Changes, Frustrations, and Joys

Several people emailed me this week to ask if everything was ok because I hadn't posted in several weeks. I replied that yes, all is fine, just have been busy with a schedule change and some frustrations. Which got me to thinking about what, indeed, is going on in my life right now.

For one thing, my daughter has gone back to work as an elementary school counselor after being a stay-at-home mom for the last two years. Before she quit work, I had been the babysitter for the two grandsons for three years, so when she was home my 'job' was eliminated. I had thought I would go back to work, but jobs around in our area are scarce, and I'd been out of the work place for three years at that time. Besides, I didn't know what kind of job to look for as I have some 'brain quirks' that make my choices limited.

I began cleaning house once a week for her sister-in-law, and then later going every day twice a day to walk and play with her(the s-in-l) new dog, a high-energy min pin puppy, which turned into me being a working mom's assistant (doing a quick kitchen clean-up and house pick-up while letting the dog play, and then cleaning on Fridays). The rest of the time I just played happy homemaker in my own home, watched a lot of tv, worked in the yard, interacted with my dogs, and spent waaay more time than I should have here on the computer. Basically, I made my own schedule and didn't have to do a lot of accounting to anyone. And I make enough money each week to at least pay for my meds, or buy Eva Jean's special and outrageously expensive dog food every four weeks, or do something with one or both boys.

So, back to the present. Like many families these days, we're all suffering greatly from slow downs with work and being in financial distress. I won't go into all that here, but suffice it to say that we are all incredibly frustrated. When Melody decided she had to go back to work (kicking and sceaming the whole way), it also meant a specific schedule change for me. It goes something like this:

9:30-10:30 walk Max and clean kitchen (I take my Oliver with me so they can play)
10:30-12 clean daughter's house (kitchen, vacumn, laundry, or whatever needs to be done)
12-1:30 my house
1:30-2:15 walk Max and play with him
2:30 pick 4yr old Conner up from school and go to his house
3:15 Garrett gets home by bus
3:15 til 5-7:00ish sit the boys and cook dinner for them and enough to take home for us

The joy of this schedule change is that I get to see the boys every day, and get to interact more with my daughter and her family life at her house as opposed to the boys being dropped off/picked up from my house. She doesn't pay me a salary like before, but reimburses me in sooo many ways throughout the year/month/week/day, more than any daughter should have to do for her mom and dad who are still ambulatory (though becoming more decrepit every year!).

The other change that comes with this schedule change is that I will have to pick up some of the slack in some of my daughter's other obligations, such as in a business that she's involved in with her dad and husband, which is fine, except that I'm afraid I will screw up and disappoint them because of those 'brain quirks' I mentioned before. I'm not sure they actually realize how scrambled my brain is sometimes, though I've certainly told them about it often enough, and I sometimes wonder if they think that I just use that as an excuse to not do some things, or think that it ties into my irrational belief that I'm basically a screw-up. Be that as it may, it's not a huge effort to do what's basically secretarial work, just the frustration (and fear) that I'll screw up something important and disappoint them because of my huge inability to follow or remember directions.

Also, and this is something I don't know how she ever managed to do with the kids running around plus the time consuming business stuff, I have taken over one of her PTO duties of entering Coke product codes for school rewards. Seriously, bags of Coke bottle tops have to be entered on the computer one.at.a.time, and it is the most boring and time-consuming task imagineable! Could Coca-Cola have made it more difficult to earn rewards?

Ok, all this sounds like a cake walk to those of you who have four kids, two jobs and an aging parent to take care of along with your own disabilities! But it's a change for me nonetheless, and we're still in the process of fine-tuning it. I'm having to redefine my priorities as far as just getting the basics in my own home done in a timely fashion, in addition to semi-running two other households...especially since, as you might recall from my previous post, I am the queen of procrastination. If you ask me to do something for you, I may happily and willingly say "sure, no problem!", only to forget about it for the next two weeks, so I'm having to remember that there are other people involved now.

