About three years ago I got turned on to facebook. It was slow at first, and to be honest the only reason I signed up in the first place was to spy on my teenage step son. However, my spying took second seat after I dove deeper into the site.
I started getting requests to "friend" people, and being the open armed person I am, no one was denied. Through that I learned about cool apps that let me play scrabble with my best friend two hours away or a farm where I could grow virtual vegetables. It was fun and seemed harmless. Sure, I'd spend two to four hours a day logging onto the social network when I should have been writing my book, but it was fun. At one point I was even calling it research....yeah right.
Besides the games, pointless quizzes and notes about fun facts of friends there was one other cool feature that kept me logged on for hours....cyber stalking. I mean come on, let's be honest. How many people have you "friended" just so you could see if their life sucked more than yours. Facebook is they only place around where you can judge people all you want and not get called out on it! It's awesome to see that your ex married ugly or that girl who bullied you in high school got fat. Face it, we are a society that lives for others misery. If that weren't true, Real Housewives or Teen Mom would not be on the air.
Don't get me wrong, I love connecting with old friends and classmates. I'm really not that cynical, I am very happy to see people from my past succeeding in the world. It's great to learn of what has become of people. I love looking at pictures of their kids and their life. It's fun getting to know them again. I love to read about cute things their children say, or stories about their days. Facebook is can be extremely entertaining.
However, I have discovered there is a down side to knowing too much about old friends. I'll give you a prime example. A couple of summers ago I ran into an old classmate. She and I had been friends in high school and it was the first time I had physically seen her since graduation. She looked fabulous and her kids were just as adorable in person as they were on Facebook. Our reunion though was extremely awkward. We had absolutely nothing to say to each other because we already knew everything about each other. Strange, but true.
That run in got me to thinking, by connecting on a social network am I losing social decency? Sometimes I think about unplugging completely. I miss talking with people face to face. Half of the time when people want to tell me something it is through a text, email or Facebook. What happened to a phone call? What happened to going out to lunch? What happened to socializing?
I've heard about this epidemic (and I do me epidemic!) with teens. I've heard that teens will be at a party together, then leave early to go home to text each other. What? Huh? Are you kidding me? Perhaps this is why young people can't communicate. In an age of instant communication we have lost the ability to socially communicate. The scary thing is that with this new way of communicating we are losing something very important...compassion.
It's so easy to say things in print through a machine rather than saying something to someone in person. Sure I can criticize "friends" on Facebook, but can I take theirs? I post what I want others to perceive. I only try and post pictures that hide my weight gain over the years, I only write about things that I feel are safe and can't be judged. Am I real? Am I me? By being socially connected am I losing a bit of my humanity?
Right now I'm not ready to take the step to unplug myself. Especially with my kids beginning to enter the cyber socializing world. I do want to log on less and get out more. I think I'll need to take baby steps with this one.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
A New Definition of Worry
Pumpkin Head started junior high school this week. For him, it was an exciting new adventure, for me it was a repeat performance of the first day of kindergarten. It's funny that both milestones left me feeling exactly the same way.
Back in 2003 my baby went to Developmental Kindergarten (he has a late birthday, wasn't quite ready for the real thing). He was so excited to ride the bus, to go to school everyday, make new friends and have a bit of independence. I too was just as excited for him, I knew that my social butterfly would love school and completely flourish, which he did. However, like most moms, I expected that first initial day might bring on some tears. I could see it, him wrapping his arms around me and me pulling them off while telling him everything would be fine. It would be the first time he would be off on his own, separation anxiety was just part of the territory. I knew it was going to be rough.
When the day finally arrived I braced myself as the bus pulled up in front of our house. I knew it was going to be ugly, and boy was it! The bus driver opened the door and Pumpkin Head ran onto that thing faster than I had ever seen him move before. It was like he couldn't get away from me fast enough. There were no tears, no "Mommy, I don't want to leave you" pleas, there wasn't even a wave good bye, he was out! I don't think I ever cried so hard in my life. I could barely see the road as I followed the bus to make sure it delivered my son safely to the school. Heartbreaking, just heartbreaking.
Fast forward seven years and there I was again bawling my head off as I watched (from my back porch) my baby board the bus this time to take him to junior high. I didn't know I was going to react like that! I thought I was cool with him growing up, but what I have learned is, I'm not cool with it, not at all!
Here's the thing, it's like I've entered another realm. The next half. No longer will I be worrying about him getting hit by a car, I'll be worrying about him getting in a car. I won't be worrying about him making friends, I'll be worrying about the kinds of friends he has made. No more worrying about if he likes the sport, it's will he make the sport. I won't worry about him ingesting chemicals, now I'll just worry about him taking drugs. It's another game and I am no longer the star player. I'm on the sidelines watching him make the choices I hope I've taught him to make.
What I wouldn't give to go back in time and have him be little, to have them all be little again. Back in the day, older women would always say to me, "enjoy this, they grow up fast." Of course, this was always when one was spitting up, one had just pooped and one was having a melt down in the check out line. I would always think, "yeah, right." Were they ever! All I can do now is cherish what I've got left because before long I'll be saying to them, "enjoy this, they grow up fast."
Back in 2003 my baby went to Developmental Kindergarten (he has a late birthday, wasn't quite ready for the real thing). He was so excited to ride the bus, to go to school everyday, make new friends and have a bit of independence. I too was just as excited for him, I knew that my social butterfly would love school and completely flourish, which he did. However, like most moms, I expected that first initial day might bring on some tears. I could see it, him wrapping his arms around me and me pulling them off while telling him everything would be fine. It would be the first time he would be off on his own, separation anxiety was just part of the territory. I knew it was going to be rough.
When the day finally arrived I braced myself as the bus pulled up in front of our house. I knew it was going to be ugly, and boy was it! The bus driver opened the door and Pumpkin Head ran onto that thing faster than I had ever seen him move before. It was like he couldn't get away from me fast enough. There were no tears, no "Mommy, I don't want to leave you" pleas, there wasn't even a wave good bye, he was out! I don't think I ever cried so hard in my life. I could barely see the road as I followed the bus to make sure it delivered my son safely to the school. Heartbreaking, just heartbreaking.
Fast forward seven years and there I was again bawling my head off as I watched (from my back porch) my baby board the bus this time to take him to junior high. I didn't know I was going to react like that! I thought I was cool with him growing up, but what I have learned is, I'm not cool with it, not at all!
Here's the thing, it's like I've entered another realm. The next half. No longer will I be worrying about him getting hit by a car, I'll be worrying about him getting in a car. I won't be worrying about him making friends, I'll be worrying about the kinds of friends he has made. No more worrying about if he likes the sport, it's will he make the sport. I won't worry about him ingesting chemicals, now I'll just worry about him taking drugs. It's another game and I am no longer the star player. I'm on the sidelines watching him make the choices I hope I've taught him to make.
What I wouldn't give to go back in time and have him be little, to have them all be little again. Back in the day, older women would always say to me, "enjoy this, they grow up fast." Of course, this was always when one was spitting up, one had just pooped and one was having a melt down in the check out line. I would always think, "yeah, right." Were they ever! All I can do now is cherish what I've got left because before long I'll be saying to them, "enjoy this, they grow up fast."
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Hello Again
I haven't posted in quite some time but I have a good excuse. Two words- Summer Vacation. Apparently during this time of year I not only lose privileges to my computer, but also to any complete thought my brain might produce.
Don't get me wrong, I LOVE summer. No outrageous homework projects, no demanding schedules, just me, my kids and the pool. I also get to spend time participating in my favorite summertime sport- tanning. Yes, I love summer. It is the one time of year that I don't have live by my calender.
Summer always goes by too fast and come the beginning of August I feel the impending doom of the school year starting. My heart feels a little too heavy during this time. The end of the carefree days of summer, the knowledge that the next time it comes my kids will be that much older and of course, the fading of my tan, this is what makes cheerful attitude dissipate.
I hate this feeling of sadness, the only thing that keeps me from going into a total funk is the knowledge that it won't last long. You see, something always happens right around the second week of the last month of summer. Just when the tears fill my eyes and begin to flow steadily down my cheeks grieving the loss of free time and fun, they dry up. It's like a switch as been flipped, and suddenly I'm in back to school mode.
It happens instantaneously, this mental shift. It's the point where the stars in the sky align and that one fight between my kids happens at the exact same time. That is when in one split second I go from embracing my children as if holding them will keep summer longer, to shoving them out the door and asking if perhaps school could start a few days early.
I am there. It happened today. The one fight (which was their millionth of the summer) had happened, and the stars were in place. I am ready for them to go back to school! Not just go back, but run back! I've had enough sleepovers, swim time, even enough tanning. I'm done. I'm sick of my house always being a mess. I'm sick of hearing the complaints of how bored they are when there is one day we decide to stay home. I'm sick of them keeping tallies on each other on how many play dates or sleepovers each other has had over the past three months. I'm so done with summer. Bring on fall, bring on sweaters, bring on the crisp cool breeze. Bring. It. On.
Today I stand before you, a new woman. I have reclaimed my computer and I have collected all the ads for back to school savings. No more lazy days of summer for us, we are in full blown back to school lock down.
Summer, I will miss what we had though. Holding on tight to the memories that were made, the memories we will cherish all our lives. It was a great ride. Thank you for this time with my kids. I know that soon enough they will be sharing their summers with their own children, going through the same experience. Now there is only one thing left to say, goodbye summer, until next year, adieu.
Don't get me wrong, I LOVE summer. No outrageous homework projects, no demanding schedules, just me, my kids and the pool. I also get to spend time participating in my favorite summertime sport- tanning. Yes, I love summer. It is the one time of year that I don't have live by my calender.
