Hmmm...

Wow! I know only a handful of visitors stopped by here in November when this blog's description read, "NaBloPoMo, NaNoWriMo, NaShoStoWriMo... What? More like, MoFoNo." Ha! I had zero motivation to write, and even less content - at least, that I can recall. Now, look were we find ourselves today... MID-DECEMBER!

What? How did that happen? Where was I?  Funny, I've had loads to write about in the last few weeks, but no time... oh life, how you toy with me.

Well, better late than never, right?  I'm here now, so let's see where things go.  At the moment, it's going to have to be back to housecleaning. Were expecting an overnight guest - with the best giggles ever, and... wait for it... Winter Break is here! Which means, College Girl is on her way home... as I type! Can't wait for that first hug, and a family night out to celebrate our girl's successful second year Fall semester  .

Gotta go, sinkful of dishes with my name on it awaits. Have a great Saturday.

So Long, August 2013

I love the month of September.  *September is good.  Always has been; hopefully, always will be.

August was kind, bittersweet, momentous, reassuring, stressful, busy, revealing, uncomfortable, eventful, unpredictable and hot!

I lost 10 lbs without even trying.

Officially became mom of a full-fledged adult male in August... I officially grew up a kid. I love that we can talk for hours about similar interests... movies, books, television, current events, but especially laugh together watching our favorite comedians.

I learned that it doesn't take long at all to discover how much love you can have for relatives you hardly knew, especially the little ones who probably hadn't a clue about you.  A short visit with nieces and nephews leaves me with cheeks sore from smiling.

I proved I am capable of helping make life better for someone.  In this case, my mom.  Her health issues seem to have improved overall and illnesses kept in check, partly due to my ability to monitor her diet and medication.

This was the first August in over 10 years that I was present for one of my sister's birthday celebrations... we have recently reconciled after many, many years of disconnect.  My voice becomes hoarse from the hours we spend catching up and just chatting during visits with mom.

This month I showed up and fulfilled the "in sickness and in health" marriage promise to my husband.  He's been there for me time and time again in our 20+ years of marriage.  He's been in a great deal of pain and discomfort recently... and I did my best to provide comfort and support.

After so many years married, this was the first time ever that I was in the driver's seat... literally.  Due to pain and physical limitations, not to mention very strong prescription drugs, I did most of the driving, including dropping off and picking up my husband at his job.  I really do love to drive. So it was a welcome change to have the man hand over the car keys and let me take the wheel while he took my spot in the front passenger's seat.

I discovered that I still have the ability to learn new things.  It's difficult and exhausting, but my brain isn't the rubbish I thought it had become.

I saw my determined, independent middle child prepare to leave, after a long Summer at home with her family, to return to college clear across the country.  Hearing her voice everyday is my happiness.

In one word: postmenopause... Best. Thing. Ever. Wait is that two words?

I love being impressed by my children; kid #3 managed to achieve high marks in school and exams.  She has registered for junior year in high school.  I'm impressed by her strength, and perseverance... but, it is her artistic talents that fascinate.  She's my beautiful social butterfly finding her way around new, unfamiliar surroundings and peers. Hopeful coming academic year is good to her.

Big dog and little dog seem to still be trying to figure out what's happening here.  They sit by the doors with an expression that says, "Are we done here. I'm ready to go home now."  Me too, doggies... me too.

Nearly every day of this month, temperatures have reached 100 degrees or higher.  I do not like this dry, warm climate. I really should have been in a much worse mood past several weeks. Nothing I could do about it I guess. No choice where to live at the moment.  Grateful we were all together under one roof, and that air conditioner provided some relief from heat.

My sleeping habits have been atrocious of late.  I plan to change that starting... NOW.  Or actually tomorrow night.  Eleven o'clock bedtime for me from now on.  Wish me luck.

Relieved to find I have, in fact, not lost my cooking skills... I'm back, baby.

Come on, September!

This was my August in a nutshell.  How was yours?

