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Jun
9
This post is part 1 of a 15 week series sponsored by Mommy’s Piggy Tales. This week’s assignment is our birth story.
Growing up, I always felt like my parents had to be the oldest parents of all the kids in my classes. I was obsessed with this fact; I would look at old yearbooks and figure out how old my friends’ parents were, which was usually at least five years younger than my parents. When I was born, my mom was 31, and my dad was 36.
I understand now that my parents didn’t wait til they were in their thirties by choice. I was born in 1969, and people didn’t typically wait that long to have kids. By that time, they felt like they would never have the baby they so desperately wanted. But they did, and here I am.
I was born two months premature; I don’t remember my exact weight, but I was right around three pounds. Back then, it was a miracle that I survived.
I was supposed to Kimberly Sue, but when I arrived, apparently I did not look like Kimberly Sue. So I’m Sheri Renee. I think it fits better.
I can’t tell my birth story without including my brother’s birth story. He was born two months early too, nine months after me. He is truly the miracle child though. After all the years it took to have me, my parents didn’t think they’d ever get pregnant again, and certainly not that quickly. My mother had heart problems at a young age, along with a host of other medical issues. She had to have exploratory surgery a few months after I was born, and the doctors found a mass. That mass turned out to be my brother, completely unplanned and unexpected. Two miracles, after waiting for so long.
She told me these stories all the time, making sure I always knew how very wanted I was. I realize that now.
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Jun
1
My husband and sons just returned from a visit with relatives. My husband made the comment that his mom is so patient with our boys.
She always has been. It’s a grandma thing. When our first son was born, we lived next door to my in-laws. At the end of many days, when I was worn out from feeding, carrying, and rocking my baby and he still wouldn’t stop fussing and crying, we’d walk next door. As soon as I’d hand my usually crying baby to my mother-in-law, he would calm down.
It infuriated me to no end when that happened. I’d ask my husband, how can my baby like his grandma better than me? (Sleep deprivation tends to make you think irrationally) He’d laugh, but I knew why.
I was exhausted, stressed out, afraid I was “doing it wrong”, afraid that my baby crying meant that I was no good as a mom. I was tense, and my baby knew it. When I placed him in her arms, he could relax, because she was relaxed. She wasn’t tense or worried.
These days my boys are too old and too big for their grandma to hold them. But the difference is still huge.
When I see annoying habits that irritate me to the point of anger, she sees funny quirks that make her laugh.
When I see behavior that they refuse to change despite my instructions to do so, she sees teenage boys trying to grow up, and she recognizes that all kids go through it.
When I see behavior that borders on rude or obnoxious, she sees her charming grandsons acting living up to “boys will be boys”.
When I see boys that have tested me and pushed me to the breaking point, when I am certain that their futures are doomed, she sees her brilliant, kind, sweet grandsons that only make her proud.
Her sight isn’t clouded over by past hurts or past fits of anger and words flung carelessly around. She sees them clearly without remnants of last week’s disobedience or power struggles.
She sees them with her heart.
How do we see our children? Sometimes I am so worn out from the battles of parenting, on top of the battles in my own life, that I only see the things in my children that drive me crazy. I only see the arguments, the fights, the slammed doors or messes left for me to clean up.
I am trying to look at my sons through their grandmother’s eyes. To look at them with love, first and foremost, without any of the other things that can cloud my vision. I want to see only their goodness first, before the rest comes rushing in. I want to see them with joy and love, looking from my heart.
I want them to be able to see that in my eyes when they look at me.
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May
26
I don’t know if I’ll publish this post. I’m not in the best frame of mind to even be writing. But isn’t that the point of writing?
Life is beating me down. Every time I think I’ve got to be as low as I can go, the beating continues. The story of my life right now is a nightmare of epic proportions, so horrible it borders on funny, in a sick kind of way of course.
You all know about my parenting drama this week, so I won’t go into that. Just be aware that the parenting stuff alone was enough to put me on the brink of losing my mind. So the rest of this stuff on top of it? Right over the edge.
My car has been in the shop for some repairs that were supposed to be covered by warranty. Once the mechanic got under the hood, more repairs were deemed necessary, which aren’t covered by warranty but of course must.be.done.
