Julie Tullos

A few months back my very first riding instructor passed away. Her name was Tuke. She was as old as the very first rocks of the planet – at least to my 9 year old mind. Her husband was a general in the Army and he passed away just about a year or two ago. They were both well into their ninties. I’ve wanted to pay homage to Tuke ever since I heard of her passing. And the best way I know to do it is this….

When I was nine I looked into the deep, soulful eyes of a little black pony named Smokey Joe. And I felt a connection immediately. There was just something about that little guy that spoke to me and I wanted to ride him. I wanted to know him. To say I was disappointed that I did not get to ride Smokey Joe at my first lesson would be a major understatement. But eventually ride him I did, and it didn’t take long for my ambition to catch up with my skill.

I learned early on that cut off pieces of hose make excellent riding whips when pulled from the back pocket of a pair of jeans that have been around for 50 years. I learned that rubber riding boots worked fine if you didn’t know that they weren’t the best type of boot to learn to ride in. I learned that when a pony lays down in a pond and rolls over it’s a lot easier to tip water out of a rubber boot than a leather one. I learned to laugh. And that laughter brought admiration from Tuke whereas crying brought disappointment.

I learned that if I wanted to ride I had to be able to not only put a halter on, but to catch the pony. And if I wanted to catch it I had to find it. Most days we all set out together after Tuke had pointed us in the right direction to “track” our mounts. When we found them we quickly learned that treats were necessary, and being both short and not very flexible I figured out that tree trunks and high ground were very helpful in mounting. If we fell off and landed in ant piles we all laughed until we cried while the pony took off home. Whoever was the victim dusted herself off and trudged back to the barn. Nobody got offended and no parents cared.

I learned that as long as the toilet flushes most of the time it doesn’t matter how dirty the bathroom is when you are in the middle of nowhere with only a falling down old house and a tin barn to provide relief when you have to go. I learned how to bridle and saddle and how to groom and how to not be horrified by picking off ticks and squashing them under my boot. I never did get so far as to squash them between my fingers like Tuke did. Bugs are a way of life in central Texas and between the cactus and the fire ant hills you will only find a lot of rocks. So if you fall off it will hurt. A lot. I learned about an old Indian burial ground which is something I am sure that Tuke made up to entertain us, or scare us. I’m not sure which.

I learned respect when I watched a fellow student get thrown up against the old tin barn wall for being disrespectful. I learned compassion when an old horse died and I learned about the practicality of burying a horse when I saw the huge hole in the ground with smoke coming off it. I learned that snakes won’t bother you when you are swimming in a pond if you are on the back of the horse and that swimming on horseback is something everyone should experience at least once if not as often as possible.

I didn’t want to get kicked, or hurt, and so I learned to read the unspoken communication of a horse. I learned that if you lean back when a horse bucks not only can you stay on but you can stop it as well. I learned not to be afraid. That I was capable. I was nine and 50 pounds but I learned this. I was 10 and 11 and I learned it more. I learned that good friends are always found at the barn and very rarely anywhere else. I learned that no matter how many times you said “Tuke!” as loudly as a little kid can, that unless she really wants to acknowledge you – she won’t. And she definitely won’t if she’s busy with something else. So that was patience. Patience also came in the form of jumping higher fences. That if you fall off over a crossrail situated between two bushes in a sand pit and made out of two long tree branches that you had better wait to attempt anything bigger until you have mastered the crossrail. And that was perseverance.

I learned empathy when I went to my first horseshow and got a first place and a reserve champion and my good friend didn’t win any ribbons at all. I learned not to gloat but to enjoy success silently and with care. I learned life isn’t always fair and while I may have earned those ribbons that sometimes it was just a crap shoot and you had to go with the flow whatever you were handed.

And I learned that legends can, and do, die. Thirty five years after they have taught you everything you need to know about horsemanship. I learned you can grieve for someone you haven’t seen in twenty years or more. That love comes in many forms and that TUBO stood for Tuke and Bob – something that occurred to me long after I had left there.

You don’t choose horses. Horses choose you. And if you are lucky enough, you have a first instructor that shows you that. I did. I will never have more respect for someone than I did for her. Thank you, Tuke. Thank you.

I am not sure what happened tonight. How it got as far as it did. But I knew I could not give in, no matter how red her eyes and face got from crying, no matter the endless stream of tears streaking down her cheeks. No matter that I was dying inside, simultaneously angry and heartbroken, that it had come to this. This travesty, this trauma, this drama that neither of us asked for or needed.

First grade homework. First grade MATH homework to be precise. All she has to do is one page of subtraction. It’s called Rocket Math and the premise of it is to actually time her and see how many she can do in one minute. There are 92 problems on the page. Ninety two. How many six year olds have the patience to do 92 problems at one time? Even trying to break it down, do some 50 problems one day and 42 the next – even THAT is a struggle. And that’s for a kid who actually CAN do math. But see, the thing is, she doesn’t want to.

She wants to go play after school – let her imagination and her feet run wild. Or she wants to chill and play on her ipad for a bit. She wants a snack. She wants to come out to the barn with me and play with her friends that come while I teach lessons. Or play with Daphne, the cat. She wants to have dinner and take a bath and read stories with me. SHE DOES NOT WANT TO DO MATH HOMEWORK. And the feeling is quite mutual.

