Category: blessings

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What a Day

The past week has been really busy with kids and kids and kids. It’s been wonderful. They are back to school today and this is the first time in two years that they have all been with us for a few school days since they are usually sleeping at their dad’s Sunday night through Thursday night. It creates a little bit of tension because they have to move up their schedules by at least 15 to 20 minutes to still make school on time. If you are a girl with long hair and a slight case of maternally-passed-on OCD and over planning, you’re getting up a lot earlier just to make sure you didn’t forget anything. So early, in fact, that it’s almost still yesterday. If you are a boy that takes after your mom and hates the early morning sun like a vampire, you try to sleep those extra precious minutes and then shriek in dismay to learn you really, actually, for reals have to get up earlier to still have time to use 3/4 a bottle of Axe. Mark my words – you will have to go through the entire day Axe-less. You poor fellow.

We did manage to squeeze in a quick trip to San Diego to see friends during Spring Break. Very low key and fun. I can’t tell you a lot about that night, since it’s top secret and everything, but I can link to this photo that tells a pretty great story all by itself.

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Great

It’s Spring Break!
The kids are with us.
We are busy having fun. (and not thinking about moving and packing and work and stuff. no stuff.)(really, i’m trying not to.)(it doesn’t always work.)
See you next Monday!

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16 Year Old Girls

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When Alex was about 4, she would beg to wear her pink nightie-dress every single night. It didn’t matter if it was dirty or torn or missing – if she wasn’t wearing it, she would dissolve into a mess of tears. You see, with it on, she became a princess and there was nothing she loved more than being a princess.

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On a Saturday night, we’d put her hair up in curlers for church the next day, me on the couch, her on my lap watching The Little Mermaid or some other type of Disney marketing, and she’d sing along and I’d keep rolling up swatches of hair and smiling. Because, there isn’t anything much better than hearing your daughter sing Part of Your World with her little German-accent lisp and wavering, slightly off-key voice. And when I was done she’d twirl. Twirl and twirl and twirl, until she was exhausted and dropped into a heap on the floor, legs tucked under and bum in the air.

Her incredible energy burst right before bed was a little alarming sometimes. She’d suddenly start talking and tell me all about the horse she would have when she was big and the dress she’d be wearing and the places they’d go visit and where the magic happened, her words quickly tumbling over each other in their effort to get out as fast as possible before she would be forced to stop, and maybe forget, and fall asleep.

I’d pick her up and hold her, her breathing deep and even, her bottom lip jutting out just a tiny bit, her skin so smooth and warm, my heart would nearly burst and I’d think of how when she was born I loved her so much and didn’t think I could love her any more than I had at that moment. But I did. I did. I loved her more and more all the time and it seemed impossible but it was true. I’d use my finger to push her hair off her forehead and kiss her just one more time and one more time again before putting her in her bed and ‘cover-her-unders’ as she’d say if she were awake.

Last night, as I drove her back to her dad’s to do homework and get ready for bed, she turned on the radio and started singing, badly on purpose, to whatever song happened to be on. She was in a super silly mood, her teen hormones racing though her blood creating a near manic version of herself. Her voice cracking and flat, her silly smile and sparkling eyes barely keeping back the giggles that were just about to break free of the dam and come tumbling out, uncontrollably, all over the car. And she kept looking in my direction while I drove, just under the speed limit to prolong the amount of time we had together, waiting for me to look at her at every available interval, because this performance, it was for me. She’d sing too fast, getting faster and faster until she was an entire verse ahead of what was actually playing, sounding like an off-tune robot and it was funny. I laughed and laughed but inside, my heart grew even larger because just an hour before when we were outside on the lawn and I was taking her photo, I loved her so very, very much and it didn’t seem possible to love her any more than I did at that moment, but I did. Just right then, I did love her even more again.

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Full set of Alex in her blue dress.
Alex at 14 set.

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My Guy

Me, singing in a rather loud, operatic voice – ‘I’m going up to SHOOOOWWWEEEERRRRR!’

Joe, mostly ignoring me and continuing his email -‘That’s great.’

