It's Christmas Time

This past weekend was full of not one but two Thanksgivings, a Christmas tree farm, a couple of movies, a sick kid, a sick grown up, accidentally ending up in Target on Black Friday to buy cereal and "kill time," gaining at least five pounds, snow storms, shopping small, yelling, a few crying kids, a crying adult (me of course, waaaa), craft making, cookie baking, naps, late nights, decorating, football games, bickering kids, bickering grown ups, plans that worked out better than expected, plans that totally fell apart, lots of pie, lots of laughter, lots of forgiveness and lots of love. Phew. Just a typical Thanksgiving weekend I guess.

And now holy shit, it's Christmas time.

No One Hallucinated
We survived my mother's house.  No hallucinations, no ambulances.  
I spent most of the day holding my breath, waiting for something to go wrong or for one of my kids to break one of the 532,015 Santas my mother has displayed.  If there is an inch of space anywhere, my mother will find  it and put something there, preferably something with fabric that can absorb as much cigarette smoke as possible making the scent stick around for as long as possible, maybe forever.

As I had hoped, my children rose to the occasion.  They were kinder, calmer, sweeter than usual.  I swear to you, it's like they just know without me explaining everything.  They know it's complicated.  They sort of even know it's sad.  They are sensitive to her and to me.   I couldn't have been more thankful for their compassion. 

"I know where Grammy keeps her smokes and her teeth, " JT told me when we were on our way out the door.  He seemed sort of mesmerized by the whole situation.

When we got in the minivan to leave I finally exhaled, relieved that we made it through without anyone crying.  I asked Tim to stop to get me a Diet Coke.  He didn't.  And I cried. 

"How could you not stop for a Diet Coke, you don't love me, nobody does!," I cried into my sweater that reeked of stale cigarette smoke.  Whoa. Yeah, I was crying about waaaaay more than a Diet Coke.

Pokey Made It Home
Fifteen years ago when I moved to Michigan, my boss gave me her artificial Christmas tree.  We have used it every year since then.  It worked.  But this year, we decided to change things up and go to cut down our own tree.  

Off to the Christmas tree farm we went.  And um, they are really f#&@ing expensive.  My kids found beautiful trees for $140 and $120.  Beautiful trees that really weren't amazingly tall and wide.  "What about this one?," I pointed to a Charlie Brown-ish tree being ignored in the corner.  "It's only $40!"

We compromised and found a decent tree with a pretty big chunk out of the side for around $70. 

Feeling proud of ourselves for finding a decent tree, not hurting anyone with the saw and starting a new tradition we made our way to the parking lot.  

Oh yeah, my man, look at him all big and strong.  Big Daddy went out in the woods and got us a Christmas tree. 

The parking lot was full of families that knew what they were doing.  Throwing their new trees up on the roof, swiftly tying them securely and merrily singing Christmas carols as they drove off down the lane.  

We struggled to get ours on the roof. 

Uh-oh, Big Daddy doesn't know how to tie the tree to the minivan. Whomp. Whomp.

The kids were busy wrestling.  

Lucy is so above that wrestling bullshit.

Tim and I tied the ropes incorrectly and they snapped.  Then Tim snapped at all of us a little.  I might have said something a little less than merry back to him.  The family singing Jingle Bells in the car next to us looked horrified.  My kids didn't even notice because they were having a blast beating the crap out of each other.

"Do you think Pokey will make it home?,"  asked JT looking up from the dog pile in the minivan.  

"Who's Pokey?," I asked.

"Our tree, I named him Pokey because of his pokey needles," he explained.

I am happy to report that Pokey made it home.  Because holy shit, it's christmas time.

Awwww, look at Pokey all dressed up
and ready for Christmas time.

Are you ready?  Because ready or not it's here, it's Christmas time.  It's time to get excited.

I Just Can't The Conclusion & Thoughts on Crazy

This week I wrote a few posts about things that I "just can't" (like animals, quinoa or kale chips) and it sort of turned into a series.  Here's the conclusion to my "just can't" series, a very special holiday episode of "I just can't."

