Simply Colette

“Neurodivergent.” Do you know what that means? Please, let me tell you. According to Oxford Dictionaries, “differing in mental or neurological function from what is considered typical or normal (frequently used with reference to autistic spectrum disorders); not neurotypical.” Neurodivergent people have brains that work according to a different operating system, not a defective one. And trying to “fix” or “change” these individuals is damaging and cruel, in my opinion. According to educational material I have obtained through the Cleveland Clinic, neurodiversity refers to the way a person’s brain develops. It is not preventable, treatable or curable. It IS, however, manageable in most cases.

Individuals that do not have symptoms or issues that interfere with their social abilities, thought patterns and/or behaviors are most likely labeled as “neurotypical.” If that describes you, congratulations! But you know what? I bet you’re really not “normal” either. Because who knows what “normal” is. Is there such a thing?

My husband and I have the pleasure of raising our son that is neurodivergent (Autistic Spectrum.) He is not wired to give you eye contact, he thinks it is creepy and he hates it. He reserves smiles for very special occasions. He has no filter in social situations and will ask you your weight and promptly figure out your BMI (body mass index.) Of course we have discussed the inappropriateness of this and that you will never have women as friends if you quiz them on their weight. It’s an obsessive thought he has. And obsessive thoughts don’t go away quietly. He will let you know when you have overstayed your welcome. He will move around and jump and swing his arms when you think he shouldn’t. The repetitive motion soothes him and likely doesn’t harm you in any way. Annoy you? Maybe. But chances are good you might have some annoying habits, too.

He will randomly ask if he can dump pop on your head. Or sit on the hood of your brand new car. Would he do these things? No. Does he thrive on your reaction? Absolutely.

He can talk to you for hours about WWII, The Civil War, The War of 1812, The Titanic, The Bismarck battleship, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. He can point to any country, no matter how small, on a world map with absolutely no hesitation. He can throw a 1000 piece puzzle together in no time and remember details of events that would absolutely astound you. His brain is a sponge for knowledge. Tying shoes or remembering to zip up zippers is another story.

And there’s always advice from people on the sidelines. The peanut gallery. Those who haven’t lived a day as or with the neurodivergent.” “Shouldn’t he be driving?” (Do you want someone that struggles with constant thought distractions behind the wheel, simply because he’s old enough?) “Why don’t you have him get a job at McDonald’s? (Hmmmm….perfect place for a guy with a weight obsession. No ma’am, you shouldn’t get that Big Mac. I bet your BMI is already around 35.) “Shouldn’t he be taking more than two college classes at a time?” Well, if that was possible for him, he would.

Forcing people to adapt to our thought processes is unreasonable. And you know what? Many people that have made big, positive impacts in our society have been said to be neurodivergent. (Thomas Jefferson, Emily Dickinson, Bill Gates, Albert Einstein, Steve Jobs, Andy Warhol, only to name a few.)

Our world NEEDS neurodivergent people. We need to embrace them, encourage them, love them. Accept them. I promise you, they are wired this way for a reason. They can add such lightheartedness, humor and interesting information to your life.

Do I think about the future? Of course. Don’t you? Do I worry about my son’s future successes in life. Um, yeah. I bet you worry about your neurotypical kids’ future, too. Do I do my best to give him the tools and help and advice to get through life? Yes. But the drum he beats to is his own. I don’t get to choose. Nor do I want to. For now, we take our white bucket to the beach (the white one, it’s sturdy and doesn’t have words on it, words on a bucket are distracting.) We pick through rocks and fossils. We laugh and love the intricacies of nature. It’s perfect in its imperfectness.

Every day we strive to learn more, understand more and embrace each other more. Because we are all who we are for a divine reason.

Do you have one?? The proverbial “bucket list,” you know….the experiences you want to engage in before you kick the bucket? My list is long, and ever-evolving. The older I get, the more precious this list becomes. My list is really not extravagant. A lot of things I want to do or see are right here in the glorious USA.

