Grace

If you look the word "grace" up in the dictionary you would find these two definitions: 

    1. N Christian belief of the free and unmerited favor of God, as manifested in the salvation of sinners and the bestowal of blessings.

       2. V To do honor or credit to (someone or something) by one's presence.

Grace--a blessing bestowed by both God and humans is an awe-inspiring gift. Grace--Lately, I have been thinking about it in all of its splendor and experiencing it all around me. Has it always been here? Or am I simply more cognizant of the abundance of it? I am not sure to be honest. I am just not sure. 

What I am sure of is that Grace has been a constant companion these last six months and I hope beyond all measure that it is here to stay and that I am wise enough now to keep it close. It is an old cliche...out of bad comes good. Lord knows that I have often written about this phenomenon, but I often struggled with a tangible label for the pure and intoxicating good that comes smack in the middle of true trials. But not anymore. It is Grace. Grace comes in the worst moments and brushes hair from my face so that I can see clearly. It strokes the back of my hand to calm me and fills me with light--enough to blind any darkness. 

In September, when Son2 went to jail it was Grace that reminded me that he was now safe from the addictions that turned him into a stranger. And it was the Grace in that incarceration that brought us together braiding thick strands of healing-love during nightly phone calls and weekend visits. 

This past half-year, Grace has followed me and refused to let me wallow. She came in the form of laughter with a life-long friend in a coffee shop after a particularly hard visitation. Grace handed me a fierce and meaningful diversion in the form of a Boston show that shines light on the stigma that often accompanies mental illness. It is this diversion that I dove headfirst into when I felt powerless to help my own son's illness.

Grace bolstered and lifted me at my lowest by introducing me to a prayer mentor who connected me with my God who had been so completely out of reach for the longest time. Grace was there when that same prayer mentor gathered complete and utter blessed strangers who took to praying fervently on behalf of my son. 

When searching for a residential treatment program for Son2, Grace showed up in the form of my "won't-give-up" attitude. She stood firmly next to a probation officer's tenacity and compassion. Grace was there on the other end of a phone line in the form of a kind voice attached to a motherly woman who upon hearing my fear-cracked voice clucked and shushed and walked me through rehab's bureaucratic obstacle courses.

And just two days ago, Grace didn't abandon us on the momentous day of my son's release. She showed her face first thing in the morning when a friend sent a powerful "we are in this together" message. She was on full display in the long embrace between Son2 and his step-dad. Grace even showed herself in his biological dad's tears and quivering chin. Grace soothed me when she showed herself in the understanding smile of Ashley, the social services case worker, and her careful explanations that ensured that my son understood the process. 

Driving down the highway, as the exit for the treatment center loomed large and grew closer, I closed my eyes overcome with fear and sadness and nausea. I prayed for Grace to take my hand. I prayed that she'd help Son2 find a welcoming place in which he'd spend the next year. Exiting the car, I prayed that Grace would stop my legs from buckling and my teeth from chattering. I prayed that Grace would help me be what it was that my child needed me to be. It was sheer Grace that provided the strength that allowed me to walk up the treatment center's steps with resolve and to open that door and to look back at a crumbling Son2 with an encouraging smile. 

And as we entered the tiny office to say our last goodbyes to my weary and frantic child, I was sure that even Grace couldn't keep me from collapsing under the weight of distress and poignancy of the moment. But right then...right then...a blessing bestowed.

A woman, the center's director, walked purposely toward us. Her empathy was palpable. Her eyes were warm and understanding. She reached for me. She took my hand and she said. I am here for your son. I am here for you. 

My name is Grace. 


  

1. 
   

The Most Meaningful Moment

After pulling the flannel nightgown over my head, I sat down in my worn rocking chair and text Son1:

I leaned my head back waiting for a response and smiled. It had been a particularly satisfying weekend. Son1 was home from college with Magicalfairyprincessgirlfriend so they could rehearse for a Christmas show they'll be performing in soon. The time spent together was chuck full of intellectual college-type talk; psychological theory, professors who rock, assignments that don't, time spent with roommates and on and on. 

I opened my eyes and looked at the phone...no response. Hmmm. Usually I get a text from Son1 when he arrives safely back into the arms of his dorm suite because, well, I may perhaps be a bit of a worrier...just maybe, and he knows me so well. (And...no...I didn't expect him to answer if he was driving...Magicalfairyprincessgirlfriend would answer for him typically under that scenario.)

I continued to stare at the screen, willing it to answer. It didn't and so I text:

Knowing myself, I got up from my chair and went to the bathroom to wash my face and to keep my mind occupied. I scrubbed away still smiling at the time spent with those two crazy kids...adults...kid-adults...Anywhooo...I was smiling, smiling large. I smushed that smile along with the rest of my face into a fluffy towel, patted it dry and walked back to my chair where the phone rested. Nothing...nothing at all. Just two lonely green talk bubbles with my texts echoing on a vast white screen. And looking back on it now, that's when it probably happened...my gruesome mom-imagination kicked in...It started as a flash of an image; a car turned over laying on its roof, two pieces of my heart laying in hospital beds. Cell phones flung hither and yon not to be found and so no way for the emergency officials to know how to find me...the mom.  From there my brain moved on to some freak snow storm that somehow fell just on the Mass Turnpike, dumping feet and feet of the slippery white stuff and forcing Son1 to pull off the road. There they'd sit, stranded...gas light on...contemplating wrapping the seat upholstery around their feet so that they could walk to safety. (Clearly I watch wayyyy too much reality tv!) 