But here's something that I realized this week that I guess could also be put in the joy column. While I was berating myself for only being capable of doing fluff work like housecleaning and babysitting (as opposed to, say, nursing or teaching) to bring in some money, I realized that I am contributing to the quality of life for two families with a mother who works outside the home, the absolute hardest job in the world. When my daughter and her sister-in-law get home from a day at school, they walk into a clean kitchen and a straightened up house, giving them time to spend with their kids and doing other important stuff, instead of walking in and being slapped in the face with all the crap that's left over from dinner last night and breakfast that morning (not to mention the mess that three indoor dogs and two cats can make in a twenty-four hour period!). And probably just as importantly, my daughter knows that when those two little boys get home from school, the person who greets them and makes their snack does it with love.

And I've realized that this is something I do well, being a working mom's assistant, whether it's cleaning up a kitchen or cleaning out the kitty box, throwing in a load of clothes or scrubbing a toilet. I used to have my own house cleaning service (which means that I cleaned a bunch of houses by myself), but let it fall by the wayside as it's really.hard.work by yourself on a regular basis, especially if you have a bad back. While my own house is far from being clean, uncluttered, or organized, I have a natural impulse to walk into their houses and head straight to the kitchen or straighten a couch. I also had a very lucrative petsitting service which I gave up when we moved here as I didn't have time because of the grandsons, so it's nice to do that again.

But here's the really nice part ... my 'brain quirks', my inability to focus on a particular task and see it to it's finish, or my inability to even understand the steps to do the task, don't matter! No boss is going to say to me again: "Linda, if we didn't love you so much, and if you hadn't worked so hard, we would have had to fire you a long time ago because of your memory problems". (Well, unless I forget to walk Max, or to pick Conner up from school, or be home when Garrett's bus gets there, or enter the reward codes, or check the email for new orders, or forget to enter those orders, or ... hmmm, maybe I better not get too cocky!).

So, to make this loooong explanation even longer, I'm still reading new posts on my blog list every day, but if I don't publish my own post it's because I'm not managing my time well in my new schedule!

Two New Awards!

I recently received recognition from two of my fellow bloggers who I consider my online friends. I know some bloggers have award-free zones, which I guess means they don't display awards or just find it very time consuming, but I'm more than appreciative of the pat on the back, and will proudly display them somewhere on my blog. I guess the 'rules' do seem kind of silly, but it's all just a way for us to get to know each other, don't you think?

From Bernie at Old? Who Me? comes the Blog of Substance award. The only rule is that you pass it on to ten other bloggers. That's actually the hardest thing to do, as I can't think of many blogs that I've read over the last year that weren't blogs of substance, simply because they all are people like myself who are putting themselves, their thoughts, feelings and opinions, out there for all to see.

From Cheri at Cheri's Chatter comes the Versatile Blogger award. Cheri and I are new to each other, but I know her well enough to know that, besides being a fellow grandmother who dotes on her grandkids, she is a ray of sunshine. Seriously, you can almost hear her southern charm and positive attitude radiating from every sentence. The rule for this award (though I doubt they take it away from you if you don't follow the rules) is to give seven things about myself that you probably don't know about me. I've actually done this once before, so I hope I can think of a few more things. Oh, and pass it on to seven fellow bloggers who I consider 'versatile', which I guess means they write on a wide variety of topics.

I'm actually going to send BOTH of these awards on to the same people. Everyone I read deserves them, but if I have to name ten they would be: Annie at Quiet Commotion, Julie at Midlife Jobhunter, Lorna at Bathtime Blogger, Dinah at My Aimless Infatuation, Tim at Catnip, Suz at City Gal Moves to Oz, Michelle Rene at Must Be a Full Moon, Kobico at Mindless Meanderings of a Middle-Aged Maniac, Bernadette (Bernie) at On My Own, and Yaya at Whispering Pines. Forgive me for not linking to their blogs...I'm just lazy that way, and you can find them on my blog list. I also didn't check to see if they already have these awards, but that's ok as this is really about my personal recognition of them.

Ok, here goes:

1. I'm a time-waster of the highest order. I can find more things to do to waste time, and waste more time doing those things, than anyone I know. And when all is said and done, I've got nothing to show for the expenditure of that much time.

2. I have the lowest self-esteem of almost anyone I know. I don't know where it comes from, but I feel, and have felt for my entire life, that I am pretty much worthless except as a mother and grandmother. I'm one of those people who says to herself "can't you do anything right?", or "how fucking stupid can you be?", even if I just knock over a cup of coffee or forget to pay a bill. I realize that sending these negative messages to myself is a really bad habit, and I work on trying to change the way I talk to myself every day. Thanks for your urge to tell me I'm wonderful, but a person feels what a person feels no matter how irrational.