This is my Thanksgiving jam this year.  Seriously, it's a good song with a good message to anyone who thinks they might be crazy.  That's why I love it.

I just can't...explain it.

We were supposed to go to Disney World.  We rented the condo, priced the tickets, saved, budgeted, told the kids.  A Thanksgiving in Disney World, the happiest place in the entire f-ing world.  It was going to be amazing.  No extended family, no big dinners, no emergency rooms, no protecting the kids from my crazy mother, no hours and hours of the Home Shopping Network, no awkward sadness, no regret or guilt.  Not this year.  

But then we ran into a few unexpected expenses over the summer and Disney was out of the picture.

"Sorry kids, we aren't going to Disney World this Thanksgiving," we told them a couple months ago.  "But we ARE going to Grammy's house for the day and that will be, um, fun," we added with strained smiles.

The kids handled it quite well, which makes me wonder if they ever really believed that we were actually going to Disney World in the first place.

They are good kids, sweet kids, compassionate kids.  I love these things about my kids.  These things are why I must think it's okay to take them to visit my mother.  They are compassionate about her quirkiness and her forgetfulness and her falling asleep at the dinner table-ness.  They are understanding in some weird no-judgement kid way when she seems totally disinterested in them one minute and then completely over the moon singing songs and trying to get them to dance with them the next.

They don't question it too much.  But I do.  I can't figure out why I keep going to my mother's for Thanksgiving.  For the past couple years, it's been the only time we see her.  
Because it's the right thing to do? Because she's alone? I just can't....explain it.

I just can't....stop being afraid.

The older I get the more compassion I have for my mother.  Even the mean-spirited, difficult, manipulative person she can be most of the time.  I think back to what the world was like 30 years ago when she was really starting down the path of mental instability.  No one said "bi polar."  There was no Britney, Lindsey or Charlie having public meltdowns on camera and on Twitter.  

I remember one day after school when I was a kid watching Donahue while I ate a bowl of cereal and Patty Duke was on talking about her mental illness.  I knew Patty Duke from old Nick-At-Nite reruns.  When I heard her talk about her manic highs and her depression I felt like someone was describing so much of my mother.  But then the show was over and that was that.

My mother never got the right help or understanding that she needed, or that might be available to her today.  While my heart aches for what could have been for her, for all of us, my fear is bigger.  I am afraid that maybe I am branded with the genetic marker for depression/anxiety/bi-polar/borderline personality/addiction.  I am afraid that it is inevitable.

I just can't....stop finding some of it funny. 
If you can't laugh, then you are dead.  I truly believe that.  I mean there's always something funny (eventually) about a situation.

This Thanksgiving my mother is only having my family and me for dinner.  I have siblings, they just won't be there.

"I just can't handle too many people," she informed me over the phone in her slurry, slightly agitated, southern drawl.  "I'm just trying to not end up with hallucinations this year.  Every other year after all of your loud kids leave I end up hallucinating."

Yeah, you thought you had something to worry about like overeating or someone bringing up Obamacare at the dinner table.  Whatever.  We are trying not to hallucinate here.

I know.  Maybe you aren't laughing.  You're thinking this is the most f#*@ing depressing Thanksgiving post ever.  Welcome to my world.  No, I'm kidding.  It's not all dark and twisty.  

There will be moments that don't make sense, there will be moments that scare me, but there will also be moments that bring out the best in my children.  There will be moments where my husband supports me (and my fears and worries) with every ounce of his being and I will fall in love with him again in those moments.  We will drive home and I will probably cry with relief and/or rage, but then I will laugh.  Because there is always something funny and for that I am grateful.

And next Thanksgiving, I might say I just can't....go.

Here's my holiday jam.

Walking the Line

"I don't want it, no thanks," I said.  My heart was pounding out of my chest.  

"Just take it," she told me.  "It will help with all your pain."  

No, no, no, no.  I'm not like her.  I won't do it.  I'm not like her, I'm not.  I'm not.- My mind was both screaming and whimpering.

"I really feel uncomfortable taking these," I calmly, but quietly told her.  "I will find other ways to manage the pain."

