Possible Inappropriate Laugh

Taken from Rosie O'Donnell's blog.

This made me LOL.

Always speak your mind. A.L.W.A.Y.S!

I've decided

People who know me simply love hearing me say that. Mostly because it rarely happens, the decision-making bit I mean. I'm of the "um....well....hmmmm....uh" variety of person. It's not that I suck at it, truly. In fact I totally rock at deciding things when it's something I actually think is important. If it's just about food or movies or spare time...so long as we're together I couldn't care less what we're doing. It frustrates Tony more than you could possibly know. It's like the man is allergic to decisions or something and relies solely on mine. Truthfully I know he defers to me only because he wants me to be happy. But sometimes, I'm happiest when I'm along for the ride.

At any rate. School will be out in about 6 official work days (I've excluded the weekend because we typically laze away during that time anyway). I'm taking a week off of work to spend at home with you guys and YES I'll get out of bed even! You know your collective sassing is getting out of control when I can hear it in my head and you're not even around!

I'll talk to each of you over the next few days to see what time would be best to enjoy the week to it's fullest. Suggestions are always welcome....

Let the games begin!

Hey Chris!

Can you please email me the link to your blogs so that I can access them this weekend? When I took your profile off of mine, I lost your links.

Thanks baby... I love you!

An Elephant Never Forgets

One of my co-workers was regaling me with tales of the most recent attempts by her almost 3-year-old son to defy all logic and in fact recreate how his world works (à la Harold and the Purple Crayon only her child used a black sharpie with the dishwasher as his canvas). At any rate, it got me thinking about the many, ma-a-a-any times some of my children's own actions seemed to defy all manner of reason and went straight to baffling, inexplicable irrationality with a side of "dear-god-where-was-the-Magic Eraser-when-I-needed-it for good measure.

I believe we're all so very lucky I never lost touch with my sense of humor.

Anyone who's ever met Chrissy is immediately awestruck by her calm demeanor and enthusiastic love of the arts. She sketches, she paints, she dabbles in colored pencil techniques and even photography. In short, she's an extremely well-rounded teenager with absolutely no hint of the disobedient apathy many have grown to expect from Generation Y. I nod and seemingly smile at my good fortune. But what I'm really smiling at are all the memories! This beautiful, now docile bibliophile was once a beautiful head-banging, temper-tantrum-throwing, fall.down.on.the.floor.and.writhe.in.sweaty.protest type of child.

I'm so not making this up. I swear. In fact, here are a few examples for your edification:

Her Terrible Twos started when she was a year old and promptly ended when she turned Three. I think the term itself more accurately refers to the number of years parents spend biting their nails with worry over which mental facility is better suited for either them or their children than it does the age of the child. There were more than a few moments when her tantrums involved tears on both our parts. Oh but I loved her! I simply loved it even more the day she awoke from her time of Being Two with a smile for the dawning of Being Three and beyond. I have a particular fondness for the "and beyond" part.

For some reason one of the more dominant visual memories I have of her is one in which she would toddle around wearing one of my shirts. She did this often but not nearly as often as she toddled around wearing her own clothes. So the image my mind has chosen to capture seems especially unique and all the more special for it's rarity. She would basically follow me throughout our apartment using her toddler-ways to get a variety of things she seemed to wake up each morning in need of. Some days she chose simple things like a sippy cup of whole (not half) milk or a tape of Barney and then her mandatory morning consumption of nourishment. Other times it was vastly more complicated than that. In fact, at times it was as tenuous and problematic as establishing life on Mars or solving that pesky problem of global warming. To say she could be "difficult" is like saying the surface of the Sun is "a little warm". Understate much?

On those insatiable days of hers, it wasn't unheard of to have the day end with my ears ringing and the front of her shirt-cozy glazed with a thick coating of boo-hoo boogers. She looked like she'd been slimed Ghostbusters style. She was a cutie, don't get me wrong. It's just that she was a cutie with royal demands. And Her Highness (Heinous? LOL) did not appreciate being told "no" or having a delay of any sort between request and receipt. God love her.

I will admit, I rather enjoy telling her about those two tortuous years. And sometimes I play it up a little for sympathy. But for the most part we laugh together about it. Like the time she used markers to color a perfect shadowy likeness of our lay-z-boy onto the wall of our rented apartment. Or the time I thought she was napping when she was in fact quietly sitting on the floor of her closet systematically emptying every last jumbo container of baby powder onto (and into) our disgusting shag carpeting. Or the time I walked away from her newest twist to tantrum-throwing (consisting primarily of butting her head against hard surfaces with much justified anger) only to come rushing back at the sound of her pained howling to find her standing, virtually stunned; her nose bloodied (the table, IT HURT ME, I'm so suing you!). Or better yet, the time the Presbyterian minister from our hometown church dropped by to visit. As we were chatting amiably, in she walks wearing her shirt-cozy and plastered from head to toe in every Always Maxi-pad With Wings I had left in the box while sucking on the empty plastic tubing of a newly opened tampon like it was a whistle.

Okay so maybe not all of us are lucky I've kept in touch with my sense of humor. Paybacks!

*giggle*

Vibrations

photo credit: "Earned Stillness" by Diane Varner

With age I'm slowly learning that people don't exist in a vacuum. While not exactly an epiphany, it's an awareness I never grasped as wholly in my life as I've begun to over the past few years. And it's not so much the knowledge of our actions having consequences or even that they have the potential to impact others we come into contact with, though that's certainly an important basic factor. For me, the lesson is that every individual action reverberates along very similar, if not identical, pathways.

You say huh?

Yeah, I can hear your mind smoldering with verbiage overload. But simply put, our experiences aren't any more unique than those of others. At any point and time, we are never the only ones experiencing life's challenges, blessings or miracles. And that means at any given time we are never the only ones messing things up, or the only ones finally getting it right.

