Remember the Bad Times Too

*Just a little note that all the tests came back fine. I am dealing with negotiating some food issues and that will take a little time. I wrote this little piece when I was waiting on results and yea, maybe I'm not so good at waiting. And my mind wanders. 

Even as I await the results of the test that will tell me if I will die early, I fight falling into cliche. Quickly the things I’ve dreamt of peacefully slip away. The African safari, spending an extended time on a Hawaiian beach, the many books and stories I want to write….. they quietly retreat and I don’t even feel sad for them. These were things to fill my life after the main act.  My husband and children were always all I ever wanted. And I got them. The End.

Except I wasn’t quite done with the main act. There was more I wanted to do with them. Maybe  not necessarily do, but I wanted them to know more. More about me, more about what I know, more about life.

I am glad I know my path. I am glad I won’t grow old alone- that has always been a fear. I will leave this world when it is largest for me. I feel a relief to know that I wasn’t lazy or worthless the last few months. The illness justifies all I’ve felt.

But I don’t want my children to remember me like this. It will get worse, but I don’t even want you to think back to now and think this is what your mother was like. I hate the fatigue that has taken over my life and prevented me from being the Mother I am in my mind. I need you to know all the things I wanted to be for you.

You won’t remember but Sally was a tiny baby and the older two were two and four years old and we were driving down the road and I saw the biggest turtle I have ever seen slowly making his way across the road.  I made Daddy stop the car and I got you out to watch the turtle on his long slow journey across the road. Daddy was worried about traffic and safety, which is good - but I wanted you to witness the beauty and awe of this magnificent creature crossing the road.  I wanted to always have time to slow down and wonder in awe with you.

I wanted you to remember the spring day it had been raining all day and we walked with umbrellas and raced leaves in the curbs on the streets. I want you to remember all the hours we spent swimming at the beach. I want you to remember bike rides. I want you to remember snuggling in the morning before the day starts. I want you to remember how we can just sit and laugh and laugh. And I definitely want you to remember that I can still do a cartwheel.  I love the way Sally brags about that to her friends and their mothers.

Even if its impossible to remember all the conversations we’ve had, I want you to remember that we had conversations. We talked about hard things. All the times I’ve talked with you about your questions related to sex and your bodies - that was not easy for me. But I made myself do it. I would rather you ask me than ask the kids at school. That cool relaxed attitude I have? I am white knuckled on the inside…. but I don’t want you to know that. When you ask from the bottom of your heart why people don’t want gays and lesbians to be able to marry if it doesn’t even affect them…. it breaks my heart as you learn of the intolerance in this world, but it makes me proud that you are thinking about it. And when you want to buy condoms and open them to see what is in there? I calmly say, go ahead. While I’m dying inside. Not only because of the discomfort, but because how can you be old enough to ask? And I thank God for my little one who saves me from being so old when she says that those (condoms) are for removing the hair from unwanted places on your body. And I thank God for her big sister who told her this, trying to protect her little mind.

I want you to remember the feel of these conversations, because I always want you to have them. Stay open. Connect. Ask the hard questions. Try to find the answers, even though they don’t always come. I’m sorry I don’t know how mankind started. I don’t know which theory is correct. And yes, if Adam and Eve were the first couple, their kids would have had to reproduce together. And I’m so glad you would be overwhelmed if you were picked to be the first man on earth. That is a perspective I hadn’t entertained before. And never ever lose that empathy that allows you to think of things from perspectives other than your own.

I want you to remember our sunset picnics on the beach in Sanibel. I want you to remember the mountains of Tennessee. I want you to remember the intense stifling wet heat of Louisiana and Mississippi. I want you to remember skiing on the mountains in Colorado. But don’t lose sight of all the gifts close to where you are. Find the beautiful places close to your home, wherever that may be. Get fresh air; its always healing. Turn off the screens. Know yourself. Deeply. You will change. That is good. Learn how to soothe yourself. You will need it. Play music - it is the only activity that engages your entire brain at one time.

Remember the games we played. The fires we built. The hours we sweated and cried over homework. Remember when I tried being the Tiger Mom? Ha. Remember the time Daddy and me toilet papered your rooms for April Fools Day.  Remember sneaking in my room and sleeping on the floor next to me. I secretly loved that. Remember when you were sick and throwing up all night - how we talked and snuggled and how I held your back and I washed your face with a cold wash cloth. Don’t remember it because it makes me look good but remember it so you can do that for your child.

But, dear babies, as hard as it is for me to write, please don’t only remember the good times. Please remember the hard times too. Please remember when I wasn’t perfect. Please remember when I yelled at you, when I ran out of patience, when I could take no more. Remember the times I had to walk away. Remember all the deadlines I missed. Remember when you had to wear dirty clothes to school because there were none clean. Remember wearing mismatched socks. Remember eating cereal for dinner. Remember when I cried and fought with Daddy.

Because when these things happen to you, I will not be here to remind you of them. I don’t want you to feel like a failure or a freak when you aren’t able to keep up. When you aren’t able to be super human. You see, my plan was to be here for that.  I was going to tell you my stories of my shortfalls, to come to your aid and help when things get tough in real life. . Because they do. For everyone. Not many people will let you in on their pain, and you might feel lonely and depressed. You will make mistakes. You will lose your temper. And I want you to know thats OK, thats normal.

