Vicarious

I am hard on myself. So, so hard on myself. I don't know if it's a mom thing, a woman thing or maybe even an American thing, but I am sure that many who read this can probably relate. I am not a generally negative person. My life is good, and I thank God for that every day. I make a daily effort to come from a place of gratitude. Most situations, even the tough ones I am able to spin in a very positive light. That is, unless they revolve around...me. I am so good at pointing out my shortcomings. I am very self aware. And so, I am also aware that this trait of mine, this self-deprecating tendency is anything but helpful, and yet...I can't shake it. Now, this is not to say that I lack self confidence. No. The two are not mutually exclusive. In fact, they may actually be quite co-dependent. I am very confident in my abilities, but when I fall short of my own expectation I am most unforgiving. I would never treat anybody else as harshly as I treat myself.

Just tonight I came to learn that a young woman whose family have been longtime friends with my family is a published author. Bona fide, books on a shelf and featured on my i-books app, author. At first I saw the name and thought what a crazy coincidence, but after some investigation I have come to learn that the name actually matches up to the real life flesh and blood girl whose diapers I once changed. Wow. I am amazed. Seriously. I was at her parent's wedding. Heck, I sat outside on her grandmother's stoop giggling with her mother and aunts while her father was inside asking permission to become engaged to her mother! Unfortunately, through the years I have mostly fallen out of touch with her Mom, but I still receive a Christmas card each December with her smiling face (gorgeous, gorgeous face) and that of her younger sister and baby brother. I dutifully send my card with my smiling cherubs.  Now, I come to find out that she is a grown (young) woman with a talent for beautiful, insightful prose and that she is indeed making a career for herself. It is so...cool.

And now the logical next step is...to beat up on myself.... how do I not know this? Clearly I am an awful human being who is entirely too self absorbed to even realize that life is happening to those around me. No, they have not stayed frozen in time like some dolls on a shelf just waiting for me to notice them again. Life goes on, and I should have been noticing. I mean sure, I have had a few things of my own going on. You know, just a few.  There simply is no excuse, I should be all things at all times, right?  Of course the expectation is ridiculous, and I know that. I am more sad than mad at the fact that I have been missing out. I will shine on the positive angle here, which is that now that I am aware I will start following this young talent whose writing style and subject are so good. I will be inspired!

Ok, but seriously...I am not going to let myself off the hook so easily. The whole thing brings up more dark self condemnation. Tonight I laid in bed, texting away in a fun and lovely conversation with my sister in law about everything and nothing at all for a good hour. Very important considering the original point of the text was to say, "hey let's get together tomorrow around 2:30, so we can talk some more about everything and nothing". Then I spent some time doing my all important, several times a day task...surfing Facebook. I mean, heaven forbid some other person who I haven't had actual human contact with in over 20 some years posts a picture of their cat and I miss it, right?  Then...I watched an hour long drama from my cable on-demand service. Remember the days when we would rush home or have to "set the VCR" so that we could catch the latest episode of our favorite show? Ancient history.

Next, I decide to shut the lights and get some sleep. I have a very busy week coming up. Only....I can't sleep! My mind just keeps going over, and over my inadequacies! I start to review in my head all of the time-sucking wasteful nonsense that I did this evening. Then I start to think about all of the things I should have been doing instead...like getting ready for K'Lil's fast approaching first birthday party which will be attended by nearly 100 people and for which I have done...nothing!  Or how about finishing the dreadful task of switching out the boys' summer clothes for winter clothes? There's also that Pinterest project that I started 5 weeks ago...And finally...Why the hell am I not writing?

Seriously? Could I be any more of a complete failure as a person? Here is this beautiful, young, talented girl who is doing it. Writing. That's what she is, a writer.  Now, here's where the self-confidence we talked about kicks my ass. I am just as good as she is. I have what it takes. I was a one time blogger with potential for a following. The thing that killed it for me though, was a lack of consistency. I need to write often if I am going to be successful. I need to get my ass off of FB. I need to shut off the TV and put down the phone. I need to get time management down. I need to...to finish my 15 loads of laundry, 10 dishwasher loads, grocery shopping, 21 bottles of formula mixing, food shopping, couponing, PTA Volunteering, child shuttling, homemade play dough making, lunch packing, religion class teaching, dog walking, meal prepping, baby proofing, appointment making, and bathroom cleaning done. What the hell is my excuse? I have smart insightful things to say. I have a vocabulary. I have a lap top. I also have bags under my eyes, but still. I should do better.

The ironic thing is that one of the articles I read tonight from this lovely young girl talked about her deep desire for motherhood. She is however, very young and is not quite ready to pursue that calling. I on the other hand have a strong desire to write. To write all of the witty and analytical things that come to mind each day. However, at the moment I am a mother. I want to find the time, make the time. I am going to continue to push myself. I want to be inspired by my young friend's success. I can do better. Always better.

For me...

This is a gift to myself. I have decided. I give so much to everybody else...willingly, and lovingly, of course... but it is high time I do something for myself.  I have been thinking about this for a long time... so today, Mother's Day, a day so loaded with emotion, so heavy and light at the same time...I have decided.

The thing is, when my day starts to wind down and I am alone with just my thoughts...well, that is when I realize that...I actually have them...thoughts that is. Seems like an obvious statement, but my days are crazy, so crazy that sometimes I feel like a hamster running on a wheel.  From the moment my feet hit the ground in the morning, I run, and I don't stop until the last cherub is deep in slumber....and sometimes not even then.

My life is so full, so wonderful, and so different from what it was when I first sat down to compose this blog. So much has changed. For one thing, Three isn't the New Five anymore....Five is. Sometimes Six. When I began writing I had just given birth to my third child, and I was amused at the reactions I would get from the general public when I was out and about with the three of them, like I had just stepped off of a circus train or something, as if having three small children was some amazing feat (although I do admit that when I would maneuver through the supermarket with my two shopping carts - pushing one with an infant carrier in the basket and a two year old in the seat, and pulling another with a four year old in the seat and a basket full of groceries it may have been a bit entertaining to watch). Now I get my kicks when people see me out with just the baby and smile at the sweetness of an infant, then turn and gently ask if this is my first, and I tell them "no, I have six". The reaction is awesome - totally worth the c-section scars, resulting hernias, sleepless nights and grey hairs that have come along with having a bona-fide large family.

Also, when I started to write this blog I was happily married - or so I thought,  until my husband of ten years decided to turn his back on our marriage and pursue a relationship with a woman whom I had considered to be a best friend. Yeah. That happened.  Now, I AM happily married. I survived the darkest time and I have found my actual, real-deal, cant even believe it's true, because I am never doing that again - soul mate...and...I made him my husband!

With all of this going on you would think that I have had plenty of material to write about. And I have, I do.  However, writing is for me, a lot like birthing a child. You have it inside of you, growing, but that baby comes when it is ready to come. Words have an indeterminate gestation period. Sometimes, I have to push, I have to get them out no matter how messy it is. Other times, they get very comfortable where they are and so they stay on the inside a little longer. Also...writing takes time and energy. Things which are in short supply in my day.

My life is crazy. I have five beautiful babies of my own, and another who came as part of the "new husband package" - and whom I love just as much, my "bonus- son". Six altogether. My husband loves me, adores me. He supports me in everything I do, and builds me up daily. Not a day goes by that he doesn't tell me that he loves me, or that he is so happy that his daughter has me as her Mom. I feel so loved and cherished.  It is a lot of work, five and sometimes six kids. Sometimes I want to pull my hair out, or run back to bed the minute the bus pulls away from the curb. My laundry pile is gargantuan. My dishwasher is industrial. It is messy and loud and chaotic and busy. I am pretty sure that I would earn a gold medal in the olympic sport of multi-tasking, given the chance. I am grateful that God has given me the chance to live this life though, because I love it. It is a challenge, and I rise to it, every single day.

Lately what I have been noticing is that when my head hits the pillow at the end of the night, after the dishwasher is loaded, the laundry switched, the homework corrected, the carpools complete, after I check the calendar for the next day's craziness...the words start to kick around in my head. I am tired. It is quiet...finally...and the computer was left downstairs. So, I let the words form in my head and make empty promises to myself that I will write tomorrow, but tomorrow always has it's own chaos and before I know it my head is back on the pillow and the sentences of yesterday have vanished with the night. Another day has come and gone...and while I was busy doing for everyone else...where was the "me" in it?  I am not a selfish girl...(unless you are talking about dessert because then yes, I am taking the last piece of pie, too bad!)....but we all need to do something for ourselves now and then. Writing is for "me".  I have had friends and "fans" trying to encourage me to get back to writing, for them I am grateful, because although it may have seemed otherwise, their encouragement did not fall on deaf ears, but is always there rattling around among the words in my head.

