Mother

Parenting is hard work. 

Even so, I usually adore every second of it, including the parts that require disciplinary action. 

This part?  

This part where I can't fix the broken pieces, the part where I can't trade places with them, the part where the pain cannot be eased by a kiss, the part where I don't have the cure and a sugary snack doesn't hold a sufficient distraction.

This part can go straight to hell.

This is the part of Motherhood that I would give up if I could.

Still no answers.

Just tests.

Just test results that are sitting on someone's desk.

Just nerve wracking agony of the unknown.

It's not comforting anymore.

I know too much.

God I just want to fix it.

Today, he was sick and in pain from the spinal tap. I rushed home. Part of the threads holding my strength together started to fray. I'm coming unglued. I don't know what to do. This fear is so heavy. I can't make it stop. His body is fighting itself and I can't fix it.

Why? WHY IS THIS HIS LIFE? WHY DOES THIS HAVE TO BE HIS REALITY?

Is this the beginning?
Is this the start of many terrifying moments?

I didn't sign on for this.

I signed on for the cereal box motherhood. I knew it was going to be hard. But this? No, I didn't. I didn't ask for Autism and Multiple Sclerosis. I didn't know this was even an option. I didn't know that this was a potential outcome.

No, I wouldn't trade a fraction of a second for any reason in the world.

But why did it have to get so fucking complicated?

And I thought that I hid it well. Then he points out that I am frantically cleaning the kitchen. He points out that it's because I'm a nervous wreck. He points it out. He does this because he knows. He is being the rock right now. I'm supposed to be the rock.

This rock is wearing down.

Just as they sent him to a sterile room with a sterile needle to go into his delicate spine - my phone rings. It's The Middle Son. Some little bitches are terrorizing him at school because he walks funny and wears weird clothes. And I can't rush to his side because I'm already at the side and I have to try to triage which kid I have to be there for and the same time in two places. And I want to knock the ever living fuck out of these assholes for picking on my boy and I want to cure the kid down the hall and I can't do both or either.

I didn't sign on for this.

And the hits keep coming...

Before the age of 18 The Oldest learned a lot of words that the average teenager doesn’t learn: Nevus, melanoma, bed rest, skin grafts, staples, stitches, donor site, graft rejection, mepilex, compression garment, Shriner’s, anesthesia, Bacitracin…..

That was more than enough.  Those days leading to the malignant/benign verdict were long.  So long that seconds were weeks. 

And here we are again. Feeling every second hand on every clock , in every country, in every state, in every home on Earth.

Every call makes me flinch.

There’s anxiety in my chest and I don’t really know what to do besides stand here.  I feel like I have to do something.

Research makes me crazy.  Looking at him makes me crazy.  Not because he’s doing anything wrong but because there is this beautiful person, this incredible young man and something is under the surface of his skin and I don’t know what it is but it’s bad.  Not “cancer” bad but “potentially debilitating” bad.  And I feel like we used up our dodged bullet pass.  Do we get more than one in a lifetime? 

The blind spot appeared a few months ago in his left eye.  Blood work was all negative.  We thought the MRI was clean.  Turns out, we just have a stupid doctor.  Optic neuritis is kind of a big deal.  “A little inflammation” is kind of a big deal.  It’s an indication of Clinically Isolated Syndrome, Neuromyelitis Optica, or Multiple Sclerosis. 

Those words take my breath away. 

Shock tinnitus set in.  The doctor noticed The Oldest’s feet start to shake and my face paling.  He smiled a lot.  He’s a kindly, older gentleman.  He’s probably someone’s grandfather.  He tried to be comforting, reassuring, and soft.  It was like giving us a sweet little teddy bear that was filled with brimstone. 

Now we get to learn a lot of words that near 20 year olds shouldn’t have to learn: Spinal Tap, medication regimen, relapses, flare ups...

He should be learning about college parties, poor life choices excused by immaturity, the usual rites of passage that “normal” twenty somethings get to experience. 

