The Law of the Land

“For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction” Newton’s Law

Half laying, half sitting on the couch. It has become a paralyzing yet satisfying position for me. One that I enjoy without a significant level of guilt/self absorbtion. Call it what you want. Call me a couch potato. I don’t care. I also relish, yet loathe, having quiet coffee and my thoughts to myself. Wrapping a soft crimson blanket around my rounded shoulders at the end of a long winter day, while hiding my face and rubbing my tired eyes. The smell of cinnamon and sweet baked something-or-other still lingering in the air. Walking through fresh grass, pointing out every new flower that beckons spring, as the newly revived, fat bumble bees dart in and out, back and forth. Rocking on the porch as the summer crawls in, waiting for yellow fireflies as night falls and bluebirds with fluttering wings as dawn arrives. Stalking hummingbirds. Noticing the simple changes in the autumn leaves and forming my mouth around a pretend cigarette, blowing rings, just to see my own breath, in the crisp fall air.

I still run a busy house. I still feel like I am the Captain of the Enterprise that is my home, my house, my life. However, at this stage of the game, the ship almost runs itself. The crew is older. The decades old engine still runs, even though there are newer versions with more horse power. My loyal crew is also more self sufficient and experienced. They have been trained and they have earned their seniority. So I sit at the helm, like James T. Kirk. I am soave. I am self confident. I am cute. I can comfortably say that I am still responsible for the health and well being off the crew, but now, I am more at ease. For the crew now gets it. Almost like clockwork.

I have run around, mentally and physically and emotionally for a while now. We all have. From the day my first child was born. My now 16 year old son, who is a just about to topple over into being known as a man. A strong, confident, hairy man. He has such soft brown eyes, just like one of the deer that linger on the outskirts of our property at purple dusk.

As a brand new mom, his introduction into this world was a marathon of body, mind and soul. My baby boy was born 6 weeks early, a healthy 5lbs even. My water broke 7 weeks before his due date in what was supposed to be April. It was a bitterly cold February. Except for the day that he was born, it was an unseasonably 70 degrees, in Boston. Just like a warm spring day, in the middle of winter. A respite, from a chill.

For each of those 6 days while I was hospitalized before he was born, I was told that every day mattered. We were told that his lungs were not fully developed and that 2 rounds of steroid shots would hopefully help, a set of shots that had to be 24 hours apart. My husband did not shower. He did not eat much. My husband slept beside my hospital bed in a cot made for a much smaller person. I went in and out of labor for 5 days. I became irrational amidst my longing, desperately wanting to see my baby. To physically lay eyes on him. Because I was being told repeatedly “One more day. For the welfare of your baby. Give it one more day.” By the time he was born, and those days came and went, I was reduced to toast with crazy jelly spread all over it. On the morning of his birth, my husband wept tears of joy.

By day 3 into our journey, I had abandoned all modesty. If you wanted to see my butt now, I would probably show it to you, from the residual effects of this experience. An entire medical school graduating class from one of the top medical schools on the planet (hey, only the best!), has seen my butt, too.  I was so used to everyone in the room seeing my bottom, there is a secret exhibitionist living inside of me. One that I keep successfully at bay. My labor was induced on day 6. Within 30 minutes of being given the medication, as it dripped into my veins, my son splurted out, after 6 pushes. At my first glimpse of him, my heart burst wide open, in addition to other things, and I couldn’t help but think at the sight of him that he was searching for something to hold onto. Both skinny arms outstretched, his torso wide open. His arms twitched to both sides as his little body tried to find balance. An equal and opposite reaction.

My second child, my daughter, came 2 years and 8 months later. 10 days early and a meatier, 7lbs 5 oz. Sweet and angelic. She seemed to come into the world in a much calmer fashion. Only 4 hours of labor from start to finish, one out of body experience on my part, and the “firing” of one labor and delivery nurse, in the middle of the second quarter (don’t mess with me, during labor). We polished it off with another 6 primal pushes, some scratches on the top of her peach fuzzy head and a broken clavicle (poor thing!) and then there was a second round of tears from my husband (he only cries when I give birth), patting his cheeks with his sleeve to soak up the tears, looking at his hands in an unfamiliar fashion, wondering where the moisture was coming from. My beautiful daughter, who today has the sun in her sweet smelling hair, no matter what time of year it is.

I often refer to my daughter as the grazer when she eats. My little bird, because from the get go, the poor thing has been unaware of what it feels like to have a complete meal. My son, my copper-headed fiery toddler, my buzzing bee, always chose when I sat down to nurse her, as the time to push my buttons. He became the little master. The charade was all his. The jester of the court to the unwilling queen.

