January starts the newest version of the court order from the step up plan ordered by the judge. I now have my baby every other weekend from Friday after school to Sunday at 6pm.
The following week I get her Monday after school until Tuesday morning drop off at school. It ends up being the same week since the off week is the Monday after the weekend. It’s kind of confusing and yes, I will say it, stressful.
This weekend is a holiday, so I’ll have her till Tuesday morning school drop off AT HER REQUEST. Her other mother and I had agreed that, with this weekend being long, I would drop her off Monday night at the halfway point, but she called stating that she would like to stay until Tuesday so she “won’t be tired.” Confirming with her mom, “She is excited to try 4 nights with you.”
You never know how big a small thing can be.
Looking back on this very blog, The Isms of the Ic, memories flood in if I allow them. I am very grateful to live in the present. I would also not possess a fraction of the gratitude that I have for the present if it were not for my past.
I don’t even know what the hell that thing is on the right! My baby girl is into some strange stuff. A fraction of the collection along with a very dear blast from the past.
I called back to Prompt Care to see about a follow up on my shingles and they told me to follow up with my primary care physician. If you are a full grown adult who has lived in the same town for over 10 years and have no idea who your primary care physician is, you are my people.
Recovery is a funny thing. When we get sober, we start tackling the daily tasks that have been left to the side due to our using. Things like showering and brushing our teeth. Maybe going to work or eating three meals a day. Then comes monthly tasks like paying bills. And finally yearly tasks like paying taxes or seeing a primary care physician.
I want to note that if one has been on mental health medication for a full year, that in itself is a win. And if you are anything like me, seeing a doctor once a year for something that is already working, is, in my professional alcoholic opinion, dumb.
When the emergency clinic told me to follow up with my primary care doctor, I did what all self respecting independent women would do, I texted my person and asked her who the hell that might be. Can you believe she didn’t know?
We had a short conversation about where I got my meds refilled last year and who might be my primary care doctor. I thought maybe I had just started going to all the doctors she was going to, for ease of wellbeing. She told me who her doctor was and whala, there they were in my phone.
The main reason I have little use for a primary care doc is that their appointments usually book weeks and months in advance. Ain’t nobody got time or planning capacity for that!
This story has a relatively happy ending. There is not much of anything they can do for the shingles. They have to run their maddening painful course. Bonus was I found my lost doctor, made an appointment (for next month!) for a physical and got my mental health meds refilled for a year. Next year when I can’t remember who the hell my doctor is, ima need y’all to help me remember.
Peace, love, and light.
My mother had this suggestion about my pain: Siri concurred.
Check it off the bucket list: I got to attend a University of Kansas basketball game with both of my parents. Where to start…
Mom and Dad in front of the two national championship trophies.
Both of my folks attended, graduated, and met at the University of Kansas. It’s a lovely story. Second semester of their senior years, they both took a swimming course as their “fun” class. I don’t know if my mom noticed my dad, but my dad noticed her and asked her out.
Joe’s donuts was one of the Lawrence college spots at the time and one night, pretty late I guess, my dad asked my mom if he could bring her some donuts. I think maybe he asked her out for donuts and she said it was too late, so he said he would bring them to her. She said she was already in her pajamas and he suggested a house coat. She said she didn’t have any milk to go with donuts. All she had was kool-aid. Apparently my dad said kool-aid was fine with him, so my mom was out of excuses and agreed to see my dad. According to Mr. College Boy, that was his third date that night.
Mom says it was a whirlwind romance. My dad had a cool car and would pick her up and take her to class. I owe my very existence to KU.
We were raised as Jayhawks. When I started attending KU, the desire to attend a game with my folks grew. The atmosphere is electric. I didn’t know that my mother doesn’t like basketball, but a live game can include so much more than the actual game. The traditions, the stadium, the band, the chants, the mascots, the group atmosphere. We got the cathedral up to 120 decibels last night and pretty much willed KU to actually win in the last three minutes.
National Championship trophies from 2022 and 2008.
