Five More Sleeps

There are officially five (5) more sleeps until Christmas day. This will be my 61st Christmas and I am sad to say, that like everyone else in the world, I have often let the commercialism of the holiday, override The Reason for the Season. I guess it is all part of living in an ever-growing secular world, where things have become more important than the true reason we celebrate Christmas. Like most things, it's not rocket science. The purpose of December 25th is quite simply spelled out for us in the name...Christ-mas, but apparently even in all of its simplicity, we still forget. But I digress. 

So as a kid, my parents if not on the same page with anything else, always had a cease fire during Christmas and we always celebrated Christmas together as a family. Yes I know, we were a strange bunch, and trust me, my divorced parent's weird relationship was never lost on me. 

The first Christmas that I actually remember was in "the horrible house." I must have been about 6 or 7 and I was sick. Really sick. I had the flu and the pictures of me that Christmas show that I looked like walking death. I was pale and my eyes were dark. I looked awful and I imagine I felt awful too, but I don't remember that. 

That Christmas, my not-so-adoring grandma, and my always-adoring grandpa came to our house Christmas Eve. Mom and Dad were either together at the time or at the very least, together for the evening. For most of my life, we always celebrated Christmas on Christmas morning, but for whatever reason, that year it was on Christmas Eve. I have glimpses of memory of my grandma telling me I looked awful (duh, I was sick) and my grandpa trying to make me smile. Our little Christmas tree was in our den area and Mom told me that I needed to go to my room and play for a while. I must have felt bad enough to be compliant, and in a bit, I was called back out, to find that during my time in my room, Santa had arrived. I remember being upset that I had missed him. If only I had not been so compliant. 

The only gift I remember getting that year was a doll that was about three and a half feet tall. She was nearly as tall as me. She had some kind of mechanism in her that if you held her hand, she could kinda, sorta walk with you. I must have liked her a lot (although my history with dolls is long and sorted and a story for another time). I had that doll for many years, and during that time I gussied her up a bit, at one point cutting her bangs to a very fashionable (NOT), one-quarter of an inch. Not to worry though, later in her life, my brother Andy got a hold of her and appropriated the Native American culture all over her face. He also had a Native American kid's headdress that he adorned her with. He thought her a masterpiece, but looking back I think one, he watched too many westerns, and two if it happened now, he would most definitely have been canceled. 

The next year was another Christmas Eve celebration, this time at my grandparent's house. I was not sick this particular year and along with us, Aunt May, Uncle Eldrid and Nancy were all there. I remember this being a fun Christmas because Nancy was there and I got an entire Barbie Kitchen. It was teal and gold and I loved it. I played with it for years. 

A bittersweet Christmas that I remember was my grandpa's last Christmas. He was dying from prostate cancer and to keep him from being put in "a home" in his last months, my mom took him in. Yes, my mom and dad were long divorced by this time, but being the strange family that we were, Mom turned the guest bedroom into my grandpa's room and had a hospital bed brought in. When Grandpa came to live with us, so did my dad and grandma. It was a really strange setup, and definitely a story for another time, but we had Grandpa one last Christmas. 

Grandpa's bedroom was upstairs (we no longer lived in the horrible house), and he never came downstairs, except for that Christmas day. Aunt May and Nancy came over, (Uncle Eldrid had sadly passed by then), and our house was full. Having all the people there seemed to make it festive and having Grandpa there, sitting down in the living room and opening gifts with us, made it beyond special. 

I was about 11 this particular Christmas and even I could tell how hard coming down those stairs had been for him, but we listened to Christmas music and opened gifts and I remember knowing that this would never happen again. I was not wrong. 

When we moved to Mulvane, Mom became Christmas-obsessed. She would start the day after Thanksgiving, and it would take her a full week to decorate. She had someone make her an eight-foot manger and the outside was decorated with a beautiful lighted nativity. On the inside, however, it looked like how I always imagined Santa's house would look. We had decorations that dated back to the 50s and every year Mom got more. She also saved every toothpaste box Santa, and Christmas artwork masterpiece that Andy and I brought home from school. Every cabinet, wall, stairway, and end table was covered in everything from the beautiful to the gaudy. 