Me – ‘Well, that was quite less enthusiastic than the response I was hoping for.’

Joe, being the kind of husband that loves me – ‘Thaaaaaaaat’s GRRREEEEEEAAAAAT!’

Today is Joe birthday. He’s 37 and will always be older than me. And smarter than me in many ways, except playing Guitar Hero, loading the dishwasher the RIGHT way, cleaning the house the RIGHT way and never buying enough pairs of pants. My studies show every person needs at least 15 pairs of jeans and his side of the closet is severely lacking. But, that’s all ok because he changes light bulbs, generally always puts away the laundry (THE CHAIR LAUNDRY) and sings in an operatic voice when I need him to. He gets spiders down from the very high ceiling so I can sleep at night and cleans the hair out of the drain.

Joe also has a complete tool set of skills when it comes to deciphering kid-speak, which doesn’t come easy to parents who come into the parent game mid-stream. He hears, ‘No, I don’t have any homework.’ and now immediately translates that to, ‘I So SO do have homework, but I don’t want to do it right now. And if I say no, you’ll leave me alone. But then when I get a D on my test next week, I will blame you for not making me study so if you really love me, you’ll make me haul out my agenda book, with much protesting, and look over my shoulder while I pretend to look by running my finger down the page in a line as I fake check and then when you ask me what ‘Study for Test’ means in the third period slot, I’ll act all surprised and say Oh Ya! I guess I do have homework and I’ll most likely hate you instantly because I’m not getting to play Counter Strike with my FRIENDS ONLINE who need me to WIN THE BATTLE, DUH, but when I’m not working at 7/11 at the age of 28, I’ll thank you.’ He also knows that ‘I barely touched him!‘ means ‘I just smacked him upside the head but he deserved it because he touched my favorite golf putter – the one I stashed under the coffee table so no one would find it and HE TOUCHED IT.’ And, last but not least, teen girls that answer How was your day? with barely a ‘Fine.’ really mean ‘You are old and a man, a man that (eeewwww) has hair on his chest, so there is no way you could ever understand the deep, deep sadness I carry in my heart today when Tammy totally forgot to bring my sweater to school and I wore my white shirt with the long sleeves just BECAUSE she was supposed to bring it and the shoulders on it are weird without the sweater and all day I had to just wear that stupid shirt without the sweater and everyone, EVERYONE stared at my stupid shoulders all day and Tammy didn’t even care or say sorry! You should BE SORRY, TAMMY!’

And, none of that even takes in to account the skills he had to learn just to understand me. That list would be far too extensive, so let me just say, Happy Birthday, Joe. I love you. You are my favorite.

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Alex Got Her Braces Off

There has been much smiling. Real smiling. With lots of white, straight teeth.

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She has used whitening strips every morning and night to remove the very, very, very slight yellowing around where the braces hit her teeth. And I think at last count she was at 16 trips per day into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Nice oral care, girl.

Also – new hats over at the craft site!

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Different Than I Thought

Published in True Mom Confessions, Berkley Trade, 2009

No one expects to get divorced when they get married. We were no different. My first husband and I were determined to make it work and we fought it out for almost 14 years. We would tell each other, ‘We can do this! We’ll figure it out because we are strong enough to make it work!’ When we finally reached that breaking point, there was nothing I wanted more than for him to marry someone that would love him and my kids. We ended as some sort of odd friends with a long and varied past and had the best in mind for each other. Although, for him, he probably thought the best would never happen for me based on my mental health issues. Thankfully, he was wrong. And I know at this point he’s happy he was wrong.

I wanted his new wife, because there was no question that he would be getting married right away, to really, really, REALLY love them and be there for them. I wanted my kids to feel like she was their other real mom. To trust her. To love her. And maybe that was odd because in a way, it could be looked at as if she was replacing me. But for them to be in a real family would be the best thing for them. For them to have anything less might in many ways be detrimental and there was never a moment when I wished for that. I remember the first time I met who he was going to marry, I went up to hug her because the kids genuinely seemed to like and appreciate her and they were happy and that made me happy. It wasn’t until she didn’t really hug me back, but instead seemed uncomfortable, that I realized the way I was thinking might be different than the other two in our odd adult triangle. But I never stopped hoping that we could be friends and work together on behalf of the kids.

