Breast Cancer Awareness Month or Love Yourself Month

Dear Mom,

Forty years ago, I don’t believe October was Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Medical procedures, awareness, and the way in which patients are treated are so much different now than when you were going through treatment.

I recently read a friend’s blog (www.writinginthebuff.net) who talked about breast cancer. It made me wonder why I hadn’t thought about telling you about Breast Cancer Awareness Month especially since it took your life. Silly me.

I wanted to beat myself up about it, but then realized that part of my wrist problem (yeah, it flared up again) has to do with my self-loathing. I think. It makes sense to me since medically there is nothing wrong with my wrist. I feel like it is Spirit trying to say, See what you’re doing—all this beating up on yourself is turning into physical pain. Who knows, could it lead to disease such as cancer?

I plan to make a conscious effort to be more loving to myself. If I’m able to give love so freely to others, why not to myself? Did you do that to yourself? I often wonder what you thought about in terms of your self worth. When I hear your sisters talk, they never give their selves the kind of credit they so lovingly deserve. It’s with little things, but it all adds up.

So I’ve decided I’m going to change my awareness to: Love Yourself Month (or Love Yourself Year). It has a more positive ring to it—and certainly not to take away all the good things folks are doing to bring awareness to those about breast cancer—it’s just something I need to do for me.

Love myself.

Belly Dancing

Dear Mom,

I had my first belly dancing lesson. I wanted to do some kind of exercise that would be fun, yet challenging. Your other two daughters Suzanne and Ruth agreed to learn with me.

We realized coordination skipped our family gene. Did we inherit that from you or Dad? I don’t recall seeing you dance or exercise. I know Dad danced with Clara, but I doubt he did any difficult moves like the polka or swing. I’m amazed that I can even step around in circles for a slow dance.

Belly dancing is about using isolated muscles, then incorporating that with certain movements. Chest, back, chest—moves with the right foot as you step forward. Back, chest, back—moves with the left foot—weight forward as you step. I think. There’s the upper portion and the lower portion. That in itself was hard to master, believe it or not. My sister showed her husband and he said she looked like a spastic chicken.

Now the dance steps. Flat, ball, ball, ball. (Foot flat, then up on the ball of your foot. But my brain fails to remember where my feet should go.) Then the teacher added arm movements—swinging your arms around in coordination with your feet. Yeah, right. The three of us looked like spinning tops. Either my feet moved and my arms hung down or my arms were swinging like a chimp and my feet did whatever they wanted. Moving them in unison was hopeless.

Because the classes are made to accommodate anyone—beginner to more advanced—the instructor starts from the beginning and adds a new movement each class and then starts all over again once the routine is complete. We came in near the end and after the initial warm up and beginning steps, the instructor ran through the entire belly dance (almost). We were handed silk scarves that are used in part of the routine and were told to do the best we could.

I watched the instructor and tried following her moves. I can’t believe I didn’t run into anyone. At the end of this routine, you took the scarf—after finding the end—and you’d fling it over your head. I flung it so hard you’d think I was shaking the dirt out of a floor rug. The next morning I felt like I had whiplash. I called my sisters to see if their necks hurt. No. But one sister confessed how the scarf ended up in her mouth at one point. One time she got too close to the floor fan and it nearly ate up her billowing scarf.

I gave up following the teacher because every time she went one way, I went the opposite. When her scarf was up, mine was down. I finally let loose and flung that scarf and moved about just like the time I pretended to be a ballerina as a kid and performed for you in the living room.

It was fun all right. The three of us cracked each other up—and challenging… well that’s an understatement.

I'm Perplexed

Dear Mom,

I’m perplexed. I can cook a French gourmet dinner for two, or prepare enough food for one hundred people for a surprise party for my husband without him knowing. I can transform a mud pile into a gardener’s delight, or sew a prom dress with the complexity of a bride’s gown in less than two weeks. I can move out of a home in one afternoon (okay, with some help) without the (now ex) husband having a clue. I can provide day care for 5 four year olds and 4 under the age of two in diapers, along with my three children without losing my mind, errr… okay, well, maybe I was a bit nuts by the end of the day and made a mental note—never do that again. I can change the oil in my car or I can unstop a toilet—the list is endless. But when it comes to making a DVD play on the TV, I’m lost.

Logically thinking, hitting “play” on the remote would work. Notta. After an hour and a half of hitting every button on all four remotes—yes, four remotes, nothing. Zip. I even hit the play button on the DVD player. Nothing worked. I gave up. I wanted to toss it all out of the window, but instead I grabbed a book, curled up in bed and read. God forbid if I ever have to use a Kindle.

So what’s the deal? Why can’t I hit play to watch a movie? Tell me mom, what is the lesson for me to learn?

