I'll Be Loving You...ALWAYS! (Get it??)

Photo Credit (Brenda Hollaway)

“Why does she keep doing that?”  exclaimed a very observant student in my classroom last week.  If you were standing next to him, you would have known that he was talking about what seemed to be a new dance move.  In the middle of my lessons, I would stop talking, cross my legs, squeeze my body as upright as it could be and gently, as gently as one can, I would cough or sneeze.  Nevertheless, I assure you the cross-legged-up-right-squeeze had nothing at all to do with a new dance craze.  Nothing.  At.  All. 

 So moms get sick.   This isn’t news.  We get sick and we continue our days as if we aren’t sick.  This isn’t news either.  I would go so far to say that moms could actually believe even in the face of a 102 on a thermometer, kidney pains, chills and sweats, a hacking cough and sneezes into the hundreds, that they just have a titch of a cold that will go away…soon.  Therefore,  it is perfectly fine to keep on keepin’ on like we always do; morning routine, schlepping kids to day care, off to work with a cheery smile on our green tinged faces, working through the runny noses by shoving tissues up our sleeves for those little emergencies, putting on a sweater (“is it chilly in here?”) taking off the sweater, (“who turned up the freakin’ heat?”) Whatever comes with the flu and sick season, we ignore because well how WOULD the world revolve without us running it?    We are moms, Mudders.  Ignoring a big fat phlegmy flu is what think we must do.

However…there is one thing that MAY come with a flu or cold or say searing bronchial virus that we Mudders are unable to ignore.  We may try at first, but ultimately for the sake of hygiene and those around us, heck for the sake of the size of the laundry in the hamper we cannot ignore the incontinence that comes with a humongous hacking cough or a significant-sized sneeze.  That’s right, girls, you heard me.  I said it…incontinence, incontinence, incontinence. 

You know how it goes…cough cough—drip drip—“Shit shit!!”  Or in my case, hack hack—pour pour—“Shit! Shit!”  If you have had the pleasure of a weak pelvic floor due to the “joyous” process called childbirth, you are nodding your head right now.  Yes you are nodding and I am about to SING it girls!

This past week, I did what Mudders do.  I had a virus.  I ignored said virus.  I went to work as if there wasn’t a thing wrong with me.  Moreover, when I say ignore, I mean totally and utterly ignore.  If you are following me here that means that not only did I not go to the doctors or take medicine, I did not even think to…ehem…prepare my delicates for the incontinence that was sure to take place with every sneeze and every cough.   And because of my denial, I was constantly placed in a situation where at any moment, with the next sneeze or the next cough, I could very well wet my pants in front of all my students.  So I did the dance of shame; legs crossed, muscles squeezed as tightly as they can, stand tall and COOOOUUUGHHH and SNEEEEEEEZE—gently—oh so gently—unfortunately a raging bronchial virus doesn’t allow for gentle anything…and so there were of course the occasional--drip-slips.  Oh, don’t act as if you don’t know what they are!  You are ALL feeling me and you KNOW it!! 

However, even those drip-slips couldn’t make me admit defeat.  I didn’t need Depends or a bulky pad…no, no.  Toilet paper would do the trick, and so after my first drip-slip, I headed to the teacher’s bathroom folded myself up a nice stack of TP and placed it where the sun don’t shine.  It may have meant that I headed to the bathroom an inordinate amount of times to change the soggy fibrous paper that kept giving me giant whoo-whoo wedgies, but hey, it was doing the trick and perpetuated my denial that I was handling this teeny tiny little cold just fine.

