My baby is thirteen. Very thirteen.
My eldest didn't prepare me for this. My headstrong toddler morphed into a fairly mellow teen. My funny, sunny toddler now stands taller than me, favors lots of dark eyeliner, and colors her hair. I said no to piercing her lip, and she cannot get a tattoo until she is financially independent.
She's a teen, and this is what teens do, isn't it? Why do I worry so?
I have no problem with her playing with her appearance. In fact, I've liked her hair colors and must admit that the eyeliner actually does accentuate her striking blue/green eyes. I'm fine with her attraction to the alternative, "punk light" bands she's digging these days.
I don't like the darkness. She's still funny, but now cloudy with only peeks of sunshine. I honestly can't tell if she's happy or not sometimes. Even more troubling is the fact that she's shut me out. I'm OK (for now) with her not friending me on Facebook. She also Twitters and texts and has always had liberal use of the laptop. All I get is monosyllabic answers and the dreaded deadpan stare. Is everything all right in her world? I don't know, and I don't want to be the last one to know.
She wants to grow up so fast, and it's so useless to tell her to slow down. I had to think hard about why this was bothering me so much. I have to have a certain amount of faith in her values and judgments. I realized, however, that while I trust her I don't trust other people. I don't want guys hitting on her. I don't want people encouraging stupid behaviour. She's smart, but a tad impulsive. And, for heaven's sake, SHE'S ONLY THIRTEEN!!
I feel vaguely helpless. Dealing with a teen is a lot like playing Minesweeper or defusing a bomb. Click the wrong square, pull the wrong wire, and it all blows up. It's a delicate balance. I try to give her reasonable space so she doesn't push away further. I try to keep the communication door open, but I wind-up sounding like the stereotypical dweeby parent and it triggers the blank stare.
I love her independence, but I miss my daughter.
(How can I write about her like this? Because she doesn't follow anything I do.)
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
The Gift of Time -- Priceless
This past week has taught me that I am in possession of one of the world's most precious resources: unstructured time.
This is how I became caretaker of Brandon. I was between jobs, Carla (his mom)was looking for someone, AND HE'S SO DARN CUTE. I consider myself sort of a "boutique" caregiver, generally taking on one kid at a time who become my own during the day. Maybe this is my penance for not staying home with MY kids while they were babies.
This will be tested in a couple of weeks when I will be adding Max to the mix, who is only 7 months younger than Brandon. It's mind-blowing to see what a difference that makes at this stage.
A couple of days ago another neighbor called wondering if I could hang-out with her 4 year-old for about an hour so she could go to a yoga class. I was ready to do it, but the class wound-up being canceled. So I took Brandon to the library, where the very-expectant librarian looked at me longly and said "You babysit? You know, I'm going to need someone one day a week when I'm ready to go back to work..." AAAH, I'm not looking for these jobs. They keep looking for me!!
So I think it may have even been later that same day that the local elementary school called me as an emergency contact for my across the street neighbor whom they'd been unable to reach. Her son had complained of not feeling well after snack, and there was some concern about a food allergy. I drove around the city parks looking for my neighbor, then picked her son up at school and brought him home. (All was well, he wasn't having an allergic reaction and his mom had gone to the library with her other kids and was home by the time I got there.)
It got me to thinking what a rare commodity I am -- someone who was home and could run to the school. I was also the rare mom who could go on field trips and bake for special events when my kids were in elementary school. (I left the normal workaday world when my kids were in school all day. What planning!!)
You mean, women used to do this stuff all the time?
There is something to be said for having a parent-type at home, and I don't think it has to be the mom. It's not an easy job. I can see how the stereotypical 50's housewife was a secret valium abuser or alcoholic. The boredom can get mind-numbing, and I feel like getting a t-shirt that says "I have a college degree." Yet I certainly feel that I'm filling a critical void.
Perhaps after we reform health care (and recover from the whole process) we'll be ready to take-on child care reform.
This is how I became caretaker of Brandon. I was between jobs, Carla (his mom)was looking for someone, AND HE'S SO DARN CUTE. I consider myself sort of a "boutique" caregiver, generally taking on one kid at a time who become my own during the day. Maybe this is my penance for not staying home with MY kids while they were babies.
This will be tested in a couple of weeks when I will be adding Max to the mix, who is only 7 months younger than Brandon. It's mind-blowing to see what a difference that makes at this stage.