And he just keeps going.  He puts the one foot in front of the other with a brave face and it makes me so fucking mad that I could scream. 

I want to take beautiful things and smash them to pieces.  I want to feel something shatter and split apart that isn’t inside of him or inside of me.  I want something to pay.  I want this stolen time to be replaced.  I want him to have a different, long, pain free, wheel chair free life. 

I’m so angry that I can’t even cry.  The back of my throat hurts and my eyes water and the tips of my fingers ache.  But the tears won't budge.  Because the dam will break and I will drown.

I want to grimace when someone else tells me their story.  I don’t want to empathize.  I want to comfort, not connect. 

I want this to be some terrible mistake. 

I want this to be a nightmare that we will wake up from. 

I want this to be just a warning shot, a brush, a miss, deflected….

But all the want in the world will not make it so.

Today, we have some lab work to complete and a spinal tap to schedule. 

Today, we go through the regular motions of life and try to ignore the monster living inside of him who’s name we don’t know.  

2015

Wow, this year.....

Well....

It's been incredible.  Incredibly awesome.  Incredibly stressful.

I'm titling it: The Year I Got Too Old for This Shit (Mostly).

I'm too old for petty drama. Though, I think I was born too old for that.  I'm too old for insecurity.  I'm too old for selfies with my tits on display.  I'm too old for giving a shit about someone else's opinion (unless they put it in my face).  I'm too old for Donald Trump and his followers and their bullshit.  Ya'll are fucked up, kay?  I'm too old to apologize for that.  In fact, I don't think I ever would, at any age.  But that's why you like me, right?  Because I speak my mind?  exxxxxxxactly  I'm too old for political fights and religious arguments.  I'm also secure in my beliefs so much so that I don't need to post about it non stop. I have a fulfilled enough life that politics don't define me.  I wish that for others.  I'm blessed enough to be happy and grateful and I wish to spread that shit everywhere.

In some ways, my age has caught up with me.  I'm 37.  I have 4 (5-ish, with Bonus Daughter) kids.  I'm too old for their fighting.  And to argue over chores.  I'm noticing changes to my appearance that are starting to give to age.  A few gray hairs.  My hands aren't as youthful as they once were.  Minuscule things, superficial things.  Things I'm mostly okay with. Growing old is an honor and far too many would trade places with me.  I will do so gracefully.  And, because Carrie Fisher.

We went to a Smashing Pumpkins/Marilyn Manson show and were too told to try to mosh.  Not that there was any moshing anyway.  Billy Corgan was also too old to mosh, so it was okay.  Actually, a friend and I both had migraines and by the end of the epic light show, we both turned our backs to the stage and watched the drunk people dance.  And then, out of maturity, we mimicked them.  Because we are too old to give a shit.  Then, we went to the Foo Fighters' 20th Anniversary show in Indiana.  Yeah, 20 years.  I've seen Nirvana (October 30, 1993, Hara Arena) and I always feel like that was just yesterday.  To go see the FF's and think that it was their 20th anniversary?  When John Popper took the stage to join - I'm sure there were people (read: kids) in the crowd that didn't know who he was instantaneously.  It was an incredible show that I enjoyed with the boy I've known for almost 22 years.  And, like old people, we just picked a nice spot to sit in, watch, and listen.

I learned the value of good health insurance when The Youngest Boy's appendix popped.  Heavy words like: deductible, co-pay, maximum out of pocket, etc.  They're all in my, almost regular, vocabulary.  Because then, The Oldest developed a blind spot in one eye.  And we still don't know why.  When the initial eye doctor effed up - I was too old to give a shit about the girls lack of experience or understanding.  When some unsupervised kids knocked a bike rack over onto my head resulting in a concussion that sent me to the ER for 7 hours, I was too old to give a shit why their parents brought them to a beer festival.  I was also too old to give a shit why their mother was angry at me - a sober woman enjoying a Bavarian cream puff with my husband at an art museum whilst pondering the skyline - when her shitty parenting is what got us both in the situation.  I'm too old to want to pay for my medical bills in excess of $5k.  So, she can do it.  I got too old to jump up and knock her on her ass.  That should, in and of itself, solidify that I'm an old fogey.  I didn't hit any of the people I wanted to.

