My friend Susan and I play this game sometimes. It doesn’t really have a name but the basic rules of the game are – have the worst life/circumstances of everyone around you. But you have to laugh about it. Ya, I think that’s it in a nutshell.
For example, if I got a ticket for illegal parking but she broke her arm, she wins. If she got stung by a bee but I broke the heel on my Manolos, I win. Actually, that might win a lot of stuff. Unless she is allergic to bees and has to go to the emergency room and almost dies, then I guess that would win. Maybe.
In any case, Susan’s mom died recently so she totally won, for like, days and days and maybe weeks. I mean, you can’t really top that, right? The things that could happen to trump the death of a parent are pretty far and few between. Except now. Now I think I might win for a bit.
But the second part of the rules, the laughing at the situation part, I’ve been unable to do until today. Today it just seems hysterical in a sad, yet funny way. I mean, imagine this last chapter of my life as a movie. Mom goes to mental hospital. Kids and father move. Mom spends the next four years job after job and house after house inching closer in a very dramatic and pragmatic fashion, always repeating some mantra like, ‘This will all be worth it someday when my kids are living with me again!’ and throw in some arm shaking and maybe background music. Oh, I think Climb Every Mountain or Ain’t No Mountain High Enough would work great. There would be close-ups of sweat falling from my temples, little ringlets of hairs coming out from my bun all misty and dewy over the kitchen sink.
Hey, I know! Let’s put me in a covered wagon – the preferred mode of transportation of My People. I can wear the Bonprons I made and some bloomers made of scratchy, low-grade cotton so my knees will get irritated as we go along. I’ll walk and walk and walk and walk aaaaaaand walk. I think there better be falling down in crevasses and storms of many kinds.
And then, as the smoke clears and a slight wind rustles my hair, you’ll see the determination set in my jaw line as I go those last few feet on my hands and knees. My fingernails packed with dirt from pulling my limp body (did I forget to say I got paralyzed from the waist down somewhere along the line? Probably a freak accident with an Emu.) along the muddy grassland, clump by clump.
Then let’s fast forward past the part where I built the cabin after wrastlin’ the miners for the plot of land that was my great grandfathers and rightfully mine. And past the part where I spin the wool and make fabric and then sew curtains for every room. And past the part where I planted the garden, toiled in the fields and then bottled 1,364 bottles of corn for the winter. And past the part where I send the telegram to the children and tell them the homestead is finally, FINALLY ready for them.
Let’s just go straight to the part where they get the telegram and go, ‘Meh. No thanks!’ because that, my friends, is comedy gold. And I do believe it’s a comedy. Anything that depressing has to be a comedy just to sit through it.
I know I’m winning more than just Susan. The past few days when people call on the phone I’ll say, ‘Hey – I heard about [whatever-I-heard-here] and how are you doing with that?’ And they’ll say, ‘Oh, Leah, no biggie. We didn’t lose the farm and no one got hurt and my kids still want me to, you know, be their mom…’ at which point their voice kind of trails off.
Thanks for the kind emails you’ve sent. Mostly they were very thoughtful and I appreciate you taking the time to write me. However, I’d like to point out that, as one friend said, teens are in the height of their asshole stage and I have four of them and I know this. I was the Queen of Bitch during my teen years. I realize this and recognize this and being their mom, I’m allowed to say it. But please refrain from expounding on that idea in emails or comments. No matter what they do or say, they are my children and I love them with a fierce passion that will cause me to cut you if you attack them with your words. Personal stories of how YOU were an asshole are fine, though. And, please feel free to send love and candy! I like candy. And yarn. And tiny dogs.
It has a name! It’s called the Misery Challenge Smackdown. And yes, you’re currently winning. But I’ll have to add up the overall scores to see if you’ve caught up with me yet. I was planning on resting on my laurels for quite some time. You may have to bottle more corn.
