick-fil-a dollars today, but I'm there. I'm to the point where I choose not to give them anymore of my money.
Besides, there are far better things we should be eating in the world besides chicken sandwiches and waffle fries. And when my children ask why we can't go to Chick-fil-a? It will give me the chance to actively show them how to stand up for what you believe and say it's not okay to discriminate against and hurt people.
It's not okay.
Some time last fall, Susan and I had a crazy idea. I don't remember who said it first, nor does it really matter - what with us being of the same mind as we were.
"Let's go to BlogHer in New York. Let's do it. 2012."
We bought our tickets at the super earlybird rate and started making plans for our trip.
Honestly, I was done with BlogHer. It was too big for me. This is my little space, and not many people join me here. I'm fine with it just the way it is. I enjoyed BlogHer the years I had gone in the past, but I didn't feel the need to return.
However.
Susan shone at BlogHer. She was totally in her element. There was this myth that she concocted in her mind that I was the popular one in high school. One glance at the two of us in a crowd like BlogHer, and you would know there was no truth to that whatsoever. She owned the room when she entered. Confident. Friendly. Brilliant. Beautiful. Everyone noticed Susan.
I wanted her to feel that one more time. I wanted to make sure that she got to be in her element again come August. So I bought the ticket with my heart and ignored my head telling me it was fancy.
We made plans to have a handicapped accessible room because there was a strong chance she would be in a wheelchair. We made plans to be in said room a good bit of the time because there was a strong chance she shouldn't be around crowds. We made plans to cart in our own Diet Coke because BlogHer always ends up in a Pepsi place. And Diet Pepsi? No thank you. We don't do Diet Pepsi.
Then came February 6, 2012.
My first thought was to sell my ticket. She was the only reason I was going. But I put it off, and by the time I really started thinking about it, something inside me said, "Just go anyway."
So I am.
I'll be heading to New York City on Thursday morning. It will be three days with women who knew Susan and some women who know me. I don't know what to expect. I don't know if it will be hard, or if it will be healing.
It might simply be fun, like the weekend we just spent with Curt, Widget and Little Bear. There was sadness lingering, but we enjoyed being together so much that the sadness didn't prevail. I think Susan would have been proud of us.
So yeah. While the posts and tweets about clothes and shoes and swag fly by, if you think about it, say a little prayer for me. If you are there, please say hello to me. I tend to disconnect when the sorrow hits, and it's likely that you'll see me just standing around. Quiet. Glazed over. I'll be the one people tweet about as "aloof" or "snobby." But you know the truth.
I'm just wishing my heart had been right this time. I'm just wishing I was tackling this weekend with Susan.
What am I doing here? Not blogging, that's one thing.
I'm healing. Still hurting. Mostly living. Getting help. Finding help for my heart and my boys. Swimming. Working. Sewing. Cooking. Losing weight. Chauffeuring. Vacationing. Hiking. Trying to reconnect with people I adore and miss and have been shutting out.
Considering what comes next.
Nothing makes me miss Susan more than opening blogs. I'm not sure I want to do it without her anymore.
And yet, in a few weeks, I'll be flying up to New York City to attend another BlogHer convention.
What exactly am I doing?
I miss writing. But more than that, I miss knowing that she's reading.
I honestly don't know how it can possibly be May already.
There are friends I have not seen in four months. New babies I haven't met yet. Phone calls I haven't returned. Emails I've ignored. Recitals I've forgotten to attend. This fog, this haze, has consumed me now for almost three months.
And yet, I'm better.
I guess me realizing how disconnected I've been is part of the being better. We can thank my patient, loving family and my awesome therapist for that.
Susan isn't coming back. My grief isn't going away. I have to find a place for both of these, and I'm getting there. Slowly.
If you knew Susan at all, even "just online" (which we all know she valued tremendously), then you know that one of the beautiful things about here - what drew people to her - was how she made you feel about yourself. She was selfless, kind, and even in her scientific socialness, she was a wonderful friend.
Now. Imagine that person was your best friend for years and years and heaped that love upon you like she did even her "just online" friends. Now. Imagine that love a million times stronger.
That's what is gone from my life.
The wake up call in therapy has been that I value myself so very little, and I spent a good part of my life surrounding myself with people who didn't value me either. Susan always valued me; she valued every living creature (I say as I shamefully admit I flushed a bully algae eater fish without a second thought because he was being a jerk to the other fish. Woosh. Goodbye.).
I get it now. Get, as in understand, not have adopted fully and graduated from all further therapy. I get that I have to start here. Deep within me. I have to realize that I wouldn't have had a friend like Susan if there wasn't something valuable about me.
Find the way to love myself. Sounds so trite and textbook doesn't it?
Maybe, but it's my calling now. Because when I can do that for myself, I can teach my children to do it to, and I want that very much. I want my children to know how valuable they are.
