A List

It's summer time and you'd think, as a teacher, that I would have way more time to write now than I do during the school year.

Except I have a four year old.. A four year old who is cute, funny, busy, exhausting and needs a whole lot of interaction. Not an introvert, this one:

So he's kept me busy and I've "written" tons in my brain. TGForMyiPhone, I've at least been able to use a multitude of writing apps to at least punch out a few ideas of things I want to write about/remember. 

From my Reminders App:
One year anniversary of Mae B. House

E$'s obsession with the Vibram toe shoes

From Evernote:

How we're dealing with the religion topic in our household

E$'s first trip to the dentist, or How I'm Trying to Not Screw Up My Child

From Notes:

Seeing President Obama speak in Roanoke

It's not like I have a shortage of topics, just a shortage of time. Maybe I need to get up and be a morning blogger? I like it in theory...  In any case, I'll write something real here soon, at least for the 17 of you who follow me (even if that's only in theory, too!)

Daddy's Girl

There's a picture of me and my dad from a trip to the zoo, I was probably about three of four. My dad is wearing a newsboy style hat and has a full beard; my hair was white blonde. We both had shining blue eyes and big, big smiles. I am sure, at some point as a young girl, I was called a "daddy's girl." I'm sure that I idolized my dad, the way most kids idolize their parents. I'm sure I felt that he could do no wrong. 

I am the oldest of three; my parents had only been married just over a year and were still in their early twenties when I was born. I was a surprise (not a mistake, of which I once accused my mother. Her response, when I asked the difference, was a sincere "A surprise is something you didn't know you wanted until you had it). My siblings are significantly younger than me-- my sister is almost seven years younger, and my brother another seven after her. I remember when my parents struggled; I remember living in an apartment complex, being the minority, eating beans and cornbread for dinner and drinking Kool-Aid because it was cheap (incidentally, I also remember eating potted meat sandwiches. Gross, yes? But I totally craved those when I was pregnant. I guess you can take the girl out of the poor, but you can't take the poor out of the girl... or something). The truth is that we were poor, but at that time, I didn't know anything different. 

When I was in high school, I had a lot of responsibility. I worked and covered a lot of my own expenses. My parents did buy me a car, so that I could get to work and to soccer practice on my own, or run errands to help out. My dad sold his cherry-red Toyota truck-- his pride and joy-- so that he could buy me a car and a used truck for himself. It was such a selfless act, the kind of thing we expect from parents but don't always appreciate when we're 16. Now that I think about it, I hope I said thank you. Within the next two years, my father's anxiety and depression became much more severe. Dad was out of work for awhile, several months at least. I can't recall if there was an injury really, or if he was laid off, but I do remember a year or two where my mother was the sole provider for our household of five. I remember my dad being home all day and not picking up, doing laundry or dishes. I remember my dad spending hours in his bedroom and essentially disappearing from the life of the family. There was one argument that has never faded. It took place just before my 18th birthday and I must have been feeling brave or stubborn or angry. I was getting ready for school and I heard my mom crying. They had been arguing that morning, and while they could hide it from my siblings, I was old enough to know and I had had enough. I was done with my father not supporting us, not being a father. I was angry and truthfully, I was disappointed in him. After that, I just put distance between us. I always loved him, but I didn't feel like a daddy's girl any longer. The blinders were off and my dad was just a man who was struggling. 

I left for college that August. I remember unpacking, checking in and noticing that my father's right arm was sunburned from the drive down. His right arm, which was hanging out the window of the passenger's side. His right arm, because he didn't drive. He let my mom drive, which was a turning point. My dad was the kind of man who always drove when my parents were together. It was never said explicitly, it was just what they had always done and on this trip, for the first time in my memory, my dad gave up control. 

