You are my Sonshine, my only Sonshine....

My cousin just returned from dropping her cherished son off at college, and it got me to thinking. Parenting is not for sissies. Obvious, perhaps, but true none the less. Being a parent is a terrifying thrill ride, complete with sudden stops, hairpin turns that pull your stomach inside out, and the occasional crash. There is no insurance to help offset the cost of emotional catastrophe, there is no way to prevent the inevitable disaster, and there is no way to stop the runaway train that is called your child. And to think it all starts with a moment of transcendence. (No, not that moment. This is a G rated blog.) I'm talking about the moment you first see your beloved offspring in the glowing light of the ultrasound monitor.

When I had my oldest, ultrasound was not exactly new, but it wasn't run of the mill, either. It was, back then, a fairly inexact science, but a tool they were using more and more frequently when pregnancy had the unexpected bump. Naturally, I had lots of bumps; morning sickness 24/7 for months, chicken pox, fainting spells. So of course, there was no surprise when I went to my weekly checkup, smack on the due date, and found out there was another little problem, which required an ultrasound the next morning.

What prompted this unexpected, and very expensive uninsured turn of events? Well, I had my very first ultrasound when they realized that my anticipated arrival was upside down. Or, rather, right side up, if you want to be exact. He was already mooning the world, a comic circumstance which is almost irresistible, but I'll refrain from the guffaws. I should have known then it was not going to be a kiddie ride....

As a result of this ultrasound, I was informed that we were off on the due date by a month (never mind what the patient says, the technology is always right,) my anticipated arrival was a girl, and she was only about 3.5 pounds. They sent me home, a defeated, sobbing mass of unhappiness, because I had been pregnant forever, and I just knew I would never be able to last another month. I couldn't breathe, I knew the location of every restroom in a ten square mile radius, my back ached, my feet hurt, and I was miserable.

Naturally, that night I went into labor, and after a C-section the following morning due to a small snag. the head being stuck in my rib cage, I gave birth to a 7 pound 3 oz boy. Which turns out to have been a good thing in a lot of ways, not the least of which was that I was going to name her Tiffany, and now that he is 23, that seems rather uncalled for.

I will never forget driving away from that hospital, my little bundle of boy crammed into the back seat, strapped into a carrier that seemed too big, giant head flopping to the side, diaper on backwards. Indeed. It is fascinating that they would not allow us to leave the hospital with him until we had successfully bathed him, but they were unconcerned that we put diapers on backwards for the entire stay. I am certain some of the twinkling in their eyes was due to suppressed laughter as they watched us struggle to make sense of this tiny action figure.

As it turned out, it was even more fascinating that we were allowed to leave the hospital without CPR instruction, since we needed it. My son with the 190 IQ could not breathe and sleep at the same time, resulting in all kinds of excitement for the whole first year. You think it's a thrill when they do something to take your breath away, but the word thrill is redefined when they take their own breath away, and you aren't sure when or if they will catch it again.

He was not allowed to fall asleep in his car seat, lest we have a repeat of the incident where I yanked him from his car seat in the middle of the thoroughfare and gave him mouth to mouth, with a panicked crowd watching from the sidelines. We gave a whole new meaning to the song, "Shake, Rattle, and Roll." You would have seen us driving around the city, waving toys, singing, doing anything to keep that poor kid awake. Which might explain why he has had such a hard time going to sleep ever since.

He had an apnea monitor attached to him at all times for the first six months, then only when he slept until he was a year. The alarm sounded exactly like our microwave buzzer, so every time the microwave went off, I grabbed my son and yelled, "BREATHE!" He never was much on hugs, come to think of it....

He was a cute little thing, very smart, took apart a lamp while it was still plugged in and regularly started the record player just to watch it go around. But trouble found him. We nicknamed him Adam Bomb, because he was always creating havoc. As it turned out, this name was more apropos than we could have imagined, but I'll get back to that.

We were on a first name basis with the emergency room staff at a pretty early age, since he had severe asthma in addition to the breathing issues. So they were not surprised to see us come rushing in one afternoon, blood pouring from his finger. This child who had never moved a muscle previously had suddenly decided to crawl, and got into some glass and cut himself. They admonished us to be more attentive, but they had no idea just what a job that was going to be.

The next trip to the ER was for a swallowed penny. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and my son and I were at home, along with his dad, who had not yet gone AWOL on us. Someone, not naming names but it wasn't me, saw that Adam was sucking on a penny, and for some reason (more of that stellar judgment so frequently on display) did not take it away or even tell him to knock it off. Naturally, the next thing I know, Adam is in front of me, scratching at his throat, choking and turning blue. I rush out to the car with him, husband trailing in confusion.

