Cub Scout Confessions, Episode 2

I think I'm a failure as a den leader. Or maybe just as a mother. Tonight was the Cub Scout den meeting from hell. At least for me it was.

Mind you, this meeting didn't start out awful. For a change, I had actually prepared multiple fun activities for our Scouts so that they would enjoy the meeting--in contrast to the dry, educational, "lots of talking" meetings we've had many times before (in our efforts to complete the badge requirements). In fact, I had planned that tonight, our boys would do absolutely NOTHING that fulfilled a requirement for that oh-so-important Wolf badge. I vowed that we would focus only on electives. I bought the necessary toys and game materials. I was all set.

Our den meetings last for an hour each week. One precious hour to shape the impressionable minds of Tomorrow's Leaders. Just for tonight, I wasn't worried about building character--I figured we could just HAVE FUN. Little did I know how my terrific, brilliant, masterful plan would unravel before the hour was done.

Oh, the first 45 minutes went great. Like clockwork. Two of our five Scouts didn't show up, but the three who did (including my older son, R) were quite enthusiastic about the prospect of a "fun only" meeting. We got into a nice groove fairly quickly. First on the schedule: Write a message to a friend in invisible ink (or milk or lemon juice, whichever is more convenient). I came armed with a bottle of lemon juice and a stash of cotton swabs, plus plenty of printer paper for composing the Top Secret Messages. I brilliantly planned for us to write the messages at the start of the meeting, so the "invisible ink" would have sufficient time to dry before the boys toted their Top Secret letters home. Well, I picked a great way for us to begin the meeting. The boys thought it was a cool (and fun) activity. So there I was: one activity down, three to go.

Activity #2 was a game, our own slightly tweaked version of the "marble sharpshooter" game depicted in the Wolf Cub Manual. Instead of the glass bottles recommended by the manual, I set up three cylindrical plastic soft drink mix containers as targets (safety first, right). And I used hard rubber high-bouncing balls instead of the marbles (hey, I was in a pinch, and there weren't any marbles available at the nearest discount store I could find in those last 10 minutes before the meeting). But they worked just fine. Our three Scouts were a little competitive, but easygoing and enthusiastic. Hurray! This game was a hit.

On to the third activity: the boys had to spell their names with the American Sign Language alphabet. We happily practiced all of the letters, and then each Scout signed his own first name. Mission Accomplished. Time for Activity #4, "Pie-tin washer toss." Sort of a cheap den leader's variation on a game of horseshoes. Each boy would toss five washers (or, in our case, quarters) and try to get them to land in a pie tin. For each washer/quarter that landed in the pie tin, the tosser would score one point. Simple enough rules, right? No sweat!

Of course, I was not content with having the Scouts aim for just one pie tin: I decided it would be even more challenging (and more FUN!) to set out a line of three tins, with the closest being worth 1 point, the middle one worth 2 points, and the farthest worth 3. In theory, at least, this enhanced Pie-Tin Washer Toss game was golden, practically foolproof, virtually a guaranteed winner among our second grade Scouts. As the game began, I allowed a subtle (but smug) grin to creep across my face as I silently praised myself for my impressive and ingenious den meeting plan. Snidely Whiplash had nothing on this savvy den mama! BWAAAHAAHAA!

And just as Murphy's Law would dictate, here's where our blissfully cruising Titanic of a den meeting smacked the iceberg. My Number One Son--my sole reason for deciding to take on the den leader gig in the first place--tossed his first five quarters, scored only 1 point, and proceeded to throw one of the most vile tantrums of his eight-year-old life. My attempts to act like a calm, mature Leader-With-A-Capital-L did nothing to quell R's fury. R's two fellow Den 5 Scouts stood there in stunned silence. Talk about a mood-breaker.

I could rant for a solid six paragraphs about the way my normally genteel--almost precociously genteel--offspring did his best Problem Child imitation. But I'll spare you the misery--not because I'm trying to be stingy with this posting (which, yes, I know, is my first in nearly two months), but because if I force myself to regurgitate the grim details even one more time, I'll wind up stressed out all over again. It's just not worth that kind of agony.

Suffice it to say, by the time tonight's den meeting ended, I was seething. And, despite his oh-so-penitent "please don't ground me please please please I'll clean the living room and I'll be really good from now on please please please" post-meeting litany of apologies...despite his torrent of tears...R is now grounded from Xbox for a solid month. This punishment, a sentence solemnly handed down by the Supreme Court of Mommy and Daddy, presents a particulary painful consequence because on Saturday, R's two best friends, B and T, will be coming over for our younger son's birthday party. In keeping with our sons' birthday party tradition, B and T will spend the night. And thanks to R's den meeting tirade, there will be no Xbox gaming that night. None at all.