Over time, I've learned how to make these connections and truly see the many contiguous patterns all around me; in art, in pictures, in writings...in my life. I can recall past events and people with a clarity and depth of understanding that enables me to finally see how each has brought the world as I see it to this place in time. We are all both crucial and insignificant and as inconsonant as this statement may seem, it's in complete fellowship with the rest of nature. Taken individually every aspect of life loses some of it's impact and as a set, it's personality.

I can recall feeling alternately isolated in my mistakes and wholly culpable in place of and as a warning to others at various points throughout my life. There isn't one solid instance or aspect I could point a finger at in total judgment. And since I think every child deserves an explanation when their parents part ways and begin living in opposite directions, Chrissy, I would like to give my thoughts on how I helped in creating your father and my divorce.

The way I see it, divorces don't materialize out of thin air. They happen after hours, days, months and years of mutual creation. None ever starts out as truly hideous, unless you're masochistic, which we weren't. We were naive, immature and ill-suited for each other. When your father and I met we were seniors in high school and I was already dating Tony. This was a sore point with all three of us for many years to come. And I count it as the first of my many mistakes. For awhile I was dating them both though I chose to call the dates with your dad "tutoring". I was such a liar. It's lies like these that may seem harmless or irrelevent at the time as you chalk it up to being young and sowing your wild oats (nevermind that you think in terms of what you'll wear Friday night and who likes whom). But truthfully, in treating them both with such cavalier indifference, I hurt us all in ways that would take years to overcome. While I may have been meant to cross paths with your dad in order to receive the blessing that is you, I should've done it with more integrity.

As far as attraction goes, the thing that drew me to your dad initially was his eyes; he had the most brilliant blue eyes. But as you'll discover later when you date, it is quite possible to like something about someone and not lie and cheat to date them. Being selfish, silly and stupid (the three deadly S's), I just didn't have the courage to handle it the right way. I was sure, after feeling my life spiralling out of control, that meeting your dad was a sign that I should move on from the type of boy I usually fell for to a more serious home-body. Lacking any self-control I began to gravitate to those who were not only smart, but who didn't party and were active religiously, hoping like hell that their influence would be enough. He wasn't the type of boy I usually dated and at that time that was reason enough to want to spend time with him. I believed my life warranted "saving", I just couldn't do it alone. Nevermind that this is something every person must do for themselves. It was completely unfair of me to expect your dad to fill a void he had no idea even existed.

Our individual histories played a key role in how we each handled our time together and the experiences we shared. For me, my teen years were defined by a troubled childhood during which I often acted out to get attention. Lacking purpose, self-esteem and positive direction I relied heavily on the acceptance and attention of those around me. Your father came from a family with it's own share of problems and he bore those the heaviest during that time in our lives. It was undeniably the worst time for both of us to even consider undertaking such a serious commitment. The only people I had to reach out to for guidance were ill-equipped to offer truly sound advice and I believe your dad faced a similar situation.

As I've learned to become more honest with myself, I've accepted the fact that I liked your dad but I didn't love him. I was a selfish girl raised by a selfish mom so I thought in selfish terms. I wanted out of that town and away from my mother. I married because I knew that if I stayed there, living with my parents, I would never have a life of my own. I feared mom taking and raising you and I was too ignorant to understand that I couldn't be forced into anything. I had rights, I had options...I just didn't know it. Mom gave me only two choices as a still-underaged pregnant teen who relied solely on her financially: I could get married or tell everyone I didn't know who the father was and let her raise you. I don't think I've ever told anyone that. Whatever our differences and however toxic we were for each other, your dad was and always will be your dad. I couldn't say otherwise.

Finally, bringing up the rear of this massive Guilt-Train was my mom's mom, your great-grandmother, who was dieing from ovarian cancer. She begged me to repay my parents for their compassionate act of adoption by doing "the right thing". Even now, with the protection of time, the pressure of it all is enough to burst a vessel! I wish I could've made a few different choices and still gotten you and the life I have now. I'm just not sure that would've been possible.

My reasons for getting married were unfair to all three of us. Though I think it was most unfair to you, your dad and Tony. At the very least I owed both men a thorough explanation of my feelings and I owed you a stronger mother. I wish I'd had the ability to be that honest with myself back then. I wish I hadn't been so easily influenced in the wrong direction. I wish I'd been stronger during those times I should've been and learned to let go during others. I had more power than I understood at the time and it was an ultimate act of laziness and fear to allow others to call the shots. Your dad and I were never meant to be married, but if I'd known then what I know now, we could've all been spared a ton of grief.

You dad and I didn't have a love for each other to help cushion our many blunders so it was all too easy to slide into immature, hurtful patterns as time moved along. Neither of us could see past the other person's faults nor did we have access to mentors capable of leading us by example to a place of mutual respect. Ultimately, after our divorce, it was our love for you that became our common ground. And with time it began to serve as the foundation on which we could finally learn the practice of respect.

Aside from gaining you as my daughter, I would have to say the greatest miracle to arise from that time in our lives was our collective ability to find forgiveness. Tony forgiving me, Your dad forgiving me, me forgiving your dad and me forgiving myself. Because of that our individual wounds were allowed to heal and we were each more capable of moving on as solid human beings. It's in this state that we were each finally worthy of finding the partners we were meant to be with.

Your dad has recently remarried and I couldn't have chosen a better step-mom for you. She is everything I'm not and was never able to be for your dad (and for you) and I was truly pleased to learn he'd finally found his happiness. More than that, I'm thrilled that you get the benefit of her upbringing and that she shares herself so openly with you. It's good to know that when I'm not around, your mother-figure is a person of such integrity who cares deeply for you and your dad. It's so important to live with a loving influence.

And there's the irony I guess, for me anyway. That a relationship which arose from such dishonesty has finally lead us all to this place we're so clearly meant to be.

This is why I can't say I'd truly change a thing. Each lesson served a purpose and each trial built character. Even in the moments I thought I'd die from the heartache, there was a seed for necessary change. So it seems that the choices we once made in ignorance have reverberated along our web, creating the appropriate rhythms and vibrations meant to complete all our lives. This is how it was meant to be and I'm thankful.

