An Easter Birth

I am a townie, a diehard one.  For those of you who do not know what a ‘townie’ is, the townie in me feels awful for you.

All kidding aside, I grew up in a suburb of a major city, with around 30,000 people and although we were only 12 miles outside of a major metro area, it felt like a tight community of great people and still does today. My husband calls me ‘the city girl’ just to poke fun at me. John Mellencamp’s song “Small Town” brings tears to my eyes every time I hear it. I know almost every square inch of that town. I rode my bike or walked on every concrete sidewalk there was, I do believe. In my hometown there is a bar, on average, every 100 feet or so, give or take a few feet. In my hometown you know at least 100 people who will always have your back.  When it comes to my hometown, there are more than 100 reasons for me to want to move back there. Maybe, even more than 100.

I have not lived there now for 14 years and many days I wish desperately that I could move back. I am only a little over a 1 hour drive away in a neighboring state, but that doesn’t matter. There are 3 major reasons why I don’t move back there.

My husband and 2 kids love where we live now. We have set down some serious roots. As most families are, we are embedded in the area we now live in.  Sometimes, I think I will literally go crazy if I don’t go back, and then I look at the faces of my children and realize that this is their hometown. We live in a small, rural town of 1200 people with one police officer, more horses than people and a town center that lovingly boasts a historic Inn, a library, a Mom and Pop country store, a church, a tiny town hall and an even tinier post office.  Blink and you’ll drive right through without even noticing it.

My 11 year old daughter started riding horses about 2 years ago.  We lease a horse, because it is the next best thing to buying one, without the financial responsibility. She is in love with her horse ‘Snuggles’. My daughter rode her up until this January, stopping because Snuggles was pregnant and was expecting a little baby horse this month.  We informed the owner of the farm, that given the opportunity, we would love to be at the birth.  I explained that it didn’t matter what time of day it was, to please alert us when Snuggles went into labor, and I would do my best to get us both there so that we could experience this exciting event. I stressed that even if it happened while my daughter was at school, I would leave work and go get her. 

Side note: My kids do not miss school unless they have a fever over 102 degrees, have lost a limb, or have blood pouring out of more than one orifice. I decided that I would make an exception in this case. What could be more educational than a live birth?

Starting about 12 months ago, my daughter and I voluntarily mucked stalls every Saturday morning at the farm.  I thought it would be best if she learned all aspects of caring for a horse.  For those of you who do not know what mucking is, it is the removal of the horse’s waste from their stall, shoveling it into a wheel barrow, and then dumping it into a bigger pile of manure, or a manure pit, located a short walking distance from the barn. Once the stalls (11 of them) are clean, new shavings are layered on the floor of the stall and the whole process gets repeated every day.

On one particular day, that I have so far unsuccessfully tried to erase from my memory, while attempting to dump a very large pile from a wheel barrow into the existing enormous pile, I lost my footing and fell in to the manure pit, up to my knees.  It had rained quite a bit the week before, so let’s just say the enormous manure pile had become extra ‘juicy’.  As I struggled to free myself from the pit, I could hear one of the men who lived on the farm say out loud: “Now that’s gross.”  When a lifelong farmer calls something gross, you know it’s gross. 

This past Easter Sunday, I got a text picture message from the owner of the farm. The picture was of Snuggles and her new, freshly birthed, baby colt.  The message underneath the picture said: “Look what I found this morning!” Snuggles had quietly given birth in the dark hours of Easter morning. No witnesses in attendance. Exactly how nature had intended.  The colt was impeccably clean and standing tall in the picture.  I immediately yelled for my daughter telling her that Snuggles’ baby colt had finally arrived at which my daughter burst into the happiest tears I have ever seen. We ran to the car, shouting to my husband and son to watch the turkey in the oven on our way out of the house.

I marveled at my daughter as I watched her approach her horse with her newly born baby.  She did so in such a lovingly maternal way, that it brought tears to MY eyes.  The colt was playful and unsteady and adorable. Unbelievable for a horse that was only 7 hours old. My daughter hugged her horse with so much affection and spoke softly to her saying: “What a good job you did”, “I am so proud of you” “I love you, Snugs”, over and over. What an education.

This town that I live in now, is my second home, it’s true.  I hate admitting it, but it’s true.  My first love will always be the town I grew up in. I have often thought that my kids were at a disadvantage growing up where we live now.  They don’t have a gaggle of kids who live on our street to play with and grow up with. No whiffle ball games in the middle of the street or lengthy games of tag or of hide and seek.  They can’t ride all around town on their bikes or walk to a fast food restaurant and meet up with whomever. I realized, after reflecting on the Easter birth, that maybe they are not as bad off as I think they are.

