“Do you feel like you’re missing out, by not having a man cave?” I ask him.

He pauses, looking upward and making those faces he makes as he thinks.

“No…no. I’m not missing out. I go to ‘my throne’ room. That works. But I keep the real man cave in my head.”

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Mom, Pictured here with Daughter

“Your dad says I need to lose weight,” mom says to me.

“Really?” I’m surprised. That doesn’t sound much like Dad.

“We had a talk this morning. I said, ‘I either have to lose some weight or get new clothes.’ He voted I should lose weight.”

I laughed, because THAT did sound like Dad.

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Told you Mom’s been cleaning out her stuff via my living room. Here’s some of what she brought me. She didn’t know I was going to use the sewing machine for making Tarot bags and the desk for doing readings. Didn’t ask. And that, my friends, is example of a success communication strategy with parents and adult children: don’t ask what you don’t want to know, and they won’t tell you.

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I get reminded sometimes. Most of the time, I forget. It’s second nature. But once in a while, I get reminded. I live a humble life. I’m not sure if it’s by circumstance or choice.

My parents were very poor growing up. Very strong work ethic–Dad evaluated his success each evening by outline what he’d accomplished that day. They worked very hard. And they are frugal people. Those who’ve experienced lean times learn to get by on less and make the best use of what they have. This is how I was raised, and I accepted the gift of sense in this regard.

When my husband and I first married, we were young. Early twenties, 3 kids, no help. Back then, I considered at $8/hr job as paying very well, so that gives you an idea.

When something broke, we were screwed.

So you adapt. My husband is great at fixing things, and that’s why. I mean, yeah, he’s mechanically inclined, but it was the years of fixing broken crap that honed his skills. You don’t have the cash to to replace it or pay a repairman, you fix it yourself or do without.  You use things until they wear out; you get secondhand, shop around for bargains, look for quality. You ignore a lot of little things as long is it still works. You have no idea how many years I used cracked ice cube trays or used a microwave you could only cook things in increments exclusively involving 3, 6 or 9. Guess that’s why I had a mental block about throwing out my holey socks.

Time goes on– kids grow up, you earn more money, and eventually, it’s not as tight anymore. But the habits are still there, by and large. You get more iPhones and Cat Genies and Roombas and big TV’s then. I like that part!  But the basic principles of being mindful about spending, continues to hold.

Sprinkle in some circumstance. Endless custody hearings, child support bills surpassing a house payment, co-signing on on a car that ends up in the river,¹ career changes, medical bills, going to school–whatever it is. Things happen.

By whatever means, view’s the same. I live in a triplex. I drive an 1989 Acclaim that has one windshield wiper², a passenger door that won’t open from the inside, and overheats in drive-thrus. It was my daughters car, but wasn’t worth it or reliable enough for her to take it with her tto Ohio. I don’t use credit and I don’t spend a lot in general. What I do, I research well and carefully consider first. This is both in my blood and a skill practiced many years.

It sure makes it easier when you’re on in one of life’s ebb phases. And when you’re in the flow phases, it flows all that much more–so long as you don’t forget to notice.

But sometimes, it’s a little uncomfortable, too. It’s like there needs to be an explanation, except 1. there doesn’t, and 2. even when it feels like it does, people don’t much care for them. It makes ‘em  uneasy from what I’ve observed.

For me, I guess I just don’t want to leave the impression I live humbly through lack of ability, or lack of resp0nsibility, or lack of control. Simply put, “lack” is the last thing I want to be associated with.

There is humble, and there is small. My my energy, my love, and my happiness are not small.  My contribution is not small. My life is not constricted. So what’s it matter how old my car is, anyway?

1. Or, as we sometimes call rivers, “Crack Whore Parking Lots.” Don’t ask.
2. Driver’s Side–Score!

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When our kids were little, like most kids, they got too much candy for Easter. Hyperactive little munchkins anyway, right? They’d gobble some, and when they slowed down, we’d put the rest away for later. Usually, there was part or most of the chocolate Easter bunny left over. Into the fridge it goes.

Then, a conscientious parent would do their parental duty to save the child from the obesity epidemic (and a potentially annoying sugar buzz): sneak into the kitchen when the kid is busy watching TV, and snap a piece of that Easter Bunny’s ears right off for a quick snack. As long as you avoid easily identifiable parts and don’t suddenly behead a previously intact bunny torso, nobody’s any the wiser.

