Hope

 

 



When Katherine Stone, creator and founder of PostPartum Progress, the world's most widely read blog on post partum depression and perinatal mood disorders, sent me an email asking me if I'd contribute a post as part of her website's Warrior Mom Leadership Team, it was surreal.

I have been following Katherine and her work, advocating on the behalf of mothers with perinatal mood disorders, for over four years now. She has asked me to write my story with post partum depression and anxiety, in the hopes that those who search for her site, find someone there with a story of making it through something that feels like it will never end. Post partum depression is temporary, and with professional help, treatable.

My post is here, and it's on Hope, one of the most beautifully life saving words I know.

Thank you for reading.

Postpartum Progress is the most widely-read blog on postpartum depression, postpartum anxiety/OCD, postpartum psychosis, depression during pregnancy and other mental illnesses related to childbirth. Please join us. We get it. We've been there ourselves.

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Things Boys Need From Their Moms

I have three children, all boys, and I am thrilled without regret, to be their mother.

I don't pretend I'm happy with boys, I am happy with boys. I would have been happy with all girls, too, or with a mix of girls and boys. I just wanted children, since little on. I have wanted to be a mother always.

My children are growing up, as children do, no matter how we try to press them down and keep them small by squishing them in tiny beds (like you don't...) they grow up. I've now entered my 18th year as a mother of all boys, and I've kept mental notes along the way. While driving this morning, the mental list was getting too long to keep track of, so I'm writing it down here. My blog, my open journal, my source of connection, and a bridge to others...

I'm grateful for this space here, and for those who read and share with me. Please take what you feel fits in your life from my list here, and add what you've found is your nugget of wisdom. Let's all help each other with this parenting gig, hmmm?

What I Believe Boys Need From Their Moms (and children in general)

 Teach your boys to respect women and how to treat women. Women on the average are physically smaller and shorter than men, but this is only the physical. Mentally, and person value wise, women are equal to men. It sounds ridiculous to have to teach this, but it's what we as mothers need to do. I turn off commercials that show women as less than capable or inferior or needy, because actions speak louder than words. I comment on magazine covers or ads that show women feeble and manipulative. I am now the second shortest person in my house, there are three taller than I am, and only the 5th grader has to look up to me when he speaks, but my voice in this house carries weight, because I have never backed down from issues or made myself appear as anything less than physicall and mentally able. Is this the first and longest and most run on paragraph in this post? Yes, it is, because this one is the most important of what boys need from their mothers.
 
Some boys will not want to talk as much as you do. Very possibly true. You may feel the need to ask and jump to the emotional right away, they may not. You know your child, his eyes will tell you if he needs some nudging to talk more. Otherwise, if they want to be left alone for awhile, try and oblige and give them that distance. Always with one eye to their hearts, open.

Say nice things to them. They may roll their eyes, but it still sounds like honey on toast. Drop them off at school with a "Knock 'em dead, handsome," and a "Whoa! Here's some sunglasses for those lethal blue eyes!" They'll think you're a cornball, but inside, they love to hear someone is that gaga over them.

Always always always and always, let them know how glad you are they were born. No matter what. Never say you can't wait till they're gone or they move out or leave for college. No matter what the day has been like, NEVER say that.

Tell them you love them, and like them. At least twice a day. Via phone, text, email, notes left on the kitchen table, it all counts.

Teach them how to graciously give, and receive, an apology, by modeling it yourself. 

You're the sentinel at the internet gate. Have your household screens password protected and be the administrator for downloads/uploads on their electronics. Censoring? You bet it is. What they fill their minds with, stays. While you're in control, plant the seed of a conscience. 

Monitor their time on screens with a timer. 

Remind them that they exist because the world demands their presence in it, please, take part in your world, children.

Be visible in their schools or extra curricular activities. They feel pretty proud when it's their mom reading in front of the classroom, or teaching Sunday school, or the one on Friday afternoons teaching JA, or the boy scout leader, or the forensics coach. Parents are needed in so many places in and out of school. Don't let the same ones always be doing the same work, you get on in there. Your boys will beam that it's you.

Find out who their teachers are, the people they eat lunch with, and what they have for homework. Ask them about one of these things, every day.

I'm writing this paragraph again, it's the most important one. Teach your boys to respect women and how to treat women. Women are, on the average, physically smaller and shorter, but this is only the physical. Mentally, and person value wise, women are equal to men. It sounds ridiculous to have to teach this, but it's what we as mothers have to do. I turn off commercials that show women as less than capable or inferior or needy, because actions speak louder than words. I comment on magazine covers or ads that show women feeble and manipulative. I am now the second shortest person in my house, there are three taller than I am, and only the 5th grader has to look up to me when he speaks, but my voice in this house carries weight, because I have never backed down from issues or made myself appear as anything less than physically and mentally able. Is this the first and longest and most run on paragraph in this post? Yes, it is, because this one is the most important of what boys need from their mothers.

Remind them to wear their seat belt. Every day, every time they leave. Say, "Please wear your seat belt. It's safer that way." Don't forget.

Ask them what they'd like more of, from you.

Talk to them about drugs, alcohol and sex, even if that's not your thing. Tell them what drugs do to a young person's brain and body, tell them what alcohol does to a young person's brain and body, and tell them what too early sex does to a young person's heart and soul. Also say, "Just because you're physically able to do something doesn't mean you should."

Teach them the difference between assertive and aggressive, by showing them how to ask for things they want. Model the behavior of cooperation seeking, rather than bullying and tell them that asking for something is the best way to get it. Reassure them in their attempts and encourage them to speak up for themselves. You can begin this with their interactions with teachers, and later on when talking for themselves at Dr. appointments. 

Congratulate them on their accomplishments, attempts, grades, projects, events, races, meets, competitions, papers, debates. Tell them you're proud, you see the work they did, and how impressed you are with their dedication and self direction. Never take the good in them for granted or as a given.

Let them know your expectations. Set the bar as one of value, perseverance, effort, and challenge. Share your stories of when you pushed beyond your comfort zone, and how you triumphed, or not. Let them know that it's in the push that we see the glory. And the glory, is in the effort.  

Have to say the obvious here -- let them know the tried and true of Do your best, Work your hardest, Honor your commitments.

Smile often, and tell them how much you enjoy being their mother. They don't need to know about the intricacies of your adulthood, just let them know being their mother is the highlight of your life here.

Don't think you don't matter. OH BOY, you matter. Attend any of their events when you can. When they see your face there, they have to stop themselves from bursting into a full grin. Even if you don't see it. That's what I tell myself, "Oh if he could smile that pearly smile right now, he so would."

 If they act like they don't need you, it's because they don't. Not always. Take your cue, assess the situation. Look into their eyes and read between the lines of their voices. They're biologically wired to seek independence and lead, but a well placed, kind, "Just let me know, I'm right here," is a reassuring encouragement for new endeavors.

Boys are the opposite sex of what their moms are. They're not our carbon copies, remember this when you have times when you can't understand them. Hormonally and biologically, they're not female. The hormones testosterone and estrogen have separate purposes.

Make your house an emotionally safe, accepting place. Promise them you will always listen, then never break that promise. Whatever they come to you with, zip your lip, and listen. If you want your children to come to you and speak freely and openly, they've got to trust you.

Make your house a physically safe place. Don't invite danger in. In all its forms.

Take a deep breath before reactions. Don't think parent/child, think human/person to person. This is especially important when they get older.

Squeeze in the little things they like, do it. Whatever it is. Sometimes that means getting up earlier, going to bed later, not finishing that book like you want to, but make the pumpkin bread that he loves in the fall. Fifty minutes of your time, but he smiles when he knows what he sees when he comes home from school.

Loving your boys physically, verbally, emotionally, will not make them mama's boys. It'll just make them feel secure that they matter in this world.

Teach them to value themselves and every bit of themselves. Let them hear you say over and over, "Don't give yourself away lightly."

