Home at last?

It seemed impossible. But then, it was also impossible that we would have to move. Again. And not because of anything we did wrong but for the convenience of an owner.

And why should that be a big deal, people move all the time. But have you priced rentals in commuting distance of Orange County California? To find a place that we can afford to rent that will rent to our large family sets the bar even higher.

Impossible. and every year it gets harder.

Prospective landlords don't see us on paper as a one big family that works together to be able to take care of the children. They see two couples and our current social standards say they should have their own places. Throwing grandma in with one of them, but three last names? that is just too many people.

Forget that the cost of childcare and rent combined is putting parenthood out of reach for many people in the generations represented by my kids. I think there are other advantages to our living arraignment. I think we are good for the environment; though we use more utilities than a small household, we use less than two or three separate households if we split up. We are more financially stable because if one person loses a job it represents a smaller percentage of the household income. We are more dependable workers; we have in house child care so it is seldom someone has to miss work for a sick child and if a car breaks down it is more likely that we can still work together to get them to work.

We don't like to move. We like to put down roots, know out neighbors. We want our kids to not have to change schools every year or two. Mostly we have done well, for renters.

But buying seemed impossible.

I grew up in a home that was rebuilt from a falling down, weekend house. My dad did it all himself. When we lost that house in a flood, he never had the heart to have a house again. When we moved to Florida, we lived in a 30' travel trailer through my HS years. I got married too young to get out.

People who own homes mostly think it is no big deal, that is just what people do. But to people who have lost homes, who have always rented, who have always struggled, actually being in a position to buy seems so far out of reach that we cannot even imagine how to get there.

But moving and moving and moving at he capricious will of people and events that you can't predict, that is killer stress. Being subjected, year after year, to rent raises for no other reason than that they can, that the market can bear it, that makes the ability to work towards owning even more difficult. Every time you start to feel like you are making progress towards a goal, you get knocked back by increased expenses.

So when when we were told we needed to move. Again. We looked at each other and went into our High Anxiety but Try Not to Freak Out the Kids mode. Then I got up from not sleeping and said "Talk to Amanda (our real estate agent) and see if there is any way we can possibly find a way to buy."

And now here we are staring at each other in disbelief. We bought a house. It isn't the best; the neighborhood is just ok (we hope), it is a bit longer commute, the floor plan has some quirks, and it needs some help. But we have a house. We can make it a home. We can settle in and the only crazy landlord we have to worry about is us.

The impossible has become reality, and I'm still in a bit of emotional shock.

I never thought I would own a home. I know it will feel different and I'm super happy for my kids. I don't know how I feel. Honestly, even though it was 50 years ago, I still have some PTSD from when we lost the house in the flood. I don't know if I can ever feel settled and safe. I don't know if there will ever be a time when I don't wake up sometimes in the middle of the night feeling like something horrible could happen.

But this isn't about me, this is about us. My kids have a home. My grand kids have a home. It is going to be an adventure. I don't even know what it means to have that level of security.

When I finally got to go to the Grand Canyon a few years ago, I was worried that after all the anticipation I would be disappointed. But it was so awesome I cried. I'm hanging on to that, because I am absolutely terrified that somehow this will be a bad decision and a terrible mistake, but I'm hoping for that moment when I can look around and know all is well.

But first, this stuff isn't going to move itself.

Happy 4th!

Happy Fourth of July?

In this time when everything seems to be political, of course the thoughts around celebrating today are political.  My thoughts around the day are complicated.  From patriotic displays to the last boom of the fireworks, there are things to love and hate about how we do this thing.

The first problem this year is that it is midweek. Some of us still have to get up in the morning to go to work.  So many of the celebrations revolve around the big fireworks show and then the drive home in traffic.  Just isn't worth it to this old lady.

I wonder how much that was a part in not seeing fireworks very often as a kid. I don't think that so many cities started doing their own displays until the '70's or '80's.  Living in Topanga Canyon, the nearest display for us was off the Santa Monica pier.  I think we did it a couple of times. The viewing place was Palisades Park that runs along the cliff top overlooking the beach. I really only have one clear memory of doing this, and the last time we did it.