We further nailed our age down by becoming soccer parents, Cub Scout parents, Science Olympiad parents, college kid parents, then Soccer and Science Olympiad Coaches, and parents who go to bed at 10 for work in the morning.  We came up with lineup lists, sensible halftime snacks, and told boys to keep their hands out of their pants during a game.  We stood outside while The Youngest Boy sold popcorn to pizza parlor patrons.  We got up at 8 am to yell at referees who were not much older than The Oldest.  We watched The Middle Son break out of his shell and explain science to small children with ease.  We also watched as he won a Super Smash Brother's competition with expert precision. He became a teenager.  He even made his first girlfriend.  He's also writing a full video game with his own music and sprites. We watched The Oldest become a college student, majoring in history.  We watched Mini Me learn to read and write out of no where.

I'm so old that I lost 4 friends this year.  3 to drugs and one to unknown causes.  I'm too old for heroin.  We're too old for heroin.  When I think of their faces and the times we had - I still visualize them as teenagers, in the back of Ron's van, being crazy.  The fact that they never left 2015 breaks my heart in such a way that words would not justify.  Our generation, Gen X, seems to be able to party like rock stars while mastering parenthood and careers and still get up in the morning until we don't.  I'm grateful that I don't understand that life.  I'm pained that Ryan, Jason K, Jason B, and James will not be on the next leg of this journey.  There will always be empty seats in their memory. Then the thought hit me - from here, the list will grow.

I'm old enough to fly to Seattle without my parents and spend a glorious weekend with my husband.  Sightseeing, once in a lifetime opportunities, historical ventures....  I graffiti'd a museum exhibit.  We went to sit under the bridge on the muddy banks of the Wishkah river and only some people will understand the magnitude of that.  Because you're old too.  We went to Kurt's childhood home, went to his old haunts, walked around Aberdeen for hours and ate dinner in the town that inspired legends.  Then, we found the city of Olympia.  Some wish to retire to Florida.  Not me, you'll find me in the Washington State capital, sipping on some Burial Grounds coffee and walking the beautiful streets.  We peacefully strolled, arm in arm, in love with a city filled with fall colors and our favorite treasures - a record store, an antique shop, delicious coffee, a live theatre...  Now, I'm homesick for it.  Then, after my dearest ripped me away from the perfectly amazing love affair I was having with it.  We went to downtown Seattle and ventured to the Seattle Art Museum.  I'm too old for the bedpans and Ford Taurus' hanging from the ceilings. But not too old to stand in awe of a 16th century marble statue of Aphrodite.

To further drive home the fact that I'm too old for this shit - we went to the EMP Museum's 90's Nightmare Prom themed party.  We were the only ones who actually went to a prom in the 90's.  It was interesting to get the perspective of our coming of age via 20 somethings in Seattle.  I'm not sure they understand.  That's okay, I'm too old to understand their shit too.  The next morning we got up early to eat in Collections Cafe, owned by Dale Chihuly.  His work makes me happy.  He and William Morris.  It was such a supreme experience and I felt like I was home.  We then ventured into the Chihuly Gardens and my breath was taken.  We followed that up with a ride up to the top of the Space Needle where I decided that I was too old for my fear of heights and seeing the beautiful city was more important.  Plus, there hadn't been any falls from the Space Needle in a long time, so I felt confident.  We rounded out the day and trip by driving to Kurt's home where his life ended.  It was cold and dark and surreal.  And standing by the side of the only person I know that would ever feel the moment as ardently as I made the whole experience so remarkable.

I've added "Crochet Artist" to my resume.  Which makes me really old.  Only old women do that.  But, I stitch such things as Ninja Turtles, Dr. Who items, video game characters... Usually hats and my first blanket.  Now, I can say that I've done them.  And, I'm old enough to know the value of that.

