Facebook Said So.

Yesterday Facebook blew up with back-to-school pics that everyone shared. Cute kids. All smiles. Super excited to head back to school. I smiled for my Facebook friends and then? Bawled like a baby for me.

I warned you that I hate the end of summer. Okay, let's face it. Hate isn't a strong enough word. I despise it. I want to yell at it. I want to punch it in the face. I want to kick and scream and swear and blubber at it until it yields to submission. Sigh. I say it all the time. No one listens to me. Therefore, summer ended and school began.

I dropped Jaden off to school and came home and cried. Inconsolably.

I know. I know. It's not such a big deal. It's good that he's growing up. I'm lucky that he is smart and handsome and rocks school. Whatever.

I want him home. I miss him when he's gone. I hate my empty house. I despise the silence.

There. It's said. And I meant every single word.

Yesterday afternoon I scrolled through my Facebook feed and someone had posted results from a test they had taken.  True confession. Every once in a while I take these tests. I don't "share" my test taking very often. I don't know why. But I don't.

This test would list my weaknesses. I was all geared up to answer a bunch of questions so Facebook would be able to get a clear picture of who I am. I sat in my recliner. Turned down the television so I could FOCUS on the enormity of the forthcoming questions and prepared myself to embark on the intense test at hand.

I clicked on the link. A little round circle chased it's tail for a few seconds and the test was done. What? No questions. No deep dark thoughts. No truth-be-told answers. Nothing.

I'm:
100% outspoken
95% impatient
94% overly emotional
79% too honest
38% confused (Facebook spelled it confussed. Ha! So much for intelligent testing.)

First of all, how in the crap does Facebook know so much about me?

I had to laugh at the "overly emotional" statement. Ya think? I'm ALWAYS being told how emotional I am. Maybe it's because I'm 79% too honest. I tell how I feel until I can tell that nobody really gives a crud how I feel. Then I blog about it.

So. School has started. I miss Jaden. I cry EVERY SINGLE YEAR on the first day of school. I'll probably bawl even when I don't have kids at home simply because I hold on to the fact that I hate the first day of school.

I hate the end of summer.

I'll miss ice cream nights.

I'll miss sitting on my porch swing.

I'll miss working in my yard.

I'll miss walking barefoot in warm, sunlit grass.

Name something about summer. I'll miss it.

Okay. Okay. I'm proud of each of my kids. I'm happy that they are growing into epic human beings. I love that we share movies and books and thoughts and opinions and dinners and gifts and lots and lots of love.

I adore being a grandma and that couldn't have happened without Tyson growing up and moving out. Right?

I love being a mother-in-law.

I love hot soup with fresh, homemade rolls.

I love cozy sweaters.

I love curling up with a fluffy quilt and reading.

I love watching the snow fall.

I hate. I love. I'm emotional. It's all true. Facebook said so.

Random Kindness

Let's face it. I'm not the get-excited-about-the-end-of-summer gal. Since Fall is looming, school begins soon, schedules must be adhered to, the cold is just around the corner and my house is about to echo with silence, I stay in bed extra long in the mornings. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I log onto Facebook and see what friends/family are up to and what excitement is going on. Today was a Facebook day.

I scrolled through postings this morning.  I read about a teacher in California who was in WalMart buying school supplies for her upcoming classroom. Notebooks. Crayons. Pencils. Things necessary in a classroom, but not supplied to our teachers who, more often than not, reach into their own pockets to purchase these items. A gentleman in the store offered to help this gal load her cart with the needed supplies and appeared again at the check out, offering to pay for the supplies for her class. Not only did he offer to pay for what was in the cart, he ran back to the school supply aisle and grabbed another box FULL of notebooks and more crayons.

Made me feel warm and fuzzy.

I kept scrolling.

I came across another post where a girl helped someone in need pay a light bill so the woman could get her lights turned back on.

Made me think of the help I have received over the years.

I kept scrolling.

