*It was pointed out to me that this title could be taken as me leaving the interwebs. Not the case and not deliberately done on my part. My apologies, dudes. ;P 

Sometimes I feel like my life is like this big set of stage curtains. It started out as this flaming red, beautiful and perfect thing. But as is the way of it, life has put all these rips, tears, frays and holes in that beautiful fabric. Some holes I’ve been able to patch up. Some patches are prettier and more well executed than others, and some are barely adhering with fabric glue. Some rips and tears haven’t been patched at all. Some probably never will be. For the most part, I’ve come to view all those seams and patches that make up the crazy quilt of my life as something that makes me more interesting and full of character. But that usually only comes after a bit of reflection on my part.

It’s been quiet around here.

When someone like me shuts the curtains and goes quiet, you are generally safe in assuming that it’s not anything awesome that is quelling my non-stop desire to chatter.

My life seems to follow a trend where things tend to happen all at once and often to big, dizzying degrees; both the good things and the bad things. I don’t want you to think that my life only has black rain clouds filling it…it doesn’t. I have had some huge, grand, beautiful and fabulous things happen to me; things I am so grateful and happy for.

But…

It’s been a bit rainy around here as of late and quite honestly, I haven’t wanted to talk about it because one, I didn’t want to sit here and just whine at you all. And two, I’m not even sure how I feel about a lot of it. And three,  many things beyond my control are in a purgatory state of waiting to see how they resolve. (Which pretty much sucks six ways from Sunday. Especially when the outlook is grim and there is nothing you can do about it.)

I had a lot of things hit me at once.

I rang in the New Year by losing my job (I really don’t want to get into that one except to say that everyone involved is still on good terms and we all wish each other the best, but I am taking much harder than I anticipated), getting one horrible case of pneumonia along with my wee little Butterlump, having to lay in bed 85% of the day because along with my pneumonia, I dislocated my sacroiliac joint (For those that are blissfully unaware of what injury to this joint feels like, I’ll tell you that it pretty much makes you want to rip your face off. I am used to back suck and pain. I am NO wuss. I have chronic back pain from herniations in my neck and back for about two decades, but this has totally laid me flat, people. It suuuucks. ). I also have to get a lawyer to settle some issues with my ex. This was totally not my choice, it was his. I guess in the end going the official legal route will be better over all, but I get so anxious worrying that this isn’t going to be pretty or end well with lawyers involved. I pride myself on being an excellent ex-wife. We have worked hard to be fabulous co-parents and have a good relationship. I want it to stay that way. I loathe everything about this situation. Everything. Even writing about it, so let’s move on, shall we? And as the cherry on the top of the sundae, my laptop was destroyed during the move.

And those are just some of the things that I can write about.

Even the blessing of my beautiful new house (And really, it IS beautiful. I love it so much) has been difficult in a few ways…we have a lot less monthly money to work with now and our housing costs are double what they were. That is stressful. I’m annoyed I didn’t have any time to just enjoy my house before all these huge worries and stresses hit us. And I feel pretty isolated since we’re fairly far out of town, we’re new and not active in church, which is a huge amount of the social structure in this state.

And I am struggling with how I feel about leaving the house where my little Matthew lived all the days of his short life.

I went from an incredible high of finally owning my beautiful, lovely, dream home, to a series of unfortunate events that came so hard and fast that it sent me into a bit of a tailspin.

It’s been hard, but I am so glad to at least be feeling better than I was a few weeks ago.

I have some freaking amazing friends who not only drove up to see me and bring me cupcakes, but also sent me my very favorite candy in the world in the mail. (Steph, Kim and Lauren, you are simply the best and I adore you..having friends who are there for you when the shit hits the fan is priceless and I’m thankful.) Many of you checked in on me and I want you to know I love you for it. Just asking how I am doing was so considerate and thoughtful of you and it was deeply appreciated.

Butterlump and I have recovered from our pneumonia, but man, my back is still horrible. I have spent SO much flipping time in my bed. I pretty much want to tear my hair out in frustration over it. I’ve left my house exactly THREE times since Christmas. Once, to go to the doctor for pneumonia and back suck, once to go to lunch with my boss and have my job fall apart and once to attend a meeting. Which was done standing up a lot of the time and on pain killers. (I can’t say I recommend doing that. Just so you know.) I am a bit of a homebody, but damn…this is getting to be too much for me.

