Way Back Machine

January 8, 1990

I've been here four days now.  La vie Parisienne.  Right. We're in the 9th arrondissement, an old apartment on a small street, just a few short blocks long that has a music conservatory down the street.  I can't decide if I'm jealous because I haven't played a piano since I left home, or if I'm annoyed because some of the students are less than.  It annoys me all the same.  

Three sleeps in the same bedroom I've imagined since I was a child.  Giselle described it to me when we were kids and I don't think she's changed it much.  It's totally not what I expected.  It's really small and it's all white.  There is no carpet so my feet are cold in the mornings.  You could fit two or maybe even three of it in my room back home.  I try not to think of that as home any more.  It's not really working.  

I still have the nightmares and I can't sleep sometimes.  I know he's not here and even if he knew where I was there isn't thing one he could do abou it. He's an idiot.  He has no passport and no future.  But still I look over my shoulder anyway.  I haven't been alone since it happened, so it's wierd that Giselle is out on a date and her parents have left for the country.  The bandages came off my leg before I got on the plane but I was too scared to look.  The nurse said the stitches will disolve. There are only 3.  But the ink will be there forever.  It hurts like hell and it makes me so damn mad.  I think I will really look later when I take a shower so if I cry, no one will see me. 

Today's the first day I've had time to write much.  It's hard to journal in front of other people and it's too cold to hang out in a park. 

The apartment is different.  There is practically no kitchen.  Really... 3 feet of counter space, a dishwasher that doubles as a clothes washer if you work it right, no microwave, two stove burners and a bar fridge I swear.  Gieslle laughs at me frequently.  She has that "oh little you" look on her face.  The one that makes me feel about an inch tall and I envy her sophistication.   "nous ne cuisinons pas."  I get it.  No one here, it seems, actually cooks.  And given how skinny everyone is, I doubt they eat. 

 

We walked home last night after lingerie shopping.  Real French women wear lace it seems. I may be the only crazy american red head around, but at least I speak some of the language and I can shop where they shop.  That's neat.  Everyone we passed seemed to be enjoying bites of a baguette.  The smell of baking bread is making me constantly hungry!  I looked down as we passed another boulangeire and noticed that the streets are literally covered in crumbs.  It looks like hundreds of lost little children scattered them so they could find their way home again. 

 

Maybe that's what I should do... scatter crumbs so when I feel totally lost I can find my way again.

 

Just Because

Really really random shit that I just have to get out of my head space.. the rent is just too damned expensive. 


If you believe in first amendment rights to free speech than you're probably going to hate some of the things you hear... and no, you do not get to be selective about who gets the right and who doesn't.  It has something to do with that "all men are created equally." thing... you might want to read up.   Eat at chick fila or not, gotta love it or hate it at coldstone, craft ala hobby lobby or done.  It doesn't really matter in the long run.  Something about judge not lest you be judged??? It's an oldie but a goodie. 


If you're going to behave like a spoiled child and tell me that I blew it and scold me, do your homework and make sure I actually fucked up.  And since I didn't, have the grace to take your tail, tuck it firmly between your legs and go on about your merry way.  Do not, play the tattle tale game.   It makes you look foolish and it irritates me. 


I am not a horrible person for agreeing to raise another woman's child.  I am the only decent fucking mother that child has every known.  I did not ever intend to steal her or exclude anyone.  What I did agree to was this:  To love her, cherish her, treat her like fine china and precious gold and to protect her from harm.  And I'm doing it.  One day at a time and it's too damn bad if you're the thing I have to protect her from. 


Please do not ask me if my children are adopted.  Especially in front of them.  Ask me alone if you must, but I'll likely think less of you for it.  It's none of your business... and unless I tell you up front because I love you, know you and trust you, the really why would u care. And please, teach your children about the blessings of family - every family, regardless of it's racial composition, it's gender roles, number of participants, generations, etc.  It. Does. Not. Matter.  and it's noneya unless you're involved.  So if you're tempted to ask... think twice. 


Stop dying on my watch.  I'm sick of people dying around me.  31 in 15 days is far too many to have any sort of hand in or knowledge thereof.  Turn off your cell phones, buckle your seat belts, keep your cars in good repair and concentrate on getting from point a to point b with as little drama as humanly possible. 


Do not come into my home and accuse of me of ridiculousness until you have your house in order.  That glass houses and stone throwing thing.  You have no idea what goes on in my home.  You know not the laughter, love and family unity that exists within its walls.  You think you can find some little speck of dirt?  We all have them... and your's are the size of a landfill... god knows.  And karma is a huge bitch I cannot wait to rain down upon you. 