Yep, that's my Number One Son. Perennial straight-A student, always honor roll-bound, favorite of teachers, beloved by classmates...Cub Scout From Hell.

P.S. Exactly seven years ago tonight, our younger son, O, was born. Happy Birthday, my little Sugar Bean!

Confessions of a Pooped Professional

I'm exhausted. The work week that just ended was one of the busiest I've experienced in a very long time. I was literally busy almost nonstop every day. And on top of my intense work schedule, I had to cope with sleep deprivation because of my younger son's unusual amount of bedtime energy--Tuesday and Wednesday nights, it took "O" until almost 1 A.M. to go to sleep. In the immortal words of Charlie Brown, AAARRRGGGHHH! I was not pleased about being forced to stay up so late because O took so long to wind down. Anyway, now I am extremely tired. So tired that I'm having a tough time keeping my eyes open while I write this--but I'll push onward, since I'm almost done with this posting.

I've learned a few important lessons this week:

Lesson #1: Limit late-evening TV, in order to reduce the environmental factors that could keep O cranked up long past his normal bedtime.

Lesson #2: Consider giving O his bath at night, rather than in the morning--it might help him relax and calm down enough to fall asleep sooner.

Lesson #3: Instead of always staying up to goof around online after the boys are in bed, try going to sleep when they do--at least sometimes.

Lesson #4 (the most important one): I absolutely must STOP overscheduling myself at work! My busy-ness on the job this week was largely self-inflicted. Fact is, I don't have to see as many clients per day as I did this week, and I am entitled to a 30-minute lunch break each day, as well as two 15-minute breaks, one in the morning and one in the afternoon--I didn't take any of my rightful 15-minute breaks at all this week, and I skipped my lunch breaks on Thursday and Friday. Bad. Very very bad.

And that's it. I'm done writing for now. I'm going to bed!

Confessions from a Four-Day Weekend

Thanksgiving was yesterday, but I'm still giving thanks. All in all, it's been a decent week and a pretty good year. I've had some extra stress at work over the last couple of weeks, but that seems to be easing up a bit. I've been enjoying the long holiday weekend, savoring my two PAID days off, and celebrating some of the things that are most important in my life: family, friends, food, football, and films (just couldn't resist slipping in a little alliteration there).

For the big turkey-day feast, my husband and I decided to try something different this time, and we ended up going to a nice downtown hotel for its Thanksgiving buffet. We took our sons, who both sported dress shirts and adorable little clip-on neckties, and our dear friend "E" joined us. It was a wonderful dining experience. The decor was elegant, the food was beautifully presented, and everything was delicious. Best of all, we didn't have to cook anything, and when we were finished, we were able to go home and leave the cleanup to the pros. That made our Thanksgiving day especially relaxing. Hubby and E and I agreed that we will return to the hotel for next year's Thanksgiving feast.

When we arrived home from the hotel, hubby and the boys and I "comfied up" by slipping into t-shirts, lounge pants, and/or pajamas, and we savored a perfectly leisurely afternoon and evening. Hubby and I plopped on the bed with the TV tuned to the Broncos-Cowboys game, and I indulged in one of my favorite pastimes: dozing in front of a football game. Maybe that sounds silly, since I also love to actually watch football, but from time to time, I really do enjoy the experience of lying there and just snoozing a bit with the game sounds in the background. It's something I've enjoyed for more than 15 years. After the game was over and I woke up from my little nap, we ate hubby's homemade pumpkin pie (cooked on Wednesday) as a substitute for an evening meal, then proceeded to watch a couple of first-season episodes of "Lost" (on a rented DVD). After that, more laziness, then a late bedtime for all four of us.

Today I had the great fortune of being able to spend a couple of hours hanging out at a funky cafe with my longtime friend, "D," who moved out of state earlier this year. It was great just talking to her--I hadn't seen her in more than a year--and we agreed that we don't want to wait so long before we get together again. I had done something horrible: I took our friendship for granted and got lazy about keeping in touch. Note to self: be a better friend from now on!

