9/11

Today is 9/11. That simple statement can bring tears to the eyes of anyone who was capable of comprehension on that day twelve years ago. As everyone who remembers that day, I can completely recall all of it - where I was, who I was with, how I first heard of the horrors...

Our children were only four (almost five), and three, and we were at my parents - my parents who remember where they were when they heard of Pearl Harbor (real time reporting wasn't upon us then), and here was another man-made tragedy unfolding immediately upon us.

I don't speak often of my faith. To me, it's a private thing. But I believe, and I use those beliefs as I navigate an often unfair world, and as I try to raise our children. I don't use my faith as a reason to exclude or to hate. I have difficulty with those concepts. Why would you want to worship a deity who tells you to despise or murder or protest as a way to push your hate? (Hey, Westboro Baptist - those last words were aimed right at you.) Why is it so easy for them to remember the verses they use to hate with, and so hard to remember the 'don't judge', and 'love thy neighbor' ones?

I've seen hatred aimed incorrectly. We all have. Some use the internet, and hide behind screen names, and comment pages to call others idiots, fools, and worse. May each of us learn from the evils not to hate, but to accept, to care, to try.

And thank you to every soldier, to every first responder who tries to stand between us and hate. And may every survivor have love, and peace in their grief.

Daddy

Today is my Daddy's 83rd birthday. Happy Birthday, Daddy! We are among the few in our age bracket who still have our father. Though he doesn't always have us. His mind betrays him in the cruelest of ways. He doesn't always know for sure - anything. He often calls me by my niece's name. I joke that even when I was in my twenties, I wasn't tall, and blonde, but it's a way to mask the pain.

Watching the progression of this disease is both stunning, and terrifying. Having watched so many of our elderly relatives succumb to the cruelty of being lost before we lost them, the fear is there. But it's necessary to move on. I have children, a husband, and I'm still here.

Yesterday was one of those incredibly busy, how did I get myself roped into this, kinda days. Both of our teenagers play in the high school marching band, and there was a big game. If you've got kids involved in activities - you don't need it spelled out. Your schedule belongs to them, and the administrators, coaches, teachers, even their social life. But during dinner with the high school sophomore, the following exchange occurred:

"You're really lucky that neither my brother nor I (they really do talk that way - explains the English test scores) have any desire to do anything stupid like some teenagers."

Me - "Well, I believe you're discounting what my part in this process has been for the last 16 1/2 years." (including the time spent parenting the high school junior, and admittedly said with a slight sarcastic undertone)

Teen - "Well, you must admit that some great parents have idiots for kids, and there are also lousy parents who have great kids. There is luck involved, and perhaps genetics." (did I mention he's taking a psychology course - run for your lives)

At this point, being the exhausted coward that I am - I abandoned this discussion. I would prefer not to hear my parenting categorization until we pass the teenage years. Maybe not even then. Plus the kid has a point. This year has been full of horrors committed by teenage boys, and young men. Boredom, bullying, religion - I really don't care what the reasons are - evil is evil. And I do agree that sometimes great parents have lousy kids, and vice versa. Parenting is a crap shoot.

If you had told my two brothers and I, when we were younger, that we would rally together as well as we have to be there for our father, I feel confident in speaking for all of us - ain't no way. Daddy was not the best father. I won't speak ill other than to say that no relationship between parent and child is easy, but he made it harder than it had to be. But each of us children found a way to move on, and to become parents ourselves, and each of us have found lessons we have embraced, and recognized that he did try, and no parent is perfect, and that he has always loved us the best way he knew how. In other words, maturity happened. Parenting is hard, hard work, and none of us do a great job at it every single day. But like most of life - it's so important to give it a try, a serious try. And along the way, you may find forgiveness and love.

So Happy Birthday, Daddy! We love you, and thank you. (I'm the one who sent the ECU grill cover - don't let my brothers take credit for it - just kidding.)

Close Encounters of the Breakfast Kind.

I was at the local breakfast hangout in Clayton, North Carolina; that’s either Jones Cafe or McDonald's depending on quality verses how little time you have. I was at the latter. When I walked in that morning (fresh from having dropped my son off at Mother’s Morning Out, my brain full of all the things I could get done without being tugged, hugged and called on), I passed a table of women girding themselves for the days shopping spree. I recognized one and waved in passing. The restroom was calling. 