"Well, I'm giving it to you anyway, take half," she said waving me away like some silly fool.  She was probably thinking who in the hell wouldn't want muscle relaxers?

I put my coat on, grabbed Wade's hand and made my way to the front desk.  "Okay, which pharmacy do you want me to send your scripts to?," the receptionist asked.  "You okay, hon?"

"No, I'm not, I don't want the Flexeril," I informed her.  

"Oh, it's not a big deal, just take half," she reassured me as if I knew nothing about drugs, as if I didn't know the difference, as if my mother hadn't given me these exact same drugs in fucking high school, as if I hadn't had to take this exact drug away from my mother along with countless other muscle relaxers and opiates.

"Listen, I just don't want it because my mother's a drug addict and it scares the hell out of me," I said in a breathy, I'm-about-to-cry voice.

She looked down, typed something in the computer and told me to "have a good day."

Then I got in my van, buckled the baby in his car seat, climbed into my own seat and took a deep breath.  And then I cried.

I won't be like her.  I'm not like her.  Oh god, please, I can't be like her.  

It hit a nerve. It happens.

When I'm sad for no reason I think holy shit, this is the beginning.  This is my descent into madness.  Not every time I'm having a bad day, but sometimes.

When I reward myself for my exhausting day of badass mothering with a few glasses, or a bottle of wine, I think this is the beginning.  This is my descent into addiction.  Not every time I drink, but sometimes.

As I get older, it gets scarier.  But I also have so much more compassion for my mother.  Thirty years ago when she got really sad and messed up no one knew what the hell was happening.  I, we, are all so much more aware now.  But yet, drugs are still such an easy answer for so many doctors.

Going to my drug pusher's doctor's office last week for a strained calf muscle and being bullied made me feel small.  It made me question why I wouldn't just take the drugs.  

But what scared me more is that there was a part of me that was interested.  I wanted to feel calmer and numb.  And I'm not suffering any great depression or anxiety issue (right now).  Why was there a part of me wanting this?

Life is intense. Slippery slopes are well, very slippery.  Walking the line can be hard. 

But you better believe I'm walking it.  There's no time for slippery slopes when I have four amazing little beings depending on me and a supportive, loving husband.  Just like the great Johnny Cash sang, I keep a close watch on this heart of mine, I keep my eyes wide open all the time...because you're mine, I walk the line.

I walk the line because I know how it ends if you don't.  And I will not be like her. 

Better Than Fine and What I Know For Sure (this week)

Today is my son's birthday.  Peyton, my oldest child, turns 11 years old.  

Peyton is a serious, thoughtful, quiet, smart boy.  
He wants to please people.  He wants to get things right.  He' a rule follower.  He has high expectations of people.   

He's the rock, the center, the guiding light for the kids.  They're all like "what would Peyton do?" Even when he's dressed as some stupid scary zombie, grave dude for Halloween.

I've never really had to be hard on him or strict because he is the toughest on himself.  If anything, I've had to remind him to take things in stride, not be so serious or too harsh with himself.  We've never really had to remind him to do his homework, study for a test or finish a book for school.  Which, by the way, totally screwed us up for the rest of the kids that came along that weren't such big fans of rules and exceeding expectations.

As much as I wish he would feel more confident and outgoing sometimes, I don't want him to change.  And I know things are going to change.  He's a tween heading into teen faster everyday.  

Sometimes I can't even remember who I was before I was a mother.  Before Peyton. 

When I was pregnant with him, I struggled with depression and anxiety.  Having a crazy mother, like I do, can make any chemical imbalance in your brain or in your hormones scare the shit out of you.  But once Peyton was born, I was fine.  I was better than fine.

The past 11 years have been hectic, nerve-wracking, funny, fabulous, heart-wrenching, gut-wrenching, beyond amazing, exhausting and all kinds of wonderful.  That's motherhood.  And I couldn't be happier that my boy Peyton and I started on this journey together, that I know for sure.

Here's what else I know for sure (this week):

• Class parties are a big f#&*ing deal.  I went to all three of my elementary school age kids' parties this year and all I can say is "wow."  

