tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77285493243470422752024-02-18T20:29:31.302-08:00Bad GrandmaNot all grandmas are sweet, cookie-baking, free-babysitting-providing, cuddly little old ladies. Some of them are BAD.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-14872466468773846932011-03-02T06:03:00.000-08:002011-03-02T06:51:01.983-08:00Talking About The Elephant In The RoomFor those of you who read my periodic postings, you know that Catherine - a.k.a. <a href="http://www.herbadmother.com">Her Bad Mother</a> - is my daughter and that <a href="http://herbadmother.com/tanner/">Tanner</a> is my grandson, and you know them both extremely well. You do not know a whole lot about my younger daughter, Christina - Chrissi - who is Tanner’s mother.<br /><br />Christina and Tanner’s father separated almost three years ago and since that time she has borne the brunt of the responsibility, financially, physically and emotionally for Tanner. My son-in-law loves Tanner very much but for a very long time he was emotionally incapable of dealing with all of the issues that are involved with caring for a child whose disease is aggressive and terminal.<br /><br />Chrissi has always been a working mom. Her job is one that is hard on the heart and soul (she deals with the legal side of broken and bitter families). But despite her job, her son’s diagnosis and the breakdown of her marriage, Chrissi has always projected the persona of a confident, totally-in-control, I-can-do-it-myself woman. After Tanner’s diagnosis, Chrissi dealt with the pain of knowing she had to watch her son die slowly, piece by piece, by pushing herself to extreme limits. In her efforts to insulate herself from pain, Chrissi developed a brittle veneer that discouraged any attempt by friends or family to give her the support that she needed. In her mind, Chrissi had to be supermom. She had to be an advocate for Tanner, and for other boys with Muscular Dystrophy. She had to educate the community, the school system. She had to fight for the support and resources that Tanner needed and that she needed. She had to maintain her career. She had to ensure that Tanner’s needs did not interfere too invasively with his siblings' needs.<br /><br />Somewhere in the constant battles she was fighting, she found an outlet for her pain – running. She became superwoman – a record setting marathon runner (every run was in Tanner’s name and for Duchennes Muscular Dystrophy research). The physical challenges of long distance running masked her emotional challenges.<br /><br />Every race she ran received extensive local media coverage. She achieved her goal – she ran the Boston Marathon – she was an inspiration! But the higher Chrissi and Tanner’s profile became in their community, the pressure on Chrissi to be supermom correspondingly increased – keep smiling, don’t let anyone know that you can’t be up half the night with a sleepless Tanner and be “perky Chrissi” the next day, don’t let anyone know how frustrated you get when Tanner soils himself just before you are leaving for work, don’t let anyone know that there are times when Tanner's constant screaming makes you want to scream back, don’t let anyone know - don't let anyone know this, especially - that there are times when you wish the end was sooner rather than later because you can’t stand to watch his deterioration, his suffering, his pain. <div><br /></div><div>Supermom Chris – couldn’t let her guard down – couldn’t let the cracks show - what would people think? So she internalized the guilt she had around her “bad mother” feelings and tried harder.<br /><br />But as Tanner’s care needs increased (he gets heavier and heavier, even as his muscles disintegrate, so that moving him to change a diaper or get comfortable in bed is a challenge, and his bones are becoming fragile and prone to breaking; his leg was broken during <a href="http://herbadmother.com/2011/01/you-and-i-were-meant-to-fly-and-also-tweet/">that Air Canada mess</a> last year, something Cathy never talked about), Chrissi struggled with her increasing inability to handle his physical needs and the ever-evolving mental health issues that his autism brings.</div><div><br />Nobody could help, not really. She allowed her sister to help, somewhat, from a distance. But she kept me and her friends at bay. Any expression of concern was seen as criticisms of her performance as a mother. She resisted help. She resisted support. She tired, as best she could, to keep her pain to herself. So when Chrissi broke, she broke hard. She had a breakdown last fall and has been on stress leave ever since.<br /><br />The past months have been difficult for all of us, but they also have been cathartic. The time has brought us closer together, as a family. The conversations Chris and I now have are thoughtful and supportive. The brittle veneer has been shattered and she has let herself be vulnerable. She has opened herself to the love and support of family and friends. More importantly, she now realizes it’s okay to verbalize her negative feelings and her concerns of inadequacy and to accept reassurance that those don;t make her a 'bad mom.'<br /><br />But it has been a long process and many of our conversations have hurt my heart. When my child sits across from me and says, “Mom, I don't want this – why does everything have to hurt so much?”, I can barely stand the pain. The worst part is that she has been carrying this pain, and especially, this guilt, all by herself for a very long time.<br /><br />Why do we, as a society, expect so much from those people who face adversity? Why do we expect bravery, sacrifice, stoicism in the face of pain and struggle and loss? Some pains are too great to face stoically. We're only human.<br /><br />Chrissi still struggles with guilt but she has finally accepted the reality that she can no longer be Tanner’s sole and primary caregiver. She and Tanner’s father are now working together on a plan for Tanny’s care – he'll move into her house and take over the bulk of the physical care; she'll move into <a href="http://herbadmother.com/tanner/">the basement that is being renovated</a>, at least part-time - and that in itself is a major breakthrough.<br /><br />The story is not over, but things are changing and there are no more elephants left in the room.</div>Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com57tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-10311821409049927332011-02-15T18:35:00.000-08:002011-02-15T18:42:49.085-08:00Warm Fuzzies And Strange Epiphanies And Lard On PotatoesI have spent the last few weeks immersed in the past, peering into the world that belonged to my grandmother.<br /><br />She was the family matriarch, she was my maternal grandmother and she loved her kitchen. The more people she could cook for, the happier she was. When I re-discovered her cookbooks, I had no idea where they would take me.<br /><br />My foray into the past has evoked memories of things long forgotten. I did not, until now, give much thought to the fact that the memories, although submerged in the deep recesses of my mind, informed certain aspects of my life. I am not talking about the big stuff – about shaping who I am as a person or how I have lived my life (that’s a different conversation), I’m talking about little things that I “just knew”.<br /><br />For example, I’ve always added sugar to the water when cooking turnips , put celery in the water when cooking cabbage, rubbed baking potatoes with shortening prior to baking, and so on and so on! If I was asked why I did that – I merely said, “just because” – I didn’t really know, I just did it. But as I read Grandma’s cookbook, there they were, tips filed under “household handies,” and the descriptions even gave the reason why: adding sugar to turnip water improves flavour, adding celery to cabbage water takes away the cabbage smell, potatoes rubbed with lard will not split when baking. That’s when I had my epiphany about memories, when I realized how much they had shaped me without my knowing.<br /><br />Finding my paternal grandmother’s nursing book did not evoke wonderful memories. No warm fuzzies, no happy epiphanies. In fact the only memory it brought to mind was an event that happened when I was quite young (6 or 7). My father had a boil and grandma came to our house to tend to him – she put a hot milk poultice on the boil which caused 3rd degree burns - which only reminded me that I was glad she wasn’t my nurse!