3. I'm addicted to crime shows, currently the Law and Orders, CSI, Bones, The Closer, and the new The Glades.

4. I've been watching General Hospital since I was pregnant with my daughter - 36 years. Even when I worked, I took a portable radio that had tv audio so that I could listen on those little earbuds. Almost every week I wonder why the hell I still watch it - but, I still watch it.

5. I've lived in Chicago Ill, Ft. Worth TX, Dallas TX, Denton TX, Alexandria VA, Dayton OH, Greeley, CO, Arvada CO, Loveland CO, Monroe GA, Eatonton GA, and now Rock Spring GA. Over a 62 year period.

6. In my lifetime I've owned 17 dogs (Brownie, Sleepy, Snookey, Chop Chop, Shaz, Grumpy, Gordon, Lulu, Nady, Toby, Chessie, Nady, Gracie, Charity, Molly, Eva Jean, Oliver) , 11 cats (Black Button, Kesch, Sugar Plum, Honey Bun, Blitzen, Clarisa/Clarence, Meg, Hazel, Hobo, Kitty, Tweety), 6 birds (Tweety, Micah, Spraddle, 3 cockatiels whose names escape me except for 'Bird'), 3 hamsters (Hercules, Squeeky, Pinky), multiple fish, 1 salamander, 3 rabbits (Dandy, Thumper, and another whose name escapes me), and 3 horses (Moon, Poco, and Lady). I have a collage frame in the hallway with all their photos.

7. I cuss like a sailer, especially when I'm mad, and when I'm mad I have a HUGE temper. No one suspects it of me as I'm soft spoken and shy, but when I blow it's big and LOUD. I'm also quick to apologize. Well, truth be told, I don't have to be mad to cuss. It's just an aspect of my verbal repertoire, as unflattering as it might be. I restrain myself in public or with certain people, and certainly around children, and it's very rare here on my blog as I don't like to offend people, but with family and friends it comes out.

Whew! That all took more time than I thought it would, but it was relatively painless. Thanks again for these awards, and I hope to continue to be deserving of them. And if I didn't give you an award but you'd like one or both of them to decorate your place, go ahead and take it and say it's from me - I'm sure you deserve them!

My Adoption Story - Pt. 1

On Nov. 23, ABC network will air a sneak peak at a new series titled FIND MY FAMILY. It will reunite long-lost family members, such as children given up for adoption and their biological parents. According to ABC, "the show will explore the profound issues involved when families separate and the lengths some go to re-unite, find answers, and discover lost family." It's said to be a family oriented, feel-good show, and of the tear- producing kind like Extreme Makeover Home Edition.

I'm not sure how much will be geared (staged) toward entertaining the tv audience and how much will be allowed to transpire in a true fashion, but I'm sure many adoptees and birth parents will be tuning in, as well as any family who has lost a loved one due to one moving away and losing track of each other, family estrangements, natural siblings separated due to divorce or foster care situations, or just someone tracing their roots.

As most of you know from previous posts, I was adopted. I was one of the lucky one's to find part of my biological family, and have had several requests to tell the story of how I found them. I had almost decided not to post about it because I didn't think I could do a shortened version of it and still effectively portray the emotions involved, plus it doesn't seem to be that uncommon a story anymore. But I've changed my mind, because I've realized that many people, including myself, never really tire of hearing someone else's story, as long as that story is authentic.

My story begins before the computer age and google, so I had to conduct it the old fashioned way! And, since the search for and discovery of my maternal family took place thirty-one years ago, I'll have to copy the events from a journal of sorts that I kept at the time for posterity. I'll also have to make this a serial story, as it's not a short one. It's a story that continues even til today, as many parts of it have changed with the passing of time. You'd think that after all this time the telling of this would have lost it's luster for me, but that's definitely not the case.

The decision to look for my birth mother wasn’t made until I was thirty years old, happily married, and the mother of a four year old daughter. I had known since about the age of ten that I was adopted, and had suffered through the typical adoptee daydreams, frustrations, and doubts, but I had always assumed that there was no hope of finding out about my real parents since I had no information and since it was a well known fact that orphanages and various agencies involved in the adoption process do not give out information. I believed that it would be a waste of time, money and emotions to even attempt a search. The thought occasionally entered my mind, especially when I would be explaining to someone that I was adopted, and most especially when I gave birth to my daughter, but the idea was quickly put aside for more practical matters of day to day living.

