Who Is This Boy?

This week, we have chatted about work, the move to Florida and the IRS. But that's not all. No siree. My son has thrown his hand into the stress mix.

Last week I was out of town and received a call from my ex husband in regard to Dylan. It seems that during his phys ed class, Dylan had had a "misunderstanding" with another child.

Again.

From what I understand, he'd handed a girl a ball. Girl yells at him. He doesn't know why she is yelling at him. Dylan reacts by trying to swat ball out of girl's hand. Ball hits girl in the face. Dylan turns and walks away when it's obvious that ball hit girl in face. Girl, who is no shrinking violet, marches back to Dylan and proceeds to punch him repeatedly in the head. Dylan drops to the ground. Both children go to the vice principal's office. Both children are suspended.

SUSPENDED.

MY child.

When I got home, I talked with him and tried to understand where it was along the way that my sweet boy disappeared and this alien took over his personality. Adolescence has arrived along with the wild hormonal mood swings, the irrational behaviour and the increasingly poor judgment. I can't blame it all on the pre-teenage angst, either. The truth is that Dylan has been struggling for a few years now.

We have tried enrolling him in sports to foster a healthier social intelligence. We have tried limiting media because there is just nothing good to be said about most video games, television and internet social sites. We have spent hours talking to him about the missteps with other kids and the way he treats people. We have role played and tried to teach concepts like, "building bridges" (as suggested by sista cousin) or "deposits into the friendship bank". None of it has appeared to stick with him for any length of time.

Some days, I feel like a good parent. Other days, I feel stupid and ineffective and completely at a loss. There are times when the frustration level is so high that shamefully, I lose my temper and hiss at him about his inadequacies only to apologize later. But I know that words cut deeply and cannot be rescinded. I know this. Intimately.

Dylan served his in school suspension this week and the very next day, I received a call from his math teacher telling me that he'd gotten himself into trouble again. She wasn't jumping on a bandwagon. She just wanted to help. After hanging up with her, I sat at my desk for a few minutes trying to gather my composure and came to the quiet realization that I needed help, of the professional kind. I am not willing to roll the dice and hope that Dylan outgrows this social and emotional dysfunction.

So next week, together, we will make our first visit to a professional. I know it won't be a magic cure all but it's comforting to know that there is another resource out there for us to explore.

Loving Him Enough to Let Him Fall

My son is in his final year of middle school. He's struggling badly with the onset of adolescence and I am at a complete loss as to how to help him.

Dylan has never been average. He walked at eight months, was literate on the computer at three and read fluently before kindergarten. He has always been a kid more comfortable in a library than on a football field. He is painfully sensitive and quick to apologize but his anger is never far from the surface. These days, I think he is a very lonely boy. Sixth grade has been a nightmare.

Academically, he doesn't have any worries but socially, my boy can't seem to find his tribe. Like most children, he wants to be popular but with Dylan, his desire for acceptance weeps out of his pores causing other children to either recoil from his neediness or exploit it. Neither scenario is a happy one and often, as he retells the day's events to me, I can see confusion and naked pain in his eyes. He just doesn't get what he is doing wrong.

And it shatters my heart.

The protective mother in me wants to gather him in my arms, shield him from the nastiness of others and spare him the scars that adolescence will bring. I want him to understand that ten years from now, he'll have trouble recalling the name of the girl who toyed so carelessly with his emotions. I want him to be confident in the knowledge that the geeks are the ones with lasting marriages and robust retirement accounts. But there is a blurry line between being supportive and being a safety net and although I'd like to save Dylan from himself, I'm determined to be the kind of parent that allows him to learn how to creatively problem solve. My most impactful life lessons were those where I took responsibility for my behaviour, dusted myself off and got back into the proverbial saddle.

I want very badly for my baby to be happy but not at the expense of his character. Happiness and a cohesive sense of self are not mutually exclusive concepts, except perhaps during adolescence and I have to believe that Dylan will find his way. It's just distressing as his mum to remain on the sidelines hoping that unconditional love and acceptance are enough to help him weather the storm.

Dinosaurs, Jesus and Pecan Pie

Olivia's interest in writing and drawing has recently escalated. She's at it all of the time. At any given moment, I can walk into her room and find her hunched over her desk contentedly doodling away. She is very serious.

It's precious.

And hilarious.

I am probably a rotten mother but I laughed myself blind this weekend when she handed me one of her latest masterpieces.

"It's about dinosaurs," she said.

"I see that," I replied after observing her title, "Graveyards of the Dinosaurs". And then, I read her accompanying text:

I liket the purt weyru the dinosaur and it's beb dinosaur soll the huooting stor.

