Thursday, March 31, 2011

Nature kicks Nuture's Butt

I inadvertently conducted a psychological experiment last night.  I taught my five year old granddaughter to play cards.  It was very interesting to watch the juvenile human display her predisposed nature.  Here is what I discovered.  She likes to win and she won't hesitate to cheat to do so.  I was not at all surprised about the winning thing.  I am not sure if it is an across the board human quality, but it surely is an Alkire one.

My mother, on the other hand, was above all that.  Just ask her. But for obvious Darwinian reasons that saintly quality succumbed to the Alkire cut-throat gene.

The cheating thing did surprise me a little bit though.  Where was that childhood goodness and innocence I have heard so much about?  This kid was cheating her grandma!  And worse yet, she wasn't very good at it.  It was pathetically obvious and she still lost.  But she will get there.  I have had a lot more practice.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Daphne's back home

As you know, I adored my babies.  They were the sun and moon.  I wanted to spend every moment with them.  Bill and I fought every day on the way home from work because he wanted to stop and get the mail and I resented the extra 15 seconds away from my darlings.

But about the time they hit their teens, I developed a severe case of late-onset postpartum depression.  The symptom was an overwhelming desire to kill them.  It is not as uncommon as you might think.  I fought it successfully keeping my eye on the light at the end of the tunnel.  Until the time Daphne got pregnant at 17.  The light blinked out.  No emancipation for me.  Oh, the irony of realizing that if I had just given in to my urges I would probably be up for parole by now.  That not killing your children is the real life without parole.

So, I have been in a real funk lately.  The late-onset postpartum put me at high risk for its sister disease nonpartum depression.   Nonpartum depression is one of those diseases that no one talks about.   Unlike the empty nest syndrome, which is socially acceptable, nonpartum is considered unwomanly and shameful.  It is caused by the realization that no amount of rehab is going to get your kid out of your house.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

1000 words, more or less

I had a conversation with a friend today that covered 30 years of lost contact.  It sent me searching for a photo I knew I had stored away.  My friend probably doesn’t remember the exact moment this picture was taken, although the date should be pretty obvious.  I am sure he didn’t realize his image was traveling much of the world over the last three decades. 

There are a lot of photos in my box.  I can't bear to throw away a picture, even of a person I don’t remember.   After all, at some point that person was important enough for me to want to record his or her existence in my life.  And of course, there is always the chance that one day I may have the same trouble recognizing myself. 

For me, digital images are not as personal as actual printed photos.  Being photoshopped out of a jpeg doesn’t make the me cringe the way I do when I think of my face being cut out of a picture and run through a shredder.  And the thought of being stored digitally on a hard drive somewhere is not at all the same as imaging paperdoll-sized versions of me living in shoe-boxes in closets, or tucked away in attics or even, dare I hope,  staring out from the walls of Debi Alkire shrines.

Friday, March 18, 2011

Some Days Just Aren't Funny

So Daphne left for detox/rehab.  I have no idea how long she will be gone.  This time was different.  I didn't take her, I didn't talk to the doctors, I didn't get phone numbers or the address to send letters.  I could not listen to ways to be a support system again.  I don't want to be.  I have been trying to hold that life together for nearly 23 years and it is falling apart again.  I have invested too much time and money.  I can live with my role in getting to this point - I did the best I could every day of her life.  I believe we have reached the point of diminishing returns.

Her life is her job now.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

A Cry for Help

I work from home most days, going into the office two or three times a month.  That sounds great and it is, but there are some drawbacks.  The drawbacks are not inherent, but I am weak.  I have a friend who also works from home and she has all the self-discipline in the world. I know she has all mine. She gets up, works out, showers, gets dressed, goes to her home office and gets to it.  I sleep with my laptop so I can just roll over and power it up.

I am pretty sure shaving my legs was the first thing to go.  No one tells you that is the first step down a slippery slope.   Next thing I knew I was sleeping in my work clothes, or more accurately, working in my pajamas.  Then I realized there was a real energy saving opportunity here.   That's code for no showers.  Once I stopped washing my hair, well, brushing it seemed pretty silly. 

You are probably thinking my house must be spotless though.  Yeah, not so much.  I am also not ripped from working out, am not particularly well read and I don't spend hours visiting the elderly. My whites are gray, I don't sort my laundry and my sink is always full of dishes.  This blog is taking a lot out of me too.
 