Then, in August of 1978, my adoptive father told me that he had run across my adoption papers and would send them to me. I had no idea what information was contained in these thirty year old records - for some reason it had never occured to me that such papers were even in existence - but I instinctively knew that something important was about to happen. The mere existence of these papers ignited every emotion I had kept hidden for so many years, and I knew that there was about to be a change in my life.

I was born on May 15, 1948,in Chicago, Illinois, and was placed in the Lake Bluff Orphanage. Until I received a copy of the papers involved in my adoption, this was all I knew about my birth. I had no idea what hospital I was born in or why I was placed for adoption. The weeks of waiting for the adoption papers to be sent to me were too filled with emotions to just sit and do nothing, so I decided to write the attending physician whose name was given on the “dubbed” birth certificate. To my surprise, he was still around, and he was kind enough to send a reply to my letter - which I would soon find was something I could not expect from everyone! He was able to tell me that, although he couldn’t possibly remember my birth, he knew that I was born at the University of Illinois Medical Center. You wouldn’t think that such a trivial piece of information could cause much excitement, but I was on the proverbial cloud nine for days, and more anxious than ever to obtain more “facts” about my birth.

Each day I waited nervously for the adoption papers to arrive, and each day it seemed that the mailman arrived later than the day before. I would actually tremble with anticipation when walking to the mailbox! When they finally came, I hesitated before opening the thick envelope. Would they contain a key to my identity, or would they just be a lot of legal words masking my identity and closing the door on my search? (to be continued...Part 2 here)

Honest Scrap Award

I'm honored to have received an award called the Honest Scrap Award. It's for "those bloggers who write from the heart", and I received it from Missy at Missy's Book Nook. Thank you so much Missy! I had seen this on someone else's blog and wondered where you had to go to get one, not realizing that it was an award! The rules are to pass it along to seven bloggers who write from the heart, and then to list 10 honest things about yourself.

I'm passing this award on to seven bloggers who I feel truly write from the heart: Lila at Being Lila, Bernie at Old?Who Me?, Lakeviewer at SixtyFive, Now What?, Ron at Destination: Where the F Is Ron?, Glenn Differences With the Same Likenesses, Michele Renee at Must Be A Full Moon, and Lorna at Bathtime Blogger. If you're one of those bloggers who doesn't like to display their awards for whatever reason, that's fine, but I want you to know that I chose you and visit you because I admire the honesty and heart you display in your blog. If you've never visited them, please do so. (You'll have to get to them from my blog list, because they're not going thru here. Sorry.)

Here are seven honest things about me that I stole from my FB notes:

1) I'm a magazine-aholic. I buy them, read the first few articles that grab my attention, then put it aside to read later... which never comes, because I've brought home another one or two. Stacks and more stacks, all around the house. Always looking for that one article that will have the solution to making my home, my marriage, my cooking, my life, better.

2) I'm obsessed with helping my neighbors take care of their pets, because they obviously can't or won't! It drives me to tears and rages. It's not uncommon for me to bring the neglect to their attention, nicely of course, and offering to help keep their pets watered and warm/cool. It's such a simple thing - if you have a pet that is penned or chained up in the yard, YOU MUST SUPPLY THEM WITH WATER AND THE CREATURE COMFORTS (a warm bed in winter and shade in summer). How obvious can that be? How difficult can that be? It takes maybe five minutes a day. Give me a break!

3) I'm a television addict. I could watch all day, which I don't, but I just always have it on.

4) I wear dentures, and my daughter is under strict instructions to super glue them in if I'm ever incapacitated.

5) I have two half sisters and three half brothers (all maternal), who I didn't find until I was 30, and have only seen them a handful of times in 30 years. I don't know if I have any siblings by my biological father, who I haven't found.

6) I have something called "seizure disorder without convulsions". Certain lights and patterns set it off - the floor jumps up, I get big, vision is hyper and distorted, I get sick at my stomach, and I get random electrical shocks throughout my body. I've been on medication for about ten years and it's helped 90%, but there are still those moments when something sets it off, like the kids turning the lights or a flashlight on and off. I also have to have balanced lights in a room, and the blinds turned a certain direction.

