My Mom died in March 2008. She was 64 years old. She died from "complications" of a very complex surgery she (we) chose to elect in an effort to prolong her life (there was a "troublesome" growth on her pancreas--not cancerous now, but likely to become cancerous later). My Mother was terrified of Pancreatic Cancer--she did not want to die a slow and painful death. The surgery was supposed to avoid that outcome--extend her life. Instead it killed her, and we were left behind stunned and in shock and completely unprepared. None of us had truly anticipated that outcome. We refused to consider the risks of surgery because we were all so focused on ridding her pancreas of that "troublesome" growth, we neglected to assess the other potential outcomes.
When I was still a small child, maybe 4 or 5 years old, my Mom reached over to answer the phone one day, and wrenched her back so badly that she slipped a disc. Living in a small town with sub-standard medical facilities, that slipped disc went undiagnosed for TEN YEARS. She was pretty much given prescriptions for Valium and told to "rest." I honestly have no memory of my mother being anything other than a Chronic Pain Sufferer. By the time her back problems were finally taken seriously by doctors, the slipped disc was 80% extended out of her spinal column, and she had been walking around like that, taking care of 2 active children, for TEN YEARS, causing permanent and chronic nerve damage. She had back surgery when I was in High School, but by then the cortisone shots and other "experimental" treatments for back pain had invited other complications, including a "frozen shoulder," loss of bone density and unstable vertebrae in her neck that also had to be fused surgically. And then, just when you thought things couldn't possibly get any worse, she was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis--a particularly severe case because medical ailments never seemed to strike her with anything but unusual complications.
Despite those challenges (or perhaps because of them), she was the Lioness in our household. She was never "just a Housewife" or "just a Mom." She was so much more than that. She was passionate and spirited and bold and courageous and gifted. She was the Heart and Soul and Voice of our Family.
But, basically, I grew up with a mother in a constant state of suffering. All things considered, she suffered well because she was stubborn and determined and incredibly, incredibly intelligent, talented, and devoted to her family. We were everything to her, and not in an icky-sweet co-dependent kind of way. She was fierce and strong and bold. She suffered in silence, stubbornly fighting doctors and pain. She refused to give in. She pushed us; inspired us; drove us; lectured us. She was both our harshest critic, and our staunchest supporter. She was NOT the "TV Sit-Com Mom." She was not a cheerful "Brady Bunch" Mom. There were dark days where harsh words were exchanged--words that were burned into my memory, and then buried deep. There were days when I "just knew" I needed to "be especially good." There was one Christmas (but only one Christmas) before she FINALLY got her back surgery--when I had to decorate the tree all by myself (and that's a BIG DEAL because my Mom was HUGE on the whole Christmas thing). There were times when I was stunned and shocked by her support of Dr. Jack Kevorkian and abortion. But, she was also much more intimately acquainted with true suffering than I was...
When we cleaned out her closet and bathroom cabinets after her death, we found numerous prescription bottles, mostly full, of powerful painkillers--valium, vicodin, demarol, oxy contin--prescriptions she tried NOT to take. They made her mind "fuzzy," and that was just something she could not tolerate. For all of her talk about "Quality of Life" and the "Right to Choose," she had enough prescription pills to overdose a football team at her disposal.
She wanted to live.
When she was in the hospital, she suffered a seizure, and they had to do an emergency tracheotomy, leaving her hooked up to a respirator. She couldn't talk, and that was a torturous complication for her. Pain, or no pain, communication was her greatest strength. We tried giving her a notepad and pen to write things down, but the pain medication affected her fine motor skills, so we couldn't read her handwriting. I brought a whiteboard from my daughter's room, which, ironically, was a Christmas present to her from her Grandma, and some Whiteboard markers. She could write messages to us on the Whiteboard more easily.
The last message she wrote--to my Dad, who was with her, as she struggled to breathe because her lungs were filling with fluid, and her internal organs were beginning to hemorrhage, and she knew recovery was unlikely: "I would do it for you..."
She was begging him to "Pull the Plug"--end her suffering. (Which, of course he could not and would not do...)
She left behind not only us (husband, daughters, grandchildren), but also a house full of unfinished projects and unfulfilled plans.
