Change of Address Form

I've tried. Heaven knows I've tried.  Cut and paste this VERY IMPORTANT LIFE EXPERIENCE PIECE into that place.  Lose the pictures.  Not good with the pictures.  And I like pictures because when I feel too damned lazy to really gather my thoughts and write words, well, they do say "a picture's worth a thousand words."

*sigh*

And I like it here.  It's all warm and familiar.  And you know where you can find me, if you want to find me.  That part is totally up to you. 

But I think that for the most part, I'm filling out my change of address form.  Now you can find all those VERY  IMPORTANT LIFE EXPERIENCE PIECES over at Wordpress.

 Step right up, it's always free...

http://havocandshine.wordpress.com/

Blogspot, it's not you, it's me. 

And the pictures.  I like using the pictures.

Oh, and if you don't feel like stopping by, even for the pictures, I should tell you that we are in the midst of excavating and prepping for THE POOL.  This is more terrifying than I can say, and I would really appreciate your support.  Sort of like coming by with a casserole after someone has a  baby.  Our baby is 18 feet in diameter and MUST, MUST be installed on absolutely level ground--within one inch or 25 cms.

Aw, come on, you know that's going to be hiLARious!

I'll give you candy...

Please?                                 Be Careful!  That's the Deep End!

The Parable of the Prodigal Mom

First things first–Let’s keep in mind that while I agree that the biblical prodigal son made some poor life choices and didn’t really think through his long-term financial strategies, he really sort of didn’t do anything horrible to anyone. He asked for his inheritance a tick early, but it would have gone to him at some point anyway,right? It’s not like he stole it. And okay, yeah, he promptly screwed it all up. Screwed it all up big. But how many of us could throw stones at his glass house? My hand is plastered firmly to the keyboard here. I probably would have gone for the wine and woohoo, same as him. Then, of course, when the party ended, he went back to his father and asked for some honest work. Nothing wrong with that–in fact, I’m thinking it was a pretty grown up thing to do, really. But then, maybe my perspective is skewed, I’m never sure. Now, it was then that his father went all Justin Beiber on him and that made the younger brother, who clearly had his five-year plan in place, all kinds of pissy. That’s the story, right? Well, it would piss me off, too. It would piss me off big.

My point (I know…I know…) is that that we make “prodigal” a synonym for “bad” or “mooch,” and eh….I can’t really see it that way. He blew it. Made poor choices. Then, he was forgiven. Not a bad guy, just um…human and simple.
I have a friend coming into town today, and I haven’t seen her for over a year. The kicker is neither have her kids seen her for that long, because in one split second, she just up and left. Everyone and everything. One day she was a Southern Baptist stay-at-home wife and mother of three small-ish kids who lived around the corner and rotated school pick up with me, and the next day, she was…gone.

New Man. New State. New Life.



Wow, right? I know. My husband was terrified that I was next. And yeah, not without reason, but really? I never could. No…I don’t think I could.



Anyway, so yeah, while the entire world knew that her husband was a complete ass, I had no idea how big an ass he was, or how miserable she really was. To her credit, she never said much about it. Me? I would have never shut up about it. She was in a different place. Called her period “ladies’ days,” painfully and reluctantly referred to anything sexual as “being with“ and she never, ever wanted to be anything but a wife and mom. That’s cool. Except that there’s a kind of southern man who (and I hate stereotypes, but ten years is long enough to form a hypothesis) is just hot air and big hair and Promise Keeper-y (no offense, PKs), and this particular kind of man always, always played football in high school. Because sadly, that is sometimes what makes a man down here. And this is the kind of man she married when she was very young. This is the kind of man who came home to her every night.

I cannot fathom.