I was around 11 or 12; the year I was into making iced tea and adding a bit of mint flavoring to the pitcher. I helped my mom make a picnic of several different kind of sandwiches.  I think we did tuna and maybe baloney. There is also a chance my mom made some of her favorite peanut butter and mayonnaise.  It certainly wasn't fancy or special, and not cookout food. We took some fruit, small bags of chips, and a jug of my mint tea. We lucked out, finding an open bench on the point that suck out on the pier end of the long, narrow park. We ate our picnic, watched the show, and went home.  No parade or music, and more importantly, no big arguments.

But my family tended to keep celebrations low key, so I don't know if this was the norm of the time.  I do know that as I was raising my kids, we often sought out bigger displays, threw fancier picnics.  I loved the years we went to the annual display at Tustin High.  I love singing the Star Spangled Banner, in our best and fullest voices, with my daughter.

But we can't ignore the problems in our country.  This year, many people are protesting instead of celebrating. It is so hard to find that place of pride right now. How can we possibly celebrate a country where children are being imprisoned, where race and gender based discrimination and violence seems to increase every day, and, well, you know, you know.  From the old homeless vet being spit on for sitting in public, to 45's big military show because he likes how the communist countries do it.

But I can't say that I grew up in a less problematic time.  The "good old days" of the 50's and 60's were a time of racism, sexism, Vietnam, and protests against all those things. And like today, the old white men were in charge and willing to kill to keep it that way. And yet we celebrated.

Because it isn't about the reality, it is about the ideals of freedom, of overcoming against the odds.  It is about our origin story of standing up against oppressors to create a nation where all have the human rights of "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" no matter how poorly we have done over the years in granting them equally. It is about remembering our core values and trying to do better.

So I have to get up at 4:45 in my morning and go to work. I'm staying in this evening, trying to go to bed at my usual time. My celebration of this day will be quiet and personal. But I will celebrate. At some point I will most likely stand up and sing the Star Spangled Banner. I may cry a bit and have a little talk with God. But I will celebrate the only thing I can celebrate, hope.

Stories have power. We are defined and guided by the stories we tell, by our facts and our myths.  We set our priorities by the stories we cling to and pass on.  Our national story of freedom and equality continues to matter, no matter how often we fail. Because the other part of that narrative that we need to hold tight to is this; we stand up for what is right and we don't give up. 

However you celebrate today, I wish you joy in it. Think about how you will stand up for what is right so that we can all continue to celebrate together.

This is my space

My mom raised me to be lady. Don't talk too much, don't dress to flashy, and know your place. My dad made breaking the rules unpredictably dangerous.

Yes, I know that is all BS of the highest order. I believe in good manners, but also equality. Also, life has taught me that good girls often finished last. But it is really hard to completely break that early childhood brain washing, um, training. I have gotten very good at fading into the background, despite my size. I don't like to wear shoes that make sound when you walk, or things that jingle. I feel like a rebel when I make unique clothing choices.

But just to confuse matters, I enjoy performing and speaking in front of a group. I enjoy it more when I am well prepared, but do not really freak if someone asks me to step up in front and say something, introduce someone, even sing a little song. I may pace and gain a little color, but it is excited energy more than fear.

A couple of weeks ago I took a little class on stage presence. I don't need to go into the whole background here about all my why's, just say I have some things I am thinking about trying to do and building skills never hurts and I wasn't doing anything better at the time. But I didn't know that I would learn anything new compared to the times I have taken stage voice, speech, and classes related to storytelling.

I mean, I didn't think I would really learn that much that would leave me thinking about life stuff.

But there was this one statement, "I have the right to take up space."

Sounds basic, of course everyone has the right to take up space.

Except when you don't. When you never get to sit in a comfortable chair that faces the TV because you are the youngest, you know you don't have the right. When your husband that loves you but freaks out in crowded places nudges you out of other people's way instead of just letting people go around, you feel like you are in the way just by being in a public space.

