The Hibernator

Apparently, I have more in common with bears than I thought.
Of course, there's the fact that since shorts weather faded away, my legs see the sharp side of a razor less and less often.
There's also the fact that as winter slowly descends, my appetite gradually increases.
But these similarities only scratch the surface.
My daughters started to notice in early November that as the days shortened, my desire to stay home - just stay home - increased.
As it gets colder and colder, darker and greyer, my desire to venture out into the world tapers off.
Apparently, I hibernate.
From November until late March, depending on the weather, I am most content to remain at home, day-in and day-out. I like to sit by the fire, reading, crocheting, sipping hot chocolate or coffee, and am perfectly content never to venture too far from the back door. In fact, I'm happiest when someone else is home to take the dogs out and bring in the firewood - then I don't have to leave at all!
This tendency can be quite frustrating to those who don't share it - especially if those people are dependent on said hibernator for transportation. So I try, really I do, to accommodate some of their desires to run to the mall, the library, the bookstore (really, Mom, take us anywhere, please!!!) but I'm afraid there is a lot of accommodation required of them as well.
My husband and I have been talking about where we want to retire - the idea of being an old lady in the 'hood doesn't thrill me. But you know what does? A house outside of town on 10 acres. Maybe 20 minutes or so from the city. A place where I could get snowed in and it wouldn't matter. A place of solitude for when hibernation season rolls around.
I think I could be perfectly content with "going to town" once or maybe twice a week.
Of course, there's the issue of being a little old lady snowed in 20 minutes outside of town, but that doesn't seem so bad to me right now.
You'll have to check back with me in the spring.

Confronting Stigma

Well, I'm back from a short visit to crazy town.
No, I'm not talking about mental illness, mine or anyone else's for that matter. Instead, I entered the truly insane world of the scientifically illiterate, the ill-informed, and the bigoted.
You see, earlier this fall I got tired - no, not just tired, but sick and tired, of post after post on Facebook, all made by the same person, questioning the safety and efficacy of immunizations.
There seems to be some kind of a social taboo these days against calling these people out, flatly stating their sources are biased and poorly documented, telling them that they simply don't understand science. What I've noticed most frequently is the failure to understand the difference between causation and correlation.
I know it's tempting to follow the old edict of "to each his own," except in the case of immunizations, choosing not to protect one's own children from the scourge of childhood diseases - and unbelievably, even cancer - doesn't affect only that individual child. Immunizations only work when upwards of 95% of the population is protected. When too many holes are poked in this herd immunity, outbreaks of disease will occur, threatening even those who have been vaccinated.
Who would ever have thought there would be a vaccine against cancer! Yes, that's what the Gardasil vaccine is folks - a vaccine against cancer - and there are people out there who claim it's dangerous, offering no scientific proof whatsoever; or, crazily enough, that it isn't necessary.
It's a vaccine against CANCER, people.
Anyway, after a heated exchange in which I could not get those arguing the anti-vaccine side to answer my most basic questions about their objections, and during which the tone turned decidedly nasty, I let the argument die. Instead, I simply matched each wacky, biased, anti-science link with a counter link.
I was finally unfriended, and frankly, I wondered what took them so long.
I have no problem whatsoever with ending contact with someone who causes you distress - after all, I'm sure it's difficult to deal with information that contradicts your world view and calls into question your own health care decisions - especially when that information is coming from sources more credible than holistic internet sites.
It was after the unfriending that things truly turned nasty.
Years ago, when first one, the two, then three of my children, and finally I, myself, was diagnosed with major depression and anxiety disorders, I decided that the only way to fight the societal stigma of mental illness was with honesty.
After all, mental illnesses are no different than any other illnesses of the body. Are people embarrassed or afraid to speak of their heart disease, diabetes, glaucoma? Of course not. Therefore, I have always been open and honest about who I am and the illnesses I have. In case you're wondering, I also have hypothyroidism (gasp!) and Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (beware!).
After all these years, I've encountered very little real-life stigma, especially since my children left public school. And you know what? When you're honest about your own mental illness, it's amazing how many other people follow suit and talk about their own issues with anxiety, depression, bipolar, etc.
I guess I've come to take having depression in stride, as I have with my other conditions.
That's why I was so shocked to discover that these people - with whom I had argued about vaccines - spoke openly and cowardly on Facebook, insinuating that I was crazy and irrational because I have a mental illness.
Talk about being floored!
I guess it's easier to dismiss someone who is telling you information you don't want to hear if you can simply call her crazy. Jeez!
I must admit this blatant use of the fact of my mental illness against me was shocking. Truly shocking. That there is that much stigma out there just under the surface is truly frightening.
At first it made me rethink whether I should continue to blog openly about my and my children's struggles with mental illness.
But if I don't speak out, who will?
Until the fact that I, or anyone else has a mental illness is treated no differently than any other illness (would anyone ever say 'disregard her arguments, she must be irrational, she has cancer you know), it behooves everyone to stand up and speak out.
Anyone, of course, can disagree with me, think I'm a *itch, or that I'm mean and poorly-informed.
Just don't blame it on an illness - any illness - I happen to have.
Weirdly enough, you could even try to counter my positions with factual information:)