Our windows had Santa and a mix of mechanical dolls that moved, peering out. Our tree was always 8.5 feet and had every available inch covered with bulbs....and this is where my complete and total dislike for Christmas decorating came into play. Early on, I wanted to help decorate and was so excited to help with the tree, but after breaking several of Mom's (prized) bulbs, my services were no longer needed or appreciated. IF she dared let me help, it was under close supervision which took all of my creativity away. Because of Mom's extreme Christmas OCD, rather than fighting with me, she started decorating the tree while I was at school. Guess what? I didn't care! If the tree got decorated and I didn't have to get yelled at in the process.....cool! Andy's decorating experiences with Mom were much different. I think he had the same love for the process that she did and he had a gentler spirit and touch when it came to her prized bulbs. 

The Christmas's we had in Mulvane, were always so fun. Maybe it was because we had finally found a place we truly called home, and we had friends and events that made the season amazing. I remember caroling with my friends, Christmas parties, and going to midnight Mass. On Christmas morning, my dad always showed up, and we unwrapped our gifts and then had Thanksgiving dinner all over again. It was here we grew up, grew as a family, and started many traditions that I still have today. 

My first Christmas which was abjectly sad for me, was the Christmas of 1983. I had lost the person that I considered the love of my life. We had plans for the future, we were in love, but then like happens with many young college romances, it was just over. My heart was broken and being my first love and my first heartbreak, I was beyond miserable. I remember very little of that Christmas other than I cried day and night. I am sure I was a joy for my family and that I made that Christmas oh-so-special for them too. 

As Andy and I grew up and moved away, we started our own families and traditions. On my first Christmas with my husband Tim, we had no money. I was pregnant with Zachary and a week before Christmas, we had no gifts under the tree. My older son Wesley heard me talking to Tim about how sad I was that we had nothing under the tree. He was a sweet soul at eight years old, and I walked into the living room to find that he had taken all of his stuffed animals and placed them under the tree. He said, "Now we have something under the tree." It looked beautiful and I had to leave the room to keep from bursting into tears in front of him. Miracle of miracles, Santa came through, as well as Tim's over time, and we were able to have a few gifts after all. 

The Christmas of 2000, David was in the NICU. He had been there for three months already and he had another two months to go. By Christmas, he was doing well and we were just working on him gaining enough weight to leave the hospital. Most of that season was spent going back and forth daily to the NICU, but we did break away long enough to have Christmas Eve with my mom and dad at Andy's house. 

The Christmas of 2001, I had just lost Tim, six months earlier. I can honestly say that I have no memory whatsoever of that Christmas. Then the Christmas of 2002, I lost my mom on December 22nd. The only thing that saved that Christmas for me was that my Uncle Pat and Aunt Rita were there. They had come to see my mom in the hospital, but she passed before they could get there. So instead of turning around and going back to MO to spend Christmas with their family, they stayed and helped heal our family. Their kids will never know how much their sacrifice of not spending Christmas with their parents meant to us. It is something that I will never forget. 

The Christmas of 2003, I was living back in my childhood home. It was the home that in so many ways had healed me as a child and miraculously, would heal me again as an adult. It is here where I, my kids, and now my grandkids have celebrated every Christmas since. Yes, I still hate decorating, but with a little help from my friends, it always gets done, and I always enjoy it when it is.

This year, my heart hurts as Andy is never too far from my mind, and it is to honor his memory that I was able to decorate this year. I think about him almost daily and I try to remember all of our childhood Christmas's with Mom and Dad and him and I. Christmas was always a high point for our family. 

I know we are not special this year. We have the same issues as everyone else. Money is tight if not non-existent, we are grieving, and we have stress, struggles, and speed bumps a plenty. We also have each other and one of the family's best gifts this Christmas is the upcoming birth of a new addition. Zachary and his girlfriend are going to be first-time parents in July. I also once again, get to see the joy and excitement of the season through my grandkid's eyes, and I am grateful that for another Christmas, we are here together, safe and sound. 

