Category Archives: my reflection in my blog

this is mine

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Years ago a family member declared that I was a Golden Retriever. I was insulted and hurt because a Golden Retriever is a dog and having been called a dog to my face by classmates through junior high school and high school the last thing I ever expected was a family member would, you know, call me a dog. But then it was further explained that it was my personality that was like that of a Golden Retriever based on one of way too many pop-psychology personality inventory exercises that were all the rage in the late 80′s and 90′s. Truth be told, I am, for the most part, a loyal, non-demanding, accommodating, adaptable, sympathetic, co-dependent, peace-maker kind of person who does hate confrontation and change. I am also desperately afraid of heights, an overly cautious driver, bad tempered, depressed subjected to almost paralyzing anxiety attacks (especially when someone else is driving) and not always such a good parent. All of that…and a lot more…is me. I admit it. I own it. I have never tried to hide who I am. Thankfully people who know me best, people who love me best accept me for me…and choose to focus on all the stuff that makes me amazingly awesome.

The co-dependent-y, Golden Retriever in me is the person I have been since I was a very small child. It was who I had to be. I was the nurturer. I was the care-giver. I was hurt…hurt a lot…hurt way too much by people I should have been receiving nurturing and unconditional love from. I survived the only way that I could denying my own feelings, my own frustrations, my own fears, my own anger, my own opinions, my own accomplishments, my own self. And like a Golden Retriever, I remained loyal, reliable and trustworthy and kind hoping…hoping for just a little love, a little patience, a little praise would come my way. What Golden Retriever doesn’t want that?

But the years have passed and I have changed a little…for the better…for me. I am still a nurturer…hello…wife, mommy, Mi-ma, nurse! I still am sensitive. I still hate change. I still want everyone to just get along and like me. But I am not so much the doormat that I was as a child and a young adult. I no longer wait desperately for the approval from the adults of my childhood and young adulthood. I don’t have time because I am too busy juggling this circus life of mine. Well, except for when I re-arrange schedules, cancel a much needed medical procedure, turn down extra work, cancel 16th birthday dinner party plans and anniversary plans, miss my child’s Tae Kwon Do belt testing and basically drop everything because I want people whom I love to be happy and to love me…just like the loyal dog that I am. Here you can’t help but recall that old saying about teaching old dogs. I know that I can’t.

Almost eight years ago I began this blog for a number of reasons that boil down to one basic cause…I did this for me. I don’t write to share my family life in pictures and words with family. I don’t write to make money to support my Starbucks habit. I don’t write for free stuff. I don’t write under the pretense that I am a great writer…or even a good writer. What goes into this blog is simply for me. I write what I want to write about. I share what I want to share. Yet, surprisingly, I have an audience. A pretty awesome audience that literally spans the globe, many who have been here since the very beginning. And surprisingly most of you aren’t even related to me.

Still, this, this blog, is mine.  It is my perception of the life happening around me, the life I am living. It is my thoughts and my thoughts alone…except for the couple of times that I have allowed someone else to write their thoughts and their perceptions. This is mine. The adventures described are how I see them through my eyes. Another person living the same event at the same time most definitely will see it differently but here in this blog what they see or feel or hear or understand is not a part of what I am writing about. I’m writing about my own reality here…even if one might perceive it to be melodrama…

Sidebar:
Melodrama?! Seriously? This is melodrama? This life I am living now? Honey my life was a fucking melodrama when I was younger than my grandchildren…you know, when a child’s parents should be making it all about the innocent child and not their crazy, fucked up-ness. I look at my grandbabies and I shake my head over the fucked up-ness that is the adults I was wholly dependent upon then. There are no excuses…none…seriously don’t even try…not when you are talking about the life of an innocent, wholly dependent child fucked up by the adults she depends upon to meet her most basic needs. What I write about now is boring, stupid, vapid shit in comparison to say my life as a three year old…no, this now is not melodrama.
Not.
At.
All.

You don’t like it? Well, there is so much more out there on the Web that I’m sure one can spend their time on. But this microscopic slice of the interwebs is my reality and is mine. I thank you for reading it. I thank you for commenting on it. I thank you for respecting it and respecting me and my reality here on my blog.

truthfully

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Truthfully…

I know the expectation in polite society is that when someone asks, “How are you?” the reply should always be “I’m fine, thank you.” even if that isn’t the truth. You might be feeling sick to your stomach or like your sinuses are ready to explode. Perhaps you have a pounding headache that is jack-hammering your brain or you might have a a blister on the heel of your foot thanks to those cruel shoes you insist on wearing because they make your legs look hot. Or maybe you are so overwhelmed with the worries of your life that you feel there will be no relief…ever. Still when someone asks how you are doing you are expected to smile and tell them that you are fine. Oh, and don’t forget to ask them how they are doing too. Don’t worry, they won’t dump even more burdens, pains and woes upon you. They will smile back and tell you that, yes, they are fine as well.