Middle Age

Walking out of the craft store today I caught a glimpse of someone. She looked familiar, but wasn't quite who I thought she was. A second look at my reflection, and yes, it was me.
I am a middle-aged woman.
And it shows.
It's funny, I don't think of myself as nearly 50. Good grief, I can remember when my Mom was fifty! But here I am, almost at the top of the hill, ready for the great ride down.
And while I remember the climb, it just doesn't seem possible that so much time has passed.
I don't think of myself as a mother of adults. But three of my four children are adults. My oldest son is almost the age I was when he was born. My younger son, almost the age I married. My daughter, the same age I was when I started college.
How could my baby be 14?
I'm not a young mother anymore. My sister is a grandma. My aunts and uncles are all gone, as is my father. My mom is 82.
And all of this happened in the blink of an eye.
Really. I'm serious. It happened that fast.
I'm not ready to curl up and wither away. In fact, I'm at the cusp of a whole new chapter in my life, one that includes rediscovering myself, my talents, my interests. One in which my husband and I will soon have all the time in the world together.
Alone.
Wow.
In some ways, I can't believe how much living has taken place in these 26 years of married life. All the holidays, birthdays, vacations, pets, happiness, tears, living and loving. And it's definitely not over, just, well, evolving.
So that middle-aged woman? The one who dyes her hair, wears sneakers and footsies with capris, and is kind of thick around the middle?
That is me.
And you know what?
I like her.

Hurry up and relax

This afternoon I took a nap.
A headache was coming on and my body, ever-achy from my EDS, just needed the rest.
And boy, do I feel better now.
I woke with renewed energy and well-being.
So of course, I vacuumed and dusted, walked the dog, cleaned the windows, folded laundry, mowed the grass, made a batch of jam, and talked on the phone about how busy I am.
Right?

Nope. Not me.
I ate two plums, contemplated what to make for supper, thought about when to do all of the above listed chores, and enjoyed the breeze wafting in my window while I watched the cat try to catch a fly.

Wow, what a wasted afternoon, huh? I didn't get anything done. I didn't feel frazzled or pulled a hundred different directions.
And I can't brag about how busy I was.

Somewhere along the line, our society seems to have come to value busyness for busyness' sake. I could completely rephrase my afternoon activities to make it sound as if I had been busy, busy, busy: I wolfed down two plums at the sink while browsing through my cookbooks, desperate to find a quick and easy meal to make for supper that would also use up my tomatoes. Then I hurriedly finished a book that's due at the library tomorrow, scheduled my weekend, and sat down for a second to catch my breath only to have the cat jumping all over me trying to catch a fly.

I would argue that far from being a waste of time, my afternoon was quite productive. I took the time to care for myself, enabling me to make a great dinner for my family this evening. (Stuffed tomatoes, millet souffle, and a giant chocolate chip cookie, in case you were wondering) I just finished a great fantasy novel that most of my family is reading, enabling me to pass on the book to the next person in line. While enjoying that breeze, I had time to just think a little, appreciate this glorious afternoon, and laugh at my ridiculous cat (he hasn't yet caught that fly). So I happened to be sitting here when my son came in, allowing me to have a nice conversation with him about his summer internship with the USDA, his plans for the evening, and do a little philosophizing about the world and its many ills.

When we take on too much, when we're just busy for busy's sake, we lose that opportunity to be at peace with ourselves, to experience the simple moments of every day in their entirety. We don't take proper care of ourselves, leaving us drained, frazzled, and emotionally raw, and unavailable.

I was talking with my daughter about college this morning, and I told her to have fun. Don't get so caught up in needing to be perfect, don't worry so much about every test, every class, every responsibility that you forget to enjoy the moment.

