This Girl is Gone...

Blog Break Over: Surviving the Silence of Divorce

2016-06-01T11:23:00.001-04:00

Years before the demise of my marriage I started writing as a kind of therapy. Motherhood, family life, and being my mother's primary caregiver left me feeling like parts of me had begun to fade away. It may seem like a cliche, but writing became a way for me to find myself again. Those early embarrassingly awkward attempts at blogging helped me get my legs. I experimented with blogging, writing fiction, poetry, and op ed pieces. I traveled to writing conferences, received critical feedback and developed amazing new friendships with people around the world. I met an agent who believed in my writing and gave me the gift of encouragement and new found confidence. Finally, after nearly two decades of being someone's partner, mother, and caregiver peppered with a stint in graduate school studying psychology, I found writing to be my greatest source of confidence and self esteem.

Somewhere along the way I stopped feeling like an imposter. My teenage daughters were so proud to see me venturing out into those uncharted waters. Much to my surprise, carving out time for myself and my own work didn't pull us apart at all. If anything it brought us closer. It's difficult to describe how it felt to share a part of me they had never met and receive such love. My world expanded in ways I never imagined. The pursuit of becoming a better writer connected me to people whose work and support fed my soul and somehow deepened my relationship with my teenage daughters. For the first time, in a long time, perhaps in my life, I felt like I was on the right path. Like so many people I met on this journey, I had some new dreams about my book that no longer seemed far fetched. Somewhere along the way I learned to believe in myself.

I had no idea that this new found passion would become my greatest achilles heel.

When my marriage first unravelled it didn't occur to me that something I had worked so hard for could be shut down. The way my life transformed was unexpected in every way. So many of us start out thinking they won't be the ones to succumb to the angry or devastated divorcee stereotype. They think the dissolution of their marriage will be different, except they don't understand when mediation doesn't work- all bets are off. Sparring spouses and greed driven attorney's vie for control with constant scrutiny, surveillance, threats of private investigators, and depending on the case, even confidentiality agreements. I never realized written or spoken words could scare people so much in a divorce. At the time I was so overwhelmed with the seemingly endless court dates and bizarre posturing of attorneys I allowed myself to be hushed. My own desire to cocoon myself and my children made me mistake that silence for a haven.

Instead of encouraging my writing as a foundation for rebuilding my life and career, I was told to be quiet and share little or nothing about my experience. Sharing a single article could set off an expensive barrage of emails dissecting my intentions. I learned silence is not only a virtue, it is required. Fear and divorce are common and volatile bed partners so it is without question that care should be given when choosing to communicate privately or publicly. In no way am I saying you should be able to blog about a former spouse's personal life. At worst your words could be deemed slanderous and at its' most benign it's simply mean. If you have children you must ask yourself, "Do I want them and my community to see this?" Unfortunately, silence can be a heavy load to bear and a weapon itself when it is used as a means of control. One woman I know was afraid to speak because her attorney said her house might be bugged. She conducted conversations from the bottom of her driveway. Another worried about a GPS tracker on her car. Almost every one of them, including me, was told to be careful because we were now living in a "fish bowl." Private investigators looking to record you are par for the course in some instances. Simply, sharing articles about divorce issues on your own Facebook page can apparently be construed as maligning as well.

Even when all the paperwork is signed, sealed and delivered there is a lingering unease. For all the amicable divorces out there, I've heard far more brutal stories where the only truth is that the attorneys skip to the bank while their clients limp away silenced and nearly broke. It is universally acknowledged that the court process is flawed and isn't worth the money. The fight can wear you down so much you will agree to almost anything. I'm pretty sure there are many who could be diagnosed with Post Traumatic Divorce Syndrome, if any of the cases I witnessed while waiting my turn with the judge is an indication. I often thought this is the perfect theater for both sadists and masochists. The pain was unbearable to witness and terrifying when your name is called. "Shut up and say thank you" were my orders, even when the judge was ill informed. You pay someone else to speak for you unless directly addressed by the judge. I started to choke on the fear of saying or doing the wrong thing. I cannot tell you how many times the Talking Heads song lyrics, "How did I get here?" crossed my mind when my attorney would hiss orders at me when we sat in the judges chambers. So many times I wanted to write about this process, not the intimate details of my life, but the bizarre nature of this legal wrangling that I can only define as the theater of the absurd. I wanted out of this game so badly I sat through each session with a St. Jude medal in my pocket praying for the end. Every time I walked out of court or my attorney's office I lost a little more of myself. One question began to haunt me: Where does one person's story end and another's begin? It became almost an out of body experience. I wondered, "Who are these people?" Everything I knew to be true about myself was reduced to caricature in a process that has nothing to do with any kind of respect or integrity. It's a legal game where everybody loses something. I lost more than I ever imagined possible when the fear took over my ability to express myself.

It's been four years since I've written with any sense of real freedom and three since I've given voice to my thoughts on a blog or any other public forum. I didn't think I had a right to my own story. I've watched so many women emerge like butterflies from divorce while I felt like a wingless moth. I actively avoided the one thing that gave me joy out of fear. What is that fear exactly? I can describe it in the simplest terms as the desire to avoid drama at all cost.

A few months ago two of my daughters asked me why I didn't write anymore and why I had given up on my book. I told them I didn't give up and I was just taking a break. The look in their eyes doubted by honesty and they were right. I always tell them not to give up on their dreams. I tell them we are not quitters. Yet, that's exactly what I had done. I tried to just post something, anything on an old blog countless times only to hit delete. The book I was working so hard at completing just gathered dust. After a while, I just stopped trying. It was too painful.

Seeing myself in my daughters eyes changed everything. I stopped being immobilized by the prospect of opening up those old book drafts on my computer. It was time I let the fear go. Now, every day I try for a better, more fearless version of myself and I think I'm making progress. My latest challenge and humbling endeavor has been writing a screen play. I've shared both projects with my daughters and once again it's opened up new avenues of conversation and connections. I like to think they see more of the survivor in me these days than my broken alter ego. I have a wonderful man in my life who understands first hand how difficult navigating this new normal can be. His love and encouragement has been an unexpected blessing in my life.

I hope today marks the end of this long period silence. Yes, the fight pulled me down, but it doesn't have to drown me any longer. My story is about so much more than a marriage that failed and that's the part that I forgot. I would love to say I haven't censored myself here. Unfortunately, it's a hard habit to break, but I have every intention of spending the rest of my life writing my way out of it.

Silence of Fall

2013-11-21T13:56:00.001-05:00

Dusk in Central Park NYC, a photo by Jeffrey Friedkin on Flickr.

Last August, I declared the lyrics , "Wake Me Up When September Ends" to be my anthem.

Well, I am not sure what the hell happened, but I must have slept through a few alarms.

It's November 21st?

I never meant to take such a lengthy break. Autumn passed with a speed and silence I've never experienced before. I find this incredibly disturbing. Let's face it, when you are on the wrong side of forty, your eldest teenager is suddenly driving your car, and you acquire a weird "creakiness" in your hip, you really aren't in a position to miss out on an entire season of anything - no matter what life is tossing at you. Perhaps, I accidentally channeled my inner 25 year old. When you're that young you can afford to waste a little time. You aren't seeing dead people in your reflection. Seriously, these days when the lighting is really bad and a mirror is near, "crypt keeper" occasionally comes to mind. I will give my mother credit for her prediction that as you get older, time goes by faster. It certainly does seem that way.

Thankfully, not everyone gave up and from what I can tell, there has been plenty of activity from readers here in NYC, Long Island, and as far away as the Philippines during my little hiatus.

So, stay tuned...

I visited Grandma Kay yesterday. As you might predict, it wasn't short on drama or that ever-present gallows humor that keeps me sane.

Good times.

Snakes in the Trees! Eh. What ev's. (Said with a smile:)

2013-08-10T12:18:00.000-04:00

So long, snake phobia. It's been real.