We were always on the run.  Filling our days up with nonsense and fun, books, messes and stuffy noses. I can see it still, through a sticky, smeared, crystal pathway, somewhere in my brain. Play groups, Mommy and Me classes. Cute little giggles and songs. Lego’s. Naps. Diapers. Crackers and juice. Walmart escapades. Down right silliness. Leaving a grocery cart full of groceries and apologizing to the store manager. My daughter telling everyone in line at the deli counter that her penis hurt. The whole usual, thing. And, of course, melt downs. For both the kids and the adults.

This gave way, to tae kwon do. Violin. Best friends and enemies. Poor bathroom habits. Dance recitals. Horseback riding. Chores. Football. Smelly Football Equipment. Trampolines. Overnight trips and sleepovers. Popcorn and movies. Make up. And secrets, that only the truest of confidants would know.

Sometimes, the tooth fairy didn’t come for days. A lesson in patience, I rationalized. Sometimes, dinner was ‘eat what you can find’ instead of a home cooked meal. Sometimes, my husband and I barely spoke to each other. Sometimes, my children hated each other. Sometimes, when my son and daughter laugh together alone in the kitchen, my eyes fill with tears. I can see the adults they will become soon in little nuances and facial expressions and body language. And I am truly happy.

Now, we need less and take less. The crew have their own agenda when they are off the clock. We often go our seperate ways, finding solace in our seperate sacred spaces. Coming together at the quiet times to say I love you and give a hug and a kiss. I hold on tighter. I smell them more. As if I have to store the smell in the corners of my soul, for safe keeping. The mail is full of college bound material. The days are danced through with texting and guitar riffs and thuds as the lacrosse ball hits the side of the house followed by the yell from the yard "I'm sorry!"

So I walk around and take it all in. The smell of wood burning from my neighbor's chimney. The creak of the rocking chair from the sudden gust of breeze. The hint of red on the hawks tail flying overhead and above the evergreen. Gray becomes a predominant hue on the color wheel. I give up my chair and let others sit there. I release my grip on the controls of the ship and wait for the equal and opposite reaction.

Here

For the first time since I became a mother, I cried after a phone call with one of my children yesterday. Not an eye well. Not an “I am so proud” type of tear, either. It was a holy hell kind of tear. The one that is the result of the ghostly punch in the gut. Not that I haven’t felt the punch in the gut before. But this one hit me at my most weakened state of motherhood, so therefore, I cried.

I have good kids. Really, really good kids. They do make me proud, and often. They make me laugh. They make me think. They, just being, make me feel vulnerable to the world around me. A world that while beautiful and satisfying, can also add anxiety, just in the mundane to even the King and Queen of laid back parents. And I am not a laid back parent. At all. I wish I could be.

As soon as I hung up the phone I started to cry while in the parking lot at Starbucks. I started to bawl, my tears stinging my winter laced cheeks. My daughter, who was sitting behind me in the back seat of the car, promptly unbuckled her seat belt and jumped onto the center console wrapping her arms around me and tilting her head towards mine she whispered “he’s going to be okay.”

What a God send that she was there. What an ass I am. For it is not very often that I find myself needing comfort. Especially from my 13 year old, as I unravel, latte in hand. I am so thankful that she was there. She made it easier to handle.

My son’s best friend, a few months older than him, got his driver’s license last week. My son slept over his house last night and they planned on going out for pizza and driving to a mutual friend’s house today. Yesterday he called to ask for my permission to do all of those things, including being in the passenger seat of a car of a newly licensed driver. A control freak’s biggest fear.

The mack daddy.

Now in April, he will be going to London. He will be flying in a plane for the first time. I have entrusted my boy’s welfare to others’ many times before, of course, and have gotten used to the fact that he is bordering on an adult and will, in the blink of an eye, be leaving our home to make his own life. But for some reason, none of this compares in the fear factor department to the act of driving with his peers. Not the bus trip to DC. Not the theater workshop in New York. Having him away for a solid week from his family and his home is a piece of cake on my end. Having him spend the weekend with friends, going on vacations with his best buddy, etc, etc.

This feels different. Boy does it feel different. I now must rely on one of his friends for his safety. And what dawned on me in the parking lot of Starbucks, NO, what smacked me in the face, is that there is no turning back. This is it. We have arrived.

I have entered the zone of waiting for him to get home at night and not being able to sleep until he does safely, to answering my phone that much quicker, to wondering if I don’t get the confirmation text back, if everything is okay…or not. To facing front and center the fears that become overwhelmingly, mind numbing.

How crazy am I?

I know.

