Author: Dené

Unapologetically me. Not a polished lifestyle blog. Not a self-help blog. Just a place where you never know whether the next post will make you laugh, cry, or spit out your coffee

Important things I learned from my dad

Dear Dad,

I just wanted you to know that the things you taught me and the example you set for me made me the woman, wife, and mother that I am today.  In spite of all the times I slammed my door, argued with you, and pouted when I got mad – I was listening.  At least most of the time.

You taught me how to remove stitches when I was 10 – who needs a doctor when you can do it yourself?

You taught me that coconut cream pie and a Coke is the REAL breakfast of champions

You taught me that Christmas trees don’t have to be purchased – there are plenty available off the side of the road, over the fence and through the woods – you just have to bring your own saw and HURRY!

You taught me that “IT’S NOT TO REASON WHY, IT’S TO DO OR DIE”

You taught me how to drive a stick shift – or, rather, you frowned and yelled a lot and I cried – but I learned and I’m the one who taught my kids

You taught me that when you disciplined me it was hurting you worse than it was hurting me – hmmm, still not quite sure about that one

You taught me not to do as you DID, but to do as you SAID – I’ve used that one a few times myself

You never swore, except to Pete, whoever that was

And most importantly, you continue to teach me that I can count on you and you will always, always be there for me.

That was proven first in 1972 when our life became just the two of us.  I can never thank you enough for taking on the responsibility of raising a 9-year-old me.  That was not easy, I’m certain.

“I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father’s protection.” Sigmund Freud

Freud was right, but not just in childhood, forever.

Love,

Your daughter

Guilt by Motherhood

What is it with American mothers?  American mothers say, “What am I doing wrong?”  European mothers say, “What’s wrong with this kid?”  ~Dr. Stephen Adelson

It started early and it seemed to come naturally.

No, not motherhood.

Guilt.  Guilt by Motherhood.

Dr. Adelson was our pediatrician.  We spent a lot of time in his office and now that his son is a politician, I have no doubt we were contributing to his campaign fund.  Anyway, after the third or fourth or seventeenth time of seeing the good doctor for the same, recurring ear infection, I felt like the worst mother in the world.  My son Stephen had so many ear infections the first 8 months of his life that he would drool at the sight of anything PINK.  Which may explain this now that I think of it…

Bodybuilding competition, 2006

And that’s when I asked him.  Dr. Adelson didn’t bat an eye or furrow his unibrow.  His answer has bounced around in my head for years.

What is it with American mothers?  American mothers say, “What am I doing wrong?”     European mothers say, “What’s wrong with this kid?”

Maybe it’s just me, thought I suspect I’m not alone, but whenever something went wrong with my kids, an illness or a bad grade or the VCR ate the tape with 8 episodes of Full House on it, it was MY FAULT.

Forgotten lunch money?  My fault.  Bad hair day?  My fault.

A few years ago my kids and I were talking about pregnancy and strange cravings.  I gushed about my first pregnancy with Stephen, telling him that I craved everything liquid – Coke, Hawaiian Punch, Tea, and of course, dill pickle juice.  He stared at me.  Then, he spoke.

“You drank CAFFEINE when you were pregnant with me?!”

The question hung in the air for what seemed like hours while I tried to come up with a lie compose myself.

And that’s the day I actually thanked God for cell phones because Stephen’s phone rang just in that moment and I didn’t have to explain the lie I was conjuring up in my head.

My kids didn’t blame me.  I did.  I apologized for EVERYTHING.

Don’t get me wrong.  I firmly believe that moms are human and we make mistakes and when we do, we should say we’re sorry.  But not EVERYTHING is our fault.

I’m trying to stop – really, I am.  Enough is enough.  And when the guilt becomes too much, then I do what appeases the guilt.  I bake.  I bake their favorite treats, buy their favorite snacks, put it in a big box along with a couple rolls of toilet paper (hey, you can never have too much) and ship it off to them.

I feel so much better, at least for a little while.  And then Courtney gets caught out in the rain in New York City without her umbrella and I apologize.  I feel guilty even though I had previously sent her not one, but two awesome umbrellas.  It’s my fault.  Time to bake.

Hmmm, maybe they’re on to me…

What was I thinking?

I’d like to be the ideal mother, but I’m too busy raising my kids. ~ unknown

Because my children are grown and have turned us into Eddie Albert and Eva Gabor – Stephen is a Texan and Courtney is in New York which means we will forever be torn between the two and could do our own remake of Green Acres – it’s not often that the four of us are together.  This past Christmas we were fortunate enough for that to happen.  Sitting around the dinner table that day, Stephen asked me a question that caught me off guard.

“What made you decide to have kids?  Were you bored and just needed something to do?  I mean, really, what were you thinking?”

Wow.  The truth is simple – we both wanted kids and it seemed the natural thing to do, and no, we weren’t thinking.  We weren’t thinking at all.