For dinner tonight, hubby and I took our boys and met hubby's parents at a local pizzeria for (yet another) buffet meal. I love the food at that place, but I managed to stick to my silent plan--I didn't stuff myself. As a result, when hubby and the kids and I went to see the latest Harry Potter film after dinner, I had some room in my belly for candy (yes, candy--I've fallen WAY off the candy abstinence wagon, but that's fodder for another posting somewhere down the road).

We all loved the Harry Potter movie. It's definitely the darkest--and most adult--Potter film yet. There are a few scenes that might not be the best for young children (like mine) to watch, but, well, what the heck. We also stopped at the video store tonight, and we rented a couple of flicks for hubby and me to watch, as well as a kid-oriented animated film for the boys.

So there you have it: my holiday celebration of family, friends, food, football, and films. It's been a great way to spend a few days, and I'm grateful.

Culver's Confessions

Today I visited milkshake heaven. I was in a hurry to grab lunch on my way out of town, in transit from my office to a doctor appointment about 40 miles away. One reason I was in such a hurry was that I had to stop at my bank first, to cash my paycheck. Well, I went to the drive-up window at the bank, but it took an unusually long time to get my check cashed. So I decided that I would stop at the nearest restaurant drive-thru to pick up something to eat. The nearest drive-thru was at Culver's. For those of you who have never heard of Culver's, it is a chain that has become pretty popular here in the Midwest, and it is nicer than a typical fast-food restaurant (the dining room is carpeted, and although you place your order at the front counter, an employee actually brings your food to your table), but not quite as upscale as the typical "sit-down" eatery. Its two specialties--as noted on the Culver's sign itself--are frozen custard and "ButterBurgers." Frozen custard is very similiar to ice cream, but smoother and creamier. As for ButterBurgers, well...the first time I ever drove past a Culver's, I wondered what the heck a ButterBurger was. My first guess was that it was a beef patty fried in butter--which sounded really gross. Happily, I was very wrong about that. A ButterBurger is a beef burger cooked on a griddle, but it's not cooked in butter; the bun itself is buttered (on the flat sides--the part that touches the burger). And the ButterBurgers are delicious. My favorite Culver's sandwich, though, is the Grilled Reuben.

Anyway, I stopped at the Culver's drive-thru and ordered a Bacon ButterBurger Deluxe (hold the onion) and a seasonal specialty, the pumpkin milkshake. Last week, when my husband and I took the boys to Culver's for dinner, hubby ordered the pumpkin shake and let all of us have a taste. I was hooked instantly and vowed that someday soon, I would return to Culver's to buy a pumpkin shake for myself.

Today was the day. As soon as the drive-thru cashier handed me that milkshake, I knew I had arrived at milkshake heaven. The pumpkin shake came with cinnamon sprinkled on the top, and, as Culver's shakes tend to be, it was nice and thick, very smooth and creamy. I practically tore the straw in half as I raced to unwrap it so that I could take my first decadent sip. MMMMM. If you love pumpkin pie and you love ice cream, you'd probably adore the Culver's pumpkin milkshake, because it tastes like someone took a piece of pumpkin pie (minus the crust) and a big scoop of premium vanilla ice cream, and whipped it up nice and smooth in a blender. The shake is flavored with pumpkin pie spices, and whoever devised the recipe, really got it right. The combination of the pumpkin pie flavor and the custard creaminess makes the shake much more of a dessert than a beverage. It totally ROCKS! I absolutely LOVE the pumpkin milkshake at Culvers. LOVE IT LOVE IT LOVE IT. In fact, I could easily develop a Culver's pumpkin shake addiction--especially since our local Culver's is just a two-minute drive from my office. I'll be sad when pumpkin pie season ends and Culver's stops selling this wonderful concoction. I guess when that time comes, I'll have to revert to ordering my second-favorite Culver's shake: red raspberry (complete with seeds!).

Confessions of a Disgruntled Employee, Episode 2

The Boss topped himself. Just when I thought he had maxed out his a**hole capacity, he proved me wrong. This morning, he begrudgingly "allowed" one of my colleagues to reserve a basement conference room for a monthly bingo activity that our program's clients engage in. The reason we needed that space is that in our new building, the group rooms assigned to our program are not large enough to hold all of our clients. Well, The Boss told one of his administrative assistants that she could reserve that basement room for our program's bingo activity, but he couldn't just leave it at that: he had to open his bigoted mouth and tell her that he was really reluctant to let our clients (people with--gasp!--severe mental illnesses) use that room, because THOSE PEOPLE might PEE on "his" chairs. Gee, am I grateful that such a compassionate, nonjudgmental person is running the agency where I work!

