Middle Age Mommy - Keeping It All Together

Atlanta Botanical Gardens holiday lights I have been away from my blog for awhile...I  am uninspired. Christmas has come and gone, and I enjoyed so little of it.  The new year is demanding attention, and I will soon be forced to give in to it.  I am dragging these last few days of 2011.  The ever present auto-immune disorders are nagging at me, and I have a bad case of the holiday let downs.  Holidays have lacked in appeal for me these last few years.  The shopping, cooking, cleaning and preparing for the big event is tiresome and any time I get to actually enjoy the holiday is fleeting.  I desperately want to find that peace and joy that this time of year is supposed to bring.  It is lost on me.  Don't get me wrong, I adore preparing Christmas for my son and step daughter.  It is pure pleasure watching them enjoy their moment.  That is really the only joy of Christmas for me. I guess that I am left to wonder, where is my moment?  Sounds selfish, I know, as Christmas is not abo

I was recently diagnosed with Lupus.  While it is a crummy diagnosis, I am at least glad that I finally know why I have been feeling off for the last handful of years.  I really thought I was going to lose my mind.  The pain, the fatigue, swollen joints that wished me a "good morning' each and every day....all are a result of this silly autoimmune disorder that I am unlucky enough to have.  I know that my husband, friends and family must have thought I was a hypochondriac.  I was always tired and something always felt weird.  I thought... "Am I imaging this? Certainly I cannot feel bad - again!"   So, I have my diagnosis after a little blood test showed the Smith anti-bodies were positive, throw in a little Raynaud's Syndrome, swollen, painful joints, and pleurisy - and yourself got a nice little Lupus salad, dressing on the side please.  My husband has coined the term "Lupus Poopus".  I like that.  It is poopy. Stress.  It is best avoided.  It is rea

I have returned to ballet class.  I have missed class for the last, oh....25 years.  I can assure you that 25 years ago, my center was strong, by shoulders relaxed and my turn out..spot on.  I could lift my leg over my head, pull a triple pirouette and land it!  Today I bobbled my balance, drug my toes and wore my shoulders like earrings.  That is okay.  During the first 3 minutes of class, I was swimming in self shame.  I quickly did something very uncharacteristic...I let go of that shame and gave myself a mental pep talk (while doing a pilates style core exercise that about made me throw up).  I told myself that I am taking the road to health, strength and mental stimulation.  It all starts with the first step. There I was, in a class after a 25 years, once again taking that first step, or chasse' if you will.   I grew up dancing, and I had some success with it.  In college, as a student, I actually taught a college level class for the dance department.   I always thought I

We are in the process of packing up my parent's house in preparation to put in on the market.  Mom is now safely living in a memory care unit at a full time care home.  She has been there 8 weeks.  Dad is going to downsize and move closer to where Mom lives now.  As we gather, organize and pack, we are deciding who gets what among Mom's things.  That feels weird.  Mom loved her pretty things.  Mom has a lot of things.  I know that she would want us to have what we feel a sentimental attachment to, and she would be happy knowing her pretties have a good home...but here's the deal...She is still with us in the physical world.  I am having a real issue with that.  I guess it might be easier to divvy up a person's possessions after they are have departed this realm of being.  Intellectually, I recognize that my mother will never use her Christmas cookie-cutters again. The days of Mom setting a beautiful table with her china are long gone. Dad will never use these things, s

Oh there is just so much I want to talk about, but I cannot seem to get it together.  Focusing is tough.  Life has been stressful lately.  There have been, what I am now calling, the "every two weeks emergency" ,  since it seems that every two weeks something dramatic happens. The latest was Dad going into the hospital with double pneumonia, followed by Mom talking a fall when she decided to walk herself (she cannot walk unassisted) to the back porch.  I have been suffering with a bad sinus infection, and, only to add insult to injury, with a bout of the H-pylori virus also.  Let's toss in the stress of working my territory to assure that the state of Georgia shows well in the numbers game at the end of the year (by the grace of God, so far so good).  My most important role, as a mother, has me trying to keep my son on track in preparation for kindergarten (he is reading!).  Forget about keeping the house in order, laundry done and dinner on the table.  I feel raw, overwh

