What do YOU do to help you cope with stress? Some people turn to addictions (drugs, alcohol, food, sex), some people turn to games (WoW, anyone?). Yesterday was one of the toughest days I’ve ever experienced. It was tough because so many things seemed to happen at once. You know, those times when you look up and say, “Seriously?” My hubby went downstairs and started writing e-mail. He told me that when he’s stressing, he needs to write. He’s such a good writer, so that can be a good thing, for sure. It only becomes a problem when what he’s writing is an e-mail, a not-so-nice e-mail, and he hits send. Luckily, this was not one of those times.

So what about me? I’ve always known that when I feel particularly stressed or upset, I need to get into the shower. I’ve done that for years. I may be cold or feel dirty, but it’s mostly whatever emotional need that is filled when I’m showering. Also, like most women, one of the things I end up doing, especially when I’m angry, is clean the house. If only that was a more effective tool: I could have a clean house 24/7! Alas, I’m on to that one, so it’s not so good anymore. Last night, though, I felt completely helpless. Where do you go and what do you do when there is nowhere to go and nothing that can be done?

I spent a little bit of time in our bedroom, after the shower, pondering and wondering if there was anything we could try (it’s the next day, and mostly nothing has been addressed). Before long, I realized that I was staring at the dresser next to my side of the bed, thinking of ways to write different words in steno. I was making up briefs! It brought me a small amount of comfort. THAT I could control. It was freeing, just for a few minutes, and that’s what I needed.

As for the stressors, here they are: First, Aaron texted me to say he had “had it” with his school. That was worrisome, and I tried to talk to him via text. Next thing I know, he’s telling me that they said he has to leave for a few days. Meanwhile, Darryl is also texting me to tell me the same thing. Later I learned that the school had had a conference call with Darryl and Aaron, Aaron’s counselor and teacher, and they described an incident that had occurred with another student. The decision was that the board needs to meet Thursday and decide what’s to be done with Aaron. In the meantime, he can’t be there.

Next, though, was the fact that we are down to our very last $18, and that’s if we “borrow” from Scott and Kristina’s practice jars (long story), we have very little gas in the car, and I have to drive to Northern Virginia for a job on Tuesday, and we don’t know how we can afford that. Compound that with the fact that a new, awful-looking “leak” has appeared on the driveway under our car. Something has gushed out, but we’re not certain what it is. When Darryl came to the train station to get me yesterday, the car was making a loud rattling noise when he would turn, and the car didn’t smell good. That meant, of course, that we had no way to go get Aaron. Later Aaron called to say someone was bringing him home.

We learned more from him and from the gentleman who brought him home about what was going on at school, and that’s going to require some phone calls and fact gathering on Monday. It’s one of those stories that really upset those who care about people who are handicapped and the care given to them by those who are supposedly put in place with specialized skills but fall short. Blessedly for me and for Aaron (especially for Aaron), while Darryl was trying to be a good father and give Aaron the kind of tough love he needs, Darryl was also sensitive to the Spirit, and he heard what he needed to hear and said what he needed to say. Tell me, how can you not be madly in love with a man who loves your children?

Darryl mentioned something that has troubled both of us for a while. Here we are, two talented people (I am a one-trick pony, but he's got so many things he can do and do better than many others), and both of us want to work. We want to support our family. We don't want to be given a handout. Yet here we are, unable to get work, unable to wear ourselves out in the effort to bring our family the monetary blessings we all need. So what else can we do? We have the ability, we have the willingness. Please let us have the opportunity and, more importantly, let us recognize and gratefully grab hold!

Today, Saturday, Aaron is temporarily in our basement (again, poor kid), Darryl and Scott limped over to band practice to give Darryl a little bit of “time off.” Kristina is trying to find someone who can come over. I’m all caught up with my work, my Sunday School lesson is prepared (but will we have a way to church?) I’m glad to have an opportunity to write and to think. I have beautiful music playing and a heater keeping me warm. Aaron and Kristi are entertaining themselves.

As I mentioned, I just spent half an hour or so putting together the finishing touches to my Sunday School lesson. Does the Lord love us or what? Tomorrow’s lesson is about Nephi, a young man who suffered through all kinds of affliction with and sometimes at the hands of his family, but he never stopped believing in his father or, more importantly, in the Lord, who he knew would give him what he needed to do all things the Lord required of him.

I can do this. We can do this. If nothing else, it is making us stronger people and maybe giving someone else the opportunity to take stock of his/her own life and say, “Wow! At least I’m not as bad off as the Barksdales! Their life seems much more difficult than mine!” You’re welcome :D

Turning the Hearts of the Children

Today is January 7, 2012. It’s going to be 65 degrees today. We live in Virginia. Seriously. Of course, despite the warmth and sunshine, it is freezing inside our house, and I can’t believe that I keep wanting to go outside to warm up. In January. Really. Thank you, Al Gore.

There’s been no work since December 22nd. Well, that was the date of the last job I reported. I finished transcribing that job by January 1st. I was supposed to work again this past Thursday, same job as the 22nd, but the case settled (Darn it! I hate it when people settle their disagreements!) I was also scheduled to work the 10th, 11th, and 12th on a hearing in Richmond. Good money and for a firm that pays quickly. Alas, for whatever reason, the hearing was canceled or postponed. Happy new year to me! I’m looking ahead in my calendar and seeing only one job in my near future: I have an all-day deposition in Stafford on Tuesday. Or do I?