Although I was able to discern what she wanted to say, I couldn't understand why she was so far off on the spelling. Seriously, some of the letter combinations just didn't make sense although she was smart enough to copy hard words like "dinosaur" from one of her books. For instance, look at the word, "weyru". She meant "where" but it was spelled in a multi-syllabic fashion as if an evangelical preacher had taught her the word.

Kids learn to spell phonetically, right? And then it hit me....she WAS writing phonetically. My baby girl is a southern belle. She has an accent, which is so weird for me because in spite of her environment, I sort of expected her to talk like a Canadian. I know that this is whacked, especially since even I don't sound much like a Canadian anymore unless I get around my family. Still, to hear the word "mama" roll off her tongue makes me think about magnolia trees, cotton plantations and pecan pie. I suppose there was a part of me that thought Olivia would outgrow her southern roots and slip into a more neutral way of speaking but clearly, I was wrong. Just the other day, she gave me a very informative lecture on God.



She handed me this picture and shyly said, "This is for you, Mama." I thanked her, gave her a kiss and asked her to tell me about her drawing.

"Oh... that's you, Mama (pointing to the large figure with excellent teeth, long eyelashes and inexplicable barrettes) and that's me (small bean in my arms). It's lightning outside and raining but we're okay because THE SWEET BABY JESUS said so."

Well now.

Motherhood is Overrated

Oh joy. Bliss. Elation. Glee.
This past weekend, I celebrated hitting the twenty twenty pounds lost mark. And I was so very, very happy.

Until I went shopping on Saturday.

With teenage daughter, Olivia and Dylan.

I needed some career clothes now that I'm "wasting away" (according to reader from Huntington Beach, CA) but somehow, I became delusional and wandered into the bathing suit section. My tummy is pretty flat these days so I thought I'd try on a few bikinis. Like I said, D E L U S I O N A L. The dressing room was equipped with a three way mirror and everything was fine until I had a gander at my backside. In that moment, I clearly understood why human beings were never given the flexibility options of an owl. It wasn't pretty. I distinctly remember thinking, "Jesus, where did THAT come from and how the hell did it get so WIDE?"

After recovering from the shock, I refocused my attentions and got back to business. I didn't have another peek at my ass because I am not one of those people who feels compelled to slow down and get a good look at the wreckage on the side of the road. I only need to be horrified once.

Teenage daughter, in all her youthful perkiness, had parked herself in the dressing room beside me. Olivia was in the toy section of the store and Dylan was busy pulling the wings off of stray flies or something like that. He was having himself one of those shithead days which seem to be occurring more frequently of late. Everything out of his mouth is either sarcastic, sullen or angry. Have I told you recently that adolescence sucks? Um, yeah.

Anyway, thirty minutes go by while teenage daughter and I worked our way through a basket full of clothes. Suddenly, Olivia entered the dressing room and pushed her way into my stall. Her eyes were wet with recent tears.

"I have to tell you something," she said and I felt my stomach clench involuntarily. I was thinking that one of two things had happened. She had either pooped her pants (don't ask) or broken something in the store.

I waited and she didn't say anything.

"Why are you crying?" I asked.

"Dylan told me NOT to tell you. He said you'd be mad." Oh, no. Oh, no. OH NO! I had visions of him pushing her into a shelf full of china.

So, I pulled the mother card and told her that she had better spill the beans or I'd punish her. Still, she resisted.

"Did he break something?" I asked.

"No. Worse"

"Did he hit you?"

"No mama. It was worse than that."

At this point, the dressing room is silent except for the conversation happening between me and Olivia. I could actually feel the other mothers in the room holding their breath.

"Livvie baby, what happened, honey?"

She teared up, grabbed my hand and finally confessed.

"He locked me in a cage and I got stuck and I COULDN'T get out and I cried and he couldn't get me out and then some people came over and helped us but mama you can't tell Dylan I told you."

"A...a..cage?" I was confused. "You mean the BIRDCAGE?!!!"

"Yes."

Teenage daughter couldn't hold it one second longer and burst out laughing which started a chain reaction in the dressing room. I quickly scanned Olivia for cuts and bruises and then sat down on the bench trying to figure out how to get out of the store without being seen.

I was THAT mother.

The one that lets her children run WILD in the store so that she can shop. Sympathetic strangers extracted my six year old from a birdcage.

A BIRDCAGE.

So, I did what any woman would do. I pretended that NOTHING weird had happened. I walked out of the dressing room and straight for the check out. I didn't acknowledge my children even though Olivia trailed behind me chanting, "Mama. Mama. MAMA!" I was deaf and determined. I looked straight ahead.

I paid. They bagged. I left.

Once we were safely ensconced in the car and headed home, I allowed myself a giggle. After all, can you imagine the surprise of the kind people who got Olivia out of the cage when they saw she was a one brow wonder?

