Solitary Confinement

This week I am working diligently on a query for an agent possibly interested in a book about motherhood. And so, it seems to be a great week to bring out an oldy but a goody. This post resonated with so many moms, and I got bombarded with comments both private and public. Ultimately, in a society of mothers, our problems that take place in our families are ours alone. This is a small slice of what takes place in my house and leaves me feeling helpless. Please read and feel free to comment. Have you ever felt a solitary figure in a sea of mothers and advice? I am with you. Read on!  

Lately, I am a lonely mother.  I know--even in a world with millions of moms and mom-blogs and mom-circles and mom magazines, even though my closest confidants are parents: I am a solitary figure with solitary problems living in a deep dark solitary vacuum.  What about those social networks you ask?  Well, amongst 143 friends on my Facebook page only 20 of them aren't parents.  (Mostly my former students, others who have made conscious choices NOT to be moms and dads, and one priest.)  I suppose I could turn to the remaining 123 friends for parenting companionship and mutual begrudging, but somehow it feels fruitless. 

It's a funk I'm in, and I'm not talking about James Brown and George Clinton.  I am talking about one heck of a "woe-is-me-black-cloud-over-my-head" funkadelic funk.  I just get tired sometimes.  I mean, this mother stuff...it is endless.  I once read that women during the Salem Witch Trials would be subjected to something called "pressing" where rocks would be piled on the "witch's" chest one after the other until they confessed out of sheer panic of being crushed under their weight.  I think my funk is due to a sort of emotional "pressing" where issue after issue has piled up crushing my mind.  Trying to figure out solutions to all the problems that plague my children in various ways is exhausting.  How to help one son find confidence and work to his potential, how to squelch one son's seemingly endless conceit, how to keep a son with stitches in tip top shape so he is able to keep up with the varsity cross country team that he has been asked to join, how to not throw one son over the South Glens Falls Bridge the next time he sasses...which will probably happen before I finish this next sentence... not to mention the constant refereeing that takes place every time the boys are in the same room together.

I know that every family has its own set of "stuff."  I know I am not alone in that.  But is there anyone else out there that just feels beaten every once in awhile from the never ending bag of do-do that seems to be thrown at us mothers constantly and consistently?  Take last night for instance...

Aidan was at a party.  His curfew is 11:30.  But as 11:30 came and went, he didn't show.  I texted him three times only for him to ignore them.  I called his phone and the phone of the boy with whom he was supposed to get a ride, all to no avail.  So at five after midnight, Aidan's step-father went to the house to get him.  Ten minutes later as they arrived back at the house...all holy hell broke loose.  Let me remind you it was 12:15 AM.  But no matter.  Aidan comes in to the house blustering about how unfair we are and how embarrassed he was.  This blustering is done with Aidan's full voice which of course leads to his little brother waking up and coming out to see what all the fuss is.  Once he realizes that his brother is in trouble, he begins to gloat openly.  Saying things like, "Mom you won't be able to trust him anymore!"  (Parroting a discussion that I had had earlier with Gannan who is the "great exaggerator.")  He continues, "That is it! Right mom?  No more parties for Aidan.  That is what you'd do to me."

Aidan then becomes indignant and much louder at his brother's goading.  I now have to deal with the curfew issue and the fighting issue.  I send Gannan back to his room, where he waltzes down the hall singing "He's in truuuuubbbllle..  He's in truuuubbbllle"  I turn to Aidan who now has slipped out of the kitchen and exits to his bedroom in the finished basement punctuating said move with a fierce slamming of the door.  The slamming of the door (OF COURSE) wakes up the baby who begins to wail at the scary noise that jolted her out of  her sound sleep.  Predictably and understandably, my husband is livid at the commotion caused by my two boys who have now woken up his daughter.  A commotion mind you that is still continuing.  Gannan is taunting loudly from his bedroom.  Aidan is blustering boisterously from his bedroom.  Jeff is fuming in the living room.  I am trying to sooth a ten month old who clearly would rather have her father-- indicated by a stiff back arch that keeps her as far away from me as humanly possible, the finger pointing to the closed door and the incessant "da da, da da, da da," that is coming from her quivering lips. 

