So, guess you probably heard, but in case you’ve been in Kathmandu or some crazy-azz place like that and you missed it, we’ve got rats.

Lots. Of. Rats.

Yeah.

Right here, in the house, for several months now.  And I’ve been avoiding dealing with them.  Until this week.  Because they just wouldn’t go away.

That’s my sign.  If you start looking permanent then it’s time for you to pay rent or go.  They refused to pay.  Oh well.  That means they have to go.

But hubby didn’t want to do anything to hurt them.  Yeah, who knew?  Bob’s the Rat-vocate around here.  Gandhi of the furry creatures.  Wow.  Which apparently means that I’m Dr. Kevorkian… or Dr. Mengele.  Because I want a final solution and I want it now.

I think Bob’s afraid of me.  He thinks he’s next.

My campaign of terror has seen success.  Two are dead.  Victims of my handy dandy rodent traps.  Baited with good cheese, because their last meal should be tasty, right up until they die of course.  And to show his opposition to my plot, my husband is sitting Shiva and saying the Mourners Kadish for the first victims of my raticide campaign.

He’s like that.

Key takeaway point:  if you want to be left alone in the hardware store, tell the clerk you’re planning a murder and you think they need to walk away  in order to not be subpeona’d as a material witness.  That kid might not be sleeping soundly yet.  And all because of the middle-aged lady with the big smile, nice purse, and cute shoes, who was busy plotting homocide in the Pest Removal section of Aisle 9.

You’re welcome.  That’s a visual that is sure to amuse.

I don’t miss them.  The rats.  Not at all.  And I don’t feel bad about their death.  Not a bit.  Survival of the fittest.  It’s not just a suggestion, it’s a life plan.  Make good decisions, think stuff through, and always figure that anything good being given away for free is probably going to have a bad consequence or two.  So today’s life lesson, for humans and rats…

“Don’t eat the cheese.”

Hehehehehe…

Sorry I didn’t call you on Mother’s Day.  I tried.  But it appears that you weren’t there to chat.  Like you were all those years before. Some stupid something about dying… or some such nonsense.  Yeah, I know, ridiculous, right?

Like you’d do that.  I know, seriously?

But anyway, I hope your day was good.  I hope you know we missed you.  I missed you.

I still miss you.

Every day.

It amazes me and it should please you that my life is filled with people who tried so very hard to make this first Mother’s Day without you into something better than it ever could be.

My village.  I am their idiot.

But there really wasn’t much hope for that happening.  Tears came and went.  My heart felt like the cloudy sky.  Somewhat leaden, full, like a blister that needed to drain.

I’ve never been good with being this connected.  I don’t know how really.  But I am.  And that’s good for me.  Because my key connection to this world before was you.  I was connected to you.

And now I’m not.

I love you.  I miss you.  I hope your day was great.  Mine was, at times, but at other times it was not.  Laughter and tears.  Joy and sorrow.  Of such is my life made now.  And always.

And memories.  That all begin with…

You.

My Mother.

On Mother’s Day, and every day.

Always.

from a place straight out of my past.  And wherever and whatever it may be is still unfolding, still becoming.  But I feel the itch of the ink on my ankle these days.  No, not the star.  The heart, and the butt.  The one that tells me repeatedly that putting your heart into anything simply isn’t enough.  Yeah, that one.  It’s itching.  Like it’s trying to tell me something.  Like it’s reminding me that I have to put my butt on the line too.

In order to have a future.

But first I’ve got to finish the dream.  I’ve got to decide where, how, what.  And I’m building a network… which is very hard work yo?  But necessary… oh so necessary.  Busy all the time – planning, plotting, mapping.  I just want to scream at kids who don’t understand that worthwhile futures don’t just happen by accident, outcomes don’t just make themselves be.

The life you get is the result of all the things that happen to you while you’re planning another life that you won’t likely end up with.  God laughs at us when we plan.  Or not.  Sometimes it all works out.

Sometimes.

Feeling very disjointed.  Possibly this isn’t making total sense, but it does to me.  All you need to know is that I’m possibly evolving some more.  In ways I don’t yet fully understand… so how can you?  What are my dreams?  Is it too late to have them?  Is it too late to finally decide to live a different life?  Is it too late to change the path?

