A Mom & Her Boys

Dear Ones-

This is going to be a long post.

And maybe not so uplifting.

But real.

A real, long post.

Yesterday sucked.

Like, in the history of sucking it was at least a six on the sucking scale.

No one that I love died. No one that I love was injured or hospitalized.

I didn't have another stroke. Or a heart episode. By some miracle.

But, emotionally and mentally it was so draining that I have to give it at least a six on the suck meter.

I was accused of some pretty powerful things yesterday, including being "aggressive," being an "angry person," being "disrespectful for not looking at someone during certain meetings..." The list actually goes on and on, but the point is that I was stunned into silence as I was sitting across from the person accusing me of these things. I began to weep. In the meeting. Weep. I was told that I shouldn't laugh at funny things. Nor should I root for the rise of certain people unless I root for the rise (aggressively) of other certain people. I should not ask questions. I should not praise certain people unless I (aggressively) praise other very certain people.

Dear Ones, this came from a person who has never taken the time to ask what I do. 

Never taken the time to ask who I am.

Never taken the time to ask my guys how they feel about me and what I do.

Never asked any questions at all.

Just made accusations against my very fragile character.

As I walked out of the office and around yesterday, with red, dry, swollen eyes because I cried about seven of the nine hours I was at work, my guys began to loudly ask, "Who made her cry??! "Who did this to her?" "We love you, Sis!" "Come here. Let's hug."

I then chose to read a Facebook post. It was not directed at me in particular, but was directed at me in a sense. It was harsh. It pointed fingers at those who "aren't focused and don't have their goals set on being leaders." "Who aren't making our businesses our priority." "Who aren't saving our money the way they would." 

And I broke.

Like, broke.

Like a shelf full of D.I. dishes stacked poorly broke.

Shattered all over aisle three.

Can you hear the loud speaker, "Clean up on aisle three... and probably call for back-up."

I was pissed. 

Have I told you I hate that word? I do.

But, Ones. I was pissed. And broken. And shattered.

I have been told many things over the past 20 years. And even before that.

I have been told I'm too fat. I'm too skinny. 

I have been asked if I know how children are made because I seem to have so many.

I have been asked what is wrong with my children when they have been hooked up to life-saving medical equipment.

I have been told I'm a bad mom. I have been told I'm a good mom. 

I have been told I am irresponsible. I have been told I'm too nice.

I have been told to keep my mouth shut because no one wants to hear what I have to say.

I have been told that I have a voice and to use it.

I have been called sassy, brassy, feisty, protective, emotional, bitchy, devoted, committed...

I have been told that I am no longer welcome to be a friend because I am not in their status (divorced, single mom).

I have been told that my children will fail because they don't have a father figure and because I caused that.

I have been told that I have no filter. 

I have been told that I might be paralyzed for the rest of my life.

I have been told that if I have another stroke, it will kill me.

I have been told that my child would be put on hospice at age three.

I have been told that my child is Autistic, has pediatric anxiety, learning disorders and ADHD.

I have been told that my child wants to take his own life because his depression is not under control.

I have been told that my child needs to be in a lock-down facility at age four because his trauma from abuse is too much.

I have been told that my mama has cancer.

I have been told my dad cheated on my mom.

I have been told my husband cheated on me and made a baby.

I have been told my husband cheated on me with my best friend.

I have been told, due to my husband's abuse, my children could be taken away at ages four months, thirteen months, 22 months and 3 years old.

I have been told that I need to do more.

I need to be more.

I am not enough.

I am not worthy.

I am not pretty enough, smart enough, good enough.

To that, Dear Ones, I say:

Please. Please walk one 24-hour period in my shoes.

Wake up at 5 am and go to the gym, once you remember what you need to wear and what you need to take with you to get there. Work out. Go home.

Remember what you need to do to get ready for work. 

Shower, hair, makeup, get dressed (remember, Heidi, you set all of your clothes out the night before. They are all laying on the cedar chest). 

Oh, and remember that the shampoo and conditioner have to be used every day. Remember to wash with soap and remember to brush your teeth and take your pills. You're doing great, Heidi.

Go Live. Because I have a business, go live. Fake it until you make it, Heidi. Smile. Remember, there's notes there for you to remember what to say and you set your makeup out the night before to help you.

Kneel to say prayer.

Remember, Heidi, you have to wear shoes when you leave the house.

Make a protein shake. Remember, Heidi. You have to plug in the blender. It's sitting right next to the plug for you to remember.

Grab your lunch from the fridge. It's in the grocery bag on the second shelf. That's what you take today.

Go to the car. 

Remember, we go straight. Get on the freeway. Remember that merge sign there. We just go straight. Just a straight shot to 31st Street. Then left. Then left again. You're doing great.

Remember, put your lunch in the fridge. Get some water in your hospital mug.

You're doing great, Heidi.

Look at your notes next to your phone. Radio on. Computer on. Remember, the password is written down right there for you. Look at your notes. Check your three calendars. It's all right there for you. 

You're doing great, Heidi.

Work for nine hours. Do it. If you can't remember, look at your notes. Don't let anyone think you don't have this completely under control.

During lunch, schedule posts for your business. Schedule blog posts for your business page. Message people for your business. Write down orders, with all of the information you've outlined on your form. 

Go home. Walk right to the kitchen. Make dinner. Remember, it's all written on the chalkboard. Make dinner and put it on the table. Tell the boys it's ready. 

Grab a garbage bag. Go clean the complex. The whole thing. Remember to go behind the buildings, too. It's gross, so wash your hands as soon as you walk in. Report the clean-up. 

Go back home. Do you need to do your laundry today? What are the boys needs? Pull them aside one-by-one and find out what they need from you.

Do we need groceries? Is there money for groceries? Heidi, don't eat dinner. There needs to be enough to fill the boys' tummies.
You're doing great, Heidi.

Go upstairs. Set out your clothes for the next day. Set out your makeup for the next day.

Do the boys have somewhere they need to be? What is the car situation tomorrow? Write it down. 

Make sure the dishwasher is empty.

Does the bathroom need cleaned? Do I need to vacuum?

You're doing great, Heidi.

Take your nighttime pills. You are so tired. 

Wash your face. 

Run your business for an hour, or so. Post, message, prepare, package up orders, prepare to send out packages. 

You're doing great, Heidi.

Read your scriptures. 

Say your prayers.

Call the boys in to say family prayers.

Turn on your meditation.

Go to sleep.

Wake up in the middle of the night to read messages and write more notes that I thought of when I was in dream land.

Check on boys.

Close your eyes again.

Sleep.

Do it all again.

You're doing great, Heidi.

So, the next time someone wants to accuse me of things that are pretty powerful... pretty damning... pretty outrageous, please come grab my shoes that I remembered to wear today and walk in them. Use this stroke-riddled brain. Use this broken heart. Use these mommy arms that never forget that there are four boys who fit perfectly in them. The next time you want to tell me that I don't save my money well, therefore I can't be at convention this week, therefore I will not succeed - ask me the last time I ate dinner... ask me how much I had to borrow from my sweet boy's mission fund to pay rent... ask me the last time my boys and I did anything fun... ask me what I would actually spend saved money on -- the answer would be school clothes for my boys, which they won't be getting because I have no money. 

Dear Ones, we are all doing the best we can. At least, I am. 

That's all.