Five unfinished quilts sat in her sewing room. Three of them only needed to have the binding sewn on. I finished those in time for her Memorial Service, so we could display those quilts during the service. Her best friend--despite being very ill and fighting her own battle against ovarian cancer--finished a quilt for my nephew that was similar to the one she made for my son, her first grandchild. She appliqued letters cut out of fabric onto the back of the quilt that spelled out, "To Nicholas with Love from Nana." I'm still working on the fifth quilt--a quilt all in white, with an intricate, hand-quilted "Tree of Life" design, also for my nephew because she made one for my first baby just like it.
I received a message recently on my Facebook account from a woman I am related to only by marriage--her husband's mother is my grandmother's aunt. I came to know her through genealogy research--a hobby that my mother introduced me to. There is an entire shelf in the "office" of my parent's house that holds books on genealogy. One of her wishes was to travel to Pennsylvania and Ohio and seek out the locations of the old "Family Homesteads" and cemeteries. She talked about this often, but knew it was impossible. Her medical conditions made travel over long distances impossible.
We had my Mother cremated, and my father, my sister, and I all have urns with her ashes. I carried my little urn in my purse when I traveled last year. I went to Washington, D.C. and Springfield, IL. I scattered her ashes near the Lincoln Memorial and Lincoln's home in Springfield (he was her favorite President). I also journeyed to Seattle, WA--where my sister and I were born. My father, my sister, and I all agreed that the time where Mom was probably the happiest was when she lived in Seattle--where she was a young wife with beautiful babies and her whole life ahead of her. Healthy, strong, and pain-free. Some of her ashes were scattered along Alkai Beach and within Seattle's Arboretum.
But I also realize that wherever I get to go--places like Washington, D.C., Yellowstone, Springfield, IL, etc.--those will all be places that my Mom would have loved to visit, too. If she were still here, she would have expected me to come home and "tell her all about it."
Instead, my Pilgrimage is to visit all those places my Mom would have wanted to go, and leave some of her ashes.
It would be so much better for me to come home and "tell her all about it," but instead, my pilgrimage is to GO, take her with me, and get to live out the life she would have wanted me to have.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Not Your Ordinary "Bad Hair" Day...
My kids came back from a week at their dad’s on Saturday afternoon. We goofed off, stayed up late, etc. They didn’t have to go back to school until Tuesday, so I figured it was “okay” to allow them to “maximize” their Winter Break. Sunday night rolls around, though, and I ordered them both to take baths or showers (silly, because with a jetted tub in the new house, they ALWAYS opt for a bath over a shower—I don’t know why I even still offer them an option!)
Sunday afternoon my daughter told me she wanted me to take her to see Greta (our long-time Hair Stylist) for a haircut. My daughter has always FOUGHT getting haircuts. She hates to brush her hair and has a very sensitive scalp, but she also wants to have long hair. Her hair is like mine—baby fine and “naturally wavy.” It is like her dad’s because she has TONS of it.
Her hair is beautiful. Women all over America would pay Top Dollar to have her hair color. I suppose the best way to classify her hair color is to call it “light brown with golden highlights.”
And when I say “golden,” I mean GOLDEN. Her hair changes color every time the light hits it. She could be called a Blonde or a Brunette, even a Redhead, depending on the angle of the light. Upon close examination, her hair strands probably come in 16 different colors. My Girl should, in all honesty, have a contract for shampoo commercials, except for one small detail: she hates to brush her hair.
The Dog Bite from two weeks ago did not help this issue. Besides 14 stitches on the side of her face (from her ear down to her lip-line), the Girl had 4 staples—yes, staples(!) placed in her scalp for puncture wounds. The ER staff was so caring and gracious to place those staples without shaving a single hair on her head. But that means the staples (now removed), and the lingering scabs (still there) were all tangled up in her lovely locks. Not to mention the fact that having Rottweiler teeth imbedded in your scalp for a bit leaves a certain painful tenderness that makes hair brushing even more traumatic than it was before.
Poor R could not wash (or brush) her hair for a couple of days after the Dog Bite Attack. Even once she was cleared to wash her hair, the staples and dried blood in her hair made it difficult to brush out her beautiful golden brown locks.
We resorted to the "Classic Ponytail," only brushing the ends of her hair, to prevent “pulling” on the hair that was entangled in staples.
She was well on the mend when she left my household the day after Christmas—stitches and staples had been removed. She returned on January 3rd, still sporting her Classic Ponytail. On Sunday, she asked me to make an appointment for her with Greta to get a “Pixie Cut,” just like I had when I was her age.
I immediately knew something was wrong.
A Pixie Cut? In 2009?
