Totally Rad

Not Ms. Mars ©

I picked up my "charge", ten-year-old Aaron, from school yesterday. On the drive home he was telling me about his teacher Ms. Mars who is really cool and says "rad", even though she's under 40. I said, "What?! There's a "rad" rule?" He told me, "yeah. Actually you should only say "rad" if you're over 40 because you would have actually BEEN THERE - when saying 'rad' was cool." Awww, I thought. Apparently Ms. Mars is so cool she can even break the 'rad rule'. WoW. Then suddenly, I began to feel very, very... old RAD. 

~SuSanMoM©

Never Say Done

I don't need to lie down for this

Wait. Isn't this normal? 
Everything I write is a rough draft 
until I say it isn't. 

And I never say it isn't.  





~Susan

Yes, as a matter of fact, I CAN do hard things.

this is the face of a skeptic

After more than ten years I decided to brave another women's retreat. Clearly, my experience with these things has not been good and I approach all things with the word "women" in them with skepticism. In my experience, either the speaker was off the rails or the ladies I was with turned on each other. Or me. Who needs that? The word "retreat" lost its entire meaning for me long ago and I learned to sink down into my chair or skip out of church early whenever fall rolled around and the surge for women's retreat sign-ups started to recycle. Of course, not all women's retreats are horrible. Most women love them. Just not me.

Currently, I'm attending a new church in my new town which is smaller and homier and just what a church filled with imperfect Christian women should be. At least the few women that I actually know. I'm not much of a joiner and never have been. But no one at this new church has made me feel less "spiritual" for being who I am, which is a non-joiner. If there is drama going on, I don't know about it and it's wonderful. I credit the pastor's wife, Lisa, who has set the bar for genuineness and loving kindness very high. 'So goes the leader, so goes the nation', right? I think that's true. In fact, I think it's critically true. Which makes it's all the more important, if we are to do hard things. Which leads me to this...

the real lodge. in tahoe.

The theme of the retreat was, "I Do Hard Things", which was very apropos since I made myself go. That was a hard thing. I was doing it already! As it turned out the place where the retreat was held wasn't a campground with bunk beds and concrete block walls like I'd always remembered and still envisioned. No. It was an actual Lodge, in the mountains, with ceramic tile and carpeted stairs in the room. There was a flat screen TV and even a hot tub and a pool. It was the full-on, non-stop retreat scenario I've only heard about. I want you to know that I have since given back to the word "retreat" it's rightful definition, along with the sincere apology I owed it.

I was there. See? Proof.

The speaker was the kind of gal I love to hear. She spoke from her heart and her heart touched mine. Her words were practical and as deep as you cared to take them. She served us God's truths with insight and wisdom, and piled a dollop of humor on top for free. She encouraged me to suit up, and show up, and trust God in ways I'd not thought of before; to take responsibility in areas of my life that only God and I know about. My daughter-in-luv, Carissa, led worship and blessed my socks off. And she won the raffle I'd prayed for her to win; a full-on style and color hairdo day with all the trimmings. [God, did you do that on purpose? Of course You did.] 

I even made myself join in with the scrappers.
This is my first scrapper card.

We had the afternoons OFF to just mozy or cozy, or play games or do crafts. No time crunching. Somebody pinch me! The whole weekend just whispered "breathe" right into my soul. Obviously, it was nothing like I'd expected which is cool since I don't mind being wrong in this manner. I opened up and met some precious women who I can now say hello to on Sunday, and they say hello back and even use my name. It was not a mind-blowing experience, no. I think it was exactly what I needed. A gentle reintroduction to the sisterhood we have in Christ. Isn't that how our Father works things out in us? He knows perfectly well what we need. And then He provides it. And now I'm thinking, so, this is a women's retreat, hmm? Ya know, I just might even go again next year. I might even bring a swimsuit along and take a dip in the hot tub. Yeah, I'm working on that kind of faith. 

And p.s. The women's ministry had a "gently-used" accessory sale going on during the weekend where I found these. Yep, I felt like Sissy was right there with me. Isn't God awesome?

Tea with my sister? Priceless.

~Susan

House, Home, Kids, and Messheads

I used to cross stitch stuff like this
for my little countrified home.

Here is a blog that breaks all the rules about keeping "the main thing the main thing". I'm all over the place today. But it's ok. Because it's MINE. I learned that from my grandson. 

