The Love Treatment...

Fresh from the shower, hair wet and not quite rinsed through...she's only five. She's not quite sure. But, Miss Independent will take her shower like her big sister and when she shuts off the water she'll still be...a tiny bit grimy.

I let it go. I always do.

Instead, I dry her hair. Slowly, tonight. I don't want to rush her into the next moment, for this moment will be...gone. Without her knowing, I close my eyes and breathe in her strawberry hair. I tenderly touch the lobe of an ear and focus on that new freckle. Inspecting every inch. That elfin nose. Those baby fine hairs on her left cheek. She sings while I dry. Some song from some show and the words are...all wrong. She doesn't care. If she wants to sing, loudly and off key, then she sings. Having no idea that I...can't get enough. Sing more.

She turns into my lap and buries her face in my neck. My momma. My momma. She says.

Her sister, growing jealous, asks...Why is Tink getting the Love Treatment? 

Because, Pink, that's what I do. Would you like the Love Treatment, too? 

Yes.

I'm surprised, but never let on. Pink is less willing to accept the Love Treatment on most nights. But, not tonight. Tonight she lets me....pull her close. Tonight she lets me pull the brush through her ever growing mane. Tonight she tangles her fingers in mine while the hair dryer muddles the conversation. I'm afraid to look at her too closely. If I do, I'll see how much she's grown. I'll see the new teeth and pajama pants that now graze the skin above her ankles. I'll see my first born, but not my baby.

Tonight I pull her close and think of that mother, in a neighborhood close by, whose arms are empty. Unexpectedly. There would be no greater pain. Every mother in every corner of the world is feeling it for her and with her. I don't know her, but I know that she, too, gave the Love Treatment. Because, that's what we do. We mothers. We, givers of love...and life.  

Tonight I will lie down with my babies on my mind...and hers. And I'll pray that she will find a way back to those moments again. Where the Love Treatment is given...and not taken.



 

Crazy, my love...

I'm completely crazy. I try to hide it, but it rears its ugly mug at the most inopportune times. Nuts. Certifiable. Wacko.

Don't tell anyone, but...I love it. I'm not a huge fan of normal. What's the fun in that? Show me your insanity and I'll know you're real. Valid. True. Honest. Bear your flaws and we'll be friends. Lifelong. Behave as though you've never laced together profanities in your mind, and artfully (albeit silently) lobbed them at your screaming offspring...and I say, bullshit. Get real.

Be real.

Being a crazy parent has its advantages. No one expects me to follow the annals of parenting literature. We don't sing songs about vegetables and feelings and how the sun always shines on a positive attitude. I don't adorn their foreheads with label-makered names and spun sugar quotes from my favorite board on Pinterest. I don't sew. I'm terrible at hairdos. And, they always have breakfastlunchdinner on their faces. Always. Sometimes their day of the week undies say Sunday when it's clearly Thursday afternoon. I don't always check if they wash their rears in the shower. Ok, I never do. I have forgotten to make Pink put her earrings back in for exactly two months. And then there was that time we had Swedish Fish and Easy Mac for dinner.

One time Judy Moody said SHUT UP DUMMY!!  And I laughed hysterically...with my daughters.

And there was that time I wore a fake mustache...

I am clearly crazy. My parenting license should be revoked...

But...since being a mom happens to be my absolute favorite job with a cherry on top, I try to make the crazy work in my favor.

Maybe, just maybe, crazy = awesome, enlightened, educated, funky, spunky, moxified kids who understand real. Maybe, just maybe, they'll thank me because I took the time to talk to them instead of taking up all of their time with the newest psycho parenting technique. My only parenting technique is to be honest. And real.

We talk, a lot. The other day I had a bath time conversation with Pink about the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. Of course I spared her the gory details. But, she needs to know about equality and injustice.  She asked and I answered. That's my job.

Tink asked why our neighbors, who happen to be two men, live together. Are they brothers? No. Not brothers. Do they love each other? Yes. Why? Because love is love. I love you and they love each other. Do you understand me, Tink? Yep...like I love you, Mommy? Yep. We can love whomever we choose. I'm glad. Me too. Me too.

They've asked about tampons and boobs and love and death and divorce and Taylor Swift and where tears come from and what it means to have a broken heart. They ask if I've ever broken someone's heart. Yes. And they're disappointed in me. They ask if I'll try harder next time. Yes. Yes. Yes. 