There is a big-ass snake in a tree outside my house in North Carolina where we are on vacation.

Okay, maybe "big" is an exaggeration. We are not talking Anaconda or Burmese Python here, but it's skinny, long and probably has lots of family members hanging around (literally). My nephew was outside cleaning sand toys before they packed up their car when it decided to take a trip from the bushes beside the front deck to check out the view from higher ground on a nearby tree. The one with branches hanging over our driveway, our cars AND my open sunroof the other night. Yeah, good times.

Click on Photo for Video of the snake...

The big, shocking, news? I don't care. Well, at least not enough to high tail it out of town. It's pretty gross, but I'm not running away this time.

I have to say it feels pretty awesome.

My son and his cousins ran into the house yelling "Mom, it's a Diamondback!" Now, my daughters and my niece along with everyone close to me knows this is not news I usually handle calmly. As someone whose brothers thought chasing me with handfuls of eels was great fun, my reaction to snakes has ranged from obsessive fear to extreme panic for as long as I can remember. Seriously, given the choice of jumping twenty stories and facing a snake? Years ago I would gladly have met my maker. Motherhood and time helped lowered my phobia status from a code red to orange over the years, but panic would always set in.

This time, I knew the kids were watching for my reaction. When they argued about who was going to walk the dog I saw a little fear had settled on them. My middle daughter thought it was going to fall on her when she walked to the car. If I lost it over the snake, I could ruin the vacation. Good bye, walks to the beach, bike rides around the neighborhood and relaxation. This house with a beautiful view and great memories with family could quickly become hotel hell. In the past I might have packed everyone up and said, Sayonara!

Maybe all those close encounters I've had over the last few years have amounted to some kind of inadvertant systematic-desensitization or something, but panic did not set in. We had a copperhead or two visit our old house, I boldly stood in Mohonk Lake where black rat snakes swim free just to prove a point to some relatives who didn't think I would and traveled to Thailand (it's like one big reptile house there). My fellow writers on that trip last year can attest to my fear. When a little snake ended up on the ceiling of the barn we were working, I thankfully didn't need a sedative, but fear definitely got the best of me for a while. There was a moment when I thought about going over the rail into the lake, but the sight of the giant mutant catfish below gave me pause. (Thank you Darryl Sweetland, snake wrangler extraordinaire, for it's swift removal of the cobra...just kidding, it was a "common brownback"). I'm not sure how or why this phobia has now been downgraded to a mere sense of annoyance and disgust. Am I still creeped out? Absolutely.

I'm not saying I am ready to become a handler on some bad reptile-reality show, but I did not freak out. I did not panic. Nor did I feel sick or refuse to leave the house because the path to freedom would involve walking under the reptile viewing tower also known as "the tree outside our door." I am very proud to say, by some miracle I was able to keep my cool and miraculously, that irrational phobia that once ruined a visit to a New York City street fair where pet pythons are worn like jewelry did not rear it's ugly head. No pun intended. Instead, cliche be damned, I kept calm and carried on and so did my kids. Perhaps, they've been the source of my cure. Having a son fascinated by the reptile house and surprised by my fear makes me think it's awful likely he might try to introduce one to me someday. It's probably time I got over it. After all, this single parenting thing doesn't exactly allow for any momentary loss of control. I'd like to avoid leaving any colorful memories of my phobia etched on my children's minds. The image Mommy sprinting down the street like Jackie Joyner leaving them behind to deal with a garter snake or worse on their own is not a pretty one.

When I returned from my early morning coffee run the neighborhood gardener happened to be trimming the hedges and shaking up those bushes with gusto. After watching from my car for a few moments so see if anything would jump out, I decided to show him the video of the snake to make sure it wasn't dangerous. You know the old adage, "Know thine enemy?" I might not be panicking over the little serpent, but I had no intentions of making friends either. If I had to share space with this thing I felt I at least deserved to know its name and a little background info. One question bothered me, especially since my son seems so enamored of our visitor. Was it poisonous? As it turns out, it wasn't a dumb question in these parts. They aren't always so harmless.

According to the gardener I interrogated yesterday, the tall grass behind our house on the sound should be avoided since "rattlesnakes" and "cottonmouths" like to party back there. Cue: cold sweat and doubt. I listened carefully, but willed myself not to panic. Apparently, the early mornings and the warm evening sun makes decks and driveways great sunbathing spots (let's be real here rattlesnakes aren't likely). If there really are poisonous snakes they are more likely water moccasins than any found in a desert. Still, even if he was dimwitted or a joker I still wanted him to confirm that our "snake in a tree" was harmless. Initially he said it may have been a garter snake until I showed him the video.

The words you don't want to hear from a seasoned local is this: "Wow, that's a LONG one. I don't know what that is, but wow. That's interesting. Yeah, tell the kids to stay out of the brush and it should be okay. There are a fair amount of them around."

Good lord, I thought. It figures a we can't even have a run of the mill local snake on our lawn. It had to be "interesting." As the gardener returned to the hedges I took a few deep breaths and said a silent prayer that our visitor headed back to the grass. A few moments later, the kids and I packed up the car sitting under those branches and just didn't look up to see who or what was watching. We didn't go home, we just went to the beach. If the gardener isn't afraid to dig into those bushes, how bad could the snakes be? Seriously, like the harmless snake in Thailand I'm guessing it's not poisonous, just extra ugly.

Once upon a time, I wouldn't have been able to type the word, "snake" without great difficulty. I would have imagined a giant one would suddenly appear on my neck. I was terrified of the mere mention of the legless creature. Worms came in a close second.

Today, I am very proud to say, snakes be damned, we are keeping calm and vacationing on.

My daughter just read a draft of this post and remarked how only last year I would have packed everyone up and ended the vacation. She's right. That was then, this is now...

Red Letter? You bet.

xo C

ps

“A new study shows that having a severe phobia can hasten aging. But what if my greatest fear IS aging?!?”
― Stephen Colbert

Colbert might just be right in my case. Come to think of it, fear of age is a hell of a lot more frightening that snakes any day.

Phobia:

: an exaggerated and often disabling fear usually inexplicable to the subject and having sometimes a logical but usually an illogical or symbolic object, class of objects, or situation—compare compulsion, obsessionClick here for link to Facebook video...

Red-Letter Days...

2013-08-02T12:49:00.001-04:00

Red-Letter days, a photo by Maureen F. on Flickr.

red-let·ter (rdltr)

adj.

Memorably happy: a red-letter day.

commonly thought of as a day worth noting or one with significance.

Derived [From the practice of marking in red the holy days in church calendars.

While I've lit more than a few candles in church in recent years I am not making a religious reference here. Rather, I am talking about those small moments or happy twists of fate. The one's that make you look at your life or circumstances from a new perspective. The chance meetings or words that linger in the air around you long after you've gone home or lie awake at night. The moments that keep coming back to you pushing you to dig a little deeper and do some soul searching.

A FaceBook friend posted a reminder of this expression earlier today. Coincidence is a funny thing.

I'd just been pondering how a series of left, right and circuitous turns led me to this unexpected juncture in my life, only hours before I read the FaceBook reference that poetically described how a seemingly benign encounter can mean more than you realize. The post referred to something I only vaguely recognized. A Red Letter Day. The idea gave me pause and a name for what I'd just been thinking about earlier. Why, yes I believe I have had a few of those on my life's calendar.

When any of us look back on our lives can we point to a person or a day where it all changed? Can we point to one singular moment or Red Letter day of significance? While some naysayers highlight the dubious clarity of 20/20 hindsight, I like to think a little contemplation of our past is good for the soul and often times critical for our futures.

When I was digging around the corners of my mind, dusting off my memories early this morning, one person and one moment stood out from the rest. I can pinpoint an exact moment where their kind words and the sincerity in their eyes changed more than they will ever know.

