My Sister's Keeper?

Am I my sister's keeper? Am I supposed to be my sister's keeper? I ask myself, "What exactly is my moral obligation to my sister?" or to my nephew, or to another sister (I have five), or to whomever is going though a crisis, (usually self-induced) at the moment.

Since my mother died, I have pondered this question more often than ever. It reminds me of when I worked in an office, in the mortgage business. There was always some working stiff at a cubicle, clocking in and clocking out, performing seemingly unimportant, mundane, monotonous duties. Not until working stiff Jane was away on vacation or out sick for a few days did the rest of us have a clue what she did. Then, when the office assembly line would invariably come to a crashing halt, did it become crystal clear not only exactly what Jane did all day at her cubicle, but just how fucking important it was. Maybe not $100,000 salary important, or office with a view important, but the kind of important that totally fucks with your job when Jane isn't there to do hers.

I always knew my mother dealt with my family and their numerous and chronic financial and emotional troubles. I just did not realize quite how much, nor how often , she dealt with them. I would not necessarily concede that she dealt with them well, but deal with them she did. Whether it was a reassuring "It's alright, drink a cup of tea dear, take an aspirin, and it will all look better tomorrow" phone call to a hand-wringing sibling of mine, or doling out dough to cover another's rent, cell phone bill, or bail-out money-my Mom took care of it it.

Ironically, before my mom died, I thought I was dealing with those things things frequently (and I was), but after my Mom died, I became aware of just how much she had been sparing me. I had no idea I had been only receiving the crumbs from the fudge that is my family (you know- a little sweet, but plenty nutty).

One of my sisters is in a crisis. A crisis of epic proportion. The kind of crisis that if not resolved could change her life and others' lives-in serious and disastrous ways. This crisis is so overwhelming, both emotionally and financially to me, that I have been avoiding it, ignoring it, literally hiding under my bed covers and watching television instead of taking phone calls from her children, from my other sisters. I just DON'T want to deal with it; I am not UP to dealing with it, AND should I be dealing with it? I resent that I am being asked to deal with it. AGAIN.

Am I my sister's keeper? And if I am not, then who is?

Under Pressure

Deadlines. I like them. I hate them. I need them. I never finished a paper in college before 2 a.m. the day it was due. Usually, it was more like 4, 6 or 8 a.m. It didn't necessarily indicate a lack of planning on my part. More often than not, it was a case of the paper not being on index cards and notes, but it being in my head. After doing everything I could do EXCEPT write my paper (you know, all the really important stuff, like dusting the mini-blinds, cleaning out the refrigerator, going to check who was hanging out in the lounge, maybe even going out for a few drinks), I would finally sit down and face the blank white paper and the little black keys. Then, in one frantic frenzy, all of my thoughts would come spewing forth while I engaged in a great deal of mental editing as I typed. I will be displaying my age and the antiquated era in which I grew up when I say that I wrote many a term paper on typewriters, using a lot of white out, or typing a draft, going through it with my pen, scribbling in the margins, then re-typing it, handing it off to the professor at the last minute: a paper fresh with the aroma of typewriter ink. And white out. Aaah...I can still smell it.

It's the same way my house stayed clean for many years. The trick, my husband and I learned, was to invite guests over at least once a month; ideally, once a week, on extremely short notice. The amount of cleaning that was accomplished in such a short time was always astonishing to me, and oddly, equally satisfying.

It is this same mixture of dread, anxiety, and sense of satisfaction I get when I procrastinate planning for my class I teach at a homeschool co-op. I have a syllabus written down: a general course description, with class objectives even. But I do not have each lesson planned out with specific activities. (I teach 1st-3rd graders). I usually swirl around a general idea in my head a few days before, research it a day or so before, taking out many books at the library and doing a lot of googling at home. Then, sometime around dinnertime the night before, the main project, focus, or activity for the next day's class emerges from all the various data that has gone in my head. I do not put my lesson to bed until around midnight or later. The next day, when my class has gone well, when I realize that the activity was a success-enjoyed by both myself and my students, I experience a great sense of satisfaction-a high almost. A high in part, due to my thinking to myself, "Hey, I just put that together LAST NIGHT! and it WORKED!"

I wonder if there is a psychological term for this. Maybe "procrastinator's high." Maybe it is simply, "procrastination."

NaBloPoMo-will it be enough pressure for me to blog every day for a month? Stay tuned to find out. Someone may need to threaten me with failing the course if I don't turn in my blog on time. Or at least losing a grade. Professor? Professor anyone?

NaBloPoMo-Post by Post

I just saw a FB post titled, "NaBlPoMo." (Thanks Nat.) I have missed today by 5 minutes, but WTF? I have to start somewhere. I have been alternately pondering what novel I could possibly attempt to write in one single month for NaNoWriMo and cursing the fact that I have a life. The one I would have to totally drop if I attempted to write an entire novel in a single month. So, enter Nat's post on Face Book. Blogging once a day. Now there's something that maybe, just maybe I can accomplish.

Anne Lamott is one of my favorite authors. She is truly LOL funny. You don't want to read one of her books in public. People may think you are one of the crazies. One of my favorites is Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. She tells the story of her brother struggling to write a big report about birds. He is sitting at the kitchen table, completely overwhelmed. Her Dad pipes in with this gem of wisdom,"Just take it bird by bird."

So, off I go: post by post. Chirp, chirp.