Age is Just a Number

Time Machine

Mustangs are so much fun.   Spouse-man had a red convertible when I met him - perhaps it was a sign?  Today, a coworker went through his desk calendar early and gave me this pic.   It's the one below it that tells all....

 

 

The Bungee is Getting Tight

Boing!

Spouse-man has been able to visit freely with his oldest for a while, now that she is out of The Mother’s house and on her own in college. It’s really a cool sight to see from my vantage point. I see The Mother Bungee getting taut; it looks more like a worn out old rope. It just might not snap back.



On one hand I can see The Mother has lost interest in this whole Mom/Competition thing – I’d like to think it’s because we offered up nothing for her to compete with. Also, I think she is ready for more "me time". So there’s been an interesting shift: erratic moments of Mommy Force Exertion mixed with a blatant sense of No Involvement. Maybe peri-menopause is creeping into her endocrine system.

Spouse-man made it sort of a mantra of sorts – just get through this time. He let go when his daughter disassociated herself at 16. He decided that if he was going to have a relationship with her, it would be when she chose it, not when The Mother chose it. What kind of step of Faith is that? It’s happening; she calls, they have breakfast, she tells him about stuff, or not, he gives her fatherly wisdom and there is no strife. It’s not all that simple, of course, but it sure is better than it was when she was 14, 15, 16…

She has expressed her desire to transfer to a college out of state. She hasn’t told The Mother yet. She expressed her anxiety in her words, "but mom pays for abc and xyz" (shocking, I know). I can hear the weight in that statement, I can feel the burn of the brand in her words – The Mother Bungee. Spouse-man said the most magical, empowering words I think any dad could have come up with.

He said, "So? Quit living someone else’s life."

Now I don’t know about how a 19 year old takes that, but hearing it now, at my age, with the knowledge of her life, her upbringing … I felt freedom. I felt freedom for her. I felt the priceless love her dad just extended to her in words. I felt hope for her. I felt how blessed she is to have her dad. I could almost sense her wheels turning in her head. She’ll need to process that – maybe for a day, maybe for a decade.

I have a sense that The Mother Bungee is starting to fray. Like in the movies, the dramatic scene where one cord snaps, it gains momentum and suddenly all the fibers are springing loose with a whipping sound and suddenly the ship breaks free. Wow, what a feeling! I hope this is the case for my step-daughter, not to soothe my ire with The Mother, but for her sake. Freedom to find her way without a price.

Back to the Top

I have an odd view of how the New Year starts.   It probably originated from a childhood gift I received at Christmas.   This was a bamboo, columnar calendar with January at the top and December at the bottom.   So, in order to finish out the year and start a new one, you need to head back up to the top.   No linear thinking here.   This is what it looks like in my brain.   Call me weird.   

Happy New Year.

 

I Did Great Corn

I made my first public appearance in 4th grade. It was about this time nearly 4 decades ago – close to Thanksgiving.   Picture a slightly taller than average, skinny kid, wearing long tunic/gypsy-style dresses to cover the most horrible beige orthopedic shoes with braces up to my knees worn to correct a flaw.   A clever shoe salesman convinced my parents that, because my toes apparently slightly tipped in when I walked, I’d be an embarrassing cripple – Lord knows we can’t be pigeon-toed.   If I remember correctly, being ashamedly humbled by these appliances, I corrected my own dang toes.

Where was I?   Oh yeah, Thanksgiving time, 4th grade.   In our classroom, I remember the teacher was involving us in the whole Thanksgiving story, decorations and all, and there was to be a mural low along the brick wall below the windows.   Somehow I was outed that I could draw.   I am guessing, since after this length of time the memory isn’t like it was in the 4th grade, that I doodled a lot and some kid looked at my desk and said “Hey! She draws Good Corn!” and that’s all it took before I found myself with crayons in hand drawing corn, and probably Indians and Pilgrims and a few Turkeys sprinkled in between.  I won’t take credit for the whole mural, since I am sure the teacher involved lots of other kids, but I sure remember spending a long time on a long piece of paper on my hands and knees doing a whole lot of drawing – feeling privileged to do something that was easy.   I used to sit at my desk after and study it.   I think half the paper was an up-close field of corn.

This came to mind after someone, last evening, asked me if I’ve always done murals – in reference to my current foray into mass painting.   No, I told her because I am a detail kind of gal, but then this morning I remembered The Corn incident at Thanksgiving in 4th grade.   Now, I bring this up because I’ve had this particular urge to remain anonymous.  I figured this was for some Noble Reason, like not wanting to take credit for where God is due, and not wanting to detract from the God purpose in the mural painting I am currently doing, and mostly, not to get a Big Fat Head.   You know, though, it always seems to thread back to some childhood trauma that psychiatrists would love to add to their repertoire of test subjects to substantiate their current thesis in some well known journal.