We got there pretty early so we could walk around and look at all the displays. You could spend the good part of the day in the historical part of Allen Fieldhouse. It’s pretty much a sports history museum. The very first Jayhawk mascot costume is there. I can’t remember the year. Baby Jay was born at a football game one year after my folks graduated. A piece of the original court is on display. And, as we all know, since basketball was invented at KU, the original rules are in the new addition alongside the Fieldhouse.
Parts of the written rules light up the bridge from Allen Fieldhouse to the addition where the original rules are displayed.
I learned something new last night in that my mom was a bigger nerd than I knew and had never been to a game at Allen Fieldhouse. The student camping traditions go back to their time (Class of 1970) but my dad said he was not part of a camping group. Mom lived in Oliver Hall and was surprised to see it no longer exists.
I have missed a significant part of my own life due to addiction. I don’t make that mistake today. This boomers are not getting any younger, hell, neither am I. I struggled the entire night with my shingles. I was in a decent amount of pain all evening, but I was not going to miss this.
These moments are etched now. I took it all in. Mom needed assistance going up and down the stairs. Dad’s gait has an old man slowness to it but he’s still always on a mission. It felt like I was on the ready at any moment to stop one of them from rolling down the stairs. Mom is a dawdler and has never met a stranger. And watching these two boomers try to use their phones to capture the moments and post about them was priceless.
Boomers on cell phones. My mother just walks up to this 6’6” volleyball player, raises her 5’2” head and starts chatting.
My folks were super proud of me when I started attending KU. I’d have to dig for the picture, but when I transferred from JCCC, I got them KU mom and dad T-Shirts. My folks have five kids and none of us had attended KU until their slow blooming kiddo hit the campus at the young age of 33. Mark my words, I will graduate one day as well. I’m not a straight line kinda person, but it will happen.
Manifestation.
My betrothed beloved beauty Angela dear is also a graduate of KU. Here I try to put into words how special all of this was, to have all three of these incredible people in a place that connects us all, in a place where I am less of the alcoholic that has caused so much worry and pain and more of their daughter and love that intersects with their formidable years and memories and experiences.
College girls on the court.Part of the displays in the front of Allen Fieldhouse.
New year. New part of the parenting plan. Yesterday I got to pick the moon up from school. I went in and met her teacher, her social worker, her school counselor, and got my password for the district website. (Spoiler alert: it says I don’t have a child enrolled. Oops)
We came home, played with Badger outside, and then hit the kitchen for this strange kid’s food choices. We had Mac and cheese and fried mushrooms, kiddo’s choice.
Appetizer of fried mushrooms
She started her homework while I cooked. We had reading and math. I copied the 3 minute addition drill and we did math side by side. She read her reading assignment to me and had me check answers to everything at her request.
I have prayed for this day. I have dreamed of this day. I have worked my ass off for this day.
Oh my god, it was such a physical struggle. These shingles are kicking my ass! It was painful to wear a bra to pick her up from school. I removed it while driving home because it was so uncomfortable. I finally reached out to my spiritual advisor, who also happens to be a nurse, and she suggested that I call back in to the doctor and let them know my progress or lack there of, and pain levels. Why didn’t I think of that? Oh yeah, because I need help with my life and I am so grateful for that. I am not 100% equipped to go it alone and I don’t have to.
After dinner and homework, we popped down to the Arts Center to see our beloved at art class. And we finished the night by reading Scaredy Squirrel (for the 4th time) in bed.
This part of the parenting plan has been tough with work. It’s been tough communicating with Isabella’s other mother. These shingles can suck it. But side by side math at the kitchen table in my own home and reading in my own bed. This is what makes it all worth it. My baby and me. Amen.
I don’t know why I dislike using the word stressed so much. I don’t even think it’s in my immediate self-descriptive vocabulary. If someone suggests that something is stressful or that I might be stressed, I get defensive or dismissive. “No,” I might say in a jovial patronizing way, “It must be something else.”
Here’s what Siri had to say on it.
I think maybe I think it’s too broad or too general. I am an action oriented person. I am a “next right thing (NRT)” person. Stress seems sweeping and broad. Sure anyone could be “stressed” about almost anything, but what is the very next issue? What is the next thing that can be done?
