Parenting

Safe people

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I spent the last couple of days in Wisconsin Dells, the waterpark capital of America. I never really understood why the waterpark capital would be in state with such a cold climate. But I’ve learned not to question such things and decided to hop in the car for a little road trip. I was accompanied by my husband, son, and his girlfriend.

We were there to celebrate my son’s belated birthday. (His birthday was on Father’s Day). And more importantly, we were celebrating Alex going back to tech school and obtaining several certificates in music. He recently found a job in a music store which he seems to like. Meanwhile, he is still creating music and performing with his band. Maybe, at 24, he is finally finding his place in life and figuring out who he is and what he wants to do.

We went after rescheduling the trip three times. The weather this summer has been very odd. It seemed to rain every other day. Every time it rained, it really poured. But you know what they say about the third time. It was a real charm. We had sunny but not overly warm days. The best part, because it was so close to school starting, we didn’t have long waits in lines. We had a great time.

I didn’t go on very many rides. I never had a high tolerance for intense rides, but now my tolerance is much lower as I age. Lexi never went to the outside waterparks before. Thankfully she liked the intense rides so my son didn’t have to go alone. About half the time Paul went with as well. I didn’t mind sitting and watching. It was kind of fun to just watch them.

While I was at the bottom of the slide watching for Alex and Lexi, Paul left to head to the bathroom. He came back a few minutes later with a little girl and a baby in a stroller. What?? Apparently the little girl was frightened because she couldn’t find her parents. She came up to Paul and asked for help. She left the baby in the stroller and walked around with Paul in search of her parents. I went to the stroller and looked inside. There was a sleeping boy somewhere around 18 months old. The girl told Paul she was 6.

I felt a surge of anger rise up in me. What kind of parents would leave their 6-year-old in charge of a baby so they could go on rides?? After about 10 minutes, the girl saw her parents coming off of a ride and her anxiety and fear visibly turned into relief. Paul comforted her the whole time and reassured her that her parents were coming back for her. Then he delivered the kids to their parents and we were on our way. I asked him if he said something to the parents about keeping a better eye on their kids. He said he didn’t because the parents were from a different country with a culture different from ours.

I said it shouldn’t matter. Responsible parents don’t just leave their little kids behind to go on rides. Geez, what could possibly go wrong? Two little kids left alone around water not far from the wave pool. The little girl asking a stranger, a man by himself, for help. Good thing she asked Paul. And I was afraid to leave behind my phone to go on rides. A million scenarios were going through my mind about what could’ve happened to those kids, none of them good.

I wish I could say I didn’t see the kids again, or better yet I saw the parents taking the kids on rides. But I saw them two more times at the park. The second time I was sitting at a table waiting for my clan to get off a ride. There they were at the table next to me. I went over and talked to the girl who was sitting on the table. This time the baby was awake and babbling in his stroller. The girl was no longer afraid being left behind. She spoke to me until my group got off the ride and we left.

The third time I saw the kids, they were sitting at the same table. The girl was sitting on a chair dozing off in front of the stroller. It seemed like she had been waiting for a while. I felt fearful for them. I wanted to tell off the parents. Paul asked me what I was going to do that was going to change things for the kids. Paul was right, there was nothing I could do except be a safe person for those kids. Although telling off the parents would make me feel better, it could lead to a worse situation for the kids.

I had to let it go and focus more on what I can influence and change. In that moment, life was good. We were on a mini vacation celebrating my son’s accomplishments. The weather was good. The parks were quiet. And for a moment some tiny hands reached to ours knowing we were safe people.

A different path

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It’s that time of year again…Father’s Day weekend. This year I really lucked out and found a rather generic card. It said something like ‘Ears to you, have a great Father’s Day’. On the front of the card was a picture of a beagle with big ears. I sent it off in the mail yesterday and now I’m done.

It really doesn’t bother me as much anymore that I don’t have the kind of dad I can buy a heartwarming inspirational best dad ever card for. I mean, it sucks, but I’ve accepted that.

Instead, I’m going to put the focus on what matters the most and that is the family I built. I’m going to celebrate the day with the father of my kids. It’s also my son’s birthday on Father’s Day, but we’ll be celebrating that another day.

There is a time to let go and accept what is. It’s not what I would’ve chosen if I had the choice. And when I had the choice, I took a different path.

Mental health awareness month

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Many of you are probably aware that May is mental health awareness month. Maybe you already shared the cutesy memes on social media stating you are a friend that anyone can call day or night. Maybe that is enough for you to feel good to check off your awareness month, and have moved on to planning your pride party for June. Or maybe you also live in Wisconsin and are stocking up on cheese curds for June dairy month. I know, I know…cheesy..