We get to the hospital, and he is breathing. They tell me he will pass it, happens all the time, not to worry, go home and get a grip. So I tried. I really tried. But my ADHD son went home and sat motionless on my lap, and since he hadn't sat still since birth, it was clear something was still dreadfully wrong. He stopped breathing again. Back in the car, back to the ER, where they labeled me an hysterical mother. Which I was.

Ultimately, I refused to leave until they did an X-ray, which resulted in a pretty interesting flurry of activity. I saw a nurse come scurrying through, glancing at me apprehensively, then talking in hushed voices with the ER doctor, both of them Not Looking in our direction. Then another nurse came through with an X-ray which rather clearly showed a big round disc in the middle of the neck, and it became clear that we had located the missing penny. Eventually they rushed him into surgery and extracted that penny, which we still have. When someone says to him, "A penny for your thoughts," they have no idea just how much those thoughts are worth!

Adam seemed to enjoy his time in the emergency room, since he followed up that penny incident with several more, including two hernia operations, and my favorite, baby liposuction. He had a sand table in his preschool room, and was told roughly eight bazillion times not to run inside, when, of course, he ran. And fell. And hit his chin. His fat little double chin. I won't go into the gory details, but let's just say the next time you hear the word straightjacket, don't assume it means someone can't move. Or get out of it. We adults think we are so smart, but I can verify that a three year old can reduce several well educated adults to shreds of their former selves in five seconds flat.

When you are in possession of a lively kid, you rather quickly learn to dread the appearance of a certain number on your CallerID. Whenever the school ID popped up, I knew I was in for a rough few minutes, and I was rarely disappointed. Although there were many incidents over the years, the Bomb Episode was, without question, the one that stands out in my mind as the day I asked myself, what was I thinking?

The phone rang, and it was my son's teacher, calling from the principal's office to inform me (it is NEVER a good thing when they call to inform, by the way) that my son was being suspended for bringing a bomb to school. This was before Columbine, and although the occasional school shooting had occurred, it still had an unreal feel to it. So when Mr. W told me that my son brought a bomb to school, I was dumbfounded. I sputtered. I choked. I coughed. I said, "WHAT?"

You know that cartoon image where steam is coming out of someone's ears? Ya. Well.

In the end, of course, he hadn't actually brought a real bomb to school. He had wrapped an AA battery in blue paint tape, stuck a string out the top, and then told someone he had a bomb in his pocket. Who told someone. Who told someone. Who told a first grader. Who cried and then told their teacher. Who wanted to evacuate the school and call the police. Which is where Mr. W came in. Which is where I came in. Which is where Adam went out the door of the school and into the family dog house.

There is a funny post script to this, of course. In the end, he was allowed back to school following a stern lecture and a long meeting, and as a consequence, he had to stay after school every day for a week to write a paper on responsibility. The principal was so pleased with that paper that he submitted it to a national conference he was attending, where it was read as an example of the value of positive teaching! Dr. J had a lot of detractors, but I remain grateful to this day that he understood the difference between consequences and punishment, and saw that teachable moment for what it was.

We've had a lot of years, 23 of them now, to experience all the emotions life offers. From watching him on that first ultrasound, to watching him take that first step, to watching him drive away alone for the first time, to him watching us drive away on the first day of college, your entire job as a parent is to make yourself obsolete. But then you get to have the best part of the whole thing - you get to be their friend. It is a hair raising, stomach turning, physically demanding job, and is definitely not the for the weak of spirit. But if you are a fan of thrills rides, you will never exerience one more exciting!

On questions....

It turns out people ask all sorts of interesting questions when you are getting divorced, It's a little like being pregnant, I think. People temporarily suspend the rules, and especially if they have been thinking about it for themselves, will ask all kinds of questions that would never normally see the light of day. Or hear the music of the night. It's odd, and yet freeing in a way, sort of like a weird personal ad: Divest yourself of the debris of your relationship and help someone else while you're at it.

This is not a humor post, by the way. If you are staring at me waiting for me to say something funny, stop it. No, really.

A couple of questions stand out for me.