I wanted to share with you my faith. I haven’t done that enough.  It is strong, and non judgemental. And always questioning. Maybe thats why I haven’t been able to share enough. I tried to give you the freedom to learn how you really feel and believe, what resonates within your own heart. I wish I had shared, wished I had known really, that my faith is much like that of my grandmothers and my father. They are the quiet, strong believers whose faith is between them and their God.

So, my little blessings, try to remember it all. Be gentle with yourselves when you can’t. Life is cake for dinner and life is brussel sprouts for dinner. The key is to have balance. And the other key is knowing you will never have balance. Grandma Patsy always told me that nothing too good or too bad lasts for too long. Remember this little nugget when things are tough. But, most importantly, remember it when things are going well. Practicing gratitude in the moment imprints happiness on your soul that can last a lifetime.

One Breakfast, Every Breakfast

I always try to look back and see how it started. For some reason, I think I can look back and find a point where something could have been different. 

This is not a lifetime story, but an every day, at least once a day story. 

Today, I heard Steve and Sally chatting in the kitchen while I was getting dressed in my bathroom. Soon after, I hear the bickering that includes Chaucer. 

It’s often the girls screams that get to me. Although I know deep down that they are struggling like Steve and I are struggling. What do I do when he walks by and hits me? I know its not hard; it doesn’t hurt.  It is aggravating and annoying, not abusive. What do I do when he snatches my cereal bowl? 

With us parents, he isn’t as physical.  It’s directed elsewhere. Kicking the counter as he sits on the stool.  We try to ignore it. But he does it louder and faster and louder and faster and LOUDER AND FASTER AND LOUDER AND FASTER AND LOUDER AND FASTER until we can’t ignore it and ask him to stop. And he will stop because I don’t think he really wants to be doing it.  And he really isn’t trying to be annoying.  

After he has stopped for about a minute, he will start tapping his cereal bowl with his spoon. First he taps the bowl, then the counter, then the cereal box. We are trying to ignore it, because it really isn’t that bad, and we don’t want to constantly be negative. But then it gets to be louder and faster and he’s tapping more things and wiggling his body and he just can’t stop and the milk ends up spilled all over the counter. 

So there is fussing about that and telling him to JUST BE STILL.  He is up because the milk is on the chair and walking around the room eating bites. We tell him to sit down and he sits down but forgets thirty seconds later and is trying to eat part of his breakfast while he is walking the top of the back of the couch as if on a high wire. He hasn’t eaten much, he is barely at an acceptable weight and soon his medicine will kick in. 

The medicine that will calm him. The medicine that will help him control his body.  The ironical (is that a word) medicine that is a stimulant, yet slows our boy to a normal speed. The medicine that we fret about giving him, wondering what the long term affects will be.  The medicine that makes him not hungry. The medicine that makes him go all day without eating.

His attention deficit disorder also makes him not able to read his body signals, which affects everything from eating to running to talking. So at some point, our happy boy turns instantly into a starving, crabby, not functioning human being because he hasn’t had anything to eat. 

With his medicine, he is successful at home and at school.  He doesn’t get yelled at, fussed at, and most interactions are positive and he is able to be the person he wants to be for about 6-8 hours. He has dyslexia, and school is not his strong suit, so this medicine is nearly a miracle in this sense. 

He is very physical, and very athletic.  His medicine slows him down, makes his reactions slower. This is not a bonus in the sports arena. Except it helps him focus, and stay in the game. 

He doesn’t like his medicine.  Not because of how it makes him feel, but because he knows we don’t like to give it to him.  He knows we are torn; we wish he didn’t need it. He wants us to be proud of him.  He wants to please us.  He senses that it is a bad thing to need this medicine. 

At a conference we attended yesterday, my eyes welled with tears at what my child is going through.  He wants to feel normal. He wants to settle down.  He wants to do well.  He doesn’t want to have a million negative interactions.  From what I understand, the serotonin (I think) needs to get from cell to cell to help us make good decisions, to help our brain function fully, to help us concentrate. In the ADHD brain, the serotonin can not make this transfer.  That is why stimulants help.  They stimulate the chemicals in the brain to make this transfer from cell to cell faster, which in turns make them able to make better judgements and stay focused. He literally needs stimulating to slow down. 

So when he is jumping, or kicking his foot on the counter, or tapping things, or chanting...... he is literally trying to jump start his body.  He is not trying to be annoying.  He doesn’t understand what is going on. 

So, back to him now not sitting at breakfast.  He has had several admonitions already and he hasn’t been up 15 minutes. He is upset and says he doesn’t want to eat. This happens many mornings.  His Dad is telling him he needs to eat.  He is a very little guy, and we know  he wont eat the rest of the day. They get into power struggles nearly every morning. 

If we give him his medicine before breakfast, he won’t eat at all.  The alternative is these struggles every morning. For several months, we had him sit at the table by himself to eat breakfast, away from the girls.  This seemed to work better for everyone, until I was talking with him one night in bed and he told me how much it hurts him not to be able to just sit and have breakfast with his family before he goes to school. He feels punished and isolated. 

I often feel like a terrible parent who can’t control her kids.  I have tried so many things. Somehow I need to change my attitude. I need to accept we have a different family and are fighting different challenges than most.  I am embarrassed that we can’t sit down and have a meal even though our kids are 12, 10, and 8. I need to let go of what others think. Almost every meal is a struggle and a negative, barking experience. 