Summer always goes by too fast and come the beginning of August I feel the impending doom of the school year starting. My heart feels a little too heavy during this time. The end of the carefree days of summer, the knowledge that the next time it comes my kids will be that much older and of course, the fading of my tan, this is what makes cheerful attitude dissipate.
I hate this feeling of sadness, the only thing that keeps me from going into a total funk is the knowledge that it won't last long. You see, something always happens right around the second week of the last month of summer. Just when the tears fill my eyes and begin to flow steadily down my cheeks grieving the loss of free time and fun, they dry up. It's like a switch as been flipped, and suddenly I'm in back to school mode.
It happens instantaneously, this mental shift. It's the point where the stars in the sky align and that one fight between my kids happens at the exact same time. That is when in one split second I go from embracing my children as if holding them will keep summer longer, to shoving them out the door and asking if perhaps school could start a few days early.
I am there. It happened today. The one fight (which was their millionth of the summer) had happened, and the stars were in place. I am ready for them to go back to school! Not just go back, but run back! I've had enough sleepovers, swim time, even enough tanning. I'm done. I'm sick of my house always being a mess. I'm sick of hearing the complaints of how bored they are when there is one day we decide to stay home. I'm sick of them keeping tallies on each other on how many play dates or sleepovers each other has had over the past three months. I'm so done with summer. Bring on fall, bring on sweaters, bring on the crisp cool breeze. Bring. It. On.
Today I stand before you, a new woman. I have reclaimed my computer and I have collected all the ads for back to school savings. No more lazy days of summer for us, we are in full blown back to school lock down.
Summer, I will miss what we had though. Holding on tight to the memories that were made, the memories we will cherish all our lives. It was a great ride. Thank you for this time with my kids. I know that soon enough they will be sharing their summers with their own children, going through the same experience. Now there is only one thing left to say, goodbye summer, until next year, adieu.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Short Story
The Truths We Keep
“I can’t remember what I said,” an empty voice jetted out of the receiver.
Even in my sleep, I knew who it was on the other end of the line. My blurred vision told me it was just after three in the morning. I groggily lifted myself upright in my bed and cupped my hand around the phone in an effort not to wake my husband who was sleeping soundly beside me.
“Liz, hang on a second,” I whispered as I eased my way out of my bed and into the bathroom.
My body jolted awake the second my feet hit the cold ceramic tile. Carefully, I shut the door and with the help of the moonlight peeking through the blinds, I found my way to the furthest corner of the bathroom. There I stood in the darkness and took one last deep breath before I held the phone up to my ear.
I could hear Liz’s quiet tears as she tried to remember the last words she spoke to her husband, Mark. This wasn’t the first time she had woken me in the middle of the night panicked like this, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
“Liz, it’s going to be okay,” I lied.
“Tegan, I can’t remember. I’ve tried and I’ve tried, but I just can’t…”
Her words were lost through her cries which had gone from controlled moans to hysterical sobs.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I said and then hung up the phone before she could respond.
These late night calls had become somewhat of a ritual this last year, although over the past few months the calls had become less frequent. From my estimation, we were down to about two a week. Liz hasn’t slept through the night since Mark passed away. Even the sleeping pills and anti-depressants can’t dull the pain enough for her to get a good night’s rest. She is showing some progress though. Now she doesn’t call every night. She is starting to calm herself down, but there are some nights, like tonight, when she needs assistance.
On the nights that she is fortunate enough to find rest, it is often disturbed by the vision of a police officer at her door. That image alone is all it takes to startle her back to reality and out of sleep leaving her to relive the last memory of her husband.
I slipped into the clothes I had hanging on the back of the bathroom door specifically for occasions like this and proceeded to make my way out of my home and over to Liz’s. As I tiptoed past my husband I paused and studied his peaceful face. Liz recently told me that she couldn’t remember what Mark looked like when she shut her eyes. She said that she felt like her memories were trapped in a thick, dense fog.
Since Mark’s death Liz had become a shadow of her former self. Once the glue that held everything together, now she was broken glass that had been trampled on during a stampede. I honestly don’t know if I will be able to pick up the dust and put her back together again.
Mark had been her whole world. She lived and breathed for him. I had always admired the relationship they had. They were so connected, on more levels than anyone else I had ever known. I remember thinking that once they had kids that things would probably change between them. After all, when you have children your attention usually shifts to them and unfortunately the husband is usually the one who suffers, but not with Liz. It’s not that she didn’t love her four children, she was always a model mother, but Mark was always number one. He appeared to be just as enamored with her. I always envied them, before anyway.
As I pulled into Liz’s driveway I noticed that almost every light was on at the house, except for the children’s rooms. She’s become afraid of the dark since the accident. It’s silly that a grown woman would be that way but we all deal with loss differently. This was just one of the many new habits Liz has picked up since Mark’s death.
Recently my daughter asked me what kind of power I would want if I were a superhero. That was an easy question to answer. Undoubtedly I would want the power to read minds. That would have been very useful to have, especially last year. If I had known that Liz would have turned into this fragment of herself, I may have made different choices. Maybe things wouldn’t have happened the way they did. Maybe we would all be sleeping now- me, Liz, Mark, all in our own beds. Sometimes I think he knew and that’s why he was driving so fast. He was trying to get home to keep her from shattering.
I froze for just a moment before I opened the door to her house. I needed a second to prepare for battle, because after all that is what this is. This entire situation has become a war. A war to bring Liz back. There have been battles won, but more losses than I can possibly count.
“Liz?” I said, as I peaked through the doorway.
Across the foyer, phone still in hand, I see Liz lying on the floor trembling.
“It’s okay. I’m here Liz.”
Seeing her there like that reminded me of an abandoned bird. She looked so weak, so frail, I was almost afraid to touch her. I gently placed my hand on her arm and began to stroke her long blonde hair. The color was drained from her face and her once sparkling blue eyes were now dull and gray. She had lost weight off her already slim body and now she was just a pile of bones.
She turned her head towards me and stared. Lately, when she looks at me it’s as if she’s trying to place me. Like when you see someone you haven’t seen in years, someone you know has played a role in your past life. Their face has all the warmth of a friend like one you know you can trust. If only you can remember how you know them. You rack your brain, flipping through it like a rolodex, until there is a spark of recognition. With Liz this process seems to take longer and longer even though I see her every day.
I know what the night has in store for me. I’ll calm her down enough to get her to lie down and for me to drive home to get a few hours of sleep. Then I’ll be back here in the morning to make Liz function. Take a shower Liz. Dry off Liz. Get dressed Liz. Please eat something Liz. Move your feet Liz. Take a breath Liz. Day in and day out, I’m here moving her like a puppeteer.
Finally the moment of recognition! I can see it in her eyes, a small glimmer of her former self. But just as quickly as it appears, it fades away.
“Thank you,” she mutters to me.
“Let’s get you a nice hot cup of tea. That will help make you feel better.”
I help her to her feet and lead her into the kitchen. As soon as I enter through the doorway, I stop dead in my tracks. I’m shocked at what is laid out before me.
On the oven is a frying pan with burnt eggs caked on it. There is a full pot of coffee on the counter. A breakfast set for two is on the table. A man’s jacket had been carefully draped over one chair. Seeing this scene, I knew I had just stepped back in time. This was the setting of the final occasion she would see Mark alive. Although I wasn’t there the last morning they spent together, I had seen it before. Liz has recreated this moment time and time again. The doctors told her to stop doing this, and as far as I knew she had.
“Liz, what is this?” I demanded.
“I thought if I just did it again, I could remember. If I went through the motions the memories would come flooding back, but they don’t. The only thing that comes back is the party. That stupid party! That’s all I was thinking about that morning. I didn’t hear a word Mark said to me. And the night before, the same thing. The party, the party. That’s it!”
The weeks leading up to the accident were filled with plans for Mark’s fortieth birthday bash. She was planning a surprise party for him which would have taken place the Saturday following his death. Instead of candles being blown out that day, a casket was shut.
“It’s funny how when there’s a big event on the horizon all the little things just fall through the cracks,” she spoke with no emotion.
She staggered to the table and lifted the jacket from the chair and brought it to her nose. I watched her inhale what was left of the scent of her husband.
“I don’t know if I told him that I loved him. I told him everyday, but I can’t remember if I did that day.”
She clutched the jacket to her chest and began to rock back and forth. With a distant look in her eye she began a play-by-play explanation of her morning, “I woke up and came downstairs. I started the coffee and then I set the table. I then took the egg carton and the butter from the refrigerator set it there by the stove. I put a tablespoon of butter in the pan and let it melt. Then I cracked three eggs into the…”
“Liz, stop! This is over the top. You can’t keep doing this! Do you know what will happen if your doctors find out about this? They will commit you Liz. Do you understand? They will lock you up in hospital somewhere, away from your kids. You won’t see your children anymore! Do you understand what I am saying? Locked away, Liz! I know you don’t want that. You might not see it now, but I know you don’t want that. You can’t keep doing this to yourself! This is ridiculous! You have to snap out of this!”
I could see immediately that I had hurt her, but for the first time I didn’t care. I just kept thinking about those four children sleeping upstairs and how in all of this they not only lost a father, but also a mother.
Liz was holding Mark’s jacket so tightly that her hands were turning red.
“How dare you speak to me that way,” she snarled. “You can’t even begin to comprehend what I’m going through!”
She was right, I couldn’t. I still had my husband. I still had my sanity.
She glared at me and asked, “How would you feel if your life was ripped away from you?”
That stung.
“But you still have your life, Liz. You’re just choosing not to live it.”
“Tegan, I don’t have a life without Mark. He was my everything. Don’t you get that? Without him I have nothing.”
She collapsed into a chair at the table and put her head in her hands.
“You don’t understand,” she went on, “he was the only one who really loved me. He took such good care of me. You know what I was like before I met Mark. He was the one who saved me.”