Apparently I missed the part where The Boss paid for our entire $2 million new building AND all its new furnishings with his own money. I also missed the part where scientists and medical experts revealed that 100% of people with mental illnesses also go around urinating on themselves all the time. And since that dreaded "mentally ill" label also applies to ME, perhaps I'd better invest in some Depends to wear to the office. Because apparently at any given moment, I could start wetting my pants. And I wouldn't want to soil any of "HIS" chairs. Yep, The Boss has earned himself the title of Pr**k of the Year. Congratulations, Boss. What cruel and asinine bullsh** is going to come out of your mouth tomorrow? Why don't you just grow a spine and come right out and tell the public that you despise people with severe mental illnesses and that you want them as far away from you as possible? At least THAT would be honest.

Confessions of a Disgruntled Employee

Last week was my worst ever at my current job. My agency built a brand-new facility. Last week we moved in and began seeing our clients in the new building. And last week was the week I nearly snapped.

You see, now my program is located in the same building as The Boss's office, and I am forced to see him much more frequently than before. And that's not a good thing. I've known for nearly two years that this guy is a narcissist with a serious anger control problem, and that he rakes our managerial staff over the coals on a regular basis. Once he even had a screaming, cursing tantrum. Unfortunately, one of our residential clients, a man with mental retardation and a psychotic disorder, overheard this tantrum (which was not all that surprising--people living 10 miles away probably could have heard it!). The client became very agitated and distraught--he believed that the man who was ranting and raving was yelling at HIM.

That story is a good example of The Boss's behavior. He likes to order all of us underlings to "look professional" and "act professional"--but apparently HIS standards of professionalism demand that he act like a tyrant.

I've become accustomed to the unfortunate reality about The Boss's method of dealing with us staff--his "underlings"--but last week, I learned some brutal truths about how this guy treats our clientele. And when I refer to "our clientele," I am talking about the clients in the treatment program I work in, which is a program for adults with severe and persistent mental illnesses, including major depression, bipolar disorder, and schizophrenia.

Before we moved into this new facility, The Boss never seemed to pay much attention to the staff or clients in my program. But now that all of us are thrown together in this brand-spanking-new building, The Boss apparently feels compelled to patrol the entire facility in order to protect it from even the tiniest bit of damage. He has loudly and repeatedly announced that we must take care of "our" new building, and accordingly, we must be very careful not to spill anything on the floors, scratch the woodwork, or deface the walls. In fact, it seems to be this guy's mission in life to guard the facility from even the most subtle wear and tear. Accordingly, The Boss has been prowling around all of the offices, including the part of the facility where our program is located. That in itself wouldn't be so bad, but in his over-the-top effort to achieve a perfectly clean and unscathed building, he has made some flagrantly discriminatory remarks and decisions--comments and edicts that send an unmistakable message of utter contempt, loathing, and hostility toward people with chronic mental illnesses.

I care about our clients. In fact, I genuinely like them, and I have respect and appreciation for the difficulties they have had to face--and continue to deal with. I also don't believe I'm better than they are, and I strive to treat them as equal human beings, while still maintaining professional boundaries. One reason I have compassion for our clients--and aim to treat them with decency and dignity--is that I myself have struggled with my own mental illness ever since my childhood. In fact, I can honestly say that I suffered from mental illness without any diagnosis or treatment for more than 15 years. Thankfully, 10 years ago I finally began receiving treatment for my psychiatric problems, and these days I'm happier, more stable, and more confident than ever before. But I've had more "dark days" than I could even count. I've done numerous stints in psychiatric hospital units, some of which were not much better than the one depicted in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." There were times in the past where I was unable to work because of my mental health difficulties. I can recall many periods in my life in which I seldom got out of bed and rarely bathed or even changed clothes.

Yes, nowadays I finally feel victorious in the long war I've waged against my own psychiatric illness. But many of the clients in our program are still battling in the trenches of their own mental health wars. They might not yet be as healthy and stable as I am, but I believe they, too, can recover. And I don't look down on them because of the things they struggle with--especially since I've struggled with many of the same issues.

Granted, it was only within the last year that I finally felt confident enough about my own recovery, to finally "come out of the closet" and share my personal mental health recovery journey with the clients in our program. But now that I've done that, my career has become even more meaningful for me, and I have become even more committed to quality treatment--in both a clinical and a social sense--for people (like me!) with mental illnesses.

