Children of a Lesser Mom

They rhyme in rhythm
and compound the energy
surrounding them.
They frolic in the fray
astounding them
and receive the love that
is handed them.
They usher words into gaps
where silence drowned them
giving voice and sound to them.
They seek truth  from the lies
that were bound to them
knowing it can be found when
they are on this earthly ground
though much is confounding them.
Their laughter is joy profound
and I, me, am humbly gifted 
to simply be around for them.

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.

Winter Wonderland

The kids and I have been enjoying the holiday season and the snow, believe it or not. This has been the first year in the ten years I've lived here I've decided to embrace the snow. We've gone sledding and I learned it's great exercise, climbing back up those hills wearing 20 pounds of layers.  I may have embraced the snow but mama still doesn't do cold.

We've adopted a new family member, Sable the dog who heals hearts. We've done snowmen and rode around on an icy lake and we are going to ski as a family later in February. I should preface that. It's skiing but not on a real mountain - more like a very large hill here in Wisconsin. We capped it all off by celebrating my oldest son's 25th birthday!  Yikes, I must be getting old.

I am feeling so blessed by the daily presence of my children. Some days, I get run down, rather beat down by the grind but then I remember how lucky I am to have them full time now.  Here are some of my favorite shots from Christmas and January. (The dates are incorrect on the last six photos - leave it to me to still not be able to figure out how to work a digital camera, which is further proof of my age.)

We are supposed to get two feet of snow this week. Maybe we should have gotten a taller dog.

The Commando recruited some help.

The twins preparing for the Waukesha Christmas parade.

Gracious Tenacious with Sable.

Our beautiful tree.

The dog who will soon be buried in two feet of snow.

My favorite Christmas pic of The Commando.

Thanks to my cousin Debbie in Oklahoma!

One of the girls insisted on buying this for her "Bubba".

#1 Son and his beautiful girlfriend, Melissa.

The kids on Kelly Lake, just north of Green Bay.

Just completed a Sable rescue mission on Kelly Lake.

The beautiful Ms. V at her lake house. She and hubs are the perfect hosts!

Kids at the local supper club for dinner with their friend, the Elk.

Homemade hat with Christmas goodies.

No caption can do justice to this picture.

The Commando's band concert in December, September!

My beauties.

Mama bear and her cubs.

The Commando's signature look.

#1Son's friends came to his party. We went to an old bowling alley where we had to do manual scoring.

25 YEARS AWESOME!

Appreciation Revelation

The Commando reduced me to a pile of tears and goose bumps earlier this evening. He sat me down and gave me a five minute speech on how much he appreciates all I do for him, how he thinks I am the best mom ever and how he just loves, loves, loves me.  He thanked me for getting him a dog, keeping the house tidy, paying the bills, the cooking, the laundry - pretty much everything I do day in and day out.  Then he insisted on carrying a load of laundry for me, up two flights of stairs to his sister's room.

Once there, he remained joyful, playing with his sisters (unprecedented), telling them they should appreciate me too.  "Girls, you need to tell mom how much you love her", as he came up behind me and wrapped me up in a big bear hug. 

I was suspicious at first.  Am I being prepped for some bad news or an expensive request?  Nope.  It was real. Complete and total appreciation of me.  After what we've been through, the contrast is stark.  He has not only dealt with his anger, he has surpassed all of my wildest dreams and begun to feel empathy, something I had never seen him do.  The inability to empathize is a trademark characteristic of the narcissistic personality of his father.  Yeah me!  I'm on my way to raising a boy who will be kind, caring and most of all, happy.  To say I feel like I have a new son doesn't even come close to describing the changes he has undergone.

It is remarkable, simply stunning.

Later, as the girls were getting ready for bed, I asked them to write a thank you note to their school counselor, who had bought them each a little bag of goodies for Christmas.  I know I can spin and embellish, edit and clean-up words but this is word for word what came out of their 8 year old souls:

Twin #1 - Dear Mrs. -----, Thank you so much! I loved the gingerbread pal. I wish I had one billion more left! One more thank you for always being there for me and my sister.  I use the crayons and activity book all the time. I hope u have a very fun 2011.  With love.  (Then she drew a picture of the counselor giving the gift bag to her).

Twin #2 - Dear Mrs.------, Thank you so, so, so much.  I love all the gifts. I think it was really nice of you to think of me when I was sick (she was out that day with a stomach flu). If there is anything I can do in return, just call.  Merry Christmas and happy new year!