I stood up quick and waved my hand to clear my frantic and overworked mind, picked up the phone and text:

When he didn't answer, I moved on to Magicalfairyprincessgirlfriend--no answer there. I decided on one more desperate text:

After 6 or 7 (or maybe 8)  direct phone calls to both Magicalfairyprincessgirlfriend's and Son1's phone, both of which went directly to voice mail fueling the cellphone-has-flown-out-of-the-car-during-a-bloody-car-wreck theory, I went sort of crazy. (Okay, crazIER than just five minutes before.) I will spare you the minute details of that mini-breakdown but they just may include a frantic call to my local state police office inquiring about how to find out about accidents on state roads, a Facebook message to Magicalfairyprincessgirlfriend's mother and perhaps one to a suite-mate of Son1's (although if pressed I will plead the 5th...) Those details may also include a manic and rude awakening of Son1's step-father where I MAY have cried a bit telling him the gruesome details of what I thought had befallen my two dear college students...All of those things MAY have taken place (but once again, if asked directly I will deny, deny and deeeeee--ny!)

Just as I was about to unleash my wrath on a bureaucrat at the state police office who actually had the gall to speak to me as if I was a tad out of my mind (CAN YOU IMAGINE????) the phone buzzed with a call on the second line. It was Son1 apologizing...his phone had died and there was no time to charge it before he and Magicalfairyprincessgirlfriend had to dash off to acapella rehearsal. 

Instantly...instantly my shoulders came out of my ears, the nervous maniacal stomach butterflies flew away and I found myself laughing out loud. I plopped down on my bed, and while some of you are probably wondering if my relief soon turned to anger, it didn't. Not at all. 

Here's the thing--he's doing it. Son1 is doing it. Everything that I have ever dreamed for him; every-single-thing. I wanted him to take risks. He is. I wanted him to get involved. He is. I dreamed that he'd use his God-given talents. He is. I hoped that he'd know how very worthy he was of friends, and camaraderie, and relationships galore. He does. I imagined him growing and thinking and changing in an intellectual community that carried him into adulthood. He's doing just that. 

Mamas, for years we dream and we want and we hope and imagine for our children. While we're in the thick of it...the raising years, the nail biting years, the holy-moly-where-did-this-surly-alien-being-come-from years it doesn't feel as if any of those dreams, wants, hopes and imaginings will ever come to fruition.  How could they when they can't pack a backpack, or pick up garbage that is right in front of them, or manage to wash their underwear more than once a month (if that...)? It seems as if all the things that we wish for our children will never ever come true. But let me tell you Mudders...it will happen. It WILL, and when it does, when we finally understand that they are off...that their wings are spread and they are flying at an altitude that seems downright amazing...when that moment of  realization hits--the feeling, well, it's breathtakingly beautiful. Even if just five minutes before because of a mistake on their part you were convinced that they were lying dead in a ditch somewhere, you will laugh...laugh out loud, because honestly I am not sure that there will ever be a moment more important, more meaningful than the one where it dawns on us that our children are going to be just fine as adults. Just fine indeed. 

Looking for a book to Read! You Can't Miss This One!

Good Cop, Bad Daughter-A Book By Karen Lynch!

Once in a while every mama in the world feels like she holds the title of “Worst Mom Ever.”  It’s part of our job description to feel guilty about our choices and second guess every decision.  Want to feel better about your parenting skills?  Have I got a book for you!  Karen Lynch’s highly acclaimed memoir, Good Cop, Bad Daughter, recounts her upbringing at the hands of a narcissistic mother and takes us all on her journey of survival where she finds that miraculously her suffering as a young child actually helps prepare her to become one of San Francisco’s first female cops.

When I picked up Karen’s book, I was prepared to read a “Glass Castle-esque” story that told the tale of a poor child who was swept up into the chaos of being raised by a mentally-ill parent.  And while Good Cop, Bad Daughter does read very much like a Jeannette Walls’ classic, what struck me about THIS particular memoir-of-a-mom-gone-wrong is the strength that Karen possessed to not only overcome the pain of her childhood but to use each and every horrible moment as tools which ultimately helped to propel her to become the woman she is today.

Karen writes, “Living with mom had given me insight into the subtlety of non verbal communication.  I’d learned to protect myself by reading mom’s moods and predicting her behavior.  Now I was finding I was good at predicting the behavior of people I encountered on the streets too.”

