Tag Archives: Family Relationships

The Good Summer

My son enjoying a quick climb on the Badlands this summer.

I almost titled this ‘The Good ~~Enough~~ Summer’, but changed my mind before typing one word. When you hear good enough, regardless of the context, doesn’t your mind bend slightly to thoughts of something mediocre, like whatever turned out to be ‘good enough’ was still not quite satisfactory, and the party reaching said state did so under protest? When my husband and I were discussing this year’s summer plans, our conversation ended with the blanket statement: “Well, it’s just going to have to be good enough.” Everything was going to have to be good enough, each family member would have to pull their weight, and expectations would be lowered to get through the summer. I didn’t know if it would work, but I wanted to be optimistic.

I wanted summer to be good because we were under stress. We sold our house in Kansas and bought another home in Missouri. The mortgage application process became a prolonged nightmare, but in the beginning we were oblivious to what lay ahead. Our focus was on the six weeks of summer during which we would technically be homeless. Although this was not a problem since we had family and friends to visit during our vacation time — very convenient for gypsies who like to travel — no amount of obsessive planning can totally prepare a person for the creeping feeling of general terror when facing the truth of simply being unable to go HOME.

We had to be ultra conservative to get through summer without going into debt. I counted my daughters’ shoes and made a pile of nearly two dozen pairs between them. After playing in mud puddles, running up and down dirt roads, cruising zoos and water parks, the pile would diminish to one or two usable pairs by the end of summer. I expected most of their clothing to become outgrown or worn out, too. My plan was that the kids would wear things out as we traveled so I could squirrel money away for back to school shopping in August. I wanted them to learn that consumerism is not a hobby, that money does not appear on a whim, that we should use what we own, like old tennis shoes, reuse what we can, like ripped blue jeans, and replace things when the time comes. This summer would be a perfect time for such lessons.

Our new puppy Teddy enjoying the beach on Lake Kampeska this summer.

I have to constantly keep my children sane, happy, fed, entertained, and alive! Are my treasured art investments actually in storage or on the Black Market? Did I remember to pack my jewelry? There are 500 pairs of shoes in this car and it smells like there are 500 pairs of shoes in this car. I have to schlep 1,200 pounds of the Most. Important. Things. Everyone. Owns. around for the next month. WHY do my kinds think they each need five stuffed animals, 18 books they won’t read, and 600 loose Crayons, which are presently melting all over my car? These thoughts filled my head as we hit the road. Two adults, three children, and one yellow Labrador puppy growing at a rate of 2.5 pounds per week crammed into my SUV to drive thousands of miles and live like nomads for the next several weeks.

My daughters looking at the geese at a botanical garden in Missouri.

Packing light was a goal, not necessarily a realistic concept. Anticipating our temporary homelessness and wanting to be practical, two week’s worth of clothing for each person, all the shampoo that we currently owned, and a couple bars of soap. By the time we reached South Dakota, we had to ship an enormous foot locker and a large cardboard U-Haul box back to Missouri. We were already overloaded before our trip had officially begun! We had decided to travel in one car, which began having ‘technical difficulties’ in New Mexico. So much for the money for my back to school shopping spree. I kept telling my husband that we could get rid of an extra set of bedding we used at the Carlsbad KOA cabin, but ever the Boy Scout, he wanted to hold onto it in case we needed it later on. That turned out to be a fantastic idea, since several strange things happened requiring ingenuity as well as sheets, blankets, and so many garbage bags.

Regardless of our agreement that this summer would have to be good enough (in other words, we would all have to tough it out), I spent much of the time worrying. I missed my friends and had no outlet to work through my emotions about being uprooted. Everything that could go wrong seemed to. The underwriters harassed us nonstop for proof to further prove our proof of various documentation (and I know how ridiculous that sounds, but it is exactly what they requested). My car was in the shop during our entire visit to Texas, and it started to malfunction from new problems during our trip from Texas back to Missouri. Our dog almost drowned, our oldest child turned into a moody teenager, and we were always at the mercy of the family members who took us in. Every day was a new mini drama.

A quiet moment of reflection at the Oklahoma City Bombing Museum.

All I wanted was something better for my family, because we deserved a really great summer. Hell, I deserved a really great summer! My husband and I argued a lot and fought a little. There were days when I wanted to run away from my family and establish a life as a fabulous hermit/diva somewhere in Europe. I stress ate, when I actually remembered to eat. When we limped the broken SUV into our new town in Missouri, we were met with empty promises from the bank, so we ended up in a horrid little motel. Our room had a mysterious, overpowering odor later identified as the mold and mildew that spawns after extensive water damage.