I could say “No” to all of these things. “Nope, stay home with meeeeee…..”.  It’s tempting.

Why can’t I be the Mom that doesn’t think twice about it? Why can’t I be the one that starts taking the photography class I have always wanted to take? The one that takes place in the late afternoon, that thus far happens right smack dab in the shuffling part of our day, where my kids need to be at other places. Why not let my son be driven around by his buddies wherever he needs to go? In a few months, when my son gets his driver’s license, will he be toting my daughter back and forth to Lacrosse or to her friends’ houses while I catch a movie, have dinner with friends, a drink with my husband? Shouldn’t I be excited about the prospect of hanging up my chauffer’s hat?

Almost the whole of this last paragraph makes me sick to my stomach, my furrow lines just got a little deeper, and the distance between me and my son feels like it just got a little wider.

So, to counteract, we have developed a checking in system, a quick text that says ‘here’ when he reaches his destination. Does this make anybody cringe? Is this a little tidbit for the helicopter mother handbook? Perhaps. Does it make me feel better?

Not really.

What I know instinctively is that I trust him. As much as I can trust any teenager. Especially knowing what history says about teenagers like me. And it feels like pay back time. I didn’t get it. I wanted out and away from my parents as soon as I could. I would  drive around with my friends often, almost biting it a few times. And by biting it I mean careless, dangerously careless. I never, ever knew just how careless I was. I had no clue.

I have to ask myself this: Am I/we the new breed of parents that hover, no BLANKET, our kids? Not just hovering, but COVERING over them with thick, heavy wool as they try to exercise their independence?  I may just be the President of the Covering and Smothering Parents Association. I am surely, at least, the Vice President.

(Big run on sentence time…)

So, when he called me today, after I called him, because I didn’t get my ‘here’ text in the time I had allotted in my own head for him to get from point A to point B and my heart started pounding and I figured I would just call the whole thing off, no more driving with anyone, he immediately called me to put me at ease and we talked about how important the text ‘here’ was.

Here.

I am here.

My son is responsible and he is smart. He is my world as sappy as it is. So this is what I have left:

May fate and destiny and all of the universal mystical crazy things that exist and those that have passed on to the other side (if there is such a thing) protect my boy and his genuine heart and his young body and his sharp mind. Please just do it.

I will bite my lip. I will turn away when I well up. I will run screaming throught the center of town in my dreams.

But I will not turn away from here.

The Father Daughter Dance

I can see that it’s like he’s almost constantly being jabbed with a pin, in the side. Sometimes, he even winces, from some ghostly little ping or pang as if someone is stepping on his toes. This is my husband in reaction to my child. He acts that way every time HIS name is mentioned or she brushes by him without her usual acknowledgement of “Hi Pats” (my daughters nickname for my husband, whom she used to call ‘Pattums’, until it was shortened to ‘Pats’).

Our 13 year old daughter has a boyfriend. Or should I say she is ‘going out’ with someone. Wait…I’m told they are JUST friends (Jeez, Mom!)

Going where you ask? Well absolutely nowhere alone, of course. He lives 7 miles away. All highway. Thank you sweet baby Jesus. They are only 13 years old. But that doesn’t seem to be any consolation.

Let’s call him Rocco. After all, he is Italian, and has a very Italian sounding name. Which I think in some way adds to my husband’s discomfort, as he and Rocco have that in common. And I shouldn’t say that they go nowhere. They attend the same school. They attend school sporting events together. They roller skate on Friday nights. I usually give him a ride home from roller skating. Rocco is very polite. He actually opens the passenger side door to thank me after getting out of the back seat. Which my husband calls being ‘a kiss ass ’. I think it’s sweet. My husband insists that it is a tell tale sign that Rocco is a punk and that I must be going soft. I think Rocco breathing translates to my husband that Rocco is a punk. I am not sure anything would make him happy.

When I was pregnant with Lily, I went for my ultrasound alone to find out if she was a girl or a boy. My then, overly masculine husband, waited at home. What was the big deal? We had already had a son. Which I was extremely grateful for as it took the pressure off. It's not like I was producing an heir to a thrown or something. But my husband wanted a boy first. In fact, he wanted a boy second, too. I was embarrassed and slightly wounded by the emphasis on the boy thing. After all, what the hell was the matter with us chicks, anyway?

My husband claimed he was too rough around the edges for a girl. He thought he would flounder as the parent of a girl and that she would turn into some masculine, I am going to take you down, truck-driver-mouth wench with an overly hairy upper lip. And perhaps an overly hairy upper back as well. (My husband is a very hairy, half Italian, half Armenian wonder of a specimen). We had already agreed that some sort of electrolysis or hair removal would be on the docket for her sixteenth birthday, if we ever had a girl.