<br /><br />I hope that when my grandchildren visit my memorabilia the memories that are stirred up for them are as illuminating as mine have been.<br /><br />And to all the dear grandmas in this world, I pray your legacy is one filled with warm fuzzies.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-5099173266991852922011-02-09T10:01:00.000-08:002011-02-09T10:06:12.232-08:00Be Grateful That You Didn't Give Birth In 1906<style>@font-face { font-family: "Cambria Math"; }@font-face { font-family: "Calibri"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; line-height: 115%; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri; }.MsoChpDefault { font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri; }.MsoPapDefault { margin-bottom: 10pt; line-height: 115%; }div.WordSection1 { page: WordSection1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">Another day of <a href="http://thebadgrandma.blogspot.com/2011/01/bad-grandma-resolves-or-not.html">finding lost treasure</a>!<span style=""> </span>Yesterday I found my maternal grandmother’s cookbooks circa 1930s – today I found my paternal grandmother’s nursing textbook circa 1906.<span style=""> </span>I was particularly interested in the obstetrics section.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">In<span style=""> </span>Obstetrics the nurse is instructed that when she is called to assist at a confinement she must make sure the patient is ready and everything has been prepared for reception of the child.<span style=""> </span>There must be five basins of sterilized hot and cold water, preferably china or granite-wear, all sorts of acids for sterilizing people and stuff, sterilized towels, sterilized sheet, sterilized bobbin (for tying cord), a large square of linen or muslin, blunt scissors, ice and a douche-pan .<span style=""> </span>The labor bed should have a hair mattress which is protected by a rubber sheet.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">The nurse should prepare the patient by giving her a thorough bath, an enema, catheterizing her if she can not void and, after all that is done , she should braid the patient’s hair.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">The directions for vaginal examinations during labor were very detailed, with the admonition that dilation could be determined almost as accurately by “the character of the cry to which the patient gives expression”.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">After childbirth, the patient should stay in bed for at least ten days.<span style=""> </span>Nurses were warned the onset of insanity usually in the form of melancholia was not uncommon and was treated by removing the child and also any pictures or furniture that seem to disturb the patient.<span style=""> </span>Nurse should keep patient quiet without the use of force and ensure regular evacuation of bladder and rectum.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">It<span style=""> </span>reads like a torture manual – how did the population ever grow??</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">Tomorrow <span style=""> </span>should I discuss “care of the dead” from the nursing book or “how long to hang an elk roast” from the cookbooks?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">I have discovered a cornucopia of useless and sometimes disturbing information – I’m loving it!!!</span></p>Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-83088011865564597802011-01-20T07:09:00.000-08:002011-01-20T07:21:29.748-08:00Bad Grandma Resolves! Or Not.I have made all sorts of resolutions for 2011:<br /><br />- Lose 20 pounds<br />- Exercise regularly<br />- Get my house organized<br />- Get my life organized<br />- Do not procrastinate<br /><br />So far, I have done none of the above.<br /><br />Dieting and exercise are two things that I absolutely abhor. I am trying to visualize myself twenty pounds lighter hoping that will motivate me but it’s not working – in fact, I now believe there is much beauty in an ample body. The other thing is that when a person is old and wrinkled - body fat fills out the wrinkles – that’s another plus! I have started exercising – I am doing leg-ups while lying on the couch watching tv and toe curls when I am on my computer.<br /><br />Getting organized is entirely another matter. It seems I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to remember where I put something. It is not unusual to find an item that I thought was lost, or had forgotten I had. I recently found a pair of boots that I haven’t seen for three years, the lifetime warranty for my diamond rings, my strapless bra, and my grandmother’s cookbooks dating from the 1930s.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuic9Yzs7EbDRocjI1H44BF6RB5qrHpe4hhtmdSmWoNi4Eref03dS21u26iYWzh62kIKBpk7UI8DxYbc6KRYdqXYX9Nshuew6Pd3j7BnbgE_1SncUr6Xk8oI2HGpNzABcqbcToZ6JaETs/s1600/grandmas+miscellany+019+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 242px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuic9Yzs7EbDRocjI1H44BF6RB5qrHpe4hhtmdSmWoNi4Eref03dS21u26iYWzh62kIKBpk7UI8DxYbc6KRYdqXYX9Nshuew6Pd3j7BnbgE_1SncUr6Xk8oI2HGpNzABcqbcToZ6JaETs/s320/grandmas+miscellany+019+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564287009643993330" border="0" /></a>Grandma’s cookbooks were my big find – they contain much more than recipes, they are manuals for creating an organized and economically managed home – hallelujah!! But, do I need to know that lipstick mixed with a little hand lotion makes a great rouge or how to make thread spool-holder out of a foam wig stand?<br /><br />Maybe tomorrow, I’ll brush my tongue. Grandma’s book says it will help keep my breath fresh. Baby steps!Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-78062062093970739252011-01-17T05:55:00.000-08:002011-01-17T06:48:32.586-08:00Daughter Knows Best (Or Does She?)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:donotpromoteqf/> <w:lidthemeother>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:lidthemeasian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:lidthemecomplexscript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:splitpgbreakandparamark/> <w:dontvertaligncellwithsp/> <w:dontbreakconstrainedforcedtables/> 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mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">After a six month hiatus, I am back.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">A lot has happened in that time, my husband and I quit smoking.<span style=""> </span>After FIFTY YEARS of a nicotine addiction, <span style=""> </span>we have now been smoke-free for seven months – a major accomplishment of which I am very proud. <span style=""> </span>Also in that time it was discovered that I have an aneurysm in my abdominal aorta -<span style=""> </span>it is still small enough that the risk of rupture is low.<span style=""> </span>It is monitored regularly and has not changed in size since its discovery, nevertheless, over the past six months <span style=""> </span>I<span style=""> </span>have spent considerable time contemplating my mortality and I am determined to try and live each day with passion, purpose and appreciation.<span style=""> </span>It is not as easy as it sounds<span style=""> </span>- appreciation, yes;<span style=""> </span>passion, not always easy when you are 68 and arthritic; purpose, I’m working on it!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">I decided that I needed a project.<span style=""> </span>I have come up with what I consider to be a brilliant idea and my brilliant daughters agree.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">I turned to my most brilliant daughter for advice on how to proceed.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">Brilliant daughter, in turn, gave me a mini course on branding and marketing.<span style=""> </span>I am not sure I agree with everything she has said to me, but it is almost like we have had a role reversal – and instead of “mother knows best” – it’s “daughter knows best”.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">My project is a book and brilliant daughter told me that, for my book be successful, people would have to consider me an expert or, at the very least, have some recognition in the area on which I would be writing.