What's Your Vision?

 A celebrity was recently on a tv talk show promoting a book he wrote about being successful.  He said that he attributes his success to several simple principles. First, he spends the first 10 minutes of his day thinking of things he is grateful for. Then he mentioned a vision board where he keeps pictures of his goals to remind him of what he is working on. The talk show host asked the celebrity what kinds of things are on his vision board. He said his current goal is to become a billionaire. Good book sales should help him towards his fulfilling his vision. 

I couldn't decide what part of this interview upset me the most. I didn't think it was any one thing he said, including the fact he blew through several marriages with children on his way to the top, that got under my skin. The whole thing just felt wrong. (1)  Afterwards I thought about it for way too long, trying to understand what my problem was with the guy’s message. Was I jealous of his money? Did I resent his success and fame? Was it my own sour grapes of bitterness causing that nasty taste in my mouth?

It took some time to tease out what my problem with the celebrity’s message was. At first I went to the obvious answer, “It’s the economy, stupid!” as the solution to my angst. There are plenty of articles written about how the poor and middle-class are systematically suppressed in our economy and how the deck is stacked against the have-not’s. (2)  Then I thought about my childhood and how I grew up knowing that the world is a tough place to make a living, especially without the advantages of inherited money, good looks, business connections, or superb physical and mental health. Having a vision board wouldn’t bring any of those intangible assets to reality.

In my poor and lower middle-class neighborhoods while growing up, the most commonly tried solution to the problem of not having enough money was always MLMs (Multi-Level-Marketing companies) like  Avon, Tupperware, Herbal Life and Mary Kay.  Since the American dream of owning a business was out of reach for my neighbors,  participating in a MLM was a way of reaching for the stars, owning your own piece of the pie, being your own boss and last but not least, Your Potential is Limitless! The sign-up sales pitch always featured the wonderful qualities of whatever was being sold and more importantly, the amount of money to be made from your family and friends as they sign up to sell the products under your direction. 

I never saw anyone, including my own family members, make anything more than maybe getting their initial $100 investment back. (3) The hurdles of overpriced goods, no customers able to afford the merchandise and no way to break out of our poor neighborhood to sell to wealthy people willing to sign up to shill the same products, all conspired to make chasing the MLM dream just that, a dream.

As an adult, my heart broke as I watched my infatigable brother try over and over to become his own boss by selling products through MLM companies. At first I tried to be supportive and I bought my fair share of worthless collectable figurines, kitchen gadgets, and magazine subscriptions. I knew that Rex’ s mind was full of scenes of happy children with toys on Christmas morning. He wanted to create wealth so he could make the world a better place. How could I not support his optimistic, happy-go-lucky determination to achieve his goal? Those are the stories America is made of; people who with little more than hard work and a never-say-die attitude that pulled themselves up by their bootstraps and made it happen. Of course, those people didn’t have one-tenth of the challenges my brother dealt with every day of his life.

I did what I could, as long as I could, before I stopped buying Rex’s products because really, how many porcelain angels with wings was I supposed to own before the universe would kick-in and honor my brother’s pure heart, rewarding him with his fervent desires?

As you can guess, Rex didn't win in his quest to own a Fortune 500 company specializing in being Santa Claus, delivering free gifts to children all over the world.  But he did win in ways that mattered to me and to many others. He won in teaching me how to forgive, how to not be a walking-wounded soul and how to truly love.  And that is a vision board that I can embrace.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

1. I’m not Debbie Downer. Really, I’m not. And yes, I read The Secret. And the DVD  was given to me as gift by a friend who wanted me to see the book acted out in movie form. I watched it. 

 http://www.huffingtonpost.com/heidi-grant-halvorson-phd/vision-boards-positive-thinking_b_907618.html

2. Because so much of the talk about the economy devolves into political shouting matches between those who scream,”Get a job, you lazy loafer!” and those who scream right back, “White/Rich privilege!”  I prefer to research on the academic side of the issue.  This is a good place to start for a long history of American economics and social policy. http://www.russellsage.org/

3. I personally know one person who made it big with MLMs. It took her 30 years of selling everything under the sun, but she finally hit upon the winning combination of a strong network of distributors from previous ventures and a product that was hot. I am thrilled for her success and assume she has a fully stocked vision board.  If you are interested in talking to her about her journey, contact me and I will hook you up. But don’t be surprised if she uses her highly refined skills of persuasion to sign you up to sell. Yes – she is THAT good.

