More than words

/

For the past few months, due to divvying up first my mother-in-law's household goods then her personal items, I find myself again and again considering the items my daughters will find once I'm gone or, as is the case with Jim's mom, incapacitated and no longer able to live outside of a nursing home. I've thought about the books they'll take for their own bookshelves, the knick-knacks they'll split between them, the family photos they'll add to their own albums and share with their own children to come.

It wasn't until reading the comment from Grams on my post about going through the very last of my mother-in-law's items that I considered things the girls might find that I don't want them to find. "It made us know how much we didn't know about our parents," Grams said about what she and her siblings found in their parents' belongings. Her comment made me think about my own tucked away possessions, items that will reveal to my daughters thoughts, feelings, traits I wasn't willing to share while living, ones I definitely don't want them to know once I'm gone.

I'm not talking about illegal activities, funky fetishes or stacks of money with which Jim and I played McScrooge. Pretty much everything I have is out in the open, available for inspection any time anyone wants to delve deeper into who I am, who I was. Pretty much everything, that is, except my journals.

I've always thought the published journals of famous people, long after they're dead and gone, paint an inaccurate picture of the person, put them up for analysis, speculation and scrutiny based on limited information. If they're anything like me, those famous folk wrote in their journals when their hearts were heavy, when they were at their most vulnerable, most sad, most confused, most sick and tired of spinning the wheels of a daily grind that wasn't the life they originally imagined. But those worries, fears, complaints scribbled in private are not truly representative of the person as a whole.

And that's what I worry my girls would find in the many journals I've kept, journals written from the time I was a teen up through about four years ago. I rarely -- if ever -- write in a journal anymore, but all the angst, fears and probably a good share of self-pity of the past sits locked away in a trunk in the closet. The words written long ago are only a portion of who I was, who I am ... at my darkest.

I'm not sure why I've held on to those journals. It seemed better than the alternative, though, better than throwing away all the years of pouring out my heart onto paper. I've lost the key to the trunk in which they're stored, and that's been okay with me. I have no need, no reason, no desire to relive all those old thoughts, so knowing they're in a trunk which I can't open has seemed reasonable, safe.

But upon my death, I'm pretty sure the girls won't let a lock without a key keep them from finding out what's inside the funky blue trunk in the study. So I'm considering what to do with that trunk. Do I pitch the thing in the garbage, locked and unopened? Do I pry it open and scan the journals to see if my concerns are unwarranted? Or do I leave well enough alone, leave it locked, leave it in the closet, leave it until I'm dead and gone and the girls can do with it what they will?

Like I said, I'm considering it. I don't really know what to do. Or when to do it. I'm at a crossroads, feeling a little anxious about the whole thing.

Maybe I need to go journal about it. Commit words to paper in hopes of coming to some sort of resolution, some sort of answer. Just as I did in journals in the past.

First, though, I need to find a hiding place for the new journal. One that doesn't require a key. Better yet, one that will self-destruct after a short period of time so I don't have yet another journal causing me such consternation.

Photo credit: Stock.xchng

Today's question:

Do you write in a journal or diary? If so, what do you do with them once filled?

Somewhere in time

/

Sunday at 11 a.m., Jim and I settled into the car for a six-hour drive home from South Dakota. We spent the the first half of that drive, nearly three hours, without conversing, listening only to the iPod on the stereo. Mile after mile, we spoke barely a word to one another, both of us lost in thought, considering the weekend, absorbing what we'd learned.

We had left for South Dakota early Saturday morning, arriving that afternoon at the nursing home where Jim's mom resides. She was propped up in her wheelchair watching "Giant" on the tiny television on her nightstand.

We said our hellos, hugged her fragile body, taped together her broken glasses that had the lens inserted upside down, commenced a visit. "Giant" served as the primary focal point, fodder for filling awkward moments as Jim and I attempted normal conversation with his once vibrant, talkative, normal mother.

Our attempts were met with stories from Mom about her outings to various places from her past -- visits she believed had happened just days before, despite not having left the nursing home for about a year. She talked of how grand it was to have attended and be escorted down the aisle in her wheelchair at her brother's wedding, a wedding that took place more than 50 years before -- 50 years before the amputation that took part of a gangrene leg and committed her to a wheelchair earlier this year.

She talked about recently attending church at the church she and I attended together 20 years ago, when the girls were young and Jim worked on Sundays and couldn't go with us.

She talked about phone calls and visits from relatives who, in reality, rarely call, never visit.

She talked of how beautiful Elizabeth Taylor was in "Giant."

We wrapped up with a promise to return in the morning, to spend more time with her before heading back home after the quick trip. Then we went to Jim's sister's house. His oldest sister, his medically trained sister, his sister who visits their mother each and every day, his sister who best knows what to do about Mom.