So much work to do. So so so much work.
I can't do this.
Every time I come to write, it's because I can't do the happy anymore. Then, when I get a chance to write, I can't stop thinking about the people whose feelings are hurt because I miss Susan so much. As if that makes them less important to me. It's stifling me.
I can't do it. I can't not write about it. I can't carry it with me. I can't hold it in and keep acting like it's alright now.
Yesterday, we were at a birthday party and someone that I've met several times before but don't really know (yet) said, "I'm sorry about your friend." She knew the news because she read Susan's blog.
I was so happy to have Susan come up in a conversation. It felt amazing to run into someone who was thinking about her too.
I think that's why I still go to Twitter and do a search on @whymommy. I still stop by her blog and see if there are new comments. I still check the Whymommy Love Fest page on Facebook. It helps to know that people still think about her. Because I still think about her everyday. Time after time everyday.
***************************************************************
The house is almost finished. About a week after Susan's service, we started a major remodel on our house. Walls came out, and steel beams went in the ceiling. Floors came up, and new ones went down. There was so much painting. I thought the painter was going to just go all Murphy Brown on us.
The painter commented one day about how often Colin says, "Why?" Because, believe me, it is often. He then commented that I always seemed to have an answer for him. I don't, but I certainly try.
"Why, Mommy?"
That's where Susan got her handle. She loved loved loved that her children asked, "Why?" and she strove to always outlast them. She wanted them to be completely done with the chain of "Why" without her ever having to say, "Because I said so."
I try to live up to that. I fail. A lot. But I try.
**************************************************************
We have a new dog. Every time there is loss in my life, I tend to prowl around Petfinder, looking for the perfect pup to fill the hole in my heart. Yes, I know. It won't work. But dogs were just another thing that Susan and I had in common. We both love dogs and have been foster homes to English Setters and Beagles, and have adopted needy pups into our homes to become loving members of our families.
However, I really have been wanting a small dog, and the boys have too. They need to learn that not every dog is a 100 pound docile Labrador who will let them poke, push, ride, and sit on him. They need to learn to be gentle with animals, and Christopher really wants a dog that will sleep with him.
I found a tri-colored Dachshund through a rescue group in Wake Forest called A New Leash on Life (who were fabulous, by the way). After a couple of weeks, Kevin finally agreed to let me submit an application to adopt him. The only problem was that he turned out to not be good with small children, only older ones. So, they suggested Macy.
"She's a wonderful dog. A Chihuahua mix."
Um, no thank you. No Chihuahuas for me, please. But, I knew not to just turn her down flat, so I went to the website to check out Macy.
It's like my Chelsea come back in Dachshund form. I don't think there's a lick of Chihuahua in her - I think she is American Eskimo and Dachshund. It doesn't matter though. Just check out these babies.
First is Chelsea:
Most days I leave my grief right here. Whether I publish it or just save it for myself, typing out my words enables me to go about my daily life as though I didn't have my heart ripped in half on February 6, 2012.
To the outside world, I appear no more strange than I usually do.
Monday was different. Monday was Circle day. It's the first women's Bible study I have been a part of that Susan wasn't also attending, and often, I would call her on Monday afternoons and we would talk about what had been discussed that morning. Sometimes, I would take notes and send her an email with some verses that made me think of her or something someone said that I thought would be meaningful to her.
Monday was different. Monday was Circle day, and I wouldn't be sharing any of what we discussed with Susan that afternoon. Maybe that is why I was particularly raw that day.
Maybe I was raw because I feel safe among those women.
Maybe I was raw because in reality, it still hasn't been that long since she died.
Always
I don't usually know what to say,
But I always will know how to listen.
I don't know the answers to your questions,
But I will search for you and validate your need to ask.
I won't blow anymore sunshine.
I won't hold back anymore tears.
Because you need to know these things:
I know the time will come.
I trust your strength.
I believe in your family.
And this is also true:
I ache with you.
We support each other, and we both hurt.
We are both angry.
We are both scared.
Neither of us needs to apologize for it.
Do you know that it is so hard to give to someone like you?
I want to give everything I can to you, but you - you are always
Arms outstretched
Searching the crowd
Ready to teach, to give, to share.
It's hard to catch you without your arms open to give.
It's hard not to take from you all the time.
That, by the way, was a compliment.
I am the woman who will play it straight with you.
No more sugar coating from me, I promise.
I am the girl with whom you always played straight.
There will never be pompous bags of sand with lit candles in front of my home. In your honor.
You are my favorite one.
The one who restored my faith in lasting friendships, time and time again.
I will stand as strong as I can for you.
Following your example of what a friend really is.
We will be always friends.
Always.
