On Being Sick and Noticing Stuff

There is something in my "mother DNA" that does not allow me (a) to "feel" sick and (b) to admit that I'm sick.  That's why, 10 days into my current virus, I am still having a hard time accepting it.  I have symptoms, of course.  Loads of them.  And last Friday after running around  with 5 kids all day, meeting their needs,   doing the laundry and cooking--all with a splitting headache, blisters in my throat and a fever-- I declared that on Saturday I was actually going to BE sick. 

You know - be sick.  Stay in bed.  Drink a lot.  Sleep a lot.  Watch TV.  Do puzzles.  REST.  This was my second sick day in 15 years.  IT was glorious.  And it was a lot harder than I expected.

Dear hubby did great.  There was very little yelling or tantrum-ing on either side.  He asked for advice when he needed it but mostly just figured things out. 

Nonetheless, my lying a-bed was riddled with guilt.  And don't you dare write and say how "I shouldn't " feel guilty.  Too late.  I already did.  Never mind that I was only taking my own advice; I always send Paul and the kids to bed when they're sick.  "Rest is the best medicine, " I tell them, "Your body has to rest to heal."

This was the perfect challenge for me.  I've known for months that I have a tendency to put myself 7th on the priority list - hence the many months plateau on my weight loss.  No surprise-- I learned something truly valuable.  I actually DID get better.  Markedly better.  Mind you, I wasn't turning cartwheels on Sunday or spring cleaning, but I did feel well enough to tidy the house, do a bit of laundry and cook dinner and I have been getting "more well" every day since.  Yet I am still struggling with my mind trying to tell me I'm not sick, even as my lymph nodes swell, I can't breathe, and I cough like a TB patient.

I am not proud of the fact that it is SO hard for me to prioritize caring for myself.  At what point in my life did I become less important than everyone in my environment?  (It's a rhetorical question - it happened the moment they placed "Pepper" in my arms).   I am not doing my older girls any service by neglecting myself.  I don't want them to be that kind of mommy.  I want them to be the kind of mom who calls me up and says, "Come over, please, mom and get these kids.  I need to read a book!"

I'm going to turn this around.  Stay tuned.

Straight Talk

A little over 16 years ago on Christmas Day, I met Paul's Grandma Clair Simmel for the first time.  The house was a bustle of activity with Clair, her 6 kids, 9 grandkids (our generation) and (then) 6 greatgrandchildren.  With all those people in the house, you can imagine no one paid much attention to me.  After dinner, Paul's sister, Sharon, talked me into joining into a domino game and I found myself seated next to Clair.

Now, Clair is pretty serious about her "spinners."  So there was not much conversation on my end of the table.  Yet at one point, she leaned over and looked at me seriously and said, "Got any Grandmas?"

"Only one," I said, "In the nursing home.  She's pretty ill.  And no Grandpas."

Paul and Clair, Christmas 2009

"Well," she said, "You got me too."

That was the end of the conversation but suddenly, I was part of the family.  I next saw Clair just a couple of weeks later at our wedding celebration.  My sister-in-law had asked everyone to write some advice for us on slips of paper.   I can still see the slip of paper with Clair's advice on it -- straightforward and with an economy of words, "Never go to bed mad."

Thus began my love, love relationship with Clair Simmel.  Because she lives a 4-1/2 hour drive away, we have never gotten there as much as we'd like.  Yet every year, we manage to get there several times.  Often Sharon and I went together with our daughters and stayed a week or several days.  We would do a little housekeeping or garden-related things for her, when she'd let us, but mostly we sat and played Yahtzee or Spinner and just passed the time with her.

Maggie Rose, Chanelle, Grandma, Gabriel, Bennie, Paul

It's amazingly pleasant to hang out with someone who feels no need to chit-chat.  She has, as I said, an admirable economy of words.  Yet she has a real knack for saying just what I need to hear, sometimes compassionate and sometimes not -- just the truth as she sees it.  One time the girls were stomping up and down her wooden hallway, delighting, I suppose, in the terrible noise they were making.  She looked me straight in the eye and said, "You know, Henry [her husband] laid every one of those parquet tiles by hand."   You can bet my children never stomped down that hallway again!

Once when just the girls and I were up there, she was doing a lot of work in the garden.  I offered to have the girls do some weeding while she and I picked beans.  She said, "I don't allow kids in the garden. They're a nuisance."  You know, those girls had a great time romping in the yard while Clair and I made short work of picking those beans.

When our daughters (both African American) were toddlers, someone thoughtlessly made a racist remark about someone in Clair's small town.  She looked at me but spoke to them.  "We're all the same on the inside."  She has her prejudices; but no one is going to say anything against her Great Grandchildren!

Grandma with her two surviving siblings, Bertha Holley and Vera Duesman

She is an amazingly resilient woman and yet has the tenderest heart.  She gave birth to 7 children  -- 6 of them at home -- and all but one still survive.  But her heart has never stopped longing for little Patsy who died as a little girl.  She has spoken of her to me nearly every time I've seen her.  When Sharon died  at a youthful age in 2006, my first thoughts were for Grandma;  she treasures every one of her descendants, she can't stop loving any one.