And lastly, be nice.  That's it.  Behave and be nice.  Take in your neighbors trash can for them.  Pick up a piece of litter that didn't need to be there.  Stop jumping to conclusions about shit you know nothing about it and assume the best for a change.  Laugh at a joke that wasn't overly funny because you know the teller will be happier for it.  Stand up on the train so someone else can sit.  Just be nice.  

Like an old shoe

It's been a while, old friend. I should apologize for neglecting you so, but I won't.  You're here for me, my words and not the reverse.  I come back to this place over and over, like a comfy old shoe and for the life of me someday's I cannot figure out why.   Do I really want to vent my deepest and darkest secrets in this space?  Perhaps I do.  Do I really want everyone to know my vague insecurities, my worries, fears, pain and joys?  Guess not, or I'd splash my name and face all over it, wouldn't I?  


So nearly midnight on a random Monday when I've had barely 4 hours sleep and one of the biggest meetings of my life is in 9 hours, why I am here?   It's all very simple.  There's a game a foot, one that threatens the safety and sanctity of everything I hold near and dear to my heart.  And I have 9 hours to get my head into it.  One doesn't usually think of women as warriors, but when the parting shot after loosing badly in court is that you won't stop until you've got your child back and watched mine taken from me... it's the proverbial shot over the bow.  One that I will step up to, acknowledge and fire back at until I've no more fight left in me or I've won the war. 


Man, I'm good at being vague aren't I?  

I will say the one thing I have going for me is that I've chosen to live my life with a sense of purpose, a moral compass, with integrity and passion.  I've lived a life that those who know me, know where I stand and who I am.    And in the end, Karma's a huge bitch I have nothing to worry about. 

Father

There is a man who doesn't always thing so highly of himself.  Someday's he needs a gentle reminder of all that is right in his world... a boost as it were, to make sure he gets how amazing he can be.  So when our youngest female child began her latest decent into despair and we managed to get from her that he looked like R and that it worried her that Daddy and R were the same scary person, a plot hatched.  A plot of his own making, mind you, no one asked him to do this.  He said to me, "what if I shave my head, ditch the beard and die what's left back black?  Do you think I'd still resemble that jackass?"   


I don't think so.  Frankly I don't see the resemblance in the first place, but obviously she does and it's made the last few weeks sheer torture for her.  To me there is no comparison between the monster who tried to end her life and the gentle, sweet, loving daddy who has been her world for nearly 2 years.  I almost thought he was kidding, except I know him too well, and there isn't anything he wouldn't do for his girls. 


So off he went while I cleaned the house, finished up some chores.  And then there he was again, in my face, with his very differently looking face next to mine.  "is the goatee straight?  Is the mustache even?"  And it occurred to me he was serious.  The vast majority of the beard was gone, the mustache neatly trimmed.  O.o.  I helped when it came to the final locks of that rich, think, black, mop and soon it was nothing more than a pile on the bathroom floor.  Not that he hasn't done it before... just never with such purpose.  


When all was said and done, she squealed in delight, that her daddy would do something like this for her.  We've talked some, this child and I about what a daddy is and how you can have more than one, how even one who did not have a hand in your creation can be the one who raises you and ushers you toward a successful future.  If she gets even a smidgen of the message I'll be good.  And he'll always be awesome.  

17 Months and 14 Days

They stick with me... those words, time frames, an indication of an event so overwhelming in one's life that even forty plus years later it's recalled with such stunning clarity. I bet this individual could perhaps even narrow it to the hours if you asked.  I won't.  I know as much of the story as I'm allowed and I'm grateful for having had the opportunity to listen and ask a few demure questions.  It's not my story to tell. 


The notion however, of the experience that so forever changes your life you can recall it in amazing clarity down to the day, the hour, the very minute you long for it to be over, is mine... and I'll discuss it however damn much I like.  


Everything in our live is measured in 3 month or 6 month increments.  Time between court hearings, meetings, reports and review. We're up to 16 and 1/2 months now.  I counted yesterday, in a brief moment of frustration, and the irony of it hit me full force.  Our 17 months and 14 days will be on July 4th.  Independence day.  It's not lost on me that while we as a country are celebrating the birth and resilience of a nation,  my family will be continuing to try our level best to hold together the life of a little person with meds, therapy, kisses, band aids and maybe even a little duct tape.  It's a Mcguyver'd life, that's for sure.  Some days it feels good and other days, like today where I send her off to a visit she doesn't want and cannot emotionally handle that I feel like it's sand slipping quickly and coolly through my fingers and I cannot stop it.  For the "system" that was designed to protect her has gotten to big for it's own britches and will no longer follow their own laws and rules and now makes them up as they go.  And we'll file that under the guise that "each case is unique."  No.. it's not.  They are not different.  Progress, substantive clinical progress should be recognized, celebrated and encouraged.  It should be given time, support, the energy and effort of a thousand people coming together and keeping a family together.  Lack of progress, out right defiance of the rules, disrespect and failures over and over to get with the program should be dealt with swiftly and sharply.  And they are not.  And it's disgusting and offensive. 