The period between Thanksgiving and Christmas was not only ridiculously busy for that time period but for ANY period I’ve worked in my entire career! Great jobs, tons of pages, about 2/3 of which have paid. I didn’t receive any Christmas presents, but we were able to get some nice things for the kids, and that’s what really makes me happy. Okay, I *did* receive a gift of “smelly stuff” from Kristina, along with some fuzzy warm socks. That smelly stuff will last a long time, and the aforementioned cold house makes me sad that my socks can’t be clean EVERY day.

Tomorrow I teach Sunday School, and my lesson is prepared. House is relatively clean. No laundry to do. I know what I’m making for dinner, and it takes about 15 minutes to prepare to put in the oven, and it’s only 12:15 now.

My husband hates it when I’m in a position like this. If he knew what was on my mind, he’d hate it even more! It’s not good for Tracy to have time for reflection. It’s best for me to have so much to do that I can only long for days like today. Now that I’m having one, I sure wonder why I would want to! Usually I write when I feel compelled, whether by inspiration or frustration or heartache, it’s always the same. The words just seem to flow from my brain to my fingers, and I have a hunch that I am breaking my normal 115+ wpm. Other times I have the time to write, I want to write, but I don’t know what I need to write.

Some days I look at myself in the mirror and find it so puzzling to realize that the face I see is 50 years old. It’s not just that I actually don’t look like a 50-year-old woman, but I still feel like I still haven’t started. The bad days are when I look at the face and think I feel 100 years old, and I have nothing to show for it! Right now I’m six months older than my ex was when he died, nine and a half years younger than my dad was when he died. Who knows when it’s over?

Whenever I find myself with some time, I venture over to ancestry.com and dabble in genealogy. Part of it is like a fascinating puzzle. It’s so cool to find individuals and plug them into families. I crave the opportunity to take some of these people with me to the temple and eternally plug them into those same families. Elijah is definitely with me those days because my heart aches, both with joy over my successes and sorrow over the dead ends. And then there’s the things I learn about these people from just their names and dates. Like all the young mothers who lived just long enough to bear my ancestors so that eventually I would be born to bear the ancestors of my future descendants. One of my closer ancestors (mid 1800s to early 1900s) was married four times. He had so many children that I’ll bet he just wore his wives out! In that exercise I not only developed a sense of awe that his second wife, my great-great-great grandmother, who died at the age of 28, was able to bear five living children, but I felt a love and kinship for the two wives who followed her and actually raised those children, including my own great-great grandfather.

Someone posted something on Facebook that made me smile. It was a list of most-often mispronounced English words. One of them was irregardless, which isn’t a word, but it sure gets used a lot. That made me think of an argument my (subsequently) ex-husband was having with my father when we lived with my parents for two months back in 1982. The ex loved to use the word irregardless. In fact, he said a LOT of things wrong, either using wrong words or pronouncing them incorrectly (like Michele and Erica’s friend Allie…pronounced like alley….whose name he ALWAYS pronounced like Ali as in the prizefighter’s last name). We eventually called him Rheto-Rick (behind his back, of course). At any rate, my dad used to pronounce Italian “Eye-talian,” and yet even he knew that irregardless wasn’t a word. So after Rick used the word…again…to dismiss the solid arguments my dad was making, my dad looked at him in disgust and said, “That’s not even a word!” I miss my dad :D

Because I seem to have a case of ADD, my brain started traveling down the “things I miss” road. So here are a few things:
I miss the days of my early childhood where we spent a lot of time getting together with family, mostly my dad’s, but that’s because they lived closer. We also drove down a couple times a year to get together with my mom’s family. I regularly saw most of my cousins till I was about 14, then less and less until we all grew up. That makes me sad. And it makes me sad for my kids, who very rarely see their cousins. Of course, when they DO, it’s a party!

I miss going camping with my family. Sleeping in a tent, swimming in the river, being tied to a rock in Fort Bragg, California, so I wouldn’t fall off the cliff while my parents and grandparents were fishing in the Pacific. I miss lying in the bed of my dad’s pickup as we traveled about four or five hours. My brother and I were comfortably snuggled in warm sleeping bags and had a tarp secured over us (like that would keep us safe!) and had a great time. I kind of miss the imagination of childhood.

I miss my dad. Every day. He was funny and irreverent and rude. I don’t miss all those things about him, but it hurts my heart that he hasn’t seen his grandchildren grow. Well, in the case of some of them, maybe it’s better that way. I mean, he would either chew them out royally or simply stop speaking to them altogether. Of course, there is the very real possibility that if he had still been here, he would have somehow been able to prevent the erosion of our family.

My step-grandfather died of throat cancer. It was a miserable way for such a nice man to go. He made my grandmother happy, and he was really generous. He was an alcoholic, so I guess it’s better for us that he was one of the nice ones. When the funeral home was trying to embalm him, they had real trouble with his chin because that part of him was in such bad shape and just seemed to erode, no matter how careful they tried to be. I bring that up because I think about that all the time. Yeah, it’s just like that.

