#also my MIL is treating the walls of my house the same way she treats my partner's boundaries

[malissawithan-a]

Oh hi, long time no update. I blame the lateness of my kids’ bedtimes and the need to get Christmas shopping done. I’ve also avoided social media a bit lately, just feeling drained. Overall, life has been good and everyone is healthy at the moment so I’m grateful for that. Time for a big update since I haven’t really done much on here since October. 

-Halloween was really good. The weather was perfect and we brought our firepit to the front yard and had that going during the whole trick or treating time. We and a bunch of other neighbors all had tables with individual grab and go bags set up at the end of driveways and I’m totally for doing that again next year. It was great to just go table to table and not worry about ringing a doorbell, it also felt like way more neighbors were outside and friendly which was nice. Alice was a pirate and Lucy was a duck.

- We have 5 family birthdays during October-December and it’s just a lot. My MIL and BIL’s are 5 days apart and they’re both hard to find gifts for, they also fall the week of Thanksgiving so in past years it’s just been so much family time. This year was a little different obviously.

- At the end of October I went to see a dermatologist because I’ve been having some hair thinning issues for a few months now, since maybe May. Not bad, but more shedding than I should be seeing. She ran a bunch of my levels to try and figure out a root cause and one them came back abnormal so she referred me to a rheumatologist, who I saw a week ago. The good news is that I don’t have Lupus like the dermatologist made me fear that I did, the weird level is because of my existing hypothyroidism, but I don’t have a good answer for my hair loss. Trying a few topical treatments and going to find a new endocrinologist because my current one is crap and not taking this seriously. 

- Alex’s Grandpa tested positive for COVID a couple of weeks ago. They live in an old folk’s home and one of the housekeepers that cleaned their room must have had it, several other people there tested positive all at the same time.  He’s recovering well, was mostly just exhausted and had a bad headache for a couple of days. His Grandma also got it we think, but she tested negative at the time. They’ve only lived in this place since August of last year and it’s gone downhill pretty badly during COVID, lots of staff turnover and lots of issues with care. My in laws have decided to move them out and move them to a home in Tennessee where they’ll be closer to other family and where the weather is milder so they can be outside sooner than they would here. It was a hard decision but the right one, the timing is terrible though. 

- Alice is driving me up the wall, there’s been so much development in her understanding and ability to relay how she’s feeling (like asking me to apologize when I’ve hurt her feelings) but it’s coming across in a lot of tantrums right now. She also said “stupid mama” for the first time the other day so that was fun. The age of 3 hasn’t been terrible but it’s definitely been more challenging than other stages, she’s big enough to understand better and reason with but oh gosh does she want her way and protest when she doesn’t get it. It’s been a lot of fun though too, there’s a lot of sweet moments mixed in and most days are good ones (like always, the bad just stick out more in my mind). 

- Lucy is not such a baby anymore, she’s going to be 2 in February. She’s started doing 2-3 words sentences in the last couple of weeks and my favorite word from her right now is “elbow” because she pronounces it “belbow”. She’s very independent, she likes to try and do things by herself first and gets frustrated when it doesn’t always work out. The amount of times that she’s gotten upset over not getting a sock on by herself is up there. Her current favorite stuffed animal is Baby Yoda, she calls him “Baby!” and treats him very well. 

- My parents are talking about driving up for Christmas, supposedly in about a week’s time. They haven’t totally made up their minds yet but I’m really hoping that they do. This is their first holiday season after the loss of my brother and I would rather have them spend it with us than alone in their house. My dad does fall into the high risk category for COVID though so not traveling would be safer, it’s just a sucky decision to make overall. I know that the responsible choice would be to stay home but it’s really hard to tell them to do that in this circumstance.

- I turn 33 on the 19th and I’m okay with that, I have a feeling I’ll be fine up until I hit 35 and then I’m going to start being in denial over my age. I could be wrong about that though, I honestly have enjoyed being in my 30′s way more than my 20′s. 

I think that’s about it, at least for now. Lots of Christmas prep still going on because I was slow on ordering, I hate wrapping presents and would totally do bags if I could, but my kids love opening wrapped gifts so that’s not really an option for now. I hope all of you out there are doing okay, finding ways to enjoy this season!