This year I have turned on the Christmas music and blared it daily (something I never do) and made my grandkids listen and learn. There is pretty much no Christmas song, old or new that they don't know. We have gone and looked at lights as a family, and started spending more time together doing fun things and enjoying each other's company. I think this year of all years, we are critically aware of how short life can be and just how fast time flies. 

I have also shut out the noise of the commercialism of the season and found myself looking towards both the crib and the cross more and more, and focusing on the birth of the Christ child. I think this alone has done more for my healing than anything else. 

So yeah five more sleeps and Christmas will be here, and as Christmas's go, I hope that the kids and grandkids remember this one, for the music, the laughter, and the fact that we were once again given the gift of being together and sharing the joy and memories of not just the day, but also, all the days leading up to it. After all, not everyone gets the miracle that we have as a family. 

I want to wish any of you who read this, a very Merry Christmas. I hope your heart is wrapped up in the beautiful Christmas Season and that you can share love and joy with your own families.

Happy Birthday baby Jesus.

Until next time.....

Just Built Different

There is a mantra that those in their late teens, and early twenties like to currently throw around. It is, "Nah. I'm just built different." This last week and maybe for the last couple of decades, this seems to be a pretty good description of me, my life, and my view of the world. When I compare myself, from my beliefs to how I do things, sometimes even in my own home, I legitimately feel like I am a completely different being from most of those around me. 

Okay, maybe this sounds a bit dramatic, but the fact is, anymore when I give my opinion (solicited or otherwise), share my beliefs, or even when I just converse with others, it is very hard to wrap my head around the vast differences that become glaringly evident. Even when I really try to understand the thought processes of others, and how they might possibly get from point A to point Z in their beliefs, I am often left baffled and wondering if we are even living on the same planet. 

A perfect example of my "built different" theory is never more plain than when I see a "Karen" video or really any video where someone's first thought is to video rather than take action. I have no understanding of any person who makes it their mission in life to dominate, overtalk, or demand that others cater to their wants without regard for anyone else, or for those who just wish to dictate, direct, and decimate when things don't go their way. What is more, Karens are not limited nor is any one sex, ethnicity, country, or age group free from this diseased personality. My only question though is why? 

When did we as a world decide that we would allow another human being to stand in front of us and cuss us or anyone else out and do nothing more than pull out our phones and videotape? When did disrespect over a business's rules, a messed up fast food order, or someone taking a parking space, become acceptable behavior? When did businesses, airlines, and fast food workers decide that they can discriminate on any level for any reason and belittle, deny service, and spew hate to customers, not for business reasons such as theft or true abuse, but merely for personal reasons, such as complaining about bad service or a wrong order? Did we all lose our minds and forget that we are all human, we are all going through something, and that kindness goes a lot further than nastiness and egging on an already volatile situation? Also have businesses big and small, forgotten that customer service is a real thing and without customers, you have no business? 

When it comes to people who feel entitled to discriminate without reason, scream obscenities without a filter, and try to push their will and agenda ahead of others, I simply don't get it and I certainly don't get that to many, the first reaction to viewing one of these situations is to be pulling out a phone and capturing the moment on video. I am definitely built different. 

This also goes for seeing someone hurting someone else, either physically or verbally. My first reaction in such a situation is certainly not going to be to pull out my phone. My first reaction would be to step in and say or do something. In my humble opinion, many people who are the aggressors in these situations do it so openly for one basic reason. Because they can! They know that most people aren't going to do anything more than watch and record and they don't give two figs if their picture is posted all over YouTube and TikTok. In fact, for many of these narcissistic personalities, this is modern-day street cred. However, if someone steps up and steps in, often like most bullies, they will at the very least back off a bit, and sometimes, because they are confronted, will stop altogether. 

In this weird world and time we live in, we seem to forget the power that we actually hold in these situations. In many cases, all it takes is for one person to step up and that alone will break the grab my phone and video societal trance we seem to gravitate towards, and others too may follow suit and step up. There is strength in numbers, but even one person taking a stand against a bully or an abuser, can change the course of events and maybe even save someone. 