A couple of days ago another neighbor called wondering if I could hang-out with her 4 year-old for about an hour so she could go to a yoga class. I was ready to do it, but the class wound-up being canceled. So I took Brandon to the library, where the very-expectant librarian looked at me longly and said "You babysit? You know, I'm going to need someone one day a week when I'm ready to go back to work..." AAAH, I'm not looking for these jobs. They keep looking for me!!
So I think it may have even been later that same day that the local elementary school called me as an emergency contact for my across the street neighbor whom they'd been unable to reach. Her son had complained of not feeling well after snack, and there was some concern about a food allergy. I drove around the city parks looking for my neighbor, then picked her son up at school and brought him home. (All was well, he wasn't having an allergic reaction and his mom had gone to the library with her other kids and was home by the time I got there.)
It got me to thinking what a rare commodity I am -- someone who was home and could run to the school. I was also the rare mom who could go on field trips and bake for special events when my kids were in elementary school. (I left the normal workaday world when my kids were in school all day. What planning!!)
You mean, women used to do this stuff all the time?
There is something to be said for having a parent-type at home, and I don't think it has to be the mom. It's not an easy job. I can see how the stereotypical 50's housewife was a secret valium abuser or alcoholic. The boredom can get mind-numbing, and I feel like getting a t-shirt that says "I have a college degree." Yet I certainly feel that I'm filling a critical void.
Perhaps after we reform health care (and recover from the whole process) we'll be ready to take-on child care reform.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Half-Empty or Half-Full?
Contrary to much of what we hear these days, there are some real advantages to being a woman in our society. One true victory of the movement is that we are allowed to define our role.
I feel pretty confident saying that most guys in my position would say that they are unemployed. I, on the other hand, have the option of saying that I am a homemaker, and we can all agree that it's a valuable occupation (if seriously underpaid).
Right after my last job tanked, I thought I was enemployed. I felt unemployed. I was contemplating and mapping my next career move, fighting the inner fear that perhaps I'm just not cut out for the work world (another topic entirely).
There's a narcotic to being at home, though. As the days start to slide by I find that I don't miss the timeclock. I start morphing into the homemaker, which, by the way, is not something I'm particularly good at. If there were real justice in the world I would have the ambition and skills to be the money-maker and Tom could stay home. He's got mad housekeeping skills. Way better than mine.
ANYWAY -- being a homemaker is a lot like being a farmer. NOTE: I agree with the school of thought that "housewife" is a pejorative term. I am not married to my house. "Homemaker" describes the entirety of the role. It's holistic. But back to the point at hand...farmers also do not work by the timeclock (at least not in my romantic fantasy world), rather they work according to the rhythm of life each day and season. I'm always amazed at how much of my day is ruled by meal planning or preparation. And each season brings its demands of school or vacation or holidays...
The problem with such work, however, is that it is not neatly confined to a workday. I, like the farmer, have the luxury of deciding when I want to work, but, also like the farmer, I will get out of it what I put into it. Too much time spent sleeping, playing Freecell, doing crosswords, or blogging makes for a home that I cringe to call my own. I'm really working on this issue. And there's always work to be done. Even on vacation, weekends, and evenings. Sometimes especially then.
And, truth be told, I'm not even completely unemployed. I'm back to tending to Brandon, now 8 months old. Now I'm also following the rhythms of feedings, diapers, and naps. Still trying to find my balance with all this. But it's sort of a "nicotine patch" for paycheck withdrawal, and it fulfills my need for a purpose. Nurturing a human soul is one of the higher callings in life, or so I keep telling myself.
It's all in how you look at it.
I feel pretty confident saying that most guys in my position would say that they are unemployed. I, on the other hand, have the option of saying that I am a homemaker, and we can all agree that it's a valuable occupation (if seriously underpaid).
Right after my last job tanked, I thought I was enemployed. I felt unemployed. I was contemplating and mapping my next career move, fighting the inner fear that perhaps I'm just not cut out for the work world (another topic entirely).
There's a narcotic to being at home, though. As the days start to slide by I find that I don't miss the timeclock. I start morphing into the homemaker, which, by the way, is not something I'm particularly good at. If there were real justice in the world I would have the ambition and skills to be the money-maker and Tom could stay home. He's got mad housekeeping skills. Way better than mine.