Her father, after trying to compose himself, finally comes into the baby's bedroom.  She instantly stops the heavy heaving crying she has been doing with me and...do I dare say it???? Well...she smiles...sigh.  I leave daddy and daddy's girl to go back to the sanctuary of my bedroom-beaten and battered, angry and anxious, resentful and rageful.  An hour later (that's 1:30 AM for those of you keeping a tally on the time) I am still feeling all of these things that come in the form of a mish-mashed rounded heavy ball in the pit of my stomach.  If I could categorize the chunks that make up the spherical agony-it would be self-wallowing and jealousy due to the fact that Ila really and truly prefers her dad to me and an absolute fiery fury directed at the boys
who in their need to be contrary and ornery forget that their anger and contentiousness causes chaos and misery to innocent bystanders like a ten month old sleeping baby. 

Around 2 AM desperately needing to sleep, I walked to the kitchen for a glass of milk hoping it would bring on the needed zzzzzzz's.  I am incredulous at the quiet.  Husband sound asleep on the couch in the living room.  Ila tucked away in the corner of her crib.  Aidan's basement teen palace dark and silent.  Gannan's long legs hanging off the side of his bed in sleepy angles.  Only me awake with my thoughts, awake with my anger and frustration.  A solitary mother bathed in the light of the refrigerator.

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!

Jackie Oh!

Hillary Clinton wrote It Takes a Village and Other Lessons Children Teach Us a popular book on the importance of  the community's involvement when raising children.  But WAY before her book the phrase, "It takes a village," originated as an African proverb.  Over the years, as I think I have mentioned before, I have taken full advantage of the wisdom of this quote.  I am a firm believer that sometimes as a parent I have to let someone else step in when I am unable to give or do for my child what he may desperately need.  Parents of tweens and teens know oh so well, our kids get to a certain age where what we say, what we think, what we know, doesn't matter.  But a wise parent also knows that this too is the age where what others say, what others think, what others know, DOES MATTER.  So my "village" list is lengthy.  I have used friends, educators, coaches, relatives and even other students (usually ones that are older) to help guide my children in their endeavors or, more importantly, to help them solve dilemmas that they typically don't want me to know about, (I usually do,) or to be involved in, (I typically am, thanks to the help of my "village.")

There are many people I owe a thanks to for the help that they have offered and the support they have freely given to those boys of mine.  But this post is meant to be a tribute to a specific member of my village that I didn't know, ummmm, shall we say, was even a neighbor. She quietly took residence in the town of "Aidan and Gannan" especially over the last year.  For those of you who know me, you know that I developed a heart condition while pregnant with Ila.  These past nine months have been excruciatingly hard and the boys, being older, sometimes took a backseat and didn't get what they needed at the exact time they needed it. If you follow the blog then you also know that sometimes not getting what they need can turn into conflict pretty quickly in our household (a slight understatement, yes?)   What makes this village member so special is that despite the fact that my sons (whom I love with all I have) can be difficult, despite the fact that I never even asked her to help with the boys in any way shape or form, she just took it upon herself to do for them whenever the need arose.   And believe me...there has been an abundance of need.  So Mudders of mine, could I get a "Woot Woot" for new village member....Jackie Wright...my boys' stepmother.

I know that some mothers may be shocked at the deep gratitude I have for the other woman in my boys' lives.  I mean the relationship between a mother and step mother is often portrayed in movies and on TV shows as one of tension and jealousy.  And although my husband would assure you emphatically that I am most definitely capable of tension and jealousy, I have never felt either for Jackie.  Watching her gentleness with Aidan and Gannan when they were a mere 2 and 5 years old, I quickly came to appreciate the love and devotion that she offered them even though she had two daughters of her own.  As the boys got older and were able to speak of her, they never once spoke ill.  I  have always marveled at "her way" with them.  In fact, "her way" often taught me me how to be a better mother from afar.  While there was always an appreciation for Jackie, one incident clinched my profound admiration for her.

