My first mother was a teenager. She loved me for 9 months and smuggled a camera into the hospital to try to capture of memory in a photo. She never caught a glimpse, I’m told, and she was caught with the purloined Kodak and returned to the surgical floor – away from the maternity ward.

My second mother was a foster parent – a woman devoted to caring for a child through a transition. I don’t know much about her. I know that she sent a hand written note with me (that has been long lost) to let my new parents know what I liked and what sort of routine I’d had. She had the hard job of round the clock care of a newborn. She went through those sleepless nights so that someone else could experience motherhood. She would have been there for my first smile and may have witnessed the first time that I rolled over or slept through the night.

My Mom adopted me at three months of age. She took over where the foster mother left off. There were still many sleepless nights. There were skinned knees and hurt feelings and teenage heartbreaks to nurse me through. When I married and had children of my own, she still had sleepless nights, because when I was sad or scared, she stayed awake praying.

I spent my last Mother’s Day with Mom in 2017. We bought her a pink rose bush for outside of her front window. She loved pink roses. Soon after, her final illness would first take her strength, and then take her life, but not before it took her joy. As the cancer spread to her brain, the shell of her that was left was no longer my loving mother. She was suspicious of me and she was hateful. Those last months were a waking nightmare for all of us. I sent my children to be with her when she was like that because the nursing staff said I upset her too much. When I didn’t go, she asked for me. When I did go, she raged at me. It was hard on my children. I don’t think I realized how hard until much later. As mothers, we don’t want our children to hurt. As daughters, we don’t want dying parents to be alone. What an awful conundrum.

I connected with my birth mother (Mum) for the first time at 29. We parted company and found each other again several times over the next 25 years. We would go very long times without speaking. Sometimes she initiated the silence, and sometimes it was me. No matter the time that had passed, we began again where we had left off, finishing each other’s sentences and talking for hours. We reconnected in summer 2023 for the last time. Her life was ending, and we made up for lost time. She told me stories, and I listened, knowing that parts of them were true, and other parts while not true, were the way she wanted me to remember them. I listened, and she held me until she no longer had strength, and then I held her. We shared stories until words were no longer needed. When the cancer and the medication made her too tired to do more than murmur, I sat on the floor and held her hand and said goodbye for the last time.

This Mother’s Day (2023), I have no living mother to celebrate. I can’t pick up the call and say, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom/Mum.” No little children will bring me burned toast and a flower from the garden as “breakfast in bed.” My daughter and I have a difficult relationship and lives hundreds of miles away. My oldest son recently moved to the other side of the country. My youngest son lives here, still, but doesn’t really like holidays. Still, I remember when they made me dinner, complete with a gluten free cake. The three of them (perhaps just the older two) worked for hours. We played Munchkin on the deck late into the evening. I remember, kids. I really do. It was a happy, happy day for me.

My thoughts turn now to my foster mother, whose name I never knew. Is she still living? Does she remember me, nearly 56 years later? Thank you, foster mother, for sharing your love.

My loving husband offered to take me to the nursery to buy pretty flowers – my traditional Mother’s Day gift and outing with him, but I begged off. I’m not in the mood. He understands, or at least tries to understand.

For those of you who celebrate, Happy Mothers’ Day. For those like me, to whom Mother’s Day is tinged with sadness, may the day land gently.

I have a stressful job. I work in the legal system and my cases involve abused and neglected children. Sometimes it’s stressful. One of my favorite ways to unwind is to take our camper to a campground with no wi-fi and very spotty cell phone coverage. My husband and I stay for 2-3 nights. We typically take the smaller of our two dogs (the other dog prefers sofas and air conditioning). Poppy is a medium-sized tri-color short hair mix of unknown origins. The (allegedly) has some Australian shepherd and border collie in her heritage, but I think that’s pure speculation.

Poppy takes long hikes with me. Between our forays into the wilderness, she is content to find shade under her dad’s chair and occasionally reluctantly offer a paw in exchange for a treat.

I have a favorite camp site. It has a sunny pad with lots of grass in the front (that’s where we park the camper) and in th eback, it has a large clearing in the woods. The clearing is surrounded by tall trees with overhanging branches. It’s shady on the sunniest day. The first time I was here, the clearning was filled with gold finches and rays of sunlight. I dubbed it “the cathedral,” and I reserve it whenever i can. Unfortunately, it’s a popular spot, and it’s often bookd out for several months in advance.