But yesterday I went into the office.  I showered, washed my hair and got dressed.  We went out to lunch.  No one had on sweat pants.  Gosh, it was nice.  I cried all the way home.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

It Doesn't Get Any Better Than That

Remember that scene from City Slickers when they each have to tell the best and the worst day of their lives?  It is not as easy as you might think.  My worst day I know without any thought and maybe one day I will share that with you.  But best day?  That is a lot harder.  Though I did think it strange when they disallowed "the day your kids were born" since that was "too easy".  I can only figure that was because they were men.  20 hours of drug-free labor would not be my best day in any universe.

I have had a lifetime of really great days that in an ordinary life would be the best day.  How to choose? I remember camping on the river with friends in high school and saying that even if someone would show up with a giant million dollar check I could not be happier than I was at that moment.  That was a great day.  I have had many, many days like that.  I have traveled, I have much better friends than I deserve, and a loving, if totally dysfunctional family, there were incredible happy days with my kids (more before, less lately), I  love my job and work with amazing people, and I have been deeply in love for a minute or two.

But the very best day, without any question, was front row, 45-yard line in Phoenix, Arizona, the day WVU beat Oklahoma in the Fiesta Bowl.   I know you non-WVU fans are thinking, "Shallow", but you weren't there!  It was transcendental, happiness on an entirely different plane.  There was a woman near me pregnant with her first child and I pitied her for the let down the motherhood was going to be compared to that game.  Okay, a little shallow.

Of course, I have been chasing the dragon ever since, bowl game after disappointing bowl game, the curse of all WVU fans.  But it was worth it for that one joyful day.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

The Trials of Fatherhood

I sat down with the grandkids a few days ago and watched some home movies of their mother as a baby.  Daphne was about a year old when Bill and I bought our first video camera.  The thing about home movies is that they really tell you a lot about yourself.  Here is what I observed.  I was a nut job.

At one point, I watched myself closely trying to figure out what I the heck I was doing.  Daphne was sitting on the floor, because, let's face it, she never did much more than sit at the floor at that age.  I was very close, almost hovering, but at the same time, kind of moving in a loose circle around her.  Then it hit me.  I was orbiting her!  She had very little mass but an enormous gravitational pull, at least on me. I know that Bill was a good  father, but clearly we were not on the same page about home movies.  Poor Bill was in a lose/lose position. He was either the cameraman or the one with the baby.

If he was the cameraman and shifted off Daphne for even a second I was on it.  I am sure at the time, I considered it a gentle reminder of our combined purpose in life of documenting every moment in our child's life. Now it sounds a lot like nagging.  If he was the one with Daphne the only thing I ever said was "You're in the way.  I can't see her."  And yet for some reason, this man wanted to have a second child with me!  I haven't had the guts to look at those movies yet.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Enabling - Just Another Way to Say I Love You

As I take a break from writing Cullen's book report to do some laundry, clean the kitchen, put my grand-kids to bed and write this blog, I remember a stress relieving exercise given to me long ago by some well-meaning therapist.  The exercise is to build in your mind your dream home. My dream home was a cottage on a cliff with a view of the ocean.  It was very small, with only one bedroom and a library.  There was a flower garden and a tiny yard.  One day it struck me that what were not there were my children.  I was all alone in the house.  Now my children were very young at the time and I still loved them obsessively.  But I am an introvert at heart and have not had a minute to myself for nearly 25 years.  It is starting to wear on me just a little bit.

I have no hope of ever getting my kids out of my house.  At some point they went from being the wind beneath my wings to the cement shoes on my feet.  My parenting principle was simple enough, figure out what my mother would do and do the opposite.  I was the Anti-Mom.  I completely forgot that my mom raised me, so she must have done something right.  I couldn't wait to get out of the house.  And if the speed at which my room was reclaimed for a younger sister is any indication, the feeling was mutual.

My daughter, on the other hand, has proclaimed her willingness to reside in my basement with her children forever.  My son, who is probably NOT going to get into a college, says all the right things about leaving but I have noticed a considerable lack of follow up on that talk.  So if we measure the success of the parent by the outcome of the child there are a lot worse things than being raised by my mother.  Apparently one of them is being raised by me.