One time, when I was 12, my mom tried to get my to bottle a record number 567 bottles of corn in one day and yelled at her, “Mom, I have AP tests to study for! I’m not bottling any more of your effing corn! I hate you!” Corn went everywhere. Our dog Bark choked on a kernal and died. It was a disaster. I was grounded for months.
I’m sorry your kids are currently being brats . . .hope brats is okay to say. As the mom of four teenagers and step-mom to two I feel your pain.
My daughter blamed me for absolutely everything for about a year and it broke my heart and ripped me apart. Thankfully, we got through to the part where I’m awesome and have all the answers much quicker than I ever expected.
I think I’ve mentioned, but I’ll say again just in case I’m suffering some chemobrain, I was on lithium for at least 5 years for bipolar so my kids have had to deal with a mental mom too.
Be thankful that you know where they are and that they’re safe. 🙂 One of my sons stayed gone for almost a month before I tracked him down, just to have him leave when I was asleep, track him down, etc. He has now been home and only home for over four months – voluntarily.
Keep your chin up, as much as possible, and I hope your kids figure things out quick. Fingers crossed that it all gets better really soon. 🙂
PS – Never played that game but my husband feels like he can’t complain about anything since I got cancer – he says my cancer tops everything he could possibly have wrong. 🙂
oh, man. lisa – you would always win. : ) unless you get to keep all your hair and don’t look sick. then i think you’re in the thick of it with all of us. but if you do lose your hair and look sick, well, then you would just always win. unless you hated your hair because it was too straight or too curly or too something. those might disqualify you…..
katie – your dog Bark? BARK? you couldn’t make up a better name than Bark?? : )
susan – thanks for telling me the name. prepare to have your butt kicked. ps. NO MORE CORN!
Oh, man… I was seriously going to email you a tale of how much of an asshole I was to my mother and how brutally and viciously I tried to separate from her when I was a teenager.
I love my mother dearly, and if the grownup me saw the teenage me being such a bitch to my mom, the grownup me would kick some teenage ass.
So if it’s any consolation, you are being treated almost exactly as my dear, sainted mother was. Guess that makes you a dear, sainted mother, too. So, you know… congratulations. Or something.
It was made up real quick as I was writing the post. I couldn’t think of anything “Home on the Range-ish” on the fly, and it’s what came to mind. I was pretty impressed with myself. 🙂
In all of the heartbreak, remember that you were referred to as my “best friend”.
Most moms (real, step, or joint) can’t say that.
Hugs to you.
I don’t have any tiny dogs to send you but what about snowglobes? Do you like snowglobes?
Maybe one with a tiny dog in it?
I was thinking about your situation last night during a bout of insomnia. I thought how heart wrenching it would be and how I hope it gets better.
a dog named Bark… hahahahahahahahahahaha!! I’ve been laughing about that one all day. How do you ever get it to shut up?
Oh Leah…delurking to tell you that my heart literally broke for you when I read the Crushing. I can’t even begin to imagine the pain. not that you asked but here it is, I believe your devotion MAKES you their mother, whatever they choose to believe right now. Your heart, wide open, vulnurable and pure, even with the wounds now, will lead you to the next journey. You are learning so much!! I wish you so much love and light and joe+leah time, laughter and joy as you find your way.
Teenagers. Blech. Maybe the Child Labor Laws weren’t so bad.
(heartfelt sob!) I couldn’t think of any words adequate to put there. Love you.
thanks for opening up comments ’cause I wanted to pass on a message – but felt that email was intrusive, and by closing comments you were indicating you didn’t want intrusions.
I was not a bratty teenager, and I don’t think I would say that teenagers are brats. I think that they (we) were just children trying to figure out how to be adults.
I remember vividly the period of time where I was trying to be independent of “mom”; and broke my mother’s heart.
My mom is like you – she wants nothing more than to make dinner, fix broken things, feel my pain for me, watch TV with me, know everything about my life and feel like she’s a part of it. But when I was a teenager, I knew I had to learn to do all of this for myself – and I pushed her away.