Find a common hobby. Bike riding? Walks? Trips to the library? Reading books silently side by side? Looking through cookbooks? Seeing scifi movies together? Watching soccer plays of the week? Tennis at the playground or against the garage door? You can find something. Don't give up. 

Guide them into independent decision making. Ask them what they think and why. Tell them you trust what they'll do, and let them own that decision.

Teach them to not waste water, use leftover water to water plants, and turn off the shower while you soap up. Give them a conscience about what needs to be treated with wonder and respect.

Tell them they can call you anytime, from anywhere, if they find themselves in a place/condition that is not right. You'll come, no questions asked, you'll fly there faster than Superman. Stick to that promise.

"Accept your child for who he is, and watch him blossom." I've kept this in my heart, ever since my children were bitty toddlers and I read it in a parenting magazine. "Accept your child for who he is, and watch him blossom." 

I keep those words at the ready, every day, and it's the filter I speak through.

So much love to all you parents. xo

__________________________________________________

Suggested Visualizations for Those Averse to Exercise

photo credit: alternatePhotography via photopin cc

There are some things you'll never hear me say when it's time to do what I've put off doing until I can't put it off anymore (besides dishes, laundry, beds, cleaning, emails, cooking...) 

When I wait up until almost midnight, and the day is almost gone and I keep hoping I'll just do it already and then comes the hour in which it can no longer remain not done.

The minutes go by and I sigh and reach for the running shoes and change into the non binding clothes, that wouldn't be so binding if I would just do it.

It's time to exercise.

I don't like to exercise. My children take sympathy and lend me their playlists, they keep me company, walk with me, tell me jokes while I'm on the dreadmill, face their dogs downward alongside me, but I don't like it. It's not fun, I have no energy, it takes up a HUGE chunk of time -- something I'm already way too short of.


But, but but but, if I don't do it, I don't like the way my thighs start to sound like butter being whipped in a bowl, I don't like how I can feel my stomach jiggle when I drive over potholes, I don't like how I can see my batwings in the periphery when I wave good-bye to my children when they leave in the morning.

There's also that small thing about staying alive to see my grandchildren.

And so, armed (ha!) with all these reasons, I drag my floppiness off the couch and go exercise.

It's not easy to motivate me and one tactic that has always worked as a fire under my butt, ever since I was a little girl, is fear. Scare tactics. Frighten me out of my skull, that's my love language.

I'm sharing with those of you today, anyone out there like me, who would rather scrape paint off the outside of a house while on a 9-foot ladder under a 95 degree noon day sun with only warm berry-flavored Gatorade to sip, my list of Powerful Imitation Tony Robbins-Like Fear Factor Visualizations to get that adipose on the active track.

This is what I think of when I don't want to just do it! **Print it out, put it up, carry it with you, commit it to memory:

• 1.  I imagine what my body looks like if I were to see myself bare naked, running, in slow motion. Right? This'll have you moving in no time.

• 2.  See yourself naked again, but this time standing on your head. Boom. You've just upped the dreadmill to 4mph.

• 3.  Imagine what innocent bystanders would be subjected to if a sudden gust of summer wind blew your sweet new flirty skirt up while at the Friday morning farmer's market. You love people too much for this to assault their eyes, don't you? Now adding a 1.5 incline to dreadmill.

• 4.  I don't want to see me miss a summer day not at the pool with my kids. It doesn't take much, and I don't ask for much. Just a few more planks in the morning, alternate sides, three minutes each. That's all we need.

• 5.  See myself being okay wearing the tank tops of summer. I'm not seeing an image here with arms that look like rubber bands, just a little hoisting of the lunch lady flaps, and I'm good.

• 6.  I want to keep seeing myself clutching my chest in front of my kids because I'm around to hear the sweet things they say to me, not because I need the new defibrillators our auxiliary fire department just purchased.

• 7.  While I'm on my fifty minute of exercise with ten more to go, I see my heart beating and growing strong and suddenly, I know just what The Grinch felt when his heart grew three sizes that day.

• 8.  I see my legs getting strong enough to still outlast my husband and the kids on our bike rides and this one is super important to me because I never want them to have to stop mid-trail and turn around and to shout "ya comin', mom?"

• 9.  I like to see the BIG FIVE benefits of exercise flash before my eyes, lined up in bold black old-school capital letters. Look them up on google... they're tremendous.

• 10. You won't look them up, will you. That's why I did it for you:

     1.) The force of blood pumping through your arteries and veins cleans out and dislodges fat. Picture it.
     2.) Heart pumping makes your heart, which is a muscle, get good and strong. See it flexing.
     3.) Exercise creates endorphins! Feel good hormones! Better than getting your Prozac doubled.
     4.) Physical activity uses up stress hormones, like cortisol and adrenaline, and now they have      somewhere to go instead of running around your body shouting "where do we go? where do we go?" Believe me, you feel them when they're trapped inside.
     5.)  Burning an extra 100 calories a day loses 10 pounds of weight a year. Burning 200 calories a day is 20 pounds a year! 300 calories a day is 30 pounds a year! I like to play this game and go through the possibilities in my head up to 10,000 calories a day.

One visualization I battled over sharing or not and finally decided what the heck, we're all family here.

Me in last year's swim suit -- if they made the skirt any longer on that thing it'd be a berka.
   

 * * 

Digital Trails: Results of My Cyber Surveillance

If you're on the internet, surf the web, send texts, update your Facebook page, use email, call on your cell phone, use a credit or debit card, watch TV, download movies, order through Netflix or pick something off Hulu, there exists the very real chance of cyber surveillance.

You don't even have to be somebody.

I listened to a program on NPR this morning on what type of information is gathered from our online interactions, and do you know what this data on us is called? Collected intelligence.

And though I know this is serious business, and we are right to demand details and origin of requests for anything on us that is done without our knowledge or consent, I have to feel sorry for anyone official who is assigned to monitor my digital discards.

Collected intelligence?

If you say so.

More like oh my gosh if I have to survey this woman one more minute I am going to stick my head in a blender. Someone, please, send help to this poor woman now. Also probably likelier I should apologize to them than them to me for, you know, the undisclosed spying.

I imagine their Captain's log on me would go like this:

-6:45 AM Subject calls school, inquiring as to whether or not this is last week of school for children, or if next week is. School promises to send school calendar to her again, via email.

-7:30AM Logs on to computer, attempt made for four minutes to clean out email, opts to log into twitter instead.

-7:45 AM - 8:55 AM  *ALERT! ALERT!* Continuously bounces back from twitter to Facebook, as if she is looking for important communication. UPDATE: False alarm. Merely checking and hoping for retweets and likes.

-9:05 AM Child's school calls. Child has forgotten lunch at home, please bring. She will bring right over.

-9:20 AM Logs off computer.

-9:29 AM Logs back on computer

-10:03AM Target calls. Wondering where client is since store opened three minutes ago and she's not at door. Bags of sliced apples on sale, two for a dollar.

-10:33 AM McDonald's emails. Did she receive BOGO McCafe coupon in mail? They missed her this morning.

-10:45 AM Returns books to library. Tape receipt of overdue fines shows would have been cheaper to purchase DVDs.

-11:55 AM Child's school calls. Where is lunch? Subject promises and swears she'll bring lunch to school in two minutes.

-11:57 AM About to leave house to bring requested lunch, but runs back in to Google "Are round toed shoes still in style?" before she walks into child's school.

-12:01 PM Uses drive-thru at McDonald's for Happy Meal. Subject asks to speak to manager when drive thru clerk won't allow NonFat Iced Mocha as substitute drink with Happy Meal.

-12:03 PM Pays for $2.99 Happy Meal with debit card. Order total comes to $11.31 as subject decides she needs two NonFat Iced Mochas.

-12:12 PM Delivers lunch to school. Parks in Bus Zone Only lane. Throws bag of McDonald's to child. Child has eight minutes left to eat.

