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Spokane, WA
This profile photo is my mom and me at the beach--she is 26 and I am about 18 months. LOVE the joy!! I am a mom of three and a teacher; being a teacher means I have to go back and cut the f-bombs. There were a few. Because Alzheimer's sucks badly. This blog, for nine years now--skipping a few while I was too cheap to buy my domain name-- helps me un-peel and process the endless layers of sad woven with weird and--impossibly--comedy.

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

Crumbling Foundation

The dream I had last night would be a perfect case study for an Dream Analysis 101 course.
First, neighborhood parties were happening to which we were not invited. Kids weren't inviting Alex to play with them, and I was upset because winter wasn't coming and everyone's flower baskets were still thriving, even in December. I couldn't back up my truck (I had one that I couldn't maneuver)because there were large household objects in the back and too many tables and people were in all the suddenly undeveloped neighborhood streets. And once inside our home, I noticed that the house appeared to be circling and shifting. WAIT FOR IT.
Mike doubted what I was saying until the stairs started caving in and the ceiling began falling as the walls started to buckle inward.
So I left and walked past a flea market in which I started perusing vintage magazines. I saw a photo of my little brother as a teenager. Then I flipped through the pages and there were all these glamour shots of my parents when they were first together. Ones I'd never seen: Gorgeous. My mom, resembling a glowing, Amelia Earhart in a wide fur collar. Holding newborn me, giggling. So I had this woman start recreating all these magazine shots into photos that I could keep. I saw my mom as a glamorous and happy woman; my parents the adventurous, carefree and apparently wealthier couple that they never were. And it didn't matter that my brother in present day walked by and didn't see what I was talking about. But I felt whole; I wasn't worried about my crumbling house or the fact that I wasn't invited to any parties or that I didn't want to go visit my mom in her nursing home-the one that does exist, for real--where she isn't really sure who I am anymore.
Analyze that.
As my former therapist from the 90's used to say, (I went to him to talk about my mom, of course!)
"Whew. That's big stuff."

Thoughtful young me

Thoughtful young me

Seventies chicks

Seventies chicks
Me and my mom Lynn, 1973

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