Mommy Wars

It is a Monday evening and I am sitting in the lobby of the local dance studio. Our darling princess, Paige, is behind closed doors learning first position and piroutte, her giggling rising above all the other ballerinas. Because Scott has to work late, I sit alone with my nose buried in Sandra Lee’s autobiography (highly recommend), pretending to read as I secretly eavesdrop on the surrounding moms and their conversations. They are engaging in what Scott and I call the “Mommy Wars”. If you have ever sat at a PTA event or been on the sidelines of a third grade soccer match you know exactly what I am talking about. Each mother tries to outdo the next…”We feel so sorry for our Claire’s teacher - she is at the next reading level and Mrs. Smith has no choice but to teach her the first grade book” [read: my kid is smarter than your dyslexic moron] or “Little Dalton is just exhausted because just every single weekend on of his little Cub Scout pals is asking for another sleepover” [read: my angel is super popular compared to your buck-toothed little monster] or “We just call her Skinny Minny - all she want to eat is veggies these days” [read: listen, tubby, keep your pork rind eating plus sized six year old away from my supermodel-in-training]. As I listen to them pile on the crap, I wonder if they know how they sound. They don’t sound proud -- they sound pathetic. The image the project is one where they have to explain away their kids with some positive spinning explanation. Just like in a job interview…”What is your biggest fault?”, they ask. “Well,” as you pause for dramatic effect, “I guess I am just something of a perfectionist”. These same moms that spend an hour convincing you how accomplished and valued their kid is can be seen twenty minutes later admonishing them to the point of tears for not hugging little Madison bye-bye. God forbid our kids don’t live up to our own Freud inspired crazy expectations of them. All these kids ever really learn is that they can never please mommy & daddy unless they act as their own personal mini-me robot. Then they wonder why kids rebel 5 or 6 years down the line? Not me.

When I enrolled Bradley in Middle School the nice cardigan enrobed woman at the first table told me that he had been selected for “Challenge English” and “Challenge Science”. Wow, I thought, that sucks but at least he will get the extra helps he needs. It was truly not really upsetting to me. I moved on to the rest of the registration process, saddened but not disappointed…paying for school lunches, picking up the gym uniform, getting the locker combination and at the last table that we parents were herded to, they had to do a final review of the kids class schedule before we could leave. They looked up and down intently at the class schedule I had thrust towards them and I muttered, “Yeah, ‘challenge’ classes”. She looked up at me, broadly smiled and said, “You do know that Challenge Classes are part of the honors and gifted program…right?”. Hell no, I didn’t know that! I get it now -- ‘challenge’ because they are harder than the rest of the classes. DUH! Until that moment I did not really know that this mop haired kid was gifted. I had just allowed Bradley to be Bradley, and look what happened. He is now an amazing 15 year old and still in Honors and AP level classes at the local high school. Not because I engaged in the mommy wars - not because I held out huge expectations for him - not because he was pushed and prodded. But just because this kid is organically intelligent. Be clear, though - I support him, I encourage him, I provide academic oversight but not direction, we expose him to challenging concepts (get it…“Challenge“!) So, I bury my head back in the Sandra Lee biography (did I mention what a fab book this is??) and let the warring continue around me. When my little Paige comes flying out of the studio, her hair a mess and too busy jabbering to her mommy to hug her ballerina friends goodbye -- I don’t fix her hair, I don’t force her to hug a friend goodbye and I don’t make her stop talking. Paige will just be Paige and she will always know that her parents love her no matter what.

I Want My Own Life

Who was it that that opined, "I vant to be alone?". Garbo, right? Greta Garbo. She certainly had the right idea. I, too, just want to be alone. Don't get me wrong, I really do love me family. Immediate family, extended family, even the family dog. But being pulled in so many directions at the same time is really and sincerely wearing on me. When they want me...kids, husband, mother, the aforementioned dog...no one else will do. They need ME. I knew this going into marriage and parenthood and probably at my core I am happy to be so integral to everyone's life. But still -- if I am consumed to taking care of the world, who is taking care of me? In the last week or so the members of my family are getting sick one by one by one. Nothing life threatening, just some sort of chest cold, head cold, sinus infection deal. the sort of early fall illness that reminds you here in the Chicago area of who we dread 50% of our seasons. They lay on the couch and bark out orders for orange juice or magic meds. Clutching a box of tissue in one hand and an empty juice glass in the other, you can't help but cater to their pathetic needs. It's just what a Mommy does.