I reminded her that my Mother-induced/Mia Farrow-inspired Pixie Cut warped me for life—I was in the 3rd grade, buck-toothed, and nowhere near puberty, and I was often mistaken for a…gasp…BOY…in public places. It scarred me for life! To this day, I do not wear pants ever—only skirts/dresses as a result of the trauma I suffered when I walked into a restaurant bathroom only to be greeted by a little old lady with, “I’m sorry, LITTLE BOY, but aren’t you in the wrong room?” (Horrifying—truly horrifying!)
There just HAD to be something wrong—this was soooo not like her! While she hates to brush her hair, we seemed to have reached a reasonable compromise—to keep her hair shoulder-length and utilize the “ponytail” during the day to keep it pulled back and “neat,” which helps to minimize the snarling.
Just in case, I indulged her with internet searches for cute “short” haircuts for girls and convinced her that a Kicky Little Bob would be sooooo much more delightful than a Pixie Cut.
And then bathtime came. I told her I would “help her” brush out her hair—being extra gentle and careful, in case her scalp was still sore.
She spent over an hour in the tub, turning all wrinkly and pruny, not wanting to get out. When she finally did get out, she tried to lock herself in my bathroom because she was dreading the Hair Brushing Exercise so much.
I finally coerced her into sitting on my bed and letting me take a look.
And when I did?
Oh. My. Goodness.
She had washed her hair, not brushed it at all, stuck it into a ponytail, slept on it while still wet, repeat, a few times, for over a week.
Her beautiful, golden mane was nothing but a snarly, rat’s nest from one side to the next. It was like one short, but GIANT dreadlock.
R cried.
THIS is why she mentioned the Pixie Cut—she had tried to brush her hair, but the snarls were so bad—and so deep—that she believed the only solution was to cut off all her hair!
And, to tell you the truth, at first I was thinking the same thing! But I just couldn’t give up without trying! Her hair! Her beautiful, BEAUTIFUL hair!
I slathered up my hands with Dove “Leave-In” Conditioner. I gently—so very gently—began to brush out what I could—at first just the ends of her hair, but then I started working on the top layer of the snarly mess. (I was crying, too, by now.) I had to use my fingers to pry apart the knots, but gradually—very gradually—as strand after golden strand of loose hair wound around her hairbrush, the snarly mess began to “give way.”
One hour (and 3 hairbrushes full of Spun Gold) later, darling R’s hair was a sleek, soft, silken waterfall of glory!
She cried, and she laughed, and she HUGGED me, and she SWORE she would brush her hair twice a day—every day—from here on out.
Poor girl.
She was so afraid that the snarly mess she KNEW existed on the back of her head was completely “unfixable,” she was willing to “fall on her sword” and cut it all off.
Quite frankly, I’m a bit amazed myself—I felt the density of the knots with my own hands, and contemplated “the scissors” myself, initially, but I persevered—kept trying, plying my daughter with perky, pleasant, distracting conversation. And, as we chatted, those snarls and knots seemed to “melt away.” I couldn’t help but notice that many of those clumps of hair came away with pieces of dried blood and discarded scalp (effing Rottweiler!), yet my daughter only winced a few times.
I have witnessed her brushing her hair several times today, and she still mentions the “Kicky Little Bob” as a future alternative, but she thinks it is important to grow her hair out another couple of inches, so that when she goes to see Greta for the “Kicky Little Bob” someday, she can donate what is cut off to “Locks of Love.”
Isn’t she great?
Oh, by the way, today is her BIRTHDAY. She is 10, and my Gift to the World!
And I just LOVE that my Pressed-Back chairs created little Devil Horns in this picture!
Sunday afternoon my daughter told me she wanted me to take her to see Greta (our long-time Hair Stylist) for a haircut. My daughter has always FOUGHT getting haircuts. She hates to brush her hair and has a very sensitive scalp, but she also wants to have long hair. Her hair is like mine—baby fine and “naturally wavy.” It is like her dad’s because she has TONS of it.
Her hair is beautiful. Women all over America would pay Top Dollar to have her hair color. I suppose the best way to classify her hair color is to call it “light brown with golden highlights.”
And when I say “golden,” I mean GOLDEN. Her hair changes color every time the light hits it. She could be called a Blonde or a Brunette, even a Redhead, depending on the angle of the light. Upon close examination, her hair strands probably come in 16 different colors. My Girl should, in all honesty, have a contract for shampoo commercials, except for one small detail: she hates to brush her hair.