• Compliment or Burn?  Not sure how to take it.  One mom asked me if I was new to the school because she hadn't seen me at school before.  We've been attending the same school for over five years now.  I have three kids in the school.  What do you think?  Compliment?  Like wow, you've been here so long and you don't have to volunteer everyday? You're awesome.  OR. Burn? You loser, I can't believe you have three kids here and YOU are never here. You suck. 

With Wade trailing and needing to be held every second, I wasn't much help at any of my older kids' class parties anyway.  I don't think the other moms thought I was very cool either when I asked my first grader JT to take this picture so I could post it on instagram. Whatever.

• This makes me happy- Louis C.K. hosting SNL this Saturday night. Can't wait.

• We got stranded at the Pumpkin Patch.  In case you missed it, here's the video evidence of our stranded-ness.

• Sherbet is stupid.  First of all who likes it?  Who would EVER choose that over ice cream?  And why the hell do we pronounce it SherbeRt?  It really bothers me.

• True love is simple and the real dream.  I posted this on the blog's FB page, but feel that it needs to be posted again.  I LOVE it.  It's a love story from StoryCorps.org.  Watch and remember what's really important.

• I love my husband, I'm glad his rotator cuff will be like brand new, but in the words of Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock, it takes two.  Yeah, it takes two fully functioning adults to keep this family of six running smoothly.  I. Need. Him. To. Get. Better. Now.

Tim has become obsessed with some stupid zombie game on the ipad and plays it for hours. Ugh.

• Can't mention Rob Base without posting the song, duh. 1, 2, 3 get loose now....

• I'm nervous about next week.  What will Wednesday look like?  I guess all we can do is vote and wait and watch the endless coverage on TV.

• Congrats to Brenda Y on winning the Jewel Kade giveaway!

• Running is cool, but running for a good cause is even cooler.  Click here to read about how my friend Jen is running in a Team Challenge half marathon to raise money for Colitis.  And hey, help her reach her goal of $3,700.

What do you know for sure (this week)? C'mon, we're friends, share what you know.  Leave a comment here or on the Facebook page.

Come find me on Twitter (@AngelaYBlood) and Instagram (@jumpingwithmyfingerscrossed).

I'm linking up today with my instagram/Blissdom/blogland friend Greta fromGfunkified.com for #iPPP link up.

Suck it Haters

"Who walks around thinking they're wrong all the time?" my dad's very opinionated ex-wife asked one time with a laugh full of certainty and assurance.  She just couldn't understand people that didn't have confidence in their own ideas or expectations of greatness.  


She was full of all kinds of advice, like "Never walk and smoke, it's tacky."  (Ahhh, let's give her a break on that one,  it was a million years ago when she gave me, a very impressionable 16-year-old, that advice.)


I know some people like her.  People that are sure of themselves.  People that think they have good ideas.  People that know they are smart.  People that feel pretty damn good about themselves.  And I hate those people.  No, I'm kidding.  I mean I'm jealous of those people, because I am not those people.


You see, I was raised by a co-dependent, mind game playing,  fucking crazy lady (my mother, not my ex-stepmother)and I blame everything on her.  I'm kidding....about the blaming everything on her part.  I do use it to explain, not complain, about why I might be a bit crazy.  Just like the eloquent hooker in Pretty Woman, after you've been put down enough, the bad stuff is easier to believe.


(I won't lie to you, this is a pretty poignant clip from a pretty non-poignant movie.)

So, feeling like a loser, I consider myself a hustler for the good stuff in life.  I've quoted Elizabeth Gilbert's idea from Eat, Pray, Love about "tap dancing for pennies of affirmation" before and I kind of love her for that quote.  Kind of wish my dad would've married someone like her all those years ago.


All this hustling is a coping skill you see. My brother and I have talked about how we have an "I'll show you attitude" about life.  I guess you might call it a giant chip on our shoulders.  


When I was training for a marathon a couple years ago, part of my motivation was to prove all the haters that I could finish the damn thing.  Did I have haters?  I don't know for sure.


But with the help of Kanye and Eminem on my ipod, I will tell you that anger helped me get through the first 14 miles of the race. Half-way through however, it all changed.