Then Saturday day came and it was just me, Ila and teeny tiny little cold that just happened to make me gasp for air as a teenage girl gasps when she sees Justin Bieber.   I was home and so there was no need for that irritating TP.   Instead, ever in mommy-denial, as the hacks got worse and the drip-slips turned to rain-drains, (you heard me) I took to changing my skivvies and sweat pants every hour on the hour…until…until I ran out.  Yup—ran clean out of clean undies.  Not a pair to be found in the top drawer of my dresser.  Honestly, I can’t ever remember a time where there wasn’t at least SOME pair of clean hip huggers that I could fish out at a moment’s notice.  This dear readers was a first, and with the first came a realization—I.  Was.  Sick.  I must be sick…I was out of skivvies, out of sweats and out of my beloved Vera Wang silky pajama bottoms.   All were dejectedly sitting in the hamper at the end of the hall, a little wet, a little stinky and extremely indicative of the level of my illness.

 

And so, I did what any mother does when shaken out of sick-denial.  I called my doctor, who after listening to me gasp for air told me to go to my local emergency room immediately.  Of course, “immediately” posed a problem for me because “I hadn’t a thing to wear.”  And while that phrase conjures images of me tossing skirts and jeans and cashmere sweaters over my head, it was meant of course in its most literal sense…I hadn’t an UNDERTHING to wear.  So with a hopeful heart, I walked to the basement laundry room hoping that with all the other duties he took on during my sick-week-that-I-was-not –sick, my husband perhaps had done SOME kind of laundry.  (Although the size of the hamper upstairs didn’t give me much hope…after all…he is a great caretaker, but I am sure that even HE drew the line at washing all my drip-slips and rain-drains.) 

But lucky for me, a “sort” of undergarment was clean…all right it was a Spanx body suit…but this girl was desperate.  So after slipping that on, I had to find something that would be comfortable enough for a stay at the emergency room.  I decided on my hubby’s Nike running pants (much to his dismay.  Can you blame the guy?)  However, dear Mudders, I do know that wearing your husband’s Nike running pants comes with great responsibility.   So I doubled up the amount of toilet paper and tucked it into the body suit.  I willed myself not to cough or sneeze as I rode in the car, and instead of driving right to the emergency room, stopped into my local Walgreens to buy a package of bulky pads.  You know the kind—smaller than a breadbasket and bigger than my hand with wings to wrap around the sides of my makeshift undergarment. The kind would be sure to protect my husband’s beloved Nike running pants from the rain-drains that would certainly continue because there is no denying the incontinence that a Mudder gets when she is indeed sick. 

  

Repeat After Me--Teachers=Trust. Again, Teachers=Trust.

I don't often promote other writing here on my blog...don't want you Mudders inundated with inane posts.  However, this article by Oprah's Phenomenal Man of the Year and Disney's Teacher of the Year is so incredibly dead on.  I would love for you all to read it and post it on your pages as well.  I have taught for 22 years and this article couldn't be more true.  Let's NOT be THESE parents, Mudders and Fudders.  Let's just not do it. Click the link below.

 http://www.cnn.com/2011/09/06/living/teachers-want-to-tell-parents/index.html

Fasten Your Seat Belts Mommies!

The laughter was loud and sliced through my ears, my entire being in fact.  The joviality was so out of place.  Didn't these people know that there was suffering going on right under their noses?  I instantly felt irritated with the crowded desk area in our local family court.  The bailiffs (there were many), the clerks, the secretaries, the lawyers stood in a cluster happily talking of Ipads and websites and new technology.  They were telling jokes and talking of plans for the weekend.  I tried to focus on something else, but I was the sole human in the front waiting room (ours was the last hearing before lunch).  Around the corner and behind me, my son sat with his father and his step mother waiting for the same hearing.  But focusing on them just made me more irritated with their united front, with the fact that I (who had raised this child for the majority of his life) was the one sitting alone, with the fact that I was at court for the second time in my parenting career.  ALL of  it was irritating, rage inducing, and just plain ol' exhausting.

However, incredulously, life went on around me.  I wondered did these people know something that I didn't know?  Didn't they have problems in their lives? Are they just as stunned when in the midst of suffering someone near them laughs?  Do they think that laughter out of place as well?