Well, she was a she. I was elated. And as I pulled into the driveway he was standing in front of the garage. We made eye contact and I saw him exhale. Deeply. He new just by looking at what I thought was my expressionless face.  

“You’ll be fine!” I said comforting him as he bent (way down) to hug me. I felt him collapse a little onto my shoulder. “Really babe, we should just be focusing on her health, don’t worry about it. You will be a great Dad to her.” He smiled and I could tell he was in the process of adjusting his thinking. Sink or swim. Ah, the joys of my ever evolving husband.

Today, to say “two peas in a pod” is an understatement. She and he are each others best buddy. There were times when I would sneak upstairs just to listen to them playing together when she was little. One day, I opened the door to put away laundry, and there he was, sitting on her bed, my 6’3” burly, mountain man husband, looking sheepish in a pink feathered boa with a jewel encrusted tiara on his head. She was standing in front of him trying to attach the second of two plastic, clip-on earrings, with purple bejeweled dangles. Something you don’t easily forget. It certainly made me fall in love with him all over again.

She was interested in all the same things he was. Fishing, hunting, trapping, sports. In fact, at the age of 4, she used to hang out with him in the garage as he skinned critters (according to him, an art form) to get the pelts ready for sale. My daughter loved it. They hung out and had conversation at times that almost made me jealous. Almost.

But now, it’s complicated. She picks up on the fact that he is leery of anyone who pays her any attention in the romantic department. The other day, at her basketball game, a mutual friend of both Lily and Rocco’s, Andrew, came up to me and my husband in the stands a few minutes before half time. Rocco was sitting at the other end of the bleachers with his friends.

“Hi Mrs. S, can you give Rocco a ride home today after the game.” (For some strange reason, he new best not to address this question to Mr. S)

My husband and I exchanged glances as if we both just tasted something awful.

“Why, yes Andrew, I can give Rocco a ride home today after the game. But Rocco will have to come over here and ask me himself.”

Our friends sitting around us in the bleachers chuckled. We waited. No Rocco.

So as half time ticked down, my husband waited impatiently for Rocco to come skulking over to ask us for a ride. I knew things were getting testy when my husband started tapping his foot on the step next to me. When Rocco didn’t show up, my husband stood up and shouted, as loud as he could:

“Hey Socco, (he had his own nickname for my daughter’s beloved) is there something YOU wanted to ask us?!”  Done, ironically, just as our daughter was entering the gym from the locker room to start the impending third quarter of her game.

Yeah, that went over well. There was laughter from the crowd and a couple of blushing teenagers. Something tells me the line had now officially been drawn in the sand. Get out the tighty whities and the shotgun, dear.

Not too long ago, we decided if you can’t beat ‘em, then join ‘em. And by joining I mean we took Lily and Rocco out to dinner and a movie. A double date so to speak. My husband can’t stand it when I call it that. Weirdly, it was decidedly NOT awkward. I thought it would be, but it wasn’t. And I am pretty sure my husband enjoyed it, too.

Now some may think that this is ridiculous. Why go out to dinner and a movie with your 13 year old daughter and her boyfriend (Mom, were just friends, FOR REAL!!) Well…I figure the more we accept things the way they are, the more likely it is that the lines of communication stay open. Surprisingly, the big guy is on board, still evolving.

We both realize that 13 years old is too young to be in a serious relationship, but by dismissing it, we are doing more harm, than good. All of us know that as of right now, Lily and Rocco are not able to ‘date’ without chaperones. It is understood and respected. We run this ship. Rocco is on board. Lily is on board. I am on board. My husband is standing on the shore, but as least he’s on the beach.

I remember being a little worried about the relationship between my husband and my daughter years ago. Some part of me thought, ‘what if he’s right?’…’what if he sucks as a Dad to her?’ ‘What if years down the road she is in therapy sobbing “My father never loved me!”

Today, I can’t believe it was ever a concern. She is independent, outspoken and shrewd, just like her Dad. And he has softened around the edges. He, who once told me if he had a daughter, he would most definitely screw it up, can’t picture his life without her. He can’t picture life without either of our kids. Isn’t it amazing what the love of a little girl, a child in general, can do?

Job well done, husband. May our daughter be blessed with a partner in life, if she so chooses, that knows when he has met his match, as you have.

Does Your Face Light Up?

As someone who considers herself a writer, (well, a blogger at least) when a unthinkable tragedy strikes, you would think that the desire to sit and hack away at the keyboard would stop me in my tracks. That some force would grab me, pluck me from where I stand and sit me in front of my lap top, no matter where I was or what I was doing, right after providing me with a nice hot cup of coffee/tall glass of wine.