I told her that if she protected me from the pain and did everything for me, I could never learn to do it myself. That every lesson she “saved” me from learning, would come back to bite me some other time when it was my turn to learn. I know that’s not what’s going on with you and your kids. But even so – your conversation scripted a couple days ago could have been between me and my mother at that age.
I told her that I wanted a friend. And she told me that all she wanted (and skill yearns to be) is my “Mom”.
In the end, as an adult (I’m nearly 40), I think that we would both agree, that having a trusting adult “friend” relationship is more valuable and fulfilling to both of us then her feeling like she’s being a “mom” and me feeling like I’m the “kid”.
Hope that helps.
Lisa
When I was 14, I moved in with my grandparents because my mom wasn’t very active in my life. ( I.E. She had a new boyfriend who was more important than me. When I went to visit her the first time since moving out, the first thing she said to me when we were alone was, “I almost lost Paul because of you.”)
It took me getting out of my teens and most of my early twenties, but now I feel like we have a better relationship. When you are a teenager, you know everything. Once you get in your twenties, you realize you don’t know jack.
Hang in there and keep doing what you are doing. I think they need you more than they say they do. I know I need my mom more than I’ll ever admit and I’m 28.
I was away from the internet for a few days and just found out what you are going through. My heart is with you.
I’m about to tell you one of those things that my mom used to say to me, after which I would stomp out of the room and slam a door:
Right now it sucks, but it’s the right thing to do, even though no one else thinks it’s cool.
My parents are divorced and I didn’t appreciate any of their sacrifices at the time they were making them. Now, however, I am so thankful that my mom stayed in my crappy hometown for 8 years after she divorced my dad so that I could be near both parents. By making it clear you want to have a big presence in their lives, you’re being a good parent, and they will look back on the choices you made, realize you were thinking only of them, and be grateful.
Until that time comes, eat a few frosted pop tarts and watch some Buffy the Vampire Slayer reruns. That’s what makes me feel better.
I hope this comes out right. It’s said with love and hope that it helps.
A few years ago, I was telling my friend L about something hurtful which my daughter had said to me. She answered “that’s so cool! I never could have said anything like that to my mom — she would have beaten the crap out of me, and I was way too afraid of her.” L went on to tell me that if I had made my daughter feel so secure that she could say anything to me, it meant I was being a good mom.
You have such great communication with your kids, and you are a good mom. Sometimes it means you have to hear something you don’t want to, but that’s only because you’re such a good mom. And when they get older, and you still talk to them and they still talk to you, it’s because you’re a good mom. They talk to you, they confide in you, they know that you are in their lives to care for and protect them, and you are a good mom.
Hugs to you and the whole bunch.
Hey, just thought I’d let you know that you were in my dream last night. I was at a restaurant with my dearest friend, Katherine, and you were there, too. I recognized you and thought you were much more beautiful than the pictures on your site could tell. I have no idea where it came from, I read your site daily, I guess you were just back there in my brain somewhere!
Okay, I just read the last few entries and got caught up.
Crap.
I’m just glad I get to see you in a few days for hugs.
And, I mean, a dog named BARK is pretty damn funny.
Man, the worst thing about teenagers is that they say these really mean things, and they don’t even realize that it’s so hurtful.
I did the same thing to my mom when I was a teenager and looking back on it now, man was I ever an asshole. My brother was born with Spina Bifida and I had it all worked out in my head. My brother couldn’t walk because my mom smoked when she was pregnant. And then I told her. And she cried. And I didn’t understand at that point why she was so upset. My brother’s inability to walk was just a fact to me, just like my perceived reason behind it so it never really registered until I was older that my mom already blamed herself for his handicap.
One day your kids will look back at all the sacrifices you’ve made how hard you tried and how far you’ve come and they’ll be so proud you’re their mom. For reals.
Virtual hugs, candy, small dogs, and yarn. Sorry to hear you’re the current Champ of the Misery Smackdown.