I glared at Bradley yesterday, taking a sick day from Larkin High School, and mused, "Now, who will take care me when I fall ill??". Because he was desperate for juice and a bit loopy from cold meds he claimed that the family would all rally 'round me. PUHLEASE! When I was pregnant with Paige and ordered to bed-rest, that didn't even seem to happen. I know they have the best of intentions, but everything still falls to Mom. Scott in particular is an amazing husband who would do literally ANYTHING that I want. But what I truly want is for him to read my mind and know instinctivly what I need. No one has to tell ME how to take care of THEM. Ya know?

When we moved into our new 2-story house 5 years ago the kids were amazed by the magic chute. Throw dirty clothes down there and VOILA...48 hours later crisp, clean clothing tucked into your dresser. DAMN IT, I NEED A MAGIC CHUTE! I can't tell you how many times I have pleaded to get a wife of my own! And when Scott and I bicker, nothing even bordering on divorce talk, I warn him, "Oh no you don't, mister! You are not leaving me alone with these kids...this house...the puking dog. You just buck up and we're gonna get this on track". And we do, we always do. That is what marriage and a partnership is all about.

So as I awaken this morning, my own throat scratchy, head foggy, a tickle lingering in the back of my throat I will do what I have always done -- just take care of myself. Just after I take this little nap...

And Then My Heart Stopped

I heard someone say once that having a child is like having your heart reside outside of your body. If I could recall who specifically said it, I certainly would give them proper attribution. At this point I really can not think of much of anything except the never ending health problems of my 15 year old baby. By all accounts Bradley was just a normal, mouthy, tall, cute and funny kid until the summer of 2006. He was complaining of leg pain which I primarily chalked up to "growing pains". I had read an article that firmly indicated that this truly does exist as a concept, so I told Bradley to shake it off. So it went for several days until my mother called me at work one day stating that Bradley could barely walk to the bathroom. Uh oh. As soon as I got home I took one look at the leg and it was considerably larger than the other. Be clear, Bradley was 13 at this point and I was no longer in the habit of inspecting his every limb. That sort of behavior begins to pass as soon as your kid hits elementary school. Regardless, he could not bear weight on his leg and a pained look would not fade from his blue eyed face. Fast forward a bit...trip to the pediatrician, admission to the hospital, and a diagnosis of an infection in the leg. The likely culprit was an infected toenail which Bradley has further infected with a dip into a tainted Michigan lake on a family getaway. Just as the infection seemed under control a clot developed in this leg. Life seemed to move in fast forward at this point, which included an emergent ambulance ride to Children's Memorial Hospital in Chicago for further specialized care. Even thinking of it now, it seems so very surreal. A bit more fast forwarding...the illness eventually seemed to resolve itself, but during the course of the next two years the leg remained swollen. We were told that this was par for the course, but we were also told that blood clots in kids is so rare that a firm treatment plan and expectation for the future was hard for the MDs to wrap their arms around. We take him again to the pediatrician just last week and this is when things take a shift. This doctor thinks that the swelling in the leg is unrelated to the clot and that there may be a completely alternative diagnosis (this is, of course, in addition to the blood clot and not in lieu of it). In rapid succession this guy start spewing words at me like Hematology, genetic disorder, Geneticist, possible kidney issues, adrenal cancer and more than I can care to remember. I frantically tried to take notes, but I could barely keep the pen in my hand or my thoughts in focus. And this is where we stand today -- between that trip to the pediatrician and the visit to the Hematologist this Friday. Bradley is depressed and frightened. Terror and concern and panic do not even seem to be large enough words for what I am feeling. I am overwhelmed and I am scared. Don't tell Bradley, though, as I am supposed to be the strong one. However, I feel weak and vulnerable. I feel like Mommy can not fix it all. I want answers, yet I want to plug my ears like a 5 year old and create another reality in my mind. This blessed little boy...little man...is still my baby.

Events of The Weekend

I have struggled over the last few days about how to best relay the events of the past weekend. Some fairly substantial things occurred, but I only want to give credence to the important ones, the uplifting events, the moments of pure sunshine. However, the instances of really appalling behavior by some people seem to keep jumping to the front of the line in terms of what I want to write about. Let's just get that out of the way and move on to the cool stuff.