Not now. Not this time.

When the news of the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary reached me, I wanted nothing to do with writing. The sadness and fear that enveloped me, paralyzed my need to sincerely communicate with anyone except my children and my husband. I shut down, as I am sure many of us did. I became nothing but an emotional being, but in a warped kind of way. For the last few days I have soaked everything in, reluctantly. The media attention was and still  is mind boggling. And the words “this time of year” began to sting me like a punch in the face. Yeah, it’s Christmas, but any time of year that you lose a loved one, especially a child, is devastating. Why would the time of year matter? I grieved for the adults lost and the parents, not only of the victimized children, but for the children at Sandy Hook who survived, and my brain froze as hard as a glacier. My heart was the only thing working.

As the initial shock started to wain, I like everyone else, searched for answers. I really didn’t feel much like offering my opinion or speculating as to where to place blame. What did it matter? I kept searching for something else.

Round and round we went. Where can we place blame? The are so many choices.  Let’s see…

*Guns. Sure we can talk about guns for a long time. The truth is criminals will always be able to get guns, illegally. We, as a people, in our society as it is, have the right to defend ourselves. Timothy McVeigh used fertilizer, Min Yingjun used a knife, Hitler used a gas chamber. Crazy has no rationale. If they want to kill, they will.

*Diagnosis. Aspergers does not equal a mass murder. Neither does Autism. Neither does any other mental illness or mental handicap. Searching for a reason that someone kills can not be found in a medical coding book. If that is where you decide to conduct your search then you are going back in time instead of forward.

*Parenting. We are not all raised by perfect human beings. Far from it. Blaming a parent for an adult child on a killing spree does not solve the problem. Divorce doesn’t equal killing either, or else more than half of us would be dead.

*God. Or the lack of God. Why bring him into this. It’s not His fault. Divine intervention is not mandatory in massacres like these. Although I wish it was.

Do we really need this?  Does this really help? Does placing blame teach us anything? We should all be expected to take responsibility for our own actions despite our laundry list.

I am a fighter. I will fight with you on anything. I like to refer to it as debating. I am direct. It’s in my DNA. But I no longer want to be a fighter. It feels like spinning my big ol wheels in a big ol mud pit. I want to stop fighting and start fixing.

I so wanted to write something, anything, that would lend sense to it all. I wanted something eloquent that would untangle this mess and make things better. But then this happened. It dawned on me today while driving. In my search to sort it all out, my now thawed out mind and my beating heart kept going back to something. Something I heard a long time ago, 12 or so years ago, that changed the way I go about my daily life. Something said by a woman named Toni Morrison. It was this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Jw0Fu8nhOc

Overly simple, maybe. Utopian, could be. But necessary, I believe so.

Does your face light up? Do your children, any child, get the benefit of you being happy to see them? Are you too critical? Are you wrapped up in so many of life little inconveniences that you can’t light up when you see someone you love. Even those that you see everyday? Do you light up when you see your spouse? Your Mom and Dad? Anyone else?

It may not be the solution to something as big as the Sandy Hook massacre, but what if it was to the future of our children. What if something so simple could be the answer? How would we know? I say let’s try it.

I look at the face of the killer and I see no light. Desolate, barren eyes. He almost looks like an alien on this planet. Void of light. Probably incredibly uncomfortable with the flash used to take his picture. I think he found a friend in darkness. It was all he had.

Light just might be the answer. The light of a child. I say we rejoice in it, provide blaring light to them and encourage it to spread. And maybe the rest, will just take care of itself.

"And God said, let there be light, and there was light"

Genesis1:3.

A Day in December

You hear about it, you read about it and instinctually you know about it, because you did it. People joke about it at parties, friends pat you on the back as they blow out their birthday candles and family members say things like: “Just you wait…”

Teenagers. You know it's going to happen but that doesn’t make it any easier to stomach and believe.

I know my mouth is moving, but the words that are coming out, are not what I really want to say. I feel like the Mom puppet. With big bulging eyes, dangling feet and some seriously noticeable frown lines. With someone’s arm up my ass.

“Sneak 2 bags of chips” comes out sounding more like “Did you pack any fruit in your lunch?” (Hey, at least I make them pack their own lunches)

“Wear just a t-shirt to school today, you’ll be fine” automatically edits to “Please don’t forget your jacket, it’s freezing out.”

“What ever I own, is yours for the taking whenever you need it” sounds as if I just yelled “Where the hell is my flat iron!”