Basically, now more than ever before, I consider folks with mental illnesses to be "my people." Which is why I have been particularly offended by the blatant bigotry of The Boss. Every time he says or does something insulting and degrading to my program's clients, by extension he is insulting and degrading me.

Because of his obnoxious and demeaning behavior, The Boss has created a workplace environment that I find very hostile and demoralizing. That's why last week was such a rotten workweek for me. These days, I have a much stronger sense of injustice than I used to, and I feel much more passionate about the rights and dignity of people with mental illnesses (including myself). The behavior of The Boss has disturbed, outraged, and physically sickened me. Last week I did my best to use some of the relaxation techniques I've taught our clients, but to no avail--and thus I trudged around my workplace with a boiling cauldron of rage in my gut. For the entire workweek I was so tense that my muscles literally ached. Last Tuesday night, I went home from the office and spent at least 30 minutes just crying on my husband's shoulders. That's how awful it had felt to be at work.

That night, I managed to relax--a little--after taking a long bubble bath by candlelight, with Diana Krall's soothing vocals in the background. But the next morning, I had to get up and suffer through another unnerving day in the empire of The Boss. And I had to do that last Thursday and Friday, as well. By noon on Friday, my entire body felt if it had been pounded dozens of times with a sledgehammer. Fortunately, my immediate supervisor shares my disgust with The Boss, and late Friday afternoon, I was able to vent my concerns and frustrations to her. She had some good ideas about how we might bring about some changes in the tyrant's behavior toward our clients--and by extension, toward our personnel. I won't go into details about those ideas, but suffice it to say, I consider her to be a trusted ally and advocate.

We'll see how this week goes. Maybe the King of the Building will not change, but I have become determined to exact my revenge the best way I know how: to work even harder to provide the best possible treatment for the clients in our program. Since The Boss apparently doesn't believe that folks with severe mental illnesses deserve the best of ANYTHING, I can triumph over his bigotry by giving our folks the best of my skills, knowledge, compassion, and recovery experience. He may think he can rob us of our dignity, but he'll never be able to rob us of our RECOVERY. Mental health miracles can and do happen, and they will continue happening in our program, regardless of the a**hole with the big fancy "throne room" of an office.

Confessions of a Mediocre Gamer

I'm not a big fan of video games. Mostly because I'm just not that good at them. There are things in life that I do enjoy despite the fact that I don't do them well. For instance, I love goofing around on my guitar, even though I'd probably make the list of Top Ten Worst Guitarists Ever. Video games, however, fall into my "don't enjoy them because I stink" category.

There is one type of video game that I can play fairly well: sports games. I'm also not bad at that old arcade classic, Centipede. As for the rest--which these days mainly seem to involve killing stuff in one way or another--I am mediocre, at best. I know my reflexes and coordination are not too sharp. And in recent years I have developed a physical malady that interferes with my gaming ability: arthritis in my hands and fingers. Frankly, I'm physically unable to spend much time playing video games, because after about 30 minute of trying to shoot zombies, knock someone's head off, or save the world from alien ships, my joints start to hurt.

Yep, I'm reaching that point in life where I'm saying more and more (to quote that old Garth Brooks song), "I'm much too young to feel this damn old." And feeling this damn old is what keeps me from making any effort to improve my video game skills.

Well, so what? Maybe I don't play many video games, but to tell you the truth, I don't feel as if I'm missing out on much. No offense to any of you readers who are avid gamers, but I just don't feel the need to spend my leisure time (which is in short supply these days) trying to "get to the next level" or "beat my high score" on a video game. I can think of at least twenty different activities that I would prefer to engage in. For instance, I have a library book that is due to be returned on Monday, and I'm only about halfway through it. Reading library books...yep, that's more my speed. Video game fans, I can appreciate your skill, your energy, and your passion for gaming. Enjoy yourselves! As for me, I'm off to my bedroom to curl up with that library book. It's a mystery novel--now that's the kind of action and excitement that won't make my aging joints hurt.

Cub Scout Confessions

I could be the worst den leader ever. Or one of the best. At this point, it's still too early to tell. A little over a month ago, when my older son R's Cub Scout pack was having its back-to-school informational meeting, I did something that might fall under the category of "temporarily insane" (and as a mental health counselor as well as a survivor of my own mental health struggles, I don't use that term lightly). I agreed to be the den leader for R's Wolf Cub den. Den leader. It seemed simple enough at the time. Leading a small group of second-grade boys and their nice, caring parents? How tough could that be?

