A Grocery Cart

I go to the grocery a lot since I still don't like to push around a big cart and have tons of food in my refrigerator. As a result of this lingering quirk, I end up at the grocery several times a week. Because of all this Kroger exposure and my own sick interest in what everyone is putting in their cart, I'm beginning to think that there's a dissertation to be written from the observations at a grocery.

As a kid, I remember going to Ralph's, a corner grocery story halfway between our house and my great-grandmother's. He (there actually was a Ralph) had this one little miniature grocery cart that I prayed would be there each time we went. My mom would let me push it around, filling it with food as we went up and down the aisles.

When I was a young wife, going to the grocery for the very first time, I wasn't sure if I needed all-purpose or self-rising flour. And sugar, if you don't drink coffee or bake, does anyone really need 5 pounds of the stuff. I think it took me about three years to stock our pantry with at least the basics one needs to run a semi-functioning kitchen. Seriously, someone needs to write a book about this.

I pushed two carts when Sam, Carly and Will were babies. I guess technically I pushed one and pulled one. I know when the twins were finally weaned to whole milk I bought 4 gallons of the stuff at one time. The carts were full of bananas and applesauce, peanut butter, oatmeal, crackers, grape juice, carrots and sweet potatoes, yogurt and cottage cheese. Anyone with any sense could tell I was a mom trying to do the right thing just by looking at my cart. (Of course, I also bought a stash of diet pepsi and snickers candy bars, but that's another story.)

Nowadays, I'm more of a grocery observer than an active participant. I like the women who come into the grocery with the high heels right after work. They almost always choose a handheld basket and go straight to the deli. The guys on Friday nights with their kids in tow usually have a basket full of Frosted Flakes and chicken nuggets. Then there's the coupon queen her wallet full of 50% off and buy one get one free. The grocery is usually crowded at the first of the month with the older set pushing their carts, usually in the middle of the aisle. Then there's the person with a cart full of frozen dinners and individual cat food cans that I can't help but feel sorry for even though I have no idea if what she is buying is even for her.

A few years ago my grocery habits became very predictable. I stopped at the store almost daily, chose a basket and quickly placed a diet pepsi, a box of laxatives, a container of razor blades, a bottle of robutussin and a box of Wheat Thins into it. I tried to go through the self-serve lane or choose one where the clerk seemed oblivious. I thought I was super slick, but I'm sure someone felt worse for me than I do the cat lady.

Then, I moved onto Ensure and Boost. All I needed to buy then was the protective adult diapers right next to the supplements and anyone would have thought I had an elderly loved one at home. But the fact remained that I didn't. Even with the Ensure, I usually bought an occasional box of laxatives or over-the-counter sleep aid. I hoped the clerk thought I now had a constipated, insomniac I was caring for.

Thankfully, things continue to change in my grocery cart as well as in my life.

Last evening, Will went with me to Kroger. I searched for the smaller cart while he suggested one of the many larger carts available. When I smiled and said, "Not yet," he gently put his arm around my neck. Grinning, he said, "You're crazy, you know?" No need to answer.

Over the next few minutes, we placed grapes and banana nut muffins into my cart. We picked up roast beef, whole wheat bread, bagels, and orange juice. We got a bone for Grace and Gatorade for Will. We even got strawberry poptarts with icing. As we checked out, I looked the clerk and bagger in the eyes and wished them a nice evening. I'm sure they thought I was just a boring mom with a great big dog. You really can tell a lot about a person just by looking in their cart.

June 19, 1982

Twenty-eight years ago yesterday, I promised Jeff that I would honor and support him until the day that I died. I meant it then, and not being able to follow through on that vow has been one of the lowest points of my life. I sometimes feel that I let the people that witnessed our marriage down, my parents, my children, God, Jeff, even myself.

BUT, I'm beginning to go just a little bit easier on myself this year. Rather than leaving my marriage, I actually walked into a healthy, joyful space. Instead of my kids having a mom who could not manage to be emotionally present but was still married to their dad, I gave my kids a mom who lives separately from their dad but is fully available in every way. Instead of living with the fear of regret, I live in the moment, knowing that what I've chosen will serve my family best.

Yesterday, I almost gave into the anniversary funk, but I realized I really didn't feel so bad. Jeff and I created three beautiful children and we certainly had our moments in the sun. As time passes, I pray that I will be able to embrace those sweet memories.

But, as for yesterday, I went with my 21 year old twins to watch Toy Story 3, complete with 3D glasses, popcorn and smuggled in cokes. I've learned that even one day is too many to waste. Next June 19, I will remember what Carly, Will and I did yesterday and how June 19, 1982 actually made that possible.

My Dad

(I wrote this as a nomination for "Father of the Year" at my parents' church.)

Most people who have spent any time at all with my dad probably know the following things:

1. He's a hard worker, (and he's hard of hearing.)
2. He's conservative with his money and in his politics.
3. He keeps his yard and his cars neat and clean.
4. He likes to fix things -- lawn mowers, running toilets, chainsaws, my mom's opinions.
5. He has high expectations for others, even higher ones for himself.