And believe me when I say, if the school counselor ever needed something from either of these girls, all she would need to do is call.

My heart if filled with love and appreciation for these children and for the opportunity I have been given to change the course of their lives; to allow the true-self of an angry little boy to emerge and shine. Contrast the happy tears from earlier tonight with the tears from just over a month ago as I watched him cave into his rage and I worried I might have lost him forever. He once was lost, but now he is found.  I'm dying to get to know him as he excitedly prepares for his first band concert, slowly opens up to his sisters and becomes all that he was meant to be.

Those things, you know the ones, that just keep happening for a reason, which seem really, really bad, like you're not sure you're going to survive them but then you do and you realize they were sent to you as a gift are truly amazing, aren't they? I know I am appreciating the hell out of them right about now. I am visualizing a shower of appreciation blanketing our little yellow cape cod with a light dusting of snow falling ever so softly just outside my window.

She Let Go

I have had two serious loves since my divorce from Mr. Sunshine in 2005.  Both lasted between a year and a half to two years if you count that last four to five months of trying to reconcile before you decide it is really over.  Both broke my heart but in vastly different ways.  The first a man with a well thought out, pragmatic past, present and future meticulously planned. Not the sort of thing that would mesh with my, let's just go ahead and say it, somewhat unconventional, colorful past, present and most likely future.  Ironically, said colorful past made me who I was/am, the woman he fell in love with, but when it came to the ultimate decision, or shortly after I had met his entire family.....to this day, not sure which one tipped the scales, I was told he couldn't do it anymore.  His anguish was apparent, his tears were real and just like that, the man I had imagined to be "the one", was gone. 

The second was the brilliant Mr. S. who seduced me with a foreign accent, hot body and intellectual stimulation beyond my wildest imagination. So what if English was his fourth language, I could always take him when it came to grammar, syntax and stupid English figures of speech.  But hyperbole and sarcasm were his aces in the hole.  I stood at his feet in constant admiration of his ability to battle it out with me in the language I had bathed in my entire life, like an alcoholic, not ever fully satisfied until I had acquired more vocabulary, more uses of an oxymoron, more synonyms, more guide to picturesque speech. While he had breezed through French, Armenian, Arabic and oh by the way, English.  Bully for me.

But in the end, the one who wanted me for all of my crazy ideas, accepted me for all past indiscretions and proposed to love me forever, Mr. S., was more fucked up than anyone of my past loves (and if you've read this entire blog, you know that carries some significant weight).  He imagined himself to be someone he wasn't. For example, he prided himself on having not one jealous bone in his body, absolutely no issues with trust; yet I later discovered my computer was being monitored 24/7.  It was insidious, stealth-like deceit but unintentional; as honest to daisies, he believes he is what he claims to be.  Nonetheless, second big love, second heart break.

Why the reflux of past love on this, the dawn of a new year?  Good question. I believe it has to do with letting go.

In a time of reflection and transition such as the new year, what does one do?  Do we wipe the slate clean, let go and chart a new course or do we give thanks that life is just as it is, know that what we have is ours, understand it, claim it and then let the universe show us our own personal end result, that we ourselves brought to fruition?

I believe it is a combination of letting go and believing in your choices.  This year for me was defined by the loss of Mr.S- good riddance - and the gain of my children as their full time provider.  They amaze me, defy me, teach me how to be a better mother, get me outside to play in the snow, make me do the most unimaginable things to fight for them and ultimately convince me that my purpose, i.e., to write, has now been given a meaning beyond what I could have ever begun to imagine.  This is not just about me anymore, this is not just my journey, it's our story.

And from this point forward in my blog, I share their lessons with you.

I let some meatballs stay in the fridge a bit too long and mold started to develop.  My warrior princess lives for meatballs so it was with trepidation I decided to show her the Rubbermaid container with the moldy meatballs.  Honey, this is what happens when meatballs outlive their useful life.  Look, this one has eyeballs, furry eyeballs.  She was incensed, disgusted and appalled - questioning her belief in meatballs for ever after.

A few days later, we all sat down to watch the movie, Babe.  I told the kids it would be sad at times but they would feel good at the end.  When it ended, they questioned me, how could you let us watch a movie with so much sadness?

But didn't it end okay?  Sometimes life gives you sadness but the point of the movie is to believe in yourself, even if everyone else thinks you're crazy. If a thought nags at you, and won't go away then you MUST pursue it. You will be given hardships and obstacles along the way but you cannot let go, do you know why that is?

