Mothers!

The other night a friend came over for a sanity check. It concerned the trials and tribulations of caring for an elderly mother, with the added burden of having to deal with siblings who have more than the usual amount of dysfunctional idiosyncrasies.

I wonder if I've been lucky, if you can call it that, as my mother died three weeks before my 20th birthday. We fought and argued, pushed each others buttons, and generally had a stormy relationship for the last couple of years of her life. On one occasion I remember her saying, "You began adolescence three years early, I expect you'll finish three years early!" No such luck. It continued beyond, what I suppose was the normal duration.

There were several incidents in my teen-aged years when if I hadn't needed psychotherapy before she died, I certainly needed it after.

I remember one afternoon when I was helping her do some clean-up in the garage when she turned to me and said, "Everyone thinks that your brother is my favorite. That's not true. You sister is my favorite." ARGH!!

Earlier, when I was about 10 or so, I helped her prepare her notes for a lecture she was giving on answering children's questions about sex. A year or so later I asked her what the word "menstruation" meant and instead of answering me, she handed me 5 books and said, "Here - Read!" ARGH and ARGH again.

She was a piece of work.

On one hand, her death did enabled me to develop a sense of independence, and removed the masking of relationship issues I needed to resolve with my father, yet I did not have either a guiding hand in my twenties and beyond. I didn't really get that from my step-mother or sisters. I often wonder what my life would have been like had she not died. (Cancer, by the way, in case you were wondering) I'll never know.

I wished she could have been more like June Cleaver, than the world famous teacher, lecturer, pscyhologist, inspiration to many. Perhaps as an adult we could have had a friendship, characterized by mutual respect and a healthy interest in each other. I'm sure there are some things in my life of which she'd approve, and many she would not. It would have been interesting to have had those discussions.

So if you're fortuante to have your mother in your life or a suitable stand-in, be sure to have those conversations with her. Mothers, and fathers too, do tend to get smarter as we get older.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

What do you want to be when you grow up? That's a question we're asked as children. And the answer is usually a child's answer - a ballerina (not really, although I had a hot-pink satin ballerina costume I'd wear during play)[ a teacher (well, I did become a teacher - of English and Math, 7th and 8th grade. Hated it!); a nuclear physicist (so I could wear a white lab coat and walk around with a clipboard); never wanted to be an astronaut - I hated roller coasters. Except for Space Mountain in Disneyland and Disneyworld; I did want to be a philosopher, so I could sit under a palm tree and think deep thoughts. Like the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz.

So all these years later, now a corporate IT professional who doesn't code, who avoided Unix(r) - a job I certainly didn't envision for myself - even if it does pay the rent and feed me, my dog and my cat.

So over a Grande decaf non-fat latte (isn't that called a why bother?) I realized that what I do want to be when I grow up (whenever that is) I find I'm telling my good friend, that I want to be a writer. What's particularly funny about that is that I don't really like to write!

I remember when I was in school and had to write an essay. I asked my mother for help. She told me it's just like talking. Write down whatever I'd say. I suppose it helped. A few grades later I told her I needed to write a speech for school. Her advice: Say what you'd write. Did it hep? I suppose so.

Flash to college. What should I major in? In true methodical fashion, I sat myself down in the library with the catalog and looked at every major and the requirements. It was a toss-up between two: Mathmatics and Oral Communications/Mass Communications. What did I pick? Math. Why? No term papers! And I'd much rather sit for an exam rather than write. I did take some courses in the Communications Department, including the disastrous Acting course. At least as an exercise in concentration I learned to juggle three balls, 10 tosses, without having to catch the last toss.

Even that experience was typical of how I approach assignments and problem solving. I went to the library, took out all the books I could find on juggling, and started immediately to practice, over the bed so I wouldn't have far to bend to pick up the dropped oranges. Lacrosse balls are the best, but to date I only have two, not three. Well, I could do three tosses and three catches but was stuck on the fourth toss. Couldn't break the inertia of catching and holding the third toss. Finally I got it - just keep throwing.

Segue a bunch of years to last month. I've been listening to motivational/self improvement/empowerment CDs. And one expert or coach made oneof those profound statements - a blinding flash of the obvious: If you want to change your life, change your life! Well, duh!

So - here I am. I get to call myself a writer, because I'm writing. I want to be a writer, so I'm writing. I may not be tearing up my journal, that's so hard to do when they're really just ons and offs, 0's and 1's, so maybe this time, for sure! (to quote Bullwinkle)

I do invite you, Dear Reader, to watch me, really read me, on this journey. For sure it should be entertaining.

Tangent time, to demonstrate the point:

For a number of reasons I found myself in consultation with some kind of psychologist, pouring out the story of my life. He looked at me and asked, "Have you ever considered going into show-business?" Stunned, I asked him why he would ask me that. He replied, "Because you're so funny!" It was a good thing that I wasn't paying for the session, because I didn't appreciate, at the time, that he could be entertained when I was so vulnerable. Well, isn't that truly the source of comedy? Our frailties that make us so relate-able to others?

No longer in my twenties, I don't take myself so seriously any more. So laugh along with me...