I am grateful.
I am writing to share my heartfelt thanks with so many individuals. Some will recognize instances they read about, they will know it's about them. Some will not.
This week has been a source of mass media overload, with so much coverage of the tragic school shooting in Connecticut. I just can't watch it anymore. Too much pain and capitalization on it. On the other hand I see so many beautiful acts of faith and love, people reaching out and attempting to 'pay it forward'. It's wonderful, but shouldn't we live like that all the time? Why does it take something so horrific to open our hearts?
I have a blessed life. We all do. Even in the heart of desperation and sadness, one can still usually pick out one thing that has touched his/her life and made it better.
Beyond my husband and children. I have a blessed life.
I have a best friend. Can everyone say that? I have someone who knows all the good and bad and she still loves me. She tolerates me. This person isn't even a family member, like a sister, who HAS to love me. She just does. She laughs at inappropriate times and we share the same memories. We saw the same things through different eyes and somehow absorbed it like one person. I don't know many people in this life that can say, "I've had the same best friend for 25 years."
I can. She blesses me~she may not know she does. She would probably read this and say 'oh my gosh she is CRAZY' but, she knows I am. She may tear up and she knows all the dark and twisty and hurt and she knows how hard it was to say goodbye to a man we both loved. She knows that I hurt them and they hurt me, and part of growing up sometimes means making colossal mistakes, but I had to make them. And she still loved me.
I appreciate a couple who, several years ago, introduced me to God. Literally, almost. We moved into a big house and not only was the street full of young families, the street needed a babysitter. Viola!
The couple next door had three kids, one who was only a few years younger than I, but possibly not ready to take care of his younger siblings. My job was to watch the younger two, mainly. Great, great kids. Fun, intelligent, and full of it. They were just a fun family. Their father was a pastor at a local church, with a large youth base. They invited me to Sunday school one Sunday, and after attending, came to truly love the camaraderie the parishioners had. The feeling was electric. I met God in those Sundays. And to this day, I still attribute that couple and that church for the beginning of my religious education. They made me want to learn more. Not everyone can say that a busy couple with three kids offered to begin educating a teenager about the most important relationship she would ever have. I can.
I appreciate every single kid I ever had the privilege to watch. I can honestly say that sometimes when a parent would call, I would deflate, like 'ugh no, not again!' but because I am a parent now and understand how important it is to have adult time and space, along with the very highest honor..trusting someone with my own kids, I am grateful that for whatever it's worth, those parents trusted me. Those kids are some of my best memories, in my whole life, and I appreciate all of them and hope they know how they shaped me into the mother I am now. There were a few who will always stand out, they probably know who they are. There is one who ended up being my babysitter for three of my four children. And to say my third son was difficult is like saying ice is cold. He hated every single human on Earth except his father, myself, and this one babysitter. The image that comes to mind is coming home one evening, finding them asleep on the couch, under a blanket. He laying on her chest, her arms wrapped around him. This child only connects with those who earn it. She earned it. Not everyone can say that they had help and love surrounding their children and were able to trust young women with their children, to love them and care for them so fully. I can.
I am grateful to every teacher that has touched my child and made their brain engage. I had teachers that I remember fondly, and I had teachers that I didn't care for. I also had teachers who were beyond fond, who still stop on the street and are thrilled to see me or my children. Of course, the English teachers were my favorite, as they stirred my curiosity and showed me my potential. They were more than teachers, they were friends. And I hope that my children have the same relationship with their teachers. I see such great potential, yet understand that it is truly up to each individual to decide his/her path. If I could plot my children in a line, hypothetically speaking of course, I would say: physician, art teacher, architect, performer. But I can't. And I have to be OK with that, because I am not the curator of their individuality. I'm just the cook!
This is why I salute their teachers, who are able to hone into their skills~their strengths.
I am grateful to every second someone has volunteered to coach my child in athletics. It is a thankless job, I can promise you that. But in life, there will be a boss. A foreman. Co-workers. Family. In sports, there is a coach, a quarterback, a point guard, a pitcher. There is a line to protect you and a lead blocker to open up opportunities. They will have to learn to find their place, life is like a team sport. Win some, lose some. But in order to play, one has to get along with others.

I have people who laugh with me, or at me. I don't care, because I laugh at myself, too. I have people I can blow off steam to, who 'get it'. I am grateful for every person that has ever made me throw my head back and laugh. Even people I no longer talk to, who may have been close to me at one point or another, if they made me laugh I applaud you. There are a few who stand out.
I am trying very hard to learn to live without regret. Growing up sucks. When you realize that you are not the center of the universe and your parents age, or die.
But I can say, that being the grown up in this house, is really, really good.
I appreciate that the most.

Happy holidays and good wishes to all.
Laugh every day.

Hibernation is Over.

I have written before of my daughter and her 'enthusiasm' for life. We should all have such love of simple LIFE..she laughs, sings, yells, runs, plays.
And she cries.
She has experienced a new part of life, one that I knew I couldn't protect her from forever. She was treated in a cruel manner because of her size.
She didn't tell me until much, much later. Her brother had seen and heard it, he dealt with it accordingly at the time of impact. He told me, and I waited. Held my breath and waited.
"What do I say to her?" I ask myself. "How can I make this better or easier for her?"
I can't.
I cannot take those words away from her pysche. I can't erase those feelings. I can't put a bandaid on it and tell her it will be alright. I can't kiss this boo-boo away.
So, I wait.
She tells me at bedtime, right before she falls asleep. She rolls over and puts her hand on my cheek and says, "Mommy, my heart hurts. Someone called me fat tonight and it hurt my feelings." One tear rolls down from her eye over the bridge of her nose.
I asked her what she felt like doing. "I wanted to call her a bad name but I couldn't think of one!" (she definitely didn't inherit this gene from me, such a nice little girl!).
I said, "Do you know that Mommy and Daddy love you more than anything?"
"Yes, I know."
I told her I was sorry that it happened, and that probably that little girl had a bad day (or perhaps having a 13 yr old boy yell at her and threaten to put his size 12 shoe upside her head was a bummer, but, alas..).
This moment is important~I kept screaming that in my head~say the right thing!
I had no words for her. I just didn't.
"I love you" seemed to be the only thing that would come out.
She slept.

But know this, society, I did not sleep.
All mothers SAY they would do anything for their kids. Yet part of parenting is to make sure your child isn't an asshole. That is something my husband and I work on constantly. That is WHY my daughter can't even think of something mean to say back to a nasty comment.
I will do anything for my kid. ANYTHING. And if I have to fight her battles until she is strong enough to stand up for herself, I will give her the example to follow.
I have NOTHING to prove anymore. I have screwed up over and over, played my last hand, lost and won. I have tripped, fallen, gotten up. Cried, screamed, laughed. I have NO ONE to answer to except myself and God~and if my child is hurt, I will spare nothing in educating that parent on how to NOT raise an asshole.
I keep thinking that the better part of humanity will rise and be seen and these kids will understand that if they work hard, study hard, play hard and be humble..they will EARN what is rightfully theirs.
Then my daughter is made fun of for being 'fat'.
I'm done. The next person who proves by opening his/her mouth that they have no respect for themselves or their own child by ALLOWING a kid to act like this will find out exactly and in no uncertain terms WHO they are hurting.
And then be exceedingly educated. "Raising a Decent Human: 101" by Noelle Johnson-Schoonover. I suggest that their pencil is sharpened and they are ready to take notes.
Because school is in session, people.

Four Mothers

This house has four mothers.


This house also has four kids.


This is not a coincidence.





I have always said and felt that mothering this many children requires many different levels of skill.


The fact is this: each one of my kids are so different from one another that after trying uselessly to mother the twins the same, I decided to be a different mom to each one of my kids.


It works. Why? I don't know..I'm sure all mothers with several children do the same kind of thing, whether consciously or unconsciously.


The 'dad' doesn't really have to do this quite as much, but 'dads' are generally more fun, nor do they take the time to self reflect as much as mothers do. Not to take away from dads..no way. But I know for a fact my own husband doesn't lay awake at night worrying that he has, in some way, &%#@ed up his kid, while I do that regularly.





Nick's mom, she is easy. Because Nick is easy. Nick's mom brought him home from the hospital and realized he was going to be a good boy. He is so easy going and non-confrontational. Even as a baby, he would eat and sit up and burp and poop and be A-OK! "No prob MOM!"


Nick's mom would put him in the older, creakier swing because Nick was happy anywhere. He would get the hand me down car seat, the hand me down super saucer. Nick was happy! He made my job very, very easy. Nick slept. Nick smiled. Now, Nick is growing up and yes he goes through some tough times, where asthma plagued us night and day..yet the child never complained and he plodded through. Nick grows and grows and whoops! We notice that poor Nick has probably grown a little 'too much' and he is a smidgen overweight. Ok, Nick's mom decides to put Nick on an exercise program and VIOLA the kid produces! Nick works hard. Nick is good. Nick is just like his father. He, while being my most easy going child, also is my most 'air headed' and frustrates me constantly with his vague questions.