-12:25 PM Subject drops off four bags of clothing to Goodwill, completes receipt for said donation online, as husband has requested for tax keeping purposes. Decides to just have a look-see inside, returns to car with more bags of clothes than what she removed from home.

-12:59 PM Subject returns home and google searches for Dunkin' Donuts rant she saw referenced on twitter. Disgusted enough to watch it twice. Decides depressing nature of Dunkin' Donuts link is reason enough to search for "funny kitten videos."

-1:46 PM Decides to forego dishes in sink and do yoga instead. Googles RodneyYee Beach Yoga youtube. Gets distracted by 'Ron Yee Illicit Affair' headline. 30 minutes pass as well as allotted time for yoga. Only enough time for quick microwave cheese bread before school pick up.

-2:20 PM Remembers how children arrive home hungry from school. Opens refrigerator, sees three slices of deli turkey. Runs to store, buys rotisserie chicken for dinner. Feels hungry therefore determines children also feel hungry. Runs back and gets two more deli chickens. Pays with credit card. Earns a penny off a gallon of gas up to fifteen gallons due to spending history on deli chicken. 

-2:30 PM Realizes husband has to be two places at same time and makes several frantic call and hang ups to husband's cell phone. Uses up what is left of air time, unable to leave message telling him only way to pick up son # 2 from swim and son #3 from soccer is to break the law. *ALERT! ALERT!Subject arranging illegal activity! UPDATE: Cancel alert, she just wants him to drive really fast.

-2:55 PM Texts teen son to apologize for being ten minutes late to pick up. Can he start walking home and she'll meet him half way? Subject sees son walking home and decides to creeper stalk from behind while texting him "This is Freddy Krueger."

-3:20 PM Teen son eventually picked up. Subject drops teen son off at gym. Goes in and pays monthly dues that are two months late. Realizes she is trying to pay with library card. Runs out to car for credit card. Pays with debit card instead. Gets home and realizes she paid with debit card. Calls gym back and asks for balance transfer to credit card not debit card. She is told change must be made in person. Rushes back to gym, stopping to drop youngest son at soccer on way to dropping middle son at swim on way to pick up oldest son from gym on way to pay gym fees with credit card. Chicken for dinner from this afternoon's stop at grocery store is botulising in trunk.

-3:39 PM Does google search "Chicken. Death. Children. How long."

*NOTE TO INFORMATION RECORDER: Suggest we terminate surveillance at this point. Data gathering resulting in unusual amount of recording material, labor, and time required for documentation. Subject's activities of no sound interest to anyone and appear to be without importance to any organization.

"...internet companies such as google, facebook, and yahoo are taking what they learn from search requests, such as Like buttons and using it to analyze a browser's preferences, tailoring ads and suggestions to their interests. Web surfing, tracking devices on mobile phones, companies defend this data mining as a consumer benefit." ~ Edmonton Journal

* * * 

What Happened To The Meat??

I am relieved I figured it out. I was getting scared it was me.

I thought I had it for sure.

I would get in the car and look at the dashboard to see a big E for empty, and ask myself, But ... didn't I just fill the tank?

When I would open the pots and pans drawer in the kitchen, there would be my set of white measuring cups. They belonged with baking items. But what's worse, the cups were not just in there, but DUMPED in there, scattered as if someone snuck into my house and stuck a gun in my back while I was in the middle of putting away the dishes. Either that or I had lost consciousness mid-chore.

Hunting around for juice glasses suddenly became a daily part of my life. Are they here? Did I leave them in the bathroom? I always put them by the larger tumblers, but where are they now? And why aren't they where I put them in with the other glasses?

I am losing my mind.

I open kitchen cabinets and say to my kids, begging for an explanation, "I put the can opener in with the pot holders? Why?"

And then I remember whose turn it was that day to put away the dishes.

Whose turn it was to fill the gas tank.

Who shoves things in drawers then slams it boom shut quick.

My teens.

When my teens empty the dishwasher, it's like watching the loudest silent "I don't give a s**t" in action. They stash things away in places that later make me feel like I'm living with early onset dementia. My kids frighten me, they make me worry about myself. Is it me doing things that bring me to question my faculties?

Like tonight, when I made meatloaf. My kids love my meatloaf, that's why I make it. Let me give you this freebie since you're already reading this anyway -- I use apricot jam. That's the secret to meatloaf loving kids. Jam magically holds the ground meat together and gives the baked loaf a sweet irresistible aftertaste. You're welcome.

I make this often-requested dinner entrée in double batches. It takes its sweet time (sorry can't help myself) early in the afternoon because I know the kids will walk in the back door crazy starved with hunger after their two hour swim practice. At 3:00 pm I pop the meatloaf in for an hour. I set the timer, run and get my one non-teenager to bring home from school, then pull out the meatloaf at 4:00 pm and set it atop the stove to let the apricot jam juices circulate and render the meat juicy and sweet. By 5:00, it has settled in and re-absorbed the jam and when the teens bring down the back door and they smell heaven in the oven, there is no future life partner for them that can compete. It will be TeamMama forever.

The only thing left to do is let the barbeque sauce simmer on the stove while I start some laundry and keep one ear open for them. But when I walk back into the kitchen to check on the special sauce, there is no meatloaf cooling on top of the stove.

And my alarm begins again. The inner dialogue of confused self questioning, Didn't I just make a double batch of meatloaf? I know I made a double batch of meatloaf. I could have sworn I did the recipe x two.

What happened to the meatloaf???

What happened, is this: My boys had come home earlier than expected and swooped in and ravaged the meat they saw on the stove. I was sorting and folding sorting and folding, the washer and dryer noisily running in the background, and both kids grabbed tablespoons and said Don't Mind if I Do and had at it with the browned and glazed brick slab of goodness.

Never mind the butter and garlic smothered potatoes, mom.
Forget the crisp green salad with cherry tomatoes from today's market.
Just a fistful of meat is all we need.

And with that, the meat was gone. Since I had made their ears bleed with years of DISHES IN THE SINK, that's where they had put their "dishes" aka the two loaf pans. Meat? Maybe once upon a time, but to my eyes, I saw no trace of what I had just spent two hours preparing. At least, I think I did.

Have I lost my mind? Do I have to make an appointment with my mother's neurologist? Didn't I make meat for tonight?

Where is the meat???

Before you begin your own down on your hands and knees APB alert for missing items and misplaced coffee mugs - and meatloaf - ask yourself: Are there teenagers in your house?

I hope, for your sake, the answer to all your mystically placed and combobulated items, is a much relief filled sigh of *yes.*

And if you need me to commiserate, I'll be here. Down on the kitchen floor, where I came to get cutting boards and instead found forks and spoons jammed in between and wondering what in Sam Hill would make me cram silverware where the cutting boards go.

I swear I put them in the silverware drawer where they belong. Didn't I? 

* * *

Son, Now That You're 18, There Are Things You Should Know

Dear beautiful firstborn child,

Happy birthday!

Today you turn 18. As the dedicated parents we are, we know that to serve you well, there are some things that we need to tell you. The most important being that your father and I truly adore you. You make us beam with pride and we are beyond fortunate to be your parents.

When you walk into a room, it's hard for me to not stand up shouting "It's him!" and start clapping -- so I've quit trying to stop myself. Your father's punch to your arm is his way of saying he loves his world because you're in it.

And today you turn 18.

As of 1:39 pm today, I will be living with two men.

You'll be leaving for college much too soon and I'm going to stick my head in the sand about that for awhile longer, but in the meantime, your father and I would be doing you a great injustice if we did not tell you the things you need to know now that you're an adult.


Please keep this information from your younger brothers awhile longer, won't you? Here we go:


The Truth You Need To Know Now That You're 18:

• When we ask you "Were you born in a barn?," we really don't care what you answer. We only care that you close the doors because the cold air gets in and we pay for heat. That's all. I'm not even really sure about the paying for heat part, but your dad says it because his dad said it. One day, you'll say it too.