<span style=""> </span>That presents a problem for me because my book is not really a book that you read, but an organizational aid and I probably am the most disorganized person I know – which is why I got the idea in the first place! <span style="font-style: italic;">(Brilliant Daughter/Editor note: I didn't tell you that you had to be an expert - just that readers/users would be looking for some reason to want a book/organizational aid from you. Maybe it would just be because of your sparkling personality. Still. You have to SHARE THAT.)</span><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA"><span style=""> </span>You see my dilemma.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">Left to my own devices , I would have self-published and peddled my book at community markets, through friends and any other way I could think of and I would have had it ready<span style=""> </span>for Mother’s Day (because it will make a great gift).<span style=""> </span>Now, I am not sure – brilliant daughter is successful and knows much more than me about high tech marketing and branding.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-style: italic;">(BD/Editor's note: you can still do those things. I just think that you should do stuff online, too. BECAUSE YOU CAN.)</span><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">I probably will follow brilliant daughter’s advice and set about establishing myself as an identifiable... what?<span style="">...</span><span style=""> </span>wise grandma, ditzy grandma, sexually repressed grandma, quintessential old-fashioned homemaker grandma, thrice-married grandma , grandma who does not want to age gracefully, grandma who secretly wants to be outrageous.<span style=""> </span>I am all of those things and more – so where do I start?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">(<span style="font-style: italic;">BD/Editor's note: START THERE.</span>)<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">And when do I start? Did I include 'procrastinating grandma in the list?' Maybe I’ll start next week.</span></p>Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-39720494512896949502010-06-10T05:54:00.000-07:002010-06-10T07:00:56.375-07:00Thank You For Not SmokingOver the years, I have tried many times to quit smoking. I have tried cutting down, Zyban, the Nicoderm patch, Nicorettes – all to no avail.<br /><br />I have found a much more effective way to quit smoking.<br /><br />It was recently discovered, quite by accident, that I have an aneurysm in the abdominal aorta. My vascular surgeon sat with me and explained smoking has caused the aneurysm and continued smoking will further weaken the artery walls, it will burst and I will bleed to death - he then pulled his chair closer, looked me directly in the eyes and said, “So, quit or die.”<br /><br />I quit, cold turkey, over a week ago and will never smoke again.<br /><br />At this point, the risk of a rupture is minimal (11%). I am being monitored regularly and if the risk increases, surgery will be performed.<br /><br />Thank you to a medical professional who had the balls to be brutally honest.<br /><br />In all of my years as a professional in the addictions field, I was rarely that forthright. I usually tried to soften probable outcomes and/or consequences. If my doctor had framed the situation with “possibilities,” “maybe’s” and “probabilities” rather than with stark certainties, I might not have been so quick to quit smoking and then I would surely die – sooner rather than later.<br /><br />This has been a good thing. I am getting healthier, I am saving kazillions of money, my house has never been so clean, and <a href="http://blog.beliefnet.com/theirbadmother/2010/06/fear-and-the-common-phone-call.html">my darling daughter who worries too much</a> can stop.<br /><br />PS: My husband, who smoked more than I did, also quit and we are both doing great!Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-79243550151960036252010-05-21T05:25:00.000-07:002010-05-22T12:34:26.717-07:00Dear DaughterDear Catherine:<br /><br />Today, my darling daughter, it is <a href="http://thebadgrandma.blogspot.com/2010/05/dear-daughter.html">your 40th birthday</a>.<br /><br />I can not believe it has been forty years since I gave birth to you. I don’t feel forty years older! It seems like just yesterday that I danced under the light of the full moon (all 195 pounds of me), hoping that an old wives' tale was true. It must have been, because seven hours later you were born.<br /><br />You know that I have always felt that the anniversary of your birth is more of a celebration for me than for you. It is a celebration of the day your father and I received the most precious gift in the universe; it is a celebration of love, it is a celebration of memories, it is celebration of what matters most in life.<br /><br />On this day, as I celebrate your birth, my normally transitory memory has perfect recall on the joys and, sometimes, heartache that being your mother has given me.<br /><br />I remember: an aspiring (but doomed) ballerina, a published writer, an eloquent public speaker, a budding actress, a political activist – and all before you were even twelve! It would take a book to chronicle your journey to adulthood. My participation in that journey has been a privilege. You are my heart.<br /><br />Thank you, God, for her.<br /><br />Thank you, Catherine, for you.<br /><br />Love,<br /><br />MomHer Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-21809363432782059732010-05-11T01:04:00.000-07:002010-05-11T01:09:00.438-07:00Mother's Day, The Hard WayThis year both of my daughters were several thousand miles away on the that day I consider more important than Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving or any other occasion on which we celebrate the joy of family and togetherness. One daughter lives several thousand miles away and the other is on vacation.<br /><br />This is the first Mother’s Day that I have not seen at least one of my daughters. While a telephone conversation is lovely, it’s not the same as a physical presence, the real closeness that affirms the celebration of motherhood – the joys, the heartache, the memories, the wonderful feeling of pride that comes from seeing your child mature into a happy, healthy adult.<br /><br />My husband and I attended our community’s annual Mother’s Day Fly-in on Sunday, and I felt a huge void as I watched moms and grandmas glow with pride as they shared moments with their children and grandchildren.<br /><br />I felt alienated from those happy moms. I wanted to shout – “I have children, I have grandchildren – they just couldn’t be here”. I imagined a hundred eyes on me, whispering, “poor lady, being at a Mother’s Day event and not having any children.” Up until this Mother’s Day, I never consciously felt the need to parade my motherhood, I never thought I needed affirmation about the wonderfulness of my mothering, and I don’t often brag about my children (out of respect for those whose children aren’t nearly as beautiful, talented or as smart as mine). This past Sunday, I was tested and failed miserably. I needed affirmation – I needed my children.<br /><br />This Mother’s Day was a lonely day.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-64177587970501989182010-04-01T14:26:00.000-07:002010-04-01T14:30:41.504-07:00Bad Grandma Reflects On April Fools, And Misses Her Children A Little Less Than UsualApril Fool’s Day should be called “Parents Stay On Your Toes Day”.<br /><br />I don’t think my husband and I were the brightest bulbs on the block, because every year our children caught us with the same tricks. I still chuckle when I remember his yell from the bathroom - “goddammit, it’s all over my shoes” - as he peed into a toilet bowl that had been covered with saran wrap. I didn’t think it was quite so funny when I sat on a toilet seat that had been covered with Vaseline!<br /><br />You would think that by the time we cleaned ourselves up after the bathroom tricks, we would be more alert, but no! – ‘cause by now, we needed coffee and cigarettes. It's not funny playing hide and seek with cigarettes - hidden by your prankster (and vehemently anti-smoking) children - when you’re jonesing. It’s even less funny, after finding said smokes, to pour yourself what is by now a much needed cup of coffee and discover, after the first huge swallow, that it wasn’t sugar that you put in the cup!<br /><br />Most days, I miss my daughters. April Fool's Day is not one of those days.<br /><br />Happy April Fools Day.