A mother. A daughter. A topic.
I feel great.
Brian feels great.
What could be better?
It’s been six glorious months since I was lucky enough to give Brian (my ex-husband…for those who are new to She Thinks) one of my kidneys.
Following the surgery, it took me about 2 weeks before I felt good enough to move around on my own, and at 7 weeks (to the day) Matthew and I were standing on the top of Machu Picchu in Peru marveling at the beauty and the grandeur of the surroundings, and I couldn’t help thinking about how incredibly good my life was at that very moment.
At that same time, Brian was traveling in Spain with friends, having far more fun than he’d had for some time before. He was able to walk for hours, eat anything they had to offer, and drink to his hearts’ content (although I think he probably pushed that one a bit too hard for so early in his recovery). He was a bit worn out when he returned…but so were the others in his traveling party, so all in all…he did great!
It probably took him 3-4 months before his energy level started to come back in earnest, but today, he’s feeling stronger and healthier than ever.
What could be better?
I can eat whatever I want. I can drink as I always have. And I don’t have to take any drugs at all to keep my remaining kidney working or healthy. It’s doing everything it’s supposed to do all on its own…and doing it beautifully at that!
Brian has to take a handful of anti-rejection drugs on a daily basis…but he’s got them figured out so that they don’t give him any trouble. It’s just a part of his daily routine, and he accepts it as a fact of life with all of the dignity and grace you would expect from the great, laid back kinda guy he is.
My health hasn’t changed at all (which is a good thing)…but as we all hoped…Brian feels a lot better.
It’s that new feeling of health that allows him to look ahead in a way that he wasn’t able to do for a really long time. He knows now that he’ll be around for awhile. He can engage in life again. He can be a part of his kids’ lives for a long time to come. He has a future.
What could be better?
But the really incredible part of this whole thing for me is that we have something new…between us…that’s totally unique and special (even for our crazy relationship).
We’ve always been close. The best of friends. Even through, and in spite of, our divorce. But this is different.
Now we share something that’s more than just a bond. It’s a connection that is so true, so honest and so real, that we don’t have to try to explain our kind of odd and unusual relationship anymore. Not to each other…and not to anyone else. It’s just understood.
And it’s made me appreciate what I have in my life. My health. My kids. My family. My man. My friends. My time to participate as fully as I can in the life I’m so grateful to have.
Honestly, what can be better than that?
(Don’t know the Kidney A-Go-Go story? May I suggest you go here first?)
It’s funny. I’ve been sitting here staring at the screen for about thirty minutes, and I don’t know what to say.
Not because there’s nothing to say… just that I don’t know how to describe the past six months.
I wasn’t the one who had major surgery. I wasn’t the one who had to recover.
But I was there, every step of the way. And I’m here, six months later, thrilled about how awesome it’s all been.
Part of me says, “Wow, six months? Is that it?”, while another part of me says, “THE CALENDAR IS LYING AND HAS IT REALLY BEEN SIX MONTHS?”
But I guess that’s just what time (and life) tends to do…
We’ve done better than I could have ever imagined or hoped for.
(!)
My dad looks great. His new kidney is happy and healthy and seems to love it’s new home.
My mom looks great. Her other organs are enjoying the extra space. (I assume.)
I’ve been able to move forward, because I feel like I can. There’s not this big
WHAT’S NEXT
WHAT’S HAPPENING
WHATWHEREWHENHOWHUH hanging over us all.
We’re all good.
And beyond that, I don’t really think about it anymore.
In fact, I believe that Mom and Dad have stopped thinking about it, too.
This is mostly because time passes and you move on. (That’s life.)
And also because it’s so much a part of our family’s history and who we are. It’s just not a big deal.
But it’s also because our lives revolved around this event for so long… it’s nice not to be obsessed and worried about it. So much of our future was unknown, and now it feels much… clearer.
And easier.
And oh so much more peaceful.
I often forget how “odd” our situation is. How weird people think my parents are. I’m only reminded when I see the shock flit across someone’s face when I tell them our story.
Because it’s part of our “normal”. It’s not weird anymore. It was what was supposed to happen.
And you don’t question or raise your eyebrows at something like that.
You smile, stay thankful, stay happy, and live.
I think there’s a difference between “romance” and “romantic.”
To me, “romantic” refers to a moment in time. An act that somehow conjures up visions of low lighting (candles maybe), roof top dinners (not that I’ve EVER experienced that), flowers (unexpectedly arriving with a loving note) or a presentation of a small, unmarked box with something sparkly inside (along with some low lighting and music in the background perhaps?).
It’s an expression of our love that happens at a specific time and place as in “we went out for a candlelit dinner last night and it was so romantic.” Or…”he got me flowers every day last week”…”he’s soooo romantic.”