I don't worry about him. Nick is constant and good and kind. He works hard and is smart and he wants to be with us forever.





Nate's mom was stressed out. Same mom. Same time frame as Nick, as obviously, they are twins. Think parenting twins the same is possible? Try it. Let me know how it goes for you.


Nate comes home from the hospital and is miserable. He cries. A lot. He cries for six months. He has colic. A milk allergy. He has problems digesting. He has stomach cramps and his little legs come right up to his belly and he screams in pain. Nate's mom did not sleep. Nate did not sleep..and any little noise set him off. Any stimulation made him cry. Loud noises, creaky swings. Nate got all the new flashy baby stuff. It rode smoother. Nate is still my most 'type A' personality. He is the most like me. We argue. We yell. He can fight as good as me. He can shatter his nicer twin with two or three well thought out sentences and he means it. But all of this is part of him. He is not meant to be here. I know his path is for bigger places. He reads, he studies, he wants to travel. He sees things outside the box.


These twins mom, she did it all by the book. After all, she read all the books on parenting. She boiled dropped pacifiers for 10 minutes. She cried over the decision to stop pretending to nurse them and bottle feed them. She co-slept them until they bopped one another one the heads. This mom planned birthday parties. This mom went to all the nursery school parties and provided the snack. This mom, one year, decided to buy all the children at nursery school a pumpkin, and carved each child's name into it, after gutting it and filling it with candy.


This mom color coded their Christmas gifts. She had specific spoons, forks, plates and cups for each child. She had play dates. She never, ever let them out of her sight. They didn't use public water fountains.





Joel's mom is a touch clingy. Joel's mom had a hard time getting Joel here, as in, out of her. He was born and latched onto her for dear life. After he nursed for 18 months he promptly moved onto my leg and sometimes I still find him hanging on. I feel such empathy for whatever young girl this young Oedipus brings home, because Joel's mom will foil it. Trust me. I don't feel sorry for the girl, because there will be many, and the girl who finally gets him will deserve him..because getting him away from me will be one difficult task. He's mine. Mine. Mine. Joel came into the world the very CLONE of his father, right down to the weight and black, black hair. The newborn pictures the hospital take, when compared, were indistinguishable even to the grandmother's. I was ready to be this child's mother. It was my dream to have A CHILD. The twins' mother was so exhausted and overwhelmed and stressed and obsessive compulsive that she never enjoyed them. This child was mine and I planned on enjoying HIM.


This was a mistake as young Joel, in turn, hated every human on earth except his mother. Nursery school=nightmare. Crying. Sobbing. And that was the mom..Joel was doing his fair share two miles away at nursery school. Joel grows into a stoic and serious little boy..the black hair is now blond and he bears zero resemblance to his father. He looks like his mother. Joel had limited vocal capacity due to an accident, so his mom had to make his friends for him. He keeps those same friends close to his heart. He, at 9 years old, is my worst risk taker. He is the child that I fear. Not him, himself. But for. His mom lets him do 'his thing' while sneakily watching him. His mom is thankful for older brothers to include him. Joel's mom is smiling at her sleeping boy while holding her cup of coffee in the morning, dreading waking him out of his peace.





Finally, prayers were answered, a little later in life..when Baby Girl arrives. Isabel had it different from day one, as she was born in the easiest delivery and she took her cue from that. She was the easiest baby. She was a delight and a pleasure and a gift. Of course, Isabel's mom was 32 years old and extremely laid back. Isabel's mom would come downstairs, turn on Sesame St and throw a handful of cheerios on the FLOOR while she read the paper. Yeah, that's pretty laid back. Isabel grows and becomes the 'community baby', she is the mascot for all her brothers athletic events. She plays with every single kid at the playground. She shares juice boxes and tissues and know why? Because Isabel's mom is probably asleep under a book somewhere near that playground or baseball game. She's no worse for wear. In fact, I would say she is my most confident child. She is, by far, my most intelligent. Isabel has about 5 mothers who take care of her at various events. She will ask any one of these amazing women to go with her to the bathroom or get her a snack. She will, actually, order her own food and pay for it with whatever money she has either found on the ground or asked her grandfather for. Isabel's mom didn't make any friends for her. She didn't need her to. Isabel, just last week, got a ride to nursery school from her grandma, and said "Oh grammie, you don't have to get out, I'm ok!" and away she goes..hops out with her backpack and waves goodbye, in she goes!


Isabel's mom is very, very grateful for such an amazing little girl. While my mind is often taxed because of her endless questions and adventures and stories and singing~my heart is so full because I know that she is product of herself. She is her. She is wonderful.


And yes, those who know Isabel, know she is built like a Peterbilt. She is built like a linebacker. She is not one of those fluffy, sweet, dainty puffballs. She is NOTHING like her mother as a little girl..she is SO MUCH BETTER. She is not a poster child for 'beauty'. But she IS beautiful.


Isabel's mother sees young girls who dress like prostitutes. She sees 12 year old girls trying to be 21. And she would much rather see her daughter grow up and be one ass kickin', bitchin' cool, freakin' so smart and amazing WOMAN than one of the 'beautiful' girls who want nothing more than to be an Abercrombie and Fitch model.


If any one of Isabel's brothers come home with a girl half as cool as she is going to be..this mother will be pretty happy.





See, I don't have multiple personalities. Just multiple kids. And they all have such different qualities~that the gift is trying to figure them out. Sometimes, I don't like what I discover. Sometimes, I am disappointed in them or even myself.


But the journey of walking their own map is my gift.

Hey Kid..

My kids are the epitome of embarrassment. They are.




I should have known that my life was going to be in a constant state of humiliation when I opened my eyes during labor and delivery of the twins and saw ELEVEN other people in the room, all totally enamored of my uterus.




"2,4,6,8! Who do you humiliate?! Mom! Momma! Mother!"









There are basic humiliations that accompany being a mother..such as the days that you don't actually brush your teeth or hair. Or wear the same sweat pants for three days straight. The worst part of this is that once humbled, the same mother will even be seen OUT in public like this.




The fact that your body may never be the same is also quite a shock to most women. Obvious social pressure makes women more inclined to be in shape, to work to regain their 'pre-baby' shape.




Yeah, good luck with that.









The shape of mom herself is often overlooked because we as mothers spend so much time making our children into the little pristine angels we desire.




Dressing my daughter is like dressing up a little piggie.




My friend and I always say "You can always tell when it's the beginning of the year, because our kids are so clean and pressed and look so good. By the end of the year, they could wear the same damn clothes every day for a week and we wouldn't care!"









All the above is small in comparison to the big one. The big one.




The big one is when the children begin to speak.




Out of their mouths.









Dear sweet Jesus, someone shoot me.




When my twins were just about three years old, I was checking out of the grocery store and my son stood up and announced "My daddy doesn't wear underwear to bed!!"




My eyes got really bug like..and he smiled smugly like 'I dare you Mom, I dare you to hit me in a public place'.




That was ten years ago.




I have NO PRIDE left for them to annihilate, they have humiliated it out of me!









My children have yelled during church. They have farted in prayer. My children have said 'my parents don't like you' to visiting priests. In particular, 'my dad says you shake hands like wet lettuce'.




Yes.




My third son came into the world without a conscience. He says very little, but by God, when he says it..he means it.




Imagine my anxiety when he learned how to talk. By some hidden grace, this child had his teeth knocked out so he COULDN'T talk for two years. This, I have to believe now, was a gift! I could only imagine him saying 'you suck' or 'i have itchy balls' to some random passerby as a young child. This is a kid who will go upstairs, get a bar of soap from the shower, bring it to me..then proceed to call his brother every swear word he knows. He then takes the soap, puts it in his mouth and sits at the kitchen table until I call 'time out!'. This sweet, beautiful child got into a fight last year and after pummeling a child, wipes off his mouth and says "who's the girl now, bitch?"..while his grandfather turns his head in laughter.
And to think that my husband and I do not swear (often) in front of them! WHERE does it come from??
Yes, my kids embarrass me. Daily.





Yesterday, my daughter was having speech therapy to correct some of her sounds. As they were working, she announces "I hate baboons. They don't have hair on their BUTTS."




Gosh, thanks for sharing.






I didn't even flinch. The therapist looked up at me in surprise when I doubled over in laughter. Seriously, this is mild in the cornucopia that is my life as a mother.
And yes, I am a mother who sometimes wears sweats to the grocery store.
That I slept in.

