One Day at a Time

I awoke this morning, ready to bake Grrrchews. We overslept , so I had to  drive the kids to school. I returned home, made my coffee and began to assemble my ingredients. Not 20 minutes later, my phone rang. It was a health teacher this time. Now what? I thought.


 It was his health teacher. He is failing. He is missing 12 homework assignments. Two of the items are open book, take home tests. Sounds fairly easy to me. In fact I would not even consider that "work". I always thought health was an easy A. Health is not the only sore point. He is failing 3 out of his 5 classes right now, one week away from end of marking period.

What a roller coaster I am on, and to think yesterday I considered stepping back from this. I have been on the phone all day gathering information and weighing available options. I have narrowed them down to 2, intensive treatment at a wilderness program or a therapeutic boarding school. I do not want to make this choice but have run out of options that fall within a normal range. I must opt for one or the other.

Where have I been, asleep, delusional, or just plain in denial about the depth of my son's issues. I  realize that regardless of how well I think I know him or how much help I give him, I just don't have the proper tools to deal with his problems. Intensive professional help is his only option. I feel the guilt well up, along with the tears in my eyes.

About 2 weeks ago I sat in my therapist's office. She asked me to define the word guilt. I do not remember my definition but I do recall hers. She defined it as "fear under a blanket of disguise". Today I understand what that means.

 I grew up in a home where parental involvement in my life was minimal . I felt more like a fixture sometimes than a daughter. It was a tough. I felt alone and learned to rely solely on myself. The fear of asking for help was instilled in me from a very young age. I learned not to trust. The guilt I feel in this moment is that fear in disguise. I had a tight grip on a false belief, that I could handle this on my own.

So! I feel the guilt. I recognize my fear. I see its truth. I got on the phone. I made an appointment with a psychiatrist to help narrow down our choices. I will get help from  professionals who have proper tools and are much better equipped to help him get back on track. I can't do it all. I actually feel great relief from this admission. I faced this harsh truth today. I was able to deal with it in a calm and rational way. I believe my therapist would call this a therapeutic moment. Asking for help makes me stronger. Regardless of this setback  I begin to feel my soul heal.

 A few hours have passed. I am breathing calmly again. My hands have stopped trembling. I began this day in the same way I will end it, baking my biscuits. One day at a time.

Back on the Biscuit Train

This morning I sit here at my table, sip my coffee and wonder how almost a year has past since I made a post on this blog. But more importantly I ponder how this project got pushed to the back burner of my life.

February 22, 2010 is the date. If I recall correctly it was about 2 weeks after my son  was asked to "withdraw" from the prep school he attended since 3rd grade. He was caught with 2 other boys smoking pot.

"Where were they smoking?", I asked the head of school when he called.

"In the back seats of the hockey bus.", he answered.

I enrolled him in our local public school and placed him in an afternoon treatment program. That was his first time. He has since gone through an intensive outpatient program. Ding, ding, ding round two. He smoked pot the same Friday he was released the first time. The second we were granted a month reprieve from the behavior and acting out. He is presently failing 2 of his best subjects, not because he is not capable, he used to be an A-B student. He chooses not to do his homework.

Who's to blame? What's to blame? Can blame even be found? Questions I have asked myself repeatedly for over a year now. I am getting over that phase of it. The blame game. My son's favorite game at present. Convincing him that he needs to take responsibility for his actions falls on deaf ears. He is blind to this fact. Reality tells me that he has to learn this on his own. Painful admission at best. The Mom in me desperately longs to fix it. Common sense tells me this is a valuable lesson. He can learn through his experience. A truth, a bit more painful to accept.

My son is sixteen. He teeters on the edge of adulthood. Ready or not here it comes. He has said that he can handle this on his own. I have done a lot for him. He says he is not smoking anymore. I have a tutor in place.My son doesn't like him. Counselor at the ready. He won't open up. Regardless of anything, still wonder if I need to do more. Is it out of my hands? is this a phase? As my grandma used to say, "Let go and let God." Can I let this go? Will I lose him in the process? I am torn. I sit in my own truth.

I am in the middle of a divorce, struggling to find my way through to singleness, after 21 years. I know I have made a sound decision. I am reminded by the discord that looms between this stranger, who is myself and a soon to be ex. Would the situation be different for him if our history were different? I am unsure. We all hold some responsibility. But that does not exonerate my son. He needs to be held accountable for his actions.

I have never been Mom of the year. I drive a red minivan but that doesn't mean I am a soccer Mom. I do not always control my temper or speak in a soft voice, and patience is not my strong point. No excuses, just truths. I am far from perfect. I try my damndest regardless of circumstance. In other words I am doing as best I can.

So I believe this is the point at which I need to take a leap of faith. To muster up enough strength to trust my soon to be adult. To give him some breathing room, space between Mother and Son. Lay off him awhile and see if he steps up. I need some room to grow now and time to breath again, almost as much as him. It is in the letting go that we gain freedom and perspective to move forward.

When my eldest child was little and got discouraged or frustrated I used to sing him a song that I made up after reading "The Little Engine that Could". I am not sure he even remembers it. But it is high time I sing it to myself as I step into a new phase of my life.

"If you say you can you can
If you say you can't you can't
I think I can
I think I can
I can, I can, I can"

Brainstorm...

Guess I dropped out for awhile there...Back on track baking my Grrrchews. Think that I found a better way to make them...same recipe...different size and shape. Necessity, as they say, is the mother of invention.

Upon return to my quest of becoming the mother of biscuit baking, I saw a need to change my approach. The biscuits were taking too long to make and way too long to bake. So I applied a bit of thought and a lot of culinary knowledge. As a result of that brainstorm my biscuits are created and cut differently. Rolling out the dough and cutting with a pastry cutter makes for a nice pocket of air in the middle. Fast baking and crisp, jack loves the new Grrchews and so do I.

Hopefully, so will the general public when I finally get them to market to market to see a fat dog.

Biscuit Vision...part 2...

Some background on my beliefs in dreams...



I am not an "out there" girl, meaning believe in ghosts, past lives etc. But I must say I am beginning to veer off in that direction. Considering the clarity of my Grandma Gert dog biscuit dream, I would have to be a fool NOT to believe. I awoke feeling as if I had a real conversation with her. I have never experienced this before now. Something happened in my psyche during that dream. Gert and her dog loving ways will live on through me. I intend to make a go of this come hell or high water. It makes far too much sense in the big picture not to.



As I said before, Gert was the woman who kindled in me a passion for food and cooking. She was my inspiration to go to cooking school. She taught me the basics which I use every day. The quencher and karmic piece comes from the fact that these biscuits were the first thing she ever taught me to cook.



I have named them after her..."Gertchews". So I dedicate this adventure to Grandma Gert, my mentor, my muse.

"Bake the Biscuits...sell them..."

November 10, 2009

Fell asleep on my couch, mid afternoon. Very out of character for me, being someone who vacuums at midnight on a regular basis. My Grandma, my muse, my first cooking teacher came to me in a dream. She told me to bake the biscuits. Sell the biscuits.
So I rose from my dream inspired to begin, anew. Independence day.

Flashback...April 2008...

Drove to the beach to pick up a new addition to our family, in the form of a black Labradoodle puppy. The moment I laid eyes on our pup I thought of my Grandma Gert and her dog Jolly, black standard poodle was she. Couldn't wait to get home and bake him some of her biscuits. Being the first item she taught me to cook, it seemed apropo.