Over the past few years, their step-mom has been everything I wished and hoped for. We might not be best friends, and that is most likely a much more healthy relationship that I originally imagined, but we are always more than civil and most of the time slightly warm. And the kids think of her as their mom. They call us both Mom interchangeably and within the same breath. To them, they are safe in their relationship with both of us and have no reason to differentiate with a Step here or a Bio there unless there is someone else in the conversation that really doesn’t get it and is wallowing in confusion. Then you might hear one of them backing up a bit to explain who is who. Maybe. But it’s just as likely they won’t take the time to explain and figure it is that person’s problem if they don’t get it.

And oddly, there is nothing that I’m prouder of. And oddly still, there is nothing that pierces my heart quite like hearing them call her Mom. It’s a strange revealing moment to be feeling discomfort and then in a shocked second remember that it’s something you wished for. Because on some level, I am still vain and would like to be irreplaceable. I’d like to be the only Mom in their life and have them depend on me for all of their Mom needs. And she could be there, doing a really fine job of being a Step-Mom, but I would be the REAL Mom. This is the fantasy that rides through my brain from time to time. But sadly, it isn’t reality. And thankfully, it isn’t reality. Because being safe on all sides is what is best for them. And I’m happy they call her Mom even when my heart occasionally bleeds a bit on the inside where they can’t see. Maybe hers does, too.

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My Heart

I think about him every once in awhile. Like picking a scab, tearing off the top layer just to make sure it’s still there and it still bleeds. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Not really. But seeing the red blood reminds me of when it did.

We drank beers together for three weeks. My punk, unkempt hair pushed out of my face with my right hand and my left hand’s fingers curled around a clove cigarette. Or a menthol, depending on who had what. Sitting at the table outside near the heater, his long, dirty blonde and wavy hair and intense blue eyes but mostly his Italian accent floating through the air, I thought I must be in heaven. That finally, I was safe. ‘Darling,’ he said ‘you are lovely.’ and I knew that soon I would tell him the secret in my heart wrapped under soft layers of rose-colored ribbons.

The next night when I showed up a few minutes late, my nose anticipating the musky scent of sweat, mud and grass on his shirt that I loved, I searched for his soccer socks, fresh from practice. I ordered a beer, sat outside and smoked alone while staring at the wrought iron fence. My chest turned slowly darker with every inhale and my tears dried on the exhale. The soft cushion surrounding my heart hardened into a brittle shell and then broke into a thousand pieces.

I look at the bleeding exposed spot of what was a few years ago, but feels like a hundred, and then my husband walks in, sits down next to me and holds my hand. His scent of aftershave and coconut shampoo combine in the air next to me and it makes me laugh. It’s the most delicious scent I’ve ever smelled. The feeling I thought was intense love for the foreign man was barely more than nothing. It was the shadow of nothing. And even though it felt like a skyscraper, it was a mud hut, but it took time to find that out.

My husband leans his arm into mine while we sit side by side on the couch. I’ve been crying, crying for no reason that anyone knows of, and he hands me the handkerchief he keeps in his pocket for just such an occasion. He turns and looks at me, in me. ‘You are lovely.‘ he says straight to my soul. And I know that right where I am is heaven. I know I’m safe and it doesn’t matter if I’m sick or not. If I’m rich or not. He loves me. It’s not a secret that I love him and daily he unwraps the ribbons laced softly around my heart.

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Last Night, Dancing With the Weirdos

I took Alex to a Bar&Grill that turns into a whoopie bar around 9:55pm every night. They have dancing lessons every evening at 7pm and on Tuesday, it’s Salsa night.

The dance floor is quite large and nice but not exactly secluded. Surrounding the perimeter are tables for 2 or 4 where people not choosing to participate in the dance lessons can watch those that are.