Quite a few people have asked me how you know you need to get a divorce; I guess their assumption being that I knew what I was doing. Let's think about that. If I knew what I was doing, would I have married him in the first place? Anyway, in my case, I knew when he said, "I'm bored, I need to take a vacation from my life for a few months, but I'll be back." Ah, I don't think so. (And people think I'm funny? You can't make this stuff up.) There may be better ways to know, I'm sure, but it could be worse, too. At least there wasn't much suspense!

The real answer to that question? Well, I'm no psychologist, but if you are asking, you are probably there, whether you should be or not. That kind of question just doesn't come up a lot in your average happy marriage, I'm pretty sure. Although I am hardly the one to be doling out marital advice, considering my own state of unmarried bliss....

Another interesting question is, "Do you know a good lawyer?" Well, isn't that a loaded question? I am brimming with pithy jokes here, but the truth is, your divorce lawyer is sort of a necessary evil, a best friend who has your best interests at heart, but doesn't really need to know or care about the state of your heart.

You begin this relationship in the midst of crushing pain while your life is crashing around you, which is not, I'm sorry to say, the best basis for making friends. So if you are planning to continue the relationship, you are probably going to be disappointed again. Which, at $250 an hour, is probably just as well. Whenever you see their number on your caller ID you feel this sinking sensation in your gut, like a roller coaster out of control. Which is pretty much how life feels generally, that first year or two, anyway.

My favorite question is, "How are you doing?" Other than having my life come to a screeching halt, crash on the floor at my feet, and just generally suck, I'm great! That is the stock question we ask anyone going through one of life's difficult times, and I ask it too, of course. Sometimes I mean it, sometimes I'm just being polite. But if you want to tell me, I'm listening.

When I was going through my divorce, I just told the truth when someone asked me, because I was too tired to make something up just to make everyone else feel good. Which is why I am now free to post whatever I want on this blog. Everyone I care about already knows everything, anyway! It's very freeing to just be honest. That way, you don't have to worry who knows what, and you can just be yourself. It also enables you to garner lots of sympathy when you really need it. Trust me. There is no pick me up like a sympathetic ear.

One question no one seems to ask, although it's probably the most interesting question of all, is, "How did you feel when he left?" In my case, of course, I was the one left holding the rotting carcass, because he was bored being a grown up. In fact, I got to feel it not once, but three times - first me, then each of my kids in turn.

The first time, the time he really left me, I felt this moment of complete terror, followed by a moment of exhilaration, followed by a moment of panic, followed by a moment of the sweetest freedom I've ever felt. Again, much like being pregnant, if you want to know the truth. And even then, I was already thinking, I will have to write a book. Apparently, writing is my cheap therapy.

It is much harder to watch the light go out of your child's eyes; to see their world completely shatter and fall to pieces around their feet. It is heartbreaking, and you would give anything to keep it from happening. That is not something I want to write about in a book, although if you are thinking about divorce, you should be prepared to see that for yourself, and it will break your heart.

Questions are, I think, the way we know one another as humans, and without them, we can't really see inside someone else's soul. Most people won't volunteer information about their inner selves without being asked a question or two to get them started.

I encourage you, if you know someone going through a very hard time, to go beyond asking how they are, and ask them something that will let them know you truly care. "What is on your calendar this week?" "What day next week can we go to lunch at Panera? My treat!" "I am coming over to help you clean your house this weekend, and then you can help me next time I am overwhelmed."

Ask specific questions, pertinent to their life, that have a specific answer. Don't ask them to make another decision - suddenly all they do is make decisions on their own, and it's a relief to have someone else make a decision for a change. Don't be afraid to dig a little deeper and go beyond the surface, even if it brings a flood of tears or a pained expression. Crying doesn't kill you, it is healing, and it's even more healing when you do it with someone who genuinely cares.

And if you are the one going through the hard time, answer honestly when someone asks how you are. One person letting you down, even when it's one of the most important people in your life, is not everyone, no matter how it may feel. By being honest, you will be free to receive the showers of love and caring and attention that people will shower upon you. There is no balm more soothing than that.

The family pet....

We have a regular zoo in our house. Not an exotic zoo, to be sure, although that would be fun. We have the usual menagerie of suspects: two dogs, a cat, a bird and a fish. Like everyone else in the household, the family pets suffer when the family falls apart.

The pet, if they are attached to the person who leaves, will get depressed and sad, because someone that is a part of their world is suddenly gone. They will also pick up on the sadness in the household generally, and that can make them depressed as well. In some cases, I have heard people have given up their family pets, if they had to move or couldn't afford to keep them. That would be the end for my pets, not to mention me. We would just give up all together, and probably die of collective heartbreak.

