In Sandy Land

We Have ONE Job

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Sun, 13 Sep 2015 17:06:00 +0000

Our ONLY job as moms is to LOVE our children. That's it. Nothing more. If we just do that, our every word and our every action will fall into place. We can't hurt them from that place. Every negative emotion has a basis in fear. It's impossible to feel fear and love at the same time. We confuse those two emotions but they are not the same. Fear kills love. When we act from fear, we can damage. If we act from love, we CAN'T hurt them. Sometimes, we can't stop them from hurting themselves. Sometimes, all we can do is love them right where they are. When they're hurting themselves, we become so fearful and we act from that fear at a time when they most need us to act from love. We can't say we love them but. Love has no but. There is no ambiguity. We have to love them, not so they get better, but because we just do.

My Friend Lost Her Son

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Wed, 15 Oct 2014 14:26:00 +0000

I read a passage many years ago that stuck with me. I don't remember it exactly but I remember the gist of it. It was about a woman who's husband was off fighting a war. Her priest knocked at the door and she knew why he was there. She invited him in and served him tea. He asked how she could be so calm and gracious in the face of such devastating news. She explained that her mother had told her that when faced with tragedy, do what you would do if the tragedy had not happened.

A very dear friend lost her son unexpectedly. There are many years and thousands of miles between us but they feel non-existent right now. The pain she is feeling is zapping my heart like an electric shock from a foot away. My day has been a fog and she has been in every thought and breath I have taken. I can't imagine any words that would be adequate. Any action that I could take seems useless. I feel helpless.

I cried a lot today and other times, I fought back tears. I told myself that I had to do what I would do if my friend wasn't in the deepest pain of her life. I did a load of laundry. I went to work. I greeted people with a smile. When asked, I said I was doing great. I made my body do these things but I wasn't there. It was all so separate. I felt guilt. My friend's world has been devastated and irreversibly changed but the rest of the world goes on. How can this happen and the world still spins on it's axis and I still do laundry and the people I greet in the hall don't even know her son lived? That doesn't make sense to me right now.

To die is the agreement each and every one of us have made to live. There are no exceptions to that rule. No take backs on the agreement. But we make that agreement with the unwritten demand that we don't outlive our children. We aren't built to lose our children.

She is experiencing the most profound grief of her life. Her world is surreal. It's unfamiliar. She feels shattered. I think she gets to feel that with no platitudes from me or promises of healing. Not yet.

Family Dinner Doesn't Happen

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Mon, 13 Oct 2014 22:30:00 +0000

I just read another one of those articles espousing the importance of eating dinner together as a family and felt that familiar pang of guilt because we don't do it. I wondered how that is going to affect Nathan that we don't organize ourselves to spend this precious time together and asked myself where we are going wrong. After careful reflection, I think I know.

Maybe, if we didn't let him participate in sports. Those practices and those games take up some valuable time. The time we spend talking on the way to the practices and games, and listening to the successes and failures and talking them through on the way home, would be better spent sitting around a meal discussing - something.

Maybe, if his dad and I didn't put so much emphasis on the importance of him reading every day or require him to take some responsibility with emptying the dishwasher, cleaning up after the dogs, sweeping the walkways, and making his bed, this time could be better spent helping his busy parents with food preparation so we could sit together for dinner.

Maybe, if he didn't spend so much time down the street playing ball, up the street playing capture the flag, or going to the skate park with his friends, he could have more time to help with what needs to be done so we could sit down as a family for dinner.

Maybe, if I spent less time practicing multiplication tables with him and going through his homework and more time planning meals and preparing shopping lists, we would be better organized to have family dinners.

Maybe, if his dad wouldn't spend so much time tossing a football or baseball with him, teaching him to play chess, or reading with him, maybe his dad would have more time to help with all of the planning, shopping, and cooking for the family dinners.

Maybe, if his dad and I got regular jobs with regular hours, our nights and weekends wouldn't be spent answering calls, responding to emails, and meeting clients. We wouldn't have the flexibility to work our schedules around Nathan so he can go to baseball practice or football practice, or be able to go on at least one field trip with him every year, attend all of his parent teacher conferences, go to his recorder and chime choir concerts, share breakfast with him on Muffins for Mom or Donuts for Dad Days, and be as available for the small but important things, but we would have a schedule that would work for having dinner together.

Maybe, if I wouldn't do that silly little morning routine as he's leaving for school of walking him to the door, kissing him on the forehead, and telling him I love him and to have a Brilliant Day, I could take that time to browse the freezer and be ahead of the game for our dinner that night.

Maybe, if we didn't indulge his passion for sports like we do. We would miss seeing his uncanny ability to name off every baseball and football team, and to know their players and their stats. We would miss the moment when his team was playing and his pitcher was pitching and he whispered under his breath, "He's thinking to hard." We wouldn't have that joy of knowing how insightful that was and how proud we are that our 11 year old understands about thinking too much and letting go. We wouldn't have that moment of hope and pride when he watches a football play and says, "This team and that team had the same play and the same thing happen two years ago", and know the part of the brain that has to work to make these connections happen for him will serve him well in his life. We would miss that moment that we surprised him for his 11th birthday with a trip to AT&T Park for his first live baseball game. We would have missed his awe, saying, "I can't believe I'm here", "There's Buster Posey", and "You are the best parents in the world." We would miss all of that but we would have much more time for dinners together.

Maybe, if we would have made him turn off the TV during game 2 of the National League Championship Series, when his Giants were running tight against the Cardinals. We would have missed the excruciating disappointment he felt when the Cardinals took it at the bottom of the 9th with a home run. We would have missed the ranting of specific times and games that Romo pitched a home run. We would have missed his emotional outburst, demanding that Romo go play for the Cardinals and then that childlike belief that his outburst could make it true and he didn't really want it to happen. We would have missed his aha moment when he realized that what he did or said as a reaction to an emotional moment could have long term consequences that he didn't want. We would have missed all that but we would have had dinner together.