My first question to her as we unpacked our bags was, "Do we go along with Mom living in the past?" Or do we call her out on such things, try to jog her memory, try to bring her back to reality? The latter was the original tack when Mom first suffered a stroke and mental impairment from violently hitting her head during the associated seizures. It no longer felt like the right tack.

Sue assured us it's not. "She's too far gone and that part of her brain will never return," she said. We learned it's best to play along, to not frustrate and confuse Mom. We learned it's best to let her reminisce about days when she felt happy, content and whole. Days now lost somewhere in time.

That's not all we learned during our too-short weekend trip. From the last boxes of Mom's personal items, the final remnants to divvy up between siblings, we learned of a few of Mom's prized possessions, things that mattered most to her.

We learned of hundreds and hundreds of photos Mom had saved in her cedar chest, many of them photos she rarely shared with the family. Treasured photos of her grandparents, her parents, her siblings, herself. Beautiful decades-old renderings of lives well-lived: births, parties, communions, weddings, new homes, new babies, new starts on life.

We learned teenaged Mom was an avid fan of the glamorous movie stars of the '40s, collecting -- and keeping -- old-time studio shots, postcards, autographs, from Dorothy Lamour, Lana Turner, Spencer Tracy, Humphrey Bogart, Gene Kelly and more.

We learned she still had Jim's baby book, achievement records, locks of hair.

We learned she had carefully tucked away the newspapers containing my very first published articles.

We learned she kept in a manilla folder in her desk every card, every letter, every thank-you note that Brianna, Megan and Andrea ever sent their beloved Granny.

We learned of these and many other things Mom held on to in hopes she'd never forget.

Mostly we learned -- during those hours of silence as Jim and I reclaimed the miles between South Dakota and home -- that we're not yet ready to fully consider the loss of Mom, of Granny. We learned we're not yet ready say the words that open the floodgates.

As we got closer and closer to Denver, we made comments here and there, turned up the radio a little louder. Jim sang. I whistled. Soon we were discussing the girls, the coming week, the never-ending to-do list.

We didn't discuss Mom.

Eventually we will.

Eventually we'll talk. Eventually we'll cry. Eventually we'll mourn.

Somewhere. Sometime.

Today's question:

What is among the treasured photos and papers you're saving?

Mom 2.0: Better than Mom 1.0

/

I've always considered it a parent's duty to create a better life for their children than the one they had themselves, to improve the family's lot with each generation. Regardless of how grand -- or not -- a person's life may be, there's always room for improvement, and their kids should be the beneficiaries of such.

With that in mind, I've worked hard to ensure my daughters are more content, better educated, more financially secure than I was at their age, along with myriad other upgrades in comparision to how things were for me. Now that they're all adults, I'm seeing the fruits of my labor in all of them, in numerous ways.

But as Megan is the only one of my daughters to become a mother so far, in her I see that not only is she better educated and more financially secure than I was in my mid-20s, she is a much better mom than I was at her age.

Here are nine reasons why I say that:

1. Megan has tricks and techniques for discipline, character building, motor-skill encouraging and more that I never dreamed of when my kids were Bubby's age. Most come by way of her early childhood education training and her work as a pre-K teacher, but that simply means there was a two-fold payoff from my "better educated" goal for my girls.

2. Megan is better at spacing her children than I was. I wouldn't give anything in the world for the way my babies came in rapid succession, as things really do (and did) happen for a reason. But allowing Bubby some time as an only child, with his own room and gads of attention before Baby No. 2 comes along, seems a much better plan than my non-plan nearly 30 years ago.

3. Megan swims. And hikes. And runs. And engages Bubby in outdoorsy pursuits that keep him healthy and happy. I'm a rather sedate, indoorsy kind of mom. I think outdoorsy is better.

4. Megan looks forward to Bubby playing football. I'm just thankful I never had boys and had to endure years of watching my child get knocked around on the field. I honestly don't know that I could have -- or would have -- done it. I may have ended up not allowing a son to play football ... and that son likely would have hated me for that.

5. Megan is more fearless than I ever was. She allows Bubby to find his own footing on play structures, lets him figure out how to get up and down stairs on his own at an early age, lives in the desert where rattlesnakes and scorpions roam, lets Bubby ride Roxy like a horse until Roxy gently decides enough is enough. I'm overprotective to a fault. (Brianna, Andrea, Megan: You never heard me admit that!)

6. Megan let Bubby take the lead in his potty training, making it a non-issue -- and completely accomplished in less than a week. I, on the other hand, scarred Brianna for life, I'm sure, by adherence to the idiotic ideas in a book called "Toilet Training In A Day." A day which was marked by tears, not success.

7. Megan chose godparents according to what was best for Bubby. I (along with Jim) chose godparents with the intent of honoring those chosen.

8. Megan tries new recipes for dinner every night in hopes of widening her family's culinary horizon. Well, not every night, she says, but nearly every night ... and far more often than this mother who tended to go with the tried and true far too often.

9. Last but not least, Megan taught Bubby from a very early age how to make good choices -- something I'm still trying to teach my daughters.