• No one has a money tree. I know we ask you to "look outside, you see a money tree out there?" like some people have them and some people don't. We are sorry if we ever made you hope that maybe someday we'd be a family that had one.

• I know we've told you "the trouble with trouble is that it starts out as fun." Not true. When you get to college you'll realize much too soon, trouble usually starts out as trouble right off the bat.

• You really won't fry your eyes out and need new eyeballs put in if you sit too close to the TV. It may affect your vision if you spend megahours doing it and you're superyoung. But for the most part, you don't need to go out and buy that eyeball surgery insurance.

• Wet socks will give you Vietnam rot. Lord help me I don't know why we'd say that to you when you'd walk in soaking wet after a soccer game. Seriously. All we had to do was say "take off your wet socks." And also, as if you wouldn't??

• Getting a cavity hurts worse than I can ever tell you. Well, it hurts a little. We just wanted you to brush your teeth. Sure, if you let it go long enough it will, but you guys just keep brushing and flossing twice a day and seeing the dentist every six months and you're good to go. 

• Monkey see. Monkey do. Have you ever seen this at a zoo? No. Not too much imitating. Mostly just ignoring us and random screeching once in awhile. We'd say that when we didn't want you to be a sheep following the pack. Just be yourself, never mind the monkeys.

• Don't read on your back with your book held up in front of you. I don't why the hell not. Ignore this from the past 18 years. 

• If you ever decide to smoke a cigarette be sure to have a cellphone in one hand ready to dial 911 and a cigarette in the other because you'll hear your lungs crackle as they burn up. YES. I KNOW WE SAID THIS. Please try to forget the visual we've scarred you with for life and just know this: cigarettes are bad for your health, not overnight, but cumulatively. And you can spend your money on organic broccoli and pesto instead. Better choices, see? 

• And how many times have you heard this one? You are the most wonderful beautiful smartest boy in the world. Well, maybe not to other parents, but to us, YOU ARE. 

Happy birthday, wonderful child, we are proud to say that you are our son (this one? so true).

* * * 

Want to read more on teen parenting? 
--You can catch me here this week on mommy. com  talking about Society and Raising Boys.
--And here on Care. com where they interview me and ask about our house rules for teens and cell phones.

Soap Box Time

It's been awhile since I stood up here and wagged my finger. God I hate that finger thing about myself. Trying to stop that habit, but anyway, with my hands folded behind my back I need to talk to some of you about something called, "I'm not good enough."

As in what I read on twitter this week, used in this way, "I won't nominate myself for BlogHer Voice of The Year because I'm not good enough."

Would you tell a friend they're not good enough? Would you discourage a friend from trying to go for something? Then why would you talk to yourself that way?

Tell yourself you are that good, submit that post of yours that you are so proud of, and the one where your own words make you cry, and the one that makes you laugh every time you read it. Send that baby in here.

How can you tell your kids to go for it and reach for their dreams if you don't do it yourself?

Go. Now.

Dang. The finger came out again, didn't it?

*submit, encourage, cheer and VOTE*

I love you guys.

* * *

Breaking News: Titanic Sinks and Social Media Interferes With Real Life

photo credit: Heritage Vancouver via photopin cc

We were all sitting at the family dermatologist's office (yeah, group rate, what of it?) waiting for our names to be called. I was flipping through magazines older than the hills telling me a ship called the Titanic sank, when I saw an article in a magazine from 2009. The blistering title and byline was "Social Media--It's Taking You Away From Your Real Life."

The paragraphs go on to tell me all that I could be doing by logging off. Strengthening real life relationships (like online ones aren't real?), developing a hobby (got one, it's twitter), exercising (bawk! that chicken sound, you know?), and re-organizing my life (what's wrong with sitting on laundry?).

Right, all these things I could be doing. Could. That's the kicker there, the author assumes I'd be doing things if I weren't online. Oh, my sides, my sides from the laughter. Yeah no not so much.

Here's my list of "All I Could Be Doing If I Weren't Online":

--Staring at my fingernails, willing my lazy butt go get out of the house and get a manicure.

--Poking around snack cabinet deciding on what to have for second breakfast.

--Walking around the house with two pairs of socks on to stretch out my new winter boots.

--Letting Bethenny Now! exercise DVD play in background while I finish up sweetnsalty chips kids left out last night.

--Walk downstairs to basement with intention to cull toys dvds books. Walk back upstairs after three minutes.

--Be at local yoga class where teacher there always waits until I'm relaxed with my eyes closed to sneak up on me and make me jump ten feet into the air by whispering "namaste" into my ear.

--Or I could be at Zumba, where instructor tries again to talk me into leading Zumba Silver.

--Pull blankets off beds to let sheets "breathe" as Martha Stewart Living advises. Consider that my gold bar of housekeeping for the day.

--Decide to have lunch with kids at school, show up with McDonald's bags only to have them grab bag out of my hands and say, "Thanks mom you can go home now. No, really, you can go home now."

--Look down at jeans with permanent knee mounds, take myself to Old Navy for new pair. All are too long and too tight. Refuse to try double digit numbered ones. Drive to Hefner's Cup O'Custard, sit in parking lot, licking wounds metaphorically through death by chocolate triple scoop in cup. Consider death by chocolate literal invitation.

--Drive to afternoon matinee. Suffer through "Playing for Keeps" about hypersexed soccer moms wanting to do aging soccer star Gerard Butler at every which way while he coaches their little ones on for a team win! Try and guess which mom is the one who gets behind the scenes reffing. I win.

--Rummage through husband's sock and underwear drawer. Hoping to find something linking him to exciting past Bourne identity life, find only saved tags from boxers in case new ones don't fit.


Oh, the undeniable Jezebel that Social Media is. We need no more proof than this list right here. 

Peace out. 

What's Love Without The Memories?

While unpacking my Christmas boxes this weekend, I found the beautiful red leather gold leafed Christmas Memories book that my sister gave to my husband and me when we were first married. It struck my heart because this personalized diary was designed to store twenty Christmases and all their details.

Right on the shiny red cover, in swirly golden letters, alongside our new family name, it reads "Our Christmas Memories. 1994-2014." Gulp. When we first read the opening pages of this book 18 years ago, 2014 seemed like a century away. I ran my hand over the pages and it struck me hard, how we only have two more Christmases to fill in here.

I looked through all the Christmases that I've faithfully recorded on these pages, and thought about how reaching the book's end once seemed so ridiculously far away. There's a lot that's happened since 1994, all that's happened with almost twenty years of marriage. There are some wonderful memories that live in my mind. Our life together has pretty much played out the way it began: two unusual, not run of the mill people, finding each other and figuring out life one lesson at a time. I think back to a very telling, very representative indicator of what our life together was going to be like.

Indulge me, would you, while I tell you of the introduction to life with my husband. We begin at the very start: our honeymoon.

My husband and I married later in life, and we planned, executed, and delivered a wedding production on time and on budget (his exact words punctuated with much tones of pride.)

We brought the day together like the adults we were; we pulled it off and deserved a honeymoon with sun, water, food, drink, and each other.  That's what we worked for, that's the carrot that dangled in front of the cart but the story doesn't begin with a couple rolling around on a white sandy beaches.

Our honeymoon story begins with how I almost killed my husband on Day 3 of our new life together. The crime scene: idyllic Cozumel, Mexico.

I decided to marry my husband for many reasons. The biggest ones being his stability and level headedness. He is predictable in his moods, and emotionally even keeled. Just what an alarmist like me needs. He is the voice of reason after my WebMD search results of moles that look like India have me writing out my will.

I count on him pulling me in off the ledge. There could be a cobra viper anaconda strangler 5 feet from my face, ready to strike at 851 mph, on the most vulnerable part of my body, and he’d soothingly promise me, “I'll take care of it. Just, no sudden movements."