When my ex-husband left, I can't say I was all that surprised he left me, because he made it clear he wasn't all that fond of me, anyway. But I was surprised that he left the dog. Dogs have that kind of effect on a person, it seems. There is something about all that unqualified adoration and devotion they give that is undeniably enticing.

Personally, I can't imagine giving up my pets for any reason. It would be like giving away a member of the family. I'm not sure I would have made it through my divorce without my pets. They are very important to me, and I try my level best to take the best care of them that I possibly can. However, having said that, I think it's important to recognize that pets do not come without a certain amount of, shall we say, trouble. Or, in the case of one of ours, Trouble with a capital T.

We have a little dog, purebred Papillion, championship stock, in fact. He is the cutest dog I have ever seen, incredibly smart, very lively, and always enthusiastic, especially about eating (that would explain the 13 pound body on the nine pound frame....) He is very important to me, because he was there for me when no one else could be. So naturally, because my life is my life, he is always having a problem. Let's just say the emergency vet hospital is number one on my speed dial.

When he was a puppy, he refused to eat. When he was down to less than two pounds, I was afraid he was going to die on us because he was so fragile and sickly and pathetic. I bribed him, cajoled, hand fed, force fed, and cried over him, and eventually, this troublesome little sprite got the idea and started eating. He has not stopped since.

He eats everything. Absolutely everything. Including a lot of stuff he is not supposed to eat.

• Like a full bottle of Adderol, which he somehow got off a high table, and which is normally used for ADHD. That required a two night stay at the emergency clinic.
• My son's earplugs, which he seems to consider a particularly delectable snack.
• Dirty litter which has spilled out of the cat's box.
• Fungus, blueberries, raisins, chocolate.

He has never seen a poison he didn't want to scarf down whole. Augh.

Being only 13 pounds, it doesn't take a whole lot to mess up his system (hence the first name basis I am on with my vet. And his staff.) Last week, we had another... Incident. He goes to bed, he's perfectly fine, he gets up, he's vomiting everywhere. Then he's vomiting blood. For days this little dog occupied my every waking moment, while we tried to figure out what was going on, and what would happen next.

Pretty dramatic, right? Is your heart racing, your blood pounding? Are you on the edge of your seat wondering what happens next?

Actually, he got well. NO, not just like that. It's been a long, slow process, and I have worried every step of the way. But eventually, he will be back to normal, and I will once again have brief piece of mind, until the next time.

Why am I telling you about my troublesome pooch? Because pets are a part of divorce, too; a part that is taking a fascinating turn, both emotionally and in the courts, it seems. I have read recently about several couples who have gone to court over who gets the dog when someone got the door. For some reason, cats, birds and fish do not seem to inspire this kind of passion in their owners, or at least, not that I have read about. Because all the cases I have read about have been dogs.

But anyway, it seems that people are going to mediation, and actually including pet visitation schedules in their divorce proceedings these days. I am not surprised. Personally, I'd rather have custody of my pets than my ex, too.

The First Wives Club....

The first time I ever saw the movie, "The First Wives Club," I thought it was a funny, if somewhat unrealistic, commentary on the state of marriage and divorce in our society. I couldn't really relate to it, because I was years away from joining that club myself, and I didn't see the situation from the inside. Now that I have joined the club, I have learned some interesting and surprising things, some funny, some not so much.

Club Divorce is a bizarre little group, or not so little group, really, with lots of hidden members, and even a few wanna-bes. Membership has only one criteria, but it is one of the most difficult you will ever have to meet - for one reason or another, you have to fail at the single biggest commitment you will ever make. So, on second thought, I guess it really isn't so surprising people don't brag about it more.

One of the biggest surprises for me has been just how many people I know who have been divorced and I didn't realize it. You can know people for years, and yet not find out until you are going through it yourself that they are divorced. Although we pride ourselves on being a free and open society, practically nothing off limits, it is clear that we are very afraid to talk about divorce in polite company. It's the dirty word of social etiquette, sort of a blot on the character of the person who is going through it, or so it seems.

For anecdotal evidence, there aren't any card lines for divorcing people - you buy something from the "thinking of you" or "support" categories, or perhaps the "cope" line, or just don't send one at all. If there isn't a card to recognize it, how can it be a "real" event, since Hallmark guarantees a card for every occasion? [In all fairness to Hallmark, I went looking for a divorce card awhile back, just to see, and they did have one choice.] But it's not exactly mainstream to discuss divorce in polite conversation, except in abstract, and then only cautiously, despite statistics which tell us that at least half the people in any room have been divorced.