In retrospect, it's easy to see that my dad truly was suffering from depression. It is a serious disease and while I felt angry and disappointed, I can only imagine how he was feeling. I have learned so much about depression, the signs and symptoms, the treatment, the healing. Unfortunately, I kept that space between us over the years because as much as I want to be sympathetic, I still had a hard time relating to my dad. I am very different from him, and really from the rest of my immediate family. Even though I have had a lot of success in my life, I've still felt like I'm a disappointment to my parents. Recently, though, things have been changing between me and my dad. I think we're both changing. A few weeks ago, when asking him about what he wanted for Father's Day, he told me that he was done hunting for sport. My dad has been a deer hunter for as long as I can remember; though I don't enjoy hunting myself, I do enjoy the venison steaks that my dad has shared over the years. But he said that last year, he shot a buck that he couldn't track. He shared that he felt a sense of guilt that this animal had died without reason and though that doesn't happen often, it was enough to convince him that he was done. I thought it was incredibly inspiring that not only my dad changed something about himself at age 54, but that he could share it with me. Even more recently, my dad really surprised me. Our political beliefs are polar opposites and have always been a point of tension between us. Last week, I took my son to hear President Obama speak in our town. My mom knew that we were attending and suggested that I not tell my father; I agreed. It wasn't so much that I was hiding it from him, but rather just not offering the information. While we were downtown, in the middle of a huge crowd, my father called. I answered, because quite frankly, he doesn't call all that often. "Hey, baby," he said. He asked if I was downtown, and I told him we were. He simply said to me, "Well, I figured you would be. I hope you guys enjoy it. Take some good pictures; I'd like to see them." A man of few words, but what powerful words they were. In that statement, my dad said so much more. He told me that it was okay for us to have different beliefs, that he loved me no matter what. 

We've come a long way, me and my dad. From the childlike belief that our parents can do no wrong to an adult understanding that our parents are just people, flawed and imperfect and still inspirations. And in case I haven't said it enough, Dad, thank you. For teaching me that it's never too late to grow and change, to connect, to show my own kids that I'm just a person, too. I love you so. 

My college graduation, May 2012

The Actual Fountain of Youth Smells Like Rotten Eggs

You know how, when you're a teenager, and you think about what it means to be an *actual* adult? When I was 15 or 16, I thought I would become an *actual* adult once I graduated from college.

Well, May of 2002 came and I graduated from college, with a shiny Bachelor's degree and everything and you know? I wasn't an *actual* adult. At 22, I had a degree and had secured a job and was renting a house that was filled mostly with hand-me-downs and I was still living it up. I decided that *actual* adulthood had to do with a savings account and owning property and was way off in the future.

So in April of 2004, I bought a house. All by my-private-school-teacher's-salary self. No cosigner, just me, signing my life away for a tiny house in quiet neighborhood, big enough for me, the dog and the cat. And even though I had to sign a bajillion papers (have I ever told you about the nightmare of forgetting how to make a K, thus rendering myself unable to sign my name and negating my whole existence? No? Another time, then), I STILL didn't feel like a grown up. It was a tiny mortgage, after all, and I was actually paying less for that than I had been paying rent and it was mine, but I had a lot of help. But then I defined adulthood as having the sort of budget to purchase brand new matching furniture, for taking real vacations and not just bumming off of my folks, realizing I should be using anti-wrinkle creams instead of anti-acne ones. I had a ways to go.

Fast forward through some major life events-- getting married? Still not an adult. Having a stepson? Nope. Not then either. Having my own baby? Surely, oh surely, you are thinking, she felt like an adult when she was 100% responsible for the life of another, her child? Meh, not really. It was sort of like playing house; I never had the crippling fear that I wasn't a good mama or that I was damaging my sweet boy-- I felt pretty confident, in fact. Raising a teenager who, though not biologically our own, has become ours? Again, not really. And the most recent upheaval? Buying a SECOND PROPERTY, because clearly we are insane. Nada. Okay, that last part isn't entirely true. When we bought a second house last summer, I started to feel this pang of something deep in my gut, the pang of Responsibility. And now, as we've emptied our savings into the first house to make it into a rental, our investment property-- our savings, which by the way, could have been used for real vacations and anti-wrinkle creams-- I realize that I am an Actual Adult.