Gannan called from his dad's once.  They had had a fight.  No. No.  Let's say a blowout. He was beside himself on the phone.  Sobbing.  Pleading.  He wanted to come home, but according to our legally binding visitation agreement collecting dust in the dining room desk, he had to stay for 24 more hours, only to come home Sunday at 5 pm. I did my best to be mom.  As my gut pitched and rolled, I said things like, "Gannan, just take a time out honey in your bedroom."  As Gannan made mucousy hiccup sounds in between words like "Please." and "No." I shushed and soothed as best I could over the seemingly endless telephone wire.  We eventually hung up and I curled into the fetal position on my bed wracked with guilt and helplessness.  A few hours later a very different cheery Gannan called me back.  I gently asked how he was feeling.  He said, "Jackie took me for a ride.  I feel better."  When I probed a little further he said, "Mom, did you know that when Jackie feels bad she goes for a ride to a really cool place to clear her head?"

"No I didn't know that."  I answered..
"Yeah," he continued.  "She took me there.  It's cool.  It looks over the lake.  I just stood there looking out at it and do you know what?"
"What?" I asked trying to hide that I was choking up.
"Jackie is right!  That place is so good it made me feel better."

At that moment, she was Superwoman.  She was a mom for Gannan when I couldn't be.  I realized then how very lucky my children were to have her.  These past nine months have only strengthened that notion.  She's attended baseball games, encouraged the boys to do their best in school,  and taken them at unscheduled times to give me time to rest and recover.  Since the boys' father and I DO have the typical movie and TV portrayal divorce, she has acted as a go between speaking for him sometimes, and at others speaking for me.  When we are in the same places supporting our children in their many activities, she readily comes to chat, cooing and coddling Ila, giving advice as one mother of a preemie to another.  I have come to look forward to seeing her and experiencing her sweetness, just the way I bet my boys feel about her.  And I'd like to think that in another world, or should I say a different village where she wasn't my ex-husband's wife, I'd still seek her out.  She has a lot to give.  Just ask my sons.

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. 

 

Negotiaton: It's What's for Dinner

Opening the cupboard full of baby food, my task is simple.  Choose a jar of vegetables.  Choose a meat.  Choose a fruit for dessert.  Easy as pie...okay, okay--pun intended.  It helps of course that Ila can't yet speak.  So while I am standing at the microwave waiting for the beep, I am sure that I won't hear her little voice say, "Mom, I hope that's not ham.  It makes me gag."  And while I spoon the banana mango pineapple into her tiny sweet mouth, I can take comfort in the fact that there won't be any dramatic eye-rolling-tongue-curling-body-folding-puke gestures.  Mealtime with Ila is SO peaceful...then there's mealtime with Gannan.

 Last night dinner was his favorite:  Meatballs simmering in a combination of barbecue sauce and grape jelly cooking slowly in a crockpot all morning and afternoon.  When he started liking this concoction I felt like I had won the lottery.  You see, he is what mothers call "a picky eater."  (Cue the foreboding music...)  He doesn't like meat at all unless it comes in the form of a nugget.  (Of course there was that time during my pregnancy last summer when I was on bed rest all sweaty and swollen, and our sweet drop dead gorgeous blond and busty neighbor showed up on our front stoop--in a mini skirt--with a mouth watering pork dish...He ate every morsel.)  ANYHOO...ah yes, the meatballs.   Yesterday he came inside to search for food after a long hard day of trying to break the speed record on his Slip and Slide by lubing his body up with baby oil before sliding.  (I wish I was kidding!)
 
Gannan:  Mom, I am starving.  What's that smell.  I hope that isn't pot roast.  That stringy meat makes me gag.
Me:  No Gannan, not pot roast.  It's those meatballs that you love.
Gannan:  Alright!!

I spooned a healthy portion into his bowl, and sat down to spend some time with him while he ate.   With bite one I knew there was trouble.  Two chews in and he dramatically began an eye-rolling-tongue-curling-body-folding puke gesture.  He spit what was left of the meatball on top of the other steaming balls in his bowl.

Gannan:  Mom, these meatballs taste like fish.  I'm gonna gag.
Me:  Ganny you LOVE these meatballs.  They're your favorite!
Gannan:  NOT ANYMORE!  Do we have any chicken nuggets?