[thehorribledeplorable-blog]

Let’s Give Him a Chance

Let's give him a chance. C'mon, guys, let's give Big Don a chance. In all fairness, he's only been our nation's President for a week now so realistically there's no telling yet what he might accomplish. People are capable of anything. I mean, Barack Hussein Obama was the President for eight blasphemous years and we're still waiting on that secret Muslim agenda he was supposed to invoke. Seems weird that he would wait until after giving up executive power to enact such a dastardly plot on our blatantly Christian union, but you never can tell with those Muslims, all 1.6 billion of them.

Shown here: 1/5 of the world being liars.

On the campaign trail, Big Don said a lot of things. Frankly, that's why he got elected: the exact things he said he was going to do. But everyone needs to take a chill pill and wash it down with some STFU Juice. Just give him a chance to make good on his promises (at least the ones he hasn't already reneged on). There's a whole four years ahead and, if we're being honest, we don't have any way of knowing what he's going to do yet. Heck, he might not even know. Because, outside of all of the legislation and policies (those are just words) he talked about for the past 19 months, what do we really know about Big Don's “plans”? The man is an enigma. It’s exactly what you want in a President: suspense. He's a wildcard, keeping everything close to the chest. That's why he got elected: a lack of clear goals and specifics.

So let's give him a chance. Ignoring the recent slaps in the face of his fan-base—filling his cabinet with mil-/billionaires and Washington insiders, making American taxpayers pay for the wall instead of Mexico, treating Hillary Clinton as if she didn't murder a puppy directly over the Declaration of Independence, etc.—Big Don's exactly the man we all know him to be: a man of the people. In fact, I'm already starting to look at the bright side of having political insiders on his cabinet. Can you imagine putting someone with no governmental experience in charge of our nation's well-being? Talk about reckless.

That's why it's so refreshing to have an outsider in the White House. Like I said, he's a man of the people, so let's give him a chance to find his wings.

I couldn’t find a picture of him eating chicken wings, so just imagine I made a taco bowl pun instead.

It'll be nice seeing the free world run with a fresh set of eyes—we should be so lucky to have this perspective. It would be like putting a street magician in charge of your child's sex ed class or if a snail was you Uber driver. Or if a neurosurgeon was put in charge of Housing and Urban Development. I'm just spitballing here, but the farther you step back, the more this makes sense.

It may be peak surge hours, but he does have 5 stars...

So enough with the protests. You can whine all you want on Facebook or in the real world, but it doesn't change the fact that this man is the leader now and any attempt to ridicule or challenge him is un-American, as outlined in our Constitution, probably.

Shown here: Peaceful protest or an entire gender of treason?

Obama never, ever, ever, ever faced this level of scrutiny and I can't believe the kind of double standard I'm seeing here. You didn't want him in the White House? Be an even larger majority of Americans next time (or take it up with the Kremlin). I can't believe how many crybabies there are out there. Roughly 4 million people protested around the world on Saturday. Honestly, that's almost enough protesters to muse, “Clearly there's at least one problem that's not being addressed.” But not quite. I don't know the exact number of people I would need to peacefully gather on the same day under the same banner for me to take your cause seriously, but it's probably at least five million, also known as “the number of people who would have been at the inauguration if it wasn't raining/Martin Shkreli wasn't there.”

Maybe just put this guy at the border and we won't have to build a wall. People will just refuse to enter.

So give him a chance, guys. Besides his reality show, his beauty pageants, his frequency of coverage on the news, his excess of memoirs and self-help books, you barely know him. He's just like us. In fact, I haven't released/paid my taxes in years. So shut up for the next four years, ya cucks. It's only downhill for half of the country, ideologically. Realistically, we're all going to die, but at least I don't have a little liberal snowflake in the White House. My soul is saved.

[killingthebuddha]

I was a morose child, but I’ve always been determined to capture light. Summers growing up in Alabama, I’d demand to chase fireflies. Granny Mil would look after me in the yard until after dark. She’d help me put the ones I caught into a mason jar. She’d cut holes in the lid so they could breathe. I’d put them by my bedside so they could help me dream.

Now that I’m grieving her as an adult, I’m stitching together our little ritual of making firefly nightlights. I’m trying to remember her alive. Granny Mil had a way of suspending time, of holding magic up to the light. 

I’m looking for flashes that could bring her back. I don’t need signs and wonders, just subtle sparks to soothe my heart’s desire to see her again. 