Life is hard. Lord that is one thing I know. However, life is wonderful, and life is short. And so, today I am reclaiming this blog as mine...for me if for no one else. I am The Mom. The Wife. As my husband says "The Glue". But tonight, and with any luck for the forseeable future, I am Tricia, The Blogger.

Gone, but forever with me

I believe the people who we lose in death are never really gone from us. Since my Dad passed back in 2000 I feel him around me all the time. My siblings report similar experiences - dreams, "coincidences", and sneezing fits which we know in our bones mean that Dad is making himself known. My Mom on the other hand, well, she died when I was just 6 and a half. I have felt the hole left in my life by her passing as a giant gaping crater for as long as my memory stretches. While I have always felt a love, I haven't really felt a strong physical presence from her. I know she's here, I just think she takes kind of a subtle approach because anything more would just be way too emotional for me to handle on a daily basis (and also, that may just be more her personality). I totally accept that.

My Mom's death was tragic. She was so young, only 49. She had so much life still ahead of her. She left behind 5 children, including a 16 year old and a 6 year old. My father was devastated - and although he went on to marry again, he never got past the loss of his true love. Our family is strong, bonded together forever in part because we share this terrible loss, but we're quiet about it. We can laugh and joke and use really inappropriate "death" humor and talk about my Dad, and a half dozen other dead relatives, but when it comes to Mommy - well, sometimes we choke even on the name. It just...hurts so much. I worry sometimes that because we don't talk much about her she is being forgotten. My children are so close with their Dad's Mom..."Grandma", I wonder how the occasional mention of their "Grandma in Heaven" can hold any place in their hearts.

My daughter Curly is named for two special people. Her first name is the same as that of my Aunt, my mother's sister, and her middle name is Patricia - which yes, is my name, but is also my mother's name. I have a beautiful old black & white photograph hanging in a frame in Curly's room. It is a picture taken on a rooftop in Brooklyn of the two sisters, newly arrived in America. They are wearing new clothes and smiling widely. The picture was taken and sent home to Ireland as proof that the hardships endured by my grandfather in sending two of his daughters off to a better life, were indeed paying off. I especially like the picture in Curly's room because my Aunt is on the left and my mother on the right - so the picture is of "Finola and Patsy" - literally Finola and Patricia - my daughter's namesakes.

Tonight I was laying in bed with my sweet girl - a luxury as usually her bratty little brothers take up so much of my time at bedtime that she is already in dreamland by the time I come to "tuck her in". As we laid together I was looking up at the picture hanging near her bed, and I asked her if she ever looked at that picture. She told me she does, that she likes to look at it. I asked her what she thinks about it and she told me that she likes to think about her "other Grandma". I got all choked up, but tried to hide it. She went on to tell me that she always pictures her in her mind, young with short brown hair, then turned to me with tears on her cheeks...at that point I couldn't hide mine anymore. My sweet little seven year old reached out her hand to wipe my tears and said "I know...it hurts that she's not here" REALLY? Where did you come from you Angel of Heaven! You beautiful thing. My love. She asked me if she was young, and demanded to know why she had died. I explained as best I could about growing up poor in the 1930's and 40's in Ireland and that she had contracted Rheumatic Fever as a child - that she was very sick when she was a little girl - and that it had made her heart weak. That her heart got better for a while, but then one day it just wouldn't work anymore. My Curly girl wept openly for the grandma she has never known but for the picture on her wall. Then she announced, "well, one good thing...I am glad she got better when she was little, or else we wouldn't be here now." I told my Curly girl that her Grandma in heaven is with us all the time, that the love she taught her children is the same love she gets from her Mom and her Aunts and Uncles and is the same love that she shares with her brothers and someday with her own children.

All my life I have wanted to be a Mom. Maybe because I had some unfinished business in the Mommy department, but always this life of mine, these kids, they have been my vocation, my calling. Before I had children I thought that I would feel the absence of my Mom even more strongly when I became a mother. In the beginning after Firstson was born I thought a lot about her- the fact that she had gone through many of the same things I was now experiencing- rocking my baby to sleep after a feeding in the wee small hours, staring at him as he slept just to watch him breathe... The effect was quite the opposite of what I expected, as I grew into my own role as Mommy - that is, the more I defined myself as "mother" - the less I defined myself as "motherless". The job came so naturally to me, and I was, am, good at it. I am blessed. And maybe the reason that I don't feel that huge hole as much anymore is because my Mother is close beside me now, guiding me through everyday. (Wow...seriously THAT idea just came to me as I typed , excuse me while I wipe the snot and tears off my face and keyboard....)

Just a minute ago my Curly girl, who is supposed to be long asleep by now, crept into my room to make sure my tears were dry ....yes, I do think there's a reason, a very good reason that my Mother feels so close to me tonight...

Opportunity Cost

Remember when you were little and people used to ask you what it was you wanted to be when you grew up? I aspired to many varied things, a teacher (but then, I think every little kid, or at least little girl, dreams of being a teacher at some point) an actress (I dabbled, but never professionally), a waitress (fait accompli!) , a lawyer and yes, a priest (not a nun mind you, a priest! - I have to settle for catechist until the Catholic church starts welcoming divorced women to take up the cloth). Truthfully though I spent a lot of my day playing with baby dolls. Being their "Mommy". I don't know if it was because I lost my own Mom when I was so young, or because I was always surrounded by my older sister's babies, but being a Mommy is all I ever truly wanted.

For the last nine and a half years I have had my dream job. I have never felt that I gave up anything for my kids, I have always known that I have been on the receiving end of this arrangement. I have looked at my "have tos" as "get tos". I don't "have to" get up with my crying baby 3 times a night, I "get to". I know that it won't last forever and so I cherish it. Of course, that is not to say that I don't have my moments (every day) when I want to scream and yell and pull my hair out, or that I don't wait each day for the moment when they finally "go the F**K to sleep" (as the clever book by Adam Mansbach is titled) , because believe me, I do. I am not about to paint any rosy fairy tale pictures of my dreamy June Cleaver life. It's messy, and ugly and loud and... I LOVE IT.

My daughter, all seven years of her, dreams of one day being married and having babies of her own. So sweet and familiar. Bittersweet though because I struggle with how to protect her, how to try and see that she not make the same mistakes in life that I did. But then, that's not really fair is it? To say that I made a mistake? My life is good. I have four amazing people that I "get to" guide on this journey with me. I wake up every day to their smiles and every morning I wrap them in my hugs. I send them off to school with the Sign of the Cross on their forehead and a wish that God will bless them, that they each have a "wonderful, beautiful, very good day" because, "I love them very much". But still...nothing in life is certain and I want my babies, my daughter especially, to be prepared. I have tried to plant the seed that marriage is not the goal, just part of the game. I have told her straight out that I want her to be able to take care of herself first. I have explained my situation, I don't have a career to fall back on. Nobody is hiring professional Mommies. If I could have done anything differently in my life it would have been to not be in such a rush. I would have taken my time getting married and having babies - I would have tried to trust that you can have a career and a family. I still would have stayed home with my cherubs, but at least I would have options better than the ones I have now.

Here's the crazy thing. I am smart. Really smart. I could have been anything I wanted to be when I "grew up". I still can, right? I have a degree in business. I started earning it while I was working full time and finished it when I was bouncing Firstson on my hip. One of the things I remember learning in business school was about "opportunity cost". That is, everything you do comes at the cost of not doing something else. I am at a place in my life right now that while it is so good, it is also fleeting. I feel very strongly that I have to figure out what I am going to be. I meditated on this for a while after I became a single stay at home mom. I want to take this opportunity I have been given, this time when my bills are still being paid and while my family is still so willing to help, to figure it out and make it happen. I desperately do not want to get stuck behind a desk doing some "job". Been there, done that, hated it.