In this case, it’s my dad.   Not the psychiatrist, rather, the trauma.   My dad was an artist – not the paint and brush stroke kind – he carved mother of pearl, jade, did all kinds of lapidary stuff, and really, put any kind of implement in his hands and he’d create something, including music.   However, his fault was that he liked flattery.   Any stranger who entered his home would get “The Tour” of his lapidary shop, and depending on their interaction, patience and interest, more parts of the house and property where my dad put his hand to something.   And at the end?   They’d get a gift.   A gift of something he’d made – nearly always valuable.   This in itself was not a bad thing.   What I remember was that a gift I opened at Christmas was a broken piece, glued back together.   However, once after I’d done some amazing creative things for my age, my dad said “You’re getting kind of vain aren’t you…..?”.

The whole jumbled-up trauma-part of this in adult terms, is that strangers who flattered my dad got the good goods and I got the leftovers, and so therefore I was not going to be bamboozled by flattery and compliments because that’s what caused you to hand out your valuable stuff to people you’d never see again, and if you listened to flattery and compliments you’d get a Big Fat Head.  Thus, my nature to remain anonymous…for what I thought were Noble Reasons.   Well, really I think I have Noble Intent, in this arena of mural painting; it is for God purposes and it ain’t about me.   The sad truth, though, is that Satan has been doing a great deal more creative work than I have.   He has worked long and hard to find ways to destroy my joy with this God-given talent.

Think of the recognition you’d get if you put your name out there.
I’ll work hard to remain anonymous, because I crave the compliments and flattery and I’ll get a Big Fat Head.

Think of the big bucks you could make if you got better at it.
No, I’ll donate whatever I may get for Noble Reasons, and even spend longer and harder hours doing it just to make sure I’ve earned it.

Really, though, you are so average and people are tired of the morose and dark work you do – best give it up to someone more talented.
I hate that last thing I did, I really am average; maybe I should quit. I never claimed to be an artist anyway. Actually, I am not.

Everyone is secretly and openly behind you wondering when you are going to give up this self-indulged, vain attempt at what you call God-given talent.
Maybe if I hang my head and avert my eyes, nobody will approach me with fake compliments and false encouragements.

God is pursuing me though.   After 15 years of me burying my skills in the back yard, I know He is and he is working on something – because I’ve finally asked.   Whether I do Great Corn or not, whether the compliments are fake or real, or whether someone with more talent and /or training steps up take over, I know it is not about me.   God wants me to do Great Corn for some Good Reason.

Together-ness, or Alone-ness

While listening to Scott teach last Sunday about Going it Alone or Together the image of a story my dad told me flooded into my mind from who knows which archive buried in my brain.

He was in the Army in WWII and happened to be a smoker at the time. One day while in the middle of Africa he decided to quit. No patches, no support group or special gum. He just decided in his mind that he was done smoking. He told me that "the guys" would taunt him and try to get him to smoke – shaking their packs at him and other nonsense. After getting enough of it, at some point, while driving a truck ( I think an ammunition truck!) down a dusty road, he pulled his gun on one of them and told him "if you do that again I’ll shoot you".

I heard many stories from my dad about how he used brute force to solve his problems, so it didn’t shock me in any way to hear that. He was raised in rough times; in an orphanage, in foster homes, out on his own…on into the Army, nearly mortally injured, sent home to recover or die. What I was always impressed by – meaning, as a kid I was truly Impressed – is that he was able, by his own strength, to make up his mind and just do it; he set his mind and the task was done. I inherited that trait. I have always been proud of that trait.

Play - alone.
Move out on my own – alone.
Go to college – alone.
Take care of business – alone.
Make small and large decisions – alone.
Home repairs, car repairs, bodily damage repairs – alone.
Live – alone…. All until my late 30’s.

The toughest challenge is to live with another person well. I became aware on Sunday just how much my dad’s example has penetrated my character; how much it has possibly hindered my relationships, how much it has probably hurt me.

Going it alone has advantages, as Scott said. My mood affected no one – it didn’t bounce off anybody to come back and nail me. Life wasn’t so messy, it was simpler. It was soooo much simpler. I once told spouse-man the best vacation would be if he went somewhere with the girls for a week … and I got to stay home. Is that bad?

Now I am wondering and pondering about 1. being Proud of the trait and 2. the Trait itself. It is difficult to reach out and depend on other people, especially when God gave me so many physical talents and abilities to do things myself. Reaching out emotionally has netted great, great disappointment in the past. I find that people are quick to jump in to help with material things when someone is in need, but shy away from helping relationally - like schools of fish when you dip below the surface and swim near them. So I wonder how many others out there inherited a similar trait - one that keeps all of us hovering at a distance like a school of barracudas?