Yes, the Warrior Princess replied with the tone of a balloon losing its air, we get it mom, life is like a meatball, sometimes it gets moldy.

There is nothing more I can add to that other than to give credit to Robin Thomas, a/k/a Bert, a/k/a, my soul mate who has known me since the time we sat on her bed as young girls and rolled our hair together.  She sent me the card you see at the top of this post.  It is me with red, curly hair, saggy breasts and legs that can still stop a man in his tracks.

Forging a hole through this universe.  I WILL scream past my limitations and defy each and every furry meatball that comes my way.

Happy New Year.

xoxox

Love to all, Zen Mama

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.

Before Monday

Monday is the day. Mr. Sunshine reports to his federal prison work camp a/k/a, jail. I have spent the past few weeks doing something that is quite uncomfortable for me. It is not in my nature, not a part of my DNA.  I have been asking for help.

The first and most important item of business was to find someone to watch my girls from the time they spill out of the bus to the time I get home from doing that which supports us all.  I sent out a broadcast email to the moms in my girls brownie troop.  I expected it to take a few days to shake out, perhaps even thought I might need to go to plan B, which was the suggestion of the school guidance counselor for us to take the request to the wider school community at large.

Within 20 minutes, all arrangements were made.  Not only that, I had extra people volunteer who had to be turned away.  The girls had people fighting over who could get to keep them. When I told them what was happening, my little Warrior Princess quickly calculated the number of people who volunteered and began to set up a schedule in her mind as to how we could accommodate them all.  I realized by the look in her eyes what she was up to.  Sweetie, I said, we can't have you bouncing all over the city to a different home everyday, don't you think that would be a bit much, perhaps too confusing? Wouldn't you forget where you are supposed to be on Wednesday? She knew I was going to logic her to death on this one so she agreed we should limit it, but added, maybe we could just arrange some play dates with our other friends on the weekends?  Yes honey, of course we will. Everything will work out, before Monday.

These dear friends, angels all of them - not only stepped up to provide the specific need I requested, but they went on to come up with additional things they could do for me on their own.  "Darling, why don't I feed them dinner and drive them back to your house so you won't have to worry about that on Tuesdays", my Australian friend said with her irresistible accent.  Then another mom who will have them on Thursdays realized we have brownie meetings twice a month on Thursdays.  "Let me feed them dinner on Thursdays then drop them off at the brownie meetings for you".

The offers poured in all day, with a few dads even stepping up to the plate to ask what they could do. Keep in mind, I haven't even begun to tap into the middle school network of support for my 12 year old son and I had dads from the girls school worrying about my son, asking me if he needed someone to spend "guy" time with. My mission is clear with my son.  I am excited for the opportunity to have these next two and a half years to stabilize him.  To give him one home, one safe place - where all his stuff is.  To hold him accountable and responsible for grades, chores, being a good big brother and being responsible to his community. But I can't go hunting with him or do other things guys like to do.  He has been begging me to go paint balling. Sorry, but no.  I take enough pelts with unexpected large balls being hurled at me in life.  I'm not going to volunteer for it.

My good friends in Green Bay have offered to have us up for ice fishing this year.  We've spent the summers with them fishing off the docks but never have I imagined the concept of ice fishing. Dave is one of those men that I want to be in my son's life. He's a retired fire fighter, tough as nails but funny and tender hearted  He can be a bit of a daredevil, tempting fate with his adventures but the twists and turns in life as well as the twists and turns in his neck have slowed him down. His most recent large toy purchase was an RV, that's a good indicator how far he's come.  (Sorry Dave, you know I love you.)

After all this love, after all this support.  After asking for help so uncomfortably and getting it so unconditionally, I cried. That's all I could really do.

Before Monday, I am spending this last weekend in a Tazmanian Devil-like organizing frenzy. I'm painting new shelves, making room for all the stuff the kids had at their dad's house, giving them some separate and clearly defined spaces of their own when they need that quiet time and in general, leaving not one thing undone as I begin this stage of full time, single mom.  Organization is my key to sanity. If you ever want to know when it's time to lock me up in the padded cell, just check to see if my house is messy.  If there are any remote signs of hoarding, or even an unorganized desktop - just put me away.  Yes, I know - it's a control issue, but it feels SO good.