Maybe, when I stood in the driveway last weekend watching him go a across the street with his bag over his shoulder for a sleep over with his friend, and I felt overwhelmed with love and pride, I should have been overwhelmed with shame. I rushed to get his dinner ready so he could eat it before he went but I didn't sit down to eat it with him.

Or maybe, just maybe, we will continue to hold him to his responsibilities, indulge his passions, and provide all of the opportunities we are capable of so Nathan can experience an exceptional childhood, and feel no shame or guilt because we don't sit down for family dinners.

Let Your Character Lead the Way

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Sat, 08 Dec 2012 17:27:00 +0000

Emotions are a guage and that's all. They are a guage of whether we are being true to ourselves or not. Negative feelings are an opportunity to question ourselves about where we are compromising ourselves. Most of the time, it's because we have some agenda, some want, some need that we are compromising our own selves to hold on to. It's almost, if not always, based on some fear of loss. Loss of approval, loss of love, loss of security.

Feelings are not meant to be acted out on. Acting out on feelings, or using drugs or alcohol to bury them is destructive and is a compromise to our own character. Knowing who you are and moving toward who you want to be is the best defense against compromising your character to satiate and calm your emotions.

Pay attention to your feelings and use them as a tool. Our character is the navigator of our life. Emotions are just an indicator of whether we are on or off course.

Our character is the only gift and the only meaningful contribution we have to give in this life. Make it good.

Preventing Child Abuse

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Fri, 30 Nov 2012 03:37:00 +0000

Written and contributed by Elisabeth Chambers:

To whom it may concern,

Too often I hear stories of child abuse on the news or on social networks. It is time that we do something about it. Yes it is going to cost money now, but in the long run it will save lives. There are many issues associated with child abuse; lack of knowledge, lack of help, Post-Partum Depression, and the cycle of abuse. I have several ideas that can help mothers and families get the help they need before the abuse ever happens.

The abstinence approach that our school’s sexual education classes preach is out dated and is not going to help anyone. We need a more practical approach to preventing unplanned pregnancy. We have a free way to reach at-risk parents so let’s use it. These classes should show real truths about raising a child. How much money it costs, the stability that children thrive on, statistics about single mothers. The truth is we need to educate teenagers about the fact that having a baby will not keep their boyfriends or make a perfect family. Showing the poverty and abuse that will occur can be a huge deterrent for these girls.

The problem is not just teen mothers, but unprepared mothers of all ages. There should be parenting classes free to the public, potentially even mandated by the hospital in order for your baby to go home with you. These classes need to have ways to calm your baby, ways to calm yourself, and ways to ask for help. If every parent understood that their child relies 100 percent on them, then it might be easier for the parent to regroup their thoughts and do what is best for the child. We need to make it easier for parents to find and ask for help. Not everyone has a support system and the saying “it takes a village to raise a child” is true. If a mother is overwhelmed for whatever reason, she needs a break. There should be networking for these mothers/families to reach out to each other for help. Also we should have a postnatal check-up with both mother and baby where professionals can try to find signs of post-partum depression and give the mothers the help they need. If we have all these ways for mothers and families to reach out and get help then we should not need the next step.

Removal of a child from their home is traumatizing and can have lifelong effects. Unfortunately this is when the state takes its first steps. My hope is with education and help parents will never get to the point of losing their kids. We should have help and support available for parents before they resort to abuse. Let’s put in place stricter child abuse laws. We have the chance to change this broken system and I think it is time we do it.

Reunifications should only be the goal when the parent is ready and willing to take on the responsibilities. This should be a slower process and should be done in a half-way home where there are others to help the family move forward. If the parent can learn to show the child respect and is willing to do the work it takes to change their behavior, then being back with their parents in a safe nurturing home is the best option. The laws should change to put the child first. Parents lose the right to make the decisions when they show a lack of responsibility to their children. If reunification takes place and there is a relapse that should be it. As it stands right now the children can go back and forth over and over, this can be more damaging to the child. It should be easier for the state and judges to terminate parental rights in the interest of what is best for the child.

She is Not The Addiction

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Mon, 01 Oct 2012 01:05:00 +0000

She is not the Addiction. The Addiction is not her. She is a beautiful, generous, and loving woman. She has wants and needs.

The Addiction is not the person that she is. It's separate with It's own powerful wants and desires.

She's just a puppet doing It's bidding. It pulls the strings. It dictates her actions and her words.

It wants nothing more than to be fed and to be fed and to be fed.

Refuse It and It throws up a fast moving slide show of all of It's sins to demonstrate that she is a horrible person and that she is the Addiction. It lied, It cheated, and It hurt her most precious people. She believes It's lie. She believes that she is the Addiction.

Her self loathing is mirrored in the eyes of others as they look at her with judgment and disappointment.

Her body betrays her. It craves the Addiction and punishes her for not giving in to It. It shakes and sweats and vomits and the pain is sharp and endless.

It takes her to the depths of hell then promises her that she will feel better if she'll just feed It. It beats her down physically, emotionally, and spiritually. She has no strength left to fight It. Desperate for the promise that It offers, she feeds It again.

And she hates herself.

My Son Is Half Ghost

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Thu, 31 May 2012 14:04:00 +0000

Me: We want to fly to Hawaii for Bonnie's wedding and to see Annie and the kids.

Nathan: We should take a ship.

Me: It would take too long. I've been on a ship before.

Nathan: You have? What was it's name?

Me: I don't remember. Carnival?

Nathan: Did it sink?

Me: Yes.

Nathan: Did you get on a life boat?

Me: No. I swam for two days in the freezing water. I had icicles on my eyebrows and no food or water.

Nathan: There was water!

Me: Yea, but it was salt water. Salt water is poisonous to us. It will make us crazy. I did drink some. That's why I am like I am.

Nobody else survived. Not even your dad.

Nathan: Dad's at home!