7) I wear my socks inside out. It's called something like tactile hypersensitivity. Seriously. It's been studied and documented. For example, I can't stand the loops and seams inside socks, or the socks slipping around, to the point of being near tears and ripping them off. Just imagine thousands of ants inside your socks.

8) My daughter and I have instances of E.S.P. or psychic connection all the time, and have had for years. Like I can be at my house thinking how good ice cream sounds, and the phone will ring and it'll be her asking if I want to go get ice cream! Another example, one day I was thinking that pizza sounded good and I'd like to get some for dinner the next night. Then Melody called within minutes of the thought and asked if I would go with her and the boys to Chuckee Cheese for pizza for lunch the next day!

9) I'm the world's worst procrastinator. And I mean that seriously. Like procrastinating for months or years, not days or weeks. Why do today what can wait til next year? I have emails in my in box that I replied "get back to you soon...", and they're almost a year old.

10) I love family photos. I have something like fifteen big albums, all in chronological order, one of my youth, one of my first marriage, and the rest beginning in 1973. Several times a year I sit down and pull them all out, then laugh and cry my way through from beginnning to end. How in the world can a person keep their memories alive without photos?

That's it for today. If you're unable to retrieve the award from my blog (I'm still unsure about all that stuff), let me know and I'll email it to you. And, again, thanks Missy!

Musical Monday: 'Don't Laugh At Me'

Here it is already, back to Musical Monday. Where does the time go? I'm not feeling real inspired this morning to find a song and do a personal journey with it, but as I looked at my Playlist I saw a song that I had put on for the grandsons. I think it's appropriate right now as so many kids are going back to school this month, so I've added 'Don't Laugh At Me' by Peter, Paul and Mary to my Jukebox. Give it a listen if you can while reading this post - actually, before or after would be better!

As I listened to the song, it didn't take much to go back to my own childhood and remember how hurtful it was to be laughed at and ostracized because my adoptive mother was a drunk. I've never forgotten, even these decades later, how the kids laughed when she drove the car thru the garage turned into my bedroom (yes, they all came by to have a look), or when she stumbled into the school with a totally inappropiate sun dress falling off her shoulders and wobbling on high heels, bleached blonde hair with three inches of black roots, and clownish makeup. I guess it would be funny to an outsider, especially to a kid, and yes I know now that they were laughing at her and not at me, but I've never forgotten the sting of that laughter directed at my life.

And then there was the laughter at me for being so pidgeon toed that I couldn't walk a straight line, so they probably thought I was drunk, too! And being picked last for - well, for anything - in gym because I was so uncoordinated. And having terrible acne.

Also, as I listened to the song, I heard a stanza I'd never noticed before. The song starts out singing about don't laugh at me for something that makes them a little different (glasses, braces, fat, handicap), and then all of a sudden it throws in a stanza about not laughing at a beggar on the corner. I thought at first that it ruined a perfectly nice children's song, but as I thought about it I realized that it was totally appropriate for today's circumstances, what with regular people like you and me losing their homes and resorting to all kinds of means to put food on the table, and we don't know the backstory of this person.

The other thing about this song that I probably shouldn't mention, for fear of offending some of you, is that the hyperbole of all of us having 'perfect wings in the end' just drives me nuts. That's all I'm gonna say about that, though I guess the image does make the song softer.

Did you have something that kids openly made fun of when you were younger, or do you have a kid that has something that he gets kidded about? I think everyone worries about it, but sometimes it's all in our head, because if it bothers us we're sure that everyone else notices. But truth be told, kids can be so cruel to each other, in small and large ways, can't they? Those of you who are teachers must see it more than most - have you seen anything that you thought was particularly cruel?

As a side note, I'd like to say, if I haven't mentioned it before, that my daughter was one of those kids in school who seemed to gravitate toward those kids who were made fun of (probably because she thought she was one of those being made fun of because of her acne and her glasses). So in her year book they would write things like "you're so nice", and she hated it! She wanted them to say "you are so cool" or "I wish I could be as popular as you!" (though I'm actually only imagining what she would want it to say). I always told her that that was a good thing, to be nice! I told her that someday she would probably end up in a career that would involve her helping people in some way. And sure enough, she went on to become an elementary school counselor!

