For the Love of a Son

I spent the afternoon yesterday at my ex husband's house.  Okay.  Stop reading the line over and over again.  You heard what I said.  I spent the afternoon at my ex husband's house with our two boys, my new daughter, his step-daughter and wife.  I spent the afternoon at my ex husband's house and it was beautiful.

Beautiful--and I am not talking about the decor, although the cottage-like feel was warm and inviting, and the little touches and openness of design made it a welcoming place.  But that isn't the kind of beauty of which I speak.  The kind of beauty I experienced yesterday is hard to put into words, and yet I've been compelled to write about it since I arrived home.  And so, I will try to convey to you dear readers the mystical happening that took place for a brief moment in what sometimes has seemed to be a very long, arduous journey of a contentious, resentful and good old fashioned divorced couple.

Gannan's dog, Vixen, has a special place in his heart.  With all that he has been through, the poor decisions he's made, the animosity, the changes, the pushing of boundaries, that dog's love has been the one constant in his year of upheaval. Although he tries not to show it, Ganny's heart is full of that pooch.  When he comes home, after a brief kiss to his sister, he bee lines it to that black hair ball, lays down on the floor with her and...well...loves all over her.  His most treasured Christmas present from last year was a framed picture of Vixxy's face.  Back then moving to dad's house was still new and his conflicted feelings about it he wore like the buttons on the outside of his shirts.  I will never forget his face as the torn wrapping paper fell to the floor that morning.  The corners of his mouth turned down and his chin tightened.  He swallowed the boulder of emotion that instantly welled up in his throat and nodded a slight nod, as if it was just right.  It was clear at that moment that what he missed the most about our little house on Reservoir Dr. was that sweet, lovable dog.

That's why when Vixen's vet suggested that the fist-sized sore that wouldn't heal on her hip might be cancerous, I instantly worried about Ganny's reaction. Lately he has found a sort of rhythm in his life, a easy sort of groove that he's settled into.  It is clear it seems to me that he is beginning to mature.  While certainly not perfect, some of the "in-your-face" stuff, especially in school, seems to have dissipated.  (Anyone have any wood I can knock on?)  And so I didn't want Vixen's impending death to put a crater in the somewhat smooth road he'd been traveling down.  His father felt the same way and called me to express his concern.  I told him of our plans to put his dog to sleep if she indeed did have cancer, that we didn't want her to suffer.  He again expressed his worry in how that would affect Ganny.  Which, as Gannan's father, was of course expected.  But, I will tell you what he did next was completely and utterly UNexpected...The ex's step daughter, Ashley and her boyfriend, just happen to be newly graduated veterinarians, and he offered his step-daughter's services..free of charge.

So that is how I found myself at his home yesterday afternoon.  Jeff was working.   Aidan helped me lift the feeble dog into my SUV, I strapped Ila into her car seat and admittedly, with trepidation, we were off.  I have mentioned in previous posts my fondness for my sons' stepmother, Jackie, and so it wasn't a surprise to see her kind face coming down the front steps and toward the car to welcome us.  Ganny came out with his step-sister, Dr. Ashley, and her boyfriend, Dr. James.  They immediately went to the rear of the car to retrieve Vixen.  She didn't come easily and I began to consider what I'd do with Ila while I tried to assist in getting the dog out of the car, but just as I was about to strap her back in the car seat, my ex husband came out to help.  He smiled cordially and went straight to the back, whispered sweetly to the dog and reached in to lift her out.  I suppose I stood there staring as someone does when looking upon a new sort of something never seen before.  I suppose that my face had that look many times over the next hour and half.

Ashley set up an area of plastic for Vixen to lay on and dove right into her very thorough work.  Gannan knelt by the dog's head, but it quickly became apparent that help would be needed to keep her still.  Since my job was to keep Ila busy in the small space and distracted from the distress her beloved dog was experiencing, I couldn't be the one to assist in steadying the dog.  (Not to mention that there isn't anyone as squeamish as me and being close to all the cutting and draining and shots and tissue sample removal would have had me fainting and retching all over.)