It was true, before Mark she was a mess. Her father had left when she was young and her mother raised her. However, her mother wasn’t a typical mom. She was more concerned with her own life and treated Liz like an obstacle she needed to overcome. She didn’t care what she did or who she did it with. Liz was left to fend for herself and took advantage of it. She was a wild child and I was her sidekick. I’d watch her drink herself into a stupor and then after she would black out, I would carry her home. She did drugs, she slept around and she was out of control. When she met Mark though, everything changed. He encouraged her to change into a better person, someone I was never able to help her become.
“Liz, I’m not saying Mark wasn’t a huge influence in your life, he was, I know that. I’m just saying you were ultimately the one who made the changes. The fact is you did change and you are who you are today because of the changes you made. You aren’t who you were years ago. You are stronger now. Even without Mark you’re still strong. You have to believe that! You have to move on with your life. If not for yourself, you must do it for your children,” I pleaded with her.
“I can’t. I need him…,” as she continued to praise her husband my mind began to wander. I could feel my blood begin to boil. I heard words like wonderful, strong, loving, trustworthy. The more she spoke the angrier I became. If only she knew the truth about her husband, would she be the same? I had a decision to make. I could calm her down, put her to bed and be back here to repeat the same thing tomorrow or I could tell her the truth, right here, right now. Maybe if she knew Mark wasn’t the saint she claimed him to be she would be able to pull herself together.
Before that night, I would have agreed with everything she believed about Mark. From what I could see, he was a great father and husband. He was supportive both financially and emotionally. He treated Liz like a queen, buying her gifts, putting her needs first, and for all intents and purposes, worshipping the ground she walked on. That’s why it was such a huge shock when I saw him that night.
I had plans to meet a colleague for dinner at LaBella’s Restaurant. I was running late, as usual. When I finally did get to the restaurant, I was frantic. This explains why I didn’t notice that I had parked next to Mark’s Volvo or that I walked right past him to get to my table.
It wasn’t until I finally settled down and was able to relax that I noticed him. I was glancing over the menu when something caught my attention. It was a familiar laugh. It only took me a second to place it… Mark. I turned my gaze towards the direction of the laughter to find not only Mark, but also a beautiful brunette woman not even closely resembling my best friend. I felt as though I had taken a bullet in the chest. In an instant the room began to spin and the sounds around me became distorted. A cold sweat swept over me, sending shivers down my spine.
My associate noticed something was wrong and asked if there was anything she could do. I shook my head and took a sip of water to help compose myself.
“Excuse me,” I said.
I was on autopilot. I felt myself push away from the table then allowed my feet to carry me over to Mark. Soon I was standing there, looking into the eyes of the man I had trusted with my friend.
I could tell he was stunned to see me. He shot a look across the table to the other woman and I watched the smile fade from her face. I stared him down for an eternity then leaned over and softly spit daggers at him.
“You have from the time I order, eat, and pay my bill to tell your wife.”
Then I coolly turned and went back to my table where I sat back and watched him leave the restaurant in a frenzy.
Of course, I couldn’t do what I said. After Mark left I apologized to my coworker and headed for my car. I drove to a nearby park where I silently watched the clock work through three hours before I proceeded to drive to Liz and Mark’s home. When I arrived, I was surprised by the sight of a patrol car parked in the driveway. Instead of finding my friend saddened because of her husband’s betrayal, I found a stranger in the shell of a woman who resembled my lifelong friend.
Mark had been killed in a car accident. Due to driving at excessive speeds, he had lost control of his car and wrapped it around a tree. He died instantly, taking his wife’s spirit with him.
To say I didn’t feel responsible would be a lie. Everyday since the accident, I have been ridden with guilt. It’s what I wake up thinking about and fall asleep dreaming of- how I took my best friends life from her. Everyday I watch her deteriorate and think if it wasn’t for me she would be delusionally happy.
Now as I stand in her kitchen I am faced with a choice. Should I or shouldn’t I? If I tell her, I will single handedly shatter the memory of her marriage. If I keep quiet, I will be sentencing the both of us to a life no longer livable, me with my guilt, and her with her pain. Either way she will be destroyed. So, do I ruin the past or the future?
“Liz,” I put my hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to hurt you.”
She turns her head up to me, and at that moment, I see defeat written across her face. She is done. She shifts her weight and lets her body melt into mine. I gently lift her from the chair and guide her to her bedroom.
As we move down the hallway, I am startled by Liz’s oldest son. She doesn’t notice him as he slips out of his room and heads downstairs. I continue to guide her to her room, all the while listening to the fourth grader clean up the remnants of his mother’s breakdown in the kitchen. Here we both are, doing our part to keep up the illusion that she is getting better.
Once in her room, I help her into bed and get her settled in for what is left of the night. She closes her eyes, emotionally exhausted, she sleeps.
On my way out, I pass a picture of Liz and Mark. It was taken on their last trip together. They were on a cruise. He is staring straight into the camera and she is gazing up at him with a content smile gracing her lips.
I couldn’t help but wonder could she really see him? I certainly couldn’t, but I was on the outside. Do we only see what we want to see? I know the answer… we do. I tell myself that I’m helping her, when in fact I’m just enabling her to ease my own guilt. She convinced herself that her husband was perfect and then hid behind him to cover up her own insecurities. If she knows the truth will she see it, or will she only see the story she has told?
I turn back to her and lightly kiss her on the forehead, “Sleep well, Liz. I will be back tomorrow.”
“I can’t remember what I said,” an empty voice jetted out of the receiver.
Even in my sleep, I knew who it was on the other end of the line. My blurred vision told me it was just after three in the morning. I groggily lifted myself upright in my bed and cupped my hand around the phone in an effort not to wake my husband who was sleeping soundly beside me.
“Liz, hang on a second,” I whispered as I eased my way out of my bed and into the bathroom.
My body jolted awake the second my feet hit the cold ceramic tile. Carefully, I shut the door and with the help of the moonlight peeking through the blinds, I found my way to the furthest corner of the bathroom. There I stood in the darkness and took one last deep breath before I held the phone up to my ear.
I could hear Liz’s quiet tears as she tried to remember the last words she spoke to her husband, Mark. This wasn’t the first time she had woken me in the middle of the night panicked like this, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
“Liz, it’s going to be okay,” I lied.
“Tegan, I can’t remember. I’ve tried and I’ve tried, but I just can’t…”
Her words were lost through her cries which had gone from controlled moans to hysterical sobs.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I said and then hung up the phone before she could respond.
These late night calls had become somewhat of a ritual this last year, although over the past few months the calls had become less frequent. From my estimation, we were down to about two a week. Liz hasn’t slept through the night since Mark passed away. Even the sleeping pills and anti-depressants can’t dull the pain enough for her to get a good night’s rest. She is showing some progress though. Now she doesn’t call every night. She is starting to calm herself down, but there are some nights, like tonight, when she needs assistance.
On the nights that she is fortunate enough to find rest, it is often disturbed by the vision of a police officer at her door. That image alone is all it takes to startle her back to reality and out of sleep leaving her to relive the last memory of her husband.
I slipped into the clothes I had hanging on the back of the bathroom door specifically for occasions like this and proceeded to make my way out of my home and over to Liz’s. As I tiptoed past my husband I paused and studied his peaceful face. Liz recently told me that she couldn’t remember what Mark looked like when she shut her eyes. She said that she felt like her memories were trapped in a thick, dense fog.
Since Mark’s death Liz had become a shadow of her former self. Once the glue that held everything together, now she was broken glass that had been trampled on during a stampede. I honestly don’t know if I will be able to pick up the dust and put her back together again.
Mark had been her whole world. She lived and breathed for him. I had always admired the relationship they had. They were so connected, on more levels than anyone else I had ever known. I remember thinking that once they had kids that things would probably change between them. After all, when you have children your attention usually shifts to them and unfortunately the husband is usually the one who suffers, but not with Liz. It’s not that she didn’t love her four children, she was always a model mother, but Mark was always number one. He appeared to be just as enamored with her. I always envied them, before anyway.
As I pulled into Liz’s driveway I noticed that almost every light was on at the house, except for the children’s rooms. She’s become afraid of the dark since the accident. It’s silly that a grown woman would be that way but we all deal with loss differently. This was just one of the many new habits Liz has picked up since Mark’s death.
Recently my daughter asked me what kind of power I would want if I were a superhero. That was an easy question to answer. Undoubtedly I would want the power to read minds. That would have been very useful to have, especially last year. If I had known that Liz would have turned into this fragment of herself, I may have made different choices. Maybe things wouldn’t have happened the way they did. Maybe we would all be sleeping now- me, Liz, Mark, all in our own beds. Sometimes I think he knew and that’s why he was driving so fast. He was trying to get home to keep her from shattering.
I froze for just a moment before I opened the door to her house. I needed a second to prepare for battle, because after all that is what this is. This entire situation has become a war. A war to bring Liz back. There have been battles won, but more losses than I can possibly count.
“Liz?” I said, as I peaked through the doorway.
Across the foyer, phone still in hand, I see Liz lying on the floor trembling.
“It’s okay. I’m here Liz.”
Seeing her there like that reminded me of an abandoned bird. She looked so weak, so frail, I was almost afraid to touch her. I gently placed my hand on her arm and began to stroke her long blonde hair. The color was drained from her face and her once sparkling blue eyes were now dull and gray. She had lost weight off her already slim body and now she was just a pile of bones.
She turned her head towards me and stared. Lately, when she looks at me it’s as if she’s trying to place me. Like when you see someone you haven’t seen in years, someone you know has played a role in your past life. Their face has all the warmth of a friend like one you know you can trust. If only you can remember how you know them. You rack your brain, flipping through it like a rolodex, until there is a spark of recognition. With Liz this process seems to take longer and longer even though I see her every day.