Oh yes. I'm THAT mother.

Week in Brief

This is day 21 on the HCG diet. I've lost all interest in food.

Yeah, whatevah.

If that were even remotely possible, I wouldn't be in the sorry shape that I am. Knock, knock, knocking on twenty pounds lost. I am totally cheesed with myself for giving in last weekend. Even though it was a little cheat and I only went up half a pound, I didn't lose Saturday, Sunday or Monday. I could have been at twenty today if I'd shown a whisper of restraint. GAH! Ah well, I've been back in the saddle all week and results are good. I'll update you Monday. In the event that I don't hit the goal, I may be cranky and will be forced to blog about something I despise, like the current administration or taxes or young, hefty people riding around in those electric shopping carts at Wal-Mart because they are too lazy to walk.

I was a wedding planning goddess this week. Of course, you know that last weekend was kind of a breakthrough for me and now that I've drunk from the bridezilla goblet, I have become militant in my need to cross items off of the "list". This week I:
-Ordered the wedding favours.
-Ordered a little something something for the brave women who have agreed to stand up there with me
-Reserved the limo BUS. Yes, BUS.
-Got pricing on the flowers.
-Decided on the table centerpieces (did not have to put head between legs and breathe deeply)
-Organized the logistics of the wedding day with a specific timeline.
-Organized rehearsal dinner.
If I was allowed, I'd reward myself with a dark chocolate truffle and a glass of merlot.
*Sigh*

My daughters, all three of them, have been sent from someplace fiery to torment me. Eldest, the one who made me a grandmother, phoned very late one night, repeatedly, until I answered. I don't usually pick up the phone after 9pm because I wear bifocals now and beauty rest is no longer a joke. I answered this time because I'm a grandmother and for goodness sakes, it could concern the baby.

Nope.

It was daughter crying incoherently because her tooth hurt. Apparently a strawberry seed was lodged in the wrong place.

Threats of the emergency room.

Ice pick in the head stuff.

HIGH DRAMA.

And then it passed. I suggested that she might want to get a sitter every now and then and get a full eight hours. Or perhaps a psychiatrist with a liberal prescription pad. Jesus.

Teenage daughter got herself a new boyfriend. He is the same age, clean cut, polite and generally delightful. He's also the lead singer in a death metal band. I'm told this type of music is an acquired taste, like jazz or rap. Hmmm...Since they seem to be spending nearly every waking moment together, the birth control issue is bound to rear it's controversial head again because abstinence is a fairy tale. I dread the conversation but I'm going to take another run at it anyway. So everything is all good. She's babysitting Olivia for the summer. We think that perhaps the boyfriend might be a distraction, though. He comes over most days that he doesn't work and "helps" teenage daughter with Olivia. I'm not sure it's working out so well. Yesterday, I came home to this:

Oh listen, I know she looks peaceful enough. You need to look a little closer.


See it now? She's missing a bloody EYEBROW! Apparently, while teenage daughter was otherwise engaged, Olivia took a pair of scissors to her eyebrow. And this, thirty five days before she is scheduled to pose in about a million wedding pictures. I'll be damned before I DRAW one on. Then she'd likely do the whole Norma Desmond, "All right, Mr DeMille, I'm ready for my close up" thing.
I am praying for a quick regrowth.

And this is why good chocolate and alcohol are part of my vernacular. It's called COPING.

The Lights Are ALWAYS On

In our house, five things are constantly on: the shower, the dishwasher, the dryer, the washer and the parental radar.

Hot water has become a hot commodity. On any given evening immediately after dinner, Dallas and I can be heard bellowing, "Get in the shower!" or "GET OUT of the shower!" or "TURN THAT WATER OFF RIGHT THIS SECOND!!!"

Steph the Magnificent told me that she owns a dishwasher that can be programmed to start in the middle of the night and I almost cried with envy. Our dishwasher is three years old and it wheezes on for nearly two hours at decibels loud enough to scare away the moles digging trenches in the neighbour's back yard. Imagine the efficiency of burning through hot water when we are all sleeping!! Makes me a tad verklempt at the possibilities.

Mornings are hugely busy and I dread them. I hear the alarm go off and I am instantly exhausted in that tired to the marrow of my bones way that is reminiscent of being in the first trimester of pregnancy. My stomach knots with everything that has to be accomplished before I walk out the door. I know that our house is no different than millions of others across the world. How, exactly, did we get so pressed for time?

Dallas and I do laundry almost constantly. Allowing him to stick in a load of washing was a major milestone for me. I am a closet laundry Nazi and up until very recently, I didn't feel that anyone with a penis was capable of sorting a load of darks.

And I was right.