Good Cop, Bad Daughter is a funny, poignant and gut wrenching story of a child with an unmedicated mentally ill mother who thankfully is able to find acceptance and “family” in the most unlikely of places; the summer of love counter culture of Haight-Ashbury, from men in a men’s club who never wanted her in the first place, and among a few other brave women who dare to try and be the first of their kind in the San Francisco police department. The reader agonizes over the cruelty Karen experiences repeatedly as both a lonely beleaguered child and a female trying to make her way into the all-male world of the San Francisco Police Department.  We wring our hands with worry along side of Karen as she anticipates what disasters may come next from her unpredictable mother, and are tormented when her career and private life dramatically collide.  

Looking for a book about overcoming the odds?  Good Cop, Bad Daughter constantly reminds readers of the amazing resilience of the human spirit.  Karen’s determination to make a life for herself that was different than the one she experienced as a child, her grit, tenacity and her “never give up” attitude remind us all that nothing in life is impossible.  

How to be Hercules!

When we were teens, he was wise beyond his years, hilarious in a Robin Williams-esque manner, and I was totally crushin' on his cosmic intelligence.  Back then it was apparent, even to my shallow teenage mind, that he was a "girl's" guy.  One who GOT our gender and appreciated what made us--well--us.  Last year, through the magic of Facebook, we reconnected and he didn't disappoint.  Now, an assistant professor of cognitive science at Carleton University and the director of the Science of Imagination Laboratory, he was one of the first to encourage me to keep at my fledgling blog.  Through our limited conversations, his various status updates that gushed about his equally talented wife, and comments on my blog, it was infinitely clear that he still is THAT guy who is a lover of women, especially when one day after he read my A Reminder To Move post, he left this comment: "When I have children, I want my wife to be fulfilled.  How much can a husband do to facilitate this?  If a husband gives his wife a whole day, or a weekend, or one night a week off, will she take it?  If she does, can she leave mothering at home and, say, learn to cook Thai food?"

I have mulled over this question for months.  Sometimes the cynic in me laughed at the mere thought that a MAN could do ANYTHING to encourage his wife to follow her dreams. It certainly would be a herculean task. One that would require muscles of the mind.  That cynical voice mocked, "Yeah, how about starting with putting the toilet seat down bub?" But then again, another voice nagged me for weeks on end.  It whispered crazy things like, "What if?" and "Who knows?" and even crazier words like, "If your husband could do anything to encourage you to have a life outside of the family, what would it be?"

Now I am NOT saying that we must look outside ourselves to others to find our happiness.  Nope.  I still contend that if YOU want it YOU must go and get it, mother or not.  However, I am convinced that a supportive spouse or significant other is essential to a mother's independence and growth as a human being.

And so, for you my intuitive friend, Jim, and for men all over the world I have compiled a list of suggestions that you can do, be and say to help the women in your lives be so much more than just the mothers of your children.

1.  First of all--perhaps most importantly--ask about our dreams.  Ask about who we'd be if we could do anything.  Ask where we'd go if we could go anywhere.  Ask what we'd do if we could do anything. And then...and then... LISTEN--really listen to the answer.

2.  Once you've heard the answers, help us devise ways of reaching our goals.  Look up classes.  Help us design ultimate travel itineraries.  Join us in finding the best path to get where we're going.

3.  Whether it is one hour, one day or one week, the time away from our children is the heaviest weight mothers can carry. It will sabotage even the most well planned plan.  Mom guilt is tough, but it just might ease a little if you assure us that our children will be taken care.  No no...not just assure us that they will be taken care of, but that they will be taken care of in the same manner that we'd care for them. I'll let you in on a little secret men-of-the-world, we mothers can be quite egocentric you know.  It is a wonder that the world spins without our okay.    Now, I don't make that admission lightly, but I make it so that you can put it to use.  In order to rid ourselves of "mom guilt" it is essential that we think that our children won't suffer one iota from our absence.  So watch what we do, how we love, scold, support and understand our children, and then use that knowledge to to reassure us that our babies, our toddlers, our preschoolers, our tweens and teens will be just fine without their moms for a little while.  The world still spins while we sleep.

4.  When we return from our night class, our trip away, our girls' dinner, from whatever it is that we have professed as our dreams, our needs, our hopes and goals, don't let us regret it.  Remember that little secret I just let you in on?  All it would take is coming home to a house full of dishes, or a screaming child, or a broken and flooding toilet to send us reeling and saying out loud "See this is why I can't ever leave the house!"  Yeah okay.  We mudders can be martyrs.  Honestly though,  what are we supposed to think when things fall apart in our absence?  How about this, if they DO fall apart, just handle it.

5.  Marriage is a partnership.  Okay stop rolling your eyes. Such a cliche I know.  Blah blah blah...kum bay ya and all that other stuff.  But seriously...make sure you aren't just blowing hot air when you say that well-worn phrase.  A partnership means that both parties are aware of the work involved in raising their families and the responsibilities are equally divided.  If a chores list that splits it down the middle gives you the willies then at least check in with your partner on a weekly basis and be sure that she feels like the load she is bearing is equal and appropriate, and most importantly doable.  Knowing that the "other stuff" will get done, heck, just acknowledging to us that you know there is "other stuff" will be a huge burden lifted.

