Archive | November, 2011

Leaving Walgreen’s this morning

10 Nov

As I was walking to my car, a bumper sticker on a car in the next row caught my eye.

“My kid has autism. What’s your excuse?”

I found myself thinking how incredibly handy that bumper sticker would have been when Max was between the ages of four and twelve. Man, did that ever sum it up.

Intrigued, I peeked into the car. There was a woman in the driver’s seat, on the phone. Without analyzing my behavior, I walked over to the passenger side, leaned down and caught her eye, making the universal “roll down your window” sign. She did.

“I just had to tell you that I love your bumper sticker.” I began, continuing “I have an almost-21 year old son on the spectrum.” Unexpectedly, I choked up and tears filled my eyes. “So many years, so many struggles, so much progress,” I continued as she smiled and nodded knowingly. Then she pointed behind her to a boy, seven or eight years old, in his booster seat.

“This is mine,” she said proudly. “Max, can you say hello?”

The little boy smiled through missing teeth, waved and said “He-llo!” in a high, singsong voice. I said hello in return, telling them MY son was named Max, too. He was blonde like your Max and mine, Chris; had those eyes, Terry, that we have always said are so recognizeable.

We said goodbye and I returned to my car. I can’t find the words for what I was feeling: a combination of familiarity, nostalgia, sadness, and a sense of inevitability, too. So many Maxes. So many children, born every day into families who together will find themselves walking a road they never knew was on the map. All to experience so much misunderstanding from others – misunderstanding that calls for a bumper sticker.

Advertisements

33 lines, one life

10 Nov

She had asthma. She had allergies. She had glasses.
She had buck teeth. She broke them.
She had five dads and no dads. She had one mom and no mom.
She had a grandma who saved her.

Her grandma died. Her dad died. Her mom did not die.
She tortured frogs and flies. She set fires.
She had no boyfriends.
She had a white candle, a light inside her.

She ran away at 15.
She was saved again. She had a testimony.
She was a shining example of Christ’s love.
She sang. She danced. She grew her hair long.
She won an Optimist Award.

She got contacts, braces. She grew beautiful.
She was in a pageant. She didn’t win.
She went to college. She was raped at gunpoint.
She questioned her religion.
She did not question her faith.

She got married. She bought a house. She got divorced.
She had children! She welcomed them.
She and her children taught each other.
She worked. She traveled. She wrote.
She had boyfriends. She danced salsa.

She married a young man. She danced with him, sang with him.
She traveled to his country. She was loved by his family.
She tried to have his child. She failed.
She was betrayed. She questioned her love.
She did not question her faith.

She watched him grow.
She welcomed him back.
She and her family lived, loved, worked, grew together.
She sang. She danced.
She believed.

Just another weekend at my house

10 Nov

(Since I just created this blog today, I am populating it with random scribbles from the past few years to get it started. This was actually written December 6, 2010)

It started snowing Friday afternoon and just didn’t stop. The minute I came out of my room Saturday am, Cole said “Mom, look in the backyard.” Assuming he wanted me to see all the snow, I went into the bathroom to look out the window. I saw snow all right – but also saw our poor Tiki hut my husband had built two summers ago. One of the four posts had broken, and that corner of the roof was almost to the ground. It looked so sad! I texted Vini at the office; he already had plans to fix it when he got home. He said that post had not been set right initially and a lot of water had gotten into the base of it over the last 2 years; the weight of the snow finally did it in.

Meanwhile, Cole was hosting a Harry Potter Movie Marathon, with a total of ten friends. One had stayed over Friday night, and the rest kept coming. Of course they all came to the front door; I let a few of them in and finally started asking them to please go around to the back to save my living room hardwood floor.

Vini got home and started working on the Tiki. He asked Cole and a few of the guys to help him lift it so he could prop it up with the new post while he dug out the cement and readied the hole. So everyone trooped out and in again in their snowy boots – sigh.

My plans for the day had been to get the Christmas tree. Vini and I were going to walk over and get it, and carry it home. I decided not to interrupt his Tiki repair and to just go get it myself. How hard could it be to drag a tree 3 blocks, anyway? Especially with all the fresh snow to protect it from getting damaged.