Fast forward, she starts Face-booking with the only other man she’d ever dated, her high school boyfriend…chats get chattier, memories get fonder, and do I need to hand you a guidebook to showwhere this was going? Exactly. She left. This good ol’ Southern Baptist “ladies’ day” kind of girl now lives (technically in sin, by her own standards) with her high school boyfriend. Works part-time. And I guess she was so desperate that she thought abandoning her kids was all she could do. I didn’t understand it (which is saying a lot *ahem*), and I begged her to get some sort of custody deal–there were places, people who would help her, I said. She should know her rights, I said. She shouldn’t let her ex strong-arm her, I said. (Then he told her I’d threatened his life and that *I* was dangerous–yeah, me and my what?…hand tiller? Oh, all my evil plans and the autistic kid? God, I’m still laughing about that. Sad thing–she had to ask me if it was true. She’s a bit on the simpler side.)

So her ex made it as ugly and as untrue as he possibly could and he wrapped it all up in his ridiculous religious logic. Big pile of crap. Still, it hurt my kids. And he forbade their kids any contact with us. I have six year olds snubbing me at school. Nice example. And Whatever. And since I know he’ll have to explain it to Jesus one day, I can pretty much go with the flow.

And she’s coming back into town today. She’s absolutely welcome to sleep on our sofa because her ex thinks it “unseemly and confusing for the children” if she should stay with them. Yeaaaah.
All that is fine, really. What’s not fine is that I still can’t make sense of a mother leaving her children like that. Going completely AWOL. Becoming a Not-Mom. Moms are lifers, you know that. I don’t know how I feel. I want to be compassionate and unjudgy about it–who am I to say? But she left my kids with a huge, huge pile of hurt and confusion. Why did she go? and would I (my children are not idiots, lol)go? And why were her kids not their friends anymore?

I hate explaining stupid adult stuff to my children. It breaks my heart.

I guess I’m writing this all out because she’ll be here soon–at least I think she will, she’s pretty footloose and fancy free, no kids, you know…but she’ll get here. She and her new Not-Mom Self. (Self? what’s a self?)

And I suspect that she thinks it’s no big deal between us, but really? It is a huge M-freaking deal between us. I love her, she is a good person. Yes. True. She made bad (for her kids, at least) choices. She screwed (her kids) up. I’m trying very hard to not be that younger son, all pissy because I stayed behind and rode out the wave of shit this prodigal mom left behind. I have to tell her that just because she’s here doesn’t mean that her kids will be here. I feel very strongly that small children who are instructed to snub adults should not expect to be welcomed into that adult’s playhouse or into that adult’s childrens’ hearts. Hey, I didn’t set up those rules, her Hot-Air Happy-Jesus Ex Husband did. Mostly, I simply refuse to have my kids hurt again.

Man, I am dreading this…and yes, I did try to talk about it with her before today, but remember, she’s a Not-Mom now. It’s different. Not-Moms lose all their Mom-Logic when they make the switch. She probably doesn’t carry kleenex or wipes in her purse anymore. Or even Hot Wheels. Sheesh, what a life, right?

I don’t know. I just don’t know. And I really wanted to make some cool biblical connection between the prodigal son and the prodigal mom, but I’m more and more anxious as the day goes on, and don’t tend to make cool biblical connections when I’m like this.
Oh well.

Okay. Here’s my plan: I am going to try really, really hard to not be that pissy stayed-behind brother, no matter how much shit went down when she lit out with Facebook Boy. And I’m going to try really, really hard to consider that she truly did what she felt she had to do, even if I don’t understand or condone it. It’s just…in my heart, in my not-good-at-being-a-mommy-heart, I know there were ways around it that she just didn’t take.

Should be an interesting week, don’t you think?

Got Questions?

My son does. Or he did, just now. And this is really particularly spectacular, so please keep reading and share my joy.




A few minutes ago, he asked, “may I have more kisses please?”



Oh yes, LRHF, all the kisses in all the world, you may have them all like you wouldn’t believe.



Then he promptly asked, “May I have Sprout (tv) please? channel 109.”



So guess what he’s doing now…

How Do I Know (if he really loves me)...Oh, Whitney, I feel you!

I never thought I'd make reference to vintage Whitney Houston, I can tell you that for sure.