But you can’t hold light in a jar. You can’t find the seam between living and dying. And so you stitch and try to remember.

*

The last time I saw Granny Mil alive, she was in the ICU, with fluid in her lungs. She’d developed pneumonia in the hospital, after a fall that caused a hematoma in her leg. She was drifting in and out of a tenuous lucidity.

She was 96 years old. She was ready to go. “I never thought I would live this long,” she kept saying. The oxygen tube kept falling out of her nostrils when she would sigh. She didn’t pity herself. She was just tired.

She’d already marked in her Bible the verses she wanted to be read at her memorial service: Let not your heart be troubled… I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also. (John 14:1-3)

She’d marked those verses years ago, when she was still mobile enough to go to the little Baptist church where her son-in-law was the head pastor. The day he preached on the way Jesus said goodbye to his disciples, she wrote funeralin blue pen next to the verses, in that looping cursive Palmer method of penmanship she’d learned in school. 

During her last stretch in the hospital, she was spry enough to joke sometimes. When her great grandson talked about drinking hot toddies to treat a cold, she looked over at him, all but winking, and said, “Slip me one.”

If she was awake when the breakfast tray came, she’d drink the coffee, after it cooled, through a bendy straw. She’d flash me a mischievous look, like she was getting away with something.

One time, a nurse came in and said, “Can you tell me your name and birth date?”

“428-8506,” Granny Mil said, as if that set of numbers were a reflex for her to say. 

“Mother, that’s your phone number,” her seventy-five-year-old daughter Ceil said, almost in a scolding tone. Ceil had been taking care of Granny Mil at her house for over a year. Every day was a battle of wills: Mostly over the compression hose Granny Mil was supposed to wear to prevent blood clots. And coffee: Ceil wouldn’t let her have caffeine at home anymore—said it made her rowdy, with the Gabapentin she had to take for her neuropathy. That’s why the coffee that came on the ICU breakfast tray was such a treat. “Mother, say your birthday, like we practiced for going to the doctor.”

“9/13/21.” Certain numbers were easier for her to retrieve than precise words sometimes.

“Yes, Ma’am,” the nurse said, lifting Granny Mil’s bruise-blue wrist. That’s what it says on your hospital bracelet,” “Now, how about your first and last name?”

“Granny Mil,” she said.

“What do people call you who don’t know you well?” Ceil chimed in, “like at the bank.”

“Granny Mil,” she said, quick on the uptake, and a bit more emphatically this time. 

Everybody did call her Granny Mil. In the forty years since her first grandchild started talking, Granny Mil had pretty much become her name: to her daughters, to her sons-in-law, to the younger ladies at the beauty parlor, where they would sit and reminisce under those helmet-shaped hair dryers. Even the postal worker who’d been delivering her mail since 1982 had taken to calling her Granny Mil. I wouldn’t put it past a familiar bank teller to do the same.

She’d always been Granny Mil to me, even though I’m not one of her biological grandchildren. She came, when I was just under two years old, after my parents’ disastrous divorce. She’d answered an ad in The Birmingham Newsfor a live-in babysitter for a 22-month-old girl. (Granny Mil had retired from her job selling curtains, and she wasn’t necessarily looking for work, but she read every inch of the paper every morning, even the classifieds, even when she wasn’t seeking anything in particular.)

Some of my earliest memories are of Granny Mil’s voice singing me to sleep: “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, how I wonder what you are…” and “Row, Row, Row Your Boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily…” And whatever scared or hurt me would drift off into “life is but a dream…”

Granny Mil’s life was far from a dream. When she was nine years old, she witnessed her mother die suddenly. One of her adult brothers took her in, and her sister-in-law basically treated her like a servant to take care of their young kids. By the time she came into my life, she’d buried two alcoholic husbands. But Granny Mil had a way of mending history, of stitching up and moving through. She had an ease in believing that everything would turn out alright: Like Jesus, we walk with our wounds. When we die, it’s time to go home to the Lord, who has prepared a room for us in heaven. And so she sang the hardest parts of life into a dream for me, when I was too young to know how to grieve. She wasn’t lying. She was giving me a lullaby to heal by.