Two of the women from the table came in to freshen up before heading off to an exhilarating day (their words, not mine), of shopping. One asked the other, “Who was that lady you waved to?” The other lady proceeded to give her estimation of me, unknowing that I was listening behind the safety of a stall door. She gave quite a descriptive that made me feel as if I were unfamiliar with myself.  “Oh she thinks she’s really something, but she’s just a housewife.”  She ended with whose wife I was with other adjectives of demeaning description and concluded with, “She likes to think that she’s a writer.” 

What would you do? I thought about it for a nanosecond, which seemed more like an eternity; time always seems to slow down in moments of uncertainty and unkindness. Oh, I’ve faced much worse than the few disparaging words of another, but in that moment I was faced with the hurt only a full grown “Mean Girl” can deliver. Should I stay in the stall and let them walk out? Do I go out with both barrels swinging? Do I swallow the thoughtlessness and carry on? 

I walked out, head held as high as I could muster and said hello to both of the women. I smiled, and I told them that I heard every word they said, and that it was fine, with one correction. “I am a writer regardless of what you may think of my writing.” I washed my hands, stepped around them and said I hoped they had a great morning. I was shaking as I walked out to the car, breakfast forgotten, and drove home to clean. Cleaning is a sort of therapy that helps me quiet hurt, gives me time to think, and boy does my home look fabamundo when the job is done. Don’t tell me I should clean for cleaning’s sake, it’s the most boring job on the planet as far as I’m concerned, but when I’m angry or hurt, look out cleaning products ‘cause here I come. 

Still, cleaning doesn’t really cut it. Long before I was married and had children, I knew that the part of me that was true, was the part that wrote. It didn’t matter if it was music, lyrics or verse. Writing fills my cup. Between that and singing, I always felt whole. While I live and love for my family, my children, and their future, what keeps me alive is writing. Am I good? Dunno. Do I want to be? Sure. If I’m told I’m lousy at it will I stop? Nope, not in a million years. 

Everyone has something, or at least I hope they do. Whether it’s family, career, healing, fighting for justice, decorating, cooking, painting, photography, or one of a million more other loves, something fills all of our cups. To create something that is wholly one’s own, whether recognized by others or not, is a gift to be used. It is a blessing. I could not be Mary unless I had one of two types of keyboards, or a guitar nearby. I may not be good, but I love what I do. I suppose what really got to me was that these women, who didn’t really know me, had honed in on the one thing that sends me. Sounds melodramatic I’m sure, but none-the-less true. It’s too bad that some have to strike out at others to feel good about themselves, so I say a little prayer. “May the Lord bless them and help them find a way to themselves...and may the Lord keep them far away me. Amen.”

No Fear for the Mother

Disclaimer - this is way too long for a blog post - but here it is anyway...

Before I became a mother, I was spectacular at mothering – at least in my fantasy world. In that other dimension, my child would be well behaved. No tantrums in the middle of a store for my child. My child would obey and would know how to sit still when told to; after all, my dog could, and my child would definitely be smarter than my dog. That certain smugness as I watched some frazzled woman who obviously did not know how to handle her child – that would never be me. I would have patience, and share such loving, tender moments with my well dressed, well behaved super child. Children were so small. Why did others think they were hard to handle? You just have to be in charge.  Certainly no reason to cold turkey my career.

My oldest baby turned sixteen the other day. He’s a tall, skinny kid with a whip smart mind, a keen sense of humor, and zero interest in promoting his self.  He’s the kid you’ll find at the back of a room, observing the goings on. He’s the kid who gets dismissed by others because of his quietness. They underestimate him, and he’s good with that. Because he doesn’t believe your opinion of him should have any value over what he knows his truth to be. The person he is is not defined by the person you think him to be.

But, honestly, I’m not so interested in telling his story as I am in telling mine. Because in many ways, becoming a mother saved my life, I know who I was before becoming a mother, and who I became by being a mother, and motherhood was integral to the travel.

As if God and the universe heard my every smug word, I received a beautiful baby boy, and the adventure of unexpected reality started in the Recovery Room. As I lay there recuperating from an unplanned and unexpected C-section, I heard the grandmother in the next curtain. “She’s gonna have her hands full with that one.” My very first (and not to be my last) experience with the tone of condescension being directed at me and my progeny. Her daughter or daughter-in-law simply murmured her agreement while she cooed adoringly at her undoubtedly superior creature. Meanwhile in curtain number two, I was already striking deals with my son. “Please be quiet. It’s ok. I’ll buy you a Porsche.” I was ready to agree to the world for some peace, and rest, and I had no IDEA what was to come. (Incidentally – in case he reads this – the Porsche idea is a joke. Keep looking at used cars, and saving your money, son.) Yes, the lessons of motherhood began early, and they stunk with the repugnance of a soiled diaper.