In the middle of school assemblies, concerts, performances and parties, my garage door broke. I couldn’t get my car out (the lovely loaner car from the mechanic). Since we live pretty close to both my kids’ schools, I was able to walk to their events. But that’s about all I’ve gotten done. Apparently it is the season for garage door problems, because I called every place in a 50 mile radius and they are all booked up for two days or more. Who knew the garage door business was so lucrative??
My son’s phone broke. I know this isn’t a big deal when you look at the big picture, but with my summer classes starting, I need him to have a phone. Just one.more.thing.
On a totally different level, my dad is having more health problems. He has a ton of them already, but this new one is of the “could be benign, or not” variety. They meet with the surgeon next week and we’ll plan from there. I know I don’t need to ask, but prayers, please.
I would give anything to be able to spend some time with them and be there during the surgery, but I don’t get any paid time off from work, so right now it looks impossible. That just adds frustration to an already stressful situation.
There’s more that has gone wrong in the past week, minor things that all piled together make a mountain that I’m struggling to climb.
As a final insult, my husband decided that since today was the last day of school, it would be a great time to let our youngest son invite several friends to sleep over. Sigh. I know he’s right to do that, because regardless of the muck I am trying to wade through, the kids don’t need to be affected by it. I just need to put my happy face on for them, and I’m having a hard time doing that right now.
Join with me in repeating this mantra: It HAS to get better. Oh please, doesn’t it?
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May
24
When I signed up for this parenting gig, a whole bunch of things were left out of the job description! Diapers, bottles, potty training, tantrums; I was prepared for all that.
No one told me that there would come a time when I would choose to let my child fall instead of carry him safely to his destination. When that would be the best choice I could make for him. And the hardest choice I ever made.
I have always been adamant that I would not be one of those parents who nags about homework, or does their children’s projects for them, or calls teachers to ask for second chances. Their school work is their job, not mine. After a certain age, I don’t think it’s even my job to remind them to do their homework.
Since I’m sharing a whole lot about myself these days, I need to honestly admit that while I have always believed those things, these days I have so much going on that even if I wanted to, I just don’t have the time to remember all the things my kids are responsible for. My life has been in a state of chaos for several months now, and I’m lucky to meet my own obligations. It’s a good thing I’ve never been the type of parent to monitor their homework assignments, because I’d be blowing it now.
So my boys have grown up doing their own work, which has meant turning in less than stellar art and science projects. At least compared to the art and science projects that had an abundance of adult “help”. They have grown up used to the fact that some days I might ask them if they’ve finished their homework, but most days I won’t ask. I still expect it to be done. They’ve never had a problem with this.
Ah, but you knew this was coming. They’ve never had a problem until now. You see, my teenage son is just way too smart, way too advanced, to be bothered with homework. Eighth grade work is just so far beneath him, especially since he is so much smarter than his teachers. Can you hear the sarcasm dripping down my computer screen? I just love this attitude.
I have many friends with 14 and 15 year old sons, and this attitude of superiority, this “I know better than anyone else” attitude seems to be pretty common. That doesn’t make it any easier for me.
My son’s problem is that he is smart. Certain things come so easily for him, so he’s spent the majority of his educational career not needing to study. But classes are harder now. And as he gets closer to high school, he needs to buckle down.
More honesty now. I have emailed teachers more in the past month than I have for the entire time my son has been in school. I want his teachers to know that I know, and that I am concerned. I have been checking the parent website for his grades daily, actually hourly.
In reality, his grades aren’t bad. He keeps reminding me of that. But several of his grades are borderline, so if he has decided that he doesn’t need to worry about final exams, those grades may very well plummet. I lie in bed at night and confess to my husband how worried I am that he will blow everything in the last few days of school.
And I have become the nagging mom. I have talked until I’m blue in the face about how important it is not to fall behind, because there is no time to make things up now. I have talked about the future and about how a few of his classes are for high school credit. I have talked about it so much that I am sick of hearing it myself. And it hasn’t done a bit of good.
There are a few things I haven’t done. I haven’t helped him with his final projects. Those projects were well within his capabilities. I haven’t asked his teachers to extend deadlines for work not turned in on time. And the hardest of all; I haven’t told him how very disappointed I am. Not in his grades, but because he is squandering his God given gifts.
