...I come with a posse

Good on paper...have you ever heard this phrase? It is something that I am embarrassed to admit that I have roaming around my head from time to time. Frankly, I am fully aware that if the same concept were used on me, I might not fare well. The notion is so very mind boggling. How can a person be so engaging, witty, stimulating, attractive and seemingly so right in every way, only to realize that they are just "good on paper"?

I was lucky. I met a guy at a frat party and knew a week later that he was the guy I was going to marry. With every date or time spent together, every charming characteristic he displayed, my feelings were solidified that this was the man for me. It wasn't immediate, but six years to the day we met, we got married. Like I said, I was lucky. I was lucky to have loved someone and be able to create a lasting tribute to what we had together, our kids. I found something really wonderful, once. I knew in my heart that I would feel like wanting to find it again, my head and my heart had to meet up.

What makes me an expert? Hmmm, technically I am not, but I have experience. I have dated, married and become widowed only to start the process all over again. That whole phrase, it's like riding a bike? Yeah, well possibly if you were riding a bike, on fire, balancing a vase on your nose, clipping coupons, braiding your daughter's hair and trying to wear heels all at the same time. So many things you looked for in the opposite sex when you were 20-something, doesn't always hold the same luster when you are 40-something. Finding any person you want to spend more than 2 hours with is like discovering the chupacabra. We all have baggage, but trying to navigate or evaluate how many people's baggage you are willing to sort through is a moral dilemma, I'm already traveling as a party of 5... Baggage and underwear for days.

Then there's the double standards. A man loses his wife, he's nearly given away to the next eligible bachelorette. How could he live without a wife? How could he survive? Who would do the laundry? There is a definition in Webster's Dictionary for a woman who loses her husband, she is called a widow. A widower is a man who loses his wife, but they leave out the extent of it. That's because they are to be married off and live out their lives happy, satisfied and not alone. This point is not exaggerated but amplified when a man loses his wife and has children. I quietly thought this to myself in the beginning, figuring I would have to charge the breach of single motherhood and not complain. It took my best friend's southern mother to point out what a colossal load of bullshit that double standard is...and we haven't even gotten to the part of trying to date again.

Now most of the time dating involves a mutual attraction, time spent together and maybe even some steamy things that I don't want to get into, because this isn't a how-to-book. Being a single mother...how does that even get started? I figured I needed to get out of my house before I went postal either on my kids or another random stranger. Where do you go? The gym? Yeah, at the time when I was starting this adventure, that was akin to staying at home with my kids. The grocery store? That's like trying to pick up a guy in church to me, sacred places, sacred places. I wanted to go somewhere I didn't have someone feel bad for my situation. I wanted to start over, like a baptism on my soul, reputation and psyche.

So, I did what any tired adult who just wants to be in a room with other adults does, I went to a bar. Seemed easy. I sat at the bar, bought a drink and just enjoyed not having to do anything pertaining to parenting, I was clocked in to adulting. Being the social person that I am, it wasn't long before I started a conversation with someone. I felt splashy...and began to feel slightly over confident...or was that the cocktail kicking in? Anyway, I felt like I moderately had my shit together. I could do this alone. I play well with others. It wasn't until the fella next to me at the bar thought he would start asking questions when things took a strange turn.

Why can't some people just talk to strangers? I do it all the time. I'm good at it! I have often wondered if I could get paid to just sit in a waiting room to chat with people, if for no other reason than to put their minds at ease or distract them from why they were waiting. Is this even a thing? I am researching this...I could really make some money doing this. Just talk for talking sake, not get all third degree, harsh lamp overhead Law and Order questioning/talking. I suppose imbibing lowers the threshold for common courtesy...its cool man.

"So, what's your story?" That was the epic line I was asked while sitting at the bar.  I thought to myself, well...here's your chance to 'adult'. I thought for a second about making something ridiculous up. Then I figured the truth is actually more ridiculous than a lie. I said, "you wouldn't believe me if I told you..." never really looking at him while I said it, you know for dramatic effect. He persisted. Realizing if I wanted to sit at the bar, I was going to have to shut him up. I turned to him and said, "I'm a 37 year old widow with four kids..." And I gave him a wink. He bought my drink.