Or maybe you are like me and found out that mental illness is not all that cute. Maybe you or your loved one has already lost the friend that you can call anytime. Mental illness is tough. I’m sure everyone who struggles with it would remove that part of their life if they had the choice. It’s so painful and malignant, that far too many remove themselves from life altogether when it refuses to leave them.

Through NAMI, and talking with other parents whose children struggle with mental illness, I was surprised to find some striking similarities. I am not the only parent whose child attempted suicide. I am not the only parent whose child was incarcerated after a psychotic episode. I am not the only parent whose child, after making abuse allegations, moved in with another family. I am not the only parent whose child hears voices commanding them to end their life and soothing voices telling them how peaceful death is. I am not the only parent whose child has lost a lot of good friends because of their mental illness. I am not the only parent whose child was bullied because they are different.

I could make a much longer list. But the point here is awareness. Don’t blame the family. Don’t blame the mentally ill. Most would choose to change it if they could. Don’t shun them out of ignorance or fear. Treat them as if they have a potentially life threatening form of cancer. Treat them with compassion while being mindful of your own mental health as well.

Be kind to the server who has cutting scars all over her arms. For today, she has successfully battled the voices in her head. She has battled the voices outside her head sending similar messages about her worth. She has many battle wounds but is still alive fighting. That girl is also my daughter. But she could be your daughter as well. Or your son, sibling, parent, partner, neighbor, friend, or yourself.

Be aware that one in five Americans struggle with mental illness.

On caring

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It’s been four years ago today since my daughter Arabella’s first suicide attempt. In this I am rejoicing because she is still alive. It’s been a long hard road, but here we are.

Yesterday, in the early morning hours of Valentine’s day, Arabella had her tonsils removed. So far nothing crazy has happened, unless you count the nurse splattering blood all over the floor with her second attempt to start an IV. All of that makes me quite queasy, along with the thought of anyone I care about being in pain.

I was asked this week if I considered getting medical training to care for my parents in their home. Nope, that thought never crossed my mind. Then I felt the guilt of maybe that thought should’ve crossed my mind. I just don’t think I could do it.

I’ve been a caregiver since the beginning of my time, while I myself was still in the need of care. The earliest (traumatic) memory of that is of watching my three younger brothers by myself in the lake when I was six. My youngest brother almost drowned. I was always the ‘second mother’ since I can remember. I was my mom’s ‘best friend’ and I had to take care of her and make sure she was okay while I went uncomforted.

As a teenager, I was providing care for my autistic brother Matt who was less than two years younger than me. I was also helping with showering and personal care. My mom relied on me more than she relied on my dad when I was yet a child. Starting at age 12, I started working as a babysitter for about a dozen neighborhood families.

In college, I worked as…you guessed it, a caregiver. I was still a caregiver for my brother Matt along with a man with schizophrenia and a woman with dementia. Two months after college graduation, I got married, and two months after that I was pregnant. I never questioned whether or not I would be a good mother. I was actively parenting my own three kids from 1998 through 2021. While actively parenting, I became a babysitter to several other children, one of whom was in a wheelchair. I also provided care for my Great Aunt Grace who had dementia which also included bathing and personal care.

Then in 2020, exactly 4 years ago today, my daughter developed a serious mental illness. Even though she turned 18 in 2021, I will probably have to provide care for her in some capacity for the rest of my life. I will also become the guardian of my brother Matt when my parents can no longer do it. Last week we had the conversation of putting me on my brother’s account so I can write checks if my parents are unable to so he can continue to stay in his group home without disruption.

Right now my mom seems to be slipping into dementia, but physically she is in great shape. My dad is of sound mind but in horrible condition physically. The only thing normal about my parents is that they both want to stay in their home as long as they can. They don’t want any caregivers to come out to the house because they don’t trust that people won’t steal from them. I have been helping them check what their options are. I am totally fine helping them manage their care and making sure they are in a good place, but I don’t think I would be willing to be their caregiver.

Some may say it’s selfish, but I have my own life and my own problems. This week I started a new medicine for ulcerative colitis. I have my own health issues. But even if I didn’t, I still wouldn’t want to do it. I can’t recall one single good memory with my dad. He was abusive and his issues with addiction pushed most of the family away. If he was a great dad, I would bend over backwards to help him. There is truth to the old saying of you reap what you sow. When I was younger I hungered and thirst for justice. But not any longer as I see it playing out before me just as it was meant to be.

