The last time that I was at my doctor’s office we spent a little bit of time talking about my chronic back pain. She asked me if I had ever tried wearing a back brace. I told her that I had tried the black ones, with the straps that go over your shoulders, but it kept riding up and I could never get it to fit properly, so I would take it off. “Yeah”, she said, “those are really only designed for thin people with no curves.” She then asked me if I had ever worn a truss, and the image that popped into my mind was one of a medieval torture device. She was in a hurry to end our visit, as she had been with me for awhile, so she scribbled out a prescription for one and said it was worth a try to see if my insurance would cover it.

Intrigued, I looked it up on the internet when I got home. I found this definition for truss: An appliance designed to prevent the return of a reduced hernia or the increase in size of a hernia; it consists of a pad attached to a belt and kept in place by a spring or straps.

I also found that they sell them on Amazon, complete with a hole so I can put my penis through if need be.

Thinking that a truss wasn’t what I really needed and learning from my insurance company that they don’t cover such things; I continued looking around online. I decided on this.

It had a claim that it was easy to get on, with extra “give and stretch”, and there was a photo of a smiling flat stomached woman with the words underneath “Lose Ten Lbs. in Ten minutes !” I figured it would be a good choice, given the fact that it was a bra, a tummy flattener and underwear all in one, complete with those snaps at the crotch so you can use the toilet easily, or have a quickie, if you’re lucky.

When the package arrived from Amazon I went into the bathroom to try it on, with high hopes of emerging with no muffin top. Oh, and a fully supported back that wouldn’t ache so much. I was being highly superficial, I admit. I opened up the box and there I saw it. On top of the carefully folded body shaper there was a coupon. I picked it up. It was a coupon for Hormel lunch meat, complete with a photo of a piled high sandwich.

Now I don’t know about most people, but I sat and thought about the coupon. I wonder, does everyone get this coupon, or are they reserved for chubby women trying to look ten pounds slimmer? If you order Slimfast do they place a coupon for Twinkies on top of your purchase? I envisioned a room with drop dead gorgeous women in it, their long shiny hair glistening as their perfect abs contract from the giggles they can’t stifle as they place these coupons on top of “body shapers”.

The last time that I tried to wear an undergarment that offered support in the stomach it was Christmas dinner at my mom’s. As I was wearing a new dress, I put on the Spanx I had purchased with it. I felt great, as if I could wear this beautiful dress without worrying about my tummy bulge. I soon learned that even though the Spanx were the style that you wear up underneath your bra, mine kept rolling down, creating this area between bra and Spanx where all of my excess weight had accumulated into a flattering bulge. I felt like the Michelin Tire Man. Excusing myself to the bathroom a few times to pull the Spanx up didn’t work, as they rolled back down after I had moved around in them for awhile. I ended up taking them off and shoving them into my purse. I vowed to never wear them again.

I had selected my new body shaper by bra size as instructed. I stepped into it like a pair of underwear. I made it to my hips when the stretchy tight material dug in so deeply I was breathless from the pain. Not one to give up easily, I pulled it off and tried putting it on over my head. That was a big mistake. I ended up stuck, with the material trapping me like a huge elastic band, both of my arms frozen above my head. It was at that moment I realized how I was going to lose 10 pounds in 10 minutes, sweating. I looked at myself in the mirror, red faced, marks on my skin wear the elastic had dug into me. I struggled to pull it off and threw the thing across the room.

I redressed in my regular clothes and went online. I researched tummy tucks for awhile, convinced that was going to be the only answer for a flat stomach. I looked at the before and after photos. I checked prices. I thought about the episodes of Doctor 90210 I had sat through, the ones where the surgeons tell the patients that it isn’t their fault that their stomachs are they way they are, it’s the damage caused by pregnancy. They tell them that underneath that loose skin they are thin. They mention the need to recreate their “internal corset”. I want a new internal corset.

I was finally able to log off and shake the idea out of my head. I took Maggie for a walk. I will have to find another way to support my back, but for now I am going to stop wasting time and money trying to squeeze into anything that restricts my breathing.

For the past several days Alex has been on vacation. It was easy to feel as if I was on vacation too, except for the pesky things like dishes still piling up and the kids calling out that we were out of clean towels, again. I could really get used to having a second pair of hands around here. It was so nice to have the “what’s for dinner?” query of every night answered when I got home by Alex cooking away. I went several times to do the dishes, only to find that he had already done them, and wiped down the counters. When the kids were hitting me up with question number 2409 for the day I could say, “Go ask your father.” Trying to be a parent, a really hands on parent, is very difficult while working graveyard shift and sleeping during the day. I know; I tried to do it for years. It is easy to feel as if you are part of a different world as a day sleeper. Alex and I also were able to spend lots of time together, which was nice. We cuddled up and watched movies; made love, talked and just spent time snuggling. There are usually only a few times per month that we even share the same bed. We spent last week going to bed together, which was wonderful. It has been very cold here lately and I felt totally at ease stealing body heat. We did have a few nights where Alex would steal all of the covers from me and a resulting tug-o-war would ensue. He claimed total ignorance in the mornings. He isn’t used to sharing the blankets anyone. Now we are both saddened by the fact that he has to return to work tonight and we are back to the hustle and bustle and the separate schedules and the days when we have no time to talk .