I was going to title this latest blog, "Helpless and Overwhelmed - The Plight of a Working Mother", but then I thought that would be insulting to those moms who are considered  'stay at home' mothers.  I got caught up wondering how the term 'stay at home mother' even started.  Back in the day, most mothers did stay at home.  The term 'working mom' just does not cut it either.  Mother's, whether employed or not, are always working.  There are pluses and minuses to both options. I know it feels like I am always working.  Prior to leaving the house each morning, I have made a breakfast, packed a lunch, helped dress my child, made sure his hair is combed, his teeth are brushed, and has his backpack.  All the while, I slugged down a cup of coffee and tried to make proper order of my own hair, face, teeth and clothing.   I then drive up the highway to drop him off at school, only to get back in my car to start my work day.  Whew!  I am tired just readin

Spring has arrived in the south.  It is beautiful.  The trees are blooming, bulbs are pushing up, and the temperature is wonderful.  Everyone is sporting their flip flops and jockeying for position on the patios and decks of local restaurants and bars.  I have lived in Atlanta since 1990.  In that time, there have been a handful of scary moments with the weather, specifically tornadoes.  Just a few years ago, downtown was ravaged by a twister.  The storm struck the 71,000-seat Georgia Dome at 9:45 p.m. during a Southeastern Conference tournament basketball game. It shattered windows and tore roofs from buildings, including CNN Center, before continuing into several residential neighborhoods.  We are in-town dwellers, and that was a pretty scary storm.  We were oblivious to it, in the midst of hosting a dinner party, but someone did comment that it was a little windy outside.  Just down the street, literally, less than a half mile, the tornado devastated Cabbage Town and other close

I was about 10 years old before I discovered the Beatles.  Do the math.  I was born in November of 1963, and the Beatles first US tour started in February of 1964.  That made me 3 months old.  Fast forward to my  grandparent's home in Georgetown, Kentucky, somewhere around 1973...my grandmother handed me a few 45's she thought I might like.  What she put in my hands, were several early Beatles records that my aunt had purchased in the early 1960's and never took with her.   I did not know that I had been given the gift of original early Beatles 45s on the Capital yellow swirl label., but what I discovered was "Ticket to Ride", "Please, Please Me", and "I want to Hold Your Hand".  I flipped.  My musical exposure up to that point had been my parent's Peter, Paul and Mary albums, Kingston Trio and the Smother's Brothers.  My Republican parents had a penchant for counterculture music.  I had just started listening to Top 40 radio and knew

Here I sit, almost three months into my 47th year.  When did that happen?  I do not feel 47.  Let me rephrase that, I do not feel like what I think 47 should feel like.  I remember being much younger and thinking that the age I am now, was impossibly old.  I am not impossibly old.  Not yet.  If nature works in my favor and I steer clear of all disasters, both natural and man made, then I hope to live to be impossibly old.  In fact, I embrace it.  Let's face it, growing old is better than the alternative of not getting to grow old.  Right?  I say this flippantly, but I have a few friends and a couple of family members who never made it to the ripe old age of 47.  I seriously consider myself lucky. I think back on milestone birthdays - the obvious, 18, 21, 29, 40....and here I sit tonight, closer to 50 than 40.  When I turned eighteen, I was living in Boca Raton, Florida and a senior in high school.  I had been in Florida for a little over 2 years from Kansas City.  Eighteen was