I’m a music enthusiast, not limited to any particular genre. I can’t carry a tune in a basket and have no knowledge or desire to play an instrument. But I have the utmost admiration and respect for those who can and do. Music is constantly playing the periphery or in the forefront of my daily life. When my dear friend enthusiastically messaged me that Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band were coming to Detroit on their current tour, I wasted no time securing tickets. Another check off my list. I mean, Bruce is 73, the fear of him kicking the bucket in the near future kind of exceeds the fear of me kicking it. It was a no-brainer, I was going.

When I set eyes on the set list that he had been performing at recent shows, I was a bit disappointed. I mean, why would he not do “Brilliant Disguise” or “Born in the USA” or “Human Touch.” Aren’t those Springsteen classics? I ignored my dismay and trusted that “The Boss” knew what he was doing. After all, you don’t maintain a successful career spanning more than five decades by disappointing your fan base.

On the night of the show, we eat dinner at the hotel restaurant. The other couple with us are longtime friends and we are enjoying drinks, food and easy conversation. Before long, a woman I’d guess to be in her late sixties, of short stature and a petite frame appears at our table. Adorned in flashy apparel, a Springsteen t-shirt, a glittery red bow in her bleached-blonde hair and heavily applied makeup, she asks us if we are going to the show. “Hey, you know it!” She shifts her walking cane to her other hand and proudly points to the pin on her shirt, announcing that she is a “Spring nut” and goes on to tell us that it’s a group of 10,000 members and we can join if we want! She follows the tour schedule, showing up at most of the shows. She gives us a spoiler alert about how Bruce will wrap up the show. How he will rip open his shirt, exposing his buff physique, and bust into “Tenth Avenue Freeze Out” with the big screen displaying a touching tribute to the late, great Clarence (the legendary E-Street Band saxaphone-playing genius.)

We make way to the venue, standing out in the cold March air, among thousands of fellow fans. A predominantly 50+ crowd eagerly awaiting the performance. The show starts promptly as scheduled and the crowd goes wild as a svelt Springsteen gracefully makes his way to the stage, accompanied by his E-street band, made up of about eighteen musicians. I am in awe at the energy and talent that fills the stage at that very moment. Steven Van Zandt, wearing his trademark head cover, emitting a stage presence that you can feel. Bruce owns the stage, but proudly shares the glory with his deserving bandmates. I was mesmerized, singing along with the songs I didn’t think I liked. Turns out, I do like them. And haven’t quit singing them in my head ever since. I keep asking Alexa to play “Ghosts,” “Letter to You,” the awesome cover of the Commodores “Night Shift” and “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out.”

They performed for nearly three hours without a single break. No period of silence between songs. One song simply morphing into the next. Bruce sang with his characteristically rough voice, accompanied by a soulful edge that was nothing short of captivating. The back-up singers harmonizing flawlessly. The drummers, the saxaphone, various horns and guitars. The harmonica that The Boss played in between belting out song lyrics like it was effortless. Everything and everone involved working together to create musical perfection. This made me realize how lucky we, the fans, are that these talented people have devoted their lives to perfecting their crafts. Because through them we feel heard, understood, part of something outside of our otherwise quiet existence. “Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night. You ain’t a beauty, buy hey, you’re alright. Oh, and that’s alright with me.” The crowd sings along as one song shifts to the next. “Tramps like us, baby we were born to run!!!” The energy contagious. Chants of “Bruce, Bruce, Bruuuucce!” coming from every direction. People standing to dance a little or swaying in their seats.

And just as the “Spring nut” promised, Bruce did rip his shirt open and bust into the “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out” song with a photographic tribute to Clarence showing overhead. The encore was a generous offering of several songs and I don’t think a soul in the place was ready for the night to end. My heart was full and to be honest, I didn’t really even mind that some of my favorite hits weren’t in the set list. Because now I have some new faves. And I have an immense appreciation for the E Street Band. They are phenomenal. The chemistry between them all is amazing.