Friday, March 11, 2011

Keep Your Fingers Crossed

Today may be the most important day of life.  My son is taking the SAT.  My entire future happiness depends on him scoring well enough to get into college and out of my house.

To understand how very much this means to me you have to know this - my son is an egomaniac.  Despite all evidence to the contrary he remains convinced of his unsurpassed genius.  I have patronized him through the years never realizing that this was going to come back to bite me firmly on the you-know-what.  The truth started to set in a few weeks ago, when he was told he could not get in to even the most humble college unless he scored a 900 or above on the SAT.

Please don't get me wrong.  Cullen has potential, though probably not as much as he believes.  But he has fallen into the trap of many.  He believes potential is all it takes.  I say this with the utmost love; he is lazy, lazy, lazy.  Until his senior year his grades have been abysmal.  And, I might as well be entirely truthful, I have been doing his homework for years. It started off innocently enough and I was motivated by love,  I swear.  Then the hole got so big the only way I could see out was to keep digging.  And, yes, I was warned over and over that making it too easy wasn't going to help in the long run.  No one has ever accused me of genius.

I signed Cullen up for the test a month ago.  I mapquested the location, sharpened his #2 pencils, printed out all the tipsheets and signed him up for the pretest.  No point in trying to turn this ship around now, right?  He professed to all who would listen that he was certain he would get a 1200 and did absolutely nothing, didn't read the tipsheets, didn't study, didn't take the pretest.  Until tonight.  It did not go well.  He went to bed a humbler young man.  And I am stuck trying to figure out a way to take the test for him.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

You're in the Army Now

My mom, like a lot of girls in her generation, started having children at a young age.  And she never found the stop button.  By the age of 21, she had three girls and by 30, she had six of them.  Naturally she was overwhelmed and looked for help.  Other mothers read Dr. Spock and nurtured their precious charges.  My mother read the US Marine Corps Drill Sergeant Handbook and whipped us into shape.  It was not an easy environment to grow up in.

Starting school is always a pivotal point in a child's relationship with her mother.  It is the first time the child finds herself alone in the cold world ripped from that warm sheltering bosom.  Then there was my experience.

I remember being excited about my first day of kindergarten.  My mother had prepared me well for the separation by dropping me off at points all over the city with only a compass to find my way home.  One little boy cried for his mommy.  What a wuss!

The teacher, Mrs. Pettigill, arranged the mothers in a semicircle of chairs and we sat at their feet.  She began to call roll.  Of course, since my name is Alkire I was probably the first and this was a new experience.  She also, no doubt, called me Deborah and mangled my last name as people do.  I said nothing.  Silence filled the room.  Mrs. Pettigill repeated her version of my name.  I still didn't recognize it.  Finally my mother, bless her cold, cold heart, flicked me in the back of the head and said, "That's you, stupid".  They just don't make 'em like that anymore.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

The One You've Been Waiting For

I know you've been wondering why I haven't talked about my mom.  It's simple, I am terrified of the woman.  My mother is a cross between a Auschwitz prison guard and a KGB interrogator.  She has spies everywhere. She is also a master of psychological warfare and will stop at nothing to get information.  She called me yesterday.

It started off very casually.  She was toying with me.  Five minutes in we are talking about her new glasses when she asks, "Who is there?"  I feel the hairs on the back of my neck start to tingle but I answer truthfully, "The kids."
"How did they get there?"  Something is up, but I am a fly trapped in a web.
"Daphne brought them."

"How did she get them?"  I know I am in trouble.   I have no idea what she is after but every nerve is screaming, "Get off the phone NOW!"
"I don't know."  This is a lie, but I panicked.  She won't let it go.  She wonders why Daphne would have picked them up.  Why aren't the kids with Jeremy my nephew/babysitter?  Did Jeremy bring them to Daphne?  It goes on and on.  Remember THESE ARE DAPHNE'S KIDS.  I stick to my story and she finally moves on.  I relax a little.  We chatted about her physical therapy and a sister or two.  Fifteen minutes later she says, "Where did she get them?"
I am completely lost, "Where did who get whom?"
"Daphne, where did she get the kids?  When Jeremy left here he was going to pick up Elsie at school."
"At school, Mom, at school.  That's where she got them.  She got them at school.  They met at school."  Crying now, "at the school, it was at the school, I don't know why I lied, it was at the school."