Baby girl is very, very smart. She doesn’t struggle to understand concepts, or to see the wisdom of tricks and shortcuts. She can easily subtract using a numberline, or the old fashioned way of lining up the numbers one under the other. She can use her fingers. None of these methods are acceptable. Baby Girl wants to do it in her head and she wants to do it quickly. So she does them wrong. So she can be finished and get on with her important activities. Somebody has to sit there with her and either write down the answers while she does the work, or find all the ones that are similar so we don’t have to go through hell more than once. She will find every excuse in the book to put off doing her math homework. Write a letter to her teacher? Sure, let’s practice writing neatly. Do some spelling words? Sight words? Read a book? Absolutely.

Do math? No, no, no, no, and still no again. It isn’t fun. Not for her, not for me, not for Daddy, not for Sissy, not for her patient friend Rina who is in third grade and well past subtraction. Sissy takes off home when math is mentioned. Daddy goes to work. Rina hears her mom calling her. Which leaves…. Me. Mommy. The Demon. Because that is what I turn into. I simply cannot understand WHY she won’t just DO THE WORK. At first I encourage. Then I start saying things like “we could be done by now, if you would just buckle down.” I say “Baby Girl, you are so smart, you can totally do this stuff.” Then she starts whining. And whining. And whining…. until I can’t hold it together and I completely lose my shit. I yell. She cries. I feel awful. She cries some more and says she’s sorry. Which quadruples my guilt over yelling at her. Sorry, sorry she says with rivulets of tears and snot. I put my head in my hands. I pick up my phone. “Don’t text Daddy!!!!” she cries frantically. I come back sharply with “Let’s get this done then!” I say she’s stubborn. She gets even more upset. I say please can we just do this and she howls that she doesn’t know the answers.

On and on it goes until we are both a puddle of feelings and exhaustion.

She can spell “starvation” and “plastic.” She can read chapter books. She can write and imagine wonderful stories. She can play pretend school and she can ride a pony and do all sorts of beautiful, amazing things. She can look at me with her heart in her eyes, in both happiness and sadness. I worry that this will traumatize her. That it will only get worse as the grades go up and the homework gets harder. That she will completely rebel against doing any homework at all. It’s only first grade and we are a wreck over math homework. I worry that she sees me lose my shit with her and thinks it’s her fault, when I know damn well it isn’t. I think that it probably scares her to see me lose control and I beat myself up over that. All because of math homework.

So, friends, tonight please say a prayer that the end of school will come quickly. That summer break will soon be upon us. That moms and dads everywhere survive these last few weeks. And that the shit-losing is minimal and that the kids are not traumatized permanently. And have a drink in honor of all of us that are still doing first grade math homework at 45 years old and at 9 pm when little children should have been asleep an hour ago. We are not ok. This is not ok. I’m going to take a deep breath and leave you with this…..

Homework sucks and children need sleep.

You get out of life what you put into it. That’s what I said to my 19 year old step daughter today. I hope she remembers it. As I said it I looked around at the barn we were visiting and I noted a lot of differences between that barn and my own.

It’s time for the Elder Daughter to go her own way, make her own life, and her Dad and I want to help propel her on a path to (hopefully) a successful life. Which means I can no longer do everything for her. When we come home from a show she will be the one to clean her muddy spurs, wash her saddle pad and breeches and send her jacket to the drycleaners. It won’t be me. Perhaps she will forget something important the first few times. And I’ll gently remind her. But when we come home from her lesson at her new trainer’s barn, she will be the one to clean out the back of the trailer and put her things away. Pretty soon she’ll be the one driving herself to her lessons and backing the trailer up and unhooking it. I’ve plenty of my own things to do, not least of which is raising her 6 year old sister.

Today was ED’s first lesson with a new trainer. The first time she has taken instruction from someone other than me since she began riding at the age of 9. And I am delighted. I am excited for her, and thrilled that I can finally just let her figure shit out and be the mom cheering for her at the shows. Just like I have given over the training reins on Baby Girl to the lovely next door neighbor trainer, I should have done it long ago for ED. I was selfish. I was immature. And I wanted something that would never truly be mine.

As I looked around the barn we were at today I noticed how clean it was. How the aisles were perfectly swept and the stalls perfectly clean. With hay bags hung for each horse and matching sheets and tack trunks. A few years ago I would have been very envious of all the matchy-matchy and perfection. A few years ago I would have wanted all these same things and more. Tack room stall curtains for the bigger shows and beautiful fake plants and laying down mulch and a large wooden, custom made “Abingdon Park” sign like so many of the other barns have. I do actually have curtains. But they are old, and there is only one of them along with a name banner. It’s all I could afford at the time. And it’s been perfectly adequate for all these years. When there is “extra” money hanging around it sure as shit isn’t going to get spent on stall curtains.