And unlike other major life transitions, baptism, graduation, marriage or funeral, there is no ceremony to mark this life changing event in a person's life. Hallmark is missing a huge a market here, seriously. Hm. More on this later....

It's almost like people are afraid that if they acknowledge the death of your marriage, they might put their own relationship in jeopardy. Thus, we tell divorced people to "move on," to start dating again, to get back into circulation, and as quickly as possible, so they are no longer in that unhappy state, and we can all forget about it. [An aside here, I just have to.... Have you taken a look at the gene pool of available men my age recently? Let's see; well, my ex-husband is one of them. Enough said.]

One of the humorous things I have experienced is a sort of "divorce quarantine," the tendency of married people to think if they talk to you, they will be "infected" with the divorce disease themselves. So they stop talking to you, or tell their partner to stop talking to you, just in case. Ah ha. Because I am having such a good time, I want everyone else that I care about to go through it with me. Oh for dumb!

And while we are at it, I always thought it was a cartoon stereotype that people thought middle aged divorced women are vamps on the prowl, but I have found some misguided people think it's a real phenomenon. You can trust me on this; I don't look at your husband/boyfriend/significant other and want to steal them away. Have you seriously looked at your middle aged titan lately? It's sweet of you to still feel that way about him, really it is. I feel warm and gooey all over, in fact. But I dropped the rose colored spectacles awhile ago, and I see the world in real color! (Or maybe it's black and white. I dunno.) And size. And shape. Don't even get me started on the shape.

So anyway. A story. A few years ago, when my daughter was much younger and we would go for a walk in the evening, she would point out to me that every other walker out there seemed to have a dog or two. She noticed that dog owners were a super special and very exclusive club - they would smile, nod at each other, maybe even stop to compare notes if they had dogs the same size or their dog was especially cute. It was a social event to walk your dog, and my daughter desperately wanted to join the party.

Going through a divorce is somewhat the same, for all that you reluctantly join the party; suddenly, you are a member of this exclusive group, sort of like a facebook group, maybe, where you have this huge thing in common, no matter how different the rest of your lives may be. Like my cousin once said, everyone going through a divorce experiences much the same process, although the details may be different. So true. Divorce blows up your whole life, and putting the pieces together again, albeit in a new pattern, is much the same for everyone.

I don't know if that's reassuring or just sad, but I felt comfort knowing I wasn't alone, and that there were other people who knew how I felt, and what I was going through. So I hope that by talking about my own experience, I will give comfort, and maybe hope, to someone else who may be feeling the same kinds emotions.

The price of admission to the First Wives Club is too high, especially for the kids. But it is good to know that in the end, you will not only survive, you will laugh again.

On Humor....

A few years ago, my daughter had a friend over, and I eventually became aware that she was watching me rather intently. Since I wasn't doing anything particularly interesting, I was curious about what had prompted her attention. So I said to her, as I usually do, "Y-e-s-s-s-s?" You know, the long, drawn out yes that is a question meaning, what do you want/need/require WHAT IS THE DEAL? I was rather surprised when she answered, "I am waiting for you to say something funny!" Well, since I am not funny on demand, like a comic pay-per-view or Robin Williams, I was rather taken aback. I asked her what on earth brought that on. Her response? "Because you are really funny."

Well. Who knew?

Humor is a funny thing. No, seriously. It can be very difficult to define what is humor, although, truth be told, most human beings find the same things funny. Generally, we laugh at other people's misfortunes, adults more often than children, in part because it's disconcerting to see adults doing something silly, and in part because we either can relate, having been there ourselves, or we are glad it isn't us.

There are different types of humor, of course. There is the dry, sarcastic wit that seems to be more the realm of the cynical intellectual. Apparently everyone in my household fits this description. Or so we have all been told at one time or another.

There is also slapstick humor, defined by the physical acts that make us all cringe and laugh at the same time - falling off a curb, tripping, hitting a funny bone - you know it hurts, and you don't wish them an injury, but it's funny to see their reaction none-the-less. Buster Keaton was a master at it, and if you have never seen his work, you really should, because he is FUNNY.

There is intentional humor, which is when someone tells you a joke, and you are supposed to laugh. Sometimes you do, sometimes you don't, but the intent is to produce humor of some kind. I have noticed children frequently pursue this occupation, I think because they are using humor to try and engage us when they can't get our attention any other way. Professional comedians, generally very large children, do the same, but they get paid a lot of money for it, which makes it better. I'll bet they laugh all the way to the bank. Where they have the last laugh. But I digress....