I have remained stoic and strong in these weeks leading up to the day my children will lose their dad.  I have envisioned the life I will make for us as a magnificent journey. I have finally, fully dealt with the loss of Zen Boyfriend, who at first seemed to be ripped away from me like a lost limb, leaving me to bleed out until there was nothing left. Now I realize he was not the man I thought he was and most certainly not the influence I would want in my children's lives at this critical time. It seemed merciless but has ended up being merciful, a great blessing to not only have him gone but to have had five months to make sense of it before Monday.

The events leading up to Monday have stripped me down to the bone, raw and fresh, deeply gouged wounds inflicted by anger, hurt, loss, anxiety and fear.  I believe I waged a war with anger and hurt and I emerged victorious.  I will no longer stare into the detestable bitter face, that was my opponent.  If I am honest, I know fear and anxiety remain, but they are buried, like the layers of the earth somewhere around the transition region. What lies on top, on the upper mantle of my internal earth structure for now, is loss. The loss of my children's father. The loss of a little part of their innocence, the loss they will feel each time they look out into the audience from the stage of a school musical and realize their dad is gone. That cannot be processed before Monday.

Moon Over Scotland

I can't even begin to process the things that are happening to me at lightening speed so I'm going to slow it down and give you the highlights, but not the low lights because those are just fucking depressing as shit.

I took my children to the Milwaukee Highland Games/Scottish Festival for the first time over Labor Day weekend. I told them we were essentially Scottish royalty, hailing from not only the clan Donald, but the Lord of the Clans, Macdonald.  They ate fish and chips, they watched the burly men in kilts competing in the hammer and caber competitions and they indulged me as I cried when the entire delegation of drummers and pipers walked onto the field to dedicate Amazing Grace to the policemen, firemen and American soldiers who have served or continue to serve, as well as those that have given their lives in the line of duty. I cried behind my sunglasses.  They clapped and hooped and hollered.  That was my signal that even though they didn't cry, they got it.

I delighted in watching my 12 year old son, who is the only one of my children to receive the traditional pale skin and freckles of my clan. Just as I can walk around a Scottish festival and be recognized by my naturally curly, red hair and fair skin, my son is instantly accepted, wearing camouflage shorts or a kilt, though it may take him a few years to get comfortable with the idea of a skirt and knee socks.

While we were eating lunch at an outdoor picnic table, I watched as an extremely large version of a Scottish piper made his way past us.  Keep in mind, one of my most basic tenants is my sincerest desire to not make fun of, nor harass, nor belittle any of my fellow travelers in this live; however, I found myself looking up to quickly assess the inevitable. The very same principles of physics hold true to a middle aged man who wears his jeans below his belly as do they do a man in a kilt.  When you tuck a kilt below a large protruding object, the back of said kilt will hike up in a manner that would greatly agitate even the most innocent of spectators.  In other words, his ass was showing.

And to further exasperate the experience, as is often the case with me, I said, "Look kids, the moon is shining over Scotland." Now before you get all outraged with me, you have to know, I did have enough reason to point it out when said butt cheeks were well out of the visual purview of my kids. However, when they saw him from a distance, with his calves as big as my waste, they were duly impressed.  For them, a big piper was a BIG piper, nay - a monumental piper.

Thus, I suppose the old adage once again proves true.  The bigger the better.

Footnote to this post,which has nothing whatsoever to do with this post,thus making it not so much a footnote as just a lame attempt at tacking on something that is worth mentioning but not entirely enough to dedicate a singular post:

Kids got upset with me for deleting their online internet accounts. I gave them a warning, if you go in there and trash my office again, you will all be deleted.  Eventually, I restored their restricted access.  Middle child said to me, "What were you thinking mom, how could you do that? I don't have the picture of the black and white dog anymore and you took away everything I need, I mean I don't even have Mozzarella Firefox anymore."

Can a Crouton Really Beat a Choco Taco?

School started this week for the kids. It's been a whirlwind of excitement for The Commando as he charges forth into the middle school years.  He has always been a few years ahead of his biological age, not with respect to maturity but more so in how he sees himself. Middle school brings with it a certain new level of freedom not afforded in the elementary years. He is sliding into it like a well worn pair of jeans. The locker, the class changes, gym, band, football, girls, meeting kids from other schools, and especially lunchtime.