But my future husband is a ROCKSTAR!! Besides putting up with my normal idiosyncratic crazies, he has learned the difference between whites we bleach and whites we don't. He wouldn't dare throw towels in with the normal wash and you should see him fold a fitted sheet. Makes me all tingly. Yeah, like THAT because nothing is sexier than a bed made with fresh, crisp linens that I didn't have to wash.

Finally, Dallas and I have found that with a house full of kids, we have developed bionic ears and ESP. Text message received at 1:30am on the other side of the house? Yeah, we hear that. Candy being unwrapped behind closed bedroom door? Yep, we get that audio loud and clear. Curse word whispered under pre-teen's breath while banging up stairs to collect dirty laundry? He might as well have used a bullhorn.

The clairvoyance was an unexpected development, though. I guess the day that one brings a child into this world, the power exists but it may take years (and parenting a teenager) to really develop the gift. Every parent has it. We just know what they're thinking, which often, is like sticking your face into a toilet bowl. We are accurately able to predict behaviour but how hard is that, really?

Child gets their own way = happy and cooperative.

Child denied = angry, sullen and belligerent.

One thing has become clear with our new domestic arrangement: we need a bigger house, with a pool, a three car garage, wind and solar power, a full time chef, a housekeeper and energy efficient appliances. Oh yes, I almost forgot the tornado shelter. This weekend, I got to witness a funnel cloud develop right before my very eyes as I stood on my driveway and watched. Today, when recalling that picture, I shrugged my shoulders and reflected that it could be worse. I could live in Chengdu, China or Myanmar. What's a low grade twister compared to a 7.8 magnitude quake or a typhoon of biblical proportions in a country with no warning system?

A Not So Brady Weekend

You know, the more I try to plan out my life, the more I end up looking like that animal with one limb in the trap with crappy choices: either chew my bloody foot off or lay there waiting for a PETA activist to find me.

This weekend, Dallas's two children moved in with us. Now, I'd like to tell you that it was a smooth transition, with no drama and that we were the model of a blended family but had that actually been the case, we'd all be licking Fudgsicles in hell.

It started last week when his ex-wife decided she needed to drive off to Virginia to meet up with her spiritual adviser and help him conduct "classes" on energy manipulation. Listen, I am all for exploring your oneness with the universe.

(insert lotus position here)

And yes, I have been known to chant like a Buddhist monk for an open spot in the Wal-Mart parking lot but in traversing that difficult path to enlightenment, I can't say that I've ever forgotten to pay my light bill or put food on the table for my children. Astral travel? Fabulous! Just don't forget to tell the earthbound body to vacuum every once in a while and perhaps take out the trash. Such is not the case for ex-wife. Obsessed. Consumed. Sporadically in touch with reality.

Friday, ex-wife packed up her magic carpet and took off. Teenage daughter could not be left unsupervised (she of the aversion to birth control and school) so we stuffed her 20,000 spaghetti strapped tops into a bag and moved her in. Teenage son came over later and asked if he too, could get a permanent spot in our house. We were thrilled. Although adding two more adult bodies to the household put a serious dent in the square footage per person, we felt pretty good about being able to provide food, hot water and electricity for his kids.

(insert self congratulatory pat on back here)

Saturday, I left with the teenagers to go shopping for a bedroom set for girl. Boy tagged along because he wanted to badger me, until my ears bled, about the acquisition of a new vehicle for him. I said no problem but asked him if he wouldn't mind first plucking the low hanging fruit from the money tree in the back yard. Oh, and could he pick an extra several thousand for the open bar at the wedding? My brother has been known to throw back a few pints and we are slightly concerned that he alone may bankrupt us. Have you seen Kiwi's drink?!!

Anyway, we completed the shopping trip without incident and I really believed that everyone was adjusting to the new living arrangements with relative ease.

(insert big, fat, Bob Marley doobie here)

And then there was Sunday.

The morning started normal enough with a lovely breakfast, buckets of coffee and delicious calm. Late morning, Dallas and I took off on our bikes and met friends for a great ride. The weather was beautiful and to be back on my Harley again was like eating the perfect dark chocolate truffle and losing ten pounds. When we arrived home to cook dinner, the day had been damn near perfect and I couldn't help but feel like we had crested a milestone. Oh yes, I was hearing the Brady Bunch theme playing in my head. And we were all going to hold hands and sing Kum Ba Ya.

Shortly after dinner, Dallas had the kids sit down at the table. It was his plan to detail our house rules which included reasonable curfews and a few chores. Well, you would have thought that Dallas had asked teenage daughter to turn tricks on the corner. How dare he require her to put her dirty clothes in the laundry or, I don't know...bathe!

