Willing Helpers

I was pulling out of the driveway, on my way to take our poodle to Sam’s class for a pet share time. He’d been collecting extra points at school all year, to earn this right to share his fluffy companion with his entire class. We’d spent way too much time the night before, deciding which bandana she should wear around her neck, when she made her big debut.

The time was set and I organized my whole day around being home and ready to load the dog into the van at the correct time.

She hasn’t gone on errands with us in a long time. She’s what I call a ‘Nervous Nelly’. She doesn’t like to be left in the car alone, and the stopping and starting at traffic lights always throws her around a bit too much, making her flash us those pitiful sad eyes. But, for some reason, she still likes the idea of riding in the car, and will often wait by the door if someone in the house seems to be preparing to leave.

She easily crawled in, when I offered her a trip in the middle of the afternoon.



Isaac was just getting off the school bus, at the end of the driveway, so I waited an extra second, to see if my animal loving high schooler might like to join me on the adventure. As usual, he was game, with a quick, “Sure!” and an eager smile.

We made it down to the main stoplight in our tiny town without incident. One of the bucket seats was still in the moving truck, so there was a wide open place right behind the front passenger’s seat. It worked well for Kylie, except for the occasional problem with getting her feet stuck in the deep tracks on the floor, where the seats click into the floor of the van.

The light turned green and I accelerated, in hindsight, maybe a bit too quickly.

Kylie went rolling to the back of the van, coming up to rest against the edge of the back seat. Isaac and I threw apologies at her, with our best, reassuring voices. She tried to come toward us, and once again got her feet briefly stuck in the seat tracks. I looked back to see her in a full squat, relieving herself in a big way.

“Oh Isaac,” I said calmly, “She’s now peeing…”

The tone of my voice threw him off. He casually looked behind his seat, then promptly panicked. “MOM! She’s peeing!”

There was nothing we could do, no place to pull over on our little town road, with rocky cliffs where a shoulder might be. So we just let her finish.

Fortunately, some irresponsible child had left a bath towel in the van a few days earlier, and we threw it over the large wet spot on the carpet, to keep our fluffy poodle from sitting in it, and soaking it up, right before she went to snuggle with 23 fifth graders.

Somewhat seriously, but mostly joking, Isaac turned to me and said, “I am never helping you with one of these projects again..”

We arrived at school and quickly pulled Kylie out of the van. We still had to tie the bandana around her neck, and time was slipping by - we were almost late. I knew Sam would be counting down every second after 3:10 that we were not there.

We made our way across the ice covered parking lot, our old dog working hard to keep up. We made it halfway up the sidewalk in front of the elementary school when she stopped and proceeded to squat. That’s her new geriatric trick - relieving her bowels when she’s scared or nervous. But we just didn’t have time.

“Isaac! Don’t let her squat, and she won’t poop!” I figured that since it wasn’t her normal bathroom time (right after meals), she didn’t really need to go. Maybe we could get her to just walk it off.

It didn’t help the situation at all that there was a large class of second graders coming out one of the side doors, scurrying right toward us, as they made their way to the playground. People generally stop for our dog. She’s old and slow and those fluffy curls that pile up on top of her head tend to grab attention. Almost every one of the seven year olds decided to stop and point. Isaac and I, and our squatting dog, instantly became the center ring circus act.

More and more I was feeling our tardiness and could just imagine a heart broken Sam, staring longingly at the classroom door, wondering if his mom had forgotten his big day with his special show and tell.

I’m ashamed to admit that these words came out of my mouth, “Isaac, just pull her toward you. Maybe it will make her walk..”

But I am apparently not qualified to tell any dog when they do, and do not have to empty their bowels. She was not giving up. His tugging only placed us within 20 feet of the school’s front door, but did not change our situation in the slightest way. She was still determined to squat.

“You stay here, and see if she can just finish, and I’ll go sign us in and see if I can find a plastic bag.”

Again, this time with more seriousness than joking, Isaac repeated, “I am never helping you with one of these projects again…”

I rushed inside, turned the corner, and entered the school’s main office. Of course what I found there was the entire office staff, and assorted parents and their children, crowded around the front window, pointing and asking, “Who’s dog is that, pooping on the sidewalk in front of the school?”

I was briefly thankful that Isaac couldn’t see his audience.

Hoping it was better just to be up front, I raised my hand and announced, “That’s my dog, who is supposed to be in a fifth grade classroom right now. Does anyone have a plastic bag, by chance?”

Colorado is a very dog friendly state (there is one in just about every car you pass on the road), so I was met with mostly sympathetic faces, when the crowd turned around. The secretary came up with a Walmart bag, I signed us in, and then rushed back out to see what progress Isaac (and Kylie) had made.

As it turns out, not much. She had half pooped, meaning the sad little effort that had emerged was just hanging out, causing her to waddle, with her butt almost touching the ground, in even more nervous circles on the sidewalk.