Here is the sad thing though. I said this exact same thing to someone the other day and they looked at me as if  I might need committal papers. I was told that you can't get involved with situations like this. It's too dangerous and it's not my business anyway. WTF??? First of all, it's no more dangerous for me than it is for the person being abused, and two, my involvement was forced the moment the abuse happened in front of me. What is wrong with people? Have we lost our sense of right and wrong and most of all, our humanity? Yep. I'm built different. 

Recently a poll was taken, asking moms if they would put their lives on the line for their kids and even willingly die for their kids in a desperate situation. Do you know that an astounding number of mothers had to think about this question before answering, and some even openly stated that they would not in fact put their children's lives above their own in a desperate situation. I was literally stunned. Now of course, none of us knows how we would actually react in a situation where life, death, and seconds counted, but I would really like to think that if my children, or any child for that matter, were involved,  I would put their lives above my own and do my best to make sure that they came out of the situation safely. To even question whether I would do everything I could to save them or not, is unbelievable to me.....so again.....built different. 

This last week, I had several people question my beliefs on and my handling of death. As many of you know, my brother passed away last week after a long battle with cancer. What I learned, or maybe already knew but the point was driven home further is that all deaths and grieving processes are not created equal. It is different losing a parent from a spouse or a child from a sibling. How they die, whether it is sudden or a prolonged process also affects how it is handled and processed, but one thing is definite, regardless of preparation, you never know how it will hit you until the moment it happens. 

The absolute sadness I felt as I stood there knowing that my brother was gone and that our last conversation, was indeed our last conversation and where we had left our relationship is where it would stay, hit me so profoundly that it was like getting sucker punched and having all the air leave my body. 

As siblings we had spent a lifetime of both closeness and estrangement and to my disbelief, my grief was questioned by a couple of people who were simply mere acquaintances and really didn't know either my brother or I. Luckily I am of an age that I felt no need to justify or explain my emotions, nor I am sure, could I, even if I had wanted to. My question though, who is so bereft of human compassion that they would feel that my grief was their business or their right to judge?

To further cause me to create an impassible boundary with non-essential humans in my life, my actions and reactions following my brother's death and about death, in general, were brought into question. The fact that I chose to remember humorous and funny moments and share them with a smile and even laughter was found suspect, as well as my belief that my brother and I have not said good-bye, but merely until we see each other again. This seems to have caused a bit of a stir among those who strongly believe that death is the end. It has even been suggested that I live in a delusional world of fairytales where I see death as a beginning and very much plan on seeing not only my brother but all I have lost, at some point in the future. 

To all of this though, I have to wonder, why does anyone care about my grief and how I handle it or my belief system where death is concerned? How does this become anyone else's business and why would anyone feel the need to chime in their unsolicited opinions about any of it? Why does any of it matter to anyone but me? I would never think it my business or my place to tell anyone how to grieve, how to process or how to believe in such a situation, and yet apparently people have gotten so comfortable in judging and throwing their opinions wherever they choose, that they feel it is their right and privilege to do so. NO! I am apparently just built different. 

Okay, so this was a bit all over the place, not unlike my emotions and the activity of this last week. Perhaps you will have to cut me some rather generous slack this week and try really hard to follow the dots that connect my own point A to point Z. I guess this is part of the joy of coming along for the ride in this blog. You are apparently going to get all the feels and messiness that go with it all. 

I have been in a weird place this last week and this is where I come to dump it all. Next time we will head back to the past again where I am a little more sure-footed and more pragmatic than emotional, but for today, the here and now is where my emotional wounds are oozing (sorry for the visual), and hopefully, the healing is just beginning.  And....if you have stuck with me through this entire ride, maybe like me, you are just built different too. 

Until next time........

Grief: You Are Going to Feel How You Feel Until You Don't Feel that Way Anymore

As I write this, in this moment, it has been 19 years, two hours and 55 minutes since the last time I saw you, hugged you, kissed you and said "I love you," to you. For those doing the math, that is 228 months, approximately 912 weeks, somewhere around 6,939 days and right around 166,552 hours. Broken down even further....that is real close to 9,993,201 minutes since last I was walking out the door, not knowing that in an instant, my world was going to change forever.