There is the off-the-cuff, sideways glance at life type of humor, where a person just has a gift for seeing the humor in a situation and sharing it with those around them. I think, quite often, off-the-cuff humor is a coping mechanism, a way to deal with a life which has handed out lemons, and is employed by a person who likes lemonade. A lot.

And there are the storytellers - the people who can frame life experiences and share them in a way that makes us laugh. I love storytellers, and I so envy them their ability to make any incident funny. I have a neighbor who has a real gift for storytelling, and he is a favorite party guest, at least in part because when he is there, you know people will laugh and have a good time. Bob Newhart is a very gifted storyteller comedian. If you have never seen his routines, they are quietly hysterical. Bill Cosby is another one. They find the humor in everyday situations, and by retelling, they make you see the humor, too. Try it. You'll like it.

I have read about the childhoods of various comedians, and it seems they all have a gift for humor in common from a very young age, although they wield it differently. Some of them are the class clown, which is not, for the uninitiated, a compliment. While from the outside, it means the other children have an appreciation for your antics, and encourage you to continue, when applied to one's own self, it generally means you have been dreadfully off task and every adult in your life is mad at you. Not that I would know. I'll bet Jim Carrey was a class clown. Just because it worked out for him does not mean it will work out for you, however. Just in case you were thinking of giving up the day job.

Some comedians had a rough upbringing, and have turned to humor to cope with the problems they have faced. Their humor can be course or rough or even mean spirited, and is the kind of humor that is often rewarded by the entertainment crowd with large amounts of cash. Shock humor. How many four letter words can you say in three minutes? Sometimes I think they are paid to go away. Andrew Dice Clay, anyone?

Some comedians seem to be funny all the time. Robin Williams is the comic gift that never stops giving. It seems he is incapable of not saying the funny thing, not doing the funny thing. He can take a situation and see the humor in it, or he can just make a joke. He understands what makes us laugh in physical comedy, and he's not stupid, either. He is the complete comedic package, and is the comedian I probably most admire, not because he is so consistently funny, but because he clearly sees the humor in everyday life, enjoys making people laugh, and will do whatever it takes to achieve that.

I don't know whether most people think they are funny or not. I don't even know whether most comedians find themselves funny. I recall the wife of some comedian was interviewed awhile ago, I can't remember who, and she was asked if he is as funny at home as he is in public. One of those really original questions reporters like to ask. Anyway, she said something along the lines of comedy was his job, and at home, he takes out the garbage like everyone else. And there is just not that much humor in taking out the garbage.

But back to the regular people. Like I mentioned, I have no idea if most people think they are funny or not. Well, I am here to tell you, surprisingly few people that I know are funny, at least on purpose. Even more surprisingly to me, they don't seem to care that they aren't funny. Being funny doesn't even seem to be on their radar. I don't get it. While I am constantly giggling about this or that, I have noticed that most people seem to take life pretty seriously. I can also tell you that on those personality profile tests you are forced to take when engaged in Serious Employment, I am usually the 1% fringe member of the population who doesn't know there is a box, while most people are stepping on each other's heads trying to get into that box.... So perhaps that says more about me than it does about them. Hm.

I guess there are open mic occasions at comedy clubs where people are allowed to go and perform a routine for the enjoyment or derision of the assembled audience, and a lot of people do it, so I guess there are some people who think they are funny. I cannot imagine the pressure, in that situation, because everyone in the room is waiting for, hoping for, expecting you to fail. I couldn't be funny with everyone waiting for me to succeed, much less with everyone waiting for me to fail. But in my heart of hearts, if I could be anything I wanted to be, and know that I would be successful, I would be a comedian. I cannot imagine a better way to spend your life - bringing humor and laughter into people's lives. Now you know my deepest, darkest secret, and there is nothing left to reveal, so I guess I'm done writing.



Just kidding.

But anyway, getting to the point of this little post, I am not funny on demand, although I envy those that are. I do enjoy making people laugh, but I am not conceited enough even to think I am genuinely a funny person. So sometimes in this blog, I will write something funny, because I am in the mood, and I see something funny in a situation, and I want to share the humor. But some days, I am just not in humorous mood, and what I write won't be funny. And some subjects just don't lend themselves to humor, I suppose, although I think if you really, really try, you can pretty much find humor in everything.