Well, I guess I was able to go on a personal journey, wasn't I. And I hope you'll join me by sharing your own personal journey of ridicule and cruelty ... (that doesn't sound right, does it.)

Confession of a Demented Mawmaw

Last Friday afternoon, on the way home from an art show that featured my 6yr old grandson's work from a one week art class (that's a mud bug above), he and I decided to stop by Dollar General. The goal was to get some chew toys for Oliver, and some summer yard toys for the kids.

Somehow, apparently during one of my weaker moments, Garrett talked me into getting a battery operated, noise making, plastic gun. At $2.00, it was to be a treat following a good morning. We had been through this before, buying potential "weapons" (guns, golf clubs, etc.), always with bad consequences, but I hoped that he (and I) had learned from our past experiences. I would have preferred to get two guns, so that there'd be one for both grandsons (who fight incessantly over everything), or four so that each of them and two neighbor kids could have one, but there was only the one.

Of course, the rule was that it would not be used in the house to drive Mawmaw crazy, and no fighting over it. And, if Conner, the 3yr old, was here, the gun had to be put away to prevent the sure to follow fight and someone getting hurt. (Ok, don't laugh so loud. It's rude and insensitive. One can always at least try to make rules, no matter how ludicrous.)

We had several slight disagreements over the gun that afternoon and evening (he spends the night here by himself on Friday nights). He wanted to take the gun home with him the next day, even though we have a firm and fast rule that the toys I buy for here stay here. (Again, please keep the laughter under control. If I let him take them all home, I'd have to keep buying toys to entertain them). Also, he and his brother were going to spend Saturday night with their two cousins, so what he really wanted to do was take the gun there and have bragging rights. I asked him if he seriously thought I would let him take a gun, albeit a fake plastic one, into a home with three other boys. Four boys and one gun, seriously?

Saturday morning started out so well. We slept late, had a good breakfast early on so he didn't have a meltdown, etc. I wasn't feeling well (I'm having trouble with my thyroiditis again), so I said I would be glad to go outside with him, but that I just flat out didn't have the energy to run around with him. He wanted to play guns, him with the plastic noise making one and me with a plain old water gun. I said that was fine, but there would be no me running around, and I had to get dressed first.

At which point he started shooting me with the battery operated, noise making, plastic gun. That sounded like a high-pitched jack hammer. A real one. Did I mention that I already also had a headache, and my bad neck was hurting, and I was feeling really really grouchy?

I asked and then warned him to stop. He didn't. I grabbed for the gun and said that I was putting it up until we were outside. He said no I wasn't. I grabbed for the gun again and told him that if he didn't give it to me I was going to put it in the plastic recycleables. He said no I wasn't. He continued to shoot me with the battery operated, noise making, plastic gun that sounded like a jack hammer. (Let me interject here and tell you that this was not just a typical little boy having fun thing going on. This was a little boy purposely defying and being rude to an adult). I grabbed for it again, and he jumped onto and over the bed. I jumped onto and over the bed as well, and grabbed for and reached the gun.

I stomped to the kitchen, Garrett in hot pursuit, thinking that I was going to put the gun in the recyleables and he'd retrieve it, or that I would put it on top of the refrigerator and give it back to him later.

You should have seen his face when I took the hammer out of the drawer, put the gun on the floor, and smashed it.

He knelt on the floor, sobbing and begging me to stop, gathered the pieces and said something like "ha ha, look at this, there are enough pieces to glue back together, and the battery part is still intact!" I mean, really, you've seen that face before, right? At which point I said something like "Really? Let me see?", and took out the hammer and smashed it again.

Ok, no stone throwing, please. I can hear you thinking "so...who's throwing the tantrum here? ", and "you should have tried this or that instead of resorting to violence".

I should have felt ashamed at that moment, but instead I walked to the back of the house (shaking a little bit) and proceded to get dressed, leaving my husband to pick up the pieces of both the gun and the sobbing boy with the demented Mawmaw.

(You may also be asking, and rightly so, where Pawpaw was during this confrontation. The answer would be ... sitting in the living room, reading the paper, listening to it all and calmly saying things like "come on, Garrett, don't make Mawmaw mad, you know how she gets", and "Garrett, give Mawmaw the gun so she'll quit yelling". Call me crazy, but don't you think he could have just reached out and grabbed the gun himself?)