But along the broken road I have learned who I really am. I am a trainer 100% dedicated to the middle class, middle income family who, if it weren’t for my guidance and patience, would never be able to afford this sport we love. This is my passion. I don’t want Mercedes or Teslas by the dozen coming up my driveway, driven by moms parents in skirts and cute tops with perfect nails that can’t be broken. I want the ones that are willing to get dirty. The ones that will help their kids tack up. The parents that will hang the curtains at the show and hook up the trailer. The ones that will have a glass of wine with me at the end of a long day. I want the parents I can be friends with. I want the kids that want to learn how to clean a stall, how to body clip, how to de-worm and why. I want the kids who will always, always clean their tack to “is this Julie clean?” specifications. I want the ones that will earn their way to a middle-of-the-road saddle and love it simply because it’s finally theirs. The ones who can learn to read a course by themselves and execute it without waiting for me to teach it to them. I will teach you to take care of yourself and your horse and then I expect you to actually do it. I want the kids who WANT TO.

I love my barn. I love the slightly chaotic look, and while mostly clean, always has something that needs to be done. I love how all my students want to be here. They want to help. They want to feed and clean stalls and groom ponies and scrub water troughs. I love that my ponies mostly stay out, with their somewhat shaggy appearance if I don’t have time to body clip them. I love that they are not picture perfect at all times and that they know I am their person. I love patting and talking to them while I feed and gently swatting the ones that put their ears back and pretend to be offended when I put their blankets on.

And even as I hate the freezing cold weather I am happy to be the one taking care of my horses when it snows, or ices, or rains. I am also happy that I can call any one of my parents and ask them to come feed at a moment’s notice when I have to take a horse to the vet clinic and that they will absolutely come. I love my property, too. I may not have that coveted indoor arena, or even a covered one, but what I have was built by my husband, by my dad, and by parents. Out of love. I love my arena. It’s the perfect size and maybe the jumps are old and worn but once again, they were built by my husband, and my dad, and painted by me.

I have walked that broken road. I have been in many places, and in many barns. I have done it all alone, and I have been lucky to find my husband to share it all with. I have been to many shows, and have had hundreds of students. I am ridiculously proud that at least FOUR of my former students are currently teaching and training in the North Texas area. In my mind that’s a pretty big number. I am proud of them – even the ones I haven’t kept in touch with.

This road has definitely been rocky – too many times to count I have wondered if it was all worth it, if I should give up, if I should quit. And the thing that always comes back to me is – I do this for the kids. The middle class, middle income kids that are everything I was, and more. Maybe I’m living vicariously through them, but I’m willing to admit that I love my kids. I love my parents. I love my barn. Along the way I have learned what really matters, I have learned that love is everything. Love the horses, the ponies, the sport, and the kids. That’s what fulfilment is. Not all the fancy stuff. If you love, you win.

I hang up the phone with a medical billing department and I go to stand in front of the fire. I stare into it for a few minutes until my husband asks what is wrong. I am overwhelmed I respond. A few moments pass and the darkness descends once more. Why is it, I ask, that it’s times like these that I start to think about my Mom, and miss her so hard? I don’t know Babe he says.

But I do. What do you do when you are overwhelmed? When you need to talk to someone? When you need advice or a listening ear? You turn to your mom. You call her up and it’s like a warm hug coming across the wires – or airwaves now I suppose. Her very voice is a calming balm. The way you instantly know she’ll do whatever she can to help. The way she says I love you. Nobody ever loves you like your mom loves you. Nobody can listen in just the same way. Nobody knows you better than you know yourself, except her. You know what you need? She asks. A long, hot bath and some time to yourself. Everything will be alright – you will get through this, you always do.

Her presence in the house my Dad lives in is strong. Her bedroom is unchanged for the most part. Her closet has clothes and shoes lined up. Boxes of pictures, wrapping paper and the old Wade Family Bible are there as they should be. A candle from my Granny’s funeral. An old doll and her leftover aura are there. Her bathroom drawers hold make up, hair products and her electric toothbrush. Some old creams and eyeliner pencils gather dust. Sometimes I look in these drawers, but the only thing I have thrown out is some expired medication and a bottle of face cream that smelled bad.

I wonder about the headboard that was left in the old house. I think it was very firmly attached to the wall and that is why it was not brought to the new house. I put her favorite yellow rose plates, cups and pictures – the ones that have not been broken – into the small wooden cabinets that belonged to her mother. I dust the pictures of her grandchildren, of my wedding and the blue glass vases she loved. I hang up some paintings and embroidery pieces I find. I am not deterred by the fact that she will never live here again.

I am racked by guilt over the way we moved her out. It was December 2019. My dad was very ill and I could no longer cope. Her caregiver and I devised a plan. She would take her to get her nails done, then drive her over to visit my Dad in his skilled nursing unit. My husband, my friend Kathy, and I would pack up her things and take them to the place we had selected in Frisco. We would get her room all arranged and take her there after she had seen my Dad. We even took the cat, Margaret. When we brought her upstairs and showed her her room she was, of course, very confused. Monte, the caregiver, stayed with her a long time. We told Mom she only had to stay there while Dad was in the hospital then she could come home. A lie that continues to haunt me. I remember when I had to leave she asked Monte if she was going to stay and Monte said “I’m not going anywhere.” But I have such terrible guilt imagining the fear my mom must have felt when Monte did leave late that afternoon.