We end our evening back at the hotel bar. The previously described lady is there and seeks us out. She encourages us once again to join the “Spring nuts.” She’s already planning her trip to the Cleveland concert. She spits out names of various band members and tells us the truck driver even gives the Spring nuts inside information. Her charisma for Bruce and the band is contagious. I guess that’s what music does. It connects all different walks of life together and reminds us maybe we aren’t all that different after all. Maybe that’s why I like it so much.

We wake up in the morning, in a hotel overlooking the maginficent city of Detroit. Norb chuckles and says, so….”are we gonna join the Spring nuts, I mean isn’t that just what I need, to be part of the the central intelligence for the Springsteen tours?” I love his sarcasm. And who knows, maybe we will join the Spring nuts. I will keep you posted.

Ever wonder if you lived before? I think if I did I was in a whole different social class than I am now. The only thing that transferred here with me is high-faluting taste. The accomodating budget stayed wherever I came from.

I swear you can set two similar items next to eachother. One $20 the other $200. I would unknowingly choose the item bearing the higher price tag. Every. Single. Time. I certainly didn’t inherit this practice from my thrift store, Dollar-Tree shopping mother.

What even got me thinking about this? I think it was the Melissa McCarthy Booking.com commercial. My husband enthusiastically called for me to see the advertisement, announcing that her partner in the clip is her real spouse. Apparently he thought that fact was worthy of distracting me from what I was doing at the time (which, mind you, is long gone from my memory.) I didn’t notice anything about the booking.com promotion other than Melissa’s pajamas. That’s right. Her pajamas. They have lingered in my mind ever since. I want them. The intent of making moms everywhere long for a vacation “somewhere, anywhere” was missed on me. I want the pj’s. I lay in bed last night, tossing and turning. I can’t get comfortable. But I bet I could if I had that beautiful nightwear on. I reach for my phone, it’s under the bed for emergencies such as this. I get right to the point, “what pajamas is Melissa McCarthy wearing in booking commercial?” Aha……”As seen on TV…watch Melissa McCarthy get swept away in her ‘PRINTFRESH’ HIGH HORSE PAJAMAS. That’s it. I found them. In the bat of an eye, I’m scrolling through the Printfresh site, there they are!! All vibrant and colorful and pretty. Horses adorning the eye-catching print. Ohhhhhhhh……I need these. I don’t really like horses. But I like pretty. I like blue, I like soft, I like bright colors. I like flowers. Oh yes….I need these. I find my size. They’re going in my cart. Gulp $158.00. And if I want the coordinating robe it’s an additional $248.00. What was I expecting? This Superbowl focused commercial to have the actress wearing pajamas from TJ Maxx? I reluctantly refrain from the purchase though it continues to haunt me. But when the sensical Colette emerges (the one that doesn’t always show her face when it comes to purchases) I have to listen. I calculate how many hours I have to work as a nurse to buy that conglomeration.

I will say advertising is brilliant. It can suck a blue collar worker like myself into longing for something they’d have to work hours to afford. Maybe some people wouldn’t notice that stuff. That’s why I’m quite sure I was something fancier and wealthier in my past life. Eventually I did fall asleep, in my mismatched pajamas.

For as long as I can remember I have loved photographs. I tend to wander through my daily activities, examining my surroundings as though I am looking through the lens of my beloved camera, randomly framing and cropping images in my mind.

They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. That being said, I love seeing things in their imperfect states. The leaf that has fallen from its connection to life, settling into the wet autumn ground after being beaten down by rain and wind. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them settle into earth’s bed and together create a composite that is fascinating and pretty, even though most have lost their vibrant status by that time.

The flower with a bent stem and missing petals. It has character. Candid photos of a kid with bedhead and missing teeth, complete with evidence of a messy meal lingering on pudgy cheeks. Reminders that it’s okay to be carefree.

The elderly man with wrinkled, weathered hands signifying years of hard work. The aging woman with deep lines embedded in her sweet face. A face that has seen and endured much over the prior decades. The young lady with imperfect teeth but a huge smile. I most often find those with unusual or unwanted attributes to be the most charming and intriguing.

