My Darlin’, My baby

As Mother’s Day approaches I think on each of my children.  All of them are special, unique, and have become remarkable adults.  I have three of them: my two sons, to whom I gave birth, and my beautiful daughter who came to me along with her father, when she had just turned thirteen.    My daughter is the youngest of the three, but she was not my baby.  

This little essay is for my baby,  my Darlin’, My baby.  

That is,  my youngest son:  a hulking, huge, almost 35 year old man.  He is over six feet tall (by a bunch), has deep brown eyes a person can get lost in, thick gorgeous black hair, and a beautiful smile that occasionally lights up his face and makes me think of the double rainbow in the sky the day he was born.  I love him beyond expression.   

I also haven’t seen or heard from him in months.  

He suffers from a mental illness that makes it hard to be around him.  He has a mind that experiences incredible highs and devastating lows.  Even the highs,  manic episodes during which his mind races so fast and hard he can’t keep up with it,  are difficult and have from time to time forced him into situations where he attempts to hurt himself, without completely understanding why.   

I’m not even sure if the above paragraph really describes what he has lived through, because surely, I do not understand what it is, no matter how much I have tried.  These are his experiences.  They belong to him.

Here’s what I do understand.

Mental illness is a family disorder.  The person who has the dis-ease often feels alone and bereft, lost, and misunderstood.  But, as John Donne so eloquently said, we are not islands; we are all members of a tribe.  All who love anyone, suffer when that anyone is hurting.  My other children, his friends, his child, anyone who loves him, are affected by what he, apparently, has chosen not to control, but rather to embrace.   I admit I do not understand his choice, but I respect that it is his choice. 

So I have chosen to watch my child from the sidelines.  Some might call me selfish, loving him only from afar.  But it is better for me, and it is probably better for him. 

So this brings me back to Mother’s Day.  I want to take this forum, this little blog that very few people read, to explain how very proud I am of this person I call my baby.    When he loves, he loves without a seat-belt.   Well, really, he has lived his whole life without a seat-belt, a crash helmet, or a safety net.   When he was only a teenager, he spent time taking care of a grandparent at the end of her life.  When she slipped away he was inconsolable.   I remember he called me and wanted me to hop in the car and drive the ten hours to where he was.  Right now.  It’s what he would have done.

I am proud of him for doing what he thinks is the right thing to do.  I don’t agree with much that he does, and he has made some extremely poor decisions in his life.  But I don’t think he ever gives up.  I always imagine a person taking two steps back, and one step forward.  He takes the one step forward.  He takes one step forward.   

This is for you my Darlin’…  I am choosing this Mother’s Day to remember all the reasons I have ever been proud of you. 

My list

Today is the first day of my 62nd year. I will receive birthday wishes by card, by phone, by text, and by social networking.

I woke up this morning and found a card at my place at the kitchen table. I know my husband, the Manly Spouse, spent some time at the card aisle picking out the very best one. He does that; it's one of the many things I love about him. He always asks me what I want for my birthday, then stresses about it. Really. I already have everything I need, so what do I want?




Okay, here's the list:

I want to retire. With health insurance. So I can play in my little "garden" (without any back pain!). Then to eat from the bounty that grows there.

I want to be thin....maybe. I've been thin, it's not that big of a deal really, so maybe scratch that one off the list.

I want to watch my children and grandchildren live happy, contented lives.
I want to stay healthy for as long as I have left to live, then die as cheerfully and as gracefully as my mother did.

My mother used to answer the "what do you want for..." question with, "Diamond Earrings!" Then one year, for christmas I think, she got a pair. That shut her up. After that the ubiquitous answer was, "a kiss and a hug."
You can't have too many of those.
Speaking of my mother, I would like to spend another day with her, listening to the stories she told about her life.

I'd like to spend another evening with my father, sitting quietly, feeling his calm presence.

A million winning lottery tickets will not buy any of these things, nor will they buy what I already have: a loving spouse, a roof and a bed, and a patch of green with tomatoes and eggplants growing and growing, health, and a cheerful disposition.

I already have everything I need, and life is really good.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Omaha, USA

Lessons in Joy

My mother was a teacher in the art of being joyful.  She  understood the importance of having fun.  She taught me how to make s'mores,  sit-upons, and sourdough bread.  Not just in girl scout camp, either.  

     When I was a young girl, maybe 8 or 9 years old, she threw me a birthday party.  We invited every girl in my class and she taught us all how to make dresses using newspaper and stick pins.

     The summer I was 15 or 16 we found an old buffet in a barn.  We spent a day (at least!) antiquing it... Blue.  It was a fun, funky piece of furniture that sat in the hall outside her kitchen for the rest of her life.  Every time I looked at it I remembered how much fun we had painting it.

     Once, when my mother was in her eighties, we went to lunch together.  She ordered soup, and a glass of white wine.  "Don't you want a sandwich?" I asked.
     "Not today," she answered, " I'm having the chocolate cake for dessert!" 
When we left the restaurant, it was raining.  My mother took off her shoes and splashed, laughing,  through the puddles back to the car.

     In September, 2001, after 5 heart attacks in 6 weeks, there was nothing to do but hospice, and she rode home in an ambulance to die.   When she was wheeled out of the ambulance she said, " That was so much fun, looking out the window backwards!"   She laughed and laughed.  

     My mother taught me that Joy is wherever you find it.  She taught me how to make my own joy.  She reminded me how much fun it is to splash in the puddles in my bare feet, and that it's. Okay to eat dessert first!