But that is only the tip of the iceberg. Turns out as a widow, dating? Yeah, not really socially acceptable when you are ready. Being a widow, you are slightly under a microscope. The people that peer inside of it honestly love you, but the crowd gathers and it makes something quite innocent and simple become fodder for discussion and opinion? Not inviting. Yeah, I'm starting over, I need the pressures of other people's opinion. It was as if I was 16 years old again, so very strange. I felt as if I had to sit before a tribunal to hear the ruling if I were allowed to date...News flash, the jig is up, I already have 4 kids...I'm an adult...I think I know I'm ready. This was from family, friends and people that in reality didn't actually care what I thought. But all of the above were quick to either share, or silently share behind my back. I get it, I got it, everyone has their own process, and I know they were doing it out of love for me, but it was a tough patch to go through. Thankfully, I'm through it. The best advice, although everyone thinks theirs is the best when you would preferably have them shut up, the BEST advice came from other widows. Nine times out of ten, they were easily 40 years older than me, but they got it. They were quick to reassure me that while they had never re-entered the dating world, I was younger, it would be crazy not to. To the Irmas, Alices, Freddys and Peggys out there, thank you for understanding and letting me know that I was okay. I hope to one day emulate you.

Then there is the terror of having kids and dating. Now, truth be told, I would like to be able to convince my children that I am a nun who goes out every other week to bingo...no desire to be social with someone of the opposite sex, no need to have a man in my life what so ever. But, that would be a lie. I feel like I owe it to my kids to be honest, most of the time, and let them see that it is okay to be social with all types of people. Healthy. Natural. My daughter at the age of 4 would be trolling, unknowingly, in the grocery store for men for me. I don't think it is something that they are not ready for. The hold back has been myself. I have met and dated some really amazing men, but I would only allow the relationships to go so far. Dating when you are just single is a completely different ball game, you never have to take into consideration anything but yourself. You never have to wonder, "Wow, good looking, funny and I wonder how he would handle conflict resolution with my four children?" My inner voice always seems to say RUN after a time period. I apologize to those who have felt this first hand. Thankfully, I only have ONE inner voice, and while she is overly verbal, she is indeed slightly crazy...but I'm ready to stop running.

People shouldn't be pigeon-holed into one type...there are so many characteristics that make up people. These are not your typical description of humans. I say humans, because in reality they could be used on a male or female. The fact of the matter is, hindsight would never exist if you could somehow formulate the perfect mate. These are just a few of the types of people I have been lucky enough to encounter...once again, I'm not an expert, I just know what I know.

-The person who picks you up for a blind date with 5 inch platform shoes in the center console of their car...and admits that they are theirs.

-The work-aholic who has never settled down, yearns to relax when they have paid everything they have/want off, slightly shy of commitment not just because it might get in the way of their goals, but also because they know they can't completely give of themselves to someone else.

-The person that you feel really understands you on a political level, only to find out that they are regurgitating everything they hear as their own, believing everything they hear, but only for soundbite's sake.

-The person who is afraid of change and champions mediocrity.

-The person that you feel completes your sense of humor, only to find out that THEY have to tell the jokes and most of what they tell isn't their own.

-The person who intellectually you find compelling because they have a side to them that more than just the surface. They are contemplative and quick witted, only to find out that they love to hear the sound of their own voice and laugh at their own puns and that's just gets old after a while.

-The person who does it all, or wants to do it all and doesn't ask what you really need in the process. Leaving you feel ungrateful for no reason.

-The person that started with a crush, even the fact that they are talking to you seems like you are taking the forbidden fruit. You worry that if something is too good to be true, and pray it isn't.

-The edgy person, interesting and clever, pulls you into what they are talking about, like you are driving by an accident on the highway and can't turn away. But they only tell you tidbits of a story, leaving you wondering if the part they left out had anything to do with spending the night in prison.

-The person who is a free spirit and a brilliant mind, but is immediately terrified when anything resembles a routine.

No one is perfect, most certainly NOT myself. I come to the table with an interesting array of hang-ups, routine and priorities that, let's face it, might be too much for anyone. But, the moment when I find that special someone, you can bet that despite all that I have listed above, I will be the best partner one could have. Because I love fiercely, freely and profoundly and I'm finished running...and luckily for them, I come with a posse.

..it's going to be a good day...