He is our first born. We were so new despite being older parents. Our years had been spent matriculating and calculating, not burping. The only nurturing we had done was with a recalcitrant computer system while closing the monthly financials.

Our son had colic. At least that was the diagnosis. Later they suspected cystic fibrosis. Then he was tested for diabetes. His tonsils and adenoids were removed. Perhaps you get the sense that I spent a lot of time with him at the doctor’s office, and you would be correct in that assumption. And time after time, as I stood in a doctor’s office saying the following: “If it’s just a stomach virus, then why does no one else in the family catch it including his younger brother? Why is he the only one who throws up? Why doesn’t he run a fever?” I received that look. The look only a professional at condescension can give you - the look of condescension masked as the air of concern as they tell you:

 “Some kids don’t run fevers. It’s going around. It will run its course. Have him drink plenty of fluids, and come back if he doesn’t get better.”

I thought I knew perseverance from working in a male dominated field, in a male dominated industry. I was wrong. The definition of perseverance is a mother being told she’s wrong where it involves her child, and she knows she ain’t. For the record, he’s lactose intolerant and has to take an over the counter medication to properly digest any food with milk or milk by products. This diagnosis is a pretty long way from cystic fibrosis or a stomach virus, and yet it took years of perseverance and determination.

By now, I had walked away from that wonderful dream job. I had traded the business casual attire, the tasteful jewelry, the status of a career. I never knew when this child would be sick – physically. I also never knew when I would get this call:

“Your child tore a book up.”

“Your child hit another child.”

“Your child wouldn’t sit down.”

“Your child needs to learn to stop interrupting.”

“Your child never uses ma’am.” (We live in the South – but honestly, I wanted to tell this teacher to get over herself, I had bigger issues I was working on.)

Our son has ADHD. Now if you think it doesn’t exist – do feel free to move on to another article or activity. I hear Tom Cruise is single again.

In my pre-motherhood daydreams, when I believed that my child would never have tantrums and would sit still – well, let me repeat that sentence above again. Our son has ADHD. He found it incredibly difficult to sit still, to focus, and to just be. He climbed and explored. He talked, and talked, and talked. I ran to hold his hand; I ran to pull him out of trees; I ran to constantly catch up. We strolled past no one with smugness, because we had already run past them trying to get him out of the street.

When our son was about three, we were packing for a trip. My husband had left to run an errand when I realized there was an unearthly quiet in the house – a house which was never quiet between our son, his baby brother, two dogs, and a home office. Immediately I thought of the door, and whether Rick (my husband) had left the garage door open as he did sometimes. I still don’t know why those thoughts came so quickly. I dashed to where our son had been playing. No son. I ran to the garage. Sure enough two open doors. Flying out them, I immediately started yelling for our son, and there he was. He had crossed the street and was headed down the sidewalk just as fast as those little toddler legs could carry him. Our beautiful toddler boy was headed off on an adventure on a beautiful spring day - just him and our dog, Dixie. That wonderful mutt was walking between our son and the road, forever justifying my rescue of her when she was a puppy. When I got there, I swear I think her look at me said, “Be more careful next time. I won’t always be around.” Is it any wonder that his second word after DaDa wasn’t MaMa, it was “Dickie”, and Dixie would come running to his side?

I learned never to assume how life would happen. I learned humility. I learned patience. I learned perseverance. I also learned never to zone out on my child.

But for all the adventures early, nothing prepared me for school. I was not prepared for the hurt and humiliation – my own, not his, and I was not prepared for how much my own history of being bullied would affect my reactions to cruel comments whether intentional or just thoughtless. I think I expected grown-ups to be umm, grown up, and for educators to be educated. Sadly that isn’t always the case.

Did I mention that my child would be smart? I did get the intelligence I expected, and then some. The problem was that others didn’t think so. While he chattered and couldn’t focus, I heard that he was “slow,” and “not capable” of doing work on a certain level. I knew differently. I knew the chattering was because he was interested on so many levels, and he needed direction. I knew he was very capable. But I learned to play well with others. I had to get cooperation, and walking in demanding was not the path. So I cooperated and discussed, and pled his case. I had also learned that I was willing to grovel if necessary for my child. It’s that unconditional love where you place someone above yourself. Before I had a child, I never would have allowed someone to talk down to me the way I allowed some educators, and other parents. But I needed to allow them their moment – lose the skirmish win the battle.