Dear Susan,
Suddenly, February is over, and I'm back at the Presbyterian Women Coordinating Team meeting this morning. The first Monday of every month. The last one was the meeting I was in when Curt called to tell me that you had passed.
Now it begins. The time in my life when I do things without you.
February was just a jumble of days in which I wished you back to this earth with every breath I had.
March has to be the time when I start to move forward again.
The time I spent at home wasn't healing like I hoped it would be, but it was enlightening. I feel like I know what I want my path to be now. I know what I want for myself and my family.
Thanks to you, I also know that I can do it.
While I was in Mississippi, there were four planets visible in the night sky. I grabbed my daddy's binoculars one night and headed outside. Momma lives in the country now, so I thought it would be a great view. It wasn't. It was cloudy every night I was there.
What a metaphor for us and our home state.
I think of things like this - things that I want to tell you - and I tell them to you anyway. People have told me to still talk to you. That you are still with me. I'm starting to figure out what they mean by that.
I miss you, Susan. I miss you every damn day. But I know what I'm going to do without you now. I have plans, plans that you helped me make - plans that I know you are proud of me making.
I will be better. I promise. And I will find a way to make sure you are always with me.
It's like Facebook knows us. On my list of online friends, you are right under Kevin. Because you were the one I talked to the most. I still expect to see the green online dot appear by your name. At first, I wouldn't read the posts people wrote about you. Now I am searching them out, looking for any bit of newness. Something that makes it not be over. I go to Twitter and do a search on your handle and smile at the moms who are thinking of you when their children notice the stars. You are always in the night sky. You are always in nature. You are always with me. I'm going to Mississippi tomorrow. Our place of becoming. I'll drive by your house. By my house. I'll show them to my children. I don't really know why. Probably because you are always with me, and that is where it all began. Instead of where it all ended.
I'm out of words. Tonight, there are just tears and trying to substitute a conversation with my bestie by spending some time on her blog. Tonight, I'll give you a peek into who I miss. Not a patient, or an advocate, or a scientist, or a blogger. Just my friend. Forever.
Dear Susan,
There are only three people on my speed dial. Kevin, my momma, and you. My finger moves towards 7 or 8 several times a day. I know you don't have the energy or the breath to talk, so I don't call but once a day. I'm showing restraint that you will never know I had.
Last Saturday morning I woke up and felt like I couldn't breathe. It felt like my chest had been put in a vice. Every breath I drew was sharp, painful, and very unsatisfying.
Lucky me, I just went to the doctor, had a breathing treatment, got some antibiotics and steroids, and now, a week later, I'm only using my inhaler once a day. Easy peasy.
Your lungs aren't nearly as agreeable. Right now, they are filling up with fluid in which nasty cancer cells swim and multiply. You can't breathe. You won't be able to breathe. This will be the end. We both know that.
While it isn't a surprise, it still has knocked me senseless. The sorrow I have felt since we talked yesterday is crushing me. All I want to do is close my eyes and sleep. My head hurts. My heart hurts.
I don't know what I'm going to do without you.
I have a million questions for you. Everyday I have questions for you. Parenting questions. Questions about books. About math. About space. About fish tanks. About God. About any and everything. You are my Wikipedia.
I don't know what I'm going to do without you.
When I had my first miscarriage in 2006, I grieved here on this blog. I poured my sorrow out through my words so that I could leave the pain here and try to get on with daily life.
A year ago today, we buried my daddy.
Parkinson's and dementia had left him barely recognizable by phone. In person though, there was no mistaking his laugh, the twinkle of mischief in his eye, or the way he held my hand. He never stopped being my daddy.
This past year has been a blur of goodbyes to him. I thought, and I thought wrong, that I had said goodbye to him before he even left. I thought that since he slipped away slowly over time, that I was coping with his death before it even happened.
That, I've discovered, is an impossible thing to do.
Hospice isn't the place to say goodbye. It's the place to say, "I love you. I will be alright." It's the time to hold on tightly and brace yourself with your loved one so that they know that for as long as they are still breathing, they will never be alone.
Only in death can you really say goodbye. Even though he is gone, I keep having to say it to him. Goodbye.
I've been thinking about the idea of heaven lately. I'm supposed to believe in it, as a Christian, and I suppose I do, but I don't believe in any actual description of it. I kind of just have it in my head that it's a promise that after you die, things won't suck.
This week though, I've tried to convince myself of a more concrete vision of heaven. Somewhere over the rainbow bridge where my daddy and Susan's gram would be waiting for Susan to cross over and give them big hugs. Somewhere in a field where Watson, Kepler, and Chelsea would all bound towards her, greeting her with wagging tails and big sloppy kisses. Somewhere Susan could continue being Susan, just without pain or sickness.
I don't know though. It's just not coming to me.