That moment when you catch yourself smiling, for no real reason. When everything around you suddenly takes on a new meaning, looking at something rather simple and getting a warm feeling. You know the feeling, you've felt it before, but it has been so long it is like staring at a strangers face and instantly knowing them. You want to suppress such feelings because in the past they have been fleeting, artificial or stilted.

Like completing 1000 piece puzzle, you know it is more about the feeling of accomplishment and challenge than the picture that is revealed at the end. The glory is in the process. With the pop of warm sun kissed spring days, everything is in bloom. The dark winter days have faded away disclosing the beauty that was forgotten. The tree's blossoms are starting to show their vibrant color, and it all seems to make sense...like an old forgotten friend.

This time of year used to be my third favorite...this year it is taking top billing. There is no better feeling than looking out the window and seeing the beauty that the season brings. The blooms that decide to open a little more with every minute of the day, cleanse the soul and put into perspective things that you never knew they could. And then you get a phone call that darkens your view with terror, grief and the notion of what you might not have said.

So, there I was, packing suitcases. Never mind that it was just a few days before Easter. Never mind that I was so completely turned around I could hardly think straight. Never mind that I was packing a variety of clothes from "waiting room comfortable" to "funeral". I stood there looking at what was in the suitcase and I couldn't get my head around what might happen. I couldn't understand the notion of someone you love possibly dying, even though I had been in this exact space in the not so distant past. No matter the kind of love you have for someone, when you are smacked in the face of the notion of mortality, the slightest interaction starts to take on an elevated emotion. Did I remember my last conversation with my mom? Did I reaffirm the authenticity of how much I loved her? Could I contemplate the concept of losing her? The answers were: yes, yes and NO. So, scared and afraid, possibly naïve, I decided that this wasn't the end. She would die someday, we all will, but that day wasn't going to be today. She is a tough broad and she is wise beyond her years, this was not the end of her story, not even by a long shot.

Driving seven hours alone gives a lot of time for the mind to wander, and seeing that it is a rarity it was slightly exhilarating. I could actually think, blare the music of my choice, stop only to pee and not have to quell any disputes besides the ones that were scurrying around in my head. I thought about the things I wanted to say to her. I thought about the stories I wanted to always remember about her. I thought about the last conversation that we had, and how she said a few things that were poignant and prophetic. I thought about how lucky I have been to have the parents that I have, and what good role models they have been on parenting. I worried about my dad, knowing that he not only hates hospitals, but has never had to see my mom in such a vulnerable state, ever. I wondered how 50+ years of marriage can bring two souls’ together, fusing two lives in such a way that without one to inhale can the other ever exhale? My father was very scared, but tried desperately to disguise it...his heart was missing a piece and he had no way to fix it.

Fear and sorrow can not only open one's eyes, but also open one's heart to the things that they might have been too stubborn or foolish to admit. It can bring people together just out of the sake of loving someone collectively. It can alter the window that your mind's eye has been peering out of, and then suddenly things all make sense. Thankfully, my mother is a fighter, and she is currently recovering from a very serious heart surgery. She has a long road of recovery ahead of her, but she is one of the strongest women that I know, and I only hope to appear to emulate her, as that is possibly the closest I could get. I am grateful daily for the things that she has taught me and the advice that she has given me, not only as a mother but also as a woman.

My takeaway from all of the above is to remember to be grateful not only for what I have, but for the possibility of having more than my heart could desire because at the end of the day, life is too short. You get this brief blip of time in the world, what you do with it is up to you, and wasting it shouldn't be a viable option. Live life to its fullest, give yourself permission to be crazy happy and wake up every day knowing it's going to be a good day...

...enjoying the journey

Who are you? What do you want to be? Where do you want to go? What do you want to do? These questions sort of rattle me every once in a while. I try not to ask my kids these questions because frankly, they are too difficult to answer, unless you are going to the bathroom or baking a cake at the time of question. My beautiful friend gave me a bracelet that simply says, enjoy the journey. I wear it when I need to remind myself to keep my chin up. And wearing it I am reminded that without such friends the "journey" wouldn't be half as satisfying.