Mercifully, when they call our name, the bailiffs  the lawyers, the clerks and secretaries returned to professionalism.  Their faces reflected the somber feeling that one should have as a mother follows her child into a court room.fate unknown.  Sitting behind him tears streaming, hands wringing a shredded tissue was truly the lowest point of my parenting journey.  But as a parent whether of a troubled child or not, life is a roller coaster complete with all of the terrors and adrenaline pumping aspects that you'd expect.  And just like that roller coaster, staying at the lowest point doesn't last long and the hill climbing begins almost immediately.

Listening intently in the stark room I hear phrases like "doing better", and "volunteering for services not required."  I hear "I want help" and "Yes sir" from my child's mouth.  All of these utterances come as surprises because I am not privy to what goes on in my son's life. Seeing him is sporadic for reasons that are unknown to me and I don't allow myself to often ponder his absence because it is agonizing to my soul.  But it seemed, sitting in that brown paneled official room that possibly, something had shifted in that boy that I love with all the fierceness of a mother.  Could he be turning a corner?

Leaving the court room my son says a humble and shy goodbye to me.  The rarity of that exchange coupled with the positive reports to the judge made me feel like that roller coaster rider at the top of a steep hill.  I wanted to shoot my arms into the air and scream with glee as I am sure many parents symbolically do when things are good for their children or if something not good is getting better.  I am sure that most parents who reach the top of that metaphoric hill will relax their shoulders, will fill their lungs with oxygen; taking the deepest breath they have taken in a long time.  I am sure that when things are going smoothly for these parents' children they are able to unbuckle their seat belts after assuring themselves that the roller coaster ride has come to an end.  But I refuse to unbuckle the belt on my seat, and I often wonder if there are any other parents out there who experience the phenomenon that I experience.

Let me explain.  For me, perhaps for all moms of troubled children, hope is a dangerous emotion.    Today there is a bit of hope in my heart.  That beloved son of mine is making improvements. No calls from school for over a week, a kind and respectful attitude, even a dinner visit to satisfy his little sister's heart who was missing him something terribly.  And I wish, how I wish I could relax my shoulders.  How I long for that deep breath to fill my pinched lungs.  How I long to unbuckle the seat belt.  But I just can't.  As a mom of a troubled son, I am just not ready to trust that the ride is over.  If the anger, resentment, poor choices, entitlement and vindictiveness return I will need that safety harness.  How shameful I feel for doubting the staying power of this change.  How guilty a mom can feel for when the confidence she has in her child's ability to treat himself with kindness and pride and thoughtfulness is close to nil.

And yet, and yet a mother always hopes.  "Maybe this time it will be different."  That barely audible whisper tickles down in my ear and at the back of my mind making both the ear and the mind ache with a hope that is  truly unwanted.  Hope, you see is toxic to moms of troubled children.  Hope weakens the straps on that safety belt; the straps that steel us against the lows on the roller coaster that seem endless and cruel.  In a warped way good things, rationality and sane choices made and done by our troubled children are  fear inducing because it gives a mother (or maybe it is just me.  Is it just me?) It gives me permission to allow my guard to be let down ever so slightly.  I may let go of the bar in the front of the roller coaster's car just to give my fingers a rest from gripping so tightly, I could roll my neck to relieve it of the pain that comes from being shaken around those pesky loops.  And while preoccupied with my sore fingers and shaking off the pain in my neck, I wouldn't be prepared for the big and scary drop that may be just ahead around the corner.  And so this mom, this mom of a child who needs more help than she is capable of giving, will pull the strap tighter on the safety belt, will white knuckle the bar in front of her, will keep her shoulders up to her ears, because moms like me need to be vigilant, ever vigilant for the next drop on a roller coaster we never wanted to ride in the first place.

 

The Gift of Family: By Blood and By Choice

Happy Holidays, Mudders.  What a year.  What a year.  So many beautiful moments, but also some of the hardest trials I’ve ever had to face.  Yet, I am wiser--so much wiser than I was when I was typing away at these keys December 2011.  We all know how much we learn with each stumble, with each fall, with each heart ripping, soul shredding decision that we make over the year behind us, and it is no different with me.  I have learned.   HOW I have learned.  And truly Mudders, no matter what is occurring in our lives when it comes to our children, we just need to remind ourselves that each day is a chance to learn and to grow wiser.  That is what I tried to do this year.  