Life is right now. Right here. It's not tomorrow, or next week, or after the next promotion, or when we can quit that job, or buy that land, or whatever.
If you're overloading your life right now in the pursuit of some future goal, just be sure you know what you're giving up.
You may think it's worth it, and perhaps for you it is. But as the mother of 4 children, only one of whom is still a minor, I can tell you that time goes by so fast you'll likely feel you have whiplash.
And you can never regain those lost moments.
No achievement is worth losing yourself or slighting your family or friendships in the right here and now.

So, you know what? I wasn't overly busy today, and I won't be tomorrow, either. My work will get done, but not at the expense of myself or my family.
My life doesn't start tomorrow.
It's here.
Right now.
And I don't want to miss or mess up a moment of it

Strawberry Girl

The days are passing quickly. Soon we'll be counting the hours, then the minutes.
Another chick is soon to leave the nest, and though I once had someone with only one child tell me that it's got to be so much easier for me when the kids leave because I have more than one, that simply is not the case.
Just as each child is an individual, each child holds a place near and dear in my heart. A separate place all their own where I remember the first time I held them, the feel of their fuzzy newborn heads against my shoulder, first foods, first words, first day of school... and on and on.
Just as each of my children is unique, so too is my love for them.
Each one is precious him or herself.


My boys are now grown men, Stephen in grad school and Zachary a senior at Iowa State. Even their leaving each fall still isn't easy. But now my oldest daughter, Sarah, is about to head off to school at UNI. She's going the farthest from home, nearly two hours away.
I know many parents send their kids off across the country or even out of the country for college, but I'm not writing this to try to compare. For us, this is a huge distance, despite how easily it can be traversed.
Sarah is my strawberry girl, an easy baby, always quick with a smile.
She's grown into a lovely young woman, brimming with talent, intelligence, and a zest for life. She's been through a lot in her brief 18 years, but she's never failed to impress me with her resilience and determination.
I not only love my sweet Sarah, I admire her.


Soon our daily laughter, hugs, and sharing will be done via electronics.
And I know we'll both cry a bit as we say goodbye, and likely more once we've parted.
But I have every confidence in her ability to not only survive, but thrive in her independence.
And just as it has with my boys, our relationship will change. But the time has come for us to transition from the parent/child relationship to the parent/adult child relationship.
I know she's ready for this, even if she has doubts.
And despite the miles and the independence, she'll always be my baby.
Forever and for always, my strawberry girl.

Song and Dance

Nighttime at my house isn't very restful.

Oh, some nights I conk out quite easily and sleep really deeply and well, though this is usually when my husband is home and I've popped a couple of Benadryl.

Sometimes I'm awakened ever so gently by this guy snuggling up on the pillow next to my head, purring sweet lullabies in my ear.

Other times, I'm rudely awakened by a tiger pulling my hair - hard.
Elmer will pull until I finally stumble out of bed and feed him.

This lovely little lady usually sleeps on my feet all night. This doesn't really bother me, as I've grown used to it over the past 8 years. But Fern is a nibbler, and an emotional eater, and most nights, usually between 2-4, she awakens from a stressful dream and simply must have food.

Now.

Fern doesn't poke or prod me, however. She has a knack for finding crinkly things - a magazine on the floor, perhaps a kleenex box, or a pile of books, and she rattles them.

Scratches at them.

Paws and mauls them.

Until finally, I stumble out of bed, go to the food bowls, and feed her.

The main problem I have with these two is that usually the food bowls aren't even empty.

They don't bother to check first, but need just a couple pieces of fresh crunchy added to the top.

I think they're testing me to see if I really do love them.

Many people have suggested shutting the cats in the basement or at least closing my bedroom door. But I love the snuggling and the purring, and besides, Fern's crying sounds just like a baby - something I cannot ignore.

There's also the small matter of adding a litterbox in the basement, and you know, we already have 9 litter boxes and I just don't want any more.

Also, there was a small incident a couple of years ago when the cats had access to the basement. We never determined who was to blame, but let's just say I don't want to clean up a mess like that again!

Then there's this character.

Wally never used to be a problem at night, but now he's an old man.

And everybody knows old men need to pee a lot.

And I mean every few hours.

We take him out multiple times each evening and try to have the last time be at least 10 p.m., but long about 4-ish, Wally feels the call of nature.

Let me tell you, it must be a siren song, because there is no denying it.

Wally has these little tiny feet at the end of his long, skinny legs, and even when his claws are properly trimmed, his prancing up and down the hall sounds just like tap-dancing. I know it would be better if I'd just get right up and take him out, but usually by this time, I've been up a time or two already and am desperately clinging to the hope that he'll settle down for just another hour or so.

