Saturday Morning Swim Switch

We walk into the steamy pool area of our local high school every Saturday morning with heavy winter gear; coats, hats, gloves, scarfs, boots and for my daughters, swim suits buried underneath those tantamount layers. It was an idea spawned from my obsessive compulsive need to make sure my girls never fear the water as I did/do. Well that, and the fact that their two best friends are competitive swimmers.

The girls are taking to it like fish in the......strike that.  Like sea bass on a hot grill waiting to be served to Oprah and Gayle. They are all in, fully invested and they make my heart skip a beat when I watch them glide along the water as I could never do.  There is a rather infamous story of me told by The Leaders of The Free World. It has been embellished over the years, I am certain of that.  And depending upon who recounts the tale, it is either told as a horrifying experience or the most hilarious thing ever witnessed at a lake house.

We had been boating and floating most of the day.  After docking the boat, we cranked up the Toby Keith tunes and sat at the edge of the water, drinking our Corona's and enjoying the sacredness of our much too infrequent reunions.  As the sun grew more intense, we all slowly drifted out into the lake, standing amongst the fish and squishy, tickly, disgusting plant life that inhabits the bottom of a lake.  I was uncomfortable at best but the conversation was getting deep and so was I.  Without realizing it, I apparently backed off a ledge of some sort and was starting to go under, grasping for my friend with one arm while carefully keeping my Corona arm safely above sea level, or lake level as the case may be.

But my girls will never know the agony of choosing to save their own life or that of a frosty cold beverage, for they will be the greatest of swimmers.  The one thing that saddens me at these Saturday morning swim sessions is witnessing the parade of divorced families using this noon hour as the drop off point for the switch from mom's house to dad's or vice versa. I see the bags packed full of weekend gear, I see the mom's giving those extra long goodbye hugs and I see the kids who don't appear bothered at all, for they have settled into this life, this routine that is comfortable and common to them.  "Don't worry, kids are resilient", they all say.

And I am reminded how ugly the face of divorce can be. I clearly remember my ex coming to pick up the kids for the first "switch day". I remember the twin whom I had guessed would be falling apart was brave and stoic, while her sister screamed and reached for me as she was carried out the door.  I could hear her screams all the way to the car.  I shut the door behind me and slid down to the floor, like a hollowed out tree, there was nothing left inside of me. I was numb.

While cleaning out some old files, I recently ran across a photo taken of Mr. Sunshine with the kids, just after our separation. It was a black and white photo used in a campaign brochure for his run at a seat in the State Assembly.  The Commando is standing next to him with his arm around his dad and a look on his face that brought me right back to that empty, hollowed out vortex I once inhabited. I looked at the innocence of a child who was being manipulated by a man terrified of losing his children.

I saw the brightness that has only recently returned to his eyes and I also saw a little guy who wanted nothing more than to please his dad.  Smile for the camera, let's tell the voting public we are a happy family, while behind the scenes, he was witnessing the unraveling of his father.  Mommy left us....mommy took the toaster so I can't make toast for breakfast, as he broke down crying in front of them for the very first time.  For years, I couldn't make toast without one of them screaming at me for taking daddy's toaster, the same toaster I had had since I first moved out on my own at the age of 19. It was only recently one of them finally opened up to me about what happened that day.  He must have been holding in all of his guilt, anger and raw emotion when the toaster's disappearance served as the catalyst for him to release it.

Eventually, as all divorced families do, we settled into our own routine; that is, until he made the decision to commit a felony fraud landing himself in a country club to serve 30 months of cooking, gardening and exercise duty while I usher the kids through this most difficult of transitions.  I've been through the unraveling of our son and I've seen him put back together again.  I am seeing more subtle signs from the girls.  Just as in that black and white photo, when they were too young to truly process their pain, they are now too strong to let this openly bother them; but the truth is there, if you look closely enough.  They are taking their emotions out on each other, as only twins could do.

Sitting through teacher conferences last week, I was told in each case, one by one, all three of these children are "gifted writers". It is up to me to nurture this in them.  I know what it is to have it, but I don't know what it is to believe in it from an early age.  We are always writing stories, or telling stories, or imagining a great title for a book or noticing humanity for the good and the bad.  Soaking it in until we realize we can internalize it, process it and then tell it in a way that is earth bending.

Watching the American Idol preliminary auditions recently, one of the girls quickly surmised a pattern.  She noticed when a contestant has a gut wrenching back story told prior to their audition, they will inevitably be a good singer.  I was amazed at how quickly she tuned into this.  As obvious as it is to us, that's some pretty heady stuff for an 8 year old.  As I tucked her into bed weeks later, she told me she had come to another realization. "Mommy, I am living my own back story right now, aren't I", she asked with an intended sad inflection and a heart-melting frowney face.

Yes, you are honey. This is a hard time, a struggle of your very own but just like those singers on Idol, you know what happens when they have a difficult back story, right?  Then with confidence, she nodded and concluded she too would be a winner.