So the situation disintegrated, voices were raised, tears shed and finally, it all culminated with the teenagers on our bed and the parental units disabusing them of the notion that their welfare was a democratic issue up for debate. Ex-wife threw in her worthless drivel two cents the next morning (from a sweat lodge) which boiled down to this: THE CHILDREN MUST BE HAPPY AT ALL COSTS!!! Apparently, they were not to be held accountable and we ought to go down to the bad part of town and get them some heroin right now to ensure hours of uninterrupted bliss.

Silly cow.

Today, we are back in the groove and the teenagers seem to be on an even keel but then again, I don't appear to have a reliable sense of the storm that is girl's personality. One thing is for certain. In the big picture, these next couple of years are just a ripple in the fabric of our lives. What's two years, really? Besides, after stepdaughter one and now, future stepdaughter, I feel like I have been baptized in molten lava. By the time Olivia enters puberty with horns bared, my skin should be as thick and leathery as an old woman on a Florida beach.

Eewwww: It's a Teenage Daughter!

Teenage daughters.

There is just nothing nice to say about them. They suck.

First, you've got the chronic hormonal thing going on which is like experiencing PMS every day that you live and breathe. One minute they can be syrupy sweet and seemingly vulnerable purring manipulative language like, "I don't feel good, Daddy" and the next minute they are sending text messages with foul language, foul attitude and thinly veiled threats.

Next, you've got the chronic hormonal thing which has them sashaying off to Shagville without contraception, convinced that unwanted pregnancies only happen to OTHER people. When told she won't remember this boy's name in ten years, teenage daughter whips her head around and declares, "I LOVE him!"

"Yes, of course you do," we say out loud but inside we think, "I loved your father, too.. right up until the moment I wanted to snuff him out as he lay snoring".

There are battles over curfew and homework and part time jobs and school attendance and bedrooms that look like war zones. You argue over clothing choice (me: apparent dinosaur, you: apparent hooker), hair colour, piercings, tattoos, cell phone overages and of course, money as in,

Parent: "How do you expect to pay for that?"

Daughter: "Do I have to pay for EVERYTHING?"

Parent: "You do not pay for your food, your shelter and most of your clothing."

Daughter: "(insert random friend's name here)'s mother is paying for hers."

Parent: "I don't care. I'm not (random friend)'s mother/father."

Daughter: "This is SO not FAIR!"

The point is that teenage daughters are awful. They are demanding and selfish with a wildly interpretive approach to the truth. They learn early on that Dad can be manipulated with a few crocodile tears, a pouty bottom lip and a hug or two. They are experts in deflecting unwanted attention by facilitating tension between the parental units. They know that to divide is to conquer.

I admit that I was not a model teenager. I made poor decisions and lots of them. My mother did that whole scary curse thing when she prophesied, "One day you will have a child just like yourself."

Um, yes. In bloody spades.

I've seen one through her teenage years (she turns 20 this Friday) and have recently witnessed the adolescent throes of another. God help me when it's Olivia's turn. Wasn't it Hamlet who said, "Get thee to a nunnery." Yeah, I like that idea. Lock them up the first time that the hormone monster rears it's ugly head and let the sisters beat them into submission.

Martini Anyone?

I love my children. That's a given, right?

Okay, with that said, please understand that as much as I adore them, snow days are their own special brand of torture for me.

The day before the bowels of hell are supposed to open up, my kids are usually peppered with rumours about the pending weather. All of the sudden, they turn into mini meteorologists who discuss barometric pressure and precip odds with their peers with more authority than the guy on the evening news:

"There is a seventy percent chance of snow overnight. Depends on the temp. If that warming trend from the south hits us, it will only rain. We need to pray that the cold front sweeping down from Canada follows the jet stream and pushes the warmer weather to the valley."

If she were conversing about any other topic, Olivia, with her five year old lisp would sound like Elmer Fudd and his wascally wabbit. When she talks about the possibility of an inclement weather day off of school, she is freaking Walter Cronkite incarnate.

Anyway, when Dallas and I went to the gym this morning, there was just a sprinkling of rain. By the time we got out, the tinkle had turned to sleet. I went through my morning routine firmly believing that the weather predictions were wrong and then I made the short-sighted mistake of waking up my PEACEFULLY SLEEPING children before turning on the television. I was kind of like the child who hides behind his hands and figures that if he can't see you, you can't see him. My thought process was that if I didn't turn on the TV, I wouldn't see that the schools were closed so therefore, THEY WERE OPEN. I could drop the kids at the carpool like normal and head off to my hundred square feet of office bliss, where people form complete sentences and don't ask me to cut the crusts off their toast.