I love modern technology and I hate it. Mostly because we all seem to think the original state of things, mainly ourselves, isn’t good enough as is. Those of us in our 50’s seem to think we aren’t supposed to have “laugh lines,” graying hair and extra chins. Like a filter making us appear with even-toned skin, chiseled jaws and smooth, flawless skin is going to increase our worth. I’m as guilty as anyone about developing some sort of paranoia over how I look in photos. But why? Filters and advanced editing won’t change the me that you see when you’re standing in front of me.

It’s sort of ironic that I embrace and appreciate imperfections in everyone and everything but myself. Most can identify with this to some capacity, I would bet.

I’m going to keep looking around with my forgiving eye at the world around me, snapping “still lifes” in my head and sneaking candid pics of those I love and those I barely know. Life is interesting and imperfect and ugly and beautiful all at the same time.

“Live simply” they say, “less is more,” “less clutter, less stress.” There’s truth in these cliches and I know it. Too much “stuff” makes my anxiety soar. And though it may not occupy every square inch of our living environment, it’s there. Under beds, in closets, behind the selectively closed door of the basement.

It’s a new year, I’m going to blaze through this house and get rid of the extra dust collectors, the things we don’t use. I make the usual “donate” and “trash” piles. I recruit my son to help, we start in his room. He starts rummaging through his rock and fossil collections. He carefully inspects each formation and announces its importance, the defining characteristics that set it apart from the others and make it special. To me, its a pile of rocks. And how many Petoskey stones, horn corals and Crinoids does one need, I ask myself? In this house, it’s a dumb question. I leave him to assess his own belongings and I go for the closet. The closet that has housed the majority of his art projects, report cards and homework assignments that took an act of God to complete. I feel a lump in my throat as I retrieve “Annie” the dinosaur that went everywhere with us for years. I set the stuffed Stegosaurus aside and start tossing the broken crayons, dried out markers and random puzzle pieces into the trash pile. The sentimental findings are too much so I relocate into the kitchen. Surely no items carrying any sentimental value will be found in there.

I don’t need multiple spatulas and duplicates of various kitchen utensils, I don’t. I easily toss them into the “donate” pile. Identifying kitchen towels that have achieved rag status is easy. Nothing emotionally difficult in here, I can purge this room ’til my heart’s content. Or maybe until I open the cupboard that contains the pink and white fish-shaped melamine serving plate. The one that I took out to all of the backyard campfires over the years. Ohhh, on it I would carefully arrange all the fixings for S’mores to treat the neighborhood kids, friends, family. If I get rid of that, I’m throwing away proof of that precious memory.

I find myself looking through CD’s. This will be a piece of cake. Who even listens to compact discs anymore? One by one, I toss them into the donate pile. Until I get to the John Hiatt CD case, with the Interlochen concert ticket stub stuffed inside the cracked case. My mind flashes back nearly 2 decades. I remember the details of that trip. Me belting out “Buffalo River Home” there and back so many times Norb was ready to leave me on the side of the road. That one has to stay, along with Gordon Lightfoot and Eric Clapton’s Greatest Hits. Too many memories attached to those.

I attempt to tackle one last nook of this house today. My bedroom closet. It’s pretty organized, being I tackled it not long ago. I start sorting through the purses and stop cold when I spot the Madras plaid handbag with the ant pattern. A random ant here, a random ant there. I bought the designer purse many years ago when Dan was a little boy and had an obsession with ants. I carried that purse proudly and oh how he loved it. That one stays in the purse bin. It has to.

As I reflect through my findings, I realize my attachment is to the memories and not necessarily the objects themself. It feels like parting with these things is parting with periods of time I will never get back. So I dust them off and put them back in their respective places. Because while I want a tidy home, I also want one with meaning, with scattered bits of nostalgia, where I can easily spot something that makes me say, “hey…..remember when???”

I holler for Dan to grab the clear containers for the rocks. We organize them as best we can, not parting with a single one. We dust them off and head for town. I grab my John Hiatt CD. I sing “Buffalo River Home” and my reflective, sappy mind is content.