How could I have done that to her? How could I have left her there? I thought she was in good hands, and I thought it was the best thing for all of us. But over and over again I look back and wonder if I did the right thing. I still can’t believe that I did. I was overwhelmed. I couldn’t cope. But what about Mom? She was overwhelmed, confused and scared. My Dad was too sick to have a say. People now will tell me that she doesn’t remember any of it. But does that make it right? I don’t know. I don’t know how to move on. I don’t know how to let go of that pain. I KNOW she’s in the best hands possible NOW and that offers a modicum of relief. But somewhere in the distant past I promised I would never do that to her, I promised she would just come live with me when she got old. We joked about just taking her out with an Uzi if it got bad. She said she’d rather that than end up like my Granny.

And yet, here we are. A million times worse than my Granny ever was, and a million times harder because Mom and I were so close, whereas she and her own mother were not. I promised Mom I would take care of her. I promised.

And I feel like I lied.

Some days are easier than others. Some days that compartment that holds my love for my Mom stays shut, hidden behind a stronger piece of me. But all too often I find myself looking at the door to that bit – the bit that is shattered and laying all over the floor in a million tiny pieces that will never, ever be put right again. If I am feeling strong I can look at the door and acknowledge it without opening it up. I can feel my love for my Mom and just feel warm and happy knowing that she’s there – somewhere – still there inside of me. 

Then there are the days where all those broken pieces overwhelm me and I have to try to put a few of them back together. I sit on her old bed at the house where my Dad still lives and her essence is so strong that I can feel her sitting next to me. She takes my hand. I lean my head into her shoulder. The tears fall and she wipes them away. I can hear her voice. Her sweet, beautiful voice that I pray I will never forget. She’s there and I’m nowhere. I’m lost among all those shattered pieces.

She’s on a different medication now and it’s making a world of difference. She’s so much happier and more alert. When I go to visit her whole face lights up and the first thing she says is “I love you so much.” We hold hands, and we sing silly songs like “There was an old lady who swallowed a fly,” and watch her favorites on YouTube like “Hallelujah.” Her old spark is there and I savor it. But then I ask her to look at the phone to see a picture and she says Oh, I see it. But she’s not focusing on the phone at all. Even now, even now she has the presence of mind to know what I want to hear and to say it. Even now, she tries to hide her illness. Even now she doesn’t want to be helped, or patronized.

I read her stories from the past, like Stone Soup and Leo the Late Bloomer. She loves this. She takes the books from me and endlessly looks at the pictures. It is so obvious that her hands were meant to hold books. I think this might be the part of herself that she misses the most. The books. The endless parade of books in our lives. I let her keep the books so she can look at them as long as she wants. I order more children’s books that I can bring her. We have finally found a connection that should have been obvious to me all along.

I miss the days gone by more than my heart can possibly acknowledge. I miss the way she was, the way she was my champion always. I miss talking to her about all the wrongs and all the rights in my life. I miss the way she was just there, just always there – at her table, reading her books, playing on her phone, watching TV. I always knew where to find her. I miss the way she almost always put me first – maybe selfish, but isn’t that what most Moms do? I miss how she was always thinking about me.

That compartment of my heart that is Mom – it might be ravaged with loss and regret and grief but if I can just push aside all that I might find that all that is left is the memories. The love she had for me. I can see her there, behind all the pain and she is happy. She is young again, and walking out with my Dad. And all her best days are ahead of her. She’s exploring Europe with her military wife friend Brenda. She’s heading up a library and excelling as a story teller. She’s got that crazy white cat, Gertie, at her heels and she’s even younger now – sitting on the back patio with her beloved dog Fella and the sun is shining and she’s waiting for her Daddy to play with her.

It’s getting late. Every day is one day later for my Mom. Every day she is one more day further away. And so while I can still reach her she will consume me. She will be and have All of Me and that is ok. That is the way I want it to be.

Have you ever read the books Penguin Problems, or Giraffe Problems? They are truly great. Sarcastic and yet oddly engaging. For kids of course, but I think I like those two books better than Baby Girl. So the title of this blog could easily be “Going to Bed Problems” or it could be “Every Excuse in the Book and then Some” or even “The Coyote in the Closet.” The story goes like this:

Onceuponatime not very long ago (last night) there was a Little Girl who did not want to go to bed. Now, her bedtime has long been 8 pm. This is not a new development nor a surprise. So the bedtime process starts about 7 pm. It begins with the Mommy telling the Little Girl to go get in the bathtub. The Little Girl pretends she does not hear. This goes on for about 15 minutes until the Mommy has to go peal the iPad headphones off the Little Girl’s head and barks “GET IN THE BATHTUB. NOW.” So the Little Girl heads off in that direction but then averts course and heads for the playroom. She sees the Mommy glaring. “I have to get TOYS” yells the Little Girl. The Mommy just shakes her head and says “well you better hurry up about it!”

Now, what IS a new development is the points system we have come up with in order to reward good behavior. The Mommy comes up with the brilliant idea to tell the Little Girl that she can have a point EVERY NIGHT if she’ll be in her bed by 8 pm. No exceptions – rules are rules. The Little Girl seems very excited by this but it’s deceiving.