Parenting the adorable whirling dervish that is known as Butterlump when you have debilitating back pain is not easy.  The constant bending and lifting that I have to do with him has made healing this back really difficult and constant physical pain tends to expand the little black rain cloud I have over my head.

I am in bed flat on my back as much as I can be.  Even though I have a tremendously beautiful view out my window, I am getting really tired of it. Although, I guess I can say that I have totally caught up on a lot of really awesome television…like watching the entire first season of Shameless, which is to the max graphic and vulgar and contains a cast of characters that are such a train wreck, and so well written and acted that for the life of me I CANNOT LOOK AWAY even when it makes me ill for the moral bankruptcy of some of them. I think part of me is drawn to it because it’s these kids with a HORRIFYING father (So well done by William Macey) have to scrape out and earn this ramshackle existence for themselves. I’ve always loved plot lines like that. It’s kind of like one of my all time favorite books, The Boxcar Children, only in the the ghetto and with a lot more swearing, sex and weed.

Then in my I AM SO ASHAMED TO ADMIT I WATCH THIS viewing category, we have Switched at Birth. I can’t help it. I’m totally taken with it. Will Emmett and Daphne ever get it on??! Is Angelo the creep I think he is going to be??! Will Mr. Kennish ever wear anything that isn’t a polo shirt????!!! THESE QUESTIONS HAUNT ME, PEOPLE! And I cop to having a total girl crush on Emmett, even though it usually makes me want to run screaming into a shower when I stop and think that, while legal, the kid is like, 19.  GAH!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Hey, at least I am not a 30-something female that is crushing on a sparkly 17-year-old non-human-blood-sucking vampire, right? Give me an adorable deaf guy wearing a leather jacket on a motorcycle any day, dudes.)

(Also, my husband just piped up that he totally cannot understand “how you can be so ashamed to watch a show geared towards teenagers when  you watch every single episode of “Real Housewives of 18 flipping cities”.) (I might have to concede that he has a bit of a point on this.) (Maybe.)

To make up for my more base television viewing habits, I am also obsessed with the very classy PBS Masterpiece Theater series, Downton Abby. OMG, people. This show is absolute perfection. It starts with the sinking of  The Titanic and follows the life of a wealthy and titled Edwardian British family and their servants. I was mourning the loss of Larkrise to Candleford. (Thank goodness for Mr. Bates. I loved him in Larkrise but have so much more of a crush on him in Downton.) If you have ANY fondness for period pieces and love all things British as I do, YOU MUST WATCH IT. Preferably with hot black tea and scones topped with a generous allotment of clotted cream and lemon curd.

And they may have showed my very favorite episode of Psych. Which would be the one that has Shawn stumbling into a bit part on a Mexican Soap Opera. It’s pretty much one of the best things ever. They even changed the title song into Spanish. Comedy gold, people.

Man. I guess you know what a crappy state you are in when the most positive things you have to say are about television, no?

I guess it’s reasonable enough to wallow for a bit. I lost my job. I got sick. I have back suck. I am meeting with a lawyer tomorrow. I feel a bit isolated and conflicted about the move we made. And I have watched way more television in the last 3-weeks than is good for a dozen people. And that like all stories that are on a blog, you know there is a whole lot more going on behind the curtain than in front of it.

It’s all upended me.

But it’s also time to pick myself up, brush myself off and start peeking my head out of the curtain, dammit.

I’m sick of feeling awful.

And I DO feel like I’m starting to get on the upswing of things. It’s been good to have time alone to think about things. To mourn the loss of some things and people and to ponder the future of others.

I’m not sure what is ahead of me.

Some of these changes are really big and deep and I admit…I still feel a little lost.  I have a hard time with big changes. But I also think that there will be something to fill all these tears and holes and spaces that have ripped through the fabric of my life lately.

And I just have to have faith it will be something awesome.

One of my great joys as a child was twirling around in my Sunday dresses.

Especially if I was wearing ruffle-butt underwear.

(It just seemed to add to the “yee haw!” of the moment, you know?)

