Independence Day - Letting Go

My husband and I were having a discussion one day.  I told him about a problem I was having.  As soon as I laid out my problem, he began  trying to solve it. That's what we are wired to do,  I think, is solve problems.  I remember saying to him, "I don't need you  to solve this, I just need you to listen!"

Of course, as a parent, it's totally different.  I must solve each and every problem my children present.   It's called being a good parent.  

Ha.

My oldest finished college in January and is currently job hunting.  It's been a frustrating experience and not as expedient as she assumed it would be.  She's learned humility and patience.  I've learned to step back.  

Way the hell back.  Like, look behind you.  See that mountain?  No?  That's perfect.  That's just about far enough.  

It's the hardest thing, to support and help without fixing.  I'm  sure there's a trick to it.  If I live long enough, maybe I'll add it to my bag.  For now, I'm just very lucky that we communicate mostly by text.  It allows me to offer suggestions, which I then erase and replace with, "I'm so sorry.  That stinks", or other equally short, supportive statements.

She doesn't need me to fix this.  She can fix this.  She just needs me to listen.

And occasionally, I'll climb on a soap box...

I won't be picketing Hobby Lobby on  Saturday, but I won't ever be shopping there, either. I disagree with their religious beliefs, particularly the ones that wish to dictate what rights I should have. They've always been religious, though, so their reluctance to cover Plan B contraceptives makes sense and, if it were an isolated case, I'd be okay with that.  People work there at their own will, and if people want to work there and want to purchase PlanB contraceptives, they will have to make that purchase out of pocket, the same way they probably had to do it before healthcare reform.  This isn't about a woman's right to choose. We can still choose.

It's the precedent that is concerning.  More than half of us, if this article by Aaron Blake for the Washington Post is accurate, are employed within "closely held" companies. How many of these companies are preparing to roll out their own deeply held beliefs and how will that affect our insurance plans?  As much as it's not about a woman's right to choose, it's also not about religion anymore.  At this point, religion is just the getaway car.  Plan B contraceptives represent the tip of the deeply held religious beliefs iceberg.

I'll leave the legal arguments surrounding the decision to someone more articulate, not to mention educated, but the fallout that seems likely  from this decision is not going to be pretty.

I have a deeply held belief right now, despite the "now now, Princess, don't upset yourself" tone of the Washington Post article, that a lot more privately held companies are about to find God, even if their only deeply held religious belief is that Obamacare should go away.  

Chicken out

My Dead Relative Went to Heaven and All I Got Was This Lousy Dime

I spotted a dime on my walk this morning and I stopped to pick it up because a.) I felt bendy enough to do so, b.) I was in a waste not/want not frame of mind and c.) I thought it might be a message from my dead father.  Or mother or, for that matter, dog.

I've read that those who once lived and once loved us can learn, once they get to the other side, to manipulate matter.  It's not easy, though, so mostly they leave small things in our paths to help us find them and to let us know they are watching over us.  Things like pennies and dimes and the odd ring or beads.

This makes total sense when you think about all the little things out there lying around, all the pennies and dimes and tiny rocks.  They didn't just get there by themselves.  They are gifts from heaven.  So when I see one, I pick it up and say thanks.  It usually sounds something like this:

Thanks Dad.  Or Mom,  if that was you.  Or Sam or Uncle Ken....Tony?  Anyway, thanks all youse guys.  Sure do miss you. 

It's just a dime, but that dime, it raises a lot of questions, assuming a dead person did just leave it there for me to find.  Questions like, is it really here for me?  I mean, I spotted it, but is that the way it's supposed to work?  Am I stealing someone else's dime?  And how am I supposed to know who it's from?   Do  dimes always mean it's from Dad?  I would  think he'd leave quarters because he was always collecting those new state quarters, but maybe he can only push around dimes right now.  Dad, if you are listening, can you send me a quarter?  Georgia would be nice.  I don't have that one.  But I'm not picky, you can choose.

My parents died a few months apart and for a long time afterwards I kept finding these little green beads everywhere.  Those things were worse than the barbie shoe infestation that we suffered when my girls were little, but not as bad as the lego infestation of TWLITB's youth.  That sounds ungrateful, I know.  It's not that I'm ungrateful, but dimes are a lot more useful so I'm happy they've exhausted their green bead supply.

After my father died, my youngest, who was three, spotted a black cat in our backyard and told me it was my father.  You can bet the hairs will raise on the back of your neck when your toddler announces the presence of your dead relative in casual conversation.  The cat kept showing up, so we named it Butter (after my father).  We started feeding Butter because we thought he was a stray.  Naturally, Butter started hanging out at our house a lot more often.  Then one day, my son kicked his ball over our fence and when he and his dad went to find it, they met Mike.  Mike and his  cat, Lucy.  Lucy looked a lot like Butter.  As it turns out, my father apparently inhabits the body of a cat named Lucy.  Now we call her Lucy Butter.

I feel really badly because I've lost that dime.  I can't find it anywhere.  I guess it wasn't mine, after all.  I was a vehicle for the dime, which  is kind of creepy.  If you are out and about today, and you spot me doing back flips down some stairs, please call the priest.

Chicken out