The Crushing

“Seven years, Mom! Seven Years! You just haven’t been around. I can’t count on you! I like things the way they are! You can’t just expect me to change at the drop of a hat!”

“Wait a minute. Seven years? How do you get that number? Your dad and I divorced in 2002 while I was in a MENTAL HOSPITAL! I was out of state a total of eight months! And your dad is the one that moved you to a place that I couldn’t afford to live and where I knew no one and couldn’t find a job. Yes, it took me a couple of years to move here. But that doesn’t equal seven years. I don’t think you’re being fair!”

“It doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter if it was Dad’s fault or your fault. I don’t care if the reason is because he told you not to come and live here or you couldn’t find a job! The end result is that you haven’t been around! So, don’t just all of a sudden decide to change everything around! You call that stability?”

“All I’m asking for is for you to stay over an equal amount of nights during the summer. If it doesn’t work out, then when school starts again, we’ll change it back. That isn’t unstable! That’s an opportunity!”

“I don’t want things to change! I like it how it is! I stay mostly with my dad. He’s the one that makes sure we have cars and money and whatever else we need. You’re my mommy! You’re my best friend. I tell you everything and I know you’ll just love me and accept me. I don’t want you to start telling me what I can and can’t do! I don’t need another mom. I already have one! I want you to stay my best friend.”

“Your best friend that never gets to be your mom because you don’t want me to be that for you? You know, we have cars. We have your room upstairs. We have food and everything your dad has. For the past few years I’ve lived close enough to be a real mom to you but you haven’t let me. From the minute I got out of the hospital, my whole life has been about getting to this place! This spot! Living close enough to you to really be a mom to you. You have no idea what I’ve gone through to get here! And now, just like that, you tell me you don’t want what I have to offer?”

“I do want what you have to offer. I just want you to be my best friend like you have been. Don’t change anything. Please! What difference does it make?”

“You know, while we lived 12 miles away, I could kind of understand because it took about 15 minutes to drive from house to house. But now, we’re just a few blocks away. And it’s like it hasn’t changed anything. It doesn’t matter how close I live, does it? Now I get it. The real truth is that you just don’t want me to be your mom. I never would have guessed that. I was so focused on getting to do all the mom stuff like fixing you breakfast and helping you with your homework and doing your laundry. You know, taking care of you.”

“Mom, no. I want you to be my mommy. The way it’s always been. Just be that. Don’t change anything. Please.”

And I Was All……

Today I’m wearing a bra that is so great at giving support that I’ve gone through college, medical school and an internship by lunch. The other night I was laying on my back on the couch and Joe said, ‘Your breasts are truly amazing in that bra. They are two proud mountains, erect and waiting for someone to climb and conquer them.’

——-

Ty had a huge school project due today for History Day. He worked on it in drips and drabs over the long weekend but there was no convincing him that he should buckle down and do-er till she gets done. ‘This is how I do it, Mom. I think about it and figure it out in my head and then do the actual work the night before it’s due.’ ‘What about sleeping?’ I asked him. ‘Oh, I don’t sleep.’ This brings us to last night, when he ‘accidentally’ fell asleep (stupid body! sleeping!) and woke up this morning in a panic. Or so I hear since he was at his dad’s last night. But as I sat and waited for him to show up at the brunch* held for all the kids that got Student of the Month over the past school year, knowing he was running late and how much he hates being late, I felt like I should have pushed him harder to get the work done over the weekend in between running back and forth to Santa Barbara for his basketball tournament and after he finished the Grisham novel he also had to finish by today. I thought of many ways we could change his homework habits and had my own report on Applying Homework Skills to Avoid Stress and Sleepless Nights written in my head.

When he came in the door of the multi-purpose room, hair still damp from the shower, carrying a poster with glued rectangles of green over white containing text about Joseph Smith, my little speech left my brain. He looked harried and tired and still so handsome all freshly washed that I simply said, ‘I don’t think your way is working for you, Ty.’ He sighed. And then he ate part of a bagel and some fruit. I think it was more than enough, as talks go.

*When did Brunch start including 8am breakfasts?

——-

When the kids walk out the door I become a pillar of slow moving sludge on the couch. I sit as if a statue, doing various internetty things of no consequence which expend as little energy as possible and still be alive. I forget to eat. I forget to hydrate. I almost forget to relieve my bladder. My fingers clicking the keys are the only way one might know my heart is beating.