The Dog Bite from two weeks ago did not help this issue. Besides 14 stitches on the side of her face (from her ear down to her lip-line), the Girl had 4 staples—yes, staples(!) placed in her scalp for puncture wounds. The ER staff was so caring and gracious to place those staples without shaving a single hair on her head. But that means the staples (now removed), and the lingering scabs (still there) were all tangled up in her lovely locks. Not to mention the fact that having Rottweiler teeth imbedded in your scalp for a bit leaves a certain painful tenderness that makes hair brushing even more traumatic than it was before.
Poor R could not wash (or brush) her hair for a couple of days after the Dog Bite Attack. Even once she was cleared to wash her hair, the staples and dried blood in her hair made it difficult to brush out her beautiful golden brown locks.
We resorted to the "Classic Ponytail," only brushing the ends of her hair, to prevent “pulling” on the hair that was entangled in staples.
She was well on the mend when she left my household the day after Christmas—stitches and staples had been removed. She returned on January 3rd, still sporting her Classic Ponytail. On Sunday, she asked me to make an appointment for her with Greta to get a “Pixie Cut,” just like I had when I was her age.
I immediately knew something was wrong.
A Pixie Cut? In 2009?
I reminded her that my Mother-induced/Mia Farrow-inspired Pixie Cut warped me for life—I was in the 3rd grade, buck-toothed, and nowhere near puberty, and I was often mistaken for a…gasp…BOY…in public places. It scarred me for life! To this day, I do not wear pants ever—only skirts/dresses as a result of the trauma I suffered when I walked into a restaurant bathroom only to be greeted by a little old lady with, “I’m sorry, LITTLE BOY, but aren’t you in the wrong room?” (Horrifying—truly horrifying!)
There just HAD to be something wrong—this was soooo not like her! While she hates to brush her hair, we seemed to have reached a reasonable compromise—to keep her hair shoulder-length and utilize the “ponytail” during the day to keep it pulled back and “neat,” which helps to minimize the snarling.
Just in case, I indulged her with internet searches for cute “short” haircuts for girls and convinced her that a Kicky Little Bob would be sooooo much more delightful than a Pixie Cut.
And then bathtime came. I told her I would “help her” brush out her hair—being extra gentle and careful, in case her scalp was still sore.
She spent over an hour in the tub, turning all wrinkly and pruny, not wanting to get out. When she finally did get out, she tried to lock herself in my bathroom because she was dreading the Hair Brushing Exercise so much.
I finally coerced her into sitting on my bed and letting me take a look.
And when I did?
Oh. My. Goodness.
She had washed her hair, not brushed it at all, stuck it into a ponytail, slept on it while still wet, repeat, a few times, for over a week.
Her beautiful, golden mane was nothing but a snarly, rat’s nest from one side to the next. It was like one short, but GIANT dreadlock.
R cried.
THIS is why she mentioned the Pixie Cut—she had tried to brush her hair, but the snarls were so bad—and so deep—that she believed the only solution was to cut off all her hair!
And, to tell you the truth, at first I was thinking the same thing! But I just couldn’t give up without trying! Her hair! Her beautiful, BEAUTIFUL hair!
I slathered up my hands with Dove “Leave-In” Conditioner. I gently—so very gently—began to brush out what I could—at first just the ends of her hair, but then I started working on the top layer of the snarly mess. (I was crying, too, by now.) I had to use my fingers to pry apart the knots, but gradually—very gradually—as strand after golden strand of loose hair wound around her hairbrush, the snarly mess began to “give way.”
One hour (and 3 hairbrushes full of Spun Gold) later, darling R’s hair was a sleek, soft, silken waterfall of glory!
She cried, and she laughed, and she HUGGED me, and she SWORE she would brush her hair twice a day—every day—from here on out.
Poor girl.
She was so afraid that the snarly mess she KNEW existed on the back of her head was completely “unfixable,” she was willing to “fall on her sword” and cut it all off.
Quite frankly, I’m a bit amazed myself—I felt the density of the knots with my own hands, and contemplated “the scissors” myself, initially, but I persevered—kept trying, plying my daughter with perky, pleasant, distracting conversation. And, as we chatted, those snarls and knots seemed to “melt away.” I couldn’t help but notice that many of those clumps of hair came away with pieces of dried blood and discarded scalp (effing Rottweiler!), yet my daughter only winced a few times.