I came across a picture of some beautiful flowers that a friend of mine received.

Made me smile.

I kept scrolling.

I saw a post from a girl thanking someone for saving her life. Literally.

Made me think of the angels among us.

I stopped scrolling and began thinking.

I thought about all the acts of kindness that had been shared. I thought that at times we don't REALLY live in a selfish and ugly world. I thought that I'm grateful to have friends that share the good in their lives. I thought about how I could contribute positively today. I thought about my most favorite quote. Of all time.

I Can.

I've worked very hard to maintain a brave face in my every day activities. I used to stagger from bed and begin my day feeling like I was walking in a pool of water. I struggled through each step. However, I felt that I conquered brilliantly. I arrogantly thought "I got this. No big deal." I would flippantly say "I'm grateful that I don't have to take a bunch of medication." or "I'm lucky there isn't a bunch of treatments that I need to endure."

Wrong.

I WISH that the doctor would have said "Oh! This is NO BIG DEAL. Here is a prescription for a medicine with no side effects that will kick this in no time." Ugh. She didn't say that. I didn't hear those words. Nope. Didn't happen.

Lately, I describe my every day life as RUNNING through water. All day. Every day. I go to bed exhausted. I wake up tired. Things that used to be NO BIG DEAL now require tremendous effort and - let's face it - tremendous skill to accomplish.

I was at the library today. I was walking toward a computer to renew some books that I haven't finished when - don't ask me why - I decided that I wanted to use a different computer. I changed directions to head across the room. HUGE mistake. Somehow my legs got tangled. My arms started flailing and flapping in an attempt to steady my tipping body.

No go.

I fell. Hard.

Humiliation holds no boundaries when you screech, fall, and then BOUNCE along cement floors. Do I need to add that once my falling is complete - in all it's glory - it's an incredible sight to see me attempt to stand up again? To say that it is difficult for me to get on my feet is an understatement. I begin to roly-poly around to gain enough momentum to get on my hands and knees. I stick my hine-y straight up in the air and, with my arms straight out in front of me to counter-balance my bottom-heavy-so-modestly-elegant lower-half and I SLOWLY stand. I'm telling you, this takes so much effort, I secretly wish to hear whistles and cheers of admiration so I can holler TA-DA while bowing graciously

Instead, I gather every ounce of dignity I can muster (which, believe me, isn't much) and make my red-faced-humiliation-filled exit as quickly as my wobbly legs can move.

Crap.

So I've been on a pity-me-bull-dozer-train that doesn't seem to ever stop changing indignities. I conquer one problem just in time to face another complexity.

Then phone calls began.

My friend, Annette, buried her beloved father. And then lost her oh-so-young-neighbor too quickly to cancer.

My cousin who is a mere 28 lost her husband of 4 years leaving behind a very young widow and daughter.

My oh-my-gosh-I-love-her-SO-much friend, Sunnie, is dealing AS WE SPEAK with the passing of her husband.

My beautiful-wonderfully-fabulous friend, Debbie, and her family just buried a brother, son, husband, father.

And I'm grateful to slog through my running-through-the-pool days.

I'm grateful that I was able to go to the library today.

I'm grateful to feel humiliation course through my body.

I'm grateful to be writing. And singing (off key). And dancing (even if it's in my mind). And cleaning my toilets. And feeding my dogs that bowl me over in their rush to be fed because they must be STARVING. And watering my yard. And sitting at the pool with my girls. And reading a book. And watching a movie. And making sun tea for my guy. And wobbling. And falling. And slurring my words. And not taking medicine to fix ANY of this.

I'll embrace it all and simply be grateful that I CAN.

I Might Need More Coffee Cake

Yesterday was my anniversary. One of them. Mark and I married on June 15, 1983. Later we divorced. A few years after that we married again. In Montana. On stage. In a bar. By a member of the band where Mark was a guitarist.