“Just take her in the grass...” I suggested. This was a good plan, if we didn’t still have a foot of snow left on the ground. The only clear place was a tiny spot under a decorative tree in the center of the snow field. Isaac encouraged her verbally, then was forced to (once again) half drag his dog, who was stuck in a permanent squat (this time through snow).

Even from thirty feet away, trying to block our show with my body, from the growing audience in the main office, I swear I could hear Isaac muttering, “I’m never, EVER, going to help her with her projects, ever again…”



Finally, finally, after ten thousand more circles, the entire effort hit the tiny patch of grass. Isaac bravely scooped it up with the plastic bag, and we were on our way.

To get to the main classroom hallway, you have to walk through the office. We bravely burst through the door, said our quick thank yous for the plastic bag donation, and made our way to the fifth grade rooms.

We made it in time. Fortunately, Language Arts time ran long, and Sam never even knew we’d been delayed. Isaac, still somewhat smiling, bless his 15 year old, dog lovin’ heart, got Kylie decked out in a perfectly tied bandana scarf, and we handed her leash over to Sam, who proudly paraded her in front of his class.

In a sign of the times, about 15 cell phones came out of desks, and soon our nervous puppy was basking in a twisted version of fifth grade paparazzi. Sam’s friends asked questions and couldn’t get enough of his curly headed dog. She performed like a trooper (as nervous as she is, she loves attention), and soon the final school bell rang.



At some point, in the middle of Kylie’s big debut, Isaac informed me that he’d dropped the bag of dog poo in the office trash can, as we’d hurried through. I was horrified. It was bad enough we defaced the front of the school, but to leave them our treasure just didn’t seem right.



So on the way back to the car we detoured through the office once again. I stuck my hand into that large metal can, and came up with a heavy plastic bag. One of the secretaries was passing by and, to explain why I was digging in her trash barrel, I told her we were retrieving our treasure, and taking it home with us.

She laughed and said, “Ohh….that explains it! We all started looking around at each other, wondering who’d ‘done it’, a few minutes ago…” Leave it to us to be the catalyst for an office wide secretary finger pointing fest.

We made it to the car, with only a dozen kids stopping us to ask if they could pet our dog. Then we were home, and Isaac got to relive his horrors as he told every family member he could find. He was hoping for any extra points he could get, and instead he got a lot of laughs from his siblings, and yes, even his dad.

Something about the way he glowed that night, as he told his story over and over, convinced me that maybe I still have hope. Someday soon, when I need a helper once again, for one of my crazy projects, Isaac will still say yes.

To my kid who loves to be the family clown, all the extra laughs he got after telling his tale just might be worth something. Hopefully worth more than the humiliation he felt, holding the leash of a squatting dog, in the middle of an elementary school sidewalk, right in front of his brother’s school.

Fragile Hearts

Of course I got the email on Valentine’s Day. I’m sure the person who sent it didn’t mean to stir up a kettle full of emotions. She was just sharing her heart. And it touched mine in one of its deepest places, on this day that revolves around hearts.

Her name is Mrs. Knowles. She pleads with me to call her ‘Marie’, but when I was a child, she was one of the moms in our church. No matter how old I get, it’s hard to address her in such an informal way. I’ve just recently found her, through connections on Facebook, of course. After we became online friends, she offered to read my book manuscript. I’m always open to new eyes, so I promptly sent it to her.

In the course of our conversations about the manuscript, she’s become very special to me. Her encouraging words give me a lift that only a mom’s words can. A long time ago, when I was a very young child, she was one of my mom’s good friends. We all lived on the same street and my mom did normal friends things with her - shared a cup of coffee, talked about their kids.

Then we moved out to the country, about the time I started school, and started taking in foster children. My mom no longer saw her friends beyond waving to them across the aisle at church. There were always weeds to pull in the garden, endless loads of laundry to do for as many as 14 kids at a time. She lost her social circle.

But it turns out they never forgot her. Mrs. Knowles was at the hospital the night my mom was brought in after suffering a stroke. The new pastor of the church had called her for support, since he was still getting to know all of the church’s members. Mrs. Knowles recalls wanting so desperately to try to get across to him how special my mom was.

Because she remembers my mom as a friend first. Not as the woman with the van full of kids.

On Valentine’s Day she sent me an email about the manuscript, and added a paragraph in the middle about my mom. Personal stories and reflections about what a good friend she was, and how heartbroken she was when my mom died.

It touched me deeply. My mom died 17 years ago. It was devastating to me to lose her when I was still in my mid 20s. I wallowed through the grief and life went on, as it tends to do. Now that so many years have passed, I sometimes feel like all I have left are my own scattered memories, which tend to get more fuzzy, the older I get.

Occasionally an old friend who is my own age (usually one I’ve found through Facebook) shares a memory with me. Something my mom did that they remember, or snapshots of her warm, loving character.

But for some reason Mrs. Knowles’s walk down memory lane touched me deeply. I so rarely hear about her from people who knew her as ‘Jane’, not just ‘Mrs. Johnson’. This is someone who knew my mom’s heart at one time. This is someone who had a grown up relationship with her; the kind that I so craved to have once I was a mom myself. But then she was gone.