And that's all I'm sure about, because I just don't know if words can be trusted.  Yes, this is kind of funny, because I do love me some words, wordiness, wordiosity, wordilasticity...I've got like five more of those in my head right this minute, but you get the point.

He says he loves me.  He says he still thinks I'm beautiful.  He says I am still his Beloved.  

But.

Should I take those answers, crumple them tightly to my heart, and hope for the best?  Or should I wonder why, why, why I have to ask, break down and weep, get all forlorn and shit,  before he actually says all that?  Truly, I do not know. 

And he's a lousy liar, but does that work for us, or against us? Does it mean that when he says these things, they are true and he simply doesn't say them often  enough (or um...at all), or does it mean that he cannot say these untrue things until  absolutely cornered by his sanguine and wild-haired wife?   Again, I do not know. 

We have so much that makes so much so much harder.  It's tricky and scary and it's never fair.   More than that,  it's sad, because it hurts us, and it is either our weapon, or our fortress.  Neither is much good if we're on the same side. 

Ohhhh...how I want him to still love me!  How I hope!

How I ponder and doubt!

Seriously, How do I know?

Sometimes...it's about time.

Sometimes done is done, even without discernable change.  We can pull and pull and push and push and talk and talk and still...

Done is done.

God, that's a sucky lesson.  Worse than the cancer thing? Ummm...about even, I think.  Maybe because the losses that drift so slowly away, even in front of me, even while sleeping beside me, those losses are constant and fresh and jagged.  My brother's cancer is...well, sort of a progression, a path, if you will. 

I'm tired of asking, suggesting, telling, showing, screaming the same things over and over. At some point I have to accept that what's not there simply is not there.  And there's no expecting, there's no changing, there's no discussing that which is not there.  I've been foolish in all of this, I realize.  I'm not laying blame, really, I'm not.  How could I?  There is no fault, except maybe letting too much time pass, maybe letting hopes get too high, and those are childish, foolish things, aren't they?

I can't do it. I can't pretend.  What's worse, I can't explain why I can't pretend, or even why I might wish I could pretend.  He's good.  I love him.  All my heart is laid bare for him over and over and yet...I don't know, is it that my heart isn't true enough for him to see clearly?  Could I explain better if I uncovered some subterfuge in myself? I don't think so.  Not good at subterfuge.  Not clever.  Never said I was. 

But's it's not so much about what I've said or not said--not really.  It's, well, it's realizing what I no longer hear, or worse, what I've never heard.  How thick am I? How long should it take a wife to notice such things? Especially a wife who knows her husband essentially cannot lie.  Like I said, he's good. And I love him.

I can't take another kiss on the forehead as my only kiss.  I can't bear begging for kisses--am I so pathetic?  He gets angry. Defensive. There's no good way to beg for kisses, if one has to beg.  Duh.
Jesus. I'm tired of asking, reminding, hoping. Yes Lord, I'm tired of hoping.  I can't stand wondering if I even really need to be there for sex--it isn't like I participate, not really...overall, I think that we're overstaffed in that department, if you know what I mean.

So sometimes, even if everything stays in the same place, even if I'm not leaving, and he's not leaving, and blah blah blah, sometimes all that means is that it's done and  it's time to quit looking for what simply is not there.

God, how I weep at this.  And I weep knowing that it's me.  I am not beautiful to him and there is nothing I can do.  This is not a concept that can be readily discussed on an objective level, so what's the point?

I wrote him a note pretty much paraphrasing that last bit.  This will save him lots of time and he can go to the gym and run marathons and keep on with that separate life he so mightily prefers, and I think that's good for him because he keeps asking me what's wrong--what the fuck should I say, right? I'm tired of saying and saying and failing and failing. . 

So now, my darling, my Very Great Love, you go on and put that note in your wallet  right where you used to keep my lovenotes. Funny thing, it kind of serves a similar purpose for you, doesn't it?

Beloved, my Best Beloved.  Now you know.  How simple. How efficient.

You're welcome.

