Oh Me, Oh My

The major life events that I process each day can be staggering.  Some good, some bad, some wonderful, some are just another gut punch.

This morning is one of those days, all four descriptives apply.

This yummy baby is actually kin to a grandchild I've never met due to extenuating circumstances, and is not yet counted in my 23 tally.

Last night at the Children's Church swimming party Miss Lisa gave me a photo she'd recently come across, taken at another church function, some ten years ago is about my best guess, as Martin and CW looked about 8 and 6, but Grandpa was in the picture.  It was before his Pulmonary Fibrosis diagnosis and he was strong and healthy.  That stupid disease eventually wasted him away to weighing nothing on his 6'2" frame.

I was standing there with Lisa, and her beautiful niece Melissa, fighting tears when I looked at Grandpa, all three of us women having lost our dads in the last several years.

I later stood in the church parking lot talking with a dear friend of mine who'd lost her mom a year ago. I don't care how old you are, or how strong one's faith is, it's still a punch in the gut to lose a parent.

Imagine how much more so for my own children who all lost their parents making them orphans of the living?

But life goes on, Vanessa already calling me this morning, 250 miles away, fixing to deliver her second child today.  The baby's father weighed 11 pounds at birth, Nessa is in for a long day, this is my 23rd grandchild.  Thank God my daughter, Miriam, is with her.

I'd tried to figure my timing on driving to Alabama, no way today with three appointments so far, Vanessa's too-cute daughter, Evelyn, wouldn't be up at the hospital anyway, so I'll try and plan a later trip.  Both JoJo and Allen, babies of this original very stormy sibling group of seven, miss the tar out of the other five grown siblings who are now scattered over four states total.

Several blog comments of support yesterday, an email that set me to thinking as a friend thinks her boss has cyclothymic disorder, what with him having run through a large number of assistants.  As I cleaned out our pantry yesterday I pondered that thought, thinking I'd long wondered how folks like this would turn out as adults.  My own son likely will not rise to a level of supervisor, as he is so developmentally delayed, and is touched with Cerebral Palsy, but a lack of interpersonal skills would certainly turn him into demonstrating a staggering inability to maintain office relationships.

And Adele?  Not always agreeing with me?  Huh?  Was it the hairy legged part?  Veganism?  I pondered that as well, knowing we both share a very deep faith and strong family connections.  "Mom," I hollered to Grandma, "Adele doesn't always agree with me," I whined, making Grandma snicker something about, 'not everyone doing so."

Adele is my favorite brother-in-law's sister, we share the most darling, lovely, level-headed, sweet niece, Lauren.  We are so blessed.

Cleaning out my pantry is an ordeal, my pantry is the size of an apartment kitchen, lined with shelves up to the ceiling, and when I clean, I clean out every single item, discarding, deciding what to keep, recycling and composting.  I only got 50% done yesterday in a five hour time slot.  My phone kept ringing with requests I also needed to get done.

Last night at youth group, my sweet son Jack made his public declaration to follow Jesus and somehow, being a Bodie, broke his brand new eyeglasses in the process.  We don't do anything half-heartedly apparently.  I'm so proud of you Jack, I know you've had a very tough time now for two years without Grandpa here.

Our new youth pastor is on shaky ground, facing nearly a dozen arms-crossed Bodies, daring him to leave...or to stay.  Either way they're gonna be abnormally slow to trust.  Abandonment and rejection issues blazing across their good-looking faces.

Jacks older birth brother CW was having a very loud cow this morning over a middling grade in his psychology class.  His information analysis was on target, his grammar not so much.  Southerners struggle in this area as we butcher the English language on a daily basis, me included, you ought to hear us talk.

I, as usual, sided with the teacher.  "Nope, Dubs, sorry," I told him, "She's absolutely right and college material kids like you need to get this straight."  He remained grouchy and unconvinced 'bout it all.

"Well don't put it on your blog," one grown kid told me about her deep concern regarding some recent issues of another grown sibling.  I rarely ever mention any grown kids by name anymore, often not even the ones at home, as again, it's the issues we face that are universal, not the kids who remain incredibly unique.  Good golly, how is it even possible to have 39 this extremely unique bunch?

I used to insist, or at least suggest, that they continue to use this address as they couch-surfed their way around, until this address kept showing up in police reports as a result of my dumb suggestion.  Nowadays I loudly insist they not use it after they move out.  But what if something bad happens and there's no way to let me know?  I am the one with a stable, constant address.  I'm also the one with a landline that some will use to call me collect from jail.

Right now the fact that the one in question didn't use my address, as he's mid-20s now, has many of us uneasy.  It's momentarily up in the air, leaving us with some lingering questions.

That so many lie to me routinely also leaves me unsure, or unaware, or pure T ignorant about certain situations.

My grown kids have been, as a group, very emotionally needy in the last couple of months, especially many of the ones who blew out of here at 18, raging at the entire world.  I'm surprisingly quiet about many of my, "I told you so," remarks, knowing they're learning just fine without this verbal reminder.

Every single one of them report hearing my nagging words running as an annoying tape loop in their minds as they struggle with bill paying, jobs, housing, relationships, and all the other facets I'd tried to explain while they were still such blatant know-it-all teenagers here at home.

Thank God for computers that allow me to email or fax documents that they need, thank God that they do call on me for help sometimes, rather than relying on the most amazingly bullcrap ghetto/barrio misinformation they often receive from very iffy street characters.

Life's hard even when you're doing your best to stay on the straight and narrow.

I had a son-in-law driving to court to dispute an incomplete stop sign violation, one my own Mom once successfully argued and won in court many years ago, but this sweet SIL got rear-ended on his way to court, driving his wife's car.  Oh my goodness.

My almost 17 year old son is tired of me using either the words inappropriate or appropriate.  He wanted to go home on the bus to a girl's house to finish a project.  I believe him, I trust him because she's not his girlfriend, but I haven't spoken to this parent, and I won't allow him to just show up over there, it's inappropriate.  We're having a text conversation and I can hear him sighing his frustration over my old-school values.

Too bad, son.  I love you too much to help you make a mistake.  If that mom calls me and reassures me that she'll be there to supervise, and that she approves, then it'd be deemed appropriate in my book.

Deysi, 36, (who soon might not want her age printed), sent me this darling photo of her two children, Alexander and Ellie, along with Curtis and Marcela's baby girl, Marissa.  I'm gonna go with Deysi next week to a school function for my darling, Alexander.  I love the happy stuff.  We have an even happier event coming up the next week that I don't yet have permission to divulge.

And before I could end this on such a happy note I received yet another disturbing phone call regarding a grown kid with severe emotional issues being arrested.  She very likely was suckered punched, wrong place/wrong time scenario, surely with the wrong compadres, she doesn't have the wherewithal to deal with all this, no wonder she wasn't returning phone calls.

Oh my.