I break this down in such a way, because over time, sometimes the months and weeks have passed quickly with the business of life taking over and sometimes, the loss has been so painful and so excruciating that it feels like life has stopped and it has been all I can do to get thru the next minute. I guess this is simply the nature of grief.

On July 2, 2001, at about 7:30 in the morning, I kissed my husband, told him I loved him and walked out the door to take my mom to a doctors appointment. My mind was on the news of her health that we might hear that day and little else. Other than that, it was a normal summer day and not for a second did I think it would be anything else, but by 1:00 that afternoon, my life would be shattered, my heart would be irreparably broken and nothing from that moment on, would ever be the same in my life again, because at 1:00 p.m. was the time I came home to find that my husband had suddenly and unexpectedly dropped dead of a brain aneurysm.

I had lost people before Tim, and I have lost people since, but with the exceptions of my mother a year after, and my baby daughter many years earlier, no death has ever taken from me or affected me like his. It was losing Tim that taught me about falling completely apart and then eventually finding my way back to life. It taught me about abject loss and then slowly seeing the blessings that surround every tragedy in life. Most of all, it taught me about the beauty of grief and the strength and purpose that can come when you begin to move on with gratitude.

Skipping ahead to this year (2020), there has been a great amount of loss in my world. Some have been by extension of those I care about, and some have hit me right in the heart, leaving another piece  of my heart, wounded and bleeding. Those wounds never completely go away. The best we can hope for is that they scar, leaving us a permanent reminder of who we loved and what we lost. Maybe it is because of all that has been lost this year that I felt the need to write this and since I woke up very early today with Tim on my mind, I write this in his honor.

If you make it out of childhood, there is an overwhelming probability that at some point you will lose someone you love and depending on just how long you live in this world, the chances are even better that you will lose several in your lifetime. The fact is, no matter how many times we lose those we love, the grieving process will happen and it will always be different. Grief is not a one size fits all occurrence and if anyone tells you differently, then they likely haven't dealt with a lot of loss.

Yes, there are stages of grief that we all tend to go through, but we all don't go through them the same way and we don't all go through all the stages. When I lost Tim, I went from hysterical to complete calm in a matter of minutes. The "knowledge" of his death in those first few minutes, knocked the wind completely out of me. I felt as if I was living in a nightmare and I was begging to wake up. I remember screaming and then there was the realization that I was a mom and I had young children that were more lost than I was. I then became calm, in an almost auto-pilot kind of way, and I began to organize and give direction as if I had to clean up and control the situation.

In those first few hours, life went by quickly in a slow-motion kind of way. There were things to do, questions to answer and a never ending line of people coming in and out helplessly wanting to help. I remember in the moment I was so grateful they were there, but at the same time I couldn't focus or even comprehend reality, so I was just blank inside. Again....auto-pilot.

The days that followed were non-stop. People continued in and out, making arrangements that I never planned to make and making decisions that I had no idea how to make. All of this was going on, along with the fact that I still had kids. I had to be a mom and help these children who looked to me for guidance, to get through something that I didn't have a clue about getting through. All I wanted to do was crawl in bed and not move, not think and not feel, but instead.....I had no choice but to keep moving and keep answering questions and making decisions.

It was nearly a week of everything but the kitchen sink being thrown at me. There were people in and out and in a funny sort of way, it felt as if a new normal had set in. Then there was the funeral. There were faces, kindness, me trying hard to look as if I was still me, when somewhere inside I knew that the me that left the house on July 2nd was gone forever as surely as if I had taken my last breath the moment he did.

Then it was over. Tim was buried. All who had come to say good-bye, left. They all went back to their lives and I was left alone, raising kids and having to figure out what each minute going forward was suppose to look like. I was angry for the first time. No I was not angry at Tim, because I always knew that Tim would have never left if that had been his choice. I was also not angry at God. I was raised to understand that none of us is guaranteed in this world and none of us leaves this world until the moment that we have accomplished everything we were meant to accomplish. No....my anger was at the world. I was so mad that everyone got to go home and resume their regular lives. How could this be? How could everyone else just go back to business as usual, when my life had virtually stopped?