As I felt the wind whoosh my layers of taffeta and chiffon up around me in a twirling umbrella shape, I thought that, surely, EVERYONE thought that I was as wonderful as I felt in those moments.

I was wrong.

When I was little there was only one family on the street with a son my age, and the mom was the Primary President in our church.

And she did not like me.

Or any of my family, really.

We always played outside.

When I was finally invited over to his house to play, I was so excited. I remember putting on my favorite pink shirt and I went out and picked a bunch of lilacs off of our lilac bush and tied it with one of my hair ribbons to give to the mom as a present to say “thank you so much” for finally letting me come over to play with my friend. I remember standing there excitedly waiting for some comment of approval but she said nothing.

She left the flowers on the porch when we went inside.  As an adult I realize they hit the trash the second I was downstairs but as a little kid, I shrugged it off and went on my blissfully ignorant way.

We had a BLAST playing and playing and playing.

Then I went home.

A few days later, I went back to play and my friend told me his mom was mad that I didn’t clean up the playroom before I left and that because of that I was never allowed back in the house again.

And I never was.

If we were running around outside in a group, they would go in to get drinks, but everyone knew I wasn’t allowed so I stayed outside.

We lived on that street until I went to college and I never stepped foot in that house again.

All these years later I remember the feeling when he told me that I was never allowed in his house again. I stood there with my head down, face burning as I concentrated hard on the grimy edge of a Sesame Street bandage on my knee so that I wouldn’t cry in front of him.

I remember the feelings of shame and embarrassment of her judging me and finding me lacking. And I remember my feelings of confusion the next Sunday I had to sit right in front of her and watch her leading us in Primary. She was the Primary Presdient so she was a good person, right? If she never wanted me in her house again…what was I?

I wanted to crawl into the biggest, darkest hole I could find.

I just wanted her to like me.

But it is very similar to my realizations about my Grandmother Bernice (rhymes with “furnace”).

She loved me in her perfunctory way, but that is not the same thing. (And my family was Mormon, which meant I would never be acceptable.)

She did not like me, either.

Kids can tell when an adult likes them or they don’t.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. I was a charming, lovely little girl and I tried my best to twirl, laugh, sing, tell funny stories and smile to get her affection.

I wanted her to like me.

It didn’t work.

My teen and college age came, along with boys, and hurt and damage, and weight problems (being morbidly obese as a young person can really screw with your head for a long time, people) and flat out CRAZY, and shame and loss. Those were not easy years. Not easy at all.

And again and again I kept trying to get approval from people that either wouldn’t or couldn’t give it to me.

It has created so many tears and holes all over me that I am still putting them back together.

And I am a shitty seamstress, y’all.

It seems to me, that this pattern kept repeating on one level or another with different people, even though I am a card-carrying adult now. I twirl and twirl for the one person in the room that who just isn’t buying what I am selling.

Getting that particular approval is so important.

Too important.

The harder the rejection, the harder I try to get the gold star. 100 people can give me a nod and a thumbs up and I will still scan the room still looking for the one nod that means more than all of them put together.

And often it just doesn’t come.

Do not get me wrong, there is so much in my childhood, teen years and grown up life that was and is fabulous.

I have done so many amazing and wonderful things in my life.

Things I never in a million years dreamed I would.

I totally cop to the fact that can and do create quite the number of messes in my life, but…I am capable of  truly magical things.

If you don’t know me well, you’ll probably just have to take my word for this, but it’s true.

Unbelievable things can (and do) happen around me, dudes.

And over all?

I didn’t turn out so bad. :)

But…

While it has gotten better over the years, and  mainly bites just me in the ass with people I have long history with, I carry around this damage with me that I seem to have great difficulty shaking.

Which is frustrating for me because most of the time I truly feel like I’ve let it all go and moved on.

I’ll think it’s dealt with and everything can be fine, dandy, and I will be working things through like an adult (most of the time) and then BAM! My face will start burning and I feel all that old shame and embarrassment and god-awful rejection and I feel right back at square one.

It’s a tired dance–one I am throughly sick of.

I’m too old for this bullshit, frankly.

I’m 36, not in ruffle-butt underwear. (Well, mostly. :) )

It’s ridiculous.