My husband and I went to a talk on ADHD and executive function. They talked a lot about the make up of the brain and the things that didn't happen with ADHD - like self talk, and the synapses that didn't transfer from one cell to the other to help make less impulsive decisions and that adhd brains had normal feelings but not normal responses and other stuff like this. What we really wanted to know was how to keep Chaucer from dropping his dirty socks on his sisters breakfast plates and how to make sure he had shoes on by the time he got to school and how to teach him the difference between his backpack and a garbage can and how to walk past another person without trying to trip them.

I tried to google ADHD and always get descriptions and symptoms or technical brainy information.  Today I was searching for anecdotal experiences that might sooth my aching heart.  I couldn’t find any, so I sat down to write one of my own. I am having trouble closing this out.  There is no redemption here, no solutions. Just an ever present desire to help my family and my children. I take a minute to breathe deeply and show gratitude for our family. These challenges are better than walking through the world alone.

It's Not Fair

Earlier this week, a group of boys chose to play a stupid game that some ten year old boys might play.  It’s called “pantsing” in which one tries to pull down the pants of another.  Several kids did it, several kids got “pants-ed”.  My son happened to pants a child who, while actively participating, got very upset that it happened to him. He told his mother, who told the school.  The end result was my son having to miss an end of the year all day school trip and stay behind with the associate director of the school. One other child also had to stay behind.  The others involved did not have to stay behind or have any consequences. 

I agreed that he should have punished.  This was a very safe place for him to learn the lesson that actions have consequences. I did not agree that he was the only one to suffer the consequences because all the boys were playing. 

“It’s not fair,” I said to the director.  A woman I admire and have known and trusted for years, she could not hold back her disbelief that this 42 year old woman was using the words of a first grader. So she took an 8 1/2 x 11 piece of paper and filled the page with these words:  KNOWING WHEN TO STOP.

My son was waiting outside because I didn’t want him to focus on the not fair part.  I wanted him to focus on his actions and only he is responsible for them; and another child was hurt and embarrassed by his actions. The director asked that we be silent as she delivered his consequences. He walked in and sat in the hot seat, read her piece of paper, and kept his eyes down as she explained that he was getting consequences because he didn’t stop.  

I left the school in a hurry because I was angry, frustrated, sad, and couldn’t get over the fact that IT WASN’T FAIR. 

Over those three exhausting days, I had some very rich conversations with my husband, friends and son.  I called friends whose opinions I respect and literally cut and pasted some of these conversations back to my son.  I saw my son open, learn, evolve in front of my eyes.  

When I first asked my son about it, he responded, “But Nathan told me to do it.” I got to reiterate my regular mantra that “You, and only you are responsible for your actions.” This actually wasn’t that rich of a conversation because it was more like my regular preaching and him putting up with it.  I still have hope that one day it will seep in and register. 

But it was an opener. He asked, “Would you have called the school if I had my pants pulled down?”  

I pause and think before I slowly answer. “No.  But I would call the school if you were really hurt and feeling unsafe and thats why Mike’s mother called.  I would have asked you more questions so I could understand the circumstances. Once I understood that boys were all playing a game and laughing and having fun and then you got upset because it happened to you, I would tell you that now you know not to play that game. I would give you a hug and tell you that I am so sorry you got embarrassed, but I would point out that was part of the game you chose to engage in. I would ask you to think about this the next time a situation like this arose.”

My son then said, “Mike always does that. He always plays and then when he doesn’t like it or he gets tagged or something doesn’t go his way, he goes and tells and we get in trouble.  That’s why no one wants to play with him.” 

I refocused the discussion on his choices. “Do you understand that one of your classmates was hurt, humiliated, and embarrassed because of your actions?” My son  just wasn’t able to go there yet. 

“Mom, it was a game. It happened to Nathan and Jake and Tom. They didn’t cry. They laughed. Mike (the victim) even laughed so hard when it happened to them.  The only reason it didn’t happen to me is because I was wearing tight pants.” 

I tried a different lesson. “So you still don’t know how it felt to have your pants pulled down.  You don’t know what it feels like. Every person is sensitive to different things. These were his feelings. Yes, he was involved. Yes, it was his actions that put him there. But he also had valid feelings that he may not have been expecting. We all have our touchpoints and they need to be respected.” 

The ease of these many conversations ebbed and flowed over the three days. Some topics were easier than others. I was angry about the consequences and angry about how this child and mother and the school handled it.  I was trying to teach my son that people handled situations differently, yet I was mad they wouldn’t handle like I would. 

At one point, I realized the director was not going to change her position and the group would not be treated the same. I had to come to peace with it.  I could not let it absorb me anymore. I decided to use her lesson. My son does get in the middle of things, and yes, he does need to learn when to stop. This is an issue for him. Painful and frustrating, but the truth. We had long talks about KNOWING WHEN TO STOP. That very night he took my daughters head bands and started shooting them like rubber bands at her.  She asked him to “please stop” several times. I came up and gently reminded him that knowing when to stop is the lesson we are working on.  He responded immediately and picked up the headbands. 

My goal as a parent is not only to protect them, but to teach them to make the right choices when I am not around. He did not respond to his sisters requests, but when I used these words with him, it hit home  immediately. I explained to try to remember these words and listen to others. 

When I tucked him in bed, he spoke of thinking about stopping.  He was remorseful, but not saying much, but not wanting me to leave. I said I was thankful that the director took the time to write that down for us and explain that part.  It will help you as you grow up. I spoke of a pack mentality and how we sometimes make decisions in a group that we wouldn’t necessarily make on our own. I talked about the challenges coming his way the next few years.  I said there would be situations involving drinking and drugs and he could come back to this moment and remember  his lesson about KNOWING WHEN TO STOP. I talked about listening to girls and being physical with them and he better KNOW WHEN TO STOP and listen to her words.