I Can't Keep Up With the Awesomeness

I just got an email telling me a blog site posted a positive review of Ezra and Hadassah. Yay! I always hold my breath about that sort of thing. I haven't had a negative review yet, which I am very grateful for.

Here is the link so you can go read it for yourself: http://youngmormonfeminists.org/2014/10/27/book-review-ezra-and-hadassah/

Which reminded me, I think I was so busy in October freezing at Book Festival's in sub-zero weather and giving myself a black eye and concussion, I forgot to link the other very nice review of  the book. My apologies to the site that posted this gem: http://rationalfaiths.com/book-review-ezra-hadassah-portrait-american-royalty/

If you noticed when you read them, (What? You haven't read them? Quit skipping the good parts and go back and read the reviews that someone was nice enough to pour their energies into for your eyeball's benefit.) both of the sites are blogs that discuss all things related to the Mormon religion.The book is not written as a religious text, it is just the story of my family, which happens to include Mormonism. And Jehovah's Witnesses. And Catholics. And Jews. And Evangelicals. Pretty much every religion that was popular in downtown Portland, OR during the 1970's gets a bit part in the book. I think nowadays, in 2014, we call that "being inclusive."

Anyway, isn't it nice they liked the book as much as you do?

The Year I Destroyed Halloween

LtoR: Me, adopted dad Harley, adopted sister Emelia at a costume party, probably at church. Possibly Halloween, possibly something else. I have no idea, but I made an awesome hobo and I think we can all agree that I have thing for black eyes, since I've been drawing them on since childhood. My current black eye is turning sickly yellow, so that is positive. 

As a child, I worked very hard to hide my anxieties and fears. I protected my older brother from bullies at school and I was proud of my neighborhood reputation as a kid not to mess with. Growing up in a free-for-all style foster home, I coped with the stress in my life by sucking my thumb at night and by seeking constant reassurance by teachers at school that I was doing a good job. I also avoided scary movies, which wasn't hard  to do because our foster parents never took us to the theater and VCR's hadn't been invented yet, so really that just meant whenever intense movies came on our black and white tv, I read books in the unfinished attic instead of torturing myself with spine-tingling entertainment. It was nothing. 

 After Rex and I were adopted when he was 9 and I was 7 years old, my carefully crafted veneer of toughness cracked wide open in one horrific incident that ended up changing the way my school celebrated the most anticipated, most popular holiday of the year. Yes, I am the one. I am the kid who destroyed the school's Halloween party. And not just for one year. My behavior was so alarming, so completely over the top, I managed to smash all memories of the good old days of Halloween fun, replacing them with subdued whispers about how there would never be a proper school party ever again. 

In third grade, less than 4 months after my life was turned upside down with an unexpected adoption into a family of total strangers, my new school held it's annual Halloween Carnival. It was the biggest event of the school year because it was not only a party for students and their families, it was also the school's biggest fund-raiser. People bought tickets at the door to play games like Ring Toss, Cake Walk, and Pop the Balloon. (This was during the Wild West period of childhood, years before anyone questioned the safety of kids throwing metal-tipped darts at a board full of small balloons and when it was not considered bad form for minors to walk themselves to school or to spend all day outside roaming the neighborhood, either.)  The consistently hottest event at the Fairfield Elementary School Halloween Carnival was the Haunted House.  The school staff and PTA pulled out all the stops to make the Haunted House a spectacular experience for all community members. Grandmas and Grandpas lined up with their 1st grade grandchildren to walk through the fun of being startled by the unexpected. When I say Haunted House, I don't mean the kind of blood tripping, chainsaw chasing gore that grown adults now pay ridiculous amounts of money to walk through. I mean a gentle, no monsters, school library classic-book-themed walk through the decorated, darkened rooms adjacent to the stage in the school gymnasium.