For almost two years now I have lived in someone else's home. Either my son's or my daughter's. And, because they are married, with them come another son and and another daughter. They may be in-laws by marriage, but it's just the same to me. I love them like they are my own. I love them like crazy. And I give them a lot of credit. They have opened their homes to their dad and me, and by doing that they often live their private lives in plain sight, inside the privacy of the homes they now share with the very people who raised them to be independent and responsible adults. Currently, we are living with my son. I keep forgetting that we are paying half the expenses for a while now because it feels exactly the same as when we weren't. I'd much prefer to think that they were living with us. Isn't that how it should be? I think it is. Living with my son is very different from living with my daughter. In some ways it is harder, and in others it is just... different. I am fiercely proud of them all. But inside either home, inside my laptop, tapping on these little black keys, this is where I can be me. The mom. In my own privacy, in my own writing, on my shared blog with my sister. And, by the way, living with a daughter who is only mine by marriage is not the same as living with my daughter who is mine because I pushed her out of my body in 16 delirious hours. I've grown incredibly close to her which makes it incredibly more difficult to not step on toes. But in all ways, I treasure her because she is so brave to live with her mother-in-law.

Mustache Man and Me, right?

This living with my grown children is an art that I have not quite mastered. In a house this little I'm not quite sure it's an art at all. Though I am, at most time, content and happy to live together, I know it is not the same for my children. They are young. This is their time. I like to imagine Mustache Man and me as the beloved grandparents from The Waltons. It's a quaint and sweet image I entertain until I remember the seven grandkids who are all missing. (though I do have one perfect little bundle of boy who is my grandson for real). But here there are no diversions or common denominators to put all the focus on. Plus, it's only a television show, adapted from a book, locked inside a few hundred pages of memories. The times when I think I know how to do this well, and with the least interference on the lives of others, are times that are not to be trusted. I can't turn my back on any success that I may feel in this arena, much less pat it on the back. Ever. As long as I am able to speak I'm certain I will say something wrong. I knew years ago that I would no longer instruct my children without their permission. And I don't recall having been asked in a long time. Maybe I have, but I don't remember it. And though I have learned more and have lived longer than all of them, there seems to be nothing in my own life that lends itself to their interest or needs. But ya know what? It's OK. It is what it is. God has His plan and I lean wholly on Him. These days I'm learning not to say anything that might possibly, or in any way, be misconstrued as instruction. If I am guilty of doing it anyway, I claim ignorance. Genuine ignorance. I have also learned not to comment or insert myself into any conversation that I have not initiated myself. Though this is probably the hardest thing for me, I think it's just common courtesy and respect, really. More recently I've learned that I can't expect to be invited into a conversation, so that's a good thing to know. It's tough stuff, but that's just how it works here. I want to know about their lives. I care about how each one is doing and what I could pray about for them. I care very much. But living with them, any of them, seems to ensure that I most likely won't know. Not now anyway. So I am learning to be okay with that. Yes, I find it incredibly hard not to ask questions that require more than a yes or a no answer, but that's how it is when you live with adult children who insist on having their own adult lives. And to them I say, Bravo! To me I say, this really sucks.

I sometimes wonder if this is my son's worst
nightmare. (no worries, Evan. I'll never climb
 in thru your bedroom window and freak you out.) 

I have to say that spending the day staying out of someone's life is tricky.  And to say that I feel displaced and, at times, in the way would be putting it mildly. Don't misunderstand. My kids do not make me feel like a trespasser. Or a third wheel. They never have. They come and go and carry on with their lives as they should. And so do I. But the privacy I took for granted at their age is a privilege they are denied to some extent. Unless they, or we, become prisoners to our own bedrooms out of respect for the others' privacy. I think, for me, that's the hardest to handle. It feels so very much like it did when I was a kid and my friends had secrets and left me out. Whispers and closed doors can train wreck me without warning if I don't grab ahold of those thoughts and keep them at bay. Thinking I've done something wrong is the thorn in my flesh that will someday, hopefully, ease it's way out and stop nagging me no end. But false guilt is another story for another day. Or not. Today I'm doing what I have come to do every other day in order to keep my brain busy and stay out of everyone's way. I am writing. And I'm praying. And I'm reading. And re-writing. And then writing some more. And I stop many. many times and pray about purpose and what comes next. In the past months I've fallen in love with the blogs and stories of other women who have gone through, or are, as we speak, going through yucky-tough-and-smelly stuff. Sometimes, I am even changed by them. Glennon who writes Momastery.com is my current life-changer. She is a total warrior and I am inspired to be more of a warrior myself because of her. And, more importantly, for her. My life, which I suppose deserves it's own story (someday), seems much more connected, and less alone, when I read about people in a 'real' crisis dealing with 'real' yucky-tough-and-smelly stuff. I often underestimate the smelliness of my own stuff. That's not always a good thing to do.

life is MESSY, that's a fact.