With my husband around, I can scream “the sky is falling!,” when the sump pump goes out after a heavy spring rain, and he'll tell me that's why he bought the back up pump.

The man would’ve come in handy at Woodstock.

Well, he--of  the permanent delta brain waves--and I--of brain waves they've yet to categorize--are sharing a resplendent open-air honeymoon suite in Cozumel. The cross breeze is to die for. Our room faces the ocean and just like a Hallmark commercial, the sheer white curtains are billowing in the wind. The hotel features an all-day buffet fit for a king, and we claim ourselves the royal couple. Grazing, all day long, and far into the evening. We relax, we spoil ourselves, we do a lot of nothing.

We spend the first two days doing my two favorite activities: eating and being lazy, but then we decide we should really visit a Mayan temple or something. So we sign up for a group sight seeing bus tour. We are going to see temples and ruins. We're so blissfully heady from food and wine that we don't take notice that this tour is All Day. We will leave by 7 a.m. and be back in time to catch the dinner buffet.

We don’t think to pack food … we’ve forgotten what hunger is like--we've been tended to as if we were demi-gods for only two days, but we got used to it fast. We set out at 7 a.m. Wednesday morning, taking nothing but our cameras. I think I may have remembered to grab some bottled waters.

It is a day long tour of walking, hot sun, walking, more hot sun. There is ancient ruin stair climbing involved, there is boarding and unboarding of the bus, there is a long day without food packed involved.

Do you know the signs and stages of  low blood sugar in another person?  I can tell you. I watched my husband fly through them at warp speed:

Stage 1: irritability. HIGH irritability 

Stage 2:  accompanying stupor 

Stage 3: full sentences disappear

Stage 4: every man for himself

I am no stranger to low blood sugar-–I have trained myself to overcome its effects and to push on through. I didn’t fit into my beaded lace princess seam wedding dress like a glove with just luck.

No, I know how to deal with the physical symptoms caused by long periods of no food. But, my new husband, my poor new husband: he had no idea what to do with the lightheadedness, the shakiness, the spots swimming before his eyes, the beads of sweat on his upper lip. He shifted into the most basic primal state: survival.

Never in my life had I imagined that I’d be able to write my own, real-life account of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.  But I did on that day. My level headed Dr. Jekyll had become the raging, combative low blood sugar induced Mr. Hyde; his dark side running wild--grumbling at me to hurry up and decide on a seat on the bus already. Snarling at the poor, unsuspecting retired couple to quit holding up the bus by always getting lost.

Spencer Tracy himself couldn't be more Hydey.

The fear of what my future held with this man had me break down into tears. And Mr. Cool wasn’t there to bring me in off the ledge.

This was not the person I had said yes to spending eternal life with--is there a more panic stricken thought for a newlywed?  The bus ride home was made up of me thinking I had made a huge mistake–HUGE–and of him, pupils dilated, sweat soaked forehead, animalistically caring about only one thing: someone who would throw him a piece of meat like he was a lion at a zoo.

I was ready for him to take over the bus, commandeering it straight into the jungle, where he’d tear off his shirt, run wild, and then return like a crazed native with an ocelot hanging out of his blood-soaked mouth.

Yes, I was freaking out, and I needed his voice of reason. I knew he was this close to sacrificing me atop the ancient ruins we had just toured in exchange for someone’s saltine cracker. My only way to survive this? I’d have to kill him.

We endure the bus ride back to the hotel, with me stifling my wails and making a quick mental run through of annulment procedures. We pull up to our hotel and my husband forces the bus' doors open with his shoulder; he then heads--wild eyed and stumbling--straight for the buffet. He begins grabbing food off the buffet because who needs a plate, right? His Cro-Magnon brow receding and his grunting speech slowly returning to full sentences with every handful he shovels in. At meal's end, he is back to being Dr. Jekyll and we are left with a *funny* low blood sugar story.

But, I am not left the same. I've learned a life lesson.

Before we board a plane, train, or automobile, before we do anything else, I buy my husband two King Size Kit Kat bars. And I keep them accessible for the duration of the trip. He smiles and laughs now when he sees them poking out of my purse.

It’s a funny story. NOW, it’s a funny story--but it wasn't then.

My advice to any soon to be honeymooners: work in the Kit Kats, the Snickers, the Twix. You can spare yourself the scene of diamond rings flying past billowy balcony curtains, for just two bars, $5.00 plus tax.

Don't let the dimples fool you. The man's a RAGING MANIAC. But I won't know that till Wednesday. And then I'll cry.

***

*This post originally ran at the hilarious website, Gonna Kill Him. Do you know Erin? She writes some of the funniest stuff on the internet. You can find her brilliance here.

You Don't Have To BlackFriday It, Did You Know That?

Due to financial instabilities of the economy within the world of this household, we are not going to be a part of the Black Friday money-saving madness today. People spend to save, but it's still spending.

Black Friday makes people lose their minds. McDonald's opens at 2:30 a.m., stores open at 4 a.m. with "Door Buster" savings where they only stock five or six of that bustin' item advertised to get you to show up and bust their doors down. They have no fear of you turning around and leaving when you find out the $89 flat screen TV you wanted is sold out; "well, as long as I'm here, I'll buy something else."

I'm sleeping in the day after Thanksgiving. I'll get up and walk around in my well worn mismatched pajamas, sipping on my newly habited Decaf, and make cinnamon rolls for my children. I know what I'll be missing, HUGE deals, 40 percent off and more! sales.

I'll especially miss out on things like this:

-Getting my face pepper sprayed when going for the last coveted door buster Xbox.

-Being trampled while already lined-up customers duck underneath a lifting store gate.

-Getting carried away in a sea of humanity over $2 waffle irons.

-Climbing across and into vats of sweet potatoes to get to a video game.

-And if you smugly think this wouldn't happen to you because you never go to the likes of Walmart or Best Buy, here's a scene of a hipster crowd at Urban Outfitters, showing the theft detector devices that were stomped down in an insane gates-opening dash.

There's a lot to miss.

This holiday, let's re-think the old habit of imitating what the mainstream does. Consider rejecting the spirit of greed and consumerism: not just because of the b.s listed above, but so that your family watches and learns from you. Do it for them. Let them see that the holidays are about sharing all we've been blessed with, with those that are struggling.

A holiday season without any thought for those without, or at a loss, is an impoverished holiday. 

Think about this: 1 in 4 children in America goes to bed hungry because of unemployment, neediness, the mental and physical health of their caretakers. You know how hard it is to fall asleep hungry? These children do, every night.

If you venture out today, let it be to a grocery store. Take your kids with you and let them fill a whole shopping cart with food for others. See those big food donation barrels placed at almost every grocery store door starting this week? Fill them. The best items to donate are baby cereal, dry cereals, delicious flavored instant oatmeals that only need water to prepare, packs of tuna, instant add water only pancake mix, canned soup or ravioli or beefy mac, jars of peanut butter, the mac & cheese that comes with the prepared sauce and doesn't need butter or milk.(see the pattern? Get the Add Water Only--we take much for granted, including that ALL households have milk, eggs, butter ... they don't.)

Go crazy that way. Lose your mind and buy every single box of ready-made Kraft there is and climb over each other to get them in the Food for Families food barrels.

Wouldn't that be a wonderful thing to see on the news tonight? People knocking each other over to fill those donation receptacles? Maybe someday, we'll get it right.

Peace Out.

xo

Thanks Giving 101

For the past 20 years, I have been falling asleep in the same way: in quiet thoughts of thankfulness for all that I’ve been given and all that I have.

I read a post earlier this week where the author shared her perspective on life’s trials and challenges. She wrote that she worked hard to find good in all of life's situations. Tragedy aside, life is full of difficulties. Difficult can feel insurmountable, but putting our chair in a different corner of the room allows a fresh look at something that we'd rather not have to deal with.

Sometimes, you have to decide to find some good in the worst of things.