It was a year of separation from a beloved son; it was a year of dealing with the self-destruction of another beloved son.  It was a year of injustices; monetarily, professionally, personally.  It was a year of lost friendships,…GOOD friendships…(or at least  I thought they were good.)  It was a year that I decided to once and for all shed the itchy famial cloth from which I was made and place a softer fabric against my sensitive and raw skin.  It was a year of bruised and battered figurative knees, of literal lost faith , but also—also—it was a year of glimmers of light and pixie dust and warmth. 

And even though I would say that the scale leaned WAY toward the out-of-my-control-misery side, those things on the other side of the scale counted…even if they couldn’t move the bar far enough from the deepest agony. As I look back at those glimmers of pixie dust, of light and warmth, I realize that it was PEOPLE who usually held those gifts in their hands, before pressing them firmly into mine.  PEOPLE…not just people…MY PEOPLE.  My family.

Now don’t spit out the gulp of soda you have in your mouth.  You all know that some of the members of the household in which I grew, leave MUCH to be desired,  but it doesn't matter because I have a gathering of such beautiful human beings in my life that care enough about me that they have BECOME my family. 

David Ogden Stiers is quoted as saying, “Family means no one gets left behind or forgotten.”  And this…this idea of family is the most salient idea I have learned and let sink into the very fibers of me this year.  “No one gets left behind or forgotten.”  How truly validating when you realize that there are wonderful, loyal people in your life that think that you are valuable enough to not be forgotten, or left out, or treated differently.  Those people, who want the best for you, those are family members. 

Over this past year, I have gathered many family members into the throngs of my life.  Some have been here a long time; my dear Dr. Speed Dial, her husband and beautiful daughter—they have been my family—have loved me despite…despite my innumerable flaws.  That is family. 

But I have also learned that family can be a boss that patiently and gently listens as you cry in her office over personal matters.  A boss who understands and anticipates needs, who works with the roller coaster life I have had for the last year.  Family is a boss whose small gesture of ensuring that during her Christmas luncheon for our staff that my gluten allergy was taken into consideration left me overwhelmed with gratitude.  I was not forgotten or left behind.  My boss—part of my family.

Family can be far away—far far away.  It can be a longest friend—38 years to be exact—who calls to check in, laughs at my stupidity, is able to be vulnerable and hold my hand when her father-in-law was dying.  Family is that faraway friend that doesn’t forget the fragility of my being and props me up gently when I need it, but isn’t afraid to kick me in my very easily targeted behind when I need it either.

Family can be a far away friend who comforts with his exquisite and uncanny knowledge of how my complicated brain works.  He challenges my mind with talk of politics and music, sends me photos to take me on imaginary trips when I need to “get away” and lets me lean hard upon his virtual shoulder while he problem solves in his unorthodox way.  Family can be a far away friend who, no matter the circumstance, reminds me of the things that make me special and strong even when he’s thousands of miles away.

Family can be co-workers who ignore rumors and the mean-spiritedness of others.  They help lift you up simply because the fiber of their beings can’t kick a girl when she’s down.  Co-workers who are family members are good to you not just when you are flying high, but when you need to be reminded of what’s good in your life.

Family can also come in the form of new friends…or in some cases new-old friends.  I am happy to say that I have connected with people this year who have become integral parts of my life in such a short period of time.  Some of them I’ve known since childhood, although I’ve just recently learned to appreciate them.  Some I have never met face to face, and yet they seem to just “get” me. Family comes in the form of a girl...a special girl who has joined our family and become one of the nearest and dearest human in my life.  The wisdom she holds at such a young age never ceases to amaze me.  She was born a teacher...and in my case gently teaches me about life and how to treat one another. Family comes in the form of new people that we soon can't imagine ever living without.