I have witnessed her brushing her hair several times today, and she still mentions the “Kicky Little Bob” as a future alternative, but she thinks it is important to grow her hair out another couple of inches, so that when she goes to see Greta for the “Kicky Little Bob” someday, she can donate what is cut off to “Locks of Love.”
Isn’t she great?
Oh, by the way, today is her BIRTHDAY. She is 10, and my Gift to the World!
And I just LOVE that my Pressed-Back chairs created little Devil Horns in this picture!
Sunday, January 4, 2009
For Richer for Poorer
Hmmm...considering that getting divorced cost me tens of thousands of dollars (in fact, it is STILL costing me to repay a loan against my retirement account for the money I had to give away thanks to community property laws and my own stupidity), I should probably stay away from making this post about marriage vows.
Like most Americans, I have never known what it is like to be truly "poor," and for that I am grateful and appreciative. I know what I have. However, I did get married young, before I finished college, and my then-husband was working dead end jobs in retail, just above minimum wage. I took a "Government Job" after graduating, and my starting salary was $21,000 per year. That was in 1991. We lived paycheck to paycheck because we had student loans, credit card bills, and a car payment. As soon as we would start to get ahead, my then-husband, the ex, would "quit" his job over some minor transgression, and spend a month or two out of work, before finding something new. I remember going to the grocery store, calculator in hand, keeping a sub total of every dollar spent to make sure I didn't exceed what was left in our bank account. I used coupons religiously. But, I didn't mind because there was always enough for the essentials, and my salary increased every year between Cost of Living adjustments, promotions, Performance Awards, etc.
Two children came into the picture, and my then-husband took care of them during the days while I worked. My job was now a career, and since I had the most earning potential, it made sense for me to pack up my breast pump and march off to work each day while he stayed home with the babies. (Minimum wage employment wouldn't cover the cost of full-time childcare for two kids anyway.) Even though my salary had more than doubled by this time, we still lived paycheck-to-paycheck, but the essentials were covered.
"The essentials," though, were far greater than those we had initially. As your income increases, so do your expenses because the more you make, the more you spend. When we were first married, rent for our 1-bedroom apartment was only $360 a month. Now we had a $1,200 mortgage payment and utility bills that exceeded $200 a month, plus the cost of diapers and baby food.
My ex had gone back to work when the kids were in pre-school, but then was laid off. He spent nearly two years out of work, not even attempting to look for a job. The marriage was strained. He resented my job, I resented him for not doing anything about his own situation. For richer for poorer. But in what context?
The divorce put us into a financial tailspin, but I had to get out when I did for reasons of personal safety. It took 4 years for me to "recover" financially from divorce. I had to let the house go because I couldn't pay both alimony and child support and sustain the mortgage. We both returned to "renter" status in smaller spaces. Payments on the loan against my retirement will still cost me $700 a month for another 3 years, so a big chunk of my earnings is not accessible to me. I have a bigger house now (with an even larger mortgage payment), but I also have a much bigger paycheck. My kids are happy and safe and well-adjusted. My ex was able to finish school and get a teaching job and buy a small house of his own, taking advantage of home builders in financial crisis that were willing to do anything to unload new construction. We are both in "better places" emotionally and financially.
I still feel like I live paycheck-to-paycheck, and wish I had that additional $700/month to spend on vacations and furniture, a new computer, college savings plans for my kids. But, I also know I am fortunate to have a secure job and a good salary, and I know that I have it so much better than so many.
I've looked over my bank statements for the last several months and noticed there is a lot of "waste" in my expenditures--eating out at restaurants when I'm too tired or uninspired to cook. Mid-week trips to the grocery store to buy snacks and convenience foods. Impulse purchases to take advantage of "unbeatable" sale prices on clothes I didn't really need. These are all things I was not able to do years and years ago.
I have much to be grateful for, so I am making a conscious effort this year to go back to my old grocery shopping patterns: planning meals in advance, sticking to my list, and shopping with coupons and a calculator in hand. The money I save on groceries and non-essentials this year (I'm estimating it to be about $150 a month, if I'm diligent), I want to set aside for others--donations to local food banks, charitable giving to organizations that assist victims of domestic violence or disabled veterans returning from the War, and my church that provides food, clothing, and educational materials to an impoverished community in Mexico that cares for orphaned/abandoned children (most of them girls).