When we are all together, this freshly minted 6th grade boy will flat out talk. I have to keep reminding myself to be happy about this because the sullen teenage years are lurking perilously around the bend. For now, he talks as if he's not going to see you for the next ten years and he wants to make sure he has emptied out his brain. There is no system to it really, it's just a steady stream of topics that roll out effortlessly. He happily and randomly opens up and lets it flow. Here's an example of our dinner dialog last night, he is telling his sisters and I about middle school lunch.

So girls, you would not believe the kind of food they have at middle school.  Yesterday I had a rib sandwich and curly fries. Can you believe they actually serve curly fries? At school? I'm tellin' ya, they have everything you could imagine. They have pizza but not just any pizza. Dude, it's Pizza Hut pizza! You can pretty much get whatever you want there, like spaghetti, chicken, pickles, even salad.  You know how you girls like salad, right? They have a real salad bar, not like that bowl of lettuce they gave us at Rose Glen. This has everything on it like croutons, cheese, all kinds of dressings, you just make your own salad with whatever you want on it. But the best thing is they have an ice cream machine. I'm not going to eat ice cream everyday, just two times per week. So on Thursday it was CHOCO-TACO baybeee. That's what I'm talkin' 'bout. I heard they have a taco bar sometimes, I can't wait to try that......

 .......at which point, patient yet hungry sister interrupts with the following......."You can stop. You had me at croutons."

Let There Be Light

When my baby girl was fighting for her life in the hospital, it came to me. It sought me out and it lifted me in perhaps what has been my darkest hour to date.  It, this mysterious force, gave me the strength to pull my sleep deprived self together and to hold her up. To look her in the eye and tell her I understood her pain but at the tender age of 7, she had no other choice but to face it the way a child faces a bad dream or a monster in the closet. I told her to kick its ass.  Note: I didn't use those exact words but the meaning was conveyed. I taught her how to breath the way I was taught when giving birth.  We did our labor breathing together. 

Breath with me baby, short breaths. She would do as I asked while her eyes locked upon mine, seemingly never blinking. Her expression was one of trust but it also conveyed a vulnerability that simply said, help me.

Out of this nightmare experience, she seemed to have a new sense of strength and confidence about her. She doesn't take any crap from her big brother anymore, she is deeply connected to her emotional side and she will speak up to any perceived tyranny or injustice in her world, even if it's defending one of her stuffed animals. Besides the courage that comes during times of crisis, we were also blessed by our many friends. My daughter and I walked out of that hospital knowing we had survived because we were hooked up to an IV that fed us more that nutrition or hydration, it fed our very souls.That's what I took from the love that surrounded us. Our friends came and they carefully weaved a tightly knit net underneath us and with that, we were safe.

One friend in particular came to see us nearly every day. We had been planning a ski trip together with our kids, the very week the ruptured appendix occurred. She had graciously booked our room, using her points in a time share plan. We obviously couldn't go. We were all bummed but there was no repercussion, no pettiness, just a constant flowing love. This same woman recently offered us a weekend at a water park resort. She wanted to gift us with something that would replace our worries with fun; taking away my heartache and substituting the laughter of my children, like music to my ears.

Off we went last weekend, the four of us at a Lake Geneva resort.  A mom, still slightly less than whole from heartbreak and kids who are living with the fear of their dad going to jail.  Add to that, the girls don't know about our breakup yet. They are asking about Michaela every day. They literally see her in everything, a bowl of noodles, a horse, a bird. I am hoping we can arrange for her to remain a part of our lives but if it doesn't work out, they have more disappointment, more suffering heading their way.

Thank goodness for our water park adventure. We played all day and night, ate pizza and ice cream, and went down one particular water slide that the kids loved but in my mind, it felt like I was on a death slide to hell.  It was narrow so you went sans a raft, mat or tube. Just you, in total darkness, for what seemed like five minutes of twisty, tormenting, torturous abyss. Did I mention it was pitch black? You don't know when you're going to turn and you don't know when it's going to end. I tried closing my eyes but that only made it scarier. I'm praying, please God - let there be light at the end of this thing and let it be soon.

Finally, I was unceremoniously dumped into the water the way a load of laundry get's pulled under during the rotation cycle. I emerged to see the smiles and thumbs up signs from the kids. It is symbolic of course. Many times in life, we are forced down these dark tunnels but if we keep moving and keep praying, there is always light at the end. I am blessed to have four children who are beacons of light. We may all be going down a new scary yellow tunnel soon but I will remind them to keep breathing, keep moving and keep praying until it doesn't hurt anymore.

The light will emerge from the darkness and we will go under a bit before we can poke our heads above the water and walk away stronger, more confident and able to face whatever twisty turn life has in store for us next.