So, here I sit, feeling a little pathetic writing these less-than-flattering things, but I need to be honest with myself because I hate getting whacked over the head by my past. (Correction: I hate that getting whacked over the head by my past can still hurt me significantly.) Change never comes by glossing over or lying to yourself, you know?

I don’t want to CARE if someone gives me a pat, a hug, a thumbs up.

I don’t want it to matter if someone gives me approval.

I want to like and love them simply because I do.

I want to leave the little girl twirling on the playground with a grubby bunch of lilacs in her hand behind me.

And twirl just because I like it.

There is probably no other place besides a blogging conference that you can have a deep theology discussion wearing a red McDonald’s Snuggie, a McDonald’s hat and drinking wine from a plastic cup.

And that is EXACTLY what I did with some lovely, beautiful women in Houston at Mom 2.0.

We each have WILDLY different beliefs.

(I was totally tempted to title this post “A Mormon, Catholic, Protestant, Atheist, and a Jew walked into a bar…”)

Lindsay, Catherine, Julie, Devra and I are like “The Blogging Super Best Friends” of religious backgrounds.

We all respect and like each other.

And today?

We are all going to address the same topic.

Together.

How do we, with our different experiences, talk about death with our children? (I also *finally* answer why I am not a practicing Mormon any longer.)

I have linked to their blog posts at the bottom of the page and deeply hope you go and read them. They are amazing.

You might have read the title of this post and had a negative reaction. And that is ok. It’s just…discussion about death at my house might not be quite the same as they are at yours.

For us, death is a horrible, hard, morbid and terrible reality that manifested in the cruelest of all ways. As many of you know, my beautiful baby boy, Matthew, passed away on September 23, 2003 of SIDS at the age of (almost) 4 months. SIDS stands for SUDDEN Infant Death Syndrome. We had no warning. No time to prepare for the onslaught of hell that was about to devastate and affect our lives for years and years to come.

My other children were 7 and 4 at the time. I was not there when they were told that their baby brother had died, and while I wish so much they could have had their mother with them during that experience, I am thankful that that is not yet another devastating moment that I have to relive in my head.

They were not prepared.

Not really.

NONE of us were.

We had mentioned what happens when someone dies here and there before that day in September, but never to any great detail. We did talk to the kids, but nothing formal, discussed beforehand. And honestly, we thought they were doing ok and “got it” for the most part. We absolutely talked to them about it afterwards, but they weren’t huge on the questions for a long time. I assumed they were just being reliant kids and just figured it out to their satisfaction.

I should have known never to assume anything when it comes to children. It came to bite me in the ass when I was driving my kids around on errands after Matthew passed away and Christopher suddenly, jarringly, piped up from the back seat.

“Mom? Is Matthew going to be a zombie now?”

“NO. He is NOT going to be a zombie. EVER.”

(Seriously, I LOVE HOW THESE QUESTIONS ALWAYS HAPPEN WHEN I AM TRYING TO OPERATE A VEHICLE)

“Well…if he isn’t going to be a zombie, can we dig him up to play with him?”

(Did I mention that I WAS TRYING TO DRIVE IN RUSH HOUR TRAFFIC?)

“…..No. You….Cannot….dig up your brother and play with him. I know you really want to but you can’t ever do that again. It’s hard and we all miss him and I’m so sorry because I know he loved it when you played together.”

“So…we can’t dig him up?”

“NO”.

Things got VERY quiet because I was REELING and Christopher was sad. Then I heard James whisper, “Don’t worry, Christopher. I know where Mom and Dad keep the shovels. They’re in the shed.”

Sigh.

(It’s ok. You can recoil or  laugh. Or both. You have no idea how morbid the topics gets when someone close to you dies and how if you DIDN’T laugh? It would kill you. It almost killed me anyway and I laugh all the time.)

It was obvious that we needed to further address the issue of death and what happens when we die with our kids.

We picked a great analogy that was popular in our religion to explain physical death and souls to children. You take a glove and illustrate that as it is…it’s just a glove. Then you put it on your hand and move it around. Without your hand the glove is useless but when it covers the hand the two work beautifully together, just as it should. Then take the glove off. Once the glove is discarded and separated from the hand it is useless once again. But while the glove is useless, the hand can still move and exist without it.

It’s actually pretty snazzy and accurate to many faiths.