So, now I sit in my home office with SpongeBob blaring in the next room and Guitar Hero loud enough to make eyes bleed pounding upstairs. Olivia had chocolate chip cookies and a PB&J for breakfast. I'm not sure that Dylan ate. I think he gave up pretty quickly after asking for a glass of water and being told to go cup his hands under the damn bathroom faucet. I'm having to mute my end of conference calls to mask the periodic arguments between my children. I have contemplated slipping a narcotic into their milk. Why does every toy on the planet pee, squeal, honk, beep, buzz, ring, ding, bark and wail?

My sanity is slowly leaking out of my ears.

Snow days, not business meetings, are why the martini lunch was invented.

NaiNai is Chinese for Grandmother

I'm taking a break from the travelogue to update you on a piece of info that took me several days to digest.

I'm going to be a grandmother.

I reflect back to February and the difficulty that I had getting my head around the concept of turning forty. Hmmm....

GRANDMOTHER!!

Jesus. Isn't it bad enough that I now own three pairs of bifocals? What's next? Incontinence? Menopause? Cross Your Heart Industrial Strength Bras? It's like I turned forty and bought a ticket on the express train to over the fucking hill.

Did I mention that I have another daughter? And no, she is not a love child conceived with Sting in the 80's. This one is my ex-husband's daughter and although she did not spring forth from my loins, she may as well have.

Tiffani became a permanent part of my world in 1995 and our journey together has not been easy. From the very beginning, I struggled to love her unconditionally, which was a concept missing from my own childhood. She was never taught boundaries and sometimes, her need for love and approval was like a sucking black hole. It seemed like she couldn't be sated. I despised that perceived weakness in her largely because it mirrored my own personality flaws. Somehow though, I managed to survive her adolescence and she endured my Martha Stewart vision of motherhood. When her father and I split, he insisted that Tiffani live with him. I didn't put up much of a fight because she was fifteen and the anti-Christ. I do regret not being more of a presence in her life because the last four years have been difficult for her but it seems that she needed the time to find her own path.

Which brings us to a month ago when I received a call from her.

"Mom, I think my thyroid medicine needs to be adjusted. I'm tired all of the time and I've gained a bunch of weight around my middle."

It didn't immediately hit me. I asked her if her hands and feet were cold or if her fingernails were breaking. She answered, "no" to the first two questions and then told me that it was strange but her fingernails were unusually long and strong these days. Well, shit.

"Tiff? Could you be pregnant?" She was less than confident in her reply and I told myself that she was just being paranoid.

A week later, I received a text from her saying that it was urgent that she speak with me. After the initial shock wore off, we tried to figure out how far along she might be. Our best estimate was 16 to 20 weeks based upon when the nausea subsided and when the last pregnancy test turned out negative. Tiffani claimed that she was feeling the baby move, which is unlikely at sixteen weeks so I told her it was probably just a little gas. She made an appointment with the doctor but would have to wait several weeks to be seen.

In the meantime, I got a look her naked belly and asked her how in the world she had not known. I asked her boyfriend, too, because he slept beside her every night and she was clearly pregnant or had a pretty serious tumor. Either way, a doctor's visit was warranted weeks ago. She said, "I was in denial." You think?!! I remember hearing the story about the girl who went to the hospital complaining of stomach pains and gave birth claiming that she did not know she was pregnant. I thought that was a bunch of horse hooey until now. Fear is a compelling agent of denial.

Last week, she experienced labour pains and ended up in the hospital where they measured her belly and did an ultrasound. It turns out that Tiffani has indeed been feeling the baby move. She's 29 weeks along.

I said, "Tiff, that baby has been kicking up a storm for at least the last ten weeks. Honey, what did you think was going on in your belly?"

"Indigestion," she replied. Yep. My eyebrows were way up there, too.

My grandson is due on Christmas Day and the truth is that I'm excited. Sure, the conditions are not ideal and this is not what I would have wanted for Tiffani but I had the choice to disapprove of a situation that cannot be changed or to embrace it and support my daughter. I opted for the latter.

Just don't call me grandma.

(Gulp)

Yet.

Kindergarten and a Mother's Angst

To my sweet, sweet girl,



Yesterday was your first day of kindergarten and as much as I wanted to click my heels and shout, "I'M FREE", I found myself emotionally tipsy instead. I remember the day that you were born and how the cord was wrapped around your neck a couple of times. You came out quiet, fragile and perfect but you didn't stay mute for long. You have always been a child that knows exactly what she wants and I admire your ability to be singularly focused on your goal. It doesn't matter that this trait of yours causes me hours of grief. Secretly, the girlfriend part of me is cheering you on. You will never be anyone's doormat.

You have grown into this complicated creature who can bellow, "You're a horrible mother" in the middle of a Starbucks on Mother's Day and just as easily take my face in your hands and cover me in wet little kisses. When you laugh, it really does sound like music and there is nothing better than the goofy, wrinkly-nosed, front teeth exposed smile you have when you discover the absurd.