As I sit here in the new year with the court order continuing it’s step-up plan, I’ll have Isabella today after school until tomorrow before school. I sit here with an ice pack on my torso to ease the burning of the shingles, still unable to wear a bra which makes leaving the house very uncomfortable for me. I’m on day 15 with the shingles. Work has been affected. I haven’t been able to do much around the house and I am not sleeping well. There are definitely some things going on, but am I stressed?
If I use the current literature that I am studying, which is the new Brené Brown book, Altas of the Heart, Brené describes being stressed as “being in the weeds” as a server at a restaurant. If you are “in the weeds,” your coworkers jump to help you catch up. If you are “blown,” they send you out back for a smoke. Blown stands for overwhelmed, in Brené’s example. It’s listed under the heading “The Places we go when things are uncertain or too much,” and it’s the first section of the book.
I could concede to saying “I am in the weeds” but not “blown.”
Also listed in this section are overwhelm, anxiety, worry, avoidance, excitement, dread, fear, and vulnerability. Not a small lineup to define or identify in one’s self.
Exploring more, I was on medication for depression for about five years before I discovered that anxiety was playing a role in the depression. There are no quick fixes here, people.
I’m not much of a worrier, again I am action oriented. What can I do in this very moment? If the answer is nothing, I tend to not worry. I suppose there are moments when there is subtle worry that evades my prying brain. I pray those are moments of meditation and behind the scenes problem solving; ideas that seem to come from thin air.
Avoidance is the root of my addiction so I keep that in check pretty well. The ultimate avoidance is drinking, so smaller versions of that are carefully considered. That being said, I can zone out on some Netflix, I consume too much food and sugar, I vape, and kill me before taking my coffee.
I run on healthy excitement. I only dread big things. Things that are way out of my control. And even then, I do my part and show up. Court. I dreaded court, yet, I had done everything in my power and I had to let the rest to god. Winning that case has brought on a whole new handful of stressors, so there.
Fear is an interesting one. I have some pretty basic human fears that I’m sure are shared by most of humanity. Perhaps another day, another blog.
And vulnerability. I find myself being vulnerable all the time. It’s very beneficial. If part of this writing is processing, then, at this very moment, what I realize as I write is that maybe stress sneaks it’s way in and steals some vulnerability. When I stop sharing or share less with my person, when I am dealing with just a little bit too much on my own and not reaching out.
I suppose the self is implied, but when I searched for a an inspirational picture of discipline, self discipline was far more represented.
My word for 2022 was consistency. I believe I honored that word and my intentions in 2022. I am in my longest bout of sobriety at 955 days or about two and a half years. I consistently show up to one of the best jobs I have ever had. I consistently adhere to my daily routine of prayer and meditation in the morning, and going to bed by 9ish. I attend therapy. I keep a strict schedule with my medications. I stay connected to myself and others. The nature of addiction is bio-psycho-social-spiritual and all things must be consistently addressed to remain healthy.
It thrills me to no end to be content with where I am on a particular matter and still want to improve or grow. I am thrilled with my life and still, I want to grow.
You are witnessing an aspect of the new word if you are reading this. I suppose it’s been a few months back that I changed my morning routine. I was reading multiple inspirational and spiritual daily readers, and then journaling on my thoughts. I have most recently and consistently done this for about three years, but it has been a practice for about 12 years. However, it wasn’t inspiring me like it used to. So instead of dropping the routine all together, I altered it. I started reading books, so far non-fiction. I missed the journaling aspect and so, here we are.
Blogging is different than journalling for me because I journal for myself whereas I blog to be read. I feel as though I am writing to someone versus writing to myself or my higher power. It is a different form of writing and brings me a different kind of joy.
I digress. Discipline. I am content with where I am in my life AND I can do better. I’m the one who benefits. What is holding me back from putting the bowl in the dishwasher or emptying the dishwasher of clean dishes before the dirty ones fill the sink? What is stopping me from using the rowing machine that has sat in the living room since we moved into this house? What keeps me from mowing the lawn just long enough that it is more difficult to mow now that it’s taller? Why do I hop in my car when I could ride my bike to work?