Did I recognize it was a "Red Letter Day?" Well, I didn't name the day or the moment, but without a doubt I went to sleep that night knowing something had shifted.

As mothers and caregivers, it is easy to become so focused on taking care of everyone else that we forget what it feels like when someone actually cares about how we are feeling. That moment followed a time when I had just recovered from being sick enough that I needed several weeks to recover and my invincible veneer of motherhood was seriously cracked. It was a time when I had to sit still and accept the help of friends and neighbors. It was sobering to feel that vulnerable, alone and mortal.

In the weeks that followed when life had begun to return to normal and my little support system moved on I was still shaken. All the "What if's...?" still played on repeat in my mind, but no one seemed to notice. It wasn't so much a pity party than the sheer weight of my life's reality settling in. I was exhausted. Then one afternoon, an acquaintance just reached out and it made all the difference in the world.

A few simple words had a profound effect on me and still resonate to this day. Such is the power of our words and actions even in the smallest of moments.

While I see little of that individual these days, their words and perhaps even more importantly, the sincerity in their eyes stayed with me over the years. That moment became a benchmark of sorts for me. It also became something I hope I've payed forward to others.

What were these profound words uttered to me so many twists and turns ago?

There were only three: "Are you okay?"

Hearing those simple words made all the difference in the world.

In the words of a wise man:

How about you? Any Red Letter Day's you can recall?

xo
C

Take An American Ride this Fourth of July...

2013-07-04T12:12:00.000-04:00

Several months ago a friend emailed me tickets to a show at City Winery in New York when a snow storm made their trek from Northern Westchester too much of a risk. It was snowing pretty hard here too, but I figured if taxis were still rolling down Columbus Avenue the show would go on. Sure enough, the line-up changed, but a little snow storm couldn't keep those doors closed. The headliner was someone I'd never heard of (and can't remember) and the opening act was Willie Nile. Apparently, he had agreed to cover for another band who couldn't make the show at the last minute. At least that's what the guy at the door told us. Truth be told I hadn't heard of him either. I was just looking forward to a night out and I had heard rave reviews about the venue. Our taxi ride down to Varick Street on the Westside Highway was an adventure in the near white out conditions and more than once I questioned my judgement leaving the warmth of my apartment. I need not have worried.

As luck would have it, my friend's tickets included seats right near the stage. The seating was reserved, but communal, so it was tight. Fortunately, we were lucky to share the table with a friendly couple who had come in from Long Island. We ordered some food and waited to see what Willie Nile and the other band were all about.

Well, after about two songs into the set we realized we were witnessing something pretty special and wondered how the hell we hadn't heard of this guy before. Yes, Willie's show at City Winery was well worth our little American Ride downtown in the snow.

This morning when I was reading posts on FaceBook and all the holiday wishes, I thought I'd share this song. In honor of this Fourth of July, take your own American Ride with Willie Nile. I don't think you'll be disappointed. We certainly weren't.

As for our trip home, a yellow taxi pulled right up when we left the show. Yes, a lone yellow taxi was on the road, all the way downtown on Varick Street, in a NYC snow storm. The best part? It actually stopped for us. Indeed, it was a great night all around.

Wishing you a happy Fourth of July and remember to enjoy the ride...

Summer in the City...

2013-06-22T18:27:00.001-04:00

Summer in the City, a photo by charles le brigand on Flickr.

Pinterest - How I spent my summers NYC

Saving Summer
ca 1970's

Searing hot sun glimmers on hoods of old cars.
Black bubbles bursting on tar beach.
Tito Puente's voice calls from
gypsy cabs cruising Broadway.
A graffiti emblazoned 1 train rumbles in the distance.

Fans propped in windows whir,
churning thick sticky air.

The white haired old-guard lines the benches,
hiding in the shade of tired ginko and maple trees,
while children wilt on tenement stoops.
Sticks and wrappers,
remnants of Gil's Ice Cream truck wares
litter the ground.

Suddenly, an old rusted wrench appears.
Five, six, or maybe seven turns and the hydrant's liquid gold bursts free.

Another summer day is saved.

C

Now, for a little Lovin' Spoonful...

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Kindergarten Rules Still Apply. A Little Reminder In Honor of My Son's Kindergarten Graduation

2013-06-20T08:11:00.003-04:00

“It doesn’t matter what you say you believe - it only matters what you do.”

― Robert Fulghum, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten

"I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge. That myth is more potent than history. That dreams are more powerful than facts. That hope always triumphs over experience. That laughter is the only cure for grief. And I believe that love is stronger than death.” Robert Fulghum

Today is my son's graduation from kindergarten.

He's finally moving up to that big first grade playground with a whole new set of skills to help him navigate the world where "big kids" rule. I am proud to say he's mastered some pretty complicated stuff this year and I'm not talking about Mandarin or any algebraic equations. Sadly, I'm pretty sure some of his peers might have given up a fair amount of play time for both those pursuits. While academics might be great, I'm a big proponent of letting young children hone their social skills. Let's learn to get along before working on becoming a slave to competition and stress. After all, you might be fluent in in several languages, but who is going to talk to you if you haven't learned to let the other person speak?

It's not so different for us grown ups as we move through the stages of life. That old book, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten, by Robert Fulghum comes to mind. His observations about sharing, getting along and some other deceptively simple lessons are really the cornerstones for adult interaction. I think his observations are pretty dead on. These supposedly developed minds of ours all too often forge ahead, trying to mold things our own way while forgetting those old rules that worked so well when we had to share the sandbox. Back then no one wanted to hang out with the kid throwing sand all the time or grabbed your shovel all the time and the grown up version isn't any more welcome.

I watched my son handle that exact situation just yesterday in the playground. One little boy kept taking the bucket and the shovel away, but still expected my little guy to play with him. Instead, my son walked away without a fuss and found another friend to help him load sand on the swirly slide. He resumed having a great afternoon without letting that kid ruin his day.

Unfortunately, those simple rules we taught our kids often fall to the wayside in our own lives. We tell our kids to share and be good listeners. We tell them to be kind to their siblings and friends, but are we all following those rules? Sometimes grown ups fall into that trap where everything becomes a dichotomy of "Do as I say, but not as I do." I think most of us could use a reminder of those little social graces that are so woefully underrated these days. Maybe fewer of us would be going postal if we were a little more mindful of others.

So, today I am going to let my son take the lead and give me a little kindergarten refresher course in those all-important life lessons I first learned back in what my little graduate sometimes refers to as "olden times."

Here are some of my favorites from All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten by Robert Fulghum.

1. Share everything.

2. Play fair.

3. Don't hit people.

4. Put thngs back where you found them.

5. CLEAN UP YOUR OWN MESS.

6. Don't take things that aren't yours.

7. Say you're SORRY when you HURT somebody.

8. Wash your hands before you eat.

9. Flush.

10. Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you.

11. Live a balanced life - learn some and drink some and draw some and paint some and sing and dance and play and work everyday some.

12. Take a nap every afternoon.

13. When you go out into the world, watch out for traffic, hold hands, and stick together.

14. Be aware of wonder. Remember the little seed in the Stryrofoam cup: The roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody really knows how or why, but we are all like that.

15. Goldfish and hamster and white mice and even the little seed in the Styrofoam cup - they all die. So do we.

16. And then remember the Dick-and-Jane books and the first workd you learned - the biggest word of all - LOOK.”

Congratulations and thank you to my little boy. You are a pretty awesome teacher sometimes and I am one very grateful student.

Hope you all have a wonderful day.

xo

PS
Here are a couple more I couldn't resist:

“Hide-and-seek, grown-up style. Wanting to hide. Needing to be sought. Confused about being found.”