We arrived at our house for the walk-through feeling dirty and dejected, smelling of mildew, sleep deprived and slightly malnourished (having eaten nothing but ham on white bread for what seemed like years). The seller, who happened to be a realtor with nothing to lose, took pity on us because we had essentially become the delightfully comical Griswold family from the National Lampoons Vacation movies, and she agreed to a temporary rental until the underwriters were finally satisfied with their scrutiny of just about every aspect of our lives.

Food for thought at my favorite sculpture park in South Dakota.

Everything worked out in the end, but more work and a lot of introspection was required to get to this point. ISummer is winding down, and as I go through photos of the family, I realize that maybe we actually did have a good summer. Maybe our expectations were exceeded, and we didn’t have a merely mediocre time. Sure, on some days there was crying, swearing, and fighting, and sometimes we were quite miserable, even pathetically so. Looking back, at more happy memories than sad, I have realized that I am an ignorant woman. It took me the entire summer to figure out that when it comes to family relationships, there is no such thing as ‘good enough’. There is just love, and try, and care, and time.

Taking The Journey Home

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A long time ago, before being an adult really got to me!

This post marks one year of blogging, and this is my one hundredth post! The last twelve months have been turbulent, so I am grateful to still be here, writing. Life is a journey, but until recently, I didn’t realize that so often the journey is about renewal and rediscovery. Yesterday was my birthday, a significant milestone in life, and I feel as though I am once again ready to begin a new chapter. Last October, when I began blogging, I believed that I had it all figured out. Feeling fine, I had my life organized, with everything in its place, and a nifty master plan for the future. I was beginning to think I had discovered the secret to that elusive Wonder Woman Syndrome.

This spring, a bizarre illness knocked me down, hard. The illness seemed to come out of nowhere, and didn’t make any sense, and to make matters worse, I had a very difficult time getting the medical care that I needed for swift recovery. Without an official diagnoses or even satisfactory answers, I did what any tenacious and frustrated housewife would do: I tried a vigorous detox cleanse and blogged about my symptoms. All summer I attempted to purge my body of toxins and negativity, but by autumn, I just felt angry, vulnerable, and exhausted. I was grieving over something that had been lost, and though I didn’t know what it was, I really wanted it back.

When my children went back to school, I did not miss returning as an employee, nor did I regret my decision to stay home and focus on my health. I did, however, feel a little stab of guilt for failing to hack it in the “real” world. I worried about being seen as unreliable, and I was reluctant to make plans lest I’d have to cancel due to illness. This continued to feed the guilt cycle. After my husband and I quarreled about how difficult it was for us to attend social gatherings, I began to see how my illness affected him. He was tired, he wanted things to be better, just like me. So now a great question loomed in my mind. Would I spend the rest of my life in a cage , or finally break free?

Three weeks before my birthday, I visited with a medical professional about my concerns. All my recent test results were normal. On paper, I’mm a perfectly healthy person. In her opinion, my symptoms are in my head; I simply have anxiety. “You bitch,” I wanted to snarl at her, but instead I agreed to explore her theory. After all, I was the one who had requested a referral to a counselor at the beginning of the appointment. I did make one statement in my defense. ” I got sick this spring but couldn’t get the care I needed, so of course I feel anxious! No one ran any tests on me seven months ago, when I asked for help. I don’t want actual physical symptoms overlooked just because I have anxiety!” We agreed to meet each other halfway; she promised to check into my symptoms for legitimacy, and I took the first step in reclaiming what I had lost.

The first step in my journey began with kickboxing. A friend talked me into it. “I’m probably not in adequate shape to even try this,” I balked, but she insisted. “You’ll be fine. The class isn’t that tough, and it’s fun!” I puked and nearly passed out halfway through my first class. But my friend was right. It was fun, and I made an extremely important decision that day. I must take better care of myself, because I am worth it. Kickboxing is more than just an incredibly addictive treat — it has reminded me that I deserve to grow and develop. I have spent most of my life encouraging others, and now it is time to encourage myself. I deserve to invest in myself as much as I have invested in the lives of those around me.

Me now. Still adorable!

We stay at home parents often discount our capabilities , perhaps believing that since we are not breadwinners, we have less intrinsic worth to offer our families through support and service. When we minimize ourselves and put our needs on the back burner, we suffer, and then the family suffers. I have been a wife and mother for one decade. I got married at the age of 23, just months after returning from a long deployment to the Middle East. Barely an adult myself, I hardly knew what I wanted out of life when I married a career soldier and became a young Army spouse. I threw myself completely into my family, doing and being everything for them. I was trying to be Wonder Woman, never quite living up to the standards I set for myself. That my friends, is the recipe for perpetual frustration.