I'm not sure how to parent. I learn it anew each day. But I do know how to look in their eyes and tell them the truth. Maybe it will ruin them for life. But, maybe, just maybe, they'll look someone else in the eye and see them. For real.

And maybe they'll wear a fake mustache...and just laugh at the craziness of it all.

The Great Facebook Purge...

Oh, February, how I loathe thee...

Your grim, drab days....one bleeding into the next. Wishing, daily, that each day would pass quickly. Please let Spring begin.

It's time for a rebirth.

I am a constant thinker. As a Gemini, I change my stance on topics and viewpoints on life regularly. Some have called me fickle. Or hypocritical. I guess I am. If you're ever going to grow and learn, at some point you have to become a hypocrite...otherwise what you thought once will always and forever be...what you think.

That doesn't work for me and never has. Raising children has changed how I view myself. I can see what they see and it's not always good, but I'm always aware that it can be made...better. Three years ago I started working out and it was, at first, excruciating. Now, I manage four or five days a week...most nights after the darlings are in bed and I feel....strong. And proud of that. But, I am also vain. And that's ok. A little vanity goes a long way and I'm teaching my daughters that, not only are my arms strong enough to lift both of them....but, so is my heart. I have no tolerance for laziness of spirit or body. This is a lesson I want them to learn. Move and respect your body. Be proud of it if your efforts are complimented. At the same time my thoughts and words are hypocritical, because I haven't always treated my body with respect. We are ever learning...

Which is why it is the right time for a purge. A mental one, if you will. I have never been a practicing Catholic, but in complete hypocrisy enjoy the sacrifices made during the Lenten season. And this year I am purging negative social media from my mental diet. I am a Facebook addict. There, I said it. Many of you can relate. Mindlessly checking the newsfeed to see if something profound has happened or will happened. And...it rarely does. What happens is that my mind becomes clouded by junk and ignorance. Grand proclamations of exhaustion and WORK SUCKS and no one can drive or make smart decisions or get out of my way and don't they realize that I am the pinnacle of political intelligence?! Once again...hypocrisy...I have made numerous status updates like those as if anyone would ever really care. I will miss the happy announcements, the inspirational or those coming from someone with a dry wit, but I'll survive.  My mind needs a mental purge. Facebook has to go. For forty days I won't be checking the status updates or scanning countless photos of others. I'm going to read, for myself. Books. Lots of them. Self-help and inspirational and declutter this and that and maybe a little Lady Chatterly's Lover for the lonelier nights. I will delete my Facebook app from the IPad and IPhone. And at the end of 40 days I will share with you what I've read and what I've accomplished sans Facebook. Hopefully it will be here and not there. Hopefully it will carry weight and have added meaning to this life.

But...I will keep writing. Because, I love it. And a few of you read my musings on life. So you can find me at this website. Bookmark it. Meet me here. I promise to remain as true and as hypocritical as ever.

Cheers,

Erin

The Story of a Boy...

So...he's moving in.

My Boy...

How do I do this?

Can I do this?

The actual date is not confirmed, but at some point in the next few months, I will merge my life with someone else's...again. Someone different. Someone I met by chance, who took a chance on me...us.  In a few short months I will have this newfangled family and I'm...terrified.

We are not wet behind the ears, he and I. We bring baggage. Lots of it. We're not naive. We know exactly how hard it's going to be. Therein lies the rub. There is nothing unwitting or ignorant involving this union. It is wide-eyed acceptance of...everything. And there is so much...

I've written about Boy before, focusing mostly on the generosity, the love, the passion...and all of that remains as true and steadfast as the day we met. There is no other like him. But, what remains untold is what we are taking on for each other. Our pasts. In order to make it, to give a go at the long haul, we've had to come to terms with what has brought us here. My story is rather benign. College sweethearts marry, have children, divorce, remain friends. The story is tired. Yet, his is not. It's ripe with heartache and despair. It's the stuff of movies. Yet, it's not. It's real. It is a tale told tenderly and I've carried the details delicately in my heart for the last few years. I've listened and tried not to pry until, at some point, a nearly complete picture was entrusted to me. I'm grateful for the trust that has allowed me to, now, put it down in words.

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, was written for him. Son of an intensely abusive alcoholic, he recalls "getting his ass beat" on a regular basis. Nothing in particular, and everything, would set off his father. They lived in fear. His mother, intensely protective of Boy and his brother, whisked them away in the middle of the night. Her jaw broken by his raging fist for the last time. He never saw or heard from his father again. The man he calls father today is his stepfather who adopted and raised him and his brother as his own. It was years before he realized that his adopted name was not his given name...