To Video or Not to Video

It’s a dilemma. Tonite is the first high school football game and my stepdaughter’s first cheerleading experience in the real sports world. We’ve been blessed by having her presence in our house this week for the first time in 3 months ‘cept for 2 days 2 weeks ago. So we get to take her and experience a little reminiscing ourselves of sitting on hard bleachers, hearing the whistle, the cheers and, last but not least, the marching band. I’ll tell ya right off the bat, I don’t cheer. I don’t do the 2-4-6-8 Appreciate thing. You might, might, catch me on a good day at the baseball game raising my arms in a faint attempt to do the wave. I don’t have a secret desire to be a tv star or do motivational speeches for lots of money either. If you know anything about me, Limelight does not come to mind. Oops, I started to ramble-rant.

So here we are, the neglected stepfamily suddenly reinstated after a summer hiatus. The family cheerleader is very excited about this whole deal, especially since she is a freshman and she made the varsity squad (do they still use that word?).

She asks me last night: "Do you know how to videotape?" "Uh, not sure." was my most articulate response. She says, "Can you videotape me cheering since mom can’t see me and she wants to be able to see me cheer?"

Now wait just a minute, I didn’t envision going to my first high school football game in 20…25…um, ok, nearly 30 years to sit behind a digital camcorder recording cheerleaders so that The Mother, who is not present for some important work related unavailability, can see her daughter cheer for the first time in high school. We’re leaving work early to get her there early, why can’t The Mother take time off 10 minutes away to make a showing? Why can’t the stepdad camcord for his wife?

I suppose the Christ-like thing to do is to lovingly smile, pick up the camcorder and happily fulfill the request for this youngster who probably needs to see more Christ-like examples in her life, and who probably has no other concern on the planet than whether her makeup will be right, hair in place and if she has the right set of cheer clothes on per her coach’s request. I am, however, not feeling very Christ-like. My selfish, beat-up feeling, taken-advantage-of, and gossiped-about self wants to give a big giant NO and explain all the reasons why, point out every negligent aspect of her mother and throw in the stepdad too while I’m at it, maybe toss in a few other people and leave the camcorder on The Mother’s front doorstep and ring the doorbell 92 times while she’s sleeping.

Thanks for letting me get that out of my system.

Self Note: Read Eph 5:1 from The Message for an attitude adjustment.

Big Box Healthcare

I need to get a routine blood draw done.   Shiver.   I don’t like these kinds of things.   Last year I got used to one particular lab, with familiar faces and familiar needles, and actually accomplished maintaining a normal blood pressure while visiting their office.   My insurance company dropped them.   So it has taken me this long to muster up the guts to search for locations for the new lab my insurance company assigned to me.   Go to the website, go to the find-a-location tab and I see one is conveniently located 3 miles away – on my way to work!   Okay, so they don’t open at 7 a.m., like the other, which is really inconvenient for a fasting blood draw – I really like breakfast.   They open at 9 a.m., but maybe the location makes up for it.   However, it mysteriously looks like it is located in Lowe’s, as there is not much else located at that intersection.   Hmmm, can’t be, so I dial up their number.   Alas, how could I forget what ELSE is located at that intersection: Walmart.   The lab is located inside Walmart.   I look for the next closest lab location; another Walmart.   Call it elitism, call it prejudice, or just plain common sense, but I can’t picture myself going to Walmart for my blood drawing needs.   I don’t even shop at Walmart!   I avoid supporting the whole Walmart-take-over-the-planet conspiracy!   Now I have to go there for my healthcare needs?   I am feeling boxed in: conform or you will be assimilated.

I am in a total quandary!   Is this a mental thing, or do I really have a legitimate issue for not wanting to go into a box store with dirty aisles and screaming babies in carts to have a needle stuck in my arm to have my life fluids sucked out of me…and then tested for really important things?   The environment is just not conducive to a calm, blood-letting in my opinion.  Is this me vs. my brain here?   Do I just get over it and go in?   What are my consequences if I just ignore it all and pretend I don’t have this doctor’s slip telling me what I am supposed to do?   I am in a quandary!

If you don’t see another post, you will know that my arm got broken by being dragged through the Walmart parking lot because I couldn’t find another alternative.   I am off to look for other locations within a 50 mile radius...wish me well.

May Day

I was thinking about my mom this morning, as this memory often comes up on May 1st.   Right off the bat, I'll tell you that tomorrow is my birthday, and I've already arranged for a table in the lobby of the building where I work, as well as an extra Post Office Box to accept all the cards, gifts, flowers and other assortment of well wishes and presents from everyone I know.

When I was somewhere in gradeschool our class made May Baskets.  It was some combination of construction paper, ribbons, glue and highly skilled kid hands to make a conical shape ready to hold flowers and hang on a doorknob.   I carried it home on the bus and planned my mission.  I don't remember receiving instructions on how to do this, however my plan was to hang it on the front door, ring the door bell, hide in the bushes, and wait for mom to find her wonderful surprise.