It is all so pleasant.

Except when it isn’t really.

Don’t worry. I am doing okay…mostly. I don’t believe in wearing shoes that hurt so my feet are just fine. I’m just not okay. Thank goodness for my circus act who adores me…even when I am a naggy, raging, tearful bitch. And thank you that I can easily run 3-5 miles because some days that is truly what keeps me going. Still the reality is I am overwhelmed more than usual with the burdens and worries that is this life of mine. It comes and goes; but lately it has been coming more than going. So right now if you were to ask me I would have to say that actually I am not okay or fine because it is lately so hard to pretend that I am.

No, you can’t fix any of it. I don’t expect you to. Just sit with me, hug me and please, dear god don’t tell me that you know exactly how I feel because truthfully you don’t.

Thank you for letting me be truthful right now.

who I see

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I am turning 50 this year…in March…March 8 to be exact. So start planning and shopping now. But yes, I am turning 50 and, well, I’m kind of surprised and amazed by that truth and because of that I can’t help but think about it quite a bit. Here is where I warn you that I might be writing about it a lot this year because it is kind of a big thing…at least I think so.

I’ve never been one to shy away from my age. The gene pool I come from seems to be filled with the type of folk who live long, active lives. Age is really but a number I have come to decide when I look at where I have come from. So I have never been one to hide my age, mourn my age, lie about my age or even act my age. Frankly I still feel like a big, goofy kid…until I think about all those grown up responsibilities and worries that I juggle. But for the most part, I don’t see what I perceive that number “50″ is supposed to be….even when my darling daughter Abigael reminds me earlier this week that being 50 makes me “hecka old”. I remind her that it is a good thing that I am because being 18 now it would follow that I am, erm, older…older than her.

Then along comes this week’s prompt for the Focus 52 project I signed on for this year.

Share something that essentially defines who you are (or attempts to!). It could be a hobby, your job, your place in your family, a goal, a collage of a few different images … hey! this could also a perfect time for a self-portrait! *winkwink*nudgenudge*

Oh goody! A self portrait!

I hate pictures of me. I really do. Perhaps that is why I am the one behind the lens here under the Big Top. It’s not that I don’t like what I see. It’s that I don’t see me the way the lens sees me.

A few years ago I had a conversation with a friend who has lost an incredible amount of weight and has kept it off. He shared that it remains a battle for him always because he doesn’t see the slimmer, fitter man that he is. It was then that he pulled out a picture from his wallet of his former self, a much larger, obese man. I still saw that familiar smile and devilish twinkle of his but the picture looked nothing like the man before me. Yet that was who he saw every time he looked at himself in a mirror. Lately when I see a picture of me I see me, the me that I don’t see in the mirror. Yes the lines are definitely there and I see them but I guess I don’t acknowledge them…I just don’t feel them.

But looking at a photograph, or two, or more I see it all…the lines, the imperfections, the years filled with joy, pain, sorrow, music and laughter. They’re all there for me to see.

I am most definitely NOT the kid I feel like inside. I’m not “hecka old” either. But I am a woman who very soon will be fifty years old. To my Dad I say I’m sorry but that makes you “hecka old”. But you still can very easily ride your bicycle across the state of Iowa which is something I can’t do and that makes you phenomenal. Like I said, I come from a pretty awesome gene pool.

But ultimately I know, more than anything, no matter what I look like…no matter what I see when I see my reflection or see a photo of me I more. I am so much freaking more than what I look like.

© 2011 The I Am Project. All rights reserved

remembering a decade later

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For what it’s worth, here are my own thoughts a decade later.

The bright, cloudless sky that woke me early that Tuesday morning did not reveal the horror, fear and pain of that day ten years ago. What should have been a typical September day that would commence with my getting my kids up, dressed and off to school with as little as drama as possible was not to be. I knew this as I turned on the morning news to see a shot of the Empire State Building in the foreground and the World Trade Center with black smoke billowing from the North Tower. As I tried to comprehend the sketchy details the reporter was providing I found myself screaming in horror as a plane suddenly appeared and crashed into the South Tower.

It couldn’t become even more horrible.

But it could.

While my girls were getting dressed for school, I learned from catching bits of the news that the Pentagon was hit and then a plane had crashed somewhere in Pennsylvania. Perhaps this wasn’t Armageddon but it was clear that the world that I knew was coming to an end.