There are two catalysts for this word: One is my health and weight, the other is my education. Everything is fine just the way it is. I have never had a higher quality of life. Never. I am so grateful. I am content. The question is where can I go from here?
One of my most dear friends died Christmas morning. She spent Christmas Eve Day with all three of her children and 2 of her grand-babies. Her eldest announced a pending birth of the next grand-baby and I’m told she was overjoyed. Her children found her the next morning in her bed.
She was one of the most kind, loving, caring people I have ever known. She was great at caring for others and I was no exception. Belinda was one of the first people that reached out to me at the very beginning of my recovery. I didn’t know it then, but I was at the end of my first marriage. I went to medical detox and was to come home to an empty apartment, my significant at the time leaving me while I was in detox.
In order to avoid coming home to an empty disheveled apartment, Belinda invited me to stay at her home. Prior to going to detox, I hadn’t eaten in a month. I ate what they served (to the best of my recollection) and was now on my own to make food decisions. I remember choosing iceberg lettuce and strawberries.
I was devastated to be losing my first wife and sober 7 days. It’s a dark place to be. Belinda’s idea was to take my mind off of things, even for a short while. She put in a DVD of Jeff Dunham, the ventriloquist comic. I sat on the floor of her home eating a plain head of lettuce, and strawberries dipped in sugar. And we laughed. She didn’t try to fix anything or make me feel better. We just laughed. This was in 2009 and we have been friends ever since.
Belinda was one of those friends that became close and never let that closeness fade. She was so warm and quiet and calm. I moved from Wichita that same year, but we never lost the closeness, no matter how long it had been since we last spoke. When anything important happened in her life, she would call, as would I.
I was called for the announcement of her wedding, pending births of grand-babies, and almost anything her children were doing. When one of her children came to look at the campus at KU, we spent a lovely day on the hill.
Most recently, on August 11th, 2021, Belinda’s wife Gloria died. Belinda was devastated. I went and spent several days with her helping with Celebration of Life arrangements. Since our very first experience together, when I stayed in her home, she has been so comforting to me. I always wanted to extend that same gift to her.
This time the call came from one of her children, Becca. My phone rang Christmas morning and I knew something was wrong. I cannot imagine what her children are going through. I am grateful that her love lives on in them. I never once questioned her love for me. May I give that same love to her grieving children. They have been part of the joy of knowing the most fabulous Belinda Boston.
The dedication of her children shown here at Gloria’s service.
My Dearest Belinda, I know, even in death, that you are concerned about the pain your children are currently in. Believe me when I tell you that the comfort you brought others continues. They will be okay. Rest in Peace, dear one. I pray you are enjoying your release from earthly limitations. I pray your soul has found Gloria’s and any others you had lost in life. Thank you for your friendship and love. I am a better human because of you. Love, Holly
I was flat out not prepared for letting my tiny precious breakable wobbly adventurous daredevil human to ride a bike. It was all fun and games when we were on our little side street weaving cones and brushing up on skills. But then she wants to ride to her friend’s house along the speedway of 15th Street.
I mean just look at her. She is clearly in peril. She is unskilled and unprepared. Let’s run to the store and get elbow pads, knee pads, shoulder pads, a rib cage protector, maybe just an entire suit of armor. Why are humans not coated in some sort of protective shell anyway, like beetles or turtles?
Despite my current exploration into naming emotions, the only one I can think of to describe riding behind her on the sidewalk of a busy street is fear. No, terror. Physical discomfort. She’s too far in front of me. She’s going to slip on the wet leaves and veer right into traffic. She will probably ride right off the curb and into the drainage ditch. And why is that drainage spout so big anyway? A small human could fall in! I should call the city. Oh my god, she just raced across that intersection without even looking! Easy on the downhill! Stay in control! Brake! Watch out for those sugar maple droppings! Wet leaves! And oh my god, why is everyone driving so fast! Slow down! This is all just a death trap! Abort! Abort!