We did a great many things, also, that proved you can never be too old for this shit.  Like attending Comic Con in full cosplay as Kitty Pryde and Wolverine.  Took an inordinate amount of selfies with Oreo cookies in every flavor, took the kids to see Weird Al, drove to Chicago for our second annual road trip to Godzilla (g-fest), played miniature golf, turned our house into Arendelle for Mini Me's birthday, dressed up for Halloween, did goofy shit at the store and befriended a really wonderful cashier who retired yesterday, binge watched every comic book based television series available, we fed jello and pudding shots to our adult family members and just generally had a spectacular year.

 And I'm finally old enough to appreciate every second of it.

Another One Rides the Bus

This is the email I sent to our superintendent regarding some Autism fun on the bus.  

Dear Superintendent,

On or around November 5, 2015 an evacuation drill was performed on Bus [00] that included rear evacuation procedures.  My son, [The Middle Son], a 7^th grade student at [Your] Middle School was on the bus and participated in said drill.  [The Middle Son] has Autism.  During this drill, he fell from the back of the bus and injured his knee.  [The Middle Son] struggles with depth perception and has difficulty with steps.  Students laughed at him.  No one assisted him in his exit.  He was certainly the laughingstock.  No one attempted to address the silver dollar sized, bleeding scrape to his knee.  He was wearing shorts that day and there was a substantial amount of blood in his sock when he got home.  It was noticed by a teacher later in the day.  Still, not so much as a bandage was administered.

 

When I got home from work, I noticed the injury and cleaned and bandaged it.  On Saturday, he fell at home and broke the scab.  We continued to clean it and monitor it but it started to show signs of infection.  On Monday, November 9, 2015, I received a telephone call from the school nurse.  I was chastised for the wound and its care.  She explained that she was able to clean it up and apply another bandage.  My next telephone call was to Mrs. [Principal].  I explained what went on to that point.  She assured me that she would call the transportation department and see what she could find out.  I was then told that I would receive a call back.  It is now ten days later.  I was told on Monday, November 16, 2015 by Mr. [Principal], during our annual IEP meeting that the bus driver did not know of [The Middle Son]’s diagnosis and that they do now.  This is my “assurance” of my son’s safety during future drills or a real life emergency.  This is not acceptable. 

[The Middle Son] has attended [Your] schools since kindergarten.  He did take a brief hiatus during half of 4^th and 5^th grades and attended an online school as there were extreme difficulties with staff at [Your] Elementary school.  Upon his return to the district, a diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Disorder was presented with his enrollment documents.  It was actually required before they would complete his admission.  I would go into the 6 months that it took for the district to start preparing his IEP after I requested it, the 3 years it took for his Gifted services to begin because they were “overlooked”, the being told that “we would rather other students think he’s just ‘quirky’” rather than let him explain his Autism, but those are complaints for another day.  The bottom line is that [The Middle Son], his diagnosis and needs are not unfamiliar to the district by any means.  Also, bus forms were filled out stating his diagnosis. 

Section B of 3301-83-15 of the ORC “Emergency and evacuation procedures” states that “The superintendent or designee shall organize and conduct three emergency exit drills for all students who ride buses to and from school”.  It also states in (B) (2) that all drills shall be arranged and scheduled by the transportation director/supervisor in cooperation with building principals.  The drills shall be supervised by at least one staff person other than the driver assigned to that route.  I was told that there were two staff people at the time of the drill.  Section (B) (7) states that Emergency evacuation drills of preschool and special needs children may require modification of the procedures listed in paragraph (B). 