I don't know for how long the anger lasted, but I do know that it took a toll on who I was as a person and my relationships with those around me. Some days I would force myself to get up and be a semi-functioning human being for the sake of my kids and some days I just barely functioned. It was a mixture of grief, guilt and anger. I could barely talk to people, even those closest to me, because I was seething with anger at them. I did not want to hear and see how they were going to work, enjoying their summer and doing the many mundane, everyday things that make up life, while I was caught up in a weird place where I had to exist but couldn't move from the pain that held me in place. It got to the point where I didn't answer the phone or the doorbell and the only time I left the house was out of necessity. Looking back now, I can't tell you whether this period in time lasted weeks, months or years, but even today, if I think about it, I can come back to a touch of that dark emptiness that filled me during that time. It was suffocating and I remember wondering if I would always feel that way and if I would survive. All these years later....I have those answers. No....I would not always feel that way and yes....I would survive.

At some point, the wound in my heart began to heal a bit and start to scar. As harsh as the old saying, "Life goes on" is, it is true. Those left behind after a loss, have no choice but to fall back into life and eventually start living again. No, that life didn't look much like the life I had previously, but slowly not only was my heart starting to heal a bit, but so was my mind. The anger slowly subsided and I began to be very grateful for those people who even in my darkest moments when I refused to let them in, stood by me. I was blessed to have some people in my life that loved me enough to give me time and not turn their backs on me. I also began to see the positive in the negative. Yes, I had lost Tim, but the blessing was that I had ever had him at all. I began to see that Tim and I had put a lot of love and happiness in our short years together. We had more in our few years than some people have in decades of marriage. He had given me kids who were constant reminders of his heart and soul and each time I looked at them, I saw him. In time I came to realize that Tim had been a gift and our time together had been something special that God reserved for only the two of us. Tim had given me love, a life, children, joy, laughter and strength. In a very real way, while he was alive, Tim gave me what I needed to survive when he died.

After Tim died, I learned that as much as he changed my world and my life with his presence, he also changed so many others. There was a period of time, when out of the blue, I suddenly had people coming to me and telling me what he had done for them at work or in a passing moment in their lives. I learned of people he had encouraged, gone to bat for or helped in some way. I heard stories of how his kindness, strength and humor had changed peoples lives and it validated what I already knew. Tim had not left this world without doing exactly what he was put here to do. I was so grateful in this knowledge.

Once the healing seemed to be fully underway, a new normal had set in. I could go several hours without feeling alone or missing his voice, but grief is a strange thing and it doesn't let go easily. I remember driving one day and a song came on the radio. It was "The Dance," a song that had been a favorite of Tim's and had been played at his burial, and that song tore through me like a grenade. It literally took my breath away and made me have to pull off the road. Tears flooded me and I cried like I hadn't cried since the day he died. I was angry and frustrated that after all this time, I could still be brought to my knees by of all things....a song. Once the tears subsided though, I actually felt better and the healing continued on. This however, was not the last time over the years that I would be brought down out of the blue and I am sure, even at this stage of the game, it can still happen under the right and unexpected circumstances.

I think of all the things that I have gone through in my grieving process, the most startling, sad, beautiful and reassuring gift though, has been my dreams. Over the years, there have been several and when I wake up, I am left feeling beautifully sad. In those dreams, Tim always comes to me and lets me know that he is always with me. His visits to my dreams always come at a time when I am struggling and his presence is comfort and the dream stays with me long after I am awake. I still am blessed to have these from time to time and I have come to see them as a spiritual extension of his life.

Today, all these years, months, weeks, days and minutes later, the grieving process still continues on, but it is not the devastation of those early days. Today, it is a smile when I see a picture or a tear when a memory hits me full on. It is a subtle ache instead of a searing pain and it is an understanding that while the loss was painful, if given the chance, I would do it all again because he was my person. He was my love and he gave me so much and that pain was just a reminder of how much I loved and how lucky I was to have him in my life.