Me: I know but he's a ghost.

Nathan: (In an unbelieving tone. It took this long?) If he's a ghost, how come I can see him?

Me: Because, silly, if he's a ghost then that means your a half ghost. Of course you could see him.

Nathan: Really!? I'm a half ghost?! Then maybe I'm only half afraid of ghosts.

This is too easy. We should be able to carry Santa through his 15th birthday.

©

It's a Memorial Day to Cry For

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Sat, 26 May 2012 13:45:00 +0000

I cried this morning. That's nothing new. I cry a lot. I cry at everything. I cry at the TV. I cry if someone else is crying. I never let anyone cry alone.

This morning I was crying with Katie Stack. I don't know if she was crying but it's ok if she wasn't. I got this covered.

I don't really know Katie very well. I know she is a beautiful, joyous, sweet, and strong young woman. She has a little girl named Mikayla. I have met her but most of what I know of Katie, I know of through her Facebook posts, through what I hear from my son and my daughter-in-law who are her friends, and through the death of her husband, Lance Cpl. James B. Stack.

James was shot while on foot patrol in the Sangin Valley in the Helmand Province of Afghanistan. He was a Marine with the 3/5 Dark Horse.

I knew about the Sangin Valley before James' death. If you are the mother of a Marine, you know about the 3/5.

James, the Sangin Valley, and the 3/5 touched on that place for me that pulled back the curtain of denial and exposed the Wizard of Vulnerability. I could be James' mother. Katie could be my daughter-in-law. Mikayla could be my grandchildren. I felt it hard.

My son was the escort to bring James home to Illinois from Dover. There was a poignant picture published in their local newspaper with my son next to the airplane that he flew in on with James. He was hugging Katie. My heart broke. I could feel that moment for her. My son wasn't just her friend. He wasn't just the escort for her husband. He was the personification of a life that she had with her husband.

It's the beginning of the weekend to celebrate Memorial Day. I cried this morning because for the first time in my life, I really felt what that meant. Memorial Day is a day that we remember those that gave the greatest sacrifice for our country. I'm also remembering those that are left behind.

Mikayla

Qualified Stepmom

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 16:20:00 +0000

I saw a debate on the term bio-mom. I am a stepmom and my stepdaughters have a 'bio-mom'. I don't think of her as their bio-mom, though. She is their mom. She doesn't need the qualifier to describe who she is to her children. It's pretty simple. Mom.

I get the qualifier. There has to be a qualifier somewhere and it makes sense that the qualifier goes to me. I am their stepmom and I am a proud stepmom.

I don't use qualifiers when talking about my stepdaughters. I don't feel a need to identify which are my stepchildren and which are my biological children. That has nothing to do with wanting to take over as their Mom. It has to do with them being as important to me as my own children.

There are a lot of issues surrounding families and stepchildren. It can be made to be very complex and difficult but it seems so simple to me. Love and treat your stepchildren as your own children and respect their parents as their parents. The rest just works itself out.

©

I Can't Love My Stepchildren

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Tue, 13 Sep 2011 18:04:00 +0000

A blended family is one with any combination of his, hers, and ours. I have a blended family. I read a statistic that seventy six percent of blended families fail before five years. I have read a lot more information that explains why. Most of what I read has some common themes; it's normal to feel animosity toward your stepchildren and their mother. You didn't marry your stepchildren. You married your husband and that is where your commitment is, and my favorite - you will never love your stepchildren as much as your own children.

I can't understand how to give your heart and commitment to a man without giving the same to his children. I expected no less for me and my children. I had written this in response to what I have read:

If I could only say two words about being a stepmother it would be LOVE THEM. Don't wait until they accept you before you love them. Just love them. Don't wait until their mother accepts you. Just love them. Don't wait until you and your husband agree on everything. Love them.

None of it is easy but it doesn't have to be hard, either. Understand that they see another woman coming into their dad's life and they have no idea what that means for them. You are taking a place that they only saw their mother in. It doesn't fit or make sense. They don't know what that means for them. If you have kids, are they going to lose their dad to a new family? They aren't making this choice. They are thrown into it. They don't have the maturity to understand how to deal with their fears and their emotions. If you don't know how to deal with yours, you aren't ready for this challenge. You are making the choice. You are making the decision. Whatever emotions you feel, and you will, you have to understand that they are separate from the children you are taking on. You have to show them that their family life with their dad will be different but it will be good. You have to treat them as part of this new family and not as a visitor to your home. They need to feel that they are coming home and see that you are happy they are there.

Do you believe that you can't love your stepchildren as much as your own? That is true as long as you close your mind to the idea of loving them as much. That closed minded belief will cost you in all the joy and blessings that come from feeling that overwhelming, unconditional love.

Does it feel like a betrayal to your biological children? That isn't true. You are taking something away from your children when you can't open yourself up to love your stepchildren. You are teaching them there are restrictions to love. You are showing them that there are rules to who you can love and how much. Don't short change them. Let them learn to love fully. There is so much reward in seeing the deep sibling love between your children and your stepchildren; when your children feel no need to use qualifiers to describe their brothers and sisters and they are simply brothers and sisters.

Don't try to compete with their mother. That is their mother. Honor, respect, and appreciate their relationship. Don't diminish your own relationship with your stepchildren because they have a mother. Your relationship is separate.

Just because you don't agree with everything their mother does, it doesn't make her wrong. Your stepchildren are fortunate to have different perspectives and, as long as they are loved, they will grow with the perspectives and so will you. Don't try to replace their mom but do love them and treat them as your own children. They deserve that. They will learn to trust you when they see that your love and relationship with them is because of them and not dependent on your relationship with their dad. What would it feel like to only be loved because the woman is married to your dad? How could they trust that?