I think that we are the ONLY couple in the entire universe that fight over the date of our marriage. We were married right before the countdown to the New Year. You know - five...four...three...two...ONE...HAPPY NEW YEAR! Cheers. Whistles. A big kiss from my new husband and the band plays "Should auld acquaintance be forgot..."

Mark says that it was technically New Years Day and therefore our anniversary is January first.

We were married in Butte and (at the time) they registered our marriage license in a HUGE leather-bound book and promised to send us a hard copy. Alas, no mail was received from Butte, Montana and I have NO official record of the date that we were wed.

So we celebrate at midnight and - POOF - it's over.

During the divorce, I HATED June 15. I cried. I pouted. I felt oh-so-sorry for myself. On June 15, 2000, Jaden entered our world and healed my thoughts. I now ADORE June 15th again and at times we celebrate our long-ago-anniversary as well as the birth of my youngest.

Last week Mark and I took off on the motorcycle. I have longed to see the Grand Canyon and set my sights on visiting this year. Mark and I talked about riding to the Grand Canyon and he always filled in the what-else-should-we-do-on-our-get-away with visiting Tombstone. In my brilliant, compass-lacking, mind I thought the two were close together. Guess what? They aren't. Not even close. However, since I thought it was a given that we tour both, that's what we planned. And executed. Brilliantly.

Before we left on our big adventure, Mark, Goose, Daulton, Uncle Ron and I loaded up on the motorcycles and rode up Provo Canyon. I love the motorcycle. I love the wind in my face and the sun on my shoulders. Except my legs didn't want to cooperate and I struggled getting onto the bike and struggled stepping down from the bike. I mean struggled.

I began to worry about our trip. I worried that I couldn't handle the ride and that I would wimp out and disappoint Mark TREMENDOUSLY and end up detouring our trip and spending the duration of our vacation a few miles out of town in Nephi.

Little did I know? Mark was worrying as well.

I have been a huge believer that the only way to truly love someone is to serve them. Sometimes service comes in the form of simply being the listening ear when life provides hiccups. Sometimes it's financial aid. Dinner. A get-away-drive. If you have it. You share it. If it's not good enough for the people you are loving? It's on them.

This trip love was given to me in the most unusual form.

Mark and I developed a system to get me on and off the bike. I stood on solid ground beside the motorcycle. I held my right leg as high as I possibly could, which - let's be honest - was only a few inches. Mark would then grab hold of the bottom of my foot and throw my leg over the seat. I would scoot and slide my leg across until my foot would land on the riders foot peg. Then the wiggling and shifting began. I wiggled and scooted and maneuvered my way onto the seat. Whew! Mark would VERY EASILY (show off) swing his leg across the seat and we would ride off. When we came to a stop, the entire sequence was repeated in opposite form.

My ABSOLUTELY FAVORITE thing that Mark does while we ride is reach behind and tap my leg. It's his was of showing that he likes me tagging along and wants me to know it. We were gone for a week. 2,062 miles. I got tapped often.

Along with the getting-on-the-bike system, we had to come up with a plan to help me don my biker gear. Our new routine was developing. I can't zip my chaps. No more. Nuh-uh. Can't do it. Doesn't help that when I bought my chaps many, many, MANY pounds ago, the fitter-guy put me in XXS chaps.

To manipulate the zippers that run down each leg, Mark (no lie) had to use PLIERS. He huffed and puffed and swore and laughed as he attempted to close up my chaps.

While visiting the Grand Canyon, we hit a snack shack. Hungry is not a strong enough word for how I felt. Keep in mind that there is NO snack food if you are on a motorcycle road trip. Chocolate melts. Chips disintegrate to the texture of sand. Everything makes you thirsty and there is not a convenient spot to keep any sort of food. So we hit the snack shack where our choices were pre-made sandwiches, cold burritos (they did have a microwave) canned/bottled soda, muffins and coffee cake.