My children will keep their hometown in the hearts forever. This place will bring about that feeling of familiarity, safety and warmth for them as my town did for me.  I inched ever so slightly closer to being a country girl this past Sunday.  I’ll probably never go all the way, but something is better than nothing.

As it is with every season of spring, birth and rebirth abound.  As is with every Easter, new life will always be given.  As it is with every one of us, home will always be the place we return to.

For Annie

18 years ago this month, my friend, Annie, went missing the day before her college finals.  She ‘left’ two small children on this earth and a husband, Tommy, who became the primary suspect in her disappearance.  He was later tried for her murder, because of the evidence collected, without her body ever being found. Tommy was only convicted of forgery, which took place when selling her truck after her disappearance. After doing a short stint in jail, he retreated to his home state of Alabama, leaving Annie’s mother to raise her two children (one of them being Tommy’s biological child) alone. Annie and I did not communicate with each other for the two years leading up to her disappearance, largely in part, because of what I will assume, became the controlling ways of Tommy.  I should have pushed harder to stay connected with her.

I was a bridesmaid in Annie and Tommy’s wedding party. My association with this wedding has become one of the biggest regrets of my life. 

Annie was a beautiful, vivacious, 25-year-old woman.  Tommy was almost twice her age, a bartender in the restaurant that Annie, myself, and a handful of other college girls waited tables at, located in a popular tourist destination with great beaches.

When Annie first told us that she and Tommy were getting married, it took us all by surprise.  She had moved into his condo, with her 18-month old son, out of ‘convenience’ we had all been told.  She and Tommy had only lived together for one month at the time of this announcement. The group of us, including Annie’s sister, and the other girls, didn’t even know that anything romantic was going on between them. Needless to say, we were all shocked, even though Annie and Tommy had known each other for a few years.

We were all aware that Tommy had some serious issues.  He was a Vietnam veteran who suffered from blackouts, night terrors and he had a problem with alcohol. An ex-girlfriend of his had made claims that Tommy had been physically abusive toward her.  Despite this, I considered Tommy my friend and all of these things caused me to be concerned for him.  I had admired the service Tommy had selflessly given to our country and knew he must have been through a living hell. I wanted this relationship to work out for Annie and Tommy, and I went ahead and supported the union, because Annie so desperately wanted me to.

Annie’s wedding day was beautiful, except for the painful black eye she had that was caused the night before the wedding at her bachelorette party. We had taken it upon ourselves to entice Annie into a tequila drinking contest and she ended up falling flat on her face.  Well, not flat.  She hit a door frame molding on her way down.  Annie walked down the aisle the day of her wedding to Tommy with a pretty, sequined, white satin, eye patch.  Annie looked gorgeous anyway.

Lately, in the wee hours of the morning, I have very realistic dreams of Annie laying in my bed beside me, as we talk like the best of friends do.  I lay face up and stare at the ceiling as we talk, not wanting to look over at her in my dream, but I catch glimpses of her from the corner of my eye.  I can see her platinum blonde hair, but I am afraid to look into her crystal blue eyes.  I can actually smell ‘Sand and Sable’ in my dream, the perfume that she wore and always sprayed on in the bathroom as we changed before each shift. That scent has always reminded me of the beach (the same scent washes over me often, even when I am awake, as if my sense of smell is having its own dream.) My impression of these dream encounters, once I am awake, is that Annie is trying to tell me something held within the small talk we make.  I talk to her as if she knows my kids.  She does the same.  We update each other on ‘things’ as if she is still alive. We talk about books.

I am a skeptic when it comes to ghosts and spirits, the paranormal. That is why I am calling these events ‘dreams’. After all, they do take place while I am asleep.  You can imagine how uncomfortable the thought of calling them anything else makes me.

I have kept these dreams of Annie, largely in part, to myself.  I have tried to analyze them.  I have come to a few conclusions. What I have learned from them is absolutely priceless.  It’s all about two things: instinct and trust.

Since these dreams started, about 6 months ago, I find myself letting go of my children more and more. Just in the sense that I want them to know that I trust them.  Letting go of them will inevitably not only grow the trust between them and I, it will also help them to further develop their own instincts, a very important skill for all people to have, but especially for kids these days. 

I am a hovering mother.  I know this and fully admit it.  I am trying lately to change this moment by moment, while still keeping a comfortable grip on life, my sanity and, yes, a grip on my kids.

I can’t help but think if Annie and I had listened to our instincts better and trusted them more, things might have been different. I know that at some point, she knew something was dreadfully wrong, and probably didn’t listen to her own inner voice.  I assume this because I knew her well and despite her independent streak and the common sense she possessed, I think she felt unsure of herself at some point in her marriage to Tommy, maybe even before the wedding.