I miss my brother. The old one. The one who was just another person in the family. He was funny and fun. Until our dad died, he was just my little brother. Then he let his own notions of his role in the family go a little nuts, and hurt and harm ensued. It’s too bad because despite the things I know and the things I hear (I know a lot of people who know him, it turns out), I’ll bet he’s still funny and can be fun.
Did I mention that I miss my dad? I miss being someone’s little girl. I miss how, even though he could drive us all crazy with his prejudices and dislikes, when the day was done, he was a fierce father and grandfather who loved his family.

I miss the innocence of my youth. I slogged through high school, already battling the depression that has been my closest companion for as many years as I can recall. If I hadn’t been so depressed and so afraid, I wonder what I would have done? What would I have become? Who knows? What I *don’t* miss about that innocence is the sense of self-righteousness I didn’t even know I possessed. If I view the people who have come into my life in the ensuing years through the filter of I-have-never-had-a-real-trial-or-real-temptation-in-my-life, it is embarrassing to think how I would have treated them. So there is that consolation :D

Another thing I appreciate now is that I have learned a lot in the 35 years since I joined the LDS church. My early testimony came from the Spirit and hope. Much of that testimony has transitioned to knowledge and better understanding, both of which I appreciate so much. I’ve been teaching Sunday School for four years now, and I love how just reading the scriptures, more familiar now than they were before, opens my understanding m ore and more. I just shake my head when some person who barely understands his or her own religion scoffs at us because, well, obviously, we are members of a cult and are all destined for hell. It’s sort of like a citizen of France trashing Americans based on his being an avid viewer of “The Dukes of Hazzard.”
I will never regret the decision to start court reporting school. It was such a perfect choice for me. I won’t say that I’m, by any means, the best out there, but I am passionate about doing the best *I* can and being an advocate for human beings playing such an important role in keeping the record. I curse the aging body and mind that cause me to struggle, but again, I’m so grateful to have tools I can sharpen and improve along the way.

Last year was rough. 2011 is not a year upon which I will look back with fondness. That said, there have been some quiet joys for which I am eternally grateful. There is the quiet joy of an absence of anger and hate. Most of my adult life, those have been constant residents in my home, despite my efforts to be Pollyanna. Now that they’re gone, I am glad to say “good riddance!” There is the quiet joy of knowing my kids love me and need me. Me. Huge. There is the quiet joy of knowing that the goals of the four of us are neatly aligned. We all want the same things in our home. There is the quiet and fulfilling joy of the love I share with my husband. Without the distraction of trying to be the peacemaker in the family (and failing miserably), I have more patience and desire to understand him and who he is. And why he is that person. And he’s good to me. A life of pain has left me with the most valuable gift of all: Gratitude. I am grateful when I wake until the moment I fall asleep for being treated like I deserve.

Now, back to the weather. While I love a nice 65-degree day, especially in January, it’s been like this all winter. After a really hot summer, it’s disappointing that we aren’t getting the usual cold temperatures, and it’s really sad that we aren’t getting any snow. We don’t need Snowmaggedon, but it sure would be nice to wake up to the surprise of a world covered in white. It would be nice to sit before the fire (it’s too hot to start one now!) and watch TV with the family while it snows outside. I guess that means I’m a real convert to this “all four seasons” thing. I may be ruined :D

Get a Grip

I'd like to say I'm just having a midlife crisis (I turn 50 this coming Saturday!) because I am having serious, serious misgivings about continuing on with my career. Alas, I still love what I do, but I have noticed in the past couple of years that I simply don't do what I do very well anymore. I'm having trouble concentrating. Almost every.single.job.lately I have looked down with horror at my fingers as they just seem to be flailing around writing the most normal words in an unintelligible way. Okay, for MOST of you the whole steno thing is completely unintelligible, but when I'm writing, those things that are not identified in my dictionary come up in capital red letters that mean, to me as a court reporter, what the ....?

I blazed through school from 1989 (9 months of night school) through 1992, even though I had a baby during that time, making four kids for me in total. It was such a rush to learn something new and to see myself rapidly progressing. After nearly ten years of an abusive marriage, in which I was still entrapped, it was restoring to my soul to receive the praise from my teachers as I did well. Watching myself accomplish so much was very exciting. It was very much like drinking a long, cool drink of water after years in the desert.

I’ll never forget those first years. I was sure that as I became more experienced, my writing would miraculously become nearly error-free. It’s been almost 19 years since I began working as a court reporter, and that day never came; however, I did find that I was really good, especially with medical testimony. I enjoyed my work so much. It paved the way to bring me partially out of the cave of fear and self-consciousness to a place where, because I needed to speak up, I was able to become more comfortable speaking with strangers. Again, after all those years suffering emotional and physical abuse, my opinion of myself had plummeted, and now I had a job to do where I could walk into the room and be assured that I had a place and was needed for what I could do.

I was always sure I would never want to work in court, so it was rather startling to realize that I longed for that opportunity. I was so grateful to be interviewed and then hired for a position with the courts in Fresno back in 2005. I was only there for just over a year, and I often regret…no, I regret every single day that I left that job and jumped back, blindly, into the world of freelance. Mind you, I love Virginia, and I am glad we came here. And face it, my salary alone wasn’t enough to keep us afloat; however, the benefits and the steady paycheck were both tremendous blessings. And I loved that job. It was awesome to be part of a team. It wasn’t boring, by any means. I was moved around from court to court, so the people and the cases and the circumstances were constantly different. Unfortunately, there are no full-time reporters in the courts here in Virginia. Darn it.