Well to carry on with our story the Little Girl finally makes her way into the bathroom and finally out of her clothes, which are strewn about along with her shoes, and is in the tub about 7:30. Ten minutes into the bath, which is certainly long enough (could have been longer if the Little Girl had gotten into the bath when she was supposed to) the Mommy goes in to say “Hey, you have twenty minutes to get out, get dressed and brush your teeth in order to be in bed by 8 and earn your point!” The Little Girl says “well points aren’t that important anyway.” The Mommy just stares, defeated, shakes her head, and walks out. As she’s leaving she calls back “start letting the water out.” The Little Girl cries “Can I play until the water goes out?!” The Mommy is like WHATEVER KID and goes to the kitchen to make herself a cocktail.

Finally the Little Girl hollers that she needs a towel – because she can never manage to think of this ahead of time – and the Mommy obliges so that there will not be water dripping all through her hallway. At this point it should all be smooth sailing, correct? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Here is what happens next:

Dawdles to get dressed, whining that she needs help to put her clothes on. Asks if she can still have a point. Then disappears. The Mommy goes to look for her. She’s supposed to be brushing her teeth. Instead the Mommy finds her in the playroom saying goodnight to, and putting into tiny beds, every single PlayMobile figure, plastic horse, and Peppa Pig character she has gotten out that day. Mommy stares as the kid says “I have to put all these guys to bed and I’m trying to hurry so DON’T RUSH ME MOMMY.” Mommy goes to make another drink.

Then, Little Girl skips off to her bedroom (when she’s supposed to be brushing her teeth and in fact the Mommy has TOLD her to brush her teeth at least sixteen times by now) where she proceeds to put nighttime clothes on every baby doll and stuffed animal in her room. The Mommy puts a timer on and says if you aren’t ready for stories by the time this timer goes off then there will be no stories. A totally empty threat and apparently everybody knows this. Because it certainly doesn’t happen. What does happen is the incessant asking, whining and then begging to still get a point even though we are wayyyy beyond the 8 pm deadline. And while teeth do eventually get brushed and stories do eventually get chosen, it is by now 8:40 and the Mommy is worn out and SO DONE. She tucks the sweet tyke into her bottom bunk and bangs her head on the top bunk, as she does every single night but apparently never learns to avoid it while giving a kiss and a hug just so the kid can then say “I need to pee. But don’t worry, I can cover myself back up.” Which she most assuredly could NOT do the first time, apparently. Finally the Little Girl is settled under the covers with her star machine shining bright stars and the defuser going strong with “Calm.” Which is totally wishful thinking.

Quite relieved, the Mommy swings her leg over the chair in the Little Girl’s room and proceeds to happily play Words with Friends while simultaneously playing “Alex and Jackson” so the blessed infant will go to sleep until… she then hears… Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy sighs, turns off the music and says…

WHAT?!?!? “Mommy I’m scared of coyotes.” The Mommy sighs a deep, heartfelt sigh, and says “Baby Girl. There are NO coyotes in this house. It’s impossible for them to get in the house. Well, except for the one that lives in your closet and only comes out once you are asleep.” Which, of course, while funny and entertaining to the Mommy who has most assuredly lost her shit at this point, the child then starts to screech and cry and the Mommy knows it is all her fault but she can’t help it, she laughs anyway. Internally of course. So now they are battling fictitious coyotes, needing water, needing to pee, needing a hug and a kiss and 452 “catch the kiss Mommy” requests and finally, finally the Little Girl has been quiet for ten minutes and is undoubtedly, blessedly asleep. It is 9:14.

The Mommy goes into the kitchen to pour a glass of wine and melt into the silence that is a sleeping child at last.

The reason that I can write this story tonight is because the special, sweet child, is over at her Sister’s new apartment, for the first time and I don’t even know what to do with myself. It’s only 7:43 and I’m strongly considering a sleeping pill … I hope you all have as nice a night as I am having tonight.

I believe that a person’s heart is made up of a lot of different compartments. New compartments get added while old ones wither away or are filled with a new person’s love. We have as many compartments as we need for all the different loves in our lives. Sometimes there will be a compartment filled with the love for one person, alone. And sometimes that person goes away and that piece of your heart gets permanently broken. And sometimes a compartment that is filled to bursting with love for someone doesn’t get broken but maybe bruised, or maybe it’s so full that you don’t even know how to handle it. This is what it’s like when you have a child. When Baby Girl was born I looked down at her newborn self sleeping and l literally felt that new, strong piece of my heart just fill up and up and up until it took my breath away. This is what it is to love something so completely that you think it might kill you.

Baby Girl has turned into a very, very, SASSY six year old. She doesn’t have the best of respect for her elders. She can’t hear you when you tell her to do things (apparently). She likes to argue. Incessantly. And whine. And beg. And cry. There are many, many wonderful, lovely things about her but I can’t remember most of them right now.

Right now, at this very moment, she has been happily (my happiness) given over to her Daddy’s care for a few days while he visits relatives in Arkansas. Because this Momma is completely done. I am done with the screaming, the crying, the arguing, the talking over me, the ignoring my requests and everything, oh everything else. The not going to sleep, the not getting out of the tub, the not doing her homework…. all the NOT’s.