I am 32 years old, though when I look in the mirror, I still see my 22 year old self, with maybe just a few extra pounds. I feel young at heart, even if my body has stretch marks and joints that get a little stiff after a too-long workout. I play in the rain and eat ice cream for dinner with my kids, but offer them salads afterwards. I was shopping today with my two closest girlfriends and I put on this super cute, albeit short, skirt. When I stepped out to show the girls, they both looked at me with the head tilt, trying to figure out exactly why the skirt didn't work and then it clicked: "I'm too old for this," I said. It was true; the tie-dyed ruffled skirt that grazed my fingertips when my arms were at my side was too young for me. Not that I have to be dowdy or plain, but I am someone's mom, I take real vacations and use anti-wrinkle face lotion with SPF 15, I wear a bathing suit with a skirt and make sure we eat enough vegetables. I think 11:00pm is late and sleeping in means until 8:30am. I had a savings account until it was emptied into our investment property. I am, in my stepson's words, A Dult. I have arrived.

The Snowy Day

Yesterday, we went for a hike in just lightweight shirts. Today, we got our first real (and likely only) snow of the season.

Every Song is Beautiful

Sometimes, I need to decompress after work and so on the way home, I'm guilty of giving E$ the iPod and letting him watch a show. It is the kind of thing I always said (pre-kid) that I said I would never do and here I am, mashing up my foot to fit it into my mouth. But sometimes, I just need twenty minutes of quiet, to think through my day or to just focus on the road with NPR in the background. So yeah, I hand over the iPod and enjoy the quiet.

However, there are days when we don't turn on the iPod or the radio. We just talk. My almost four year old is a glorious conversationalist. He sings the songs from music class; he asks, politely and genuinely, "how was your day?" We tell jokes, share what we had for lunch. He tells me about the playground antics; I tell him about the books that we're reading. I often make up songs about our days and today, he just said to me, "Mom, your songs are beautiful. Every songs are beautiful." If you heard me sing them, you might disagree, but that's the wonder of a preschooler. Sometimes, there are these gems that I just hold onto. One day, not too long ago, we were talking about zombies. In his class, they made a list around Halloween of "Real or Not Real?" and zombies, of course, were Not Real. (Note: My son, he is obsessed with zombies, specifically the zombies in the Thriller video and Michael Jackson. See evidence in his Halloween costume:

In the fall, when his interest was a part of our daily life, we talked about how the zombies were just people in costumes. While he still loved the zombies, Christmas brought new things to think about. And just a few weeks ago, in the car, on the way home, he suddenly got very quiet. I glanced into the rear view mirror to see if he was okay and he just seemed to be thinking. Finally, he spoke and we had this exchange:

E: Mom, zombies are Not Real, right?

Me: Right. Just people in costumes.

E: But people are real.

Me: Yup.

E: Costumes are real.

Me: Yup...

E: So if zombies are just people in costumes, zombies are real. 

Me: (crickets chirping)

I had no idea what to say. It was hard to argue with his logic. I love these conversations; I look forward to these conversations. Sometimes, I am so amazed at the person he is becoming. He is smart and curious and funny (he seriously has an amazing sense of humor), but he is also equal parts rough and tumble boy. In all of the rambunctiousness that comes along with raising sons, I am happy for these car conversations and the glimpse into him that they give me. 

My Other Love is Pinterest

10 Minutes: A Birthday Wish

I want to be under my covers, reading Bossypants by 10:30, and I still need to wash my face and move clothes into the dryer, so dear blog, you get 10 minutes tonight (but that's better than nothing!).

Yesterday was my birthday. I turned 32. Not that 32 is a particularly special birthday, other than in my world, birthdays are always super special events and as I found myself saying multiple times yesterday (when asked if I wanted more cake, a longer nap, etc), you only turn 32 once! It was an awesome day-- brunch with some friends, a nap with my boy, dinner out to my favorite restaurant with Jason and Myles and then home early enough for a bottle of wine, a fire, a foot rub and a movie on TBS. I spent some time with my family today and took another nap. A perfect way to usher in a new year.

