Demons and Saints

What makes a person sit down and write versus not wanting to write? Time, not enough. Distractions, too many. Demons, and the opposite: Joy or lack thereof. The list of excuses goes on.

What I know for sure is that when I take a few minutes to value my thoughts and experiences through writing, I feel better. Reflection, the pause button, makes me a better version of myself.

Let’s start with the demons: I yelled at one of my grandsons this week during our epic four-day camping trip, got impatient with his all-over-the-place not-listening hyper-movement multiple rude responses question-question-question-not-listening demeanor. I cussed. Twice. In front of my little boy. I hit my limit and I caved into frustration. I was a bad example. 

The last thing on Earth I want my beloved grandson to feel is unloved, by me. 

Of course, I apologized. I put my arm around him and told him how much I love him, and my harshness came from a place of frustration. But I worry that the F—– and G—–damn Grandma bomb will destroy our otherwise great time we had on our so-looking-forward-to epic four-day camping trip along the Central Coast with his older, more chill, cousin. 

Damn.

There I go again. 

Just when I think I have my emotions in-check and have tamped down the ugly demons, they once again rise to the surface. God help me, I have so much work yet to do. Which is one of the reasons I blog, go public; to release the parts of me that get knotted up and toxic. 

Looking back, I think what I should have done on our 99.9% marvelous camping trip to our favorite place in California is take more time for myself. Actually, I didn’t have any in four days, never reserved a moment to value myself, not even enough to take a shower—-ewww-—I was either cooking or cleaning or driving or organizing or problem-solving or shutting down spats between the cousins or worrying about Monet’s health. I didn’t factor-in a minute to finish writing in my journal. 

“Grandma, come here, Grandma, look at this.” Which I did. Once again, putting my little people’s needs over my own.

I know better now—after my regrettable, cuss words episode. The boys are old enough to understand that Grandma needs a few minutes to herself. Being on “high alert”, making sure no one gets hurt, is F-ing draining. 

Damn. Strike Two.

I can see now; my bank was drained and that’s why I overreacted to Grandson No. 2 dancing around the fire pit with his back turned toward the fire and not listening to Grandma asking him to stop and yelling, “G-damn it, I am sick of asking you to be careful——STOP!” 

I know I could have phrased it in a kinder, much more productive manner, but I was terrified he was going to get burned and yelled the first words that came out of my mouth. 

Then there was the night he emptied his sand-filled pants onto the white sheets just before bedtime.

“F-ing hell! Why don’t you be more careful?” 

Not my finest hour. 

I NEVER cuss around my grandsons. I try to channel my inner Mary Poppins. Now they’ll forever think of me as that potty-mouthed grandma.  

Or, maybe, human. 

If a person is mostly wonderful, but occasionally off-the-rail, do we give him or her a pass? Or is better to be mostly awful and occasionally good? Do we appreciate the positive effort from the crappier person and give them more leeway? I wonder. Maybe it’s better to be a balance of good and bad (sorry for the black and white terms, but you know what I mean) and teach our children that no one is purely a saint or a sinner; self-acceptance of all aspects of our personality—warts and all—is what’s important. 

What I know for sure is I love my little man to the moon and back and would give my life for him and was sorry the instant I lost my temper. I am mighty flawed.

I’m pretty sure he gets it. He’s a forgiving child. He gets in trouble quite a bit because of his impulsivity and poor listening skills. Maybe this is something we can bond over? Saying sorry and meaning it, then getting back on the horse and continuing to love and be even better versions of ourselves? 

Maybe forgiveness is the lesson. 

Like my dad showed me.

With Father’s Day around the corner, not only do I miss him profoundly, but I am eternally grateful: I had the best Dad in the world. Not because he was perfect. No, he certainly wasn’t. We had many a scrappy argument. I slammed doors, ran away and married a man the polar opposite of him. He got mad at me and I at him. But always—-always—-he showed up. We both cried following a spat, and he told me how much he loved me, and that he was sorry. I’m tearing up right now thinking about his vulnerability and how much it shaped me. And my grown children. Like me, he was also an imperfect grandparent. But he was deeply loved and cherished by his grandchildren and their mother because we always knew how much he cherished us. Death doesn’t change that. His love for us is eternal.

And that’s what I hope for the people in my life that I may have hurt with my actions or words. Let me be candid: I am screwed up, but working on it. Trying my best not to get stuck. Trying to learn from my mistakes. And remembering, that for me, writing is a pressure valve that releases tension and helps me sort out my feelings. Writing helps me return to the good and the positive and end on a positive note, like my sweet, cussed-at grandson shouted at end of the camping trip, “That was so much fun! When can we go again Grandma?”  He is my heart, my most loved saint of imperfection.

Tomorrow our next destination is Mammoth Lakes, CA. Condo this time, near the slopes. 

Note to self: Pack laptop. Remember to write. To me, writing time isn’t an indulgence, it’s a necessity to keep me sane.

What keeps you balanced? Your tips and experiences are most appreciated.