Calm in the Storm

I think that sometimes when people are married for a time, that it becomes 'mundane' or 'boring'.
I think this is why it is a proven trend that many couples divorce at the ten year mark.
It's not fun anymore.
It's not sexy anymore.

That's not an excuse. Because it's true.
At the ten year mark, more than likely, a child or possibly two has entered into the scenario. Nothing is ever the same.
Ever.

It will never cease to amaze me how a crying baby or a coughing toddler will stop me dead in my tracks. The coughing, especially, will make me break out in a cold sweat.

But back to marriage. Adding a baby brings a whole new dimension.
The level of exhaustion associated with child rearing is astronomical. HUGE.
I like to sleep.

I used to say I had three favorite things.
The third was FOOD, the second was SLEEP, and the first was SEX.
My, how times have changed!
Just ask my husband. Or any husband for that matter.

I just found this quote.."Do not think that love, in order to be genuine, has to be extraordinary. What we need is to love without getting tired."
That can be perceived in two ways.
Don't fool yourself into thinking that it will always be 'extraordinary', because as I have said before, sometimes it is barely passable.
Don't 'tire' of yourself. Don't 'tire' of your love for that person.

I can remember getting butterflies in my stomach when I heard my husband's vehicle coming in the drive. I can remember snowy afternoons never leaving our bedroom. I can remember trying to cook his favorite meals and watching his face. Or laughing for hours over nothing. And hiking. And talking. And sleeping on the floor in front of our fireplace.

On the fateful fall day that I peed on the stick and drank a gallon of water only to pee on another stick...I changed.
I was a mother that very minute.

Being a mother changes your love. It doesn't diminish your feelings for your husband. But it does indeed change.
The very instant I felt the baby (BABIES) move inside me, I knew that I loved them wholly and completely without abandon. No fear. No reserve.

After they were born, and we followed suit with the other two installments..I knew that my husband and I had moved into this very easy, day to day..place.

I didn't like it.
I felt bored. Isolated. Unloved. Unspecial.
Blah, blah, blahblahblah.
This lasted for months.
Four kids. FOUR KIDS! I didn't have time for 'food, sleep, sex'..are you kidding me?!
I haven't taken a shower ALONE since they were born. I haven't slept in twelve years.

But as we plodded through this strange time frame in our marriage, I started to see him.

See him differently.
He is my partner, yes. He is my friend, yes.
He is my shade and my hand to hold and my hold to sanity. He bridges my gaps.

I believe I love him more today than I did before.
The ride isn't nearly as exciting, there are very few unexpected turns with him. He isn't full of surprises.
The kids, however, are FULL of surprises.
What makes me the happiest is that he is now standing with me enjoying all that our life has to offer..and I realize that our journey may not be a roller coaster full of passion and excitement.
But we have joy, and the trust that comes between two people who share the common joy of life multiplies into the best parts of a relationship.

If I had to rate it today.
Sleep. Sex. Family.

It's extraordinary.

chances

What are the chances?





Of.


Happiness. Grief. Love. Fear.





Forgive me, for I have indulged in a favorite tonight, music and wine. Bad combo for my morning but good for the creative process. I draw from a place that no one can feel, that George hasn't even seen.


He has seen almost all of ME and still wants more. He is the best chance I ever took.


This I write for a dear friend who may be embarking on a new journey into love. She has faced so many fears in her life.





I was her babysitter. I started as an 'employee' to her mother, and ended up loving her and her brother. They became a part of my life, and she was this sweet, good natured little joy who I found in my back pocket for the better part of six years. She was emulating me. I knew she was. I watched her every day. I was flattered that this creature would even want to be like me.


My flaws were numerous.


To me.





She would ask me questions. Hundreds of questions. She wanted her hair cut like mine. I would scold her little brother (he was this adorable critter, naughty by nature, but adorable none the less) and she would soon follow suit. In the same tone of voice and with the same look on her face.


I grew up. Went to college.


One night, I came home from a date and found this young girl at my doorstep..in tears, upset over circumstances that were beyond her control. Upset at choices that had nothing to do with her, but in a grown up world, choices become chapters in children's stories.


That night, I sat with her and took her upstairs to my room. We talked and fell asleep and in the morning, I hugged her..told her I loved her and she would be fine.


That experience was so humbling to me.


I will never forget that at my young age, possibly 19 or 20 years ago..I made an impact on a girl's life. She came to ME when she felt like she had no other choice.


It was a chance that I was her babysitter.


It was a choice that she became a sister.





This young woman today is like what I had EXPECTED my mirror to be. She is beautiful, she is kind. She travels and expands herself.


She is educated, she is independent and amazing and most of all, she is kind.


She gives.





I do not feel 'shorted' in my life. I took a chance with my husband. He was the best chance I ever took. Safe bet.


I have these amazing, crazy, whacked out kids. They laugh, they fight, they are loud and messy. I gave up all my education and dreams for them.


They became my dream. Evolution.





This young woman channeled everything she had into becoming what she already was..an amazing human being.


And she now has a chance at love herself.


With someone who may be a safe bet.





Someone who may not have been torn out of a Brooks Brothers ad. Someone who knows how to build a motor or who has hands that are dirty with work.


Someone who is the shadow of my husband. Who has worked beside him and learned from the man I love.





The two are cut from the same cloth. They can work from dawn till dusk. They have hands that are calloused with work.


Those hands can build a home.


Those hands can build a dream.





Take a chance.

Close your eyes. Remember the pain. Remember the joy.

'you gotta cry before you sing'

'chances are hopes torn out pages'

Fall.

Relative Happiness.

My best friend and I have this theory:


Happiness isn't just a GIFT. You have to make it yourself. It's a present to give yourself and your family.


Because sometimes the day-week-month isn't HAPPY.


Sometimes it sucks.

When I was young, 'child young', I wrapped myself up in my 'happy thought blanket' and saw everything with my child eyes.


When I was a teen, I foolishly based my happiness on a boy.


Boys don't make happiness.


As I aged, went to college, gained new insight on education, liberation. I started to kind of 'like myself'. I decided that I certainly didn't need a boy to make me happy.


Exit boy.



I liked to read. I read a lot during college. I wrote a lot. I liked being alone. I liked having solitary time to myself. I enjoyed working all summer at the pool, working second shift in a factory, waitressing on weekends.

I freed myself up to be 'available' to new experiences. I tried new foods. I tried to cook said foods. I tried new books. I talked with my parents. I walked the 88 steps up the sidewalk to my grandmother's house and sat on her front porch swing with her.


I tried to love. A few times. I tried to walk beside someone, instead of in front of behind him.


I had to admit that I was wrong. That love was a slippery slope.




I knew that I had to find some kind of balance within myself before I could be any good for anyone else.


Alone again.


Sometimes the best kind of happiness cannot be created. The best kind of happiness comes when you are least expecting it.



Sometimes it is a surprise~take a chance, step out of the bubble.



I will not wrap my happiness up in my children. I cannot hang that on them, it isn't their burden. Do they bring me happiness? ABSOLUTELY.


Do they bring me pain? FOR SURE.


But they didn't dial up and order it. The stress and anxiety that come with motherhood is not something that the child does..it's how we, as parents, react to the circumstances surrounding the child.



My happiness cannot be created, taken, shaken or dictated by the actions of others. Because it's mine. I earned it.


I walked the path and took my hits.

My children will have to learn this on their own.

Each person has to create his/her own space.


My husband makes me happy, but not everyday. What kind of husband makes a wife happy everyday? That is not real.


The reality of our relationship is that I am 100% responsible for making my own smile.




I definitely can attest to not making him happy every day! I make him CRAZY at least 5 days of the week.


If you want to be happy. Stop trying so hard.


Breathe.

Be alone and like it.

Read.

Listen.

Listen, again.


Find things in life that make you happy without having someone else to carry it.




That load gets very heavy.

Laugh Today~so called drama.

Fire ant in the pants.
Yup. No lie. Today my husband was working in the yard, while I casually watched him from the porch with a cup or coffee. Imagine my surprise when he began jumping and hitting himself, finally ripping off his jeans, trying to pull them over his work boots while jumping around.

Ants in the pants.

Understand, this is something that would happen to me, not him. Not the 'king of the yard'!! Oh how I delight in writing this passage because he never humiliates himself (he has ME to do that for him) and for me to be just a spectator in this and not have a main role just pleases me to no end.
Yeah, it's sadistic. But it's funny.