― Robert Fulghum, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten: Uncommon Thoughts on Common Things

“It’s harder to talk about, but what I really, really, really want for Christmas is just this: I want to be 5 years old again for an hour. I want to laugh a lot and cry a lot. I want to be picked or rocked to sleep in someone’s arms, and carried up to be just one more time. I know what I really want for Christmas: I want my childhood back. People who think good thoughts give good gifts.”
― Robert Fulghum, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten

When All Else Fails...Gallows Humor Prevails

2013-06-07T20:30:00.001-04:00

Gallows Humor (n): idiomatic: Comedy, humor that makes unpleasant situations and topics, such as death, tragedy, drama or perfectly hopeless situations funny.

I've always believed that a good sense of humor can save you from the dark side. Maybe that's the Irish in me. After all, we certainly know how to turn a funeral into quite a party. The infamous Irish wake combines the numbing effects of alcohol with humor and the gift of gab to dull the painfully sharp edge between life and death.

These days, my eldest brother and I have embraced gallows humor to deal with the utter desperation we see in our mother, as she fights for her independence by belittling our choices of bread and various cleaning products. We listen with rising blood pressure and nausea, as she regales us with stories of the possible perversions of her old roommates at the rehab facility. I don't listen with both ears, because as much as its good to know not everyone loses their mojo after 80, I really don't need a visual. Still, I feel guilty.

Who am I to argue or ignore my mother's crazy stories? For all I know it could be her last gift to me. When given the option to remember a loved one giving in to age and death, would you prefer a quiet fade-off into the night or a feisty, slightly cracked version, still giving off sparks till the very end?

I'm going with sparky since my family doesn't seem to do anything without a bang. As my mother's spin on rehab might imply, she's not fading away any time soon. As the days drag on, her body may be showing signs of weakness, but her imagination is still going strong. While I could chalk the story up to a little dementia, I admit perverse humor does run in the family.

I hadn't thought of my brother Michael's last laugh in a long time. This week my mother's own brand of humor reminded me. Yes, gallows humor has been a fall back in this family for a long time.

Thirteen years have past, but I still vividly recall leaning against the wall of my brother Michael's hospital room. He had been admitted to the brain injury facility following a brutal assault that damaged his brain stem and left him near death. Technology had kept him alive for many months, but some progress had been made.

Michael had been taken off the vent successfully, was breathing on his own and had been moved to a private room in step down unit. We were very pleased, but resigned. Make no mistake, we knew he would never walk or eat again on his own. We looked at his contracted body, knees permanently bent and hands clenched outlined under the thin sheet emblazoned with the hospital's name with hope that he felt little pain. If this was to be Michael's existence then one less machine was a good thing. We suffered no delusions about Michael's future anymore. There would be no more fishing trips out of City Island or coolers of Budweiser in his future.

Coma is a bizarre existence for everyone involved. It's hard to describe what coma looks like to people who know it only from the movies, but I can tell you it doesn't always look like someone is sleeping.

For us, the disconnect of between Michael's body and spirit was readily apparent. Occasionally, we gathered to visit as a group and our memories of him would fill the void. We might be able to laugh at a wake, but with no interaction from Michael and the grave nature of his condition, it felt wrong when he couldn't appreciate the joke. The idea of a loved one's soul somehow watching over the festivities would have been preferable to the abyss of coma. This weak body and blank eyes couldn't possible hold the spirit of my crazy brother. Still, it was routine for us to try to get his attention while he stared blankly at the wall. Like so many other families, we talked to Michael about the weather and told him he looked good. We asked him questions we knew he couldn't answer. Those visits filled me with more grief than any wake ever could.

As we sat, stood, and leaned in our usual spots around his bed, it was clear that something had changed. There was something palpably different about Michael's energy that day. It was a gift of a moment. Those blue eyes that matched our mother's were wide open looking at us. For the first time in eight months he seemed there with us. For once I understood what so many other families visiting throughout this hospital believed: he was alive.

The familiar symphony of machinery that had kept him alive, the rhythmic whirring of the ventilator and high pitched beeps alternating between heart beat and blood pressure were silent except for the laughter of the few of us in the room. Yes, I said laughter. It was a strange and beautiful day.

Though any neurologist would tell you we were imagining things I will go to my own death knowing they are wrong. The Michael we remembered was in that room, somehow inside that strange unfamiliar body, and definitely in those blue eyes finally, looking right back at us.

Instead of letting our eyes and conversation wander around the room, avoiding the semi-alive person that was once our brother, we relaxed and spoke to him. He couldn't respond with words, but his eyes seemed to say everything that day.

So, what's a good (nutty) Irish family to do when faced with a moment such as this?

Our intrepid mother decided to lift the sheet and take a gander at his private parts for some reason. She then announced his nakedness beneath the sheet. Bizarrely, Michael who hadn't' reacted to a single word or touch from any of us since his injury reacted with a glare and a jerking spasm in his neck and head area. My brother and I were a little freaked at first and ask her what the heck she is doing. She laughed and said something like, "Well, I'm his mother, I've seen it all before. Ha, ha, he was the most well endowed of the five of you."

Her usual cackle of laughter followed with the rest of us looking around at each other in shock. Michael looked pissed off. The guy who has been in a vegetative state for months, whose brain injury decimated him to the core, appeared to be showing emotion. We were blown away. It seemed like a mirage at first. My other brother kept the laughter going when he responded something like, "I don't think he really wants his mother checking under his sheets. Right Mike? Maybe you'd like us to get a special kind of nurse in here for a little sponge bath, my brother? Get the equipment working?"

I am not embellishing when I say my brother Michael actually smiled that wise-ass grin he was known for and actually laughed along with the rest of us. His body shook and his mouth turned upward along with those crow's feet around his eyes. It took all of us a moment to absorb the gravity of this moment. Did we just laugh WITH Michael? What just happened?

Then as quickly as his smile lit up that room, he closed them and went to sleep.

There was no grief that day on the trip home. There was no talk of unrealistic things, but there was a sense of something else. Perhaps it was peace or relief that it was okay to laugh again, that despite the agonizing loss of his old life, that deep within, the essence of Michael still existed. Then again, it just felt good to laugh with my family in that sick, dark way that has always brought us together.

That was the last time I saw Michael alive. He died about a week or so later from a sudden infection of sepsis.

If you only knew my brother you would know how insanely apropos it was that our last time together involved the mother he adored, wildly inappropriate laughter, and the prospect of getting some action with a nurse.

Michael, where ever you are I hope you're smiling and watching over Mom. Keep the humor coming my brother, because that woman is driving me crazy.

Yes, Gallows Humor, you are a welcome friend in our home any time.

Mom, Me and AARP

2013-05-25T16:17:00.001-04:00

It's no secret I've been worried to distraction about my aging mother. When she was released from the hospital and then rehab, I spent more than one sleepless night wondering how on earth she could live independently. Really, I am wondering how in God's name she tricked the staff into thinking she was okay. Every therapist approved her departure, but with the caveat she receive help at home. Fortunately, she was given the maximum number of assisted home care, but she's so feisty I know she's likely to send those aides packing as soon as any family member is out of sight. What is a daughter to do when she's on the front line caring for a mother who isn't going down without a fight? One, be thankful she still has the will to live, and two get a plan together because this job isn't going to be easy. I thought I would do a little research to help guide me through this no man's land of caregiving for elderly parents.

I was looking for some insight into the transition from rehab to home, how to manage super independent aging parents, and any tips on what this stage of life is like - from their perspective. I assumed the American Association of Retired People would be a good place to start. I was making an attempt to understand my mother's point of view, but got a huge kick in the posterior by reality. AARP is for older people, but not really old people.

She's a pretty charming octogenarian, but I've come to realize, blindness and a stroke at that age aren't exactly going to get her cast as the cover model for an AARP publication any time soon. Sadly, I was unaware that she had long ago aged out of the organization's core demographic. I actually thought she could be the poster grandma for the organization at first. Boy, was I wrong.