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-36386171028746521362010-03-30T13:41:00.000-07:002010-03-30T13:51:14.595-07:00Bad Grandmas Age GracefullyI watched 70-something Raquel Welch on Oprah yesterday and was immediately very aware of my brillo-pad hands, my fungus feet, my chicken neck, a tummy that even a girdle can’t restrain, and a face that is now covered with what I euphemistically refer to as “huge freckles.”<br /><br />The theme of the show was glamorous grandmas.<br /><br />I am sure that there were millions of grandmas who, like me, watched the show and, if their husbands were watching with them (as mine was), kept up a constant stream of commentary along the lines of: “if I had a personal trainer, liposuction and a good plastic surgeon, I’d look like that too!” And: “I could have hair like that if we didn’t have to eat and pay the mortgage.” And then: “you like her makeup? Well, we’ll stop feeding the cats, and you can give up beer.”<br /><br />My husband quickly told me that he loves me just the way I am. I think it was the beer thing.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-9656289856698154642010-03-29T06:43:00.000-07:002010-03-29T06:44:00.875-07:00A Blessing A Day Keeps The Darkness AwayToday is a new day. I am putting behind me the heartbreaking events of last year. It has been a long time since I have truly counted my blessings. Blessings are loved ones and feel-good things. I have so many blessings.<br /><br />Some of the things that I consider blessings are simple: an e-mail from my granddaughter simply saying, “I love you, Grandma”, a telephone call from same granddaughter because she has a knock-knock joke to tell me, being alive to enjoy the very funny trials and tribulations of <a href="http://herbadmother.com/">my eldest daughter as she is out-manoeuvred</a>, on a regular basis, by my precocious granddaughter (that’s karma!!), <a href="http://herbadmother.com/2010/03/clockwatching-redux/">my disabled grandson’s</a> sense of humor and his huge capacity for enjoying life and his good-natured acceptance of what is.<br /><br />I am going to strive to make every day a celebration of life. I am ready to, once again, marvel at the wonders of nature surrounding me – an osprey feeding her young, eagles showing their offspring how to use the air currents, the sound of grouse in the hills, the occasional yip of a coyote.<br /><br />I am going to revel in the pleasures of decadent desserts and a good Shiraz. No worries, no guilt.<br /><br />I am going to give thanks every day for my children, my grandchildren, my husband, my friends, my life.<br /><br />The light is so bright when you leave the darkness.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-50223272263023952332010-03-22T06:17:00.000-07:002010-03-22T07:33:56.289-07:00Bad FamilyAt the urging of <a href="http://herbadmother.com/">my daughter</a>, I have decided to try and break my writer’s block by writing about what has been crippling me for the past several months. It wasn’t <a href="http://thebadgrandma.blogspot.com/2009/09/death-of-dreams.html">the death of my former husband</a>, nor was it the death of my father. It has been the perfidy of my brother, and the consequent destruction of our extended family. I can’t find enough adjectives to describe his duplicity, or to describe my hurt.<br /><br />My brother, who is four years younger than me, has always been my hero, my protector. We did crazy things together and he was always there for me – through <a href="http://thebadgrandma.blogspot.com/2009/04/lost-boy-my-story.html">my first pregnancy when I wasn’t married</a>, through the heart-wrenching breakup of my 25-year marriage, through my rebound second marriage to a not-nice man, and he was one of the few people who was delighted when I married my third, and present, husband. When our mother died, my brother and I grieved together and when our father remarried, my brother and I shared our feelings of dismay.<br /><br />During the forty years of our parents’ marriage and until our father remarried, we were a close family and our parents doted on my brother and me and, subsequently, our children, their grandchildren. That changed when Dad remarried – my brother and I became somewhat estranged from our father, and our children (who by this time were young adults), though not estranged, did not have the same relationship with him as before. When our father’s wife sustained a serious brain injury after falling while drunk and was subsequently institutionalized, our relationship with our father got back on track. In the meantime, I had moved 400 miles away from my father, Cathy had moved 6000 miles away and Chrissie had moved 450 miles away, so our contact was mainly by telephone although in Cathy’s case (Cathy remained close to him) there was regular contact by telephone, e-mail and mail.<br /><br />One and one-half years ago, our father moved into a managed independent living facility because he was getting too forgetful to manage on his own. My brother arranged things because he was in Vancouver and I wasn’t. During this period, my brother and sister-in-law were spending a lot of time with us because they were in the process of building a house just 14 kilometers away.<br /><br />By the time my father died, last June, my brother and his wife had sold their house on the Coast and moved to our area, living in their RV until their house here was finished. When my father died, my brother and I made the funeral arrangements.<br /><br />A few days before the funeral my brother came to our house. We had coffee and chatted – he seemed a little distant, but I didn’t think too much about it. Later that day, we heard squealing tires out front and the next thing my brother came storming up our driveway, sat down on the patio and said it was time I knew what was in my father’s will and I wasn’t going to be happy (my father had a very, very high net worth). By this time he was extremely agitated and confrontational. My husband and I were stunned – I had never seen my brother like that. He started by telling me that Dad had signed over all of his assets to him and I was not getting anything because my father did not want me to have anything. The proceeds from the sale of my father’s house, my father’s boat and vehicles were all his. When I told him that was not fair, he said, “too bad – everybody in this world has to look after themselves, and I am looking after me – Dad signed them over to me, that makes the proceeds of sales mine.” The more he talked, the louder he got. He was so loud that our next-door neighbors came outside to see if everything was okay. After he had finished telling me about his disposal of Dad’s assets, he proceeded to tell me I was stupid, stupid bitch, I had no backbone, I never knew what it was like to work hard because I had a “cushy” government job for twenty years (I was the director of an alcohol and drug treatment program for adolescents operated by a not-for-profit society – hardly “cushy”). The fact that I was married three times proved that I lacked good judgment and that’s why my father gave everything to him, my brother. He then moved on to my children – he said Catherine thought she was intelligent and successful, but in fact she was a stupid, lying, egocentric bitch and Chrissie was a selfish, deceitful c**t! and all their lives they had been spoiled bitches who thought they were princesses. Then he started on my grandchildren – he didn’t give a flying fuck that <a href="http://herbadmother.com/2008/08/zachary/">Zachary almost died the previous summer</a>, and he didn’t care that <a href="http://thebadgrandma.blogspot.com/2009/06/injustice-is-another-word-for-this.html">Tanner is disabled and terminally ill</a> because they were nothing to him! Every bitter phrase he used was laced with profanity; every phrase was laced with hate.<br /><br />By the time he finished with my grandchildren – I was so debilitated that I just cried and begged him to stop. He stomped off and I was in shock. I could not believe that my brother, with whom I had never had a harsh word, the brother who I trusted more than anyone else in the world could, out of nowhere, attack me with such hurtful, hateful words.<br /><br />Two days later, he walked into our house and said he shouldn’t have said the things he did. My husband told him he was no longer welcome in our house and to leave. I couldn’t say one word because when I saw him, the pain I felt, because of our now shattered relationship, was too much. My heart hurt.