I find it oddly exhilarating to think that a year from now, I will have no children in my house on a Monday for 7 hours. I feel giddy just thinking about it. I love my kids, but the notion that I would be alone is an oddity. At times I find myself not remembering what life was like before I had kids. Did I ever pee alone? Did I ever do one load of laundry a week? Did I ever think I would buy this much ranch dressing? I'm constantly reminded of what a friend of mine told me a few years ago. Bogged down with being a single mother, not showered, little adult interaction, tired and scared, he said to me, "Don't forget who you started out being, the girl I met all those years ago...you weren't always what you are today, sometimes you need to be reminded of that...". It has stuck with me years later. It is a gut and a reality check when sometimes reality is stranger than fiction.

I have been treading water for the last four years. I feel like I've mastered the tread. I can see the waves coming and I try to prepare myself. What I cannot seem to figure out is the breathing part. I seem to lose my breath at the worst possible times, and inevitably I end up screwing up something that really wasn't that difficult in the first place. Where is the balance in life? How does one find that? I get a dozen odd magazines, not one has chronicled the notion of balance and single motherhood. The perfect gluten free pizza crust? Yes. The best exercise for core strength? Yes. Feng shui with bathroom waste baskets? Yes. Any and all of these do me little good. I have been told the answers are within. I have no subscriptions to patience magazine.

Being a mother of four, the vulpine instincts perpetually kicked in, you would think that I had mastered some form of patience. It's more like a sliding scale really, usually calibrated by the season, hormones and the phase of the moon. But then, there's that one afternoon, with nothing to do. I declare it a $5 or free day. You would think that concept would not need explaining, but Oscar couldn't quite get his head around it. Before we backed out of the driveway, again, he was questioning. I looked at him and said, "We are going to drive somewhere and have fun for $5 or less." He said, okay. And for one afternoon, we laughed, told stories, ate frozen yogurt and just got out of the house. It was one of those moments that you catch yourself not hearing an argument or bickering without electronics, it was splendid.

I might have mastered the tread, and my patience is sometimes fleeting, but getting handed a moment of clarity, reminded me of who I am. I am proud to be a overly verbal mother of four, grateful for the experiences I have been able to have and the people that I am blessed to meet. Not knowing what tomorrow will bring, despite throwing my control freak tendencies into hyper drive, is for the best. I have begun to understand that all of the things that I think you need to figure out or worry about, are getting in the way. Be it $5 or free, take the time to enjoy the journey.

...its epic, isn’t it?

That blissful moment when you catch yourself and realize…it isn’t the nudge of spring (don’t get me started on Mother Nature, clearly she was out too late last night). It’s not that world peace is near…not that all of the kids are asleep…not that you have mastered liquid eyeliner at the age of 41. The one quiet moment when you realize…you have all of the laundry caught up. It is a glorious feeling, so glorious so when I caught myself realizing it, I had to sit down and share…because it won’t probably last for more than an hour or so.

My life is filled with laundry…mine, theirs and at times the random Lego or action figure. I used laundry as an ever-present escape for a while, going to the basement to lug/fold/pretreat, time alone to my thoughts and the monotonous action of keeping my offspring clean looking and not smelling. As children grow, so do their clothes and this one time escape became almost an upper body workout of lugging, folding and pretreating. When my oldest children like to have about 4 wardrobe changes a day…not because they have that delicious B. O. that for some reason I can only smell, I went on strike. But I’ll get to that.

Then Mother Nature. As I afore mentioned, clearly she was tying one on last night, as we went from 60 degrees to a real-feel-temp of 22. Really? Just yesterday my children were cheering my name, honestly cheering, as they woke up in the morning because I declared it was a “short day”…obviously our kicks come easy around here. This morning? I was suddenly, enemy number one. Okay, well whatever you are all learning in your science classes at school? Yeah, the jig is up…that’s right, I CONTROL THE WEATHER…just one more perk of my “smother” title. But back to the bliss…

I miss the days of school uniforms. Polo shirt, khaki pants, white socks and done. The most I had to do was put them out and they would do the rest. But when you have a child, who thankfully buys most of his own clothes, but steadily mentions, “…um, that sweatshirt belongs on the gentle cycle, 20 minutes in the dryer with a dry towel and then hung to dry…”. UM….WHAT? I am sorry, I am not your maid or your entertainment director on this cruise ship of life. When it comes to laundry, I don’t sort, I don’t bleach and everything in the dryer if you are not of voting age. That is when the strike began.