So, while I do hope you find humor in my life and my writing, I hope you won't think that if you tune in, you are guaranteed a laugh. I appreciate that a few people think I am a funny person, but I will have to keep my day job. Well, I would if I had one....

In the beginning....

I once told my counselor (oh yeah, years of it,) that I have experienced the trifecta of loss and rejection in life, and that is why I am such a mess today. He laughed, I was serious. Well, semi-serious, anyway. [If you don't know what a trifecta is, you need to get a dictionary and increase your vocabulary, instead of reading silly blogs online.]

When I was born, my biological mother took one look at me and decided she didn't need the entanglement. In other words, she gave me up for adoption.

I am not complaining. It was, perhaps, the only intelligent decision of her adolescence, although since I don't know her, I don't have a lot of information to work with. However, the evidence from the two decisions I do know about demonstrates a rather dismal 50% smart rate, which makes me think she was not the brightest bulb in the four pack.

I was lucky enough to be adopted by what can only be described as the most deperate pair of wannabe parents on the planet, which made me very lucky indeed. While they did not shower me with money or worldly goods :( they did give me love, attention, and an amount of discipline directly correlated with my penchant for making my own bad decisions, something which I apparently displayed from my earliest hours.

My mother likes to tell the story about how I never cried after they got me until I fell off a cupboard. This may have involved tooth loss, but the details remain sketchy to me. Clearly, I had found a good thing, and I knew it.

The good fortune was interspersed, even at that early age, with some sadness, especially the loss of my beloved uncle, Phillip, who lived with us. Phillip slipped me treats as long as I promised not to tell my mother on him, and in the eyes of a very little girl who had a mother who was not afraid to say no, that made him very nearly God-like. Losing Phillip at the age of four was a hard life lesson, but it certainly let me know early that my life was not going to be a picnic. Well, on second thought, maybe it was a picnic - one complete with ants, chiggers and a rainout!

Anyway....

The next installment in my personal trifecta of rejection and loss was the untimely death, when I was 12, of my beloved daddy at age 50 from a ridiculous birth defect no one knew about until he died. Of all the random events in a life filled with absurdities, this was certainly one of the most senseless. I was daddy's little girl, and I followed him around whenever I could, just to be with him. A piece of me died with him, I am sure, just as it does with everyone who loses a parent. But however hard it is when you are an adult, it is a quantum worse when you are a child whose whole universe revolves around your parents. And so it was for me.

My dad was a pretty interesting combination of quirks and goofy traits, although as a kid I thought he was pretty much perfect, of course. He was a big tease, and no event went unnoticed, to say nothing of unmentioned. Every time I cried, he would tell me he loved to hear me sing, and that I should sing louder. He was a perfectionist of a sort, who drove himself, and us, especially my brother, relentlessly at times, especially when we weren't measuring up to his expectations. Even when he relaxed, on vacation or on Sunday, he was always doing it with intensity. And yet, he would stop in the middle of his day to help a person with a flat tire or listen to their problem, or to tease a niece or have a piece of pie.

Dad was a storyteller, too, and he did the very best loon calls you have ever heard in your life. [The loon is the Minnesota state bird, and if you grow up in Minnesota, you know the ability to make loon calls is a big deal.] He was a Boy Scout leader, he was the church janitor, he was an elevator employee by day and a farmer by night. He could fix anything, he knew almost everything worth knowing, and losing him was like having the foundation pulled out from under your house. It is still standing, but it's pretty shaky and hollow, which was how I felt for a lot of years after he died.


A very funny story about my dad and his sense of humor. My uncle Bud has always been a pie lover, and my mother used to make a lot of pies when I was growing up. [I am not really sure when that stopped, but if I am resentful of anything in my life, it is that my mother never seems to make me pie any more!] Anyway, my dad had been saving a piece of pie for himself when my aunt and uncle arrived. Bud saw the pie and really wanted that piece of pie for himself, and my dad wanted it too. Instead of cutting it in half and sharing it, my dad told Bud that he could have it for 50 cents, which was a lot more money back then. You could buy a couple gallons of gas with it, for goodness sakes. Anyway, Bud was really wanting that pie, and eventually coughed up the 50 cents. So my dad took the money and gave Bud the pie. And he laughed about it for the rest of his life.

I took his death personally, for some reason. Kids always think they are responsible for everything that happens in their life, I guess. I don't really know why, because you are reminded a thousand times a day just how little you matter, and yet, you think you control the universe, and apparently even life and death. So when my dad died, I sort of thought he just up and left me on purpose. I know you are thinking, oh for dumb, but it is what it is.