One of my favorite authors, Simone de Beauvoir once said, "The torment that so many women know, bound hand and foot by love and motherhood, without having forgotten their former dreams."   How tragic that for so many mothers these words ring true.  I used to think that it was just a hardship that mothers had to bear, a righteous sacrifice for the children we love.  But thanks to a question asked by a truly evolved man I am rethinking, reassessing the role of mother.  Perhaps besides being there, it is just as important for us to show our children that in order to be healthy and whole humans we must constantly work toward and never forget our dreams.  And with a husband or significant other who champions us, how could we go wrong?

An Apology from the Universe

Hi  there.  Universe here.  I know.  I know.  You are mad at me.  I haven't been very kind lately.  Seems like I'm picking on you doesn't it?  Cosmos and I, well, we have sent you an inordinate amount of shall we say...Universal do-do.  Would you believe me if I told you it's because our sewers up here have been clogged for days?  Nah.  I didn't think you would. So...you are looking for some Universal truths?  That was a joke. Get it?  Universal Truths?  No.  Still not smiling eh?  Okay.  Okay.  I guess I do owe you an apology for SOME of the bad.  Here goes.

1.  I am sorry that being a mom has been hard lately.  It must feel horrific to watch one of your children from afar make poor choice after poor choice and not be able to do anything about it.  I see you wake up daily with new resolve and so it pains me to pummel you with another explosive moment or another teacher complaint or another worrisome action.  The stress-the encompassing anguish- has broken you.  I can tell.  You would think that I would at least give you a couple of days here and there to breathe, rest your mind.  I am sorry that I have been unable to do that.  But you must trust me on this, there is a reason for the turbulence your son is going through right now.  I know that your lost little boy and the trouble he gets into is excruciating and is a constant barb in your mind.  But just trust in Cosmos and me.  We've seen it all.  We've done it all.  Sometimes in the midst of horrific pain, you must just blindly have faith in the fact that every once in awhile gripe will bring gratification...much later on.....but brings it nonetheless.

2.  Continuing on that mom theme, ehem...have you noticed how grumpy your oldest has been lately?  Whew!  THAT must get old!  I mean....you jokingly tell him he has stinky feet and he's all like, "I hate you.  I hate you so much!"  Punctuated of course by that constant slamming of his bedroom door.  Sheesh...touchy touchy touchy.  Take a CHILL pill man!  But honestly, you can't blame this one on ME and Cosmos!  I mean there is an animal called Hormones, and he can be QUITE the devil!   At our monthly world meetings, he can be SO moody and unpredictable.  You just never know what will come out of that man's mouth.  So yeah...I am completely aware of how difficult it is to live with him on a regular basis.  It's the reason Cosmos and I never invite him to dinner.  Yes it is true, Hormones is PART of me, the Universe, but like a wild animal...I just can't control him.  However, since he DOES come from me, I will apologize profusely for his hold on your son, but will also defend him because of course the work he does  for me is of the utmost importance in order for life to continue.  So let's cut Hormones some slack and just remind ourselves that he will move on to some new teenager very very soon.  Yes, soon.  I will put that on my to-do list. 

3.  Okay, let's talk Ila.  I am going to tell you right up front that I will not--absolutely will not-- apologize for anything that is taking place when it comes to her.  Sure, she's a little crooked from her torticollis. Sure, conventional physical therapy hasn't worked.  Alright, alright, so the doctor scared you to death when he said he wanted to send her to UVM to see a pediatric neurologist and to Boston to see a pediatric orthopedist.  But look...it isn't like she has a terminal disease you know?   Moms with kids who DO have terminally ill children have rights to worry and fret and feel sorry for themselves.  But a little crooked neck?  Nuh uh.  No way.  Stop wallowing.  I gave you gut instincts for a reason.  USE them!  Both doctors will come to the same conclusion that Ila will need the surgery that corrects her tilt.  A little, teeny, eensie, weensie surgery that she won't even remember when she grows up.  And hey...how about throwing ME some appreciation for the bones I have thrown YOU when it comes to this subject!  It isn't all bleak, Logan.  You have had some incredible Universal intervention with your daughter.  Please don't ignore that I sent you Jill, Miss PT Perfection, who diagnosed what, until her, went undiagnosed.  And how about a thank you for putting some fire under your pediatrician's behind.  I mean...he is a pretty laid back doctor, and yet, his feelings for you and your family coupled with his incredible brain and senseare allowing you to go to the BEST doctors for this, not just some local yocal.  I mean, I aligned the stars for you on this one.  So don't expect me to apologize for all my hard work.