So there I was faced with the age old question, a question that all mothers grapple with at some point.  No, no, not "Do we have any chicken nuggets?" rather  "Do the kids HAVE to eat what I make for dinner, or do I make them something else?"  This seems to be a tough dilemma for moms.  I mean what it comes down to is compliance right?  After all, don't they know how much work we put into making a nice meal for them?  All the chopping and the grating and the marinating, not to mention the mixing and the stirring, and the clean-up, oh don't get me started!  Then again, do we make meals for the gratitude?  That is the question that my very bright and dapper pediatrician asked me once.  Actually he said, "Logan, why do you want him to eat the food that you make?"  I answered, "So that I know he is eating healthy foods."  And without blinking he asked, "Does he only enjoy foods that aren't good for him?"  Well...no.  In fact, Ganny loves fruits and veggies.  I mean, I can't keep grapes or berries in the fridge for more than two days, and heaven forbid I don't have a week's supply of cucumbers and red bell peppers chopped up and placed in Ziploc bags ready for him to munch on in a moment's notice.  Dr. Dapper continued, "Logan, lean on the foods that you know he likes that are good for him.  That's not to say don't introduce new foods but do it gradually at times when it seems that he is getting sick of his old standbys."  Great advice!

A wise friend of mine once suggested that it was the relinquishing of control that parents had  problems with when it came to mealtime.  But he insisted that giving choices at dinner wasn't letting go of control at all.  "On the contrary," said he, "a parent is still in control if he or she is the one providing the choices."  I am in full agreement.

And so, when Gannan asked the question that I hear probably five dinners out of seven, "Do we have any chicken nuggets?"  I simply smiled and said, "Of course dear, but eat this bowl of fruit while you wait for me to cook them. After all, you need all the energy you can get if you still want to break the speed record for the Slip and Slide.    

Onward, Upward, Forward, MARCH!

Bad news.  No matter how diligent we are as parents our children will still make mistakes.  Ultimately they are in control of their own decisions and sometimes despite our best efforts, those choices can be wayward.  Being a mom for 16 years, I am learning that I am not alone in this.  Missteps made by kids are universal.  It doesn't matter the age.  Son or daughter, it is one of life's guarantees.  They will blunder, botch and bungle much to our chagrin.  For instance, sweet little toddlers could find it perfectly virtuous to bite or pull hair. They could refuse to share and learn the veritable punch one gets from the word "No!"  And what mother of a preschooler doesn't know how well their little one can test limits?  "She said no cookie, so I'll just have candy instead!"   As our children get older the possibility of screwing up is enormous. Instead of standing up to bullies, they could be the bully.  They may decide against college or drop out of school altogether.  They may be hooked on drugs, sell them-or both. They might lie to teachers or friends or much to our dismay-us.  The disappointments are endless and varied, and if you are like me and other mothers that I know, it is hard not to blame yourself hourly, daily, religiously, thoroughly when your child suffers the consequences of poor judgment.

In the name of dignity, I will spare my two boys and not give you the details of their difficulties.  But I assure you, each boy has some tough mountains to climb on the way to maturity.  It seems as if it is a never-ending job trying to teach those boys the merits of "not."  Sometimes, (who am I kidding,)  most of the time, my advice, ( which they would call lectures,) my consequences ( which they would call ridiculous punishments,)  my tears, ( which they would call over-dramatic,)  fall upon two boys who think they've got all the answers.  They would never dream of listening and learning from their lame mother.  So there are moments when I feel like giving up.  Like I have tried every tip, read every book, spoken to every friend.  These times usually happen at night, when I am lying in bed rehashing every detail of their trials and tribulations. Going over and over what I've tried and wondering for the umpteenth time why nothing seems to be working.  Usually while mulling over the magnitude of these problems, a hopelessness, a feeling of futility, settles into my bones, bores a hole in my stomach, and I fall asleep bearing the weight of the pain only a mother knows when her child (or children) are struggling.