I often laugh at inappropriate times. In fact, I almost always laugh at inappropriate times..not just sometimes. It's some kind of defense mechanism, I have read enough psychology text to know this. It doesn't sit well, usually, with the social medium.
I laugh at funerals. I laugh at baptisms. I almost, always, without fail..laugh during Mass. I don't know WHY this is but I just can't seem to stand the overabundance of solemnity..my mind breaks and I just roar with laughter. I will laugh until tears roll down my face, I usually excuse myself. Sometimes I laugh until I literally can't breathe or have to use the ladies room. There have been times where I actually pretend to be crying in order to hide the laughing.
I find humor in the very basic and boring. I find humor in the drama.

I remember sitting in the formal living room after my father's viewing, and laughing until my sides were sore. Who LAUGHS at the end of the worst day ever? Me. And a few close friends. Because only the real ones get why the release of laughter is the equivelent of the release of tears.
It's all an emotional retribution.
And I would rather laugh than cry.

I am an emotional person. My kids will vouch for seeing every emotion played out to award winning perfection, from their own mother. They have seen me cry..they themselves have driven me to tears at times, and I let them see it. I want them to see it, it's healthy for them to know that I am not above showing the basic feelings that they have. I have laughed with them, and at them. I laugh at myself mostly. I have yelled, swore and slammed doors. I have apologized and meant it. I have been wrong, right, and confused. They have seen me love their father and watched us dance in the kitchen. They have seen my frustration with my mother, they have seen me cry on Father's Day. They have seen me apologize to my mother, and watched me laugh at old home movies.
They have seen me come out of my seat in defense of something I believe in. They have seen me tear into someone who would dare say anything unkind about their father. They have seen me sit beside a hospital bed with my head in my hands praying. My kids have seen me at my strongest and at my most vulnerable.
And all the in between.

Maybe I am wrong in showing them this. Maybe my honesty with them has left them scarred or somehow hesitant themselves to show emotion. (it should be noted that their father barely has a pulse and never shows emotion)

I want them to know that I already forgive them for their flaws. I love them regardless of flaws. I have huge, gaping flaws and they have seen almost all of them! I want them to come to me and know that while I may be upset in their actions, I understand the need to have to make their own mistakes and recover from them.
I cannot put them in the 'bubble wrap'..I want to, trust me.

But life is full of emotion. It is full of questions, mistakes and really, really painful hurts.
And it's full of faith, forgiveness and laughter.
I can't map it for them. I can't make their choices, I can't choose for them.
I can laugh at their triumphs. I can cry for their wounds.

And I will teach them, above all, that laughing at inappropriate moments may be the thing that saves them.

Shades of Grey

The truth is humanity is not black and white. I have struggled with this for several months, perhaps years in the making.


The very core of ourselves isn't a block or square or even oval shape. It's complicated and twisty and dark and shaded.


It's grey.



I have good intentions. I have the best intentions for my children, for my husband. I try to set realistic goals for me as a mother and wife. I try to laugh every day with them.



But I have forgotten that I am a daughter.


The first and foremost feeling in my heart is that I love my children. And yet, I let myself get so caught up in that, that I forget that my mother loved me the same way, every day, forever.




My life began with her and she sustained me in the high and low tides of our lives with my father. She has never painted a poor picture of him to me. Various people can tell me of what outsiders 'saw' or presumed to 'see' in our family~but she never, to this day, says an unkind word about him. She still loves him. She dreams about him. She misses him.


What can I learn from her? Everything.


Here is a woman who has clung to life for the past 5 years, and in her dementia, I have become hard and cynical. I get easily frustrated and impatient. I blame HER for changing and becoming weaker and making ME be the strong one.


Well, I guess it's time to grow up.



I am ashamed of how I treat her. I am disgusted at my impatience. I HAVE GOT to pull back and step away from the situation and look at it objectively, no matter how hard that is.

I have spent the past week awake in my bed, wondering how to make amends with her and myself. How to show her that I was wrong.


I admit it honestly to her. I don't even know if she will understand me. I am fearful that the meaning of my words will be lost on her.


I am wrong.


Because as a mother myself, I should know that of all things, the connection we share is constant and we will always forgive one another.


I look at my children and know that they are a gift. They are not mine forever, and the time we share together has to be made as special as possible. I have said all along that I hope my children 'soar', and in today's world, that implies that I want more for them than I have.


But I have everything. I want as much happiness in their hearts as I have.



I want them to fall in love forever and laugh and share their lives with me and their father.


I want them to understand their grandmother as someone who yes, forgets things. And yes, wakes up at night, a lot. And she gets confused. And she is weak, and she can't hear. It's hard for her to 'be' a grandmother. It is my privilege to teach them that 'being' a grandmother is about 'loving', and she has given them that in spades. And she wasn't always confused, or weak. I have to draw them the pictures of our story before now. It wasn't a perfect story. But it was ours. Before today's ending. Their grandmother is my tie to this world. One rope was already cut, and I will hang on to her until it's her choice to let go.


My choice to share this isn't to make anyone feel sorry for us, or me specifically. I have had ENOUGH of self-pity. I want people to know that I was wrong. I was wrong to feel this way.


It's better to know it and own it and admit it, then try to pretend to be something else.


I share this as part of my apology to her.


She is the tether to my life.



As an child, she said she would kiss me and say 'No man will ever kiss you more than I will.'


I say the same exact thing to my daughter. Every night.

Mother's Day.

This mother has some requests.

Dear Kids,

Please, please, please shut up. Please stop fighting with one another. Get yourselves ready for school without a fist fight. Eat the dinner I prepared without complaining that it isn't what any of you wanted. Put the food in your mouth and chew it. With your mouth closed, preferably. Pick up your dirty clothes and put them in the laundry room. Take a shower without arguing that you took one yesterday. Let your brother(s) take a shower alone without busting into the bathroom and then teasing him about penis size, ensuing another fist fight. Go to bed. Sleep all night. Get up nicely.

Please do not wear your muddy ball cleats in the house. Please shut the fridge door and please stop drinking out of the milk container, even though your father does. Please turn off a light when you leave a room. Please do not hold me responsible for your missing ball glove or bat. Along with this, remember to shut up, because all the needless banter is slowly killing me. Try to think about what you are saying before you say it. Think about whether or not it makes sense. Please help your sister find her pink baby. Please push her on the swing when she sits there for 10 minutes waiting for someone, anyone to push her. Don't pick on her, don't tease her. Don't make her scream, as I am looking for quiet, hence all the requests to shut up.

Please don't move the chair right in front of the tv. No one needs to sit four inches in front of the tv. And since I mentioned tv, please find something to watch that isn't some lame, mindless, brain sucking show about twin boys, wizards, igirl with obnoxious friends or a yellow sponge. Watch Animal Planet or Discovery Channel. Try to learn something.

Dear Husband,

Please stop being so nice. It's hard being married to freakin' Jesus. Stand up for yourself and for me. Please let me take a bath ALONE and do not assume I want your company, either in the tub itself or on the toilet next to the tub. There are three other toilets in this house.

Please pick up your socks. The black Under Armour ones. You know what ones I'm referring to. Just pick them up and put them in the laundry room. Take the initiative to leave the house with the children in tow. Take them for a hike. Please sit down on weekends and stop making me feel like all we can do all weekend is work, work, work. Please let me finish landscaping the front yard and stop saying "No one sees the front yard." because I see the front yard.

Please, if you see I am reading a book, do not bother me. Do not start a conversation about your lack of pitchers on the little league team, because..my love, I do not give a shit. Please, for once in your life, put a roll of toilet paper on the holder. Just try it.

Please SHAVE. Your face. I understand you are bald and any hair is a gift, but the scrubble on your face hurts my face and your daughter's face. We don't like.

I don't want fancy gifts or flowers. I just want my sanity back.

Love,

Mom

The Middle Son

This is about a son. A son and a mother. A son and a father. A son and his brothers. And finally, a boy and his friends.

Every family has THIS story. In varied stages, absolutely. Every family has a child in the family who needs more than the others. It is NOT about loving that child more than the others. It's not human to love one of your kids more than the others. If that were the case, for God's sake, people would have only had one child or live in China. (thankfully my parents knew that I didn't share well with others, hence being an only child worked very well for me..snap!)

My twins were the happiest, most well adjusted babies and toddlers. They went to school and made friends (who I love)..they get beautiful grades. They have glowing reports from teachers, from coaches. They play sports because they love the comradery of the team. They are team players. Over the past weekend, they had friends here and I smiled quietly and laughed later with my husband as the conversation revolved around baseball and girls. They are so free with us and they talk in front of us and with us.

Third son is not like that. Not quite.

He was, as I have wrote before, the most stoic of babies. People would get in his face, as a baby, and coo and babble at him trying to extract a smile. He would look at them, right in the eyes, and not only NOT smile, he would stare at them like "WTF is WRONG with you? Dummy." One eyebrow raised. I would kind of laugh nervously, almost like trying to cover up this strange child's random disposition.