  

In the Ohio Preservice School Bus Driver Training Manual, pages 81-84 covering Emergency Drills and Evacuations – it is suggested that a “buddy” be assigned for special needs students.  A helping hand support method for rear door evacuations is also suggested.  Following these suggestions could have spared an injury.  I would expect a scraped knee during an actual emergency.  Honestly, I would welcome that over severe injury sustained during a fire, accident, or other disaster.  But this was not an emergency.  This was preparedness.  The driver was not prepared and, somehow, lacked essential knowledge to effectively ensure the safety of a student with special needs.  The school failed to properly communicate and coordinate with the transportation staff to accommodate a student. 

I take comfort in knowing that this could have been much worse and that now the staff and [The Middle Son] are more prepared in the event of an emergency.  What bothers me is the blasé attitude about informing me of what measures were taken to assure his safety during another drill, returning a phone call, and addressing an injury that required medical attention.  Has someone actually apologized to my child?  He is a student that struggles with social propriety and we use as many opportunities to teach good manners as possible.  All that I received was two spoken sentences during an IEP meeting.  Is this the norm for all students in the district with special needs?  Is this part of the reason that [Your School District] has received a “C” rating on servicing students with disabilities?  What is being done to remedy that?  What is the barrier here for touching base with a parent who expressed concern for their child?  What can be expected for [The Middle Son] and other students like him when it comes to bus safety? 

Thank you for your time,

Angry Momma Bear

Dear Tonya P....

I started this post almost 2 years ago.  As I help plan my 20 year high school reunion with my, then unlikely, friends I am reminded of the days of yore.  Let's take a trip back, shall we?

I sat outside of our alma mater, waiting for my amazing son to leave Chinese club.  While sitting in the car, I took a selfie.

Selfies get a bad rap as self indulgent, attention seeking, vain, moments caught in dirty bathroom mirrors, laying on a bed, or (as in my case) the car.  No doubt there are those.  And who cares?  Judging a person by the selfies they take only defines YOU.  Not the subject.  I see, regularly, via social networking, people picking others apart over a photograph.  Sometimes, it makes me ashamed of what we have become.

The selfie/former high school combo inspires a Facebook post wherein I wax poetic memories of the emotional terrorism that I suffered from 7th-10th grade.  18 years have passed since I bid that school farewell and so much has happened.  13 year old me would never have posed for a selfie.  You'd be hard pressed to find more than a handful of pictures of me from those years.  My yearbook pics are about all anyone has.

That leads my train of thought to a hot August day in 1991 when I took my first step into our Junior High.

The few years before were some of the worst in my life.  (If you don't know by now, here are the Cliff's notes: Taken off the street, beaten, raped, prevented from attending school, being freed, helping sentence my abuser to prison, dealing with the aftermath)  My 'rents bought a convenience store and moved away from my "safe zone" and all of my childhood friends that I loved so dearly.  Everything I ever knew was now a blurred view from the back of their car.  This move was supposed to be a fresh start.  No one at this new school would know what happened to me.  I could start over and not have it follow me.

I was cursed gifted with a very thorough memory.  Right now, first period class is escaping (pretty sure it was band).  And then second period is where I met them.  Our schools equivalent of Heathers.  They were pretty, rich, all the boys looked at them, all the girls wanted to be them.  Tonya appeared to be their leader.  She was one of the most beautiful girls I'd ever seen.  Perfect hair.  Perfect eyes.  Perfect clothes.  Perfect body.  Surrounded by friends.  I had insane frizzy hair, freckles, big, plastic glasses, and was the epitome of 90's notthecoolkind nerd.  And it was like some kind of alarm went off in them.  They turned to me and burst out laughing.  I wanted to curl up and die, right there.  I was a quiet, new girl, surely I would just stand there and take it.  And I did.  Much to my horror, they were in my next period Science class.  Since Tonya and I shared a starting last name letter, we were unfortunately close, initially.  She made good use of our close proximity.  We went on to share 1 more class.  I shared classes with her cronies all day.