Alex and I were very excited to finally be going to dance and learning the Salsa. Totally cool. I hadn’t gone to check out the place before hand so I wasn’t aware of the positioning of the room but even if I had, it wasn’t until about 5 minutes after we started that all the chairs filled up. With men. Men aged 45 and up. With little to no hair on top and greasy scalps shining through. Have I mentioned my daughter is beautiful?

About the time our lovely instructor Conrad *123* with the shirt open at the throat and his glistening chest gleaming beneath the lights *567* starting incorporating the turns *back23* and the side steps *glideandback* that I slowed a little and took a breath, laughing and looking around the room to see who else was having as much fun as us.

Oh, the vultures with their beady eyes. Alex and I sat down for a bit and got a drink of water and within, oh, 90 seconds we were approached. And then we left. Because, as Alex says, ‘Eww. Gross. That guy was hideoderous and he spit all over my face.’

*ahem*

Next week, we’re doing belly dancing, an all-women class in the female teacher’s home.

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Happy Birthday, Me.

It’s 10pm on the 11th. I’m just about ready to hit the hay.

I’m 36.

I’m super emotional, but it’s not because I’m 36.

I’m happy. And I’m sad, but not for any discernable reason.

I woke up to the sounds of Joe downstairs, puttering around. Then he drove me to LA and I took a photo of a photographer for an interview I’m doing (meta?). I found the photographer at the Disney Concert Hall, went in and got out within 5 minutes (thanks to the helpful and courteous security man at the stairs) and when we got out the sky was strange all afternoon: low clouds with the odd bird flying around (photo below). When we got back home, Alexandra took me out to Starbucks and bought me a Grande Soy Chai Latte with her own gift card (I’ll see the boys tomorrow for the weekend (including Monday! Woot!) but she is going to be gone, so we had our day today). Then we went to the house and watched The Family Stone and picked songs for the CD we want to do together (If anyone has a recording studio, let me know).

Even when I pool all my resources and gather all my strength, I’m still mostly a mess. Picking out what to eat for dinner is almost too much and Joe has to lead me down the grocery aisle feeding me yes or no questions (when I say the words rice and soup, are you happy?) and singing me Little Fat Man to help me through.

But here it is, 10:13 pm on January 11th, 2007, and I’m happy. I may be crying because I can’t seem to control my emotions, but really? I’m happy. And things are great. And Joe made me his famous raspberry donuts and told me he loved me. I know whatever issues I’m having with my sadness and tear ducts isn’t really REAL. It’s hormonal. And everything is fine.

It was a perfect day.

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Today He Can Buy Cigarettes and Vote. And Go To War.

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This is Devon, my first born. He was such a knobby-kneed, curly tow-headed baby. He was the light of my life and had my full attention for only about 18 months until his sister turned up, whining for bottles and diapers, which he willingly and happily fetched for her (me).

Devon has a brain in his head that can sometimes be a bit intimidating. He is just sharp, in the boy genius kind of way. Conversations with him and what he thinks are always informative, entertaining and sometimes I even learn a little something. Although I fear he is becoming a Republican, which I’m proud of at the same time because he has a mind all his own and isn’t afraid to use it and own it.

He was always in the advanced classes all going through school and figured out even before middle school that he could exert very little effort and glide by quite easily. The highlights of his schooling so far, to me, are those moments where I saw him really getting excited about something he was learning, because it happened so rarely. But when it did, that spark in his eye was so, so great. He starts to talk with his hands and then his arms and then his whole body, sitting on the couch, threatens to almost shoot up through the ceiling as he explains how some new computer program interacts with something else, which I have no idea what it all means, but frankly, I don’t care. I’m just watching him and loving it.

I home schooled Devon for the first three years of school while we lived over in Germany. His little sister joined us for most of our classes and got the benefit of watching him make an erupting volcano and combining chemicals to create the foulest smells ever to touch anyone’s nose. Ever. We went for walks around the neighborhood and learned German and got to know the Landlady and often went to pet her farm animals while practicing single digit timetables.

And then somewhere around his 5th grade year, my mind started unraveling at an alarming rate and Devon shouldered more responsibility than some adults. By 6th grade he juggled school and housework and babysitting and entertaining his baby brothers while his sister cooked them meals and did laundry. And then some months later I went away for a year or so and when I came back, he was older.

