Living Happily Ever After
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Blog Articles

Life Happens

Date: September 11, 2012  Author: Andrea Merriman

“Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” (John Lennon)

Remarrying mid-life is an interesting experience in so many ways and on so many levels, not the least of which is constantly feeling like I’m trying to catch up, or make up, a few decades—getting to know my husband’s family, his history and everything else. That, combined with raising children, working full time, household duties, hobbies and life in general, keeps us pretty busy!

Recently, as part of the getting to know one another’s history, I found myself at a little cemetery in Snowflake, Arizona, seeing grave sites of Ramsey family members (including my father-in-law) I’ve heard many stories about but have never met. While there, I was particularly struck by the dates engraved on the stone monuments to row after row of lives lived.

Reminded, again, of the importance of making the most of the life you’ve been blessed with—whether you chose it or not. And that while to every life there is a beginning date and at some point there will be an end, what truly matters is all of the time in between: what you choose to do with it, what you make of  it, the positive impact in the world (even if it’s only in your little corner of the world) you have, the memories, the friendships and the happiness and joy you cultivate throughout it all.

Standing there in the green of a quiet and peaceful resting place I thought about the hopes, dreams and aspirations we’re all working toward; and how we each have our share of those that don’t work out for one reason or another: death, divorce, sickness, war, Ponzi schemes, accidents, betrayals, employment disappointments, natural disasters, way too many “man made disasters” and everything else no one plans to experience or wants to experience…but it comes to each of us any way.

Life “happens.” It’s what you do with it that counts.

Make the most of your moments.

Revise your plans, if necessary, due to the things that develop in your personal story.

And then choose to live happily, ever after, in YOUR unexpected life.

 

A Fine Mess

Date: March 19, 2012  Author: Andrea Merriman

“It’s just smooth sailing, nothing but calm seas and blue horizons, as far as the eye can see. Do you understand what I’m saying?” (Carrie, Sex and the City)

I’d like to report it was smooth sailing after the agreement between the adults was signed, but alas, there was a bump in the road.

A big one.

My husband had driven to Arizona to pick up his daughter and bring her “home.” He called me to let me know he had arrived safely. His voice was excited and animated, he was literally bubbling was joy as he shared the details of his drive, everything he had done since arriving including the fact that he was at the small town’s high school basketball game and how much fun he was having…and then he blew it.

“You would be so proud of me!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been negotiating like crazy down here since I arrived!”

Cue the sound of a needle being moved across a record on a turntable and the immediate silence that follows it. I don’t think it had ever been more deafening.

“What do you mean,’ negotiating’? And with who?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine who he’d need to be negotiating with or what possibly could need to be negotiated. Turns out, he had been ‘negotiating’ with the daughter who was coming to live with us.

I was appalled. First of all, and from my perspective, his daughter had no negotiating power—she had nothing to offer, not a thing to bring to the table. She was troubled, she had a history of poor choices (she’d blown her previous two living arrangements through her failure to abide by certain rules), her mother said she couldn’t take her, there was nowhere else for her to go but our home. (She is a cute, nice girl, by the way. Some teens just struggle to find their way.) Second, the deal hadn’t even begun and already the details of the agreement the adults had signed just the night before was being modified!

That is SO not the way I raise children.

I’m no expert but I was raised in a good home by good parents who modeled really good parenting practices—my mom even had a master’s degree in family relations and had written a book about children—she knew, and practiced, her expertise for which I am the grateful beneficiary. My parents’ parents, my grandparents, were also really good parents and raised great kids, not to mention I’ve studied and read a lot about parenting in the attempt to be an effective parent myself and maybe I come from whacky parenting traditions or I may be way off base (tell me if I’m wrong and I just can’t see it!) but I’ve always believed you wait to re-evaluate a situation until after you’ve at least tried living with it (for at least one week!) and THEN, based on need, behavior,  performance or whatever criteria you establish (and only after children prove themselves and demonstrate they can be trusted with additional freedom, privileges, or whatever the need may be) you make adjustments.

I expressed my disbelief (and disagreement) of what was taking place. I suggested he return to the basketball game and we talk later. And I hung up the phone, shaking my head but NOT with the usual laughter!

WHAT had I just gotten myself into?

“Another fine mess you’ve gotten me into.” (Stan Laurel)

That’s exactly how I felt.

The Key To Everything

Date: February 17, 2011  Author: Andrea Merriman

“The key to everything is patience. You get the chicken by hatching the egg, not by smashing it.” (Arnold H. Glasow)

When I was 3-4 years old I learned an additional lesson for the unexpected life. It came from another feathered friend, a duck.

At the time, my family lived in Arizona on a golf course. One of my favorite activities was to visit the ponds on the golf course and feed bread to the ducks. I loved the ducks! In fact, I loved them so much I wanted one of my own. Every time we fed the ducks, I wanted to take an egg home with me.