I would be a great lawyer. I have always thought about it. I am a good writer, an excellent reader, I have an eye for detail and I am creative. I would love to feel like I was helping people and still be making a decent salary. (how awesome would it be to use child support payments to cover family vacations - in other words, be able to provide for myself and my children everything else) I waited for a sign and when I felt I had received it I jumped right in. I registered for classes at Empire State College to finish my bachelor's degree. Independent Studies. Not online courses, independent studies. As in, read this textbook, write a paper and give me a call to discuss.

Here's where that opportunity cost thing comes in...every time we say "yes" to one thing we are automatically saying "no" to something else. I have had a hard time with these classes, not the content, the time management. At the end of my day I am spent. I go full steam ahead from early in the am until those sweeties fall to slumber - which is usually after quite a battle. I have taken some incompletes in my classes, and I really don't know when or how to complete them. It's a mess, because I think I have to do something, time is running out!

I think to myself, if I can't handle this, how will I ever handle law school? Not to mention the fact that law school is expensive, and I am poor. There's the fact that jobs for new attorneys are hard to come by these days. The Niece's husband just graduated and passed the bar. Thankfully he had a job lined up, but apparently with his student loans now coming due they are actually netting less than they were before he became a lawyer and will be for the next ten years or so. Also, I think about all the sacrifices he made while in law school, and wonder if I would be willing to make the same ones. I have four cherubs who are my life. I am a Catechist and a Girl Scout leader. I am baby "G"'s favorite great aunt and thrice weekly caregiver. I make dinner. I do laundry. I decorate my house for all the holidays and I make cupcakes. All of these things are part of my job, remember my dream job? I am just temping, but I am giving it my all, I don't know what I could give up.

I remember when I was a teenager in HS and I wanted to be in every after school club that was offered, my father had an important conversation with me in which he said "you can't give 100% to one hundred different things, you need to pick something and be good at it." How could I know that some 20 years later those words would be so relevant? So, for now I am going to continue working hard at my job everyday. I am a good Mom (I am assured of this everyday when Paddy-boy yells that I am the 'wurst mommy evah!' ) I am going to live in the now as much as I can and heed the advice of my Heavenly Father to not worry about tomorrow. After all, the only thing that is guaranteed is today, right? So, I will continue hugging and blessing my babies each morning, packing their lunchboxes with carrot sticks and sandwiches, filling their drawers with clean clothes and pulling my hair out each night waiting for them to fall to sleep. I am going to give 100% of myself to this job, to this calling and have faith that God will provide.

Maybe someday I will go to law school, maybe someday I will weep proudly when Curly Girl calls to tell me that she passed the Bar Exam. All I know is that right now, I am going to pack up some snacks and pile the kids into the car for religion. It's Tuesday and the slow cooker is on. Life is good today, and today is all I've got.

Voulez vous couchez avec moi....?

I love my bed. I do. For multitude of reasons. First, it is my respite at the end of my always hectic day. My reward for making it to the finish line with four and sometimes five still living and breathing and relatively unscathed. Also, I am really good at sleeping. It is kind of a talent of mine. I love to sleep. If it were an Olympic event I would be an undisputed gold medalist. My bed is my well worn favorite pair of running sneakers.

After my husband left the bed was kind of strange. For one thing, it's really big. King sized, big for two people, enormous for one. At first I would only sleep on "my side", the other side of the bed belonged to him, and he was gone. Then one day I decided to be a rebel. It was finally becoming clear to me that he wasn't coming back, and so I slept on the other side - marking it as mine! As time went by I started exorcising all traces of his ever having lived there, cleaning out the drawers and closets and eventually painting the walls and completely redecorating the whole room. It was a big part of my healing, that room. I chased all the ghosts of my marriage away and created a place all for me, the new me. I painted it a rich dark purple and treated myself to an indulgent bedding set in deep red and gold and even splurged on all the accent pillows. Everyday I wake up and make my bed. Even if the rest of the house is a disaster, which it usually is. I love to walk by my bedroom and see that glorious fluffy bed waiting for me. It makes me feel so good, like I have it all together, which I so do not!

Each night after I wrestle the cherubs to bed I retire to my glorious bed! I kid myself that my bed is the one place in the house that is all mine, and I love it. I fall asleep square in the middle of the bed, kicking my legs around anyway I want.

The real reason I love my bed? Almost every morning, although I fall asleep with 76" all to myself, I find myself waking up balanced delicately on about 6", with tiny bodies glued to either side of me. My back aches as I cannot move in either direction, I am hot and sweaty from way too much body heat, and there's a crick in my neck! Some nights I send the little buggers back to their own bed. I almost always make them fall asleep in their own beds at the start of the evening. I make exceptions though, like when someone seems particularly needy. Usually this is one of the big kids, who have their own stresses in life and sometimes need the closeness of mom and the comfort of those 76" to help re-charge their batteries. Sometimes I am just too darned tired to get up myself, much less carry a heavy sleepy baby. I know that I shouldn't let my kids sleep in my bed for all kinds of expert reasons. The way I figure it though, they aren't going to be little forever. Soon enough they will be slamming their doors on me claiming their need for privacy! The fact that Firstson is now in fourth grade when just yesterday he was in diapers has me certain that by next week he will be graduating college - and he certainly won't want me cuddling him then! Our lives are busy, insanely busy. Sometimes the days fly by so fast and we don't have much time together. So, when they crawl into my bed in the middle of the night, I cherish them rather than chase them. Someday my house will be very clean, and very quiet and I shall be very lonely. When that day comes my bed shall be truly mine. Until then, I am happy to have my sweet cherubs kicking me in the ribs!

On my own

Back when I had a "husband in residence" I would get my panties quite ruffled whenever he would have to go out of town for business. I dreaded the inevitable chaos of being alone 24 hours a day with four tiny kids. Now I look back at those times and chuckle. For the past two years I have been doing this on my own. In truth, I have been doing a lot of it on my own for even longer than that. When people find out that I am a single Mom of four young kids they usually respond with awe, I often hear things like - "I can barely handle two (or one), how do you do it with four -and all alone!" Well, I probably don't have to tell you it's hard. Really hard. Being a Mom is a challenge no matter what your circumstances.

In the beginning, when I not only had 4, but four including a difficult two year old (that would seem redundant unless you actually knew Paddy boy at age two, in which case you know it's a huge understatement), and a 15 month old baby, I was running on empty all the time. I was determined to be the best mother I could be, to do all that I could do to protect my sweet cherubs from the inevitable pain of their parents' divorce. I did the one thing that has for all my life been the most difficult, I reached out and asked for help. I humbled myself enough to see that I had to accept help from others. I have so many to whom I am eternally and perpetually grateful (you know who you are). Let me tell you, Hillary was right, it does take a village.

I love being a Mom, in fact, it is the only thing I ever wanted to be. I was dealt a huge blow. My heart was broken and my world was turned upside down and I needed to pick myself up and take care of me so that I could take care of my kids. Kind of like when you listen to the safety instructions on an airplane (you do listen to the safety instructions pre-flight, right?) and they tell you that you need to put on your oxygen mask before helping someone else with theirs. I call it the oxygen mask theory of parenting. I had to take care of me as a means to take care of my kids. I was careful. I got myself a therapist, a spiritual director and a prescription. I steered clear of alcohol. I took my time and tried not to get overwhelmed. I admitted my weaknesses in order that I might be able to turn them into strengths. I became determined. While I admitted my need to accept help, I also realized that my goal was to be able to do it all, on my own. Even if I didn't have to do it alone, I wanted to know that I could. With time I was able to cut down my therapy appointments to every other week, sweep my own floor, cook my own dinners and even enjoy an occasional glass of wine without fear of it spawning an all out addiction. I learned that where the kids are involved I need to choose my battles, decide what I can let slide and what is non-negotiable.

So, as I said it's been just about two years now, and last week my need to be super mom peaked when I took four kids on vacation by myself. To an amusement park. We all survived. I only lost one kid, and only for about 5 minutes. We even had fun. Actually, we had a blast. We trashed a hotel room -ordered movies, junk food wrappers everywhere, bed jumping and diving and we were probably even a little loud. (can you say - "understatement"?) We met Elmo, Cookie Monster and Big Bird (although Dexter kept referring to him as the Big Chicken, making me suspicious that 24hrs of Disney Channel and Nick Jr. programming may be lessening the iconic effects of PBS). We managed to do it on a budget by eating breakfast and lunch in the hotel picnic style, and by stocking up on glow ropes at the local party store before we left. We made memories to last a lifetime and we did it on our own. We are a team, my cherubs and I.