...and so he was, Boy...born out of abuse and saved by a mother who had the strength and sense to want a better life for her sons. Throughout his youth he was a reckless risk-taker. A tempter of fate. A Casanova. A firecracker, barely able to be contained. A juvenile delinquent with a heart of gold. He tested and stretched every limit and wooed every girl that couldn't tear themselves away from his baby blues. And then he met her...

...she was beautiful and so very smart. Intimidated by her intellect and affinity for the finer things, he didn't speak to her for months after their first date. Regardless, fate took it's course and their young love affair began. He was enamored with her laugh...her smile...and he proposed as so many often do when that unmistakable feeling overrides logic. They married outside on a lovely May afternoon and life was at it was intended to be. Until it wasn't...

...she was beset by a crippling depression, one she hid during their courtship and early marriage. When the dust settled on their early tenure as husband and wife, she laid down and cried. And he carried her and loved her and tried to save her. Until he couldn't. Feeling exhausted from bearing and living the life of another human being, he left. Just for a while. A breather. A break from a young life burdened with too much grown up responsibility. He worried about her and checked in on her and then he found her. Alone and unable to bear a life that life had not given her a mind to bear...she took that life. And left him to discover the ruin. In a running car in a garage that once belonged to a house that love inhabited, he found that love snuffed out. By her own hand. It crippled him and broke him and he lost...faith...in love...for the second time...for a very long time...

...and yet that wasn't all, but that's all for now. So, you see, it's never been just he and I. It's been us. The ghosts of the past included. Paid in full. Over the last three years we talked about how we're going to incorporate the pain of the past into a future filled with promise. We take it with us. We use it to grow as a couple. We acknowledge that what they did to him, they did to us. And we carry it. I've never met anyone like him. Like a phoenix, he's been resurrected from nothing more than once. Incredibly strong and optimistic...I admire his outlook. I also know he didn't choose me with a light heart. He chose a partner who could carry and share the weight of what got him here. Gladly, my love. Gladly....

The Dollhouse...

The other night I was helping Pink and Tink clean their room before bedtime. They share a room and, at any given moment, it looks as though the Barbies and Polly Pockets have had a murderous go round. Detached heads and limbs litter the floor. Small children left stranded amidst the shag carpet. Stuffed animals, nooses secured, hang from doorknobs and blinds. In the center of this frightening display of creativity is a large dollhouse. Every small piece of girly goodness they possess has taken up residence in this domain. Being quite cumbersome to lift, it's my job to put it away at the end of the night.

I put down the roof, ease the sides together and snap the front door shut. Bending down to look in the little windows I found myself in flashback mode. There I was, four years ago, bending down to look in the windows of this small abode, debating the purchase. Newly single and Christmas shopping for the first time alone, I knew that I couldn't afford this monstrosity of pink froth. But, I also had my pride and was determined to give my girls a Christmas that was...the same. That showed...nothing had changed. That soothed...my ego.

The title of single mother is an odd one. I've never felt all that comfortable using it. Unlike some who don't choose the role or have it forced upon them by tragedy, my benign story did not allow me to tout the title as some badge of honor. Although sometimes I did....and do. I have had incredible support from family and friends and I've never lacked a damn thing. From money, to love, to a place to crash on the lonely nights...my support system has offered it all. I owe them a debt of gratitude. And, although I have a backbone of loving encouragement...there were still those times...are those times...when I sink to the floor and cry...

As odd as it may sound, bath time is the the hardest. If you're a parent, single or not, surely you can empathize. Exhausted from work and school pickups...dinner and dishes....homework and LEAVE YOUR SISTER ALONE!....how was school, how was daycare, how do you feel, why are you crabby, where are the sign up sheets for gymnastics and carnival day and the pretzel sale and EAT THREE MORE BITES!

By the time the tub is full and bubbles are a floatin', I'm toast. Beat. Done. And that's when I'm most aware that there's no one there to hand me a towel. To pack the lunches while I dry the hair. To go grab that last glass of water or cream for the dry skin or detangler for the knots. If I don't do it, it doesn't get done. Period. Unless Boy is there.

And when he's there I remember what it's like to be part of a team. And we're so good together, we'd make the All Star game if they had that for couples. It works and we tend to our relationship as we tend to the girls. He's the kind of guy that comes up behind you while you're washing dishes, kisses your neck and then hands you the glass of wine he already poured. He is everything I have ever wanted.