Come on, Vogue

My friends, The Leaders of the Free World, like to tease me about how well I photograph. I'm not sure how I figured it out but somewhere down the line, I learned how to address the camera. It's a bit of a chin tilt and suck maneuver, while making love to the camera with your eyes.  I tried to teach this to the group last weekend on our girls trip but for some reason, when they tried it, they ended up looking like confused fish who suddenly found themselves on dry land. 

Truth be told, my girlfriends photograph well without tucking and sucking. They are beautiful just as they are. I should not have attempted to mess with those natural gifts. 

However, I couldn't resist showing them that even eight year old girls can pull off the look. I snapped these today after my daughters attended a spa diva party. They like to be photographed and they love being frilly. Combine that and the result is two photogenic mini divas and no, under no circumstances did I ask them to make love to the camera with their eyes.  But really, I just wanted to show off these pictures because I'm a proud mama. Enjoy!

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.

From Worthless to Wonderful - Warrior Princess - Part Four

Throughout our hospital odyssey I was often startled by the vivid illustrations contrasting wonderful and worthless. It seemed to be the lesson I was supposed to take away from the experience.  Well, that and to make sure I visit the kids at their dad's house if I ever hear of them being sick again.

The appendix itself is worthless, it's true what they say, we really don't need it. Being able to walk away from this with a healthy happy girl is wonderful. She was tested in a way most grown women won't confront until they are in active labor. At one point, I worked with her on the same breathing I used during childbirth. Check that off her list, we know she can handle pain. Maybe it's because she's still a bit fragile but she seems to have come out of this with a slightly more gentle spirit and of course, our bond has been sealed forever.

People in the medical profession can be wonderful or worthless, just depends upon the luck of the draw when you are hospitalized.  We were fortunate to have one of the best surgeon's on call that night. He came without a personality but who gives a shit when he cut open my baby and fixed her. He could mutate into Mr. Hyde and I wouldn't give a flying fuck.

The juxtaposition between the nursing staff was often times difficult to comprehend. How can you have one dear, precious soul who volunteers to work extra shifts just to be able to stay longer with her and others who callously rip off band aids and threaten to remove and re-install the IV just because she didn't like the way it looked. We both bonded with the caring nurse in a way that she will remain a part of our lives. She loves being a nurse and I thank God she found her calling.  Wonderful

Then there's the narcissist, Mr. Sunshine, who gave new meaning to the term worthless during the ordeal. As I mentioned earlier, he would pop in and out, never calling to see if we needed anything from home. During the worst of times, we were out of clean panties and socks, the back of her head had become knotted with five or six large nests of matted hair. I had asked him to bring clean clothes, a hairbrush, some detangler, and a toothbrush for her but the next time he arrived, he had forgotten to bring it. Worthless.

I suppose he forgot because he only came to the hospital that day to conduct a business meeting down in the cafeteria.  Just when I thought nothing could shock me anymore, he had apparently been telling everyone how his daughter was in the hospital and he was spending every moment there. When a client suggested they meet there out of convenience for him, he had to scramble to get to the hospital. I wondered sometimes if he really thought he was living the experience. I was keeping him up to date after all. Worthless.

There was one occasion when I was busy with our patient in the restroom while friends had come to visit and he happened to be there.  I could hear through the door as he told stories of the horrendous night we had, the throwing up, the pain, the lack of sleep. He told it as if he had been there. Worthless.

The next night he showed up again unannounced and did his usual routine, checking on the Princess, daddy loves you, blah, blah, blah - then planting himself in a chair to read a book, magazine or newspaper. I hadn't expected him that night and I knew ZenBoyfriend was on the way to bring me some supplies I had requested from the drug store. I felt obligated to let him know as the two of them had not yet met face to face. He reacted with little to no expression, not even looking up from his book.  Five minutes later, I saw him walk up to the mirror, fix his hair, tuck in his shirt and adjust his pants just right.  Then he pulled up a chair and sat at our daughter's bedside without one single piece of reading material.  Priceless.

Contrast the narcissist to the outpouring of love from our friends. He's Mr. Church Every Sunday yet not one visit from a church member was to be had. Not one gift, card or call from any of his friends or his fiance. His mom helped out with the other kids as much as she could but one day she called me to ask me about a fitness program she was thinking of buying and oh, by the way, how is my granddaughter doing. On the other hand, we were literally inundated with special attention from our friends. Wonderful.