When I’ve been asked to transcribe proceedings from my court days, I have been amazed at how clean my notes were. I didn’t drop, or at least I dropped very rarely. Part of that was due to my experience. Which brings up a side note. I was amazed that some of the court reporters who were my colleagues in the courts guarded jealously the opportunity to be assigned to a particular judge. I definitely got the feeling that they saw me as a newcomer who hadn’t yet done my time and didn’t deserve that opportunity. But the glaring part, to me, was that many of them had not been working as court reporters as long as I had, and they had only been in the courts a little longer than I. At any rate, the other reason, I believe, that my notes were so good when I worked in the courts was that I was in good physical shape. I didn’t have to schlep my equipment all over the place because I usually worked in just the main building in Fresno. In addition, I had been taking an anti-depressant/anti-anxiety medication for a while, and one of the first things I had noticed was that my concentration level was dramatically increased. In my profession, we often get behind or trail a few words when speakers speed up, but we can retain them in our memory as we catch up. When concentration goes, you lose that ability, which is devastating to a court reporter. My husband also pointed out, and this is something that I hadn’t realized until he brought it up, that I seemed better able to handle the bumps and jolts of life. If you refer to a previous blog where I talk about brake pads, you’ll understand that during the time I was taking this medication, I always had brake pads, and my life just peaceably ambled along, despite the ups and downs.

Now I have no insurance. Our financial picture is a disaster, much of it our own making, but a large enough portion due to some really crummy luck. I’ve spent 19 years working at this job and having nothing to show for it but an aching body and two decades of stress. It doesn’t help that one of my peers, only six weeks older than I am, has progressed far enough in his life that he has this awesome big white house up in DC, and here I am, just renting a cute but tiny split level in Virginia. I was excited to have the opportunity to interview for a federal court position a few months ago, but I really didn’t think I had a prayer. Sadly, it appears I was correct, and I secretly believe it was a good thing. I feel I’ve deteriorated so much.

This has been a tough summer for us. We never took an actual vacation. Well, Darryl and the kids managed to carve one out of our trip to Utah, but I only had the one afternoon in Park City (which was awesome!) and then the stops we made on the way home. It kicked our butts financially because I had given up two weeks’ work, and then I came home to the traditional slow time in August. Lauren, if you’re reading this, please do not think I regret for one single second that we came out there. I am so grateful for a wonderful husband who recognized even before I did that Lauren and I needed each other at least a little bit at that time.

No, the reason I bring up the tough summer is that it came on the heels of about three of the worst years in my life where I often wondered, “What’s next?” I didn’t think I could manage the stress and sorrow with which I was continually bombarded. Let me assure you that stress does a number on you physically. I haven’t been to the doctor for a checkup in about six years (!), but I’ll bet my cholesterol is high. I’ve lost a lot of the weight I had gained when I was taking that anti-depressant (seriously, I’m depressed so you think I should take a medication that will make me GAIN weight?) Still, I just don’t have any of the bounce…or the brake pads to be able to hit the potholes in my life and just keep going.

It was bad enough when it was merely making a mess of my personal life. The life that resides inside my head. Then I noticed that my physical body was beginning to suffer. I’m feeling aches and pains I’d never had before. My arms ache all.the.time. My back often gives me trouble. If I even think about not taking medication for my headaches, they will come at me with a vengeance. Much of the time they come at me with a vengeance right through the pain medication. And my moods are getting darker and darker. I used to call myself Polyanna. Now I feel like Pollyanna but in a movie written by Tim Burton.

Over the past couple of years I have noticed that I was having more and more days on the job where I simply wasn’t doing very well capturing the record. I found I had to rely on my audio more and more to help me fill in the couple of words here and there that I just had to let go. I was terrified that someone would ask me to read back a part where I had resorted to writing KHEK/KHEK (check/check), which would mark my transcript so I would know I need to listen to the audio in that part. And then that day came, and I had to say with a red face, “I’m sorry, I was unable to capture that. Please repeat.”

This year has been the worst. Even the “easy” jobs have been hard. Plus work has dropped considerably this year, so I’m afraid to check my year-to-date income to see how bad it really is. Then we came home from our unexpected trip to Utah, and I have had about a dozen jobs since then. And every.single.one.of.them. has kicked my butt. It’s great to HAVE audio to check, but my edit time has increased so much that I am simply exhausted after a job, knowing that I’ll be forced to work much longer hours to make the transcript reach my usual high standards.

And now I’m struggling with thoughts of death. Not my own. Sadly, while I wouldn’t take my own life, I wonder whether when push comes to shove, I’d have the desire to fight hard to stay alive? But the worse part is dwelling on thoughts of losing my loved ones. I never had those fears or worries, but here I am, almost falling apart in tears over this imagined misery.
Yesterday I came home from a job that should have been good, but it wasn’t. I’m no longer expecting them to be. And my sweet husband held me in his arms as I told him that I just want to quit being a court reporter. Several years ago I had interviewed for secretarial positions because I was only doing one deposition a month, and we were dying. It was really hard, though, because I clearly loved what I was doing. No surprise that no one called me back after I interviewed because even they could see my heart was not in it. But now I’m stuck with the realization that on Saturday I will be 50 years old, and I not only have nothing to show for all my years of hard work, but I don’t even like it. I don’t jump out of bed, eager to start the day’s work. I’m tired before I even get on that train. It doesn’t bring me joy or even mild contentment anymore. And, like I said, the one thing I’m good at I’m no longer good at.