Not so easy

Melissa over at Suburban Bliss said this: "everywhere the world seems to be going crazy about kids getting hurt and at the same time the world is wondering why our kids are so fat. Maybe our kids are so fat because they can't just ride a bike anymore they have to strap on a helmet and knee pads and elbow pads and wrist guards and a full body condom just in case."

I agree. I really do!

I guess I'm realizing that your childhoods don't resemble mine in the least. They're even further removed from your dad's though. To the degree I was given free range of my neighborhood growing up, your dad had twice that and then some. It was typical for us to hop on our bikes and be gone the entire day or get dropped off at the community pool only to be picked up 8 hours later. To be honest, I can't see us doing that with you. We are starting to let you boys tour the neighborhood but I have to confess that I fear things like vehicle/bike accidents, abductions and your getting lost more than I probably should. Daddy bringing home those long-range walkie talkies worked wonders at calming my jittery nerves. Still, I have a moment of panic when I call you on them and don't get an immediate response. My point is....I'm trying!

I'm not sure what kind of world we're living in right now. I can't tell if there are more bad people today than ever before in history or if we just have more access to their lives. Our world is definitely hooked on the drama associated with bad things happening to good people. I just don't want that to be the defining symbol of your childhoods: lives reigned in due to inclement people. It's a tough compromise for me and I'm not always sure what's acceptable for the moment and what might be tempting fate in one direction or another with my choices.

So I warn you to stay away from people I get bad vibes from and generally encourage you to be mindful of your surroundings. But I know you're kids. If you were fully capable of being 100% mindful at your ages, humans would join the majority of other mammals and send their offspring out into the world to fend for themselves well before current legal standards. Parenting has proven to be the thinnest line I've ever walked between serenity and insanity. Every choice has the power to either encourage your independence or steal it away. And with no crystal ball telling me for certain which will end up where, I'm stuck making judgment calls.

It's tough relying on my own personal judgment when every adult in my young life has at one time or another insisted I lacked the variety considered "good" by their standards. I've felt stuck; do I believe them or do I believe in myself? The answer to that varies depending on the kind of day I'm having. I want to be cautious and keep you safe while at the same time allowing you to experience an acceptable amount of real life struggles to better prepare you for society. You need to hurt yourselves in moderate ways to make you less inclined to hurt yourselves in major ways. A little pain is a better educator than mere dialogue alone. The trick is in keeping it at an acceptable level. With this task I have my good days and I have my bad days. As a parent, it's never easy watching your child hurt. It's even harder knowing that pain in their lives is imminent and it's the smaller ones that help get them ready for the big ones.

Letting you go feels more like snatching a band-aid from a sensitive wound each time we take the necessary steps apart. I have to remind myself that it's a little pain that will keep us all from the fate of something much larger.


In that regard, I hope I'm right.

Mother's Day in Pictures

because yes, I can be that lazy.

Western Hills Guest Ranch by Me

Sunset photo by Chrissy

Mr. Lizard by Me

Just Talking by Chrissy

Natural Springs Waterfall by Chrissy

Jack - Faux Rock Climbing by Chrissy

Trevor - Faux Rock Climbing by Chrissy

All the boys at Dripping Springs by Chrissy

Group Fossil hunting by Tony

Green Country by Me

Ft. Gibson Lake view by Chrissy
No children, lizards, other wildlife or fossils were harmed in the filming of this post, though my dogs were definitely barking by Sunday.

JackJackJackJackJack.....

This is one of those posts that cause me some minor motion sickness as I sit here unable to stop shaking my head in true parental style. Boy, we are out of ideas that will motivate you. This is your first official school year and I feel like it's taken a good 5 years off my life expectancy.

You know we love you, we tell you that and show you on a daily basis. But you're conduct, attitude and inability to get with the program enough to complete even the simplest of tasks is starting to drive me mad. Mad as in crazy, not angry. Anger dissipated months ago and was replaced by frustrated sadness. You are such a smart kid too! Once you've been forced to sit and do the work, you're really good at it. Which makes the whole testing situation that much more frustrating. You know the answers, it's as if you simply can't be bothered with such mundane requirements. Especially not when there's a perfectly good street curb you could be jumping or a cushion of the sofa that's begun to lose the dimpled imprint of your butt or even a piece of artwork you've been meaning to work on. You have motivation. You don't sit around playing video games and frying your brain cells with lethal cocktails of Very Berry pop tarts and non-stop episodes of Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends all the live long day. You're incredibly active and creative and downright ingenious with both your ideas and your wit.

You just don't seem to care about the same things we care about. And while that's perfectly acceptable when considering things like how you dress or your favorite color or the type of music you like, when it comes to school and matters of health it's a subject we simply can't bend on.

We don't expect a 1st grader to grasp the importance of school completely. You couldn't care less that it's a requirement nor that you might have to repeat the same grade until you get it right. You want to have fun and be happy and simply can't fathom why so many adults are making such a big deal about such a boring topic. Thing is, I've seen you do the work and do it well and then when they test you, you sort of blow it off and give goofball answers. Your report cards and progress reports are abysmal because you think testing is silly. And if the poor grades and daily performance updates were something we could get you help with, we'd do it in a heartbeat. I just don't know anyone who hires a life coach for their 7-year-old!

How can we motivate you beyond the tactics we've tried so far? We've gone through every stage of punishment we could think of: grounding, writing sentences, giving up privileges as well as money/toys/games/special events, extra work, a calendar of daily tasks/responsibilities, a reward system based on both the influence of long term goals and then as that failed we switched to a daily affirmation system to keep you from getting lost in requirements and rewards that were too far away for you to actual feel the immediate benefits of. We've even spanked you which you H.A.T.E. You don't respond to goals, punishment, rewards, praise, structured guidance or even simple proof of cause and effect.

Needless to say, I'm frustrated, worried and completely at a loss.