And if I have been angry at times, I still hadn't noticed how much it is a part of how I move through the world. I take the way less traveled not for the experience, but because I look at the other way and don't want to be in the way.

So in odd moments this has been coming back to me. I am in this space right now, and I have a right to take up this space. When I go to the restroom at work, why do I feel like I'm out of place walking through the department next door to get there? I have a right to be in that space. I have a right to ask the question, go through the door without apology, spread my arms, move a chair for the space I need to be comfortable.

I am not always succeeding, but I am noticing. I'm not being pushy or rude, it is not in my basic nature. You might not even notice. But it is here in my heart and mind and I am thankful for it.

I have the right to take up space, and so do you.

Those toxic good old days

One of the interesting things about living through a lot of social changes is the looks on my almost teen granddaughter's face when I tell her about things when I was her age.

Almost anyone that used Facebook knows we didn't use seat belts and car seats. People smoked all over the place and full ashtrays were a feature of everyday life. And yeah, we had to get up to change to one of the limited channels we got through the antenna on top of the house. And I walked a mile to the school bus stop, up hill, both ways (this is actually sort of  true; it was uphill in the morning when I was in Elementary and uphill in the afternoon when I was in Jr. High).

What is harder to talk about is how different gender and sexuality was handled then. For the most part, it wasn't.

I grew up in a small arts community in the '60's. I knew three same sex adult couples, two lesbian and one gay. Yet when the word lesbian was used on some friends by a bully I had to go look it up in the dictionary. I didn't dare ask. Anyone.

Developing kids are often put in this protective bubble, but sometimes that ignorance is so hurtful. Not only does is leave them more vulnerable to abuse, but is can also leave them confused about natural feelings. And when I was coming into the feelings of stirring hormones, the culture was also going through stirrings. I mean, just think about TV.

Like the hit show Rowen and Martin's Laugh In. There were all kinds of jokes about sex, the pill (which was a new thing) and mocking portrayals of gay stereotypes. And we laughed out heads off.

At the same time, mini skirts were way in, but pantie hose were a year of two away, so I started Jr. High in just barely dress code allowed short skirts with garter belts and fishnets. We look at teen fashions and worry about sexualizing kids, but this is how us 60 somethings were dressing when we were 12 or 13.

It was, on the surface, a more innocent time. But when we were close enough and could talk openly, every girl I knew had stories. Stories about someone in their life touching inappropriately. We would whisper them to each other during sleepovers, filled with shame. We kept each other's secrets.

There were always boys who were "sissies" and girls who were "tomboys" that may or may not meant long term gender or sexual orientation. But if you had those feelings, you kept them to yourself. It has taken years for me to even be honest with myself about things that I felt as young as 8 or 9. I cannot wrap my head around the bravery of the men and women who came out back then. I can't begin to understand the price they had to pay.

I'm an old fat grandma now, and unlikely to ever play out any of the old desires that still knock around my brain. Sometimes I envy the growing freedom that younger people have to explore and understand. But it breaks my heart that there are so many people that would want to go back to shoving people in the closet, to keeping toxic secrets, to publicly protecting kids in ways that privately endanger them.

When ever I hear a bunch of old people, usually white men, sitting around talking about the "good old days" I just want to call them on it. Good for who? Good for the white, straight, cis men. They ran things then, and they want to keep running things now. If equality threatens them, then it just really isn't my problem.

I don't have a cute or uplifting point to make. There was another school shooting today, I read a story about a homeshooling convention for dads to pick mates for their teens, and I say a guy get out of a car on a rush hour freeway to punch another driver repeatedly. The last thing I worry about is who is loving who.

Six Strands

There are six small strands of thread in a length of common cotton embroidery floss.

Yesterday, while hanging out with friends, I was working on an embroidery project that I have been liking less and less as I go along. I'm splitting the floss to three strands. It looks course and simple to me, and I have to constantly remind myself this is proper for the project, which is supposed to look simple and rustic.

I know someone one who is usually uses six strands. She is know for her speed and generosity in giving gifts of her work. I look at it and I see the coarseness of six strands. I don't want to criticize the quality of something that fills a need and is appreciated, but I was raised to see the imperfection.