For weeks now, we have been marking how many days Mummy had left to give her spleen, kidney and right arm to the daycare center you've called home for the past two years. Then, your last day came and your favourite teacher picked you up, gave you a hug and said he'd miss you. He was misty-eyed. He walked us out to the car and waved at you until he was nothing but a speck in the rearview mirror. I sobbed at the next red light.

And then came the big day. You wanted your hair in ponies but not braids because you are not able to twirl your hair when it is in braids. I get it baby. Mummy does that, too. It's how the women in our tribe concentrate. Unfortunately, this means you will not play poker well but who cares? At least I will always know when you've got something on your mind.

You were brushing your teeth and I noticed that you had grown even more over the summer. You no longer needed the stool to reach the sink and when you looked at me in the mirror, I caught a quick glimpse of you as a teenager. You raised your eyebrows in this completely adult way and in that moment, I was reminded that I have precious little time left with my baby bug. All too soon, you will sprout a pre-adolescent brain and the landscape of our relationship will shift for fifteen years.

So, I snapped a few pictures and took you to school. You were beside yourself with excitement. You organized all of your supplies in your desk (that's my girl) and promptly got to work putting a puzzle together. Then you broke my heart.

"Mama?" (said in a stage whisper)

"Yes, baby."

"You have to leave, now. I have to go to work."

And with that, you kissed me good bye, bent your head over the puzzle and promptly forgot I existed. I managed to make it to my car before sobbing again.

I'm so proud of you, Liv. Keep swimming upstream.

Love,
Mummy

Stop Crying..and other useless commands

The other day, I was on the phone with my best friend. It was just before dinner and it was full on chaos in my house. We lovingly refer to this time as "The Witching Hour" because many days between 4:30 and 5:30 pm, all hell breaks loose.

It usually starts with a low key gesture by one child that just happens to rub the other child in the wrong way. From there, it escalates to a verbal tango with familiar nuggets like:

"Give it back!"

"It's mine."

"No it isn't."

"Yes, it is."

"No!"

"Uh huh."

At this point, I will issue my first useless command, "STOP FIGHTING THIS INSTANT!"

Even though this is said through clenched teeth in the most menacing manner possible, it is not effective. However, they do stop for about two seconds to get a quick read on me. Is she hot enough to go to scary parent place or can we push this just a tiny bit farther? In their defense, they haven't quite grasped that the threshold has been significantly lowered since I gave up the cigs.

The fighting resumes and I try to go to my happy place where I was young, thin and living at the beach. Hmmmm...I can almost taste the salt air....and then it happens.

My daughter somehow loses her ability to articulate with words and instead, chooses to communicate with her brother through a series of glass shattering screeches or equally ear piercing grunts. Regardless of which method she employs, I watch my composure disintegrate.

"I.SAID.KNOCK.IT.OFF!" I now sound like Regan from The Exorcist.

This is the second useless command because although my daughter ceases immediately, she experiences some sort of psychic break and presto! We have tears. Which segues nicely into useless command number three:

"Stop Crying".

I might as well tell her to stop breathing. At this point any hope of a rational exchange is long gone. I spend the next several minutes trying to have a logical discussion with a five year old which is kind of like reasoning with Ann Coulter.

I am not certain what causes my kids to get all bent out of shape but I suspect it has something to do with having to be on their best behaviour all day while in the care of others. By late afternoon, they must reach their threshold. You know how you feel after Thanksgiving dinner when you waddle into your closet in search of "fat pants"? Well, I believe that when my children enter our home at the end of the day, it cues their emotional version of elastic waistbands and they let it all hang out.

At 5:31pm, we usually step out of the Twilight Zone and back into our routine. While the kids finish up their dinner, I wander from room to room scooping up the grey matter that leaked out of my ears and try to find out where they've hidden their brooms.

Unsolicited advice to my pregnant friend

The girl who does my hair is pregnant. She is one of those sweet, adorable pregnants with normal ankles and glowing skin. She is young and hopeful and the spelling of her new daughter's name will baffle many.

She had been trying for a couple of years to conceive without any luck and finally had to turn to the medical community for help. Still, it wasn't happening. The doctors told her not to panic. It might take some time. Then, she got pregnant only to suffer a miscarriage. Several more months went by.

This past Christmas, her mum died unexpectedly of carbon monoxide poisoning. It was terrible. She was very close to her mum. After the funeral and still raw with grief, she found out she was pregnant and this one stuck. The timing has obviously sparked many existential conversations.