We made it clear that Matthew still existed as a spirit. That he was with Heavenly Father. That he still loved us and we still loved him. That he is ok.

A dear, long-time friend of mine looked physically pained during a conversation about this post when he told me that he believes when we die, we are just dead.

Period.

The End.

He didn’t want to hurt me. He cares about me and knows that losing a child is enough pain for someone without telling a grieving mother that her son is nowhere but in the dirt, in their opinion. But, no…he doesn’t believe we exist past this life.

Much as I adore him to bits and am truly respectful and supportive of him being comfortable with what he believes, I have to disagree for myself.

I believe in souls. I believe there is something in us that existed before we had a physical body and I believe that we will continue to exist once that body dies.  No one can give me an acceptable scientific explanation for where that animation and beauty that is humanity comes from or where it goes. To me it is not explainable other than there has got to be something more than just this life.

The explanation at the time worked really well and the whole subject wasn’t as tough THEN as it would become.

Because THEN I was still a practicing, active member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.

A Mormon.

(Donny Osmond? Mitt Romney?? Ricky “The Ricker” Schroeder???)

Right now, while my name remains on church records, I do not attend nor adhere to any of the principles or the LDS faith.

I NEED TO BE CLEAR I AM NO REPRESENTATIVE OF MORMONISM.

I get asked why I left the Mormon Church more than just about ANYTHING about me (Besides, “Um..excuse me, but HOW DID SOMEONE LIKE YOU BECOME A 3-TERM PTA PRESIDENT!?”).

So, I thought I would FINALLY give you some insight today and cross my fingers that I can somehow condense issues and things that could well take up 6 volumes into one tiny blog post.

I am rather protective of Mormonism.  While I am not active it IS my background. If I ever returned to religious practice, it would be that one. It is highly controversial and evokes the most face-melting hatred in some factions. I’m not interested at all in bashing it or hearing others bash or hate on  it. There are like, elventyhundred other places to do that online, but this is not one of them. I’ve heard all the arguments and don’t mind discussing things AT ALL AS LONG AS YOU ARE RESPECTFUL IN YOUR DISSENT.  (The delete key is my friend, yo.)

I’ve never had strong faith.

As far back as I can remember, church just wasn’t a great place to be. I WANTED it to be. Oh, MY the times that I would sit in church and wonder what was wrong with me that I didn’t seem to take as much…awesome comfort in it as everyone else. And people TRULY do. My brother, Rhett, is one of the most faithful people I know and the church gives him a true, deep happiness that I envy.

I deeply envy the comfort that it can be to people going through horrible trial.

I find that my issues (for the most part) were much more focused on God than The Mormon Church. (Though, do we have HUGE disagreements on many things. A post and discussion for another day.)

My faith in God was never awesome. I am not one to consider praying for help. I HAVE prayed, but it is not natural to me and usually it is on behalf of others. My childhood was hard and kind of lonely. I had a lot of things really screw with my head as a teenager and yet another thing ripped my faith into more pieces in my young adulthood than I could manage to put back together.

Matthew dying was the last nail in the coffin, I’m afraid.

God and I have been in a fight ever since.

And I don’t even know how I look at God or what his role and makeup is anymore.

Or Christ for that matter.

When Matthew died, every single thing I thought I knew about EVERYTHING was dumped on the floor in a mess and it may take more years than I have left to figure out what to do with them. I believe in some form of higher power, I’m just not sure WHAT, exactly.

I also know that when my little bug passed away I was initially VERY comforted. And I felt SPIRITUALLY comforted, even though that feeling would not only desert me but I would be left with my life in such tatters I would be looking UP to see hell. For a time, though it helped me.

And I am grateful for that.

Mormons deal with death as a whole in a very positive manner. There is crying and grief at funerals and about death, but not usually a general feeling of dispair. No veils or all black worn at funerals. There is huge, great, shiny hope in the after life and what it will mean to people.  That we will all see each other again and the separation is temporary.The family is the primary focus. Temple marriages survive past the bonds of death, Families are eternal. If you go through the temple and are sealed, you are bound together for eternity as are your children. You will see your loved ones again if you live worthily and to prescribed standards. (And they are some pretty high standards. But again…that is a topic for another day.)