Because if it is worth doing, it is worth doing right.

My grandmother who fist taught me to set a needle to fabric most often used 2 strands, even one. I often looked at the fineness of her work and thought I could never hope to equal it. Many time in my life I have set embroidery aside, but I always seem to pick it up again in some form, from counting small crosses to free-handing fine silks. And yet, still I am my own worse critic and seem to see the flaws before the beauty.

Our landlord had to stop by for a plumbing issue yesterday, and she admired the fine stitching on the piece I'm working on. As we waited for the plumber to finish his task, she was amazed at the variety and quality of sewing and stitching that happens in my family. I know so many talented fiber artists, I forget that it is an amazing skill to some people, almost beyond understanding.

Today I'm trying to remember, it is about the process. I am soothed by the rhythm of needle moving though fabric. I am gratified when I create with my own hands something that is visually appealing and useful. I am trying to remember that not every project needs the perfection of tiny, one strand stitches.

What ever your art, whatever your skill, I hope you find joy in it today. One strand or six, or anywhere between, it is never about the perfection as much as it is about the love.

OK, this is hard

There is this feeling sometimes, maybe you have been there. The feeling like you are just beyond the crashing waves, kicking and swinging your arms as hard as you can, and not getting any closer to the shore.

I don't even believe in reincarnation, but sometimes I feel like I must have really screwed up in a past life. I really try. I mean, I'm not perfect, but I get up and do what I can each day and try to be be kind. But it is just always so hard.

And see, I get it, on that other level.  I understand that a big part of this feeling is what it is to live with a certain level of depression and anxiety. It isn't really that bad right now, but it always just that little part of who I am that sometimes I just want to run away. And I know I have to confront those feelings, because the next feeling will be that it would be better if I could just die.

And these are the feelings that are the hardest to talk about. People say the stupidest things when you talk about the whole subject of suicide. I have been thinking about that a lot this week for some reason, the things that people have said to me over the years that have made it harder to be open about what is happening with me.

Like, the first thing I remember was being maybe 9 or 10, and someone telling me that if you try to kill yourself and live, you can be arrested for attempted murder. I mean, I heard something recently about how that used to be true, but can you imagine? As if life isn't already so hard, your are also now a criminal?

And there are so many ways that suicide is romanticized. The dramatic swallowing pills or slitting wrists and being a very pretty dead person and everyone cries. So we get really weird ideas. People say people who try to kill themselves are just looking for attention or want people to feel sorry for them. Here is some truth; pills can make you barf and choke and trying to cut your wrists hurts like hell and you really need to know what you are doing. Men are more successful at actually killing themselves because they are more likely to use a gun or hang themselves.  But it isn't for attention. It is for escape from emotional pain.

Now there's the platitudes. There are the things people say to try to fix a sad friend. people say go get counseling. It isn't that easy. When you struggle financially and you struggle with shame and you struggle with talking about the things the matter most, that becomes one more impossible hill to climb.

And I'm ok right now, just really tired and feeling a bit overwhelmed. But someone I don't really know except on Facebook had a really bad day last week and posted his way through how bad it was and how impossible that mountain was feeling. And it sounded really bad and I'm worried about him, but he is in another city and I don't really know him.

And if I had the ability to go and hug people and drive them to do what they need to do, I would be able to do it for myself.

But the most toxic part about these feelings is the shame and fear that keeps us from even talking about it honestly. This is really a hard thing to explain, but I need to try anyway. When it is bad, the things people say to try to make it better feel somehow attacking, and I don't even know why it feels that way. Even if this isn't what they say, it sounds like they are saying you are stupid to even think this way. and when you are already feeling stupid and in the way and the problem, then calling that out as not true somehow makes if feel even more true with a big dose of embarrassment.

So, I'm not sure what I hoped to accomplish by writing about this tonight. But if yo are reading this and you know the feelings I'm trying so badly to explain, well, I'm here and I care. that mountain may be feeling impossible right now, I get that. I hope we can find a way to have better conversations about finding a path that will let us keep climbing.