I stopped being angry.  I stopped caring about the supposed haters/doubters.  The songs on my ipod were happy, upbeat love songs.  My last few miles I was fist-pumping and waving at the crowd like I was in a god damn parade.  Like I was something to be admired.  Like I knew what I was doing.  Like I had a good idea.  Like I was something special. 


That's right, I am about to make the whole marathon of life metaphor.  Even as I type this I am wondering if you, the readers are hating it...and I am about to say well, screw you.  But then I worry and hope you like it, maybe love it and I want to scream thank you.  


Anyway, in this whole race of life I hope I accept the ebbs and flows, the certainties and complete uncertainties, the haters and the lovers.


I am about to go to my first blog conference, called Blissdom.  I leave in a day and a half.  I feel all kinds of crazy--not professional enough to attend, guilty about leaving my family for days, pissed that I feel unprofessional and guilty, tired from the past few weeks of a lot of heavy life stuff, happy that I get a shot at making blog connections, silly for feeling like a blogging poser and so much more.


As I think about what to pack and worry that I have flimsy, unprofessional business cards, I want someone to say something horrible to me.  Tell me I can't do it or say the dreaded "who do you think you are?"  Help me get that chip on my shoulder....without it, I am a mushy, insecure mess.  Okay, even with it I am, but at least I am angry and think I will prove my haters wrong.


In my old house I had a wall of words in my bathroom---a place dedicated to quotes I love. Quotes that have meant or mean something powerful to me.  And it was one of the first things I did in my new house, my new bathroom, my new wall of words.

A wall to share quotes like this:


One way or another.  Even if it's only the lyrics to a stupid pop hit.  We're going to right the world and live. I mean live our lives the way lives were meant to be lived. With the throat and wrists. With rage and desire and joy and grief and love till it hurts. But goddamn, girl, Live.


Sigh.  I love that quote.  It sounds manic, but I love it.


The good, the bad, the ugly.  The certain, the insecure, the haters, the lovers.  They all matter.  Knowing that, I am going to keep doing things that make me uncomfortable, fight through my doubt and laugh when things aren't perfect (like my shitty fake business cards) after I cry first of course.  It may be messy, but goddamn, I am going to live.  Haters can suck it (awww, there's that old chip again).

I Won't Apologize (too much)

I am a very emotional person.  Like borderline bi-polar emotional.  My highs are high and yes my lows are low.


This week on Ellen, Kristen Bell showed a video of how emotional she can get.  She discussed how she cried when she was sad or happy.  She was adorable, lovable, sweet and charming.  And it was funny.

When my husband Tim first met me he found my game of emotional ups and downs fascinating.  Loving me was unpredictable and interesting....in the beginning.  Now even though I remind him about how exciting it all used to be, I know it exhausts and confuses him.  

You see, I don't think I have ever been as adorable or as charming as Kristen Bell.  Happy or sad, when I get emotional I look scary.  Like no more wire hangers, Mommie Dearest looking scary, yes even when I'm happy.  My kids will even ask "is that a happy cry?"


But here's what I know for sure, I am all about embracing the crazy.  Letting the tears flow.  Sure, there are times to seek therapy and medication, but most of the time it's okay to ride the roller coaster.  And I won't apologize (too much) for being emotional.  Even if that makes most some people uncomfortable.


Here are a few other things I know for sure:
Car loop at elementary school is for suckers.  Our new house is out of the kids' school zone so I will be driving them to and from school for the rest of the year (in the good old car loop).  Now I get to listen to my kids fight all the way to school and snap at me.  "Would you ever talk to your bus driver that way?" I asked yesterday morning.  I have been at the elementary school more in the past three days than the past five years. Ugh.


Using musical theater/performance instead of time outs and grounding works well for me.  When they wouldn't stop fighting I threatened to write a musical about how bratty my children are and ask their teachers if I could perform it in front of each of their classes.  One time, I threatened to walk into the lobby of their school and say good-bye to them by singing "So Long, Farewell" from The Sound of Music, with the choreography and all.  They usually are much better listeners after these threats. 