4.  This final one, the infamous "salsa crotch day," well I am just ashamed of Cosmos and myself. I'll admit we used you for our own amusement.  Hey, even we need some comedy once in awhile.  You just happened to be the target.  I know.  It took a lot of mental energy to leave your problems behind, to be positive and plan a day in NYC over vacation.  I know that you would have rather let your son and your husband go to the basketball game in New Jersey without you as planned.  But you were right, you deserved a little break and good times.  We shouldn't have messed with it.  We just couldn't help it.  I mean, your reactions to strife is just hysterical.  I know you didn't find the car breaking down half way to Manhattan a comical moment, especially since you had to spend money on a rental.  Cosmos and I were SO impressed when you tried like hell to forge ahead with your positive attitude even when it became apparent that NYC was out of the question if you wanted your hubby and son to make the basketball game on time.  That little "let's all go swimming in the New Jersey hotel," was a valiant effort.  But looking back at it now, can you at least chuckle at the horrific lunch and dinner we conjured up for you.  I mean it was classic right.  Lunch at a rest stop on the Thruway instead of your favorite Manhattan restaurant.  Having to choose from two fast food restaurants that you hated, and clincher....having Ila push that entire container of salsa over the table to land like a bull's eye right in the center of your crotch.  Come on!  That was just completely entertaining.   You should have seen yourself trying to wipe that, ehem, um--area--discreetly in the VERY public bathroom.  And when Cosmos had that little girl ask you if you wet your pants, I swear the milk I was drinking came right out of my nose from laughing so hard.  Then, Cosmos and I had to wrap our arms around our middle to keep from splitting with laughter when the diluted salsa soaked through you underpants ten miles down the road and started burning your...well..hoo hoo.  Oh....good times.  Good times.

Where was I???  Ah yes...the apology.  But when we trapped you in that 2 hour traffic jam on the way to dinner and your diuretic medicine kicked in and you had to pee so bad you were sure that your bladder was holding the entire Hudson River, Cosmos and I thought that that would be the most fun we had all day.  Potty humor you know is usually the best.  And when you got out of your car in the middle of all that traffic and actually jumped into a construction port-a-potty in front of all those drivers, we thought we hit the comic jackpot.

But then you got back in the car.  We weren't prepared for the tears.  Those were some serious water works.  When the car got quiet and even the teenager felt sorry for you....we knew you had enough.

I know that on top of all the new hardships, you are still dealing with your husband out of work and a heart condition that dogs you daily making your legs and arms and mind feel like their moving through mud.  Cosmos and I are sorry. We are very sorry.  Despite what you think, we don't enjoy bearing down on you like we have.  (Okay we enjoyed the "salsa crotch.")  I wish I could tell you that you've seen the last of the dark and cloudy days, but just as sunshiney summer turns to icy cold winter,  and back again to summer, bad will turn to good and then back to bad in this life.  It is how Cosmos and I roll.  Instead of dwelling on the bad, depressing yourself and those around you, try to remember that positives and negatives during a lifetime are...well...UNIVERSAL!

Chow Baby! 

My Bullied Son: A Mother's Story

Recently a friend posed a question.  She wondered if it was wrong for a mom to hate a 6th grade girl. Now I don't have the details or the reasons for the strong feelings she is encountering, but the question itself reminded me of similar feelings I had a few years ago when we found out that one of our sons was being bullied severely.  What made that news worse was that when pressing for details, our son revealed that it had been going on for about two years.  When we found out, I experienced a massive jumbled mixture of emotions.  There was an incredulous/guilty feeling that it had gone on for so long and that I had absolutely no idea.  There were signs.  Oh my there were such signs!  He would  make himself throw up so he could come home from school.  He would cry in the morning or stall when it was time to leave.  He would have anger outbursts after school about little inconveniences like no milk in the fridge. Instead of disciplining him for those behaviors, I should have seen them for what they were; symptoms of a bigger problem.   There was also this feeling of deep sadness, almost mourning,  for my son who had to go to school everyday knowing that he'd end up being pushed, shoved, knowing he'd hear cutting words that made him feel worthless and less than the wonderful kid he really is.  The depression that engulfed me when imagining the many scenarios that he must have endured was overwhelming and swallowed me whole.  But the strongest feeling that I experienced was a rage like no other rage I have ever felt.  Every inch of me hated that bully, that child.  Loathed.  Detested.  One night I had a dream that I actually strangled the boy.  I woke up shaky and a nauseous.  The anger had taken over. 

Lately there has been a lot in the news about bullies and how they effect kids.  I can tell you from experience that what my son went through has had a profound influence on his self worth, on his self esteem.  It is very difficult for him to succeed at anything.  He self sabotages, doesn't do homework, doesn't try out for solos in chorus that the teacher practically tells him would be his if he'd just take the risk.  During his middle school years and into high school he relived the rejection he experienced in elementary school by setting himself up to fail at friendship again and again.  He set his sights on hanging out  with the popular of the popular.  I realize now that if any of those boys had accepted him into their group it might, for him, have erased the thoughts in his mind that he was unworthy of any friendship.  But alas, it never happened.  The stigma of being "the kid that was bullied" stuck with him for a long time and many kids didn't want to be seen with him.  So they didn't answer the phone when he called or wouldn't include him in trips to a football game or invite him to birthday parties.  He therefore has an extreme anxiety when it comes to calling or asking anyone to do something or go somewhere.  He assumes he will  be rejected.  Fear of rejection, of not being good enough has ruled his life since being bullied.