I know what the night has in store for me. I’ll calm her down enough to get her to lie down and for me to drive home to get a few hours of sleep. Then I’ll be back here in the morning to make Liz function. Take a shower Liz. Dry off Liz. Get dressed Liz. Please eat something Liz. Move your feet Liz. Take a breath Liz. Day in and day out, I’m here moving her like a puppeteer.
Finally the moment of recognition! I can see it in her eyes, a small glimmer of her former self. But just as quickly as it appears, it fades away.
“Thank you,” she mutters to me.
“Let’s get you a nice hot cup of tea. That will help make you feel better.”
I help her to her feet and lead her into the kitchen. As soon as I enter through the doorway, I stop dead in my tracks. I’m shocked at what is laid out before me.
On the oven is a frying pan with burnt eggs caked on it. There is a full pot of coffee on the counter. A breakfast set for two is on the table. A man’s jacket had been carefully draped over one chair. Seeing this scene, I knew I had just stepped back in time. This was the setting of the final occasion she would see Mark alive. Although I wasn’t there the last morning they spent together, I had seen it before. Liz has recreated this moment time and time again. The doctors told her to stop doing this, and as far as I knew she had.
“Liz, what is this?” I demanded.
“I thought if I just did it again, I could remember. If I went through the motions the memories would come flooding back, but they don’t. The only thing that comes back is the party. That stupid party! That’s all I was thinking about that morning. I didn’t hear a word Mark said to me. And the night before, the same thing. The party, the party. That’s it!”
The weeks leading up to the accident were filled with plans for Mark’s fortieth birthday bash. She was planning a surprise party for him which would have taken place the Saturday following his death. Instead of candles being blown out that day, a casket was shut.
“It’s funny how when there’s a big event on the horizon all the little things just fall through the cracks,” she spoke with no emotion.
She staggered to the table and lifted the jacket from the chair and brought it to her nose. I watched her inhale what was left of the scent of her husband.
“I don’t know if I told him that I loved him. I told him everyday, but I can’t remember if I did that day.”
She clutched the jacket to her chest and began to rock back and forth. With a distant look in her eye she began a play-by-play explanation of her morning, “I woke up and came downstairs. I started the coffee and then I set the table. I then took the egg carton and the butter from the refrigerator set it there by the stove. I put a tablespoon of butter in the pan and let it melt. Then I cracked three eggs into the…”
“Liz, stop! This is over the top. You can’t keep doing this! Do you know what will happen if your doctors find out about this? They will commit you Liz. Do you understand? They will lock you up in hospital somewhere, away from your kids. You won’t see your children anymore! Do you understand what I am saying? Locked away, Liz! I know you don’t want that. You might not see it now, but I know you don’t want that. You can’t keep doing this to yourself! This is ridiculous! You have to snap out of this!”
I could see immediately that I had hurt her, but for the first time I didn’t care. I just kept thinking about those four children sleeping upstairs and how in all of this they not only lost a father, but also a mother.
Liz was holding Mark’s jacket so tightly that her hands were turning red.
“How dare you speak to me that way,” she snarled. “You can’t even begin to comprehend what I’m going through!”
She was right, I couldn’t. I still had my husband. I still had my sanity.
She glared at me and asked, “How would you feel if your life was ripped away from you?”
That stung.
“But you still have your life, Liz. You’re just choosing not to live it.”
“Tegan, I don’t have a life without Mark. He was my everything. Don’t you get that? Without him I have nothing.”
She collapsed into a chair at the table and put her head in her hands.
“You don’t understand,” she went on, “he was the only one who really loved me. He took such good care of me. You know what I was like before I met Mark. He was the one who saved me.”
It was true, before Mark she was a mess. Her father had left when she was young and her mother raised her. However, her mother wasn’t a typical mom. She was more concerned with her own life and treated Liz like an obstacle she needed to overcome. She didn’t care what she did or who she did it with. Liz was left to fend for herself and took advantage of it. She was a wild child and I was her sidekick. I’d watch her drink herself into a stupor and then after she would black out, I would carry her home. She did drugs, she slept around and she was out of control. When she met Mark though, everything changed. He encouraged her to change into a better person, someone I was never able to help her become.
“Liz, I’m not saying Mark wasn’t a huge influence in your life, he was, I know that. I’m just saying you were ultimately the one who made the changes. The fact is you did change and you are who you are today because of the changes you made. You aren’t who you were years ago. You are stronger now. Even without Mark you’re still strong. You have to believe that! You have to move on with your life. If not for yourself, you must do it for your children,” I pleaded with her.
“I can’t. I need him…,” as she continued to praise her husband my mind began to wander. I could feel my blood begin to boil. I heard words like wonderful, strong, loving, trustworthy. The more she spoke the angrier I became. If only she knew the truth about her husband, would she be the same? I had a decision to make. I could calm her down, put her to bed and be back here to repeat the same thing tomorrow or I could tell her the truth, right here, right now. Maybe if she knew Mark wasn’t the saint she claimed him to be she would be able to pull herself together.
Before that night, I would have agreed with everything she believed about Mark. From what I could see, he was a great father and husband. He was supportive both financially and emotionally. He treated Liz like a queen, buying her gifts, putting her needs first, and for all intents and purposes, worshipping the ground she walked on. That’s why it was such a huge shock when I saw him that night.
I had plans to meet a colleague for dinner at LaBella’s Restaurant. I was running late, as usual. When I finally did get to the restaurant, I was frantic. This explains why I didn’t notice that I had parked next to Mark’s Volvo or that I walked right past him to get to my table.
It wasn’t until I finally settled down and was able to relax that I noticed him. I was glancing over the menu when something caught my attention. It was a familiar laugh. It only took me a second to place it… Mark. I turned my gaze towards the direction of the laughter to find not only Mark, but also a beautiful brunette woman not even closely resembling my best friend. I felt as though I had taken a bullet in the chest. In an instant the room began to spin and the sounds around me became distorted. A cold sweat swept over me, sending shivers down my spine.
My associate noticed something was wrong and asked if there was anything she could do. I shook my head and took a sip of water to help compose myself.
“Excuse me,” I said.
I was on autopilot. I felt myself push away from the table then allowed my feet to carry me over to Mark. Soon I was standing there, looking into the eyes of the man I had trusted with my friend.
I could tell he was stunned to see me. He shot a look across the table to the other woman and I watched the smile fade from her face. I stared him down for an eternity then leaned over and softly spit daggers at him.
“You have from the time I order, eat, and pay my bill to tell your wife.”
Then I coolly turned and went back to my table where I sat back and watched him leave the restaurant in a frenzy.
Of course, I couldn’t do what I said. After Mark left I apologized to my coworker and headed for my car. I drove to a nearby park where I silently watched the clock work through three hours before I proceeded to drive to Liz and Mark’s home. When I arrived, I was surprised by the sight of a patrol car parked in the driveway. Instead of finding my friend saddened because of her husband’s betrayal, I found a stranger in the shell of a woman who resembled my lifelong friend.
Mark had been killed in a car accident. Due to driving at excessive speeds, he had lost control of his car and wrapped it around a tree. He died instantly, taking his wife’s spirit with him.
To say I didn’t feel responsible would be a lie. Everyday since the accident, I have been ridden with guilt. It’s what I wake up thinking about and fall asleep dreaming of- how I took my best friends life from her. Everyday I watch her deteriorate and think if it wasn’t for me she would be delusionally happy.
Now as I stand in her kitchen I am faced with a choice. Should I or shouldn’t I? If I tell her, I will single handedly shatter the memory of her marriage. If I keep quiet, I will be sentencing the both of us to a life no longer livable, me with my guilt, and her with her pain. Either way she will be destroyed. So, do I ruin the past or the future?
“Liz,” I put my hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to hurt you.”
She turns her head up to me, and at that moment, I see defeat written across her face. She is done. She shifts her weight and lets her body melt into mine. I gently lift her from the chair and guide her to her bedroom.
As we move down the hallway, I am startled by Liz’s oldest son. She doesn’t notice him as he slips out of his room and heads downstairs. I continue to guide her to her room, all the while listening to the fourth grader clean up the remnants of his mother’s breakdown in the kitchen. Here we both are, doing our part to keep up the illusion that she is getting better.
Once in her room, I help her into bed and get her settled in for what is left of the night. She closes her eyes, emotionally exhausted, she sleeps.
On my way out, I pass a picture of Liz and Mark. It was taken on their last trip together. They were on a cruise. He is staring straight into the camera and she is gazing up at him with a content smile gracing her lips.
I couldn’t help but wonder could she really see him? I certainly couldn’t, but I was on the outside. Do we only see what we want to see? I know the answer… we do. I tell myself that I’m helping her, when in fact I’m just enabling her to ease my own guilt. She convinced herself that her husband was perfect and then hid behind him to cover up her own insecurities. If she knows the truth will she see it, or will she only see the story she has told?
I turn back to her and lightly kiss her on the forehead, “Sleep well, Liz. I will be back tomorrow.”
Monday, May 10, 2010
Junior High Expectations
I'm worried about my daughter. You see, in two years she will be entering the junior high school and I'm afraid she's not going to be prepared. I know, she has two more years of elementary, but I have a feeling that's not going to do the trick. It's too much time in between and by then she will have seen and learned too much. I've seen this before, I've been there before, I know exactly what is about to happen...let me explain.
Over the weekend Queenie had a friend spend the night. They had a blast making up dances to Taylor Swift songs. I could hear them giggling as they spun around the living room making the house shake. It sounded like one heck of a party, so of course when I was asked to come and watch what they had created, I couldn't say no.
It was during the first thirty seconds of the routine that I realized we had a problem. When I was her age the dances I put on with my friends resembled something like a seizure with spontaneous claps and arm throws throughout. What I was witnessing was something much for spectacular, it was like watching Dancing with the Stars without the stars. There were spins, there were dips, there were even lifts, this my friend was serious trouble.