Adieu, adieu to you and you and you!


I may be one of the very few watching OWN, but I f-ing love most of it.  Seriously.  And I am so very grateful that I discovered Soul Pancake.  Love it.
I have found a new threat for my children...Dance Walk!!!!!!!!

I dare you to Dance Walk this weekend while embracing your crazy.  Do it.  


Hey one more video, dance walk to this song.  

Batsh*@ Crazy

Somedays I think I am crazy.  Somedays after reading my blog, you may think I am crazy.  And guess what?  I am a little.

But let me tell you a thing or two about crazy.  There's oh "I'm depressed and in a funk crazy" and then there's "I will never laugh again crazy" which I am a card carrying member to both those groups.  But the thing is I do laugh again, usually the day (or hour) after I make the bold "never again" statement.  And those funks?  I am keenly aware of them and do something immediately to climb my way out...be it therapist visits, exercising, sleep, self-help books you name it.

Hell we are all a little crazy.  Watching 24 hours of news can make a person feel bi-polar.  One minute we are in a fiscal depression because of Europe and those evil banks.  The next minute we are having the best holiday cyber shopping season ever in history.  What god damn roller coaster.

But there are other types of crazy.  The "I need to take drugs to quiet the voices crazy" and "I need to make everyone miserable because I don't make sense and don't you dare f$&#ing tell me to change crazy."  These categories I thankfully have not visited.   I like to call them the totally batshit crazy categories.  These are the categories my mother carries membership cards in her 500 purses she bought from QVC (the chosen shopping network for crazy people).

The thing about these last two categories is that they are not recognized by medical professionals.  Doctors, nurses, physical therapists, surgeons, medical receptionists see my mother coming and their first instinct is to shut the door.  If they do let her in, they regret it and do everything they can to get rid of her.  That's right, not help her.  Get rid of her.

Batshit crazy isn't a medical term (you thought it was right?).  You see, no one really knows what is wrong with people in this category.  Are they simply severely suffering from a life-crippling addiction to opiates, aka a drug addict?  Or are they suffering from mental disorders that wreak havoc on personal relationships aka end all of them?  What came first?  


How do you treat someone that loves drugs and doing what they want (spend every penny of savings on QVC) more than making healthy choices?  And when I say healthy choices, I mean not falling asleep from too much morphine while smoking a cigarette only to wake up and find you've burned holes in yet another shirt.

I have mentioned that we live in a land full of protected personal freedoms and I appreciate them so much.  But we also live in a land full of overworked medical professionals that are afraid of lawsuits and messes.  I am not blaming doctors completely for the way my mother is now.  Quite frankly, it validates a lot of my frustrations.  I spoke with the director of the nursing home she spent only a few short days in after taxing their limited resources so badly they were basically throwing my mother a good-bye party.  I told him  I was exhausted from dealing with my mother for the past 25 years.  "We are exhausted by her too," he told me.  Really, sir?  Really?  It's been four days.

Everytime she goes to the hospital or the psych ward, I let myself get hopeful.  Hopeful there will be someone with an impressive title that will give us some guidance on how to help her.  Help her at least get the right mix of drugs and her driver's license suspended (yup, she is still on the road) so she can live in a nice fog without hurting anyone, or herself more.

But they know there is no cure or even temporary fix for batshit crazy people.  "People make bad choices."  "You can't force people to change."  Um, okay.  I have heard these statements over and over the last couple of years.  

So yet again, my mother is returning to her home (much to the chagrin of her neighbors who have given me quite a disturbing picture of what it's been like to live next door to her the past five years).  And we wait.  Wait for the next extreme batshit crazy thing she does.  There is no nice ending, lesson learned, story of closure or redemption in this blog post.  


I know how this story goes...I wait and wonder is she ok?  And she is fine smoking her her brains out, getting doped up at the emergency room and settling in on her couch to do some more QVC shopping.  Until she's not fine.  And then we will once again try to help her.


Do you see why I am such a recurring storyline?  Ugh.
No worries, I am not sad (that's what Christmas is for right?), just frustrated and tired.


To be continued...