Not prepared. But we all survived the ride. Four times, in fact. The final time we headed home as she rode down the rollercoaster sized hill to our turn, she let out a massive WHOHOOOOO, her hair and helmet wings flapping in the wind. Then almost fell into the drainage ditch turning onto our street.
Obviously I must hide or sell the bike before she visits again but it was fun while it lasted. Two wheels is far to dangerous for mothers of breakable children. I think we will keep both feet on the ground inside the fenced in back yard from now on. But I should probably still order the suit of armor.
Where do I restart? How do I jump in? Who is this for? I guess in the end, when I decided to start writing again, it brought me joy. So there you go. It’s for me. But I like it when others read and engage. Truthfully, I wanna be like Brené Brown. I want everyone to read what I write. Eh, she has like 20 years experience and several degrees. I have yet to finish my bachelors. Don’t think that is a self put down. I’ll finish it. It’s only a matter of time. Funny thing is I am quite content with where and I am AND thrilled as to where anything might go.
I have been thinking about starting to write again since I changed my morning routine. I used to do daily spiritual readers and then physically journal about my thoughts with pencil and paper. This can lead to some amazing discoveries about yourself, the way you interact with yourself and others, how you are navigating life, with what attitude, and perpetuate spiritual growth. I should say I only speak for myself, and that is what it has done for me. After about three and a half to four full years of doing this (two and a half of those years continuously sober), it started to feel a little unfulfilling. I also went through a mental health dip that included discouragement in my work and a general irritation about any tiny little thing at home. That is so not me. I am generally thrilled with literally almost anything. I can sit down at any given moment and toss out a gratitude list that would go on for pages. That made this dip troubling.
So I changed things up. I started reading new things in the morning and not journalling. Again, think Brené Brown because she is my current obsession. I have blown through 3-4 books and I sit in the quiet for 2-3 hours in the morning reading. This is new and different. I am taking in new information to reignite the continuous spiritual growth. This is an essential part of my current existence as an addict/alcoholic in long term recovery. Continuous spiritual growth.
What was working stopped working, maybe stalled is a better description, so I changed it up and relit my desire for more.
I had a zoom call with Isabella yesterday. It was the first time I had spoken to her in two years. She was hesitant at first sitting cross-legged on the couch staring at her screen with a shy smile. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. We started the conversation with a little bit of technical issues with sound and so just sitting there staring at each other, both of us smiling. Her hair was in braids and she was reserved.
She called me mommie about 45 minutes into the call. I nudged Angie, who was sitting next to me. “She called me mommie.” Angie was like, “I heard.” All quick and quiet as to not miss a beat with Bells.
We sat and spoke for a while before gymnastics came up and all of a sudden her device was on the floor and she was showing us splits, handstands, headstands, wall stands, and cartwheels. With, “What else do you think I can do?” She stood on her right leg for over 30 seconds with us counting aloud. Only about 15 seconds on the left.
There were math tables recited and words spelled. She can spell her name forward and backwards and is resourceful. She is very well spoken. She has great diction and enunciation.
My favorite part of the conversation occurred when I asked her what she wanted for her upcoming birthday. She replied, a book. She said she liked reading and that she wanted a Pete the Cat book for her birthday. It was a really proud mom moment. I cannot wait to sit and read with her again.
By the end of the conversation we both had our hair down to compare lengths. Hers was a dark pink and purple color. It was so cute! I have been growing my hair out since she was born almost 6 years ago. My hair is not the type to keep growing and growing so it has kind of stalled. Hers has not. It’s very long, and from what I could see on the screen, more than half way down her back. And it was purple! Like a really nice purple with pink highlights. It was really well done. I’m happy for her. She’s quite fond of pink and purple, but when I asked her favorite color, she replied, “Red, and blue. And purple and silver and gold. And some other colors.” Angie replied that she too had trouble picking just one color.
“Grateful” doesn’t do justice. Maybe “grace.” Nevertheless, I am very happy. I didn’t miss everything. Not yet anyway. Let this be a start. Let me be grateful. Let me remember.
The Isms of the Ic 