As I mentioned in one of my earlier blogs, being a teenager trapped in adult’s body, with all of the perspective of looking in the rear view mirror, sucks…big time. Especially when your kids are now...well, YOU.

As of this moment, I now have two teenaged children, and one of them is of the girl variety. And the switch just got flipped. Boys from the outside world have infiltrated the system. And I can tell you, I don’t think it’s going to be pretty. I hope we all come out intact. We are all in defensive mode. Even the dog. God. Help.Us.

I had a dream last night that my daughter had a rotating system of boys coming in and out of my house, all of whom insisted that I make them a home-cooked meal. The worst part was I actually did it, chained to the stove as she interviewed each one in the living room as my husband sat in the corner complaining about each of the boys’ responses to my daughter’s questions. Mocking them. She kept turning to her father, wide-eyed, saying “Dad, don’t you have work to do in your office?!”

I awoke with sweat on my brow, caused more from the company my daughter was keeping and only a smidge from the heat that was coming from the oven.

My almost 16 year old son is now in Driver’s Ed. I went to the mandatory parent meeting on Tuesday night.

1 in 28 will get in an accident. 1 in 100 will die.

I have never been so scared in all my life. Would it be bad to just tell him “No, sorry, you can’t get your driver’s license until you are out of college, besides I can drive you wherever it is you need to go.”  OR “What do you mean, dating?...well I am sure I can be very quiet in the front seat and keep my eyes closed the whole time.”

No. Yes. That would be bad.

Me taking an anti-anxiety medication of some kind at this point, something I have joked about since the day he was born, is becoming more and more of a reality. I can’t even drive with him in the car. I have now scared the crap out of him. He thinks he is a bad driver. He just might be. I am a basket case.

What is a basket case anyway? It’s the only word that comes to mind and fits perfectly without me really knowing what it is I am actually calling myself. Wait, I’m looking it up…

“the term 'basket case' was first used to reference a soldier who has lost both arms and legs and therefore needed to be carried in a basket.”

Wow. Well, I don’t qualify. And maybe I won’t use that term anymore to describe myself. But mentally and emotionally, I may, in fact, be seriously short on arms and legs.

Last night, my son and I had a conversation about what I will call “The Art of the Dodge”. “The Art of the Dodge” takes place when someone likes you, and you don’t like them in THAT kind of way. It's the act of 'dodging' part that is unacceptable to me. If you don’t like someone in that kind of way, then say it nicely, compassionately. Be careful of the other person’s feelings. Don't ignore them after they have made their feelings known to you. Apparently, the “Art of the Dodge” is alive and well in my son’s High School and is even an option on the curriculum freshmen year. Joking aside, we agreed that dodging is wimpy.

I was a wimp. Why would I expect for him not to be a wimp like me? The teenager in me says “Dude, run away! Don't talk to her! Don’t even look at her! ”, but unfortunately it comes out sounding like “Hunny, be honest and just tell her the truth. Just be careful of her feelings. Express how much you would like to stay friends. That you value her friendship.”

As soon as it came out, all I could think of was “Mom…you are SO lame.” With my own eye roll even. Whatevs.

A few nights ago, everything was eerily quiet at home. The house was empty. I couldn't even think of the last time that had happened. My husband was working, my daughter was at a distant basketball game, my son at play rehearsal. I sat on the couch and stared at the Christmas tree until the lights blurred together.  I have wanted this. To NOT be needed for long enough to just sit and BE.

Within minutes, I was bored. And lonely. And sorry.

In a few years there will be more of that. You see, I am on the flip side. Just far enough past temper tantrums, sticky fingerprints and t-ball games and inching closer to proms, last football games and moving boxes.

And it happens quickly. Fast enough that I can cry at the drop of a hat and need to be asked to be needed. Just needed. Pathetically, my teenaged self just cringed and shook her head.

Last night after a mother daughter exchange that ended in abruptly with me asserting “…because I asked you to!” as I ran out the door, I called my daughter from the road with regret in my heart and requested an ‘11 year old hug’ from her for when I returned. “What do you mean?” she said.  I could tell she had a smile on her face, even though she was slightly aggravated with me. “You know, remember the ones you used to sit on my lap to give me? You would wrap both of your arms around me and bury your head in my neck and you would squeeze me tight?”

I just loved the smell of her. To her it was a funny ‘squeeze Mom as I hard as I can hug’ but for me, I would take her in completely. Her fragrant hair on my shoulder. Her eyelashes on my cheek. My heart would bust wide open. I really needed one of those. And, later, when I got home, I got the 13 year old version. Almost the same exact hug. Except, now she pulls away first.

Good enough. I’ll take it.