Also, last week, as I was reveling in the goodness of a man who awoke earlier than I and made my coffee perfectly with a beautiful head of frothed milk on the top and delivered it to me one minute before my alarm was set to go off so I could relax and sip myself awake instead of being jolted awake by a horrible buzzing sound; we heard the news from Australia that my grandmother, my nanny, as I call her, was going downhill quickly. My mother quickly tried to get a ticket to NSW. Last minute tickets were in the $4000 range and my mom was so determined to go and sit by her bedside and so frazzled by the idea that she might not make it that she couldn’t even think straight. She went round and round over the planning until I reminded her of a travel agent friend she hadn’t spoken to in some time. My mom was hesitant, but she called her, and the lovely lady who also happens to be a transplanted Aussie like my mother was able to find my mom a ticket that was significantly cheaper. My mom booked it and started packing. Saturday morning her brother called to let her know that their mom had died.

My mom drove over to my house and we sat together. We talked and cried and remembered. We shared stories of this beautiful, strong woman who made it to the age of 96. We laughed as we both recalled that nanny always had more done before 7 am than we could ever accomplish in one day. It wasn’t that everyone wasn’t expecting this death, it was the fact that being so many thousands of miles away, we were all hoping for more time, and just one more opportunity to see her.

My grandparents came to visit us here in Portland in 1980. Neither of them had been on an airplane before. I remember Mt. St. Helens erupted soon after their arrival and my grandfather commented on the welcome party. My grandfather died in 1991. A lot of people thought my nanny would follow quickly, but she continued on, keeping busy with her art and enjoying her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

I had a photo of her that I wanted to share here of my nanny, but Alex’s computer died last night and most of our things were on there with no backup. Yes, we know how foolish that was.

My mom decided to cancel her flight after being notified that she wouldn’t even make the funeral in time. We are going to get together here and have a celebration honoring her life and a mass held in her honor at the grotto, which was one of her favorite places here in Portland. My mom is still dealing with the fact that she was unable to be by her side when she passed. I want to believe that she knew we were all with her in her heart, and that she knew how much she was loved. The day she died would have been her 77^th wedding anniversary. I can see why people turn to faith during times like these, as it is so tempting to believe that she and my grandfather and their son who died before both of them are all together now, sipping a cup of tea.

It’s October, 2006. The time before we must have my mother’s house empty has dwindled to hours. There is no longer time to sort through the boxes and repack them. I have started merely dumping the old boxes into new ones, taping them shut and scribbling misc. on them. The only reason I am bothering to place the stuff in new boxes is because these boxes have been sitting for decades and the bottoms have deteriorated to dust. There are mice in several, awakened from their nests as their shit rains into a new box. There is no more time to care. My heart is racing; the weight of all of this is on my shoulders. My mom is ill and hasn’t slept for days. She is starting to speak in nonsensical fragments not even close to coherent sentences.

There are people around now. Two years have passed since I began preparing this house for sale and the people have arrived at the last minute, offering their help, their cars and trucks, their backs and arms. My mom doesn’t want them there. She whispers to me to get rid of them, but I can no longer do this alone and so I ignore her wish. Why is my mom sitting in the kitchen with her computer on a cutting board emailing Tokyo? People are asking what is wrong with her. I ignore them and try to come up with a system. Only I will deal with the boxes in their raw, dust covered state. After they are repacked and labeled (an absurd term for what I am doing) I will allow people to begin to load them into a waiting vehicle.

My mom is a hoarder, a packrat. It is her secret shame. I am trying to protect her from anyone else finding out, but family members and her best friend are witnessing what can no longer hide in a basement larger than most people’s homes. Some whisper about how things ever managed to get this bad. Fewer look to me. Is that blame in their eyes? So many dumpsters, trips to goodwill, yard sales, items on craigslist, trips to the dump and yet somehow, so much left is here.

I am dumping boxes as fast as I can when I see it, an envelope. It is a letter addressed to my brother in my father’s handwriting. I look around to see if anyone is watching me and quickly shove it deep into the pockets of my jeans. I say nothing to anyone.