Now then, I seriously need a vacation from my vacation. Four kids are exhausting.

Post script - I am never really on my own. I have the most amazing family helping me all the time in all kinds of ways, wonderful friends, and of course the never ending love and protection of the Lord! Thank you all.

Get On it

The tooth fairy sucks. At least in my house she does. When First Son lost his first tooth the tooth fairy was "on it". She was so excited. She anxiously awaited the moment when true slumber would set in, then she set about her business. Her intended purpose. Her raison d'etre! She slipped quietly between the pillow and mattress, extracted the precious gem, leaving in it's place a selection of golden coins. On the bedside, a personal letter to the newly toothless kindergartener extolling the virtues of his excellent dental hygiene which had of course produced such an awesome specimen for her collection. Said letter was printed prettily in a fairy-esqe font on a wispy ethereal slice of vellum and tied with a gorgeous silver ribbon. The next morning was filled with the delirious cacophony that comes when children discover something magical. On it. The tooth fairy was on it.

Last week first son had two baby teeth extracted by Dr. Dentist for reasons which fall under the category of unfortunate genetics. They were set in an adorable little plastic treasure chest that first son placed delicately under his pillow. Tooth fairy? She was off on a bender apparently. No note, no gold coins. Just a puddle of drool on the pillow and a look of disappointment and shrug of the shoulders from the now third grader. That damn tooth fairy is really blowing it. In the recent past I have found myself making all manner of excuses for her dropping the ball. "Fairies can't fly in the rain" " Maybe she caught that flu that's been going around." " The tooth dropped on the floor and she couldn't find it" I mean seriously. How hard is it to set your damn alarm get your ass up undetected in the middle of the night Miss Tooth Fairy? What happened to your "raison d'etre"? It is your job. Your only job. Leave a special little something for the newly toothless cherubs. What kind of mythical creature are you anyway?

By my count there are more than 60 deciduous little teeth yet to loosen themselves from the mouths of my cherubs....setting my alarm.

Underwhere?

So... I cleaned out my underwear drawer today. Are you intrigued about what I found???

I threw out some old brassieres that had stretched elastic and bent clips, some old panties from Vicky's 5 seasons ago when they still made underwear that covered your ass, a few bottles of lotion and even an old pregnancy test (two lines! - yes, I did save it -I know, yuck, like any kid is going to want to see the stick Mom peed on to find out about their impending arrival, but pregnancy hormones make you do weird stuff!) I reorganized fancy pants and cotton pants and..."control" pants, belts, scarves and bras by color. I can now lay a proper foundation for any outfit in no time!

There were a few things hiding in my underwear drawer that I just don't know what to do with...should I save them for sentimental reasons or do I throw them out as if they never existed?

What do I do with all of the baby teeth the tooth fairy has collected and deposited in my underwear drawer? Really? Am I a bad Mom if I throw away these tiny treasures or am I sick and disgusting for saving them even this long? What if one of my children becomes involved in a crazy cult some day and needs his/her baby teeth to exorcise a demon? (really? I wonder where Paddy boy's imagination comes from)

What does the tooth fairy DO with all of those baby teeth at your house?

Full Circle

It is just one year ago this weekend that I started to become aware of how much my life was about to change. My husband was away on business, and even though we still hadn't quite ironed out our differences from an argument a few weeks earlier, my heart ached from missing him. I anxiously awaited his return, wanting so much to feel his strong arms wrap around me and his soft lips meet mine, but I was left feeling very cold when the reunion was anything but warm.

One year ago this weekend he first mentioned how unsure he was, that he didn't really know what he wanted. Just a few days later, sitting on the beach he told me that he was "done", that he would no longer share an emotional connection with me, it was too much for him to bear. Despite the tears and the pleading and begging on my part, he pronounced that from then on we would merely be partners in raising our children. There would be no emotion involved. No love, no fighting, no sex. I told him that was the "stupidest thing I ever heard".

And so I began the fight of my life. It wasn't for at least another week that I would find out about his illicit relationships (yes, plural, but that is another story for another day), my mind was already made up, I was not going to give up easily. For the next three months that he continued to live at home, and even beyond, I fought with all my being to save my marriage. I made fabulous dinners, I made desperate love, I made counseling appointments, and I made it to Mass every Sunday and most weekdays too, because even if Hubby was deaf to my pleading surely God was not. I offered to turn myself into a contortionist of sorts, willing to bend whatever way necessary to save our marriage, to save my life as I knew it, and to protect my children from having to feel the inevitable pain that comes with a broken family.

Lord, just thinking about those days gives me a pit in my stomach. It all came about so unexpectedly. I was completely blind-sided by the break-up. It hurt. Badly. It hurt to try so hard, and get nothing in return. It hurt to be so needy. To be so broken. It was a dark, dark time in my life, and even though my strong faith assured me that someday there would be light, it was at times a struggle to keep hope. I did though, keep hope, at times I didn't know what I was hoping for, but I never gave up.

Now here I sit, one year later. I am in no way basking in sunshine just yet, but I am no longer cowering in a dark corner. I am still fighting, only now I am fighting for myself, for my children, for our future. My marriage is, for all intents and purposes, over. I am sad, but I am okay. I never thought I would, but I have survived this far and I intend to keep going.

I am in a hotel room for the weekend, in Albany, NY. I am here with the Niece, babysitting her sweet one month old baby "g" so that she and her husband can attend the nuptials of a longtime friend. It is a vacation for me. I will gladly trade four messy kids in a messy house for a sweet smelling infant, room service and complete control of the remote (plus, in case you haven't noticed, time to blog).

It is so ironic. We just never know where life is going to take us, do we? I promise you this, eventually, it comes full circle.

I haven't been to Albany since I left here in tears in January of 1995, over fifteen years ago. I had been a student at the University of Albany, right out of high school and with enough financial aid that I didn't have to worry about much. I went away to college for the wrong reasons though, and it didn't work out. I wasn't a party animal, but I wasn't a good student and it caught up to me. At first I was on academic probation, and then finally I was, how did they put it? Oh yeah, "Kicked Out".

It all seems so far away now, I almost forget that at the time it was Armageddon. I didn't tell any of my family until all was over and done with. I struggled in secret for weeks with what I knew was certain failure and I kept it all to myself. I wrote a letter to the administration, I sat before the board begging for a change of heart that didn't come. At the end of the day I had to pack up my dorm room and call my family to tell them I was coming home. It was awful. My soul sister Chiquita was there to drive me home while I cried and sobbed and basically fell apart. When I got home, my family was there to help me pick up the pieces. It was a dark time, not something I like to talk about, I really truly thought my life was over. I couldn't see past the failure of that "today" to even imagine the success of my tomorrows. I did it though. I picked myself up and I kept going. I eventually earned a business degree. I eventually married, bought a house and I have four amazing cherubs, and beautiful friendships.

I am once again faced with a failure of "today". This time however, I see the possibility that is held in my tomorrows. I am not going to let myself be defined by my divorce any more than I am defined by the "academic dismissal" that is on my permanent record. I am so much more.

I am healing. I am growing as a person, becoming better every day. I am strong. I am not broken, just bruised. I have no idea what the future is going to hold for me, I know that it will be at times wonderful and amazing, and I know that at times it will be dark and scary. I also know that the darkness doesn't last forever.

Two of a kind, sort of

This is the picture that my Curly Girl recently made for me. It's us. She and I, me and her.

I love it.

I love that we both have curly hair. Mine is brown and hers is yellow. As you can see from her artful swirleys.

I also love that while our outfits coordinate, they are not all matchy matchy. I like that. She is wearing a purple shirt and red pants, where I am wearing a red shirt and purple pants.

I LOVE that I am wearing purple pants.
I wish I had real purple pants.
I do have purple shoes though. Real purple shoes. They are so cool.

Oh! and big fat flower hands! I mean, do you love the big fat flower hands?

What a girl, my Curly Girl.

Princess of Power?

On the infrequent occasions when I sit and consider myself in comparison to children's fictional characters I usually lean more towards She-ra Princess of Power than say, Little Miss Muffett. Usually. She-ra is known for her superhuman strength, speed, stamina, agility, reflexes, and durability. That's me. I take it all on, no fear. I even shop the cereal aisle with four children and emerge unscathed with my box of plain old "toasted oats" - if that doesn't demonstrate stamina, agility and super-human strength you probably use Peapod.