I was lucky enough to secure ”the cathedral” for this past 4th of July holiday weekend. We arrived on Saturday morning and got the camp set up. The campsites on both sides were still empty. We grabbed some lunch, and Mike decided to nap. I took my journal and some drawing supplies back to ”the cathedral” for a short time. I should have stayed longer.

I decided to spread a mat out on the grass and stretch out on the ground. Poppy joined me (actually, we wrestled on the ground as she burrowed under me and I tried to stop her). Eventually, we both found a comfortable position and snoozed.

A short time later there was a commotion as two cars pulled up to the camp site on the north of us. Two adults and three children poured out of the vehicles. The adults began hauling tents and coolers out of the cars, and the children (approximately 9-11 years old) screamed ”it’s a dog,” and interrupted our nap.

The woman screamed (yes, screamed) ”you have to ask before you pet the dog” and the children started petting and then asked, ”can we pet your dog?” Poppy likes children of this age group, so she allowed herself to be smothered with pats and offered a few kisses. One of the girl declared Poppy to be her ”new best friend.” After a short time, the children were (loudly) summoned back to their camp.

Poppy and I went for a short walk. When we returned, the camp site to the south was occupied by a young couple and their two-year-old daughter, who we will call Hattie (not her name). Although ”the cathedral” was clearly not on their camp site, they had set their tent up on the outskirts of my sanctuary. The clearing is large, so I decided to ”not sweat the small stuff,” and share the space. That was a mistake.

I took a seat outside the camper (the side away from Hattie’s family) with a book and a cold glass of water. Poppy was clipped to a cable that kept her well within the limits of our camp site. She wandered a bit and came to sit by my chair. Moments later I heard Hattie shriek ”doggy” and she appeared around the corner without a grown up. Mom made her appearance a few seconds later and said, ”Hattie loves dogs.” Poppy is not used to tiny people, and I told Hattie’s mom so. Hattie’s mom assured me ”Hattie’s grandparents both have dogs, she knows how to be nice,” and proceeded to try to ”help” Hattie pet Poppy. I told Hattie ”that’s enough,” doggy is tired.” A melt down followed.

Hattie ”visited” another 3-4 times in short order. Poppy and I finally went inside for a while. We had really both had enough.

The next morning, I looked outside and saw that ”the coast was clear.” Hattie was nowhere to be seen. Poppy and I headed for ”the cathedral” for some quiet time. We had just made ourselves comfortable when Hattie screeched ”doggy” and came out from her tent. Mom said, ”she wants to relax. Let here relax” but little Hattie was on a mission.

Hattie was wielding a bag of gold fish snacks. Poppy loves gold fish snacks. Hattie waved the snacks at Poppy. Poppy thought it was a game and snapped at the snack bag. Hattie shrieked. Poppy jumped into my lap and the next several minutes were filled with me turning away from Hattie with Poppy in my arms and telling Hattie (and her Mom, who had finally arrived) that Poppy wanted the snacks, and this was no longer safe. Mom again assured me that ‘Hattie loves dogs and her grandparents have dogs” and I told Mom, ”Poppy doesn’t have experience with little people and she is afraid. Please take Hattie back to your camp” Mom reluctantly dragged Hattie back to her camp site and another melt down commenced. I may or may not have been called a rude name loud enough for me to hear.

The afternoon had turned very sunny, but my shady spot in the forest was unsafe. Poppy and I walked several camp sites down the road to a picnic table that was (partly) in the shade and far enough away that Hattie wasn’t likely to appear. Poppy missed her Dad, who was comfortable in his favorite spot at our camp site, so we ventured back to our own camper and hoped for the best.

On Sunday, Hattie appeared during Poppy’s breakfast and again during her dinner. She appeared again around dusk, and I told her “doggy is going to bed” and closed my faithful dog inside the camper for the night for her own protection. By this time I had lost track of the number of times that Hattie had walked from her camp site and around to the other side of our camper without an adult intervening.

Although we carted in enough fire wood for two nights’ camp fires, we never lit one, as Hattie was sure to appear. Poppy and I did spend lots of time walking (away from Hattie) and managed to have a nice weekend. It wasn’t the weekend that I had planned and hoped for, but it was still a nice weekend away from most responsibilities.

I hope that little Hattie grows up still loving doggies (and with all of her fingers intact). I hope that Hattie’s mom gets a rash somewhere uncomfortable.