March 9th soup

I am known, within a limited circle, for some good soup. This one did not start out looking like it would be one, but now my family is insisting that I write it down so we can make it again. I will try.

It was a dark and windy evening and a needed project was running overtime. Nobody wanted to go out and food needed to be ready for the ravenous herd in a very short time. So I said "what do we have?" Michelle and I rummaged through the fridge and cupboards and an idea of what would go with what.

Well, there was a lb of good bulk sausage left, so I started browning it. Michelle found some frozen onions and I stated browning them in the bottom of a soup pot. When the onions were starting to brown I added about 4 cups water and two Knorr chicken bullion cubes. I threw in three handfuls of frozen broccoli florets and the sausage. I also added some bouquet garni  seasoning and a few grinds of Trader Joe's everyday seasoning.

Next came the cans. Stay with me now. A can of cheddar cheese soup and a can of bean with bacon soup. Yes, really, I wanted to fill up some hungry people. When everything was all cooking down good together, I glugged in a bit of heavy cream, probably a half cup or more, I didn't measure anything really. Then I threw in a few scoops of rice leftover from lunch. I had to use a spoon to break it up, which broke up the now cooked broccoli into smaller pieces at the same time. I finished it with two small grabs of shredded cheese.

Megan tasted it and said it was good, but too thick, so she added some water. I guess soupy soup is a thing. I tend to end up making quite thick ones.

And great rejoicing was heard in the land. Even picking teenage Ellie had some. Of course Damien didn't, but he lives of milk and crackers - some french fries when he can get them.

And Michelle said that we should call this March the 9th soup and let the day be celebrated every year on this date. So I had to record the creation of the glorious, night before grocery shopping soup so that it can be a thing.

But only God and the kitchen gnomes know if it will ever come together quite the same again.

Come and knock on my door.

Several years ago (could it really be 10+ already?), someone who's opinion I respected said that she noticed that I see myself as an outsider a lot. It gave me a lens to my life I hadn't noticed before, and to think about my history as to why this might be true.

Like, besides knowing that I was born into a family that believed my brother was going to be an only child.

I remember standing outside the door of a friend's house one Saturday morning then I was 10 or 11. I was expected, but I could hear that they were having breakfast together and talking and laughing. I was worried I got the time wrong. I was worried I was intruding. I hesitated a long time. I knocked quietly, then a bit harder. They got quiet and asked each other if that was a knock and then one of the girls answered the door.

They were such a perfect family. Not really, but in my child eyes, those blond hair, blue eyed, beautiful people with the genius dad toy inventor and joyful full time mom. The oldest daughter was actually the inspiration for the look of a best selling doll I won't name here. And I was invited in that morning, too tall with my perpetually messy brown wispy hair and bland face, and made me welcome at their family breakfast at the table, AT THE TABLE, and everyone laughing and being nice. I didn't even have a place or name for the flood of emotions.

My family never ate at the table. Unless it was a special occasion. Or my dad was on a tear about being a family, and those times were tense with anger just under the surface. Every manner was under scrutiny and there could be an explosion at any time.

We never had anyone over, except family or a close friend of mine or my brother's. We didn't go places together as a family, except homes of relatives. I can remember exactly one 4th of July family dinner picnic out, exactly one time at a sit down restaurant.

One time my dad brought home a bunch of magazines a customer had given him called Calling All Girls. My best friend and I poured over them for hours. They had stories, but also useful articles about manners and how to dress for different occasions. We were trying so hard to figure out how to be "normal." Her dad was also an alcoholic. Her home was also chaos.

One summer a few years later, I was doing some summer volunteering with a friend at her sister's school. Yes, way back then there were kids with autism as well as other differences, but they were all just called "retarded' (don't get me started about the slang use of that term). We were invited to spend the night with another volunteer whose brother attended the school. Their home was huge and beautiful in a very upscale area in Pacific Palisades. The dinner table was huge, surrounded by three generations of family and felt like a grand occasion to me.