Mrs. Knowles provide me with something more valuable than gold. She gave me an intimate look back at this woman I longed to know better. The details of her stories are so tender and loving that they force me to go back to that place, the place where I let myself think about the fact she’s gone, and all that I’ve missed in the past 17 years.

One of the memories Mrs. Knowles shares is of how my mom was so creative and crafty. I’d forgotten that side of her. In the years of my growing up she was distracted and busy. But even then she always made a point of having a latch hook rug set up on a card table, for any of us to stop and work on if the mood inspired. She sewed many of our clothes, and year after year taught the kids in our 4-H club about basic sewing techniques. Then, in the few years she had after all of the foster children were gone, and her own had left the nest, she made western style bolos and key chains out of colorful beads.

I have a couple of them, tucked in a box of special memories I have of her. I cradle them in my hands, taking comfort in the fact her hands also touched them, and crafted them, once upon a time.

I read the email from Mrs. Knowles, then a minutes later found myself in my kitchen, gearing up to make dinner. A long chain of construction paper valentines dangled in front of the sliding glass door. Special decorations I made to help my children know how much I love them on this, and every Valentine’s Day. As the sun reflected off the twirling pink paper, tears fell down my cheeks.

She was crafty. I am crafty. It’s yet another way I still carry on her legacy.

My siblings and I each miss her in our own ways, according to our own relationships with her. I sometimes feel like I was the most like her. I have an endlessly deep heart for anyone who is suffering. I would adopt every orphan child on the planet if I had the resources. I love nothing more than being home, taking care of my family. I am so like her that it makes me miss her, in a way that I feel I’m still a part of her - and she of me.

I look for any way I can these days, to feel close to her. It gets harder and harder as the years put so much time between today and the last time I shared her company. But treasures like the single paragraph in a simple email do a world of good. They bring tears, but not unnecessary tears. Large wet droplets of gratitude and love…longing and grief.

Thank you, Mrs. Knowles. Your gift to me on this special Valentine’s Day will be remembered for a very long time. I’ll re-read your words, a hundred more times, and every single time they will bring me relief.

Tears, yes.

But also much, much relief. So much more than you’ll ever know.



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New Beginnings...Again

It was chaotic. It was crazy. There was one moment, in a Taco Bell bathroom, where I said things into a cell phone that I’d love to take back. But in the end, it all came together and we’re in. We’re finally in a house, a home, a place where we’ll make some wonderful new memories in the years to come.

After almost a year of house selling details and drama, we no longer carry a mortgage. For the first time in a very long time, we don’t own a home. But after all we’ve been through this past year, we’re pretty okay with that.

This place we’ve found is laid out perfectly for our needs. It’s located perfectly for our daily activities. It’s right in the middle of the town we want to call home for the next few decades. And if the water heater breaks at 2 am on a Saturday morning, it’s not our problem.

Everyone has a bedroom. After sharing two tiny bedrooms, in that microscopic 800 sq foot condo for the past seven months, there is finally a chance to be by yourself. It’s something we’ve all craved for a long time. And yet, Jeff and I saw this coming; we will always kind of miss the togetherness that the tiny condo imposed upon us.



Yes, there were more snips and unnecessary comments made to siblings, just because there was too much shared space. But there were also many nights of what I like to call ‘summer camp fun’. Our accommodations felt so much like bunking at summer camp, that the usual antics that arise in such a setting were common.

There were several nights that our patient cat was wrapped in a ‘kitty burrito’, sometimes with a blanket, sometimes with a towel. These swaddling lessons went on for an hour or two, with much giggling and picture taking, and usually ended with the cat being carried around like a baby, in his bundle, the rest of the night.

This kind of thing didn’t happen that often, when we were all spread out in our 2600 sq foot New York house.

There was also a night of coloring. We printed pictures off sites we found online (who knew there were Halo Reach coloring pages out there?). Meredith did a lot of hair braiding…and not just mine. There was even a night (with incriminating pictures) that the dog ended up in a pair of leopard skin print bikini panties (you really don’t want to know details).



Most of it transpired in the Master Bedroom, which had just enough floor space for a double and a single mattress to be laid out on the floor, and a couple of cardboard boxes we used for dressers (our household goods are still in moving storage). There was barely room to walk around the edges of the mattresses, yet many of the pictures of the summer camp antics were taken in that room. All six of us somehow crammed in, or were continuously coming and going from that room, just looking for some boredom busting activity to keep us sane.




And then finally…oh finally…the day came to move into a real house.

If you had told me, a year ago, when we lived comfortably in our big home in NY, the one we owned, that I would be thrilled to move into a rental house, that was 800 less square feet than we’d enjoyed for over five years in New York, I’d have called you nutty.

But life circumstances are funny that way. It’s all perspective. It’s all relative.