ANYWAY -- being a homemaker is a lot like being a farmer. NOTE: I agree with the school of thought that "housewife" is a pejorative term. I am not married to my house. "Homemaker" describes the entirety of the role. It's holistic. But back to the point at hand...farmers also do not work by the timeclock (at least not in my romantic fantasy world), rather they work according to the rhythm of life each day and season. I'm always amazed at how much of my day is ruled by meal planning or preparation. And each season brings its demands of school or vacation or holidays...
The problem with such work, however, is that it is not neatly confined to a workday. I, like the farmer, have the luxury of deciding when I want to work, but, also like the farmer, I will get out of it what I put into it. Too much time spent sleeping, playing Freecell, doing crosswords, or blogging makes for a home that I cringe to call my own. I'm really working on this issue. And there's always work to be done. Even on vacation, weekends, and evenings. Sometimes especially then.
And, truth be told, I'm not even completely unemployed. I'm back to tending to Brandon, now 8 months old. Now I'm also following the rhythms of feedings, diapers, and naps. Still trying to find my balance with all this. But it's sort of a "nicotine patch" for paycheck withdrawal, and it fulfills my need for a purpose. Nurturing a human soul is one of the higher callings in life, or so I keep telling myself.
It's all in how you look at it.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
OOPS!! Technical Difficulties -- Still in New York
Modern technology is SO not my thing. I accidently published my last entry instead of editing, so pardon my typos and abrupt ending!!
So where were we? Walking. Oh yes. And walking. To Times Square where we saw The Naked Cowboy (as it says on his tidy whities). From Times Square up Park Avenue, just to say we'd been there. The girls popped into the Juicy Couture store and pretended they could afford the stuff. We walked all the way to Central Park, with a quick zig that took us past The Russian Tea Room and Carnegie Hall. In Central Park we had some ice cream and tried to re-group.
My dear friend Marla has often commented that she can understand why some animals eat their young (she's recently had #6). I understood the feeling. For one, Miriam has an amazing ability to be bored. She always looked at me like I was crazy when I suggested taking photos of things like Rockefeller Center. She couldn't believe there wasn't a Hot Topic store (LIKE SHE CAN GO TO AT THE LOCAL MALL!!). Amelia has little to no capacity to handle physical discomfort. She was wearing new shoes and getting blisters. So we're sitting there in Central Park and Miriam turns to me and says "Are we just going to sit here?"
The worst moment came after we took the subway back to Penn Station. Tom had wandered off for a moment and the girls and I came dangerously close to a full melt-down, and I was feeling sorely tempted to just call the whole thing off. We were saved by Macy's and Green Day.
Macy's? It's just a little mind-blowing to be in a department store that big. The Junior's Department itself was the entire 4th floor taking up 2 city blocks. The girls could do some shopping, I had a place to sit down (the Aunt Annie's Pretzels also on the 4th floor), and Tom got the opportunity to wander around the block without any whining ball-and-chains. We were able to get (a surprisingly affordable) dinner at the restaurant in the basement and the girls were even able to get the new Ashley Tisdale CD (a pox on Disney, I say!).
Green Day also happened to be playing that night at Madison Square Garden. This perked Miriam up. We were able to get cool pictures of the tour bus and equipment trailors. Tom actually offered to get tickets for the show if they were still available, and he would take Miriam while Amelia and I would take the train back to LI, an adventure in itself. The only seats left, of course, were obstructed AND, I think, behind the stage, so Miriam passed. But it was neat hanging out by the venue with the fans waiting to go in.
In retrospect, it was a good day in the city. I don't know if it was Michael Bloomberg's efforts to clean up Manhattan or maturity on my part, possibly both, but New York was not nearly as scary as I remember. There were no Jews for Jesus passing out literature on the street corners. I only saw one person doing an anti-government, religious rant, and my kids didn't even notice. They noticed a homeless person although I did not. No drugs, no 3 Card Monty games. Surprisingly few buskers. I also couldn't find any street vendors selling italian ice which really bummed me out. Of course, when Tom was walking around while I was in Macy's he saw both a vendor AND an italian ice vendor. Figures.
Overall New York was surprisingly normal, almost bland. Of course we didn't leave midtown. And, come to think of it, we did pass a guy dressed like a monster walking down Park Avenue. And in Central Park there was a guy who did a very convincing Captain Jack Sparrow imitation. New York, New York...it's a wonderful town...
Next up - Sleeping Bear.