Hurry up and get to the gym now, okay?

What the Wild Things Did

In case you’re dying to know, I surrendered my girlish dance dreams when I sprained my left ankle at Bible camp. And true to just about every Lifetime Movie sans Valerie Bertinelli or Very Bad Men (and I can think of exactly… um…let me get back to you…), this happened only weeks (*gasp*) before a Very Important Audition for a Very Turning Point-y summer dance program.

Got Drama?
(And also, I have the oddest associations between that hippy ’70s version of the New Testament The Word and intense lower body pain. Hey,do you think that’s what kept me out of seminary? I don’t know.)

Anyhoo, the ol’ ankles have been like unbaked sculpey ever since. In fact, I do believe I’ve crawled across every single backyard we’ve ever had, sometimes with a baby or two in tow, trying to get to the “C” and the “I” in standard post-ankle fuck up care (see below).

Rest Ice Compress and Elevate

Yeah, and our state is not known for flat backyards. And it may be a teensy bit genetic. My mother once declared that the only thing that kept her from nicking a certain lamp in the Wright Brothers’ Exhibit was the sad state of her swollen ankle. Believe it.

Clearly, the toys of small boys have an unfair advantage over this old mommy– they are small, they often have wheels, and they are frequently meant to interlock by means of sharp angles and /or edges. (I know what you’re thinking, and yes, it is unfolding more and more like a Lifetime Movie with every twist and turn–ankle puns aside). Oh, and I just went back to ballet class. So old. Sooooo careful. So tentative. And so damn sexy in my pair of white stretchy ankle supports. But I’m there. Only took two decades and then some.

mugshot of offender

But then…
Minding my business, doing regular old laundry-related duties, it was freaking Bible camp all over again. Only this time the offender was a block. A block. One of LRHF’s Where the Wild Things Are blocks. They are blocks made of freaking cardboard. I know them well, as I have picked surely picked them up as often, if not more often than I have picked up my small sons. Collectively.

Still, left foot caught the edge of one and Down Goes Mommy…

Dammity Damn Damn Damny Damn. And other bad words.

Because I have stuff to do. No, really–not just the painty, dumb arty stuff–I drive a pick up truck with a very, very itchy clutch…left ankle required. I have the whole compost thing I do. Again, left ankle not optional. And I have to remove and re-lay the stones for the patio outside the playhouse (needed more pea gravel–drainage issues–you know how that can be, right?)

More than that, though, there’s that dull understanding that sometimes (read: usually or always) I’m their maid. I mean, I didn’t twist this baby falling out of a pair of 4 inch heels. I’ve been picking up or tripping over the same crap every day, over and over…and I’ve tried to instill work ethic, really, I have. They’re not exactly Puritan stock.

Speaking of Puritans, it’s just R.I.C.E. for me tonight. Well, rice and B.

That would be for Bourbon. Because it ain’t Bible camp no more.

Doubting Mom-Ass

It’s true.


I still have doubts about the whats and whys of this blog thing. I mean, what you do is your business and god knows it’s nifty to pick out templates and stuff, but honestly I wonder what it says about me–yeah, I write, I’ve always written, it’s my thinking and praying and processing, but why on earth would I be emboldened to hit that “publish” button for everyone or anyone to see? Publish what? I’m not important. I don’t have anything brilliant or enlightening to share. I don’t do give-aways (Now, I love me some give-aways, but it seems to me I should know where my stuff is before I start giving away other folks’ stuff, you know?). And aside from any of that, my attitude is a little on the iffy side, if you know what I mean. (I know. It’s hard to believe, but yes, my attitude is pretty damn sucky an awful damn lot of the time. You can stop pretending to be surprised now, okay? it’s out in the open.)

We can flip through mommyblog after mommyblog…whole catalogs, lists, pages, whatever, and I gotta be honest, I wonder first, if we need all these little peeks in each other’s windows and second, how much laundry piles up while we tap our days into domestic details and milestone moments.