So. Many. Questions.  And no answers.  But I’m working on it.  As I plot, and plan, and stew, and fume.

This won’t happen by accident.

Unless it does.  While I’m planning another path.

I missed my Mom.  Just like I did yesterday, and the day before.

And once again I realized that this new reality will not change.  This is the rest of my life.

And tonight I cried.

Again.

But tonight I also thought about one of the life lessons that Mom hammered into me all of my life. Because she did.  Mom was a big one on lessons.  Her favorite was this:

I cried because I had no shoes and then I saw a man who had no feet.

And tonight, although I might be crying because I have no shoes (so to speak), there are most definitely people around me who have no feet (both figuratively and literally).  But, of course, Mom met with abject failure when she first tried to teach me that lesson when I was a selfish and self-absorbed teen… back when the idea of pitying anybody was beyond my nature or ability.

Today, I’m sure that wherever she is she’s plenty pleased to know that she succeeded.

Thanks Mom.

I miss you.

A lot.

I could just call my Mom. Just once more. Just to say hi. And to tell her how much I still need her.

I do. So very much.

There seems to be no break in this hurt. No chance to get out of the pressure cooker and just try to forget. Nobody is giving me that. I’m supposed to “stay strong”.

I’m not strong. I’m not even sleeping at a Holiday Inn Express every night so I can’t fake it very well. I’m sorry, but I’m just not.

I’m just human. A girl. Scared. Hurt. And I really want my Mom. I need her. She was my entire emotional support system. I have trouble being as real as I was with her with anybody else.

Anybody.

Real, right now, is hurt. Tears I cry alone. Because I have to be strong. Because I have to stand up.

Because.

I just wish she would call. Would tell me that it’s going to be okay. Even if it isn’t.

I’m not sure.

I just know I hurt. And she is the one person who could always change that. Make it all better.

A cold washcloth on my forehead when I had a fever. A hug and a stern talking to when I came home from school crying because once again I had been bullied for being different. A popsicle when my throat was sore.

She was all those things and more. And now she’s not. Nobody will ever do those things for me again. Nobody.

I’m the adult now. And I have to be strong. For everybody. But I’m not.

I’m still hurting, but now I have to fix it myself.

PS I’m not sure how to do that. I just know I hurt. And it feels awfully bad when I think about it. So I’m trying to be strong. I’m trying not to think about it.

It hurts.

Now.

And it probably always will.

Just too much. Sometimes people have to do it for themselves. I just can’t do everything.

So. Frustrated.

Angry.

Hurt.

Why do I try?

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Every time… seriously.  No matter what it is that goes wrong, your eyes give you away.  And this story I’m living right now?  It’s written on my eyes.  And that’s where you can see how bad the story is, because I think my eyes have aged a decade in less than two weeks.

10 years. Wow.

I’m surviving, barely, but only because I’ve gotten so far behind on schoolwork and I’m having to scramble in order to rescue this semester.  Yes, my Professors have all been very understanding.  More so than I expected.  But nothing makes two papers and finals in less than a week any more palatable.  Nothing makes it more manageable.  And right now I’m just trying to keep it together.

PS I still haven’t returned to work, that’s tomorrow.  That’s where I heard this terrible news.  I’m actually afraid of a place now.  And I’m not alone, since my Sister and I had this exact discussion yesterday and she too shares that dread with me.  I know, it’s a place, and she didn’t die there, but I’m positive my screams of terror are still going to ring in my ears when I pull back into the parking lot.

But back to my eyes… my tired, sad eyes.  They look so old.  Like they’ve seen too much.  Like they know too much.  They do.  They know I hurt.  Deep inside.  But I’m pulling up my socks and I’m moving forward.  I have to.  Life is for the living.  Apparently that is me.

Although I’m not entirely sure that is correct.  Not all the time anyway.

But my eyes are giving me away.  They are still mourning.  They keep leaking at unexpected times, when I think of something else Mom is going to miss.  When I think of something she won’t be with us for.  There is just so much.

So much.

And my eyes are missing her.  They want to see her.  Alive.  Not like they saw her last.  Dead.  I need the same thing.  My eyes know me so well.  They read my heart.  They see.  Too much.  And that’s why they look so old.