Later that night at my house I pull it out and stare at it. It is thick. I knew about this letter before, but it hasn’t been mentioned in years. In 1983 my mom put my brother Matthew into a foster home. She did this for his safety, as he and my dad were coming to blows now that Matthew had started fighting back when beaten. My mother feared for his life. He went to live with a wealthy family with several kids who were grown by that time. My father wasn’t notified of his whereabouts. I was jealous. I wanted to be sent to live with a different family too. I missed my brother. Sometimes we would meet him at secret places (usually fast food restaurants) for a quick visit. He would hug us all before he walked out the door first and I would blink back tears as he headed in a different direction than our home. Walking, he was always walking, no matter how far he had to go, no matter the miles wearing out his shoes or the fact that he had bus fair in his pocket. It might have cleared his head. I’m guessing, of course. Years later I started walking to clear my own.

During that time when my brother lived in another house, in another city, my father begged, pleaded and cried for his son’s return. When that didn’t work he punched us. No one ever divulged the secret of his whereabouts. We were good secret keepers. My dad wrote this letter to my brother and asked my mom to deliver it to him. My brother refused to even glance at it. After a year my brother came back home to live with us. Another year or so and my dad was dead, having walked down the basement stairs to make a noose and end his life. There was no suicide note. My mom and I tore apart the whole house looking for one. It was weeks before she would allow anyone to take the garbage out for fear that it might be thrown away.

A few more times over the years my mom tried to deliver the letter to my brother, but he always refused to accept it. My mom said that she had read it and she felt he should too. I said nothing. I was jealous. This letter was not mine to read.

When I found the letter in a box filled with junk: twist ties, expired coupons, disposable napkins, photos that had gotten wet at some time and were stuck together, ruined, old magazines long since molded, I said to myself that I was just going to keep it safe.

Of course I read it. It is nine pages long and filled with details about my father I was never aware of. He explained his decent into mental illness and alcoholism, his feelings of failure for having ended up being an abusive drunken husband and father. He wrote of his time spent in church praying for the lord to save him. He asked my brother to relay messages to my sisters and me; messages of love and apology that no doubt would have fallen on deaf ears in the early 80s, but now, now they make me weep. I never got those messages. Would they have helped? I don’t know anymore.

I hid the letter in my locked file cabinet and pretended that I wasn’t doing anything but waiting for the right opportunity, maybe after my mom was settled in her new house.

I pretended that I wasn’t mad, not at my mom for not taking better care of the letter and for choosing not to tell me the words that were written to me, but most of all I tried not to be mad at my dad for not writing me a letter like that one. I tried not to be mad at him for not trying harder to make it through his illness.

Finally I admitted to my mom that I had found the letter during the move and held onto it for her. She has demanded it back and I shall return it because it’s not mine to keep. I am glad that I had an opportunity to read it now as an adult. I was ten when it was written. I never would have understood the words then. Now I do.

My dad would have turned eighty over this past weekend. It’s hard to imagine. In my mind he hasn’t aged a day so he still has a full head of hair and a strong build. I remember the way I felt when he hugged me tightly, and whispered in my ear that we were the last two members of the family who were blond and we needed to stick together. His hair was gray, but he never tired of that little joke between us.

My Mom asked me last Friday to go with her to place flowers on his grave and I said no. I only want to go alone. It is three buses and a walk and I still want to do it alone. There is no one in my life that I can talk to about the conflicting feelings I have about loving someone so much and losing him, someone who also had a side where he hit me and said horrible things to me.

Grief. It never goes away fully for me, it changes. I am now 35; my father is forever stuck at 57. I couldn’t have saved him from his fate then anymore than he can save me from myself now. But I am glad that I found that letter and that my dad took the time to write it. Even if it never ends up in the hands of your only son dad, it helped your youngest daughter. Thank you.

I haven’t been writing about Nathan much, have I? I have been waiting, and watching him quietly lately. He is doing much better in regards to keeping calm when he is angry. He is excelling at his new school. I never thought I’d see the day. I almost feel bad admitting that, but I had given up hope that he would make it through school. I just kept trying to find a place that would work for him, and we did. I told him that he would succeed (even when I didn’t believe it anymore) and that I would never give up on him for as long as I live.

He loves his teachers at the new program. His grades are so high and his test results are outstanding. I always knew he was smart, but I couldn’t get him to believe it. Now his teachers have told him and he believes them. He is making plans for college. He wants to be a pharmacist. I have no idea where that came from but I am still sitting in awe over the changes from this time last year. He talks about his future with a positive outlook.

The other day he walked up to me and just wrapped his arms around me and hugged me tightly. I was feeling a little down and he sensed it. He is taller than I am, a mustache growing on his upper lip. I was blinking back tears when he let go of me and he asked me what was wrong. I told him that I was happy. He rolled his eyes and said, “Girls”.