Megan has only one child at this point, whereas when I was her age, I had three. So the real test of my assertion that she's a better mom than I will come when babies No. 2 and No. 3 come along.

Do I question whether she'll pass? Not at all.

I have no doubt whatsoever Megan will pass with flying colors -- colors I likely would never have even dreamt of.

Never again

/

I recently put a few items for sale on Craigslist, things I no longer want, need or use. Surprisingly, one of the "no longer used" items -- something I've been eager to get out of the garage -- has me waxing misty-eyed and melancholic.

Just what may that item be, you ask? Maybe a crib, signifying the end of babies in the house? A student desk, signifying no more students doing homework the last possible moment before it's due? A dinosaur of a VHS video camera signifying the end of recorded pumpkin carvings, Christmas programs and luau-themed birthday parties?

No, no, and no.

It's our cartop carrier. And selling it signifies the end of an era. The end of family vacations. The end of some of my all-time favorite moments with my tribe.

Never again will Jim and I, along with three crabby as cuss sleepy little girls, get up before the crack of dawn to hit the open road with suitcases, swim gear and more balanced above our heads.

Never again will our family of five load up sleeping bags, tents, camp stoves and a homemade camping shower then head up to the mountains for a long weekend of roasted weenies, s'mores and love-pop-can-chain moments around the fire.

Never again will Jim and I and a nervous college freshman load up new bedding, table lamps, extension cords, closet organizers, posters, first-aid kits, nightlights and family photos and drive off into the sunrise to drop off at college yet another baby girl ... who was no longer a baby.

Never again. Selling the cartop carrier punctuates that.

Never again!

The title of the Craigslist listing should have been "Memories for sale: $60." But that's not what I wrote; I figured not many clamoring for a good deal would understand.

But maybe you do.

 

Today's question:

What in your life will likely happen never again?

Jekyll, Hyde and Bubby

/

Bubby's mom, Megan, was an incredibly moody and sensitive child, the most senstive of my three daughters.

Based on our latest Skype visit with Bubby, seems that Megan's finally getting paid back for all she put her parents through.

From the heights of happiness to the depths of despair, I think Bubby covered it all in our 20-minute visit. All the while. Megan just shook her head, saying, "Yep, he's two."

He's not just two, Megan. He's just like you!

Today's question:

What question would you like to see asked of Grandma's Briefs readers?

Are you there God? It's me, Grandma

/

The past two weeks have been filled with distress over a situation with one of my (to remain unnamed) daughters. I go to sleep praying about the mess, wake up praying about the mess, have prayers about the mess taking up lots of space in my brain, my heart.

I keep praying and praying without seeing much in terms of answers ... yet (I hope). I told the daughter in question that all the praying is wracking my brain and it sure would be nice if I could simply send God an e-mail with a "READ Receipt" attached so I'd at least know the prayers were under consideration.

I told Jim the same thing. To which he replied, "Yeah, just like in Bruce Almighty."

I'd forgotten about Bruce Almighty. Maybe it's another example of my memory fritzing out here and there, or maybe it's because I don't really care much for Jim Carrey. Once Jim mentioned it, though, I remembered. And I couldn't help but search for a clip of exactly how the e-mail to God thing worked ... at least in the movies.

This video -- for which I have only a link because it's copyrighted and embedding is disabled -- is what I found, what I remembered, what I kinda sorta long for. So go ahead: Take a look at this Bruce Almighty answers e-mailed prayers scene. I'll wait the minute-and-a-half it takes to watch it.

Ya back? Good. See, that is what would be oh-so wonderful, oh-so helpful.

Well, except for one thing. In the video, God/Bruce/Jim Carrey simply says "Yes" to all the requests in one fell click of the mouse. But that would never work in reality. For most things -- including the situation causing me such distress -- not everyone praying about it is praying for the same outcome. Even when it comes to praying for world peace, I'm pretty darn sure there's some folks somewhere wishing only to be the ones to win. When it comes to ending pain and suffering in the world, well, we all have different theories on how to do that, what to pray for, and some of those theories likely conflict with the theories of others. Even when it comes to praying to win the lotto (not that anyone I know does that), it obviously wouldn't work to say "Yes" to all those praying for the big bucks.

Bottom line: Bruce Almighty's simple "Yes" simply won't work.

The real God, though, I'm pretty sure he could figure out a way to make it work. Which is why I want a direct connection, a valid e-mail address to the real God. I could zap out my concerns and send them on their way.

Of course, if such a thing did exist, there'd naturally be a "READ receipt requested" option. I would choose that option, and upon receiving the receipt, then I'd know my request was under consideration.

Then I'd know I could stop praying about it, stop worrying about it.

If only things worked like they do in the movies.

Photo courtesy stock.xchng

Today's question:

What is your favorite Jim Carrey movie? (HA! And you thought I was going to ask something about God, didn't you!?)