So where were we? Walking. Oh yes. And walking. To Times Square where we saw The Naked Cowboy (as it says on his tidy whities). From Times Square up Park Avenue, just to say we'd been there. The girls popped into the Juicy Couture store and pretended they could afford the stuff. We walked all the way to Central Park, with a quick zig that took us past The Russian Tea Room and Carnegie Hall. In Central Park we had some ice cream and tried to re-group.
My dear friend Marla has often commented that she can understand why some animals eat their young (she's recently had #6). I understood the feeling. For one, Miriam has an amazing ability to be bored. She always looked at me like I was crazy when I suggested taking photos of things like Rockefeller Center. She couldn't believe there wasn't a Hot Topic store (LIKE SHE CAN GO TO AT THE LOCAL MALL!!). Amelia has little to no capacity to handle physical discomfort. She was wearing new shoes and getting blisters. So we're sitting there in Central Park and Miriam turns to me and says "Are we just going to sit here?"
The worst moment came after we took the subway back to Penn Station. Tom had wandered off for a moment and the girls and I came dangerously close to a full melt-down, and I was feeling sorely tempted to just call the whole thing off. We were saved by Macy's and Green Day.
Macy's? It's just a little mind-blowing to be in a department store that big. The Junior's Department itself was the entire 4th floor taking up 2 city blocks. The girls could do some shopping, I had a place to sit down (the Aunt Annie's Pretzels also on the 4th floor), and Tom got the opportunity to wander around the block without any whining ball-and-chains. We were able to get (a surprisingly affordable) dinner at the restaurant in the basement and the girls were even able to get the new Ashley Tisdale CD (a pox on Disney, I say!).
Green Day also happened to be playing that night at Madison Square Garden. This perked Miriam up. We were able to get cool pictures of the tour bus and equipment trailors. Tom actually offered to get tickets for the show if they were still available, and he would take Miriam while Amelia and I would take the train back to LI, an adventure in itself. The only seats left, of course, were obstructed AND, I think, behind the stage, so Miriam passed. But it was neat hanging out by the venue with the fans waiting to go in.
In retrospect, it was a good day in the city. I don't know if it was Michael Bloomberg's efforts to clean up Manhattan or maturity on my part, possibly both, but New York was not nearly as scary as I remember. There were no Jews for Jesus passing out literature on the street corners. I only saw one person doing an anti-government, religious rant, and my kids didn't even notice. They noticed a homeless person although I did not. No drugs, no 3 Card Monty games. Surprisingly few buskers. I also couldn't find any street vendors selling italian ice which really bummed me out. Of course, when Tom was walking around while I was in Macy's he saw both a vendor AND an italian ice vendor. Figures.
Overall New York was surprisingly normal, almost bland. Of course we didn't leave midtown. And, come to think of it, we did pass a guy dressed like a monster walking down Park Avenue. And in Central Park there was a guy who did a very convincing Captain Jack Sparrow imitation. New York, New York...it's a wonderful town...
Next up - Sleeping Bear.
Monday, August 10, 2009
What I Did on my Summer Vacation - Part I
I'll try to keep this from morphing into a pathetically bad school essay. We just returned from our annual summer jaunt. Maybe I'll call this one The Alpha and Omega since it incorporated New York City and Sleeping Bear National Lakeshore in Northern Michigan.
As you, my friends know, it's been a funky summer. A get-away is usually a good tonic for this and this one did not disappoint.
As previously noted, we opted for the urban/rustic experience.
First, New York. I actually have history with the city since for some odd reason I've TWICE had boyfriends from Long Island. Not bad for a Wisconsin girl. Hayseed that I was, NYC always freaked me out. I remember learning in college about a psych experiment in which someone purposely overpopulated a colony of rats and kept them in a confined space and watched their anti-social behavior develop. I always thought that experiment was a little unnecessary since all one would really need to do is study Manhattan. I mean really.
The first time I went to the city my boyfriend's mom told me I'd see a homeless person/bag lady, a television or film crew, and we couldn't quite remember what the third thing was, either a drug deal or a 3 card monty game. The city did not disappoint on any of those. I was also offered drugs for sale (Bryant Park), and had my purse stolen at an Arby's after I set it on the floor next to me like a completely ignorant mid-westerner. Boyfriend's mom grabbed it back for me. She also took me to see The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas on Broadway. She's awesome.
By the time my second New York boyfriend rolled around I had developed something of a phobia of the city. He and his sister laughed that the city must have looked like the view from a fish-eye lens to me. It was a big deal the day I actually walked from his sister's apartment in the West 40's to the McDonald's across the street ALL BY MY SELF.