Still confused? Maybe this will help. Flashback to twenty or so years ago. Picture a young girl of twelve, sparkles in her eyes and a spring in her step, entering her first day of junior high. That girl was me.
I had waited my whole life to be in a school with the word high in the title. I knew exactly what it was going to be like and I was looking forward to finally having my expectations met. I think by that point in my life I had watched Grease six million and eighty-nine times, so I considered myself an expert on the ways of teenagers. I knew how it would all go down. Star crossed lovers torn apart by social status only to be brought together by a killer duet and stellar dance routine. You could only imagine my surprise when at lunch no one joined my in my serenade. I think you could hear the air deflating from my bubble, it had been popped.
As I watched my daughter twirl around the room I knew that she too would meet the same fate as me. I could almost smell the sweat of the gymnasium as a pictured her walking into her first dance. My heart just breaks thinking about how her ideas of grandeur will be replaced with reality. Instead of boys leading her in the tango she would find that they would only be leading her in a small confined circle.
So, what does a mother do in a predicament like this? I could..
A. Start my own high school and only enroll the Broadway hopefuls. Or
B. Begin holding protests to have Dancing with the Stars taken off the air..because that show is the devil!
Oh, decisions, decisions...if only I had a 1950's angel to sing me what to do.
Over the weekend Queenie had a friend spend the night. They had a blast making up dances to Taylor Swift songs. I could hear them giggling as they spun around the living room making the house shake. It sounded like one heck of a party, so of course when I was asked to come and watch what they had created, I couldn't say no.
It was during the first thirty seconds of the routine that I realized we had a problem. When I was her age the dances I put on with my friends resembled something like a seizure with spontaneous claps and arm throws throughout. What I was witnessing was something much for spectacular, it was like watching Dancing with the Stars without the stars. There were spins, there were dips, there were even lifts, this my friend was serious trouble.
Still confused? Maybe this will help. Flashback to twenty or so years ago. Picture a young girl of twelve, sparkles in her eyes and a spring in her step, entering her first day of junior high. That girl was me.
I had waited my whole life to be in a school with the word high in the title. I knew exactly what it was going to be like and I was looking forward to finally having my expectations met. I think by that point in my life I had watched Grease six million and eighty-nine times, so I considered myself an expert on the ways of teenagers. I knew how it would all go down. Star crossed lovers torn apart by social status only to be brought together by a killer duet and stellar dance routine. You could only imagine my surprise when at lunch no one joined my in my serenade. I think you could hear the air deflating from my bubble, it had been popped.
As I watched my daughter twirl around the room I knew that she too would meet the same fate as me. I could almost smell the sweat of the gymnasium as a pictured her walking into her first dance. My heart just breaks thinking about how her ideas of grandeur will be replaced with reality. Instead of boys leading her in the tango she would find that they would only be leading her in a small confined circle.
So, what does a mother do in a predicament like this? I could..
A. Start my own high school and only enroll the Broadway hopefuls. Or
B. Begin holding protests to have Dancing with the Stars taken off the air..because that show is the devil!
Oh, decisions, decisions...if only I had a 1950's angel to sing me what to do.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Duh, I'm courtesy!
The other day Queenie busted through the door waving a white piece of paper like a flag. She had a huge smile that encompassed her face as she panted out the reason for her exasperating excitement. She was student of the month!
This was a big, no strike that, huge deal in our household. It had been years, five to be exact, since one of the kids had held the title of student of the month! This was Queenie's first time and she was overwhelmed with pride. She had been on a mission since kindergarten for her shining moment, and her day had finally come.
Every month the children's school honors students that exhibit the outstanding characteristic chosen for the month. This month was courtesy.
I was so proud of Queenie. Together we told everyone who would listen! Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles, people I went to grade school with that are my Facebook friends...everyone! What can I say, an event like this only happens once every five years.
Queenie took the honor of telling the neighborhood. Every time she would travel to a new neighbor's house she would pop her head in to tell me where she was going. I thanked her for doing such a good job at letting me know where she was, something she is excellent at doing! She just looked at me and said, "Duh, I'm courtesy!"
What could I say to that? I'm just so darn proud!
This was a big, no strike that, huge deal in our household. It had been years, five to be exact, since one of the kids had held the title of student of the month! This was Queenie's first time and she was overwhelmed with pride. She had been on a mission since kindergarten for her shining moment, and her day had finally come.
Every month the children's school honors students that exhibit the outstanding characteristic chosen for the month. This month was courtesy.
I was so proud of Queenie. Together we told everyone who would listen! Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles, people I went to grade school with that are my Facebook friends...everyone! What can I say, an event like this only happens once every five years.
Queenie took the honor of telling the neighborhood. Every time she would travel to a new neighbor's house she would pop her head in to tell me where she was going. I thanked her for doing such a good job at letting me know where she was, something she is excellent at doing! She just looked at me and said, "Duh, I'm courtesy!"
What could I say to that? I'm just so darn proud!
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Pants on Fire
I will never forget the first parent teacher conference I had for Pumpkin Head. He was three and in pre-school. His teachers adored him, after all he was one cute (and still is) kid. The one thing they kept commenting on was in creative imagination. Like for example, on the first day of school he told the class that he had an indoor sand box in his room. Oh, the teachers just thought he was so darn inventive and I really didn't think much of it, that is until I went to the following year's conference.
The first time you hear your child tells creative stories, you go along with it, you agree with the teachers. However, by the third and fourth time you hear it, from different teachers you begin to call it what it is-lies!
Over the years Pumpkin Head told tall tales to anyone that would listen. Once he told his class that his dad was a police officer, lie. Another time he told his teacher we were moving to another country, lie. The stories went on and on. It took a long time, but eventually we broke him of his story telling habit, just in time for Queenie to start spinning her web of deceit.
Queenie always took it a step farther. In first grade she brought my cell phone to school and told the class it was hers, lie. Let me tell you, the other six year old children were impressed, the teacher not so much. Just this past year she told her classmates that she was adopted, lie.
Okay, yes, Queenie and Pumpkin Head do have great imaginations. In fact, Pumpkin Head writes stories constantly and Queenie is always coming up with some great game to play or adventure to pretend. Although, I can't help but wonder if those "creative imaginations" are being used for good or evil!
I can't complain too much. They come by it honestly, pun intended. I too had a creative imagination as a child. In fact my mother has a second grade journal to prove it. Apparently I was supposed to document what I did over the weekend every Monday. When my mom received the journal at the end of the year she was floored to learn about all the places I went. I had some real adventures, lie. I also used to tell people my name was Susie, lie. The worst thing I did was hold a lemonade sale and tell customers that I was going to give the money to the poor (the poor being my seven year old self), lie. Bad, bad, bad.
I'm sure your thinking, well at least you have Monkey. Oh no! He has a creative imagination too, it's just he's terrible at expressing it. That kid couldn't tell a lie to save his life. His eyes tell the truth even when his lips don't.
So I live in a house full of story tellers. Maybe it's not all bad. Maybe one day they will grow up to write the next American classic. Until then they can keep convincing their teachers that they are allergic to paper.
The first time you hear your child tells creative stories, you go along with it, you agree with the teachers. However, by the third and fourth time you hear it, from different teachers you begin to call it what it is-lies!
Over the years Pumpkin Head told tall tales to anyone that would listen. Once he told his class that his dad was a police officer, lie. Another time he told his teacher we were moving to another country, lie. The stories went on and on. It took a long time, but eventually we broke him of his story telling habit, just in time for Queenie to start spinning her web of deceit.
Queenie always took it a step farther. In first grade she brought my cell phone to school and told the class it was hers, lie. Let me tell you, the other six year old children were impressed, the teacher not so much. Just this past year she told her classmates that she was adopted, lie.
Okay, yes, Queenie and Pumpkin Head do have great imaginations. In fact, Pumpkin Head writes stories constantly and Queenie is always coming up with some great game to play or adventure to pretend. Although, I can't help but wonder if those "creative imaginations" are being used for good or evil!
I can't complain too much. They come by it honestly, pun intended. I too had a creative imagination as a child. In fact my mother has a second grade journal to prove it. Apparently I was supposed to document what I did over the weekend every Monday. When my mom received the journal at the end of the year she was floored to learn about all the places I went. I had some real adventures, lie. I also used to tell people my name was Susie, lie. The worst thing I did was hold a lemonade sale and tell customers that I was going to give the money to the poor (the poor being my seven year old self), lie. Bad, bad, bad.
I'm sure your thinking, well at least you have Monkey. Oh no! He has a creative imagination too, it's just he's terrible at expressing it. That kid couldn't tell a lie to save his life. His eyes tell the truth even when his lips don't.
So I live in a house full of story tellers. Maybe it's not all bad. Maybe one day they will grow up to write the next American classic. Until then they can keep convincing their teachers that they are allergic to paper.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Mother of the Year
Well, I did it! I know for sure that this time I have done the one thing that will secure me the title of Mother of the Year. For all you other mothers out there, it's over. There's nothing you can do that can top me. I've been working my entire parenthood for this honor and I am pleased to say that today I accomplished that goal! Yes, today I did the one thing that every mother only dreams of doing. Okay, maybe dreams isn't the appropriate word. It's more along the line of a nightmare, but I did it! I forgot my son's birthday.
Now it's not like I completely forgot Monkey's birthday. We had a weekend long celebration commemorating it, complete with a nerf gun war, slumber party and a cake that resembled a soccer ball. All was well in our household that was until today at 10:29 when I realized I had shuffled my child out to school with out breathing a word about the significance of the day.