As always happens in the aftermath of these confrontations with this high strung but sharp as a tack and precious boy (aka Drama King), I did eventually begin to feel ashamed of myself for throwing such a tantrum ... what kind of example of self control, or lack of, was that for a child? Is this really that different than the lady who kicked her kids out of the car for fighting and then driving off without them? Would he forever be plagued by nightmares of me standing above him with a hammer in my hand?

Garrett and Pawpaw left shortly after this, but, before leaving, Garrett hugged me and said that he loved me, and I told him the same. Then later that evening I went to his house for a party, and he ran out to greet me with hugs and laughter and a request to play badmitten with him, just as if nothing had ever happened. And hugged me goodbye that night and said he loved me.

Can you say "whew!" The worse case scenerio in my head is always that he'll hate me or never want to willingly hang out with me again. But I think this little boy, who I love so much it hurts, and who is a huge part of my life, may also have been a little ashamed of himself, knew that he had screwed up and had pushed me too far. And perhaps his worse case scenerio in his head is that I'll hate him and never want to be with him again?

Maybe, in the end, it's these little skirmishes that teach us, both child and adult, what our own limits are, and how far we can push our loved ones without doing irreparble damage to the relationship? We're learning this as we go along, Garrett and I. I've never been a grandmother before, and he's never before been a kid. We spend a lot of time together, he and I. More than the usual grandparent who sees their grandkids once a month, so the dynamics are a little different. I'm not what I call a fairy grandparent who sweeps in with the special trips and treats, who doesn't deal with the day to day. Not a parent, but still an important and pivotal relationship that frequently encounters the best and worst in each of us.

The thing is, you can have already raised a child to adulthood, and read all the books along the way, and then go into another person's childhood where all the rules have changed and there's a brand new set of books and experts on the subject of interacting with a child, of how to handle their tantrums and acting out. But until that one particular moment comes where all books and rules go out the window, you just don't know how you will react in that particular situation. And it's not always pretty. So, yes, I've had my share of demented moments, and I'm sure there will be more to come. But they're preceded and followed by love. Hopefully that will soften the impact for both of us.

(Having re-read this post, I'm thinking I need to clarify that no actual physical violence has ever occurred here beyond a butt swat or arm grab. Certainly the hammer was never used on or aimed at this child or any other! If you read my post titled Fate or Destiny, you know that there's a history of domestic violence in my biological mother's life by her father, but I was never a part of that. I have, however, always worried that the gene would be in me, but, beyond a quick but short-lived temper, I have never demonstrated or felt violent urges.)

Luck of the draw, or destiny?

The lady above is Lillian Joyce Crawley. She is my biological mother. She gave birth to me on May 15, 1948 in Chicago, Illinois, and I was given the name Linda Irene Crawley. Originally from Galveston, Texas, she had become pregnant at the age of 18 by a navy guy stationed there or on R&R, and he was from Chicago, so she had gone looking for him. Unable to locate him, or perhaps rejected by him, she went into an unwed mother's home.

Upon giving birth to me at Chicago's Cook County Hospital, Lillian had to decide what to do - keep me or put me up for adoption. The decision was pretty much a no brainer - her dad, my grandfather, told her that if she came home with me, he would kill me, her, and my grandmother ( Rhoda Irene, above). And he had a history of abuse to back up his statement. Considering her age, and the fact that her home life was such a mess, she gave me up for adoption. I was released directly to Lake Bluff Orphanage after a two week stay in the hospital.

I would spend the first three months of my life in the orphanage. I've always wondered what those three months were like, especially when seeing how many photos we took of our own daughter's life in those first three months! I would have loved to have had at least one photo of that time, either of someone holding me in the orphanage, or especially of Lillian holding me before she signed the relinquishment papers.

The photo above was taken in August 1948, and that's my new mother in the middle. Her name was Irene. It's the first day of the rest of my life, the day that I leave for my new home with my new parents. One of these two ladies is with the orphanage and the other is a social worker.

This man is my new dad. Tom Ecklund. My new name would be Linda Jean Ecklund.

Little did any of us know that day that this happy little family would not last. The short version is that they had decided to adopt a child to shore up a shaky marriage. She was an alcoholic who promised to stop drinking, but that promise was quickly broken. In 1949, we would move to Ft. Worth, Texas, and a year later they would divorce, when I was three years old. She retained custody of me, but drinking and men would cause me to be taken away from her seven years later.