...and he's moving in...

...to my dollhouse

to be continued...

Lunch Club...

I have been blessed enough in this life to have some really fantastic friends. And, I've never considered myself to be all that great at maintaining friendships, so for that I am even luckier. I'm not sure the secret to our success over the years...and we've had many a friendship bruised and broken...but we're still plugging along together. We were fledgling teachers once. The newbies. Fresh faced. Newly Engaged. Optimistic.

And now? Well...we're seasoned, or becoming so. Gray hair and fine lines play peek-a-boo. Marriages tested. Or broken.  Bodies changed by those little ones, who now steal the conversation. Collectively, we've sailed some rough waters. Divorce and debt. Miscarriages and military husbands. Cancer and cantankerous relatives. Infidelity and insecurity.


Despite all of that, we're cooler. Funnier. Smarter. And, dare I say, prettier. I think. There's a comfort there as we've let life sink in around us. We're not old, but we're not her any more. That fresh-faced newbie carrying a bridal magazine in a backpack. We're wearing the life we've earned.  And I prefer the experience to the blind ambition.

So what's the secret? Lunch. We break bread. Like any family, strong at the core, we eat together daily. For the last twelve plus years it has kept us together and kept us sane. We gather around the table, gnoshing on the latest creation of Lean Cuisine and talk. Sometimes it's work, but mostly it's life. And very often it's inappropriate. We may be grown ups, but you're never too old to tell a fart joke. Or share your latest sexcapade. And if any of us wallow too deep in the muck of education, there is always another to draw you out....back into the conversational fray. Every exciting moment of life has been shared around this faculty room table. Pregnancies, expected and accidental. Engagements...long awaited. Nieces, nephews, grandchildren...on their way! Stories of honeymoons and romance, defeat and disappointment. We've cried often, but laughed more.

And I wouldn't change it, even if it inevitably changes. As life always does. My guess is that, after the faculty room is long gone and the true lines of life have taken hold, we'll still find a way to break bread...and laugh. And love.

A Letter to Her....

Just as I am about to drift off, on most nights, a flash of memory wakes me. It's never an entire event or full remembrance of something, but a snippet. A glimpse backwards. Exiting the limousine at my wedding, seeing that second line, watching a movie while he's on the recliner next to me. It's never enough to bring me to tears, but enough to keep me awake a little longer...

...thinking about her, well,  me actually....

at twenty-five...

I'd like a chance to talk to her and let her know what's in store for her. But, there's no way to warn of things to come, she must live it. Take her lumps. Make her mistakes. Learn from them. Change. If I could talk to her, I would say...

Dearest Girl,

Hello there, darling...  He's about to propose! But, you knew that already, didn't you? There's not much surprise in something you've practically begged for, for years. I want to tell you something and please listen carefully. You don't have to say yes. He is your very best friend and I know you couldn't possibly imagine life without him, but you don't need to take a vow to have a kickass party. Honey...you can't quite comprehend what it means to honor and obey til death do you part. But, the good new is that you will.

Listen, before it's too late. I'm afraid we don't have much time. (You have your dress fitting in an hour!)
Things are not going to go as you planned. I mean...your plans are really going to hit the skids sooner than you think. On the upside, you will be blessed with two amazingly uneventful pregnancies. And, you'll become a mom. You'll be a pretty good one, but you'll be much more overwhelmed than you could have possibly imagined. (Sometimes, you'll cry for months). Tink will have colic. It's going to test you...and you'll fail. Miserably. You're going to feel this incredible need to shed your skin. And you will. Him. He's going to be a casualty of you not being honest to yourself about what you wanted out of life at twenty-five.

So, you'll leave. I can't believe I'm telling you this, because you were the one person who so steadfastly believed you'd never end up here. Divorce town. Shit, this sounds morbid and depressing. It's really not! What I'm trying to say is that you'll cut off your hair, down a few bottles of Chardonnay and resurrect yourself! Oh honey, you're going to be judged so very harshly. Pick your chin up, woman and keep going! Pull out those workout videos and get crackin'! You have a lot of fixing to do. But, you'll do it. And your daughters will be better for it. You know what? That one you vowed to love forever? You'll become friends, sort of, again. Wait. Patiently. Please don't give up.

And you know what, young lady? You're going to fall in love. The right way. You'll respect this relationship and cherish it above all others. Guess what! That picket fence you destroyed, will be rebuilt. Slowly. But, it will. I promise. Good luck...See you on the flipside.

You (at 35)