Giving thanks, thanksgiving, is something that I had to make a deliberate decision to implement in my life.

I had grown tired of  feeling angry, shortchanged, and envious of all that others seemed to have--but that I didn't. I was tired of waking up that way--dissatisfied and sorry for myself. I was tired of falling asleep like that, asking why I wasn't one of the lucky ones. Morning and night, my mind went to discontent and emptiness. That was my life.

About 20 years ago, I found a book on making your life's work be the cultivation of an attitude of gratitude. I wanted that: to be thankful every day for many, many things--for the people that make up my life, for the experiences that I’ve had, for the wonderful characters that have played roles along my journey here. For the sun on my face, for a body that is still capable, for a clear night sky, for my family, my friends, for the gift of being able to write, for the opportunity to contribute in some way.

It is the conscious act of gratefulness that will make for the quality of life.

Feeling grateful feels good--that's not just a feeling in our head and heart. Research done by D. Jeannine Calaba, Psy.D., author of The Power of Appreciation, has done studies that confirm that when people feel thankfulness, good things happen to their minds, hearts, and bodies. They sleep better, they are more content, they are more patient, they feel more fulfilled and are more supportive to those around them, they have a bounce in their step. People who practice gratefulness have less depression, anxiety, envy, and jealousy.

Giving thanks for what we have creates positive energy that others feel. It is a force that can transform disagreements, calm strained relationships, improve work situations, help to accept health adversities, maybe make peace with aging. Being grateful can pull us through financial crises, medical challenges, children with special needs, and the valleys in life.

Gratitude has come to mean living in peace and joy with what I already have in my life. I can want more, absolutely, but I can work toward any goals with the assurance in my heart of being happy with what I already have. I no longer pursue dreams with the thought, "Then I will be happy." To hold gratitude for the life I have and the people I share it with, deepens the love I feel for those around me.

I want to be that person that says, “I am fortunate in the life I have. I will find happiness in my life. If I have nothing more than I have now, I will still remain content.”

Being appreciative makes you look at your life as more than trials, difficulties, and bridges that seem too far to cross--being grateful releases joy.

I have spent too many years being angry over things that seemed unfair in my life.

Anger at losing my father at only six years old. Anger at being raised by a clinically depressed and detached mother. Anger at trying to grow up American, but being too different to fit in. Anger at not finding my way and looking nothing like everyone else while a teenager. Anger at seeing all that everyone else had that I didn't. Anger that my three pregnancies required five months of bed rest each. Then, anger at children being born early requiring NICU stays and coming home on apnea monitors. Anger at my children having peanut and dairy and egg and beef and countless allergies all meshed together with asthma and eczema requiring steroids. Anger at feeling so out of place in my small town. I could go on still and write a second paragraph on all that I was angry about--but that wouldn't be good for anyone.

So. Much. Anger. They say to never go to bed angry--well, I don't think I slept for 18 years.

All that anger that would never bring me any closer to the happiness that I ironically chased. When I decided to work toward being grateful, my eyes were opened to all the miracles I had missed: like being able to be what has made me the happiest in my life: a mother. My children who survived tenuous first years, but are now healthy, a devoted husband, a home that is never without heat or food, my good health, being able to spend time on my writing, my three boys who express their love to me every day. 

I grew to become appreciative for all my experiences, because they are what made me into who you read on this blog. Yes, it was tragic to lose my father to suicide when I was six and that my mother became despondent after that. BUT, but, I was raised by a dedicated grandmother whose influence remains with me today, and I was a bright child, always able to transfer my thoughts to paper and and keep notebooks full of my stories.

I was very good at the written word and this won me scholarships. I was able to attend college. And being able to write, here, and to have a place to work through my stuff, y'all. I mean, how much better does it get?

Tonight, when I lay in bed for those first few moments, I will close my eyes, and take a sweet, deep breath. I will think--and smile--with thoughts of all the good that is in my life. There is so much.

I will fall asleep being grateful for another day, for my life, and for what I have here--with all of you.

I am grateful for you, your thoughts, your time. The gift of you and your energy.

You fill me with joy.

Thank you.

***

**Just given another reason to be grateful: mamapedia ( a collective site I love with a readership of 800,000) just notified me they've syndicated one of my posts today, True Mommy Confessions. Please stop by, add your own confession, and think about submitting your writing to mampedia. Great opportunity for exposure and they've got a nice community of dedicated readers there. 

Red Flags, Cont. He Finds Me

This is the final post of Red Flags.

Writing this, revisiting these times, has made me feel anxious again as I remember my life while this was going on. Please, also, if you're triggered--think twice before reading this post. Though I feel the anxiety return with telling my story, it's important to me, that a change of thinking happens. I want us to stop blaming the victims of Domestic Abuse. Because no one willingly puts themselves into this situation.

It is National Domestic Violence Awareness Month. I ask that you, please, know that no one can control what a obsessed person is hellbent on doing to them. There are many myths about domestic abuse: how the victim is either lower socio-economic status, or that alcohol or drugs must be involved.

The only truth is that the typical victim is young, or old. Rich, or poor. Educated or non-educated. Black, White, Hispanic, Asian, or any other race. Married, or unmarried. With children, or without. Employed or unemployed. Gay or straight. Professional or non-professional.

The other truth is this: it can be anyone.

I hope that the next time someone reads of a tragedy of domestic abuse, or hears someone say "They had to know what they were getting into," that at the very least, they'll tell them of my story here.

Thank you.

***

Final Post, Red Flags


As soon as I decided to not go back to the Driver's Ed. class on Wednesday nights, I felt a little safe. I was still anxious, since I found out he went to school across the street from me, but Theresa had told me--and she knew him well--that he would quickly find someone else. That's what I was counting on.

I kept eating lunch and sitting with Theresa because I liked it. Being seen with her had catapulted me to the "cool" crowd, and without her, I know that I'd be invisible at school again. But even though I had grown to like her, I was too scared of him to tell her anything about how I planned to stop going to the Wednesday night classes. I wanted to just fall away and out of his life.

Wednesday came and went, and with my mother having six children, she didn't notice that I skipped the Driver's Ed. class. I stayed home that night, feeling a peace I hadn't felt in a week. As I fell asleep later, I smiled--hopeful that all this and him would end soon. I was happy that it was so much easier than I thought it would be to get rid of him. I woke up Thursday morning feeling that maybe everything would be all right.

My mother paid my neighbor to drive me to school in the early morning, but I took a bus home when school ended at 2:30. Since we got out earlier than the other schools, it was a quiet time of the day to walk the four blocks to my bus stop. The bus ride home was only 30 minutes, and then I had a short two block walk home. As I walked home that Thursday, I thought of nothing, except that maybe I wouldn't ever have to see him again.

It was at the corner at the end of the block from where I lived, that I saw him. My feet froze. Parked in front of my house, was a man's bicycle. My mouth felt dry--sitting on that bike, was him.

He had found me.

I began to breathe fast and hard. On knees about to buckle, I walked backwards to the alley that would get me to my house. I prayed he hadn't seen me--I remember saying to myself  "get to the alley, get to the alley." I wanted to be home, safe, the doors locked. With my family.

I thought about the week before, when I was in such a hurry to leave the Wednesday night class, and knew then that he must've followed me home. My mind was firing with images: his face, my mother if she knew he had followed me, what would happen if she came home. I was scared of him, and I was scared of what my mother would do if she knew this boy was after me.

I reached the alley and ran the half block to my house, the corners of the books in my backpack pounding against every ridge of my spine. I didn't care--I had to make it to my yard. I don't know how long it had been since I had taken a full breath--I ran on sheer adrenaline and pushed the back door open with my body falling in. My legs shook. I wanted to hide in my bedroom and cry--but I couldn't leave him in the front of our house, my mother would be home soon and I feared what she would do to him more than I feared facing him. I was home now, and I wouldn't be alone with him; my brothers were home with me. I wobbled into the kitchen, my brothers looked up and said, "There's some guy sitting in front of the house for a long time. We don't know who it is."