My own grandma, Agnes Leeper, died about 13 years ago and I got the news while visiting with Clair.  She patted me on the back and never said a word. Later, she beckoned me over and gave me a hug.

"Well, honey," she said, "I'm the only old Grandma you got now.  So you don't call me Clair any more.  I'm just plain old Grandma, now."

That is probably the longest sentence she ever said to me -- and as it turns out, the most important.  She has been my Grandma ever since.  She stopped signing her cards with "Clair Simmel and Grandma."  They all just say "Grandma"  now.

Last week, Clair Simmel turned 100.  We celebrated with her two surviving sisters -- Grandma was one of 8.  All 6 of her kids were there and most of her 8 surviving grandchildren.  Her granddaughter Kendra couldn't make it from California having just recently given birth to Grandma's 20th great-grandchild! I have never seen a family with stronger ties.

I am so grateful that she has lived such a long and fruitful life because her living has made all the difference in my living.  Grandma has shown me how having a passion -- in her case gardening -- can keep you young.  She has taught me that when something needs to be said, you just say it and that dressing it up just muddies the message.  She showed me that on a holiday or birthday, every single one of needs to be there, because every one of us counts.  Most importantly, she taught me that that you never have too little money, too small a house or too many people in it.  Amen.

Grandma and several of her "grands:"  Paul Tischler, Kenny Simmel, Clayton Whitley, Tommy Simmel and Marsha Harris

δίψυχος

I once majored in Ancient Greek.  I do not remember much these days, but I often think about one particular word, δίψυχος.*  It appears often in ancient literature and it means, literally, "of two souls" or "of two selves."  I think of it as "of two minds."

I am so often "of two minds."  Likely this developed partly as the result of being a middle child -- I could look both ways and see a reflection of myself.  I often sat in between my two closest siblings and I developed excellent peripheral vision;  you need to look from both sides of your head when you sit in the middle and it certainly has stood me in good stead as mama to five!

For years, I could see the benefit of this.  I am a good mediator; I can see both sides of the argument.  I forgive easily because I can so empathize with the other person.  I am generally empathetic, which is why babies love me and school principals - not so much!  It makes me easy to hang out with; I am equally fond of martinis and coffee.  Whatever you are in the mood for will probably bring a smile to me, as well.  Prefer beer?  That's fine with me.  Iced tea?  I can go there! Sweet or un-sweet?  No matter -  I love them both.

So you see the trouble.   For δίψυχος also means wavering and fickle; in fact it points to a kind of faithlessness.  When, for example, I am in a leadership role, sometimes people just want to be led.  They lose faith when I present too many options;  and the internal pressure to commit sometimes catapults me into bossiness.  It's a kind of dissimulation.  And it can be frustrating as heck.

I am easily distracted, I am sometimes indecisive, others doubt me and  I often doubt myself.  On the other hand, I have a knack for soothing, for helping people see the other side, for loving challenging people because I can just see the hurt child beneath.


I wonder how much of my dissimulation comes about because I put myself in situations that are actually too much of a stretch for me?  I know it sounds like I am wimping out but truly, I wonder, isn't there some innate value in realizing how I am made and embracing it?

To reach my full "potential" shall I see this as personality flaw and work to overcome it?  Or is it in fact possible that there is room in our world for the middle child with eyes on both sides of her head?  Perhaps our society needs a little δίψυχος now and then.

But I can't say for sure, because of course, I am of two minds about it! (Wink.)

*Transliteration: dipsuchos

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Update, a decade later:

I think the biggest change in me is that a couple of years after this was written, I decided to stop sidling sideways toward my purpose, and run straight at it. My entire life, all I've ever wanted "to be" was a teacher. In 2014 in an odd quest to get more "steps" in my day, I followed a friend into Special Education as a paraprofessional and instantly felt "at home."  Within 8 months, I was a certified teacher and began teaching in the fall of 2015. I have never looked back -- or sideways, for that matter. 

I believe that some of my "double-mindedness" had to do with my evasion of my purpose. My dad had strongly discouraged me from teaching when I finished high school. He had a lack of faith -- a big skepticism, actually -- in the educational bureaucracy so I did not pursue it. I have been a "teacher," for sure, but not in the way I truly desired. 

I wake up every day excited to go to work. Tired? Occasionally. Stressed? At times, mostly predictable. Nonetheless, I want to go. I am often working outside of school because nothing else so joyfully and thoroughly occupies my thoughts. My only regret, if I have one, is that because I got a later start, I'll have fewer years to teach. 