There is a reason why some old people are sitting alone with no visitors at the nursing home. No doubt, it is incredibly sad. I wish it wasn’t that way either. But if you never put any money in the bank, how are you supposed to take any money out?

I try to put everything I can into my relationships that are meaningful. Everything else can take the back burner.

The darkest day of the year

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It’s been unseasonably warm here in Wisconsin. It looks like we will set an all time high record on Christmas day. No white Christmas for us this year. We barely had any snow fall yet. It doesn’t feel like Christmas is just a few days away.

Today on the darkest day of the year, I always think of my great-uncle Harold. He would’ve been 98 years old today. Every year on his birthday we would go to his house and celebrate with him. There would be steaks and pineapple upside down cake. Aunt Grace would serve food on the multi-colored Fiesta plates, the only day of the year they would leave the pantry. It was one of the few days we saw Harold laugh and tell stories. Most of the time, he was next door working on cars at the family business.

Harold died unexpectedly the year Paul and I got married. I remember the last time I saw him. Paul and I were visiting my family to tell them the exciting news we were going to have our first child. We were able to tell everyone except Uncle Harold. He was outside working on a car while talking to clients. We didn’t want to interrupt him so we asked Aunt Grace if she could share the news. That was the last time I saw him alive.

We never really know how much time someone has left. If I knew, maybe I would’ve waited longer to talk to Harold. I think that is where a lot of my irrational guilt kicks in. If I’d only known, I could’ve done something different. I’m starting to let go of things, but it takes time to process. I couldn’t prevent the suffering of the people I care about and that hurts.

I tried reaching out to our previous employee today. But it was too little too late. I haven’t seen her for 5 years and I thought I could do something to prevent her from struggling with addiction, from committing a crime, and even from the attempt I think she tried to make on her own life? I want to help people. I want to fix them but I can’t. It’s as if I am wanting to play God and even He does not step in to keep people from physically dying and making their own choices.

I am feeling a lot better today. I wasn’t feeling the greatest yesterday, but I decided to volunteer yesterday and I’m glad I did. For awhile I forgot about my own pain. I spent a half an hour holding the baby of a homeless teen mom. He brought me joy as I held him and made him laugh. The mom needed clothes for her kids and was on her last diaper. She is a single mom living in her car with a two-year old and a baby. We had a record number of people who came in needing help yesterday.

Yesterday we had a new woman sign up for help from Africa. She is a single parent who recently came to America. She doesn’t speak any English and has zero education. She lives in a bad neighborhood. What really struck me was that there were several women from the same community that only speak Swahili. They are all parents between the ages of 20-25, the ages of my own children. I can’t even imagine what that must be like and to have absolutely no education. There is a language barrier with a lot of families that come in. It’s my goal this new year to become fluent in at least one other language starting with Spanish because I do know a little from high school, like way back from the last century.

There was a woman who came in that got arrested last week for child abuse. Ever since my own daughter was arrested, it’s really changed my view of criminals. Offering to help someone in need does not equate with me agreeing with the choices they make. They are people too. I am not afraid of them as much anymore. But that doesn’t mean I would walk down an alley by myself at night in a bad neighborhood.

Then there was the lady who stayed at the domestic abuse house. There was the lady that didn’t know she was pregnant with twins until two months before they were born. The people who reek of alcohol, cigarettes, and weed. The mentally ill. The intellectually challenged. Those who are going back to school to try to build a better life. The grandparents raising grandchildren.

I can’t go back and change anything in the past. But I can move forward and help people today.

The places I volunteer at are really hurting for volunteers over the holidays. So I decided to sign up at the places the next two days. Tomorrow helping families in need and Saturday at the cat sanctuary. I almost enjoy holding the cats as much as I enjoy holding babies. I especially love the feral cats or the cats that don’t warm up well to other people.

Maybe I can do some good to negate some of the bad in the world.

Gratitude week 175

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  1. Even though it’s been a cold spring, things are starting to bloom. The grass will soon need mowing. Our decorative pond is up and running.
  2. The last ditch effort to get our ice machine working worked.
  3. Volunteering today with my daughter Angel sorting kids clothes.
  4. I started screening films for next year’s film festival. Unfortunately so far they have all been duds. But it’s been fun.
  5. Angel and Dan came for supper last night and visited for awhile.
  6. We were able to get Arabella into an inpatient program.
  7. Going to rummage sales with my daughter and her friend. No real great finds, but I enjoyed it anyway. I’m happy for the start of rummage sale season.
  8. I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to do for Mother’s Day and I think I figured something out. Since two of my kids are talented musicians, I want to create a song with them for Mother’s Day.