Since my husband left I have had so many people offering to help. Friends, neighbors. You know "please let me know if there is anything I can do" - "Thank you, I will". I am pretty self-sufficient, uncomfortable taking help. In the beginning I could barely function and so I did have friends and family here helping all the time, but only the people closest to me. They were here, helping with the kids, cleaning the kitchen, sorting through baby clothes, etc. Some neighbors have brought over groceries, flowers and even dinner on occasion, but still, they offer to help, "if I need it".

My therapist tells me that it is important to accept other's offers of help. It helps them feel helpful. In other words, my acceptance of help is actually a charitable act of my own. I consider myself to be a generous and charitable individual, so this view presents me with a bit of a conundrum. I feel compelled, but I don't know what to ask for. I don't know how to let these people help. In truth, I don't need that much, save for some magic potion to shake some sense into Uncle Dad and bring healing and restore trust in my broken marriage. Short of asking for black magic, I just don't know when the opportunity would present itself that I could help these people and allow them to help me. Imagine my surprise when, a few weeks back I was presented not just with an opportunity, but with an absolute dire need for neighborly assistance.

I was sitting in my living room on a lazy Saturday morning enjoying my Christmas tree and the company of my dear friend from Philfadelfia, DD. I was in my pajamas, sipping some hot tea, and she was relaxing on the chaise singing nursery rhymes to her godson Dexter (both in pajamas). All of a sudden we heard a "thud" (incidentally, I LOVE a good onomatopoeia, don't you?). DD declared that she definitely heard eight individual, yet synchronized thuds. Upon further investigation I found that she was indeed right...it was the biggest, huge-est, most insanely large arachnid I had ever seen.

She-ra: exit stage left. Miss Muffet: enter stage right. Cue girly screaming. Ew. Spider!

Damn it! Where is a man when you need him! Ugh. First Son, is unfortunately just as afraid of spiders as I am. Fortunately though, he is quite capable of dialing the phone. I screamed the neighbor's phone number and had First Son tell them that Mom needed a Man NOW!!! (hmmm...I am only now hearing just how..wrong that sounds...) I kept my eye on the creature while we waited for help to arrive. If we had lost sight of that ...thing, I would have had no choice but to put the for sale sign on the lawn and head to the Motel 8, cuz there ain't no way I be sleepin in the same house with a mutant arachnid. (That's right, I said "ain't")

So there I am in my living room, in my pajamas, on the verge of tears doing my charitable good deed for the sake of my neighbor down the block. I won't mention his 12 year old daughter who stood in my hallway watching the whole scene unfold and laughing her ass off, though perhaps there was charity even in that.

I can handle a lot. I have four little kids. I have seen poop, and vomit and temper tantrums that would make your hair stand up. I can tell you true life stories that the greatest writers of our time could not make up. I am not a lightweight, but to be fair, this spider was no Charlotte of Wilbur's "Some Pig" fame. This spider would have eaten your baby just like a dingo.

She-ra. Princess of Power. At the end of the day, still just a girl afraid of a spider.

Gratitude

Last night as I drifted off to sleep I held my CurlyGirl's perfect pudgy little hand in the clamshell of my palms. So sweet, so small, so peaceful in her slumber. An angel sent from God. As I lay there enjoying the quiet of the evening, and the closeness of my daughter, I listened to each of her slow even breaths and paced my own to match. A prayer perched upon my lips...

My Dear Merciful and Loving God,

THANK YOU.

I am going to be Okay. You have sent me so many angels. You are with me each moment of every day, I feel you here with me. You have given me my family, my friends who are a second family, my beautiful, amazing children and so many blessings.

This year has been long and hard and I am glad to put it to rest, but I value each heart wrenching day that I have survived. I am a stronger, smarter, happier person. I am a better mother. I value all of the relationships in my life more than ever. I know who my friends are, and who they are not. I know what is important to me, and I know what things I can let go of.

I still cry, but I also laugh. I vowed that I would find Joy, and I have. I find joy, look for it , search for it. It is an active pursuit. Joy is a decision that I make each day. I am proud of myself. I never wanted to be a single mother. I never wanted this life. This was not part of my plan, but life doesn't always go along according to our plans. Separation, divorce - these are not part of my value system, but marriage requires two. I am but one, and so each day I try my best, and when I lay down to sleep at night I am grateful to have made it through another day.

I am so full of gratitude. First to God, who provides all things for me.

Next, for my children. My sweet cherubs who give purpose to my day. They are always by my side to make me laugh, to give me hugs, and to redirect my focus from my needs to theirs.

My sisters, who have been here for me in so many ways, to sit with me and cry, to make me laugh, help me keep perspective, to brainstorm idealistic revenge plots and to watch my kids. My niece, who is like another sister, and who has taken on all of the sister duties listed above, as well as several late night (early morning) desperate phone calls, sinks full of dirty dishes and sticky children in the midst of complete temper tantrums. Also, her extremely patient husband.

My brothers and BIL and nephews, who sit and stew in quiet contemplation ready to pounce to my defense, to pick up the slack and who long to find a way out of the helplessness that traps them.

My aunts and cousins who send cards and e-mails and offer prayers.

There are my in-laws, who are in a very precarious position. They love their son of course, and this I understand only because I too am a mother, but they are heartbroken because of his actions. They are so good to me. My mother in law is here almost every day, helping with the kids, bringing groceries, sweeping the floor. She builds me up and reassures me each day that I am a good Mom, that I am doing a good job. I do not honestly know what I would do without her - how crazy that the great chasm between myself and my husband has brought me closer to my mother in law, but again that is life for you.

I have Sister Patty. I meet with her each week and she knows just what to say to help me see the "God" in all of this.

I have my friends. Wonderful friends who call me, e-mail me and drop by to see how I am doing. Exceptional women who are always here and always seem to know just what to say. Friends who bring me dinner, bring me books and ice cream and statues of Indian gods. Friends who bring me hope. Friends are pulling me through this darkest night. They have swept my floor, watched my children, invited me to dinner, brought me chai and most importantly listened to me for hours and hours on end. My girls, you know who you are and I love every one of you.

I cherish all of these angels. My life is good, different, but good. I am blessed and I am ready for the New Year. Thank you, Lord.

A dream denied

Life is not fair. It's not. Life is not fair.

Tell me something I don't already know.

Today is my birthday. The anniversary of the day my mother so gracefully brought me into this world. For a long time, this day was the one I have most anticipated, celebrating as if it were a sort of unofficial holiday. Then I became a mother. Now my most favorite days are my children's birthdays. All four of them. I guess when you have a child they automatically become more important, more amazing than you are, even in your own mind. Since I have become a mom I have come to think of birthdays as being as much a celebration of the mother who did the birthing as it is of the child who was born. For the last 28 birthdays, I have had to celebrate without my mother.

When I was six years old my mother died. She was sick. A lot of my memories are of her being sickly. In and out of the hospital. Having to be careful and cautious. I remember wanting so badly for her to be able to come upstairs and tuck me in to bed, and my Dad being upset if she did. She needed to "take it easy". Then, one spring day when I was six years old my world changed forever. I was in first grade and I had been sitting with her reading Sally, Dick & Jane. Suddenly she didn't feel right, she needed to go into the bathroom. Next, she was asking me to wet a cool washcloth for her, and go wake up Daddy. Not long after, I watched her wave to me for the last time from the passenger seat of our car as it pulled out of the driveway and my Dad rushed her off to the hospital.

I am 34 years old today and the memories of my Mom leaving that day still bring me to my knees.

My sister and I went "across the street" to our neighbors and friends and played Atari. Later that night we returned home, and I went to bed. I could hear downstairs that other people were there, and the Stanley Cup hockey was on. I already felt so lonely and scared. I pooled all of the blankets around me in a circle, creating a sacred private space for myself to try to feel safe, but I fell asleep feeling very scared. In the morning it was my aunt, my mother's sister, who came upstairs to tell me that there was "no more Mommy".

No child should have to hear those words, or words like them, but they have rattled in my brain ever since. Life isn't fair.

As you might imagine, from that day on I was changed. Just as a mother is defined in the moment her child takes her first breath, I was defined when my mother breathed her last. I was formed into the mother I am today so many years ago when I became a motherless daughter.