Unless you’re like I was, back in my sugar-eating days, and lacking a little in self-control.

Making one too many trips to the bunny box, eventually you realize what you’ve done. Now, you’re faced with the potential righteous wrath of an indignant  five-year-old whose candy you have stolen. That’s a pretty serious infraction to a five-year-old, you know.

You could ‘fess up and face the music with an earnest apology to your offspring, presented with a promise to replenish the chocolate stash and then some. Heck, the kid would probably learn some life lesson about honesty or apologies or some other such shit.

You could.

Or…well…you could also break the remaining chocolate bunny in a bunch of much smaller, unidentifiable pieces, and put them all in a baggie in the fridge after bedtime. Destroy the evidence. Guess which one I did?

“Hey, what happened to my Easter bunny?” Radar’s up immediately. Candy is serious business.

“Oh, I broke it up into pieces for you. It’s easier to eat that way,” said in my best helpful-mom voice.

Tilted head, her eyes narrow. She’s suspicious. She knows something’s not right. “Are you sure…?”

“I sure think so!” (I didn’t specify for whom it’s easier to eat.)

The kid knew something was fishy, but wasn’t sure enough to pursue it. I felt a twinge of guilt for a minute, but it didn’t stick. After all, how much Easter candy does a kid really need, anyway?

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“I’m afraid I’m writing something controversial again, Honey,” my husband tells me. (It’s been a topic here lately, since sometimes free speech gets ugly. It makes folks uncomfortable, speaking out for principles like free speech as worthy of defense, despite the unworthiness of  ideas expressed. The whole issue bypasses reasoning and heads straight for the gut.)

“Oh yeah?” I’m not especially surprised. He’s always been one to say what he thinks; I treasure honesty.

“Yeah…it’s got something in there for everybody to hate…I don’t go out of my way to be controversial.” He ponders. “It’s just how I think. I have controversial thoughts.”
“I love you and your controversial thoughts, Dear. I love every controversial thought in your controversial brain.” I do.

“Really?”

“I wouldn’t have you any other way.” And I wouldn’t.  Because he wouldn’t be him, any other way.

What’s more, I wouldn’t be me if he was any other way. Twenty plus years of exposure and insight into those controversial thoughts that brew in my husband’s controversial brain have changed me. I hear differently now.

Now, exposed to a foreign idea–even something mainstream may write off as “loony”– I no longer summarily dismiss the whole as craziness, as I long did. I listen to the reasoning (or, yes, maybe lack), looking for kernels to truth and understanding within the structure. I don’t shrug off the whole if a piece is missing. Now, it’s looking to each of the pieces, individually, trusting that truth always emerges ultimately.

It’s not accepting without discernment–by acknowledging that there is no cornered market on truth, discernment is amplified as it’s no longer reliant upon the infallibility of a small, officially approved subset of sources. By learning to pay attention even to those with whom I strongly disagree, I’ve developed a broader view and deepened understanding of every issue I examine. Pushing myself out of the comfort zone presents a much more beautiful panorama. I’ve learned to listen.

I’m glad he shares many of those controversial thoughts. Some I agree with and some I don’t, but every single one has solid reasoning behind it and every single one adds to my perspective. My husband’s controversial thoughts have made me a better person. How could I not love each and every one?

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Me and religion go way back. I was raised a Jehovah’s Witness.¹

Yeah, I know.

From the time I was born, I was immersed. By the time I was eight, I would go up to doors by myself to preach, the way Witnesses do on Saturday mornings. I got permission to go alone as soon as I could, since having others there made me more nervous. There were times the practice bothered me–I hated running into classmates that way–but times it didn’t. Either way, it was just part of my life.

I was baptized at 11 years old. To become baptized as a Witness, you have to answer a series of questions demonstrating your understanding of the teachings–not a big deal for a bright kid who’d spent about 10 hours a week exposed; you also sign a paper and take an oath dedicating your life to the service of Jehovah. They didn’t have an age requirement to get baptized; the idea was you had to be mature enough the church elders (i.e. minister) opted you had a mature understanding of “the Truth.”²

Now, becoming “Dedicated” didn’t mean that much to me at 11. I was younger than most, who tended to do it early to mid-teens. (If someone hadn’t done the deed by their late teens, members of the congregation would start to look at them a little askance. Question their commitment. Think of them as immature at best, or potentially marked as a “bad association” to be avoided by serious Christians.)