I had never been through a Haunted House, so I had no idea what to expect. No one told me anything about it other than it was the Best Thing EVER, so of course I had to do it. I was a tough kid after all, and nothing scared me.

As I entered the dark foyer with a group of other people, we paused to wait until everyone got in the room and the door was shut behind us. My eyes adjusted to the blackness, which was broken only by the eerie greenish glow of a neon exit sign above a door I hadn't noticed before. I danced lightly on the balls of my feet, nervous about what was coming next. The first thing that happened was a cackling voice over a speaker saying, "Welcome my pretties to the Wizard of Oz," followed by an evil laugh straight from the Wicked Witch of the West. Seconds later, the Wicked Witch herself stepped out from a nearby black curtain. She had the green face, crooked nose, pointy witch hat and green hands holding a flashlight shining upwards,  illuminating the ugly warts on her nose.

And that is when I completely lost it. I don't remember anything other than being dragged out the door underneath the green exit sign and finding myself outside behind the school lunchroom, surrounded by teachers in costumes from the beloved book The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. I was still screaming bloody murder when I came to my senses. The Wicked Witch was kneeling in front of me, ripping off her scary green hook nose, wig of long gray hair, telling me it was ok, it wasn't really real. It didn't matter at that point what was real or not real. I stopped screaming and deescalated to sobbing and shaking like I was having a seizure. Adults streamed in and out of the building, asking what happened and what they should do next.

I am sure they asked me why I freaked out, screaming in blood-curdling horror at the witch, and why I frantically clawed my way to freedom, pushing and shoving everyone in my path in a desperate attempt to flee. My reaction to being startled by the witch set off a chain reaction of screaming by all the other children in the same dark room as me, and we were all hysterical by the time I was removed out the back door.

I didn't have an answer for what happened to me beyond hiccuping tears that the witch was scary. I wasn't able to explain that many so-called family friendly movies terrified me. The Wizard of Oz was a special kind of horror because it featured a host of characters that were in my mind equal to Freddy Kruger in Nightmare on Elm Street. It had not only the wicked witch, but also flying monkeys, a suspicious tin man, a mean Mr. Oz and I thought Dorthy's aunt was kinda grumpy, too. Of course, I didn't see all those characters at the Halloween Haunted House. I didn't get that far. The Wicked Witch was enough for me.

When I was escorted back inside the gym, the party was over. My screaming inside the haunted house was so loud it invaded the rest of the carnival and all the children started crying. I killed the whole thing. The grown ups were talking quietly, removing crepe paper streamers from the ceiling as my adopted siblings and I were escorted through the gym to the office to call our parents to come and pick us up. 

The next year, the school had the annual Halloween carnival, but without a book-themed haunted house. Attendance was way down and for the first time in the history of the school, fund-raisers selling candles and Christmas wrap had to be instituted to replace the missing Halloween money. Everyone still remembered quite clearly what had happened the previous year and I still had no answer to their unspoken question, "What the hell is your problem with The Wizard of Oz?'  I didn't know then and I still don't know now. All I can tell you is that thanks to the wonder of video clips, I can show you exactly the parts of  famous children's movies still alarm some part of my inner soul  (and I will never understand why all these movies are shown on tv between Thanksgiving and Christmas. There isn't one redeeming holiday message in any of them. America's sentimentality is weird.)

1. The Child-Catcher in Chitty-Chitty Bang Bang. I don't know what treacle tarts are, but I don't want any, thank you very much. 

2. The tunnel scene in Charlie and Chocolate Factory. Watch for the giant earthworm across the face and a chicken's head as it chopped off. (!!!)

3. We've fully covered this topic, so no need for more words. Just proceed with the evidence of terror, please: The Wizard of Oz

Flying monkeys, 

 Melting Wicked Witch of the West,

 and Auntie Em (now that I'm a mother, I am willing to cut Auntie Em some slack. She was obviously exhausted and her sniping is completely understandable. Besides, she didn't even use a curse word. She is fine.)

