What Your Pill Problem Has Done To Me.

This post was originally written and posted on May 30, 2011.  I would like to add that while my relationship with my mom still feels strained at times, we are on much better ground with life than we were at the point when I wrote this, and she is in a much healthier place.

Dear Mom,

First, let me say that the apologies don't really count when they're covered with enabling excuses. I know you were in a car accident. That happened 30 years ago. I know you had breast cancer. That happened 13 years ago.

Maybe I don't understand.

But let me tell you what you don't understand.

I remember lying in my bed in the middle of the night, and listening to you upstairs, getting up every half hour (oh how I wish this were an exaggeration) and going to the pill cabinet. Until I finally crept up the stairs and took the bottle I knew you were going after. I took it and hid it in my bedroom. And then I got to listen to you get up every half hour and dig with more frantic sounds through the pills, dropping bottles everywhere as you couldn't find it. I don't even know what the pills were.

I remember my high school boyfriend finding your pills in my jacket pocket and looking at me angrily. Until I had to explain to him that the only reason they were there in my pocket, was simply so you couldn't find them.

I remember coming home after a date to popcorn spilled all over the floor, and knowing that you had just stumbled from the couch to your bed, not caring or perhaps not comprehending the mess you were creating.

I remember you trying to talk to my friends in slurs and fragmented sentences. And the drift that was created between my brother and me because I stopped bringing my friends home, and thus stopped being home.  He's blamed me for not being there for the family ever since.

I remember coming home after a date and telling you I was home. You were in bed but asked me about my night and we would stumble through a 15 minute conversation. Only to have you scold me the next morning for not checking in when I got home. You didn't remember anything about our conversation.

I remember the letter you tried to write me... that was nothing but scribbles and illegible words. Until it finally just dropped off.

As an adult I remember taking my brand new baby to visit you. And as you held her you weaved and stumbled, and then got angry and threw a fit when we took her away from you.

And how you faked the seizures in the kitchen until we hauled you off to the hospital. What you don't know is that Dad and I took the E.R. doctor aside and told him of your medication problem. He said he wouldn't give you anything that would "affect" you. But once you knew you had your medicine, you started acting "loopy". Being flippant with the nurses and calling loudly across the hall at the doctor. When my 8 month pregnant body screamed for bed after hours in the ER I decided it was time for me to leave.  I don't remember the degrading remarks you made to me for leaving, but I remember they were made. And I remember how embarrassed Dad was by them.  And how empty it made me after all that I had done for you that night.

Every conversation was slurred. And full of chronic diseases. And I finally stopped answering your calls.

And now you need a place to live. With a pending neck surgery and a bag full of pills. And I don't think I can do it.

I can't have my Circus watching it. I can't have them living it. I can't listen to your excuses as to why we should all put up with it. I can't listen to the apologies that are nothing but "feel bad for me's". I can't feel bad for you. I'm too hurt for myself.

I'm too hurt that the pills take precedent to your family.

 I'm too hurt that I raised myself, with Dad being at the fire station and you...

I'm too hurt that I can't handle a conversation with you that goes deeper than the latest mod podge project.

And I'm too hurt to bring it into my home now.

 I'm sorry, but there are some things that medicine can't fix.

And no one can fix this but you.

I Have My Hands Full.

This post was originally written and posted on November 10, 2011.

I went to Subway for lunch, went through the process of creating my sandwich, and handed over my debit card to pay for it.  The cashier, a lady who was a bit older than I am, took my card and stared at it.  

Intently.  

It has this picture on it:

"What's the story with this picture?" She asks.

"That would be my family," I reply.

She starts counting.  I kid you not.  Gets her finger out and starts ticking off the kids, one, two three, four...

"How old is your oldest?" She asks after counting off all six of the kids.

"Eleven."

"Wow, you work faster than I do.  I had six in 14 years of each other." 

I won't tell her that I have six within 5 years.

Here it is.
 
I have six kids.

They're all in elementary school.

I have my hands full.

As I'm repeatedly reminded of by strangers who feel it their duty to tell me so.

But they're amazing kids. 

I can take them into public and I know they're not going to throw a tantrum.  They're not going to run around and scream.  (Though they may dance a little and giggle a whole lot).  They're polite and they, for the most part, share with each other. 

You say I have my hands full simply because of the mass of them?

Huh. 

I would have said otherwise.

Dating In Kindergarten.

This post was originally written and posted on June 2, 2011.