She was so wretched and hateful to me and to the friends I was finally able to make.  It was like her only goal in life was to be as ugly inside as she was beautiful outside.  The things she said to me were mortifying.  I'd go home and cry and my 'ma would always tell me not to let them see me cry, they'd know they won.  I'd sit there, stone faced, pretending that I didn't hear them.  I broke my finger playing basketball in gym and when I came to school the next day with a splint, Tonya was the first to notice.  She made crude, regular, jokes about how it happened.  Most were sexually explicit.  I'd never encountered that behavior before.  My previous school was full of poor, black kids that never made fun of others.  I supposed at the time that only the poor had manners.  For the most part, that still holds true.

Once, we were sent to the hall to make up a science test and she asked me for all of my answers.  She failed that test.  I only know that because I got an A+ and I gave her every wrong answer on the sheet.  It was the only weapon I had.  She threw things at me in class - paper wads, fingernail clippings, gum wrappers.  Her friends took her lead.  In other classes, they would mimic her like sheep.  On the bus, on field trips, in the halls.  When I got my first boyfriend, they made fun of him for liking me.  They made fun of my friends for being awkward, fat, nerdy, whatever was "different" about us was exploited.  And it went on for 3 years.  There was no escape or recourse.

So, 18-21 years later, I sit here listening to the happy sounds of my kids and pray that I have filled their cups enough that when "Tonya" sets her sights on them, they will not be phased.  I pray that they will not overdose like I did.  I pray that they will not cut themselves like I did.  I pray they won't absorb the horrible words of small people, like I did.  I hope they will not resort to the rebellion tactics that I employed in defense.  I pray that they will stand up, like I eventually did.  So today, I write to the most popular, most pretty girl in the school -

Dear Tonya,
You tormented me for no reason.  You made me wish that I would evaporate.  You made me wish that I was dead.  The hateful things you said to me resonated for years.  I wonder what was so damaged inside of you that made you enjoy that type of amusement. I hear that you have a wonderful career out of state and far from here.  I'm glad that you have been so blessed.  One day, should you ever have children, I hope that you protect them from the type of person you were - both from replication and victimization.

And, I forgive you.

Very Truly Yours,
That Ugly Girl In Mr. Vaughn's 3rd Period Science Class

That Moment When....

(I wrote this exactly 5 years ago. It's still hilarious. We refer to it often. Not sure if we ever made it public though.  Enjoy.)

In an effort to prepare for the great "Back to School" festivities I decided to take the kids for haircuts.  If you'd seen The Oldest in the recent past you'd know that his hair was in an unfortunate state of entanglement.  It resembled an octopus type creature and growled at me any time I mentioned "conditioner", a "brush", or "hair cut".  After it made a meal request and invited guests over for a large dinner party I decided that it needed to go.  The Oldest could no longer keep it in check or calm it down so he agreed that the bonds must be severed.  The Middle and The Youngest Boy had been referred to as "she", "her" or "daughters" enough that they were also begging for cuts.  There's one particular girl that's cut the kids' hair for years and she happens to work at the salon ( a term I use loosely in this instance) inside Wal Mart and the kids like her a lot.  So I load up the Brangelina Brood into the Super Mom Van and head out.  As I'm backing out of the driveway I hear a familiar clicking noise that tells me that I'm in desperate need of an oil change if I really want to make it to West Mansfield this weekend. 

Hey- I like multitasking.  Makes me feel all productive and stuff.  So what could be easier???  Drop the van off at the Lube station in Wal Mart while I take the kids to get their mops chopped!  Brilliant!  I'm so smart.  :-)  This will be a cinch.  In we go, drop off the keys and head to the salon.  The Oldest is the first to suffer the indignity of the chair.  He starts by removing the Legend of Zelda beanie that has been firmly in place every day for the past 2 years.  The stylist gasped.  I tried to hide so that the people checking out did not see me standing near him.  Normally, I do my best to embarass my kids.  I don't get embarassed personally.  This was the exception.  But in order to complete the white trash sterotype I broke out the Flip and proceeded to take video footage for YouTube.  Maybe I'll send the clip to Daniel Tosh.  ;-)  The stylist went to work.  It took her 2 hours to brush out his hair.  Seriously.  2 hours.  (Yup, I'm mother of the year!)  She then put it in a pony tail and snipped it off.  He briefly used it as a prop - he was a horse - and then it bit him.  We wrestled it into a zip lock baggie.  It put up one helluva a fight though.  I had to bribe it with promises of cupcakes to get it into my purse.  Another stylist came in and took care of The Middle and The Youngest Boy in the meantime.  They all turned out pretty cute for a Wal Mart cut. 