If you want to hold back because you are afraid you may step on their mom's toes, let go and do what your heart tells you to do. You may step on their mom's toes. As long as your heart is right, she will be ok. She has her own emotions to go through. She has never known your husband with another woman besides herself. Her children are her heart and soul and you are a stranger to her. Any of us are going to watch with caution when a stranger comes near our children. Don't come in like a storm trooper. It isn't easy to share your children. Give her time to adjust and learn that you can be trusted with them. She will love them enough to put aside her own baggage for the benefit of her children. She wants her children to be treated well. She wants her children to be loved. When you hold back, you demonstrate that your stepchildren are different and won't get all of you. You will save feelings over the short term but you will never be fully trusted by your stepchildren, their mother, or your husband over the long term.

If your stepchild refuses to do dishes, don't think you are dealing with an undisciplined stepchild. See it for what it is, a child who doesn't want to do dishes. If you and your husband don't agree on discipline or responsibilities, understand that issue is between you and your husband. Don't ever see it as a problem with your stepchildren. It's not! Don't take it out on them subtly or overtly - ever!

I married my stepchildren's dad but I committed to them, too. My husband's children included his two stepdaughters from his first marriage. How many would believe that because he isn't married to their mother that his relationship with them should end? How many would make it difficult for him to keep his relationship with them? It makes me sad to think of it. They were kids. I couldn't respect my husband or trust him with my own kids if his relationship with them only ran as deep as his marriage to their mother.

I see no biology. There is nobody in my family that is more or less important or different because of who their parents are. Nobody gets the priviledge of being treated special because of their biology and nobody will be left out because of their DNA. I love my children, biological or step from the deepest part of my heart and I am better for it. This is my family. It's the family that I chose and I committed to.

I have read women that say they can't love their stepchildren. I say you have no right to be there. Leave, leave, leave before you cause any more damage than I know you already have.

I am so grateful that I didn't read all of the information out there on being a stepmom before I learned the truth.

TRUTH

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Sat, 13 Aug 2011 00:42:00 +0000

I keep digging for the TRUTH.
I want to stop but I'm compelled.
The further I go the less I am heard.
Why can't you hear the TRUTH? Why can't you see it? It isn't bad. It isn't dark. It isn't evil. It's simply the TRUTH.
I scream for you to hear it. I cry for you to hear it. But the more I see the less you can hear.
My words become gibberish, the words of a crazy woman, a woman that needs to be patronized.
I want to turn around and go back. I want to go back to the world of Improv Theater where I freely come up with the next line. There isn't any room or need for the TRUTH there. How do I go back?
I could blanket the TRUTH with a fog of alcohol or live in blame to take the focus off the TRUTH.
But I don't.
I keep moving through layer after endless layer of illusions and wishes and fears. What is at the end?
Pure authentic I imagine.
The TRUTH isn't frightening. It's liberating.
I'm not afraid of the TRUTH.
I'm afraid of being alone in it.

Tony

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Mon, 16 May 2011 19:40:00 +0000

It was August 12, 2002 when I delivered Tony; five months early and stillborn. He would be nine years old now.

Today is the first time I have cried for him in over a year.

Would he have been blond or brunette? Probably light brown and wavy. Blue eyes? Carefree and rambunctious or quiet and reflective? Tall and skinny or average height and weight? He would be in school today. Second grade.

I took out the tole painted Tony box. It's all the physical evidence I have of him. There is a note from Jen and Joe. They brought food for us but we were sleeping and they didn't want to wake us. There is a miniature quilt that was given to us at the hospital. There are little conciliatory hospital bands for his tiny wrist and ankle that he never wore. A measuring tape marking the 5" length of his body and the 4" circumference of his head. It never touched him. I never touched him.

All there is to miss about him are things that I don't know. Sometimes, I really miss those things.

I Was Born to Run

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Sat, 07 May 2011 20:53:00 +0000

I read a book by Christopher McDougall titled Born to Run. If you haven't read it yet, I highly recommend it. I found it inspiring and paradigm shifting. I now believe I was born to run. It's time for me to do what I was born to do.

I bought Chia seeds. I know how important it is that I stay hydrated while running these long distances.

I looked for good shoes. Good shoes are important. Many injuries are caused by improper shoes and the contortion of your posture while in poor shoes. I have an odd size foot and had no luck finding shoes that I didn't need a second mortgage for. That was ok. I will just use one of the many pairs of shoes in my closet that I have bought through previous inspirations.

I set out for my first run.

I decided to head to the desert behind my house. I wasn't ready for my neighbors to bear witness to my first run. I also decided to hug the fences in the subdivision behind my house so my husband wouldn't watch from the back yard.

I was excited to break through the 'beast', that point that your brain kicks in begging you to stop the torture, and move into the rhythm and freedom of when your body takes over and you run like the wind. Off I went.

Wait. This wasn't working out the way I had visualized. Instead of my feet hitting the ground with a light ease - as if they had wings, there was a cloud of dust with every step as lead weights pounded the desert. Parts of my body jiggled one way as other parts bounced another. A pain shot up the top of my feet and into my shins. Instead of crying out for mercy as I could understand my calfs might do, they flat out said No! I will not do this thing you are asking me to do. My lungs shriveled into little crumpled balls as they tried to escape through my throat. I became as parched as the desert I was trying to run in. This all happened in the time it took me to run the length of two of the homes I was running behind.

I made the long quarter mile trek back home. My driveway has a slight slope that my rebellious calves were begging me to have someone throw me a rope to get up it. Let the arms do some of the work, they were screaming.

Maybe I wasn't really born to run.

©

Not a Good MoM

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Sat, 23 Apr 2011 18:56:00 +0000

My son is a Marine currently deployed and not allowed to tell me where he is. Another son was a soldier and served in Iraq. My brother is Air Force. He has served a couple of times in Iraq and is currently serving in Afghanistan. My cousin was a soldier and served in the Gulf War. My dad was a Green Beret during the Viet Nam war. I have earned the right to denounce you for your lack of service. When it comes to patriotism and the right to condemn yours, I am entitled to do that. Really?

