I Don't Sleep

“In the middle of the night, I go walking in my sleep, Through the desert of truth,To the river so deep
We all end in the ocean, We all start in the streams, We're all carried along, By the river of dreams
In the middle of the night.”

-Billy Joel-River of Dreams

I love the song, River of Dreams, by Billy Joel. Catchy tune, catchy lyrics and yet I have to admit that it strikes a bad chord in me as well because I don’t sleep. I want a river of dreams to wash over me and drown me, at least for one 8-10 hour period.

At the end of this month, it will be three years since I have “slept through the night”-not by choice. I want to sleep. I spend a good percentage of my waking hours thinking about sleeping. I obsess. Sleep has become an out of reach dream.

I have three teenage children who have no problem sleeping. They seem to sleep all the time…taunting me with their numerous hours in a row of uninterrupted, carefree slumber. I am marrying a man that can fall asleep sitting up even. He can have night terrors; wake up screaming and yelling and instantly fall back to sleep- calm, peaceful, deep sleep. Sometimes, I stare at them, in the middle of the night and the envy is so thick that a knife could not begin to cut through it. Don’t get me wrong. I am happy that they can sleep. It is a gift to be treasured and they all need it. I need it. It isn’t happening for me.

I don’t know what I would do if I would sleep. I get so many things covered when I lay awake thinking. I have been using that time to think about all that is wrong and I should be using it to think about what’s right! I have time to dream while being awake and I haven’t been using that as an asset. If I could get my thoughts more focused on the positive during my quiet night, I truly could change my life faster. There is a reason I haven’t been sleeping, I just wasn’t seeing it.  

Strength

Strength

If I’m afraid, it doesn’t mean that I’m not brave.
And if I doubt, it doesn’t mean that I’ve lost faith.
And if I fall, if doesn’t mean I can’t go on.
And if I cry, it doesn’t mean that I’m not strong.”
- Jana Stanfield and Karen Taylor-Good, Doesn’t Mean That I’m Not Strong from the CD, Brave Faith

The last line of this quote: “And if I cry, it doesn’t mean that I’m not strong,” resonates through me. I have always been a crier-ever since I could remember, whenever I was feeling any sort of emotion about anything, the tears would come.

In grade school, I never seem to fit in-at least I thought I didn’t. “I didn’t get girls”, is more what it was all about. I thought there was something wrong with me as someone was always mad at me. I didn’t feel like I could trust and as I grew older, I thought it was because I lacked strength…the strength to stand up for myself, the strength to not care what others thought about me. In hindsight, it wasn’t about strength; it was about girls being girls…and me just not going along with the game playing which made me strong. When confronted with someone “being mad at me”, or not wanting to be my friend any more, I would get tears-not necessarily tears because I was sad, but tears because I didn’t understand. Frustration would come in the form of a tissue and some running mascara and some swollen eyes.

In high school, tears came mainly because of my parents. Their strictness was something I didn’t understand. I felt like the rules were stifling me and not allowing me to breathe and I just wanted to be me. I just wanted to have some freedom to find out who I was and to have fun. The strictness was all the way from what I could wear to not being able to talk on the phone to not watching television to having a 10pm curfew no matter what age I was and no matter what day of the week it was. The tears came when I was trying to explain myself and I felt like no matter what, no one was listening. 

Tears came at my wedding. Not happy. Not sad. Just resolved that this situation was better than what I was currently in.

Tears at the birth of my children-I did this! What an amazing, life altering experience! Tears continue to come with raising children. So many peaks and valleys-all the firsts brought tears…and the pride I feel from the very bottom of my soul through every breath I take…the kids know, tears will come-it is just my love for them pouring out of me. 

I have had it pointed out to me on numerous occasions that I am “too emotional”. I get any kind of news and more than likely, there will be tears. When I am beyond angry…there are tears. This “too emotional” comment has made me feel weak. Without being able to explain why I am the way I am, I struggle. 

It wasn’t until recently that I realized that I am stronger than I thought. It took strength to move thousands of miles away with my small children and a husband that worked all the time and make a home away from my home. It took strength to battle skin cancer and other ailments that have come my way. 

It took strength to start saying “no” to all the people that were used to me saying, “Yes” all the time. It took strength to walk away from a marriage that was slowly taking all the life out of me and to finally stand up for myself. I AM important.

Finally, it took strength to start a new relationship-to open my heart to love and trust again…strength that I didn’t know was in me all this time. This strength within is healing me.

Handbag Hang-up

I am not sure when I acquired a hang-up with handbags.

Hang-up (noun) hang-up (hang-ups)

1.     Continuing anxiety about something

a.     A psychological or emotional problem or fixation about something

2.     Cause of problems

a.     A persistent impediment or source of delay

                                                                         i.      Bureaucratic inefficiency was the main hang-up.