Perhaps the biggest revelation…the one that has been right here in front of me all along is that family is made up, of course, of real and true family members as well.   Family is a very loyal sister, who even under immense pressure loves me, speaks with me, and makes me feel as if I am wanted, needed and appreciated.  This wonderful sister makes time for Ila, for me, for togetherness.  She makes sure that on even the smallest holiday we connect.  With her, I am included and not forgotten.  Family is a sister for whom I am infinitely grateful. 

Family is also a brother-in-law who gave freely well needed understanding in the most trying of circumstances.  He soothed when he could have shouted.  He reassured when he could have turned away.  He was grateful when he could have been hateful.  Family is a steady, steadfast brother-in-law. 

Family is a group of the craziest, zaniest, most wonderful in-laws a girl could ask for.  It is feasting at Thanksgiving, a sister-in-law who realizes a need and gives freely, parents-in-law who even in their late 80’s and early 90’s dote on their three year old granddaughter, remember my sons’ birthdays and insist on celebrating my own birthday with me even when my own flesh and blood forgot.

Last but not least, most importantly in fact, family is my offspring.  Shamefully I hadn’t been living by David Ogden Stier’s wisdom earlier this year. Sadly I can’t change my past, but happily I have changed my present and will keep it in my future.  My children are loved fiercely and completely with all of my being no matter where they are, what choices they make, or even if they someday reject me or make mistakes that hurt themselves or their family. Each will always be equally cherished and held closely because after all family means never being left behind or forgotten no matter what…no matter what.

And so dear Mudders, this season, I hope that you have family, whether by blood or by choice, gathered close to you.  I hope you tell them how much they mean to you.   For being loved by someone or in my case a whole bunch of someones makes you realize that even during a year of great burden--family  makes any heavy load a little lighter.     

A Mother of a Troubled Child

I used to be a parenting snob.  How would I define that?  Well I suppose, if I was to admit it, I guess it would mean that I agreed with the old adage that if a child was struggling it was due completely to the inadequacies of the parent or parents.  As a teacher, it is sort of our mantra.  “Where are the parents??”  Johnny can’t read?  He must have never seen a book in his house when he was a wee toddler.  His mother must have never taken the time to cuddle up in bed with him and read the glorious words of “Goodnight Moon.”  Johnny is angry.  Well then he learned that at home.  I used to be willing to bet you that that was exactly how his father acted towards his mother.  Or, there’s the even snarkier thought that Johnny was “allowed” to act that way at home due to incompetence and so why would we ever expect anything different from him at school or in the mall or with a group of friends?  Johnny is dirty then by all means that certainly is proof that he has no one at home who cares about his hygiene.  I’d picture and shamefully speak loudly in the faculty lounge of a mother who was too wrapped up in her new boyfriend or her Pilates or her wine to notice that Johnny’s clothes were full of filth or that the dirt under his nails could grow a full on vegetable garden.  Tsk tsk.  What DO we do about those creatures that try and call themselves parents?  Yeah I know.  Not good.  Not good at all.

As my boys grew up, I looked down my nose at a family who’d walk by me in the mall with a child that was dressed in gothic garb.  I’d roll my eyes when I heard tell of children we knew who had to go to rehab or who were taken from the home.  I wouldn’t allow my children to befriend those in foster care.  Those children who ended up in our local mental institution were just sad sad kids who had no familial support at all.  Period.  The end.  But this was NOT how my children would end up.   After all, they had a mom who not only went to every game she went to every practice.  They had a mom that established traditions for every holiday.  Gave them elaborate birthday parties, shopped at Macy’s even when she couldn’t afford the clothes there.  My boys would never ever end up like “THOSE” children.  They had a mom who loved them.  A mom that insisted they eat dinner together nightly.  They had a mom who asked about their day, required homework be done, gave logical consequences and put parameters on where they went and with whom.  Not my kids said this parent  snob.  Not ever my kids.  Never would my child end up troubled.