I now know, more than ever, how important letting my kids spread their wings and begin the process of finding themselves is.  One would think, as I so vividly recall the life of Annie, that it would have the opposite affect on me. The result being the creation of some neatly constructed cocoon for me and my two babies. It has not.

I think the ultimate message in Annie’s visits is to push me closer to the edge and encourage me to jump into the process of trusting my children wholeheartedly, as wholeheartedly as it is possible to trust a 14-year-old and an 11-year-old. Annie always did that for me.  She pushed me outside of my comfort zone.  She didn’t always tell me what I wanted to hear, she told me the truth, she was authentic, and because of that I trusted Annie with my life.

I want my children to trust themselves, their instinct, their little voice. They can only do so with my support, with my trust, with me letting go of them. I hope my children will always feel good about their decisions, their instincts.  I feel good about my instincts as I enter into this new chapter of parenting and to my friend Annie, wherever you are, my sincerest thanks, love and trust.

 * the names in this blog have been changed

I Can Be Your Hero Baby

As most parents do, I have always wanted my children to have positive role models in their life. It is the very essence of raising children, to have adults accessible that positively influence your children. It takes a village, so they say.

I feel that we as a family unit have been very lucky in this area. My son started taking Tae Kwon Do at 7 years old.  His Tae Kwon Do instructors are fantastic role models for him.  They are a husband and wife team.  She is in a wheelchair after being in a devastating car accident about 10 years ago. They are both amazing, personifying the true meaning of a teacher: patient, loving, kind, yet firm.  They hold themselves and their students accountable for their actions.  They motivate and inspire.  My son has earned a second degree black belt under their guidance. This is just one of many examples of how fortunate we have been to have the people in our life that we do.

I look forward to open houses at school. I do, because, being a working mother at this stage of the game, I like to see and feel and touch the everyday ‘stuff’ in my kids' lives.  It is the perfect opportunity for my children to gush about their desk and its contents (there is just SOMETHING about a pencil box that is super full!), their projects, their friends, their interests and on and on.

It was the first open house of the school year when my son was in 6^th grade.  I entered the 6^th grade wing eager to see what he and the rest of his classmates had been up to, instead of just hearing about it. My son attended the open house with me, and ran ahead of me, to mingle with his friends in the classroom.  As I started down the hallway, with artwork splashing every color of the rainbow all over the walls, I slowly took notice of each masterpiece.  The students had all created “Hero Pages”.  These were large projects that resembled the format of the front page of the daily newspaper with a space for a headline, a space for a picture, and a space for a story.  The topic was “Who Is Your Hero?”

I read each one.  The subjects of each were touching: Parents, Grandparents, Coaches, Fellow Classmates who had battled deadly disease, Martin Luther King Jr., etc.

My son’s project was third from the last on this long hallway.  By the time I reached it, I had already had a couple of misty moments reading the others. I was eager to find my child’s project so that my eyes could well up with pride over his choice.

The title of my son’s Hero Page was “the Homeworkenator.” “The Homeworkenator is my hero because he saves me and all my friends by destroying all homework so that we never have to do it….”…WAIT…STOP.  Let me get this straight: My child’s hero is a fictional character, who eerily resembles a white Sponge Bob Square Pants, whose heroic ability is stunting the learning of all children in the land by eliminating homework. Suddenly, I was slightly embarrassed. Honestly, it stung for a moment.

“Great” I uttered out loud, sarcastically.

Just then I was greeted by his teacher who had seen and graded this project as a B+.  I managed to look her in the eye and listen to all of the wonderful things she had to say about my son.  I pulled it together and happily took part in the open house, with a small part of me being disappointed.

My first instinct, once back in the car, was to pelt my son with verbal softballs over the choice of his hero.  Instead, I opted for commenting on how I appreciated his sense of humor and imagination. Yeah, right.  I didn’t. Not at that time. I stewed over it for a couple of days thereafter. My husband thought the Homeworkenator was hysterical.

Today, as he has been for many years, my son is witty, imaginative and creative.  Occasionally, the report I get back from teachers is that he has ‘class clown’ tendencies. I’ll take it. Some of my favorite people are the ones that make me laugh the hardest.  I should have recognized this at the time of that open house, shrugged it off and just taken it with a grain of salt.  I am glad I opted not to pitch the verbal softballs, as holding my tongue was the best choice I made that day.

As parents, we always take it the hardest when our children fall short in our eyes.  What I try to do every day is remind myself that all children are unique and their view of the world should be held in high regard.  It’s THEIR view.  Not mine. I can only continue to be a force in my kids' lives that loves them, respects them and teaches them right from wrong, and by holding them responsible when they mess up.

My hope is that all I do as a parent is enough, so that someday, they will be lucky enough to be somebody else’s hero.  Right now, they are certainly mine.