She called me again later that evening, "Your sister is in jail."
"You're kidding! What happened?"
"I don't know.  You know I don't like to ask."

Mom and Elsie

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves

Most phone calls from my parents begin the same way.

Mom/Dad, "I have something to tell you."

Me, "The names of my real parents?"

Of course, I know that most children at some time or another believe they are in the wrong family.  They feel different or left out or that these so-called parents just don't recognize their amazing potential quite enough to be the real deal.  But in my case, I have some pretty compelling evidence.

There are no baby pictures of me.  All five of my sisters, yes, but not me.  Now my sainted mother, Virgin Mary II, explains it in the gentle, loving way for which we have come to know her.  She claims there are no pictures to protect me.  She contends I was a hideously ugly baby and they knew I would want no permanent record.  I believe she used the word "revolting".  Bless her heart.  This story is just not credible.  Our family is riddled with hideous babies and we have pictures of them all. 

There is the fact that I don't look like the rest of my siblings.  I give you Exhibits A and B.  You see it, right?  We are all human but beyond that, nothing.

So who are my real parents?  When I was young I read that mothers used to tell their children not to wander for fear they would be stolen by gypsies.  I am pretty sure I was stolen FROM gypsies.  It explains so much.  My love of hoop earrings, camp fires and the name, Esmeralda.  My passion for Cher songs.

I need your help in my search.  I don't think it will be hard to spot them if you keep your eyes open.  You will know them immediately.  They have very short eyelashes.

Exhibit A
Exhibit B

Monday, March 7, 2011

A Friend of a Friend

This is Annie.  Now, you dog lovers, don't get too excited.  Annie is not my dog.  She belongs to my friend, Alicia, who refused to read my blog unless I posted Annie's picture.

I don't love dogs...or cats...or hamsters...or any of the other creatures people bring into their homes.  I am not a bad person. I catch stray cats so I can take them to get shots and fixed.  As a matter of fact, I once kidnapped my sister's filthy, matted, neglected miniature poodle so I could take it to the vet and then found it a good home, which was definitely not mine. I just don't want to clean up poop.  When my kids ask for pets, I tell them they are lucky I let them live in my house.

I also don't believe animals are people.  Not that Alicia does - she thinks they are better than people.  I have been friends with Alicia a long time.  She believes in telling it like it is.  I imagine when she was a 3 year-old her mother wished they had invented the kiddie muzzle rather than the kiddie leash.  You know, the kid you are afraid to take to your family reunion because you are certain she is going to make your hormonal, first-time-pregnant cousin cry by shouting out, "Look at that fat lady!"  Or when you introduce her to your bachelor, great-uncle you can already hear "Wow, you look old!"

But underneath her somewhat gruff exterior Alicia has a heart of gold.  I know this because Annie eats her own poop and somehow Alicia still loves her.  That is most definitely a deal breaker for me.  She knows the names of everyone's kids and dogs.  She asks about their families and how they are feeling and remembers where their kids are going to college.  In short, she is a WAY better person than I am.  Alicia turns into mush with Annie as I witnessed in a recent trip together.  I swear to you she teared up when Annie had to be left in her kennel so Alicia could go out to eat.  Which was only necessary because I refused to babysit.  Alicia forgave me my cold-heartedness.  I think she is used to it.

I know people love dogs because they are faithful, loyal and affectionate.  I already have that.  I have Alicia.

Into Each Life....

Yesterday it rained, and it rained, and it rained, both physically and metaphorically.  There was no sunshine, no walking out-of-doors and no gardening, only grayness.  We are not sufficiently into Spring for the rain to make the green glisten, it just matted the brown grass into the even browner mud. There was nothing on TV and even my books seemed drab and boring.  There was nothing playing at the movies that sparked an interest and getting dressed seemed a waste of time.  I fought a losing battle against the forces of gravity that pinned me to my bed or the couch.

And my daughter told me she needed to return to drug rehab.  Another step backwards in a journey that has consumed so much time but covered so few miles. I love my daughter, but I resent the impact on my life of her bad choices.  So I spent the day wallowing in the luxury of self-pity.  It felt good.  I cried a little and slept a lot.  I embraced my martyrdom as only a Catholic girl can do.

I worried if I should share this.  It is intensely personal and I feel shame, both that these things exist in my life and that I am overwhelmed by them.  But I figure you also probably have something that sometimes makes Sunday afternoons last forever.  