For the love of all that's holy and even a few things that might not be....Help me help you, help me help you! You are not the only child in this house and eventually the other members of the family are going to want some attention too. It's not fair to them that your dad and I have to devote our entire evenings making sure you take care of your business. From school to home your lack of motivation runs the gamut and our house is becoming filled with dialogue that mostly begins with "Jack".

And it's not right and it's not fair. It has to stop.

Family Time

For the past six years we've been lucky enough to be able to take regular trips to what has become our favorite family retreat. Lake Keystone is a State Park with several private cabins, a 26,000 acre lake and most importantly, the opportunity to spend time together as a family without the interruptions of home.

We take walks together, skip rocks, fish, feed the squirrels & birds, play board games when it's cold, raining or after dark and in general relearn how to keep in touch with each other. This past weekend we introduced horseshoes into the mix and I basically got my butt handed to me by Jack. But that's okay. We have two more lake trips planned this month and I'm sure one of them will afford me the opportunity for revenge. As un-motherly as that may sound, I know each kid loves the challenge. And heck, why not make the most of it while whoopin' up on me is still somewhat of a challenge?

Saturday night was calm with just a hint of a breeze. Having met another family of friends there, we all headed down to the beach at dusk for some light fishing and general companionship. We built a fire next to the water and sat around talking, laughing and understandably not catching any fish at all. But we had fun! Oodles of it in fact. You boys roasted marshmallows, made s'mores and got muddy as you romped along the shore disturbing more than your share of wildlife. In turn you each sought time out to come sit on my lap and watch the lights from across the lake reflect in ripples back to us. It was time that meant the world to me.

When Chrissy joins us we seem to automatically divide into "girl time" and "boy time" coming together mainly at night to watch a movie on my laptop or play some games. I really enjoy the time alone I get with each child, but having this time with Chrissy is even more special since I don't get to see her as often as we'd both like. Since her father and I divorced and he won custody, time has become something sacred and cherished for us. Our time together isn't nearly enough or as much as we would like for it to be. But we have become experts at using the time we're given to it's fullest. In a way, our separation has gifted us with incredible focus and a depth of communication typically lost on other full-time parent/child relationships. We don't have the burden of illusion when it comes to the reality of time. I say "burden" because I see too many other families who take their day-to-day cohabitation for granted always believing the heavy talks can wait another day when they can't and they shouldn't.

In that regard, our lake trips have become sacred. The placid environment provides a near perfect backdrop for our heartfelt dialogue. The serenity brings us both added comfort and enables open-minded discussions that flow as smoothly as the lake itself. We can be fun or serious...or even anonymous as we sit in the dark surrounded by nature.

On the weekends she doesn't accompany us I've noticed the boys are taking advantage of this openness; encouraged by our tranquil settings. Slowly each one is starting to find reasons to spend time with me away from brother and dad. In these moments I'm discovering much more than would be possible amidst the hurried lives we lead back home. And with each trip I become more grateful for the opportunity afforded us through such a simple outing.

Our Family

The one that nearly got away

At the time I was pregnant with Jack it never really occurred to me that I wasn't taking pictures of my pregnant belly or even my pregnant self. In fact, the ones I posted for the other two kids are pretty much the only pregnant pictures (outside of the delivery room) I have of myself. It wasn't until after I had Jack and discovered the internet that I realized women actually did this (chronicle the growth of their bellies in photo format). In that respect I failed all of my children. But none more than Jack. I could only find one picture from that time; one corner is overexposed and tinged orange and it's clear that it was a "surprise" photo op as evidenced by the heinous look on my face. I sure hope I didn't look like that every day though chances are pretty good that I did.

It wasn't Jack's fault. I was simply cursed with a difficult pregnancy; one in which I actually lost his twin at 11 weeks and remained on bed rest until my 7th month. I'd re injured my lower back and with two compressed disks and one bulging, I spent most of my time laying flat on my back in the middle of the living room floor with my hand pressed to my belly chanting "please be okay" over and over again. I even had a near miss with a d&c (which for the benefit of you kids means that they thought I had miscarried and just needed to be "cleaned out"). Ew. I know. But true. The ultrasounds didn't in fact pick up on Jack's secret implantation spot until I was well into my 13th week. He was up high and their focus had been down low where it was clear a second baby had not made it. So when my pregnancy hormone test numbers fell initially only to start climbing again, it wasn't because I'd miscarried completely it was because I'd gone from a multiple pregnancy to a singleton.

Clearly Jack was somewhat sneaky and willful from the start...thankfully! In fact, he's ensured that my life will never be dull. There isn't a day that goes by when I don't laugh over something he's done or said and I am forever blessed to have him as a son.

Once I was removed from bed rest (floor rest?) and able to start enjoying the remainder of my pregnancy, it truthfully went as effortlessly as my first time. I was only slightly larger than when I was pregnant with Chrissy and still that meant I was about half the size I was while pregnant with Trevor! Jack's official due date was constantly changing so I still don't know if he was on time, early or past due. What I do remember is that I was scheduled to be induced November 23rd and I didn't make it that far.

I've always had acute maternal instincts. I've known the sex of each child by the end of the first trimester, had vivid dreams of each child's physical characteristics as well as what their names would be and been able to communicate with them via my thoughts. My instincts have thus far carried over since then and given me warnings when one was in danger and many more for when they've been sick or upset. Poor Tony has had to listen to many a foresight unsure exactly how to take it or what to say. In fact, when I awoke one morning while 2 months pregnant with Trevor and announced "We're having a boy, his name is Trevor and he'll have blonde hair", all I got was a nod and a simple "oooookay". In truth he had brown hair when he was born but has requested it be dyed blonde for the last 5 years. So, I still see the blonde boy of my pregnancy dream on a daily basis.

My difficult pregnancy with Jack distracted and altered my normal intuition, putting the bulk of my focus on keeping us both healthy until I delivered. So Tony and I set about finding baby names in the traditional way; we hashed them out. We both wanted to honor family members we'd been or were really close to. We chose Jack after Tony's grandpa on his mother's side who died in 1993 after suffering an aneurysm on Thanksgiving Day. He was hospitalized and never went home. We chose Charles after my dad who while alive at that time, would die just three years later. Both men meant a great deal to us both so the decision wasn't a hard one to come up with. The fact that Jack came on his own the day before I was to be induced only proved we'd chosen the right name. Our Jack was born on his namesake's birthday. You simply can't get more of a blessing than that.