Please feel free to share your version of Halloween hell. I would like to know I am not alone on this.

A New Perspective On The Past, Still Learning New Lessons

Last week I tripped outside, bashing my face into the front steps outside our house. Stupid steps, stupid clumsy feet.Thankfully, it doesn't hurt as long as no one touches it. My black eye and swollen face are on the downside of healing. A few more days and no one will stare at me in public anymore. The funny thing is I keep forgetting that my face is messed up. When people give me double-takes, I am constantly surprised by their reactions to me. No one has been rude, just curious. I should have made up a sign saying, "I tripped myself and fell. I wasn't in a car accident, I didn't have plastic surgery and I am not the victim of domestic abuse." I haven't bothered trying to cover it up with make-up. I don't have the kind of professional glamour skills it takes to trowel on enough cover-up to hide this mess.

What has alarmed me much more than my appearance, is the mild concussion I gave myself. I can't get over how exhausted I have been and how desperately I have just wanted to sleep. My memory has also been a joke this week and I have an new appreciation for anyone with neurological illnesses or injuries. I am so glad I am over the worst of that, too.

I didn't think of this until yesterday, a full week of after my accident. I remembered my brother's near fatal assault in Cheyenne, WY and wondered how he survived that. All I had was a simple fall and I have been down for a week. Rex was almost killed by two grown men who beat him with a concrete lawn statue. Where I got a mild concussion, he suffered permanent hearing loss, vision loss and who knows what else, for the rest of his life. I don't know the details of how he was affected by his terrible beating because after Rex was released from the hospital, he didn't talk about his injuries again. I didn't know how much a bruised face and head hurt, let alone the shattered bones that he endured. I didn't know how totally tired and brain scattered he had to be. I am positive I was insensitive, impatient and probably completely horrible in my expectations he return to normal. I can't say for sure because I don't remember anything specific that happened in the weeks and months after his assault. That tells me I didn't pay any attention to it. He survived, he was released from the hospital, he was fine. If I had only known then what I know now!

Like everything in life, if it hasn't happened to you, it is impossible to fully comprehend how someone else feels. I have been humbled by my accident, taught in a new way how fragile and fleeting good health is. I have also been reminded what an extraordinary brother I had. For most of my life I saw him as a burden to endure, an embarrassment to overcome. Now I have another reason to know how wrong I was about him and how truly lucky I was to have him as my brother.

On Being Sane

Rex as teenager at top, Claudia and Ralph

 During a recent college lecture I was giving, a student asked if I have mental health problems. It was a valid question, considering I had just explained my mother's long-standing schizophrenia, and my father and brother's developmental delays* that kept them both at the level of 8 year-old boys.
 

I told the class that I have a sensitive stomach, but I don't have anxiety or depression. I've never needed medication for my moods. I made a joke about how it was obviously the universe's way of protecting my family - one of us has to be sane to keep things running properly. Last man standing and all.
 

When the state of Oregon decided in 1973 to take away my parent's (Ralph and Claudia Wade) rights to my brother and me, they did it on the grounds that we children were of normal intelligence (the courts were unaware of my brother's developmental delays) and our parents weren't, so the imbalance of power would be detrimental to us children as we grew. It was the 'foxes guarding the hen house' theory of parenting that worried the judge. What would happen to us as we realized we were smarter than our parents? The court decided that although injustice had been done in regards to a lack of legal representation for us children, the decision that we needed smarter, mentally fit parents should stand. 

After we were adopted into a horribly abusive new home, I realized at 7 years-old that my life goal was to get myself and my 9 year-old brother Rex, the hell away from our new family and somehow find our way back home to our real parents, the ones that didn't beat us with sticks or not feed us when we didn't get our chores done properly. They may not have bathed very often or behaved in socially appropriate ways in public, but they never hit us and I wasn't afraid of them.

