Family Visits

Steve's brother Mark and his wife Nannette flew down to Texas to visit with his folks; who live about 30 minutes from us. We met them Thursday night for BBQ and then they stopped by the house for a few hours.

After Steve got off work on Friday we drove up to the inlaws and had supper and stayed until after 9:00.

Today, another of Steve's brothers, Greg, his wife Stephanie and their three girls drove down from Kerrville to stay with his dad as well. Steve was up and ready to head there for the day about 9 this morning.

Now, I'm not the most social person. I wasn't raised in a social environment. Sure, we occasionally had guests over. And during those times you behaved a certain way; company maners. Everyone's manners changed; including my parents. As a child I actually use to like having company come over because that was the only time we even got close to portraing a stanard family unit. Even a pretense for a few hours for a child was a welcome repreieve.

I have to say that age and circumstances have made me more antisocial than I have ever been in my life. I genuinely like and enjoy being around every person that was in that house; just not for 12 hours out of my day. I can bearly stand to be around Will that much in a day.

So I stayed home and sewed today and Steve and Will went and spent the day with the folks. I joined them arounf 5:30 for supper, intending to stay until about 9:00. But the oddest thing happend.

The more I set there laughing with my sister-in-laws the more I missed my sisters. The more I realized I didn't have sisters any more. Just one sister, the "live one" as we joke now.

I got quiter and quiter as memories of past visits with my sisters played through my head. I realized that at every family get together we always over indulged in alcohol. For many of us, it is the only way we can allow ourselves to relax. The only time we felt safe to be who we were and know we were loved regardless of what came out of our mouth. And believe me, get me drunk and there is no telling what I am likely to tell you.

Then I realized I had not been in the mood to drink the entire time we'd been together. And this is a drinking family. Putts mine to shame I tell you. Well, they are mine . . . it puts the one I grew up with to shame. I even woundered why I didn't want a drink every time someone offered me one. It was odd. I'm not a big drinker at all. But I like to indulge with my family.

And I think that was the problem, I was subconsiously trying to safeguard myself by staying away from the alcohol.

Regardless, when I begin to miss my sisters I went in the other room and tried reading. Just backed away a little. It didn't help. By 8:00 I told Steve I needed to come home and I did.

Then I cried all the way home. When I got in the house, I put a bottle of amareta in the freezer to chill and took a long shower.

I quess I'll have that drink after all.

Have mop, Will travel

So I've been cleaning on my house for days. Not surprising really. I'm not the neatest person in the best of times. When I'm sick, forget about it!

After days of cleaning this room or that, I finally made my way down to the floors. Today I had to mop almost 600 square feet of floor. Nasty, dog ridden, spill stained, mud caked floor. So yeah, I was looking forward to it.

To add to the loads of fun and excitement I was having, Will decided he wanted to mop too. As he has officially quit taking a nap, there really was nothing else to do with him. So I gave him a spray bottle of soap/water mixture to pretreat areas. He went around way OVERspraying any tiny spot he could find.

Which worked for me. I had a breather to prepare the pail and get everything in order. Then the mopping began. I started by assigning him areas to work on; less dirty areas. But somehow, and I'm exaggerating here, he managed to make them look worse than before he started. So I not only got to mop all the areas, I got to mop them two of three times if he remopped them.

But that wasn't the worse of it. While our mop bucket has a roller feature to help squeeze out the excess water (and Will knows how to use it), Will mostly elected to skip this step. There is a small area behind the roller device that his mop fit in perfectly. He'd dip it in there and bring it out draining water all over my floor. My floor that had soapy prewash on it. Yep, you can see where this is going.



Before we were half way through mopping, we more closely resembled bumbling amatures on an ice rink than on people attempting to clean their floor. I found the best position to remain upright was to spread my legs out a little and sort of squat walk. Oh yeah, without shoes, those bastards made me fall down two or three times.



Will fell at least five times I counted, but it didn't phase him in the least. As we slipped and slid, teetered and fell, Will just laughed.

My floors are clean, soaked, but clean. My son and I are covered in dirty mop water and my joints ache. Doing anything with the young is just not for the faint of heart.

Me, Not Me, and Sort of Me

I've mentioned that I recently stopped taking anti-depressants. The most recent need of them resulted from my younger sisters suicide in October of last year. But all the women in my family constantly fight a battle against depression.

Just putting that word out there (depression) is like assigning myself all these negative connotations. People who grow up without having someone close to them battle depression over periods of years, just don't understand. They are also extremely lucky and should be hunted down and tortured -- just so we're all operating from the same view point.

The depression in my family line has a medical reason. All the women, and some of the men, suffer from a serotonin shortage. Our bodies just don't provide enough on a daily biases. Now, you can go years without the level dropping to the point it induces major depression . . . as long as nothing bad or stressful happens to you.