I think anyone who accepts that life can turn you into a smelly messhead should appreciate the lives of other smelly messheads too. I can't relate to all messheads at all times, but most the time? yeah. I do. I get them. And if you are a messhead right now, I feel your pain. You are in some situation you did not choose, or you're bearing the consequence of some messheaded action you did choose and now wish to God you hadn't. I know both of these situations. I know them intimately. But this living in someone else's home who is also my adult child while living with my own messheadedness? Pretty rough. It's not a consequence. It wasn't a choice. Yet, here I am. With a thankful heart. But here I am.

mum's the word

In spite of it all, I am determined that the lessons and the values I am learning will not be lost on me. I will discover some aha! truths, profound and deeply raw. This will turn me into an extremely wise and much-sought-after person because of the mere vastness of all I have learned and will I will help countless others who share a similar tough-and-smelly story. And there will be an amazing ending to my story. As God is my witness! Aight? How's that for a lofty goal? But ok, seriously, right now I just seek out more messheads by reading one more blog or post or story, wanting to know more about their messes and how in the heck they will deal with it all. And I will ask a lot of questions. I seem to always be wanting to know something. Google and I are very tight and thank God it's free. Generally,  questions drive my son crazy. And my daughter isn't too fond of them either.  I have learned this during my tenure as a live-in mom. My questions come across as invasive. So I don't ask my son about his life. And I don't ask my daughter too many questions about her plans. I respect that boundary. And I get that they don't always get how I do see them as the adults that they are and do not hold them accountable for any changes in their lives or plans. But I do ask myself a bunch of questions all day long. And it's what I do when I read about other lovely messheads and their lives. That's where having my own home comes in.

Lately, and mostly, ok always, when I read another post of another blogger I ask the same question. It never fails. Same question, different day. I ask myself, "what's her house looks like?" I wonder, “Does she have her own little corner to just “be”? Does she have her own space? How is it decorated? Do people tell her it's homey and smells of lavendar? Does she take for granted that she is the adult in her home, and can move the furniture around a million times a week and no one will care?” Well, maybe her husband will care, if she has one, but that's different. I think it's natural to assume that grown women have their own homes where they invite their friends for coffee or have their families over for dinner. It's natural because it's natural. Leave and cleave. That's how it's supposed to be. 

the perfect apartment

I can remember freshly what it felt like to get my first OWN space. I was 19 and it was an attached apartment with a tiny kitchen with no drawers in it. It came furnished and had an antique vanity. It was perfection. And I wouldn't mind at all if I could live there again, right now, alone with no one. NO one. I wouldn't ever be the mom living with the son, trying to be invisible and non-momish and a constant reminder that this grown son is not a son so much as a husband to an amazing young woman. He's the breadwinner and vacation planner. And even though I, the mom, know this very well, my very presence can sometimes present the question and that question sometimes presents the problem. That's when I would do just about anything for that super power of invisibility. If I can't have that little drawerless kitchen, I'd like invisibility. Just so I won't become the question again.

certificate for awesomeness and brilliance

Someday I may bestow a Certificate of Achievement upon myself for all this living and learning and knowing and invisibility and awesomeness that I have accumulated over the years. I'll hang it on my bedroom wall in my children's home to remind myself that I have succeeded at something monumental. Yes, it will continually remind me of the staggering skills I have gained while living with my adult children. And my kids can take all the credit for teaching me how to do this thing that I will reward myself for. I'd say that by then, they will have earned it.  But that certificate will be mine. No matter where I'm living.

~SuSanMoM©

Psycho Sisters

Susan here. I'm really into bizarre holidays. Most of these wacky days have no known origin and are quazi-celebrated without rhyme or reason. And here's one of 'em. October 9th. Face Your Fears Day. So, OK. What's your fear? spiders? heights? public speaking? My biggest fear is taking a shower in an unlocked bathroom. I guess watching "Psycho" at the tender age of eight was probably not the wisest movie choice on my part. Where in the world was my mother?? And I'll never forgive my sister for making me watch it with her. (you know who you are).

Here's One Pledge I Can Not Keep

original pledge furniture polish

Your memory's best friend is your sense of smell. You knew that, right? And every time I polish my furniture I can't escape the full-bodied reminder of the original scent of pledge furniture polish. I loved that smell. Capital L loved it. It made my heart happy when I walked through our front door after school and was greeted with the familiar scent of pledge furniture polish. I think in part  I knew my mom would be in a good mood because she’d just cleaned the house. But I'm thinking mostly it was just the smell. I sure do miss it. You can’t buy this original pledge anymore. I’ve looked everywhere. Now, everything has lemon or orange or some other fruity filling in it. They all smell the same and I'll never be convinced that it better for your wood. So, if you know how to score some of this pledge 'crack' for me, DO tell. I would probably clean my house first thing. Then I would thank you publicly. And Loudly.  It would be that cool.   ~Susan

A Dope Poem

just say when

I never see

a cup of tea

with'out thinking

uh-bout thee.

love, squeez-ee