Every day, even in the tiny condo, I’m aware that I live in a safe, clean, comfortable home. Especially when compared to a good percentage of the world’s population. I have clean water coming from my pipes and hot water when I need a good cleansing shower. I have appliances that wash my clothes and dishes, and a persnickety one that even sucks the cat hair out of our carpets. I don’t truly want for much.



It’s these thoughts that helped me fall in love with our new rental house. These thoughts, and the reality of six people living under one roof, two of them being legal adults and one of them in the thick of teenager-hood.

The morning of the switch over, we woke up at 5:30 a.m. We had our old landlord coming at 9:30, for the last inspection. All of our belongings had to be moved out. The small glitch was that there was no place to move them to. We couldn’t get into the new rental until later in the day. So there was a bit of juggling, of the fifty or so boxes, four mattresses, a futon and a kitchen table with six chairs. But minimally, they had to be out, and the place had to be spotless, if we wanted our large deposit back.

We’d been doing deep cleaning for a week, in preparation for this day. But final wipe downs and clean ups take time and energy. It was a crazy busy morning. Sam headed off to school, but Isaac stayed home, just to have one more big strong person to help move things out and in.



It’s been a very long time since we’ve had to answer to a landlord. In our early married days I had a few bad apples and the ‘inspection’ process had not gone smoothly, even though the houses had been spotless. I truly believe some landlords see the deposit as a bonus, and not something you actually give back to tenants when the lease is up.

So until that part of the day was over, I could not relax. By the appointed hour, all of our stuff was out, and moved to the long driveway of the new house, waiting for us to pick up keys so we could take it inside.

And of course there were glitches with the landlord. Of course. He’s a nice guy, but there were moments that I was so very glad Jeff had been left as the one in charge of the inspection process. He’s much more diplomatic and professional in those situations. When the landlord wanted to question the broken stick on the mini blind in the bedroom, which was that way when we moved in, and kept me from opening those blinds the whole time we lived there, I would have flown off the handle. It was so tempting to say, “So you wanted me to call you up here, from where you are, down in the valley, to fix the stick on a mini blind, on the day we moved in and discovered it?...” The same situation happened with a missing outlet cover, and a few other minor issues that we never ‘bothered’ to tell him about.



It was such a mental shift, for me, the one who usually cleans out houses for walk throughs before the closing papers are signed. In those situations, our level of spotless cleanliness is appreciated by the new home owner, not picked apart.



But finally, in the middle of a sunny, gorgeous day in Colorado, we had keys in our hand. We’d left the two boys in charge of watching the stuff in the driveway, as we went to the banks and moved money around, and by the time we got back , they had not only moved everything inside, they had unpacked a good chunk of it. Plates were in the kitchen cabinets. The furniture (the little we have) was set up and ready to go. The bathroom had toiletries, the coat closet had coats hanging in it. It was like a dream - walking into a much bigger house, that already had my stuff put away.



There is still unpacking to do, of course. For many boxes, they didn’t know where I’d want the contents. I still need to figure out which toiletries go in which bathroom (we have TWO now!) and where the bed sheets and blankets will be stored. I have to set up our new system, as moms do. Where the tape goes. Where to find scissors. Where the nail clippers will start out, before they get ‘borrowed’ then strewn about the house.

But being able to walk in and start life right away, was as exciting as the fact we all had space to breathe again.

Once Meredith came home from her new job, we all piled up in the downstairs living room, the one we are now calling The Cave. It’s the boys’ dream. A place for our big TV, once it arrives back to us, and a place to hang out with friends, that doesn’t disturb the parents. We ordered pizza, which Michael picked up when he drove to get Sam from school (Sam walked to school for his last time that day, as we no longer live right across the street).

Jeff had rented a Red Box movie earlier in the day, and we all hunkered down, spread out on TWO couches finally, munched our pizza and laughed for two hours at the silliness on the screen. Several times I looked around and tried to mentally soak in those moments, when all four of my kids were there, between me and Jeff, loving life and riding high on the excitement of new beginnings.



After so many months of being crammed in a small living space, we celebrated our new spacious accommodations, by cramming ourselves together again.

A few hours later, as bedtime was approaching for the school kids in our mix, Sam said something funny to Meredith and me, as he was getting ready for bed. I don’t even remember what it was, but it caused us all to share another laugh, which brought Michael sprinting up the stairs.

“What? What did I miss?....that’s not fair! There’s fun stuff going on up here and I’m missing it, way down there in the Cave!”

It reminded me of the first night we spent in our Utah home. We’d been living in a Residence Inn, for almost three months, as we hunted for a new house in our new state. Again, tight living quarters, claustrophobic days for the six of us. But after the closing papers were signed, we happily drove across town, to our big 2500 sq. foot house, and everyone claimed bedrooms. And again, before the sand man had a chance to visit, all four of the kids were sprawled out on the floor around the bed in the master bedroom, needing to be near each other for just one more night, before this new life spread us out again.

We are no perfect family. My kids get angry at each other, swear they hate each other when emotions run high. But watching life unfold, and how they respond to it, still brings me comfort. I know down deep they really do love each other. They really do like to be together. They really do know how to have fun together.