In my defense, I first must point out that it is Monday. Everyone whose anyone knows that Monday's are rough. Especially coming off a two day sugar bender (that soccer ball cake had like three inches of frosting on it). I was tired. We all woke up late and the kids had fifteen minutes to get dressed, eat breakfast, pack bookbags and complain about the contents of their lunch. The only thing on my mind this morning was crawling back into bed, which of course was just a fantasy.
After my darlings left I began to do my Monday morning ritual, which is basically what I call play on Facebook until I'm motivated enough to start catching up from the weekend. After I had tended to my crops on Farmville I decided it was time to make some coffee. It happened while I was filling the coffee pot with water. As I listened to the water flow from the facet I looked over and noticed the remnants of the weekends celebratory cake. I thought to myself, "Hmmm, should I have a slice?" That's when it hit me! Holy moly! Today is Monkey's birthday.
Immediately I jumped into action. In my negligence as a parent I not only forgot to send him off with a "Happy Birthday" goodbye, but I also forgot the covenanted birthday snack. It never took me so long to get to Kroger. Store bought cookies would have to do.
By the time I reached the school most of my tears were dry. I could only imagine what my poor Monkey was thinking. I could envision him sitting in the corner of his classroom with a blank stare wondering what he must have done to deserve such a terrible mother. This is the type of moment that can define a kid for the rest of their life. I wrecked my son.
I had the school office call him down, I wanted to hand deliver these cookies. I was too anxious to wait for him to make his way down the hallway, so I met him halfway. He was surprised to see me.
"Hi Monkey!" I squealed, embracing him in my arms, guilt seeping from my skin. "I forgot to give you your birthday snack. Happy birthday."
He looked at me confused. At that moment I realized that he had forgotten too!
"Oh, thanks mom," he said. "Phew, I thought I was in trouble when they called me down to the office. See you later."
And that was it. Thank God! I didn't damage my son. All I can say is that tonight I will make the best spaghetti dinner ever followed by several hours of smothering.
I can say one good thing did come out of the crisis this morning..I remembered that it was my husband's birthday as well. In my frantic trip to the store I was able to pick up the makings for a Key Lime Pie, his favorite. Fortunately for me he was asleep during all of this and will never be the wiser!
Happy birthday to my lovely ten year old boy and my wonderful husband. I must now go write my acceptance speach for Mother of the Year.
Now it's not like I completely forgot Monkey's birthday. We had a weekend long celebration commemorating it, complete with a nerf gun war, slumber party and a cake that resembled a soccer ball. All was well in our household that was until today at 10:29 when I realized I had shuffled my child out to school with out breathing a word about the significance of the day.
In my defense, I first must point out that it is Monday. Everyone whose anyone knows that Monday's are rough. Especially coming off a two day sugar bender (that soccer ball cake had like three inches of frosting on it). I was tired. We all woke up late and the kids had fifteen minutes to get dressed, eat breakfast, pack bookbags and complain about the contents of their lunch. The only thing on my mind this morning was crawling back into bed, which of course was just a fantasy.
After my darlings left I began to do my Monday morning ritual, which is basically what I call play on Facebook until I'm motivated enough to start catching up from the weekend. After I had tended to my crops on Farmville I decided it was time to make some coffee. It happened while I was filling the coffee pot with water. As I listened to the water flow from the facet I looked over and noticed the remnants of the weekends celebratory cake. I thought to myself, "Hmmm, should I have a slice?" That's when it hit me! Holy moly! Today is Monkey's birthday.
Immediately I jumped into action. In my negligence as a parent I not only forgot to send him off with a "Happy Birthday" goodbye, but I also forgot the covenanted birthday snack. It never took me so long to get to Kroger. Store bought cookies would have to do.
By the time I reached the school most of my tears were dry. I could only imagine what my poor Monkey was thinking. I could envision him sitting in the corner of his classroom with a blank stare wondering what he must have done to deserve such a terrible mother. This is the type of moment that can define a kid for the rest of their life. I wrecked my son.
I had the school office call him down, I wanted to hand deliver these cookies. I was too anxious to wait for him to make his way down the hallway, so I met him halfway. He was surprised to see me.
"Hi Monkey!" I squealed, embracing him in my arms, guilt seeping from my skin. "I forgot to give you your birthday snack. Happy birthday."
He looked at me confused. At that moment I realized that he had forgotten too!
"Oh, thanks mom," he said. "Phew, I thought I was in trouble when they called me down to the office. See you later."
And that was it. Thank God! I didn't damage my son. All I can say is that tonight I will make the best spaghetti dinner ever followed by several hours of smothering.
I can say one good thing did come out of the crisis this morning..I remembered that it was my husband's birthday as well. In my frantic trip to the store I was able to pick up the makings for a Key Lime Pie, his favorite. Fortunately for me he was asleep during all of this and will never be the wiser!
Happy birthday to my lovely ten year old boy and my wonderful husband. I must now go write my acceptance speach for Mother of the Year.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Well, hello stranger!
I'm happy to report that spring is officially here! Yes, all over you can see new life sprouting about and old friends reemerging. The trees have little buds waiting to bloom, the birds are returning from their winter holiday and colorful flowers are beginning to peek through the barren ground. It's not just nature poking it's head out, my neighbors are beginning to show their faces as well.
Spring in Ohio means warmer weather and with that natives here venture out from indoor hibernation. Don't get me wrong, there are a few that brave the winter months, still going for daily walks, but not many. For the most part you only see your neighbors when they're battling ice pelting winds to the mailbox or digging out from a storm, and even then you just assume it's them. They are usually covered from head to to in winter gear. However, in spring you get to see their smiling faces and even get provoked into a conversation. In the winter, you only get a wave, and that's only if they have gloves on.
I always look forward to seeing my immediate neighbors. They are all wonderful. In fact, when we moved here we were bombarded with baked goods (it was fall). We thought we had moved to Leave it to Beaver Land. It's not just my street neighbors I get excited to see in the spring, it's also the colorful cast of characters that walk up and down the boulevard. I'd like to you to meet them.
Let me introduce you to Wave Lady. She stands at the front of the subdivision and, you guessed it, waves. She greets every car that comes and goes with a huge smile and a spastic wave. You can't help but grin as you pass.
Then there is Litter Patrol. Litter Patrol is a woman that collects the garbage that has blown about. She is serious, not as friendly as you go by, but then again she is on a mission. She's saving the planet after all.
Next meet The Sneak. Along the boulevard we have a nursing home as well as an assisted living community. The Sneak belongs to one. I see him walking along the side of the street, just out of sight of the living facilities, smoking like a chimney.
Lastly, my favorite, Fabio. Fabio is fabulous. Picture this, he has John Travolta's strut from Saturday Night Fever, Jerry Seinfeld's body and a head of long, luscious locks. He is the stuff. He struts everyday, up and down the boulevard.
I had an encounter with Fabio once. I had just arrived home from the store and to my surprise I could see Fabio walking down our street. I was shocked because I had never seen him anywhere but the boulevard. I couldn't wait to tell my husband that I saw Fabio on our street, it was kind of an honor. I needed to unload my car, but Fabio had a way about him, you just couldn't look away. His walk was mesmerizing and his hair always blew just so, almost like he was walking in slow motion. Suddenly I woke up from my hypnotic state, because Fabio was walking right towards me. I became weak in the knees as he approached me.
"Do you live here?" he asked, in what I swear was a french accent.
"Yes," I replied.
"Here."
I looked down as he placed a stack of papers in my hand. I was holding a pile of my financial documents. He explained that he had found the papers blowing around the boulevard and with that he was gone. I remember whispering thank you as he walked away, hair swaying in the breeze.
I later found out that my husband, before heading to our accountant, had placed the records on top of his car while he was getting ready to leave. He became distracted, got in the car and drove off, thus leaving our records scattered to the wind. That day Fabio became our hero.
Thank God that incident happened in the spring! Who knows what would have happened in the winter. Actually, the papers would had probably frozen to the ground and stayed there until Litter Patrol came to pick them up.
Spring in Ohio means warmer weather and with that natives here venture out from indoor hibernation. Don't get me wrong, there are a few that brave the winter months, still going for daily walks, but not many. For the most part you only see your neighbors when they're battling ice pelting winds to the mailbox or digging out from a storm, and even then you just assume it's them. They are usually covered from head to to in winter gear. However, in spring you get to see their smiling faces and even get provoked into a conversation. In the winter, you only get a wave, and that's only if they have gloves on.
I always look forward to seeing my immediate neighbors. They are all wonderful. In fact, when we moved here we were bombarded with baked goods (it was fall). We thought we had moved to Leave it to Beaver Land. It's not just my street neighbors I get excited to see in the spring, it's also the colorful cast of characters that walk up and down the boulevard. I'd like to you to meet them.
Let me introduce you to Wave Lady. She stands at the front of the subdivision and, you guessed it, waves. She greets every car that comes and goes with a huge smile and a spastic wave. You can't help but grin as you pass.
Then there is Litter Patrol. Litter Patrol is a woman that collects the garbage that has blown about. She is serious, not as friendly as you go by, but then again she is on a mission. She's saving the planet after all.
Next meet The Sneak. Along the boulevard we have a nursing home as well as an assisted living community. The Sneak belongs to one. I see him walking along the side of the street, just out of sight of the living facilities, smoking like a chimney.
Lastly, my favorite, Fabio. Fabio is fabulous. Picture this, he has John Travolta's strut from Saturday Night Fever, Jerry Seinfeld's body and a head of long, luscious locks. He is the stuff. He struts everyday, up and down the boulevard.
I had an encounter with Fabio once. I had just arrived home from the store and to my surprise I could see Fabio walking down our street. I was shocked because I had never seen him anywhere but the boulevard. I couldn't wait to tell my husband that I saw Fabio on our street, it was kind of an honor. I needed to unload my car, but Fabio had a way about him, you just couldn't look away. His walk was mesmerizing and his hair always blew just so, almost like he was walking in slow motion. Suddenly I woke up from my hypnotic state, because Fabio was walking right towards me. I became weak in the knees as he approached me.