That compartment of my heart that holds my Baby Girl is thoroughly bruised. My ego is bruised. My confidence is bruised. My patience is gone – flew straight out the window last night when she would NOT, NOT, NOT, stop jumping on my bed and go to her own room to sleep. Yesterday morning she ignored the ear doctor when she was speaking to her and the look that doctor gave me was just “what a fucking spoiled child.” I almost cried right there. Instead, I got pissed off when Baby Girl would NOT choose a temporary tattoo between two unicorns (she was sure I would give in and let her have both) and I eventually just ripped both of them out of her hand, gave them to the receptionist and marched her smart little ass rightoutthedoor.

And it’s all my fault. Well, maybe not all, but mostly. I was older when she was born. I didn’t realize that she would be “up my ass” (as my husband puts it) from the day she was born. I did not realize how much I treasure my time at night, to read, to chill, to unwind – until it went away. And of course I did not realize how awfully stressed out I would become because of my parents health problems. I give in, a LOT, too much. I am tired and so I say no and then I say yes. It’s a problem and I know it. Also, the fact that I am an empath and quite literally can feel her pain makes me either a) get angry because I’m tired of feeling so much or b) give in because I hate for her to feel upset and I want both of us to be happy.

I don’t like to cook and I’m tired – did I mention that yet? – so Baby Girl eats pretty much whatever she wants. I do attempt dinner and I attempt to give her a good lunch but there are no boundaries here on what you can eat, or when. Until I try to enforce a boundary that doesn’t exist, then all hell breaks loose. And who can blame her? Twenty minutes ago she was allowed to have a popsicle or a granola bar or an apple whenever she wanted and now, at least for the next hour, she’s not. What a mess. I admit it. I know it. And I want to fix it.

Without the time to stop, think, regroup and plan there was no way anything was going to change. I bought the book “They Are What You Feed Them.” Did I read it? Of course not. I don’t have time. Last night when it was 9 pm and I was sitting in the chair in her room trying to get her to sleep I started crying myself – just sat there and bawled. Naturally Baby Girl doesn’t want to see me cry so she comes down from her bed and tries to comfort  me. But I am beyond being comforted. If she had gone to sleep at 8 pm THAT would have been comforting. I said to her – well mostly just out loud to myself – that I am the worst mom EVER. Not something I should have said to my 6 year old, but heck, maybe she needed to hear it. She started telling me No you’re not mommy!! And I was glad that at least she didn’t think so, even while she walks all over me. And then I told her to just come sleep in my bed because I just didn’t want to sit there and play music all night until she decided she was going to go to sleep. We got in my bed and I promptly passed out.

Then, today, we stopped at QT for a potty break and she’s holding my hand and she makes me bring my head down to her level and she whispers “Mommy, you know how last night you said you’re the worst mommy ever? Well you’re NOT. You’re NOT.” And I said thank you Baby Girl and I gave her a kiss. As sweet as that might be, it won’t actually change anything. I am the only one that can change what is happening here.

Right this minute it is 7 pm and normally I would be fighting with her about bath time and bedtime and knowing that if I don’t get her to sleep quickly she’ll be even more tired and whiny tomorrow (AND her ear infection is back so there’s that crankiness on top) and I also won’t get anytime to chill out before I am so exhausted that all I want to do is sleep. I’d be fighting with her about eating dessert, and doing her ear drops, and brushing her teeth. I’d be internally panicking and wiped out both. And I’d get to the point where I just don’t care – the point where you say WHAT THE FUCK EVER JUST GO TO SLEEP.

Thankfully she is with her Daddy right now and if he lets her stay up til midnight I just don’t care. It is not my problem and he’s welcome to it. I’m chilling. I’m writing. I’m watching House Hunters. I’m drinking wine. I’m remembering what it’s like to have some time alone.

Baby Girl, lately you have had ALL of me, but I’m about to shoot you right back down to your own little compartment in my heart. You have taken over every fiber of my being. You have wound your way like a poison vine over every inch of my skin. I’m cutting it off. That poison is leaving the building. I’m going to save both of us, but I have to start with me. You cannot have all of me, Baby Girl. Not anymore. I love you too much to let us both drown.

Two weeks ago Mom’s hospice worker called me. “Julie. Your mom can’t hold her head up. She isn’t talking.” I’m on my way I tell her. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.

Mom did not have a stroke which is what we all thought at first. When I got there she was in a wheelchair with her head propped up by pillows. She was doing a strange jerking motion with her whole body and didn’t seem to realize I was there. Her eyes kept closing.

We finally all decided that she was just very very sick with chest congestion and so that made her very weak. The doctor was called and he prescribed antibiotics and a steroid. Within a few days Mom was back to her regular self. The jerking stopped with the removal of a certain “calming” medicine she had been on. Such a relief!

But in the midst of the medication changes something else has happened… Mom has become more aware again. I feel like she was possibly being over medicated at the place in Frisco. In many months she had not said she “wanted to go home” or that she “wanted her husband.” She had not been combative very often. She was recognizing dad and me but it was fairly understated most of the time. Occasionally she seemed to not realize who I was.

But since Mom recovered from her illness and the “calming” medication was removed (replaced? I am not sure) Mom has been MUCH more aware. The other night about 7:45 they called me because Mom was feeling worried and anxious. She actually talked to me. She said she just wanted to talk to me because she was a little scared. I told her I missed talking to her at night and I especially missed playing Words with Friends with her. Do you remember playing that game Mom? Yes! She said. I miss it too. I was stunned. We talked a bit more and then she went back to bed. I guess she had been up wandering around when she was usually asleep. She didn’t communicate perfectly but it was so much better than it has been – I just couldn’t believe it. I even texted her caregivers and asked if I was crazy for seeing such a remarkable change!