Well, I was wrong.  Wrong about a lot of things.  Wrong to look down my nose at the families of children who were struggling.  Wrong to gossip at lunch time about the ineptitude of parents whose kids were off the deep end.  Wrong, wrong, wrong to think for one second that the sum total of a child’s problem fell squarely in the lap of the parents of that child.  How do I know I was wrong?  Well, humility gave me a lesson or two. 

For instance, I am writing this post as I sit on an uncomfortable bench in a stark gray walled, antiseptic smelling institution while one of my children sits in a mandated “support group.”  To my left and to my right are parents of the other children in the support group.  Across from me are children that just 6 months ago I would have pitied and looked down upon as the lost souls of poor parenting, and yet…I can’t do that anymore because one of my children is sitting right next to them.

 

Over the past few weeks, I have entered buildings that I didn’t even know existed.  Each building blurs together having the same stark rectangular feel, the same uncomfortable chairs, the same antiseptic smell, the same unsmiling faces, the same disheveled teens.  I have sat through intake after intake telling the history, the story of my child.  I have watched helplessly as things happened to him that were out of my control.  I have experienced things that I thought  would never  ever be experienced by me or any child that I raised.  And I guess that is the first point of this post. 

We must be careful, Mudders.  We must not set ourselves up by worshipping that false prophet, “Never.”  He doesn’t exist.  There are things that will happen to our children, because of our children that we will not anticipate when we hold them in our arms as infants, when we watch them hit a ball over the fence during little league, when we snuggle with them on the couch to watch a movie.  Things will happen, maybe horrible things that we wouldn’t wish on our worst enemies, and even though we’re their parents, we won’t be able to stop them from happening.  Which brings me to the second point of this post:

We need to be sure Mudders that we are good to other Mudders and Fudders.  Unless we live in the house with them and have watched them raise their children from infancy on, we can never know or judge what it is that may have caused their child to be troubled.  I mean really.  Who do we think we are?  Is there any of us that actually think that they’ve got it ALL figured out when it comes to parenting?  If you are nodding your head right now, let me tell you how absolutely mistaken you are and I’d have to inform you that you too are a parenting snob.

 

I know now that it may not be the parenting.  It may be the genealogy.  It may be an outside traumatic event or several…but we must remember that blaming the parents, making fun of the parents, lamenting about the parents—all the things that I used to do is quite presumptuous and, yes, snobby, downright snobby. 

  

Like many changes, my realization of what an absolute parental snob I was has come through experience.  You see, lately I have been at the other end of that thinking, of that snobby behavior.  When talking to teachers, administrators, school officials about my child, I can hear the edge in their voice—the one that oozes the tone that says, “He wouldn’t be like this if you just….” (Fill in the blank here)   Believe me when I say that speaking with someone who has that preconceived notion about you makes it impossible to be taken seriously.  It is unfeasible to get parental snobs to hear that you really just need help, want help for your child.  They don’t think that you are capable of possessing a working maternal compass—I would even go so far as to say that when dealing with some institutions that my child now needs to take part in, I have been spoken to as if I have no education, no knowledge of what is right and what is wrong, like I am LESS than because my child is deemed LESS than.  I have been handled with disdain as if, as if the sum total of my child’s problem belong squarely on my shoulders.  And while I do carry some of the weight of what is happening to him across my back, there are other factors, there is a bureaucracy that shackles a parent against doing what is necessary for her child. There are unforeseen circumstances.  There is peer pressure.  There are learning disabilities and educators that are less than cooperative and more interested in getting Johnny “out” of their class.  There is lack of self esteem that comes from repeated failure...there is so much more that can trouble a child than simply a parents ability to care for their child. 

So remember dear Mudders, when you find yourself judging a parent or child, when you find yourself thanking the heavens that YOUR child will NEVER be like THAT child, proceed with caution.  You just might be disappointed.  Never say “Never.”  You just NEVER know.   

My Dear Hindsight--Go AWAY!