"Do you live here?" he asked, in what I swear was a french accent.
"Yes," I replied.
"Here."
I looked down as he placed a stack of papers in my hand. I was holding a pile of my financial documents. He explained that he had found the papers blowing around the boulevard and with that he was gone. I remember whispering thank you as he walked away, hair swaying in the breeze.
I later found out that my husband, before heading to our accountant, had placed the records on top of his car while he was getting ready to leave. He became distracted, got in the car and drove off, thus leaving our records scattered to the wind. That day Fabio became our hero.
Thank God that incident happened in the spring! Who knows what would have happened in the winter. Actually, the papers would had probably frozen to the ground and stayed there until Litter Patrol came to pick them up.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Sex Ed
It's that time of the year again when the prepubescent children in our district get to learn about the facts of life. Oh joy! Last year was my first experience with sexual education class. The school does and excellent job with preparing parents for this big step in their child's life. They invite everyone to preview the film they show, which I fully intended on going to, but failed to attend. Oops! I forgot to write it down, a mistake I would come to regret many times over.
Honestly, I wasn't too upset about missing the premiere. I figured it couldn't be so bad. After all, I had already had "the talk" with my son. Okay, I didn't have "the talk", my husband did. But I listened intently as I hid in the hallway outside his bedroom.
I didn't expect to be that parent that couldn't talk freely with my son, Pumpkin Head, about sex. I always thought I would be pretty good at "the talk". After all, I'm calm, cool and collected. I thought I would be so laid back that my son would feel comfortable coming to me with any questions or concerns. The truth is he doesn't have problems asking me anything, it's just I can't answer. I'm the one with the problem. What happened to calm, cool and collected? Well it flies out the window when it comes to "the talk". I swear, every time he asks me a question my tongue swells up the size of Texas and I can barely form words let alone make a sentence that makes any sense. Let me tell you something, if you haven't had "the talk" yet, it's not as easy as it seems.
So, in a way I was relieved that the school was going to be sharing with me this monumental experience in my parental existence. In other words I thought I was off the hook.
Wrong! Nothing could have prepared me for the questions that followed the weeks after the program was shown. Okay, maybe the preview night could have prepared me, but like I said before, I didn't write it down. Anyway, the questions didn't come in the form of a flood like I expected, it was more like a trickle that lasted for months!
One day while doing his homework, Pumpkin Head turned to me and said, "Hey mom, did you know that I have testicles?"
Whoops. Guess we missed that one when we were going over body parts.
One time after baseball practice, as he was running up stairs to change, he stopped mid step, looked at me and said, "Mom, when am I going to wake up wet?"
Huh? It took me a minute, then it hit me! The only thought that popped into my mind was, what kind of movie did they show you?
I was on full alert. I didn't know when a question would hit, or in what form it would be in. Would we be at dinner? Or perhaps at church? No, maybe he would ask the next one while I was on the phone with my grandma. It's been a year now, and they're still coming at me. However, not so much are they questions, but statements. Last night Pumpkin Head told me he was a man. Apparently he discovered some body hair. A man? Really? What happened to my little baby boy?
This year it's going to be different. I've decided to take a different approach, and actually be prepared. Soon, Monkey will be taking his turn at finer education. Oh, and not just Monkey, Pumpkin Head gets to learn more! So I'm being pro-active. I'm going to see the movie, in fact I'm going to watch all the movies they show. After all, Queenie is coming up in the ranks and these sex ed films go on for another two years. I need to know what I'm up against. I'm hoping with preparation I won't fold like I have in the past. All I can say is thank God for my husband. Without him my kids would be terribly confused.
I need to grow some thick skin if I'm going to get through the next few years. I have to accept the fact that my children are growing up and with that comes puberty. I'm not an idiot, I knew they would grow to become a young woman and young men. Buddy did. He went through it, but I got out of that one. He lived with his mom then. My kids won't be going anywhere while they go through the change. Even though it would be cool if they did go into like a cocoon or something. Think about it, the mood swings would be contained.
I'm entering a new phase, one I'm not sure I'm ready to enter. For the past eleven years I've looked at my kids as being little and I think they're past that now. I'm scared. Not like scared I might screw up scared, but really truly scared. Teenagers frighten me! I wonder if I can take a class to prepare me for puberty? Oh, who am I kidding. I'd never go because I'd forget to write it down. I think I'm in trouble.
Honestly, I wasn't too upset about missing the premiere. I figured it couldn't be so bad. After all, I had already had "the talk" with my son. Okay, I didn't have "the talk", my husband did. But I listened intently as I hid in the hallway outside his bedroom.
I didn't expect to be that parent that couldn't talk freely with my son, Pumpkin Head, about sex. I always thought I would be pretty good at "the talk". After all, I'm calm, cool and collected. I thought I would be so laid back that my son would feel comfortable coming to me with any questions or concerns. The truth is he doesn't have problems asking me anything, it's just I can't answer. I'm the one with the problem. What happened to calm, cool and collected? Well it flies out the window when it comes to "the talk". I swear, every time he asks me a question my tongue swells up the size of Texas and I can barely form words let alone make a sentence that makes any sense. Let me tell you something, if you haven't had "the talk" yet, it's not as easy as it seems.
So, in a way I was relieved that the school was going to be sharing with me this monumental experience in my parental existence. In other words I thought I was off the hook.
Wrong! Nothing could have prepared me for the questions that followed the weeks after the program was shown. Okay, maybe the preview night could have prepared me, but like I said before, I didn't write it down. Anyway, the questions didn't come in the form of a flood like I expected, it was more like a trickle that lasted for months!
One day while doing his homework, Pumpkin Head turned to me and said, "Hey mom, did you know that I have testicles?"
Whoops. Guess we missed that one when we were going over body parts.
One time after baseball practice, as he was running up stairs to change, he stopped mid step, looked at me and said, "Mom, when am I going to wake up wet?"
Huh? It took me a minute, then it hit me! The only thought that popped into my mind was, what kind of movie did they show you?
I was on full alert. I didn't know when a question would hit, or in what form it would be in. Would we be at dinner? Or perhaps at church? No, maybe he would ask the next one while I was on the phone with my grandma. It's been a year now, and they're still coming at me. However, not so much are they questions, but statements. Last night Pumpkin Head told me he was a man. Apparently he discovered some body hair. A man? Really? What happened to my little baby boy?
This year it's going to be different. I've decided to take a different approach, and actually be prepared. Soon, Monkey will be taking his turn at finer education. Oh, and not just Monkey, Pumpkin Head gets to learn more! So I'm being pro-active. I'm going to see the movie, in fact I'm going to watch all the movies they show. After all, Queenie is coming up in the ranks and these sex ed films go on for another two years. I need to know what I'm up against. I'm hoping with preparation I won't fold like I have in the past. All I can say is thank God for my husband. Without him my kids would be terribly confused.
I need to grow some thick skin if I'm going to get through the next few years. I have to accept the fact that my children are growing up and with that comes puberty. I'm not an idiot, I knew they would grow to become a young woman and young men. Buddy did. He went through it, but I got out of that one. He lived with his mom then. My kids won't be going anywhere while they go through the change. Even though it would be cool if they did go into like a cocoon or something. Think about it, the mood swings would be contained.
I'm entering a new phase, one I'm not sure I'm ready to enter. For the past eleven years I've looked at my kids as being little and I think they're past that now. I'm scared. Not like scared I might screw up scared, but really truly scared. Teenagers frighten me! I wonder if I can take a class to prepare me for puberty? Oh, who am I kidding. I'd never go because I'd forget to write it down. I think I'm in trouble.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Consumerism at its Finest
A few mornings ago I heard my boys discussing which car insurance company they were going to go with when they start driving. Never mind the fact that they won't be driving for another five to six years, apparently this conversation was one of real importance for them. Pumpkin Head was going with All State, no question about it! However, he changed his mind once Monkey pointed out that All State totally ripped of Geico with a talking guy. This led Pumpkin Head to change his choice to Progressive. Monkey on the other hand felt that Geico was the best choice not only because of the cute British Gecko, but because they also used to have the Cavemen in their commercials.
Wow, what a way to start the morning, and without even a cup of coffee! It got me to thinking about the affect commercials have on young minds. When I was a kid I didn't have the options of viewing that my children have. I had either PBS, Saturday Morning Cartoons or Brady Bunch re-runs. PBS never had commercials, but I remember SMC being jammed packed with advertisements for toys (my personal faves were ones about Barbie). Overall, that's about it when it came to commercial exposure. My kids, however, have a huge selection of shows on channels designed specifically for them that run all day and all night. Their ad exposure is, well, it's obscene!
It's not that my kids are watching twenty four hours of television either. They really don't watch that much. They would rather be playing with each other or reading (I'm not making that up, really, they like to read). You see, the same commercials run over and over and over again. Honestly, I think if some catastrophe happened and all commercials, especially infomercials, were erased my kids could recite them word for word solving the advertisement crisis.
Over time, I really started to see the influence these 30 second spots had on my kids. Once, I was complaining about my back hurting and Pumpkin Head told me I should get a sleep by numbers bed. He told me his father and I could even have our own favorite numbers set at the same time. Not only that, I could try it for free for like a month! It wasn't just sleep by numbers. Queenie noticed the plants were droopy, she told me I should get an aqua globe. Monkey suggested I get a Snuggie after noticing that because I was reading a book, my arms weren't covered by the blanket (this advice I did follow). Boy, those ad execs are sure smart! They've got the kids marketing their products for them! Really, take a look yourself! Have you ever noticed the amount of infomercials on channels like Disney, Cartoon Network and Nickelodeon? Turn it on one day, in fact make a tally. You will be shocked!