My mom always kept me carefully away from the nests, but one day our cousins from Utah were in town visiting, and my cousin Athena and I decided that together, we were going to get a duck! We rode my bike to the pond, stealthily crept to a nest when the mother duck was swimming, grabbed an egg and pedaled home as fast as my little legs could pump! The whole way home I felt like we’d robbed a bank.

And then there was the threat of dogs. We were sure if a dog caught a whiff of the egg in our possession, the dog would be after us too! Home we raced, hearts pounding, legs pumping, dodging dogs and other dangers in the quest for a duckling. Finally, we arrived back home and I snuck a table knife from the kitchen to help us crack the egg open.

Imagine our disappointment when we cracked the egg and out came…absolutely nothing.

I was stunned! I remember wondering how an egg that was supposed to contain a baby duck actually contained nothing different than the eggs my mom scrambled for breakfast.

It was one of my earliest lessons in life. And patience. It showed me, for the first time, that as much as you’d like to, you can’t rush life or its challenges OR its blessings. How many times I have impatiently wished I could fast forward through the hard stuff I never expected to face or planned on being a part of my life, unexpected or otherwise.

Then I remember my first failed effort to attempt to do that and realize, again, that  in life you can’t always go over or under or around it. You can only go through it. And you can’t get birds by smashing eggs. You have to be patient. You have to wait for things to hatch. And you have to have faith.

“Faith is putting all your eggs in God’s basket, then counting your blessings before they hatch.” (Ramona C. Carroll)

Swimming Lesson for Life

Date: November 7, 2010  Author: Andrea Merriman

“It’s been told that swimming is a wimp sport, but I don’t see it.  We don’t get timeouts, in the middle of a race we can’t stop and catch our breath, we can’t roll on our stomachs and lie there, and we can’t ask for a substitution.” (Dusty Hicks)

I spent the first five years of my life in Arizona. We lived in a community surrounding a golf course. Almost every home, but ours, had a swimming pool. And there were no fences. Needless to say, parents taught their children to swim at a very early age.

Swimming lessons are some of my earliest memories. And the one I remember best took place when I was about 3 years old. That was the day my instructor, Mr. Shipley, went beyond teaching me how to save myself if I fell into the water near the edge of a pool. He wanted me to know how to save myself any time, anywhere, and in any water. That must have been why they paid him the big bucks. He was a life saver, literally. But I was too young to appreciate it at the time. I didn’t love Mr. Shipley or swimming lessons. But you don’t always immediately appreciate those things that teach you the most important life lessons.

The day came when he told me to jump off the diving board and save myself.

I felt like Bob Marley must have felt when he said, “Well, me don’t swim too tough so me don’t go in the water too deep.” (Bob Marley)

No way.

My respect for authority was overpowered by my absolute fear of death and drowning.

Mr. Shipley wasn’t up for a debate. He picked me up, walked to the edge of the diving board, and threw me in.

I went in the water; bubbles and blue everywhere I looked. I was terrified of sinking to the bottom and becoming lost forever, so I looked up, at the lighter blue surface of the water, and kicked and paddled for all I was worth. I didn’t want to die. I wanted to live. And somehow I had the impression Mr. Shipley wasn’t going to do anything to help me; it was up to me.

I kept focused on the water’s surface. I didn’t quit clawing. And somehow before I ran out of breath and drowned, I broke the surface of the water. I could hear clapping and cheering from the edges of the pool, but no one jumped in to rescue me; it was still up to me to get myself from the center of the deep end of the pool to the safety of an edge. So I continued paddling.

I got there.

I felt the strong arms of Mr. Shipley grab me, pull me out of the water, and heard him tell me he knew along I could do it.

My swimming lessons with him were over.

I had learned what to do and how to save myself from an unexpected water adventure.

He put me on the community swim team, instead. Where each week I had to voluntarily jump in the water and not only make it to the other side, but get there in good time. By the time I was 4, I was winning races.

The unexpected life is kind of like that. One moment, you’re safely on the deck or diving board. The next, you’re flailing and floundering in the water. But I learned at a young age you’re only sunk when you quit trying to save yourself; when you quit, give up and let yourself sink to the bottom. However, if you keep clawing your way to break the surface of the water (so you can breathe again) you will make it. Hopefully, you’ll even learn to enjoy swimming. But if not, I guarantee you’ll always be grateful for what you got through and for what you learned in the process.

“No man drowns if he perseveres in praying to God, and can swim.”  (Russian Proverb)

An Impulse

Date: August 5, 2010  Author: Andrea Merriman

In December of 2009, I was checking my email before heading to the office when I had an unexpected thought.

“You should find out your medical history. As the sole parent and support of your four children, you need to know all you can to make sure you’re here for your children as long as you can be. How irresponsible of you if there is something you should know that might help you (or save your life) and you don’t bother to at least TRY to discover it!”