This couple was categorized as "Seniors" on Flickr. I can only hope to look so good, unless "senior" really means 50.

Those smiling silver haired models outfitted in LL Bean and a back drop of a hiking trail or a boudoir,
don't look like they are going to need a walker anytime soon. Thank God, because it turns out, a bunch of them are pretty close to my age and many of my friends. Yep, check out the site and if you're on or near the dark side of 45, those articles aren't meant for our parents. Wake up call. They are for us. Many of those models could be at the pick up line for kindergarten here in New York where parenthood is often put off a decade or two closer to menopause than the old days.

Funny, here I was thinking about my mom being the retiree all these years and suddenly I'm almost ready for membership myself. Awesome. I think AARP should adjust their tag line though. Maybe something like, "AARP Isn't Just for Old Folks Anymore" would soften the blow to our middle aged egos. Honestly, I'm not ready to succumb to this demographic yet, even if AARP's marketing team thinks its a grand idea. While a couple of articles were kind of intriguing like, How Young Is Too Young? (It seems Viagra makes the possibilities endless) and Cougars and Their Cubs, I think my mature eyes will stick to MORE magazine for a little while longer.

So where can I find information about the truly aged like Grandma Kay? Well, this is one area where the internet has not been very helpful. Like so much about aging, it's not so sexy or sellable so it's hidden and couched in terms dictated all too often by professionals and caregivers themselves. I really wanted to hear from the elderly themselves, the ones like my mom, but I haven't found much.

It turns out, the best information source, (God help me) is talking my mother directly. I'm not saying it's fun or pain free, but it's real. I can't promise her she will get what she wants now that our roles are reversing, but at least I know I tried. I can only hope that when my skin is too wrinkled, my body too infirm, and my mind too forgetful for those sexy AARP ads at least my children will have learned that even really old people need to be seen and heard too.

xo

Slow Disappearing Act

2013-05-22T20:15:00.000-04:00

The first thing that struck me as the elevator doors opened was the huge brightly colored bulletin board on the back wall. It looked almost exactly like the one in the hall of my son's elementary school. I scanned the rainbow of signs. A naturalist was scheduled to visit with a mini menagerie and Bingo night was filling up. Even the lunch menu was eerily similar. Turkey sandwiches, stew with some kind of mystery meat, and fruit cups are standards for young and old alike. The last notice I read before I arrived on my floor made my heart ache a moment. Relay Races!!! This Saturday!

Huh? Seriously? I was momentarily disoriented till I refocused my eyes. Apparently, the recreation and rehab department thought it would be a good idea to get some aging blood pumping and fuel some friendly competition. The alarm dinged so I had to pull my eyes away from the small print, but not before my brain conjured a visual I can't seem to forget: a mob of zombie-like elderly people including my mom, fully equipped with all manner of adaptive devices like orthopedic shoes, walkers, canes and wheel chairs moving forward with cloudy cataract glazed eyes while the clanging sound of metal upon metal and heavy wheezing breaths rip through the air. Could that really be a good idea? What's next? Nursing Home Gangnam Style?

Thank God she's out of here, I thought as I walked the long hall toward my mother's room. I passed the nurses station and the smiling Recreation Therapist. I hoped she wouldn't stop me. I kept walking as she called out, "Your mom loved Bingo the other night! She could even see some of the numbers!" "Oh, great!" I called back to her. Secretly, the mere vision of my cantankerous, Fox News watching, poodle loving, holy-roller mother yelling out, "BINGO!", cooing about a furry guinea pig, or shaking maracas during music time freaked me out. My mother had received excellent care and the staff seemed to truly like her, but I just couldn't imagine MY mother in this place. This place where the line between children and adulthood seemed grayer and grayer each time I visited. I still wanted to see my mother obsessed with an old Hitchcock movie or Agatha Christie book (or book on tape).

A flurry of good byes erupted when I walked in Room 225 for the last time. My mother and her roommates had been waiting for my arrival. The woman whose bed was directly across from my mother hollered, "See you again soon!" My mother called back, "Not here! That's for sure!" She even cackled a bit. I smiled as I gathered the last of her bags. Now, that sounded like the Grandma Kay I remember.

A nurse wheeled my mother to my car and a social worker helped me load the few belongings my mother had accumulated at the rehab facility during her month long stay. My mother sat mostly silent for the ride back to her apartment. It was strange. That little glimmer of the woman I know had disappeared and a silent, but angry stranger had taken her place. The move up to her old apartment only made her more agitated and she yelled at my cousin and I as we tried to help get her organized. It was awful when she basically told us to get out of her apartment. Before I left I had to arrange her medication for the evening and watched horrified as it became clear her blindness had worsened. She couldn't find the pills in front of her at first. I had to carefully guide her hand toward them. She snapped at me that she would have found them. She didn't need my help. I argued for a minute, but her statement that I didn't know what it was like to be blind was true. It silenced me.

My mother was sitting on her couch staring at her television when I left with my cousin. The social worker knew my mother would be alone in her own apartment when she was released so legally my mother was allowed to be alone. There were the emergency pull strings in the apartment and her phone to call if something was wrong. A cooked rotisserie chicken sat in the refrigerator if she got hungry. My children and my life beckoned across the bridge in Manhattan.

As I circled the neighborhood trying to find that elusive afternoon parking spot I couldn't help but think about the morning and that colorful bulletin board in the elevator. Suddenly, a night of wheel chair assisted relay races amid cheering old folks and a buffet of sugar free cookies and punch didn't seem so bad after all.

It's going to take some time to get to know this new woman. I think that's how it happens. Age changes everything and I need to give up on some old ideas about who she is. It's like when you watch your kids grow up and you realize they've changed. If you want to be close you have to keep up with them, not the other way around.

My fingers are crossed I will find her happier in the morning and all this worry is for naught. Wish me luck.

Ah, Motherhood. Good times.

2013-05-12T02:13:00.001-04:00

So, what do you think of this nugget of wisdom?

“A mother has far greater influence on her children than anyone else, and she must realize that every word she speaks, every act, every response, her attitude, even her appearance and manner of dress affect the lives of her children and the whole family. It is while the child is in the home that he gains from his mother the attitudes, hopes, and beliefs that will determine the kind of life he will live and the contribution he will make to society.”
― N. Eldon Tanner

Now, I had never heard of Tanner until I came across the quote on Goodreads, but I read those words and however true they might be in theory, my first thought was, "Are you freaking serious?" Then it occurred to me, that I felt exactly that kind of pressure when my first born was put in my arms. It's the kind of pressure most new mothers are under. Time has softened the memory of how terrified I was to admit my seemingly fateful decision (gasp) not to breast feed to a mommy group many years ago. Thankfully, college applications still haven't added that question to their background checks so I guess I'm okay.

In all seriousness, if motherhood and the future of humanity is measured by those criteria we should all be extinct by now. I agree a mother might be an active member of MENSA, but her integrity will be judged harshly if she's showing up in her favorite leather-ware at PTA meetings or breaks out the cleavage trying to be 25 again around her teens like Stifler's mom. I still don't think it's going to derail any child's future contribution to humanity. Really, my mother is no stranger to some homeless chic style for decades now and I've finally realized no one cared (except me). I can't blame my failure to win the Nobel Peace prize on my mother's penchant for long pleated skirts and layered cable knit sweaters. Tanner would most certainly blanche at my parenting style given the my penchant for profanity while stuck in traffic or upon finding myself in yet another madcap adventure with my kids or the gerbils. While I could be more lady like by uttering, "Sugar, honey, iced tea", it's just not me. If that means I occasionally drop the "S" word, so be it. My progeny are quite accustomed to it and show no signs of depravity. On the contrary, in my decade-plus years of experience, it's the moms who aspire to this illusive idea of "perfection" that are more likely to raise majorly stressed out, freaky kids. That's just what humanity needs these days, some more over wrought people. Those words in the quote above are like those in many a job description, the position almost always sounds grander than the reality.