The blame

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This past week I finished reading A Father’s Story, a memoir written by Lionel Dahmer the father of notorious serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer. I found a renewed interest in the story after watching the Dahmer Netflix series. I remember the story unfolding as a teenager in the early 90’s. At the time I tried to find out everything I could about the case which wasn’t much because…well…pre-internet and 4 TV channels. I did read a couple books back in the 90’s but nothing like this.

I gave the book 5 stars. The memoir was very emotional, dark, and painful to read. I could find myself relating to Lionel. I have to think that every good parent tries to seek the answers deep down within themselves as to why their child went astray. What did I do or not do that could’ve caused this? What part of me do I see in them? Why do we have this need to know or blame ourselves or others?? It was very clear to me that he was reaching at every little straw to blame himself for what his son did. He could’ve trashed his ex-wife but he didn’t. He blamed himself for his traits he saw in his son. He talked about the hopes and dreams he had for his son before he knew he was a killer. He wrote about thoughts and feelings every parent has.

At times while reading this, I found myself in tears. I could relate to Lionel’s analytical mind and his tendency to throw himself into work as a way to cope. Although I can’t relate to what it is like to have a child who is a killer, I can relate to how he felt. The book was challenging and triggering to me at times. It’s impossible to not blame yourself as a parent. I still struggle with that as a parent of a child with mental illness. I had big dreams for her before this all happened. We were going to go on college tours. But instead of going off to college, my daughter spent the end of her senior year in a residential mental health facility after multiple hospitalizations, threats of suicide, and an outpatient program.

My dreams of her living a normal life were gone. Just seeing her is a painful reminder of that. Her body covered with hundreds of self-harm scars so deep they will never fully heal. I feel somehow that some of it was my fault. I remember at one of her earlier hospitalizations one of her doctors blamed me for her condition. The research says that Borderline Personality Disorder is a trauma based disorder a majority of the time. But not always? I don’t want this kind of life for my child. She has a hard time taking care of herself and holding down a job. Nobody cares. The system doesn’t care. The dozen therapists she burned through don’t care. The multiple doctors and health care systems don’t care either.

It falls back to us as parents. Investing our time and resources trying our best to help her help herself. That’s not the life I wanted for her or myself. It’s painful especially after my daughter accused me of abuse and neglect, others thought poorly of me, and I’ve blamed myself. I can relate to trying my best and sometimes it is just not good enough. There is grief in letting your dreams for your child die. It’s so painful that at times I deceive myself with false hope. It’s awful having a child who wants to kill themselves. I can’t imagine the weight of having a child who kills other people.

The other day my son walked in while I was crying for one of the first times. I didn’t want him to see me like that. He choked up with tears in his own eyes telling me he felt sad by my pain. He tried to comfort me in the moment. He was calm, kind, and empathetic. I showed him a side of myself he doesn’t usually see and in return I saw likewise. It feels good to have the support of my spouse and other adult children for the times I blame myself for having a child who is not everything I dreamed of her being.

This week I’m reading I’m Glad My Mom Died, a memoir by childhood actress Jennette McCurdy. Oh boy, it might be a long week…

10 days

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The church was full and I was in the front row. The sermon seemed to go on forever. It didn’t seem right, how a wedding was supposed to be. It started with a sermon and then they do the rest of the wedding later? I got a call saying it was time to get ready. On the way out, someone said next time not to do such a long sermon.

I went upstairs in the attic of the church to get ready. There was big puffy insulation laying on the floor and the ceiling hung low over my head in an upside down V. There was a small mirror, nothing else. I didn’t look right. Something was wrong with my hair. Something was wrong with my daughter’s hair too. Her long golden tresses were shorn short and didn’t look good. She was the bride, so my hair shouldn’t matter but I kept trying to fix it but nothing worked.

Angel’s college roommate’s mom was there helping us but she really wasn’t helping. She clucked and chirped acting really helpful but did nothing besides make me feel totally inadequate in helping my daughter get ready. I couldn’t even help myself. It reminded me of the college music competitions. Angel and her roommate getting ready to compete, both equally talented, but her roommate’s mom also went to school for music. She dropped names and acted like a big shot whereas I sat silently watching because I had nothing to say.

Angel, who thought I was an amazing singer and wanted my guidance in high school, long left me in the dust. I could hear the mistakes back then. The college competition singers were all extremely talented. Angel would ask, “Mom, did you hear where they messed up?” But I couldn’t hear it anymore. It all sounded the same to me. I was no longer holding that special knowledge we once shared. She could hear things beyond what I could hear. I gave her a gift and she went off running with it. What more could I ask for really? It was the feeling of being left behind when what I thought was once necessary and important. Bittersweet, a loss for me was a gain for her. I couldn’t help her anymore.