So if I were ever to give someone any advice on grief, I would simply say, don't let anyone tell you how you are "supposed" to do it. Grief and grieving are personal and as I said earlier, not all grief is created equally. It is a process in which there are no real rules and no shortcuts. As Tim used to say, "You are going to feel how you feel, until you don't feel that way anymore." Today I feel grateful. I was blessed that God gave me Tim and I am grateful that I see his light continue on in our kids.

Tim Elam

Sept. 20, 1961 to July 2, 2001

Grief, Guilt and Parenting

I can honestly say that there is nothing in this world I love more than being a parent.....most of the time. In fact, next to being a writer, being a parent was the only other thing I ever wanted to be growing up. I always saw myself as a mom, writer or not. However, I learned early on and am still learning to this day......parenting is a lot easier in theory than in acutality.

As a kid growing up and being one of only two children, I was always very envious of the kids that came from big families. I had a lot to be envious of as in my town, five kids in a family was considered small and anything below that....well your parents just weren't trying hard enough. I always imagined and dreamed that I would have a very large family with lots of commotion and chaos. Eventually through marriage and a yours, mine and ours scenario, I got my five kids and all the chaos and commotion I could ever dream of. Back in the day, in our little 3 bedroom, 1 bath, 900 sq. ft. home with the older four kids, I considered my life amazing. We fought for space, bathroom time and of course, the kids just fought to fight, but in the strangest of ways, it was the absolute happiest time in my life. Then it all changed.

In 2001, the happiness turned to grief and my parenting changed forever, Suddenly I was doing it all alone. The oldest was married, the next one was living back in MO with his mother ready to graduate high school and it was just the youngest three and myself. We now had a bigger place with room to spread out and the chaos and commotion were slowed to the more and more often angry outburst of teenage grief and defiance at an unexpected and unthinkable turn in his life. The dad he had loved, relied on and basically begun to emulate was  snatched from his life and all he was left with was.......me. Harsh? Yes, but at the time......that is how we both felt.

A strong parent would have taken this life change by the horns and established dominance, guidance and security for the kids from the get go. I however, was anything but strong. I was reeling from my own loss and trying to comprehend and process the fact that everything I had known and dreamed of, was gone. My world was inside out and I knew that if I wasn't capable of processing all of this at my age, these kids.....especially the teenager.....had to be spiraling out of control. I learned that he was not alone, for back in MO, a similar situation was also occurring. This loss was more than any of us could take and we were all losing ourselves in the grief.

I was able to pull myself together enough to realize that like it or not, I was the parent, albeit the only parent, and I couldn't emotionally or physically jump ship. I owed it to these kids to give them the best life I was capable of giving them, I just had no idea how that life would look. So I pulled myself up by the bootstraps and muddled my way through unpaid bills and no insurance or means of support, a special needs child with no handbook, a traumatized five year old who had been alone with his dad as he died and after he died for several hours and a teenager who lost a part of himself as he lost his dad. Had we all been characters in a story, I could have made this a learning experience where each character grew because of the tragedy and in the end there would have been a happy ending, but we were not story characters. We were flesh and blood and quite honestly all I could manage to do was get through the days sometimes just hanging on minute by minute.

As a parent, when something bad or damaging to the family happens, it is instinct to want to protect the kids. We parents also take on a lot of guilt over these situations whether the damage is our fault or not. In this particular situation, the fault was not mine, but the guilt over these kids being in pain and me being helpless to fix the cause of their pain was all mine. I wanted to make everything okay for everyone and so I began to bend over backwards being way to permissive and way too giving of all the wrong things. I was trying to fill an emotional hole with all the non-emotional things and the result was long and lasting disaster.

You know, I watch Dr. Phil sometimes and I see the programs where the "good kids go bad" and I watch Dr. Phil just go after the parents for all of their bad parenting choices. Yeah, there are those parents who choose drugs and alcohol over their kids and when he goes after them I find myself cheering him on, but then there are the others. There are those parents who fail their kids not because they are bad people or they don't love their kids, but because life throws curve balls and these kids don't come with hand books or contingency plans for when life gets muddy. We as parents are human and most of us don't wake up every day thinking of ourselves or how we can make our kids life miserable. On the contrary, most of us wake up every day with the idea that we are going to be the best parent we can be. Our parenting decisions may not all be stellar, but every decision made is with love and with us trying to make the best choices possible....even if there is no obvious good choice to make. I think sometimes Dr. Phil forgets that. Parenting is on a learning curve for most of us and not all choices are cut and dry.