I have never served in the armed forces, government, or even at the local food pantry. Even if I had, just the idea that I would have that right is a complete slam to freedom, democracy, and patriotism.

I have been struggling with some of what I have been reading from other Marine mothers. I just learned that we are MoMs. I haven't asked but reasoned out that a MoM is a Mom of a Marine. Smart girl, huh? There is a comraderie and unity among them that I feel like I'm on the outside of and looking in. I can identify with their fears, concerns, and pride for their children. I can't identify with the idea there is something special about us simply because our children serve. I didn't raise my children to believe they had a patriotic obligation to serve this great country. I am proud that they do but their decisions were strictly their own. I supported one with his decision on the outside while secretly praying on the inside that he would change his mind. The other one, I kicked and drug my feet all the way to the recruiters office.

How many of us had our children come to us and say, "I am joining the military because it's my honor and duty to serve my country?" There may be a few exceptions out there but, for the most part, that isn't how it works. My soldier made his decision to join the Army when he was a freshman in high school. What does a 14 year old know about politics or even his own mortality? The truth is, he liked guns. My Marine was 26 with a wife and daughter when he decided to enlist. His reasons may have had more maturity behind them but they still weren't purely alturistic. Through the military they learn honor and duty to country with a much higher conviction than most of us but that is rarely the initial motivation to enlist.

I am watching as anyone with a contrary opinion to MoMs are turned on like heathens and verbally stoned to death. The common theme as these people are assaulted for their opinions seems to be, "I am the mother of a Marine so my position is untouchable. Our boys have fought for your freedom to say what you are saying." That is very disturbing to me.

I chose to honor my sons, my brother, my cousin, my dad, and the centuries of men that have fought for that freedom by sharing my disagreement with dignity and respect.

I have never said OOOH RAH! I don't feel I have earned that right. Maybe I'm just not cut out to be a MoM.

What's My Sign?

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Sat, 15 Jan 2011 18:08:00 +0000

There's a new sign in town and it's mine. I am no longer an adventurous and free spirited Sagittarius. I am now a wise and visionary Osomething. Forgive the temporary black hole in my personality. My sign is new so there isn't a lot out there to tell me who I am. There was a rush to throw some bullet points together so I am moving with those assumptions for now but am anticipating that it's subject to change. I'm sure there were some errors in the hurry. I am going to recommend adding adaptability as one of my characteristics. I don't recall it being a part of me when I was a Sagittarius so this adaptability must be a part of my Osomething sign.

Some of the more notable bullet points of my new sign:

Has secret enemies in family or close associations - This is troubling. I was well loved as a Sag and had no enemies. I am inventorying my friends and family, trying to determine my secret enemies. It is plural so there are more than one.

I have noticed a new characteristic that probably should be added. Paranoid. I wasn't experiencing it before my sign change.

Likes to wear vibrant clothing - My wardrobe is black. I need to go shopping.

Poetical - This is true. I do a lot of rhyming. I did it as a Sag, too, but now that I am poetical, I expect it will be more appreciated. I thought this was a good opportunity to review some of my poetry. One of my most recent is called, "Mirror". I was washing my face early one morning and going through my normal routine. When I put my contacts in and looked up into the mirror, I had a Whoa! experience which inspired "Mirror".

Mirror, mirror on the wall
You look like my mother except for tall

Highest fame and legend comes after death - Crap! What good does fame and legend after death do me? My only hope is that my children will benefit. I'm not sure the world will grasp the significance and deeper meaning of my poetry before the copyright runs out so my guess is my poetry will not be their winning lottery ticket.

Aspirations of healing the ills of man - This is likely where my fame and legend will come from. I will be on an alphabetical list of notable, benevolent healers, just above Jack Kevorkian.

Attracts good luck - Yes! This is new. Luck didn't play a part in my life as a Sag, good or bad. I'm going to Google sweepstakes.

My new sign relieves some stress. As a Sag, I was athletic. My new sign says nothing about being athletic. The conflict of trying to get my two left feet to live up to the athlete that I was is over.

My husband is no longer a Taurus. He is now an Aries. There aren't any charts yet that let me know if Osomething is compatible with Aries. Our relationship is on hold until further notice. We weren't compatible as Taurus and Sag except in a certain 'energy' that I won't discuss here because the children are reading. I have been able to maintain a certain persona with them. Mom may shoot babies out of her body like machine gun fire, but she doesn't do THAT.

As a Sagittarius, I would tend to take on more than I can handle. Osomething doesn't mention anything like that so I am looking forward to more balance in my life.

I am no longer loyal but I am idealistic which should eliminate any external change in my behavior. This will be strictly an internal motivation for my actions.

Many of my family members have a shift in signs. A son has moved from Taurus to Aries. Now, rather than being stubborn, he is hard-headed. A daughter will move from practical and prudent to adventurous and free spirited. I don't care for that. Now she will leave the comfort of home to take advantage of all of those invitations for extended stays in some of the biggest cultural meccas in the world. Another daughter will move from perfectionist to loving. She will love me regardless of my imperfections. I do have fewer imperfections now. My grandiosity with my Osomething sign is my validation of my perfection.

The maker of my bullet points used feelings of granular as a characteristic. I don't know what granular is in this context and neither does Google. I am assuming the writer, in a hurry and from one of those less intelligent signs, meant to say feelings of grandeur. Being a wise visionary with feelings of grandeur, I prefer to think of myself as somewhat of a sage. Given that I am an idealistic sage, I have an obligation to share my wisdom with any that ask. My kids don't have to ask. I will share anyway. Feel free to touch my vibrant colored robe.

Does this mean I'm no longer a Chinese Rat, either?

Death's Ecstasy

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 00:51:00 +0000

Hello. We haven’t formally met but I have seen you. I am watching you. I am waiting. We will be meeting soon. You challenge me but you don’t recognize me. You invite me but you don’t believe I will come. I will come.