Our family’s sense of humor might not seem funny to outsiders. But we make each other laugh.



After I lost my mom in my mid 20s, I was so thankful that I had four siblings (and some extra foster siblings). It gave me some sort of peace, to know they’d come from that same family, loved that same mom, and would miss her for the rest of their days too. It also gave me people to turn to, when different stages of grief came along.

It was during those months that Jeff and I decided to have four children, not just the two or three that many would stop after. We didn’t think we were up for five, but four seemed like just enough. Just enough to be there for each other as the years passed by. Just enough to have siblings to pick from, if you had a joke to share or a frustration to vent.

When money is tight, I sometimes question our decision to have a larger family. But then nights like our first night in this house, remind me of our reasons. And I’m 100% sure we made the right choice.



Our family will be splintering apart again, very soon. As spring rolls around, Meredith will move down to Denver to start college again. Michael will head off to start his career in the military. And it will be down to just four of us. This new house will suddenly seem very, very big.

But I’m pretty sure of one thing. No matter how much space we have, or don’t have, there will still be many nights where we all end up in the same room. Harassing the pets, watching a movie, or playing another round of Settlers of Catan.

As much as we all crave our own space, there’s been something about this continuous moving process that our children have grown up with, that still draws us all together.


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X Games- Xtreme Parenting

If I’ve learned anything in my twenty years of being a mom, it’s that parenting is a roller coaster of extremes. When a newborn lives in your house, you vacillate between severe and utter exhaustion and severely incredible awe and joy. The toddler who can’t seem to figure out the potty chair can make you want to scream one minute, then melt your heart the next, when he proclaims, with his most sincere voice, “Oh, I just WUV you, mama!”

It continues into elementary school, then high school. And I guess I thought it would all even out, once they graduated from high school. This week I found out I was wrong.

My last post was about a heart wrenching night I had with my young adult daughter. Our life is in flux right now, and both of us are feeling it in our own way. A series of circumstances left both of us crying ourselves to sleep, until morning light could help us clear the air. The next day we took a trip to Sonic, and as we sipped our Slushees, we hashed it all out. I felt much lighter as we drove back home and dove back into our chaotic temporary living situation.

But it changed me just a little, as every upsetting (and joyful) parenting moment does. The familiar doubts about how I’m failing these children as their mother crept back in. I had to pull out the standard pep talks, to remind myself of the things I’m doing right, and to pull myself back up to get back in the game.

I love parenting older kids, but it’s also very hard. This fact didn’t surprise me, since I’ve been pretty much terrified of raising teenagers from the moment I laid eyes on my first newborn. I’m a toddler/preschooler kind of person. I got a degree in Elementary Education, but only partially because my college guidance counselor wisely reminded me that it would ‘go farther’ than a degree in Early Childhood Education. I’ve never, ever dreamed of teaching any child over the age of 10. Those double digit kids were hard to teach, I was sure, and even harder to parent.



But then my kids started turning double digits and I still liked them. In fact, they got funnier, since they could understand grownup jokes (finally) and the conversations we had went deeper. I could truly discuss things with them, and pour into them life lessons about love and relationships, knowing they might actually remember my words. I quickly learned that if I were flexible enough to adapt my parenting style, to respect their need for independence, there didn’t have to be a lot of yelling and slamming of doors.

But I also learned that the hiccups in our relationship could also go deeper and hurt on a whole new level. I became more vulnerable, as we started to form more friendship- like relationships. I find myself stepping back sometimes, and watching my two older kids, wondering who they are (one of them just turned 20 and the other turns 19 tomorrow). A good chunk of their life is outside my nest. They have friends, experiences, and interactions that I’ll never know about. Their lives are full of inside jokes that I’ll never understand, with people I may never meet.



I used to be in complete control of their play dates, friend choices and daily comings and goings. Now I’m a spectator, sometimes craving a peek inside. I feel like I’m on a tightrope some days, balancing the relationship, as I soak in stories they casually tell (if I don’t pry too much), then turning around and making their dinner and meeting their basic needs, like I did when they were six.

So back to my weekend of extremes. One night I’m crying myself to sleep, wondering how I once again failed my own child, and wondering if we’d ever find our middle ground, and then a mere 24 hours later I’m standing on a sunny hillside, watching three of my children have one of the best days of their lives (because of something *I* pulled off).

That part of the story started a few weeks ago, when I noticed that the Winter X Games were taking place just a few hours from our new home. We are a family of outdoor sports, mostly winter sports, and mostly extreme versions of those sports. Winter X Games is our Academy Awards, especially on years when there are no Winter Olympics to watch. Those athletes are our rock stars.

Last year, as we watched the Games, on our couch in New York, I made a mental note to myself. If the Colorado job came through, and we ended up moving there, we were most definitely going to be attending in person when 2012 rolled around. Then suddenly, the big move had happened, and the X Games were on the horizon.