By the time I made it back to San Diego, his dad had moved the family north and it took me about 2 years to find a local job and move closer to him and the other kids. All through that trying time of driving back and forth and frustration, Devon would tell me, ‘It’s small steps, Mom. Each time it gets a little better.’ And he would give me a hug. And later, when I was alone, I would weep because my son had cause for so much wisdom.

Living close these past two years has been wonderful in so many ways but one of the most valued by me is watching him become a man. He’s a good man. Young, yes, but old in so many ways. This past year he’s poked his toe into the social aspects of high school. He’s learned a little about having a crush on a girl and making a best friend with a guy. Both of which he had never felt safe enough to do before. He has excelled in leadership and became the co-editor of the school paper, which he takes very seriously. He’s also got a great sense of humor and cracks my shit up. We’ve always been the best of friends but it’s been only the past few years that I learned how to be a real mom. And he’s let me be his mom, although he in no way had to and it must have been a very scary concept to trust me.

I worry about all the mistakes I’ve made while he’s been a part of my life. I worry about all the things I’ve put him through. I worry about the issues he’ll have to deal with someday.

And then I look at his face and in his eyes and remember that God and the Universe have everything under control and no amount of my worrying will do anything to change anything. My job is to love him. And I can do that.

Because there is no way to freeze time at 17.5 years old, Devon turns eighteen today. My baby is eighteen. When I was eighteen I had him wrapped round my leg and his sister about to be born. I had lived through years of drug and alcohol abuse and felt about 100 years old. Thank God that all he has to do is attend his last year of high school and prepare to go to college in the fall. Thank God he’s never smoked or done drugs and that his alcohol consumption is at a very age-appropriate level. All of that is hard enough. And he has to register with selective service and possibly get drafted at some point, which scares the crap out me so I don’t think about it very often.

I’m so proud of you, Devon. And I love you with all my heart. Thanks for everything you bring to my life.

Yours always and forever,
Mom

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Two Blessed $@#*&! Years

One of the tragedies of 2006 is that my two year wedding anniversary came and went without nary an acknowledgment from me on this blog, which was scarcely more than I gave it in real life. It falls on the 21st of December, and if you’re keeping up, you know that this year that fell within the Dead Zone, or as we like to call it, ‘The Great Crochet Marathon of Twelve Ought Six.’

When I was freshly back from Seattle in 2002, I met Joe at a networking meeting. I didn’t like him and I didn’t not like him. Sure, he was very nice but I was recently divorced and very concentrated on getting my shit together. I sure as hell wasn’t about to start dating anyone, especially someone that was a Catholic, had no kid experience and was still technically married to his first wife. So, of course, we started dating right away and became exclusive within the first two weeks.

Something you might not know about me: when I know something, I know it and there isn’t much that anyone can tell me that will change my mind. I feel stuff in my gut and that is the end of it. My gut has been my only constant companion and seen me through all kinds of trouble. So, my gut and I stick together. Imagine my surprise when my gut let me know that Joe was not only the really great guy he seemed to be but that also, I would love him, he would love me and we’d be together. Immediately following that message I spent many months pretending it had never happened. However, I did seem to think it was a splendid idea to invite him to meet most of my family a scant 7 weeks after we met. Huh.

Joe has been to Utah eight times in the past few years. The first time he met most of my brothers and sisters and the next time he met my parents. They all, of course, like him and love him. He’s a likable guy. But, they love him no matter how much money he earns or what he looks like or what kind of car he drives. Frankly, the only thing they take into account is if I’m happy. And here it must be clarified that my family looks at the word ‘happy’ in the way that God might: if you are learning, then you are happy because it’s the people God doesn’t bless that much that don’t have the opportunity for learning. Joe and I are so blessed. In fact, these past two years of marriage, we have been blessed beyond what I thought possible. That seems to be always the way.