It’s when one person goes out of their way to set up a situation that says…”this is all about you.” It makes us feel all warm inside with the knowledge that we’ve just been wrapped up tight in someone else’s admiration (adoration/love/wanting) of us…combining surprise, attention to detail and even ambience.
It’s romantic.
Now romance is a different thing for me all together.
It’s a process. It happens over time.
It’s the act of being in love. Like a constant state of being wooed, and wooing the other person, even after each has gotten comfortable with the other.
It’s about maintaining the flirt.
The blush.
The giggle.
The anticipation.
As I think back on it…I believe my parents lived a life of romance. They believed in being in love. Never taking each other for granted. Keeping it fresh and alive. Always flirting.
Don’t get me wrong…they had their ups and downs, their times when daily life overwhelmed them…but they would come out on the other side even more in love and exuding even more romance because (I think) they got through it together.
So I know it can happen. But it’s not typical.
We usually refer to the beginning of our relationships as the time of our romance. When we didn’t know each other well enough to take each other for granted…and were still trying to impress each other so that we could spend more time exploring one another.
That’s the exciting time. It’s fresh. It’s new.
But once we’ve gone through the hunt and landed our prey, we tend to let it go. (And I mean that in the most romantic way possible.)
But imagine what it would be like if we tried to maintain the romance.
If we kept up the flirt.
If we created situations where we didn’t quite know what to expect (and I’m not talking about going to a bar and pretending you don’t know each other).
If we infused a certain amount of surprise into our relationship…on an ongoing basis.
If we set up romantic moments other than just on Valentine’s Day.
IMAGINE what our long-term relationships would be like.
We might even blush with excitement like it was all fresh and new. OY.
For me that’s romance.
I was going to start this post by talking about flowers and candlelight and walks on the beach and Richard Gere climbing a hooker’s fire escape (sorry: EX-hooker). But really? That’s not romance to me. I don’t connect with or relate to those examples at all. I’m not saying I’ve never gotten (and appreciated) a bouquet of roses, but that’s not my definition of romance.
Since I was having some trouble with this question, I did the cliche thing and looked “romance” up in the dictionary. What came up surprised me:
{From Merriam-Webster}:
a medieval tale based on legend, chivalric love and adventure, or the supernatural (2) : a prose narrative treating imaginary characters involved in events remote in time or place and usually heroic, adventurous, or mysterious (3) : a love story especially in the form of a novel
{From Dictionary.com}: a baseless, made-up story, usually full of exaggeration or fanciful invention.
If you go further down, romance is defined as wooing or courting someone, but for the most part the dictionary gods define it as that section in the bookstore overflowing with paperbacks and pictures of men in kilts.
(Seriously – romance authors love to write about Scottish guys.)
(I know this because I work in a bookstore… not because I love to read about Scottish guys.)
My definition is a tad different.
I think that romance is anything that makes you or someone you care about feel loved and special.
Example from my relationship:
My mom gave Mike and me each a small heart-shaped box of chocolates for Valentine’s Day. When I got home from work yesterday I asked Mike if he wanted to open his (so that I’d feel less guilty about opening mine… and having the contents for lunch…). He turned to me and said, “Ally, each box has three pieces. Why don’t you pick the three best, and take those for yourself. Leave the ones you don’t want for me.”
(Awwww…)
So I ate a delicious chocolate covered caramel, then told Mike that I wanted him to have the other one because it was so yummy that I thought he should get to eat one, too.
That? Is romance.
It’s not adventurous or exciting or heroic (well… the dude did offer to give up chocolate covered caramel, which makes him my hero).
It’s not really impressive.
But it made me feel special and loved. And my leaving that second piece for him made him feel special and loved.
And it made us smile.
It may not end up as a paperback… but it’ll do just fine…
Topic: Were you raised in a strict home? How will/did you raise your own kids?
Cindy Thinks
Ally Thinks
My folks (especially my mom) had some very definite ideas about child rearing. When my brother and I were young, there was a certain formality to the way things were done; how we were supposed to act; when we woke/ate/went to bed; and even how we were dressed – that was typical of the times. Not surprisingly…our dad worked long hours in important jobs (of course), and mom ruled the home (and was the primary disciplinarian).
The “strict” nature of it all came in the form of discipline and manners. My mom was a no nonsense woman when it came to her children behaving properly. We were NEVER allowed to talk back, or (God Forbid) utter the word “No” to our parents…EVER.
Of course I tried it…once, and ended up with a mouth full of soapy water. YUK.
From that point on, the threat of “don’t you say that – or use that tone – to me or I’ll wash your mouth out with soap and water” (lips pierced and wagging her finger at me) took on a true and ominous tone to which I would quickly back down (no matter what).