Every year on my birthday, beginning when I found out I was adopted at about age 9, and even now at the age of 61, I think back to my beginnings, to those weeks that my mother agonized over her decision, those three months that I was an orphan, and to the new parents who had hoped that this little baby would save their marriage.

I always wondered if Lillian remembered me on May 15, if she was thinking about me at the same time I was thinking of her, the mysterious and romanticized lady who had given birth to me. When I was going thru the nightmare times living with my adoptive mother, and later with my step-mother, I would think "if my REAL mother had kept me, my life would have been so different!"

When I turned 30, I had occasion to find my birth family (more about that another time). My mother was dead, but I had three half-brothers and two half-sisters, and an aunt who I found out all this information from. I found out from her that my mother and grandmother had called to check on me after she got home from Chicago, and were told that I had died in a fire! (This was not an uncommon practice back in those days to keep the birth mother from looking for her child.)

When I went to visit them for the first time in Galveston, I met an old lady who had been like a second mother to my mother, and she pulled me aside and said "every May 15, Lillian would come to my house and sit at this very table and cry for the baby she gave up for adoption". I can't tell you how much that meant to me.

Oh, that perfect life I would have had if she had kept me? Lillian later became a hardcore alcoholic, and all five of her children were taken away from her about the same time I was taken away from my adoptive mom, Irene. The social services records state that she was the poorest excuse of a mother they had ever seen. The private detective records from when my adoptive dad, Tom, went to court to gain custody of me verified what I already knew, that she, also, was a poor excuse for a mother.

This is an old story for me, and everyone who knows me knows about it. I certainly don't feel sorry for myself, and I always considered it just the luck of the draw. But, even to this day, I can't help but ask the obvious question: Was this just the luck of the draw, or was this fate, was this my destiny? I'm not the least bit religious or spiritual, believing in neither the after life or reincarnation, so I don't have a burning need to know the answer. I just can't help making comparisons between my two mothers.

The sad thing for me about this story is that, despite having had two mothers, I never knew or felt the true love of a mother, and have no memory whatsoever of a motherly bond with either of them. I'm very grateful that I have these photos, and when I look in their eyes I look deeply for those bonds, for some kind of feeling, and it's just not there. It wasn't until I became a mother myself that I knew what the love of a mother was all about.

And so, on this rainy Sunday afternoon in Georgia, I have finished my yearly pilgrimage to my beginnings, and am ready to put it to rest for another year. I don't guess it'll matter if I'm 16 or 61 or 81(I hope!), I will continue to make that journey, even though all other witnesses to the event are gone.

When my daughter has a birthday, we share our memories with her, looking at photos of the pregnancy and when she was a baby, recounting details of her birth and infancy and the absolute joy involved with her arrival. When I'm on my annual journey, it is always alone, and most of the story is third or fouth hand information or conjecture on my part. And that's ok, because I have re-written my life script, and redirected any residual sadness to being the best possible mother I can be to my daughter.

"Venus" - First Feel

The summer of 1962, between eighth grade and ninth, my family was getting ready to move from Ft. Worth to Dallas. I was home alone during the day, and against all the rules I had a boy over. Stephen - red hair, freckles, and cute as the dickens. Back then we remained relatively innocent until a much later age than today's teens, so this was a very risky and scarey thing for me.

I don't remember a lot about that day or how long he was there, but I do remember one five minute period of time, as it is etched in my memory with a spotlight on it. We were in the living room, he was sitting in a chair, I was sitting crossways in his lap, we kissed ... and he gently and timidly touched the side of my breast. On the radio playing in the background was Frankie Avalon singing "Venus". And - how romantic is this - he said that I would always be his gift from Venus, and every time he heard this song in the future he would think of me.

Does it get any better than that for a young girl in the first flush of young womanhood? My first feel up, first base, and it went no further than that because we were both still innocent to the ways of sex. Back in the day, most girls waited until at least 10th grade to go all the way!

So, for today's Musical Monday, I have chosen the song that I ran across accidentally when searching other playlists... "Venus" by Frankie Avalon.

Do you remember the first ROMANTIC encounter that you had? And is there any particular song that takes you back to that moment or that time period?