If I want to read something lofty about my chosen path in life as a mother, I much prefer the words of Anne Frank who wrote,

"In the book Soldiers on the Home Front, I was greatly struck by the fact that in childbirth alone, women commonly suffer more pain, illness and misery than any war hero ever does. An what's her reward for enduring all that pain? She gets pushed aside when she's disfigured by birth, her children soon leave, her beauty is gone. Women, who struggle and suffer pain to ensure the continuation of the human race, make much tougher and more courageous soldiers than all those big-mouthed freedom-fighting heroes put together.”
― Anne Frank, The Diary of a Young Girl

While I think calling childbirth "disfiguring" is a little extreme, I do relate to feeling my youth fading, the realization that my children are growing up and away, and the soldier-like determination to carry on in the face of anything. Still, I'm not a fan of putting motherhood on a pedestal too high. While this image of motherhood as almost goddesslike might be prettier, the day to day reality of this job in the trenches doesn't exactly lend itself to the best appearance, attitude, or communication skills. I'm more of a "good enough" kind of gal and I'm pretty sure my kids will attest, I'm a lot more fun to be around when I'm not striving for the gold.

So, in honor of the moms like me who aren't perfect, who burn dinner sometimes, lose their patience, cry, forget to brush their hair, drop the kids at school while hiding their pajama's under winter coats and Uggs, completely forget about birthday parties, dentist appointments, and avoid PTA meetings like the plague, here are a few quotes that might make you smile.

On Motherhood and Teens:

“And when she [her daughter] one day turns on me and calls me a
Bitch in front of Hollister,
Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a
cab in front of her friends,
For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.”
― Tina Fey, Bossypants

On Mother Love:

“There's no bitch on earth like a mother frightened for her kids.”
― Stephen King

On Mother Exhaustion:

“Thus far the mighty mystery of motherhood is this: How is it that doing it all feels like nothing is ever getting done.”
― Rebecca Woolf

On Mother's Life Preserver (spoiler alert - it's not wine):

“The great motherhood friendships are the ones in which two women can admit [how difficult mothering is] quietly to each other, over cups of tea at a table sticky with spilled apple juice and littered with markers without tops.”
― Anna Quindlen

On Mother Guilt:

“Motherhood is a choice you make everyday, to put someone else's happiness and well-being ahead of your own, to teach the hard lessons, to do the right thing even when you're not sure what the right thing is...and to forgive yourself, over and over again, for doing everything wrong.”
― Donna Ball, At Home on Ladybug Farm

In sixteen years as a mom I've learned there isn't a book out there with all the answers to becoming a perfect mom because there's no such thing. We all have to find our own way and my only advice is this:

Say, "Shit" with gusto if the alternative is road rage,
be fearless for your kids and yourself,
bitch to those amazing few friends who admit to being as fallible as you are,
rest when you can,
remember to forgive yourself,
dare to be a little messy - life's not much fun if you can't get dirty sometimes;),

and lastly, never, ever lose your sense of humor.

Badass Mom? Nah, just good enough.

Happy Mother's Day.

xo

The Vagina Shirt: Acceptable School Attire?

2013-05-02T16:15:00.001-04:00

I have a confession to make. One night, while driven to distraction with insomnia, I logged onto my Facebook account with a little mission in mind. My daughter has been hanging around with some friends I don't know very well and I was curious about what their profiles might tell me. I sat on my bed in the dark with only the light of my MacBook Air to illuminate the room and clicked on my daughter's profile picture. My genius plan to lurk around her page and do some reconnaissance began. A word to the wise: lurking your teen's Facebook page does not cure insomnia.

As I clicked around some of her friends profiles, I came across a photo that stopped me in my tracks. It was a boy my daughter has mentioned affectionately on many occasions. I clicked his profile and found his photos were open to the public so curiosity got the best of me. I came across one where he was proudly wearing a bright red t-shirt emblazoned with a logo my middle aged, blurry, night vision read as Coca Cola. My appointment with the eye doctor has already been scheduled. Clearly, I need some optometric assistance because on second glance it was apparent this logo had nothing to do with the iconic carbonated soda of my youth.

The t-shirt said: "Enjoy...VAGINA!"

Two words came to mind: Holy crap.

Now, I like to think of myself as pretty open minded. I am the youngest of six children and the only girl. I don't have any huge hang ups about sexuality or even porn at this point. When you grow up with five older brothers you become a little desensitized to a certain amount of the profane. My children were taught the correct names for their body parts. Vagina and penis certainly aren't dirty or unspoken words in our home. I've always been open with the girls discussing sex.

Yet, the image of her potential-boyfriend grinning behind an earnest young woman at a speaker's podium, proudly testing the boundaries of this red t-shirt's message was disturbing to me. It was clear from the photo he was attending a school event and was having a good time photo bombing . I didn't even know this boy beyond what I heard about him. Great athlete, smart, funny and likable according to my daughter. Needless to say, my insomnia wasn't cured after finding this. I had a bleary eyed conversation with my daughter about her friend the next morning. She said he had worn it to school on many occasions without any repercussions. Frankly, I was surprised to hear no one in a position of authority took note. My daughter said she didn't like it, but didn't want to tell him to take the picture down. I explained to her that it might be unfair, but jobs and schools often look at the applicant's friends profiles as well. I don't think she believed me. Suddenly, I felt ancient as the words, "Back in my day..." rolled off my tongue. I wondered what his parents thought about the shirt.

A quick google search to find where the shirt came from led me to an article from only a few months ago. It was immediately clear not all parents and schools are in line with me on this issue. The same style red t-shirt and logo caused an uproar last fall at a school in Queen's, New York after a female student was reprimanded for wearing it. In that case, the girl's mother vehemently defended the fashion statement. Lovely. Articles following the story repeatedly described the young woman as bi-sexual, as if that made it the shirt's sentiment acceptable. Frankly, I don't think it matters what team you're on in this case.

The focus on bi versus straight isn't the only issue that bothered me. The decidedly different outcomes were equally disturbing. Granted the incidents occurred at different schools, but it made me wonder what would happen at my daughter's school if she had shown up wearing something akin to, "I Heart Penis" in the shape of a peace sign or worse. Would the powers that be turn a blind eye or would she get the same treatment as the girl in Queens? Do I want my daughter going to school promoting anyone's genitalia? Absolutely not, but I'd hope the repercussions would be the same whether a boy or girl committed the infraction.

I don't think this one is any better.

As soon as puberty hits, teens are launched on that treacherous journey to figure out not just the mechanics of sex, but what it means to them. In this way, my daughter's crowd of friends and mine from decades ago aren't so different. It is a time of pushing boundaries, discovering yourself, engaging in a some rebellion and often committing this crime of really bad taste. Did some people go too far and make mistakes even in the old days? Of course, but curiosity and sexual exploration occurred out of the public eye for the most part. The only evidence of our past rebellion and poor judgement exists only in the minds of those who care to remember. Unfortunately, teens today aren't so lucky. Our children are honing their sexual identities in a very public forum. Facebook, Tumblr, personal websites and Snap Chat are integral parts of the typical teenager's life these days and like it or not this internet footprint will follow them forever.

It is because of the permanence of this footprint and its lasting effect on school applications, jobs and just simple old fashioned friendships that common sense and care should taken. I'm not saying we can't have a sense of humor about things or we need to take extreme measures and take our children completely off line. The latter just isn't realistic for anyone these days, even old folks like us. I do believe, however, that there is a place for everything. Perhaps that vulgar t-shirt wouldn't seem quite as offensive if it were worn some less important place than school or uploaded to a social media site where college admissions personnel could find it as easily as I did. Sometimes we need to take a look at how our children are defining themselves on-line. Whether it's a Vagina or Penis shirt, cleavage shot or the dick pic (aka naked snap chat) one boy offered to send my other daughter and her friends the other day, it's all being saved on the internet for posterity. It might be a good idea to go through your teen's social media profiles with them and open up this discussion.