And then, when the kids walk through the door, I’m suddenly careening back into the movement of life, staggering on legs that have fallen asleep and smacking the dust out of the corners in my brain with the palm of my right hand against my forehead. As my engine revs up, I continue going faster until I’m almost going normal speed – going normal speed – attempting to pass on the right and then finally, breaking the speed limit and accidentally knocking the side view mirror off by hitting the mailbox. I’m doing the dishes. I’m folding the laundry. I’m looking at the vacuum and thinking really hard about getting it out. I’m straightening the cupboard. I’m putting the whites in the washer. I’m fluffing the pillows on the couch. I’m fixing a snack for Alex. I’m looking at the vacuum again. I’m sorting through mail. I’m fixing a snack for the boys. I’m slamming the garage door shut so I don’t have to look at the vacuum anymore. And most of all, I’m not thinking. I’m just doing. And very most of all, I’m not feeling. Alex is telling me about so-and-so and I’m um-humming, but I’m not feeling anything. I’m marinating steaks and cutting brussels sprouts into quarters and listening to what Dev tells me about the wonderful qualities of the Hookah and I’m nodding and occasionally rolling my eyes but not feeling anything beyond very mild sarcasm. I’m wiping counters and putting in a new trash liner and giving Tony advice on older women but I’m not feeling anything. I’m cutting up tomatoes for the Pico and Ty walks in, taps my shoulder from behind on the right, then sidles quietly to my left, waiting for me to turn and see no one so he can smile at me. And I think, ‘I sure wish I could feel something. This would be the moment to feel something. Right now.’ But I don’t, so I smile and hope he can’t tell.

And then they leave and go to their dad’s home. And I sit down on the couch to do my best impression of Timpanogos.

——-

Devon, aged 18, says, ‘You should try Disarono. It’s kind of cherry tasting. It’s very good.’ And damned if he wasn’t right.

——-

I’m not going to write about moving or moving boxes or the not unpacking of said moving boxes anymore. Because seriously, who cares? I’m bored and I live here. There are more important things to worry about. Like, why my underage sons knows what Disarono tastes like.

——-

Alex puts on the blue shirt with white polka dots and the white sweater. She takes it off and puts on the black tank top with the white sweater. She takes it off and puts the blue shirt with the white polka dots on over the black tank top. Then she adds the white sweater. ‘Mom, which of these looks better?’ ‘What are you trying to say? Friends or Flirty?’ ‘Um, probably mostly friends with a little bit of flirty.’ ‘I like the blue with polka dots and the white sweater. It says: You like me but I don’t want to date you so don’t ask me out or I’ll have to say no and then we can’t be friends anymore since we’ll both feel weird.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Awesome.’

——-

The bird with no name sits on my shoulder and nibbles my ear. He nestles up under my chin. He makes tiny chirping noises and puts his beak by my lips, craning his neck so I will scratch his head. He makes soft kissy noises of love. Then he shits on me.

Cycles

For further proof that I am the World’s Most Amazing Mom, I instantly disliked my son’s new girlfriend. She’s perfectly fine. Nice. A little nervous. But, nice. And they are both all giggly and lovey-dovey and it’s cute and I’m happy for him. But in the back of my mind I’m thinking, Really? Her? Oh, ok then. And while they sat on the couch with his arm around her shoulders I realized that it wouldn’t matter who she was or how perfect she was because I’m guessing I just wouldn’t like her no matter what. She could come with Barbie’s complete safari outfit, the Jeep, the pool and the salon accessories and I still wouldn’t like her much. Just because he really does. And that is sick. This is his first real girlfriend and consequently my first brush with my lameness in this area.

However, I’m really, really familiar with this same lameness in the moms of boys I’ve known in my life. I’ve been on the receiving end of this many times. And it’s really not fun to be That Girl. That Girl my son is dating. That Girl my son is marrying. That girl. So, in the name of all that is holy and good, I’m manifesting a kinder, gentler America going forward. I will learn to love all the girls my sons bring home. At least the ones they really like. And if I don’t love them right away I’ll keep telling myself I do until it’s true. Because they all deserve it.

Karaoke Etc.

Alex and her friends have been trying to go to this karaoke place for weeks. Something always happens like boys, other friends, family or bad hair. But, last night at 5pm, Alex said, ‘We’re going!” At 6:15, she said, ‘We aren’t going anymore.” At 7:00pm, she stated “We’re SO going!!” Then she went over to her dad’s for a couple of hours, called to say she changed her mind and they were staying in. At 9:05, she came over, all dressed up and announced that not only were we going, we were going NOW.

The karaoke SLASH pizza joint was almost empty but for the people that worked there, the woman (who sang a lot of Melissa Etheridge*) with her two girls (Who sang a lot of obscure-to-me Disney music from Mulan and that native American one with the river in it) that runs the karaoke machine on Saturday nights, and a lady who watched her daughter sing Don Quixote three times with such admiration that it makes me really wonder what’s wrong with me. If Alex sang Don Quixote more than once I think I might have ripped the microphone out of her hands. I think even once would have been too many times. The screaming and AyAyAying at the end……I prefer Like A Virgin. To counteract all the Don Quixote and angry lesbian songs in the air, Alex and I sang Love Will Keep Us Together and I tried to eat the microphone.

karaoke4

There is so much more I could say about Saturday night and the odd peoples that populate that pizza place, but instead let me just say that we’ll be going back at our earliest opening. It was that much fun.