He said, “Mom, I just don’t understand why I have to stay back and the others don’t.  It’s not fair.” Ahhhhh. My touchpoint. I had spoken with a friend earlier that day about this and I used her words. “Let’s try not to use the word fair. Fair is relative. Everyone has different ideas about what fair means. I will tell you this.  If I was the director, I would not have made that decision. I would have had all the boys have a consequence. But I am not the director.  She is and it is her decision to make and we have to abide by it because she is in charge.”  He has not mentioned this again.

The next afternoon I picked him up from school and we headed out quickly.  I was a little tired of all the deep conversations and the mood of the week, so I said, “Did you pants anyone today?”  My very funny lighthearted boy seriously told me, “It isn’t funny, Mom.” 

He was clearly hurting so I needed to turn it back on and be present for him. 

“Here’s the deal, Mom.  I feel really bad that Mike was embarrassed and hurt.  I really do.  And it doesn’t feel good that I was the reason he felt that way.  But I am still mad. I am mad that I have to stay back and the others don’t.  I am mad that he plays and then runs and tells.  I am mad that I am taking all the blame.  I wanted to apologize to him but I didn’t know if I could because I was mad.”

“What do you mean, you didn’t know if you could?”

“Well, would it still be sincere? If I have mad feelings while I’m saying I’m sorry. Can I have both of those feelings at the same time?”

My eyes became an instant dam.  It took everything to hold back the tears. How was he able to verbalize this? I finally said, “ Yes.  I think you can hold both feelings at the same time.  As a matter of fact, you just helped me to understand my feelings. That is exactly how I feel.” 

As I was driving him to school today, to spend the day with the director while all his classmates attended the field trip, these were my words:  “Here is my assessment of the week:  I think a group of boys was playing a silly game, and boys will be boys. I don’t think it was as big of a deal as its turned out to be. I think we are lucky that we got to learn some good lessons and have good discussions. We cried tears together and we got mad together and at each other. You got to learn about knowing when to stop and will always have that lesson in your toolbox.”

And finally I said:

You are my son and I love you deeply. I love your personality.  I love how happy and carefree you are.  I love your boundless energy and your endless enthusiasm. I envy the way you can instantly join  any group and have so many sets of friends. With that personality comes its challenges.  You will be impulsive. You made a mistake. You will make more mistakes.  Forgive yourself.  I love how you are able to admit your culpability, make amends and move on. Your integrity is inspiring. I love how you engage in life and I would not trade your personality for anything. I know it will be a tough day for you and I’m sorry. 

He gave me a hug before he walked into school and said, “It won’t be that bad, Mom. I love you.” 

And all of a sudden, I realized that IT’S NOT FAIR. None of the others had the opportunity to learn such lessons this week. None of the others had so many rich conversations.  No one else got to stop time and watch and experience both the magic and the searing pain of the deepening of their child’s soul before their very eyes. Yes indeed, IT’S NOT FAIR. 

Spring Cleaning and Fairies

We were spring cleaning over the kids second week of spring break. Spring cleaning like we have never done. My youngest daughter is six and I finally was able to give away their little tunnels they used to crawl through and their toddler rocking chair (although not without tears rolling down my face as I cleaned and dusted it for its new owner.)

The only way I can clean like this is to enter a zone, a zone where all I do is focus on the project, fast and furious.  I try my best not to feel anything or take walks down memory lane.  I become as close to a robot as humanly possible. In the middle of my zone, loading pages of artwork into the recycle bin without focusing on the fact that I will NEVER get little art like this again, my 11 year old daughter, who is closer to 12 now, comes in my room with a stack of papers she is ready to toss. 

“Mom, I need to know, once and for all, are fairies real?” 

Out of my zone, thrust back to my life, instantly, unexpectedly, and nowhere to go.  With my hands in the cookie jar, my jaw hit the floor, and I was, maybe for the first time, speechless. 

She was holding all the letters that her own fairy, Fiona, had been writing to her for years.  

With a rare exception, I have hated Fiona all these years. I hated having to be Fiona. When Chloe was in Kindergarden, some evil mother had written to her daughter one night claiming to be a fairy, her own special fairy. In all fairness, I doubt this mother knew how her spark would burden me for years.  But many nights, wiped out from the exhaustion of three young kids, I had to remember to sneak in and write made up stories from Fiona.  I also had to learn how to make fairy dust, and come up with reasons why she didn’t come every night, or why she couldn’t be photographed. 

I now understand these white collar criminals who are finally caught and exposed when they say it all started with just a little shifting of money, and eventually morphed into them stealing billions.  I have experienced the slippery slope. 

Why would another kid get a special fairy and my kid didn’t?  How could I explain that to my five year old? From an early age, they always understood that different families have different rules. Why, oh why, couldn’t I apply this concept in the fairy situation? 

Well, clearly, I didn’t think it through. Of course I didn’t.  All the Kindergarden girls had a special fairy, I had a three year old son, and a year old baby, and a husband that traveled all week.  If I tell her the fairy notes were written by the girls‘ mothers, the other mothers would hate me and then she might figure out the easter bunny, tooth fairy, and Santa Claus were all made up, and holidays would be ruined and their childhood destroyed. So, I scribbled a note after emptying the diaper genie and here I am right where I deserve to be. After years of lying to my daughter, impersonating some invented fairy, in the middle of my almost impossible zone of cleaning, with my jaw on the floor while my daughter grasps all the letters and demands the truth. Now. 