From my home in San Jose, California, New York, Washington and Pennsylvania were far removed from me. But they really weren’t. Later I would discover my personal 9/11 connections: a cousin who had just recently returned from maternity leave and worked in the North Tower, an acquaintance from my gym who was returning home from a trip to New York City, the son of a couple from the church we attended, the husband of a lady I supported through Sidelines while she was on bedrest for a complicated pregnancy. All were brutally murdered that day. Parents lost their children. Babies will grow up never knowing their mothers and fathers. While the pain of that day for us all is palpable, nothing can compare to the pain of those who have lost friends and family among the 2996+ that day.

Why?

If we are to believe Al Qaida, this is all for the glory of Allah. Respectfully I disagree. The God of Father Abraham was not glorified over the huge loss of those created in His image that bright September morning. No, I believe that the God of Abraham we both follow has been pierced through the heart. His own creation was torturing and murdering itself.

Our lives have been forever changed. We are no longer complacent when we travel. We find ourselves dealing with the controversy and loss of what is clearly becoming the Vietnam of our children’s generation. We have become a nation that is even more divisive beyond Republicans and Democrats. One can no longer sit on the fence. We have discovered that we are either for the “right” side or against it regardless of which side that may be.

There is no more gray. No more varying shades. Our world is now stark and full of contrasts.

Regardless of our response to that day of terror, we will never forget the victims, the heroes, the family, friends and acquaintances who touched our lives. As this sad anniversary is here let it be all about them and nothing more.

core story

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What central story is at the core of you, and how do you share it with the world? (Bonus: Consider your reflections from this month. Look through them to discover a thread you may not have noticed until today.)
prompt by Molly O’Neill

The last couple of days I have been considering my reflections with this #reverb10 exercise as well as the previous 30 days of truth...that has been a lot of self-reflection and navel gazing going on here…how in the world did you stand me, much less last this long? Well, I must thank you all for your morbid curiosity of my delving into my mad mind and the digging out of all of the lint and hubris that is in there.  I can’t promise you that there will no longer be self-absorbed musings, after all this is MY blog. But I can promise you that at least for now there will not be any 30 day exercises of reflective pondering.

After all this, I am exhausted as I imagine are you.

I didn’t really see the core thread in  this month-long exercise or even in myself until in the wee small hours of the other night in the NICU. During my downtime I have been enjoying my latest read, Alexa Stevenson’s Half Baked.

sidebar: OMG, read this book! No, I’m not just saying that because as a mommy of a 24 weeker with an equally dramatic NICU course as Alexa’s gorgeous Simone, I get the worry, the fear, the anger, the dark (but much needed) humor. No, I am recommending this book because this writer’s voice captivates you, draws you in and entertains the hell out of you while making you appreciate the hell and heaven that is the rabbit hole of parenting a micro-preemie.

I came across this passage during my downtime of caring for and chasing after two wildly apneic two pound babies on opposite ends of the room in the NICU and suddenly I got it.

“Progress in the NICU isn’t linear.” Wendy said to me once.
“Simone will get better, and then she’ll get worse, or have a setback. But then she’ll get better again. And that will repeat, over and over, but she’ll start covering more ground going uphill than she loses slipping back.”…”She will make progress, but slowly.”
This may be the Zen of Neonatology. At the time, I was very focused on the logistics:how many steps back, exactly, would there be? When would we start to gain momentum? Was there some sort of benchmark I could use? I expected the back and forth to end, but now it seems obvious that this shuffling, dance-like process is everywhere, even outside the NICU, though generally it occurs over longer periods of time. You stumble, recover, and hopefully, keep moving forward. Really, what more can you ask?

And suddenly, for me, there it was!

What?

You don’t see it?

The dance…the NICU two-step that I have known for over the last twenty years of my nursing career and as the mommy of a former 1lb 6 oz micropreemie is life…it is life in general. In the NICU it is closely watched over, weighed and measured down to the last gram and milliliter and every single breath taken. But outside the NICU, we are just living it, just dancing. Sometimes we dance well and celebrate the lightness of our step and the giddiness and joy of it all. Other times we shuffle and trip, and stumble a little, and a lot. But, hopefully, we do keep moving forward. And might I suggest that, hopefully, we still can laugh…even just a little.

This last year there has been much shuffling and stumbling, two steps forward and one step back, and sometimes just swaying side to side. There has been much stress and worry, anger and frustration, tears and fears. But there has been moments of laughter, of joy, of exhilarating triumph and of blissful peace. But moving forward we seem to have managed…even if it is only a few steps. That is my core story, my central theme for 2010…as it has been for the years past and, I imagine, the years to come.

Thank god I still can laugh.

Really, what more can I ask?