This past week has been eye opening. No pun intended. Well, maybe. My mom had a close call with her vision and surgery needed to happen asap. I am her mother now, you know. For the past several years we have been living a role reversal in our relationship. I’m the 53 year old baby of the family. But regardless of birth order, I have taken it upon myself to worry about her, look after her and scold her when need be. Like when she wears white socks with black old lady shoes and dark pants that are too short, or bobby pins in her hair, or when she doesn’t pick up after herself.

We are as different as we are alike. I’m friendly with a conservative edge. She’s friendly with an extra side of sticky sweet. It’s rare to take her anywhere without her stopping to thank random employees for their hard work. They could be emptying the trash, but she’s sure to stop and let them know their work doesn’t go unnoticed and that their job makes a difference. She has this unwavering need to connect with people and to be quite honest, it annoys me to pieces. It’s embarrassing when she is habitually poking her head into stranger’s conversations or striking up some sort of dialogue with people quietly minding their own business in a restaurant. My eyes roll as I mutter under my breath, “oh lord…. here she goes. Couldn’t she please sit down and blend into the background?”

When we got word that her eyes were in danger of total vision loss or significant impairment, we wasted no time packing up and heading to the other side of the state where surgical intervention could take place. Mom as calm as ever, her faith allowing her the ability to feel a sense of peace; safe and accepting of whatever the outcome may be. Me, a nervous wreck as the daughter and nurse in me repeatedly runs through my mental checklists, “did you pack your medications, did you take your Coumadin (blood thinner) out of your med box, remember you can’t take that before surgery! Do you have your insurance cards? Did you unplug unnecessary small appliances? Did you lock your doors? Did you bring your keys? Yeah, I’m enough to drive anyone to drink. She handles me better than I would handle me.

We check in to a nice hotel, because even medical stuff can be turned into a little vacation, right? We decide to sit in the quaintly decorated lobby before turning in for the night. After all, it’s after 8 pm and we have a long day tomorrow. We sit by the festively decorated Christmas tree, soft holiday music playing in the periphery. We are sipping tea and admiring the tree ornaments and miscellaneous decor. A “mature” couple appears at the self-serve coffee and tea bar. The Mrs. is hobbling along with a cane. An attractive lady likely in her late sixties early seventies. The Mister is older, mid eighties at first guess. They are selecting their tea bags of choice and I can see my mom’s wheels spinning. She is yearning to talk to these random strangers. I’m biting my tongue, “mom….did you see the pretty tree topper?” Hoping to distract her until the couple disappears to their room. Nice try, Colette. Once my mom made eye contact with the lady the rest of our evening would unfold in an unexpected (but not totally surprising) manner.

“Hellooooo” mom announces in her sweet voice. The lady turns and gives a half smile. “Where are you here from, long day traveling? “Um, we are here from about 1/2 hour west of the Chicago airport.” “Well, I bet you’re tired, would you like to come sit with us, we are just visiting by the tree, isn’t it beautiful?” “Umm yes, I don’t see why not. Not sure where my husband scooted off to.” Husband quickly returns and joins us. Within moments, my mom and her new friend “Carol” are sharing knee replacement stories and giggling like long lost friends. Carol’s husband “Don” sitting next to her in the soft blue upholstered chair that is the epitome of hotel lobby furniture. A sweet, patient smile on his face.

My mom wastes no time enlightening them as to the issues with her eyes and why we are here in the first place. Don lights up and takes delight in telling her he had a similar situation five years prior while vacationing in Reno, Nevada. They instantly connect and converse over their commonalities like they’ve known each other for years. Don reassures her she will do fine and between him and his lovely wife, they recall, in detail, about the recovery process. Our conversation somehow morphs into home decorating and my mom tells Carol that she and I don’t agree on that one bit. Me, preferring more of a minimalist aesthetic, she a hodgepodge of stuff she’s collected over the years, in addition to her frequent finds at the dollar tree (junk, as I usually point out.) Carol smirks and adds that I sound just like her daughter. She tells us of the items of sentimental value she loves to display, like the felt tablecloth her uncle made and gifted her with many years prior. My mom lights up, adding that that stuff if right up her alley. Carol pipes in, “I try to send some of my holiday treasures home with my granddaughters to enjoy, but it comes right back to me, my daughter telling me she doesn’t want that junk.” We all laugh because it resonates so familiar. I tell Carol my mom and I love each other dearly but can fight like cats and dogs. She affectionately assures me that “mothers and daughters are complicated…. it was like that with me and my mom and it’s the same with me and my daughter.”