So, I went and picked out the very first one I saw – it was perfect! Very tall, perfectly shaped, with a nice long single top for Gingajing (our Christmas angel, named by Cole as an infant) to sit on. I couldn’t imagine why the tree was still there, it was so perfect. Went to pay and was told they don’t take debit cards – I think I knew that but had forgotten. Walked next door to the Quickie Mart (not really but you know) to find their ATM out of cash. The guy refilled it from the cash register; said it was the third time already that day he had to fill it. I told him about the Christmas tree lot not taking credit and he got an ‘aha’ look on his face.

Went back, paid for the tree and made sure the fresh cut the guy made did not take too much of the trunk since I wanted that tree to stay tall. He then asked where my car was. “In the garage,” I replied cheerily. “I’m dragging it home.” “You’re dragging THIS tree? How far?” I told him it was only three blocks. No big deal, right?

I inspected the tree carefully to find the weakest side, which would end up going in the corner. That was the side I determined to drag it on, since any inadvertent flattening that happened on the way home wouldn’t be visible. I turned the tree weak side down, grabbed a foot or so up the trunk and pulled. Oof. It came, but not as easily as I had imagined it would. But along we went, out the lot and down the first sidewalk. I cringed when crossing the driveway to SuperAmerica; dirty slush instead of clean white snow to drag it through. But then I dragged it up an unplowed alley to clean it off.

That dam*ned tree was much heavier than it looked! The worst thing by far, however, was my insistence on dragging it on the weak side. Because the fullest (heaviest) branches were NOT at the bottom, physics demanded the tree to continue trying to roll over so the heaviest side would be down. I refused to let physics win, which meant I ended up taking all the weight of it’s attempt to roll onto the side of my forearm, where a rather strong lower branch was leaning. It HURT but I gritted my teeth and continued holding it in the least damaging position (to the tree, not to my arm!)

Three blocks never seemed so far. I did get there eventually, then had to go up our 12 front steps. Yay, we were home! Now to get it in the stand and into the house. I peeked around the back to see how Vini was progressing; he and the Jeep were gone to the hardware store so it was just me and the tree again. Before screwing it into the stand I – OOF! – stood the thing up and did my best to lift it up and down, shake it and do whatever I could to clean off most of the snow before bringing it into the house. I did what I could, then eyeballed for straightness, hoped for the best and screwed on the stand.

I went to open the front door. Locked! Luckily PJ, freaked out at the possibility that yet ANOTHER teenager was trying to come in, went crazy, and Cole heard him. He opened the door for me, moved the couch out of the way as I dragged seven feet of wet tree through the living room. “That’s a lot of snow, Mom,” he said. “I know,” I grunted, “I’ll clean it up.” Then Cole helped me get the tree to it’s “feet” and voila, it was perfectly straight! A miracle! I had about 15 seconds to appreciate it before I heard cascades of dripping water start to hit the floor. The tree was SOAKED! I ripped off my boots (God the floor was so trashed) and ran for towels. Laid three or four around the base of the tree, and got on hands and knees to dry the path the tree and my boots had made from the door to the corner.

Oh and I neglected to mention that while it was straight, it was TOO tall. The tree was bending on the ceiling! I had to get on a chair, REACH and cut off that nice long single branch I had been coveting for Gingajing’s perch. (NOW I knew why myriad others had passed it by – clearly they could tell it was much too tall. Maybe because I am so used to 6’4″ kids my ability to discern height is skewed.)

Vini did help me carry the Christmas box down from the attic, then I decorated everything myself since he had a soccer game and Cole had – 10 friends in the basement! I felt extremely accomplished, drinking my eggnog and listening to the Carpenters and gazing at MY tree. Of course, today I have one heckuva bruise on my forearm to show for my efforts! It impressed my coworkers however

All but two of the kids (who had already been collected by their parents) were still asleep downstairs when we left for the Vikings game late Sunday morning. They were like a pack of warm puppies (very LARGE puppies), two to a couch, four on the floor, snoring peacefully. I left a note saying “Thank you for the NICE CLEAN BASEMENT before you leave” and lo and behold, that’s what we came home to! That and blessedly, just the one teenager!

Oh Children, by Kahlil Gibran

10 Nov

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

What I love about our house

10 Nov

My memory of seeing it for the first time; how it whispered “You found me – you’re home.”

The subsequent 20 years of memories of the boys growing up playing on it’s gleaming wooden floors, running up and down the stairs, hollering down the clothes chute; the Christmas morning the three of us took turns sliding down the stairs in their new snow saucers

All the Christmas mornings, rainy fall days, winter evenings cozy around the fireplace.