I won’t lie and say that grades aren’t important to me. They are. But more than grades, what I value the most is effort. If either of my children gives it their best effort and still ends up with a bad grade, I am okay with that. I am not okay with giving absolutely no effort, then acting shocked when you get a bad grade.
I suppose there is more that I could have done to avoid this situation. I could have been more strict about checking their homework every night. But I still say that it’s not my job. I could carry my son to the finish line and make sure that his grades reflect his abilities. But it’s not my job, and what does he learn if I do that?
My mother in law is such a wise woman, and she told me that sometimes you just have to let them fail, let them get what they deserve, and let them deal with the repercussions. This little tidbit was not in my parenting manual, and it is so hard to do.
Part of me wants to march into my son’s room right this minute and yell, nag, threaten, bribe, or beg. Whatever it takes. Whatever it takes to get the outcome that I want. Part of me wants to force him to do this my way, whether he wants to or not. Because I said so.
But this time I have to let him fall. I can’t carry him, and I can’t pick him up when he falls. I have to stand back and let this play out.
That doesn’t mean that we won’t be doling out consequences. The consequences will be swift and probably harsh, at least in his eyes. But I cannot stand over him waving the potential consequences in an attempt to force him to act like I want him to act. To try as hard as I want him to try. He has to do this himself and for the right reasons.
This goes against everything I thought it meant to be a parent. My arms are strong, and my heart is willing. I can carry both of my boys. I can be their strength, their moral compass, their light in the darkness. I can, but I can’t. They have to find it in themselves.
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May
20
My youngest son has a chronic problem with ingrown toenails. I’ll spare you the details, but he gets them all the time, and several have gotten so infected that the doctor had to remove part of his nail.
This has been going on for years. When he was younger, he would tell me right away that he had one, and usually if he started antibiotics right away it would get better on its own. But in the past year he’s stopped telling me when he has one, and I only find out once it gets so infected that he can’t stand the pain. He doesn’t want to take the chance that he’ll have to have part of his nail removed, because that hurts worse than the infection. I found out by accident last night; I overheard him say something about his toe to his father, and I knew. I asked to see it and he tried to refuse, saying it was nothing. His toe is so swollen and infected that I’m surprised he can wear shoes. Needless to say, we’re heading to the doctor this morning.
I’m annoyed that he didn’t tell me, but I’m also worried because I googled infected toe nail; now I know how serious it can be to let the infection go without treatment. I understand wanting to avoid having the nail removed, but I don’t know how he’s been wearing shoes and walking, it’s that bad.
Lots of times when I’m dealing with my kids, it’s like looking in a mirror, and this is no exception. Aren’t we all like this? Maybe we have a small, seemingly minor irritation that we decide to just ignore and hope that it goes away. Instead of addressing the problem, we keep it to ourselves.
Many times for me, if I keep a problem to myself, it festers in my heart. It eats away at my good intentions and turns them to anger or resentment. If I keep it to myself, I’m probably not going to see a solution. I’m just going to feel stuck, with no way out.
When I think of all the times I had a problem that I kept to myself, and how much easier it would have been on me if I had opened up to someone, anyone. Even opened up in prayer and let it all out. It never hurts to let things out, to share your problems. But it can make things much worse if you keep it inside and let it fester into something bigger than you can handle.
I get so exasperated with my son. I told my husband last night, if he would only tell me right away, it would be so much easier to deal with. This is such a simple lesson, not too much to expect. Yet I don’t do it myself most of the time. I have shared feelings on this blog recently that I would never have shared before. I have opened my heart and poured out my fear, worry, and anxiety. And it has helped. Letting out the fear and worry makes room for hope and faith, and even a tiny bit of hope makes a huge difference in how we look at our problems.
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May
18
We’ve had a few storms in the past week or two. That’s putting it mildly. Constant dark skies, raging wind, and torrents of rain. No gentle breezes here.
I’m not talking about the weather.
I hid out today. Stayed off the computer until now. Never once checked Twitter. Joining the online party was just too much, and I couldn’t do it today.