Will it be over at her 17 months and 14 days?  It won't.  I know that.  It hurts my heart and stings my soul to no end.  Will it be over at 18 months?  19?  20?  It won't.  I know that too.  It will likely be at least another 6-8 months from now until we can offer her a modicum of peace, stability and tranquility.  More than two years since she began to speak and first called me Mommy and forever captured my heart.  And then I fear we'll spend a life time trying to recover from the hell the "system" has put her through. 

The Power

A few weeks ago, in a moment of mostly self-created despair, a wise man whom I've come to cherish as a  part of my life sent me these words:

Childlike innocence, care free laughter, sleep without interruption, a ray of sunshine, breathless in an intimate moment, the pureness of a rainbow, joy unhindered by the negative --- all things I admire so. Sad to think that life's darkness dulls such beauty. If I had the power...

First of all it was by far the single loveliest collection of words ever to appear in my boring old work email inbox. Secondly it left me momentarily speechless, which is not an easy thing to do. It sums up those things I hold dear to my heart and I love them so because when properly appreciated they hold the power to nourish one's soul.

I find myself coming back to that email, almost daily, these days.  It takes the ugly out of the world, even if for a brief moment in time.  It allows me that moment where I can escape the reality of another three months of hell for my youngest and makes the idea of an endless summer vacation for the oldest seem not quite so much like parental torture.

Thank you for that, my love, thank you for that. 

Sticks and Stones... not.

In the middle of dinner.  A pew in the play land of the church that is the golden arches. The obligatory chicken nuggets with ranch, french fries, apple slices, and chocolate milk.  A plaintiff plea from a Dad who's already had a bad day, "Honey, please just one more nugget and then you can go play."    


The bombshell, deftly deployed.


"You're not my Dad.  T says R is really my dad and you're just the foster father.  I saw him.  He has a mustache and a beard."  Her tone is dismissive.  


The effect is disastrous to the soul of the only real dad she's ever had.  A little bit of him died that day; right there between the bright primary color tables, the video games and the jungle gym.     


How do I know?  How is it possible I can sympathize, empathize and relate to this scene?  It's been me, my scene, a thousand times in as many possible variations the last 17 months of raising this child.  The very first "YOU'RE NOT MY MOMMY!"  complete with foot stomping, arms folded in complete isolation, and defiant stare, takes your breath away.  It robs you of the ability for coherent thought for a moment.  It kills quickly some portion of your soul that still believes in innocence and wonder.  You can't ever get it back.  It takes time, patience, love and alcohol - let's be serious here - raising someone else's screwed up child isn't for the faint of heart - to get to a place of understanding that a child in care can call you Mommy for weeks and then suddenly have a visit with their birth mother, come home scared, lonely, confused and upset and your parental stock plummets to zero with the snap of her little chubby fingers.   I've been Not the Momma so many times, I'd like to think I've become immune to it's charms.  Truth be told, I'm not.  It hurts each and every time.  But I love her and I can understand that she comes from a lifetime of manipulation, lies, secrets and chaos that I, as a child, was blessedly unfamiliar with.  I'm the Mommy who creates responsible meals for her, finds age and size appropriate clothing for her, makes her do chores and help out around the house, comforts her hurts and allows her to cry on my shoulder when she needs to.  I'm the one she turns to daily to have her shoes tied, to help her brush her teeth, to tell her secrets to.  But life with me isn't Disneyland.  I don't come home every night from work bearing candy, toys and presents.  I just am consistently there, in the background, making sure her little life goes forth successfully and hopefully uneventfully.   


I hope one day that her first Momma will come to her senses and voluntarily sign her rights away so that we may adopt her and become her forever Mom and Dad.  Do I think there is a realistic chance that will happen?  Not it hell froze over tomorrow and satan began handing out margaritas.  I have a modicum of faith in the system and hope that time will finally be on our side and the powers that be will see the best interests of this child.   I have to have that faith, or I couldn't get through this and still remain sane. Truly. 