I’m sure none of you will be surprised that in the midst of all the disaster management I was performing last week, one of my biggest concerns was how my eyes looked.  Seriously, I was focusing on vanity, as my life fell apart.  Because I needed to try to control at least one small thing, even if I couldn’t control anything else.  It didn’t work.  I bought three different magic potions, applied all of them, and then promptly cried them off.  Nothing can withstand tears.  Nothing.  Tears are Kryptonite.  So I’ve given up.  My eyes look old now.  They’re creased, and tired, and likely to stay that way.

There’s nothing I can do.

I can’t unsee this.  I can’t go back.  I’ve tried.  I’ve bargained, and yelled, and begged.  And I’m still here, with my eyes still seeing her, and she’s no longer alive.  That’s hard.  Harder than wrinkles.  Harder than aging.  Harder than just about anything.  And my eyes know that better than me.

Look for the beauty today.  See the good. And hope for healing.  For my eyes, and my heart.

They both need it.

And I can make too.  But for the record, we’re not talking thin vs. thick crust.  Although thin always wins out, always.  And in boxers vs briefs, after a whole first marriage of boxers now the second time around it’s briefs FTW.  Likewise, in the battle over paper vs. plastic, it’s plastic, although I’d feel less guilt if I went with paper but those plastic bags get recycled for several lifetimes so maybe that balances out?  And in the most important decision – Godzilla vs. Mothra – everybody with two braincells knows it’s Godzilla.  Because, really, what other choice is there?  It has to be Giant Radioactive Lizard FTW!!!  But these aren’t the decisions I’m making.  Sadly enough.  Although I wish so much they were.

So. Much.

No, this decision is much harder.  With an additional six month commitment attached.  And I’m struggling.  Boy am I struggling.  Like a fat kid in the Kitchen, with a slice of cake on one side, and a pile of vegetables on the other.  And although that might not seem like a tough decision, the missing fact is that the fat kid’s Mom told him right before she left that she raised him to make good decisions… oh, and that the cake might or might not have been accidentally sprayed with bug spray.

Just like that.

But the decision for me isn’t cake.  Or vegetables.  Or boxers.  Or briefs.  It’s far harder.  It’s school.  You see I am currently 30 hours away from Graduation.  30 hours.  10 classes.  And the original plan was for me to finish in two semesters, Summer and Fall, going full-out 15 hours each.  Ambitious? Yes.  Aggressive?  Yes.  Doable?  Yes… that is if having a life wasn’t a real priority, and it’s not really so yes, it was doable.

Until.

Until last week.  Until my world fell apart.  Until the other reason why I embarked on this crazy midlife education adventure left me for good.

Until.

And now I’m really struggling with focus and I’m really worrying about the idea of 15 hours of classes.  I’m no longer feeling invincible.  I’m feeling very human.  And I’m feeling stuck in a decision I didn’t want to make.  You see, I know the vegetables are best for me.  And I know I should eat them fast, get it over with, and move forward.  But I don’t know whether I can.

I just don’t know.

So right now I’m going to eat the vegetables, not the cake, but I’m going to eat them slower.  Stretch them out.  And that makes me hate vegetables even worse than before.  Have you ever eaten the same Rutabaga – one bite at a time – over the space of a year?

Ugh.

I just want the vegetables gone.  That’s what’s in my head and my heart.  I just want this school thing to end.  Give me the paper, tell me I did good, then let’s forget I was ever here.  That’s what I’m feeling.  But I’m also pragmatic enough to think that if I start the original plan and then fall apart I’ll have to retake those classes that I bombed in.  And my GPA is sacred… I’ve worked so hard to repair it… I will be eaten up with teh failures if I don’t finish with a 3.5.  Go ahead, laugh at me, but I am literally having nightmares at the thought of getting a C.

Seriously.

So with that thought looming in my head, I’m likely going to scale back and slow down a little bit this summer.  In order to allow myself to deal with what has happened.  Because if I don’t it will not turn out well.  Not well at all.  I need time.  Time is my best friend.  But I have to be patient enough to allow time to pass.

Newsflash: I am not a patient person.