I know that sometimes things have to get worse before they get better. You have to survive the storms before you can see the sun. I know this, but I really, really want the storms to end. I can’t find any shelter right now, I’m just stuck in the middle of it, trying to stay on dry ground.
I keep telling myself that once my rainy season ends, the sun is going to shine so brightly, and the rainbows will be so beautiful, that the pain of the storms will fade. Because it has to stop storming sometime. Right?
Even in the midst of the storms that are wreaking havoc on my world, I was reminded today of how the smallest kind gesture can make such a huge difference. I was talking on the phone with a woman I work for. I don’t know her, I work from home so I’ve never “met” my coworkers. And this woman only calls when we’ve made a mistake. It wasn’t a serious mistake, but it needed to be brought to my attention in a more memorable way than email. So she called. She wasn’t angry at all, but she came across as exasperated. I’m sure that she had many other phone calls to make and many other fires to put out, but at the time, I took her exasperation as my fault. My failure.
There must have been something in my voice, a hint of the storms that are chasing me, because out of nowhere, her voice softened and she asked if I was okay.
The floodgates opened wide. Forget that she is my superior. Forget that I’m 41 years old. Forget that I don’t even know her. I bawled like a baby. I tried not to, but as soon as she heard the first sniffles, she kept being nice. She kept saying, honey, it’s going to be okay. The more she talked, the more I cried. Even in all the storms, I have managed to not break down, to not let it all out. Well, it all came out during that call. I needed that cry so badly.
There was no real conversation; I don’t know her well enough to spill my guts, and I don’t think she wanted that. She just wanted me to know it would be okay.
I don’t know when it will be okay. I do know that her words helped me get through this dark stormy day. We can all do what she did on the phone today. We can listen. Listen for the crack in the composure. Listen for the aching heart. Listen for the sadness. Respond to that. It is enough, no, it is so much more than enough, to just listen and encourage. Listen and offer hope where there is none.
Provide shelter from the storm, even if only for a short time. We can all do that.
This post is linked at Tuesdays Unwrapped at Chatting at the Sky
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May
13
“Be yourself. Above all, let who you are, what you are, what you believe, shine through every sentence you write, every piece you finish.” ~John Jakes
“Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.“ ~ Dr. Seuss
When I started this blog over two years ago, I just wanted a place to write. A place to share parenting struggles and my midlife struggles. I clearly had no clue what I was doing, because I would write, hit publish, and wait for people to visit -lol. Little by little I’ve kind of figured out this medium called blogging, but it’s taken me this long to get an idea of my place in it.
I have struggled to find my voice here, find a niche, for lack of a better word. I still don’t think I have a specific niche, because this blog is all over the place. But I feel like I am finding my voice. It was discouraging for me to try to be a little miss sunshine, and always project that my life was FULL of moments of bliss. If you take out the trials and struggles and only write about the awesomeness of your life, well, sometimes there’s nothing to write about.
I’ve let go of that ideal, so now my writing is pretty honest, and I’m getting closer to finding my voice. But that’s not enough.
The closer I get to finding my voice, the more I decide that my voice isn’t good enough. Oh that’s the story of my life! Not funny enough, not witty enough, not eloquent enough, not enough anything. I took a bit of a blogging break last year, and since I’ve rejoined the land of the living recently, I’ve been more active on Twitter and I’ve found a ton of new blogs that I love. I find more every day. And with every new one, I quietly think to myself, wow, I wish I could write like her. Or her. Or any of them, just not me.
Then I think, if there are all these really amazing writers and bloggers here, there really is no need for the mediocrity that is my writing and blog. What’s the point, really, when you can read things that move your heart, motivate your spirit, and crack you up.
This goes far beyond writing; it permeates every piece of my life. This is low self esteem and lack of self confidence at its worst. Comparing myself to others and falling short every.single.time. I do it with my homemaking, with parenting, at school, and now with blogging. Not good enough, ever.
I’m going to fight this. I want to keep writing; it’s good for me, and that should be enough. I want to stop comparing everything I do and deciding that I fall short of the standard. There is no standard; what I do is good enough. I will come to believe that, because at 41 years old, its time that I let myself appreciate what I can do instead of focus on what I can’t do.