That day, before labor actually began, I'd had my last appointment and even though I was dilated to a 4 (a 10 means it's time to push) and considered in "active labor" I was experiencing no regular pain; just a constant dull ache. Tony came home early from work just in case since I'd only labored with Trevor for 4 hours. We knew Jack was a much smaller baby and with labor going quickly I wasn't going to have any trouble with the pushing this time.

It's funny that I remember this now, but with Chrissy and Jack (the only two I began laboring with naturally and wasn't induced) my contractions started around 6:30pm. With Jack though, having ached all day, I just thought I was getting annoyed with the pain and didn't think it had actually gotten worse. So I decided to take a bath to see if I could get a little relief because at that point I was simply trying to get a good night's rest before being induced bright and early the next morning. I wasn't particularly interested in having him that night to be quite honest because I was looking forward to watching Metallica's S&M (symphony & metal) concert as it aired live from Madison Square Garden. I grew up loving Metallica's deafening style so when I heard that Michael Kamen had not only agreed to collaborate but initiated the idea of blending the aggression of heavy metal with the serenity of the orchestra he lead, I was more than a little fascinated. Unfortunately (I really wanted to see that concert!) a "quiet" concert at home was not in our cards...

The bath relaxed me and it was in this relaxed state that my body decided to get down to business. Within an hour I was in tears and very quiet, which is how I deal with intense pain. That's Tony's cue to begin to take things seriously: A quiet Patti is a serious Patti. So off to the hospital we went. We did stop briefly at Homeland to get one of those disposable cameras though because we'd forgotten our real camera at home and in my weepy state any attempt at back-tracking was met with even more of the tearful weepiness (that poor poor man). All things considered, we arrived at the admitting desk a little after 7:00pm and after taking one look at Her Majesty of All The Tearful Crying, I was given a room, a nifty "air-conditioned" gown and some drugs. Ooooo the drugs!

Since the concert had just begun at that point we practically beat the nurse down in our effort to tune in. Watching and listening proved to be an excellent focal point for me as I worked through my contractions. Since then I've decided to request an epidural before every concert I attend. In fact, I'll order a 6-pack and share. It was that good. Once my water broke we were assured I wouldn't be sent home for the night and finally relaxed into the idea that my room was going to be our home for the next three days. Over the ensuing handful of hours I could be heard, lovingly yet firmly, asking Tony to please remove himself from the area between me and James Hatfield. And bless his heart he did.

Again my labor was brief and at 10:56pm we welcomed Jack into our lives weighing in at a svelte 7lbs 5oz.

Every moment since then has been expertly orchestrated to keep me on my toes and ensure I'm not falling asleep at the wheel. I have no doubts that one day he will make a very happy, fulfilled living as a Demolition's Expert. The many stories behind that epiphany I'll save for later.

Nifty scab on his forehead brought to you by his daredevil nature & his bike.

What A Difference Five Years Makes

This photo always shocks me. It was taken a full month before I finally gave birth to my first son, Trevor. I look at this picture and almost weep for my skin. Forget terrorism, the bird flu, tainted peanut butter or Bush's second term in office...this is what real fear is made of. Sometimes in my dreams I go back. Helpless and unable to alter my course I must once again succumb to my enormity. It's as if that particular moment in time has the ability to reach forward with it's clammy, edemic near sausage-like hands and snatch me back. Only in my dreams I give birth to things that better reflect my true potential during that moment of my life: a Buick, giant beach ball, or the entire cast of "Friends" including special guests. *shudder*

I'd love to say it was easy, fun or even tolerable. But sweetie, Trevor...Mommy loves you almost more than air. And well, I just can't lie. You were huge. I was huge. Together we were downright frightening! See, this is why nobody is allowed to give me crap about the tiny cuteness that was my first pregnancy. I paid people! Man oh man I paid.

For awhile it was fun (in a perverted way I suppose) to watch how big I was getting. I think we all thought I'd stop growing eventually. Either that or I'd split open like a forgotten can of biscuits resting innocently beneath the passenger's seat of your 1991 Geo Metro in the middle of July. Or the can of Dr. Pepper the kids left "for later" in the third seat of your 2003 Kia Sedona the day you couldn't find any shady parking at the zoo in late August. Yeah, it was like both of those only with my uterus.

Still. Even then I was blessed with a child that caused me to grow in a direction I never knew existed. My heart expands and my life evolves in new, exciting ways every day. I tease him about that picture and we laugh together just as we ached together then. If the pregnancy was hard on my body, the birth was hard on his. So we each paid our dues and as much as I endured I would've taken his pains as well if I could have. Getting him into this world was not easy. Lucky for me, they at least provided drugs.

I only labored with him for 4 hours but the "in your face" elation that brought dissipated over the 4 additional hours I struggled to push him out. I worried about his heart rate many times as it dropped and slowly rebounded again and again. At one point we thought I'd require a c-section but that idea was soon abandoned when the doctor realized he was stuck and shoving him back in was just as difficult as getting him out. Since he was further out than in, that was the way he had to come. I think the term is shoulder dysplasia and it can occur more often with larger babies. Basically his head was out, but his shoulders wouldn't budge. It took 4 hours of pushing, one particularly aggressive nurse pushing painfully on my belly and one nervous doctor playing twist-n-snip with my no-no special place to finally get him here. I ended up with two separate cuts while he looked like he'd gone 3 rounds with Mike Tyson.