My life has not been a fairy tale (quite). There have been ogres and witches and perhaps a giant, though.I have been the wicked stepmother. I have worn the red riding hood, but never the glass slipper. I have been awakened by a kiss, but never poisoned by an apple (at least not yet).

My life has not been a fairy tale.

The domain for this blog recently renewed. I almost allowed it to expire, but I wasn’t ready to let my workds die. Perhaps some day someone will remember me and run across my words.

I’m well beyond once upon a time, but not quite to happily ever after. After all, those are the words that end the story, aren’t they?

I haven’t been posting very often recently.  It’s not that I haven’t had anything on my mind – it’s that I tend to overthink things.  I’ve started and scrapped numerous posts on complex, heavy issues.  The truth is, I have defensible positions on most of the pressing political issues.  I have my moral and ethical stance, and I can compare/contrast it with my position as it relates to the law.  The truth is, though, that no matter what I say, it’s going to hurt someone’s feelings or alienate someone, and that’s the last thing that I want.  I’ve decided that those conversations are best left to face-to-face discussions.

I had the joy of rediscovering an old unfinished piece of writing the other day.  It was a piece where I recalled the simple joy of growing up in a large family with dozens of cousins and being able to run and play on acres of woods and meadows with creeks, a lake, and a bounty of imagination.  Things were simple then.  The rules were simple – be nice, don’t lie, and take care of each other.

At home, there were lots of neighbors with children.  The rules were equally simple – if you’re going to leave the neighborhood, tell someone where you’re going and take someone with you.  Start walking home when the street lights come on, and be home before it’s fully dark.

Recreation was equally simple.  Mom would pack a picnic and we would drive to a park where we would play in a river or creek, hike trails and look for interesting rocks.  Sometimes we would stop for ice cream on the way home.

Simple applied to personal care as well.  Mom’s makeup kit consisted of a bar of soap, a bottle of CoverGirl Clean Makeup (beige), and a pink lipstick she wore on Sundays.

Losing a lot of weight is a long process.  I have a lot of experience.  I’ve lost over 100 pounds three times in thirty years.  I’m really good at losing weight, but I have always stopped short of the goal.  This time is different.  It has to be.  I’m 50 years old and I intend to make it to 100.  I don’t want a damaged, worn out body to be home base for the next 50 years.

The reason this time of change is different is because the changes are permanent and the rules are simple. Simple is best.

1. Mental health comes first.  I take time off each week to spend a day doing something creative, something fun, or something I’ve always wanted to try.  Each morning begins with time to myself to read, meditate or write.  A mental health break can be 30 minutes of writing in a journal or 7 minutes of a sun salutation.  Keep it simple.
2. My goals are completely within my control.  I can’t control the rate at which my body sheds pounds or inches, but I can control my approach.  My goals:

• Exercise 4 times per week.
• No sugar, no flour, no snacks.  I have a protocol that includes meal times and what each meal should look like.  It’s dirt simple.
• Weigh, measure and log the food.
• Weigh, measure and log body weight and measurements.
• Drink water.  Lots of it.

I stopped eating gluten-containing foods six years ago when I figured out that they were making me sick.  Each time I am accidentally exposed to gluten, my resolve to never intentionally eat it again is strengthened.  Sugar, too, is toxic for me.  I can easily down a bag of jelly beans by myself.  I get twitchy walking through the candy aisle.  I can’t have “just a little.”  For me, sugar is as toxic as gluten is, yet I was still consuming it.  It’s true that consuming sugar doesn’t give me the same violent (and disgusting) symptoms that gluten does, yet, the effect of consuming sugar lead me to overeat everything else.

In the past, I would start off  with a simple approach.  As I successfully lost pounds and inches, I would add “rules.”  After a time, I would break a rule “just once.”  Having broken the rule, I would take a whole day (week, month) as a reward or simply throw in the towel.

The more complexity you add to a plan, the more likely you are to fail.  Keep it simple.

I’ve had to change my relationship with food.  Food is fuel.  Food is not entertainment.  I managed to bypass my favorite gluten-free bakery on Mother’s Day.  I had a momentary urge that simply went away.  I wasn’t as successful with the popcorn at the movie theater.  Although I indulged, my portion was far smaller than in the past.  I ate a kernel at a time instead of shoving a handful into my mouth all at once.

Right now the scale is stuck, but the tape measure and my clothing tell the true story.  All I have to do is keep it simple, trust the process and the magic will happen on its own schedule.

What’s your favorite simple strategy wen it comes to your health?