‘The Light At The End Of The Tunnel’. ‘More Free Time’. ‘More Me Time’. ‘More Time For My Husband And Myself To Be A Couple Again’.All of these, titles to books I could have written by now, if I had the time and energy. They certainly would each be on the best seller list. Especially to the 'Mom of two toddlers' that also still lives inside of me.

But the truth is, now I just want more of them. More time with them. One more trip to Plimouth Plantation with my daughter’s first grade class or another go around as the “Team Mom” of my son’s football team. One more Christmas with homemade gifts, a picture frame, a nutcracker from wood shop, a paper ornament adorning the tree.

I can’t help but think of all of the sweet things that have come before now and all of the wonderful things that whiz by at lightening speed that once seemed in slow motion. I know there is so much more to come. How blessed I am to be a part of their lives.

I shut my keyboard. The warmth of my old winter coat protects me from the biting, forthcoming winter wind. I hurry off to an errand, fumble for my car keys, the lights all blur together again and the snow begins to fall from the sky.

For Some Reason, I Can't Find a Title For This One

**Names have been changed. Parental discretion is advised, major truck driver mouth to follow…

It’s been about 8 months since it happened, so I think I can talk about it now.

Parked at the pharmacy, waiting for my prescription to be filled to combat a raging sinus infection, my head back against the head rest in my car, I opened my eyes and looked down in response to my ring tone and picked up quickly as I noticed the call was coming from my daughter’s middle school. Isn’t it funny, the little pulse that goes through your body when you see your kids’ school is trying to contact you? Your mind always goes to places that it shouldn’t go. In like a millisecond, you catastrophize everything in the blink of an eye and then some thread of common sense kicks in enough for you to answer the phone in a normal voice instead of shrilling: “What’s wrong??!!” Except this time, something was wrong.

Me: “Hello?”

School Receptionist: “Hi, is this Lily’s mom?”

Me: “Yes.”

School Receptionist: “Hi, we were just calling to check and see why Lily is absent from school today?”

Me: “She’s not absent, she got on the bus this morning. She is there.” Done, believe it or not, in a calm, normal voice.

School Receptionist: “Well, she is marked absent.”

Me: “Well she shouldn’t be. As I just said, she got on the bus this morning.”

School Receptionist: silence

Me: Silence…it feels as if I have no voice, I can’t use it. It’s gone for a few seconds and then I muster: “Hello?…I just told you that she should be there, go find her…now.”

All of a sudden, every organ in my body started to ache and felt like they were being rung out with very strong hands.  I had never really been aware of exactly where my organs were inside of me. Because of this incident, I am now very aware of were my pancreas is.

School Receptionist: “Okay, please hold and I will check.” In a very nervous voice.

I hold. Yeah, I hold. I start to shake, cry and think all kinds of awful stuff. My baby…where is she? Where the hell is she? It feels like forever as I sit on hold. After what seems like a miserable eternity, the receptionist gets back on the phone.

School Receptionist: “I checked with the student teacher in Lily’s classroom and he confirmed that she is marked absent. But her class is outside at PE right now and they are checking to see if she is out there. I am going to place you back on hold, I will be back to you as soon as I get word.” She says reassuringly.

Me: “Somebody better fucking find her.”

School Receptionist: “What?”

Me: “You heard me.”

Hold music.

Me: Well, lets just say, everything hurt. My heart, my brain, my soul, my entire being. Fear became palpable, I could taste it. ‘Shaking’ does not even begin to describe the state of what my body was now doing. It took almost 3 minutes for the receptionsist to come back on the phone.

School Receptionist: “We have found her. She was marked absent by accident. She is on her way to the office so that you can speak to her.”

Me (yup, unfortunately, it’s my turn): “Who is the dumbass, mother fucker that fucked this up?” Heart pounding in my chest wildly.

School Receptionist: “I am so sorry, WE are so sorry. I can assure you this just doesn’t happen. We all feel terrible.”

Me: “It just did. Me too, I feel terrible, too. I have just been to the brink of mother insanity and fucking back, so I understand feeling fucking terrible. Is Lily there yet?”

School Receptionist: “I will put her on as soon as she gets here.”

Hold music.

Lily: “Hi Mom!”

Fake calm voice, turned on.

Me: “Hi baby! Well it looks like they thought you weren’t at school today, that’s why you are talking to me in the middle of gym class.”

Lily: “I know, crazy huh?!” she said giggling in the cutest way ever.

Me: “Crazy is right! (fake chuckle). Well, I am glad you are doing okay, my dear. You can go back to class now. Have a good day babe.”

Lily: “Ok, see you when I get home. Bye, Mom, love you.”