<br /><br />I began to dwell, incessantly, on the things my brother had said to me. While I knew I could never forgive him for the things he said about my children and his cold-heartedness about Tanner, but I began to have doubts about who I really was. Was there some truth in the cruel things he said about me? I knew I wasn’t stupid, but did I lack backbone and good judgment? Was I flighty? Was I incapable of dealing with issues in life? Did I just carry one, blithely unaware of the rest of the world? I knew that I had been a well-respected professional who worked hard, was compassionate and caring. Was there some defect in me that my brother saw in me that no one else did, after all he had know me for over sixty years – longer than anyone else (except my father who was now dead). Did my father really think I was so stupid and fickle that I should be virtually cut off? If all of that was true, then my whole life with my family was a lie and if that was the case – then I really was as stupid as my brother said.<br /><br />Shortly after my father’s funeral, I received a letter from the lawyer who was probating the estate. I was to receive 25% of the assets that were left, and my children and my grandchildren were not mentioned. My brother was named Executor (which I had known for years and had always been comfortable with because I mistakenly believed he had our collective best interests at heart). Then came the cruelest shock: my father changed his will recently– in the event of my brother’s death, my sister-in-law became executrix. If they both died, the duties passed to my nephew and then my niece. I didn’t exist, nor did my children. Neither my father nor my brother told me. This was the final blow. All of the doubts I had about who I was became fact. My father felt the same way about me and my children and grandchildren as my brother did. I was now beyond hurt, not only for me but for my children and grandchildren, particularly Catherine who had a closer relationship to her grandfather than anyone else. How could I shatter that? How could I explain that our branch of the family meant nothing? How could I tell them that he left his cleaning lady $5,000.00, but couldn’t find it in his heart to provide something that would give Tanner some joy or some comfort? That some of the heirlooms that were meant to be passed down on the maternal side of the family were given to their uncle?<br /><br />Over the past eight months, as I have struggled with my feelings about what transpired, I have had many discussions with my children and it has become very clear that my brother, presumably driven by greed, influenced my father, who had become very forgetful and dependent on him, because my brother had power-of-attorney and total control. I have to believe that, because to think that my father, knowingly, could be that cruel and dismissive of the love that I and my daughters had for him would be too much to bear. If my daughters and I can’t trust the memories we have, it will change our family history forever. My brother has already destroyed the wonderful memories of him. My brother is dead to me. I don’t want the memories I have of my father to be dead also.<br /><br />My husband, my friends, and my children, have said that I have to let it go – that I should ask God’s help in forgiving my brother if I am ever to find peace in my soul. I have done a lot of soul searching about that. I have had a lot of conversations with God – probably one-way, because I am not prepared to listen to what I know he would say. I have decided that I will never forgive my brother. He is now dead to me. I do not have a brother.<br /><br />None of my turmoil has been about money, it was never mine to begin with and I never expected anything, except my mother’s gold chain which has been passed down to the eldest daughter for almost 200 years. My brother refuses to give it to me, to pass on to Cathy, as my mother wanted. I know my mother is spinning in her grave.<br /><br />I have put a curse on my brother, not only because of his deceit, but because he kept the gold chain. My ancestry is Irish and Scottish, on the maternal side. The chain comes from my Irish great-great-great-grandmother. I have put an ancient, Irish curse on him and his family. And I have written this post.<br /><br />I hope, now, that I can put this horror behind me and move on.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com93tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-7882223662037145582009-11-04T12:23:00.000-08:002009-11-04T12:55:45.835-08:00A Goddess And A Warrior, In Granny Form<div style="margin: 1ex;"> <div>It’s been a while since I have felt motivated to write anything. <br /><br />Reading <a href="http://blog.beliefnet.com/theirbadmother/2009/11/the-power-of-ordinary-people-with-laptops.html">my daughter’s blog today</a> gave me much pause for reflection. <br /><br />In my heart, I was a feminist when feminism was a dirty word. I strove to raise my daughters to be strong, independent women, fearless women who would take on the world without fear. I wanted them to be all they wanted to be and live life without regrets. But I didn’t know how to be truly independent – that independence was finding myself, being true to myself, being confident in myself, loving myself. I only knew that I wanted more for them, as women, than I had.<br /><br />The focus of my daughter’s recent blog was social justice and the power that we have to effect action and change. I have spent the better portion of my life, and am still very active, in the pursuit of social justice and change. But, I believe, with every fibre of my being, that we cannot effectively advocate for others unless the true spirit of feminism burns within us. I believe a feminist is a Goddess and a Warrior. <br /><br />As I have already stated, I have spent a major portion of my life advocating for those marginalized members of our society, but, in retrospect, I was not coming from a point of inner strength and confidence – I was doing it because I felt a moral obligation to help those less fortunate than myself. Helping others filled a void in my life and helped me justify my existence. <br /><br />Selfish reasons. <br /><br />I am not saying that activism for self-serving purposes negates the accomplishments. I am saying, for me, being a feminist is not feeling the need to justify your place in this world. Being a Goddess and a Warrior means moving through this world with compassion, with courage, and great love for yourself and your fellow (wo)man. <br /><br />Justice will surely follow.<br /><br />My journey, over the past sixty-seven years, has been challenging and the flame, for most of those years, has been weak, but now it burns brightly and today I am a Goddess and a Warrior.<br /><br /></div> </div>Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-70497636379136615502009-09-11T05:18:00.000-07:002009-09-11T08:09:26.706-07:00Death Of DreamsThis is my first post in over two months. I have been emotionally crippled by the events of this summer and have, until now, been unable to organize my thoughts in any coherent way. Even now, I am not too sure where this will go.<br /><br />The death of my father, at the end of June, was sudden and unexpected, but he was eighty-six and lived a very full life. The tragedy of my father’s passing was not his death, but the perfidy of my brother. I suffered two losses on June 26th– my father and my brother. (At some time, when I have sorted out my feelings about the betrayal, I may elaborate).<br /><br /><a href="http://herbadmother.com/2009/08/here-be-monsters/">The death of my former husband</a> - the father of my children, the man to whom I was married to for 25 years, and my best friend – is another matter. Steven and I had a unique relationship. We never stopped loving each other, but we could never live together. It was enough that we could care deeply and know that we were there for each other. Steven could not handle the stress of the responsibilities that go along with a marriage and I could never handle the stress of worrying about his mental health. For my daughter, Catherine, Steven’s death was the turning point in her journey to maturity. Her fondest wish was that her father and I would overcome all obstacles, openly declare our love for each other and renew our marital relationship. In spite of our love for each other, that would never happen. His death was a great tragedy. I loved this man with all of my heart and soul. My heart used to leap when I saw him coming up the driveway and when we separated I did not think it was possible for a person to survive the pain. I felt that someone had taken a knife to my body and slashed it to bits.