The love we’ve made in it, the fights we’ve had in it.

The solid core wood doors throughout that take muscle to open and close. I have practically broken a few hollow doors in cheaper homes by hauling them open with excessive force

Our neighbors, both sides, all up and down the block and behind us on the other side of the alley. We are close geographically (city blocks) AND totally look out for each other. We have seen each others’ kids grow up, parents die, husbands move out. We gather informally in each others’ homes the first Friday evening of every month for wine, appetizers and conversation. We catch each others’ escaped dogs, lend each other books, eggs, wrenches, shop vacs and marine/motorcycle expertise.

The screened in front porch with bead board ceiling which I “designed” by sketching it out on paper and got to see come to life by a talented construction team.

The perennial gardens I scratched out from the roots (literally, with a rented rototiller) and have watched grow and spread to maturity.

The cardinals that hang in the backyard all summer, drinking from our dolphin fountain. The wrens who return each spring to nest in the purple birdhouse Cole made in kindergarten which hangs on the southern corner of the front porch.

The view of the harvest moon out the study window in autumn.

The funny hum the upstairs toilet makes after each flush. Sometimes I harmonize with it.

The beautiful, 90 year old wood trim in the livingroom and diningroom which my ex and I took down, stripped and stained and put back up, fighting the entire time.

The “Rasta Room” in the finished attic that Vini and I made when we reunited after our separation.

The way the sun streams in the kitchen windows while we prepare supper in the evenings, practically blinding us and showing me when the windows need cleaning.

The tiki hut in the backyard where we grill, drink Lambrusco and hang out in the summertime, designed and built by Vini and a friend.

I could go on and on and on and on.

Men, explained.

10 Nov

We were watching the Vikings lose (actually at that point they might have been winning); anyway, that commercial came on for Viagra or Cialis or something. The one where the guy is too ashamed to talk to his doctor but not at all embarrassed to talk to his imaginary reflection in the window – you know the one. The voiceover guy delivers the possible side effects rapidfire, hoping we don’t hear them. But we do – loss of hearing and vision problems are among them.

So I ask my husband “If you had to choose between never having sex again and losing your hearing, which would you choose?” After asking if I was serious and being told yes, he said “Well that’s easy – hearing, of course.” I verified that he would rather LOSE HIS HEARING than never have sex again; yup, that’s what he meant.

So then I asked “What about sight? Would you rather never have sex again, or go blind?”

He pursed his lips. “Now that’s a hard one,” he began. I was thinking FINALLY this guy is making sense! He continued “because seeing is such a big part of sex. You know? ” He was looking at me as though, yes, I really did know and yes, I could absolutely understand why it would be such a difficult decision.

I finally said “You know babe, I really think there is not a woman on the PLANET who would choose to lose her sight or her hearing in order to keep having sex.” He woefully agreed with me.

So. Doesn’t that explain an awful LOT???

Written for my dad March 11. Happy Birthday Daddy.

10 Nov

That sounds so strange even to type. You died when I was 12, but you and Mom divorced before I turned one. You were 44 when I was born so would have turned 95 today- wow.

I have memories of you, but most are stories others told me. One is of you sleeping fully dressed during my infancy, boots at the ready at the foot of your bed. You slept like this so you could scoop me up and rush me to emergency and the oxygen tent when I turned blue and asthmatic, apparently frequently enough for you to get the routine down pat. Thank you, Daddy. I still have asthma today but I am still here, because you were my fireman.

Another is of Mom telling me how much you loved to dance. That makes me smile, because I know you passed that onto me, and somehow even made sure I picked Vini so I would have someone to dance with.

I remember three things for myself:

The time you took me to your sister’s farm and I picked ferns. She gave me a Mason jar with water to take them home in. Mom smashed the jar on the front step after you drove away, my punishment for enjoying my time with you.

The time you took me up in a rented two-person plane, flying me (I never knew you could fly until that day; you learned in the Korean War) over my town, pointing out my house, my school. To the day Mom died I never told her. It is still our secret, Daddy.

The time you died, and I went to your funeral, and I was afraid to cry when they played Taps though I wanted to so badly, though my eyes were burning and my throat filled with a giant lump. I knew better. Crying would make Mom mad. I was not supposed to cry for you. I was not supposed to love you.

I am sorry we never really knew each other, Daddy. Really sorry. I hope we remedy that someday.