Some of these are things others might not know about Dad.

1. His temper is fierce when he does get mad, so don't push too hard when you're arguing with my mom.
2. When he's nervous, he talks. . . a lot.
3. He only wears ties when my mother makes him.
4. He promises that this year's garden is his last. . . every year.
5. He prays on his knees every night.

Of course, in his spare time, his hobbies are planning for disasters and worrying about the plans.

He's also a softie. He likes Reds baseball and Louisville basketball because those are his younger grandson's teams. He pretends he enjoys Shakespeare when his older grandson is on the stage. He's been known to buy a car that he's never test driven when his granddaughter picked out the car. My mom almost never pumps her own gas , and somehow, the gas can for my lawn mower (in Louisville) never has to be refilled. He loves and cares for us the way many of our dads do, if we're lucky enough, but my dad has also proven himself in the darkest of seasons.

Nearly three years ago a mental illness that I had vehemently denied having for years began to spiral out of control. My marriage was ending and my children were leaving the nest and it was easy to blame my illness on the amount of stress and change in my life. Unfortunately, by the time the stressors had subsided my mental illness had moved into the driver's seat.

For possibly the first time in our family we had a problem my dad couldn't fix. He couldn't fight or buy the illness away. He couldn't order new parts. He wasn't able to reason or argue with it. He couldn't find any bootstraps to pull up. He couldn't work hard enough or long enough; he couldn't even pray it away.

Just when I was convinced that my illness had won and that I had alienated and disappointed him enough to leave me alone to self-destruct in peace, he got his second wind and chose to walk with me straight into the fire. Believe me, the fire was hot; we all have scars to prove it.

That walk entailed thousands of miles ( and dollars), painful conversations, attempts to explain and understand, the shedding of pride, asking for help, trusting others, looking at God and religion in a completely different way.

I did not have a "road to Damascus" experience -- the walk, as my parents will attest to, has been long and difficult, and we realize that it will never be completely finished. Relapses and unhealthy choices make appearances from time to time, and honestly, I don't think my dad will ever fully understand it, but that doesn't matter anymore. My dad no longer promises me that he can fix things, but just like God, my dad will never leave me, even when the night is dark or I vote a straight democratic ticket. How lucky am I!?!

Maybe It's Time to Write

I've been wanting to write an article, a book, a note, something for awhile. Something that would allow me to tell my story, give it meaning or just talk it through. BUT when I start to think about it, I'm not sure where to begin or even which story to tell or if any of them are even worth telling.

Do I talk about falling in love with the scale the summer I was 10 and recovering from hepatitis? Or maybe I would write about feeling overwhelmed and sleep deprived when my kids were babies - when I nursed too long just to lose weight -- or the hypoglycemia that I struggled with that in actuality didn't exist. (It's funny how when you're starving yourself how your blood sugar will be low.)

Or may I could write about when I was hospitalized when the kids were in elementary school for overdosing on sleeping pills? The psychiatrist then asked me outright if I had anorexia. I told him he was the one that was crazy -- and I really believed what I was saying.

Would I start a book talking about my grandparents' deaths and the journey those events started? Of course, I could write an anthology about a 25 year marriage that I walked out on and what brought me to such an extreme decision.

I could share about time spent at Ten Broeck, a mental hospital, on a 72 hour holdl, with a system full of pain killers, cuts and stitches all over my body, a wrecked car, but still feeling that I was sane and the rest of the world had gone crazy.

I could write about the time spent at Renfrew, drying out and fattening up, searching for my own sense of worth, thinking I could be "cured" in 30 days.

There's the year and a half I've spent in recovery -- going to therapy, practicing coping strategies, lapsing into moments of despair then finding my way again.

There might be a book in the way that Grace, my dog, has been a major player in my sustained recovery, even though on the outside it looks as if I rescued her. A book could come easily with the hours and hours I've spent with Erika, my therapist, talking about "new rooms," staying out of my head, discussing if I'm willing to leave the eating disorder behind for good, and realizing I'm not sure what my answer is to that question. . . still. (It is an old friend, after all.)

I could write about the new relationships I have with my kids, my mom and dad, my friends or the joy I experience each day hanging out with 5th graders in my classroom.

Do the details of the journey make a difference? Is it even worth remembering?

Erika says it's a fine line to walk. I should never allow myself to forget how far I've come and the work I've done, but in remembering, I certainly can't romanticize the disorder or downplay the havoc it brought to my life and the scars that will always remain. I have to write as a healthy woman with a full, rich life, who happens to have a mental illness, NOT as a woman whose life is full of the mental illness. Fortunately, the mentally ill me doesn't show up too often any more so maybe it's time to start writing.

I suppose the bigger story has been told by others more eloquently than I ever could. Quite simply, I was lost but now am found. Maybe that's everybody's story.