Me? I liked being a prodigy , I guess. My dad was an elder and the family was deeply faithful. It was all I knew; it was expected of me at some point, and as far as I knew (at freakin’ 11), it was the right path. I went to a convention at a sports arena, was dunked in a cattle watering tub by some old guy I’d never met, and my mom took pictures. I didn’t even know enough to be self-conscious parading around in my bathing suit in front of the crowd. Heck, I was proud.

The prepubescent decision came back to bite me in the arse when I was 19. Officially, I was thrown out for smoking cigarettes. My rebellious youth, huh?³ In reality, I was expelled because I couldn’t bring myself to lie blatantly enough to allow claim I still believed.

Some doubt grew from was simple reasoning. Every religion claimed they had the one path. Why should claims be given more credibility just because I’d been born into a family that believed that way?

But the epiphany was borne from title of a Watchtower article: “The Dangers of Independent Thinking.” The argument was that followers should not question the Organization, who took their authority from God. It created confusion and dissension among the ranks.

The whole concept made me shudder–bugged me all the way down to my DNA. Truth stands up to scrutiny. Right triumphs through reason, not despite of reason. I was willing to accept being told what clothing I could wear, what movies I could see, what company I could keep, and what I would be doing on Saturday mornings, but NOT what I could think. There I drew a hard line.

So as a doubter just a little too honest about it, I was booted. If you’re not baptized, getting kicked out doesn’t mean much. But if you are, you are “Disfellowshipped,” and it means that pretty much everybody you’ve ever known shuns you. Immediate family get to decide, but others are supposed to avoid all personal interaction. Since you’re strongly discouraged from making connections outside the organization, you can see where this is an issue.

I had three older brothers to whom I considered myself close. Each came to visit me individually, intervention style, to tell me if I didn’t change my course they’d no longer consider me their sister. It was brutal, but I didn’t change my course. How could I? I’m not a liar.

My parents never quit talking to me, which I’m glad for. I now hear from one of my brothers every decade or so. My family believes I’m going to be destroyed at an any-second-now Armageddon–where the good people will be granted a perfect, illness-free eternal life in paradise–but people like me, without the “right heart condition,” will be obliterated from the face of the Earth. Cheery, huh?

There were a few years there, you could say I was bitter. For a while, I thought of the organization as a cult, but I’ve downgraded my assessment to high-control religious group. They use isolation and social pressure to keep the flock in line. I am sometimes sad at the loss of my family relationships, but in a choice between those relationship and integrity, I choose integrity. I’m not sorry. I’ve had a better life because of it.

My concept of a higher power has waffled over their years as well, from believer to atheist (after we lost custody) to agnostic to where I am today–a believer in non-traditional concept of “God” as the sum total of all universal energy. While some people may consider this flaky, the upside is that most Christians (or atheists, for that matter), aren’t threatened by the metaphysical stuff.  Occasionally you’ll find one that tells you you’re going to Hell or are demon-possessed or something (i.e. the Witness view), but usually, it’s not an issue. I’m glad.

While it would be fair to say I’m not a big fan of organized religion, I don’t begrudge it to anybody else. For me, the higher principle in play is freedom of belief, not which set you choose. I don’t have an emotional need to push others in to believing what I do. Hell–the concept of defining my own beliefs has shaped my life.

I just ask the same courtesy be extended to me.

1. My husband was raised Christian Scientist. We are an alien pair.
2. They hate it when you call it a “church.”  Oh well.
3. I swear to God, this is probably a subconscious reason why I’m loathe to quit smoking. One could say smoking saved my life.

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My daughter is a long ways away–and going through some stressful times. Nothing she can’t handle, and nothing that’s not pretty much normal for a kid who’s moved out of the house for the time. The kind of stuff every adult has to deal with at some point or another.

I’m talking to my husband at dinner.