But once he was out and he took that first breath I remember so clearly how our eyes flew open and his dad and I both said in near-unison... "JESUS HE'S HUGE!". And he was. The breath that first inflated his lungs caused his chest to expand to an impressive 15 inches. If he'd been green instead of pink I might've thought I'd given birth to The Hulk. Newborn hats and shirts were too snug for his pudgy body and I had to send his dad home to bring back some of his 3 month clothes just so he'd have something to wear. He was so cute and cuddly like the bald teddy bear I'd always wanted. Though to be fair, he looked more like a squishy bowling ball than anything the way he collapsed into the typical lanky fetal position. On him it only served to make him look completely capable of rolling away should we take our hands off of him on a slanted surface. Minus his head lacerations, black eyes, cut cheek and bruised shoulder...he was perfect.

That was eleven years ago this October 1st at 4:14pm. He doesn't look like he was born at 9lbs 9oz at only 19 inches long. I was actually sad when I noticed his baby fat leaving. And now as he steadily approaches my height with no end in sight I'm left in awe of his transformation. From cute, cuddly cherub to tall, toned Trevor!

Every day is full of warmth and humor because of you.

So Glad She's Here

This photo was taken by my Mom the day before I went into labor with Chrissy. I think she was taking me to my last appointment because Chrissy's dad had taken the car somewhere for something. At any rate, I was the perfect little pregnant person: no swollen legs, no hemorrhoids, no morning sickness, no real fatigue, few aches and pains. As the picture attests to...I could at any moment get up and go jogging somewhere. I was disgusting. Now, before I get rotten tomatoes thrown at me let me just say that my sons more than took care of that later on. I've officially paid my dues at this point. But then, oh then, I was awesome....fabulous....tiny! I so totally rocked.

I went to that final appointment, just two days before my official due date, and was given the grim news. You know the type: "you're so young and this is your first child you probably won't go into labor for several more days and since you're so young your labor will be long and painful and being so young it will be terrible". I could be paraphrasing a bit on that but I assure you if I am, it's only slightly. I was told it would be horrible, it would be long...there would be much crying and gnashing of teeth. I'm not exactly sure at what point Satan's minions were supposed to rise from the bowels of hell to begin their meticulous ravaging of my body (I was busy looking at the stain on the carpet and totally believing someone's water had broken even though the office was a family practice), but I still went straight home and started my long list of old wives' tales hoping to get things started. None of the blood and guts scared me. More than anything I wanted to prove that doctor wrong. My body wasn't too young to do what it was supposed to do and what's more, neither was I.

I mowed the yard, I went jogging, I even stimulated my nipples (sorry kids, but it's true...not only do I have nipples but I've actually touched them....I'll put more money in that special therapy account now)...but no labor. I was completely exhausted, had allowed myself to get a slight "farmer's tan" while mowing, had a irksome blister on my heel and two nipples that must've thought the world revolved around them. All that and no labor. I flat-out refused to do castor oil. I figured my body would stop taking it easy on me and completely revolt if I forced such an abomination through it's system. For now it had been on my side and I just couldn't take advantage of that in the 11th hour.

So my best friend at the time came over to visit, check on my progress (or lack thereof) and basically keep me company while my then husband was at work. I played the part of the perfect hostess. I made lively conversation, tried to feed her dinner and got up several times to get tea and change over some laundry. It took her awhile to notice that I kept leaving the room every 6 minutes or so. In fact, I didn't notice it at all until she pointed it out. She said it was like I grew antsy or uncomfortable regularly and had to get up and do something...anything. I laughed it off and promptly got up to check on who knows what. Upon rounding the corner going from the living room into the dining room though I realized that not only was I in fact uncomfortable, but my back hurt and I had been leaning on our deep freeze every time I entered the room. And that's exactly where my friend found me after she decided to follow me and figure out what was important enough to grab my attention at such regular intervals.

Apparently the mowing, jogging, nipple combination was just the thing. I finally relented and admitted that if it looked like labor, acted like labor and felt like labor...it must be labor.

My friend wanted to be a doctor so for her educational benefit as well as the fact that she was my friend, I'd already told her she could be there for the labor and birth. So home she went to get things done so she'd be free when I finally called her from the hospital. That was around 8:00pm that night. By 10:30pm, as I was laying in bed trying to find a comfortable position, my water broke. I woke my husband, got dressed and even put a thick layer of bath towels on the seat of the car (per hubby's request) for the less than three block drive to the hospital. We agreed not to call my friend until I was admitted since I'd been told all about how young I was and how that factored into my assumed inability to tell if I was in labor and apparently, as experience would prove true, whether or not I had peed on myself.

We rang the bell for late admittance and waited until an exceedingly cranky older nurse answered the door glaring at us like we were kids pulling a prank. Only instead of finding a flaming bag of poo the way she did when the other kids rang the bell, she found a very pregnant teenager with a leaking problem. The nerve. Her facial expression announced to everyone that glanced her way that she did and always would much prefer the poo. To say we didn't get along that night would be a huge understatement.

The only thing she accomplished in the hour-and-a-half of my confinement to the ER was taking and losing my pants. Oh, and pissing me off. She accomplished that in spades. She could, in fact, not have been more condescending if she'd stumbled upon a half-off Condescension Sale at Wal-mart while shopping with a gift card. She practically oozed judgment.

Nurse Satan: Why are you here?
Me: I've been having contractions since about six o'clock and my water broke around ten thirty.
Nurse Satan: Are you sure it's not urine?
Me: You mean that I'm peeing myself after every contraction and I just don't feel it?
Nurse Satan: Yes, at your age it's not uncommon to not know the difference.
Me: *eyes narrow to slits as fiery hot laser beams launch from them and melt the back of her head* It doesn't smell like urine.
Nurse Satan: Like I said, at your age you may not be able to tell.
Me: The entire top sheet is soaked in it. It has no smell or color. It's not urine.
Nurse Satan: The only way to tell for sure it to perform a litmus test.
Me: And if it's amniotic fluid can I finally get admitted?
Nurse Satan: I seriously doubt it is, but yes, that's the protocal.
Me: Then for the love of all that's holy can we do that?
Nurse Satan: Well, it's all the way on the 4th floor.
Me: .......
Me: We'll wait.
Nurse Satan: *breathes huge put-upon sigh*
Me: It's not like I can leave without my pants anyway.
Nurse Satan: *stalks off toward what we hope is the 4th floor while mumbling angrily*

half an hour later she returns

Me: My contractions are started to get really uncomfortable.
Nurse Satan: They're nothing right now, wait until you're really in labor.

