My Addiction

I’m calling for an intervention! I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown and my Diet Pepsi is the equivalent to the first hit a slack-jawed, jangled nerved, smoker takes. I’m only surmising, as I have never had the desire to smoke. Living with a 3-pack a day smoker father and due to the copious amounts of secondhand smoke I inhaled in my youth, enough to last a lifetime, I have been cured any desire. In fact, now and then I will open my mouth for a yawn and a long trapped smoke ring will find its way to the surface, escaping from my charred and smoke annihilated lungs. But I digress, back to the Diet Pepsi. 

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Hands shaking I twist off the top of one of my miniature bottles. I mean surely if I buy the 12 ounce size, then I don’t really have a problem right? I'm just getting a little taste, at least that’s the rationale. But somehow I don’t think that holds up if I end up drinking the whole six pack at one sitting...but who is counting anyway? It’s all worth it to have the cold, burning rush of bubbles flow down my gullet sending the much needed blanket of calm over my nerves. I have an addiction, I will admit. I’ve been hooked on several soft drinks over the years. 

For many of those years, when my children were young, it was Diet Coke. You should know, I homeschool my children, have since the beginning of time, or so it seems that way to me. Way back when Adam and Eve were out in the Garden. Anyway, when they were young we lived in a subdivision in a rural community, and after a morning of trying to get each to do their lessons, like all the perfect homeschool blogger moms that posted videos of their days, I would begin to crumble. You’ve seen those videos, heard those perfect moms talking, offering advice (unsolicited more often than not, I might add) in a pitying tone to you, about how your kids just lack discipline and routine. Videos showing days filled with little girls in bows and perfectly ironed little dresses and boys in their pressed and creased khakis, proudly reciting the whole book of Genesis, even before breakfast. 

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However, my mornings never went that way, and by 2 pm I needed a fix, a pick me up, something to soothe the desperation and sense of failure. So I would load all the kids in the van and trundle down the hill, 1.5 miles to the McDonalds. McDonald's, where the Golden Arches glistened and gleamed in the sunlight, making me about as exuberant at the sight, as an old miner ’49er panning in a frigid creek in far off Alaska, chewing on his last hunk of jerky and wondering what was he doing, when suddenly he would spot that first glint of gold in the sunlight. I would drive through order my $1 size Diet Coke. The cup was the size of a 2- Liter soda bottle and held as much, but pity the soda girl if she didn’t get that baby filled to the brim. I was entitled to my full due, by golly, I demanded my dollar's worth! I would not be cheated.

My Diet Coke addiction was cured when we moved. No, we didn’t move because of it. My husband did not put the house up for sale in the middle of the night and pack us up, and haul us away from that sinister McDonald’s, the supplier to my habit. No there were other reasons for the move, but in my gut I knew it was time for a fresh start and the move was a place to begin over. We located a house that was too far from any McDonalds and now was the time to clean house! No more chemicals and caramel coloring to pollute this temple, no sir.

Things were rolling along nicely, and then one miserable August day while waiting in line at my neighborhood WalMart, after another long and endless summer day of kids bickering and the looming school year yawing ahead of me, with the pressure of designing lesson plans and school supplies to acquire, I spied a lovely green bottle in the mini fridge in the checkout aisle. It was wrapped in a captivating label. The logo spoke adventure to me and the name of this beverage shouted MOUNTAIN DEW. 

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Something snapped in me and it was like that old commercial that showed a woman in the tub after a long day whispering, “Calgon take me away…” Except, this was a 20 ounce bottle of freedom, beckoning me, toying with me, teasing me to escape the monotonous days that were rolling one into the next. One whose sublime, fluorescent green elixir looked suspiciously like a toxic flow of chemicals, but certainly it was not. It was called Mountain Dew, what could be healthier than dew from a lovely, majestic mountain? 

I paused, made a few furtive glances around me and opened the door to the fridge. My heart was racing, my thoughts swirling in opposition…”don’t do it, you’ve been good for too long”, the other side whispering, “you know you want it, you deserve it”. I’m ashamed but I caved. I grabbed the bottle put it on the belt and when the checker asked if I wanted it out of the bag I spoke a little too quickly and casually. “NO, NO, that’s not mine, it’s for my husband, you know, after work. He likes a little pick me up after a hard day.” “Ooookayyyy”, she replied kind of puzzled at my shrill response. 