This morning the sun shines again.  And I realize my life is no worse than most and better than many.  So, I will do what we all do.  Shake off my self-pity, pick up this burden, hope for the best, find a way to laugh and get on with it.

Sunday, March 6, 2011

Is Latisse the Key to Eternal Happiness?

I have been cursed with short, straight eyelashes. Please, don't pretend you haven't noticed - that's beneath you.  Oh how it has plagued me!  Well, okay, not as much as my thick ankles, but since there is no solution for thick ankles I am going to focus on the eyelashes.

Of course, I wondered if Latisse would really work.  Is it possible that the wish I made on the first star every night of my life has finally been granted?  For a mere $50 a month can I have the eyelashes of my childhood best friend?  Oh, how I coveted those lashes.

It works.

My eyelashes are now long and thick, beautiful to behold.  It is as if a piece that has long been missing is returned.  I am quite certain I hear whispers when I walk into a room of, "Look at those lashes. She must be so happy."  I like to sit in the near dark next to the lamp so I can see the shadows my eyelashes make on the wall.  Seriously, I do that.

I love my new lashes.  But I am surprised to find I am the same person, just with longer lashes.  I don't wake up singing anymore than I used to, the sun shines no more than before and my kids still drive me crazy.  How many times must I learn this lesson?  Happiness cannot be bought with $50 a month.  Lashes are not the key to unlock all of life's joy.   For that I need thin ankles.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Has My Biological Imperative Passed Its Expiration Date?

Yesterday my afternoon was punctuated by two hysterical phone calls, one each from my children.  Interestingly enough, both yelled the same message, I have failed abysmally as a mother raising the other.  Normally this would not phase me as I am in total agreement with both, but it did make me wonder.

We all have heard A LOT about the biological imperative of men, spread their seed, spread their seed and spread their seed.   We get it already.  And remember here men, I am not talking about your moral imperative.

So what is a woman's biological imperative?  It can't be just provide the egg, because that is not going to help anyone without a womb to put it in.   It can't be just provide the womb because the creature that emerges from that womb isn't going to make it on its own. So, and remember this is just my take on this, it must be to make sure that helpless, fishy-eyed, hairless, wrinkled alien survives.  As a matter of fact, our biology is fighting so hard to insure infant survival we are convinced our own existence is dependent upon our success.  We believe our life would have no meaning if we fail at this job.  We are so involved that the endless crying, pooping and spitting only make us more determined.  The more difficult the baby the more we believe we are the only one who can do it.

Some mothers, the GOOD ones, never stop feeling this way.   These mothers are as passionate about their grown children as they were the infants they once were.

Then there is me.

I am not sure if my BI (biological imperative) sprung a leak, or if maybe I just didn't get the fully supply.  I like to believe that my kids were so incredibly difficult that I used it all up.  But I am sure it is gone, gone, gone.

Friday, March 4, 2011

A Blog? Me?

I just finished reading a book review by a dear friend who was dissatisfied with the way the author was forced to 'fill in the blanks' in parts of the subject's life.  I too find that very frustrating.  And, so, a blog was born to guarantee no one will ever have to fill in the blanks when writing my autobiography.

As you have probably all heard, an FBI agent thought long dead has turned up alive in Iran.  The story took me back to a time many years ago - 1967.  I was 5 years old.  On our way home from visit to Pittsburgh, my father stopped in Point Pleasant, WV, to show us the Silver Bridge which had recently collapsed.  There were 46 dead and two missing. I remember looking out across that bridge that ended in nothingness. My dad wondered aloud if the missing had perhaps just seized the opportunity to start new lives somewhere far away without the responsibilities they had foolishly acquired in this life.  Perhaps there was a job they hated?  A wife they no longer loved?  Too many kids?

I started keeping a VERY close eye on my dad.

And....I began to fantasize about doing that very thing.  Building a life full of responsibilities I resented, so I too could run away from it all some day.  Perhaps a couple of selfish, lazy kids...yeh, yeh, that would be good.   Then I could buy things for them I couldn't afford, so I would be swimming in a sea of debt...say, two mortgages.  Throw in some drug abuse, a couple of grandkids, someone else's teenage son and a learning disability. Who wouldn't want to run away from that life?

And now this!  Will I be forced to find somewhere more backward and primitive than IRAN to escape?