"Mom! A boy in my class wants to date me!" Cali (age 6) exclaimed to me after school.

"Is he cute?"

"Yes, and he stands by me in line."

"Did you kiss him?"

"Nooo!"

"That's smart. You should just stick to standing by him in line."

Perhaps I should pull out her Valentine's teeth?

Pumpkin Massacre.

This post was originally written and posted on October 20, 2011.

West's sister, Lindee, had her annual Halloween dinner and pumpkin carving party. Lindee throws a good family friendly Halloween bash and we love going every year. Her house was decorated fun, inside and out, and in the garage the massacre... I mean, the creativity was flowing.

Also I heard this song on the radio this morning :).

Jayme's werewolf jack o lantern is eating the ribbon, not puking. We need to make that clarification.

Sean enlisted the help of Uncle Sam. 

 Cali kept carving away at her mouth after this picture was taken, making the mouth huge.

It's officially Halloween season when you have pumpkin guts in your hair. 

We're working on our costumes right now. Sadly, we won't be able to have Jay and Sean with us this year on Halloween night (Boo!!! (haha pun intended)), but maybe we can finagle them for the trunk or treat. Right now we're pulling together costumes for a dead skateboarder, a half devil half angel, the Cheshire cat, and a vampire. 

And if we're lucky on trunk or treat, we'll also be pulling together costumes for a dead hula girl and the grim reaper. 

We're full steam ahead. 

A lot of them are repeat costumes that we already had so we only need to gather a few small items, but the half devil half angel is new and that's taking a little work. I finished a large piece of it last night and I'm really pleased with how it's turning out.

Mom, What Is 69?

This post was originally written and posted on March 8, 2011.

It's a pretty calm evening.

At least in my world.  I'm pretty good at ignoring the screaming girls running around.

 A friend is over which only seems to amplify things.

But I'm in my happy zone. I'm in the kitchen baking cupcakes for a baby shower. I scored on some things at Orson Gygi today, and I'm mulling over in my mind how to tackle the current cake project, while taking note of two more that are coming up next week. After a day of number crunching, my creativity gets to start flowing.

It feels good.

Brynn is sitting on a bar stool on the other side of the counter, watching me.

"Mom, what does 69 mean?"

I pause.  There was no warning to prepare me for this question.  No indication that it was going to come.  In a flash second the question is hanging there in the air of the kitchen, with the smell of baking cupcakes.  I take note of the rule that I promised myself I would always follow:

If they're old enough to ask, they're old enough to know.

 But I also like to stick with the rule to keep the information age appropriate.

 I don't know enough about where she's coming from with this to know how I should proceed so I ask, "what do you mean? Where did you hear it?"  I desperately need more information as to where this question has come from.

"When we read that Cleopatra was born in 69."

A flood of relief.  I tell you, an absolute broken dam of relief that I had decided to ask a little more.

Brynn has just done a book report on Cleopatra and we found out that she was born in 69 B.C.
I think I'd much rather explain the terms of  B.C. and A.D. to my child than... well, let's not talk about the alternative.

It's Not Onions, It's Salsa.

This post was originally written and posted on May 26, 2011.

Last night's dinner was a Taco Bake Casserole.

But Cali (age 6) took one look at it and declared, "Mom! Why did you put onions in this?"

At first I was confused because I hadn't, but then I realized... "I didn't. I put salsa in it."

A look of relief washes over her face, "Oh! Okay."

 She loved it.

I don't think I'll break down the ingredients of salsa for her quite yet.

{pic source}

There's A Hawk In Our House.

This post was originally written and posted on 12 December, 2011.

Imagine one hawk flying crazily in the kitchen with five screaming girls freaking out about it... one in tears...

but I get ahead of myself. 

I wasn't actually at home for the first half of this adventure so I'll have to tell it to you the way it was told to me.

It started with this picture text from The Man:

"I was getting into the shower when these two birds crashed into the window.  Scared the heck out of me.  One's still breathing but not moving.  Not sure what to do with it."

To which I replied via text, "Oh wow.  Is this one of those things where we have to bring it in the house with a box nest?" 

Let me interject here that I was only kidding.

"I'm going to nudge it if it doesn't move I'll have to finish it I guess."

"Ew gross."

"It's looking at me. Grrrr."

"I'm trying to pick it up but it's holding onto the ground."

"It knows you're going to kill it."

"Not yet.  I was trying to see if it could move."