In elementary school, I sat quietly while a teacher said this:

“He’s ALWAYS the last to leave the room. It doesn’t matter where we are going. And he ALWAYS forgets something. And then he has to go back and get it. And he holds the rest of us up.”

My response – “Well, yes, he is like that. He’s like that at home, also.” It’s the ADHD. They are absent-minded.”

Teacher: “Well, that would drive me crazy. I would NEVER put up with that. I’m so glad mine aren’t like that. He needs to get better.”

The conversation was somewhat irritating. The fact that she did it in front of other mothers when I was there volunteering my time – well, that was infuriating. Here’s the reply I wish I could have given:

“So did you bother to read the email I sent you at the beginning of the school year discussing his ADHD? As a professional educator do you even realize how well you just laid out a kid with ADHD? How about some compassion and kindness? Barring that how about you go get another job – good luck finding one with no one with irritating habits, by the way.”

Of course, I didn’t say any of that. And for every just plain wrong educator, there were two who were fantastic, helpful and champions of my child. Meanwhile I continued to do my best to make my son understand that unique is not bad or wrong, that quirky is fun, and that no one’s opinion should count. And I know it worked when he taught me to do that.

For years I was bullied when I was young. Like most deep hurts, it left scars. I can be prickly and I don’t shrug off comments as well as I should. Aware of all of that, and knowing what a target a kid with ADHD can be, I talked, lectured, discussed with him how it is until I was blue in the face. But being prickly and quick with a retort had not endeared me to some of the other mothers, and they were quick to share their opinions of me with others. One day, my son and I encountered one of the mothers and she very quickly moved seats rather than be exposed to my cooties by sitting near me. I was devastated at the hurt and humiliation as others noticed. It immediately took me back to being 13, invited to a party and purposely tripped while everyone laughed. My son took note of my reaction and in the car he very quietly looked at me and said, “I don’t know why you should care. People like that aren’t worth it. You wouldn’t want to be friends with someone like that anyway so who cares what they think of you.”

Yes, of all the lessons I treasure from motherhood, it’s the ability to dismiss other’s opinions. That’s the one I needed the most. And that’s the one I finally got. No longer do I listen with rapt attention to someone else’s opinion of me and believe it’s the truth. I’ve spent enough years being a mother to someone who doesn’t care what you think of him, and applauding his attitude, that I realized along the way to show myself the same respect.

Yes, being a mother has taught me to be me – no apologies, no fear. I am a better me. Thanks to a baby born sixteen years ago.

A Moment

So how was last week for you? Mine was interesting. I chose interesting as a descriptor over obvious other choices such as heartbreaking, emotionally draining or bittersweet. On Monday, my Daddy looked at me, and said, "I can't remember your name." That was a harsh moment in life. Not only am I his only daughter, I am named after his Mommy. 

I ended the week by visiting my father-in-law in the hospital. He is also not doing well, and seeing my husband, and our sons reach a hard realization - also not a pleasant moment.

So why did I chose the word interesting? Because even with the sadness which enveloped my week, there were moments, lovely moments. Holding hands with my husband, knowing it's a strong relationship after twenty-two years. Watching our sons show kindness to their grandfather, and their Daddy (they were not with me on my trip, but I know the same consideration would have been there.) At one point, one of our sons, explained to me that they would not complain over any time spent there (no small task for teenagers) as they knew what the deal was. We laughed over the fireworks which couldn't be seen for the clouds, and made jokes over the constant rain - those boys are pretty quick witted, sometimes at their parents expense - and we listened to music. 

The weekend before, I attended the wedding of a dear girl. I've known her since she was born, and I always knew she would be a beautiful bride. It was a wonderful time, but one moment stood out, a moment before the bride came down the aisle. The groom walked down the aisle with the most wonderful, confident smile. It instantly took me back to my own wedding. My husband had a saying regarding us - "No worries". It was his way of saying that he was sure we were right together. The groom conveyed that "No worries" look, and it was wonderful to see. 

The happy moments, they get us through the sad ones. Because happiness comes from love just as grief is an expression of love. The sad helps us see the beauty of the happy moments. It's a wonderful life.