I herded the kids quickly to the car and made my way home. I turned on the Sponge Bob marathon and placed the kids in front of the TV. “Mom’s going to take a little nip, er nap, don’t bother me for at least 15 minutes ok?” Silence, the hypnosis had already taken hold and now I was on my way to experience the pleasurable freedom I had dreamt of upon first seeing that bottle. I closed my door, sat down and cracked open the bottle and swilled like a woman who, after spending months crossing the great Sahara Desert, was given her first cup of water. Ahhhhhh the taste, oh the taste, it had the taste of sunshine captured in a bubbly froth. It was my beloved Diet Mountain Dew.

Oh Diet Dew the wonders of you! It was my new fix. I would drink it and feel as if could actually climb mountains! It was so delicious and irreplaceable. How had I ever missed this wonderful concoction? To top things off, it was also really good for my diet, because in drinking Diet Mountain Dew, I never would dare pair it with chocolate or cake or something so sinister to my waistline. I reasoned it was my one sinful pleasure, but really how sinful can something be that contains real orange juice? Never mind that it contains enough caffeine to power a herd of elephants rampaging across the Serengeti! And so the addiction took hold and the rationalizing and the sneaking became common place. I was hooked once again.

Then one day, I was in the dark, in my closet, surrounded by empty Diet Mountain Dew bottles, having guzzled the last of my stash, hands shaking, the kids yelling for me, my husband yelling for me, “Honey, where are you?” and I knew this was no life. I had to beat this monster’s hold. I told myself that I had done it before I could do it again. And so I began the weaning process, and with much effort and hard work I pried the cold, dead grip of that Diet Mountain Dew from my life. Victory was mine, I had a new lease on life. The sun shone brighter, the birds sang louder, I was free, free indeed!

And now you ask, how is it that you find yourself with a new love, a new carbonated beverage with a foothold? Well, it all comes back to the kids, again! I have almost four teenagers (the youngest will be 13 in a month) and I can’t take it! I am at a cross roads, I am reminded daily that I am losing control of them and in no time they won't even need me. They are beginning to fly on their own, making their own decisions. Decisions that will someday come back to haunt me, because everyone knows it’s always the Mother’s fault! Don’t get me wrong, they are good kids, and it’s not their fault. It’s the nature of the job, the way of the world, the natural progression of these things. But for crying out loud I simply cannot take it! I need a fix and so having kicked Diet Coke to the curb and drowning the Diet Dew I find myself with a new seducer, Diet Pepsi.

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Diet Pepsi, with its patriotic red, white, and blue logo and silver (like the betraying strands of my hair) label. It reminds of everything American…tradition, courage, and good old apple pie, although I’m not sure it would taste good with apple pie. That might be something to try later on. "But oh Diet Pepsi", as I slowly and joyfully twist your lid, "I am anticipating your healing bubbles will soothe my troubled soul, at least till I overcome you, too!"

The Fixer-Upper

Paul and I looked at a house today, to hopefully pick up at a bargain, in order to clean it up and resell it. I had great plans for this place, a foreclosure that has been on the market for almost a year. I called the realtor to set an appointment for a look-see and he informed me that it was government owned and had mold, so a release would need to be signed. Honestly, the thought of dealing with the government was more daunting that the thought of a little mold.  But we boldly signed the release and set out to buy a house.

We arrived and upon the front door were stickers plastered all over warning:  KEEP OUT, UNINHABITABLE, CAUTION. The realtor handed us face masks to protect and guard against the rogue mold spores that might be lurking, ready to pounce on anyone who dared entered its lair. Like I said, I wasn't afraid of the threat of mold, so I went in maskless and ready to envision all the ways I would breathe new life into the place.