I soon discovered that I knew very little about what a Cub Scout den leader actually does--probably because I was never a Cub Scout myself. Around this fairly conservative Midwestern community, folks tend to expect Cub Scouts to be boys--which meant I was relegated to the world of Brownies and Girl Scouts instead. Thirty years after my first efforts at hawking grossly overpriced cookies in my little green jumper, I now feel courageous enough to confess that I used to wish I could be a Cub Scout instead. Don't get me wrong, I had a fabulous time in Brownies and Girl Scouts--in fact, my Girl Scout camping trips were some of my favorite childhood experiences. But still I envied the way that the Cub Scouts in our neighborhood had their own softball league, and what's more, they got to do the Pinewood Derby every year. Besides, I thought their uniforms were cooler.

I've since overcome my disappointment over not being able to join Cub Scouts, and I've moved on to being the mother of a Cub Scout. R and I did Cub Scouts together--Tiger Cubs, to be specific--last year, and we had a great time together. This year, it seemed natural for me to participate in Scouts with R again. And so we went to the back-to-school informational meeting, and declared our intentions to join a Wolf den. The only potential glitch was that when we met with the other boys and parents who wanted to meet on Thursday nights (our preferred night), none of the other parents volunteered to be den leader. Sure, I could have kept my mouth shut. Nobody said I HAD to step up and agree to be den leader. And yet I did, anyway, despite the fact that I had no idea what a den leader would have to do! See? Temporarily insane.

Now, I'm basically a leader type. I didn't used to be, but in my thirties I've really grown into that role. All those hours in therapy, and my years of professional success, have helped me become confident in my leadership abilities. I have no qualms about doing presentations in front of large groups of people. I am skilled at counseling individuals and conducting therapy groups. I don't mean to brag, but I tend to breeze through my job on most days. But hey, in my workplace, I'm only dealing with adults who have severe mental illnesses and dysfunctional relationships. It's not as if I'm in charge of a group of five second-grade boys!

My first den meeting as leader, I had no clue what I was doing. But I was secure enough to admit to the boys--and to the other parents--that I had no clue what to do. Fortunately, they were all quite forgiving and patient. By the time our second meeting rolled around, I had done the kind of thing that I typically do in my job: I had taken steps to be more prepared. I had bought the Cub Scout leader manual and the Wolf Cub handbook, and had studied them at length. I had developed a meeting agenda and some ideas for den activities. That second meeting went a lot better. Last week was our third meeting, and it was even better than the first two. We even have a den outing planned for this weekend: picnicking and disc golfing at a nearby park.

Yes, I have to admit, I seem to be getting the hang of this den leader gig. I'm not quite comfortable with it yet, and it could take another few weeks of den meetings before I can actually say that I enjoy being den leader, but I'm making progress. And hey, I now know the Cub Scout handshake. Now there's something to brag about!

Confessions of a Slacking Blogger

I tried to keep up. I really did. But for the last couple of weeks--yikes, almost THREE weeks now--I haven't added any new posts to this blog. I know I must have TONS of loyal readers out there in blogland, and to those of you who fit into my "loyal reader" category, I do apologize. I don't really have a valid excuse, other than the fact that over the last few weeks, I have been much busier than usual. Still, I hate to think I have been disappointing the many folks who have probably lost sleep, wondering when my next post would appear.

And so, here is another post. In my last entry, I promised to tell you about my visit from my awesome aunt S. Well, here's the scoop on that: it ROCKED. My aunt was as cool as ever, as was my uncle L. They were only able to stay for a couple of hours before proceeding onward to California, but it was a thrill just to have them in my house and to talk with them in person. We spent most of their visit looking through old family photographs and keepsakes, and reminiscing.

Having my aunt S around made me feel closer to my Mom. After all, S is my closest remaining connection to Mom. If my Dad hadn't remarried less than a year after Mom's death, then I might feel closer to him. But the sad truth is, when Dad dealt with my mother's passing by starting to date someone new (an "old friend of the family"), and then when he became engaged only 3 months after Mom's death, the bond between Dad and me started to weaken. I don't have anything personal against my new stepmother, other than my belief that Dad should have allowed my mother's ashes to cool before jumping right into another marriage. But it's not my stepmother's fault that Dad chose to cope with his grief that way. And maybe it's unfair for me to judge my father for making the choices he has made since Mom died.