My youngest was psyched. He is an excellent skier, and a beginning snowboarder. He can ski for six days straight, then want to turn around and ski the seventh. He’s all about the jumps at the terrain park, and dodging trees in the woods. Every event at the X Games makes him excited.

The two older boys were okay with going, but not as thrilled as I had hoped. It’s been a year since we saw the Games on TV and they’ve become involved in their regular lives here in our mountain town. One of them truly preferred to stay here, to be able to hang out with his friends, over driving to Aspen, to see the Games.

I had to go with my gut. I made them go.

I was deeply suspicious that once they got there, it would be a day they’d never forget. Their sister had planned to stay home alone, and have the apartment to herself for a whole day. I had no problem with that. She has her own (girl stuff) world , and the more space I give her, the happier she is. But the boys…I knew the boys needed to see at least one X Games in person, especially since we live so close to them. I had to insist they all attend, even the not so enthusiastic.

Saturday rolled around, cold but sunny. We crawled out of bed very early (terrible mom comments all around - waking up EARLY on a SATURDAY?) and hit the road. Within a half an hour we had to change plans. The highway headed west was bumper to bumper with ski traffic. There was no way we’d make it if we sat in that mess.

So hound dog husband found a smaller, side road, and we spent a few hours winding through the amazing scenery of Western Colorado. I couldn’t stop taking pictures. The sun streaming in the windows, the boys in the back, laughing and joking with each other, and suddenly it started to become one of those once in a lifetime days you never want to forget.



We stopped at the tiny store near South Park to get our favorite fudge. We found it on our house hunting trip to CO, nearly a year ago, and it has become family tradition. We made our way through small mountain towns, where you have to wonder where the residents buy their groceries and gas, and then down long roads with breathtaking views. Eventually we caught up with I-70 once again, and were relieved to see that the ski traffic had all found their resorts and cleared off our path.





The shuttle parking lot was right where the online directions had said it would be, and before noon we were walking under the big banner that graced the big blue X. Ahead of us were the things we’d only seen on TV. The Super Half Pipe. The Big Air jumps, made of ridiculously tall mountains of snow. The rows of vendor booths, giving away every kind of ski and snowboard related trinket you could think of. The awe started to finally sink in for my older boys.



By the end of the day my mommy gratitude tank was topped off. I’d stood at the base of the Boarder Cross race with my little guy, and been sprayed with the snow of the finishing racers, exchanging ‘Can you believe it?!’ glances with him. I’d watched my oldest son, my stoic boy, just at the edge of giddy, as he got a prime spot to watch the skiers fly 100 feet over his head. I was possibly more excited than he was, when my middle boy saw one of his few life heroes (a legend in the BMX world) and raced up to him with a sharpie to get an autograph he’ll probably keep in his possessions until he’s my age.



It was an amazing day. The athletes were awe inspiring. Seeing the X Games up close was a dream. But for me, the mom who is in a constant game of ‘am I doing right by them?’, it was perfect.

There was excited sharing of stories, as we stood in line, waiting for the shuttle bus to take us back to the parking lot. And it continued, as we drove the long dark road home. As we stopped by a Taco Bell halfway home, to feed empty tummies something warm, the magic was still in the air. The easy laughter my children shared, that I’ve seen so many times in the past, when conditions are right, filled up my soul.



I can’t say I ‘m thankful for extremes. When the pendulum swings to the bad side, I’m rarely considering the good parts of parenting. But oh, how sweet. How very, very sweet it is, when it finally swings back…so far back…and once again fills up my tank.


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A Mother's Anguish

It played out like every stereotype, when it comes to raising a teenage daughter. Even though mine just celebrated the birthday that ushered her into her 20s, the emotions and issues linger. The reason for the falling out isn’t really important. Misunderstandings, hurtful things said, many, many tears. None of it life and death. All of it breaking my heart.

It made me crave a good, deep weeping session. But we’re living in very tight quarters now, and there is just no place to go, at 10 o’clock at night, when one needs to get away. I have an 11 year old, who is very tender hearted, and internalizes everyone else’s stress, to get to bed. Hopefully in peace. Right now he’s even sleeping in the same room as I am, so there was no ‘crying myself to sleep’ to be had.

I go into the bathroom, run the water, and try to quiet the sobs that want to erupt from my core. This girl I adore, my one and only daughter, has the power to cause me such anguish. I’d poured my mothering heart out to her and been stabbed in the back in return.

My patient and wise hubby brushes back my hair and reminds me that she’s going through a tough time herself. Her life is in huge upheaval with no certain landing pad. She acts out of grief and fear herself, so we need to just be patient and love her through this.

He’s right. I know he is. All I can manage is a weary shake of my head, to let him know I hear him, through the tears that run down my face. Then I head off to bed, knowing the sunlight in the morning will help resolve this painful mess.

I settle in next to my baby boy, who is quietly reading his chapter book. I turn to face the wall and pop in my ear buds. Jim Croce is cued up on my phone and I am comforted by his melodies. These are the songs I went to sleep to when I was a fifth grader myself. These are the songs that make my blood pressure go down, in stressful times, because they remind me of childhood. They remind me of my mom, who loved her Jim Croce and his Bad Bad Leroy Brown, even though they didn’t exactly fit into the strict Baptist lifestyle she embraced.