When children under 8 die, there is no test. They are exalted. Perfect, pure, innocents that automatically go straight back into the arms of Heavenly Father. The rest of the family will join them later and the temple-endowed parents of lost little ones will have a chance to raise them again after the resurrection of Christ.

Sounds lovely, no?

Here is the problem.

For many different reasons that are really none of your business, Jonathan and I are not sealed in the Temple.

Meaning…I am not sealed to Matthew.

There was little that was going to change that.

And when all was said and done, it was probably the primary reason I had to walk away from the Mormon faith.

I couldn’t take it.

Could not, could not, COULD NOT TAKE IT.

Could not take the thought of sitting there week after week hearing “families are forever” and knowing there was nothing I could do to make that happen. (Again. Long story.) and that my son was just…out there. HE was fine but what would happen to our family?

You have no idea the pressure, stress, worry, sorrow and fear.

Yes, I could have gone on my own but I honestly think it would have ripped my marriage apart even more than it ended up being in the end.

I couldn’t live like that.

And for that and soooooooooooooooooooo many more reasons, I became inactive.

If I had a lifetime of strong testimony and faith and comfort in it? I would probably still be there. But the truth of the matter is that being a practicing Mormon stresses me the hell out.  I DO struggle with some aspects of not practicing, but over all I feel a lot more comfortable in my own skin. (Hey, SOMEONE has to go to the  Middle Kingdom. And I am pretty ok with that as things go.)

I STRONGLY believe that this is what I need to do right now. I have had several attempts to return to church. It hasn’t worked out for more reasons than even I know.

I make sure my children go, though.

It was a decision made by all of us. They wanted to go and I am a believer that if you truly want to give your children a choice regarding religion and if they practice it, they need exposure to religion when they are children. I want to give faith a fighting chance with them. I don’t want my issues to be their issues. (And I realize MANY disagree with this, and that is ok, too.) Like, I said- I know plenty of truly happy LDS people that aren’t asshats. If my kids can pull that off and love it and be happy? I am for that. IF they are more like me and it’s not a great fit? Fine. But I want them to know that judging others for their beliefs and how they live is not ok. That seeing someone with a cup of coffee, cigarette, beer or wearing a tank top does not mean they are evil or unhappy with how they choose to live.

That is important to me.

They have many great examples of strong, faithful Mormons around them. Like their grandparents that take them to services every other week. They also have examples of people who are very different and not practicing that fiercely love them and have that love returned. Like their mother and father who make sure that they are able to go.

My children ask me all the time if I am going back to church. I tell them I love them. That I am ok. They are ok. That we will all be ok and that I truly believe that. I am supportive of them being religious. I tell them I support whatever they want to do with church. That I will make sure they go every week, that I send them to youth camps, that I will pay for their 2-year missionary service at 19 if they are worthy and want to serve. If they want to pray (and they usually do) we pray. I never stop anything they want to do religiously.

I have told my children that no matter what they discover about themselves and grow into: religious, non-religious, conservative, liberal, straight, gay, purple or alien that more than anything in this world, I want them to just be happy and comfortable with who they are deep at their core. Whatever path serves that is the one I hope they follow.

But.

As for me returning to church I will not be pushed faster and more than I want to/can walk in the area of faith.

I will go to church for no one but myself. Because I have done that and done that and it only serves to make me feel inadequate and miserable a huge portion of the time.

And right now?

I can’t. It’s not where I am at. I don’t know if it ever will be again.

And because Mormonism isn’t simply a religion but a culture and is such a huge part of my daily life, part of that makes me sad.

But not enough to change it.

I feel good.

Just as I am.

Happy.

Finally.

So?

For now?

The only thing that I really know for certain is that I don’t know a damn thing for certain.

But what I utterly believe with my heart and soul is that my son keeps existing. If I did not, I would break into a thousand more pieces than I could ever put back together again.

And?

I also believe that he  is ok.

Beyond that, all I can hope is that after trying to wade through hell to get through a life on earth without him in it?

I will be ok, too.

**

Please take some time to explore the sister posts on this subject by my fellow “Super Best Friends”, and truly beautiful women, at their blogs below:

SUBURBAN TURMOIL (This was Lindsay’s brain child)

HER BAD MOTHER

PARENTOPIA

MOMSLANT