Small town mom, big city daughter

In the past two days I've discovered two things about myself. The first is that I'm not as ready as I thought to say goodbye to my younger daughter and leave her eight hours away, at college in Minneapolis, Minn.
Melissa and I attended student/parent orientation at Augsburg College on Friday and Saturday. Due to the mechanical unreliability of my Jeep (and the woeful lack of big city driving skills of its owner), my friend Kathy was kind enough to get us to Minneapolis. While Melissa and I were oriented, Kathy explored that jungle of excess known as the Mall of America.
As we neared the city I was gripped by a mix of sorrow and distress. How could I let go of my daughter? How would it feel to not see her every day, to face the end of our comfortable girlie rituals of tea and "Desperate Housewives" on Sunday nights and occasional Saturday afternoon strolls through the stores of downtown Marquette?
What I wanted to do was burst into tears. What I did was suck it up. Melissa had worked hard to get accepted to Augsburg. It was her dream school, this was her dream moment, and I had no right to compromise her happiness with my quivering reluctance to face the fact that my baby was all grown up.
So this was actually a twofold discovery. I am a) More bereft than expected at the prospect of Melissa's leaving, and b) A loving enough mom to push my own feelings into the back seat for the sake of my child.
Discovery number two occurred during parent orientation. As I sat in the modern, glass-doored conference room, listening Augsburg staff enumerate the many cultural advantages of living on an insular campus with a major metropolitan city mere footsteps away, a yen to live in the big city myself stirred in my brain.
I could do it, I thought. Imagine packing up and starting fresh in a city with so many opportunities for cultural enrichment. What an adventure it would be!
Later that day, Auggie parents were offered walking tours of the surrounding neighborhoods - abbreviated tours, courtesy of the high temperatures and obscene humidity.
The neighborhood my group toured was tidy and vibrant, a colorful mix of older, well-kept homes and ethnically diverse businesses, shops and theaters. I could easily imagine Melissa eagerly exploring it all, expanding her cultural horizons in a way I never had the opportunity to do.
What I couldn't imagine was me living there. The houses are so close together you could practically reach out and knock on your neighbor's window. The yards were square green handkerchiefs of grass or garden. No lakeshore. No tree lined bike paths. Just lots of concrete, cars and people.
I couldn't do it. I don't want to exchange my slow-paced, small-town life for any advantage the big city can offer. I know Melissa will thrive there. I'm proud of her for her adventurous spirit and intellectual and cultural curiosity. I look forward to hearing all about her new life as it unfolds.
Meanwhile, I'll keep the home fires burning. This trip taught me that I'm destined to be a small town girl. Maybe that's another way of saying timid, or lacking in a spirit of adventure. Or maybe it means I know where I fit - and I know enough to value it.

Farewell, June-tober

And so we bid farewell to June-tober. I know we've had damp, dreary Junes in other years, but I've blanked them out of my mind, which makes this the dampest, dreariest June in my memory.
But give us Yoopers credit: When the calendar says summer, we live summer. Children gallop up and down soccer fields in sweatshirts and mud-caked shoes. Dogs are walked under sullen gray skies, their coats soggy, their owners shivering. Families pile into RVs and pour into campgrounds, parents sticking close to the fire, kids running themselves as sweaty as they'd be if the sun were blazing down. We line up at Frosty Treats, cold-reddened hands wrapped around ice cream cones or waxy milkshake cups. It's the principle of the thing.
That's the true U.P. spirit. But believe me, under that spirit lurked one hell of a lot of disgruntled Yoopers yearning for sunshine.
Resentment is a luxury alcoholics cannot afford. That's a little something I was taught - repeatedly - throughout my 28 years in recovery. Note that I said I learned it; I didn't say I always practice it.
By about mid June-tober my Yooper stoicism had given way to a festering, unreasonable, childish resentment. By God, I waited all freaking winter for June's arrival. I wanted my sunshine! I wanted my beach days! I wanted to pull on a pair of shorts, peel my humidity-curled hair off the back of my damp neck and sip an ice cube-filled glass of lemonade.
The unrelenting 50-something degree days began to feel like a personal insult. I developed an irrational hatred of all meteorologists. I checked The Weather Channel online and on TV several times each day, like a Wall Street trader checking the Dow Jones index.
I'm usually big on gratitude. I tried correcting my sour attitude with thoughts of the violent weather and wildfires tormenting much of the rest of the U.S. At least we're safe, I reminded myself. Cold, wet and deprived of sunshine, but safe. But as you may recall, I did describe this as an unreasonable, childish resentment. Reality tends not to be the cure for the irrational.
What finally cured me was the inevitable: The sun came out and the temperature rose. I pulled on my bathing suit and went to the beach with a couple of my friends. The sand was a patchwork of bright beach towels. Children ran into the water and quickly out again, shrieking at the cold. Adults either basked in the long-awaited warmth or waded into the water themselves for a quick dip.
All this joy, and the temperature never broke 80. The wind was, in fact, a tad cool. When goosebumps rose on my arms I pulled on a T-shirt, then tipped my face upward - grateful for the sunshine and able, finally, to make the best of a less than perfect summer day.