My brother managed to accomplish my goal first. At 16 years old, our adoptive parents were done with him. They called Ralph and Claudia and told them to pick Rex up at the bus terminal. He was coming home. The photo above was taken after they were reunited.

 I didn't make it back to our parents for many years. I was busy figuring out my life and was content to let my brother and parents live their own lives. I knew my mother had schizophrenia. I knew they didn't clean house well or wear clean clothes. I knew my brother didn't understand social cues. I just wanted to be a normal person, with a normal family. Since I wasn't given a normal family by birthright and the state of Oregon's attempt at giving me one was an utter failure, I made my own.

I grew up, got married and had children. Then the universe decided it was time to get busy with what I was destined to do from birth. My now adult brother came back into my life. For five years I took on the role of being a bossy younger sister, helping him navigate an increasingly complicated world that he could not decipher on his own. After Rex was diagnosed with a terminal brain tumor, he moved into our house and became a full-time member of my family.

I learned so much from my brother during that intense time. I was forced to see the world from his childlike eyes and I lost my lifelong, pervasive embarrassment at having a weird brother. He was fine with who he was. I was the one with the problem, not him.

Rex's passing was devastating but it was not the end of life's insistence I was going to learn the lesson of unconditional love and acceptance. Within a couple of years of losing my brother, my parents knocked on my door and I let them in. Not much had changed with them.  Claudia still believed she was visiting from another planet and Ralph still didn't see the need for soap and water. They still hoarded treasures and acted in odd ways in public. They were also were innocent, friendly and eager to show their affection for their grandchildren. We became a family again. 

My now elderly parents, who just celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary, live less than 2 miles away from me at a nearby nursing home. Just like my brother, my parents constantly teach me to loosen up and not insist on controlling their every move. I have adopted a strategy with my parents that I first used when my children were young. Whenever they are doing something questionable, I ask myself:

1. Is it harmful to themselves or to others?
2. Is it illegal? 

3. Is is immoral?
4. Will it cause permanent damage to a possession or structure?
5. Does it cause them to smell bad or be offensive in some way?

If not, then I stay out of it. Just because I wouldn't wear a winter hat with three shirts on during the summer, if they are comfortable with it, more power to them. If they want to spend hours at the mall talking to whoever will speak to them, I will drive them there and pick them up. It makes them happy to socialize with the world and who am I to squash their right to have fun?

In some ways, I wish I was more like my brother and my parents. They aren't paralyzed by the fear of rejection or embarrassment  when they make a mistake. When they want to dance, they dance. When they are curious, they ask questions. They seek friendship and entertainment and enjoy every minute of both. When they screw up, they quickly apologize and then it is done. Living life without regrets is a miracle to behold.

 

I agree my parents need help, the world is just as complex for them as it was for my brother and the deck of cards is stacked against them. I have come to accept my place as their caretaker. For whatever reason, I was chosen to be here, fulfilling this need.

 

 Even when the courts of the land took me away, and then I chose to stay away, the pull of my heart towards my family never lessened. Like the prophet Jonah from the Old Testament who ran away from God's calling and spent three days in the belly of a whale while reconsidering his position, I have reconciled that my responsibility in this life is to help my family help themselves. It is a big job for one person to do, but someone has to do it and that person is me. God decreed it, the universe conspired it and I am at peace with it.

----------------

*There is a distinction between mental illness and developmental disabilities that must be acknowledged. Mental illness does not imply lesser intelligence and lesser intelligence does not imply mental illness.

 

 On the other hand, if a mother with schizophrenia and a father with developmental disabilities both agree to never bathe or wear clean clothes, the result is the same regardless of how their individual brains worked to get there. Used in this context, sanity is the ability to understand the value of taking a bath and using soap in the process.



My First Book Festival - AKA Let's Talk About The Weather

You probably already know this, but you might need a reminder. Here is a nugget of truth: weather can be unpredictable. I've lived in a lot of places in my life and everyone everywhere thinks their climate is the most changeable compared to other places. Even in Arizona, the home of desert heat 300 days out the year, people think the weather is wild. I've learned not to comment when the topic turns to temperatures, rain or possibilities of snow. It quickly turns into a boring conversation I must flee. I also rarely plan ahead based on weather forecasts. Nothing is more annoying than lugging around an unneeded umbrella in the blazing heat when just accepting I might get wet from a rain shower is a heck of a lot easier.