Casey's Birthday

Dear Mom,

Last Friday was your grandson’s birthday. My first born. Casey. I posted on Facebook that he was three weeks overdo, the doctor induced labor on a Thursday and 42 ½ hours later—on Saturday, he was born. On his dad’s birthday. That joke became a reality. I suppose one couldn’t give a better gift.

Casey’s dad has a reputation for being late, so it wasn’t surprising the little stinker inside my belly refused to pop out. Stubbornness swims in the family gene pool (myself included) so he had no chance escaping that one.

Before Casey could walk, he went from rolling over (skipped crawling) to getting around on his knees—fast too. He zipped around everywhere on his knees. My family thought it was hilarious. We all joked, calling him Neil. My stepmother voiced concern that something was wrong with him and that I needed to make him walk. Being as stubborn, I ignored her advice. Casey eventually walked. On his terms.

I quickly learned that children think for themselves and sometimes have their own agenda.

Like the time Casey was around two. I had some errands to run so I had his outfit all picked out. He refused to wear it. I explained how stripes and checks don’t go together. What would people think of me dressing my child in mismatched clothes? Casey stomped his foot, shook his head no and wouldn’t listen to my common sense on fashion. We argued with what seemed like hours until I finally caved, feeling ridiculous arguing with a two year old. What am I doing? Who cares what he wears? I entered the store—Casey in his crazy clothes—wondering whether people noticed. Surprise. I wasn’t arrested by the fashion police.

Casey’s hard-headedness has gotten him into trouble a time or two, but overall it has proved to be an asset. His determination to do something with his artistic talents have been successful. Twenty seven years later, his clothing choice still worries me, but then fashion isn’t my strong suit either. And he definitely makes up for it in other ways.

(Casey’s website: http://www.threeleggedlegs.com)

Smeagol Likes to Help

Dear Mom,

The other day I was getting my Bunco gifts together and who has to get in on the action? Smeagol. He’s so cute, I could hardly get upset with him.

He follows me everywhere and wants to help with everything. Not that he really is a lot of help. When I’m reading or writing (with a pen), he’s climbing on my lap, trying to get right on top of the paper or the book. When I’m typing on the computer, he wants to walk on the keyboard. When I’m throwing laundry into the dryer, he likes getting in there.

If my husband is fixing something in the cabinet with the receiver equipment for the television, Smeagol’s right there.

Or when I'm in the kitchen.

Smeagol plays around in the sink when he follows us into the bathroom.

If he were quiet (like most cats) it wouldn’t be so bad. No matter where he goes or what he’s doing, he meows, meows, meows. I recognize his “I’m hungry meow.” Or his “Let me out on the back screened porch meow.” (Although that is usually followed with him running ahead of me so I will follow.) Most of the meows must be his begging for attention. Right now he is rubbing his face into mine—his way of kissing me—that beats when he bites me on the ankle for attention.

And like all of us who have pets, well… you just can’t help loving them no matter what they do.

Singing HU

Dear Mom,

I took my stepdaughter, Robyn to the Community HU at our (spiritual) center on Sunday. It was her choice, although I suggested it. I don’t care one way or the other what folks believe, or what they do or use to help better their lives. I just know singing HU (which is a love song to God) works for me and feel it can work for anyone regardless of their religious/spiritual beliefs.

This next story I always tell causes my kids’ eyes to roll. One night when I was a single mom, all three kids were pretty young when a big storm blew in the middle of the night. First Casey came into my room, “I’m scared, can I sleep with you?”

“Sure.”

A bolt of lightening lit up the bedroom and thunder shook the walls of the house. Jessica stood by my bed, “I’m scared.”

“Come on in.” I flipped open the covers. I had a double bed, and now it was full. I wondered where I’d put Rita, as I was sure she was next. Lightening continued to flash while the thunder roared.

I woke up the next morning, crawled over little body parts to go find Rita. Awake in her bed, I asked, “So how come you didn’t come into my bed? Didn’t you hear that storm? Weren’t you scared?”

She smiled and looked up at me, “I just sang HU.”

That still amazes me. Rita’s the youngest and was only 5 years old then. She’s 23 now. None of my kids follow my spiritual path, but that’s okay. Like me, we find our own way and what works for us.

But singing HU is one of my best tools.

Where'd the Summer Go?

Dear Mom,

I love gardening, but I didn’t do too much this summer. It had been hot and humid or rainy. I had more desire to write than do anything else. I also decided that I would save all my gardening energy for the fall as I needed to split and transplant my hostas. Usually exhausted by this time of year from working in the yard I never get around to doing that task . But wait, it can’t be time yet. Can it?

The cooler weather makes it perfect and so I started digging up the hosta. The first day I dug up two and after splitting them, I ended up with 24 to replant. Digging the hole is the hardest part in my yard so the smaller the plant, smaller the hole. Beat after doing two, I meandered back inside. Along the way I counted how many I had left. I stopped counting after 50 so as not to overwhelm myself. Even at two a day, I’ll never finish before the ground turns hard.

Where’d my pen go?