Of course there aren't just infomercials. There are other ads too, like for car insurance. I love how these people think ahead. Oh and let's not forget the fast food commercials. My kids are all about collecting everyone of the crappy little toys from every joint in town. Of course this never happens because that is one ad that mom doesn't buy into!
I'm not in denial. I know that is what our society is all about. Consumerism. As adults we buy into it all the time, literally. It just makes me a little sad that my kids are doing it way ahead of schedule. Thinking about products they need for their future adult selves. Nothing like starting them off young. All I can say is thank God for DVR! I think from now on I'll be taping all the programs my children love. That way I can stick it to the man! I can fast forward through all the junk!
Wow, what a way to start the morning, and without even a cup of coffee! It got me to thinking about the affect commercials have on young minds. When I was a kid I didn't have the options of viewing that my children have. I had either PBS, Saturday Morning Cartoons or Brady Bunch re-runs. PBS never had commercials, but I remember SMC being jammed packed with advertisements for toys (my personal faves were ones about Barbie). Overall, that's about it when it came to commercial exposure. My kids, however, have a huge selection of shows on channels designed specifically for them that run all day and all night. Their ad exposure is, well, it's obscene!
It's not that my kids are watching twenty four hours of television either. They really don't watch that much. They would rather be playing with each other or reading (I'm not making that up, really, they like to read). You see, the same commercials run over and over and over again. Honestly, I think if some catastrophe happened and all commercials, especially infomercials, were erased my kids could recite them word for word solving the advertisement crisis.
Over time, I really started to see the influence these 30 second spots had on my kids. Once, I was complaining about my back hurting and Pumpkin Head told me I should get a sleep by numbers bed. He told me his father and I could even have our own favorite numbers set at the same time. Not only that, I could try it for free for like a month! It wasn't just sleep by numbers. Queenie noticed the plants were droopy, she told me I should get an aqua globe. Monkey suggested I get a Snuggie after noticing that because I was reading a book, my arms weren't covered by the blanket (this advice I did follow). Boy, those ad execs are sure smart! They've got the kids marketing their products for them! Really, take a look yourself! Have you ever noticed the amount of infomercials on channels like Disney, Cartoon Network and Nickelodeon? Turn it on one day, in fact make a tally. You will be shocked!
Of course there aren't just infomercials. There are other ads too, like for car insurance. I love how these people think ahead. Oh and let's not forget the fast food commercials. My kids are all about collecting everyone of the crappy little toys from every joint in town. Of course this never happens because that is one ad that mom doesn't buy into!
I'm not in denial. I know that is what our society is all about. Consumerism. As adults we buy into it all the time, literally. It just makes me a little sad that my kids are doing it way ahead of schedule. Thinking about products they need for their future adult selves. Nothing like starting them off young. All I can say is thank God for DVR! I think from now on I'll be taping all the programs my children love. That way I can stick it to the man! I can fast forward through all the junk!
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
The F-Bomb
Last year I received a letter from my children's school addressed the parents of Monkey. It was one of two things, and informational letter or a discipline slip. I have to say my children have always demonstrated good behavior so I opened the letter with complete confidence that it was just the results of another test score. Possibly this was the one telling me that my son was a genius and that I was up for the Best Parent of the Year Award because he clearly learned his genius from me. Well, the note did reveal that he had learned something from me. He learned how to use the f-bomb.
According to the letter Monkey had yelled f'n a-hole to another child on the bus. Mind you by the time I got the letter disciplinary action had already been taken. Monkey had yelled the obscenity on Monday and on Tuesday had visited the principal, who by the way was my boss at the time. I was home sick from work on Tuesday, so I missed all the fireworks. Of course I was furious. Furious that my son would say something so mean to another child, furious at him for not breathing a word of this for two days and furious that now my boss thought I was raising a foul-mouthed sailor.
Luckily for Monkey he was at school when the letter was delivered, so I had a few hours to cool off before he would have to face my wrath. During that time I couldn't help but contemplate where my sweet boy would learn such words. At first I turned the guns on my husband. Oh, yes he was the one to blame. Swear words rolled of his tongue like butter off a hot roll. But he wasn't entirely to blame. There were also those older kids on the bus. Yeah, I've heard their little mouth rattle off some doozies. Yes, my husband and the little brats on the bus. That was where he learned the words. They would take the fall. However, being that I'm human, I have a conscience and it was telling me otherwise.
I'll admit it, I have a potty mouth. I try not to let the words slip out, but sometimes I just can't help it. It's completely out of my control! Like for instance, say I'm running late and in my rushed state I hit my toe on the leg of the table. The first word that flies is usually the f-bomb. I don't want to say it, but it just comes out and somehow it makes me feel better. Being a writer, I believe in the power of words and sometimes that power includes dulling the pain of a throbbing toe. I'm not proud of it, but I can except the fact that I too am responsible for teaching my children profanity.
By the time Monkey arrived home I was calm. He had no clue that only hours before steam had been seeping from my ears and fire from my nose. I sat him down and did something I thoroughly enjoy doing with my kids.
Me: "Monkey, do you have anything you would like to tell me?"
I always like to open the door for a confession. I find that asking an open ended question like this not only can get your children to admit to the things you know about, but it can often get them to admit to the things you didn't know.
Monkey: "Um, I got a C on my science test."
Me: "Yes, but is there anything else you want to tell me?"
Monkey: "I took Queenie's picture and ripped it up."
Queenie: "WHAT? MOM HE RIPPED MY PICTURE!"
Me: "Nope, not what I'm talking about. Would you like to tell me what happened on the bus?"
Monkey: "No."
Me: "You want to answer that question again?"
Monkey: "I called Pumpkin Head a bad word, but he started it mom."
The pieces were starting to come together. After a short interrogation period I learned that my two boys were arguing over Pokemon on the bus. My little Monkey has a short fuse (I don't know where he gets this from), and in the heat of passion the word vomit just shot out of his mouth. I could sympathize. After all, I suffered from the same debilitating disease. Then there was a twist in the story that even I couldn't see coming. Turns out the person who told the bus driver about the word crime was none other than his own brother. Honestly, I don't know what upset me more, Monkey calling Pumpkin Head bad words or Pumpkin Head telling a school authority on his brother. Come on man! There's a code when it comes to family and I'm sure that not ratting out a brother is one of them!
I spent the night discussing the need to watch our words, to think about other people's feelings , controlling our tempers and not tattling on siblings. Things were all good at home, the next thing I had to do was face my boss. All I could do was state the facts. I looked at him and said, "I don't know where the f*** he gets it."
According to the letter Monkey had yelled f'n a-hole to another child on the bus. Mind you by the time I got the letter disciplinary action had already been taken. Monkey had yelled the obscenity on Monday and on Tuesday had visited the principal, who by the way was my boss at the time. I was home sick from work on Tuesday, so I missed all the fireworks. Of course I was furious. Furious that my son would say something so mean to another child, furious at him for not breathing a word of this for two days and furious that now my boss thought I was raising a foul-mouthed sailor.
Luckily for Monkey he was at school when the letter was delivered, so I had a few hours to cool off before he would have to face my wrath. During that time I couldn't help but contemplate where my sweet boy would learn such words. At first I turned the guns on my husband. Oh, yes he was the one to blame. Swear words rolled of his tongue like butter off a hot roll. But he wasn't entirely to blame. There were also those older kids on the bus. Yeah, I've heard their little mouth rattle off some doozies. Yes, my husband and the little brats on the bus. That was where he learned the words. They would take the fall. However, being that I'm human, I have a conscience and it was telling me otherwise.
I'll admit it, I have a potty mouth. I try not to let the words slip out, but sometimes I just can't help it. It's completely out of my control! Like for instance, say I'm running late and in my rushed state I hit my toe on the leg of the table. The first word that flies is usually the f-bomb. I don't want to say it, but it just comes out and somehow it makes me feel better. Being a writer, I believe in the power of words and sometimes that power includes dulling the pain of a throbbing toe. I'm not proud of it, but I can except the fact that I too am responsible for teaching my children profanity.
By the time Monkey arrived home I was calm. He had no clue that only hours before steam had been seeping from my ears and fire from my nose. I sat him down and did something I thoroughly enjoy doing with my kids.
Me: "Monkey, do you have anything you would like to tell me?"
I always like to open the door for a confession. I find that asking an open ended question like this not only can get your children to admit to the things you know about, but it can often get them to admit to the things you didn't know.
Monkey: "Um, I got a C on my science test."
Me: "Yes, but is there anything else you want to tell me?"
Monkey: "I took Queenie's picture and ripped it up."
Queenie: "WHAT? MOM HE RIPPED MY PICTURE!"
Me: "Nope, not what I'm talking about. Would you like to tell me what happened on the bus?"
Monkey: "No."
Me: "You want to answer that question again?"
Monkey: "I called Pumpkin Head a bad word, but he started it mom."
The pieces were starting to come together. After a short interrogation period I learned that my two boys were arguing over Pokemon on the bus. My little Monkey has a short fuse (I don't know where he gets this from), and in the heat of passion the word vomit just shot out of his mouth. I could sympathize. After all, I suffered from the same debilitating disease. Then there was a twist in the story that even I couldn't see coming. Turns out the person who told the bus driver about the word crime was none other than his own brother. Honestly, I don't know what upset me more, Monkey calling Pumpkin Head bad words or Pumpkin Head telling a school authority on his brother. Come on man! There's a code when it comes to family and I'm sure that not ratting out a brother is one of them!
I spent the night discussing the need to watch our words, to think about other people's feelings , controlling our tempers and not tattling on siblings. Things were all good at home, the next thing I had to do was face my boss. All I could do was state the facts. I looked at him and said, "I don't know where the f*** he gets it."
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