 Knowing my general lackadaisical weather attitude, it should be no surprise that I didn't check the weather in the days before yesterday, my first book festival. Last week was glorious in Iowa City, IA. I wore t-shirts and shorts as I worked on painting our front door fire engine red and I considered taking pictures of the neighborhood squirrels that are highly active right now, getting their last thrills in before winter comes. Beautiful, early fall weather all the way around. I was unconcerned days before the book festival when I received a series of ominous emails warning the forecast was predicting cold temperatures. When one email said the organizers were going to have unlimited hot chocolate available all day to vendors, I jokingly sent an email back saying I would provide mini-marshmallows because everyone knows hot chocolate isn't real without baby marshmallows. I should have been tipped off when I instantly received a reply thanking me for my understanding and support. Hmmm.......nope. Not me. I live in weather cluelessness land.

The Iowa City Book Festival is unusual (I think? I haven't gone to any others so I have no idea) in that it is spread out over several days and events take place in multiple locations all over downtown. During the festival, authors give talks in the public library, coffee shops, bookstores, cafe's, clothing stores, pretty much any place chairs can be squeezed in so rapt listeners can relax while an author explains the awesomeness of their books. Between non-stop author's presentations scattered here and there, is a lovely tree-lined pedestrian mall where all the book publishers, retailers and authors set up tents to hawk their wares. Nothing is nicer than buying a book under the cover of gently falling autumn leaves. So pretty and serene.

 Friday, the first full day of the book festival was chilly in Iowa City. Something about an arctic air mass swooping down from Canada dropped the temperatures a bit, but I was able to get another coat of paint on our front door, so I wasn't worried. I didn't go to the festival on Friday since I was going to be there all day the next day. Saturday morning arrived and I realized it was going to be a lot colder than I expected. I pulled on my warm leggings and layered a few shirts on. I am a weather ignorer, not a weather denyer. I don't fret over what might happen but I am good at adapting to present conditions. Important distinction, I think.

Rob and I went downtown early in the morning to find out where the author's tent was going to be and to get the lay of the land for the day. I realized I needed to up my game. It was freaking cold outside! The radio weatherman said it was barely in the in 30's and with the windchill factored in, down into the 20's. That is below freezing. Yikes! We came home and I dug out winter gloves, a scarf, a heavier coat, and a blanket. I also went to the store and bought hot chocolate and mini-marshmallows because I realized maybe the book festival organizers were right about how cold it was going to be that day. I wanted a jug of hot juice with me just in case.

When we got to the author's tables with our warmer clothes, I felt confident that as the morning sun fully came out, things would warm up nicely. I actually had a pang of regret, thinking I might have overreacted to the coldness and probably wouldn't need the warm blanket at all. When one of the other authors's showed up in a full-on head to ankle fur-lined arctic coat, I thought she was a touch hysterical.

 I was to be proven so, so wrong.

Where I was placed, alongside a band of intrepid, strong-minded authors who didn't complain a bit about the ferocious winds and icicles forming off the front of our noses, was in a weird pocket of high pedestrian traffic and a complete wind tunnel. I haven't been that cold since the time I good-naturedly agreed to participate in an overnight winter camp out in knee deep snow and my son packed a child-sized sleeping bag for me that I couldn't get into past my thighs. I spend the night huddled in a single pup-tent listening to the howling winter winds, praying I would survive until sun up so I could get the h-e-double-hockey sticks out of there. The book festival was a strong second to that miserable night in the wilderness.