“I know she’s going to be okay, but I hate to see her struggle. When she was at home, I could make things easier for her. I can’t do much for her now. I want to make it go away for her…”

“It builds character,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Who’s? Hers or mine?”

“Both.”

Damnit. He’s right. I can provide advice, support, and a friendly ear, but not much else. I said as much to my daughter in a chat the other night.

“The advice helps, but it’s good for me to be responsible for my own problems,” she tells me. “I’m growing through the experience.”

Damnit. She’s right, too. I want to fix it all for her, make the stress disappear, but I can’t. Just as well, as “taking care of things” is not always the most helpful approach as a parent. But it doesn’t mean the drive is less. I really hate to see her having a rough time of any stripe.

So I settle for what I can do–chats, mom-advice, threats to video-nag her if she doesn’t take her vitamins, pictures and life-around-the-house video to cheer her up (I hope), and a little package mailed here or there. It seems like very little, but I do know little gestures can help support and buoy through a rough patch.

Might as well get used to it. As my husband pointed out, other parental milestones will come to pass. News flash: it ain’t over when they move out!

Like when she has a baby, which probably will happen someday. That will be an “Oh Shit–she’s just a baby and what’s she gonna do with this baby?” moment. Nothing personal to her. That’s just how I imagine it must be as a parent seeing your child cross that bridge into another life phase. She mentioned another one of those moments will be when she gets married. I have no idea what that will feel like, but as pointed out, it’s one of those things–much like moving out for the first time, or having kids–that defies description when you haven’t had the experience.

But still…I don’t think I need all that much character-building by this point. I’m about as big a character as you’re ever going to find…I guess I’ll have to settle for mothering the cats.

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When my daughter moved, she put my husband in charge of watching me. Yeah–watching me. That’s how she said it, too.

“When I’m gone, you’re in charge of watching Mom, Dad. You have to keep her from hurting herself.”

I’m protesting, but I could as well be 4 years old for all the mind being paid. If it wasn’t so funny, I could be offended I’ve just been assigned a babysitter.

He’s listening closely, and solemnly agrees to take on the job. I’m not surprised. I’ve heard them talk about me as if I were a dangerous lunatic before, after all. It’s one of those 60/40 family jokes: 60% true, 40% joke.

What I didn’t expect was him to take it so seriously. Evidently, I need a lot of watching. I have also learned some of this goes on without my knowledge. But some, I definitely notice.

Like the other night…a hunk of dinner is stuck in the garbage disposal. I  get ready to stick my hand down in there to fix it, but  I’m kind of  waiting for hubby to move out line of sight. I know he’s paranoid as all heck, and won’t want to watch me stick my hand in there, even though the thing’s off.

Wait…wait…wait…He doesn’t move.

Hey! He’s standing there to keep me from doing it, damnit!

I pause a minute, feeling completely lost without use of my hands. I start to walk away to figure it out later (or, more likely, come back when he’s not watching)–until he offers an alternative: I can use some tongs to pull out the food. I stumble around for a minute, but it worked.

And this is how it’s been. I think it’s quite silly as he’s overseeing me taking a cup of coffee out of the microwave, but begrudgingly admit he probably had a point about the sticking-a-fork-in-the-plugged-in-toaster thing.

Probably.

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An awful lot comes down to perspective.

I’m chatting with my daughter on Facebook; we don’t get to talk every day since she moved cross-country. A reminder came up of the tussle it used to be getting her and her stepsister to go to school.

“I’m so sorry about that, Mom,” she tells me. I assure her I wasn’t traumatized. Then she apologizes for a whole list of other things.

I wasn’t prompting for an apology, and she understood that. Although every kid will present challenges, she was pretty darned easy to raise in the grand scheme of things. I know. I’ve seen less easy.

It’s just that being on her own a month, she’s seeing the world through different eyes. She’s been introduced to some of her own foibles in others, and she’s been in the position of being responsible for a lot more than she was at home. She’s had to take care of business in a way she never has before. It changes things. She respected me before, appreciated both her Dad and I, but it takes on a new depth when faced with the scope. Y’kno?

It moves me–and like everything else about this whole damn empty nest thing, it’s bittersweet. The goal all along has always been to raise an independent adult. But I’m kind of sad I can’t spare her from the stress of growing up, either…

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