<br /><br />How could I not die from the loss of blood?<br /><br />I threw myself into casual sex, and then one marriage and then another. I needed affirmation that I was desirable, valued and worthy of a man’s love. Steven’s rejection of me thoroughly fucked me up. I knew he was having an affair – my children did not. It hurt me deeply when I <a href="http://herbadmother.com/2009/09/ephemera/">read my daughter’s blog wherein she stated that she had kept the letters from Steven’s mistress because it “was part of my father’s life”</a>, even knowing that it was a part of his life that he regretted. I spent over a month with my daughter, in Salmon Arm, going through her father’s things. To Catherine, everything was a sacred memory of her father – to me it was being slashed over and over again and Cathy didn’t even see the blood! Children must realize that their memories are only a small bit of reality. <br /><br />I have wept and wept and wept for what might have been – for the loss of my dream. I have lost, forever, my dream, my one and only true love.<br /><br />I am so thankful that we were able to get past the first messy years after our divorce and move into a relationship that was so special for both of us – a relationship that only he and I understood<br /><br />I don’t know how long it will take me to come to grips with the fact the I will never see Steven again, that he is no longer there for me. I don’t know – it is so painful.<br /><br />My daughters lost a father, and he is irreplaceable – but, I lost the father of my children, my best friend, my protector, my dreams.<br /><br />Rest in Peace, my Love.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com43tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-88339099159212120432009-07-14T13:47:00.000-07:002009-07-14T13:51:00.105-07:00Hurricane Grandchildren-On-Road-Trip: Survival UpdateI will preface this post by saying I love my children and my grandchildren very much and it was a delight to meet <a href="http://www.motherbumper.blogspot.com">MotherBumper</a> and <a href="http://www.theredneckmommy.com">Redneck Mommy</a>.<br /><br />That said, it has been three days since the last of <a href="http://svmomblog.typepad.com/mom_road_trip/">the road trip gang</a> and others left. I have recovered sufficiently to make a list of things that need to be done to restore some semblance of order to my house and yard:<br /><br />-shampoo living room carpet<br />-wash the strawberry handprints off the french doors<br />-wash dirty handprints off all walls<br />-wash cocoa that dripped down cupboard doors<br />-find putty knife to remove dried globs of cocoa on kitchen floor<br />-wash entire kitchen floor so cats will no longer stick to it<br />-sweep up kitty litter that toddler spilled when he was eating it<br />-remove all decorated rocks from house<br />-finish removing dirt and sand from tub<br />-locate all household gadgets that were used as a substitute for drums, mariachis and other obscure noisemakers<br />-locate all barbie dolls, accessories and other toys that the children were hiding from each other<br />-find rest of half-eaten sticky buns<br />-find the peas that were being saved for the picnic<br />(I may plan a scavenger hunt to locate all of the above!)<br />-replace all sand the was dug up from between patio slabs<br />-rebuild section of rock wall that was dislocated by tiny feet<br />-remove nail polish from patio<br />-finish putting polish on other toes and nails so that both feet match (Emilia lost interest after one foot)<br />-restore to house and yard all items that were removed in the interest of child safety and our sanity.<br /><br />I think that pretty much covers the house and yard. My husband said the garden will grow back. We had to leave for the weekend immediately after everyone left, so our trailer (which doubled as the children’s playhouse) had some items in it we would not normally find there and some things we couldn’t find, but I’m sure the window screen will show up and I hope the toilet crystals went in the toilet. The bathroom cupboard door looks ok without the decorative knob. Sort of.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-6178471946885244102009-06-05T05:41:00.000-07:002009-06-05T05:48:21.153-07:00Injustice Is Another Word For This Sucks And I'm AngryI am angry, really, really angry.<br /><br />I visited daughter #2 today (mother of Zachary, Tanner & Sophie.) Chrissy is now on stress leave . She cried as she told me things were getting to be too much for her. The <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/10/sings-tune-without-words.html">progression of Tanner’s disease and its inevitable outcome</a> is beginning to take its toll.<br /><br />Chrissy is a brave, strong woman, but today I saw an emotionally drawn, defenseless young woman. She has filled her life and Tanner’s with almost manic-like activity, but the reality of his disease is catching up with her and I am worried. Chrissy is crashing.<br /><br />Tanner’s father and Chrissy have been separated for almost two years now and he is as useless as tits on a board. He can not now, nor has he ever been, able to deal with Tanner’s Muscular Dystrophy. He has not been paying his share of childcare expenses, he has not been paying child support regularly and he can’t cope with having the children for an extended period of time. Tanner’s father has had no part whatsoever in the house being refitted to wheelchair accessibility, the van being equipped with a lift, the bimonthly trips to Children’s Hospital in Vancouver, the frequent meetings with physiotherapists, occupational therapists, school support staff and so on & so on! He is embarrassed that he has a visibly disabled child. I am surprised Chrissy has held on this long.<br /><br />My husband and I take the kids when we can and when it works for Chrissy. The distance we live from each other sometimes interferes with visiting. We will have Tanner and Sophie this weekend, so that Chrissy can have some much needed respite.<br /><br />I guess I am more angry at Tanner’s father than anything. I don’t get how a 45-year old man can be such an irresponsible prick. Why is it that women end up with the short end of the stick. I’ve had a few glasses of wine and I am rambling and I may sound bitter, but when I sit and watch my child weep because she’s had enough it rips my heart out and I want to corner my ex son-in-law and rip his balls off and stuff them in his mouth. I want to say “be a man, love this child, show him and the world that disabilities don’t matter – Tanner’s disabilities are not a reflection of your precious manhood!"<br /><br />Tanner is the sweetest little man in the world and it tears both me and my husband apart when Tanner wants to play soccer (like his sister) and we have to say “Tanny, you can’t." When Tanner wants to go to the river to walk around and pick rocks (like we used to) and we have to say “Tanner, you can't." What makes it even worse is that Tanner understands what we are saying. Tanner has no friends, he doesn’t have play dates because he’s different and most parents are as cruel as their children. It is fucking killing me and it’s killing my daughter.<br /><br />Chrissy deals with all of this, alone – yes, she has wonderful, supportive friends and family, but at the end of the day it’s just Chrissy at home, by herself.<br /><br />I spent twenty years in a profession helping children and families. I advocated and fought for justice for those who could not advocate or fight for themselves. There is nothing in this world that I abhor more than injustice. I always felt that because I was so blessed and my daughters were so privileged that I had a responsibility to advocate for those families and children who were not as fortunate as we were.<br /><br />But I can’t seem to do anything to alleviate or ameliorate the injustice that is occurring in my family.<br /><br />I have said my piece, thank you for listening.