Now, my OCD when it comes to life is sometimes like a mole on a person’s face. You see it, you know it is there, but eventually you don’t even notice it because of their sparkling personality or dazzling wit. So laundry was, my monkeys- my circus. But then, in hind sight quite symbolically, on Martin Luther King Day, it hit me…I want to declare, I need to declare, “Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, I’m free at last…” And the craziest thing happened…it worked. Now we tweaked some things, I’ll be damned if I let a kid wash four things and call that a full load! I collect or ask for collection. I don’t sort. I wash everything together. And the only special attention goes to the ladies in the house and their unmentionables…because that crap isn’t cheap.

It took about a month but a strange realization set in. Suddenly, a few people in my house began to realize that the laundry is like a 24 hour factory, without the OSHA check-ins and the union meetings. Why were they folding laundry so often? How was it possible? They just folded laundry yesterday. As they were asking this, most appropriately it was cocktail time and as I answered them, looking over my cocktail, I responded with, “Welcome to my LIFE…its epic, isn’t it?”

Now, just to be clear, I’m not running a sweat shop out of my home. I just know that at times I’m spread thin, and any little task, otherwise known as a chore on the mean streets of America, that can offset my most convincing “Mommy Dearest” impression is for the greater good. And it was good. It was bliss. Did I mention that it is an early-out today? Someone walked in the back door, and immediately put something in the washing machine…nice while it lasted.

...waiting on the Mensa application

We learn more from what we get wrong in life than what we get right...

If this phrase is true, which I believe it is, I am figuratively preparing my Mensa application as we speak, because I must be a fragging genius, teeming with knowledge. The adage of we learn from our mistakes holds true of course, but what if you cannot afford the mistake? Everyday life hands you something you can get wrong, but what if want to see your gaffe before it is too late? Welcome to parenthood.

I had to recently explain the idiom, (to) squeeze water from a stone, to my 5 year old. He heard me read this to him from an Irish folklore book. The fact that the characters were talking to leprechauns didn't throw him, but this idiom did. I attempted to muddle through with examples, hoping I didn't have to Google it to actually have it make sense. The best I came up with was it was it was difficult to get something from someone or something if they were unwilling. Blank look from Atticus...I think I even heard a cricket chirp. Okay. A further attempt to explain it involved the notion that sometimes things are hard, and no matter how hard we try we wouldn't be able to accomplish it. Hell, now I'm depressed. I broke it down finally like this...Remember the other day, when EVERYONE was in a bad mood? Even me? Yeah, well getting everyone happy on that day, was like trying to squeeze water from a stone. He nodded his head, I'm not sure if it was that he understood or he was just trying to get me to shut up.

Then, as I am trying to pull my thoughts from my cluttered head onto this laptop, I was asked by my precious flower of a daughter, if I could help her flush the toilet. Really? We live in a 130 year old house, the pipes are old and the last time the plumber was here he explained that I needed an industrial plunger...INDUSTRIAL? I really don't want to make that kind of commitment. What I do want for this specific child to understand that a "courtesy flush" is not a frightening thing. It won't suck her into the 130 year old pipes. It will help her when she is flush-ready, and she is 7 years old and should be able to flush a toilet. Alone. So, instead of trying to squeeze water from a stone, she learned from what she got wrong in her bathroom solitude (seriously envious of the free time my children spend sitting on the toilet). She flushed it and plunged it. Herself. If she is ever visiting any of you reading this, I pre-apologize.

I was talking to someone who was expecting their fourth child this morning. I remember thinking what she was thinking, and while we were talking I had a strange feeling come over me. It was one of fear but also smugness. The fear was what I felt when I had no idea how I would parent four children at once...how would I meet to all of their needs? The notion of being outnumbered, and a mutiny could arise at any moment? The smugness was in the form of self-satisfaction or pride in knowing that I've been there and done that, I don't need a t-shirt, I don't remember every detail, and thankfully I am not a card carrying member of Betty Ford. This woman's story is just getting started. She has years before...puberty.