When my sons were little I remember conversations with them about how to handle it if someone was picking on them.  Looking back, I gave all the wrong advice.  Typically parents tell kids to ignore the bully.  To tell an adult if it continues.  I even did the old, "you catch more flies with sugar than you do with vinegar."  I actually told them that if someone is mean they should try over and over to be nice.  I even recall telling them that a bully is that way because there is something horrific in his or her life that makes them that way.  And all that might be true.  But I know now that it isn't how you teach your kids to handle a bully at all.  Not at all.

The thing is rationalization does work for adults but NOT kids.  For the most part we can remove ourselves from the source of the bullying, therefore not be subjected to it day after day.  Our adult minds are able to understand how truly pitiful it is to be a bully. We can almost sympathize with  abusers who use curse words as weapons because of their lack of verbal intelligence.  We understand how truly weak bullies are when they hide behind the anonymity of  emails or gossip spreading.  We can laugh at the pathetic use of blanket statements like "Did you know everyone thinks this or that of you?"  As adults, we know that those who bully and verbally abuse are damaged in some way and are looking to hurt others to make themselves feel better.  We can dismiss them as the small human they are, and by doing so force them to face that their hateful words and deeds truly are insignificant in our lives. Smart, evolved adults know to never give credence to the ramblings of unbalanced human beings.  

But children's minds are not as developed (now there is a revelation!) There is no time for understanding, sympathy, or empathy and there is certainly no time to laugh.  All that bullied kids know, all they comprehend is the humiliation and pain that they go through day after day.  The mental warfare that they experience at the hands of a menacing, seemingly maniacal meanie who is out to make mince meat of them is unbearable and life changing. As my daughter grows up, I will teach her differently. I will tell her that no one deserves to be bullied whether it be physically or verbally. I will tell her that she has a right to feel safe and to protect herself. Don't get me wrong. I won't encourage her to fight, but I will teach her how to be assertive. I will teach her to yell firmly, "Leave me alone!" and that stepping closer to someone and looking them in the eye while saying very sternly, "I am not afraid of you," is the best way to show that she is not someone to be trifled with, that she is not an easy target.

But in my son's case, I must thank the universe for the resilience of the human spirit.  That bullied son of mine is slowly learning through very hard work of his own, that there are kids out there who like him because of who he is and he's befriended them.  He's learning that there are very specific rewards for being the nice guy.  His new girlfriend is evidence of that.  He's learning that he has talents that make him special.  He hones them daily and seeks out where those talents are appreciated.  But the brightest light, the very most illuminated illumination of this whole rotten "getting over the big bad bully thing" is the fact that my son didn't let the bully win.  He is pushing on with his life.  Making the bully's words and deeds insignificant by dismissing him for the small human being he was back then in elementary school.  Head held high he can say with a wink, "I never give credence to the ramblings of an unbalanced human being."  You and me both kid.  You and me both!

It is Thanksgiving and I'm taking a break from writing this week.  But my friend sent me this wonderful essay on motherhood today and I thought, "What a gift this is for any mother."  And since, dear readers this is the week to give thanks, I'd like to exuberantly give my heartiest appreciation to you all who read and comment and support my writing.  I am so grateful for you.  Your readership, wisdom, and wonderful friendship warms my soul and helps this sticky road called "motherhood" feel a little less lonely.  So please accept the following essay as a token of my thanks to all of my Mudders.  Happy Thanksgiving!

Invisible Mother.....By Anonymous

It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken to the store. Inside I'm thinking, 'Can't you see I'm on the phone?'
 
Obviously not; no one can see if I'm on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all. I'm invisible.. The invisible Mom. Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more! Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this??
 
Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a human being. I'm a clock to ask, 'What time is it?' I'm a satellite guide to answer, 'What number is the Disney Channel?' I'm a car to order, 'Right around 5:30, please.'
 
Some days I'm a crystal ball; 'Where's my other sock?, Where's my phone?, What's for dinner?'
 
I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history, music and literature -but now, they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again. She's going, she's going, she's gone!?
 
One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England . She had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself. I was feeling pretty pathetic, when she turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, 'I brought you this.' It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe .

I wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I read her inscription: 'With admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees.' In the days ahead I would read - no, devour - the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work: 1) No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no record of their names. 2) These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished. 3) They made great sacrifices and expected no credit. 4) The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw
everything.
 
A story of legend in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, 'Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof, No one will ever see it And the workman replied, Because God sees.'

I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, 'I see you. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does.
 
No act of kindness you've done, no sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've baked, no Cub Scout meeting, no last minute errand is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can't see right now what it will become.
 
I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on. The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.
 
When I really think about it, I don't want my son to tell the friend he's bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, 'My Mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for 3 hours and presses all the linens for the table.' That would mean I'd built a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his friend, he'd say, 'You're gonna love it there...'
 
As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we're doing it right. And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible mothers.
 
Share this with all the Invisible Moms you know... I just did.