My choices and how I raised my kids changed dramatically after July 2, 2001. I was neither the same person nor the same parent after that and my kids were not the same kids. In that one day, the four older kids aged years. It was the aging that only grief and trauma can cause. I had a five year old who lost his innocence of childhood and a 15 year old who completely lost his way. I was raising these kids in my own grief and guilt and trying to figure out where to go from there.

In the years that followed, I lost and gained control so many times. My kids became my world and all I had left and so my heart was soft for them. Add to that, the fact that they were boys and I was mush. It was not good parenting and too much was excused. When I did come down hard, there was rebellion and with no family support to back me up, mutiny was attempted on more than one occasion. I spent a lot of years trying to hold my own against the simmering rage that became the life force of these boys who not only lost their dad, but also their way.

Quite honestly, there were many days that I felt like I as not enough. I was not enough of a person or a parent for these kids and I know there were times when they wished that I was not the parent who had survived. It made me wonder too. If Tim was here and I was not, would things be vastly different? Would these boys be better off? Perhaps the fact that Tim was a man and therefore far more dominant than myself.....maybe that would have made a difference in their lives. Maybe though, the loss and the grief would have still been there for all of them. Maybe the anger and the testosterone would have erupted in negative ways. Who knows and wondering about the "what ifs" is futile.

If I were on Dr. Phil, I am sure I would receive the tongue lashing of all tongue lashings and in the end we would establish on national TV what I already know in the quietest places of my heart......it is my fault. I gave in and let guilt guide me instead of standing firm. I said yes, when no was the answer. I yelled when anger and frustration were all that I felt and I taught my kids which buttons to push to manipulate me. My boundaries were vague and my choices though made out of honest effort and love....in hindsight were at times....questionable. If I was given a grade card for parenting, my graduation might be at risk. However......

Through all my failings as a parent, I have never not been there for my kids. I have always looked on my children as a gift and I have fought like a protective mother lioness for each and every one of them. My children have always known that no matter what they did, they could come to me. I have yet to disown any of them and when things are darkest, they do still find their way back to me. I have always listened to my kids. It didn't matter whether it was about their day, things that bothered them or the person they had a crush on. I have fought for these kids and I have also made them take responsibility for their actions. I have done my best to teach them how to clean a house, do laundry and cook. Some excelled more than others on these fronts. I have also tried to teach them how to love, have compassion, empathy and respect.....and some days have been better than others.

So this weekend was a mixed bag of parenting blessings. One kid went off. Anger, frustration and growing pains took the lead for him and my parenting fails were more than evident as I had to wing it, deflect and remember that I have actually had better parenting days. It was hard not to let this child and his emotional storm not define me as a parent or a person. The counter balance to that though, was I got to see my older son succeed. I watched him with his own child and I saw the love, the compassion and his pure joy at being a parent. I wasn't sure if this was because of how I taught him to be as a parent or how I taught him not to be as a parent, but whatever the case, he is a really good parent and for that, I am so proud of him.

The thing though, that tipped the scales this weekend and made it end on a very positive note, was David. Yesterday he celebrated his 14th birthday. The child who was not expected to survive all those years ago, is now a full fledged teen and celebrating his birthday was a joy. I look into his eyes, see his smile and watch him continue to learn, grow and move forward in life and I am thinking that with him, I may just finally be getting the hang of this whole parent thing.

I love my kids....all my kids....the ones I gave birth to and the ones I gained through marriage. There have been times that I was the parent they all deserved and other times, I was simply the parent they got. Bottom line though, I have always given them the best I had to give on any given day. I have always loved them with my whole heart and I have never stopped trying or given up on them as kids or myself as a parent. The circumstances and cards that life has dealt me, were not even on my radar all those years ago when being a parent was my hearts desire. Through it all though, the good, the bad and the unexpected.....the grief, the loss and the pain, I am still here and there are those subtle signs....that I might just have done a few things right!.