Nevermind the complete lack of compassion, my official punishment had only just begun. Every nurse who tended me from that moment on made it their duty to ensure I knew I was a sinner who deserved every second of pain as punishment for my fornicating ways. A few even put that feeling into words (and later actions) and told me that maybe I should've thought about "it" before I decided to have sex. It, I assume, is the pain of childbirth or maybe the entire experience of my labor, their lack of compassion and their choice in how to treat me. As if normally they were perfectly reasonable people who didn't place their religious dogma before their oaths as nurses or what was best for their patient. Each checked my vital signs regularly and made sure I was hydrated via I.V., but they all refused to give me pain medication. They were teaching me a lesson.

I learned many lessons that night though not the one I think they intended. I learned that you can feel your pelvis separate and not die. I learned that pain can be so intense it causes temporary blindness. I learned that ultimately in life you are alone so you better not only like who you are but trust in who you are as well. I learned that religion isn't about compassion. I learned that I am stronger than anyone, including myself, gives me credit for. I learned exactly what it means to love someone completely. I learned humility in the face of nature.

Confined to my bed, I mostly laid there alone attempting to sleep between contractions. The end, as I've read about since, was a blur of abstract activity that meant little to me. I simply followed directions and responded to instruction without hearing a single voice. My sight as well as my hearing were turned inward. I could hear my own heartbeat but had to struggle to hear someone at my ear. To listen externally felt unnatural, like something I was just learning. I often had my eyes closed and would be asked to open them and look at someone. This is natural. My instincts had gotten me through my labor and ultimately to this point so I kept listening and worked like hell to get my daughter into this world.

She arrived at 7:03am on her due date, July 30th 1991, weighing 6 lbs 12 oz. and sporting the cutest baby mohawk. She was then and still is the most beautiful girl I've ever seen and I mean it when I say I'd do it all over again.

My Passage

Imagine meeting this bridge, not quite sure precisely how you came to be there. Knowing the basic science involved with putting one foot in front of the other but completely lacking in experience or assistance. Yet, there you stand barely able to see others who have crossed and kept on going, never looking back. You turn in a circle, studying your surroundings, looking for anything left behind that might help in your crossing. There's nothing; nobody left a thing. You then scrutinize what is there, produced by nature, that might be useful in some way. You pick up a few things, not entirely sure how you'll use them but sure that at the very least you'll find them a comforting reminder of firmer ground. Satisfied that this is probably as prepared as you're likely ever to be and knowing your only choice is to cross, you turn and face the bridge. You stand at the edge feeling the wind rush at your face, nearly blinding you with it's force and you hesitate. It's a long way across and even longer way down. The crossing will feel like forever, but you know if you fall, it will be much quicker than it appears. The wind wails in time to every terrified beat of your heart as you take that first step.

That is what it felt like to stare down at that urine stick, compare the placement and depth of it's colors to those shown in the directions. I studied it for a long time over the course of several days in fact. Back and forth as if time might change the truth. I was pregnant.

I don't think any sane 17-year-old wants to find out she's pregnant. I know I didn't. But the truth as evidenced on those two test strips yielded far more rewards than it offered turmoil. I mean, no it wasn't easy but it taught me so much I never would've learned otherwise. And the love and life I was blessed with in the process far outweigh every tear I cried and every obstacle I encountered. The tears were not really for me anyway. I had no life to damage with my daughter's arrival so I didn't pine for what was not there to begin with. But I worried for her. Would I be good at this mothering thing? Could I give her what she needed in every sense of the word? At times I cried because the universe had chosen me as her mother and while I wanted her desperately I was afraid I wanted her for all the wrong reasons. No child should be burdened with completing the adult in their life. If I needed her too much, what would that do to her? And if I never found a way to fill my massive voids, did I stand a chance of being the type of mother she deserved?

The 9 months I was pregnant with Christine were a treasure to me. I had an entire secret, internal life that nobody else could access. I thought to her everyday and held many a meaningful conversation without ever saying a word. For a while she was like having an imaginary friend - nobody can see them or even knows they are there unless and until you tell them. But she wasn't imaginary and the truth that was her made itself known over time. Even after everyone knew whether by word of mouth or merely by being blessed with eyesight, we continued our internal dialogue. I began to dread giving birth, not because of the pain and uncertainty, but because it meant I had to start sharing her with the world and so far I hadn't met anyone worthy of knowing such a beautiful creation.

In truth, I still don't.

Marked

photo credit: "A Walk Remembered" by Diane Varner

Being a parent is like saying goodbye to the same person over and over again. ~ Jessica, Daughter of Opinion

Lately I've gotten drawn in to reading Jessica's blog because she went through a pregnancy at an early age, just like I did. In fact, the month I was busily getting pregnant was the same month she had her son. Yeah, I did the math. I can see you shaking your heads from here but I don't care. I have a compulsive habit of fact-checking perfect strangers' life lines against mine once I find something we have in common. I do it to everyone and always have. I guess the only difference is I'm now admitting it. So yes, I know that 9 months after she welcomed her son at the tender age of 16 I had just turned 18 and was giving birth to my daughter. I was born in July of the same year she was born (her birthday's in December). No I'm not a stalker. She doesn't even know I exist.

I guess the point is that I know she exists now and she existed then. I wish I'd had the comfort of knowing about her when it mattered, not that it doesn't matter now. But that year was an emotionally shocking, frightening year for me. And nobody could help me. There were no other pregnant girls to commiserate with nor were there any adults who would admit to having gone through the same thing at my age. I was completely alone and truly felt that I had done something nobody else had done. I felt marked.