There were a few “spankings” along the way (until I got too big to fit across my mom’s lap and we both realized how silly the whole thing was) and more than a few banishings to my room. But nothing much more in terms of actual “punishments.”
The worst was when my mom would get so mad at us that she would send us to our rooms and go to the kitchen and begin emptying the dishes (or pots) from the cabinets and begin washing them all by hand, while yelling at the top of her lungs (to nobody in particular) about how wrong/stupid/rotten we were on that particular occasion.
When the ranting began…we knew we had crossed the line.
As we got older, rules began to be placed on our comings and goings, and I started to feel the strict boundaries that my folks would place around me until I left for college. You know…the regular things like curfews, restrictions on sleepovers, and the differences in “school day” activities vs. “weekend” activities.
The hardest was the curfew. I HATED having to be home by 11:00 p.m. (on weekends!) all through high school, but I think I hated the “rationale” for the curfew more than the actual time I had to be home.
“Mom…why can’t I just stay out to midnight like everyone else!?!”
“Because I want to go to sleep at 11:00 and I can’t go to bed unless you’re home.”
“Sure you can…I don’t care if you’re up when I get home.”
“I CARE” “So you’ll be home at 11:00.” “PERIOD.”
REALLY???? Can parents really get away with that?
You bet. I did. (More on that later)
I too was a stickler for discipline and manners (I am my mother’s daughter) as I wanted my kids to be polite and well behaved…mostly so that we could all go anywhere or do anything together without me having to worry whether or not the kids would act out (and because that’s how I was raised).
Oh they had their moments of bickering and snitty tones and slacking off around the house.
But I swear…they were amazingly good kids.
And sometimes I think it might have been despite my parenting.
I yelled a lot, especially when they were young.
I took the whole ranting thing I grew up with and raised it to an art form. And I regret having yelled at them so much.
Because I think I scared them.
But as my kids aged…I think I figured out how to parent with a modicum of strictness (and yelling) mixed in with a healthy dose of humor and love.
But I still think I was pretty strict (mean).
They had curfews ‘til 11:00 on weekends too. OK…Ally had it all through high school but I’m pretty sure we relaxed the rules when AJ got there (and I’m sure that inconsistency and lack of fairness will come back to bite me again and again…)
But I don’t think it ruined them.
They’re really wonderful people.
I’ve never been grounded. (Really.) But I don’t think that’s because my parents were especially lenient on anything – it was because I never did anything worthy of strict punishment.
I just chose to spend an incredible amount of time in my room. I didn’t go out. I didn’t run around after hours. I didn’t lie.
And this didn’t happen because my parents were incredibly strict, either.
I was just a really, really good kid.
(I have sources to back me up on this.)
The truth is, I never had the desire to push their buttons or take advantage.
(Well, I didn’t really have a desire to actively push their buttons. Like, I never took the car without asking or climbed out of the window in the middle of the night. I’m sure I annoyed the hell out of them with the tantrums or typical teenage talking-back and bitching about things…)
I think that I would describe my parents as “laid back”.
They were our friends, but also clearly Mom and Dad.
They yelled sometimes, but I don’t look back on any of my childhood and think, damn, there was a lot of yelling. I think yelling is just a part of every family. And compared to other families I knew/know? Our yelling was extremely tame.
They were never afraid to say “no”, but they chose to say “yes” a lot of the time. And I think that’s the important part: saying “no” isn’t a bad thing. Saying “no” is necessary, especially when a kid is young. I see kids who have zero respect for their folks, and I can’t help but think that it has something to do with how much their parents let them get away with, especially when they’re young.
(I’m not saying to go all Tiger Mom on kids, either, but I think that there’s a balance.)
(My parents were pros at finding that balance.)
I had the normal rules that all kids have. No making a mess in public, no talking back (I actually did break that rule a lot), manners, curfews…
If I ever had royally screwed up or pushed some boundaries or broken a single rule, then I assume my parents would have punished me in a traditional way (no TV, extra chores…). Nothing too severe, but I doubt they would have let me off the hook.
When it came down to it, I just never, ever wanted to disappoint them. I don’t know if that’s something that’s just a part of me – as a person – or if they ingrained that in me from the beginning.
(Maybe they hypnotized me as an infant or something…)
Either way, I’m very happy with how my parents raised me.
(I’m not just saying that.)
If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to raise my own kids in a similar manner.
I want to be friends with my kids, but I also don’t want to let them walk all over me. I know it’s not easy to pull off, but – lucky me – I’ve got some great teachers.
(Seriously, I’m not just saying that.)
(Or, you know, maybe I just got so traumatized that I’ve blocked a bunch of horrible things out… I guess that’s always a possibility.)