Teaching in a Special Ed classroom means I work with a team of paraprofessionals. This has necessitated more leadership and less of the  laissez faire attitude I tend to adopt. When you are required to lead, you lead or decisions take their own course in the vacuum. I have grown as a leader, certainly, and have the scars to prove it. Teaching, at least in the US, means being a part of a large team of women with only a few men. Having worked with mostly men in my professional life, this has been a difficulty for me but has also helped me welcome my feminine side and encouraged me to soften. 

That "middle child" pleaser still dwells within and is usually quite happy to do whatever pleases the majority. This means I play games with my kids still at home when I "should" be doing housework and that my house is currently full of other people's belongings. Bur it's all good and will sort itself in time. Very shortly, they will all be gone, my house will be clean and I will be so grateful to go to school each day to the children. 

This has become a very long post. Thank you for reading it. 

Grandma Huntley

Today my Grandma, Ada Poland Huntley, would have been 105.   She was the wife to Guy Huntley and mother to 9 boys and 1 girl, 4 of them already passed on.  All of them are living or have lived interesting and productive lives.  She loved each and every one of her kids and was widely known as a good cook who could create something delicious from virtually nothing.

I lived over 1000 miles away from her for most of my life, so I did not get to know her well when I was young.  However, when I was 9 or 10 years old, she came to stay with us and left me with one memory so vivid I can still taste it.  She taught me how to bake bread.

I remember she got a little cross with me because I wanted to go play while it was rising.  She set me straight right away.  Instead at her behest, I sat with her at the kitchen table and she taught me how to play solitare.  There is something very wise in teaching a kid to entertain herself.

When that bread came out of the oven, it smelled heavenly.  And although I had been spoiled by my mom all my life with homemade bread, none ever tasted so good as those first loaves I baked by my own hand.  That was some 40 years ago and to this day, I never bake bread without thinking of her.  She did so much more than teach me the art of dough making, kneading and baking.  She invited me to cook, which has been my creative outlet of choice ever since.

Grandma was like so many of the mentors of my life:  She taught me something which was in this case a process, bread making.  But more importantly, she recognized that glimmer -- that spark of true passion -- and she blew on and tended and fanned that spark until it burst into flame.  That is what the best teachers, coaches and mentors do and if you are not blessed to have such a mentor or coach like that in your life right this minute, drop everything until you find one!

 I still, on occasion, bake bread.  Five children and calorie cutbacks have curtailed that a bit.  But every day -- every single day -- I love creating nourishing and delicious food for myself and my family.  It is my favorite part of every day.  Thank you, Grandma.

Note:  This is a duplicate post with my family blog, Bright Love - Living Large in a Big Family

New Year's Revolution

I am facing a clean page, a clean slate, a new year. I realize the end of the year is an arbitrary thing and that the calendar is mankind’s invention. Yet I think the year “ends” for a reason and that reason is grace. Humans need a new beginning. We need a fresh start, another chance, hope.

I am a resolutionist. You read that right -- a resolution-ist. Each year I make resolutions and I use them as a springboard to real and lasting change. Perhaps you could call me a revolutionist, because what I am going for is a revolution in my life.

I think resolutions, in general, are under-appreciated. Most people do not realize the innovative power of the fresh page. Simply promising to do things differently or be different is, of course, not enough. A successful revolution requires a leader, a plan, and a change in consciousness. In order to have a successful revolution, I have to be willing to be a leader in my own life.

It seems obvious, doesn’t it? And yet becoming a leader in one’s own life is indeed a revolutionary step. It means that we can no longer blame our parents, our spouse, our past or fate for our unhappiness or lack of success. It means that I and I alone am responsible for building the life I want to live and creating the world in which I want to live it. It sounds like blasphemy, doesn’t it?

I am not suggesting that God does not have a place in my life. Not at all. I’m suggesting that God is not responsible for my unhappiness which could, indeed, be called unfaithfulness. We have shared responsibility-- co-authorship-- if you will. God is responsible for things in God’s realm, and I am responsible for things in my realm. And peace of mind certainly lies in knowing which is which.

Hence, I am once again a resolutionist. Things will change in my life once more, and I will once again be the author of that change, God – and I – willing.

This year I will use a pattern I found some time ago, the six-word resolution. I will make a resolution in each of six areas of my life: (1) Health and Body,(2) Education and Spiritual Growth, (3) Vocation/Work, (4) Relationships, (5) Money and Material Possessions, and (6) Service. Step Two of my private revolution is to choose specific actions for creating the change and checkpoints for accountability. The reason many resolutions fail is because most people do not take the time for Step Two. Of course Step Three is living it out –putting my revolution where my mouth is -- and making reasonable adjustments as I go.

Here are my resolutions for 2011; may they inspire you to map out your own New Year’s Revolution!

• Health and Body: Get to my goal weight; maintain.
• Education and Spiritual growth: Daily writing and reflection; more collaboration
• Work/Vocation: Implement a marketing plan for Coaching
• Relationships: Play often, laugh lots, love more
• Money and Material Possessions: Cull out, organize; acquire and waste less
• Service: More time and attention to fostering