February 16th is a special day.  It marks the day that my son made his physical entrance into this world.  It is a date that I hold close to my heart.  I remember that day so well too.  Actually, it was the evening, as he was born close to 9:30 at night.  My parents, my sister and grandmother were all there.  I promised my grandmother that I would deliver Dominick on her birthday, and I made it with a couple hours to spare!  My son shares his birthday with my maternal grandmother, Dorothy Catching, or as we always called her, Mamaw.  Mamaw was a very special person in my world and I miss her every day.  She died on Thanksgiving day 2009 at the age of 84.  She was many things, rolled up into a little crazy ball of hillbilly wonderfulness.  She was a healer, a country cook of the highest caliber, and a good listener.  She could give you a hard time better than anyone.  If you have never heard the term Mamaw,let me explain.  My ancestors hail from the mountains of eastern Kentucky and Ten

I have been doing a lot of thinking about home lately.  I have been in Atlanta for over twenty years now.  It does not really feel like home to me.  I like Atlanta.  I am blessed that my parents, my sister, and other close family members live near.  I have a bounty of wonderful friends here too.  My child was born in Atlanta.  My husband is crazy about this city, but Atlanta isn't really home to me.  It is where I live, and don't get me wrong,  I really like where I live.  So, I asked myself, what is 'home'?  Yes, sigh, it is where the heart is.  Is my heart here?  The man I love and my precious child are here. A huge part of  my heart really is here in Atlanta, just not 100%.  I can't put my finger on it.  Maybe it is partially because I did not grow up here.  Maybe too, it is because life has changed so much since growing up.   I had a wealth of opportunities and experiences as a child and teenager living in Kansas City, then later in south Florida.  I was alway

Growing up, my mother was the pretty mom.  She was not a glamorous beauty, but a very approachable, natural one.  Mom had glossy black hair, beautiful skin and high cheek bones.  That is was the Cherokee blood we are rumored to have.  She was voted prettiest girl in at Cumberland High School her senior year.  She never quite knew how to handle the attention her beauty brought her.  My mother was more than just pretty though she was kind. People were drawn to my mother.  Children loved her.  She was very easy to talk to.  I cannot count the times that I went out with her, only to have complete strangers strike up a conversation and engage her for minutes on end.  It was almost silly. Christmas 2009, we took Dominick to visit Santa Claus at the local shopping center.  Santa looked very happy when my mother walked in with us.  In fact, after the obligatory chat and photo with my son, he says to my  mother, "I sure do like how you look, come take a picture with me!".   You d

When I was growing up, we had to stand up, walk to the television and turn a dial to change the channel.  We only had 4 good channels.  There were still rotary phones that were of course, stationary.  In order for me to have a private conversation with a friend, I used the wall mounted phone with the very, very long cord.  I could travel out of the kitchen and into the dining room to sit and chat.  Cable channels became the norm about seventh or eighth grade.  MTV was introduced to the world my senior year of high school.  Video did indeed kill the radio star.  I witnessed it's death.  I managed to write every term paper for all four years of college on a typewriter, using white-out to correct my mistakes.  I was a terrible typist.  My papers were messy.  I did not twirl with excitement when personal computers started to show up in the office.  Let's say my attentions were on other things - things more male that played in bands.  I was a receptionist around 1989, for an enginee

It seems that I have always had a bit of a flair for performing.  I remember living in Lexington, Kentucky and dressing up in my mother's nightgowns and attaching her fall (that extra piece of hair that women in the 1960's would use to add volume) to the top of my head.  I would twirl to the sounds of the Lawrence Welk show in my living room.  My parent's would clap and indulge the budding performer in me.  Later, after we moved to Prairie Village, Kansas, I would play current pop hits on my plastic record player (one tiny speaker) and act out the song.  Karen Carpenter typically filled my need for the dramatic.  Just try to picture a skinny eight year old with big teeth, and frizzy hair, belting out "don't you remember you told me you  loved me baby..".  I always sang louder in music class then anyone else, and always vied for my position in class at Miller Marley Dance school,  center and front (all the better to see myself my dear).  I think by age 6, or 7,