I come in many disguises. Look for me. I am here. Embrace me as I will embrace you.

Most resist me. Dread me. When they finally come to me, our meeting is nothing more than a lifeless consummation of a prearranged marriage. Not you. You're different. You lure me. You entice me.

We almost met today. You knew I was near but you couldn’t see me. You opened your throttle, weaving dangerously through traffic, feeling the exhilaration of tempting me, teasing me.

Not now. Not today. I like the flirtation, the anticipation. We will play again. And when I’m ready, we will meet. You will see the cold desire in my eyes. I will see fear wash over you, then regretful acceptance as I caress the warmth from your body.

I am here and I am waiting. I am Your Death.

Hungry - Please Help - God Bless

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 05:47:00 +0000

Hungry, Please Help, God Bless.

That's what the cardboard sign said.

Should or I shouldn't give him money? Shouldn't I help the less fortunate? Or is my contribution holding him back and helping to create a blight on society?

I didn't think anything like that. My donations usually happen if I am first in line at the red light and within eye contact, my window is already down, and the rare occasion that I actually have cash on my person. The stars didn't line up for this guy today.

Something I do notice on these roadside executives is their shoes. There they are with their rumpled hair, unshaven faces, clothing that looks like it's been rolled in soot, holding their pleading cardboard sign - and some of them wear offensively expensive shoes. I have visions of their mornings in their penthouse apartments, packing their brief cases with cardboard and markers, and saying; "I can't shave today. I have to go to work. Honey, where is my dirty white shirt?"

Today's freeway off-ramp denison didn't have the good fortune of top of the line shoes. I do wonder where he got the cardboard. If I needed a sign today, I would be hard pressed to find any cardboard and you can just forget about the marker. These guys always seem stocked up. The signs don't look beaten or torn. They look like they were freshly drawn this morning. I wonder what the margins are after cardboard and marker expense.

Then there is the 'God Bless'. He's standing on the side of the road begging for my hard earned money and he's asking God to bless me? I'll ask for my own blessings, thank you.

The signs are unoriginal although there are slight variations. One of my favorites - Will work for money. I wonder what their rehearsed response is when someone actually offers them a job.

The best sign I have seen was on Fremont St. in Las Vegas. The sign said; "Please help. I need a drink." That made me smile. I gave him money.

Take Care of My Boys

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 11:22:00 +0000

A local boy was killed in Iraq. I didn't mean to know that. I don't watch the news and I don't read the paper. My ability to function depends on that. My remote isn't working and I didn't escape fast enough. There it was. I saw his picture. He was so young.

I'm crying for his mom, for his family, for an overwhelming feeling of lost potential, and for how vulnerable I feel.

I woke up this morning to a wave of fear washing down me from my head to my toes. That safe place in my head is gone. That place I could go when anything that I fear happens to someone else, and I could learn enough to know the circumstances or details that made me feel safe. The something that contributed that doesn't apply to my children.

I thought I had come to terms with the possibility of facing what that boy's mother is facing now. I had years to prepare. The first couple of years, I thought William would change his mind. Once I knew he wasn't going to, I deliberately worked at getting to acceptance of the possibility. Statistics became my security blanket. They have more of a chance of getting killed on the Pyramid Highway I would tell myself. No numbers to back that up. Just something to comfort myself. I still hoped by some miracle we would be out of Iraq and Afghanistan. We're not and William is in Iraq and Ryan will be going to Afghanistan and both of my boys will be where people want to kill them and I feel angry and scared.

I think I would have preferred drugs. At least I would still have some kind of a handle. I could send them to 12 step programs or into rehab. I don't know if I mean that. I'm afraid I do. I have no control here. I wish for my own chair in the Situation Room at the Pentagon.

I want to go back to having all of my kids within a couple of miles of me. I want to go back to sending one mass text to all of them telling them we are having dinner at my house and they all show up with their husbands and wives and girlfriends and boyfriends and children. I want to go back to watching them all talking and laughing and teasing each other. I want to go back to when the intense wave of feeling washing over me was gratitude.

Please, God, take care of the boys.

Nathan and Jayden #6

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 15:31:00 +0000

Nathan is my 6 year old son and Jayden is my 4 year old granddaughter.
I am just journaling about them and the things they say and do.

I kept Jayden for the night on Nathan's birthday. I had to work the next morning and planned to drop Jayden off at preschool on my way. She was complaining about her tummy not feeling good all morning. I tried sending her to the bathroom and feeding her. She would play for awhile then complain about her tummy again. She has a sensitive tummy so I didn't get too concerned. We were getting in the car to leave and she told me I should get her a bowl in case she throws up. I'm the grown up and I know it's not necessary. I'm still not taking this too seriously. On the way, she was sure she had to throw up. I pulled over and took her out of the car. False alarm. No throwing up. Now I'm thinking I should be taking her a little more seriously. She's in the back chattering as Jayden does, then she was quiet. Nathan says, "Mommy, Jayden's throwing up." She was. Over and over. She was in her booster chair, her legs held together, being so careful to throw up into her lap. I pulled over in a church parking lot and went to her door. She is sitting there with a lap full of vomit and her concern was the car. She says in her sweetest little voice, "Now what do I do?" I unbuckled her and picked her up like a little vomit bucket. She didn't get a drop on my car. From now on, if she tells me to bring a bowl, I'm bringing a bowl. God, I adore that little girl.
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I was thinking about the day Ryan came to tell me his girlfriend was pregnant. It didn't feel the way I imagined something like that would feel. As his mom, I had so many hopes for him that I was sure a baby would put an end to and it would make me so sad and scared. But that's not how it worked. I've written before that I had dreams for two nights before he told me. In both of them, I was having another baby and it was a girl.

Every feeling I thought I would have didn't happen when he told me. It felt more like, here we are, let's move forward from here.

We debated the gender until the sonogram. I knew what those dreams meant and I knew it was a girl.