Commencement Day

Today I watched my youngest child receive her high school diploma. Virtually anonymous in a sea of bright red caps and gowns, I only saw her face when she was walking across the stage to accept her diploma and when she carefully maneuvered back down the stairs in her high heels for the walk back to her seat.
Melissa's face, like the faces of her classmates, reflected joy, relief and excitement: It's over! We did it!
I imagine that sentiment was echoing in the minds of every parent, as well. And, like the graduates, our joy was tempered by a throat-tightening recognition that an era was ending. Our children are free of our sheltering/smothering oversight. We are free from the mantle of vigilance and daily responsibility we've worn since the day we became parents.
I am a veteran of high school graduations, having seen my older daughter and son collect their diplomas seven and five years ago. But seeing my youngest, the baby of our family, reach that milestone, tugs a little harder at the heartstrings. Even Melissa's big sister and brother are sentimental over it.
Yes, it's sentimental. And also, for me, surreal.
For the first time in 25 years, I will not be the mother of a public school student. No more permission slips to sign, no more lunch boxes to pack, no more sitting in a crowded, stuffy auditorium for an hour and a half to see my kid sing or play an instrument for 12 minutes.
Am I going to miss all that? I imagine so. But being a person who's allergic to "have-to's," it's also going to be a relief. My days are going to be my own, with only myself to consider.
At times like this it's hard for me to do what my recovery program advises: live one day at a time.
Each of my children's graduations have opened up my overpacked closet of memories, and for every happy one there's a prickly remembrance of the times I let my children down, the times I wish I'd been better to them, better for them. That chapter of their lives is over, though, and all I can do is acknowledge the times I was hurtful and be grateful for the good times, and for the fact that, despite a far less than charmed childhood, each of them - Jessica, Daniel and Melissa - has grown into an openhearted, intelligent, loving young adult.
My recovery program also promises that, in time, I will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it. I don't think that's possible for a parent. But if I can't not regret the past, I can most certainly be grateful for the gift of the present, for a program that's given me sobriety, the ability to make amends to my kids for the times I failed them, and a heart full of gratitude and pride for each of them, including my newly minted graduate.

Ask us why we love our dogs

So one day last week I asked my daughter Jessica if she would walk partway to meet me as I walked home from work, and if she would bring my dog, Indy, with her. This would give wild man Indy a nice walk, and spare tired me from having to walk him after walking to and from work that day.
When I stepped outside it was about 20 degrees colder than I expected. That, and looking forward to meeting up with Jess and Indy, added speed to my stride.
I saw them from a distance, Jess in a pink sweater, pink-cheeked, long hair floating on the wind. Indy was a fluffy gray cloud on springy legs, tugging at the leash, eager as always to take in the whole world simultaneously.
Crossing to their side of the street, I waved at Jess until she spotted me. As I reached the curb across the street from them I called "Indy!" He was busy watching the car coming up the street, which stopped at the corner, blocking our view of one another.
As I waited for the car to pull out I thought about how I'd been hoping that Indy would be excited to see me coming up the street. Now I thought, he's so wired about being out for a walk he'll barely notice me.
But as the car pulled away and I gave it one more try, calling "Indy!" I saw his head snap up and his attention focus on me as I crossed the street. As I approached I could hear him whining as he danced on his hind legs, trying to get to me.
Jess and I "aww"ed as Indy leaped up to nuzzle my face. I felt like a war hero returning to cheering crowds and a ticker tape parade. I felt like exactly what I was: the center of Indy's life, the center of his heart.
I'm always going to remember that moment when I hear anyone wonder aloud why some people love their dogs with such ardent devotion.
Not since my children were small have I been greeted with such unrestrained enthusiasm. Dogs not only let us love them as much as we want to, they thrive on it. The more time, patience, affection and care we offer them, the more we receive of their love, devotion and undiluted displays of joy at the very sight of us.
I hate taking Indy outside to pee when it's bitterly cold or pouring rain. He has a shrieking bark that could shatter glass, he's a pain in the ass to walk and he's so jealous of my cat Sadie that he comes running every time he hears me talking to her.
He also runs to the window to catch a last glimpse of me whenever I leave the house, glues himself to my side whenever I'm home, and presses his head into the crook of my neck whenever he sees me crying.
And my every homecoming is a joyous ticker tape parade.