And that slow down means that I’ll be adding on a full Semester in the Spring.  And I won’t graduate until May, 2013.  Can I just say that here, honestly, that I really don’t want that.  But I don’t see many choices.

I need choices.

But I don’t see them.  I see this.  Loss.  Failure.  Missing her all of the time.  Psst… these are not good choices.  These are far worse than those vegetables.  These are the cake.  Frosted with buttercream and the possible hint of DDT.  Oh so attractive on the outside.  But it will kill you.

Maybe.

So please hold my hand as I make this decision.  Because there’s no way to go backward once it’s made.  I hope I choose correctly.  But I’ve learned in the last ten days that there are no sure bets.  No way other than the passage of time to know you’re doing the right thing.  It’s all guesswork.  All part of a celestial game of Darts, where you’re blindfolded and you pitch the dart, but only after you’ve been spun around about a million times.  All you can do is hope for the best.

I’m hoping… as I make this decision.

I hope.

Because apparently I’ve become a tree?  Or I’m no longer honest about my age and you need to check?  Or because I’m adding onto them faster than we thought?  Well, it’s one of these answers… I’ll let you guess which… and then I’ll do something awful to you if you guess the wrong one.

Choose carefully… just sayin’.

No, regardless of the title, this post has nothing to do with trees, or Arbor Day, or Johnny Appleseed.  But it does have everything to do with growing older.  Because with the loss of Mom, I’ve gained something very precious.  Something that is beyond price.  Something that I too will pass on one day to young Kay-Bug when I finally “cast off this mortal coil”.

My Mother’s Pearls.

Yes, I’ve added something to the jewelry collection that I never ever thought I would want.  More Pearls.  Because three strands wasn’t quite enough.  And for those of you who know me well… that’s what? 3 of you?  Well you three already know that Pearls are not my Go-To adornment.  My sparkles are of a different variety, beautiful all, but very different.  But on the day of her funeral for some reason as I finished dressing I felt that I needed some part of her with me.  Something to remind me that she was there as I spoke my words about her and tried to tell everyone what she meant to me and what losing her was doing to me as well.  And so I went to her Jewelry Box, opened it up, and for the first time since I was a small girl took out her Pearls and put them on as my own.  And as I hooked the very old clasp, and added them to the three strands that I already own, I knew instantly that they belonged exactly there.  Because they fit perfectly with the other strands and together they most clearly represent the story of my life.  Together all of those beautiful strands encircle my neck and alternately caress and choke me with the weight of their history and the weight of my past.

First there is the delicate choker-like strand that Eddie gave to me on our Wedding Day way back in 1995.  They are smaller than the others, and I still remember her smile of pride that day as she hooked the clasp, sealed it with a kiss, and said “now you can get married”.  Then there is the slightly larger and longer strand given to me by Bob, also on our Wedding Day, not so long ago in 2007.  I wore them up the aisle as a wiser and more experienced Bride, after having put them on myself because I was no longer in need of her help.  And finally there is the longer, older, more ivory-toned strand that my Mother bought for me to wear as my Sister’s Maid of Honor, as I stood beside her and supported her in her first steps as a true Adult.  But now, in clasping her own strand around my neck, I’ve added the longest, the prettiest, the most creamy, and the most dignified strand of all.  And by closing that clasp, I guess I’ve finally assumed the role she groomed me for all of my life.

I am her.

Or, really, I guess I’ve been her all along, but now I’m able to see that as a good thing.  Because I’ve finished growing up, becoming an adult, and I have taken on her role.  Together with my sister, we are now all that she left behind.  All the many parts of her, good and bad, and both as different as all those many Pearls, tied together with love and faith that we will live on for her.

We are.  We will.

But when I look at that strand, at the creaminess, I know they didn’t start out that way.  Back in the beginning they looked like my own strands.  Polished, perfect, pure and white.

No longer.

Today they carry the burnishing that life has given them, just like me.  Today they glow, instead of shine, because when you are young you do shine, with hope and dreams and plans, but when you grow older you glow with the life experiences that you encountered as you were achieving (or not) those things you reached for when you were young.

Experience polishes you, strengthens you, changes you.