I Am Struggling Dear Readers

I am struggling dear readers. I am struggling. I have decisions to make. Hard ones. Life changing ones. The decisions I need to make are similar decisions to ones I had to make when my sons were little. And that damn Hindsight is dogging me. Being older and so-called wiser, having a friend named Hindsight, can just add pain to things that are already feeling excruciating. Sometimes, Hindsight is annoying, heart wrenching, maddening, especially when the decision is hard enough without his two cents butting in. Lately, I just want to shut him up.

I want to make my decisions without the wisdom that Hindsight brings. I want to be dumb, ignorant, and selfish and do the things that I want without any other voice entering the conversation. Heck, even IF I was without Hindsight, I am not even sure of which way to go with the decisions that I have to make. But WITH Hindsight chiming in day and night, night and day, I am just absolutely positively drowning in a thick miserable muck of indecision.

Read the rest here:  http://www.hilltownfamilies.org/2012/11/20/fisher-50

I Believe in a Ghost

I believe in ghosts.  Or a ghost...singular.  The ghost of him...when he was him.  He can appear anywhere when I least expect it.  I caught a glimpse of him through my kitchen window last weekend.  He was on trampoline in the body of a new neighborhood boy flipping and stuffing a basketball in a suspended hoop.  I found myself mesmerized by this child so clearly embodied by HIS ghost. Memories pelted my brain, both visual and auditory.  The incessant squeak, squeak of the trampoline bouncing coupled with throaty laughter and grunts of disappointment when a death defying flipped was not quite reached.  Before I knew it, I was white knuckling the kitchen sink, eyes full of tears, heart full of pain yet unable to look away because I didn't want to miss a moment of HIS specter.

Then one day this week I saw him walking down the street just outside his old elementary school.  He had a skaters cap on and his long shaggy hair hung down over one eye.  The hair was lighter than HIS but it didn't fool me.  I'd know that swagger-filled gait anywhere.  I watched longingly from behind the wheel of my car wanting to once again brush that hair from his face and have him pull away.  A hearty "honk" from a car behind me alerted his ghost so that the boy turned back into an unknown pre-adolescent, and because I didn't know how to summon HIM back, I drove on so that the impatient driver behind me could get home to his family.

His spirit is channeled through the familiar as well. November first is a big day in our house.  It is the day the Christmas music comes out.  When the Muppets and my daughter sang along to The Twelve Days of Christmas, I could have sworn I heard HIS voice come from the backseat  making fun of Beaker's "mi mi mi m mi mi."  On my vanity mirror, his eyes twinkle in a picture of HIM.  They ask me to make some food; grape jelly meatballs and fettuccine Alfredo. They tease me, dance and blink with amusement, but I can't laugh. Those ghostly blue eyes bore into me until I take the photo and place it in the hall closet where he can't haunt me anymore.

 I sometimes see him at the head of a  pack of cross country runners, long legs reaching, arms pumping, brow furrowed with concentration.  HIS natural born speed creates an illusion of flying.  He is there-flying by me-until he disappears rounding a corner with all the other runners trailing behind him.

His ghost visits at night during those in between moments of wake and sleep.  I hear his voice, his laugh, his protests.  I feel that spirited boy zoom by me as if  a hot summer day was calling to him. I sit up and dangle my feet over the bed, listening intently for the slight possibility that it just may have really been HIM calling to me, needing me, flying in the door to tell me the latest news in the sports world or play me the newest song he loves on Youtube.  How I wish to be jolted out of bed by one of his boisterous proclamations.  But all is quiet, he is gone again and all that is left is the sound of sadness for what might have been and what used to be a very long, long time ago.

I believe in a ghost.  I BELIEVE in that ghost.  He is here.  HE is there...somewhere waiting to take his rightful place back where he belongs in the body of the young man he somehow tragically got separated from. But until then, that ghost, HIS ghost will continue to haunt me, to stay with me, and I will keep him safe and remind him that he's loved just as if I was his own mother.