After the initial shock, I did what any self respecting mother who has pretended to be a fairy in our woods for years would do.  I told her if she ripped up those letters and threw them away, that Fiona would be in great danger.  The bad gremlins would know immediately and go after Fiona first and then the rest of the fairies.  All of the fairies would turn on Fiona and she would be cast from the forest and be a  homeless fairy and  spend the rest of her life searching for a place she could call home. 

I didn’t really do that, but in that instant, I thought about it.  I asked if we could talk about it later, and she said there was nothing to talk about.  DID YOU, OR DID YOU NOT, WRITE THESE LETTERS? 

I got my angry voice on and said we needed to table it for later. I instructed her to keep the letters.  

For the letters are magical and not only contain history and knowledge, but  special powers that reveal themselves only when the time is right. 

A Reminder from my Daughter

Some things that make me laugh are sometimes hard to put into words, but I will try.  When do our children turn into real people, ones that we MIGHT hang out with by choice, because they are funny or enjoyable?  

Sometimes people think my kids are funny because of what I post on facebook or the stories I tell, but those are different because I post most of those as coping mechanisms because thats just how they are. They aren't trying to be funny. 

This morning as we were passing the neighbors house, the for sale sign was lying on the ground. Sally thought this was very dramatic and a very big deal.  I said, "It's not that big of a deal.  It could have not been nailed down hard enough, or it could have loosened with the melting of the snow, or a car could have hit it, or the wind could have blown it down.  No big deal."  

And Chloe muttered, "Or it could have been the Big Bad Wolf coming around blowing it down."  And she gave me a look that, all at once said:  " I could have said this louder and made Sally scared but I am saying it under my breath because I think it's kind of funny and you might too.  And don't worry, Mom, as I enter these teen age years, even though I am not always available and sometimes crabby for no reason, I really love you and we will always be tight.  This stuff is normal, Mom. Don’t worry.  I Love you.”

Yep, I’m pretty sure thats what the look said. 

All Nighter

I ran a huge event on January 12 that went splendidly well.  And then, many said predictably, I got really sick.  I missed some social events that I was actually excited about.  I don’t have as many social events since taking back my family last fall.  I am making huge attempts not to schedule things that aren’t important to me.  I spent a couple of entire days in bed, and parts of other days for over a week.  Just as I was feeling better last Sunday night, when my husband and I had watched one show and were getting prepared for another, just before 10 p.m., my youngest daughter wakes up with the worst stomach virus in the history of the universe.  Without getting too down and dirty with the details, suffice it to say our entire army of cleaning products were used, and we left windows open all night in January in Minnesota to fumigate.  

I pulled an all nighter.  She was sick at least twice an hour, we stopped counting at 10 times around 2 am.  My youngest daughter is tough as nails, especially when it comes to stomach flus.  She spent the better part of her first three years throwing up, and knew to run to the toilet to get sick by the time she was 18 months old.  She is often stoic about stomach viruses, sometimes not even waking me up.  

But this one was different.  The night is somewhat of a blur, but the pattern is clear.  She would writhe in pain, her body straightening and stiffening into a board.  She would cry out sometimes in sharp cries, sometimes whimpering.  I would rub her if she would let me, and she only let me when she had given up hope, when all of her was used up.  

Then, suddenly, she would bolt in the bathroom to be sick.  After about 11, there was nothing left, and she became intimate with the word bile.  All I could do was hold her hair back, rub her back, and watch.  Watch her little abdomen roll uncontrollably, her shoulders following suit, her neck roll just enough to allow her blond head to crush against the back of the toilet. 

Then, the reprieve.  We would lay in bed and wait for the next one.  I would start to doze, and then I would hear something like this:  “Mama, how come I didn’t know the word bile before now?”  

I rolled from my side to my back with a little giggle.  “I’m not sure Sals.  I guess its just not that pretty of a word and it just hasn’t come up before.”  

Quiet. Dark.  With a crack of light from the bathroom, so we can find our way when the next battle comes. 

“Mama? I should have known that word.  My stomach has always been sick.” 

I had made my husband go sleep in the office because he just can’t handle this.  He goes nuts when he can not do anything to make it better.  Her pain becomes his unbearable, unfixable pain that morphs into fear, betrayal, and anger.  

Her questions and insights in the in between times became my anchor for the night.  

“I don’t understand the tuning of a violin.  You tighten the string to tune it, and it gets loose again, usually because of the water in the air.  But why does it just break at some point with no warning?”  

I know it looks like things, or people, just break without warning.  But there is always a warning, a sign, if you pay attention, and if you know what you are doing.  

“Why was I born last? Would I be the same person if was born before Chaucer or Chloe?”  

When we noticed the sky turning from the darkest black, to a little lighter black, she noticed the shift and asked why.  I explained that morning was coming soon.  

“Really? I thought the night was longer than the days in the winter.”

It is, honey.

“Wow.  That night flew by.  You mean we did an all nighter? Yes! I can’t wait to tell Chloe and Chaucer I was the first one to do an all nighter.” 

And as the sun edged its way through our blinds, I held my daughters hand, and we finally slept. 