I looked at the kitchen clock, it was almost 4. My mother wouldn't be home until 5:45. I had to go out and talk to him. If she found him here, she would tear him apart. I was sure of that. The only thing to do was to talk to him. I told my brothers to watch me in the window.

I lied to my grandmother and told her I had to give a homework assignment from Driving Class to the person outside. She believed me, but still came to the window with my brothers.

I tried to slow down my breathing as I walked out my front door on rubber knees. I could see him looking straight up at me. The ten steps in front of my house felt more like a long mile, but I reached the bottom, and stood across the sidewalk from him.

He spoke first. "You weren't at class yesterday. I wanted to see if you were all right."

"I'm, I can't go to class anymore." My voice sounded strange--like it was in my ears. I stared at my shoes--I felt naked looking up at him.

"Yeah. Theresa told me your mom was sick. I like that you take care of her."

His words and voice sounded different than I imagined. I thought he would be gruff, demanding--but he made me want to look at him. He sounded gentle, kind. But I remembered the note he wrote, and how he was lying about who he was.

My knees were shaking more than they were when I first came outside. He had to know, I couldn't see him. "I'm not allowed to date."

"Yeah. I know. That's good. I like that. Your mom takes good care of you."

His note made him sound like he would get upset, about anything, but why wasn't he angry?  Still, he wrote that note. Asking me to do things I'd never do.

"So. I can't see you." I spoke quickly and pushed the words out. "And I have to go in now. My grandmother and brothers are watching me."

He ignored what I said. "Who were those guys you walked home with last week?"

His question made me angry and scared, just like his note did. He wanted to know so much, and had no right to ask. He hinted at things, like me with boys, and hid them in the disguise of caring about me.

Though I was angry at all that he wanted to know about me, I didn't want to sound scared. Keeping my voice steady, I told him, "There weren't any guys. Those are my brothers -- I have two brothers. My mother always has me with my brothers."

"I saw you with those two guys and I thought, she wouldn't be like that. With two guys. You're a good girl, aren't you?"

I wanted to run inside my house now, but I couldn't. He had to go. I didn't like how he was making himself a part of my life and felt unsafe around him. I had to make sure he would leave, and leave me alone.

"I have to go in now. Please don't come back. My mother--you'll get in trouble with my mother."

"Just come here for one minute. Tell your mother you're going to class next week and meet me behind the school. I just wanna know you. Tell me about yourself."

My heart began to beat faster and I breathed out slowly, so my voice wouldn't shake. The air felt thin. "I can't see you. And I have to go in now. Please, you can't come back."

"I can't stop looking at you. You're so beautiful. And a good girl. Come on, I'd take good care of you. Better than your brothers do. I'd never let anyone get near you. Look at me."

I made myself look up, so he would listen to me. But doing that I felt like he was winning--like I was obeying him. I didn't say anything.

"Beautiful," he mouthed. He looked back at me, and asked, "Don't you see how good I'd be to you?"

In that moment, I knew that if I were someone else--if I were someone who had no mother to worry about, or someone who had not had a life already that made her only want quiet and safety, that the seduction and promise of his words, the flattering attention of a boy who was sought after, would have pulled me in.

I understood it. How it feels to be so special that someone only wants you, when they can choose anyone else, it's you they see. I still understand it today--it is a hard thing to walk away from, when you are barely 16 or any age, and someone tells you that they can't get enough of you, your face, who you are, that they want only to treasure you. I saw it then, and I see it now--how could someone who begins this devoted and enamored, ever become anything else?

But I had the peek into the future, the door into what he was really like--the note. That's who he would turn into.

I looked back down at the ground and with insides that felt like jelly, I told him what I wished I didn't have to. But I knew, he would be no other way than what his note described.  "I can't be with you. I never can be. You have to leave me alone because my mother will call the police."

Without waiting for him to say anything else, I turned around and started for my house.

I have never felt more vulnerable in my life, even to this day. My scalp tingled and my shoulders tensed forward, anticipating him tackling me from behind, or shouting obscenities to break the thick silence. I imagined him even throwing a rock at my head. The openness and frailty of walking away with your back exposed to someone you're deathly afraid of, was the exact thing I had tried so hard to never be a part of. We were only together minutes, but I knew my life would be different from then on--I had learned something that had changed me, and it made me sad.

Walking up the cement steps was like watching someone else do it through a movie. My legs felt like they were made of cement, and though I had climbed these steps leading to my front door thousands of times, I never remember there being so many of them. He didn't call out, I heard nothing behind me. I opened my front door and walked past the front window, not looking out at him. My brothers didn't ask me about him, and my grandmother went back to the kitchen to finish dinner. I went into my bedroom and sat on the end of my bed. My arms were still trembling. I didn't ever want to be that scared again.

He left me alone after that and I never heard from him again. Theresa, of course, went back to not knowing who I was. And I went back to being just a girl in school.

Time healed me; though I still jumped at shadows I'd see out of the corner of my eye. I began to relax and enjoy doing things with my friends.

I had stopped looking for him everywhere and was a freshman in college, walking out of a creative writing class, the next time I saw him.

He was leaning against a tree in the late afternoon, waiting for someone. Without wanting it to, at the sight of him, my panic began. I felt my legs and hands begin to shake, and ran back into the building.

It had been so many years. I was breathing hard, I couldn't believe he was still looking for me. He had looked for me again, and found me. I could feel my heart pound and my knees tremble. I hid to the side of the double glass doors and peeked out at him. How had he tracked me down?

I was getting ready to run out of the other side of the building, when I saw a tall girl from my class pass me. She had long hair, and moved without a sound. She was shy, and read only when the instructor asked her to, but when she did read, it always sounded like she had layers buried within her paragraphs. She reminded me of myself.

She pushed the glass doors open, and in her slow way, pulling her soft hair away from her face like she always did, she turned in his direction. I couldn't believe what I was seeing--how would she know him?? My mouth fell open when I realized that she was the one he was waiting for. I watched them walk away together, though none of it made sense. Without saying a word to each other, they walked down the street.

I wanted to fall to my knees in relief. I wasn't the one he wanted. Even though I was grateful, I feared for her. Should I say anything to her the next day?--I felt guilty, but I decided not to. She must know what he was like by now. Maybe he was different with her. Every day after class, I'd see him--leaning against the tree, waiting for her.

The semester ended, and I never saw her again. I forgot about him, and her.

One quiet Sunday morning years later, while still in my pajamas with my coffee, I saw her beautiful face again. In the right corner of the third page of that morning's paper, was a small black and white picture of her, the edges outlined in white. My stomach dropped. I knew what it was about right away--I hoped it wasn't, but I knew. And it was, about him.

The paper said that she had wanted to go somewhere with her sister, and he didn't want her to, so he locked her inside their apartment for two days. When she tried to leave, he had beat her so severely that it made the news. There was enough to report about what he had done to her that it took up half the page of the newspaper.

It was hard not to blame myself, not to think that I had my chance to tell her about him, and I didn't.

The paper reported everything; except for how he had seduced her with his flattery. How he had tricked her with his promise to care for her, how he had fooled her with who he had pretended to be. That he had studied her like prey--and chosen her. Like me.

He was a master at his craft, and he knew what he was doing.

She, on the other hand, had no idea the world he had planned for her.

I ripped the page out of the paper and with tears still trapped in my throat, I tore that newspaper into pieces, just like I had with the note he had written me.

***

       
Thank you for reading this so very much. I am relieved that telling--and reliving it--are over.  I decided to write this last week after three women in my area were killed because of Domestic Violence. 

Women are shamed into silence, as if they brought this upon themselves, a world of their creation.  I want and need to say that women involved in a situation that is violent, should not be made to feel at fault. It is never their fault. I'm lucky--for my story to end, I just step away from the keyboard. Some women are at this moment, trapped and terrorized in their lives.