But what does someone do who has been trained for ONE thing and wants to go ANYwhere else but here (jobwise)?

The Art of Being Multi-Lingual Successfully

What is your love language? A sister in our last ward gave a presentation in a Relief Society meeting about this. I went out and bought Gary Chapman’s book because the idea intrigued me so much. It didn’t take me long to figure out that my love language is acts of service. It’s a little complicated, actually. I mean, I’m almost paralyzed with self-consciousness and rarely give acts of service to people outside my own family unless someone says, “Will you, please, do X for So and So?” And I am by far NOT the best housekeeper in the world, but I like to be able to spend time putting things in order for my family.

My hubby left for a weeklong business trip last Sunday morning, and I spent a couple of hours that evening cleaning his desk and work area. First, it drove me crazy because MY desk is about five feet away from his, and I really hate to work in such a messy area. But I also knew that he kept planning to….meaning to get to the mess himself, but it just wasn’t gonna happen. Really, the time I spent seemed to fly by, and I got such a sense of well being as I saw the desk, well, SEEING the desk.

I especially liked being able to get through the boxes and baskets and put things away for him. When I was done, I took pictures and sent them to him via text message. It was really fun for me to be able to do that for him. Because, well, I love him, and I appreciate so much that he is doing something right now that is blessing our family.

I hear friends complain about the laundry all the time, and I just smile. For me, that’s one of those rare household tasks that I’ve completely mastered, and since I’ve been blessed to have a separate laundry room in my home most of the time Darryl and I have been married, I really, really like being able to have a fairly clean and organized place to clean and organize the clothing my loved ones wear. The OCD or ADHD or whatever letters I should have engraved on my résumé embraces the opportunity to have this job that has a clear beginning, middle, and end. The difference between before and after is remarkable. There is a peace that offering this particular act of service to my loved ones brings me. I think my husband experiences something of the same when he cooks. He is an amazing cook, and I’m not sure whether the kids appreciate what a gift that is. But I do. Every single time he gets in that kitchen and cooks for me, for us, I feel loved. Okay, the one time he used stale potato chips on top of the casserole was not so great, but that was just the one time!

It makes me crazy when I hear guys joke about how impossible it is to understand women. Seriously, if she’s that important to you, take the time to pay attention to what she does for/to you so you know what is important to her.

When I turned 43, my husband surprised me with a trip to Hawai’i. His parents were serving a mission there at the time, so we had free lodging. It was the best trip I have EVER taken. Well, actually, the trip with the family to New York in 2009 WAS pretty awesome, but still. Now, you might say to yourself, “Well, DUH! Of course she thought going to Hawai’i was the best birthday gift.” But guess what? You would be wrong. Going to Hawai’i was kind of gravy for me. Yeah, it was beautiful and fun, and I quickly fell in love with it. But the part that still makes my heart go pitter patter was that my husband took the time and expended the effort to make arrangements for our trip and for our kids while we would be gone. He put a lot of his own energy into making this happen for me. THAT is what made me feel loved.

I’ve come a long way from being the embittered, frustrated wife who felt like I was doing everything while my hubby did nothing. Okay, for the record, my feelings didn’t represent with 100% accuracy the situation in our home. But bless his sweet heart, my husband has spent a lot of time in recent memory trying to remember what I’ve asked him to do or what I clearly prefer in keeping our little world running. He knows I don’t need or want help with the laundry, but he knows I DO want the shower curtain closed. He knows I DO want him to cook for us AND clean up after himself as he cooks. He’s catching on that I am very uncomfortable making phone calls (except when I am talking with friends or family), so he’s doing that less grudgingly, while I wash his dirty socks and underwear with a smile, nary a complaint, and real love in my heart as I do it.

Another thing I love to do is bake treats I know he likes. And I just finished making myself some lunch, and that reminded me that I love to do that for him. I know he likes to have a sandwich brought to him while he's working at his desk. And I make a pretty mean egg salad sandwich :D

Oh, and I know what HIS love language is. His is physical touch. And I try (though I often forget about it) to make sure that I run my fingers through his hair or hold his hand or just lay my hand on his leg when we sit side by side. Yes, I really suffer in showing him love in a language he understands :D I can see our son is the same. He thrives on “pwning” his dad on a regular basis. We have to remake our bed every night before we turn in for the night because it’s been messed up with all the wrestling sessions as our son comes and tries to best his dad who outweighs him by about 150 pounds. He also comes to me about every 15 minutes for a hug. Yeah, tough job, but I’ll muddle through. Since our son is number 6 of my 7, I recognize what a sweet gift it is that he still not only needs our hugs and stroking his hair (he LOVES that!), but he wants them too.

I can see that our sweet girl takes after me. She does every. single. thing. I ask her to do without delay. I have to remind myself to not ask her to do too much because she would certainly do it. She’s a great kid. And I really GET her, and I think she gets me too. And it’s easy enough to do something to show her how much I love her because I just think, “What would I think if someone did this for me?” I often forget how lucky I am with these people who populate my life and home. I'm so glad they are mine.