I see these families on Saturday morning through a black and white photo lens and I wonder about their lives. Are they being good and true to their children, forsaking their own anger and bitterness to do what is best for them or are they using them as weapons in their own sick battles for power, control, money or just simply to say they won? When I can feel the tension from the top row of the bleachers, I pray for them. Then I sit back and watch my beautiful girls, who have overcome so much and I pray for them too.  One of which is currently writing her autobiography.

Fasten Your Seatbelts, It's Christmas

In the midst of all the struggle, in the depth of this dark time, I am fortunate to receive daily doses of unconditional laughter. Whether it's from a work mate who does spot on impersonations of some of the bigger personalities in our office or from my delightfully brilliant children, who all have unprecedented vocabularies combined with fully developed humor, understanding of puns (and how to use them) and even, at times, a subtle sarcasm that may not make me laugh but certainly makes me appreciate their command of the English language and the nuances of which, many will never fully master.

(This is not meant to sound like one of those frothing at the mouth Christmas letters, they do language well, that's all I'm saying for now.)

My kids know how to use words, for the most part correctly and creatively.  I spend a lot of time with them spinning words and throwing out clever uses of synonyms, homonyms and antonyms as well as contrasting the differences between similes and metaphors. I realize they are 12 and 8 but truly, it's never to early to give your children what very well may be the one and only gift you, yourself have.  The gift of wordsmithing (which according to spell checker, is not really a word).  Maybe I should be teaching them about the meaning of the word irony instead.

My precious little minions know how I delight when they come up with an example to show me their understanding of word usage.  Just a few days ago, one of the twins put her brown, furry glove on one hand and left her other hand uncovered.  I watched as she proudly held them up in front of her sister, one of her 3rd grade friends and her parents.  She exclaimed, "Look, at my hands.  Get it?  I have a bare hand and a bear hand!"  Her sister and I were thrilled.  The other little girl was busy watching the words fly over her head while her parents gave one of those half-smiles you get when they are obviously thinking, oh shit, I think we might need to be reading more books to her.

Tonight, as we finished our third batch of Christmas cookies and put them ever so delicately into our tree shaped cookie jar.  I spun on my heels, looked them all square in the eyes, motioned them to come closer to me so they would know I was serious and said, "I need to ask you all one very important question. Who stole the cookies from the cookie jar?"

I love these moments when they realize you can draw people in, make them wait in suspense, then deliver a dose of laughter to break the tension.

Finally, perhaps the best story of the week came from the younger of the twin girls (by four minutes, no less).  As we were pulling out of the driveway, she asked if I had noticed her buckling her seat belt without having to be reminded.  It has been one of those things that I have struggled with since gaining full custody of them.  Apparently their dad and grandma let them sit in the front seat when they were too young and let them sit unbuckled in the back seat at any age.  I never got much argument when we were sharing custody but in my full time care, they somehow feel they deserve such ridiculous privileges. 

Can I ride in the front seat?

No.

Why not?

Because it's against the law and it's unsafe.

But dad let us do it all the time.

I'm sorry honey, I'm not willing to risk your lives, I'd rather have you alive than have you happily sitting in the front seat right up until the time we crash and you are taken from me forever.  Not gonna do it.  Now sit down and buckle up.

I can't believe you stopped at that yellow light mom.  Dad used to run yellow/red lights all the time.  One time, when we were late for church and we were with Sherry and her kids, he actually ran over a train track when the lights were flashing and the gates had closed.  

Again kids, I'm sorry - that doesn't make it okay.  Mommy is not willing to take those risks with you.  I want you to be safe.  Now sit down and buckle up!

Back to the original story, here I was with one of them telling me she has decided to buckle up on her own.  And believe me when I say, this is not the child I would have expected to give up without a much longer battle.  Think Braveheart. I frequently look at her and imagine her with blue paint smeared upon her delicate cheek bones.  She is nothing, if not dramatic.  So I intrepidly ask, "sweetie, why are you buckling up without mommy reminding you?"

Oh, that's easy she says.  You know how it's Christmas time right?  And at this time of year, if you were to write a story about a horrible car accident with a family inside, it would have to be the youngest child who dies, I mean right?  It's Christmas so it has to be horribly tragic, it would be the youngest to be written out of the story because that has so much more meaning.

In perfect harmony, her twin sister and older brother unbuckle their seat belt and yell "Woooohooooo".

What is a mother, a writer, a proud mother-writer or writing mother supposed to say to this?

"Sit down and buckle up, all of you".  As I drive away with a smile knowing my kids are already thinking in terms of what could make a good story.

Yet simultaneous fear and dread ascend,  knowing they know how to tell a good story, perhaps even good enough to fool me one day.

Merry Christmas to you all and make sure your youngest children are always buckled up safe and sound, at least during the holidays.