This is a modern day picture of our once, really nice house built by my dad.  (No, the star was not part of our lives, and the bushes I hid in are no longer present, and it sadly lists toward the shabby side. )     

Typically our front door was rarely used, even in those days of real neighborhoods.  We had the garage, breezeway and back door into the kitchen that received the highest traffic activity.  But this day, in my young mind, I was certain that the front door was the one to use - it had a doorbell.  After all, who knocks on a breezeway door and expects someone from way inside the house to hear anything?   I thought through this all very well.  I carefully placed my handmade basket on the knob, rang the bell and ran like crazy down the two steps and around the corner.  Nothing.   I waited.   I crept up the steps again and repeated it all including the ran-like-crazy part.  Nothing again.  I started feeling bad in some way.  I tried again nothing.   Finally, I am sure with a hurt heart and a held back tear, I went inside to find mom to show her what was waiting for her outside.  To this day I only remember her picking it up, but no memory of what she said or what her actions were.   But I do remember my glee in preparing for this, the expectations and the letdown. 

Even though I have long forgiven my mom for her failure, I remember her humanness, her frailties.   When I was five she had a significant and major surgery on her back and was not expected to walk again...but she did.  Her toes were forever numb and her balance never returned, so we all knew to be careful with mom.  In whatever way that her life was at that time in May, only a few years after this trauma in her life, I was at the front door expecting her to just hear and make a beeline to the front door.   40 years later I can understand this.   Somewhere in midlife, there is a miraculous transition from only understanding how the world affects us ... to understanding how we affect the world around us.

We are all recovering from our upbringing.   Thank God.

What's in a Name?

Growing up, as early as the tender diaper years, my brother decided that he would nickname me to something other than my real name. It wasn’t that sweet, little girl angel-like name that maybe other babies or girls get. It just wasn’t that nice. He not only was so happy with himself for causing many others to adopt this new name, I also bore the brunt of seeing it handwritten on envelopes during my adolescence arriving through the USPS (the P is for Public, read: Public Humiliation) from as far away as Maine and Guam. The Nickname fortunately, and mostly, dissipated when my parents relocated us from the Midwest to the Southwest. It popped up occasionally upon returns for family trips.

During a short and ill-fated marriage in ’89 (after being pursued for 4 years, go figure), my name was subject to – well, just being left out. My brother-in-law at the time sent his wedding invitation to "us" addressed: Mr. John Doe, and Guest. Hello? Do you remember attending – being IN - our wedding just last year? I didn’t even get a direct apology.

As a stepmom, my name gets reduced to mostly meaningless add-ons, thus the "step", like second step in a series of two (read: last place), or second wife. I have lived through the scratch outs of my name to be replaced with The Mother’s and the new hubby. Then why did you have me come in and sign the permission slip anyway? And there was the time that I added the spouse’s name to my checking account (of 8 years I might add; I felt a bit possessive – the checking account, not the spouse) and the envelopes came to the house with his name on them, totally omitting mine. What’s up with that? And mortgage statements – I do remember signing my name at closing too.

More recently (see previous post on San Jose), my newest brother-in-law (what’s with brother-in-laws?) and sister-in-law have managed to totally skirt around the whole name thing by not acknowledging I exist. I think a card arrived once without even a Mrs. in the address line. The other day someone called me Mrs. Hanson. I looked around wondering who they were talking to because, yes, that was the first time I had been addressed by that name.

And you know when you get an email with a bunch of names, and how it is supposed to read in the list?

"Adam and Eve" <adamandeve@edenmail.com>

I am on a group email list where once again I have lost my identity; the only thing left is my email address. I’d like to think my address is pretty straightforward:   donnahanson@mymail.com.
So, if I haven’t been neglected enough, my self-image scarred for a lifetime, I can’t even claim my own email address:

"Spouse and Stepdaughter" <donnahanson@mymail.com>

A New Year

When I was a kid someone gave me a calendar for Christmas.   It was a long, bamboo-like, woven, wall calendar, probably 3 feet tall.  It came rolled up so that when I unrolled it January was at the top and December was at the bottom - A tall column.  I think I kept this thing on my wall for several years.   That settled into my brain as the order of the world.   Now as an adult, when we progress to the end of December it has been a subconcious movement down to the bottom of the column.  So, for January to start - a new year - we have to go  A L L  T H E   W A Y  back up to the top to start over again.  It's not a linear thing for me.  And it's always on the left.  December finishes out, and it's like hitting the return key, then the up scroll button;  the little marker goes back to the left and climbs back up to January.   Kind of like the opposite of the ball dropping in Times Square at New Years.   The little ball has to rise all the way back up to the top to January ... well, just like the little red ball in the tube  of the coffee maker when you add water.  That's my brain on New Years, getting back up to January.