I had a brief debate with myself.

I had been adopted as an infant; blessed with wonderful parents and an amazing family. My childhood was fairy tale-esque…until my dad died unexpectedly in a plane crash when I was a teenager, and the family I grew up in entered its unexpected life. It was another riches to rags story, in a way, but it prepared me better than I could have imagined for real life, especially for the the huge, terrible situation I would face as an adult.

My debate: was it right to disrupt someone else’s life just for a chance at obtaining a medical history for me?

But because if anything happens to me my four children will be orphaned until their other parent is released from his incarceration, I pushed the question of right or wrong out of my mind. I owed it to my children to at least try to find something out.

But how?

Although I was adopted in the 1960s, and adoptions were very private and secretive back then, I had an unusual situtation. Mine was private. And thanks to my mom, I had more information than most adopted children at the time.

My parents had been married nearly five years and were unable to have children. They had checked into adoption and even had the chance to adopt a baby boy prior to my birth, but when they went to see the baby my mom didn’t have a good feeling about it. She felt that baby wasn’t her baby. So she walked away from the opportunity to get the baby she had dreamed of.

In the meantime, my dad graduated from dental school at Marquette University in Wisconsin, moved to Phoenix, AZ, and opened a dental practice–in the course of three weeks. And then, unexpectedly, they got a phone call about me. Some friends of theirs from dental school had graduated ahead of them and moved to Southern California to practice dentistry. They became acquainted with an obstetrician, and at a dinner party, the doctor told them of a good, talented, beautiful woman who was placing a baby for adoption–and of his quest to find a good family for the baby. The doctor said he and his wife thought so highly of the woman that they’d considered taking the baby themselves, but in the end, decided they were too close to the situation.

My parents’ friends said, “We know someone to adopt that baby!” and put my parents in touch with the doctor. And within that same three week time period of major life changes, unexpectedly my parents were in the car driving to California to pick me up from the hospital. My mom said she walked into the hospital, heard a baby cry, and knew instantly it was her baby. She asked a nurse if it was her baby crying, and the nurse confirmed it. (I had just been given my PKU test.)

While waiting for my discharge, my mom asked the nurses everything she could about my birth mother. They told her the woman’s name, where she attended college, a general description of her appearance, and what they knew of her talents (that she was smart, athletic, and a dancer.) My mom committed it all to memory and I grew up knowing all of the information my mom had been able to uncover.

My parents took me home from the hospital when I was two days old–with a day at Disneyland before driving back to Arizona!

I grew up feeling very special because I had been adopted. In fact, I felt bad for children who hadn’t had that opportunity and privilege. I was happy, whole and complete. I had amazing parents and four siblings (all adopted after me). So although my mom always offered to help me find my birth mother if I had the need, I didn’t really feel the need for that. I had everything, and more, that I needed. I was happy. And grateful every day for adoption and the family I was blessed with.

As the only tall, blonde member of my family however, (everyone else, including my parents, is short and dark haired) if I had any unfulfilled desire relating to my adoption it was simply a curiosity about who, if anyone, I looked like. But seeing if I resembled another person on the planet wasn’t worth the risk of rejection OR disrupting someone else’s life to satisfy a question like that. So that’s as far as I ever went in the quest for a birth mother.

I looked so different from the rest of my immediate family, though, that in college when they came to visit me, a boy friend met them and said, “I bet you forgot to tell Andrea she’s adopted, didn’t you?” My mom replied, “No, I’m pretty sure I told her!” and he blushed like college men usually don’t–never dreaming I actually had been adopted. We all had a good laugh over that one!

Thanks to my mom’s detective skills at the hospital prior to taking me home, we had quite a bit of information about my birth mother. My mom discovered she and my parents had attended the same university in Utah, so one year, while visiting my dad’s younger sister in Salt Lake City, we took a peek at my aunt’s college yearbooks and found my birth mother. I then knew what she looked like.

Later, when I was married, I met a friend who was very curious about the whole process of adoption. She asked me about my story and, small world, found out her parents had gone to college with my birth mother! Her parents cut up their yearbooks and sent me every picture they had of my birth mother so not only had I seen what she looked like, I had pictures too.

The university produced an alumni directory listing names, addresses and brief bios of its graduates. Thanks to that, my mom and I knew my birth mother’s address too! NOT very typical of a private adoption situation that took place in the 1960s, for sure.

And then “suddenly” I felt the need to obtain my medical history for the sake of my children.

I decided that if I’d given a child up for adoption and if I wanted to be found (or was open to being found) I would put my name out there everywhere I could think of. Impulsively, I typed the name of my birth mother into Facebook. It was the only directory I knew of to begin the search. Up she popped. Full name, picture and everything. There was no mistaking it was her.

I wasn’t expecting it to be that easy or to happen that fast.

Now what?

What would you do?