Hope for the New Year

A friend of mine, someone very dear to my heart, wrote of this day...

"New Year's Eve....Why is this day important? Because tomorrow begins a new year? So what? So what if the world keeps moving and if time keeps ticking away?"

It made me think. What DOES make life worth living? What makes the passing of time more than just minutes ticking away? When it would seem so easy to give up and give in to the pain or apathy, why keep trudging on?

I can't answer these questions for anyone else, particularly not my friend. He will have to find his own path through the morass that is surrounding his heart and soul right now. But I know what makes me stay the course - hope. To be without hope is to be without life.

In 2005, I hope...

to love and be loved.
to enjoy the discovery of new friends.
to hold my new grandchild in my arms.
to see my daughters healthy, happy, and successful.
to be a blessing in someone's life.
to learn something new.
to grow spiritually and emotionally.
to find some reason every day to laugh, and sometimes even to cry.
to remember to be grateful for all I have been given.

I hope.

It's that simple, and that complex.

Happy New Year. I wish you hope.

The Mysterious "G" Spot

I've spent a good portion of my recent days pondering the mysterious "G" Spot that every woman is supposed to have. To hear some women talk about it, finding your "G" Spot is the equivalent of finding Nirvana. Depending on who you talk to, discovering this sacred location is an experience that will forever change your life. I want that experience. Really. And I've been looking. Desperately. Mostly in the privacy of my bedroom. I mean, you don't just go to the mall and ask a perfect stranger if he or she will help you on this quest. Or if you DO, you must be prepared to do some jail time. Ermm. Where was I? Oh, right. Looking for my "G" Spot. Sadly, it's eluded me so far.

Oh, I've experienced several "G" Spots in my life, to be sure. And they've all been instrumental in shaping who I am. But I don't think we're talking about the same sort of impact. However, as I said, they've all been significant in one way or another so let's review some of them:

The first "G" Spot I discovered was my Grandparent Spot. My grandparents had soft laps, hearty and frequent laughs, lots of hugs and kisses to share, and deep pockets that held all sorts of magical things like candy and coins. They had cool stories about my parents that I used more than once in my own pleas for justice, and they had enough patience and grace to make St. Francis look testy. I was blessed to know two sets of grandparents, at least for a little while. Finding my way in life was a lot easier because I discovered the Grandparent Spot. To Honey Grandma and Grandpa, and Sugar Grandma and Grandpa, thank you.

Next was the discovery of my Girl Spot. I have two brothers; one older and one younger. For years I thought I was a boy, too. I wanted to go, do, see, be everything my older brother experienced, but I wanted to do it carrying along my favorite baby doll and wearing Mom's best lipstick. I should have realized THEN that I had latent Girl stuff inside me. My full discovery of my Girl Spot came at the tender age of six when one of my brother's friends offered me some candy to lift up my sundress and show him my panties. (Since this friend was seven at the time, it's not as horrific as it sounds, I promise.) In those days I'd do just about anything that didn't require kissing slimy creatures or drawing blood in order to get some candy. (Not much has changed there, actually.) So showing off my panties was JUST not that big a deal. But it did cement the idea that there was something very different about me that would forever after preclude me from being, "one of the boys."

By the end of my years in elementary school, I had found my next "G" Spot; the Girlfriend Spot. Realizing by that time that boys were a little icky, I was delighted to find that girl friends were much more fun. My best friend was Robin, and together we worked through the intricacies of growing up. We giggled our way through childhood and adolescence. Together we learned about first periods, first crushes, first kisses, and first heartaches. We sat for hours reading the "good parts" of The Godfather, and wondered what the love scenes really meant. We stuffed condoms with modeling clay to see what a "real man" would look like, and scared ourselves witless at the results of our experiment. We shared secrets, tears, hopes, and dreams. We pledged our undying devotion and swore that no one would ever come between us. Time passes and lives change, and Robin and I haven't seen each other in years. I still mourn that loss, but realize that my life is better because she was part of it for so long. Robin was a special blessing in my life.

Eventually came the "Guy Spot". This disovery occurred when I realized for the first time that guys had more redeeming qualities than just their ability to kill bugs and lift heavy objects. They were shaped differently than I was. They thought differently than I did. And not all of them wanted to be the boss of me. That was just my brother. And he was a dork. These OTHER guys? They didn't suck entirely. With just a little training, they could be taught to talk about their feelings, keep their bodily noises to a minimum, and to remember important anniversaries with appropriate gifts. Yes, once I became aware of the Guy Spot I was hooked.

The Guy Spot eventually lead to other spots with other letters, most notably the "M" Spot and the "P" Spot. Both the Marriage Spot and The Parent Spot brought incredible lessons in love, patience, and how to keep ones sanity in the midst of chaos. To try and capsulize them here would be a work of futility. I think you need to live them to understand. But in terms of sheer impact on my life, they are rivaled by none.