Although it means different things for all of us, we all want better for our children than we had for ourselves. I wanted "normal". I wanted the sitcom family a la "The Cosby Show", "Growing Pains" or "Family Ties". I wanted a family. I wanted family dinners with lots of siblings around the table sharing stories about the day. I wanted drawers full of clean clothes, lunchboxes full of carrot sticks and sandwiches. Milk and cookies and Mom waiting after school to help with the homework. I wanted fresh Christmas trees, Sunday church and pot roast. I wanted a Mom and a Dad.

This year when the anniversary of my mother's death approached it was particularly poignant for me. My FirstSon was six years old. It struck me hard to realize that in his short life he had already lived more time with his Mom by his side than I ever did with mine. I also realized that while the past six years have created rich memories for me, have been in fact the greatest time of my life, FirstSon will probably not remember much of it himself. Basically, it hit me this past spring that if I were to die (and as irrational as I know it is, I am always afraid that I am going to die), this whole time would boil down to very little in the memory of my precious children. It made me sad to think of it.

Now of course, I didn't die. No one has. Not really. My marriage. My dreams, maybe. My children can't possibly comprehend what they have lost. They will live a new "normal", and it will be okay, but I will remember. I will remember the time when we were a family, when we were everything I ever wanted.

I wanted so much more for my children. I tried so hard. I thought I had it all. I did have it all. Something, no, someone changed somewhere and now it is gone. Everything that I didn't want for my children to experience is happening, and it is out of my control. IT SUCKS. It sucks to realize that you cannot control what happens to your children, that you can't always protect them from getting hurt. Right now the best I can do is hold them in my arms, kiss away their tears and love them. Life is not fair, but they have their mother.

I Will Find Joy

This has been my mantra of late. I don't know where it came from, but it has been playing over and over in my head. It is true, my life right now is nothing that I ever thought it would be. It is nothing short of a nightmare. In a million years I never thought I would be googling "divorce mediation". I never pictured myself packing an overnight bag for my kids to spend the night with their father. I am living in bizarro world. It's weird, uncomfortable and I don't like it. It is a work in progress though, and while there are a lot of bad days, lately there are some good days too, and for that I am grateful.

Have I mentioned that I have the four most amazing cherubs? They bring so much light to my world, to my life. Every night at least one of them crawls into my bed and shnuggles up close to me. In the past I would have been diligent about shuffling them back to their own beds, but lately I am way too tired, and besides, I like having them there. In the morning we hug and shnuggle, we giggle and talk. They are absolutely delicious, better than cinnamon rolls oozing with sweet gooey frosting. They are my reason for being, they are the ones who make me smile, even make me laugh. My children are my greatest blessing, and in them I will find joy.

I Don't want a Strap-on

There's another thing that happens when I am having a bad day. (such as today) I start missing my husband with a terrible ache. I imagine a patient who has lost a limb in some terrible trauma waking from a coma to find that their life, their very selves are irrevocably changed. The arm is gone, they scream, they cry, they get angry, they grieve. After a while they accept, a prosthesis is created, a strap on, semblance of what used to be. Skills are re-learned and eventually life goes on. They learn to live this new one armed existence, but, each morning when they first awaken- reality stings. They expect their arm to be there, reaching to shut the blaring alarm, but nothing it seems is where it is supposed to be.

I want to call my husband, text him, e-mail him. I want to say:

I love you.

I am sorry.

So sorry.

Please come home. Please let's fix this.

Please, I love you.

I want to wrap my arms around him, I want to burrow my head in his chest. I want to feel his lips on mine. I want to wake up with two arms, damn it!

Today is a cold rainy day. It reminds me of a day we shared thirteen years ago when we were young, in love and relatively unencumbered by responsibility. We were in college. Separate colleges, but mine was on the way to his and so he would drive me. On this particular morning we got ready for school and climbed into his cold ugly gold mazda pick-up truck and headed on our way. Well, we only got to the first exit on the parkway before we decided that it would be a much better idea to turn around and go back home to cuddle under the covers - just skip school altogether and spend the day instead wrapped in the warmth of each other's arms. That was the day that a family tradition was born..the "shnuggle". An early morning, still under the covers, warm and cuddly hug that lasts half a day or more. Our children love to shnuggle.

Today is a day like that. Only, I have woken up once again to find that my arm is missing. I must start the process all over.

I have said it all. I have begged. I have pleaded, I have bargained. I have said I love you through tears, and with calm, steely resolve. I am gifted with words, and I have used them. Every combination I can think of. I keep thinking that there must be some way to get through to him. If I could just figure out the riddle, unlock the code. Sometimes I get discouraged. I feel like I have tried everything, and I am exhausted. Emotionally exhausted. Physically exhausted. Bent. Broken.

It is frustrating, but the truth is that there is nothing I can say. He has to want to be here, and right now he doesn't.

I love you. I miss you. I want to make things right. I want to fix our family. Please. Come home. It is a cold, rainy day. Let's go back to bed

It must be nice

Yesterday I made an apple pie. I gave Dexter a haircut and a bath. I sat outside and chatted with a neighbor while I watched my kids ride bikes "in the street". I am trying to get on with my life. Yesterday was pretty good. I didn't even take a Xanax. I made some spaghetti for dinner (a team favorite), and then left my sister with the cherubs while I went to see my therapist. My therapist thinks I am doing great. I admit, some days are okay.

Some days are not so good. Some days I just can't shut my mind off. Some days I start thinking about him. I start thinking "It must be nice". You know, like:

It must be nice, to come home at the end of each day and not have to worry about taking care of anyone but yourself.

It must be nice to be able to go off to whatever appointments you have made for yourself, and not have to give a thought about who will be taking care of your four little children.

It must be nice to be able to decide what to have for dinner, and not have to worry about who is going to complain that they don't like it, who is going to throw it on the floor or wear it in their hair.

It must be nice to have several hours to yourself in the evening to do whatever you want, and not have to referee sibling squabbles, oversee a reluctant kindergartner's homework, or convince a toddler to stop climbing into his baby brother's crib and jumping on his head while he is trying to sleep.

It must be nice not to realize just minutes after the last cherub has finally fallen asleep that you are actually out of diapers, milk or bread.

It must be nice to be able to watch TV, or go to the movies, or the mall whenever you want.

It must be nice to be able to leave your children on the ONE night that they are your responsibility and go sit on a bar stool in the local pub - since you live in your mother's house and she can just watch the kids!
It must be nice.

I have already heard all about how nice it is to be able to go to the beach and spend a few hours surfing and not have to worry about anyone but yourself. SO NICE.


It must be nice to be able to take your kids to the park and feed the ducks and play kickball and then finish off the evening with a trip to the local pizzeria.
It must be nice to be the great hero, the fun parent.
It must be nice to not have to worry about keeping it all together, not have to worry about plastering a fake smile on your face and pretending everything is just fine.
It must be nice not to have to listen to your children crying themselves to sleep at night.

How though?

After I start thinking about how it "must be nice", I start thinking about how totally unbelievable that is. HOW can it be nice? How can you rather be anywhere else but here, with your kids, in your house? How can it be better? How can it be nice to be sitting in your mother's basement, sleeping in a bed that, while I am sure is nice - cannot possibly compare to the $3000 King Koil that we just bought? How can it be nice to sit on an old recliner watching a boob tube instead of sitting in your own living room watching the brand new flat screen that you spent two weeks shopping for? How can it be nice to not be with your children? How can you go even one day without hearing Dexter laugh, or Paddy sing or even Firstson and Curly fight? How? I cannot understand it.

If I am being completely honest, it was nice around here too, for a little while. It was nice not to have to share the remote, or to have to answer to anyone when I burned a pot on the stove because I always turn the burners on too high. It was nice to leave my popcorn bowl on the table and not have to worry about who I was annoying by leaving it there. It was even a little bit nice to have an evening to myself to have dinner with friends or go to the bookstore because it was his turn to put the kids to bed. The novelty is wearing off. It is wearing thin. I miss my husband. I miss my friend. I want my life back. I want my family healed.

Here's the thing. Neither of us is innocent. My husband left because he is hurt, has been hurt in the past and just can not stand to be hurt anymore. I am responsible for a lot of that hurt. Some of it I know, and take responsibility for, some of it I need to gain a better understanding of. I never set out to intentionally hurt anyone. I love my husband. I am not a perfect person. I can be a better wife. I have been hurt too. Really, really hurt.