And today I can tell you that I will wear that creamy strand with pride, as a badge of honor, and a sign that I belong. That I am an adult.  That I am ready to lead.  That I can do this.  Her love, her pride, and her faith were all three instilled in me from birth.  I was her first.  I was the one she expected so much from.  And I was her biggest failure and her hardest heartache for a very long time.

I was her.  And that was the part that bothered her the most.

And now I am her, in full, and I hope she is proud.  I hope she knows that I did listen.  I hope she knows I understand.  And I hope she knows that the next time I reach for my Pearls, she is there.  The weight of her love is draped around me, and in that weight I feel the love of her hand, pushing me on, telling me that I can do this.

I can.

And when I see those Pearls I will always be reminded that she’s with me.  Forever.  And in the creamy glow of those strings encircling my neck, if you look closely you can see the rings of love that I will always wear with pride.

Counting the rings.  It’s like counting the love.  There is no end.  Can you count that high?

I can.

Thank you Sam Venable for that observation…  because you are absolutely correct.  Change is inevitable, mostly unwelcome, and frequently the hardest thing we have to cope with.  Especially when it comes to changes in or with the people in our life.   That doesn’t mean we don’t do it.  Remember, it’s inevitable.  But we do handle change, especially when it comes to the people we love, reluctantly.

Well, yeah, that applies to the ones we love.  The others?  The ones we don’t?  Well, usually they’re the ones who we’d like to ride out of town on a rail but we end up stuck with them forever.  Like gum on the bottom of your shoe.  Or that annoying stain on your favorite white teeshirt that Ann Taylor isn’t making anymore.  You know the one.  And yeah, if you’re reading this and you think I’m talking about you, you’re right.  Sorry. Okay, not so much. Just sayin.

But anyway, as the great man wrote, all things change.  And as I read his words yesterday all I could think of was the reality that just two weeks ago my Mother was at my house, and we were doing the ordinary things we did when she was there.  Nothing special.  A trip to Goodwill, the usual errands, some busywork around my house.  Nothing monumental.

On a side note, wow are we boring or what?

But, yes, nothing big.  Just stuff we liked to do.  Just stuff.  Which is why today, just two weeks later, knowing that all things for us have changed is so hard to deal with.  So. Hard.

We won’t ever do those mundane, ridiculously ordinary things together again.  Because things changed.  She won’t see me finally earn my degree that she wanted probably more than me.  Because things changed.  We won’t ever get to enjoy the full changeover in life roles for parent and child.  Because things changed.

And I’m so angry about that.  And for the first time in my life, I hate change.  I never have before.  But now I do.  Although it really doesn’t matter.  Because like it or not, things change.  And I don’t get to choose whether to live those changes or not.  I just have to deal with them the best way I can.

PS I’m not doing very good at that.

I just want everything to be the same again.  I want everything to be mundane.  I just want to know that the most interesting thing I’ll be doing with Mom is going to Coldwater Creek and watching her touch ALL OF THE THINGS!  Yes, she did that, and I moaned about it every time, and now I’m heartbroken that we’ll never do that again.  I’d let her touch all of those things twice, or even three times, if I could just get one more chance to do that with her.  Really.  But I can’t…

Because things change.

But there’s one thing that never will change.  My love for her.  I will always love her.  Just as much as I did when I was 8 and she sent me to school for the all-important Picture Day in a Bouffant hairdo.  Just like I did when I was 13 and she came home and pulled all of the phones out of our house and took them back to work with her because I didn’t call to check in when I got home from school.  Just like I did when I was 17 and she willfully and purposefully interfered with everything good and fun (and possibly illegal and immoral, but we’re not debating that point) that I wanted to do with my friends.  At these times, much like the shopping trips to Coldwater Creek, I didn’t think I loved her all that much.  Now I know how much she loved me… and today I love her that much, and more.

And that, all two of you and my Dad who are still reading this thing, is something that will never change.  That love is forever.  Eternal.  Unchanging.

Mine.

So today, if you still have your Mother in your life, or your Dad, pick up the phone and call them, thank them for being a pain in the ass.  Thank them for annoying you.  Thank them for never changing.  And know that all things change.  Quickly.  And if you miss that moment you may never get it back.

Everything is change.

Don’t lose it.