Do any of us really want our child, boy or girl, gay or straight, to be remembered by some admissions committee as, "The kid in the red va jay-jay shirt?" rather than for their intellect, artistic talent or athletic prowess? Better yet, do our kids want that t-shirt pic or worse following them around twenty years from now? I sure hope not.

xo
ps. I discussed this post with my daughter at length and she said it was okay to discuss what we now refer to as the "vagina shirt incident."

Some Things I've Learned...

2013-04-18T13:31:00.000-04:00

“Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow has not yet come. We have only today. Let us begin.” ― Mother Teresa

It's been a while since I could write much of anything. A sort of paralysis seemed to come over me in recent months. It's difficult to describe the feelings that simmered beneath the surface of my skin that too often kept my words at bay. Terror, dread, despair, and maniacal laughter took turns dominating my moods as we adjusted to our new life. Suddenly, change was no longer my friend. I had no words to describe it all as it was happening.

Friends know my penchant for spontaneity. Fear was never a big part of my life's vernacular. I've always been your girl for the last minute road trip or that scary roller coaster ride. Unfortunately, my life took a major left turn recently and reintroduced me to uncertainty and unpredictability in their darkest forms. Those little undesirables are now the bane of my existence. As a parent who has wiped away many, many tears I would argue they are also the most dangerous threats to any child's state of mind. The unknown is absolutely terrifying sometimes, even for us adults who've adopted a "fake it until you make it" kind of attitude. I now have deep respect for what I so often took for granted. What is mundane for one individual is often a luxury for their neighbor.

Recently, I received a phone call informing me my mother was in the hospital and only moments later turned the corner from my building only to find the orange envelope every New Yorker dreads on the windshield of my car. I was momentarily crushed. It was the last straw. Another sixty-five dollar ticket put me over the edge. I made a silent angry call to God, every saint and guardian angel, "SERIOUSLY! SERIOUSLY! SERIOUSLY!" After several moments I realized I was holding the steering wheel so close to my face I was practically branding the GMC logo into my forehead. After a quick glance in the rearview mirror at my ridiculously contorted face I took a deep breath, turned the ignition key, and drove away with a new sense of calm. Sometimes you have to look closely for the blessings, but they are always there. Far worse news could have been delivered that morning. At least I wasn't cabbing it over to the tow pound. The drama can feel overwhelming sometimes, but I'm not turning to the dark side anytime soon. I could have fallen down that rabbit hole of anger and bitterness. It wouldn't have been too difficult. I realized pretty quickly that would have resulted in my children praying for their emancipation. No one wants to hang out with someone mired in self pity.

On my best days, a wildly inappropriate desire to laugh when things just couldn't get more bizarre has saved me. One evening I hopped in a cab to meet a friend. Upon reaching my destination I pulled out a debit card to pay the fare. The machine said, "No authorization." So I tried another credit card, only to get the same message. It was clear the machine wasn't working. The driver became impatient and when I told him the machine was not responding he began yelling at me, "What! You say I am fault?!! You trying to say I am fault? Get out. Get out!" He then proceeded to jump out of the taxi and continue screaming. According to him, it was my fault and he didn't want my money. When I tried to explain I would go to the bank on the corner to get cash for the fare he screamed louder. People walked by the scene only mildly interested. They glanced over in that bored way only long time New Yorkers seem to have mastered. Having been back in the city only a few months I haven't regained the all purpose, "F... you too!" that some locals might have lobbed back at this crazy man. I was pretty shaken when I realized I needed to walk away from the taxi all the while hoping he wouldn't call the police claiming I had skipped out on the fare. At first I could have cried, but as I retold the story complete with the man's hands flying at me, his turban askew and his screams getting louder the longer I stood transfixed by his inexplicable anger, I realized it was a pretty hilarious moment. Sometimes you just have to laugh.

When taking to your bed or heavy sedation is not an option, what else can you do?

Laughter saved more than one day for us as we discovered that moving has some considerable risks. Apparently, animals don't always take well to relocation. Who knew our little critters were particularly sensitive to change. We lost all of them except one dog and one cat during the Christmas season. At first the kids and I were in shock. One pet after another took ill and then kicked the bucket. Carcass disposal became an issue. How does one dispose of a deceased 19 year old cat with kidney disease, then a rabbit taken down by seizures and finally two hamsters whose passing remains a mystery? What does one do with a large rabbit who has stiffened with rigor mortis when you no longer have a back yard burial ground? Well, Central Park is just down the street. I will leave the rest and exact location to your imagination. Though we figured it all out in the end it was a quite a guilt ridden ride. Not everyone received a proper burial. The cat was given an expensive, but civilized cremation at the local vet following an attempt to save her. The hamsters weren't so lucky. After paying a huge bill at the vet I vetoed my kids suggestion that we visit the exotic animal doctor down the street with the ailing hamsters. When they disappeared our family adopted a "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy. While my young ones thankfully believe in hamster heaven, they were in fact, taken care of by the building janitor and most likely ended up in Hefty Bag heaven. These are the moments when a generous Christmas tip comes in handy.

Our pets demise began only weeks after moving into the apartment. As luck would have it the timing was perfect since my youngest hadn't completed their Santa Wish Lists. Yes, they firmly believed Santa would indeed transport a couple of live animals on his sleigh. My eleven and five year old deemed their request for gerbil replacements for the hamsters to be of the highest priority. They consulted one website dedicated to tracking children on the Naughty or Nice List and discovered they were on some kind of high honor roll. They logically concluded they were on the fast track for the rodent replacement plan. After all, they reasoned, they generously gave up their old rooms and agreed to share one in the new apartment. I think they felt any animal should be honored to join such a wonderfully open minded family.

You know Santa wanted to hit the tequila bottle as soon as she read those letters. There's nothing like a good dose of kryptonite-like guilt to push Santa's buttons. In short order, two new gerbils were added to the "must deliver" list.

Which brings us to the next lesson I learned in the big city. Never leave two gerbils together in a cardboard box unattended in an apartment stairwell. Especially on Christmas Eve only hours before their big debut.

By stairwell I am referring to the back entrance in our kitchen which leads to all 19 floors in the building. It turns out, gerbils will chew through anything and a cardboard box is akin to a giant feast. Unfortunately, Santa learned this lesson the hard way. Immediately upon lifting their little biodegradable carrier it was clear: there had been a jailbreak to parts unknown. The critters had eaten their way out of the box and disappeared. The door was open to the interior stairwell and that meant they could be anywhere in the building. It was anyone's guess whether they ventured up to the penthouse or down to the basement. Oh yes, Santa nearly had a heart attack at 5pm that holiday eve. The proud moment at the crack of dawn when Santa stopped at the local Petco and personally picked out the tiny fur balls with the least creepy hairless tails was a distant memory. Christmas morning would surely be a dark one. After momentarily considering the risks of attempting to domesticate a Central Park squirrel or two sanity reigned.

Thanks to an amazing elf and a city that truly never sleeps, a pet store was found open and two new gerbils arrived via Yellow Taxi a few hours before the stroke of midnight. The car rolled up in front of our building and as the doorman looked on incredulously, a small box passed through the window. Christmas was saved.

What happened to the original gerbils you might be wondering? I like to think they are living in some little world of their own "Ratatouille" style complete with rodent populated French restaurants, but knowing our Superintendent Hector and my neighbors distaste for furry long tailed creatures that's a long shot. It's more likely they've been relocated George Jefferson-style to that deluxe apartment in the sky via a glue trap. May those two little adventurous souls rest in peace. Thankfully, their replacements were happier about joining our family.