More than an hour has passed, and we collectively determine it’s a good time to retreat to our rooms for the night. We exchange room numbers and they assure us they will check in on mom tomorrow. Mom and I go to sleep with a sense of peace and comfort knowing there are such great people in the world, in our world.

The surgery is Monday and in true Linda fashion, she is upbeat and optimistic. She flirts with every male healthcare worker she comes in contact with. They love her spunk and play right along, finding her humor contagious. I’ve succumbed to the fact that this is my mom’s personality and after more than eight decades on this earth, my uptightedness isn’t going to change that. Nor should it. We work on crossword puzzles together, me giving out the clues, and together we try to guess the mystery words. It passes the time and we enjoy each other’s company. “I trust God, it will work out as it is meant to, I’ve had 82 years of vision, if I come out with only one good eye, it’s okay. I am so thankful for the skilled professionals and appreciate whatever they can do to help me.” A lump in my throat, she has dealt with a lot in her lifetime, but never fails to recognize the good in every situation, the good in every human being that walks the face of this earth.

Surgery goes without a hitch. We head out for a late lunch/early supper, me teasing her that she is a cute pirate, eye patch in place. I lead her around, her eyes dilated and vision compromised as her eyes start to heal. I tuck her into bed at the hotel, making sure her head is in the proper position as directed by the surgeon, so that the gas bubble that is helping to repair the detatched retina, can do its thing. She assures me I need some time to myself and encourages me to go roam around Target while she naps. A deal too good to refuse, I take her up on it. When I return a couple hours later, she boasts that Carol and Don were just there and spent most of the time I was gone visiting with her, Carol presenting her with a candle that displays the words “Blessings are everywhere.” They had already exchanged phone numbers and addresses.

We sleep well and the next morning mom and I leisurely have breakfast together before deciding to get ready for the follow up eye appointment. I jump in the shower and follow my typical daily “get ready” routine. I’m sitting on the bed, hair wrapped in a towel, turban style. Pajamas on. My magnifying mirror in hand, as I carefully apply my makeup. We hear a rap at the door. Assuming its housekeeping alerting us that we are late for checkout, I hide behind the door and crack it open. It’s Carol and Don. They popped in to say goodbye to their new friend and make sure she’s doing okay. We invite them in and they sit and visit, me carrying on with my task, disregarding the fact that I typically wouldn’t be caught dead like this. Mom laying on her left side on the bed in the fetal position, adhering to her postoperative instructions. We are carrying on as though we’ve know these people our entire lives. Seems like we have. We part ways with hugs and promises to keep in touch.

The follow up appointment goes great. Everything looks as it should at this point in time. We prepare for the long trip home, deciding to stop at Joann’s Fabrics to sift through their sale items. I round the corner to find mom hugging a fellow shopper that is adorned from head to toe in Christmas attire. A bald head with snake tattoos on the back of her scalp and poinsettia decorations on the front of her head, framing her face. Her dress is festive, almost resembling a tree skirt. Her smile radiant and mom is immediately drawn to her. I feel like she may have escaped from a mental institution. Mom sees nothing but a woman passionate about the holiday. Mom names her “Merry” and the woman thinks that’s the greatest. They hug and before we leave the store, we are invited to her house for cookies, which we had to decline. “Okay, promise me next time you’re in the area you’ll come knock on my door. She announced her address, it’s a red house. Knock at my door, can’t wait to see you again!!”