Finding my voice has been huge for me. I’ve given myself permission to write honestly and to share more openly. I’ve gotten so many emails from people thanking me for sharing, and they feel comfortable sharing their struggles with me because I’ve been honest. That’s a great feeling, and it will hopefully lead to true relationships.
Finding my voice is not enough. I have to learn to love my voice. To love what I have to offer. To let that be enough.
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May
10
I’m really not intentionally writing all these “confession of the soul” type posts. I’m actually trying to write what is in my heart, instead of a bunch of chatter just to fill the space. So this is what we have for now.
Supposedly we all have a “fight or flight” response when faced with stress and danger. I apparently am the exception to this. I have a “withdraw” response when faced with extreme stress or anxiety. I’d like to run away, but you can’t run away from life. I either don’t know how to fight whatever I’m afraid or, or I’m just too tired to fight. So I withdraw.
I do this with everyone, friends, family, my husband. I try very hard not to do it with my kids, and for the most part, I succeed. But my oldest is getting too good at reading me, so I have to work harder at hiding my worries from him.
When I withdraw like this, I don’t want to see people or talk to people. I don’t want to go out; it’s so much easier to stay home and wallow in my worry. Not helpful, but easier.
This is not a healthy response, and I know that. But the worst part is that when I’m scared or stressed about something in my life, the more scared I get, the more I withdraw from God. I lose faith in my faith. I give up on hope; I stop trusting. This just empties out my soul, leaving me with nothing but despair.
My world without hope or faith is a dark, lonely world. Without hope, I can’t find any light. I can’t find anything to cling to.
I don’t withdraw because I doubt. I don’t doubt that He loves me. I don’t blame Him for my problems. This is more about self-doubt. I stop believing that I am worthy of His love and His grace. I start to think that I don’t even deserve to pray for help. I start believing that I deserve the dark place I have put myself in, and I stop looking for the light.
I’ve been in that dark place many times, and it’s so hard to get out of it. I have been fighting it for awhile now, fighting it because I know once I get in the bottom of the that pit, I won’t be able to climb out for a long time. I went to church with my family yesterday, but I was going through the motions. Pretending that I belonged there, pretending that He wanted me there. Because it is dark where I’m at right now, and I feel myself sliding down.
Clearly He wants my there every day, but yesterday especially. Our priest seemed to have gotten a memo about what I needed to hear to help bring me back from the darkness. He talked about how we all battle with faith at times, even him. He said that when we give up the battle; when we close the door to the Holy Spirit, there is no wind in our worship. There is no praise in our song. There is no hope in our hearts. But all we have to do is open the door. One simple step.
In reality, it is not a simple step. The door is shut tight and it is heavy. It’s simpler and easier to leave it closed and stay in the darkness.
I don’t want to be in the darkness. I don’t want to shut the door to hope, to faith, or to Him. There is no life without light.
Opening the door to faith doesn’t mean my problems are going to end. I know that. But it does mean that I can trust that I’m not walking this road alone. He’s not leading me down a path to darkness and despair. If I let Him, He will lead me home. I just have to trust and have faith enough to follow.
This is the journey I’m on. Is the road you’re on right now rough and rocky, too? Do you withdraw when faced with seemingly insurmountable problems? I hope we can share and encourage each other; it’s much easier when we know we’re not traveling our path alone.
This post is linked at Chatting at the Sky: Tuesdays Unwrapped
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May
7
I should not be writing at this time of night. That kind of thing never ends well.
If you’ve been reading this blog for more than a week, you might have realized that I am trying to be more “real”, more authentic, more honest. Honesty is not always pretty. Just warning ya.
This is starting to become a routine for me. It’s late at night, my family has been in bed for over an hour. The husband is deep in snoreland, so I know it’s safe to do something I would never do in front of him. Something I have never even told anyone about.
What am I doing late at night that is so shocking and embarrassing that I would die if my husband found out? Sigh. I’m eating. That’s right, eating.
I know you’re probably all scratching your head and asking what’s so bad about that…you are doing that, right? Anyway. What’s so bad about it is that I’m eating junk food at 11pm or later, and that’s not going to help me in my quest to live healthier.