Once again, surprising me, my sons' father knelt along side of Gannan grasping Vixen firmly but lovingly and assured Gannan at the same time by smiling confidently.  But even that wasn't enough to keep the 80 pound black ball of hair still enough for Dr. Ashley to do the delicate cutting and snipping that she needed to do.  So true to her nature, Jackie joined in to lend her support.   They worked there, the four of them, for quite sometime.  Each gently soothing a very quiet Gannan every once in a while with a reassuring phrase or by telling a joke.  At one point, overwhelmed Gannan ran out the front door, leaving Jackie and Scott with the dog.  Aidan's instinct was to run after him, and just as I was about to tell him "no", Jackie said, "Let him be, Aidan.  When Gannan gets like this it is best to leave him alone."  She said just what I was about to say.  At that moment, my sons' father looked at Jackie in agreement, and I realized that they knew Gannan the way that I knew him, that they loved him the way that I loved him.  That all of this...they did FOR Gannan, and in that moment I experienced overwhelming emotion.  

After the major work was done on the dog, (it turned out to be an abscess not cancer...good news...but the draining and blood will be the death of this weak stomached woman), the boys got tired of holding onto her and so I knelt beside her (on the side without the blood...sheesh) while also trying to keep Ila away from the red river that was running  out of her opened wound.  Jackie did her best to entertain my daughter as well, but she was determined to hug and play with Vixen.  That is until the ex surprised me once again and came out with Natalie, their Teacup Yorkie, for Ila to play with.  Up until that point he had tried extremely hard not to be a casualty of Ila's sheer cuteness.  But it seems he had succumbed to it, even putting her on the kitchen counter to keep her away from Vixen and entertained.  From the living room, holding Vixen, I could see the three of them, Gannan, the ex and Ila enjoying one another and the tiny Teacup Yorkie in my daughter's lap.

Driving home (after the ex placed the dog into my car on a pillow and one of his sheets) it hit me...it all hit me. The surrealism of it, what had just taken place was both cause for joy and massive guilt all rolled into one, and I cried.  I cried the cry of a mother, a mother who may not have always made the right choices when it came to her sons and their father, but one who finally got it.  I cried the cry of a woman who was reminded that the man who she created her two sons with may not be 100% the demon she had made him out to be in her mind perhaps to protect her from admitting her own wrong-doings.  I cried the cry of a mama who experienced for the first time in the 18 years what it felt like to work together with the father of her sons for the good of them.   I cried the cry of a mom who realized how many of those times had slipped through her fingers over the years.      I cried a good and healing cry.

This morning Gannan came to irrigate the cut on Vixen's hip and leg and afterwards I drove him to school.  "Mom, I feel so much better about Vixen," Gannan said relieved.  I answered, "Me too.  It looks like she'll be fine Gan."  And then, "Gan, what did you think about your father yesterday?"
   "What do you mean?"  he asked.
    "Well babe, if you know your dad, you have to be amazed that he dealt so well with all the blood on his floors and all that chaos.  I mean he even played with your little sister."
    "Yeah.  You are right.  He was great." he answered.
     "Do me a favor Gannan will you?  Your dad isn't perfect and lord knows neither am I.  But the next time you get mad at him try and remember what he did for you on Sunday.  Having me in his house, having the mess," (He can be a bit of a--shall we say--neat freak.) "all that chaos he doesn't do well with, but he did it for you.  Try and remember that the next time you get mad at him okay?"
   "Yeah.  Okay mom."  And then..."And mom, you do that too, okay?"  Mentally hanging my head, I replied, "I'll try Gan.  I'll try."

So that's it.  Yesterday I spent the afternoon at my ex husband's house, and it was beautiful.  That doesn't mean that all is forgotten.  It doesn't mean that all is forgiven.  It doesn't mean that I won't drive him crazy.  It doesn't mean that in the future he won't make me curse like a trucker.  What it does mean, is that I am capable, as is he, of parenting our children together...if we can only remember that we do it for the love of a son.

The Hallow of Hell!

Before you read today's post, please put on your HAZMAT uniform.  After you read, please DECONTAMINATE and then leave a comment at the bottome of the post underneath the bio!  Oh1  And don't forget the clothespins for your nose...you'll need them!  http://hilltownfamilies.wordpress.com/2011/10/04/fisher-28/#more-14385

I Fantasize While.....Mothering (What did you naughty people THINK I was going to say?)

The other day I ran into an old friend. As we caught up, he and I lamented about the hardships of parenting as many parents do when they get together. I told him tales of my year. "Woe is me." I bemoaned. He told me tales of his year. "Woe is me." he bemoaned. "It's just a stage." he said sympathetically trying to soothe me. "At least he's happy." I said sympathetically trying to soothe him. Each of us knowing that words, although kind, would never be able to alleviate the pain that we both had experienced on account of and for our children over the past few months.