"Why does he act like this?" I would ask my husband. "Why doesn't he like anyone?"

As he grew, we noticed he was far more willing to take risks than the twins. He had no problem walking UP the slide at 14 mos while his 4 yr old brothers were still half afraid to slide DOWN it. We had a 'zip line' hooked to the slide that went to a tree (one of my husbands many superfundangerous ideas that all kids LOVE)..he grabbed onto that sucker when he was 2 years old and away he went, right into the tree. Blood pouring, wiped his with his sleeve, he climbed right back up that slide and did it again. No emotional reaction.

We bought the twins ATV's when they were 8 yrs old, helmets, pads, the whole nine yards. We have enough property that they have free reign over it and have made their own trails. Well, guess who decides he is going to ride that ATV? You know it. Husband had to pull out spark plugs so it wouldn't be able to go as fast. Guess who figured out how to fix that problem? You know it. Four years later, he not only has his own ATV, he rarely rides sitting down, he builds ramps and can kick start his father's standard transmission four wheeler. He not only rarely rides sitting down, he rarely even wears a shirt. Jeans, boots and a helmet.

The end.

This kid has gone through hell. He knocked his teeth out. He can't talk. He can grunt. I drag him to pediatric dentists. Orthodontists. Speech pathologists. Hospitals.

This kid walked around for three days with a ruptured appendix.

He doesn't complain. He puts his nose to the grind and gets it done.

All through this, my husband and I have laughed and marvelled at how incredible stoic he has remained. He rarely says "I love you."

This is a kid who silently has made his mind up to reach his goals. His way.

He doesn't 'love' someone because society says he must. He has just started telling his grandparents that he loves them. They had to earn it.

I think this is my main idea. This is probably the one, single thing that I love about this child.

He owns himself.

He owes no one any thanks for ANYTHING he can and/or will accomplish, because he is doing it all on his own time and terms. He trusts no one, until proven.

Once gained, it is unbreakable.

Our kids lay in bed and visit before bed, and because I am the type of mother who listens in the doorway, I take what he says and sit on it.

"You know who I love?" he'll say. "I love Dad because he is so awesome. He plays catch with me every day and he lets me work on my fourwheeler with his good tools."

"I love Mom because she's mom. She makes me sausage and she doesn't make me eat the broccoli. I hate broccoli, Nick. Hate it. And mom never makes me eat it. She makes you eat it though!" (laughing usually follows when the boys compare food intake and what I will and will not force)

He will list off his friends, and because of privacy, I will not name them. But if their mother's read this blog, they will know without a doubt which kid he is talking about.

"I love ____ because he knows me the best. He doesn't care if I'm wrong or right or if I had a strange way of talking. He just is my best friend because we're supposed to be that way.He hugged me when that bee stung me at Miss Linda's. I never have to wonder if we are friends."

"I love ____ because he makes me laugh. He is my best friend because he knows exactly how to act to make the whole class laugh. And he makes every sport so fun, he makes me laugh so hard and he falls and rolls and makes every day like a movie."

"I love ____ because he is so smart. He is such a better reader than I am, I hope he's in my classes forever because he always can help me with reading, and he has really good video games and a room in his house ONLY for FOOD. And his mom is super pretty."

"I love __ because he's the only kid I know who wants to win as bad as I do. He makes me try harder to win. He makes me run faster and hit harder. Before we were friends I didn't know how to win as good. He made me feel good about trying harder. And he never gets mad at me for tackling him."

Know this, fellow mothers: this kid is strange. He's for real. There is no false reality about him..your sons have earned this.

I am going to write a tribute to my husband.

In no way am I planning on embarrassing him, as he has been with me long enough to know that nine times out of ten, if I do embarrass him, it's for a good reason.

I have known him almost my whole life. We went to the same small school. He was two grades ahead of me.

We went to a school populated with about 600-700 students, seventh through twelfth grade. Everyone knew everyone. He also lived three houses away from my grandparents on Lake Hill, and was friends with my older cousin, who lived three houses in the other direction from my grandparents. Farm community, where the two friends would race up and down the road on their atv's and my grandad would sit on the front porch and yell at them to slow down even though they of course couldn't hear them.

He was very good looking. He was very quiet and very polite. He was the type of guy that none of us thought we had a chance with, so why bother? Ironically, I was flattered (and slightly annoyed) to find out that he thought the same of me.

He played football. (in our town, at this time..playing football was the mecca of manhood).

In my next to last semester at college, he approached me at a local dive bar we all frequented. I had never spoken more than four words to him in my life. He had on a burgandy ball hat with a suede brim and a plaid shirt. He was drinking Yuengling out of a bottle. He sat down at my table and began this conversation that made zero sense to me because I was looking at his eyes and they sucked me in like wet cement. After about a half hour, he asked for my number and I left the bar with friends.

He didn't call the next day. Or the next.

Oh well. I had a lot of options at this point in my life..and to be honest, my father was in the final stages of cancer and I truly didn't know if I had it in me to start up something new.

Then one afternoon a few weeks later, I saw a birth announcement in the local paper about his sister having her first baby, a daughter. It was the first grandchild in the family and I knew that her birth would be a special, special event. So I called him to congratulate him 'on being an uncle'.

(please note: I HATE calling boys. Hate it. I was of the confident crowd, if a guy doesn't call me, fine, I have a waiting list, trust me)

That's all it took. He asked me that night if I would like to go out sometime, and if so..perhaps he could stop down sometime and we could visit before hand.

He came on a Thursday night. He wore a navy blue zip up fleece, jeans and boots. No hat. I had on the baggiest jeans I owned and a man's button up dress shirt from the Gap. I was so nervous I ate an entire jar of cinnamon jelly beans.

While we sat and visited in my parents den, my father wandered in. He was weeks away from dying and in an immense amount of pain. He was having morphine constantly for the pain. He was using a walker, as the cancer had spread to his bones and his hips hurt unbearably. But he walked into the den, unassisted (I am now really popping the ole' jelly beans, thinking 'holy crap what do we have here?') and sat in his favorite chair, crossed his legs and said (smirking, his trademark Harry Potter glasses on..jelly bean, jelly bean) "Well, well, well. Mr. Schoonover, you have showed up a little late for this party, now haven't you?"

My husband reached out his hand and said "I hear that, Mr. Johnson. I'm sorry to hear that, sir."

They shook hands and talked for about 4 minutes before my mother came in with the liquid morphine, which my father took through a baby medicine dispenser, some rolled down his chin as his motor control was failing.

George never even blinked. He kept talking and acted as though this was the most natural situation ever.

When he left that night, I expected him to tell me that our date wasn't going to work out, that something had come up. Young men and cancer grieving girl don't mix well, as I had found out a few months before.

He said, "I'll see you Saturday, and I'll call you tomorrow."

Kiss on cheek.

Three weeks later, after several evenings together and phone calls, we had gone to the grocery store for my mother (HOT DATE here people) and I knew my father was close. He couldn't sit up. He couldn't hold his spoon, and he couldn't talk anymore. I was getting to that emotional point of no return and I said "If you want out, it's fine. I understand. I totally, 100% understand that I am an emotional basket case..I have all this baggage and I'm sad and my family is strange and sad. So, if you want out, do it now because I won't be able to take it later."

He pulled the vehicle over. (I was like "Oh crap! He's going to make me get out and walk!") Leans over and says, "I am in love with you. I am not leaving you ever. No matter how sad you are, how miserable you are. Got it? I'm in."

That was a Friday. My father died the following Monday morning.

Five months later we were engaged. Thirteen months later we were married. Ten months later we had twins. Three and a half years later we had another son.

Two years later, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. One year later we had a daughter.

My tribute is this.

My husband is without a doubt, without one shred of doubt, the kindest man I've ever known. He is patient (anyone who knows ME will attest to this being a true test). He is calm. He is smart. He worships our children. He tolerates my mother. And he still looks at me sometimes and I feel like I'm standing in wet cement.

He makes me believe in God. Every. Single. Day.

I haven't written in six months. I am not inspired.
A friend recently asked me what inspires me and I answered "grief". So I guess it's a good thing I am not inspired to blog right now. I do not have a lot of sadness.

But I am restless. I feel a need to release whatever pent up mid-life pre-menopausal issues are building.

I have been racking my brain about to write about. I can write about my kids, obviously. I can write about my friends, and the shifting dynamic that comes along with friendship in ones thirties. I can write about cancer and it's impact on my life, or dementia, as it currently impacts my life daily as I struggle with my mother.

What I have concluded is that it all intertwines, but how to weave it with words is the challenge.
What is the glue? What holds it together?
(I am also afraid of repetition. I hate when someone repeats something to me. Like I didn't hear it the first time.)