Domestic violence is a crime--not a fight that got "bad" or a private affair--and it can happen in 1 out of 4 relationships.  It can also happen to someone you know. Learn the facts here:  Domestic Violence Resource Center.

There is power in telling your story. If you, or you know someone, with a story to tell, please send them here, to Violence Unsilenced. Show your support by reading, and leaving a comment. Words are one way to claim our lives back.

To learn and see the chilling effects of Domestic Violence on children, see this video at MakersofMemories.org.--an organization hoping to break the cycle of domestic violence through awareness.

Hearing, listening, speaking out, spreading the word, you show so much support when you do this. Thank you.

Red Flags, Cont. At School

This is Part III of a series I began, Red Flags, in response to a domestic shooting this past Sunday, 40 minutes from my home. After the shooter's spree was over, a total of seven women were shot, 3 killed. One was his wife.

I've heard people say it's the victim's fault for being with someone who is violent.

Besides making it sound as if it's the victim's choice to live their life in that terrifying manner, it puts the chaotic event in the hands of the wounded.

Telling my story has made me sad again, as I remember the fear I lived with and not knowing what to do. But my hope is that people will stop and think before they assume that this would never happen to them, that they would know better than to find themselves in a world of violence.

We cannot control another person's actions.

*TRIGGER ALERT*

***

Red Flags, Part III

Morning finally came, and even though I rushed to get ready and to school, everything seemed to take too long. All I wanted was this note out of my purse and out of my life. I knew that as soon as I got rid of it, I would be safe again. I tried eating breakfast, but instead ended up wrapping my toast in a napkin and taking it with me to eat on the ride to school. 

My private school was made up girls with overprotective parents, like mine, and girls who had been kicked out of every school they had been to. The Sisters of my private high school believed that daily mass and daily prayer would save any lost soul. We started classes 30 minutes before other schools did, so it was still dark when I had to leave by 7:00 a.m. My mother paid a retired neighbor to drive me every morning. Across the street from my school was a large public school--we were both in the middle of a downtown area, and drew kids from all parts of the city. The nuns started us earlier so that we could be inside our building, with the doors locked, and protected from the kids across the street.

My neighbor dropped me off in front of our building at 7:20, like he always did, and stayed to be sure I walked in, like my mother asked him to. Once inside, I walked fast to my locker. I had to get rid of this note before 7:30 homeroom started. The lockers were along the walls in the cafeteria, 500 girls sitting together at one time and the noise was an insistent din. My locker was in the almost very last line after a triple row of lockers. I had to first pass the seniors' lockers, then the juniors' lockers, before I'd get to the row of sophomores'. The seniors and juniors didn't know who I was, and I'd invisibly sail my way past their backpacks on the floor, squeezing in between the groups of girls whispering about boys, and then reach my row against the wall. 

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With my head down, I entered the cafeteria, watching carefully as I stepped over rows of uniformed legs. I had ten minutes to get this note out of my life. I was so far away in my thoughts that I didn't hear Theresa, a senior, call my name.

There would be no reason for someone like Theresa to know me. We all knew who she was, but she would never know who I was. What the boy who wrote the note was in terms of leading a gang, is exactly what Theresa was in our all-girl school. She was taller and bigger than I was, and her uniform skirt was rolled up shorter than the nuns would allow. Her thick blonde hair was almost white, and black at the roots; every day Theresa went against school rules about hoop earrings. She was pretty in a way I had been taught not to be. The rumor was that no other school would take her, except for the Sisters here.

The truth was I did hear my name called, and though I was the only one in my school with my name, it didn't make sense that a senior, and someone like Theresa, would need to talk to me. I didn't turn around. I was almost at my locker when she ran to catch up to me. 

"Hey! Didn't you hear me? I called you like 20 times."

"Uh. No." When I saw who had been calling me, I was astounded. Why would one of the toughest girls in the school want to talk to me? I was already so scared. "Uh. S-s-sorry."

"So, guess who I talked to last night? Man. He's got it bad for you. I can see why. He loves virgins."

I felt sick. Now I knew what she wanted. It was about him. I wanted to throw up, both at hearing what she said and at how he was invading my life everywhere. How did he know that she knew me? My mind felt like 50 mousetraps were going off at once. How did she know him? How did he know where I went to school?  What in the world was going on? 

I didn't know what to say and walked even faster to my locker.

She walked with me. "You are just his type. Man. He loves them shy. And pretty. He's so sick."

"Uh, I, I ... think I know who you're talking about and I don't talk to him."

Theresa pointed her chin up and laughed, hard. "Oh my god, you think he wants to talk to you? Get out. He just wants to know you."

"Well, I can't be with him. And I don't talk to him."

"No. You don't hear what I'm saying. He wants you bad. That's all. I'm supposed to tell you that. Oh. And he sees you. From the window across the street." She pointed to the public school that faced us. "He says he sees you leave when we get out."

I felt light-headed. "He goes to school across the street?" 

It was then it hit me, I remembered how on the first day of Driver's Ed. we had gone around the room and said our names and where we went to school. He must've remembered what I said and asked Theresa about me.

The 7:30 bell rang and she walked away. I slammed my locker shut and ran to the bathroom. Standing over the toilet, I shook the torn note pieces out of my purse. I pulled the handle and watched the white flecks as they swirled away--I felt no relief; only the prickly sweat behind my knees, inside my elbows, underneath my hair. 

I walked upstairs to the school office, I felt sick. I was going to vomit, or faint, or lose my mind. I was breathing fast and shallow. I asked to go to the nurse's office, and they let me lay down. I had to figure a way out of this. I couldn't tell my mother. Since my father died, she protected us to a mentally unhealthy degree. If she knew that someone was threatening me this way, I had no doubt that in her ferociousness about what was left of her family, that she'd kill this boy.

Never returning to Driver's Ed was the first step. He would forget about me, I know it. He would find someone else in that class. There were so many other girls in there. He'd find the next one. That would be my plan -- just stay away.

The rest of the week in school was like a page from someone else's life. Theresa would look for me at lunch. My friends wanted to know where and why someone like Theresa was suddenly around me and I couldn't tell them because I was afraid they'd tell a teacher, or their parents, and then this guy would really come and get me. Theresa waited for me by my locker in the morning, and then sit with me at study hall. She was happy when she'd tell me how great it was going to be now that we'd be hanging out together with the same people.

I was too scared about everything to talk, and she never noticed. She would sit next to me and tell me things like no one had ever listened to her. She'd tell me about what she sneaked out and did the night before, what girlfriend wanted her boyfriend, what defiant stand she had taken against her father. These lunch times were thrilling--if you were to watch me during this time, you'd see me with my mouth open for the entire 30 minutes--something that made her laugh loud. It felt daring to be with her, and I kept on eating lunch with her, even though my school friends stayed away. Sometimes I stared at her, and thought about what we looked like together. If my mother were to walk in and see her with me, I know she'd chase her away with a broom.

I liked being with her, until she would bring him up. "You gotta be careful if you're gonna be with him. He's really jealous. Like, don't ever talk to anyone else, or do anything. He goes crazy if you're not around when he wants you to be, or if he doesn't know where you are. Just do what he says, and you'll be all right."

"I can't date him, Theresa. My mom won't let me. She won't." I began to put my sandwich away--I didn't feel like eating when we talked about him.

"Shuttup. Your mom doesn't have to know. And stop with that dating stuff, it's hanging out. Don't you ever sneak out? I'll tell you what to do -- it'll be fun."

"I can't. My mom is sick and I have to take care of my brothers and sisters. My dad's dead."

"Lucky you. I hate my dad. I wish he was dead." She talked like this, between bites of her lunch, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to say.

She swallowed what was in her mouth, and then looked at me seriously. "You're gonna lose him, you know. If he can't see you, he'll find someone else. You're gonna lose him."

For the first time in days, I felt hope.

***

Next: He Finds Me