"Tayler says we should call FedEx."

"I tried your box idea.  I should have closed the box."

"Maybe I should have said that the box idea only works if they're hurt and can't fly."

"I thought it couldn't.  It didn't move at all except to hold the ground when I picked it up."

"It's a hawk.  I looked it up."

"Are you serious?"

"Yep. I'm certain. The picture matched perfectly."

"Oh geez.  Is it still in the house?"

"Yep."

At this point The Man posts on facebook, "Does anybody have a fishing net or butterfly net I can borrow? ASAP."

Insert mental image here...

"Kaye Lynn says to call Tracy Aviary."

"I just need to get it outside."

"Right.  They can come and get it."

"It tried flying.  It wasn't successful."

I found out later that West had tried to go up and actually take his shower at that point, telling The Circus not to worry about it, it wasn't going anywhere.  As life goes, as soon as he gets upstairs it starts flying around.  And girls start screaming bloody murder. 

And there were tears.

"What the... is it breathing?"

"Yes."

"Man that bird is having a bad day."

After laughing hysterically about this with my co-workers I head home.
I walk into the house from the garage door to see this blocking my path:

And I have to admit that I freaked out inside just like The Circus.  What if it freaked out on me when I stepped over it?  Finally I was able to force myself to step over it, as it glared at me with it's angry hawk eye. 

I looked up the website for Tracy Aviary and found that they don't actually take wild birds because of quarantining, but was able to get the phone number for Wildlife Rehabilitation Center of Northern Utah, who does take them.

"Hi.  I have a hurt hawk in my house..." Followed by an "Oh!" and a burst of laughter with, "that's a first!"

So West gently picked the poor thing up,

and went to put it in the same box that brought it into the house, but realized we should probably learn the lesson that it can fly out of the box and did we really want that happening in our car?

Insert mental image here.

So we put a blanket in our dog carrier instead.

We took the hour drive up to Ogden, where two ladies stayed late to wait for us, and one put on the huge leather gloves (please note that West used only paper towels in the picture above) and reached in and... the poor thing had died on the way. 

We learned that a bird's trachea is the back of their tongue, and she could see a lot of blood coming from it.  Which meant that there was significant internal bleeding.

We also learned that it was a Cooper's hawk.  They hide in the trees until a prey comes along, and then the tactic is to chase them into something to kill it, like, oh, say our house.  But this guy didn't pull out of the chase fast enough, or as West imagines it, was fighting with it mid-flight, so he hit the house too.

At least he's not hurting and West didn't have to get the shovel.

My conscience is clear.

I Am A Child Of God.

This was originally written and posted on October 14, 2011.

One of my most dear memories, and yet most heart wrenching memories, of Cali came to the font of my mind just now.

She was only three.

She was so small. And her tiny three year old voice...

Man I love my children.

But I feel such regret that I didn't know how precious they were at that young age, until they weren't that young age anymore. I feel such heartache over it. I feel like I've been such a terrible mom.
But I'm trying to learn from that, and curb the cycle. When I start getting frustrated, or annoyed, or overwhelmed, I stand back and think of how they looked, smelt, and sounded when they were about 18 months old, or two. And I take in the feeling that I have that I didn't appreciate them as much as I needed to at that age, and I hold on to that regret.

I look at my sassy 11 year old, and picture her at two. And knowing that I don't want anymore regret about the kind of mother that I'm not, I let that aching feeling into my heart, and it helps me bring to surface how much this child means to me in the heat of a tough moment. And I'm better able to react with love (which doesn't rule out disciplining if it's needed, it just means that my discipline is coming from a much better place than simply angry reaction), and to keep a dearness of them in the moment.

One of the moments I think of is when we were at Starvation Reservoir as a family with West and his kids. West and I were still dating. I was struggling with my activity in church. My divorce had knocked the wind out of me, and my bishop at the time of my divorce had knocked the last leg I was standing on, out from under me. I know I have a Savior. I know my Heavenly Father loves me. But struggle I was.

I was sitting in the bow of the speed boat.  We were driving fast and the wind was whipping through our hair. Cali was sitting across from me. In all of her innocent three year oldness.

And I heard it.

Blowing to me on the wind.

Her tender, small voice softly singing, "I am a child of God, and He has sent me hear, has given me an earthly home, with parents kind and dear. Lead me, guide me, walk beside me, help me find the way. Teach me all that I must do, to live with Him someday."