We stepped in and it was clear that any updating and cleaning up would not make a dent, this was going to be a total gut job. I stood in this place, totally aghast at the ruination. If I had to guess, by all appearances, I would say it was some kind of crack house in the ghetto, not a little ranch in suburbia. The walls were filthy, dirty, nasty, and stained with anyone's guess as to what was splattered all over them. The carpets that had once been burnt orange, were now grungy and black having years of filth ground in, until the filth itself had become the very fiber of the carpet. The kitchen was unbelievably squalid. Ripped vinyl flooring, food stuffs ground into the walls, and counters dirty and unwashed. There was even evidence of a rat or two. The grime in glaring contrast to the homey, gingham check and apple border that had so lovingly been lined around the ceiling at some far off distant time. In the family room the floors heaved and buckled and the air was dank and stagnant. Loneliness oozed from every nook and cranny. But curiously, along one wall, was the faded evidence of a parent marking the passage of time and growth of the children that once inhabited this home, also from a far and distant time. I wondered about little Celia and Wade, and the other children, whose names and height had been captured for posterity sake. What had happened to those children? Were they victims of drug addicted parents? What tragedy had ushered them into this neglected atmosphere. Was there a sickness that caused them to fall into poverty? Did they ever have a clean stitch of clothing to wear? Was there ever a clean bed to sleep in?

We made our way to the basement steps and stopped, as if perched on a the edge of a great yawning abyss, the entrance to some monster's den. Peering down we saw the villainous mold that had begun its creep, making its ascension up along the walls, all with the intent to envelop every wall and surface like the kudzu along the highways of the South. I finally relented and put on my mask. I don't know if it was my imagination, but my eyes were itching, actually, I began to itch all over. Down, down, down we carefully trod, determined not to touch the living monster that was swallowing this house. We stood in the basement, mouth agape at the sight. There all around, the walls and ceilings were  plastered with the black furry mold; evil little spores ready to release and attach to any carbon based form that presented itself. It almost breathed a sigh of relief at the new blood that had entered its sanctuary. The feeling was creepy and desolate. I could imagine this being the setting of some horror movie, easily envisioning some poor soul chained in this chamber of doom. The concrete floors were cracked and bulged as if some giant below was trying to make its escape from its entombment. It was obvious that a little elbow grease, paint, and carpet was not going to save this place. Its life was long past due, the foundation completely off kilter; it was DOA, no life, just a growing, seething cancer of mold choking and squeezing its future away. The death knell had rung, and burial by razing was eminent.

We walked out disappointed and I felt a little melancholy. I wondered what grand dreams and schemes were planned in 1971, when this little ranch house was built and its new owners moved in. Did they plan on filling the bedrooms with lots of babies? Did they plant flowers in the yard? How many holiday meals were cooked and served from that kitchen? How did the Christmas tree look in front of the picture window in the living room? When did things start to go wrong? When did the foundation begin to slip and the repairs begin to look daunting and overwhelming? When did the first couple drips of water turn into a constant bombardment of moisture that fed the living, breathing black mold beast? Why didn't anyone try to stop it? Why did they wait too long until things had gotten so far out of hand and unfixable?

While driving home, I couldn't help but feel sadness for that little home that once held the dreams of a life. I started thinking of ways to revive the old girl and save her legacy. But it was obviously beyond saving and the sorrow settled in. And then I awoke from my reverie and realized this was not a living thing, like a person, but an inanimate object. I began to think of this house as a metaphor for a life of poor choices or circumstances. And I began to think about how I had been actually grieving about this house's lost dreams, yet, how many lost and consumed souls had passed me in my day to day, in the grocery store, at the library, or even at church, and I had never even given a second thought to them.

I began to refocus and think about what it is that I could do to help those who hadn't been afraid of the foothold of immorality, or didn't notice that first crack in judgement, or the swallowing vortex that inaction brings. Those who are on the brink of the abyss, those who are going to be swallowed by the beast of sin? Jesus tells His disciples that He will be leaving them soon and that He is sending a Helper (the Holy Spirit).  He defines sin in John 16:7- 11, where He says, "If I do go away, then I will send him to you. And when he comes, he will convict the world of its sin, and of God’s righteousness, and of the coming judgment. The world’s sin is that it refuses to believe in me. Righteousness is available because I go to the Father, and you will see me no more. Judgment will come because the ruler of this world has already been judged."

I made a decision to look and see, listen and hear those around me. To watch for settling and cracks, the faint palor of neglect, a hint of the mold that may be poising itself in a bid to overcome those souls. I want to offer help, comfort, and encouragement.  Provide them with the keys to a new dream, a way for a clean heart, and a new home. Tell them about a hope and a future that can be found in life built upon the firm foundation of a faith in Christ, the one true Cornerstone. And while I'm at it, I'll keep looking for the little fixer-upper that needs some fresh air and new life breathed into, as well.