So I find comfort now in knowing that the 17-year-old me wasn't alone after all. That I wasn't the only one experiencing the same condescending looks while working twice as hard to show how good a parent I was. Because when you're a teen aged Mom, ever flaw is attributed to your age and your ignorance. "Normally aged" parents get to blame things like fatigue, having a bad day or even hormones. But if you're young, there's simply no acceptable reason for your flaws aside from your age. You can't be sick, you can't be tired, you can't be anything normal without first admitting to your grave mistake.

I thought I'd be free of that once I'd left my teen years behind and certainly once women my own age began having children. But it's always there, that mark. People I don't even know regularly feel the need to remind me that I don't look old enough to have a *insert relevant age of my daughter here*. Responding to them is never as simple as it should be either. It's not that I feel ashamed of what I've been through so much as I sense that those I am responding to think I should or do. Once I respond with "I had her young" and they are freed from their assumptions that I must be of "normal age" and have simply been blessed with near perfect genes, I can see the shift in their eyes. Instantly they are taking in every aspect of who I am from how I'm dressed to where we're located to what line of work I've managed to scrape together for myself what with that grave mistake and subsequent mark and all. It never goes away.

Reading Jessica's site has been like applying aloe to a sunburn. It soothes and takes away some of the sting.

I am not ashamed of my life. And now I feel as though I can stop giving two crappers whether anyone else notices or sees that truth. It's not my job to change global assumptions of young mothers anymore than it's my job to change local assumptions and perceptions of this young mother. What matters and is the only thing that matters, is raising my children so that they're ready for life. What matters is that they feel listened to and part of something. What matters is that they each feel loved for who they are.

There is nothing like my experience as a young mother that highlights that need more. The world is full of people more than willing to label and judge others based on the history of their own assumptions. So my job, the only job that truly matters to me, is making sure my kids are wholly loved. And while I'm not perfect I know even that is important for them to understand so that they're not forced to feel the weight of society's stare both at being raised by a marked mother and being simply human.

Evolution of Hope

photo credit: "The Marvel Remains" by Diane Varner

I have now been a Mom for over half of my life. In ways it seems like I’ve barely started and in others I feel like I’ve been mothering since I was old enough to realize I didn’t have one. I’ve taken care of my emotional and psychological needs since I was a toddler and had various adults come into and out of my life to attempt the rest. None lasted. Many barely tried. I spent the better part of my younger years feeling invisible and acting out in ways that ensured someone would take notice even if they did so in depressingly negative ways. I needed to be seen and to feel like it mattered or might one day matter that I was even born. As melodramatic as that may sound, when you’re repeatedly abandoned, abused and traded out for fresher stock it’s fairly normal to at least wonder “Why am I here?” It’s also fairly normal to fear how you’ll handle being placed into the very role that’s failed you over and over again.

For me, I always had a pretty clear-cut idea of what a good Mom should be like. I never experienced that from a child’s perspective. But when I was in need or had a friend that was in need, I’d conjure up my idea and just like that, I knew what needed to be said or done. Whenever physically possible, I began mothering children two or three times my own age when I was just three. I have vivid memories of quietly tucking the other girls into their beds at the children’s home and whispering songs to them when they were scared or sad. I kissed boo-boos, applied bandages and even helped clean up when someone wet the bed. I took turns with the other seven girls that shared my room doing dishes, laundry and general cleaning for a house of twenty before I even knew how to read. I had my first Holiday celebrations when I was 7, right after I got adopted. I experienced my first birthday party when I turned 8. I have only one picture of myself before I was adopted and it’s a black & white published in the newsletter printed by the children’s home which they sent out monthly hoping to solicit donations.

The complete lack of a history was always a sore point for me; not having any pictures or personal possessions. Clothes, toys, books; nothing was ever really mine. It had all belonged to someone else who’d outgrown it and I was fully expected to pass it along when it was no longer deemed appropriate for my age. We weren’t allowed to form emotional or sentimental bonds to anyone or anything while at the home. If you did, you got it taken away whether that meant relocating a friend to another house, giving a toy to another child or even being forced to pack up a stray dog or cat and help take it out into the countryside to abandon it. I guess they thought our transition into real two-parent homes would go smoother if we left with no strings attached, no baggage. But we had our baggage alright. Oodles of it. Some I’m sure would never overcome theirs.

I struggled even after I got rescued from that place and was accepted into a home with two parents, a common last name and things to call my own. It was so amazing to have things and to realize there were special days, several times each year, when it was traditional to give even more things. The sheer volume of gifts, toys, candy, clothes and trinkets left me dumbstruck. I wanted them all. What child wouldn’t? But that was as far as it went. I felt thoroughly sponsored, but not quite loved. I blamed myself for many years because I feared it was my fault for not knowing how real families loved and for not being grateful enough for what I was given. I wanted the complete package. I wanted to be taken care of physically, emotionally, psychologically and spiritually. It’s not that I wanted all of those things predetermined and rigidly adhered to or even that I believed they should all be met on a daily basis and without flaw. I just wanted to know it was in my loved ones’ repertoire; that it was doable.

It wasn’t doable after all. And what I was left with was another pair of adults fully capable and willing to provide food, shelter, clothes and cool toys, but who completely avoided anything below the surface. Their guidance stopped at appearances and I was left once again and forever this time doing my best to soothe my emotions, untangle the lifetime of mixed signals and in general talk myself off the ledge every time the pain of isolation became more than I could take.

I had so many dark times both emotionally and psychologically. I was too young to have the answers to so many things that pained me. It was frustrating, frightening and lonely. I often felt engulfed in perpetual shadows, unable to move in the direction of light because I lacked the tools to get me there. Life and my place in it confused me.

This picture by Diane Varner, titled The Marvel Remains, feels like that phase of my life. It’s beautiful. Breathtaking. Fearsome. Isolating. Abandoned. Hopeful. Inspiring. Affirming. Appreciated. Serene.

This month we celebrate Mother’s Day. I’m going to dedicate the entire month to that topic; covering what it means to me, how I managed to find my expression of it, how I reconciled never having one of my own and the impact each of my wonderful kids has had on the evolution of my mothering.