If I had any idea that being a mom would be so painful, that it’s a decision to forever have your heart exposed and subject to immense agony, if I had KNOWN?  I wouldn’t have chosen it.

There, I said it.

I would have done it differently.

If I had known that I would be wiping snot off a child’s nose onto my shirt while standing in line at the grocery store, I would have done it differently.

If someone had told me that childbirth would be the EASIEST part of being a parent, I would have done it differently.

If I had been able to see into the future and see the struggles my children would face, I would have done it differently.

If I had known that my children would grow up and vote for a Democrat, I would have done it differently.

There are times when I feel responsible for bringing two children into the world that have had to face life with a debilitating disease and had I known, I would never have subjected anyone to that kind of pain.

But my life would have been empty.  And the world would have missed out on having my kids in their midst.

If I had known that my son would shoot fireworks from his bedroom window and I would have to cover my face while I disciplined him so that he wouldn’t know I was laughing, I wouldn’t change a thing.

If I had known that the little girl who colored on my walls would grow up and make her mark on the world in New York City hundreds of miles from home, I wouldn’t change a thing.

If I had been able to see into the future and know that my heart would burst with pride every time I looked into their faces, I wouldn’t change a thing.

If I had known that my children would grow up and think for themselves and make their own decisions and LEAVE ME to go out and see the world and make their own homes, as adults, hundreds and hundreds of miles away from ME?  I wouldn’t change a thing.

Because my children are happy, my heart is full.  Because I have something to SHOW for how I spent the last 25 years of my life.  I have finally begun to experience a return on my investment and IT. IS. GOOD.

Being a mom is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.  And I wouldn’t change a thing.

Save Me

A few days ago I had a craving for cinnamon rolls.  Not just any cinnamon rolls, either.  Grandma Blackwell’s cinnamon rolls.

I made half a batch – somehow I thought I could justify the calories if I only made a few.  After waiting for them to finish baking, I put one on a plate and carried it upstairs to enjoy while I was reading the newspaper.

Peeling away the outside of the cinnamon roll, I managed to eat it all except that one last bite.  You know the bite I’m talking about.  The one in the center of the roll with all the butter and sugar and cinnamon and yummy gooeyness – the Crème de la Crème, the pick of the litter. THE LAST BITE.

Engrossed in reading the latest breaking news about Sandra Bullock’s new baby (hey, I never said I was reading the Wall Street Journal) I reached for THE BITE.  But it wasn’t there.  IT WAS GONE.

And then I saw it.  Lola, my daughter’s cat, the cat from the mean streets of the Big Apple, had apparently been eyeing that last bite too.  Without making a sound, she had climbed onto the nightstand and she was eating THE LAST BITE.  Oh, the agony!

Whose big idea was it to save the best for last anyway?  Why couldn’t I have just bypassed the layers of goodness and gone straight to the center of GREATNESS?

Save the good dishes for guests.  Save those leopard pumps for a special occasion.  Save the last dance.

Not me.  Not anymore.  In fact, the next time I go out to dinner, I will eat dessert first and I will NOT save room for an entrée.  I will let my husband use the fancy towel (singular, I just have one for display) instead of the faded, threadbare ones he is accustomed to.  I will not save coupons because I never remember to bring them to the store anyway.  I WILL NOT.

Pay attention.  The next time you see me I will not only be wearing the leopard pumps but this body will be sucked, shoved, and squeezed into my good Spanx, not the one that is 2 sizes too small with holes made from pulling and tugging.

And considering the calories I WON’T be saving, looks like it’s going to be a GOOD girdle lifestyle for me from now on.

P.S.

Just wanted to add a post script to “For your consideration…”

I sincerely appreciate the comments and feedback I’ve received, but I’m afraid I may have come across as though I feel sorry for myself, or perhaps it seemed as if I was trying to make you feel bad for my situation. That was never my intention. Never.

Any time my health restricts my ability to get out of the house or socialize, obviously some may question my whereabouts (not too crazy about that word whereabouts, but moving on…). I simply wanted to let people know that those of us with Lupus are not home eating chocolate and taking leisurely bubble baths. Or if we are, we’re not enjoying it, we’re self-medicating!

Sympathy is something we don’t want – nor are we looking for pity. We don’t want to be labeled with a big, flashing “LUPUS” sign around our necks. We don’t mind if you ask how we’re feeling, and we’ll be honest and tell you only if we are certain you REALLY want to know.

As for me, I would rather NOT spend any time talking about how I’m feeling, simply because I’d rather use the time to catch up on the latest gossip…er, uh, news. I want to talk about potty training, the tacky grill you got for Mother’s Day, your job, plastic surgery, hot celebrities…

Again, I apologize if any feelings of sympathy were evoked from my last posting. I’ll make sure that I make it up to you in my next posting as I’ve already been working on it. I don’t want to completely give it away, but let’s just say that I will be dealing with why I don’t like to have trash in my trash cans and other idiosyncrasies that I think are perfectly normal…

Don’t cry for me Argentina!