So, in an effort to un-stifle my creative talent, I will try to write..while completely exhausted and fully uninspired.

It's winter in Pennsylvania. We have had a very full winter. Full of kids, holidays, and one hospital trip.

Yes. And no, it was not asthma twin. It was my eight year old son, who since has had a birthday so at the time of the crisis, was only seven or "almost eight MOTHER!".

There is a fine line when a child is sick that all parents have gone through. Whether or not to go to the ER. If there is parent out there reading this that has not ever once considered rushing their child to the local ER when all common sense fails, then I am amazed.

Our son, the day after Thanksgiving, started complaining of a stomach ache. He is not usually a complainer, and definitely not a whiner, so I gave him some motrin and encouraged him to lay low until he felt better. At this time, I'm thinking either over indulgence at Thanksgiving dinner or stomach flu. He gets through the day, and that night comes in our room in the very early hours of the morning, probably 2am. "Mom, my belly hurts again." I give him some motrin and a glass of water, back to bed.
The next day we have more of the same, the 'belly ache' and some mild vomiting. I am sure he has the stomach flu and keep assuring him he would be fine by tomorrow. The night proves to be more of the same, and he has a hard time finding a comfortable place. He finally ends up on the couch with his dad, sleeping fetal on stomach, rear end in the air, knees tucked up under belly.
By Sunday mid-morning, he can't even straighten his right leg and I say to my husband, "I think we should take him to the ER for hydration. He needs a bag of saline."
My husband hems and haws..no one likes going to the ER, all the waiting and not knowing, and then some more waiting.
We go to the ER, where we wait for over an hour to see the physician on call. After deciding that perhaps a bag of saline would rehydrate him (didn't I already say this?) the doctor ran blood work. His counts came back very high. Obviously an infection. A cat-scan was ordered and he had to drink 16 oz of apple juice with contrast in it over a hour and a half.
Proceed to cat-scan, and escorted back to gurney.
Things started happening very fast after that.

His appendix had burst, had been ruptured and there was an ambulance on the way to get him to a bigger hospital.

That feeling is indescribable. If you want the worst feeling of fear, of not knowing, and of looking in the eyes of a scared child, this is your trip.

The ambulance arrives and my husband and I separate, I drive the car and he goes in the ambulance. We arrive at the larger hospital within twenty minutes and are met in that ER by a family friend, who is the mother of one of appendix-boy's best friends, and an OR nurse. She had put herself on the case to keep our child reassured that he was safe. As a mother I may never be able to thank her enough, because she made the experience bearable.
All this time, our son was completely stoic. No tears, no emotion, just focus on getting through the pain. He did not want to ride in the ambulance. He did not want to be put in a wheelchair and he did not want to be on a gurney. In the time frame of him being in the ER, and drinking all the contrast and being nervous, he signaled to his father and I that he needed to use the bathroom. A different nurse, who was doing his paperwork in the ER, brought him a bedpan and explained to him how to use it. Seven year old child, appendix burst, looked in her eyes and said "I don't do that."
He rolled off the gurney and walked/stumbled to the bathroom.
I am telling this for the people who know my son, his extreme stoic behavior and the fact that there was no way in hell was he using a bedpan. Ever.
As he lay in the ER, there was a woman in the next exam area, curtained off. My husband and I catch a glimpse of her through the curtain, she is suffering from what my husband calls 'carbuncles' (! please understand that I have no idea if this is even a medical term!) or open, huge sores all over her legs. She is moaning and groaning, yelling and vomiting as well. My son just lays on his gurney with his eyes as wide as pie plates. Next rolls in a man via wheelchair who begins vomiting FULL THROTTLE heaving and LOUDLY.
My son is literally in a state of shock at this point.
We meet the surgeon, we discuss what will happen, explain it to son.
At 12:02am he is wheeled into surgery with his surrogate 'mom'/nurse by his side. My husband leans in, kisses his forehead and tells him to be tough.
I lean in and in the four seconds it takes for me to put my cheek to his cheek and his left arm over my shoulder, his entire life to date floods to my head. I put my face in his neck and breathed his smell and kissed him goodbye.
He was a huge baby, all shoulders. I just wanted him OUT OF MY BODY at delivery and didn't heed my midwife's warning to 'slow down'..he had a purple head. Black hair and no sign of a neck anywhere. All shoulders.
He was a serious baby. Not overly smiley. He did a lot of staring and studying. He didn't talk or coo to himself.
When he was 18mos, he came off a swing onto pavement. Not having the best defense reaction yet, his face, namely his teeth suffered the consequences. Top four front teeth were knocked up in under his nasal cavity. We couldn't even see the actual teeth, just four big, bloody holes.
X-rays confirmed the teeth were there, and it would take almost a year for those teeth to fall back into place, only to find out the nerve damage was so severe that all teeth were removed before his third birthday.
The loss of the teeth did little to improve on his already serious personality.
Or his speech development.
Or his self esteem.
It is hard to learn to talk when first of all, it hurts. Secondly, without the teeth there, it's even worse to try to enunciate.
So he didn't even try. He talked to his father and myself. We were the only people on earth that could understand him.
He goes to kindergarten and struggles. Struggles at school work, the confined space of a room. He is insecure and it's hard for him to make friends. He has two. They understand his 'language' and serve as interpreters.
I begin the process of speech at age three, so by school age, he has an IEP. Constant paperwork, vigilant therapies. He hates it. He hates being different.
I take him to private therapy twice a week in a hospital 30 miles away, the very hospital where is appendix will be removed.
He loves the outdoors. He loves to ride four wheelers, he loves his dog. He loves to ride bike and play catch.
Two years later, child has amazing friends. He speaks very well. He has overcome huge obstacles to trust his environment. He is funny, articulate. He is athletic and has found his place on a football and baseball field. He loves his teacher. He loves his friends.
He laughs constantly.
He has long blond curly hair that he grows out because 'the chicks dig it MOM!' and 'Shaun White the snowboarder has smokin' cool hair MOM!'..his hair hangs out from under his helmet and everyone fusses over him.
He basks. And his father and I fall in love all over with this new and happier child.

After surgery, the doctor and our nurse/friend come to tell us he is fine. That the rupture was severe and there is much infection. He will have at least a one week stay to recover.

That night, at 3:30am, my husband leaves for home and I lay down in the hospital bed next to him. He is lulled into a drugged sleep, he is warm. There is an IV in the crook of his arm. His belly and beyond is covered with iodine and he smells sick to me.

(I should probably mention that at this time, I notice that not only have I not showered since Thanksgiving. I also am not wearing a bra. While this is not a big deal, I have failed to notice either of those things until the whole ordeal was over. What the doctors must have thought of me, I can only wonder. And shudder.)

The next week, my husband and I take turns staying 24/7 with our son. Thankfully, my in laws were more than willing to take over care of my other three children, as we basically forgot they existed. Our daughter even had her birthday during this time and we were not a part of the festivities, so my sister in law provided all the love and laughter and care she needed during this time
He couldn't sit up without pain. He absolutely froze in fear if he felt a cough coming. He had to learn to walk again, and would push his IV pole down the hall, dragging his right leg and foot along, as those muscles just wouldn't engage. He cried in fear that he would never be able to 'run the sideline' again with his speed. He blew through two IV's in three days. His hands were black and blue with bruises from the IV. His arms were bruised from the IV and tape.
On the second day, as he labored out of bed, slowly, so so slowly to the bathroom on his own. I sat outside the door (he is big on privacy) and all of a sudden he bellows "MOM! MOTHER! WHERE ARE MY UNDERPANTS?!"
The sudden understanding that his friend's mother had to take off his underwear set in. "Mom. We will not ever talk about this again, OK. Tell Becky, OK?"
(Not only have I not mentioned it again, but friend's mom/nurse Becky and I decided that perhaps telling him she had to run a catheter is also not a fact he needs to know about!)

He returned home after a week, then spent the next week at home resting, and the following week he returned to school half days.
He lost 9 lbs total, and now, after two months, has still not gotten it all back.

But there is laughter, and he is tackling his brothers and sisters and riding snowmobiles and going to wrestling tournaments.

He is eating mounds of food and had his birthday party at a hockey game.

He is fine.

But the smell of his hair still lingers on me. The feeling of helplessness and fear hasn't left.
I sat and thought of all the time we have invested in this kid. Of the countless hours of speech therapy. Of the hours his father threw balls to him to get him confident. Teaching him how to swim, how to water ski. I think of his father telling him to 'drop a shoulder' when he goes in for a tackle.
I wonder will his whole life be a struggle? Will he always have to 'drop his shoulder'.

Then I stop and know he'll be fine.

After all, he was all shoulders.

The Family Dog

If anyone ever wants to know about 'the family dog' just go rent "Marley and Me"..or you could just call my house and I will tell you all about the family dog.