Blessings of a Bad Day

I am smart enough, or evolved enough to ask some questions.  Serious questions like, when I am in tears over everything and every one is upsetting me..... “What time of the month is it?” or like now, when I am sick, “Is everything as bad as it seems, darker than usual, because I am sick and under the weather?”  

I consider it progress that I ask the questions, even if I don’t answer them correctly.  I was really looking forward to this quiet week after the crazy week I had last week.  Honestly, I like both kinds of weeks - busy and full of action, and quiet non scheduled weeks.  I know there is no perfect time, and it is probably better that it happened this week, but being sick has really thrown me off my game.  

I actually love it when I am able to give in to sickness.  Just say, we can’t do it.  Whether its me or my kids, giving in, laying in front of the TV or in bed, canceling obligations, and just getting thorough it.  Although I fight this, I often embrace it when I must.  

But my world is weighing heavy on me now.  Substance abuse problems tearing families apart. Families that are close to us, our children.  Allegations of sexual abuse from families in our school.  Nasty divorces, like you wouldn’t believe.  Parents driving their kids under the influence.  Adults acting like teenage girls.  A suicide in my hometown.  The heavy, heavy weight of teaching my kids to navigate this world and wondering if I can do it. 

Oh yea, and this cold.  Which somehow seems harder than anything.  Yesterday, nothing was going right, you know those days?  Nothing big, but everything little.  I woke up to a very troubling email, on an issue that is constant but sometimes demands more.  I couldn’t write a thing... except a lengthy thank you letter for my event last week.  Being sick, I am even less able to multi task than usual, and spent the better part of the early afternoon dealing with learning issues at school.  Steve called from out of town and he was distressed that his meeting didn’t go well.  Last night, I needed help disciplining my son, who is so, so sweet and kind but has to be held responsible for his actions, or inactions.  I find it almost easier to fight my headstrong daughters than to help my son be responsible.  I didn’t know what to do, so I told him I was taking all of his new fatheads off his wall.  Well, that was a disaster and I ended up being the only one crying as he pulled them off his wall, saying “I’m really sorry, Mom.  Please be careful, Mom.” I wasn’t angry or out of control, I was just trying to find something that might mean something to him.  Also, trying to tune it, I broke my youngest daughter’s beloved violin, which she plays all the time. 

I was in tears when my husband arrived home from out of town exhausted, and he surprised me.  

“Do you want to go out? Take a drive somewhere?  I’ll handle this.”  

“No.  I can’t.  I feel so bad.”

“OK.  I’ll draw you a bath.”  What? Who is this? I vaguely remember this man I dated, then married years ago.

  

“There is already a kid in my bathtub.  Can’t go there.”  

“OK. Honey.  Just get in bed and read.  I’ll finish with the kids.”  I can’t get in bed to read because my son’s brand new 6 foot fathead is laying on my bed.  I just spent the last 30 minutes unsticking it because it rolled together when I took it off his wall and now I don’t know what to do with it.  

I get up to check on my older daughter who is in the bathtub.  I walk in my bedroom and see that the huge football player fathead is not on my bed anymore, and I quickly see that my youngest daughter has tried to clean my bed off for me, but has gotten caught up in the fat head, which is stuck to itself and her, and she is trying to deal with it without letting me know.  

I burst into tears with a wailing sound and plonk on my bed and hold my pounding head.    My older daughter is calling from the bathtub, “What’s wrong, Mom?”  And my younger daughter is silently trying to fight the sticky fathead herself.  If I were in a different state, I would have taken a picture.  My husband comes in and says, again, that he will fix it.  He tells me to go downstairs and I do.  

I play our old pinball machine with tears streaming down my face.  The tears are from being sick, frustrated, challenged with the day.  They are also from all the heavy things going on in families close to us.  They are fear from what has happened to the life we imagined having, fear of losing the closeness with my husband.  They are also, thankfully, tears of happiness and a little hope.  

One by one, they come down.  Chaucer says he is sorry and brings a picture he has made and offers to play with me.  I tell him that I don’t know what to do with him.  I am so proud of him.  He is such a good, kind, nice boy that I am so proud of.  I know you don’t mean to do the things you do.  I know it is the attention deficit disorder, but you are still responsible for your actions.  Mostly, I hug him and tell him how much I love him and he has tears in his eyes.

Sally comes down with a note apologizing for breaking the ornament and wrecking the fathead.  I kiss her head and say thank you, but I know they were accidents and she was just trying to be helpful and supportive.  

My husband comes down and tells me he beat the fathead and it is back on the wall perfectly.  He says he will take the violin to get fixed.  He is calm, and good with the kids.  He says he has already stepped in and handled some of the issues at school.  I am still crying, not sure why, but probably for all the reasons listed above.  And because it feels like it has been so long since I was supported, and it feels so good to have them caring and helping in a loving manner.  I haven’t felt this in so long.

I took a bath with candles and headed to bed, only to find a sweet letter written by my daughter.  It was folded like a letter addressed to Mama Sweetgirl Countryman.  I started crying again.  Maybe some of the things I do sink in.  Maybe they do matter.  I wrote her letters most every day at camp with these salutations.  Chloe Mama’s Baby Countryman, or Chloe Dancer Extraordinaire Countryman, or Chloe Wild Girl Countryman.  She never said anything about it and I never asked.  And now, six months later, she addresses it to me like that.  She noticed.  