So I could never say I had a particular fondness for the Big Apple, and I always argued that their pizza was too flat.
So here we were having a family adventure in the place that never sleeps, which actually led me to a cosmic realization: Tom may have been born and raised in the Wilkes-Barre/Scranton area, but his father grew up in the Whitehall (? I think?) section of the city and his mom is from Lyndhurst, New Jersey. While he was growing up his grandparent lived in Queens and he used to hang out there some, roam the city, and go to lots of Mets games. My cosmic New York connection continues. I swear I didn't plan it this way.
We found a decent hotel for under $100/night (!) on Long Island that was not far from Islip where my friends live. Just getting there was Day 1. Having dealt with Chicago a number of times, the Cross-Bronx and Long Island Expressways weren't unbearable. Day 2, it was decided, I would visit my friends while Tom took the girls to Jones Beach. My friends in Islip are actually the parents of LI boyfriend #1, and our relationship was better and far-outlasted the one I had with their son. My daughters didn't quite get this whole concept so I thought it best that they have an adventure while I caught up on old times. I can only take so much eye-rolling, sighs, and "can we go yet?"
Day 3 was it. Our foray to The City. In typical fashion we really didn't have it planned out. Tom, as mentioned before, has a certain familiarity with the place and felt just exploring would give us the best feel for the place.
Lesson 1 - staying further out on the island may have saved us on room cost, but this was somewhat offset by the train fare. Yow. Lesson 2 - there are no Broadway matinees on Tuesday, and the Long Island Railroad doesn't make it easy to get back in the evening unless you don't mind arriving around 2am. Lesson 3 - if you have a 16 year old daughter that is really freaked out by heights that eliminates climbing the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building or the Top of the Rock at Rockefeller Center.
So what do you do? You walk. And walk. Up 8th Avenue to Times Square. After
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm having a depressive episode. That's the thing. About 90% of the time I'm fine. All it takes is one good trigger and I fall into the hole, and climbing out again is a process.
Gee, what could have set me off? Could it be the interpersonal psychodrama that managed to tweak several of my issues such as weak bounderies? Shifting hormones? Anne Lamott wrote about the difficulties of having an adolescent son with a menopausal mother. Little did she know that the combination of TWO adolescent daughters and a perimenopausal mother is positively NUCLEAR.
I was trying to imagine how to describe this feeling. The best image I could come up with was that it's like living underwater. Every action and movement feels like it's up against extra resistance. For the most part I feel like I manage OK, and you'd probably have to know me pretty well (like my kids, for instance) to spot that something's wrong. I may look functional on the outside, but it saps all my energy.
On the inside it's a much uglier story. Critical Voice appears to tell me how unaccomplished and messed-up I am, which, of course, I'm probably transmitting to my kids. The inner child starts howling for love and attention. The filter in my brain malfunctions and seems to screen out the positive, giving a negative spin to whatever is happening. It ain't pretty in there.
Oh yeah. I also do things like start new blog postings A MONTH AGO and then leave them to sit. Unpublished. After all, what do I have to say of any interest to anybody?
I'm working hard to bounce back. Softball season just ended and vacation has begun. A change of scenery may do the trick. I think the boo-boo has scabbed over, just waiting for the new skin to itch.
Gee, what could have set me off? Could it be the interpersonal psychodrama that managed to tweak several of my issues such as weak bounderies? Shifting hormones? Anne Lamott wrote about the difficulties of having an adolescent son with a menopausal mother. Little did she know that the combination of TWO adolescent daughters and a perimenopausal mother is positively NUCLEAR.
I was trying to imagine how to describe this feeling. The best image I could come up with was that it's like living underwater. Every action and movement feels like it's up against extra resistance. For the most part I feel like I manage OK, and you'd probably have to know me pretty well (like my kids, for instance) to spot that something's wrong. I may look functional on the outside, but it saps all my energy.
On the inside it's a much uglier story. Critical Voice appears to tell me how unaccomplished and messed-up I am, which, of course, I'm probably transmitting to my kids. The inner child starts howling for love and attention. The filter in my brain malfunctions and seems to screen out the positive, giving a negative spin to whatever is happening. It ain't pretty in there.
Oh yeah. I also do things like start new blog postings A MONTH AGO and then leave them to sit. Unpublished. After all, what do I have to say of any interest to anybody?