Some of my other loved ones, I haven’t got a clue. ::sigh::

Speak now or forever....wait, just don't speak, okay?

I wonder whether any of you has buttons. I'll bet you know what they are. In fact, I'm pretty sure your loved ones not only know what they are but delight in pushing them from time to time. There seems to be nothing more satisfying sometimes than to get a rise out of someone who at that moment really ticked us off. Alas, when we let ourselves do that, we often take a little chink out of that fragile relationship we cherish. To quote Pink (I know, ME quote Pink?), "Why do we do that? Why do I do that? Why do I do that?"

Let's see. I know two of my buttons...not necessarily the kind that make me angry but the kind that leave me most vulnerable and hurt the most when pushed. One is that I just want people to like me. The second is that it drives me practically insane when I learn that someone, ANYone finds fault with me for whatever reason, real or imagined. With the never-ending drama of my life in the past, well, forEVER, I have wondered whether it's my vulnerability that invites the incessant button pushing or whether the pushers have chosen those buttons in particular, simply because there is more joy for them, knowing that these hurt the most. So, again, because I hate to think too much about THAT, I turn it to myself and wonder, "How do I treat others?" I wonder whether I'm a button pusher, and even worse, am I a KNOWING button pusher?

I try and try NOT do that. I agonize over everything. I'm kind of a nervous wreck. Take my husband, for example. I know his vulnerabilities, and I not only try to steer clear of them, but I try to protect his feelings in those areas. I'm not as good at as I'd like to think. I try to do the same with Scott and Kristi too. Doesn't always work. And, of course, when I mess up and step on those buttons, they all like to come down on me like a ton of bricks. ::sigh::

Early in the days of my first marriage, my then-husband told me that he and one of his close friends, a guy I'd had a huge crush on for years, sat at the back of the chapel during testimony meeting shortly after I came home from my one year at BYU. That was the first time I had met the man I would marry, when he came to my dorm to pick up my trunk about two weeks before I came home. Anyway, he and his friend, he tells me, sat back there while I was bearing my testimony and made fun of all the gushy, just-came-home-from-BYUness of me. This conversation had to be almost 30 years ago, and it still makes me blush as I remember how mortified I was when he told me.

See, that's one of those buttons of mine. It used to make me mad, which was my reaction to huge embarrassment. I just ache when I feel that someone doesn't like me or finds me laughable in some way. So here's my then-husband, the man with whom I was trying to carve out a life, stomping with glee all over that button. And even worse was the fact that the other person in the story was someone I had liked so much. ::sigh::

I know I talk a lot. I know I chatter. It's like a fountain, all flowing almost uncontrollably. It embarrasses me. I have several children who do the same. I still love to hear them talk. Sometimes it makes my job very difficult, because, face it, someone who likes to talk sure isn't having any fun when he or she has to sit still and shut up while SOMEONE ELSE does all the talking!

Do you have any idea how hard it is to NOT talk? Especially when you feel completely safe and secure with the person who is talking with you? It's nigh unto impossible for me. It's not that I think I have so much to say or that I think I am so interesting. It's that I notice and feel and ponder about so much. And I love, love, love to laugh. It seems I'm almost always bubbling with unexpressed laughter. Everything is funny. I mean, my life kinda sucks much of the time. If I don't laugh, I'll just spend all my time sharpening razor blades and crying all over the place! It's bad enough that I often find myself expressing my dark thoughts all over Facebook or my blog. Trust me, in person, I'm not like that. But now I feel like I have to find a way to turn that part of me off. I'm really losing who I am. Who I used to be.

::sigh::

So, yeah, I've got nothing else to say. Oh, well, to be honest, I have a LOT more to say. I'm just not going to say it. Nope. I'm just going to sit here and keep my big. fat. mouth. shut. I can do it, right?

Mother's Day 2011

Because I’m hopeless at sending gifts and cards for events/holidays, I am particularly grateful for the Internet. Now procrastination doesn’t have to be a deal breaker. I will admit that I spend a lot of time thinking of the cards or gifts I’d like to send, so it’s not like I really just forget. In fact, my husband will tell you that I can remember what color shirt he wore on May 17th, 1998, most likely :D

So, while I am really bad at sending THINGS to my loved ones when I want to let them know how much I love them, my mind and heart are certainly in the right place as I think of them. Since tomorrow, May 8, 2011, is Mother’s Day, I wanted to write a blog entry about my mom…and make sure she sees this, as do all of my “fans.” Hahahahahaha….okay, so maybe I’m a little delusional too. About the fans comment, that is.

I am the oldest of three living children. When I was two, my parents had a baby who died less than two weeks after he was born. I certainly wasn’t old enough to have ever known my brother Kenny, but as soon as I was able to understand that the thinking of the day meant that my mother was never allowed to hold her second child, even after he died, I’ve wanted to somehow turn back the hands of time to GIVE her those moments. Especially after I had children and crossed the imaginary line that makes everything feel more…well, just MORE. I defy any mother to watch “The Little Mermaid” and NOT cry during the scene where Ariel and her dad are saying goodbye to each other after he realizes that she really loves a human and has to leave her childhood home forever!