I HATE mayo so the sandwiches were a NOT EVER for me. Mark grabbed me a chicken/green chili/oh-so-wonderful burrito and a can of Pepsi. While waiting in line, I began eyeballing the coffee cake. Laced with cinnamon, the sweet cake became more and more appealing to me and as the line shortened, I stated "Yeah. I want coffee cake." Mmmmmmmmmmmm. It was so, so, so, SO good.

After dining on our to-go food, we wandered the area in search of the perfect shirt that would scream that I had visited the Grand Canyon. We couldn't find what I wanted, so I made Mark move to a different area. We found the PERFECT shirt, a magnet for my fridge and reluctantly decided it was time to get on the road.

We were parked in a busy-to-and-fro lot when it hit me. Crap. I need my chaps on. I easily buckled the waistband and waited patiently while Mark attempted to zip the legs. No go. He had to get into the pouch where the repair tools were kept and retrieve the handy-dandy-let-'er-rip-pliers, grab hold of my zipper and pull MIGHTILY.

I began to laugh hysterically. I'm sure we were a sight. I KNOW people were watching and wondering what the crud he was doing. I said "I think I might need more coffee cake." Mark had been huffing and puffing. His face was red and I swear to you - sweat was dripping from his brow. He blew the air out of his lungs and began heaving with laughter.

That was the moment that I realized the extent of the love my husband has for me.

Yep. I'm a lucky girl. Because of this man.

My Minds Eye

About a month ago, Mark and I watched "The Theory of Everything". The synopsis of the movie on Imbd is:

This is the extraordinary story of one of the world's greatest living minds, the renowned astrophysicist Stephen Hawking, who falls deeply in love with fellow Cambridge student Jane Wilde. Once a healthy, active young man, Hawking received an earth-shattering diagnosis at 21 years of age. With Jane fighting tirelessly by his side, Stephen embarks on his most ambitious scientific work, studying the very thing he now has precious little of - time. Together, they defy impossible odds, breaking new ground in medicine and science, and achieving more than they could ever have dreamed.

I did have a hard time watching the movie. I lost a dear, dear, DEAR friend to Lou Gehrig's disease (ALS) and as I watched Stephen's decline I was constantly reminded of the struggles Denise faced. However, as per my norm, my thoughts turned towards my own disease. Interestingly, many of my symptoms run parallel with ALS and I find myself constantly being reminded of the fight Denise had to face and drawing on her strength and wisdom in the eye of the storm.

There was a point in the movie that a wheelchair-bound Hawking, with the assistance of a voice synthesiser, was asked to attend a lecture in America where he would be receiving an award. While on stage at the lecture, Stephen sees a student drop a pen. There is a moment that he imagines getting up to return it and the movie plays as if he can. He stands, walks down the stairs off the stage, stoops down, retrieves the pen and gallantly hands it to the young woman. The movie slams back to Mr. Hawking still bound to his wheelchair. His emotions are very clear as he struggles with the fact that he cannot do as he wishes.

That scene plays over and over and over in my mind.

On May 24, I attended a fantastic, wonderfully, beautiful wedding of a "little" girl that I love so very dearly. Alissa and Cody had a never-empty-dance-floor set up. I love music and love to dance and found myself on the floor swaying to the music. I miss dancing. I miss it so much. However, I am not able to get to the dance floor without aid and certainly could not be left to my own resources once getting to the floor. I found myself saying "Don't let go of me". ALOT.

That night I had a dream about running. I was running and jumping and laughing with glee. Then I woke up. And was hit with the realization that, yeah, I can't run. And I never will again. I can't jump. And I never will again. I can't dance. And I never will again.

And I was so, so, so sad.

My mind isn't ready to admit defeat. So I keep stammering and stumbling forward and try so very hard to maintain a smile on my face and to treasure every movement as if it might be my last.

When Stephen Hawking spoke at Cambridge he said:

However difficult it may seem, there is always something you can do and succeed at.