And here we are. The search for the ultimate "G" Spot is still ongoing with great hope of success. I haven't abandoned the cause. But I have once more been a little sidetracked.

It seems I'm going to be experiencing another "G" Spot before too long. A few days before Thanksgiving my younger daughter came to me with the news that I'm going to be a grandma in July. A grandma. Imagine that. I almost can't. And yet I can. A grandma. The whole idea of my baby having a baby is so fuzzy to me at the moment that I can't quite wrap my brain around it. I feel... joy, sadness, fear, expectancy, curiosity, hope, gratitude. I simply FEEL.

I may yet find the "G" Spot that has provided so much physical pleasure for other women. I believe it's there. I'll keep looking. (but not at the mall, as mentioned earlier!) In the meantime, though,I can't mourn the lack of discovery too much. The other "G" Spots in my life have, for the most part, been spectacular, and I'm grateful. Truly grateful.

(walks away whispering in an awed voice.....) A grandma. How totally cool is THAT?

Christmas Morning - The Process

Santa Arrives

This one was a little rough for me to put into words, because it reminds me of Christmases past when Dad had the starring role in our Christmas morning dramas. I finally decided that sharing our tradition might be a good way to honor a cherished memory of a beloved father.

My Dad was very process oriented. There were steps involved in everything he did, and one didn't shortcut those steps unless there was a darn good reason. The definition of "darn good reason" usually involved life-threatening incidents, or a reason HE came up with. Any alterations to the process suggested by anyone else were simply not entertained.

The Process for Christmas morning was no different. My two brothers and I knew it by heart. It went something like this.

THE AWAKENING - My brothers and I could wake up at any hour of the morning, but invading the parent's bedroom and waking THEM up could only happen at 7:00 a.m. Not a MINUTE earlier. Until the church bell pealed the last of its seven rings we were confined to one of our bedrooms, trying to keep each other quiet and entertained until we were allowed to hurl ourselves on Mom and Dad's bed with enthusiastic squeals of, "It's Christmas! Get up! Come on! Get up!"

THE CHOREOGRAPHY - Mom's job, upon being roused (although she swears that she and Dad were always awake before us and listening, with amusement, to the three of us plot our course of action for The Awakening) would leave us in Dad's charge and go downstairs to prepare the scene. She would start the water boiling for her cup of tea, then turn on the Christmas tree lights and start Nat King Cole crooning on the record player. Only when we heard Nat's voice did we know that Mom's responsibility in upholding The Process was complete.

THE TORTURE TEST - While Mom was doing her thing downstairs, OUR job was to try, emphasize TRY, to hurry Dad through the bathroom torture test.

First, he HAD to have his cup of coffee. Dad kept a white ceramic coffee cup and a jar of instant coffee in the bathroom. Using only hot tap water, he'd prepare his coffee and sip at it while working through the rest of The Process. For thoroughness of execution, you would have thought he was brewing the most costly and rare of drinks. Toss some crystals in the mug. Add water. Taste. Toss some more crystals in the mug. Taste again. Heaven help us if he made it TOO strong. Then he would have to start the whole process again from scratch, thereby costing us more time away from the presents. Is it any wonder I hate coffee?

Next in The Process was using the facilities for its God-given purpose. For this step we were all shooed from the bathroom, where heretofore we'd been circling him like three little anxious, impaitent Indians itching to start out on a raid.

When the all clear was sounded, we were granted access to the bathroom again. As we continued to bounce and whine and cajole, Dad would calmly brush his hair; a mandatory 20 strokes, counted out loud with infuriating thoroughness. And then his teeth. Brushing his teeth required getting them out of the cup on the toilet tank lid and attacking them with a vengence. For years I thought every grown up kept their teeth in a cup overnight. Who knew?

Then there was the shave and dousing of scent. Dad never went ANYWHERE or did ANYTHING without first marinading himself in scent. Ask any woman or girl receiving a kiss from Dad. We'd have Brute or other cologne du jour on our lips or cheeks for hours! It was Dad's trademark. Actually, the aftershave part of The Process was the least objectionable, because we got to watch him wince and otherwise dramatically overreact for our benefit as the aftershave hit his newly shaved skin. Seemed like fitting retribution to us.

Finally, with a last glance in the mirror to make sure he was properly groomed, we'd hear the magic words we longed for, "Okay. Let's go down." In actuality, Dad's processes took no more than 5-10 minutes at best, but to my brothers and me it felt like an eternity.

Upon being released from our captivity to The Process, we would launch ourselves like human projectiles from the bathroom, every moment of torture instantly forgiven. Legs and arms flailed as we would more tumble down the steps than descend them. Dad, of course, followed at a more leisurely pace.