Gemini Hearts - Gracious One

I love this photo of my sweet little Gracious Tenacious.  She's the older half (by four minutes) of my identical twin girls. The photo just screams Happy Memorial Day to me. Perhaps it's the flag in the background or more likely; it's because this Memorial Day marked the 8th birthday of my girls.

I've been doing my best to remind them to stop growing. To freeze in their current state since they were around 4 years old but much like an cocooned butterfly or a perfectly formed rosebud, they just continue to move, change and grow; opening up to reveal a little more beauty that lies within.

I was invited to bring the kids to a Brewers game last week. With Zen Boyfriend, we are a group of seven. It was one of those business events where your contractor invites you to join them in their luxury suite complete with food, drinks and a smoking hot view just over the third base dugout. Our host would later comment how he thought we had roughly 43 kids at the event and 40 of them were mine.  He also noted how well behaved they were. I think he was being polite.  They had their moments.

Two of my children are like a fire and gasoline. While a moth seeks out a flame, gasoline generally doesn't; however, these two children delight in it. It's the Warrior Princess with her new found strength and opinions versus her brother, The Commando. Quiet little Gracious sometimes get's lost in the ensuing fray or rather I should say, she chooses to remove herself from it.

Hence at some point during the game, I noticed she had been missing for quite some time. When I polled the other kids, they all said the same thing, "oh, she's been up there taking to some strange lady all night". Say what?

I looked behind me and there they were, sitting in the suite's luxurious lounge chairs, each with a hand tucked  under their chin supported by an elbow resting on the arm of their respective chairs, leaning into each other looking as if they were discussing the various philosophies of Eastern religion. I let them be.

When the fire and gasoline had reached maximum combustible potential, I began to round up the troops to leave. We had made it through the famous sausage races, stood up and sang for the seventh inning stretch and had a comfortable lead with a score of 5 to zero. It was time to go.

I approached the woman who had been so enthralled with my daughter and thanked her for keeping her company all night. I told her this little girl was my introspective, shy one and that it was uncharacteristic of her to speak with someone with whom she had just met. The woman then explained that she herself was painfully shy. She came to these business events with her husband but dreaded the random chit chat required.

The woman thanked me for sharing my daughter with her. She said it was a delightful privilege and one of the  more intelligent conversations she had encountered at one of these stuffy, unnerving business events. In that crowded room of overstuffed lounge chairs and even more overstuffed personalities, egos and agendas, two people with quiet hearts and sweet, thoughtful contemplations found each other.

To my Gracious one - I want you to know you may not always get all the attention but I see you.  You are an old spirit, filled with many lifetimes of wisdom, at peace with the present moment and bursting with an inner beauty that draws people to you like a moth to a flame - a gentle, warm, non-combustible flame that will flicker and shine for your entire lifetime.

Gemini Heart Series - Soul Sisters

I am often asked what is it like to raise identical twins. It's a loaded question for me, which generally ends with me asking the asker if they have time to pull up a chair and let me fill them in on the copious notes I have taken throughout the clinically controlled, scientifically documented nature vs. nurture experiment known as raising twins. It is nothing short of fascinating to watch them at their best and at their worst. 

As such, I've decided to feature a regular post here at Stalking Sunsets and by regular I mean when something happens to warrant a post or when the mood strikes me.  This is a case of the former. I feel it is indeed warranted to share; ultimately because I want these girls to have a record of the years that will eventually cloud with age and clutter of the adult female mind, but also because it's damn good stuff.

I suppose it goes without saying, identical twins have a bond like no other. I didn't fully understand the depth of the bond until I watched helplessly as the older twin (by four minutes) endured the sight of her little sister screaming from the pain of a ruptured appendix, surgery, complications, nausea, tenderness, etc. Everyone was focused on the one in pain but looking back, I believe the experience was actually more difficult for the one who had to watch. It was as if she felt the pain, the uncertainty and the fear deep within her soul.

She would later write in her journal, "Once my sister was in the hosbidell and it was very hard for me watching them poke her, lisaning to the screaming and crying but every day I would go to the hosbidell, after school of course because she is my sister, my one and only twin sister".

One day during her hospital stay, my daughter was asked by one of my friends if she thought it was hard on her sister to see her in pain.  She answered the question by telling a story:

Well it's kinda like this. There was this one time when the ice cream truck came down the street and we all grabbed our money and ran out the door just in time to catch him.  After we bought our ice cream, a whole crowd turned around to walk away and somebody bumped my sister, causing her ice cream to drop on top of all the gravel along the curb.  It was ruined and there was nothing we could do about it because the ice cream truck was already too far gone. You know how that would make you feel, right? If everybody else had ice cream and you didn't, it would make you want to cry.

To which my friend replied, did it make you cry? And with a slight nod of her head we understood exactly how deeply her sister must have been affected by this horrible "hosbidell" experience. It made us, sitting their on her bed, want to cry for them both.

When they were once again reunited at home, this is how they slept together that first night back. To call it a bond seems trite and cliche. It is more like a deeply entrenched connection where they are literally one half of the same soul.