Our life is overwhelming right now. We have four little kids. We had two babies back to back, on top of the two we already had. When I look back over this last year, I realize that it was impossibly hard. Most people I know would have cracked. I didn't. Or, maybe I did. Having these four children, while a blessing for sure, it hasn't always brought out my best. I acknowledge that. I own it. There are too many times when I have taken my husband for granted. Too little time spent focusing on what was happening in my home and marriage, and too much time spent out. PTA, catechesis, book club, family, friends. Did I make these things more important than my marriage? I didn't think so at the time. I am so not perfect. I have work to do, Lord.

Apparently my previous post upset my husband. It's funny, because as one friend who knows way more about the situation than I would ever publish here said, "Really? I thought you were being very polite". Anyway, I guess he didn't understand why I feel the need to tell the world what is happening, and isn't it a very one sided view? Well, Hubby, you do not need to understand why I choose to write. Writing is "my thing". You go to the beach, I go to the keyboard. Second, YES -it is a one sided view - it's a blog! Want one? They're free! At one point Hubby asked if I would like him to respond to my post with a list of his grievances as he had done a few weeks ago in an e-mail to a third party who was trying to help. Perhaps this would embarrass me? Well, surely I do not want to air all of my dirty laundry, but, yeah. Sure. Go ahead. Your feelings are real and they are valid. I do not dispute your unhappiness. I do not think that you should just come back and accept your life. I believe that you can make your life what you want it to be. I believe that we can do it together. I believe that we are so much better than this. Our family is worth so much more than this.

I want to be a better wife. I want to have a better husband. I want us to be a family. I want people to see us and think to themselves "Look at that family, Look at that couple. It must be nice."

Breathless

You are right. I must start writing again.

I feel like I have started writing this post a hundred times in my head. I just can't settle on an angle. It is so heavy, so laden with gut wrenching emotion, and I fear whether or not I will even be able to finish typing the words without short circuiting my laptop with torrential tears. There is so much going on, and I really should be writing about it, if only for therapy (though I kind of loathe the self-therapizing blogs that are out there and shudder to think that mine may become one. And, yes, I do realize that "therapy" is not a verb, thank you very much.) On the other hand I know there are many of you who are thinking about me, worrying about me and let's face it, miss reading my blog. So here I am. I am back. I must warn you though, it may not be pretty.

I do not know where to begin. I don't know how to sugar coat it, or make it humorous (though I am sure on the latter, I will find a way). My life has fallen apart. I feel like I am living a nightmare. I have never cried so much or prayed so hard - and believe me, I have cried and I have prayed before. My heart is broken. Shattered. I am changed forever.

A little over ten years ago, actually ten years and two weeks ago to be exact, I put on an exquisite white gown, elbow length gloves and a glittery tiara. My father walked me down the aisle in the most beautiful church named after our Blessed Mother, and gave me away to be married to my best friend. My husband and I took vows. We promised to be true to each other no matter what. In good times and bad. We walked out of that church hand in hand to start a new life together. I thanked my Lord God for sending this wonderful man to me, for I truly believed that he was the answer to a prayer. A gift from God, my husband.

Twenty days ago my husband left.

My husband packed a suitcase and went to go live in his mother's basement. We have four children. Four. Small. Children. He broke my heart, he broke their hearts. He broke his mother's heart and his father's heart. My sisters cry with me. My neighbors cry with me. Moms in the carpool lane and at the PTA meetings, they cry with me. My friends call me and text me and come over and sweep my kitchen floor for me. My niece has been here almost everyday it seems. There are angels watching over me, crying with me.

It is like someone died, only he didn't. He walked away. (WTF?)

I... can... not... breathe.



Here's the thing. I don't have that option. I can't crawl under the covers and pretend it is not happening. I can't decide that this life of mine just isn't what I thought I had signed up for and go run off and start over. I am not a coward. I am strong and I am courageous. I am a woman and, I am a MOTHER.

The English language is so inadequate. There are no words that can fully convey what I am or how I feel (I can think of a few that describe him though - see? it's coming back). I am angry. SO ANGRY. I am sad. Lonely. Frustrated. Resentful. Fragile. I feel helpless. I feel like a failure. I feel like an idiot. I feel like I am being called on to be super-human right now. Sometimes it is all just too much. I also feel grateful. I feel loved. I have so many friends and my great big family. I have my Lord and Savior, without whom I literally would not be able to pull myself out of bed in the morning.

I am bewildered. Devastated. I just do not understand. I can't grasp what is happening to me, to my family. We had a life. A family. I do not understand how you decide to throw that away. Our marriage was never perfect.(what is perfect?) It was also never hopeless. I can not "respect your decision" - because it is not respectable. I have values, we had values - and this goes against all of them.

I am not hopeless, that is, I have hope. I have faith. Thank God Almighty, I have help. There are tremendous betrayals that have been perpetrated, and yet I have hope and faith that trust can one day be restored. I do not believe in divorce. I will sign nothing. Ten years and two weeks ago I took vows, and I took them seriously. I am not giving up. Let me put that out there for all the world to hear and see: I AM NOT GIVING UP.

So, anyway, here I am. I am back in the "blogosphere". I am battered and I am bruised. You told me to write, if you think you can handle it, I'd love to have you read it. and, please, leave a comment. Thanks.

A lesson in sorrow

It's weird. Today feels so weird. It feels like a normal day. I made lunches, and breakfast, the kids got on the bus. I made some phone calls. Changed the baby. We have a trip to the library planned, and we may go print some First Day of School pictures. First son has soccer practice. I need to decide what to make for dinner. A normal day. Except....

It is not a normal day. I got the kids up and dressed everyone in their best red, white and blue and pinned an American Flag on First Son's shirt. I told my Curly Girl that today is a very important day to be proud of being an American. First Son asked again why it matters that today is September 11th. I told him the same, that we need to be proud of our nation, and we need to be grateful for all we have. I gently reminded him about the story I told him last year about the awful day eight years ago when so many people died.

I hate that today is so "normal". Life goes on it's true, but if feels wrong. It feels weird. It feels like we're forgetting, not that I think anyone who lived through that awful September morning and the days and weeks that followed could ever, ever forget.

This morning, as I write this I am watching on the television as they read the names at ground zero. In the background there are cranes and building equipment. Construction has officially begun. I listen to the names for as long as I can, but I cry, and a mommy who sits and cries is not what my 1 and 2 year old children need right now. Still, I feel an obligation to watch for a least a little while. I cannot forget. We must never forget.

My sister is on a cruise ship headed to Venice, Italy today. She is on the trip of a lifetime. Before she left she realized that she would be out of the country on this important and poignant anniversary. She bought some 9-11 t-shirts for herself and her traveling companions, making a point to not forget. She bought one for me too. It has a picture of the NY skyline with the Twin Towers and the text reads "When Giants Walked the Earth". I am not sure that I love it, but I will wear it anyway. I will wear it to the library today. I will wear it to the giant warehouse store, and to soccer practice. Someone will see me, and I know that they will remember.

I think often about how we as a generation will teach our children about this day. As I watch on the television, a Firefighter just spoke of his lost brother in law, of our need to continue to support the scholarships and foundations, and he may have summed up what it is I have been searching for, today is "A lesson in sorrow, but also in humanity."

How true. Never Forget.

"out there"

It's tricky. This blog thing. It is a challenge to write from the heart and to talk freely about the emotions of my daily life, to self-edit without censoring. My writing can conjure up some strong reactions from readers. I have an effect on other people. I know this because they literally stop me on the street, call me on the phone or seek me out at parties to tell me so. Occasionally they even leave a comment here. I am always so flattered when I find out that someone is reading this here blog, and when I find out that they like it - whoa. I didn't start this blog with the idea that anyone would read it, really. It was sort of just an experiment, something to do, and I really didn't think about the implications of having readers.

The last post "It's MY Turn!" - generated a big response from readers. I guess it hit home with a lot of people. One reader went so far as to suggest that every mother of every age should read it, because it was so relatable. I believe that my writing was real and true and I think that what I had to say was important. I really do feel that I expressed my feelings in an open and honest way, and made myself vulnerable, and I am honored that so many of you connected with what I had to say.