Then, suddenly and resolutely, my friend leaned forward and said, "You are going to think that I am such a wimp. But I am going to tell you this story anyway." I nodded indicating my readiness to listen. To protect his identity (as I didn't get permission to share the story) I will modify the scene he described, but tell you enough so that I can use it as the basis of this post. In a nutshell, when his children were young he built something for them with his own two hands. While building, he imagined all kinds of scenes of how the object would be used and treasured by his children. Alas, his children are now grown and no longer in need of the object, so a few months ago this father disassembled and discarded it. As he was telling this story he revealed that he wept as he took the childhood treasure apart. He wept, wept for the years gone by, wept for the end of an era, but also wept because some of those fantasies about his children that he built up in his mind as readily as he had constructed the childhood object, were now destroyed and in pieces as was the entity that he had just disassembled.

My eyes welled up as he recalled the moment, and the fact that he was a wimp was the farthest thing from my mind. Not a wimp. No. Nowhere near wimpy. He was a parent, as I am and so I understood. I understood. From the instant we meet our children in that stark hospital bed, we dream. We fantasize. We create lives for them, only the best. We imagine our children successful, happy, healthy, wealthy. We dream of the milestones; graduations, off to college, travel, incredible careers, engagements to wonderful partners, grand weddings, grandchildren....blissful fantastic lives (in that order preferably!) We have almost two decades to ponder over these fantasies, to make them bigger, more detailed, more life-like. So it is no surprise when these illusions (or DElusions) don't happen in the exact manner that we hoped for, or worse not in ANY manner that we imagined, it feels like a loss. Hey, we've dreamed these same dreams over and over for days and months and years on end. It stands to reason that we may need some time to adjust.

I am as guilty of this as any parent. For my certifiable genius, I dreamed of an Ivy League education, of discovering a cure for cancer, of contributing to world peace. For my world-class athlete with the infectious smile, I dreamed of the Olympics, of endorsements, of world records and a successful commentator career. And yet neither child has chosen the road I dreamed for them to take--neither child. For child number one, learning is a bore and if it isn't easy...forget it! For child number two, competition is too stressful, therefore he doesn't participate in a sport at all. For both I dreamed that they'd be the ultimate gentlemen carrying bags, opening doors, clearing tables without asking and just oozing respect for the opposite sex--not because it's cool to be romantic, not because chivalry isn't dead, but because respect for those you love is most important. And well...let's just say, they haven't arrived at that realization yet.

What parents forget sometimes is that those children of ours are living, breathing, and thinking. They aren't made of clay molded and shaped in the exact model we imagined. They have their own dreams and desires. They'll choose their own paths, their own styles, their own ways of living...even if it doesn't fit with what we dreamed and desired for them. Therefore I am convinced that it'd be less traumatic and jarring for us if we decided to not be so specific in the fantasies we have about our children. Instead, we'd be less let down if we dreamed simpler dreams for and of them. And so, on this leg of my motherhood journey, I will try to remind myself that instead of imagining that Ila grows up to be a multi-lingual ambassador for world peace, a trusted advisor to the Dalai Lama, or the next Kristin Chenowith (look her up,) I will try to dream that in the future she finds happiness, contentedness, and a pure satisfaction with who she has grown up to be.

Mama Grizzly (to quote a certain politician) had to be reigned in...otherwise there'd be a skinless waitress walking around. Hilltown Column is up today. Would LOVE comments. You'll find them after my bio on the page. Please share as a status if you find this week's column worthwhile.  Click the link below to be taken to the column! 
http://hilltownfamilies.wordpr​ess.com/category/logan-fisher

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.

VOTE FOR MUDDLED MOTHERS!!!!!!!!

Hey Everyone!  Just a quick note to share with you the good news!  Muddled Mother has been nominated for Best All Around Blog for Parents.com's contest.  I am so excited about this!  Please help promote the blog by voting and sharing the link on your social media websites!  You can vote by clicking on the Parents button above this post.  If you aren't a registered member of the mag, then you'll have to do that first.  I know that is a pain, but please find time in your busy day to vote.  Spread the word!

Thanks so much for your loyal readership Mudders!

*Hugs*
Logan

New Hilltownfamilies.org Column up Today.

I hadn't seen my son, Gannan, in over 5 weeks.  He had refused.  His year of rebellion still holding strong.  So it was a very big surprise when he called me up one day last week and asked if I'd take him to his brother's play.  Read about how I handled this first meeting by clicking the link below:

http://hilltownfamilies.wordpr​ess.com/category/logan-fisher/