Following the advice of Calling All Girls, I looked to the actions of the family members for expected behaviors. Spaghetti was set on the table and one of the older brother's put plain noodles on his plate and passed the dish to me, then he buttered his noodles. I didn't see any sauce, so I buttered mine also as the noodles were passed on. Other dishes circulated, and the brother began to eat the buttered noodles, so I did too. Just then the sauce and cheese were brought out and began to be passed, and I felt the laughter around the table about me copying the brother who just didn't like sauce.

This is how it is, when you grow up knowing that there is too much that you don't know about being in social situations. On top of the constant awareness of mood nuances needed for survival in an emotionally abusive family, I also am still, always, watching for social cues. And I am very aware that I sometimes get it wrong. I am an outsider, in part, because I'm afraid of that laughter when I start to eat plain noodles.

I could tell other stories. I could talk about walking into situations; classes, clubs, churches, where everyone seems to know rhythms and rules that are like secret code to me and seem to be in place to make sure outsiders continue to be left out. I could also tell of the places and people who have made me feel welcome.

People talk kindly about me, about how welcoming I am. Our family has a habit of gathering people in and including people. I love our close community of geeks and oddballs that have found family.

But I hate that I still feel that fear and anxiety. Yes, I'm a socially awkward introvert, but not to the point where being alone doesn't get boring or feel lonely sometimes. I have several parties and events coming up in the next few weeks that I'm excited for. But also terrified. What if I don't get it right? What if I have misread the cues, they don't really want my awkward self there, they are just being charitable, or worse yet, only invited me because they feel obligated.

You can't fix this in me. My dear friend who loves me, you can't tell me that of course you love me and want to see me and want me there and I'm perfectly fine. I wish you could. I wish I could hear those words instead of that laughter and the critical voice in my head when I inevitably get it wrong. And I feel naked and needy even talking about it.

So why am I talking about it? Because I'm pretty sure that I am not alone. There are so many of us, faking our way through it and trying to feel that we belong. There are too many of us that isolate and are lonely because the fear wins. I want to invite us out, in all our fearful, awkward glory. I want to welcome us in to a big, warm hug. Maybe if I tell my story and you tell your story we will find out that we are not so alone, the rules are made up and the points don't matter.

Go ahead and knock on that door, you belong at the table.

Thoughts in the storm

Here we are, beginning of the second month of the year. When I was Homeschool Mom, we called it Black February; the mid point of the school year that was dark and too short and all the pressure hit to have done more. 

And here in Grandma Mom world we have all been sick, despite flu shots. The undercurrents of stress are free-floating through the dark, chilly house. Sudden thunder storm strikes of anger loom on the horizon. I'm supposed to have wise words and calm, but what I have are so many questions still unanswered.

Rainbows are beautiful and have been an eternal symbol of hope before they became a symbol of diversity. But rainbows are fleeting and illusive. Hebrews 11:1 says "Now faith is the substance of things hoped for..."  That is cool for faith and all, but sometimes when you have been sick and are at the beginning of February, you need a bit of the substance to keep having hope. 

So, I'm praying today for healing. Not just little healing, I mean, if you are going to pray for miracles that feel impossible, you might as well pray big, right? I'm praying not just that our family will get over this flu and get on with surviving, but I pray for our dear friends who are who are fighting cancer, for their healing too. I'm not just praying for our financial stresses, but for the people across this country who are out in the cold tonight, who have already lost it all. I'm not just praying for my family to be gentle with each other, but that we, as a nation of scared and wounded and stressed people find ways to be gentle and kind and have compassion for one another and our world. I'm praying that people who have been having their own storms of anger flashing out bolts of hateful words because of the fear and stress of this crazy present darkness, that light and love and peace and hope shine though.

I am praying for compassion, for all of us, big compassion.

And you may think I'm a foolish dreamer and what possible difference can such prayers make. We need the actual substance, not just the rainbow hope. I know, I know.

But this is what I have, and this is what I offer you today. If you think that maybe some old lady who has been beat up by the storms of life might have a word of wisdom to offer, this is what I would offer you today.

Like all things, it starts with love.