About the time that they were all finished up the vibrating keychain that the Lube Center provided me was going off indicating that the van was complete.  At this point I am quite proud of myself!  Mini-Me had been good the whole time, the boys were getting antsy but nothing I couldn't handle.  So I pull out my wallet to pay the lady and my heart stopped.  The whole world went topsy turvy for a moment.  My debit card - my ONLY access to money - was NOT in my wallet.  Frantically, I pulled every card from it and sorted through them....  Kroger Plus card, CVS Rewards Card, Sally's Club, Edge Card, K Mart Special, Big Lots Rewards, my useless ATM card, my drivers license.  None of them could pay for the haircuts.  Then it dawns on me.  My debit card is on the couch.  At home.  My van is in the shop.  Even if I could leave The Oldest at the salon I couldn't run home because I can't pay for my van! Oh.  Holy.  Hell.

Just then Mini-Me breaks out into a frenzied cry for a boob, The Youngest Boy starts jumping off of seats, The Middle is hungry, The Oldest is bored, the stylist wants her money and her hefty tip for braving the violent tendrils of my 14 year old, everyone and everything is louder and I can feel my face running the gamut of every shade of red known to man.  I'm sure it settled on a deep crimson.   My brain starts to go into high gear as my adrenaline starts to rush.  My sister is at work, in Kettering.  It's 4:00.  No one is home.  What the hell am I going to do???  Okay - I'll text everyone in my phone book that could possibly assist.  Jessy was already workin.  Then I call Amber who can be there in an hour and a half.  I've got to be at The Middle Son's school for 2nd grade orientation and I promised a trip to JD's Custard.  Finally, Kyle comes through.  He will come and get The Oldest, run him to the house and then bring him back.  In the meantime we must wait in the salon.  I whip out a nipple for Mini-Me and ask the boys to sit down and be patient.  Help is on the way!

As I am nursing Mini-Me, The Middle has to pee.  I agree to letting him run to the restroom.  Well, The Youngest Boy  takes off after him.  So I jump up - Mini-Me still attached to my right breast - and try to chase him down and get him back where he belongs.  Yeah - that wasn't humiliating in the slightest.  Around 4:40 Kyle arrives and grabs The Oldest.  There was a light at the end of the tunnel!  By this time the boys have maxed out the attention span.  They're restless.  They've invented a game out of a nickel and the floor which ends in a fight and crying.  I want to shrivel up and die.  Or evaporate.  Anything other than this!  Every second that Kyle and The Oldest were gone went so slowly.  I could hear every tick of the clock.  Finally, they return with the card in hand!  I apologize profusely for the stylists inconvenience and generously tipped her.  Then we headed to the Lube Center and retrieved my keys.  I drove away from Wal Mart like Barney Oldfield (he was an old race car driver that my dad always compared us to). 

We made it to JD's.  Not to orientation though.  I know, priorities!  Went home as fast as we could and decided that we won't be going to Wal Mart any time soon.   Be on the lookout for my pic on Peopleofwalmart.com in the next week or so.   

Look Up at the Stars, Not Down at the Mud

She was a quiet and mild woman, until you made her angry.  Then, she morphed into Hurricane Louise.  Even when she was her most angry, she kept a cool exterior with nothing more than a scowl that meant Hell was about to be unleashed.  She was fire and ice.  