Over the years, with both of my children, it has been a series of them holding on to me and then learning to let go. I used to call it the ,”I hate you; hold me” stages. I find myself wondering if it continues on as they become adults? I find myself wondering who I am, besides a mother, a daughter, a wife, a sister.

Yes, the holidays are over, and have been for awhile, but I have been so caught up in the aftermath that it was painful to even think about typing when I could be napping.

My house is still a mess; there are still pine needles clinging to surfaces even though I recycled the tree on Tuesday. I have gained three pounds because everywhere I turned there was yet another plate of fudge, or cookies, or a glass of brandy (thanks, Mom).

The week before school let out for the Holiday break Polly was given a name for her secret Santa, the boy she was supposed to buy little things for and slip said items into his locker. The name she received was a twelve year old boy, one who liked skateboarding and chocolate, or at least that is what she could gather from talking with his friends at recess. I took her shopping to buy things for this boy, but seeing how I had a problem giving him five days of candy, I begged her to find other gifts. A new skateboard was a little outside of the price range I was willing to enter, so I asked if maybe he would like some of those little techdeckdudes. Nathan used to collect them when he was younger. Polly was adamant that they weren’t cool anymore as she shot me the “you are so tragically unhip” look. After going to store after store I felt as if candy for five days straight might be the best idea after all. I didn’t even give this much thought to my own childrens’ gifts for Christ’s sake. I learned a few things about kids on our voyage. You can’t buy a twelve year old boy a stuffed animal, but uglydolls are “in” right now. Polly also selected a large plastic ring with a hideous purple stone the size of an eyeball because they are called “pimp rings” and it’s cool to wear them. Pimp rings? Who knew? I was glad when we were done.

At my daughter’s school they have banned candy and soda from the premises and from all sack lunches taken off campus. That means that if Polly notifies me at 7:15 on a school morning that she needs a sack lunch because they are going on a field trip and she forgot to tell me I can’t fumble in the fridge and grab a can of Sprite to put in the sack with her hastily made sandwich and crudely chopped carrot sticks because it will be confiscated. I have a serious problem with people telling me how to raise my kids. Have I mentioned this? Probably.

On the last day of school before the holiday break I arrived to pick her up and saw immediately a fire engine and two police cars. As the over-reactor that I am, I immediately thought that my daughter had been hurt. She came out of the school with a sour look on her face and her hand across her heart as if she had been injured, or maybe she was doing a half assed rendition of the pledge of allegiance.

I immediately asked her what was going on, my mind on all of the emergency vehicles, and she dropped her hand as she wailed, “My secret Santa bought it for me!” There on her chest was a button that said “I Love Porn.” I put my hand out and she gave it to me and as she was so afraid of the consequences of this silly button I couldn’t get her to calm down enough to tell me why the front of her school was surrounded by emergency vehicles. I swear she acts like we beat her, which we never have, at least not yet.

Once she realized that she wasn’t in trouble she told me what had happened at her school that had required the 911 phone call.

Since candy is forbidden, and many kids had candy due to the secret Santa event, a boy had skated off to a locale that he thought was safe from the prying eyes of the administrators and teachers. The particular boy had received a gift of candy cigarettes. He had one in his hand and as he stood on his skateboard he lifted it to his mouth to take a nibble. The vice principal came out and without listening to the boy protest that is was only candy, she called the police to report that she had a seventh grader smoking on school grounds, and so they came out to lecture the boy about the evil dangers of smoking as he stood there with candy between his pointer and middle finger, complete with a red tip that may or may not have looked like it was on fire. The whole matter reeks of overreaction to me. The matter could have been dealt with without Police intervention.

Christmas went well and as easy as it could have been to get myself sucked into the family dramas I did not. Alex enjoyed his present, (NSFW) a Fleshlight, and we all ate good food and relaxed.

Next on the agenda is Polly’s homework. She was supposed to read one novel which is a piece of cake for her, and write an essay on, “the ramifications of action figures on today’s society.”

As much as I wish I could speak to her teacher about this assignment, or just write it myself, Polly has begged me to not intervene.

I suggested that she use as a subject her 15 year old brother who played with action figures for years. He would hate me for saying this, but he also played with dolls, and I never tried to stop him. It was only when he started making friends at school and they came over to play at our house that he was mocked for the fact that he had an assortment of dolls in his toy box. He claimed that they were his sisters and it made me sad that he felt that he had to hide the toys that he had once enjoyed so much.

I can’t find my camera. Alex was the last one using it and I dare not wake him because he has to work tonight.

Happy New Year and thanks for reading.