Today Mom was combative with her favorite caregiver and didn’t want to get out of bed or take her pills. This has happened more often in the last two weeks than it had in the preceding nine months. When I arrived they told her they had a big surprise for her. She had been crying all morning. She comes around the corner and sees me and her face just completely broke down. She grabbed me and hugged me and just cried. My heart shattered in that moment. “I’m here Mom. Everything is ok. I promise.” But that perfect recognition, while extremely painful to watch, is a glimmer of the Mom I knew “before.” And so I’ll take it. I sat with her for awhile and then we went out to get a sonic drink. We drove mostly in silence, just holding hands. Mom starts to eat her hamburger but soon forgets about it and it falls to the floor. I give her one of Baby Girl’s small stuffed ponies to hold. She rubs its fur for a bit then tries to eat its tail. if that doesn’t show you how an Alzheimer’s patient regresses to toddlerhood, I don’t know what would. I gently take it from her and say “can’t eat the pony Mom.”

As I was about to leave I told Mom it’s ok to cry sometimes. And she said thank you in such a small voice. Then I said “it’s ok to cry sometimes but not all day, so pull your shit together Mom.” She laughed so hard. She knows that’s what she would have said to me. We both laughed then and I know she was doing better. I left the little pony with her.

I told her favorite caregiver that I just didn’t know what to do for Mom. That I hate hearing about the bad times but that of course they need to tell me. She said to me “just keep loving her. That’s all you can do. Just keep loving her.”

No worries Mom. As if I could ever stop.

On a Monday morning in September my brother, my husband and I go to the Landing at Watermere, where Mom is, to move her to a new facility. I hadn’t seen her for four weeks. The restrictions while COVID-19 is rampant have made it almost impossible to have any physical interaction with her. She was suffering, I knew. I wasn’t going to wait any longer. When I walk in, Mom is not in her room. I go to the dining area where I see her sitting in a wheelchair near the back of the room, staring off into space. I have my mask on and as I approach I say “Hi Mom.” She looks my way. Nothing registers. I pull my mask down as I get closer and recognition floods her face. “Where have you been?” she softly says. In that moment I am completely gutted. I touch her face – I’m here now mom, I’m here. My eyes fill with tears as she reaches for me. I’m so sorry Mom, I should have been here.

We go back to her room as I explain what is going to happen. Mom, we are moving you to a new place. A place where I will be allowed to come see you whenever I want. A place you will be better cared for. A place where Dad can come and sit with you. I promise it will be so much better. She is ecstatic to see my brother and while she doesn’t fully understand what we are doing, she couldn’t be happier to be surrounded by her family. She watches as we pack up her things. We have her cat, Margaret, in a cage by her feet. Every once in awhile the cat meows and Mom starts to look for her. “Where are you sweetie? Are you ok?” Mom, she’s here, right by your feet – see? In this cage. She is going with us, don’t worry. Mom looks down and acknowledges the cat but soon the information is lost again.

I sit with Mom while the men move the furniture. Her friend Luta comes out of her room next door and I say to her “Hi Luta! Mom is leaving today and we will sure miss you.” Luta answers by saying how easy it is to come out and watch the TV. She sits and watches for a few minutes in the TV room across the hall and then wanders back to her room. I sigh. I can see the decline in Luta, too, and it makes me very sad. I don’t know if Luta sees her family or not. I don’t know if they know the impact that COVID -19 is having on her and everyone in this locked down unit.

The place Mom is going to does not have a locked door. The residents – there are only 12 – can come and go as they please. It is in the country with 13 acres and horses across the street. There is a huge covered driveway with rockers and chairs. The residents love to come outside but they don’t go far. Everyone watches out for each other. Some of the residents do not have memory problems but everyone there is treated just the same. No one is behind a locked door meant to keep them in and everyone else out.

Mom and I drive to the new facility, singing songs along the way. It astounds me that she cannot hold a conversation but she can remember the words to, and sing, any song that she knows. She is having a great time, and I’m just happy to be with her again. We stop at Whataburger where Dad with his caregiver are – we say hello across the car windows. I’m not entirely sure Mom realizes it’s Dad – she’s pretty intent on eating her hamburger one piece at a time. She takes it all apart and eats each piece by itself. She makes a huge mess, just like a toddler would. I have to remind her to take a drink of her coke. She no longer runs her tongue across her teeth to clean them while she’s eating – an action we ALL do without thinking about. I find it difficult to be with her while she’s eating because all the things she can no longer do are exemplified. I try to avoid meal times. I don’t want to be hit in the face with her inadequacies.

The room at her new place is so much smaller that we have to leave some of her furniture on the trailer. It doesn’t matter though. Even though the room is small I am sure the care will be better. The dining and multi-use room is only a few steps away. You can always find a caregiver – at the old place I would wander the halls looking for someone and never find anyone. The men are busy trying to put together a dresser that turns out to be a POS. So I take Mom with me when it’s time to go pick up Baby Girl from school. She’s been in the car a lot today but you can tell she doesn’t mind – she’s just happy to be with me.