Most families in rural Pennsylvania have a dog. Or two. There are many, many families all over the world who have dogs, even in the city. Dogs who are an integral part of their family, who are loved and faithful companions. They need walked and loved and vet checked and fed.



My dog, mainly, likes to be fed.

We came across this particular animal when we had just moved to our new home, all freshly built and full of wide acres and woods. A friend of a friend had heard of a family who had recently decided to give away their Labrador retriever. She was 3 years old and fully grown, perfect health and very gentle.

One December day, my husband rings into the phone on his cell, and says "bring the boys to the window, I have a surprise for them". He drives up the driveway with the window down, her gold head hanging out, snowing like crazy and the kids went NUTS.

She is hands down, the most gentle dog known to us. The day after her arrival, the older boys went to school and our third son, at age 4, asked if he could go outside and play in the snow with his new dog. I, having just had a baby weeks before, said "OK, but I'll watch from the window"..out they go, red and blue snowsuit and yellow lab. I watched for a time while he threw snowballs and she tired to chase them or catch them. Then he (or perhaps the dog herself) got the bright idea to start digging a tunnel from all the snow that was pushed to the side of the drive from my husband's snow plow. I watched as one little boy and one large dog dug side by side in the deep, deep snow for over an hour to create the 'coolest tunnel ever' and two big brothers come home ready to play in it. On that day, the four yr old child made his very first friend, and she didn't care that he couldn't talk very well. She pulled him on his sled and jumped in the pond after him, swimming and laughing. She chases him on his bike and on his four wheeler. She walks every single day to the bus stop and sometimes even follows the bus for a short distance. She waits every single day at the end of our rock wall, every single day. Sometimes it's only for a pat on the head from the older boys, but the now 7 yr old always, always has a stick he's grabbed from the woods to throw to her. Every single day.



This sounds idyllic, right? Well, I'm now going to give you all the 'reality bites' section of this dog story. You know there are animals who are just big oafs, right? All hair and stink and slobber and barking at night when it's NOT APPROPRIATE. Well, our wonderful, amazing dog is also that big dummy as well.

(as a side note, I wonder if my dog is bipolar? maybe she needs medicated..)

Anyway....my dog has gained an enormous amount of weight since coming to live here at our house. This is because everyone feeds her. As in, every single person in our house fills her food dish at least once a day. Do you sense a communication problem here? My husband feeds her when he leaves for the day at 5am. Next, Mr. "I take a dump every single day at 6am" feeds her. Then when they kids leave the house at 7:45am, the other twin feels badly for her, so he thinks a bowl of food may help her survive the day without them. By noon the 3 yr old has fed her at least part of her breakfast and possibly all of it. After school, the 7 yr old feeds her 'just because I love her so much MOM!'...by 6pm when it's dinner time, she gets all the leftovers. That's like 8000 calories a day! My dog needs to do P90X!

Last summer, I went on a crusade to 'save the dog' by jogging with her or at least walking her daily. She lost a little weight and was so much healthier, happier. This summer, again, all over again, because she's even bigger than last year. Poor animal. And believe me, taking this animal on a walk/jog isn't fun because I usually end up DRAGGING her 110 lb body half the distance! She will actually stop and lay down. Picture a mother on a country road, dog tied to jogging stroller, two kids on bikes and one small blond boy pushing at a dog's BUTT to get her up and moving!

We are a movie, just waiting to happen.



My dog has a keen sense of who is small enough to have food at eye level. She has some kind of radar with the midgets. One particular child, she has stolen every single solitary piece of food from for two years straight. He hates her. When these particular friends show up, the dog gravitates toward this single child (they have 5 children in total), fully knowing he will have some kind of food at some point in his visit. And she always, always gets it without biting him or hurting him. She just reaches up and gently takes it out of his hands. We should perhaps praise her dexterity for not hurting this child, but as his cries and screams of "Maggie stole my hot dog! Maggie stole my pizza!" are much louder, she usually gets yelled at.

My dog will lay in front of whatever door we are using and will not move her body. In the winter, we use the garage door~she lays in front of it on one of those coco mats. We all have to literally STEP OVER her body or in the children's case, LEAP OVER her body to get out the door. In the summer, we use the sliding glass doors on the deck. She again, lays on a decorative, outdoor mat I have out there. We open the door, and jump. She never moves. In my head, I'm silently screaming "MOVE YOUR ASS DOG!".

My dog is also, I'm sure, a lesbian. Which is fine, because I don't have a sexual bigot issue. (also, I am not one of those people that says "I know lots of homosexuals" and really doesn't..I hate that about people! Jesus!) Anyway, she is, at the very least, sexually confused. She came to us already spayed, without pregnancy or puppies. She is a humper. She gets on other dogs, she gets on benches, and occasionally, a child who has fallen off a snowmobile. We have been outside sledding and my husband will yell "KID DOWN!" and we run to save whatever child is being molested by our beloved hound. Confounded animal!

Our dog is a night barker. Last night, for example, at 2am, I was awoken by barking. And she really barks, if anyone is familiar with a lab's bark, it's not a little yip. She barks. I jump out of bed to run to the window, look down into our front yard, where the movement light has come one and see one yellow lab barking at one skunk. I immediately run to the children's rooms to shut their windows, as I know what the outcome of this battle will be. I am too late! The skunk has done it's duty and my dog has run down the yard, rolling and rolling.

I now own 'skunk dog'. We attempted a bath, with gloves. We were unsuccessful. She will simply have to wear it out.

Our dog drives us nuts. She does. It can be 90 degrees outside and she will come and sit right next to us on our feet. I can lay on the deck on a towel after playing in the pool with the kids and again, I will detect a faint smell, look over and she'll be within inches of me, laying down. She will take a ball we throw to her, and run. She never, ever has brought one back. Ever. We just accept that we'll have to buy cheap tennis balls. The kids all are hoping that one day they will come upon a hidden pile of them. She eats Barbies. But not the heads. She eats the bodies. She runs away with our flip flops, and frankly, any one's flip flops. She especially likes the ones that say 'Adidas' or 'Nike' or 'Under Armour'. The $2.50 ones from Old Navy just don't cut it.

I have tried, after bathing her, to brush her teeth. She takes the brush and eats it. She does enjoy some Crest.

She is all tongue and brown eyes. She looks like she's smiling.

She is gentle beyond belief. One afternoon this spring, the 3 yr old asks "Mom, can I go jump on trampoline?" as I am finishing the dishes. I told her yes and I would be right out in a few minutes to watch her, as our trampoline and play area is about 25 yards from the deck. I watch her walk out, Maggie the Dog waddling right behind her. She climbs up the step onto the trampoline, inside the enclosure and begins jumping away. The dog sits down, eyes keen on this child and I think, 'she's not so bad after all'.

Marley may be Maggie the Dog's cousin..

Dear Dad

Dear Dad,

This is a letter from your only child.

I embark on this emotional exorcism with Father's Day upon us and I have no father.

My children have a beautiful father. My husband is as close to a perfect man as one can ask for.



I had an imperfect father. His imperfections are part of the reason I loved him so.



My imperfect father left me, not of his own accord, of course. Cancer is a choice no one makes willingly. His absence has broken me.





Dear Dad,

Hi, how are you? Do you miss me?

The boys just finished yet another school year, the twins had beautiful report cards! One with straight A's and one with all A's and one solitary B. AND: to be specific, those were the FINAL AVERAGES. I know you like specifics.

Your third grandson finished first grade with his ego intact with wonderful progress and made some incredible strides this year. Not only has he begun to trust his environment, he has some great little friends, as well. His confidence has grown and he is finally beginning to read. He has demonstrated very keen math skills. He is an amazing athlete. Or, better put, he will be.

Your granddaughter is a chip of the ole' block. You would be amazed at her intellect and character. She is all fire, all cinnamon. Her character will take her places, we have complete and total faith in her. She's smart and she's sassy. She would rather face consequences than admit to failure. Believe me, she can take a spanking.

The boys just finished Little League. One twin did not play, and we didn't make him. He is a bookish child, and the only sport he's done to date without major prodding was football. You would undoubtedly LOVE watching the Little League games, I know you would..most grandparents do. But knowing your distinct love of baseball, I know you would love sitting in one of those folding 'chairs in a bag', right behind home plate.

I like to think that you would praise my parenting. I doubt myself. Parenting is full of doubt and all these dumb potholes..and you always said if there was a pothole on a road, I would definitely and without a doubt, hit it.

I hit them daily, Dad.



I want you to know that taking care of Mom is really, really hard. It's so hard that I wonder if this is why you drank yourself to sleep every night. Am I mistaken in that she drove you to it?