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com78tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-89735510427317205712009-05-26T12:03:00.000-07:002009-05-26T12:09:39.685-07:00Let's Talk About (Grandchildren And) SexMy first-born grandson, Zachary, will, in my heart, always be the son I didn’t raise. I was in the delivery room when he was born. I didn’t approve of his father or my daughter’s marriage to him so when Chrissi divorced him two years later it was a good thing. <br /><br />Zach, his Auntie Cathy, his Uncle Kyle and myself have always been extremely close. We (mostly me) delighted in terrorizing him – monsters in the closet, trolls under the bridge, sharks in water and, of course, big slobbery kisses at every opportunity – the more public the better. We also drove Chrissi crazy by painting his fingernails and toenails every chance we got. Our terrorist tactics did not leave any permanent scars. We also didn’t have much luck trying to influence his thought processes. My daughters and I were (and still are) pretty vocal about the superiority of women – we could never get Zach to buy into that. When Zach was about four, his Mom and I took him on a camping trip. He took it upon himself to protect us – at each campsite he strung rope around the trees to keep the bears away from us, he gathered wood so that we would be warm around the campfire. . <br /><br />We had endless discussions on what women (particularly Grandmas) should and shouldn’t do – Grandmas shouldn’t drive hot cars. Grandmas <span style="font-style: italic;">definitely</span> couldn’t drive motorcycles. Grandmas shouldn’t wear short dresses, low cut clothes or brightly colored clothes cause they weren’t “grandma clothes.”<br /><br />As Zach got older, he relaxed his views on what Grandmas could and couldn’t do. Zach and I have had many laughs about his early years and he, very lovingly, calls me his "crazy grandma."<br /><br />Zach now has a girlfriend and I am finding that difficult – much more so than when my daughters had boyfriends. I never felt I lost my daughters when they fell in love, but I am now feeling a sense of loss. What makes it even worse is that Zach and his girlfriend are “doing the wild thing”. <br /><br />He’s not old enough!<br /><br />In my mind, Zach is still that little guy who strung rope around the camp to protect us, who stood up at Cathy and Kyle's engagement party, gave a toast to “flamily” and told Kyle to take care of his Auntie. Zach is the little boy who escorted me along the beach on a sunny afternoon eight years ago, stood in front of the Marriage Commissioner, friends and family and said “I give my Grandma to this man.” I have never felt so proud. <br /><br />My mind is not ready for female friends and fornication.<br /><br />Not ready at all.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-16471925857005532302009-05-25T12:06:00.000-07:002009-05-25T12:07:24.355-07:00Tweet DreamsThis past week has been an awakening. Not only did I get back into techno-world, but also got involved in super-tech-twitter world.<br /><br />I have been told that there is no point or solid rationale for tweeting which, I was also told, is the whole point. <br /><br />I spent the major portion of one whole day last week learning about Twitter and met some very kind and helpful people in the process. But tweeting is time consuming and even though I am retired, I don’t have time to sit for hours at my computer, or to be checking it frequently. I would feel guilty if I tweeted on twitter and then twaddled off and didn’t tweet to another tweeter’s twitter or is it another twitter’s tweeter?<br /><br />So I am going to “retweet” to my backyard where only birds twitter and rethink my foray into the morass of techno-musings.<br /><br />Tweet Dreams!Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-59330698819373385092009-05-21T06:52:00.000-07:002009-05-21T06:56:01.997-07:00Happy Birthday To My GirlToday is a big day! Today is <a href="http://www.herbadmother.com/" target="_blank">Catherine’s</a> birthday.<br /><br />I have always thought of the birthdays of my children as a dual celebration – one for them and one for me.<br /><br />Until the day I die, I will thank God for my children and the miracle I experienced on the day of their birth. Every birthday each of my daughters celebrate, I celebrate the miracle<br /><br />Each birthday, I relive the day they were born and, with each passing year, I celebrate the joy of watching them embrace life. I relive unwrapping Catherine and counting her toes (they were so big I thought she had six), I relive her putting her cat in a pillowcase and dunking it in the toilet, I relive checking dresser drawers daily for that same cat, I relive her first day of school, I relive her basement production of <span style="font-style: italic;">Annie</span> (starring herself), I relive her every childhood dream – writer, actress, ballerina. I relive every day of her life.<br /><br />The joy does not diminish as the decades grow, nor do my memories fade.<br /><br />Catherine will always be my precious first-born daughter who was born May 21st because I danced under the light of the full moon on May 20th.<br /><br />Happy Birthday, Trinky!!!<br /><br />Happy <span style="font-style: italic;">Birth</span> Day to me for giving birth to you!!<br /><br />All of my love, your eternally grateful Mother<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">PS. I also have a good conception story, but Cath would kill me!</span>Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-22746995463213335752009-05-20T13:44:00.000-07:002009-05-20T13:45:33.443-07:00Back From The AbyssWell, after a month without my computer, I feel like I have returned from the abyss. I am not, in any way, shape or form computer literate. I have always maintained that my computer was merely a tool that made writing and editing documents easier - my frame of reference was the manual typewriter that I started out on back in the dark ages and, later, that marvelous invention, the electric typewriter!<br /><br />I discovered, this past month, as I lived the dark abyss of zero technology, that if you don’t have e-mail you don’t exist. Scary! What was even scarier is I went through computer withdrawal. Yes, I had all the symptoms - it drove me crazy – I was irritable, restless, not sleeping, not eating, dark circles under the eyes and having nightmares of disappearing off the face of this technology-crazed earth. <br /><br />When I got my computer back and my e-mail up and running, I binged on e-mail – I had sixty-two of them to read – it was better than a free pass to a martini bar! Then I realized the awful truth – I AM A COMPUTER JUNKIE!!!<br /><br />I don’t think I’ll bother with rehab so bring it on, bring it all on – twitter, tweeter, and whatever the hell else has been invented since I have been gone!Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-36945172118092266252009-05-10T06:59:00.000-07:002009-05-10T07:03:21.163-07:00Before There Was Bad Grandma...... there was the original Bad Mother:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxEGhYG683PTAc_vbbNapejk0JyZ1NJpehWle2ZHXltQmu1SDVSx7sE6rmmyzDdt-Fkv2ZvpEjcake5da_KCqzjQvORlPW3jTweT-01DlnoKXqtsppDCHy9QPAtxrCIEj-uTcmOxXiTyk/s1600-h/babypics+019.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxEGhYG683PTAc_vbbNapejk0JyZ1NJpehWle2ZHXltQmu1SDVSx7sE6rmmyzDdt-Fkv2ZvpEjcake5da_KCqzjQvORlPW3jTweT-01DlnoKXqtsppDCHy9QPAtxrCIEj-uTcmOxXiTyk/s400/babypics+019.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334195286499163202" border="0" /></a><br />Wigging her kid and everything.<br /><br />Happy Mother's Day!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(The Bad Grandma is still without technology, and limited to issuing instructions to her bad daughter by telephone. She misses you all.)</span>Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-46451652349387661882009-04-23T18:55:00.001-07:002009-04-23T19:00:07.366-07:00We Interrupt This Broadcast...The Bad Grandma regrets to inform that she is without Internet access and so is unable to post. <a href="http://www.badladies.blogspot.com">Her Bad Daughter</a> offered to take dictation over the phone, but unfortunately, TBG`s hearing aid battery was missing, <a href="http://thebadgrandma.blogspot.com/2009/03/grandmas-little-helper.html">due to temporary need in another motorized device</a>, and so she didn`t get the message.<br /><br />Regular Bad Grandma blogging will resume as soon as her computer is working again, or once her hearing aid battery is returned to its rightful place, whichever comes first.