Let me tell you some things about my mom. She was six weeks shy of her 20th birthday when she got married to a man she’d only known for a few months. In all the years they were married (sadly, only 38 years when he died), I never doubted that my father loved my mother. He could really make her laugh. He used to hurt himself all the time, walking into things and such, and we all secretly believed that he really only did it and then reacted so outrageously because my mom would just go into hysterics. There is very little in life that can lighten the heart of a child like the sound of his or her mother and father laughing together.

By the time I was 5 ½, my parents had all three of the children they would raise to adulthood. I am not really sure what is wrong with me, but I remember that since birth I’ve been plagued by fear and depression. Having five children with emotional issues, I can only imagine that raising me must have been a challenge for my parents. After all, who comes to parenthood with advanced training in how to BE a parent of exactly the kind of child with whom they are blessed? I do remember that I expected that my own family would be just like the one in which I grew up, only better. Doesn’t everyone believe that will happen? Of course, that’s not what happened, but it doesn’t take away the feelings that my upbringing gave me, some of which I had then and some of which I developed later as I learned more about the upbringing of others and realized just how fortunate I had been to grow up where I did.

No one was abusing me. Not physically, not mentally, not sexually. I sometimes thought I had the meanest parents in the world, and I’m really GLAD. My parents were mean because they wouldn’t take any disrespect from me…a gift I all too freely tried to give when I was a confused, hormonal teen. They were mean because even more than my sense of morality, it was my fear of them that kept me from venturing into drugs and alcohol. I mean, what would they DO to me if I got caught?! They were mean because they took us on family vacations that often entailed hours of driving together to go hang out with aunts and uncles, grandparents, and cousins, no theme park to be found. They were mean because they made me go outside and play with the neighborhood kids instead of sitting in the house all day.

When I was very young, a local church sent people door to door, asking whether the parents would like to have their children be picked up on Sundays in a church bus and taken to services, then delivered safely back home. Thank goodness my parents were mean enough to say yes and send me. That clearly started me on the road to being available to recognize the fullness of the gospel when I practically stumbled upon it years later. But more on that in a few…

One thing I remember about my mom is her constant worry about her weight. Of course, I just thought she looked like a mom, and I never meant anything negative about it. I didn’t look at her and see her as she saw herself. That is definitely something she has passed on to me. I am very hard on myself, and my sweet Kristina actually chews me out quite frequently. “You are AWESOME, Mom!” I also remember that my mom smoked until I was a young pre-teen. I had no idea at the time just how bad smoking is, but I remember that my mom was ready to quit long before we found a church that helped us to understand the negatives of smoking. I believe, now, that her efforts were inspired and led the way to her being able to lead our family to accept the gospel.

I also remember that my mom worked my entire childhood (she just retired about five years ago, when I was a “young” 45). At one point in her career she was an eligibility worker with the county, and one of her clients was shot to death by her husband…right in the driveway of the elementary school in front of the couple’s children…and other kids, including my own brother. I think that is the first time that I became aware that my mom’s job couldn’t possibly be an easy one. Later she became the secretary to the dean of my class in high school. How cool do you think it is to have your own mom there all day…so when you “need” to ditch school, you can go get her to sign you out? But, again, there was that fear thing. I really didn’t ditch. I also remember that I really liked having my parents chaperone events I attended. It was great to feel like they were part of my life!

I remember being able to earn my driver’s license about two days after my 16th birthday. And then to have my very own car! Okay, so it was my parents’ car still, but I was its only driver! I still marvel that my mom and dad were willing and able to let me have that blessing.

One of my favorite memories is when I would come home after a dance or a date or some other activity. My parents had end tables in their room instead of night stands. I used to sit in my mom’s end table, telling my parents the minutia of whatever activity I’d attended, sure that they were in rapt attention because, well, THEIR lives were practically over, and mine was so danged exciting! It seriously never occurred to me that they didn’t care. I knew they cared. Even when we were struggling to get along, I never doubted that my parents were interested in me and, most importantly, they loved me.

One of the best gifts my mother ever gave me…and the entire family, in fact, was after we moved to Merced when I was 14. She had mentioned before we moved that she would really like to find a church we could attend as a family. And then we moved across the street from an LDS family. And while making friends, my mom also started asking questions that she’d never had answered before when she was growing up. At first I was a bit hesitant because I had very little information about the church. I remember attending the temple visitors center when I was about nine, and the only thing that I thought of at the time was, “Man, why haven’t I ever heard this before?”

While I had been actively involved in church since I was about seven, my family had only rarely attended any services. The only ones I remember are mass with my grandmother, who was cool enough to attend a Catholic church housed in a California mission. As my mother started asking harder questions, the neighbors offered to send over the missionaries. My mom accepted, and because my dad loved her, he agreed to sit in on the meetings. Like I said, I was a bit hesitant. Although I soon became involved in activities with the youth in the church as well as the weekly meetings with the missionaries, I found it all hard to understand. One friend asked me, “Why don’t you try going to a Christian church?” That was sort of like a shovel to the face because my initial response was, “Wait. I *am* attending a Christian church!” And then the distractions of the Book of Mormon and Joseph Smith and various things I’d never heard before just fell away, and I recognized that the church was about Jesus Christ. I knew Him. We had met, so to speak. And that’s when it pierced my very soul.