Do you know that she has bedsores on her back? Do you know that I take care of them? Do you know that she doesn't know what day it is? She came to ask me this morning and then asked my husband later in the day. She doesn't know what today is, Dad. She doesn't know how to pay her bills, she doesn't know how to make a phone call. She sleeps 18 hours a day. She sleeps in your recliner. She doesn't eat very much, usually what I force down her throat. Do you know that she has accidents? Do you know that she is so, so very lonely that she intrudes on our personal time? Did you help to do this? Do you understand how isolated she feels and how isolated we feel? It is unfair of us to constantly make her go to her apartment when she is lonely...however, it is equally unfair of her to expect me to entertain her on a minute by minute basis. I don't think she even understands what she's doing.

She is an amazing actress. I think I have you to thank for this..as she more than likely had to cover bruises and smile pretty for the public. She loved you. She is broken, too.



Do you know that your mother is still living? Can you even believe that? My God she's 103 years old. I know you believe it because you always said she was too mean to ever die. I admit, I am not a good granddaughter to her. I am busy with four children. I also have to thank you for this, for having me late in life so I wouldn't have to deal with her and Mom simultaneously.

Do you know that I still have the same best friend? She has three kids. Her husband helped my husband coaching Little League. Aren't you glad for me? You always told me she was a keeper, and she has proven to be. I am so glad to have her, she is one of the strongest, solidifying parts of my life. It's never, ever hard to be her friend. She is a wonderful mother, she laughs with her children.

I miss you very much. I miss talking and reading with you. I think, of course, of all the things you are missing..but not as much as I used to. I am trying NOT to feel sorry for myself any more. I surely didn't want to lose you. But more than that, I know you most certainly didn't want to leave.

I am most sorry for the boys, that they don't know you. The young men that had a place in my life or in our home all remember you fondly, I know they do. Not many could forget you. You were fair and fun and real.

I want you to know, I'm trying very hard to take care of my mother. I'm failing at it, much worse than you..while you may have been abusive to a point..you at least provided for her in your death, fully knowing she would not be able to provide for herself. I wish you would have left me with some kind of 'guidebook', a manual of sorts to figure out this windy road I'm on.

There are so many potholes, Dad.

I write this with Father's Day looming over me...and I'm sad because I realize I don't remember what I got for you on your last Father's Day. I hope it was good.

You were good.

Ten Year Old Boys

Ten year old boys.

As the mother of ten year old twin boys, I feel as though I am qualified to say the following:

They are complete and utter idiots.

There. No, I do not feel better, because I love my sons and their report cards tell me that they are not fools.

Why, then, do they act as such?

The day begins with the struggle to awaken. Get out of the bed. Get onto the feet. Get into the bathroom. Getting one or both of these boys out of bed in the morning is like extracting an unwilling molar. Painful and possibly bloody.

One twin has his own bedroom due to his needs. These needs are as follows, although not in any specific order: 1) his need to read at night, and sometimes weekend mornings 2) his need for organization to all things 'his' 3) his need to sleep in whenever possibly and 4) his need for space. I understand all of these needs, because he inherited most of these traits from me. He is, too, a mean, nasty little cuss at times and we have found that if given the space to decompress, he is nicer. This twin emerges from slumber still catatonic and no one is to speak or look at him until he has gone to the bathroom and eaten his breakfast. We have ALL learned this lesson the hard way. Even after breakfast, we sometimes try to leave him alone or face certain death.

The other twin is a mess. Just a plain mess. This child drops his clothes, underpants, sock, glasses, whatever, whenever, wherever. He doesn't have a care in the world. His clothes are jammed into his drawers, wrinkled and (YES THEY ARE CLEAN) he has no care at all that he looks dishelved at best. This twin shares a room with 7 yr old brother. For two reasons, basically. One is that we only have a four bedroom home and in planning the home, did not include fourth and girl child. Secondly, other twin cannot deal with his own twin or 7 yr old brother.

So, this twin gets up every day at 6 am and goes to the bathroom. Every single solitary day of his life. The kid could wind his watch by his bowels. It's amazing and his father is incredibly jealous. Again, I have nothing to add on this because only a MAN would find it 'just wonderful' to be able to have a BM every day at the same time for ten years.

I digress.

Ten year old boys are lazy. Like, super duper, if it doesn't suit their needs, LAZY. I have heard also that this does not get better in near future years. These enigmas, these beings, are forged from my body but sometimes I feel totally detached from them. I see them, I see the the physical similarities they possess that are like that of my own, or my husband's, or from a family member. I remember rocking them, I remember feeding them. I documented their accomplishments, the first steps, first tooth. I love these children.

Then they open the mouth that God bestowed unto them and I want to put them in the Goodwill Box.

If the sheer stupidity of their questions continue throughout the teen years I may have to be medicated. I find myself YELLING the answers because literally, the 7 yr old knows the answer~why are you asking me this??!! I have never, ever understood the need for the rhetorical question. If one already knows the answer, why ask it? My ten year old sons are the new meaning of the term 'rhetorical questions'.

I have also noticed this year that ten year old boys have a pronounced hearing loss. To accompany their vision loss, I presume.

"Good morning, rise and shine~" is normally how I start their morning. After rising approx 20 minutes before the first battle of the day, I chug down my first cup of coffee and pour another. I walk up the stairs and enter twin bedroom. I bend down and kiss his head, under this pile of hair that he REFUSES to cut, and utter my morning sentence. He rolls over and I say "5 more minutes...OK?"


He then asks me what time it is since his vision is impaired and his clock is directly next to his bed.

I walk into bedroom two and find other twin somewhere in his bed. Sometimes sideways, sometimes completely turned around. His covers are all over his bed, floor. One pillow on floor, on top of his head. I rub his head and try to awaken him. He pops his head up, eyes closed..."how many more minutes?" to which I reply "5". I leave the bedroom, fully knowing that the 7 yr old is buried in my own bed, and I save him for last because he's my favorite in the morning. He still has the morning, stinky-sweet smell that hasn't left yet at age seven. His hair is everywhere on his father's red pillow, only this time I'm the one who won't part with the curls. I find him, with his little fists curled up under his chin and his eyelashes are so long. I take my time with him, I wake him. He stretches and pops up and away he goes. Fifteen minutes later, after the 7 yr old has already gotten dressed and eaten his cinammon toast, I am using my own vocal abilities to YELL the twins out of bed. I keep thinking that if I yell loud enough, the sheer force of my voice will MOVE them. I am wrong.

When they finally arrive for breakfast, they have awoke the toddler and come down in such a rush that I find myself throwing toast at them. At some point before school, there will be a fight between two or all three boys.

Then the tripping, the falling. They can't walk into a room without one or both of them falling down or knocking something over. I haven't sat at our dinnertable in 6 mos without one of them spilling a drink, dropping a utensil or food, or falling out of his chair. Last night a full glass of OJ went literally flying off the table, hit the french doors before ricocheting across the floor sending sticky juice all over the glass, cupboard, table, chair, wall, and floor.

The smell of them is sometime gag worthy. And I realize I haven't even hit puberty with these two! I will be suicidal then!!! I tote a Febreeze container all over the upstairs, spraying their rooms, bedding, closets and hampers. HAMPERS! Hampers are the third reich of hell. The towels, the clothes, the sweaty socks. Their bathroom is frightful, I only go in to clean it, once a week, and it is painful.

See, I take time to deliberate on this subject because I have 8 more years until they go to college and I'm not sure if we'll make it.

While I am often (ok, more than often) irritated by my two older sons, I can attest to them being very nice kids. They are kind. They don't pick on other kids (exception: 7 yr old brother). They don't mouth off their teachers. They don't fight at school. They are intelligent (outside of the home).

I don't pretend to be a kid lover. I'm not. I am a book lover. Kids take away from books. But I do LOVE my kids, sometimes I just am not crazy about them. I think all mothers feel this way. I think. If they don't then they are just kidding themselves.


In all honesty, I can say that my boys have brought a sense of reality to my life. I had no sibs, I had no idea what families do. We watched The Waltons and I thought that was what big families did at night.


In our house it's similiar, only not so much.


"Goodnight Mom, can you pack my lunch but not with carrots because I really want a bag of Doritoes instead and I need money for the book fair ok thanks goodnight oh and don't forget my jersey and omgosh where are my American Eagle jeans??"


Our seven year old has a different approach to bedtime. He tells us he loves us and goodnight. He then proceeds to tell his older brother all the things he hates about him. We used to encourage him to say nice things, but that's like saying "it's ok to lie"...so we let him.

We have no idea what we are doing. I wrote before that 'perfect parenting' is a myth.

The fact is, we have four kids. Chances are, one will be screwed up.
I will try my hardest to keep him/her out of prison.