We spent Saturday evening listening to our phone ring non-stop, the attempts of Scott's ex-wife to break through the peaceful shell that we surround our family with. Full disclosure is not necessary at this time (although stay tuned for some really gruesome, shocking revelations later...I mean Dr. Phil or Jerry Springer stuff). Some bare basics: We have custody of Scott's 17 year old daughter because the ex-wife choose to remain married to and living with the man who molested the child. That truly is all you need to know right now and those facts, at least according to the Circuit Courts of Palm Beach County Florida, are not in the least bit in dispute. Moving on....every once in a great while the ex-wife allows some bug to crawl up her ass and decides that the best way to alleviate the burden of her life is to dump her collective garbage on us. Don't you wish we could all do that? Decide some burden is too great for you to bear and you can simply decide to give that to someone else. Take your pain and give it away. Seriously, though, what is left behind? Isn't pain part of what makes you who you are today? The person you are at this moment in time is a collective potpourri of your entire life experiences. If you diminish that, reduce that, don't experience that, then you are not your entire self. Anyway, when these calls start coming in we usually have a habit of simply ignoring them. What is that phrase...if a raving lunatic is shrieking in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it still bitch? We have decided the answer to that is a resounding "no". For the first two phone calls we simply hung up after hearing the first few syllables. For the third phone call, we told her that should she call again we will call the sheriff in her county. For the fourth phone call, we told her that she had been warned and out next call is to the authorities. At the fifth phone call, I asked her in my most exasperated tone, "Do you have something you urgently need to tell us?". What followed was an array of disjointed, illogical crazed thoughts followed occasionally by some sort of justification for her husband having molested her baby girl (e.g., "If it really happened, why didn't she tell Scott?". Hmm, that's a thinker...how about because you warned her NOT TO?) and just for good measure some intimate details of their relationship from about a million years ago. Am I supposed to be jealous, because unless I walk in on you on your knees in front of him (insert your own image here) I could care less about what happened so long ago. You get to a certain point in your marriage, where that kind of crap from the past so does not matter. What matters is paying bills, planning vacations, raising these kids and the fact that you come home to me each night and smile sweetly at me each morning. I listened to her rambling for longer than I should have, in the same way as when you are on the highway and see those flashing ambulance lights up ahead. You swear you won't peek at a strangers blood and guts and misfortune, but you just can't help but glance over. At some point I hung up and just called the sheriff, as promised. For now, peace has again descended on our home. It will take more than that to crack our shell.

One of the actual highlights of the weekend was my 15 year old Bradley getting the guitar of his dreams. He had reduced himself all summer to "girls work" (read: babysitting) and finally had the big bucks for this amazing red guitar. It truly is shiny and impressive - - is there some talent in that box, too? Scott said that if he read the directions that came with the instrument then he would be Clapton or Page in no time. He's kidding. What Bradley lacks in talent he makes up for in complete enthusiasm and props (think long blond hair, black Van Halen shirts, and an array of cool guitar picks). He also has a bevy of musical knowledge tucked in his brain, that even I find impressive. What kind of guitar Jimi Hendrix played, all the bands Eric Clapton played with, full names of all members of Led Zeppelin. No Hannah Montana, Jonas Brothers or gangsta rap for this kid! I enjoy watching Bradley's unfolding talent and endlessly encourage him (okay, with the occasional....er, frequent...mocking of his long golden locks). And just in case my musician is reading this, I do see a spark of talent. Practice, practice, practice!

This was my weekend. Oh, plus about 50 errands, 150 "why" questions from our 5 year old girl, and stepping on a countless number of Polly Pockets and their super cool clothes. Damn my feet hurt....so why am I still smiling??

Welcome - - My Blog, My Life

Hmm...I can't fathom that anyone could possibly be interested in reading about my life. Hell, sometimes I don't even want to be a participant myself. Seriously, what wisdom can I possibly be able to share with you? I don't know that my life experiences vary that much from your very own. There are highlights (my amazing husband, these borderline looney kids that share my space, my travels) and many many lowlights (a miscarriage, my father's suicide, being fired), but mainly there is just minutia. Chicken or beef? Paper or plastic? Gymnastics or ballet? Missionary or doggy? Fan or air conditioner? What I bring to the blogging table, I suppose, is insight and depth...an ability to look at life and see more than just the surface pieces but great humor in all things human and great humanity in all of spectrums of life. I look around me at this zoo I live in and can not imagine how either (1) any one of the 5 of us is sane, (2) no one has killed another yet and (3) HOW AM I GOING TO FIND THOSE DAMN SCHOOL FORMS BEFORE AUGUST 27TH??!! I watch enough "Oprah" or "Trading Spaces" to know that the clutter that surrounds me reflects a disturbance in the soul of this family and that a tidy home = a tidy life. ARGH! You may see clutter and disarray, but I see a home that is pulsing with family and love. The gym bag laying on the floor? This tells me that a daddy loves his princess enough to drive her to gymnastics classes each week. The paperwork splayed across Scott's desk? Testament to his blossoming business. Undeveloped film from South Dakota? Priceless memories from an amazing family adventure. This is my life. This is my home. I make no excuses, but I do make dinner. Crap! I was supposed to put some new Chicken Crock Pot montrosity on about two hours ago. Hey...I'll blog about that tomorrow!!