Once I started to treat myself with the kindness that I deserve, I began to also give myself room to grow. I also began to forgive myself of my faults and understand that I am not the sum of my thoughts or limitations. It is no coincidence to me that this transformation has happened around the time of my birthday. Every new chapter of life is traveled on a new trail. While reflecting upon renewed life on the day of my birth, I had to ask myself what is really important. I may never know why or how I got sick, or the real source of my illness. I may even continue to battle illness for my entire life. Perhaps that is but a small detail of my bigger journey. Why waste any more time on fear and anxiety when life is out there to be lived? The only thing that matters is today, and what I want to do about making myself better — more kind, compassionate, loving, and adventurous — than the person I was yesterday.

After spending my entire life putting the needs of others ahead of mine, I essentially have no idea who I am. I have been angry because I miss being who I once was. Although I really can’t go back in time, I’ve been mourning the loss of a person who hasn’t existed in years. It is time to break out of the brittle old cage and make the journey home, to reclaim my identity and rediscover who I am by simply living my life. Yesterday I went to the school to pick up my daughters, and one of my favorite students recognized me. I hadn’t seen her since spring. She has a disability that makes her speech difficult to understand, but when she stepped forward, she spoke very clearly, asking where I had been, what was going on with my hair, when would she see me again? And she hugged me tight, three times. I could see that I was not the only one who had given myself room to grow, and it felt very satisfying.

Homecoming

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An imposing perspective on parent/child relationships. You can go home again, but it’s scary!

So here is a confession: my parents and I had a falling out recently. The details need not be aired, but I will admit that I spent several weeks not talking to them, and it was brutal. As summer neared, the mulish anger subsided, and just in time for the return of the prodigal daughter. I placed a phone call to Mom to patch things up.

I was still skittish about coming home after making amends with Mom and Dad. After only a few delicately worded conversations, it seemed that we were all walking on egg shells, and anything was apt to go wrong. Visiting my parents is not like visiting other parents.

Mom and Dad live in a giant, ancient schoolhouse. Correction: the third floor of a giant, ancient schoolhouse. So a visit begins with the hauling of half a ton of belongings up three flights of slippery crumbling tile stairs, usually late at night, during a rain storm. Can’t find your kids at Papa and Nana’s? They are probably just playing hide-and-seek, aren’t they? At my parents’ schoolhouse, which is roughly 45,000 square feet of mystery and danger, I have about as much chance locating my wandering children as the drunken transient who has broken into the building in search of valuables to steal and sell at the pawn shop down the street. There’s a Hunger Games vibe.

In a town full of individualistic characters, my parents are the definition of characters. Everyone knows them, and depending on previous encounters, the mere mention of their names can bring smiles and happy anecdotes or dark scowls of contempt. Am I proud of this? Damn right I am! Does it make life a little harder when I come to visit? Sometimes. But while running errands around town today, something made me realize how important your family is, even when driving you crazy, making you mad, and causing you constant frustration.

It started at the dented can store — the kind of place where you buy cereal boxes that have the tops taped back on and cans of organic black beans with little dents in the sides — all at a discount. We went to look for “good deals”, a longtime family ritual. Inside the store a photograph of me is tacked up at one of the cash registers. It has been there since 2003, when I left home to go to Baghdad. Me in my Army uniform, with my infant son, who is holding a little American flag.

Every time we have gone into this store over the past eleven years, my parents have made a fuss over the picture. Now my children make similar remarks, mimicking what they have heard my parents say for their entire lives. “Doesn’t Momma look neat in that Army uniform?” It finally occurred to me that the picture is still tacked up at the register because my parents have made sure I’m not forgotten. They have made me into the hometown hero and carried on my memory long after I’ve gone.

Running errands around a town this small, my main concern was finding sustenance to accommodate my annoying food sensitivities. I had already fallen off the gluten-free wagon during a delicious but near disastrous lunch at a local sports bar, so I was thrilled to discover that one of the grocery stores features a new, impressive gluten-free section! Arriving back at the schoolhouse (and after four trips up the three flights of stairs carrying 200 pounds of grocery items) I mentioned to Dad that the section was quite progressive. He took complete credit for its inception.

“I talked to the store manager for some time about doing that,” he said. “I told him that you needed better food options when you visit, and that there are a lot of other people in the community who need gluten-free foods.”

I was, quite frankly, in awe. It’s possible that my father was not the one person solely responsible for the gluten-free section of the grocery store. However, knowing him, he probably spent a great amount of personal time lobbying the store on my behalf. Just like he spent eleven years remarking on my deployment photo, making sure that everyone within earshot didn’t forget me. It made me wonder if the reasons why I had been so upset with my parents were really worth being so angry after all.

It makes me wonder something else too. Will I ever be as good a parent to my children as my parents have been to me?

— G