Tick

So I've been trying out this new thing where I work to meet all of my obligations, do what I say I'll do when I say I'll do it, and do things even when I don't wa-a-a-nt to.

I think it's called... wait, wait, give me a minute. I think it's called maturity.

Don't worry, I haven't gone completely on the rails. I still love cartoons, blowing bubbles, and jokes heavy on the crass. But turning 50 has sharpened my hearing. I can hear the clock of mortality ticking so much more clearly than before, and it is chanting, do it now, do it now, do it NOW.

Example: Last week was the week the city did its annual spring brush and branch pickup. For me, this effort amounts to thinking about picking up the fallen branches in my back yard, reasoning that I still have plenty of time to take care of it, then being amazed that the pickup day has come and gone and my yard is still filled with branchery.

Not this year.

When I came home from work one night last week I saw several of my neighbors diligently clipping hedges, gathering branches, and piling it all in tidy curbside mounds. Oh, I thought. The city must be doing the pickup tomorrow. Oh, well. My yard doesn't look so bad. Too late now.

I was greeted at the door by my Indy dog. It didn't take a dog whisperer to read the expression on his face: "Walk tonight? Walk tonight, Mom? Pleeeeaaase, walk tonight!"

"I'll take you in a little while, Indy,"  I said. 

Shortly thereafter my son and my brother-in-law arrived to help me go pick up a used bed frame I'd bought for my older daughter, who's moved back home for awhile.

"Mom, I need a new cell phone," my son announced. "Mine's dying."

When I hesitated, Dan added, "I'll pay you back when I get paid." 

We picked up the bed (my sole physical contribution was to open and close doors) and got it back to my house. I thanked Dan and my brother-in-law, said goodbye to each, ignored the sinkful of dirty dishes and flopped on the sofa to watch TV. When Indy danced over to me I rubbed his fluffy gray head and said, "Sorry, bud, Mom's too tired to go tonight."

Then I heard it: tick, tick, tick. Now. Now. Now.

I jumped up and headed for the kitchen. 

As I washed the dishes I thought about the economics of parenting. My daughter needed a bed. I bought one without thinking twice. My son needed a phone. I dragged my feet about it.

I was bombarded with memories of times when my two daughters' needs were met and my son got short shrift. Dan was a quiet kid, never asking for much and always appreciative of what he did get. And while my girls were never demanding and also always appreciative, they were more verbal. And because they were girls, I understood their needs more easily. Or so I told myself. 

The reality was, Dan was the back seat kid. Not because I loved him any less, but because it was easy to not see what he needed - especially if you were preoccupied, and not seeing made life easier.

Tick. Tick. Tick. I finished the dishes, ran to the store, bought a box of microwave popcorn and a bottle of Coke, two of Dan's favorites, and left them at his doorstep. I called him and told him my revelation. I told him I'd buy him that new phone. I apologized for all the times he felt "less than." He didn't say much, but he was, as always, appreciative. 

Then I gathered armful after armful of dead, dried branches from my back yard and hauled them to the curb.

By then it was almost dark. I ducked back into the house, rounded up Indy, and we bounced through the neighborhood in the twilight.

The words mortality clock have a ring of doomsday to them, don't they? But that isn't how I think of this demanding internal timepiece. For me it's a hand at my back pushing me to accomplish what I can while I still can. I don't plan on dying tomorrow, but I can't guarantee I won't, either. All I have is today, this moment, right now. That's always true of everyone, but for a lifelong procrastinating look-the-other-wayer, turning 50 has made it more than true: it's made it real. And how grateful I am for that tick, tick, tick.

Keeping the faith

Faith was the topic at a recent recovery group meeting I attended. When you're living in recovery, either in your first 24 hours or your 24th year, faith matters.