We head for home, I remind mom to put an entry for next Tuesday on her calendar when she gets home. “We have to do a road trip to Petoskey for your next eye follow-up.” “Oh, aren’t we just like Thelma and Louise??” “No, I think we are just Colette and Linda. We are own thing.” We laugh. Blessings are everywhere.

I’ve been trying to really focus lately on helping Dan with life skills. It’s something that many of us so-called “neuro-typicals” take for granted. I mean, how hard is it to fold clothes, make a simple meal, or handle some phone calls for appointments, etc.? I’m here to tell you it doesn’t come naturally to everyone. Something as natural as eye contact can be a challenge.

Maybe I should be focusing on doing laundry with him right now, or whipping up an easy meal. But I’m not. We are working on having friends. We are working on looking people in the eye, even for 1-2 seconds at a time. We are working on asking people about THEM. Not interjecting facts about the Titanic and the number of electoral votes each state gets. It’s about taking that first step to send a text and to actually respond when you finally get one from someone else.

I’m a social gal. I thrive and have always thrived on social connections. I love friends. There’s something magical and heartwarming to have “old” friends that have been with you through so many of life’s seasons. We’ve seen each other sporting bad perms, awful hair styles and hilarious fashion trends. We’ve kept in touch and connected during the pre-social media era. We passed notes in class, gave each other rides in our ugly cars that didn’t have a single bell or whistle.

I would have never survived college, nursing school, any of my jobs….without my friends. Old friends, new friends. They had/have my back. I had/have theirs. I wouldn’t have survived the challenges I have had as a parent, a daughter, a wife without my friends. Norb and I often sit around a kitchen table or any type of social setting with a group of friends we view as family. Sometimes my heart feels overwhelmed with gratitude, as they have such an important role in our lives. That is the connection I want for my son. I want him to experience that sense of camaraderie.

So today, we are reaching out. We are going to practice sending texts and actually responding. I will probably have him actually CALL someone and talk for a few minutes (okay, thirty seconds to a minute may be more realistic, but we need to start somewhere.)

And last but not least…..my heart will forever be grateful to Lauren, who has taken on Dan as a brother and friend and showed him love and friendship that money could never buy.

And may I ask…if you see someone that struggles socially. Pay your good social fortune forward and give them a smile, ask a question, make a connection.

It’s January 1st. We are supposed to have a new year’s resolution, right? We are going to be better, we are going to do more, we are going to like ourselves (and maybe like other people) better, right?? Nope, not me. I am focusing on liking life NOW. I don’t need to do more ( I work a full time job, bust my butt to be a good wife, mother, daughter, friend.) What more do I need to throw in there, seriously?

I have this horrible habit of comparing myself to others. If I was as smart as her……. If I was as good a nurse as him/her……. If I could wear that kind of clothing like she does…. If I had the money to go here or there or buy this or that like they do….. Yeah, the list goes on.

Truth is, I AM smart. Maybe not as smart as I would like to be. But smart enough. My life has been successful. I’m not a genius, but I am enough. I AM a good nurse. As nurses, we are not all the same. We bring different skills to our work place. I can’t rattle off a lot of intellectual facts about medications and mechanisms of action and every detail about certain disease processes. But I can take care of you. With empathy and compassion. We need to be different, we need to bring different skills and strong points with us to be effective as a team.

We all seem to think that losing a few pounds will make us better. It will make us a smaller version of us. But at the end of the day, I am still me. No matter the clothing size. And another truth is, no one is losing sleep over the size of me. So for now, I am choosing to be happy with me. How and who I am TODAY.

And money….I am comfortable. I have enough. Not too much, but enough. And realizing that many others can’t say that, makes me humbly grateful. I do not want to make my job my number one priority to have more “stuff.” I will not be on my death bed saying “I wish I would have worked more.” I want to continue to create wonderful, special moments and memories with family and friends …filled with sentimental value that no amount of money can ever buy.

So as 2022 starts, I am going to continue being me. Imperfect, forgetful, fashionably late, always.

Wishing you and yours a happy new year! May your days be filled with what makes you happy and your heart content. Be good to yourself. And drink the coffee, the fancy stuff!