But for the Dad, things are different.  There's never been another dad in the picture. The shock, grief and rage he feels doesn't allow him to see beyond the words and into the scared little soul of a girl who never knew she had a "real" father, who is wildly confused, sad, upset, mad, running a gamut of emotions she hasn't words for at such a tender age. 

He is stuck in utter devastation for the moment.  I get that.  And it's my job as his wife and mother of his children to help him understand that our daughter isn't intentionally trying to stab him in the heart.  She's trying to make sense of a situation for which there is no logic and very little reason and unfortunately she isn't mature enough to choose her words carefully nor has she learned that words do indeed have the power to wound.  

Enough Already

I said to myself about two weeks before my birthday that I really wanted to write more positively and more often about the gifts in my life.  I was going to do that cheesy countdown daily until my next birthday.  I. Am. Not.  I discovered this week - affectionately named the week from utter hell for a reason - that I do not have time each and every day to write.  Some days it cuts into my sleeping, and dear god, I need every minute I can get.    Also... some days I'm just not so fucking positive and how can I claim to be on this path of experiences and self discovery if all I ever write is the positive.  Between an argument with the husband that got wildly out of control, a diminutive shop lifter I have to address today, another daughter who is so lost and confused about who she is and where she fits into the world she lashes out at anyone and everyone, a leg cramp so painful in the middle of the night I awoke screaming, case workers and meetings, doctor's appointments and car issues still waiting to be resolved in this blessed heat, I haven't a clue how to be positive today.   I do however, know how to feel.  I know how to immerse myself in an experience and feel empathy and sympathy for others and that I can write about.  I think I will learn from that and grow as a person and a mother.  Isn't that what it's all about? 

364 - MIL

When life takes that unexpected detour and you find yourself rushing home from work to spending the evening at urgent care, it is good to have family.  Especially a mother in law who loves my daughters as much as I do, and who doesn't hate the Golden Arches like I do and who will drop everything to make sure I can have a few minutes peace while we navigate yet another illness and/or injury to make sure my love stays on track and gets better quickly.  

365 - A Single Candle

Amid the crinkle of a take out box and the giggles of my daughter, there was but a single candle on the slice of birthday cake in the box.  Just one.  It was all I needed to celebrate my firm entry into my forth decade.  It was a giant slice of a tuxedo truffle cake.  Next to it sat another giant slice of tiger layer cake.  Oh, I do love them both.  Getting to share bites their velvety chocolate and cream goodness with two of the three loves of my life was lovely.  It saddens me that my youngest daughter was already in bed, but the antics of small people have to be handled regardless of celebrations.  I just remind myself that this too shall pass. 


I blew out the candle and I wished for the same thing that I wish for every year, real candle or imaginary.  I've done so for a decade or better now.  Perhaps it's time to articulate it and give it voice in the universe. I so want my love to feel better, to do better, to be in a mentally better place.  I think this time someone might have listened.  I don't know if it's a combination of new meds from the new specialist or the hormone levels coming back to some level of stasis.  I do know there is laughter, giggling, jokes and banter, a confident little swagger than I've not seen lately and there is accomplishment.  It is good.  I am thrilled. 

Pre Bday Musing

Bloom where you are planted.  Hold that thought.  I'll get back to it in a bit. 

Cycle of Loss and Renweal

My stepfather in law passed away almost six months ago.  He stopped living many many moons before.  I've written of him previously, his drinking and abuse, the hate that spewed from his mouth and the life not so much lived as belligerently existed.  He was exhausting to be around, and a part of me is not sad that he is gone from us.  The part of me that cares deeply for his stepson, his wife and caretaker, his grandchildren; that part of me has great compassion for those that truly miss him and struggle with his loss.    


Last night on the patio of my mother in laws brand spanking new condo, she said to me, "I tried not to miss him... but I do anyway."  How could you not miss someone with whom you lived with, loved and were married to for 20 years?    She says she doesn't miss the house - it was a ton of work, in great disrepair and sucked her into the vortex of being not good enough, not, not, not.  But she misses the neighbors and the neighborhood.  I get that.  It makes perfect sense to miss the people who cared enough about your safety to check in on you and make sure your husband didn't take out one of his violent drunken rages upon you.   


She says she doesn't get it when everyone tells her it's normal to not feel like you've got your bearings or solid footing, "after all you've been through."  She truly does not understand that a year of taking care of a bedridden husband in hospice care is exhausting, both mentally and physically and the fact that he manipulated, berated and tortured her throughout made it exponentially worse.  She has spent 20 years in servitude to his disease.  