She wrote how much she loved me.  She also said she asked Chaucer if he was upset about the fatheads and he responded, “Yea.  I guess.  But I’m more upset to disappoint Mom and see her upset.”  This fills me because she was taking care of her brother when I wasn’t able to, and it scares me because his heart is so fragile.  

Finally she said, I’m glad you are writing now.  I love having a mother that writes.  It makes me proud.  If you write a kids book, I will be the first to read it.  Dont. Know. How. To. Write. How. This. Makes. Me. Feel.    

I have been working so hard, fighting really to find my place.  I haven’t found it, and times are not always or often easy now.  I miss my children terribly now that they are all gone all day.  Too much around them is work, rather than relationship building.  I struggle to find a new path for myself, and trying to redefine myself puts unexpected pressures on my marriage.  

Now, I find myself thankful for that  horrible day yesterday.  I would not trade it.  I was so depleted that I had to depend on my family.  I had to let them be there for me.  My husband was soft and kind and calm.  My kids were amazing. Oh, what it is to feel.  To feel pain and frustration, and sadness.  And to feel love and support and kindness.  And to know that not everything is wrong in the world. 

Especially our little world.  

Praying for Grace...and More Bad Dreams

Chaucer has attention deficit disorder.  It is fairly severe.  After I learned more about it, he perfectly fits the standard definition, a classic case.  His body simply can’t be still.  

Since he was able to get out of his crib, he moves through the night.  I would say he doesn’t wake up, but, now that he is almost 9, he can tell you what time he moved from his bed.  He has found different spots over the years - in the hallway, on the couch, in our doorway.  But his most visited spot is on the floor next to me.  He curls up in a little pile of blankets, and sleeps.  My husband used to fight this, but it was a battle I made him give up, because he was fighting not only Chaucer, but me. 

My son has never been a snuggler, which has led to hours of me wondering where I went wrong.  Now, cerebrally, I understand that he can’t be still, his body feels trapped.  He gets anxious. His building of his little nest and need to be close to me fed me as much as it fed him.  He wanted to just be close. To know that I was close, and I needed to know he needed me as his mother.  Often he is gone before morning, without my ever being aware he was there.  When I wake, I know.  I can smell him, feel him, but he is gone, like a phantom.  In the winter, he moves around 5:30 or 6 into the living room where he turns on the gas fireplace and curls on the floor and dozes.  In the summer, he often goes outside.  This summer, his choice spot was in front of the tomatoes he was growing.   

Steve travels many nights, and I often find my room littered with kids or their trails.  There may be one or two on the floor, or one or two in my bed.  Or a blanket or bear or doll left behind that sells out my kids.  This is a terrible habit they have, and I know I should do more to stop it.  The girls don’t do it when my husband is in town, because he gets grumpy about it.  Chaucer, however faithfully, usually visits for a few hours even when Steve is in town. 

Somewhere in the deep of the night last night, there was a body snuggling, maybe.  It felt like an an assertive, if not aggressive snuggle. It was as if Chaucer were trying to literally crawl back into my womb.  His head was in my neck, and his knees burrowed into my stomach, and he grabbed my arm to wrap around his body. He wasn’t crying or talking, he never does.  Truth be told, I am not a cuddler when I am sleeping either.  In my half dream, barely alert state, I fell back into a full sleep.  

Around six, my older daughter comes in our room to take a shower.  (Yes, our kids have their own shower, and there is a third shower in our house.  And another half bath with a sink.  But they all shower and bathe and brush teeth in our bathroom.)  I stir and something feels weird.  Was I dreaming I was pregnant?  I feel pregnant.  Then I realize my son is still not only in bed with me, but still locked into his position next to me, like a baby kangaroo in a pouch.  

I am awake enough to enjoy it, relish it really.  I have to go to the bathroom so bad, but I don’t want to lose this.  I want to rub his head, rub my hands all over his little body, kiss him, and eat him really.   But I don’t move.  He rolls over onto his back and stretches out.  Only his left arm and left leg are touching me now.  I really have to go to the bathroom, but I know this is borrowed time.  I let myself rub his head, and maybe a leg, and an arm.  Just like that, he is tossing and moving, a prisoner to the lack of hormone connections in his brain.  He somehow flips into a position where his head is on the other side of the bed, but both of his feet are on my stomach, and he stills again.  

His little feet move with a twitch or two, just as they did when I was pregnant.  But they are big feet, warm feet.  It’s like a fire in bed, warming my heart.  I know he needs me, loves me.  He has never been expressive.  He was never the little mama’s boy, never the three year old that wrote notes saying I love you.  He did however used to say that he was going to marry Mommy, so I hold on to that.  

I asked why he was there, even though I know the answer.  It has happened before.  “I had a bad dream.”  

“What was it?”  

“I don’t remember now.”  

Sometimes he remembers, sometimes he doesn’t.  Because of his over activity, people always assume he is tough and not needy.  Even I do this sometimes.  He has always had the worst dreams, or needed the most comfort.  Movies have always scared him.  Even now, one of those Christmas movies - is it Rudolph? has a scary snow monster that prevents him from watching it. 

I love the kids in my bed and in our room.  I know more than ever now that it will not last.  Soon enough, the little nest by my bed will stay empty forever.  Already, there are nights when it is.  But I think thats more getting ready for Santa.  