My last post, well it left me shook. Although I try to be cryptic and protect the identities of my cohorts, it is not a fail proof system, and so sometimes, feelings get hurt. Man that sucks. I wrote the last post without thinking of the implications it would have on one reader in particular, "Q". In my post I labelled the actions of this family member as "passive aggressive". After some time and review I am left to wonder whether this was a case of the pot calling the kettle black? Is this blog a tool I use for my own passive aggression? I hope not, but, maybe.


It was never my intention to hurt any one's feelings, yet I should have realized that it was a possibility. I know that "Q" reads this blog. While my post wasn't so much about the transgressions of "Q", it wasn't not about them either. I can't go back and take away the words I wrote. I don't want to. As I said, they were real and they were true, and while they were not meant to hurt anyone -they did. They also did a lot of good though. I know this because you, my readers have told me so.


I haven't posted in a while because I am torn. I do not want my words to hurt the people I love, but I will not censor myself. I haven't taken a single journalism or writing class that would perhaps have taught me how to deal with the "you're never going to please everyone" issue that comes up in writing a "column" such as this.


I have apologized to "Q". I have explained how my intention was not to cause pain, and I have taken responsibility for not thinking through the possible outcomes of hitting the "publish" button on the bottom of the screen. I could have made a phone call, given a warning maybe.

I want to be writing. I want to write with reckless abandon, but ...it is hard. It is hard to put myself "out there". I am not a professional writer. I dabble. I am a dabbler.

As much as I do not want to offend or hurt anyone, I do not want to walk or write "on eggshells". I can't guarantee the "truthful and real" part that so many readers appreciate when I have to temper it with "be careful not to offend".

I have thought a lot lately about taking this blog to the next level, making it legit. I have thought about working on it, posting daily, increasing my readership, soliciting ads. There are people who believe in me. I guess the question is...am I one of them? Do I think I have what it takes? Do I have "the balls" to write and take no prisoners? Am I willing to put myself "out there"? At what cost?

Clearly I have some things to figure out.

It's MY turn!

There is a certain person in the family, "Q", who, shall we say, knows exactly how to "press my buttons". We are two very different people, who, if not for the fact that we love the same people, would never seek one another out as friends. We do our best to get along. And truth be told, in spite of our differences of opinion, we actually love each other too. That said, "Q" irks the "be-jaysus" out of me from time to time. I try not to dwell on it, I try not blog about it, but sometimes, like today, the steam pressure under my cap is just so tremendous that if I don't let some off I feel like I truly might lose my head.

This story however, is not so much about what "Q" said or did (it's almost always "said") to piss me off today. The story is about the great epiphany I had about the whole situation - because heaven knows, today was not the first time I have been pushed to the brink by "Q", and it certainly won't be the last.


There has been a particularly virulent strain of pestilence running through our estate this week. It's the flu...and no, so do not even say it or I may scream, it is not the swine flu. (do you think I would neglect to mention that I have the freaking swine flu?, really?) Anyway it hit me, it hit First Son and Paddy and it very sadly hit my sweet Curly Girl the hardest of all. She ran a fever of 104' for two days straight, and then followed it up with a day and a half of 102'. For three whole days she barely came out of her bedroom. She couldn't eat, she couldn't walk. She missed her last days of preschool, and we have had to postpone the sprinkler party playdate that we had planned for the whole class. Very sad right? I know. Now during this time, I have been recuperating myself from a bout with the same flu as well as an upper respiratory infection. I have also been taking care of my three other children who have all been touched by the illness, including one very active 2 1/2 year old asthmatic whom I have been feeding steroids in order to build up and heal his lungs. Do you know what a 2 1/2 year old on steroids is like? Good, now imagine that is what he is like all the time, and then give him steroids. Oingo Boingo...off the walls, and I can't leave the house. I am dealing with it as best I can. We manage, we have been through much worse, and "this too shall pass".

So, today comes and I can no longer put it off. I must go to the store. Supplies are running low. Sure, I probably could have made it through a few more days before I had to replenish the Cheerios (on second thought, they are a staple of Dexter's diet, so maybe not) but I absolutely positively could not go another hour without purchasing....diapers! Seriously. All clean nappies in our possession were secured to heineys. I had to go to the store. Also, I think there are serious health benefits in getting up, getting dressed and getting out. Sometimes mental health is quite neglected in the name of physical health. Curly's temp was only 100' this morning and she quickly perked up after a dose of Tylenol. She was happy to get dressed and excited to get out of the house. Steroid boy needed a change of atmosphere, and Dexter loves to see the sights.


We all got washed and dressed and so, to Costco we were headed! Then...the phone rang. I had purposely not called "Q" this morning because I knew that no good would come of it. The ringing persisted, so I picked up the phone and dutifully gave "Q" the rundown. Updated on all the symptoms, etc. I had no choice but to mention our outing, though I did so reluctantly. As expected, "Q" made all of the usual passive aggressive comments alluding to my parenting skills and I did my best not to be too snarky in return, but rather tried to coolly change the subject and quickly end the call. (I tried not to be too snarky - I didn't say I was a model of diplomacy)



In general, I don't give a rat's ass what anyone thinks of me. I am notoriously independent and sure of myself. However, you touch a nerve when you imply that I do not know what I am doing as a mother. When I feel that I need to defend myself for going out to buy diapers, (diapers people, not crack cocaine) when you try to make me feel like the decisions I make are at the expense of my children's well-being, I become slightly "on edge". Actually, I fly into a rage. I called dear Hubby and warned him that I needed to vent about "Q". I lit into the whole story, yelling and screaming at poor, innocent and extremely understanding Hubby. A few minutes later Aunt Tay called, and I told her the whole story with equal verve. My blood was boiling.


Nothing I could do about it, I needed diapers post -haste. We got in the car and headed off to procure the necessary items, and I continued re-hashing the whole thing over and over in my mind. Outwardly I was trying to calm down, but inside I kept replaying the entire episode in my head. I must say it irks me that I am so easily irked.


Now my sweet, precocious Curly Girl is quite concerned with her future as a mother and wife. (bear with me) She often starts sentences like this "When I am the Mom...." as in: "When I am the Mom I am going to let my kids watch SpongeBob, and I will watch it with them" or "When I am the Mom I will drive a mid-size car when I have just two babies, or one". It is cute and funny and endearing to listen to her. She doesn't know it, but she is figuring out her values, and she is forging a healthy separation from me. I love hearing her talk about when she is a grown up (even though I am still trying to broker a deal with the devil himself to keep her little).

Today as we were driving to Costco, my mind all a whir because of my earlier aggravating phone conversation, she started in on one of these tangents. I started thinking quite innocently that all kids at one time or another must make similar declarations, dreaming of the day to come when they get to make the rules. I know that First Son has declared that when he is the Dad he is going to let his kids buy any kind of sugar cereal they want and take them to Disney every single vacation, and I am fairly certain that Paddy boy is hatching some type of plan that involves all lollipops, all the time. Many of us adults, saddled with the realities of responsibility have lost touch with our idealist former child selves. We enforce sensible rules and probably never eat ice cream for dinner. We are...grown-ups. In thinking about this sad fact I tried hard to remember what types of things I was determined to do so well when I finally got to be the grown-up, and if I could remember something, anything, I was going to do it with my children just because I can, because I am after all, "the Mom".

That is when it hit me. I am "the Mom." That's it. It is my turn. Everybody else has either had their shot, will get their shot or is maybe in the middle of their shot right now, and so should leave me the heck alone and take care of their own business. It's true that one day my cherubs will get to be the grown-ups, and make their own rules, either for their kids or for themselves. Today is not their day, it is mine. Today is not "Q"'s day either, that was yesterday. Everybody gets their turn to make the rules, decide what is best. Today is my day, I earned it. I dreamed about it and planned for it since I was a little kid. When I was small and thought of the day I would get to be the grownup, the thing I wanted most was to get to be the grown-up, to be the Mom, and now my day is here. I am not going to let "Q" or anyone else make me feel like less of a mother just because I decide to go get diapers. I am the Mom, thank you very much. As "the Mom" I declare that when the diaper baskets run out of diapers, I will go get more. It is my prerogative to make that rule and no one else's.

It's my turn. You had your turn. Go home. I am too busy scooping the ice cream we are eating for dinner to talk to you anyway.