Hang on Heart of Dixie--Crazy Mama Comin'!!

Yes, I know that there are those who would say, "Well, Honey, you've been in Alabama for a good long time now...how is it that 'crazy mama' (e.g. me! go figure) is just now arriving?"

Ain't me, ya'll! It's the Mother of Crazy Mamas. My own precious Living-Life-Less Interested-with-Lithium- Cheerio & Laxative-Loving Mama.

Oh God. Oh GodohGodohGod. (is that a song from Godspell? I really think it might be...)

Just got off the phone w/my dad. God, what a mess. What a nightmare. Who goes batcrap at 68? ( Mama, now just prop that hand right up there, because sure enough, you did just that very thing.) My dad is soooooo not cut out for this situation. He was not cut out to raise children, for heaven's sake, so how can he take on this anvil in his sunset years? I'm not standing up for him, no, no, we've not much gotten along for, oh...since I was born, and he's a very broken soul himself in many ways. In fact, we had an out and out screaming match just this past december during which he raised his hand to me. And not to say hey. Fortunately, he is old, and I am strong and I caught his hand before it made contact with my face, but I am 41 years old and oh, please, you get the picture, don't you? I left my childhood home that night and vomited in the garden (takes me back to the 80s, that does) on my way back to my sister's house (next door). Swore I wouldn't be back until somebody sent me pics of urns with both dates filled in. Come to think about it, I swore a lot that night.

But are any of us undamaged? Aren't we all a pretty messed up bunch of snotty overtired toddlers? I think that's how God sees us. There's a line in an Emmylou Harris song--"You're a mess but you're My child" and I aspire to work super-hard and maybe get it together enough for God to say that to me. I just have to work out some uh...issues...and uh...keep refilling my meds...and uh...someday...

Anyway, I am trying. Am not great, or all forgiving or even half forgiving, but I am trying. He is in pain and I do know enough about crazy to help him understand crazy. Yes, Mercy I do. And I will learn from this, I know. I am learning. It's sort of like those silly ol' aesthetics who slept on rocks and wore itchy store-brand clothes. Well, not quite. I have suffered enough at his hand (no pun intended, but what a slip, yes?) But I do kind of get the distinct feeling that it helps me to be less of a mess in some ways. That God breathes a clarity into my addled and coffee-starved brain and this allows me to help my father. Any lessons I might pick up along the way are just bonus.
I know, helping my father should not be or take an act of God. This, I know. I am not all honor-y or holy or Christ-y for doing this. I know. Don't mean to imply any of that. I suppose I'm just in awe of how God works. Dag, yeah, love thy neighbor, but Loooord (all whiny), he's my father and he just about broke all three of his kids (my sibs take waaay more meds than I, fyi). Love him anyway, Lord says. Damn.
So then I told him to ship her crazy binge/purge ass down to Dixie. Open ended. Yeah, because I need more distraction. Something to really rattle things up. Yeah. But I said it and he's doing it. He needs it. That's the thing. He's been a caregiver to his parents for the last 15 years (not good at it, mind you) and now he's got Mamalottacrazy till death do they part. Oh and there are firearms all over that freaking house. (I know this because I asked the last time the kids were up) Behind clocks and shit, like five or seven of them. WTF? So uh yeah...might be good for this pair to have a time out.
I'm rambling. Am always so mortally sad after talking w/him.I miss my motherand hate that my kids don't know her like did. I am realy doing shoddy work in the helping dad department. Well, I try to point out how much he's changed and learned (maya angelou--"when we know better, we do better" heaven help me if he ever finds out who maya angelou is) but I know it's cold comfort. I know. I'm sorry. Other than the graham cracker crumbs, two hotwheels cars and a yellow crayon, it's all I have in my bag of tricks right now.

So Southwest her ass on down. Yeah, that'll be fun.She thinks that you MUST print out your boarding pass at the exact 24 hour mark from the time you will board the plane. If you know Southwest, then you know that you GET 24 hours in which to do this. Last time she came, the twins ate a candle. How does that happen, I ask you? Why would an open flame be within proximity of those two? Aw, why ask why?

Patience, Lord. I ask for Patience. And Bourbon. Definitely Bourbon (notice how the name of our Lord and the name of the drink are both in caps. Sad really.) The big bottle. And Lord, Let's avoid the cheap stuff, okay? Yeah, that and Patience. I am sure that those two things will get us through this.

Aren't you?