I've learned that my own successes are measured in small increments and certainly do not fall in the same category as "normal" successes.  However, they are mine. If a "good day" is achieved by getting out of bed, putting on make-up with shaky hands and making sure that I smile widely to the gal at the pepsi store? That is a good day.

Once again, Stephen nailed it while addressing Cambridge:

I might just dance after all. Even if it's just in my mind.

Defying Gravity

Each year for Christmas, I gather pictures that the kids have taken throughout the year and I put them to music.  I make a movie for us to watch Christmas morning. Much time is spent picking the song that fits the year that we are placing behind us. I then make sweatshirts to go with the "theme" that I have established.

I really don't know how much the family is endeared to this idea. I've learned that (of course) it's all about me and I do this because I love it and it gives me time to pause and think of events throughout the year.

I lost Pat this last year and the play "Wicked" is seared in my heart as "ours". So when the time came to pick my song, gather pictures and begin the movie-making process, I went to iTunes and found the song Defying Gravity and began my project.

I try very hard to find the part of the song that I want to "underline" in my creations, and this time I landed on the lyrics:

If I'm flying solo at least I'm flying free.

I don't know if this statement "fits" with the rest of the family, but it sent a beacon to me. And I followed.

On August 19, 1984 I became a mother. And I have never looked back. I haven't been one to give "worldly" gifts to my kids. Nor, have they been raised to give much credence to the trappings of living a lifestyle that invokes power and wealth. From the beginning of time, they were raised to respect the people that surround them and to spend their energy and finances to help those in need.

My children were taught to be independent.

As I grow older, I question what the crap I was thinking.

I should have raised children that would never leave my side. They should be needy and dig their claws in while they cling to me with desperation.

Sigh. They're not.

Because of their strengths, I'm learning to stand alone. I'm learning to dig inside for confidence and self-worth; to pull out my own strengths and leave my weaknesses sitting on the sidewalk unnurtured.

Buddha said:

"You yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection."

I'm learning to fly solo. And it's not so bad.

Making It Count

I love that my facebook page is full of moans and groans from the peeps my age turning the dreaded big 5-0. I feel the excitement shared through the posts filled with pictures of new grandbabies that are coming our way. I love to see the "kids" I know having babies of their own and secretly stalk each one of them to make sure that they are on track to be great parents.

Last week we celebrated Uncle Mike's 50th birthday. As I pondered what gift would hold any meaning for this epic event, I ran across this statistic:

According to USA today, the life expectancy for a female is 81.2 years; for males, it's 76.4 years. 

I did some math and came up with these figures:

A woman has (give or take) 4222.4 Saturdays in her lifetime.

A man has (give or take) 3972.8 Saturdays in his lifetime.

I've turned 50.

That means that I only have 1622.4 Saturdays remaining and Uncle Mike is held to the statistic of 1372.8 Saturdays left to hunt, fish, mow lawns, repair household items, clean vehicles, watch kids play soccer, read magazines, hike trails, fight with spouses, argue with kids, paint kitchens, make spaghetti.

I decided to give some perspective to our situation. I went to Hobby Lobby, bought a large Mason jar along with some river rock and counted 1373 of those rocks and placed them in the jar for Uncle Mike.

And that's what I gave him for his birthday.

It was interesting to count the rocks out. As I was counting along, it struck me how quickly time passes. We all say it. It's a blink of an eye, and your kids are grown and making memories all their own. You gain weight, lose hair, hide grey hair, curse wrinkles, wear reading glasses, listen to "classic" music, own antiques that are simply remnants from your youth, begin statements with "I remember when....", talk with disgust about "this generation" and THE WORSE THING EVER? Talk about your dog like you used to talk about your kids. AAAAAAUUUUUUGH! 

I don't have many Saturdays left. I, for one, vow to spend more time at the pool, sit on my porch swing every day this summer, go to the park with my grandbabies while I still can, read a few more books, sip some lemonade and make sure that those I love know of the feelings in my heart.

I think that is a nice bucket list.