* And, no, I have not forgotten Sept. 11, 2001. I will never forget. That day was not good. What happened that day changed everything... how I see the world, how we all see the world. We weren't ready for that tragic event. That it happened first week back at school for my kids, I was in "feel good" mode. Back-to-School week in a tight-knit neighborhood on 9/11 provided a comfort and re-assurance of what was good. I'm ready for back-to-school again. I have always loved back-to-school season. It's one of my favorite times of year. That has not changed for me. This is good.

Table For Five, Please

We need a dining room table. A table for five. Something nice and spacious with comfortable seating should we ever have company at The Place - a chance to extend a warm, loving invitation to family and friends we'd love to have over for dinner. Yes, we need a table... a functional table for homework, crafting, puzzle making and game playing, but mostly for eating. Nothing fancy, just the perfect size for our family needs.

I'd like a table, one on which to set bunches of wildflowers and potted herbs, bowls full of seasonal fruits and decorative wares.  I miss having a table and look forward to someday - sooner than later - having all five of us gathering to enjoy favorite Summer meals together before College Girl heads back East for Fall semester.

It's been too long since our mealtime routine was disrupted.  I want a table and our family routine re-established to help make things right again. Have a little bit of normal return to our lives.

We need a table... something like this:

Image from one of my favorite catalogs: Napa Style

What are you inviting into your life:

October 19th ~ So, What Do You Do?

Ha ha... What do I do?  Ha!  Huh.  What do I do?  I don't do anything!

See, unlike all you normal, chemically balanced brain people, who are working at a job, leading productive lives, raising amazing families, there are some of us - I think the stats are 1 in 6 Americans  (no idea on how many who are in-between treatment due to financial demise) - we struggle.   Sometimes all we have in us is the desire to make it through the day.
www.bringchange2mind.org 

I'm having low and lower moments more than anything.  Today's a tough one.  I discovered  a mom's blog yesterday, about a family who very recently lost their young son; leaving a sister to now be an only child.  It broke my heart.  That woman's story brought back an ache in my heart I had not felt in a very long time.  It was sorrow - a deep, painful sorrow - I felt, and it kinda felt just as good as it did bad.  Still haven't recovered from it yet.

The Bridge: One Terrible Night  http://aninchofgray.blogspot.com/2011/10/bridge-one-terrible-night.html

Anyway, this confirms something I've often wondered about:  Who or what's going to be there when and if I'm ever off my medication for bipolar disorder?  I'm learning - or more like feeling - what that may be.  And it's sometimes great - like when I discover I have a beaming smile on my face, or having a hearty laugh - but mostly, it's horrible.  I'm sad a lot.  Sad and depressed.  That I don't like.  I don't like feeling crippled by whatever it is that my brain isn't rigged to handle like it would for a normal person.

There was a time when if someone casually asked me what I did, I'd jokingly say "I'm a professional crier."  Now that I think about it, I was more of an expert crier.  But, I hardly ever cry anymore.  Over the last 20 years I have learned that, although not the best medicine, laughter is critical to my well-being, but even "the funny" is not cutting it.  Reading has always been a very effective way to conquer low points... problem now:  my brain function is impaired to the point where reading has become a chore.  Hell... simple conversation with my kids is getting harder and harder each day. Mental illness sucks, right?

Day-to-day experiences of all my favorite things are now marred by my chemically imbalanced brain.  What brings me to the verge of tears most is how unavailable I am to my kids.  It makes me extra sad that I don't know if they've ever known the real me... I have been on some course of treatment for depression, PTSD,  PMDD, Bipolar Disorder, chronic pain syndrome, fibromyalgia, their entire lives.  Heck, I was even treated for borderline Lupus when they were all tiny. (In those days I didn't even have the strength to push them on a swing.)  Last few years they almost lost me to toxic gall-bladder infection, then onset of asthma.  This week is Fall break and my girls are home for the week.  My oldest daughter is working on her college applications and essay, my youngest trying to keep from being bored by asking friends for drawing requests via Facebook.  My boy, hangs out, waits for me to be available to sit and enjoy our favorite shows together or chat about his favorite things.  I'm doing the best I could.