“The Lord is lookin’ after you,” she would say, and that became a refrain of my childhood. When I was nine, she gave me my first Bible, an illustrated King James, with a picture of Jesus on the front surrounded by children. The cover zips up, as if to provide extra protection for the pages that are so thin you have to lick your finger to turn them one at a time. Jesus’ lines are in red, just so you know what’s most important. The front cover has pictures of the flora and fauna of Galilee inside: myrrh trees, locusts, antelopes. And the back pages have “Spiritual Memory Gems,” the Ten Commandments and the Beatitudes, with decorative crests and big calligraphic first letters whose looping shapes thrilled me.

I loved that Bible as a treasured object, as a gift from Granny Mil, and as my very own illuminated manuscript of the book everybody I knew in Alabama believed you were supposed to live by. I didn’t question it, but I didn’t read it, either. I was fine with sound bites I’d hear in church and in the grocery store check-out line and the variations on “Jesus Saves” I would see on giant signs on the side of the highway. I didn’t feel compelled to study the scriptures. I had the vernacular Bible in my child psyche. And I was more into sci-fi: The Neverending Storyand A Wrinkle in Time, my first favorite chapter book. I realize now as an adult that Granny Mil was like Madeleine L’Engle’s Mrs. Whatsit character for me: a disheveled old lady who seemed to have come from a starlit sky, to help the family through a hard time. 

In the mix of swiftly tilting planets and neverending stories, I had some darker obsessions as a child. The Old Yellermovie that depicts the shattering story of a family and their beloved dog who gets rabies. I would watch it over and over and cry every time at the end, when the boy has to shoot Old Yeller.

During one of Granny Mil’s especially lucid spells in the ICU, I asked her a question my dad would ask every once in awhile before he died. He would reminisce about my habit of watching Old Yeller over and over, as if reliving his fascination with the little girl he didn’t understand, as if I might have an answer as an adult. He’d say to me and my brother, laughing and somewhat rhetorically, “You knew he was going to die. Why did you cry every time?”

When I asked Granny Mil why I cried every time I watched Old Yelleras a child, she said, “Reckon you wanted to cry.” 

I spent the last night before I had to fly back to Connecticut with Granny Mil in her hospital room. We made a little slumber party of our last time together: I fed her the chocolate cake from her dinner tray, and she asked them to bring another piece for me. “Let’s look at TV,” she said. I turned on the wall-mounted monitor and flipped channels until I found The Golden Girls. When we decided it was time to go to sleep, I muted the television, but left the screen on in case she woke up during the night and wanted something besides the IV bags and the heart monitor and the hazard-orange “Fall Risk” sign look at. She kept asking if I had enough pillows in the recliner chair beside her bed. And we laughed about how awful the hospital blankets are. She kept saying, “Now just get as comfortable as you can, and let’s doze on off to sleep.” Even when she was dying, she was taking care of me.

After awhile she said, “I cain’t hardly keep my eyes open.” And as she drifted off to sleep, I sang back: “Life is but a dream…”

*

Since I lost Granny Mil, I’ve been looking hard at the stars. I’m looking for the ones that died, whose light is still traveling here.

I felt a sacred freight when I realized Granny Mil’s death day, one year since she passed, falls on Ash Wednesday. It’s my favorite holy day: The only day you are marked by dying. You get an outward sign of the loss you carry inside. And from the time you receive the ashes, two black smears in the shape of the cross, until they wear off, you walk around with a stun of loss on your face. 

I love crying like I love Ash Wednesday. Tears and ashes on your skin, a sensation you can barely perceive, the luminous presence they leave. The Orthodox conceive of Lent as a “Bright Sadness.” That’s how grief happens for me: as an alchemy of mourning and remembering and celebrating. A hollowing out of the heart that makes way for light. 

On her death day, I’m glad to have ashes on my face. I’m reading a poem I love, “Blessing the Dust,” over and over. I’m celebrating Ash Wednesday with these lines:

This is the day we freely say we are scorched.

This is the hour we are marked by what has made it through the burning. …

So let us be marked…

for claiming

what God can do

within the dust,

within the dirt,

within the stuff

of which the world

is made

and the stars that blaze in our bones

            —Jan Richardson

            from Circle of Grace: A Book of Blessings for the Seasons

            janrichardson.com

Grieving is not dark to me. It’s a bright sadness. It’s a lit cave in my heart.