I love numbers, and to me it is much easier to understand that way. On an average day, I produce 80% of the serotonin i need. On a stressful day my need will double; but my production does not, now I'm producing 40% of what I need. I'm in the critical zone. But this can be overcome as long as the stressful situation resolves it's self quickly and I'm allowed to slowly creep my level up to 50% and then 60%.

Things like eating right, being outside each day, taking vitamins, and working out all help. They all increase the level of serotonin produced naturally. Less so in me than most, but enough to make a difference.

The bottom line is that I WILL be depressed off-and-on my entire life, or I will be taking serotonin to counteract it. Those non-serotonin takers out there are thinking, "So, just take the medicine."

Yes, I could. But then I am not me, not usually. As your serotonin needs changes on a daily basis it is impossible to correctly supply just what you need to stay at 100% on a daily biases.

If I need 20% serotonin on a normal day; the doctor can't subscribe that to me. Because the first bad day I hit, I'm sinking down already. So they over adjust. They give me 40% which builds up if I am having good days and before you know it, I'm numb. It's not the same as depressed; it's just not "me". All of my emotions and needs are dulled; happiness, sadness, love, appreciation, sexual drive, ambition.

The easiest way I can think of explaining the differences is that when I am depressed you will catch me saying, "I don't care," a lot. And I mean it. I really don't care. When I am over medicated you will catch me saying, "What ever you want" -- because I have no preference one way or the other.

It probably sounds very similar to the non-gators out there, but there is a world of difference to the person going through it. Lack of preference is much better, trust me on this.

But the sweet spot, the moments that make life worth while, are the in between stages. Right after I've gotten off serotonin and am as close to operating at 100% as I'll ever be. It's between the "I don't care" and the "Whatever" phase. A phase I like to call "my way". lol

I care about everything, because all of a sudden I can. I have genuine emotions that are almost overwhelming because I haven't experienced them in so long. I have an opinion about everything going on; in my life, the city I live in, Steve's job, etc.; and I have a hard time not voicing it.

I cry at commercials. I laugh out loud at silly stuff Will does ALL THE TIME. I call customers "bitch. I argue over the price of beans. And when it's all over, I'm left going, "Who is this? This is not me." But it is.

Everyone in my family refuses to get medication for our depression until it's been going on way to long, as a result there are 3-7 years between our treatments. I'd forgotten so much. Most of all, I had forgotten I wasn't alone.

My sister, the living one, called me the other day complaining about the shrew she's turned into lately. She was shocked and dismayed. I just laughed.

It truly has come to the point where we are healing from our sisters death. When we are able to put aside whatever crutch we needed to make it through the days.

Yeah, we're loud, opinionated, and more than a little bitchy.

But God, I love us, and I'm happy to see us back.

I've lost it . . . officially

I was working on keying in instructions for making a lens cover/koozie about 1:30 last night. Part of the reason I was working on it so late is that I have trouble finding time to sew when Will is awake and he's quit taking naps.

I get up hours before he does in the morning, but that is the time I use to fill my orders and respond to emails.

The last week I have found my self amazingly tired. I am over my cold; yesterday was my first full day with no medication! But I think the three weeks of illness have just worn me out. I find myself having to take a nap every day. Hey, I'm old, just not that old.

While keying in my first draft of instructions I kept getting confused and decided it was time to call it a night. And boy was it! I opend the file to complete the instructions this morning and here are the last two lines of text I wrote. Keep in mind I am describing how to make a koozie/pocket type thing to keep your camera lens in.

Sew right sides together. Wrap the batting and bird stuff too, just to feed the bird. The batting will probably not work out.

We need to encourage one another to sew as often as possible. Nothing important but these people are in a big have.

Now, my first thought was that a virus had gotten into my file and was messing it up. I've actually seen this happen before; years ago. But sadly, I actually remember keying in the line about encouraging people to sew . . . that was when I decided to call it a night.

Can't help but wonder what else I might have typed in if I hadn't gone to bed.

Dad, Lew

This is my third marriage; although I tend to not count the first one if I don't have to. I got married the first time at the age of 16 (almost 17). We lived together less than three months, even though it took me almost a year longer to get a divorce.

But with three sets of in-laws, I've never called them mom or dad. I never even thought of it. The girls father, Anthony, had two sets of parents due to divorce. So I had Ella, Ann, Roger, and Norris; and that is what I called them. Some of them I really came to love, some of them I got along with, some I understood, and some I never did. But the names never changed.

It wasn't until Steve and I had been married for ten years or so that Lew called me on it. He asked me why I didn't call him Dad? All his other daughter-in-laws did; and had done some from almost the moment they met him. Why not me.

I was shocked. Honestly. I had no idea I didn't call him dad. No idea anyone else did. I really gave it no thought what so ever. Then I started trying to think of him as "dad" in my head and I kept drawing a blank. That is when I realized that in 40 years of living I have NEVER called a man Dad. I've had no Dad.