How do you know when you are truly loved? You know when your boyfriend gently kisses you on the top of your head fully aware you haven't showered in two days.  You know when your daughter finds strength in your eyes without a single word and you know when you wake up each day comforted by selfless acts of kindness like the one received in that plain, brown manila envelope.

I had been sending daily email updates to a large group of friends, teachers, girl scout leaders and people in my office. I had spoken of the difficulty with getting my "Warrior Princess" to endure those painful walks.  That day, I opened the anonymous gift and found a note which said, "I know this is a little makeshift but hopefully it well help a little during your walks".  She hadn't had time to finish it off with perfectly creased seams and the edges were still rough cut but it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Her very own shiny, glittery, purple and green Warrior Princess cape.

That's when I lost it.  My baby was sleeping so I let it come. All the emotion I was holding inside came to the surface and exploded into a deluge of tears.  It was an outpouring of the worthless pain, fear and bitterness, the shock of almost losing my daughter mixed with goosebumps and an almost dizzying elation knowing the worst was behind us and I (we), myself and my little family, were truly loved.

With her cape on, she held her head a little higher, wanted her hair brushed out nicely and walked further than she had ever walked. She passed through the doors that had always stopped us before because she wanted everyone to see her. No other word comes to mind except....wonderful.

First day with Cape:

To Here, Going Home:

Moving Mountains Moving Bowels - Warrior Princess - Part Three

I stood in horror as I watched her wrench her guts into that plastic bin. I knew it must have been incredibly painful to heave while her tummy was still tender and vulnerable from the operation. But what the hell is she is throwing up?  The nurses came immediately. They helped clean her up and put her back in bed, insisting it wasn't blood I had seen.  Then why is it red?  She has had nothing but rice and toast and apple juice today.  How could it be red?

They pressed further, I must be missing something.  Oh my God, it was the watermelon.  I had begged the nurses to give her watermelon in spite of the fact it wasn't on the approved list of clear, bland foods. It's a fruit, I had implored, it practically dissolves in your mouth for Christ's sake AND she loves it, she will eat it.  Please nurse Ratchet please, let her have some watermelon I had begged earlier that afternoon. Oh shit, fuck, damn.  Did the watermelon cause this?

This was the preamble to the worst that was yet to come. I had showered.  I was innocuous to the idea of complications.  I felt clean and invigorated. We got through the pee - we had this thing well in hand and I was planning to sleep the sleep of angels that night.  But clearly I fell victim to one of the world's classic blunders: never get involved a land war in Asia, never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line and never believe you are going to be okay based upon one good day post-op.

We spent that night with her shrieking in pain beyond the forbearance of a ruptured appendix, beyond the inconvenience and uncertainty of surgery and beyond the agony of that first walk or that first pee. It was a guttural, visceral cry for help, immediately followed by heaving a vile, brownish-black-unnatural looking substance, wiping her own mouth because I couldn't do it just right, then falling back to sleep for approximately 53 minutes, then repeat.

It was a wretched reiteration - pain, vomit, wipe, sleep.  At some point in the middle of the night, her body decided to reject at both ends, causing the nurses to perform the infamous act of cleaning up a patient and changing their sheets without moving them out of the bed. It was astonishing. I watched but I'm still not exactly clear as to how they did it.

At approximately 3:00am, I asked the night shift nurse if they could give her something to ease the nausea.  She said they did have options available but they required the surgeon's approval and they were tentative about waking him in the middle of the night unless it was an emergency.  Excuse me?  Exactly what the fuck do we have to do here to constitute an emergency?  I told her I was prepared to go all Shirley MacLaine on her ass, running up and down the corridors, screaming for someone to give my daughter something to ease her pain.  With that, she made the call, I know she did because I stood and watched her. Still, somehow we didn't receive any relief until the next morning.

We were visited by His Royal Highness, the surgeon, and his faithful minion a/k/a Physician's Assistant, Beth. The Warrior Princess was kind enough to provide them with a live demonstration of our evening's activities. They suspected an ileus was afoot, which loosely translated meant her bowels had stopped moving. I have always wondered why they call poo a bowel movement. Your intestinal track is sorta like a giant conveyor belt, it should be constantly moving in a squishing sort of motion. You can hear the movement through the stethoscope.  If it stops moving, gas gets trapped up there, which loosely translated means farts ARE good. My mama was wrong.