But, I'm not going to lie... I hate that my kids have to deal with mom disappearing into wherever it is untreated illness leads me.  I don't want them to see me like this.  I've only done the very best I could for them all these years.  I had them and they are the best people I've ever met... They are my dream come true.  I love that they are the reason I smile everyday.  I've done the best I could.  So, when I hear about other moms who are going about their business of being the best mommy they can be, under whatever circumstances and situations being judged; getting put down, it crushes me.  What might that judgement be of me?  I don't even want to know (actually, probably very similar to how a "caring" family member might be... hurtful.).  My advice:  Be nice.  Listen to yourselves moms: "Play nice."

So.  What do I do?  I'm a mom.

August 12th 1992 ~ It wasn't supposed to be like this...

But sometimes, things happen. Today marks the anniversary of the day I became a mom. I like to use mommy, even though it's been a long time since my kids have used it. These days I'm Mom to them. And now that I think about it, R.J. went through quite a long spell when he referred to his dad as Rick and me, Lila. That little stinker. Yes, he's a stinker, but he's my stinker and I love him to no measure. On his birthday card I wrote, "Thank you for being my T.V. buddy." We've been enjoying talk and cooking shows together since day one. Looking forward to picking him up from work later so that we can catch up on last night's recorded shows

Today is my oldest child's 19th birthday. I asked him if he took notice of when he stopped feeling like a little kid. He thought for a few seconds, then answered, "Maybe age five." I'm not surprised. He always had a way about him. From day one, he seemed keenly attuned to everything; his little eyes seemed to be taking everything in, his little brain processing every single detail of events going on around him. He is going to Harvard, I thought, and I even called him that sometimes. Nothing wrong with dreaming big, I always say.

I was scared. I had been working part-time at a mortgage brokerage company and stopped working about a month before my due date. My estimated delivery due date was August 10th and I actually did go to the hospital that morning with what felt like labor pains - excruciating abdominal cramps, anyway. Apparently not; they sent me home. I wasn't feeling great at all. But, we did live in the Southern California desert... and it was the middle of the hottest month... and we lived in a mobile home with no central air conditioning... and it was HUMID! I didn't feel well at all. But I held on and tried my best to be patient and brave. August 12th, I returned to the hospital on a mission... baby's time to get born was NOW. They checked me out... Nope. "Go home," they said. "Still not time."

I needed help off the examining table. And that's when it happened. A blur. The attendant helping me off the table said I felt a little too warm... "Let me take your temperature."

 "She has a fever."

"We are going to have to induce, Mrs. Carilo..."

"We have labs."

 "Group B Strep"

 "C-section"

Me, "Huh?"

Mmmm... I remember, feeling his warm head near mine. Someone brought him close for me to see. Mmmm... "Hi R.J." "I love you baby."

"He's okay."

"He's breathing"

"He's okay."
 
"Lila, wake up."

That's what I remember from that morning. By the afternoon, I had gone down hill. My legs had morphed into tree stumps. Pain. numbness and swelling, I remember. Recovery was hell. Why couldn't I move? Why wasn't my body working? My legs took on a new form, flesh covered tubes! Gross. Rick, sitting close by with his newborn baby boy in his arms, was green, yellow, pale... He was a different color every time I came to. He almost lost his tiny little baby boy to mystery infection and respiratory failure. Now, he was wondering if he might now be losing me. I really didn't have a clue what had happened, just that my angel boy was in his papa's arms, and I loved him with my entire being.

"Thank you baby, for choosing me to be your mommy."

"Hold us God. Hold us in your hands like a bunch of flowers."

"Protect my family. Please, God."

Wow, nineteen years later; same prayer. "Protect my family. Please, God."