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-68984973736007343022009-04-14T06:39:00.000-07:002009-04-14T06:46:22.312-07:00Why, God?I haven't been able to write anything for almost a week. I have been emotionally spent. Yesterday I read <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2009/04/this-dark-and-mourning-earth.html"target="_blank">my daughter's heartrending blog</a> and my heart wept again - for the families of those precious little souls who were taken too soon, and for my family - <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2009/01/clockwatching.html"target="_blank">for what is yet to come</a>.<br /><br />Every time I read or hear about the death of a child, or the pain and suffering of a child, or of a child who, because of a disease, will never experience the pride of graduating from school, the anticipation of a first date, the excitement of first love, the joy of marriage and children, the contentment of growing old surrounded by family, and dying in peace, I ask God why.<br /><br />There are millions of people in this world who do not question God – I am not one of them. <br /><br />I believe in God, in his only Son, in Mary and all the saints , but there are times when I am angry with God. My audacity scares me - but, there are things I can not accept unquestioningly, willingly or with thanks.<br /><br />I cannot accept unquestioningly that God would give parents the precious gift of a child and then abruptly take His gift away. <br /><br />I cannot accept it is God 's will that <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/10/sings-tune-without-words.html"target="_blank">my beautiful, innocent grandson die slowly, piece by piece</a>.<br /><br />There have been many times during my life that I have felt His presence and been thankful for blessings received. <br /><br />This is not one of those times.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-8177915787452170212009-04-07T00:05:00.000-07:002009-04-07T00:05:01.303-07:00Lost Boy: My Story<a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/08/lost-boy.html"target=``_blank``>My story</a> starts with my mother. In 1942, my mother was 18 years old and dating my father. Mom got pregnant. My maternal grandparents were god-fearing farm folk, my paternal grandparents were quintessential British snobs. Both families were horrified that this scandalous behaviour had occurred in their family. Mom might as well have been branded. My obviously pregnant mother and my father scurried away in the dark and wed. Three months later I was born. My paternal grandparents never let my mother forget that their only son “had to marry her,” and as I was growing up it was obvious that I was still an embarrassment to them. They took my brother on vacations with them every year, they never forgot his birthday, they had albums full of family photos – just them and my brother. My maternal grandparents, on the other hand, got over it, loved me – spoiled me - and supported my mother 100%.<br /><br />Throughout my adolescence, my parents closely monitored my social activities. In fact, on several occasions, my father followed me on dates. My mother lectured me endlessly on appropriate behavior with boys. I did not know, at that time, they were trying to protect me from experiencing their shame and family disapproval.<br /><br />Fast forward to 1962: I was a very inexperienced 20 year old, madly in love with a dashing pilot, 22 years my senior and married. He was going to leave his wife and marry me. We ran off together. My parents did everything in their power to put an end to the relationship, but to no avail. I got pregnant – but he already had children and more children were not in his plan. My father wanted to have him arrested, and my mother began the nightmare of reliving her shame.<br /><br />As soon as I began to show, my parents sent me to a home for unwed mothers. I was safely secreted away from relatives who would click their tongues and say “like mother, like daughter.” Double shame! I tried to kill myself while I was there. The pain and loneliness were unbearable. Neither Mom nor Dad ever visited me there; it was too painful for them. Several young women carrying illegitimate babies came and went during my three months there. All cried themselves to sleep every night. Occasionally, defiance would rear its head, and someone would say, <span style="font-style: italic;">it's not like we are the only ones who “did it,” we just got “caught,”</span> and there would be murmurs of assent around the sunroom and for a few moments we didn't feel “cheap.” Those moments were rare.<br /><br />I went into labor in on a beautiful July afternoon in 1963. The staff told me to call them when my pains were five minutes apart. I didn't have my mother or a husband there to support me, so I walked the gardens for five hours, by myself, because I didn't know what else to do. I was scared. When the pains started getting closer, the Home called my parents and then called a cab to take me to the hospital. I went to the hospital all alone. I delivered my beautiful son all alone. <br /><br />I was told that, because I was giving my son up for adoption, I shouldn't see him because it would make it harder for me. I saw him. His perfect little face will be forever imprinted on my mind and the intense love I felt for my baby has never gone. That fierce love, that only a mother can feel, is why I had to give him up – I did not want him to bear the stigma of illegitimacy, the shame of having an unmarried mother and of not knowing his father. I wanted him to have everything I could not give him – respectability, two parents, a loving extended family and a life without shame. It was worth the pain.<br /><br />I have not been able <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/08/lost-boy.html"target=``_blank``>to search for my son</a>, because I still weep when I relive his birth, seeing him and giving him up. Love hurts and I would not be able to take <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2009/03/abortion-means-never-having-to-say.html"target=``_blank``>the pain of losing him</a> a second time.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com80tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7728549324347042275.post-49548959189619789052009-04-05T18:53:00.000-07:002009-04-05T19:06:23.692-07:00Cabin Fever And Strippers, Oh MyThis has been a bad day, just the most recent in a series of bad days.<br /><br />I need it to stop snowing, I need the temperature to rise above 0 degrees. I need the flowers to bloom. I need a self-cleaning house. I need to lose ten pounds. I need my husband to fuck off and take the cats with him. I need SPRING!!<br /><br />At first I thought I was going through (God forbid) another phase – I mean, how many phases does a person go through in one lifetime. I have experienced childbirth, raising children, empty nest syndrome, divorces, grandchildren, menopause, and retirement. I figure I've just about run the gamut of transitional phases – so what is going on? Is it cabin fever or am I certifiable? I'm opting for cabin fever.<br /><br />This condition is not treatable with wine. I tried that last night with a girlfriend. The best thing to come out of our foray into the vineyard was a funny story about my daughter that I had forgotten. My friend and I were swapping stories about life, love, old age, husbands, and male strippers.<br /><br />I have never been to a place where there were male strippers but, many years ago my daughter brought one home. I got up one morning and there he was, sitting in my dining room! He wasn't your stereotypical stripper – he was quite scrawny, but as I was later informed by my daughter “they have ways of compensating for lack of physical presence.”** As I shared my male stripper story with my friend, the image of a scrawny protuberance with a rubber band almost sobered me up. We had another glass of wine.<br /><br />Cabin fever can make you crazy.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">** Ed. note: he wasn't a male stripper, exactly, and I hadn't exactly brought him home. I was 17, and he was a friend - a very </span>gay<span style="font-style: italic;"> friend - who had been kicked out of his home and who was working amateur strip nights at Vancouver bars to try to kick-start what he thought - mistakenly, given his build - would be a lucrative career. He was one of many strays I brought home. Mom only liked them if they were colorful. He qualified.<br /><br /><br /></span>Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com23