We were told it could take anywhere from one to three days for things to start moving again. This was not uncommon due to the amount of infection she had in her belly. It was her body's way of fighting back by simply shutting down the systems and saying, "I've had enough of this shit......literally". Thankfully, she was back on track late the next day. You thought I was happy when she finally peed, imagine how elated I was to hear her rip off that first big fart.

Speaking of big farts, her dad had been maintaining a low profile, popping in and out when convenient.  This was okay because I preferred him gone. He felt like wasted space to me, space that could have been filled with our friends who were bringing in anything and everything we needed. Everyday we received balloons, flowers, cards, visits, cookie baskets and stuffed animals. The nurses all commented on how amazing it was. It was these expressions of love that kept me going, kept me strong, allowed me to forge ahead without showing my emotional cards, which were stacked with fear, bitterness, shock and an overwhelming, despondent, grief-stricken sadness.

The next day, as healing progress was finally availing itself to us, I received an unmarked brown manila envelope, the contents of which brought my emotional house of cards tumbling down around me. I ran to the restroom down the hall and collapsed into a heap on the floor, crying, screaming and shaking for the next thirty minutes.

(To be continued.....) 

The Warrior Princess Takes a Pee - Part Two

The surgery was finished. We arrived in her hospital room around 2am on Tuesday. For the rest of the day, she was made comfortable with various forms of narcotics. The surgeon had said her belly was a mess. He had operated laparoscopically, using three small instruments through tiny incisions. He admitted he did the best he could but was not able to guarantee she was out of the woods. There was simply too much infection for him to be sure he took care of it all.

We were told we could be there up to a week to keep her on an antibiotic drip. This would be the only way to ensure her recovery. Even with those words, I don’t think it had really resonated with me just how sick this little girl really was.

On Wednesday morning, she was allowed to come off the clear liquids and have a bite to eat. The nurses were required to get her up and moving so we faced our first walk together. She got to the door of her room and said okay that’s it, then promptly turned around and headed back to bed. She was as drugged up as anyone could be, enjoying a veritable cocktail of heavy pain killers; yet, the agony of those first few walks were clearly registering on her face.

She didn’t want any of it. She didn’t want to walk, she didn’t want an IV needle sticking out of her arm, she didn’t want to get poked every day to draw her blood nor did she want to be told she had to use the restroom or face having a catheter reinserted. It hurt to go, it burned like hell. The walk didn’t hurt as much as the simple act of going pee-pee did. She didn't want to do anything but in her own words, "run from this awful place screaming". Yet she always managed to find a way to do everything asked of her. Making up and letting me know her rules as we went along.

She would delicately get out of bed, using my hand to pull herself up while insisting I not pull with my arm. As difficult as it was, as much as I wanted to not only pull her but to give her every bit of strength I had, I perfected the ability to extend my arm to her without pulling. Once up, she would slowly walk to the restroom, sit down, then immediately clench up so tight, it was impossible for her to go. The urge was there, her bladder was full but her natural defenses and instincts were not letting her go through that much pain. We would sit there together, me squatting on the side of the shower, facing her. Our eyes locked on each other as if we were having a staring contest. Sometimes she would let me encourage her but mostly she shushed me when I tried to speak. She was drawing from her inner strength; my words were nothing but useless distractions.

After 15 to 20 minutes, she would ask to go back to bed. The moment she laid down, the urge would come and up we would go again. This went on for a few hours. Up, sit, stare, down. Up, sit, stare, down. As the night drew to a close, the nurses brought in a machine which was able to give us an accurate measurement of the contents of her bladder and they issued the ultimatum. She goes or we go in and get it.

With courage true to her Warrior Princess spirit, she was able to override her protective instincts and endure the painful burning, emptying her bladder with a little moan and a tight squeeze of my hand but not a single tear. She maintained her stoic little frowny-face, cleaned herself up and walked back to the bed as if nothing big had really happened.

Meanwhile I am internally dancing, twirling, jumping up and down and shouting for joy all inside my head. It was our victory. We did it! Nothing was going to stop us now. This little girl is amazingly strong. This child of mine was revealing her character to me and I knew she was going to be okay.

With that, I was relieved enough to think of other things, such as the fact that I hadn't showered or brushed my teeth since Monday morning. I was comfortable sneaking away for a quick shower while Mr. Sunshine sat with her. I returned in an hour and found her standing just inside the door of her room, throwing up in one of those plastic buckets…..something that looked very much like blood.

(To be continued…..)