I was raised a Catholic, but I don't remember faith having much to do with it. It was more of an unwavering tradition. My father's parents were Catholic, so I was raised Catholic. You went to church on Sundays because you went to church on Sundays. The closest I ever got to a theological discussion at home was when I badgered my dad about why I had to go to church every week. His reply: "Because I said so, goddammit!"

I've always believed in a higher power, which gave me a big jump start on my recovery program. But while I never doubted the existence of a higher power, I frequently doubted the logic behind putting a useless being like myself on earth.

Growing in recovery is difficult, uncomfortable, liberating and exhilarating. One of the greatest gifts I've received is kind of an equation of faith; ironic, considering my unabashed hatred of all things mathematical. It goes like this: If I have faith in a higher power, I must believe that my higher power has faith in me. Based on my higher power's faith, I have faith in myself.

That tag team faith gives me the courage to roll out of bed each morning and believe that I can survive whatever the day may throw at me. It gives me the gumption to speak up, to trust that I have enough experience, strength and wisdom to share with my fellow humans. It lets me relax into my faith, knowing that a power greater than myself is running the show.

  My prayers are no longer desperate pleas for what I think I need. Most often they're telegrams of gratitude from my soul: Thank you for another sober day, a loving family, a body that works, a houseful of nutty pets, a life full of beautiful friends.

This is not to say that I don't ever thrash around in prayer, freaking out over the quick fix I want when uncomfortable situations arise. But the more conscientiously I work my spiritual program the less thrashing I do and the more peaceful life is. In fact, sometimes I wonder if all of this peace of mind is a signal that I am, in fact, losing my mind. Shouldn't I be more worried about money, my kids, my job, the world?

No, I shouldn't. All I need to do is stay spiritually connected and concern myself with being the person I believe I was meant to be. 

In the end, it's all about keeping the faith, whatever your faith may be.

Charlie Sheen IS the drug, and the media's hooked

I can tell you right now who’s high on a drug called Charlie Sheen: the media.

The slow motion train wreck known as sitcom star Charlie Sheen’s life is being documented in excruciatingly up close detail online, in print and on T.V.

A gaunt, wild-eyed Sheen has captivated America with his rants against anyone who dares to disagree with his delusional version of reality. CBS executives who temporarily pulled the plug on his “Two and a Half Men” series are now his enemies.

He was served with a restraining order filed by his wife, and the separated couple’s twin sons were removed from his home by police after he refused to return them to their mother. The restraining order was only a bid by his wife to grab a little of the spotlight for herself, Sheen claimed. It had nothing to do with the alleged threats he made against her, including that he would cut off her head and mail it to her mother.

I initially rolled my eyes at Sheen’s grandiose speeches. What a spoiled little jerk! Get into rehab, get sober and get over yourself, I thought.

After seeing several interviews and reading more quotes,my “oh, please” attitude was replaced by anger and sorrow. Charlie Sheen is mentally ill (my money’s on bipolar), and the media is wringing every drop of drama the can squeeze out of his situation. The bottom line isn’t the disintegration of a star, a husband, father, son, brother. The bottom line is the bucks.

A so-called addiction expert spoke knowingly about Sheen on T.V. last night. He claimed that, although Sheen has tested clean for drug use, he’s still using. He also claimed that Sheen will either get into treatment or die from substance abuse. He stated that Sheen’s delusions and egomania are the result of drug and alcohol abuse, even though there were no drugs or alcohol in his system when he acted out.

This guy’s credentials are that he’s a recovering addict and he’s appeared on the T.V. series “Intervention.”

Well, my credentials are that I’m a recovering alcoholic and I’ve been in a recovery program for most of the 28 years I’ve been sober. I’ve seen people drunk, sober, high as a kite and in the throes of withdrawal. None of the people I’ve seen in any of those states exhibited the symptoms Charlie Sheen has been displaying.

Believing you’re superhuman, viewing anyone who doesn’t share your vision as a mortal enemy, and behaving erratically and manically are symptoms of mental illness. 

I think the fact that Sheen tests clean for substances means that he’s no longer self-medicating. Many drug addicts and alcoholics have underlying mental health issues and become substance abusers to take the edge off their symptoms. 

It’s the sad, sick truth that I keep checking the Associated Press web link on my computer, expecting to see a file tagged “obit—sheen.” Unless someone steps in to help him, Charlie Sheen has nowhere to go but down. And so long as the media and his so-called fans embrace him and reward him for his mania, he’s going to keep spiraling, possibly into an early grave.

And if that does happen, prepare for a media frenzy as manic Sheen on his worst day.