My anxiety about my handbags started when I worked at a department store. I, at the time, called them, “purses”, and had to work hard to start to call them “handbags” as “handbag” was the required term for them at the department store. They called to me, no matter what name you gave them; they had my name on them. Rows and rows of handbags- All sizes-All shapes- All colors. 

The anxiety began when I got my first paycheck and had to decide which one really needed to come home with me. It didn’t matter the size, the extent of what I carried was as follows: lip gloss, keys and money. I was 16 and fabulous without much gear. Size, in this particular case, didn’t matter. 

The next hang-up came when I wanted the next one. 1. How would I justify to my mother that a new handbag was a need and not a want?! (I still lived at home and had to answer to my mother). 2. What would my first handbag think of me cheating on it? The thought did cross my mind. There was nothing wrong with the first one. It wasn’t worn out, it wasn’t dirty, it wasn’t out of style- I was just bored. I wanted excitement, so I decided to cheat and get handbag #2. This dirty little secret of mine continued well into college. 

Then I got married. The handbags were now like big beacons in the night sky…daring my husband to ask me the big question: “Why so many handbags?” Was it that I didn’t trust him to understand that I needed these bags? I was attached? In love? I did my best to hide the handbags, but that became more difficult as I also liked to change my handbags with whatever I was going to wear. There was a constant shuffling through the inventory for just the right one. 

The handbag fixation has continued through several moves (where professional movers had to pack my handbag inventory and more than likely made comments over coffee during their breaks about my obsession) and a divorce. 

While the things I have carried in my handbag have changed over the years (my handbags have also doubled as baby bags, party bags, overnight bags, carry-on bags and so much more), my handbag hang-up has not changed. My affair with my handbags has brought me much joy and pleasure. How could it not?   

Thank You Elizabeth Edwards

Today, I was really pondering things, yet again, about how cancer just seems to steal someone right out from under us. With the passing of Elizabeth Edwards yesterday, and her goodbyes uttered throughout different medias, I wonder what would I do in her shoes.

I had skin cancer. I never had to go through chemo or radiation, just the series of surgeries to remove the cancer. I never considered myself a cancer survivor because I have not had chemo or radiation. I have filed it in the back of my mind/head and have glossed over how lucky I was that it never got more serious.

When I go down the series of events in my mind that took place that got me to that cancer diagnosis, I was very very lucky that I had high blood pressure. I was going in regularly to get my blood pressure taken and my Doctor (when lifting up my shirt to listen to my heart after  taking my blood pressure) noticed a spot that just kept changing over time. He said he thought it was nothing, but thought we should check. In the process, I mentioned that a birth mark on my leg had recently changed as well. I went through the process of them shaving the sample and sending it in. I went on without any other thought of the outcome of the tests because I knew it was nothing.

The call came. It was something. So, I went through all of the steps to deal with the "something". I went through the body scans, the surgeries to remove the top of my ear lobe, a spot on the side of my head, five places on my back, and the worst of them, my inner upper thigh that was the birthmark that just started changing.

None of it seemed real.

Looking back on it, I really feel like it happened to someone else. I went through the motions. I did what I was supposed to, but I never celebrated how lucky I was that things never went further.

Today I celebrated. In my mind, I was thankful that my high blood pressure saved my life. I am thankful, that because my Doctor was aggressive and attentive I never had to deal with anything but the discomfort of surgeries and then the more painful part that seemed to be the waiting and not the surgeries themselves.

I don't want anyone to go through any of it. That is why I Relay for Life. For everyone's stories that I read of survival and loss, I Relay.

Today, I celebrate that I am making a difference in this world and I celebrate that I am still here with my precious family and friends.

I did survive so that I could Relay.

I will leave you with this:
"I have found that in the simple act of living with hope, and in the daily effort to have a positive impact in the world, the days I do have are made all the more meaningful and precious. And for that I am grateful." Elizabeth Edwards.

Shut The Front Door

An interesting thing happened to me a few days ago. There I was perusing facebook to find out what my kids were up to when I encountered the dreaded, “what my kids were really up to”. 

Without getting into specifics ,(1. Because I don’t want to embarrass my kids. 2. Because I don’t exactly know that I am entirely sure what the post means) I stumbled into something that I wasn’t sure how to handle. So, in trying to handle the situation, I tried posting lightheartedly to their facebook comment. In the past, I have tried to respond in a “cool mom” fashion to things they post on facebook, only to have them be removed immediately, if not sooner). I get it. I am not supposed to be on facebook nor will I ever achieve coolness on facebook. I am their MOM.

I asked for said child to remove their post. It was inappropriate. I got an email to me from said child, saying that they should be able to say what’s on their mind. Facebook is just fun and, gulp, are you ready for it???? “EVERYONE IS DOING IT.” Flashback: High school, popped colors on polos, rolled pants, Aqua Net propelled bangs, comb in the back pocket and my Mom saying I am not going out looking like that and the famous, “Everyone is doing it” response that bounced off my lips like pebbles skipping across the water. It didn’t work. At least when I walked out the front door to get on the bus, I looked one way, and when I got off the bus, I looked another.