Loud heavy metal music was playing as we were getting ready. I knew the song, maybe it was a song by Alice in Chains both Angel and I like. I felt like it was sacrilegious to be playing that music loudly in a church especially overheard by the wedding guests waiting below. It made me uncomfortable. I felt like a prude when I told someone to turn it off because it was inappropriate. They put something else on, something I didn’t like which was more appropriate. I felt comfortable with that although it wasn’t what I wanted.

Then I woke up with 10 more days…

Timshel

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I first heard of the concept Timshel in the book East of Eden by John Steinbeck. It means thou mayest in Hebrew. Timshel is saying we have a choice between good and evil. You can choose the path you take. Will others rejoice upon our passing or will there be great sadness based upon the choices we made in how we love one another. I know I am not giving the 600 page book justice with my mere 600 words.

I wouldn’t consider the book to be a happy story. But it was a feel good book because of its realistic perspective. Some of the big themes dealt with relationships between siblings, sibling rivalry, and the parent/child relationship. One of the things that really hit home for me was the struggle the characters experienced within. If my parent chooses evil, what does that make me? The book brings up the thought that although your parent may choose evil doesn’t mean that you are destined for the same choices. They have a choice just like you do.

I won’t lie to you, I sometimes struggle with this. I try hard to be a good person, but plenty of times I fall short. My dad did a lot of evil things. Does that make me evil even though I did not make the same choices he did? Sometimes I see him in myself. I hate to be reminded of him when I look in the mirror, how I talk, or how I walk. But it’s there. I have to wonder if that is the only thing there. Maybe he passed his evil down to me.

Logically, I know it’s crazy to think that, yet sometimes I do. The weight of his decisions has brought many people down. My mom is really struggling with her mental health over it. My brother Luke will not have his kids around my dad. I rarely see my brother and haven’t seen him, his wife, or my nieces yet this year. My dad is not invited to holidays. He is not invited to my daughter’s wedding. We always wonder if and when the police will be back to my parent’s house. But those are all just the external things which make life difficult and complicated.

I think the internal pain is worse. The anxiety that somewhere deep inside I might be guilty just for being his daughter like choosing evil is an inheritable trait. Sometimes I have to keep telling myself I am not responsible for my parents. I am not responsible for my adult children. I am responsible for me and my choices alone.

I don’t have a dad I can be proud of. He has brought nothing but shame to the family name. I wish I could say his choices affected only himself. If the evil choices other people make cannot be attributed to us then neither can the good. Having a child who chooses good does not equate to having good parents any more than having a child who chooses evil equate to having bad parents. Why is this so hard to understand? Why do we need something or someone to blame for the bad choices others make? It’s true some people have more obstacles than others. But is that really a good excuse? Maybe they just made a bad decision because that is what they wanted to do.

My grandparents were wonderful people. My dad, not so much.

Timshel. Everyone has a choice.

Again, I would highly recommend reading East of Eden. It’s very well written and thought provoking. It had a lot of interesting twists and turns in the classic drama by John Steinbeck. I’ve read several other books by the same author decades ago, Of Mice and Men and The Grapes of Wrath were among my favorites. I hope to read more of his books in the near future. They always have a way of making me think about things differently.

The old normal, part 7

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One of the biggest changes since the start of COVID is having an empty nest. When COVID began, I had four teenagers living in my house. Granted, two of them were foreign exchange students. Back then all my children were in school of some sort…high school, tech school, college. Now I don’t have any children at home or in school. That has been a huge change for me.

For almost 20 years of my life I had children in school. I was involved in their education. When they were little, I volunteered in their classrooms. I attended countless sporting events, field trips, concerts, conferences, and ceremonies. My weekends and a lot of week days were booked with kid stuff. My calendar was full. I was driving the kids all over the place. I was interacting with other parents. Then less than a year ago that abruptly ended. A month ago, my last child who was living with us moved out.

It’s been a big adjustment going from being needed to questioning what my purpose is now as a mother whose children are grown up and gone. It’s a strange experience having to only be responsible for me. Seeing moms wrestle in the grocery store with car seats and unruly kids makes me feel free, yet I miss it. It’s bittersweet. It’s so ingrained in me to want to take care of other people that I don’t know what to do with it now that it’s gone.

My life has changed so much in the last two years. The old normal is gone. I’m not sure where to even start. But it is a new beginning, a new season, a new chapter just waiting for me to explore. That can be exciting and fun.