I don't mind moving into my thirties, other than the usual complaint that it all goes too fast. As I approach my birthday every year, I make time to reflect on how much I have in my life to appreciate. I have an amazing husband who really is my best friend, three incredible boys who push me to my limits and teach me more about myself every day, a job I love. I'm healthy. We have enough in our life-- a house that is a home, cars that get us to where we need to be. I have some luxuries, but also simplicity. We eat dinner together as a family most nights each week. We are getting better about saving and knowing when to treat ourselves. I have a bucket list of things to do and places to see that are all attainable. I live a charmed life.

So thank you-- to those that read, because you are what keeps me writing. And when I write, I feel more sane, more balanced. It's part of the person I want to be; a priority that isn't always set at the highest level but one that offers great rewards. It's the same feeling I get when I go for a run, but this is much warmer. :)

And I know it's (probably) not your birthday, but happy birthday anyway. Happy day-to-count-your-blessings. Happy day to celebrate you and all that you are!

"It is not happy people who are thankful; it is thankful people who are happy." 

Too Much

There is just too much sadness right now. The loss is palpable. In the past two weeks, while my personal life at home has been stable, the lives around me have just felt too much. Two weeks ago, just after my flashback. my uncle-- who was only a year older than I am-- died unexpectedly, we think from maybe a heart attack. He was not in the best of health and it truly could have been a variety of reasons, but it's likely it was a combination of factors. The worst part, though, besides the fact that my grandparents had to bury their youngest son and no parent should ever have to bury their child, is that he left a daughter who is in the 7th grade.
That same week, another young man, just in his early 30s died in a car accident that wasn't his fault. He was able to save his only child, a boy who had just turned a year old. This was a friend of a friend and it didn't happen around here, but it only added to my building anxiety. A coworker had a good friend who was dealing with a very ill child  and another coworker lost her sister unexpectedly earlier this month.
And now, today, I found out that one of my students lost her father last night-- I can't even begin to process all of it.

Even as I type this, I'm questioning. I'm trying to be polite, writing "they lost him," or "she lost her," when we all know that we didn't lose anyone. We lose papers that we needed to hold onto; we lose weight; we lose dignity and sometimes pride and sometimes our temper, but we don't lose people. We know where they are; it just isn't where we want them to be. I struggle with death and how to explain it to my children; I struggle with how to explain the concept of "loss" to them, of what it means to no longer have a parent around, who is not ever coming back. I know that I don't have to have all of the answers and that there is a lot that they are not ready to know, but it just seems like there have been constant reminders this month that we will not ever know when our time is up.

So January? I am so done with you. One more day-- you get one more day and so help me you better not take anyone else around me. Good riddance.

Since you asked-

I ate a second dinner tonight.

I started off my day with good intentions. I had a cup of coffee (with creamer because I love it and just take it into my calorie count everyday) and then went skating for a whole 30 minutes. Hard core roller skating, ya'll, like it was 1991. I had a sensible peanut butter sandwich on wheat for lunch and then a small cup of pasta with a light alfredo sauce and a whole buncha spinach tossed in for good measure. Oh, and I had a cupcake while my kids were napping.

Then I had to have an MRI scan done tonight (who knew they could do them so late in the evening but I was glad to not take the time off from work), stopped at the grocery store on my way home and by the time I pulled into my driveway, I was famished. A smarter person might have gone to bed, or just had a glass of water, but not this girl. I dug out Carrabbas leftovers (chicken marsala!) and sat myself down to dinner #2. And now I'm on cupcake #2. And I don't feel guilty and just thought you should know. :)

Flashbacks

This will not be a happy, everything-is-punderful post. Feel free to redirect to another webpage, or keep reading you're interested. Just consider yourself warned.