Mama's Soundtrack

The soundtrack starts first thing in the morning.  I am awakened by shouting and banging, presumably the boys fighting, and immediately the bass guitar of David Bowie's Under Pressure begins its repetitive" bum bum bum ba ba bum bum, bum bum bum ba ba bum bum."  I jump out of bed and find the two boys in front of the bathroom arguing about who will shower first.  We have assigned a section of time for each kid so the problem (it would seem) is easily solved.  "Aidan, you overslept.  It is Gannan's time in the shower.  You will have to wait."
"Mom!"  screams Aidan frantically.  "I have to get to school early!  I have a review class!"
"Nope, nope." says Gannan sarcastically.  "It's my time right mom?  Right?"
Trying to decide what to do, my mind's soundtrack plays in the background.

                      " Pressure, pushing down on me
                       Pressing down on you, no man ask for
                       Under pressure, that burns a building down
                       Splits a family in two
                       Puts people on streets."

I grew up in a musical family where performing, piano lessons, voice lessons, dance lessons, 8 track tapes, oodles of albums and radios blaring intertwined with the din of life on 132 Hunter Street.  Music was always there.  It would keep me company on my paper route at 5:30 in the morning.  It would play in the background during showers, homework time, or hanging out with friends, and while belting out a show tune on stage, it would give me a high like no other.  Music was and still is a reliable and trusted friend.   Is it any wonder that it accompanies me on this motherhood journey?  It seems that  for every situation I experience throughout the day there is a song I can connect to it.  Many people who enjoy music are attracted to the melodies and combination of sounds.  For me, the lyrics have always been the most important.  If I can relate to the words the singer is singing, the song has me hooked forever.  Songs that make me feel less alone as a mom and sometimes a wife immediately get put on my iPod and become part of the "mom soundtrack" in my head.  Sound crazy?  Little singers in my head...No my name isn't Sybil!  Let me give you more examples.

The boys are outside.  Baby is napping.  I have seen an interesting story on CNN that I can't wait to discuss with Jeffrey.  We settle in on the couch and I say, "You should have seen this story that Anderson Cooper did on CNN last night."

"Uh huh."  Jeff grunts.
I am pretty sure I see his eyes glaze over, but I really want to tell him about it so I press forward. As I delve into the details of the story (that I will spare you here) Jeff's eyes wander to the television.  I move my position on the couch so that he at least can see me peripherally and therefore may refocus, but instead he turns his head a little more focusing harder on the TV.  It is at this moment that my mom soundtrack begins to play Listen (from the motion picture Dreamgirls) sung so brilliantly by Beyonce.

                            "Listen... to the song here in my heart
                             A melody I start but can complete.
                             Listen... to the sound from deep within
                             It's only beginning to find release."

Trying to ignore that his eyes aren't looking at me, trying to ignore that his body is pitched forward as if trying to hear the TV better, even trying to ignore the song playing in my head warning me that I don't have his attention, I continue to talk and pose a question--perhaps to measure whether my husband is listening or not--


"Can you believe he reacted that way?" 

"Uh huh."  he grunts again.  His eyes are on the TV.  I sit quietly hoping that he is just thinking of something to say, but after five silent minutes I give up, and as I walk away Beyonce's voice sings louder in my head.

                               "Listen... I am alone at a crossroads
                                I am not home in my own home
                                And I tried and tried to say what's on my mind.
                                You should have known."

I am not sure when I realized that I had this growing collection of songs in my mind chiming in during specific daily moments.  But I am kind of glad that they are there.  It is comforting to me that there are song writers out in the cosmos who seem to understand, in their own way, the feelings that I may be experiencing at  certain times.  And that isn't to say that the songs only play during frustrating times.  They also play during times of happiness and levity.


For instance, whenever I see Ila after a particularly long nap or date night with Jeff, Leona Lewis' version of The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face  plays melodically throughout my head.  "I thought the sun rose in your eyes..."  At night the soundtrack leaves my head and gets played out as lullabies sung by me.  If you were a fly on the wall in Ila's bedroom you would hear a variety of songs from Carly Simon's Love Of My Life  and Barbara Streisand's version of Not While I'm Around to my very favorite, Carole King's Child Of Mine. 

                             "You don't need direction, you know which way to go
                              And I don't want to hold you back,
                              I just want to watch you grow
                              You're the one who taught me
                              you don't have to look behind
                              Oh yes, sweet darling
                              So glad you are a child of mine."

There are many songs that seemed to get played out  more often than others.  For instance, when I am feeling particularly desperate about the problems that plague the family that I love, when I feel inadequate in the mothering department, a favorite tune by Jon McLaughlin, Beautiful Disaster becomes a repetitive reel both in my head and on the i Home in my kitchen.  "Perfect only in her imperfection" is a line that seems to sum up how I feel most of the time when it comes to being a mother.  I am ashamed to say that sometimes, on very taxing days where I have been a taxi driver, a chef, a referee, a maid, and an overall punching bag for the shortcomings of my children's lives, Adam Lambert's purely amazing voice belts out the chorus from his recent hit, Whataya Want From Me. Concentrating on that line..."Hey!  Whataya want from me, whataya want from me heee..." has offered me moments of sanity when really all I wanted to do was LOSE-MY-MIND-ON-THE-NEAREST-CHILD.  So my soundtrack really CAN sooth the inner savage beast.