When we get back to the room my brother has to leave. Baby Girl and I take Mom into her room so she can finally see it. She seems pleased with it. She plays with Baby Girl who is hiding behind the shower curtain. Mom laughs when she jumps out and says Boo! The time has come to leave Mom there but I feel reassured that the staff will care lovingly for her. Her room is nice – cozy with all the pictures of family and roses that she loves. I notice that all her expensive toiletries are missing. I didn’t buy this Suave shampoo. I would never buy that. Mom uses John Frieda! I am appalled as I realize that her shampoos and lotions and soaps have been taken – stolen – by someone at the old facility. Chances are it never made it up to her room from when I had to drop it all off at the front desk in enticing Target bags. I am burning with rage but there’s nothing I can do. I’ll buy it all again so Mom will have HER stuff that she’s always used and loved.

That night I sleep better than I have in a long time. My mom is closer to me, and in good hands, and I’ll be able to see her again soon. She won’t think that she has been forgotten and abandoned. She will know that I am still here, still loving her, still her champion and her advocate. She will never again have to say “where have you been?”

I am here, Mom, right here with you. Always.

In all my life I never had a need to learn to cook. My mom was a great cook, and she loved to do it. She made fabulous meals for every get together, and always made too much. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter – it was always at her house and she was the host. Cheese balls, dips, chips, veggies, fruit salad, it was all there ready to snack on before the main meal even began. She used to make this absolutely phenomenal Brandy Dip for fruit that I simply couldn’t get enough of. She modeled it after the stuff you get at La Madeleine with the strawberries, which probably doesn’t have actual brandy in it, like Mom’s did.

We used to make fudge at Christmas. All kinds of fudge. We passed it out as gifts. Maple Walnut, regular chocolate, mint chocolate, peanut butter, I can’t even remember all the types we tried. She taught me to make it so that I can do it in my sleep and that’s a tradition I will always have in my heart. We laughed so hard when one time she forgot to put the sugar in… she was stirring and stirring and getting all sorts of irritated – why isn’t this turning? she fumed. I looked over – well Mom it sure doesn’t look right, did you put everything in? And that’s when we discovered no sugar! We simply laughed, threw it away and started over. Mom and I loved to go to Hobby Lobby to buy all those little containers to put the fudge in. We loved Hobby Lobby, period. In fact, on the very last outing I took her on – in February – we went to Hobby Lobby. I pushed her around in her wheelchair and she had a great time just looking and looking.

When Mom discovered how much I love almond extract she made an entire recipe up just for me. She took Lemon Cookies and turned them into Almond Cookies. They even had almond frosting on them. They made the largest batch of cookies you’ve ever seen – like 48 cookies or something insane – so it would have been sweet of me to share them with everyone…. but I didn’t. Her chocolate pie was to die for. I used to request that, along with twice-baked potatoes every time I came home to visit. And Dad would make chicken on the Big Grill just for me, even though everyone else wanted steak.

Mom had this way of cooking that was so like Julia Child – just flinging flour and shit everywhere and not caring one jot about cleaning anything up until later. I don’t know if I was amused or horrified but I definitely have a habit of cleaning up as I go now. She would have large flour handprints on her black pants that she almost always wore – I think she had about twelve pairs of black cotton capris. She didn’t care about the flour – she’d just shrug and smile and keep going. She had a wonderful habit of cussing as she cooked. You’d hear her muttering “shit!” and “fuck!” as she fiddled with something over the stove or as she tried to maneuver something into the oven. Her fridge was a haven of things long forgotten about.”Mom! What’s in the sour cream container in the back here?! Is it actually sour cream?” Hell I don’t know! She’d reply. We cleaned out her cupboards once and found canned goods from the 80’s — no lie.

Mom is short – so she had her library stool that she kicked around the kitchen in order to reach things. I have that stool in my kitchen today. It was a bittersweet moment when I took that from her house and put it in mine. I remember she used to have this yellow plastic tea pitcher that she’d toss some lipton tea in – without measuring – and then stand at the sink sighing while the water ran full blast into the pitcher. It was such a “moment” for her. I wish I still had that pitcher.

Mom made me anything I wanted – even as a kid. French toast was my favorite breakfast and I’d stand watching her flatten it into oblivion with the spatula. Why do you do that Mom? I asked one day. I don’t know, she shrugged – I’ve always done it. So now, of course, I flatten my french toast with the spatula. Maybe it makes it taste more like the bacon grease, I really don’t know but I still do it. And I think of Mom every time.

There are so many memories of Mom in her kitchen. In Harker Heights – where I lived as a kid – the eating area was in the kitchen and she used to sit at that table and smoke and read way into the evening. That’s where I’d find her if I needed to talk to her about something. That’s where the wall phone with the long cord was, where the kitschy trash can she found in Canton was, and the wire mesh basket that hung from the ceiling that held the potatoes. That wire mesh basket used to hang in the kitchen in Tyler, too, and finally made its way to my own kitchen. I also have the 70’s spice rack that is dark brown with faded and peeling pictures of all the spices on the front. I actually use it, too.

There are some things you just can’t let go of. In my mind my Mom will always be in her kitchen. And I’ll always be there with her, talking and laughing and eating and smiling and living and loving her.