My biological father died in Vietnam when I was less than a year old. My mother married Ernest when I was two. Most of my life, I have thought of Ernest as many things; my tormentor, the person that hurt me the most often and deeply of any other living being, the father of my much loved siblings, my mothers husband and tormentor, the source of funds that supported me as a child, the person I had to go to when I needed something even though I knew I'd pay . . . but he was never Dad to me.

As a very young child I wasn't allowed to call him Ernest. I remember mom and I discussing what I was to call him one day while he was working. I refused, at two, to call him Dad. He would hit me every time I called him Ernest. So we decided I would call him Poppie. And I did until I was old enough to call him Ernest; ten or so.

While contemplating my lack of dadness with Lew, I thought surely there was some man who had played a father role in my life; a grandfather, uncle, neighbor. I thought about it for days before I had to admit there had not been. I can say with complete honesty, that no male ever treated me the way a father should treat a child. Well, the way I assume a father would treat a child; I'm a little shaky on the details.

While not in on the "abuse Misty" scheme, even my ex-father-in-laws were never really close. Not men I would just go to visit or call without having a reason or someone else with me. Odd, I never even thought about it until Lew and his dad question. But whether from their design or my own; I have managed to keep all my father-in-laws far enough away from me personally to avoid having to connect with them.

I've been able to avoid having a dad my entire life.

Talk about stubborn, when I decided as a two year old not to have a Dad, I wasn't joking around. lol

I honestly tried a few times, via email or during phone calls, to call Lew dad. And it was uncomfortable. I think it would have gotten easier as time passed. It wasn't until I was 23 that I told my mother I loved her; and it was awkward, felt strange. It took many times and several years before it rolled off the tongue easily. Before it didn't feel like a lie I was forcing out; and it wasn't, I love my mother still.

But all of a sudden I noticed that his emails to me were signed Lew. Even when he sends out emails to the entire bunch of kids, he signs them Dad, Lew.

To be honest, I can't remember if he has always done that . . . but I don't think so. If he changed how he addresses his emails it's just because he is trying to make it easier on me. He's that kind of guy. Although he probably doesn't understand my issue with "Dad" he will accept it and just sign his emails to me as Lew.

While I never realized how he signed his emails prior to our discussion a few years back, I notice every single time I get one now.

Regardless of what I call you, you are the closest thing to a dad I've ever had. I think . . . there should be a definition somewhere online -- I'll go look.

Help!

I have 10 different editors who have asked for a copy of a chapter of my book to edit. So that we could see how they liked it and how I liked their style of editing. I've only received one back so far, but I can already see what a challange this will be. To pick on who is the best but doesn't totally take away "me" from my story.

I'll be posting the same section of the chapter they are each editing on my Wolf Cub blog so that you can see the quality of edits. Help me choose which one you like best.

Please.

Let him play!

I have an incredibly bright and outgoing son. He just turned four in December and he is being raised at home with out any other siblings in the house. The importance of this is that he isn't rushing to grow up like many younger children of multi-sibling households. He also has not been introduced to a class room environment like many children who attend day care or preschool at his age.

As a result, he excelels in some things:

• Bartering to get the most candy -- he never accept the old "you can have two" without a comeback.


• Fearless acceptance of any situation and people he encounters. He never went through the "shy" stage most children do.


• Ability to construct, and take apart, anything.


• He'll try anything editible. No other children for him to learn that something is "grose" from.


• Ability to reason. I can sit down and talk to him like an adult. Usually working it around until he gets the point I'm tring to make.


• Creativity. He loves to paint, draw, make mud pies, dig kittie traps, work with plants, play with clay.

But he is behind in some areas when compared to other children his age. He does not recognize his numbers or letters. He can't even sing the ABC song; although his version makes me smile every time. And he's had no experience sitting down and minding a teacher-figure.

It's not that I havne't tried to provide these opportunites for him, I have. He has every toy, card set, games, computer game, book, etc. that I could find that might interest him . . . and they don't. Oh, he'll play with them a few minutes and then he's bored. I've tried no less than six different times to get him to trace his ABCs in a giant book we bought and he works less than three minutes and wants nothing to do with it.

I don't push it. I figure it's like potty training, no one starts first grade in diapers. Children all learn at their own pace. Once they start school they are more or less forced to learn at the same level . . . and quess what they are going to be teaching them the first year? Yep, their letters and numbers and how to write.

I've raised two girls. I've seen them and their friends at different leveles of developement and I feel strongly about the following:

They are only children once;
let them play and enjoy it.

If a child wants to learn something early;
Teach them it with joy.

If a child fights learning something early:
Let it go.
Bring it up in a fun way, occasionally.
But take their hints and don't force them;
Especially, just so you can say
My son knows his ABCs.

There will come a time when you will
have to enforce the importance of
education and learning,
But not before they enter school.