Skidding to an abrupt halt at the archway that led to the living room, we would see a dazzling array of gifts arranged into three piles. I can still remember feeling breathless as we'd stand there, stopped in our tracks by an invisible barricade composed entirely of our own awe and wonder. Mom would then direct us to the appropriate pile, and she and Dad would watch and smile as we opened our gifts. Each child would alternate opening a present so the others could watch and celebrate with us as we unveiled our treasures.

The tradition carried over into my own home when the girls were born, but the roles changed. It was ME who tortured THEM with a bevy of delaying tactics, while their Dad made sure all was in readiness downstairs. Other than that, though, very little was changed.

The girls are grown now, and only one will be home to awaken on Christmas morning. Such is the passing of time. Perhaps one day my daughters will resurrect The Process with their own families. Or maybe they'll start their own traditions. I hope they will. I hope we've taught them that tradition is something to be cherished and enjoyed.

I hope you all find comfort and joy in the traditions of the season. Merry Christmas.

The Mother's Ring

Merry Christmas

When Kimberly (my oldest daughter) was 12 years old, she had already been earning money every week for several months by housecleaning for my aunt and uncle. The more her horde of cash grew, the more content she was. She had plans for that money, as I would find out soon enough.

Christmas was about a month away when Kim started dropping hints that she'd already bought my present. It was easy to see that she was completely tickled with both her ability to buy me a gift with her own money, and with the gift itself. One day she finally blurted out her fondest wish. "Mom, I want you to love this gift so much that you cry!"

Tears of joy. That's what she wanted from me. That her gift would be so special, that I would be so touched, that I would cry. That was her standard for my reaction.

Now, I do tend to be moved easily to tears, but this was a bit more pressure than I wanted to feel about a gift a 12 year old could dream up.

I found out later that only my mother was privy to the secret of the gift, and she was only allowed to participate because Kim needed an adult for a few of the procurement procedures. Mom was sworn to secrecy. Even SHE was told that this gift needed to be one of such surprise and magnitude that it would make me cry.

As we got closer to Christmas, I got several threatening phone calls from my mother letting me know in no uncertain terms that if I couldn't react with tears naturally, then I'd darn well better bite the inside of my mouth until they were tears of PAIN instead. Kim would never know the difference, she assured me. Mom was as touched by Kim and her Mission as she hoped I'd be with the gift.

The closer we got to Christmas, the more I worried. Here's my first born child, dearly loved, buying me her first gift with her own money. And with such expectations! What if I couldn't cry? What if my reaction was even a tiny bit less than she craved? It would crush her, I knew.

And I DID know, because in the heart of the daughter, I saw the child that I once had been. A child so eager to please her parents, yet never quite feeling that she'd made the mark. A child who more than anything would have loved to have had the ability to move her own mother to tears. How ironic that the grandchild could do what the daughter never accomplished.

Christmas morning dawned. Kim had the entire scenario choreographed. First the girls would open their stockings and gifts. Then it would be Daddy's turn. Then I was to open my gifts from my husband and second daughter, and finally it would be time for The Gift.

I'll never forget it. I was even instructed where to sit and Bruce was told to put on my favorite Christmas CD. Everything had to be perfect. Isn't it amazing that she knew that music would help hedge her chances for the reaction she so craved?

When everyone was suitably attentive and nearly consumed with anticipation, she went to the tree, got her gift for me and put it in my lap. She then sat on the floor at me feet, prepared to wait and watch and enjoy. I recognized the box as one that jewelry would come in, particularly rings. With shakey hands, I unwrapped the box, opened the lid and found a ring.

Before I could even take in what I was seeing, Kim started to babble nervously. "It's a Mother's Ring, Mom. I designed it for you. The pearl is my birthstone, and the two red stones are garnets, and those are Bri's birthstones. I'm sorry it's so small. I'm sorry you can't see the garnets so good. But I only had $200 (her entire earnings to date, by the way) saved up, and I had to explain to the jewelry man what I wanted, and this was what he said I could have."

Only then did she pause in her apologetic chatter long enough to actually look at me, realizing that I hadn't said anything yet. Then she stopped talking altogether as she reached out and brushed a tear from my cheek. "Oh, cool," she whispered.

Her face exploded into a huge smile as I gathered her into my arms, and she wished me a Merry Christmas. She put the ring on my finger, and it hasn't been off since.

I hope this holiday season brings untold joys for you, whoever and wherever you are. :-)

The Woman Inside of Me - Lite Version

Not only is there a woman inside of me, but she's not REAL happy at the moment.

I've recently returned home from the hospital after having had Abdominal Surgery. Please note that the use of capital letters isn't by accident, either. Everyone kept telling me that my procedure was classified as Major Surgery. To my way of thinking, any procedure that carries it's own classification deserves the honor of being capitalized.