Last night, a friend posted a picture of her daughter who is fifteen.  She looked.... well, grown.  My daughter is 11 1/2.  Less than 4 years from that.  My son will be nine in January.  How much longer do I have him coming to me in the night?  Each time, I wonder if it was the last.  I am glad I think like this, but I am also glad I don’t know the answer.  The answers to hard questions.. like when was the last time I held them on my hip? or the last time I nursed? or when will be the last time I see their little naked bodies? Or the last time they say “lellow” for  yellow or “becktast” for breakfast?  

I don’t think I could bear to know these answers. 

Thank God I am learning that they will always need me.  Of course, it will look different as they grow older.  May God give me the grace to embrace their changes and grow in my motherhood.  

And, naughtily, I pray for a few more bad dreams.  

A Man's Reach Should Exceed His Grasp

Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp. Or what's a heaven for? 

                         - Robert Browning

A couple of weeks ago, my daughter’s teacher was reviewing her reading for the month.  They are required to read a certain number of pages each month.  This started to annoy me, but if you put more than one second of thought into it, you realize there are no perfect ways to quantify something as elusive, personal and individual as a love of reading. 

Of course, she had read the required amount.  This is a battle we have never had to fight with her.  I am not talking about reading, but getting her work done.  She is a hard worker, very conscientious.  

I could picture her teacher, sitting on her stool, at the front of the room, with her roll away table pulled up to her, maybe with a computer, maybe not.  Her teacher has taught 5th grade at this school for 28 years, but doesn’t look like she has been teaching that long.  Her wisdom helps me believe, though.  I wouldn’t call her soft spoken; she is decidedly strong and confident in anything she says.  However, she never raises her voice.  

Chloe had most recently read the first in a series of books.  She told me that her teacher had told her to stay away from those books - they were too hard for her.  Although Chloe received 100% in the overall category, her teacher had marked that she had not chosen appropriately leveled books to read.  

I’m absolutely positive that the teacher did this discreetly, not only because I know her, but because that would have been the first thing Chloe told me if it weren’t the case.  

She picked the book because many of her friends were reading it - one of the biggest reasons I choose to read a book. It is fun to talk about with your friends, a way to bond.  

Dyslexia has hampered her ability to bond, to be a part of the group in so many ways.  Last year, her teacher told us she was passing notes in class to the point of disruption.  I have no doubt that she didn’t appreciate our inability to hide our joy in her joining the ranks of the girly note writers.  For years, her ability and then her confidence was a barrier to this  important social step.  

Every mother knows how heartbreaking it is to watch your child hurt and not be able to do anything to assuage the pain.  The knowledge of how hard she has tried, and struggled with reading over the years, reminds me now that this wound is, after all these years, still open and raw. 

As Chloe shared this with me, I listened.  A sensitive subject, always, but there was more.  A new thread.  A new discovery about herself.  And the world.  “I understood most of the book.  Maybe not all of it.  But I finished it, and I enjoyed it.”

A pause.  Thoughts swirling in her head.  I don’t push.  I don’t try to fix it or comfort her.  

“You know, I don’t think I would have read the next one anyway.  But,  it doesn’t feel good being told that I can’t read more.” 

Oh so thats how you feel.  Wow.  I might have expressed those feelings more like this:  “Expletive you.  It’s a free country and I will read it if I want to.” 

I am not going to let this one sentence take over, but it deserves a nod.  There is so much in that nugget.  She took the information, and processed it.  Chloe trusts her teacher immensely, so values what she says. Instead of letting her defenses take over in a vulnerable time, she chewed on it.  She may have realized that her teacher was right.  She moved on, acknowledging the teacher’s authority.  She acknowledged her feelings, but was able to stay objective.  She would not read the series just because her friends were reading it. She tried their suggestion, and realized it didn’t work for her, for whatever reason.  Their is so much valuable information in her observation: trust, insight, strength, processing, expression, courage.  

Man, am I glad I don’t allow electronic devices in our car these days.  I may not have had this conversation with her. 

Within a week, my son, who is also dyslexic, had a similar experience with his teacher.  He was walking up to check out a book in the library and his teacher asked to look at it.  According to him, she shook her head and said, “I don’t think so, Chaucer.”  

He is not as much of a reporter as my girls, so the mere mention of this lets me know how it has affected him.  He had started the conversation with, “Have you ever heard of a book called The Fourth Stall?” 

He doesn’t like to talk too much about these things, so I casually acknowledged, “That doesn’t sound like it felt very good to you,” and I googled it on the computer and pulled up a You Tube video of the author answering questions about the book.  We watched the interview, his attention never wavering.  At the end he said in an apparently sassy tone, but I know the voice was protecting him, “Yeah, that sounds good but too bad I can’t read it.”  

He was still hurt.  I couldn’t kiss this one away, so I continued.  I pulled up sample pages on Amazon, pulled him in my lap, and asked him to read.  It took less than a paragraph for him to realize that his teacher was right in her assessment, if not soft in her delivery.  

“O.K. This is too hard.  Could we get the book and you read it to me, Mom?” 

Of course, my son.  

Art Therapy

I remember reading a blog for a while and enjoying her posts and insights immensely.  Until one day, in trying to depict everyday life, she wrote something to do with boogers.  I  have never seen her in the same light.  Today, I run the same risk.  I am not actually saying anything about them.  I just want to make sure you can read the quote from the cartoon my son drew when he was upset with my husband.  It says, "I love to pick my boogers."

My youngest daughter created the following piece of art last night:

She amended it this morning.  She explained she would just use the same paper, but change it to whoever is being mean that day according to her current feelings.

I am grateful that they are able to express their feelings, rather than keeping it stuffed inside.