I look at Jayden and I can't imagine life without her.

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Me: I love you ten million times.
Nathan: Ten million? That seems low.

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Me: You have a smart mouth.
Nathan: A smart mouth means I'm smart.

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Me: No kidding?
Nathan: No sh
Me: You almost said a bad word.
Nathan: No, I didn't.
Me: Yes you did. I heard you.
Nathan: What bad word?
Me: No, shit.
Nathan: I didn't almost say that. I almost said what the fuck.

--------------------------------------------
We were in Walmart for the previous conversation. Nathan is usually shy and quiet in public. It never fails that we are in a store the rare times he ever uses a loud voice and it's always to announce he has to poop. That conversation took place in his 'I have to poop' voice. I happened to be looking directly at the innocent face, the big blue eyes, and the missing front teeth when he loudly and clearly said, "I almost said what the fuck."

I had to turn my head because I started to laugh. That face and those words just didn't fit together.

I was remembering when Ryan was that young. I would have freaked out to hear him say those words. It would have been Tobasco sauce in the mouth, two days of lectures, grounded to his room, and sleepless nights sure my baby was headed to a life of drugs and crime. Some might think that after having five kids and a stepdaughter and 27 years of raising them, I am getting a little lax. I'm not. I've just figured out that none of it is the end of the world.

---------------------------------------------------

And my favorite
Grandma, I yuv you
Mommy, I lusz you

Nathan and Jayden #5

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Mon, 15 Jun 2009 13:49:00 +0000

Nathan is my 6 year old son and Jayden is my 4 year old granddaughter.
I am just journaling about them and the things they say and do.

Jerry is my 49 year old husband - sometimes one of the kids. He had set up Nathans little pitching machine and was pitching plastic baseballs to Nathan - in the living room - which is mostly windows. I gave him 'the look' and asked rhetorically, WHAT are you doing? Jerry's expression was priceless, like a little boy caught in the cookie jar. His reply, "we already hit the window and it didn't break."

---------------------------------------------
Nathan: It's not fun to play without Jayden but I won't worry about that if you don't want me to.

---------------------------------------------
Nathan: I want your bedroom.
Me: You can have it after I die
Nathan (hopefully): When will you die?

---------------------------------------------
Nathan is proud that he can work the remote by himself. He can't read so he looks for his favorites by the first letter. T for Transformers and S for Spiderman.
I walked in the family room to see him sitting on the couch with the remote, all wide eyed. I followed his eyes up to the television. Oh, My God!
He was trying to find XMen. He found the X.
I need to learn how to put the block code in.

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Nathan just had his sixth birthday. He woke up that morning disappointed. I guess he had high expectations for what six means.
Nathan: How come I don't feel like I'm six. I still feel like I'm five but I know I'm six.

----------------------------------------------------------------

And my favorite
Grandma, I yuv you
Mommy, I lusz you

The Mid-Life Crisis Corvette

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 21:20:00 +0000

I got stuck behind the slow guy on the road today. It was a 65 mph zone. Granted, that's up to interpretation. I interpret the 55 mph sign as I can reasonably expect to be able to go 65 without getting a ticket.

This guy was doing 35 mph. We all get behind them and I would have never given him another thought once I got around him, but he was driving a Corvette. I just assume that Corvette drivers interpret speed limits more on my side of the posted numbers.

When I was finally able to make my way around him, I did as I always do in these situations, I looked to see who the jerk was that was putting the wear on my brake pads. There were two old, beer bellied, bald guys in the car. They were actually in my age range, but old is relative and when we're talking speed and Corvettes, a duck is a duck.

That isn't an exception. There are two types of people that drive Corvettes. Hot blond women and men going through their mid-life crisis. I figure the hot, blond women drive the car because they're hot and the car is hot, and that the mid-life crisis men drive the car to live out their unfulfilled fantasy of going really, really fast. There lies why he has gotten a second and third thought from me.

The only other reason the old, beer-bellied, bald man might be driving a Corvette is to attract hot, blond women. The problem is, I saw him. I say the money's spent, he might as well drive fast.

Kids - Free to a Good Home (Semi-good ok)

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 14:46:00 +0000

When I was a teenager, my mom told me that everything I did to her was going to come back on me twice. I laughed her off all the way until I had my first teenager. I called her one day and asked her to take it back. She said no! Her mother said it to her and her grandmother said it to her mother and she wouldn't take it back. I hung up the phone, went to my teenage son, and told him whatever he does to me will come back on him twice.

I asked my mom recently how old they are when you stop worrying about them. She told me she didn't know but she would let me know when it happened. Oh, great!

When my oldest four were little, I counted once and averaged out to see how many times I heard the word mommy in a day. It averaged out to about once every four or five minutes during waking hours. There were times that I would hear that word and just want to cry for mercy. I would ask them to call me Joe. Pleeasse, just call me Joe. Anything but Mommy. I would get so exhausted that I wanted to quit. No more. Can't do it.

Then I would pick myself up and get on with it. The thing about having kids, as much as they wear you down, it's little things, lots of little things that will light you up and make it all worth it.

My sister-in-law sent me an email once. It said, now that I have teenagers, I understand why animals eat their young. By the time I was trying to get through their teenage years, I had a stepdaughter in the mix. It was five teenagers right in a row. Kind of like going in the boxing ring, taking one blow after another, bloodied and broken, just praying for the knock out.
It's only love that got me through that. God, I must have loved them. There were plenty of times that I just wanted to throw in the towel. KO'd.

There were a lot of little victories through it to keep me going and the reward was I got to feel a tremendous sense of pride that I stuck it out, I never gave up, and to see that I had any part of the incredible human beings they are. Wow!

They are all adults now. Some are married, some have kids or are trying to have kids. Some are military, some are in college or have graduated college.