Six and a half years ago I was involved in a pretty serious car accident. In April of 2005, I had left school and was on my way to pick up a friend's son; I was going to babysit that afternoon. I took the interstate towards the mall and was listening Jay Z's "99 Problems." It's funny the things I remember so distinctly about that day. I was in the middle lane heading south. A good distance up ahead, I saw a car in the northbound lane cross into the median and then come into traffic on our side of the highway. It was a small truck and it cut a diagonal across all three lanes of oncoming traffic and went down into the ditch. I remember looking into the rear view mirror to make sure it was clear and I moved into the far left lane, as far away from the truck as I could and slowing down as quickly as I could safely slow down. I remember breathing a sigh of relief when the car into the ditch and then the sharp intake of air as I saw the car come back into traffic. And then, as cliche as it sounds, time slowed down and every detail is etched into my mind. I saw the truck ping off three cars in front of me; everytime it would spin around a full 360 degrees and hit another. It hit the SUV in front of me, which I then rear ended. The truck spun around one final time, nailing my sweet Toyota Corolla in the back before it finally stopped and started smoking. In the median, the front of my car in the bushes, I put my hand up to my face and felt blood. Though I desperately wanted to see my reflection, I knew that once I did, I would be an emotional wreck. I tried to call my mom and couldn't get through. I tried to call my friend, whose son I was going to pick up and couldn't get through. I called my best friend and told her, so calmly, that I had been in a car accident and was likely going to be taken by ambulance to the hospital; I would ask to be taken to the one where my mom works. I looked in the mirror, saw the blood smeared on my face, took a deep breath and got out of the car, where I collapsed. The next thing I remember, I was on a stretcher, being loaded into the ambulance. I remember pleading for the medics to go back to my car and get my purse, my CD case and my school bag. Somehow, I had the foresight to get those things then, which was good because I wasn't able to get into my car until a week later. In the ambulance, I requested that they not belt my arms down. They were afraid I was going to seize, but I was such a state of panic that they took a verbal consent.
I remember being wheeled into the emergency room and being left alone, strapped down in a neck brace for what seemed like hours. It took me awhile to realize that I wasn't at my mom's hospital, but at one across town. I imagined my mom in the ER across town, waiting for me. I was alone and scared and I just wanted my mom. It's amazing how difficult it was to find someone to help me, to call for me and let my family know where I was. At some point, my mom showed up and after rounds of xrays, I was told nothing was wrong. A police officer told me that had my seat been moved up just 2 inches closer to the steering wheel, I could have done much more damage. I was lucky that I was okay.
But what they didn't tell me was that sometimes, they can miss injuries. I spent four months in physical therapy, telling the doctors that something more was wrong, before they realized that I had, in fact, broken my wrist and it had healed improperly and would now cause me lifelong pain. What they didn't tell me was that the reason no one was checking on me was because there were three other people brought in from the accident, all with more serious injuries than my own, including the driver (sidenote: he was drunk at 3:30 in the afternoon. He had found out a few months prior that he was a diabetic, which he denied for a long time. He was driving home to PA and had stopped off for a late lunch and a few beers, which caused him to go into a diabetic shock, which caused the accident). They didn't tell me that it would take two years to settle with the driver's insurance company and that for two years, I would have to think about the accident on a daily basis. They didn't tell me about the paralyzing fear I face. I couldn't drive at all, anywhere for over a month. It was over a year before I could drive on the same stretch of road and several years before I would drive down the highway without thinking of the accident. I mean, as recently as just two years ago, five years after the accident.
And so for the past two years, I've been okay. Until last weekend, when I was driving down that highway and watched a car dip down into the grassy median and begin to spin around until it was pointed towards me, towards oncoming traffic. I slowed, moved as far to the right this time and eventually pulled off the side of the road, shaking. I called 911 and reported the accident and waited there until an ambulance pulled up.
And now I'm not sleeping very well. I'm overly cautious when I'm driving, constantly checking my mirrors and the location of the cars around me. I am replaying my accident over and over again. And did I mention not sleeping? Because all I can think of before I lay my head down is what if I don't ever wake up-- who will love on my boy? Who will make sure that Jason laughs every day? Who will teach E$ all of the things I want to teach him? Who would talk to Myles about college and books? What would life be like for those I would leave behind?
I feel, sometimes too acutely, the worry over death. I worry less about my actual death and more about the life that continues on without me. I don't want to miss out on any of it. I had just gotten to a place where I wasn't paralyzed by the idea of my dying, when this stupid thing happened and the flashbacks are sudden and fierce and I can't sleep.