I'm working hard to bounce back. Softball season just ended and vacation has begun. A change of scenery may do the trick. I think the boo-boo has scabbed over, just waiting for the new skin to itch.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Looking Up to Reach Down
When I was in 4th grade, I think, a kid named Peder Lindh (I think that was his name. Definitely was his name, less sure of the spelling) punched me in the stomach after school. We were standing by the coat hooks. No real reason for hitting me, except that I was a kinda snotty kid. Wonder why I've never returned for my school reunions? I also swear that schools are not as brutish as they used to be. I don't remember Peder getting in any particular trouble for punching me. It might have been worth a suspension today.
ANYWAY -- I remember this particular punch because his little fist went up and under my solar plexis leaving me kneeling on the ground, gasping for breath, head spinning.
Recently I got myself into one of those messed-up, relationship-issue situations that I have a real talent for getting myself involved in. I tried to figure out what was going on and then, because I just can't help myself sometimes, I tried to fix it. As a result one of the people involved, whom I really like and has enough on her plate, wound up feeling very angry and betrayed, and I think I made a bad situation somewhat worse, or at least no better. Not to mention the fact that I seemed to have killed a budding friendship.
Her anger was another punch to the gut, and I fell apart in a way I haven't for a long time. I sobbed and literally had to go to bed. At 7pm.
One of my daughters had recently commented that she didn't see why depression is considered a mental illness when her mom seems so OK. I think she got a crash course.
I know I'm way ahead of where I was years ago. I know my issues pretty well, I knew I was having an episode, and I knew I had to lay low and take it easy for awhile. I'm back up and around, and breathing, but still feel echoes of awful.
The worst part? I want to reach-out with an apologetic gesture, let her know I wasn't in it for personal gain, but only to help. But re-visiting the issue may only muddy the water yet again. But I'm having trouble walking away and leaving the situation alone.
While it was all going on I tried so hard to do the right thing. The Quakers have a concept called "leadings." If you're very quiet and allow the Spirit to move you, it will be your guide. (Thus one of my favorite little signs ever that I used to have in my office: I am a Quaker. In case of emergency, please be quiet.) I really tried to do that, but it back-fired. Is the Spirit leading me to reach out? Or my own craven need for approval? I'm not sure I can tell the difference anymore.
I haven't been to the nursing home for a couple of weeks. I also just found out that Brandon's aunt wants to watch him full-time for the summer, so I don't have that exhausting distraction anymore. It's a good thing, but an adjustment. And, of course, the kids are bored. AAAAAAH!
So how are things with you?
ANYWAY -- I remember this particular punch because his little fist went up and under my solar plexis leaving me kneeling on the ground, gasping for breath, head spinning.
Recently I got myself into one of those messed-up, relationship-issue situations that I have a real talent for getting myself involved in. I tried to figure out what was going on and then, because I just can't help myself sometimes, I tried to fix it. As a result one of the people involved, whom I really like and has enough on her plate, wound up feeling very angry and betrayed, and I think I made a bad situation somewhat worse, or at least no better. Not to mention the fact that I seemed to have killed a budding friendship.
Her anger was another punch to the gut, and I fell apart in a way I haven't for a long time. I sobbed and literally had to go to bed. At 7pm.
One of my daughters had recently commented that she didn't see why depression is considered a mental illness when her mom seems so OK. I think she got a crash course.
I know I'm way ahead of where I was years ago. I know my issues pretty well, I knew I was having an episode, and I knew I had to lay low and take it easy for awhile. I'm back up and around, and breathing, but still feel echoes of awful.
The worst part? I want to reach-out with an apologetic gesture, let her know I wasn't in it for personal gain, but only to help. But re-visiting the issue may only muddy the water yet again. But I'm having trouble walking away and leaving the situation alone.
While it was all going on I tried so hard to do the right thing. The Quakers have a concept called "leadings." If you're very quiet and allow the Spirit to move you, it will be your guide. (Thus one of my favorite little signs ever that I used to have in my office: I am a Quaker. In case of emergency, please be quiet.) I really tried to do that, but it back-fired. Is the Spirit leading me to reach out? Or my own craven need for approval? I'm not sure I can tell the difference anymore.
I haven't been to the nursing home for a couple of weeks. I also just found out that Brandon's aunt wants to watch him full-time for the summer, so I don't have that exhausting distraction anymore. It's a good thing, but an adjustment. And, of course, the kids are bored. AAAAAAH!
So how are things with you?
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