I get that.  Her son gets it.  It's time for her now.  The new glasses, trips to the doctor and dentist, new furniture and new clothing.  They are things she should have done decades ago and never did.   My wish for her future is people who lift her up, praise her abilities and lavish love upon her.  

Done

I asked... something in me needed to.  He hesitated briefly, "I uh, finished up and moved on."  Ouch.  It is what it is I suppose. 

Life goes on.

One of things I love most about my neighborhood is the open space and the farming.  Drive a minute and see the cotton grow during the fall.  Little tiny puff balls of almost white proudly perched atop what looks like brambles.  Drive a minute during the summer and see the bright green corn stalks taller than I am.  Drive south a minute and come to the dark green field studded with orange pumpkins.  And in between?  When the frost stops the fences go up and the lambs come.  It springs up overnight.  I never see it coming but then one day, there they are.  Mama sheep and the lambs, soon to be mamas lumbering around and the grass once higher than proper, all nibbled neatly down to nothing.  And behind my ever so humble abode?  The rancher whom I've never met, but always admires allows his goats to roam freely for the first time all year.  And I love to walk the dog and greet them... watch them jump back and forth over the small irrigation canal like it's the best game ever; most with their swollen bellies and babies in waiting, and hear their low "neeeh" while they approach the fence to nuzzle my hand and see if I might have anything special for them.  And I just might.

Sunflowers

Five days a week I walk E to the bus stop bright and early. It's all of a decent blocks walk, we are still struggling to shrug off the sleep, but it's time. Time together, usually just the two of us, where I get to hold her hand if she lets me, brush the hair back out of her face, talk about school and what not. Each day for the last three weeks I've been pointing out a certain clump of plant life in a neighbor's yard. It's where the sunflowers bloom each spring. A tiny patch around a brightly painted mailbox no more than 18" square that seemingly at random spring forth with a glorious riot of color around my birthday each year. And then before you've ever really had your fill of them, poof, they are gone. It reminds me of fig season. I salivate in anticipation all year long, hunt them down - for they don't grow in my desert - thoroughly enjoy each and every bite and when I go back to the store for more, find out I've been stood up till next year.

Monday, I pause at the bright green plants with their study leaves and tightly closed buds and I say to E, "won't be long now.. the sunflowers are coming." She nods and smiles at me, not quite getting it but she gets that I'm excited about it and it's enough for her.

There they were this morning. 2 dozen or so tightly closed buds just lifting up their little heads toward the sun. but then I saw it... almost totally open, bright yellow petals shining like a new morning and that chocolate center looking oh so fine. I pointed. E looked, eyes wide like she almost didn't believe it. A shared giggle, a duck of her head and a wide shy smile came across that face. I've made my point. Good things come to those who wait, those who understand there is graceful and delicate rhythm to patience, anticipation and satisfaction, those who understand there is nothing gratifying about an instant.

For my 41st year I've made a promise to myself to slow down a little, to remind myself of all the truly wonderful and special moments we all take for granted. Each day a new thing or something I've failed to notice or something that brings me peace and joy. I'm going to document it. I have a couple weeks before the beginning of that year, but why not start now?

Rock, Paper, Scissors

A few days ago E and A got into a squabble about something so silly only a mother could love them both through it and still remain sane. I sat on the porch with their grandmother, enjoying the sun and her company. I had no absolutely intention of returning to the living room to settle lego wars part 1. I suggested the time honored tradition of rock, paper, scissors. E slammed the front door in a huff and went to do whatever it is warring children do when their mothers refuse to intervene. Moments later she was back at the screen door, "moooooooom... A says she has scissors that can cut a rock!" Surely the world must revolve around the wisdom of a 4 year old with a vivid imagination and a genuine lack of affinity for the truth. "No she doesn't..." I explained yet again, "Rock smashes scissors. Paper covers rock. Scissors cut paper. Now go." Quiet reigned for a mere 2 minutes until E emerged and slammed the screen door behind her. In her hands were a sheet of white paper and my good yellow handled kitchen scissors. She had a look of determination about her and she made a beeline for the nearest rock of any heft. "Oh child... what are you up to?" Sheepishly she considered me from beneath dark and fringy lashes. "I wanna test the physics of rock, paper, scissors and prove to A that she's wrong." Nothing like sibling rivalry between two budding geniuses.

Whirlwind

From the moment her eyes snap open and her tiny feet hit the hardwood floor until the moment an adult insists she pull the covers up and go to sleep, she is neither still nor silent. I ask her "A, do you ever shut up?" Without missing a beat, "NOPE!"