So there I was, smack dab somewhere in the middle of my Mom’s voice saying, “I told you so,” and my own voice saying, “What comes around goes around.” What to do?

An email discussion ensued where I put out all of my concerns on the post in a list. As you can imagine, they all were responded to (I have to admit that the creativity in the refuting was quite outstanding-a little pride here for said child) and then the subject came up about swearing. I do it. I can’t refute that at all. There it was-in black and white-I was a bad example for my kids. 

Now, I have to say, I have been creative in my swearing so as not to swear. Shut the front door. Jesus, Mary & Joseph, WTF (spoken letters, not words) and the list continues. I could offer all sorts of excuses: I am an adult, I make mistakes sometimes, the swear jar money pays for fun things so it’s for a good cause, but in my heart I know, I need to change.

It is a conflict to me. I don’t know why, but it is. I like to be able to express myself sometimes in a rebellious way, if you will, and certainly, I don’t know what my driving would be like if you took my questionable vocabulary away. I keep telling the kids that you shouldn’t be saying or writing anything or listening to music that you wouldn’t feel comfortable playing in front of your Grandma. Does this rule now apply to me?

The question is still unanswered.

Animal Kingdom

So, with the big “move in” of the fiancée came some living creatures-two dogs and two cats. I already have a cat, Kenny, so now we are a party of five…PETS. I have always claimed to be an animal lover. I love them at the zoo, I love them in the yard, I love them when I see them playing with kids in a yard, I love them on the leash and I love them at someone else’s house.

Yes, I already know that I said I have a cat. Kenny was just sooooo cute when he was found in the engine of someone’s truck by a co-worker. He was sooooooo cute when we were taking care of him at the radio station until he found a home. He was soooooooooo cute that I brought him home. The kids loved him. I was border-line in how I felt. Kenny (first named, Zorro) was into everything. Nothing was off limits. My clean house was a world of discovery for Kenny and out of the humans living in the house; I was the only one cleaning up after him. When he came to live with us, I also had a rat terrier named, Button.

I must have issues with naming pets (the kid’s names came fairly easily to me) but not the pet names. Button’s full name: Button Merry Jane Ladwig. Button because Dylan thought her face looked like a button, and B.J. wanted to name her Belly Button, and Merry because Lauren wanted to name her Merry Christmas (we got her in October-makes sense as a three year old, though) and Jane because then Lauren wanted to name her Mary Jane. I lost Button in the divorce, so I was the proud owner of Kenny (who has mellowed out a good bit in the last few years). Enter Bill’s pets: Gordon-dog, Lola-dog, Malcolm-cat and Pickles-cat. Bill must have issues with pet’s names as well as he has multiple nicknames for them all-I can’t keep up.

We have had to ease the pets into my house. I was not ready for all the animals. I was worried about the smell (I don’t want to live in that house that smells like pets that no one wants to come over or let me know that my house smells); I am worried about the pet hair and the litter boxes. That is a lot of poop.

I have had my moments: the day I came home to Gordon taking everything out of the garbage and chewing it up, the day that Lola got startled and jumped on my face while I was lying on the couch, the day Pickles licked my bare leg for the first time to rub herself on it to clean herself (cringe here) and the day that Malcolm scared me by not only finally coming out of the basement, but rubbing me while I was watching TV in the dark.

So, there have been adjustments, but none like the ones that I have encountered while Bill is gone traveling for the week for work. You see, our deal was with the entrance of all these pets that he was the sole owner of any messes that they made and he was in charge of taking care of them. Did I say he is gone for a week???? That means I am scooping poop, walking dogs, picking up dog poop, and doing a lot of talking to the animals. I am not comfortable carrying on conversations with pets and trying to figure out what all their complaining sounds really mean. 

Today, I am leaving for Iowa. I had to get up early, pack bags, eat breakfast and TAKE CARE OF THE ANIMAL KINGDOM. 

Here are the events of my morning, broken down.

I get up early and start hauling things downstairs…only to discover this:

I clean that up and went to take the dogs out. Seems that Bill never told me that Gordon doesn’t do rain. He stood huddled under the garage roof in a standoff. I didn’t win.

I come back in needing to break into my Secret Santa stash.

I wash it down with this.

I am shocked to see the cat that never comes out of the basement, Malcolm, is at the top of the steps meowing annoyingly at me. I get it. It means come downstairs, something’s up. Malcolm, it seems has stopped covering his poop up in the litter box and is distressed that the pile of diarrhea he left me is not covered up. So, I cover it up. He stops making all the racket and I realize that I might just have become a kitty whisperer. 

I load up my vehicle, by myself, in the rain.

I come back up to discover that Kenny is planning yet another great escape by the back door.

I continue to try to go to my happy place:

I end up making breakfast at work.

Luckily, I am leaving for Iowa and my son, Dylan, will stop in to take care of the  pet care. I have a break from my animal kingdom!