Things may not be "the best" at the moment, but as we sat at the table tonight, waiting for R.J. to have his special birthday dinner - a burger from Jack in the Box - when he got home from work, then sang "Happy Birthday" and had Carvel ice cream cake, we were happy. R.J. opened his gifts: Sour Patch Kids candy boxes from his sisters, and a card signed by us all; it was all good. One happy family celebrating a blessing. Happy Birthday, R.J.! I'm so proud to be your Mom.

A Father's Day Story ~ With An Uncle Like Phil, Who Needs A Dad

UNCLE PHILIP ~ 

Some of my favorite childhood memories are of the time when it had been routine for Uncle Philip, Aunt Sylvia, and my cousins Sylvia, Phil and Anthony, to head to our house after work on late Friday afternoons to pick up my mom, my sister, and me, and take us all the way back to their house in Pico Rivera for the weekend. It was about a thirty minute trip each way and, what a guy, I never once heard him complain about this. What could easily – naturally – have been something to dread, if you did it weekend after weekend, year after year (or so it seemed), he made seem like a joy ride.

During those years, Uncle Phil drove a powder blue VW Beetle. And true to form, it became our carriage out of our not-so-great, almost inner-city neighborhood, and delivered us to their middle-class grass-is-always-greener suburbia. And, as with any other of Uncle Philip’s cars, both families were crammed into that tiny little “bug” for the trips. Uncle drove, of course, and my Aunt Sylvia took the front passenger seat with one of us little kids and her gigantic purse which held her precious cigarettes, a couple of jewel colored half-empty bic disposable lighters and a few dried chili peppers, in addition to whatever else moms carry in their bags necessary for survival. The lucky kid, squished at her feet, was usually me. The rear seat nicely accommodated my cousin Syl, one of the boys, my sister, and my mom (and her giant handbag which held her precious cigarettes). But the best seat on those four little wheels with the shiny chrome wheel covers, in that way cool, powder blue V-Dub, was the tiny storage compartment in the very rear. Usually, my cousin Anthony was the lucky sucker who called first dibs on it. I had my turn back there once in a while, but mostly, it was where one of the boys sat - if that’s what you want to call it.

My Uncle Philip was mom’s younger brother, and as with his own children, he taught me many things important to a young child’s development. Skills needed to successfully make it through life. He was kind, friendly, generous, hardworking and loving. He was also an avid sports enthusiast and, in my opinion, an expert whistler. In 1971, when I was around seven years old, I could whistle too. Although I don’t recall my uncle’s exact instructions, I do remember watching him very closely wishing so badly to be able to whistle just like him. I guess you could call the first whistling technique, with fingers. Meaning, you use your fingers to produce the sound that seemed to say, “Hey, come here.” I’m positive Uncle Philip made me go inside the house to wash my hands before starting the lesson. He had a thing for cleanliness. Just check under my fingernails today for proof. Zest was the soap bar brand of choice in his and his sister - my mom - Carmen’s home. I could still smell that scent from a mile away, as well as recall the painful stinging one would experience when suds went into the eyes - which was every time I used the harsh soap to wash my face. In other words, every morning and every night.

During visits to my uncle’s house as a tiny kid the morning ritual after breakfast was to play outside the front door on the cold, hard concrete porch. Uncle Philip looked after me, whistling away while he tinkered under the car hood on the engine of the moment parked in his driveway on Los Toros street. He noticed me trying to imitate his whistling one day, stopped what he was doing and said to me, “Mira me,” Spanish for, watch me. I did. I also prepared to look as funny as he did. It took a while to get my fingers and mouth working together before trying like heck to produce the sound that came forth so easily from my uncle. Eventually, before throwing up from all my effort, the whistling sound finally sailed through the air, an awesome accomplishment, I thought, for such a little kid. Uncle Philip was sure to remind me though, that whistling was only for boys, but that didn’t stop him from teaching me... his tiny, little tomboy of a niece.

I also learned from Uncle how to hit, throw, and even catch an official Little League baseball wearing a baseball glove; catch and pass a pro size NFL football (sometimes wearing the baseball glove); dribble an orange with black stripes NBA basketball…