I choked up with tears.

As she finished her song, completely unaware that I had even heard it, I pulled her into my arms and knew that I needed to teach her with all the love and understanding that I possessed.

I was thinking of that moment this morning. And though I was still hit with it like a sledgehammer, I found it was more tender than achy. Which I'll take as a sign that my efforts to curb my cycle with my children may be working. I'm loving and appreciating them now. All though I'm far from being the mother I think I should be, I have come a long way with them. And I will forever be grateful for the chaos they create in my life. They are my life. They are my biggest support group and my own personal fan club. And I am that for them. I love them with all that I am. And I hope I can show them that as I try my best to prepare them for life.

Employee Discount.

This was originally posted on December 5, 2011.

We need an oil change on one of our cars.  Badly.  Burt Brothers would be ashamed at how behind I am. 

Yesterday I mentioned to The Man  that we don't get an employee discount for our oil changes anymore.  In fact, I don't get any employee discount for anything anymore. 

I made mention of this at work this morning to some of the investigators and their reply was no, there weren't any employee discounts.  The very most I could hope for would possibly be a "get out of jail free" card.

I'm actually thinking that may not be so bad.

I'm going to tuck this away for future use. It never hurts to have one of those cards hanging around.

You never know.

Today I Am Strong.

This post was originally written on September 23, 2011.

"Made a wrong turn
Once or twice
Dug my way out
Blood and fire
Bad decisions
That's all right
Welcome to my silly life
Mistreated, misplaced, misunderstood
Miss "no way it's all good"
It didn't slow me down
Mistaken
Always second guessing
Underestimated
Look, I'm still around.....

Pretty, pretty please
Don't you ever, ever feel
Like you're less than
Less than perfect

Pretty, pretty please
If you ever, ever feel
Like you're nothing
You are perfect to me

You're so mean
When you talk
About yourself
You are wrong
Change the voices
In your head
Make them like you
Instead
So complicated
Look how big you'll make it
Filled with so much hatred
Such a tired game
It's enough
I've done all I can think of
Chased down all my demons
see you do the same.
oh, oh

Pretty, pretty please
Don't you ever, ever feel
Like you're less than
Less than perfect
Pretty, pretty please
If you ever, ever feel
Like you're nothing
You are perfect to me

The world's scared while I swallow the fear
The only thing I should be drinking is an ice cold coke
So cool in lying and we try, try, try
But we try too hard, it's a waste of my time
Done looking for the critics, cause they're everywhere
They don't like my jeans
They don't get my hair
Exchange ourselves and we do it all the time
Why do we do that?
Why do I do that?
Why do I do that?

Ooh, Pretty pretty please don't you ever ever feel
Like you're less then, less than perfect
Pretty pretty please if you ever ever feel
Like you're nothing you are perfect, to me"

-Perfect by P!nk

It's been awhile since I've reflected on the biggest, and absolutely the hardest, decision I've ever made. (here)

That changed my life forever.

 It's been... excuse me while I think about this for a second... it's been 4  years (7 years at the time of this reposting) since my divorce. And I love that I had to sit back and think about how long it's been. It isn't ruling my life.

What it boils down to is I didn't use put a lot of weight on the subject of emotional abuse. I would listen, I would hear, I thought I had sympathy. But until I went through 8 years of it, I didn't know what sympathy towards it was.

 I now have not only sympathy, but empathy.

Always being sneered at for the things you do and say.

 Never being able to laugh at yourself because you're too busy trying to hide how stupid you are from him.  Because he sure isn't going to laugh with you.

 Never doing it right.

 Not being tan enough, or blond enough, or wearing the right things. And when you try to change your looks to fix what he says isn't enough, you still don't get it right somehow.

I'm not listening for his truck in the driveway, wondering if he'll ever come home anymore. And dreading when he finally did.  Living in judgment, criticism, neglect, and heavy silence.

I think this is why I get so torn up over people judging others. How dare we tear someone down? Who do we think we are to do that to someone else? To take away their very thread of worth.

I left crawling, nothing, empty, black, blank, and heavy. And unless you've been there, you can never know how very dark that is.

But today, today I stand. I run. I am strong (I am woman hear me roar?). Today I know I am beautiful inside and out. I have my faults. But I work on them and it's okay.

I can laugh at myself and I feel so healthy.

 I can love.

 I am loved.

 And I can do anything I put my mind to.

Today I am able to teach my circus to do the same.