I think one of the reasons that Joe feels so comfortable visiting my family is because they accepted him so completely. Even before we were married, my parents had us sleeping in the same room. My very Mormon mom. The one that didn’t alert me of my private parts until I was married to my first husband, well after the point of her grandson being implanted in my uterus. I hope my mom doesn’t mind me telling the entire world that, but I just thought it was so great the way she trusted my gut on Joe and I being together. However, my mom still sends my ex-husband Christmas and Birthday cards (with the usual $5 included!) as well as his new wife.* My parents might just rock in that Love the Entire World kind of way. And the World can always use more love.

But, back to Joe. These past two years or so have been rough but great. We moved a few times. We tried, somewhat successfully, to get my daughter to quit glaring at Joe. We started a business together, which ultimately failed. We went to therapy to figure out why we were still married. Joe started a few different jobs and figured out what he likes and doesn’t like in a work environment. I got physically mostly better most of the time. We were pregnant (again) and lost the baby (again) but kept it for the longest amount of time yet. And I learned that I could listen to Joe at least as much as I listen to my gut because Dude is smart! I also learned that if I get out of his way, Joe will figure out a way to do anything he wants, his own way. Man, that sounds a lot like me. But most of all, we got a start on figuring out how to be a couple and take care of each other in a kind and loving way.

Life is always hard. It’s always going to be hard. It doesn’t matter who you are married to or how much money you have or where you live. And really, the only defense you have against the world is your family, those people who love you and who you love and with whom you create a buffeting wall against the hard knocks of the world. The people that will laugh with you, not at you, when you ruined the fancy dinner you made for everyone. And not be embarrassed when you can’t stop going up to strangers and asking them personal questions because you find them so fascinating. And stand by you when you take huge risks and decide to do something that could be a large potential mistake and don’t care how it ends up as long as you are ok, because that is what is important. I’m so happy to have Joe be my family and that we are in this thing together.

Here’s to many more years of being blessed, Baby. Thanks for being on my team.
xo

*My son asked me the other day why Grandma sends his Dad and Step-Mom birthday cards because isn’t that weird when usually people hate each other after divorce? I asked him if he wished she wouldn’t and he said, ‘Nope. I like that about Grandma. And you’d do the same thing, huh. You’re all ….. squishy like her.’ I’m not sure I have ever been so proud to be called squishy.

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Pipe Cleaners and Googly Eyes

While I was traveling in November and December, I forgot about Christmas. As in, Christmas who? I was busy, absorbed completely in what I was working on and it just didn’t occur to me that I should be thinking about something other than interviews and rental cars and forgetting to take my vitamins. Suddenly, it hit me. It was 8 days until Christmas and I had done nothing to prepare. Not only that, we were not going to get any money in for presents, so if there was going to be something under the tree, I needed to make it. And that included everything for the kids and our families. No pressure.

I literally worked 20 hours a day for the next few days and then 24 hours straight a few times on books, hats, blankets, scarves and candles as well as anything else I could glue pipe cleaners to.

We left on Saturday morning for Utah and I took most of my unfinished projects with me. My mom wasn’t surprised to see me lugging in all kinds of equipment. She’s used to me bringing home projects. But, I do think she was a little surprised at the sheer volume of stuff.

While we were there, I crocheted 14 hats and 8 scarves for different family members. That didn’t really scratch the surface of the almost 40 people that came and went over the few days we were there, but it was enough. My fingers now ache and I have a new massive muscle in my right arm that goes down my back. I call it Ellen.

Christmas was lovely. I had helped the kids make presents for each other and all three of my boys sat at my sewing machine and Tony even crocheted a purse for his sister which he then sewed a lining for and THEN hand-sewed into the purse. Ty made a large quilt for Devon and Devon made a jean football-pillow that you can throw in the house for Ty. Until you knock over the lamp. Then stop, please. Alex made Tony a fleece blanket. And it was so much nicer than going to the crowded store, pushing our way through everyone and trying to find something to buy each other.

I think next year, even if we have more money than we did this year, I won’t be rushing off to buy things for the kids. I used to love making things for Christmas and this year really reminded me of that. I got to spend hours thinking about the people I was making the gifts for. The only thing I’d change is starting earlier, say, June.