Me; “I love you, too. By Lil.”

I would say that was it, but this happened on the same day as Parent Teacher Conferences. Yup.

5:00 pm and I walk in to the classroom and both of Lily’s team teachers are finishing up with the parents before me. I decide to stroll through the hallway and check out all of the art work and projects and start recounting my choice of words earlier in the day, yet again, feeling 90% sure of myself and 10% embarrassed.

As Mr. Dwyer and Mrs. Vincent finish up and say goodbye, they wave me to come in and Mr. Dwyer sticks out his head to greet me and says in a very serious and somber tone “I am the mother fucker that wants to take responsibility for what happened today.”

We all laughed. I did, however, still kinda think he was a mother fucker, though.

I apologized for my choice in words and both of them hugged me and told me how warranted it all was and that they would have done and acted the same, if they were in my position. My. Dwyer explained that he had to be at an early morning meeting, and his student teacher took attendance that day. He had mistakenly marked Lily absent in place of another student. But, Mr. Dwyer wanted to claim responsibility, as it was his classroom. He is, literally, one of the best teachers either one of my kids have ever had.

It could have happened to anyone. People make mistakes. I make plenty. I assured him that he was forgiven, with a couple of choice recommendations about new student teachers taking attendance in the lead teacher’s absence. As in, don’t do it again.

But, nothing can ever match the sound of my child’s voice on the phone that day. The wave of, for lack of a better word, relief, was overwhelming.

My baby girl was there. Thank God.

I Thought I Would Let Today Pass Without Weighing In. But...Nope

I read a lot of opinion pieces. I love blogs and editorials. I believe in our freedom of speech, BIG TIME. The written word turns me on and off and around and inside out. I love to hear what goes through other peoples’ minds. I love to hear how other's deal with life. Everyday life, thoughts, sentences, opinions and just words in relation to our big spinning world, really intrigue me.

We all have opinions and beliefs that drive us. I am Pro Choice. I am a woman. To me, all skin colors and cultures are beautiful. I wholeheartedly believe that your pursuit of happiness means that you get to marry whomever you choose.

As a parent, I have tried to teach my children the value of hard work, taking responsibility for their actions and the importance of treating people kindly, compassionately and fairly.

As a woman, I have hopefully taught my daughter how much her voice matters.  I hope I have equally relayed to my son, how important women are. I have always wanted to paint a fair, accurate and loving picture to my kids. I feel that I have, and I will continue to do so.

What I can not do is allow the country I love to hemorrhage. Just as if it were a parent that I love and want to protect in a very primal way, as I watch the lifeblood gush out of it, I will grab the first cloth (yes, even an unsanitary one) to stop the bleeding.

It’s not about race, sex, special needs, gay marriage, abortions or anything else.

It’s about the bleeding. Bleeding that will eventually drain the life out of the country that I call mine and love to the core. Without the fiscal soundness of this institution that we call ‘home’, who you marry, what’s between your legs, and what choices you make are going to suffer greatly at the wheel of what I will choose to call ‘crippling debt and weakness’. Have you ever experienced that? It is a killer. A killer of love, marriage, childhood, and compassion (to name just a few).

If you think anything else about me because of the way that I choose to vote for our President, than you are making inappropriate excuses. Those that want to justify their own vote by calling me a bigot, a racist, a woman hater…than you don’t know me. And you have no right judging and assuming who I or WE are. It surprises me (I guess) that some extremists (and some, not so extreme) have resorted to name calling and hurling awful accusations, based on a presidential vote. How sad.

Really, really sad.

And please don’t tell me to ‘vote my conscience’. Blech. Really? If that were the case, I’d skip the voting booth and get drunk. Stinking drunk.

Those that choose to use hateful words to describe those that cast an opposing vote, are contradicting everything that this country was founded on. We are lucky and blessed to be citizens of a country that was founded on democracy.

Just in case anyone has forgotten, the definition of democracy is: “a form of government in which all eligible citizens have an equal say in the decisions that affect their lives.”

(Side note: I need a form of ID to cash my check at freaking Market Basket. Why shouldn’t I need to present one when I vote for our President?) I love digression.

When the results of today’s election are shared with all of us, INCESSANTLY, we must accept what we paid for, what we bought into, what we have earned. And live with it, with dignity and grace and class.

No matter how it goes today, whomever our President is for the next 4 years, if you don’t feel the need to support our democratic process, than perhaps you should go to a place where a democracy does not exist. Live in democraticlessness (not a word – made it up). I bet you miss us.

So, may God bless, you, me, our children, our military, our people and…for sure, God bless the President of the United States of America.