So now, every six weeks, I get to see my friend and her ever expanding belly. As we get closer to her October due date, I feel a strange maternal compulsion to take her aside and tell her everything that I have learned over the last ten years as a parent. At the very least, I want to tell her all those things surrounding the "day" that she might not know.

-Going into labour is not like being struck by lightning. Sometimes, the signs may not be clear. You may go to the hospital several times as the due date gets close thinking that those contractions are the real deal. Don't be embarrassed. They feel real and by the end, you want so badly to see your feet again that even though they are irregular and 10 minutes apart, you are having this baby TONIGHT!

-Epidural is your friend. Trust me.

-You may be worried that baby won't be the only thing coming out of you that day. Let me tell you..by the time you are in active labour, you won't care if you are laying eggs.

-Take all of the stuff from your hospital room. Don't be shy. That nasal aspirator..take it. Diapers? Take them. Even if you plan to breastfeed, take the formula. That ugly, bunny covered insulated bag? Take it. I am still using mine as a lunch sack for work.

-Stay your full two days in the hospital. You are going to want to take baby home and be with your husband but stay. These are the last two days that you will sleep well for the rest of your life.

-Record everything. Take pictures, film, write...whatever. Just record every detail. When she gets older, she will ask you specifics and even though you think that you will never forget this time, you will. I promise.

-Baby books are guilt factories. You start off doing really well because you are so excited and baby's birth is the most monumental event you've ever experienced. Then, time passes and you will open up that book and realize that you did not record tooth #6 coming in. So, you will make up dates and stuff to fill in the blanks. We all do this.

I guess the most important thing to share is how this new creature will teach you about love. Of course we have all experienced love but when you have a child, love takes on a whole new meaning. You are filled, almost bursting with this new emotion. I used to hear mothers say that they would gladly give up their life if it meant saving their children. I thought that was a bunch of bunk. It isn't. You will watch her sleep with her damp hair, cupid lips and rosy cheeks and your breath will catch in your throat. You will kiss her until she protests. You will do the goofiest things to hear her giggle.

And it all goes by very, very quickly. So many people told me to really savour every minute when my kids were babies because those moments are fleeting. I wish I had paid more attention to that advice.

Something tells me that my friend is keenly aware of the gift that is this child and I know that she's going to do just fine.

Uber Mom I'm Not

I don't think it matters if you are a single parent, stay at home mom, working mom or any other type of mom. Universally, we are a tired bunch. This is not to disregard the contribution of fathers but the rules are different for us.

We are expected to be available for all performances, awards, parent/teacher conferences and any other events of significance in the lives of our children. Don't get me wrong. I know how important my attendance is to my kids and I want to support them in every way possible but there are times when I open up their backpacks, see the telltale colored flyer sticking out and I want to scream.

In that lovely script, replete with several exclamation marks, I am informed of a date (usually inside of a week), a time and whatever the event planner might need. Sign up sheets are the bane of my existence. I live in the south and down here, y'all better not show up with anything store bought. So, I am usually running to the grocery store the night before (because who can fricking remember) for sugar or eggs so that I can stay up half the damn night baking cookies.

Again, let me repeat that I want to be supportive. I want to be the kind of mother that sews Hallowe'en costumes and decorates the Christmas tree in a different theme each year. I want to be the kind of mother that goes to the soccer game and actually knows the rules. I want to be the mom who plans out her meals one week in advance and who holds elaborate, well-planned birthday parties that EVERYONE attends.

Alas, I am so not that woman. I have Pizza Hut on speed dial. I nearly cried with relief when pre-lit Christmas trees were introduced. Soccer? I'd rather watch paint dry, especially now that it isn't PC to tell the kids to, "TAKE. HIM. OUT!" Oh, and birthday parties...I just don't know what to say. I've experienced sleep overs, similar to this which had me twitching and muttering to myself about government mandated sterilization.

So today, I was summoned to my child's presentation. He has attended author's camp for the past two weeks and on this glorious Thursday morning, I was told that I would be treated to a reading of some of his work. I don't know how I got it into my mind that this would be a private thing with my son showing me the picture book he'd made or the chapter book he had written. Maybe he would enlighten me with a few paragraphs and then we would thank the teacher, collect his stuff and depart. I was thinking...15 minutes, tops.

Not a chance.

For nearly an hour, me and all of the other parents (with joyful smiles permi-plastered to our faces) listened as EVERYONE presented a little something from EACH of the six genres that were explored. I know that I was in hell because I could smell my hair burning and I could feel little droplets of moisture collect on my upper lip and others slide down my spine. Mercifully, after 56 minutes of torture, it was over.

At the car, my son dumped his collection of goodies in the back. Then, he turned around and gave me a huge hug.

"I'm really glad you came, Mum."

"I wouldn't have missed it for the world, sweetie." And in that moment, I meant it.