Which means there's a good 15-20 minutes of tap-dancing up and down the hall, in and out of my room, and even down the stairs and back up again.

Why don't I just kennel him?

Well, Wally was kennel trained when a

puppy, but it's been years now since he's been in a kennel, and I think it would freak him out, especially now that one of his medications causes anxiety.

And thirst.

Now, if I'm really lucky, I can either sneak him outside quickly and get back to bed without waking up this character.

Yep.

Because when this guy wakes up, my day has officially started.

Even if it's 4:30 a.m.

Gus is only 8 months old, and honestly, I treat him more like a baby than the sweet, adorable, little Gussie-wussie... ahem, you see what I mean.

So, if Gus awakens, it's outside we go, which is a bit of a process, as he wants to stop and sniff every little scent along the way. Plus, basset hounds are not known for their stair-climbing proficiency.

So, this morning, at the insistence of my very patient daughters, I decided Gus would just have to go back in his kennel until I wanted to get up. Good for me, right? I could go back to bed and get a couple more hours of shut-eye.

Except for one small thing.

When a puppy has been treated like a baby, the puppy acts like a baby.

And Gus was not happy to be alone in the dark when it was morning, for goodness sake.

So, he howled.

He howled in that most desperately mournful way only a hound dog can howl.

For two hours.

Straight.

So, last night, between the hair-pulling, the tap-dancing, paper-rattling, and singing, I did get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

And people wonder why I nap.

Oh, and in case you're wondering: no, the sun is not yet up at 4:30.

Untarnished-silver, plus one

While filling out some paperwork (an attempt on my part to track my spending habits), I noticed the date. Well, I noticed that it was July 27, which meant a whole change in my late afternoon plans, as today is the deadline for high school registration.

For some reason, I couldn't quite believe that it actually is the 27th - no particular reason popped into mind, it’s just that I thought today was Wednesday, but it’s actually Thursday.

No wait, it’s Wednesday.

It’s just that I thought the 27th was Thursday, not today.

Which really is Wednesday.

And after checking online, it really is the 27th.

Then it hit me.

Why I should have remembered this date.

It’s one of the most important dates of my life.

And I totally forgot.

Today is my 26th wedding anniversary.

Now, I know the stereotypical sitcom version of the forgotten anniversary involves the forgetful, contrite husband frantically dashing out to the gas station at midnight to come back with some pitiful gift for his infuriated wife.

But I have no fears in that regard.

In fact, I bet my husband, who is away all this week on business (sweating in the cornfields of Nebraska, the lucky guy), hasn’t remembered either.

And I’m not the least upset.

In years past, especially during those crazy, child-intense years, with a traveling husband and 4 children under 10, I might have been a little perturbed. Especially with the out-of-town part of the equation.

Let’s just say I’ve mellowed with age.

And I think my marriage, too, has mellowed, ripening like a fine Chilean wine.

(Do wines ripen? Maybe they age, which only goes to reinforce the image. Oh, and I’m still a bit of a non-conformist - I know it’s supposed to be a “French” wine, but frankly, most of the wine we drink these days, unfortunately, comes out of a box and any bottle we splurge on is much more likely to come from south of the equator than from across the pond.)

But, as I was saying, my marriage fits me like a comfortable glove. You know how leather gets softer as it’s worn and comes to fit every digit like a second skin? That’s how I feel about my relationship with my husband.

We trust each other so completely, love each other so enormously, that most of the time we just really enjoy each other. There’s very little strife, we laugh at each other’s foibles, and finish each other’s sentences.

Never for a second do we doubt our love for each other. And instead of fancy dinners out or expensive jewelry, or this year, even flowers, we show our love for each other in the every-dayness of our lives together.

Michael makes the coffee for me, indulges my crazy love of animals, and does an enormous amount of housework. I cook him fabulous meals (most of the time), and when I’m unable, he steps up with his famous nachos or homemade pizza. I like to seek out unusual beers for him to try, share books I know he’ll like, and give him the things he would never indulge in for himself (um, like new shoes).

We share the everyday stresses of parenting, bill paying, and politics.

If ever there were soul mates, Michael and I are it. Or they. You know what I mean.

So, yes, I forgot my 26th anniversary, and far from being a sign of a failing marriage, it is a sign of the strength of our vows to each other and our commitment to each other. It’s not taken-for-granted, but rather, is such a part of myself, that I don’t need to mark it with hoopla.

Instead, I’ll marvel at the passage of time, all those wonderful years together, and look forward to many, many more with the man of my dreams.

And I’ll sure be glad when he walks through the door Friday evening.