Sure, I could go shoe-shopping with that money, but I feel guilty doing so, under the circumstances. I will still buy shoes and clothes for me and my kids--my contribution to "stimulating the economy"--but I will buy at the same level I have in the past. I am finally at a place in my life where there is money between paychecks, and I can afford to (and should) give some of it away.
As for a Family Vacation this year? We're going camping. I spent a good $500 on camping equipment last year, so now we're going to go out and get our money's worth out of all of that gear!
Like most Americans, I have never known what it is like to be truly "poor," and for that I am grateful and appreciative. I know what I have. However, I did get married young, before I finished college, and my then-husband was working dead end jobs in retail, just above minimum wage. I took a "Government Job" after graduating, and my starting salary was $21,000 per year. That was in 1991. We lived paycheck to paycheck because we had student loans, credit card bills, and a car payment. As soon as we would start to get ahead, my then-husband, the ex, would "quit" his job over some minor transgression, and spend a month or two out of work, before finding something new. I remember going to the grocery store, calculator in hand, keeping a sub total of every dollar spent to make sure I didn't exceed what was left in our bank account. I used coupons religiously. But, I didn't mind because there was always enough for the essentials, and my salary increased every year between Cost of Living adjustments, promotions, Performance Awards, etc.
Two children came into the picture, and my then-husband took care of them during the days while I worked. My job was now a career, and since I had the most earning potential, it made sense for me to pack up my breast pump and march off to work each day while he stayed home with the babies. (Minimum wage employment wouldn't cover the cost of full-time childcare for two kids anyway.) Even though my salary had more than doubled by this time, we still lived paycheck-to-paycheck, but the essentials were covered.
"The essentials," though, were far greater than those we had initially. As your income increases, so do your expenses because the more you make, the more you spend. When we were first married, rent for our 1-bedroom apartment was only $360 a month. Now we had a $1,200 mortgage payment and utility bills that exceeded $200 a month, plus the cost of diapers and baby food.
My ex had gone back to work when the kids were in pre-school, but then was laid off. He spent nearly two years out of work, not even attempting to look for a job. The marriage was strained. He resented my job, I resented him for not doing anything about his own situation. For richer for poorer. But in what context?
The divorce put us into a financial tailspin, but I had to get out when I did for reasons of personal safety. It took 4 years for me to "recover" financially from divorce. I had to let the house go because I couldn't pay both alimony and child support and sustain the mortgage. We both returned to "renter" status in smaller spaces. Payments on the loan against my retirement will still cost me $700 a month for another 3 years, so a big chunk of my earnings is not accessible to me. I have a bigger house now (with an even larger mortgage payment), but I also have a much bigger paycheck. My kids are happy and safe and well-adjusted. My ex was able to finish school and get a teaching job and buy a small house of his own, taking advantage of home builders in financial crisis that were willing to do anything to unload new construction. We are both in "better places" emotionally and financially.
I still feel like I live paycheck-to-paycheck, and wish I had that additional $700/month to spend on vacations and furniture, a new computer, college savings plans for my kids. But, I also know I am fortunate to have a secure job and a good salary, and I know that I have it so much better than so many.
I've looked over my bank statements for the last several months and noticed there is a lot of "waste" in my expenditures--eating out at restaurants when I'm too tired or uninspired to cook. Mid-week trips to the grocery store to buy snacks and convenience foods. Impulse purchases to take advantage of "unbeatable" sale prices on clothes I didn't really need. These are all things I was not able to do years and years ago.
I have much to be grateful for, so I am making a conscious effort this year to go back to my old grocery shopping patterns: planning meals in advance, sticking to my list, and shopping with coupons and a calculator in hand. The money I save on groceries and non-essentials this year (I'm estimating it to be about $150 a month, if I'm diligent), I want to set aside for others--donations to local food banks, charitable giving to organizations that assist victims of domestic violence or disabled veterans returning from the War, and my church that provides food, clothing, and educational materials to an impoverished community in Mexico that cares for orphaned/abandoned children (most of them girls).
Sure, I could go shoe-shopping with that money, but I feel guilty doing so, under the circumstances. I will still buy shoes and clothes for me and my kids--my contribution to "stimulating the economy"--but I will buy at the same level I have in the past. I am finally at a place in my life where there is money between paychecks, and I can afford to (and should) give some of it away.
As for a Family Vacation this year? We're going camping. I spent a good $500 on camping equipment last year, so now we're going to go out and get our money's worth out of all of that gear!
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