Also, our new place came with these:

roses2 copy

And I brought one of my own:

rose copy

And there is a lawn of sorts:

alex_grass copy

*Isn’t it weird that the entire staff and the lady running the machine were all in the singing rotation? It just seemed like, as we were running out of time and there was no more room on the list for new songs to be added, that they would have let the paying customers have more turns. Or is that wrong? Who am I to get in the way of more Don Quixote?

Found

We’re finally, mostly, for sho moved in. What that really means is that all the furniture and boxes are in one house instead of two. The garage is almost solely a storage unit, but there is a tiny aisle you can walk through if you have balls of steel and don’t mind heavy boxes of books falling on your toes.

After so many days of strenuous physical labor, today was quite light. I’ve just been walking around the house placing things here and there. Moving a pile from one side to the other. Picking up a stack from one room and sticking it on a table in that one. The kitchen is almost really done. I found most of what should be in there but somewhere under piles of cardboard boxes full of cables and cleaning products and shoes there is a box of plates. Until I find it, I hope you washed your hands real well since you’ll be holding all your food between your interlaced fingers.

I did find the coffee maker, though. And the bean grinder, which I almost didn’t need since my teeth have been doing just fine. I also found about 25 jars that once held jam, mayonnaise, olives and probably pickled pigs feet for all I know. 25 jars that Joe saved after they were empty because he can use them again for SOMETHING. 25 jars that sat in the cupboard until I got the chance to throw them away. 25 jars with lids, carefully and lovingly wrapped in paper and bubble wrap by my daughter, her friend and her cousin. Two boxes worth. I can just picture them in the kitchen (while I was upstairs rolling bedspreads and sheets into one giant taco roll and tossing it over the balcony) encouraging each other to make sure and take enough of the $115/yard bubble wrap to carefully enclose each and every beautiful inch of the jar that once held creamy white waves of mayo. So we could carry the boxes into the truck. And move them. And carry them again. And unpack them. And then throw them away. Or better, pack them up again and haul them to Goodwill. Didn’t you just say the other day that you wanted 25 used jars? Some still have the labels on them.

But every once in awhile, while rummaging for socks or toilet paper or hand soap or fingernail polish remover (JUST GO TO THE DOLLAR STORE AND BUY NEW!!! IT’S FASTER!!) you find something really important. Something that will make every day from now on so much better. Thanks goodness.

darth pez

New/Old, Whatever. Just Get Me Some Coffee.

In case you were wondering, downsizing from a huge house to one half as big sucks. Now you know. You’re welcome.

Here is the old entry way:

entry_old

And here is the new entry:

entry_new

Tiny new living room:

livingroom_new

Here is the old kitchen:

kitchen_old

And the new one:

kitchen_new

I’m going to miss our old huge bathroom. But being a few blocks away from where my ex lives saves everyone a huge amount of time and gas. We’re also close to their schools. As soon as I find my makeup, the iron, my comfortable shoes, the coffeemaker and my anti-psychotic medication, things are going to be fine.

Poser

Tony is at a really fun age right now. You say, ‘Tony, get over there and let me test the light.’ And this is what you get:

vista_tony2vista_tony1vista_tony3
vista_tony4vista_tony5vista_tony6
vista_tony7vista_tony8vista_tony9

I love his sister’s face in some of those. I think she was wondering how far away she could get and how fast.

Four Conversations

“Why did he do it, Mom? My teacher at school said it might be because the kids at school were mean to him so he got them back.”

“Maybe. I don’t think I like that line of thought because it somehow justifies what he did. Like, if you are mean to me, I’m going to kill you and that’s just the way it is.”

“Ya, I didn’t think it sounded right, either. You don’t pull out your Tommy gun just because someone called you stupid. But, if I did call someone a name, do you think they would get mad enough to shoot people at school?”

I want to tell him no. No way. Kids aren’t going to bring a gun to school and shoot you or someone else. That kid you were mean to last year won’t come back this year and plot how to do it. That’s ridiculous! Don’t worry about that at all. Kids are sometimes mean and say things they regret. Tell him you’re sorry and be nice from now on. Just worry about learning where all the states are and remembering the history of the Civil War for your test on Thursday. Spend your in-between class time walking to the next building and giving everyone a high-five. Throw your backpack over your shoulder (don’t squish your fruit snack!) and make the most pressing thing on your mind whether that girl that sits two seats to the right of you in math class thinks you’re cute and spend lunch talking about the band you and your friends are putting together. Middle school is hard enough without worrying about if you might actually die or not. Instead, I say, “I hope not. I’d miss your freckles.” And then I sock him in the arm. He laughs and turns up the radio.