In any case, I don't feel the connection to Dad that I once did. Maybe that's because he seems to have moved on to a new role in his life, and in the process, his role in my life has changed, as well. In the span of a few short months, Dad went from mourning the loss of his wife of 40 years, to becoming a newlywed. These days Dad seems to be completely absorbed in the role of new husband, and his fatherly role has taken a back seat (actually, many times it feels as if his fatherly role is stuffed in the trunk). I guess that's not such a huge problem, really, since all of Dad's offspring (myself included) are adults now. In most ways that really matter, Dad's job as father is done. Finished. Over.

Still, it would be nice if I could feel comfortable talking with Dad about my mother. But these days, that topic just feels, well...AWKWARD. In fact, my father and I seldom talk to each other anymore. He's moved on with his life, and I've moved on with mine. Honestly, I miss my Dad. And I wish he were more involved in the lives of my sons. I've considered telling Dad that my boys and I miss spending time with him, but each time I think I've gathered the nerve to do that, I end up wimping out. Maybe I ought to just give up on the idea that my father will have a close relationship with my sons, but it seems a shame to let that grandfather-grandson connection fizzle. For that matter, it seems a shame to let our father-daughter connection fizzle. Hmmm.

Anyway, at least I have my aunt S. And although she lives in California, she still manages to do thoughtful things for my boys, and for me. Truly, she's the coolest aunt ever.

Confessions of an Excited Niece

My aunt is coming, my aunt is coming! My awesome aunt "S" is coming to visit me tomorrow! This is no small feat, considering she lives in the San Francisco Bay area, and I live in central Illinois. I can hardly wait to see her.

S is the coolest aunt ever. We have been very close for a solid 10 years now, but since my mom's death last year, my bond with S has become especially tight. My mother was S's big sister, and the two of them were incredibly close, despite the many miles that separated them. I'll freely admit that S has become a surrogate mother to me in the last year and a half, and I'm pretty sure that our relationship has become more meaningful to S, as well.

The funny thing is, for the last decade I have been keenly aware that I have much more in common with S than with my own mom. And in a lot of ways, my relationship with S is more fun for me than my relationship with my mother was. Not to slight Mom at all, but...S and I have very similar sociopolitical leanings and appreciate the same kinds of humor. Also, S is very artistic, and I've always followed in her footsteps in that respect. Besides, my connection with S is not encumbered by any of the dysfunctional mother-daughter baggage that Mom and I always had to deal with.

Anyway, I haven't seen S since Mom's memorial service, January 10, 2004. I've missed her so much. And I hate to think about how I might be handling my grief over Mom's death, if I didn't have such a strong relationship with S. I've learned some lessons from losing my mother, and one of them is that I need to make more of an effort to openly express my love, affection, admiration and respect for the people who are important in my life. As a result, I've become more diligent about reaching out to S with affectionate gestures. I only wish I had done that with Mom when I had the chance.

I'm sure my time with S tomorrow is going to be wonderful. You can bet that I'll be blogging about it, probably tomorrow evening. But meanwhile...I am going to need to wrap up this posting and go to bed. I have some serious housecleaning to do before S and my uncle "L" arrive, and I'll be waking up before dawn to get it done. The things we do for love...

Confessions of a Caring Counselor

One of my agency's clients died. I went to her visitation last week. And not because I felt it was my "professional duty" to attend. This woman was not someone I had ever counseled individually; I knew her because she had lived in one of my agency's residential facilities for quite a while, and she had participated in my groups at the day treatment program where I work. I certainly didn't know her as well as many of my colleagues did. Yet I felt I needed to go to her visitation. I went because I truly liked and cared about this person, and I was tremendously saddened by her death. This woman, "T," had a truly loving, gentle spirit. Like her many friends and the other staff within my agency, I was able to see beyond the symptoms of T's mental illness, to appreciate the beautiful person she really was.

In addition to paying my respects to T, I attended the visitation because I wanted the opportunity to finally meet T's eldest daughter, a woman about my age, who had repeatedly impressed my colleagues with her tireless devotion to her mother. Well, after standing in front of T's casket for several minutes with tears streaming down my cheeks, I did meet daughter #1, "V." She approached me and introduced herself. Immediately I was able to understand why my colleagues had raved about this kindhearted young woman. In the midst of her grief, she sought to comfort me. I silently struggled with a dilemma: how to maintain a professional demeanor while still allowing myself a sincere expression of my grief. Ultimately, I let my most human instincts--rather than my clinical expertise--be my guide.