But then there's the morning...and as if by magic, a mother's spirit is renewed.  There are new books to be read, others to talk to, new things to try.  This restored resolution, where ever it comes from, is highly valuable for both mothers and their children.  After all, without it, mothers all over the world would give up on their kids after a few failed attempts.  Without that special spark that lights a fire under us, who'd light a fire under our children?  We tell ourselves that somewhere, someday, all this hard work will pay off (Lordy I hope so!)   And so, we push forward.  Damn the mental fatigue! Three steps forward, two steps back, until progress is made or by some miracle we hear, "Mom, you were right."

Our Sweet Rudy

Can't believe it's been a year.  In honor of our beautiful Rudy, a re-post.   

It is bleak in our house today.  Black and somber.  Our eyes are red from the crying that comes spontaneously and without warning.   Like right now as I write this.  You see, our beloved dog, Rudy, had to be put to sleep.  He had stopped moving, stopped caring. In the last few months he seemed to go from "old" to "ancient."

The grief is heavy and comes from so many different places.  As a human, the most basic part of the grief, for me, comes from my love of the dog.  It seems he has always been here, sitting at our feet when we despaired, wiggling his entire being when we were joyous.  But it was his old-man like wisdom that I think I will miss the most.  He just knew...he just knew.  For instance, last summer I was massively pregnant and on bed rest.  There was major construction going on in our house so I had to stay in our claustrophobic master bedroom for days on end.  Bathroom, bedroom, bathroom bedroom, until I thought I'd go stir crazy.  One particular day when I was feeling completely miserable, depressed and very lonely, my bedroom door opened a crack.  I was astonished to see Rudy's head peak around the corner.  He wasn't allowed in our bedroom typically and after living with us for 12 years, rarely even ventured down the hall.  But there he was sitting at the foot of my bed.  Even more astonishing was what happened next.   Despite his arthritic legs and cloudy eyes, Rudy found the energy to bound puppy-like up on to the bed with me.  He nuzzled my chest, harrumphed and sneezed, and didn't leave my side for two days.  He knew.  He just knew.  I needed company and company was what he gave.  The absence of that wisdom, that loyalty, leaves a hole in my heart.

As our day of grieving wore on I found that like the grass, topsoil and sediment dug up in our backyard to make Rudy's final resting place, my grief had layers.  It seemed the deeper the layer the more pain it held, the kind of pain only a parent could identify with.  Worse than the mourning I felt for the death of the dog,  the deeper layers housed the anguish for the devastation that my family was feeling.   As a wife, the mixture of pride and sadness that I have for Jeffrey leaves an incurable ache in my stomach.  Watching him pretend to be strong as he led his precious Rudy to the car for his last ride, seeing him carry Rudy wrapped in the blanket to his grave in our backyard, witnessing him break down as he recalled the moment that Rudy died in his arms-well to put it simply-put a crack in my heart.

But the deepest layer, the worst part of today, tomorrow, perhaps for the long run, was seeing my boys, those macho-never-cry little guys fall apart at the seams.  True to their differences, the way they grieve is night and day.  Aidan cried easily, but rationalized.  He said late last night, "It would be cruel to let him suffer."  His anguish was on the surface and consistent.  In spite of his pain, he was able to think of others as well.   As much as it hurt him, he stood by his step-father's side as he buried Rudy, the dog that bonded them in the beginning of their relationship.  Gannan, on the other hand, had been quiet, absolutely silent since he found out that Rudy would be leaving us.  It wasn't until just before Jeff took him to the vet's that he broke down.  He wailed, begged us not to take him away. His own agony was too much for him to take.  He painfully lamented that he'd never be able to play in the backyard again knowing that Rudy's grave was there.  But in the end, before our dog was buried, Gannan brought his prize possession to me, a second place ribbon that he won at the largest cross country event he ran in this fall.  He said he wanted Rudy to have it, to remember the running they did.  It was at that moment, that my heart gave out under the weight of the grief and instead of a simple crack, it broke into a million pieces.
A very smart, but anonymous person once said, "A mother is a bank where we deposit all our hurts and worries."  Today the mom-account was filled.  Today I found out what all mothers eventually come to know:  when bad things happen, mothers not only have to be able to shoulder their own grief, but they will need to muster extra strength to carry around the sadness that comes from watching their families grieve as well.