Just as the tears seem to be drying, a fresh batch erupts. It’s times like these that I desperately miss my mom. She’s been gone for 18 years, and I still miss her mothering. I lay on my wet pillow and try to fight the longing, but it does little good.

So I play the logic game. If she were alive today I wouldn’t have necessarily called her when this night turned so sour. That’s not the relationship we had. Or at least that’s not the relationship we were beginning to have, as I had just begun to be a mother in the years before she died.

Instead, I would plow through the hard day, then spill all my frustration out to her, days later, when we’d finally meet up. She’d sympathize, then laugh, as she remembered her own trying days as a new mom. And her laugh would heal me. It reminded me that life went on. New days meant new tries and maybe new frustrations, but always new hope.

And I also realize that I have no idea how she would have reacted to this latest trial with my all-grown-up girl. I don’t have the years between to tell me how our relationship would have evolved and changed. This girl, who I know she would have adored, grew up without that doting grandma, who would have grown and changed with her. They didn’t have the preschool or elementary school years, to get to know each other.

My mom never got to encourage my girl, when she got braces, that she looked beautiful despite the metal in her mouth. And she never got to gush with pride as the braces came off to reveal a suddenly older young lady. She didn’t sit in the bleachers with us, as our girl marched across the stage, long blonde hair falling out of her bright blue graduation cap.

My mom doesn’t know my daughter. That’s a hard pill to swallow. I yearn for her comfort, her guidance in our latest speed bump. But I have no guide wire, no indication as to how it would all play out, if she were still here. She knows nothing of this grown up girl, nothing of our life.

And that fact makes me even more sad. So I do the next logical thing. I text my oldest sister. She’s four states and one time zone away, but thank goodness she replies. She’s the mother to three daughters. One of them was 12 weeks away from being born when we lost our mother. This sister understands my grief, and my anguish, and my occasional frustrations with raising my girl.

She needs no details of the events that led to my text. She just senses my sadness and says the exact right, encouraging words. She reminds me that it’s temporary. This spell will pass, and some day, we will see the fruits of our labor. Not today. But some day.

Fresh tears come, with her compassion. I sense the comfort that my mom used to provide, coming through the device I hold in my hand, a bit of technology that didn’t exist in the days when my mom was still here. We don’t have to call each other anymore, to ‘be there’. A simple text can sometimes do the trick.

And it does. A few tender volleys of words I needed so badly to hear, and I’m able to relax and drift off to sleep. This mothering thing is so complicated. It’s wrapped up in our own mothers, and the mothers that our sisters are to their children.

It’s a network I’ve yet to figure out, but has saved me more than this once.

It’s now a new day. Time for new starts. Time for a chat with my girl, to sort out the mess from last night. Time to build our relationship with one more brick of experience. I find myself hoping that some day, a few decades from now, I can be on the other end, when my girl is in tears, brought on by her own baby girl, and once again the tables are turned.

I want to be there, through text, or skype, or phone call, to remind her that it’s all just a part of mothering.

Chewy Feet

It came around again.

That’s what happens when twelve calendar months fly by. Once again it’s the anniversary of my amputation surgery. A day I’ll never forget. A day I dreamed about for years, even decades. A day I did years of research about, so I would have no regrets.

And it worked. Not only do I have no regrets, I’m still just as happy with my new foot, as ecstatic as the day I got it.

January 12th. It’s my ‘other’ birthday. The day I got to start over. I had a lot of trouble finding a doctor who would do the surgery for me. It was a ‘healthy’ foot, after all…no disease, no imminent threat to my health…just a serious threat to my long term mobility, which I guess doesn’t count in orthopedic medicine.

But I finally found my man. He was skeptical, but willing. He was brave enough to trust that I wouldn’t sue him, if I found that having one foot missing wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

So every year, on January 12th, I send him another thank you card. In it I tell him all the things I’ve been able to do that year, because he believed in me. Sometimes I send him pictures, to prove my stories. I don’t want him to ever forget how important he was in my story.

Most years I try to commemorate in some way. It’s a birthday, in a sense, and should be celebrated. But I don’t want to bore my kids to death, since to them it’s ‘just mom’s foot’. So I try to make it fun. In past years we’ve had feet shaped cake or a huge foot shaped cookie. Last year we made regular cupcakes, with the outline of feet on them. My kids joked that the ones I messed up on were my ‘old’ deformed foot. We ate them after dinner and no one complained about having extra treats that day.

This year life was crazier than usual on January 12th. One of my four was in Texas, visiting friends. One had a racquetball court reserved and wouldn’t be home until late. My oldest son and youngest son were all we had left. And it was the night of the big Middle School Open House. That had to be a higher priority than my foot celebration.