I talk about it ad nauseum, but here is some more for you. I cannot wake up my children, a few in particular, without saying a prayer, taking a deep breath, and mentally thanking my own mother for not selling me to the circus. I HAD TO ACT JUST LIKE THIS? RIGHT? Oh, don't answer that right away, I would almost start crying. Between my hormone imbalances and my teenager's? I mentally see us in a UFC ring, the chain link all around, poised and waiting for the bell to start our verbal skirmishes. I don't want to fight. Honestly, I don't. I mean I honestly DON'T. I wish there was a pill, homeopathic of course, that you could just take to deal with the fact that your teenager was all knowing. I could take one in the morning with my coffee, by the time said teenager came into view the effects of said pill would already be in your system. You could hear all about how he knows this, or how his siblings are doing that wrong or how dumb it is that he can't wear shorts to school when it's 32 degrees out. You would just nod your head, kind of like being explained an idiom, and your lack of response/expression would almost calm him as well. He's a good kid. We'll get through this. It is just a phase. But clearly, I'm learning from what I'm getting wrong in this situation, because to him I rarely do anything right.

I took Atticus to his kindergarten screening today. How is that even possible? Really? I was nervous for him, I didn't want him to be shy under pressure. I was handed forms and he sat down and started answering questions. As I was filling the forms out, it was odd to hear his little voice, explaining this and that or not quite understanding what he was asked. I am grateful that I got to spend this last year home with him, like I did all the rest of the kids. A silver lining, an occasional cocktail and the notion that every morning when I start the coffee, starts another day I get to learn from my many mistakes and be grateful I'm here to make them. If I got any of that wrong, I guess in this case, I don't want to be right.

...hello...

Hello. I know it's been a while since I've written you, not for the lack of trying. I've just been trying to figure things out. I noticed this morning that I saw a picture of you, and I didn't get emotional. It wasn't some grandiose picture, you were cooking, but I felt a strange feeling at the lack of feeling, you know. There was a time when your picture hung everywhere in this house. Not sure if I just didn't want to change things, or make sure that you were honored. It was hard. Seeing you was hard. It sort of ripped out stitches of a wound you knew you had to let heal, but couldn't stand the itch. The pictures came down, and instead of being everywhere, I thought it best for everyone to put up the ones they wanted in a special place, for just themselves. I couldn't bring you back, but I didn't want to have to be reminded of that fact either.

It is interesting the pictures the kids picked of you. Some are stoic, others are silly ones that you would probably delete off your phone if you needed to free up some space. But for whatever reason they picked the pictures, it is all their own. Nora's collection is most pronounced. There you are on her bulletin board, making silly faces or snuggling the tiniest version of her, and I chuckle when I see them. But they are all she has...a piece of time captured with a short story to go along with it. We talk about them from time to time, and you would love the twinkle she gets in her eye while doing it.

It isn't for the lack of wanting to talk to you. To glean some sort of insight on our offspring that are very uniquely us in so many different ways. I wonder, and at times yearn for, what your thoughts are on so many matters, our kids, politics and frankly life. I'm not going to stroke your ego and assume you have all matters of life figured out on the other side, but who the hell knows, you might. I see you a lot in Abe lately, he has the same dead-pan sense of humor, and I can't imagine how much you would laugh at his delivery of some of the things he says.

I hear you a lot when Oscar is talking. I crack up at the fact that when his voice cracks, he'll actually correct himself and say whatever he said all over again, as if to reaffirm that it was just a glitch in the matrix. Today, he was all dressed up and he physically looked like you, not a moment after I thought that Nora commented how adult he looked. I pray that he and I will live to see the end of the puberty tunnel, and desperately wish you were here to talk him through that.

Every time I meet someone new or someone hears Atticus' name, there is always the same comment, "What an interesting name..." I think of you instantly, trying and lobbying for his name that at the time sounded so odd. You would bring up the Romans, Harper Lee and say it with our last name and comment at how cool it sounded. He still looks just like you, but every once and a while a little of me shines through. He can't recall any story about you other than the ones he's been told. He is as tough as nails and his favorite thing to do? Dance every Saturday night to the Lawrence Welk show. His moves? They are all you.

I was told the other day, something you said about me while on a family vacation. I was correcting our kids for something that probably amounted to nothing, and as I flew out the back door, you turned to my mom and said, "She's a bit of a bulldog, but she's my bulldog." I hope one day someone else understands me like you did. More importantly, I hope that I can let someone in to know me the way you did. I have a problem of suddenly shutting people out for fear that they'll find out how crazy I actually am. Maybe I should have gotten some therapy after you passed, for that matter all of us. I guess I just thought I could make up the difference, be enough for everyone. When I fall short of my own goals it is one thing, when I fall short where our kids are concerned...well, it is painful. I wish that you would just show up and tell me where to turn next. Funny, I wouldn't have so easily let you boss me around when you were here.