By the way, for those who are uninitiated to Minnesota-isms, we like to make "oh-for" statements. No, not as in, 0 for 4, like some kind of lifetime batting average. We add Oh-for statements to words for added emphasis. For example, oh for dumb is not just dumb, it's really dumb. But oh for dumb is so much more satisfactory. Try it. You'll see. We are smart up there in the cold north. We have to keep our brains warm doing something, so we think a lot. We also have hot dish, and think casserole is just hoity toity, but that's another post....

Anyway, the final leg to get pulled off my three legged stool [apparently another thing Minnesotans like to do is not get to the point, and use a lot of metaphors while not doing it] was when my husband, Mr. Midlife Crisis, left me for another woman. Oh, it was cliche, of course, in a way. She was younger, naturally, while I was a rather unexciting 44. She was blond, short and new, while I was an at home mom, same old, same old. She was a nursing student, who would minister to the populace like the angel she was (I am paraphrasing him here, but not much,) while I did nothing all day but take care of the house, raise the kids, make ends meet, pay the bills, volunteer like crazy at school and church. You know. The b-o-r-i-n-g stuff.

But he did not just leave me and our kids, (when my daughter was exactly the same age, 12 years old, that I was when my dad died, I might add,) for another one of his affairee's. He made sure it was a little more interesting, because he got her pregnant first, THEN left us because she was, and this is an exact quote, "Carrying my child." Okay.

Well, that was a pretty interesting time. Excruciating. Painful. Exasperating. You get the drift.

Not only did he leave and move in with the new girl, but he insisted he still loved me, and was just "taking a vacation from his life." For months. Even though he was living with his brand new family. A few days before the divorce was final, he even e-mailed me [no, I am not kidding] to ask if I thought there was any chance of reconciliation. Ha! Ha! Ha! Always the romantic.

True funny story. [If you haven't figured it out yet, my ex-husband will figure rather prominently in some of these stories I have to tell. I will leave it to your discretion whether you chuckle silently to yourself, or just laugh out loud, as I usually do when recalling these things.] One day, he informed me that he had made such a mess of things that he was just going to start his life over. Seriously. Like you get a mulligan on life or something. Apparently in his world if you screw up, you don't have to own up to it and go from there, like the rest of us. Instead, you get to wipe the slate clean, sort of like a moral bankruptcy or something, and start over again. Do you think his sky is purple?

So, to cut to the chase, you take a nice, quiet, introverted Minnesota girl, and you marry her off to a sociopath with no moral compass whatsoever, and what you get is Help! I'm a Walton in a Jerry Springer World!

This blog's for you....

For many years now, I have been thinking about telling my story. Why is my story worth telling? Why is anyone's story worth telling?

Perhaps by providing shared experience, I can give encouragement to someone else who is going through the tribulations I have already faced. Perhaps I just want to extract some sense of justice. Perhaps I am a closet exhibitionist, and I can't resist the temptation of laying myself bare online, for all the world to see. Sort of an emperor without her clothes, metaphorically speaking. Or maybe I am just a writer, and my life is the only thing I really know, so that is what I will write about.

Whatever the impetus, here I am, writing for the world, instead of just my own journal. It is a frightening experience, almost like laying your soul bare for other people to rummage through. But I don't think you are a real writer if you never allow the world to see your finished product. (It seems rather presumptuous to call one's own writing work, although it surely is. And it seems even more presumptuous to assume anyone will read it, even if it is out there in the nebulous blogosphere.) So I throw my offering out there, like so much dandelion detritus. Do with it what you will.

The title of my blog is the title of the book I will one day write about my life. Although I am certainly not famous or important, and I definitely am not rich, much to my teenaged daughter's chagrin, I have led a pretty interesting life. I can't imagine what purpose God has in giving me all these travails, if not to encourage or to inspire others that they are not alone on this frustrating globe. So that is the goal of this blog. If nothing else, I truly hope that somewhere along the line, someone in need will read this insignificant matter of my life, and know that they too, matter.

So, without further ado, I dedicate this blog, first and foremost, to all those people who are struggling to make sense of the senseless happenings in their lives. If you can find faith and a reason to go forward from my ramblings, I will have succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.

But I cannot end this forward without a small dedication to the ones who made it all possible. Without your rather important part in the debacle of my life, I would never have been able to write this story. So really, in the end, I owe it all to you. So Tom and Paula, this blog's for you....