Because of my mom, I have a richness to my life that I could never have gained any other way. I would never have thought to take the steps myself. I have come to see the Book of Mormon as another Testament of Jesus Christ…it’s one of my favorite publications (I love the Publisher). I find joy in knowing that my family is and can be an Eternal family. Regardless of how broken a family can often seem, this life is such a small part of what we experience, and I know that we will better understand when we have God’s eyes to help.

I am grateful to my mom for picking my dad. I miss him a million times every day. And every one of those times I realize that it’s only a millionth percent of how much my mom must miss him. Ours was not a perfect family. But I meant what I tried to convey at my father’s funeral: I often felt bad for others because they weren’t part of OUR family.

My mom was my inspiration to follow the career path I did. She wasn't involved in the legal profession, but I knew from a very young age that I wanted to be like her. She had many clerical positions. I love telling people how my mom used to jam the keys on her typewriters because she typed so fast! My first non-restaurant job was at a law firm, and that began my own love affair that blossomed in my love in particular for court reporting. My mom can write pen shorthand, and I hope that I'm a feather in her steno cap.

I know my mom was a beautiful singer back when she was young. I haven't heard her sing in years, so I can't tell you whether she's still singing beautifully, though I do know that she loves music. Many of her grandchildren are musically talented, and I know she finds joy and pride in that.

While it isn’t my season to be a grandmother, I am so grateful to my mom for taking my biological grandchildren in and being the grandmother they deserve to have. When I feel particularly sorrowful over my loss, my heart sings with relief in knowing they are still being loved. No child should go through life without grandparents and/or aunts and uncles, family friends, people OTHER than their parents who love them and are proud of them. I’m glad that my mom and dad made sure I had that and that my mom, in turn, is making sure that happens for my grandchildren.

I love my mom. Because I’m her oldest child as well as her oldest daughter, our relationship has all the prickly parts you would expect. But I still smile every single day when I think about her. As an almost-50-year-old woman, I see more of myself in my mother every day. As you can imagine, that equally frightens me and comforts me. The more we see ourselves in our family members, the more we know we belong with one another.

So Happy Mother’s Day, Momma. I’m glad you’re my mom. I’m glad I’m your daughter. And Happy Mother’s Day to all the other mommas out there. You know who you are.

Who Does Depression Hurt? Everyone....

When my ex-husband committed suicide, the early morning call that we received surprised us. I sort of felt like the last puzzle piece had fallen into place, even though none of us had ever seriously considered that he would take his own life. But it suddenly made sense. One of the first memories I have of that event was standing in the shower later that morning, crying my eyes out in a moment of grief. No matter our differences and the fact that our very last conversation had been his screaming at me over the phone, blaming me for something that was actually his fault, it tore at my heart imagining his being in a place that would give his mind the idea that killing himself violently was the way to go. Since then I’ve learned that perhaps he had abruptly stopped taking an anti-depressant, which is now known to increase the risk of suicide….but still.

Disclaimer: No worries. I’m not considering suicide, and I’m not taking any medication. I most likely should be, but that’s another story.

No, what I’m driving at here is one of the thoughts that I still have running around in my head. This was a man who had had a lifetime of failures and disappointments, some not his fault, but many that were. I wonder if he was ultimately face to face with the reality of WHY he kept hitting a brick wall in his life. Was it too much for him when he had no choice but to realize that he couldn’t do anything to improve his life because he would always be…HIM?

So that brings me to, well, ME. Someone posted on Facebook the other day that a decision made in a moment could alter the course of one’s life. Oh, yeah. Don’t we all have that moment in our lives, whether it was a decision for good or bad? I have one. Or 20. Maybe 45.

I remember back in ’96 when my then-estranged husband told me he was filing bankruptcy. I insisted he add me on because I didn’t want to be left with all the bills. I wish I had had better advice or at least had asked someone for advice. But who knows? At any rate, I remember as I was going through it that I had this monologue going on in my head. I was reminding myself that I never thought I would be in that place (filing bankruptcy), and I was discovering that, while I wasn’t happy to be having the experience, I was surviving it. I was learning that my life wasn’t really over. It was huge for me.

I’ve had more and more of those experiences. It’s like I draw this imaginary line and tell myself that at least I haven’t had to go beyond THAT. Yet. And then I do. And I’m still standing. Here I am in 2011, 15 years after that time, and I have had ever-increasing financial woes. I’ve been divorced and remarried. I’ve seen my family erode and turn their backs on me en masse. I’ve sent one of my children away because of the danger she presented to my loved ones. I’ve had to allow another one of my children to live on the street a time or two, I’ve been an abused wife. I’ve been the mother of abused children. Today everything I thought was important in life either surrounds me in tatters, or it’s on the brink of disaster. And I’m still afraid of what’s next. So, yeah, I learned that the things I thought would spell the end of my life really didn’t. But why would anyone want to keep getting up in the morning if this is all they have?

I’ve got a passport. Some days I feel like I just want to make a plane reservation for ANYwhere else in the world and just disappear. Again, no worries. My sense of responsibility is probably part of my core person. I couldn’t leave my two youngest children. They need me. They still want me. And I am curious to see what happens with them. And my husband always has his family to turn to. Must be nice…..

What I am afraid of is that, while I’m not willing to turn my back on my life, I will just shatter one day, and I will involuntarily “leave.” How much can a person really take? Something has to give. Something has to change. I need to be moving up again. I feel like I’ve hit rock bottom, but I greatly fear that I haven’t. Yet. :(