But after the Open House, my youngest wanted to celebrate the night by going to McDonalds. We realized we’d never been inside our local McDonalds since we moved here, six months ago, and he had gift cards he’d gotten in his birthday card in October. They were burning a hole in his pocket.

So we went to visit the Golden Arches. It was past eight, in the evening, so we practically had the place to ourselves. My oldest son and I had discussed the occasion of my foot birthday, as we’d run errands, earlier in the day. He brought up the topic, as we sat around the table, eating our fries. Then he decided we should have a contest.

To commemorate the day, we should do something new. Like see who could carve a regular, flat McDonalds burger into the best rendition of mom’s foot. He’s a teenager, and this seemed like a very logical way to make the night special.

Each boy was given one burger and one plastic knife. They brainstormed for a few minutes, then dove in. This is what one of them came up with (blood and all, since it was ‘post surgery’). I won’t tell you which one, so I don’t alter the judging.



This is what the other came up with (turn your head to the right, the picture is sideways). He nearly perfected the large humped big toe I used to have. Both are pretty impressive, I think, considering the medium and available tools.



And then, the ultimate winner emerged.

“Wait! Wait!”, my oldest son proclaimed, waving the plastic knife in the air, “I’ve got one more entry! Wait, just a second…”

He proceeded to tear open a packet of artificial sweetener and make a pile on the tray. Then he took some small pieces of straw wrapper and curled them into tight little knots. Once he placed the knots strategically in the middle of the powdery pile, he announced, “There! That’s PERFECT! I WIN!”

It took just a few minutes before we all got it.

But in fact, my big boy had indeed won the challenge. Because the reality is, my foot was taken from that hospital room, to a mortuary, and cremated on January 12, 2003. It now sits in a velvet box in my closet. Some day soon I will throw those ashes off a beautiful mountainside, in a grand gesture to say goodbye to my old life and welcome in my new one.

But for now it’s a pile of ashes. And it looks a lot like the pile of Sweet N Low with wrapper bits sprinkled throughout. We know. We’ve looked in that velvet box.



Another year has flown by. Hopefully, and almost definitely, this will be the year the book about my journey to mobility will be published, and available to give to others who might be facing some hard life choices. And before I know it, another January will be rolling around. We’ll find a new way to celebrate, I’m sure.

But something else I’m sure about - it will, without a doubt, not ever be as creative and ketchup covered, as our celebration in January of 2012.

Progress

This is a picture of a McDonalds that sits across the parking lot from one of the two grocery stores in my town. It’s obviously seen better days. I have no idea why it’s being torn down, or what exciting business might be built in its place. But the first time I drove by it, as the back hoe began its work, I smiled. It’s a good sign to me.

I have nothing against Ronald’s place. We don’t go there very often, but I will boldly admit I do enjoy his food every now and then, especially his amazing French fries. But seeing his building falling to the ground made me happy because it’s a step in the process of feeling at home in my new hometown.

When we first drove around Evergreen, a year ago, we took note of where the groceries stores were, which fast food places existed in our mountain town (hint: not many), where I could find the local post office, and which roads led to the ski resorts. I did the mental mapping I do every time we move. Where will I go to run my daily errands, and which roads will I use to attend school functions?

This very McDonalds went on my mental map, mainly because it had a Red Box machine sitting out front, and it’s currently our favorite way to rent new movies.

Then autumn came, and we slowly but surely moved here. First the boys and Jeff, then I joined them. In December our daughter made the trek across the country, and we all officially became Colorado residents.

I’m still at the place where I rarely see someone I know in the grocery store. Our downstairs neighbor works at the floral department, so I sometimes get a wave from her. I often see people I think I know, because they remind me of someone I knew in New York, or Utah, or Missouri…but it’s never ‘them’. The reality is, I know about six people in our entire small town (not counting the checkout clerks, who I eagerly chat with every single week).

Meanwhile, I notice the other shoppers around me, greeting each other and giving hugs or handshakes, as they exclaim, ‘Hey there! It’s been a while since I’ve seen you!” I know someday I’ll have my first moment, my first, ‘Hey, I know you!’ moment as my cart crosses paths with a familiar face.

But the McDonalds being torn down, to be replaced by another building, gives me hope. Someday, maybe a year from now, maybe five, someone will ask for directions, and I’ll be able to say, “it’s down there, you know, by where the McDonalds used to be…” I’ll be an old timer. I’ll be a person who has watched our town grow and change. I’ll have memories of things that used to be here, but were replaced by other things.

Just this week I answered an ad from the free section of our local Craig’s List. I scored a huge tub of hypoallergenic (expensive!)laundry detergent that gave the woman’s daughter a rash. In the course of our meeting, we discovered our sons go to the same school, and are in the same class. In fact, my son’s best friend has a huge crush on this woman’s daughter.

We chatted about teenagers and shared some stories about our lives, and I now look forward to seeing her in the grocery store.
Who knows? Maybe she’ll be my first grocery store run in. I’ll come around the end of an aisle and realize I recognize someone.

Then I’ll be the one who pulls my cart to the side and says, “Hey! I know you!”


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