According to psychologist, Dr. James Pennebaker, writing about your distress or trauma
can be an effective tool in helping people move past their trauma.
Somehow yesterday I wrote an even longer post, hit publish and walked off, only to not realize until Dee let me know, that I'd not published. When I went back into the drafts, only about half of my missive was there.
So whatever, I suppose it just wasn't to be.
The point is, or was, I'd written. Writing is clearly one of my many coping mechanisms.
So's gardening. Yet I stress myself out about it sometimes, realizing how far behind I've become as I try and weed, mulch, plant and harvest, only to then get caught up in chores, errands, tasks and life.
Soccer is again over, two seasons a year, 3-5 teams of my children playing, that's hundreds of games I've cheered on, I never want my kids to grow up and say, "Mom wasn't there at my games." Oh yes, Buddy, I sure was there.
Sabrina's hours are too late at the fast food joint. Day shift or nothing I told her. There's no way either of us can miss that amount of sleep.
She's in agreement after an initial, "Mom's unreasonable," attitude.
What 17 year old thinks her mom has a clue?
I'd gone to my grandson, Alexander's kindergarten graduation, realizing I'd be a few minutes late getting home by the 2:52, set your watch, timetable in which Tabby and Nando, now almost 10 and 11, arrive home. If Grandma's not there then I call Yolie. She can stand on her front porch and retrieve 'em both from the bus, keeping them until I get home.
I know many kids that age are latch key kids, I know they're both good, capable kids and would be fine, but that's not my way.
Too many bad things can happen, says my trauma, and theirs as well.
There are four days of school left. Every year speeds by faster and faster. Nando's complaining about a sore throat this morning, uh-oh, he might be staying home.
I was gifted with about 20 pounds of squash that I blanched and froze last night before bed, on Mother's Day Tabby gave me a blessing via a very sweet friend of mine. I was stunned, literally so. I'm not used to nice surprises on Mother's Day, one of the most difficult days in the adoption of older children, and rightly so, as they remember their first moms, wondering if those women are even thinking about them.
Many of my kids use that day to express their outrage over their trauma, some of them quietly wonder, some of them rage, although not so much anymore. Daniel and Megan came and watched the Braves game with me that afternoon. Tony'd fixed me my tenth mango-babanana smoothie.
This afternoon I plan to run to Hazel's ballet studio for a quick show. Mae's coming over this morning, I'll squeeze everything else in between.