Visions of heaven don't really help right now anyway. Right now, I just miss them. And that has to be okay for now. To just miss them. Daddy and Susan.
So this came in the mail today. A card that I ordered for Susan on January 22. Stupid slow post office.
We are home now. Services for Susan were yesterday. It was a mass. The service in itself was hugely comforting. I loved being in a mass and experiencing what Susan has come to love in a worship service. I loved sitting right in front of the nuns who Susan adored. I loved the music that the music director chose for the service. And the fact that it was his very first day on the job? Amazing. He really did a wonderful job.
I did get to sing for her. Not a performance, mind you, but an offering.
Not many people know that Susan had a really pretty voice. That both her left brain and right brain were equally remarkable. Science and math? Not a problem. Poetry and music? Also right up her alley. She was all about the balance.
On Saturday nights, our youth group hung out. Almost every Saturday night. There was a house on the church property that was just for the youth. We would watch a movie, play pool, have a game of capture the flag, or just talk. Many evenings though, Susan and I would go to the piano, and she would sing harmony with me on the incredibly cheesy pop songs I wrote. Think Indigo Girls, but on piano, we definitely liked boys, and we probably giggled way more than they did.
Singing is something we did together. There weren't a lot of things that we both did. She managed the soccer team at school; I was in band. She was genuinely smart; I was just good at standardized tests. I cook; she does not. But singing and writing? We did that together.
In fact, I still have a journal that she gave me in high school filled with really terrible poetry that I wrote about being misunderstood and boys breaking my heart. In the front, she wrote, "From one closet writer to another."
Ironic that her words would become read by hundreds of thousands of people all over the world.
I'm totally rambling.
Here's the thing. I'm supposed to be coming out of this six month fog of worry and sadness. I'm supposed to be on track to getting things done around the house now. I know this. It's time to get better and get moving.
But today? The first day back? I get an email from Christopher's teacher at preschool. He's being defiant and wrestling at school. He won't keep his hands to himself and has no concept of personal space. It's not the first email I've gotten, and I have tried my best to work with them and help Christopher learn what is expected of him as he is growing up.
Of course, the first thing I would do after receiving an email like that is obvious. I would call Susan. She would talk me through what I should do. Not by telling me what to do, but by asking questions that led us to a reasonable conclusion.
Instead, today I just got pissed. I feel like I'm doing everything I know how to do for Christopher, and for freaking holy biscuits' sake, I'm not at preschool with him. I cannot control his behavior. I cannot be with him 24 hours a day. What is the teacher doing? Why is he acting out there? That's what I want to know, and I'm ready to go in on Monday for a conference with both barrels aimed and make an ass out of myself.
Susan would talk me down from that. Now I have to talk my own damn self down. I don't want to. I want to hear her say that it's going to be alright. That I'm a good mama. That Christopher is a good boy. That having a hard time at school is normal sometimes and that we will find a way to help him.
Why is it that the first day home has to be a day when I really really need her? Oh. Right. Because that is what everyday is. Damn.
For real. Tell me this gets easier. Even if you're lying, just go ahead and tell me that today.
Dear Susan,
Posts I wrote over the past two months will be popping up. Things I needed to say, but it wasn't the time to say them. This is from December 8, 2011.
My best friend is dying.
So you're gone. And I'm doing laundry.
It's so surreal. And so wrong. The mundane things I have to get done today all seem so ridiculous and wrong.
It's a Monday. Colin is at preschool. Christopher and I were at the church in a meeting. I knew that a phone call from your home instead of from your cell phone wasn't a good thing. I didn't answer it. I couldn't. It wasn't fair to Curt to make him leave a message to call him back, but I had to know if it was him, and if he was just telling me that you slept peacefully before I could talk.
"Call me back."
I knew.
I knew this morning when I sat in front of the fish tank. I already felt you missing. Gone. Your fish danced through the water in front of me, and I mourned that you would never see my tank. I am so proud of that tank. Your fish. Your fish live with me now, and I care for them as best as I can. Just like you taught me to.
There are so many things I do exactly the way you taught me to, not the least of which is trying to parent like you showed me.
You made me want to be a mother.
Seeing you blossom into motherhood, knowing what a genius you are, watching as you continued to work and be a fantastic mother - made me want it all too. I wanted a family. You said, "Of course you do." I'll never forget your unwavering belief in me. You knew I would want, and should have, a family.
You always believed in me before I ever believed in myself.
"Of course you can." How many times did you say that to me?
My heart. I don't know how I'll put the pieces back together without you to hold me through it. You always held me through it all. And now, I have to do it without you.
I haven't had to do anything without you since I was 13 years old.
So I sit with those guppies, and I think of you. I try and think how you would get through. But of course, you were always the strong one. I was the flake. You were the rock and I was the willow.
I don't know what I'm going to do without you.