Last fall I had some serious health problems pop up, and since then I take about seven different medications every day. I don’t know why, but the combination of medicine absolutely kills my appetite. I know this isn’t healthy either, but I’m not hungry at all during the day, and I normally don’t even try to eat anything until dinner, around 6pm. Even by then, I’m not hungry and may be able to force down only a tiny bit of whatever we’re eating.
I can feel that this is not good for me; even though I don’t feel hungry, I can tell by mid afternoon that my body needs nourishment. I might try to have a banana or some cheese and crackers, but it’s more than not being hungry. I cannot force it down; I just can’t eat.
I usually stay up pretty late finishing homework or working until after midnight. And then it starts. I still don’t feel hungry, but by this late hour I have regained my will to eat. It’s not really boredom, because I’m busy. It’s more like I eat to keep myself awake. If I just sit here and read my school assignment or stare at the computer, my eyelids get heavy and my head starts to drop. Hard to do that when you’re digging into some chips and salsa.
This is a huge problem. Eating this late at night makes me feel just as bad as not eating throughout the day. It’s impossible to sleep on such a full stomach – full of junk, at that, so I stay up later and am tired the next day. It’s a vicious cycle, and I’m trying to stop.
I decided that I just wasn’t going to buy any snacks that I like. My sons are growing boys, so we have lots of healthy snacks for them. That’s not what I’m going for at 11pm. I won’t reach for fruit or granola when I have the late night munchies, nooo I won’t. I’m grabbing the salty and crunchy good stuff. Then in the morning I am bloaty and cranky from all the salty and crunchy. Like I said, vicious cycle.
I do pretty good when I just don’t buy the stuff I like. But even that is a battle of my will versus my inner snack monster. When I’m at the store some invisible magnetic force pulls me against my will to the chip aisle. As hard as I fight it, chips, salsa and basically anything crunchy ends up in my cart! Before I know it, I’ve paid for the junk and brought it home. It’s like I’m possessed!
There you have it. Real, authentic, honest. Painfully honest. Can you help me overcome this affliction? And if not, can you at least tell me your secret, shameful vice? I don’t want to be all alone with my secrets here.
For more Friday Fails visit My Blessed Life.
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May
6
When my first son was born, I was both relieved and terrified. Relieved because I had such a tumultuous relationship with my own mother that I was afraid of having a daughter; and terrified, because as I kept saying to anyone who would listen, I had no idea how to raise a boy!
Since I have two boys, I can’t guess whether or not boys are easier than girls. So far, my boys have been easier than I was. But I hit my prime age of difficulty about 15, and my oldest turns 15 in June, so things could still get worse.
I think it’s different for mothers and daughters though. I know now that many of my disagreements with my mom stemmed from her steadfast desire that I “do better” than she did. In life and in marriage. She had a very hard time letting go; she wanted to be smack in the middle of every decision I made, even in my twenties. That certainly didn’t help our relationship; and while I readily admit that I was a difficult child, I deeply resented her questioning every move I wanted to make. This all came to a head when I had my first child. The last thing I wanted was to be criticized as a new mom. Support, love, encouragement, but not criticism.
There’s been a pretty deep chasm between us for years. The resentments I held came to the surface when I had my own children, and the easiest way to deal with it was to limit communication. That was even easier when we moved three hours away.
Eleven years later, there is still a lot of hurt and resentment. But it’s fading away as I am more acutely aware that despite all the hurtful words and actions, I don’t want to waste any time on being angry. My parents were in their late thirties when I was born. They are elderly and in poor health, and it’s easier to forget the past when the future is so uncertain and frightening.
I am trying to remember the hurts that caused my mom and I to drift apart. Some of them are so fresh it still stings, but most have lost their sharpness. I don’t want to forgive and forget. I want to forgive and remember. I have two children of my own. I need to remember my own hurts so I can avoid hurting my own boys. Daughters are not the only ones who can be deeply hurt by idle words. I have said things that I would have instantly taken back if I could; angry words that at the time were meant to hurt. Angry words that have left a mark on my children, and on my heart.
I would never claim to be able to give parenting advice; I’m still a student at that school. But I do know this: Just as I remember my own mother’s words like it was yesterday, our children will remember our words. Tread lightly with their hearts.
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My boys
Where did those little guys go?Cuteness overload
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