I also saw a picture of me this morning, and I honestly didn't recognize myself. I wondered if the person in the picture would be anyone you would recognize. So much has changed, and keeps changing that I wonder if this is how it is supposed to go. I thought of the old line from that chick flick you couldn't stand, "Honey, time marches on, and eventually you realize it's marching across your face." Thank you, Truvy, from Steel Magnolias. What I saw was a mixture of time and an innocence that I didn't remember having. The anniversary of "writing to quiet the voices in my head" was just the other day. I remember feeling the need to write because you and I were going through different stages of grief after losing baby Thomas. But unknowingly, maybe I was setting myself up for other voices that would be babbling around my head today.

So, I'm not sure how to end this. "Take care and have a great day..." doesn't seem appropriate. I guess I just needed to take a minute and talk to you, hoping for a little guidance or a little wisdom. Maybe I've just hit my “middlescence,” ironically my word of the day. Please know that we are doing well, we've had no visits to the ER yet this year and I can hear you laughing every morning while I'm cleaning the litter box that our kids talked me into getting a damned cat. Until next time...

...uncomfortable segue...

"But life doesn't often spell things out for you or give you what you want exactly when you want it, otherwise it wouldn't be called life, it would be called a vending machine."

 ~ Lauren Graham, Talking as Fast as I Can

 

I read this last night, and I found it to be possibly the most profound analogy on life I had ever heard. How many times a day to I hear one of my kids complain about most certainly nothing? Um, well four kids x 24 hours x the distance of the sun from the moon x the dew point/ barometric pressure...this is starting to sound like a calculus question I do not have the brain capacity to answer. In short, A LOT. But really, they shouldn't know any better, they haven't dealt with as much hardships as an adult...who knew adulthood could be spun into such beautiful splendor? Too many questions not enough answers.

Life really isn't that cruel...you can usually glean a silver lining, somewhere. That is until you find "the sock" on the floor, which belongs in your brother's drawer...in the other room. UHG. Do I have time for this? Could this be just one of the mistakes of the house keeper? PLEASE LET IT BE SO....please let it be so. Or, could this be my "Road Not Taken"? I found it interesting, even mentioning to another mother and great friend, that I walked into the room and found a sock, the aghast reaction from her. No other details than, “I found a sock..." and she too knew where the rest of the story may be headed...no folks, you won't hear this ending on Paul Harvey.

So, I am there. I am at that smelly, hairy, confused, rank, self-conscious, voice-cracking cross road of PUBERTY. I knew it was coming...but I sort of hoped that it wouldn't happen until my kids moved out of my house or I could have afforded military school. Just sort of emailing Dr. Ruth Westheimer, I need to get my ducks in a row. I need to prepare my conversation segue (as if there actually IS one?). I need to stack my deck. I need to make sure I know what I am talking about and have the ability to be audible. I need to do some research, because I am in way over my head. I don't even have these parts and let's face it, he is a smart kid and probably could correct me if I tried to start the conversation today. How much is military school really?

So...flushed with the enthusiasm of THAT conversation, that will have to happen in the not so distant future, there are of course a few others. I am not a health fanatic, but my kids would eat a pile of dirt if it was fried and in nugget form or some strange orange color not ever found in nature. NO. No longer. No longer will I have to actually listen to my children try to debate that ketchup could really be considered a vegetable. No longer will I basically feed them a meal based on the argument/gag ratio. It is a new day, and dammit you will eat a color found in nature. Not just on holy days of obligation, but every fracking day you live under my roof.

The other conversations? Well they vary but are not limited to the following: No, Nora, you cannot have your best friend who is a boy spend the night. No, Abe, brushing your teeth last night does not take the place of this morning. No, Atticus, you cannot get on the PS4 at 6:30 a.m. These days filled with questions, most of which asked knowing I didn't just drop acid, yet the utter disgust of my inevitable response leaves me but one answer, "I know, it's horrible. I'm not a vending machine..." Don't live for the vending machine, learn from it and the uncomfortable segues.