Finally I'd be remiss to leave out that my Mama Soundtrack can sometimes help to set a tone or mood.  For instance, on the rare evening that my husband and I go out (and I mean really out, drinks, dancing, good food, friends) I can do a pretty great Mimi impression in the shower holding my scrub brush as a microphone and singing Out Tonight from the Broadway show, Rent.

                                "Let's go owwwwooooot tonight.
                                I have to go owwwwwoooooot tonight.
                                You wanna prowl, be my night owl?
                                Well take my hand, we're gonna howl
                                Owwwooooot tonight."

Really gets a girl going, ya know?  And then of course at the end of the day, when all is quiet I sit at my vanity removing makeup and brushing my hair, and Jeffrey comes in after giving Ila a bath smelling of soap and Johnson's baby lotion.  He sits behind me on the bed and says in a particular way how much he loves me.  At moments like this, I may turn to gaze in his eyes while Beyonce's Naughty Girl rings its slow sultry beginning in my ears, "Ahhhhhh love to love ya baby.  Ahhhhh love to love ya baby...."  ehem...What happens next?  Well my dear readers, those details are for a far DIFFERENT kind of blog.

If you are interested in some of my songs, you can click on them and listen or even purchase them from Amazon.com.
What about you?  What's on YOUR soundtrack that you think I should add to mine?  Leave your list by commenting below!

When a Child Clearly Favors One Parent Over the Other

Ila's whole body goes stiff.  Her arms flap up and down horizontally.  Her mouth spreads across her face in the biggest smile that an 8 month old can muster. I mean you can see the stub of her new tooth if you look closely.  If she is sitting she begins to excitedly bounce on her bottom.  If she is standing in her saucer, her legs lock, her whole body quakes and she gives a throaty squeal in eager anticipation of being picked up by her very favorite person in the whole--wide--world.   What a warm and fuzzy feeling the recipient of this joy must feel.   Yeah, Jeff just loves it!  

(Those of you who don't do whiny might want to look away for a sec because I am going to start bemoaning BIG TIME in the next sentence.) After nine months of carrying Ila, after 4 months of bed rest to keep her healthy where any muscle tone that I had turned to liquid and oh-so-lovely cellulite, after gaining a substantial amount of weight in order to keep her fed, (weight that plans on staying by the look and size of its suitcase), even after adjusting my life's goals in order to raise a happy, well adjusted child...Ila prefers her dad.

The word "prefers" doesn't do it justice.  Let me paint the picture for you.  Today Jeffrey was changing Ila in her bedroom.  I walked in and bent down to kiss her.  She planted her chubby hand in the middle of my face and shoved.  She immediately clenched her fists, gave a low growl which then led to a panicked squeal.  She looked towards Jeff with pleading eyes continuing the high pitched squawk as if to say, "Don't let that mean lady touch me." 

I know, I know anything could have set her off during that scene this morning.  But unfortunately this plays out over and over and over again in many different scenarios.  Kinda hurts a girl's feelings.  Now don't get me wrong.  We have great times together; on the floor playing with her Fisher Price farm, cooling off in her kiddie pool, eating new foods, taking walks.  As long as Jeffrey isn't around Ila and I are thick as thieves.  But put the three of us in the same room together and, well, do I dare say it?  I am chopped liver. 

Trying to be a "different" kind of mom than I was the first time around, I decided to be proactive and take this bull by the horns. Today I found out that there are ways to turn this rejection on its head, not so that she is rejecting Jeff (although secretly if that happened just once I have to say that it'd feel delicious,) but instead so that she learns that she can love both of us at the same time.  At first, I have to admit, I fell into that old trap of scowling and telling her a firm "no" when she began to throw fits when I showed up on her radar.  I even asked Jeff to tell her no, thinking that his disappointment might somehow thwart those growls and wails of panic.  When that didn't work, I quickly consulted my trusted therapist (who I happen to have on speed dial) and as usual, she made me see things differently.

In her educated and always correct opinion, she told me that Ila wasn't shutting me out so much as asserting her strong feelings for her dad.  It was important therefore that together Jeffrey and I show Ila that we can all love each other.  I guess you could call it operation "Can't We All Just Get Along" and it was simpler than I anticipated it to be.  My beloved Dr. Speed Dial suggested that when Ila growls or treats me like an outlaw, Jeff and I should kiss and hug each other and then kiss and hug Ila together.  Much to my surprise she LOVED it.   For the rest the day when Jeff and I were together, Ila cherished both of us.  She grabbed our faces or our hair and pulled us toward her, and we kissed and loved her until she dissolved into belly giggles. 

They say hindsight is 20/20.  Not many mothers get a chance to do it all again and correct the mistakes that they made the first time around.  I feel fortunate that I have been given that opportunity.  The lesson I learned today is that there are ways to solve problems with your children that don't always have to start or end with anger, disappointment or the word "no."  I am evolving-thanks to a pretty special 8 month old girl.