What made it even worse was that I was surrounded by grown ups who refused to complain. On the one hand, they were absolutely correct. Talking about the weather wasn't going to change it. And if the only thing we discussed for 7 hours was how windy and cold it was, I would have lost my mind. On the other hand, The Emperor Has NO Clothes, people! Can't we all acknowledge this event was a death march to frozen popsicle land? Nope. Instead we sat and talked about our books and writing and the stories behind our creations. I learned about the process of publishing children's books, the plight of the downwardly mobile homeless population, a fictionalized college town with sordid secrets and what steam-punk literature is. Who knew there was such a thing as Victorian-era science fiction? I gotta get out more. I also got to watch people make book marks on an antique ink press from the olden days, when each book page was type set and smashed between two metal plates by hand. I will never complain about the price of books again. Making a book the old-fashioned way was insanely hard. God bless technology.

Oh yeah, I actually sold books, too. Can you believe it? We book authors, publishers and sellers were not the only wing-nuts outside on the coldest day in the universe. People actually came and talked to us and bought our books. How crazy is that?

Here the proof: undoctored photos that clearly show the good, the bad and the ugly. I will point out the more atrocious parts in each picture so you don't miss a thing.

A happy customer adding my book to his collection. How nice! Notice the 2 gallon thermos of hot chocolate, along side a bag of mini-marshmallows and a clear box of fun-sized chocolates? I am all about customer service. PS. At one point, the min-Snickers candy bars froze solid. No lie.

Forget me in the middle. Notice the lady to the far right. Arctic coat lady. She was by far, the smartest author at the book festival. She talked with big words and was prepared for a day on the frozen tundra. Me, I was more worried about my hair. How stupid. 

Me as warm as I was gonna get, which wasn't much. Notice the bricks on the books in front of the author next to me? Yep. It was so windy the books kept blowing off the tables. In the far right of the photo is a camera crew filming people as they tested newly developed software that helps authors with writing block. Very cool stuff. I was too cold to care. 

Matthew McConaughey & Me

I had a dream that I ran into Matthew McConaughey at the mall. He saw me and called out, "Hey Heather! How are you doing, girl?" He gave me a big hug and asked if I was busy. I said I was just window shopping. We went to a nearby cafe and ordered lunch. Matthew was his normal charming self, the guy I remembered from years before when we were dating. I've always been a sucker for his smile.

I told him about Rob, our kids and our granddaughter. He shook his head in amazement and said, "Wow, you really did it. You said you wanted to get married and have a family. You got just what you wanted."
 I laughed and said, "Well, you know how that goes. I got what I thought I wanted and a heck of a lot more. If you would have ever said I would be the mother of three children with special needs and have a granddaughter who also has challenges, I would have thought you were nuts. But then again, look at you Matthew. You started out at the bottom and here you are, a Hollywood  superstar. Congrats on the Academy Award. And you got the same thing, a wonderful spouse and children."
Matthew leaned back in his casual, slouchy way and drawled, "Yeah girl, I I'd say it worked out well for both of us."

As we ate and  reminisced about our dating years, I remembered why it didn't work out between us. Back then, when he was handsome and young, I knew in my heart who he was and I knew I couldn't do it. I needed a partner who could withstand the hard things of life and still be steady and strong. That wasn't Matthew. Just so you don't think I judged him harshly, he knew who he was too. Check out the music video he starred in that explained him perfectly.

Matthew was a Walk-Away-Joe. What I didn't know as a young person was how much my desire for a guy who treated me well and could handle hard stuff would determine my future. It turns out it has been everything.

 When I married Rob, I was completely clueless as to what it took to have a decent marriage. When we had our three children and the diagnosis's of their hearing losses and other health problems came raining down on us, I was clueless as to what it took to be a decent parent to special needs children. A doctor warned us that the statistic for families with one special needs child was an 87% divorce rate. And we had three of them. By all outside measures, we were doomed. We were poor college students, we had no extended family support and we were not famous people. It takes a unique constellation of things going right for a family like ours to stay intact and thrive. Luckily, we found our way and it has worked out well.

I am so glad it has worked out well for Matthew too. Everyone deserves a chance to grow up and mature into a solid adult. I'm happy he did that.

I think Rob looks better with me anyway. We match like bookends and that comes from our years together, working as a team to conquer the world. Don't you agree?