I should me home free. I'm NOT! They are adults with adult decisions and adult consequences. I am their mom. I try to give them suggestions that, of course, they still don't listen to. My oldest is 27 now. He is going through his own thing and I don't like his choices. There was a point that I felt he was making a decision that was going to hurt a lot more people than just him and he was doing it for the wrong reasons. The decision didn't bother me. It was his reasons for it. I hadn't played the Mommy card since he became an adult but I whipped that baby out and put it on the table. I didn't ask him or suggest to him what he should do. I told him what he will do. That's it, no ifs, ands, buts or excuses.

I am now trying to muddle my way through being the mom of adults. I don't know how. I'm, again, learning as I go. Today, I want to quit. I don't want to play anymore. I'm taking my ball and I'm going home.

I'll love them through another day and this too shall pass.

I have a five year old now. Going through five teenagers and still having another baby is a testament to my insanity. No sane person does that. I tell my kids that by the time he's a teenager, I'll be senile and he'll be their problem. That's my revenge.

Nathan and Jayden #4

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Sat, 06 Jun 2009 16:02:00 +0000

Nathan is my 5 year old son and Jayden is my 4 year old granddaughter.
I am just journaling about them and the things they say and do.

I am Jayden's Grandma. Her maternal grandmother is Amma.

Nathan: God is in everything
Jayden: Yea, but he lives at my Amma's house. I saw him.
Nathan (very excited): You did? What does he look like?
Jayden: I didn't really see him.

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Nathan was eating his dinner and told us, "I'm eating God."

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Lisa is my 21 year old daughter. She and Nathan were having a staring contest.
Lisa: You blinked. I won.
Nathan: I didn't blink. God blinked.

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Nathan wants the Transformer movie. It isn't being restocked because the new one is coming out. We have been looking all over for it.
Nathan: I saw the Transformer movie at the movie store by Sav Mart.
Me: Was it for rent or to buy?
Nathan (giving me the 'you are a dumb mom' look that I deserved): How am I supposed to know? You know I can't read.

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Nathan: I don't want to be six. Five is fun.

_____________________________

And My Favorite
Grandma, I yuv you
Mommy, I lusz you

I Spanked My Child

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Fri, 22 May 2009 14:16:00 +0000

I spanked Nathan a few days ago. It wasn't a spanking but it was a swat on the butt. Nathan is easy going. He's a bit quiet and shy, and he loves to help Mom, Dad, and Grandma. This is the second marriage for me and my husband so the mixed family makes Nathan the youngest of eight. His brothers and sisters are all adults now so he is effectively being raised as an only child. I have raised a lot of kids and he is the most easy going of the bunch.

My granddaughter, Jayden, is an only child, too. When the two of them are together, all of that pent up energy comes flooding out and I swear the walls of Jericho are coming down. Cushions are off the couch, toys aren't played with, they are dumped and thrown. Every word out of their mouths comes out with a high pitch scream. They are excited and having fun. I'm exhausted.

I had picked Jayden up from preschool and was keeping her for the night. I wanted to go to Whole Foods and debated it. Trying to manage the two of them in a store is not easy. I decided to make the plunge. We got in the parking lot and I talked to both of them. This is a store and we need to not scream and run and touch things.

They were on a dead run when we got in. I'm trying to get what I went for and keep up with them. Nathan was grabbing the side of my cart and tipping it over. He was crawling and rolling on the floor. They were screaming and having a great time. I put them next to the cart and told them to stand still. Don't move. I was looking up at a shelf and I hear glass hitting glass. Nathan was amusing himself by rubbing his hands along glass bottles, listening to them clank against each other.

I swatted him on the butt. I didn't even know I was going to do it. It was done before I even thought. Both of those little faces are looking up at me with this look like, "you did NOT just do that". I wanted to laugh so I turned around and started to push the cart. Then - SWAT! The little bugger whacked ME on the butt. I turned around and I'm sure I had the same look that they had when I did it. He had an "uh, oh" look on his face. Here we are. I just hit my child. My child just hit me back. I don't know what you are supposed to do when that happens but it was FUNNY. All three of us started laughing. So I failed in the discipline but it was funny.

The Thing

noreply@blogger.com (In Sandy Land) — Wed, 20 May 2009 19:02:00 +0000

Family traditions. We all have them. In our home, it's a huge Christmas Eve party at our house with both sides of our families, or our yearly week long camping trip with about fifty of us from my husband's side of the family. Traditions are what build memories.

One of our family traditions that has come and gone is The Thing. We were unpacking Christmas decorations one year and somebody pulled something out of the box that none of us knew what it was. The plastic container looked like something that a corsage may come in but what was inside was unidentifiable. The container was passed from one child to the next trying to figure out what it was. Did it live once? Is it gross or not gross? It got to me and I determined that 1) it never lived, 2) it wasn't gross, 3) I wasn't sure what it was but it was probably some kind of fake plant matter.

I told the kids that it was The Thing. "What's The Thing?", they asked. "It's a thing that you pass around at Christmas and tell it something", I tell them. "What do you tell it?" "Anything you want."

So began the Christmas tradition of The Thing. I don't remember what anyone told The Thing. I wish I did. It was probably things like "thank Santa for the toys". I do know it wasn't thank you for our blessings type things. We all recognize that we are a blessed family and are grateful for that, but we just aren't the sit around, hold hands, and sing Cum Bi Ya kind of family.

When everyone was done telling The Thing whatever they had to say, we put it back in the Christmas box and forgot about it. The next year, we were pulling out the decorations and someone said, "Look, it's The Thing". We had another round of passing The Thing around and everyone telling it something. Several years went with the same tradition of put it in the box and forgetting about it until someone stumbled on it the next year.

The Thing disappeared and I have no idea when. None of us even noticed until a couple of years ago. Most of the kids are grown now. I have been so grateful that even grown, they come home to help decorate the tree. We were going through our decorating ritual when my daughter asked, "Mom, what happened to The Thing." None of us remember the last time we saw it.

So comes and goes the family tradition of The Thing.