I really don’t know. Do we hang our days out there because we no longer meet to hang clothes and chat? Do we ask each other for Twitter follows because we don’t ask each other for anything else? The archetypal borrowed cup of sugar? Ten minutes while I pick up a kid? Motherhood is a lonely business, lonelier now, no matter how you do it. It’s work, it’s dirty, it’s tedious, and women have been producing new humans for a good long time now (quality assurance is another issue, entirely, but I digress). So is it interesting?
Uh…maybe? Sorta? Well, is there anything on tv? That could be the determining factor.


Here’s a little-known big secret of mine: autism is not as glamorous as it looks. Here’s another: multiples are not a ready-made party in the playroom.

Those are the big secrets. Now here are the not-so-big secrets–some of us doubt we’d pass the MAT (Mommy Aptitude Test) on the first try. Some of us wouldn’t even remember our pair of no. 2 pencils. Some of us wonder if we have any business at all being in this field. I guess that’s why I’m perplexed–I’m the *us* in those last two statements. I imagine that surely, surely, there must be others who wonder, but I guess it’s just not popular in mommyblogs. Totally get that. I don’t admit my doubts because I’m brave or any similar shit at all, I admit them as a disclosure, of sorts. A “just to be clear” sort of thing.

See, there’s this thing that happens around Mothers’ Day, especially to mothers of special needs kids. Suddenly, everyone is abso-freaking-lutely sure that we, by virtue of our station in life, are amazing, wonderful, selfless mothers. And they make a point to tell us. Now, everyone should get positive feedback about their momming, as long as it’s not too big a stretch. Yes. Absolutely. And it’s nice, and it’s well-meant, but it kind of amuses me…who can say whether my sons are duct-taped to their chairs even as I’m writing this, hmmmm? Well...can you? 
 They are (currently) not, btw, but the day is young. I’ll post pictures, if the situation changes.



I do okay, I guess…”bedtime w/o bloodshed” and all that is pretty much my gold standard, but really? My gorgeous college G.P.A. ( 2.45 first time through) is still a fair assessment of my effort and ability (which is annoying as hell because I only had that G.P.A because I was being all “We Got the Beat” and ”Girls Just Want to Have Fun” ’80s-neon-tastic. I think that’s why. Okay, I like to think that’s why. *ahem*) I rarely get similar opportunities and distractions these days. Why, I haven’t danced on big danceclub speakers in…oh, lifetimes…*sigh*

You know what? I’ve sort of lost my point. It’s raining, my kids are bored, LRHF needs another size 6 pull-up change, my rainbarrels are leaking, and I opened the gardening season yesterday by slicing both hands up sharpening bypass shears (“safety third” is my other gold standard). So maybe I’m just not in a really good mommy-place. Sunshine and lemonade and picnics and gymboree…nope. Not there. And maybe I feel a bit guilty about it because my sons deserve sunshine and lemonade and picnics and gymboree. They deserve someone with a higher mommy G.P.A. Yeah, they’re a bunch. They’re quirky and different and funny and maddening, but they are so much like me that I cannot but confess it.

Hmmm…there’s an idea:  Maybe it doesn’t matter that I’m not fascinating or wise or even certain that mommying is my thing. Maybe that’s not why I write. Maybe I write because I’d like you to know my sons, and believe me, they are worth knowing, even if only for the comic relief. I started sending bits and pieces of my work to my brother…I desperately want him to know his maddening lunatic nephews. And I guess that goes for you as well.

Told you they're a bunch.

So, these are my sons, ladies and gentlemen:

Here they are...

They are remarkable and they are a good reason to write. Who they are, what they do, and who they will be is immeasurably more important than any dusty old mommy-tip I might drag out and type up as wisdom.

And the best part? They are in spite of me. I do believe they are impervious to my ”nots” and “not sures.” I think we’d know by now, don’t you?

So, um….Tah-Daaaaahhhh!!!!

Let me tell you about my sons, Big Boy, Fuzzy, and Little Red Headed Fellow.

They’re worth it.