Growing up, she taught me about the joy of still pastimes and peaceful play.  She would take me outside, into the woods near our cabin or where she grew up in Tennessee, and tell me to listen to what nature had to say.  Listen for the sounds of whippoorwills and various other birds, sounds of streams, sounds of the summer wind rustling the leaves of the old oak tree, or the echoes of whatever unseen wildlife scampering in the distance.  She would not ever appear to be the outdoorsy type – with her curled hair, lipstick, tailored wardrobe, and high heels.  Underneath her skin lived a woman who knew the trails of South Pittsburg, the mountains of Alderson, and all things Earthly.  She’d lead me through these forests, holding my hand, and would stop to show me everything.  She’d collect a handful of her favorite wild blackberries to share.   She’d reach down and pluck a sprig of spearmint and tell me of how she brushed her teeth when she was a young, poor girl during the Great Depression.

She made her way through poverty to grow up and become a college graduate, a member of the University of Dayton Aerospace Mechanics Research Department, a business owner, a mother, a grandmother, and a great grandmother.  Even though her own mother passed on when she was only 6, she still managed to overcome so many of life’s obstacles without much of a complaint.  I was, and still am, in complete awe of her. 

She spoiled me from the day I was born.  Elaborate playrooms for all of my neighborhood friends, fresh fruit platters with her famous dip, vacations in our camper, swimming, museums, plenty of backyard recreation, and anything we ever wanted.  There was still plenty of emphasis on sharing, caring for others, respecting our fellow humankind, and the importance of excelling in education.  She worked hard and was a wonderful role model.  She was a talented needle artist – crochet, cross stitch, embroidery, and sewing.  She made me dolls, doll clothes, doll bedding, my own dresses, and costumes.  I’m not entirely sure, but I think she had a time turner.  She collected antiques and books and prepared herself a substantial library in our basement, divided in sections, and complete with a card catalog.

We’d spent the better part of 1998 perfecting our potato soup recipe.  She and my dad owned a convenience store together and after he was diagnosed with cancer that year, I joined the family business to help ease the stress.  We worked side by side by side and I loved and hated every minute.  By the time I was 23, she’d become my best friend.  She loved spending time with The Oldest.  She taught him to love asparagus and made him full plates of bacon to snack on and The Legend of Zelda (because she was an avid gamer).

The end came slowly.  She fell apart a little at a time. It wasn’t noticeable to those of us that spent every day with her.  I see pictures of her now from then and wonder how I didn’t see it.  It was so subtle.  A doctor visit here and there and then news that didn’t carry the weight that it should have.  Congestive Heart Failure, a blocked valve, and an aneurysm.  This stubborn old woman’s clock was wearing down and for as slowly as it was creeping it was tremendously fast. 

There is no real way to prepare yourself for that call, for that face to face meeting with a  cold police officer, for hearing those words, for seeing that sight, for holding your father up,  and for breaking that news to someone else.  Severing a bond that strong is unimaginable and I hope that it’s the worst pain that I ever experience.  She brought the life, this mother of mine, into the house and into my world, with her final heartbeat all was vacuumed out.  With an emptiness that can only be understood by those who have touched it – I robotically finished the day.  I held her hand and kissed her soft cheek one final time and closed the door to the room that held her last breath and felt a numbness that I cannot describe.  There was silence inside of her and I felt it inside of me.  And every August 4 from then to now and beyond – I remember that ache of nothingness. 

When times get hard, I speak to her as though she is still sitting on that couch or on the other end of the telephone receiver.  I sometimes unload my burdens to her and imagine her gentle, wise responses.  Her voice is still rich in my head and my mind can piece together words from old conversations to form the guidance that I need.  Poetic stitching replaces motherly advice.  A handmade doll reflecting an uncanny likeness to her face that sits on my dresser fills in for that physical void even though it doesn’t hug back.  I am left to travel through life with ghosts and on most days that’s enough.  But today, I long for arms and voices and being five with my hand small in hers listening to the crisp sounds of crunching foliage underneath our feet and innocently looking up to her smiling face, completely oblivious of this pain.