I shared with V my strongest memories and impressions of her mother: the gentle, loving spirit; the beautiful smile that graced T's face so much of the time; the steadfast Christian faith that seemed to bring T such peace and comfort even after she was diagnosed with breast cancer earlier this year. I also told V about how her mother so frequently bragged about what a good daughter she was, and I described the way T's face would just light up when she talked about her children, especially V. It was these comments, finally, that caused V to get choked up. When her eyes--and mine--began welling up with tears, I hugged her, wished her well, and told her that I, like so many people I knew, would truly miss her mother. When I said goodbye to V, she was weeping. So was I.

Shortly before I left the funeral home that evening, I noticed that one of the clients I counsel--a woman who had been a close friend of T's for many years--had stopped by to express her condolences. I was not surprised to see my client at the visitation; in fact, I had been the one who had called her, the day before, to inform her of T's death. But I didn't stop to chat with my client; she was there for her own purposes, and I had already fulfilled mine. I did acknowledge her presence by quickly meeting her gaze and nodding slightly, but to say anything further to her would have been a breach of client confidentiality rules--technically, I couldn't even admit publicly that I knew her.

Two days after the visitation, I met with that client for our regular weekly session. One of the first things she mentioned was: "I was surprised to see you at T's visitation." I asked her why. She explained that she just would never have expected to see "staff" at the funeral home. I told my client that I was saddened by T's death, that I wanted to honor her memory and say goodbye, and that I felt compelled to express my sympathies to her family. My client's response: "Hmm."

I guess I really threw my client for a loop. She really threw me for a loop, too. I admit, I was surprised that she seemed so stunned by my appearance at her longtime friend's visitation. In the days since my session with that client, I have spent quite a bit of time pondering the mysterious aura that surrounds counselors and therapists--including myself. When I am in session with a client, or when I am facilitating a group, it doesn't occur to me that I am doing something awe-inspiring (basically, I'm just following my clinical instincts and applying principles I've learned from my professional training and experiences). And yet, I know--because they've told me!--that many of my clients feel some sense of awe toward me, because of my role as their counselor and the mystical power that our therapeutic relationship holds. Heck, even with my professional knowledge, I've felt a similar sense of awe toward my own therapist.

Sometimes the responsibility that comes with being a counselor seems pretty daunting. My clients tend to assume that I have a lot of wisdom--and sometimes I don't think I merit that kind of trust! Every now and then, my usual confidence is rattled a bit and I am gripped by a sudden, tiny wave of panic: will the next thing I say be the thing that shoves this person over the edge? Will my next comment drive this person to suicide? But that occasional twinge of panic never lasts long. Most of the time, I feel reasonably sure that I'm saying something therapeutic, or at least something that probably won't do any significant damage.

As weighty as my professional responsibility sometimes feels, this recent mourning experience has taught me that being an authentic human being--living in a manner that is true to my core personal values--is an even greater responsibility. I didn't completely abandon my professional role when I paid my visit to that funeral home last week, but when I opened my mouth, it was the inner person--not the counselor--who was doing most of the talking. Yeah, I gotta say, I'm pretty confident about the way I perform my clinical duties. But at the end of the workday, I leave that counselor role at the office, and I'm left with...ordinary ol' me. No matter how well I handle my therapeutic tasks, ultimately that stuff means nothing if I'm not a decent person underneath. And I guess that lesson is something that I can share with my clients. My professional assessment of this issue is: it might actually benefit the folks I counsel, to know that I care about living my life--not just doing my job--with integrity.

I'm a counselor, but more importantly, I'm a person. "T" was not the first client whose death I have mourned, and unfortunately, I'm sure she won't be the last. Four and a half years ago, a former client of mine committed suicide at the age of 30. Now that was a difficult visitation to attend. I think my experience as a counselor helped me cope with that situation, but the ordinary person inside me still harbors grief for that young life that ended so violently. Maybe it would be easier for me to handle such awful events if the human being inside me didn't genuinely care about my clients. If I didn't feel a human connection to the people I counsel, I probably wouldn't feel such pain when their lives end, whether from the horrific tragedy of suicide or a more "natural" cause such as cancer. Yes, it would definitely be less complicated for me, if I could completely detach myself from human emotions for the sake of doing my job.

But God help me if I ever reach that point.

Confessions of a Restless Blogger

I was getting restless. I wanted a change. Changing my blog template seemed like a good idea at the time. And I think I like the new look of my blog. But obviously some stuff got "lost in translation" when I switched templates. And I haven't had a chance to make this new version of my blog exactly what I want it to be...

But I will get there...in the meantime, please be patient with me.