“Did you hear about those shootings, Mom? Some crazy kid at college went around and shot a bunch of people. Like, a bunch! My friend said they think he was insane or something. It’s so sad.”

“It is so sad. I’ve been sad about it all day. Did they talk about it in school?”

“Only for a sec. We had to finish getting ready for testing next week. But everyone was freaked out about it at lunch. I mean, how do you know that isn’t going to happen at our school? How can you tell if someone is about to go totally insane and start shooting people?”

“Well, I think that is the problem. You can’t. You just have to keep going through your day, doing your best, treating people with respect and hope that if someone was showing signs of being about to hurt people like that, that you would notice and get out of there. But probably, you wouldn’t notice unless they were actually holding a gun up. I wish I could tell you something more reassuring because I don’t think living every day being afraid is going to be the recipe for a happy life.”

After a long pause: “Someone like that wouldn’t be in my group of friends. Everyone that I hang out with is stable, I think. At least, too stable to take a gun to school and shoot people.” After another long pause: “I hope.”

“Mom, some dude shot a bunch of kids.”

“I know. I heard about it all afternoon on TV.”

“It just – it just – makes no sense, you know? Because if you are mad at someone? And you want to hurt them? Why kill them? You’d want to do something like ruin their reputation and make them live with it, you know? If you kill them, they are just dead. And if you kill yourself, you aren’t even around to see what happens. It makes no sense!”

“So, if you were really mad at someone, you’d just ruin their school life and make everyone hate them so they have a terrible schooling experience?”

“Right. I mean, that is really revenge, you know?”

“Do you have any theories about what might happen to a person who enjoys getting revenge like that? Any thoughts as to what the rest of their life looks like or feels like carrying around the responsibility of knowing they ruined someone’s entire year or most likely, years?”

“Well, no. I mean, I wouldn’t do it. But, there was this guy in 3rd grade that was mad at me because I did something that pissed him off and I don’t even remember what it is but he was so mad that he got all the other kids in our class to hate me and for the entire last half of the year, no one in my class would sit by me at lunch or be my partner for stuff. I hated it. And I wondered what it would be like to get him back.”

“What happened the next year? Was he still mean?”

“Actually, he’s kind of my friend now. We played football together a few years ago and now, I mean, he’s ok.”

“Do you still think about getting him back.”

“No. Sometimes. No.”

“Do you think stuff like that happens for a reason? If you believe in God, then don’t you have to believe that it happened for some reason?”

“I believe in a Higher Power. I do not believe that said Higher Power would condone what happened or want it to happen so that some good could come out of it.”

“But, some good could come out of it.”

“I’m fairly positive that some good will come out of it. Usually, some good comes out of tragedy. Most of the time it is quiet bits of good. Internal good. It hopefully changes one to be a softer, better person that watches out for others with compassion. But saying that those quiet bits of good were so necessary as to require a tragedy like this one is misguided, I think.”

“Maybe we can only learn to be compassionate after we experience a tragedy.”

“Let’s just go with your theory for a minute. What do you think happened to this kid at the college that shot everyone? What do you think happened in his life to make it seem like a good idea to do what he did? Did the preceding year of his life contain good and nurturing things, great experiences? And then suddenly, one day he woke up and thought that shooting up the school sounded good? Or was it a terrible year for him? A year full of tragedy and hurt of some sort? And if so, why didn’t it turn him into a more compassionate person? Why didn’t it turn him into someone that could never hurt someone else?”

“Good questions. I can see what you are saying. I guess I just want to make it make sense because if it doesn’t, then I don’t know how to think about it. But what you are saying means that there isn’t really a formula like I want.”

“Life experience definitely helps mold us into who we are. But every person has within them the ability to be nurturing and ‘good’ or harmful and ‘bad.’ Sometimes people learn to be bitter and angry, instead of loving and compassionate. I wish there was some way to come up with a formula that would work across the board. I think religion does that for some people.”

“Which is what I was saying. Then you can say there was a reason for it and feel safe again, like, right then, instead of having fear on your back for a long time. I think I need to come up with some kind of belief system so I can have that. What’s yours?”

“My belief is that everyone should try to live their life in a way that is centered in Love and that makes them feel Happy and that causes the least amount of pain and hurt to others and themselves because everyone is just as important as everyone else.”

“Ya. That sounds like you. Mine might be something like that but I’d throw in ‘except when I’m hungry, and then I’m more important that everyone else. Bring me some bread!”