And they were right, by the way. Abdominal Surgery isn't for wimps. There's a reason the good Lord hid things like internal organs on the INSIDE. It's so well-meaning folks don't go poking around at them with sharp pointy objects!

However, since I had to undergo this surgery, I figured the least I could do was share some of the stunning insights I've learned so far.

ABS - NOT JUST A RESTING PLACE FOR BOOBS. Who knew? My abs and I were perfectly content to have a live-and-let-live sort of relationship up until now. Gosh, before the surgery I didn't even know I HAD abs. Abs were for people who went to gyms and knew other catchy abbreviations for their body parts like "pecs" and "delts" and so forth. Me? I thought those things were travel destinations. "Oh right! I'd heard you and Stan visited the Delts last summer. How was your trip?"

Nope. I thought my abs were merely the muscles (if they can even be classified as muscles in my case) that kept my insides from coming out, and prohibited me from ever again thinking I'd be able to wear a crop top.

Frankly, what I've learned about my abs hasn't endeared them to me overmuch since the surgery. First of all, I had to come to the realization that this set of muscles was a set that is pretty integral to daily living. Why did someone not tell me about this? It was only after I struggled to raise myself up to a sitting position in my hospital bed with only the help of a desperate need to get off another set of muscles (my gluteus maximus) that I realized I'd sadly underestimated this vital relationship. I think the resulting scream made my revelation clear to everyone on the post-surgical floor, too.

Finding out all the things my abs actually do for me was a truly spiritual experience. Truly. Simple things like coughing, sneezing, laughing (although I didn't test that one until the morphine was working!) and raising and lowering myself from and into a chair were usually preceded by a prayer that went something like, "Sweet Jesus, take me now!" Fortunately, I suppose, God chose not to answer that prayer. He did, however, have sufficient mercy to see that I had some REALLY good drugs. God is good. Morphine is better.

DIGNITY - ONE SIZE DOES NOT FIT ALL. Let's talk for just a moment about hospital gowns, shall we? Anyone who has had the unhappy happenstance of finding themselves on the receiving end of a surgeon's scalpel will no doubt agree that whoever invented the hospital gown should be hoisted by their own patard (I have no idea what that means, but it certainly sounds painful, doesn't it?) wearing ONLY a hospital gown; one that opens in the back, of course.

It simply boggles my mind that we can accomplish any manner of scientific marvel, but have yet to find hospital attire that allows one to walk down the hallway dragging our IV stand without our butts sticking out. Morphine did a lot to alleviate the humiliation on MY behalf, but there were times when I was the gawker rather than the gawkee. At those times my compassion would stir and it took all my restraint not to rush out of my bed (okay, that's a blatant lie. I wasn't going to be 'rushing' anywhere) and toss a blanket across the shoulders of some poor soul who was providing a parade of flesh that he or she never bargained on.

And let's not pretend that double gowning (one gown on open in the back, a second gown worn as a robe and open in the front) is a viable option. Once you try to get back into your hospital bed, the cotton of the robe-type gown meets the cotton of the hospital sheets, and it takes nearly Herculean strength to challenge that velcro-like bond in order to scoot that now-covered butt across the mattress. I was stranded several times in this situation and had to wait patiently for some merciful soul to unstick me.

Please people. Let's work on a silk or satin gown that covers what it should, okay? A little dignity goes a long way in the recovery process.

2:00 A.M. THE WITCHING HOUR - I swear to you, I was awakened at 2:00 a.m. so the nurse could give me a sleeping pill. I was also awakened at 2:00 a.m. for various and sundry other things, such as a blood draw, a vital sign check, and most ridiculous of all, to find out what I wanted for breakfast. Apparently the nutritionist only noticed at that hour that I hadn't filled out my menu for the following day. Hmmm. Let's see. Apple juice or cranberry? Lime jello or orange jello? Chicken broth or beef broth? Yep. I can see why that was such a crushing emergency that I had to be roused from a lovely, drug-induced sleep.

I love nurses. I really do. And I appreciate that they have a tough job. Truly. But I secretly harbor the notion that nurses and aides who work the graveyard shift get some sort of sick pleasure out of waking their patients for these sorts of things. Perhaps they're a tad resentful that THEY have to be awake, and want to share the misery?

I finally drew the line, though. When Nurse Beelzebub woke me to ask if I'd passed gas yet, (something that was strangely high on their list of interests) I informed her that I hadn't, and invited her to stick around for the show. I'd certainly be willing to put some effort into it if it was that important to her. She didn't appreciate my humor. I didn't appreciate her...ANYTHING. I'm not sure, but I think she was the one who ordered a suppository for me the next day. Sometimes it just doesn't pay to draw lines.

As the drugs wear off and I remember more of my insights, I'll be sure and post them. Until then, stay well. I know *I* surely intend to. Sheesh.