As I look back over the last few months I am both amazed and incredibly proud of how far we have come from that first day the moving truck pulled away and left us with a seemingly endless number of boxes. Despite the naysayers who thought our rather dramatic move from the woods of northern Westchester to New York City only weeks before Christmas was irresponsible, silly or impossible we were all settled into our new place long before revelers took to the streets in Times Square for the New Year. I'm not saying it wasn't difficult, but as my daughter said to me the other day, "Sometimes you just have to make things happen." Well, we've certainly made it work in the face of some serious nuttiness.

Knowing my four children are looking for love, safety, and answers to some incredibly difficult questions still humbles me every single day. It also pushes me to get off the sidelines and try things I might have sat out in the past. I can't teach them how precious this life is and to embrace all it has to offer if I give up and stop trying. I finally learned to ice skate a few weeks ago without humiliating myself or holding the rails. Maybe that's a metaphor for my life. I needed to stop clinging to the rails and take some risks. When I tried to sit down my kids actually wanted me out there with them. When they yelled, "Come on Mom! Don't sit down!" I happily dragged myself out there. They weren't skating twenty feet ahead of me pretending I was a stranger and I was grateful. Those moments are gifts that outweigh the fear, sadness, confusion and craziness of it all. They are the life boats that pull us up when the currents threaten to take it all away. Okay, I admit those midnight Insomnia Cookie deliveries here in NYC might have helped a bit too.

During those early days of December I wasn't sure of anything. I felt like a character on some insane reality show. Four newly minted city kids, one dog, two cats, a rabbit, and two hamsters with only an exhausted mother as their intrepid leader in this crazy city screamed warped cable televison show more than fairytale. Four months later, I think the kids and I have come to embrace the crazy and this story that is uniquely ours. Now, when a cat or dog is found roaming the building they know exactly which doorbell to ring. Sometimes I mention how we miss our old chicken coop to a nosey neighbor or parent at school just for fun. Their simultaneously horrified and quizzical citified expressions are priceless.

This morning amid endless rows of Apple Blossom trees and Daffodils, I watched dozens of smiling runners loping past me, not far from where our pet bunny is spending eternity. As I smiled back at these neighbors whose daily routines are the life line of this park I realized something had changed. I finally felt like myself old self again. I'm not sure when it happened, that perfect moment when calm replaced fear, confidence finally rose above worry, and the words "Failure is not an option" stopped ringing in my ears. I do know one thing with every fiber in my being: No matter what the future holds, we are going to be just fine. The fabric of our life that seemed so torn only months ago isn't damaged after all. It's simply a work in progress.

To quote Mother Theresa once again, “Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow has not yet come. We have only today. Let us begin.”

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust...

2013-02-01T17:14:00.000-05:00

Tales from the crypt. Okay, well not a crypt, but my old empty house sure felt like one on my last visit. As much as I wanted to follow my children's lead and never turn back, I knew I owed a good bye to more than a few ghosts. Truth be told I loved that crazy house and every moment our family, friends and little menagerie shared within its walls. So, while the kids happily went off to school one day I went on a little pilgrimage to the place we used to call home. I thought I was prepared.

I braced myself before walking through the front door with a deep breath. Within seconds I faced an entry where once-colorful walls were now adorned with only a few nails and countless finger prints of my children. I wondered for a split second which of my children had committed the most egregious crime of a chocolate smear. All four of them were the culprits judging by the height of those marks. It was momentarily stunning to feel simultaneously like a stranger and yet recognize something so personal as my children's finger prints all around me. I thought they were the only tangible evidence our family had ever breathed life into these rooms. I was wrong.

Boxes and contractor bags lined the walls after all the furniture had been given away. Only a few bulbs were lit up on the old wrought iron chandeliers in the living room. Every corner seemed to echo with voices of family holidays past. I had expected those memories to haunt me a little on that last walk through. There is some truth to the old saying about the best laid plans...

I walked into my old room. A few suits and a tuxedo worn once upon a time had been left behind in one closet. I shut the door. Seeing that was just too much. Some old birthday cards were on the floor in another. I slipped them inside my bag. Like the old broken Christmas tree ornaments I couldn't part with, these would go in a box. A baby hat from Mount Sinai sat on a shelf. It was another keeper. Another deep breath kept me from bolting out of the house to my car. I couldn't say good bye without one last visit to my old kitchen.

I noticed it immediately. I had forgotten about the small metal box on the counter. When the cabinets were cleaned out my housekeeper hadn't known what to do with it. She didn't know what was inside. Amidst all the paper and packing supplies, the small tin decorated with tiny red flowers could have passed for cookies or tea. It's former home had been a cabinet above my laundry. If the world hadn't turned upside down it would still be hiding in that dark little place. Now, like everything else in our life, the tin staring at me needed attention and reluctantly I realized I couldn't put that box in my purse only to be hidden one again.

There was nothing graceful about the way I picked up the box and walked out of the house. That last deep breath I took gave me a rush that carried me out the door and quickly down to the pond. I wish I could say I prayed and that it was a deeply personal moment, but I can't. I stood by the tree we had planted in our dog Chewy's memory the year before and opened the box. I walked quickly in a circle around the tree and roughly shook out the contents of the box onto the grass. I had to shake it because the paper liner inside kept holding it all back. I used both hands to empty the tin. The wind blew what looked like gray and white speckled sand back onto the bottom of my jeans. I didn't care. I just watched the tiny white flecks of bone fall between the blades of grass. After what seemed like forever, I said good bye.

What else could I say? It was time.

xo

Make A Wish...

2012-10-06T08:43:00.000-04:00

Enjoying Life, a photo by Ben Heine on Flickr.

The dreaded, reviled dandelion stands among an army here. To some they are weeds. Children often disagree with this grown up conclusion.

Despite their meager origins, these are often the first bouquets proudly presented to mom or even dad. When the flowers fade, their golden petals mute to white, their color more beautiful than a meadow beckon with unsaid hopes and dreams.

A magical wish upon a flower...is there really anything to lose?

I'll let you in on a secret...I almost never pass up a chance to make a wish on one. As I've said before, why should the kids have all the fun?

To me, the dandelion reminds me of the innocence of everything. When I saw this photo it made me smile. I knew some would look at a meadow like this and see only the need for a massive dose of pesticide.

The dandelion lives in parks, meadows, forests and even the cracks of urban concrete. Those dandelions never give up and keep working their magic. It doesn't matter if some can't see it. They are always there, just waiting patiently.

Found Ben Heine's work on Flickr and fell in love with this photo. I hope you like it.

I have to say the poem he attached is pretty beautiful too.

Enjoying Life
A poem by Peter S. Quinn

Enjoying life before it all away goes
On to the winter’s playing penumbra field
What was of proceeding is now like glows
One at a time falling in oldness yield
The day becomes dark like evening light
With all its memories broken treasures
This is the extend of each morning bright
Nothing to behold of its going pleasures
In living a dream that once was of spring
Every hour coming is now on so dear
Onto the echoes of old occasions sing
This of the times when winter is near
Love songs of gray and blossoms falling white
When dreams of their sharing becomes night

What would you wish for?

Half the Sky...Exposing Violence Against Women Around the Globe

2012-10-02T22:40:00.000-04:00

Please watch the documentary, "Half the Sky" inspired by the incredible work of Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn. Their documentary takes the viewer on a gut wrenching journey. I implore you. This is the kind of reality television we should all be watching.

No matter whether you are a mother, daughter, father, son or what you think you know about the world and violence against women, this movie will teach you something. It will shock you and move you to tears. Above all, I hope it will stir something in you and inspire you to join the discussion.

I could go on about how even our society still promotes an imbalance of power where acts of rape and violence against women and girls happen far more than they should by family members, boyfriends, husbands and strangers. I could write pages about domestic violence and the narrow minded views that women's fashion choices invite aggression, but I know my words would fall short. This is happening around the globe. In some places like Sierra Leone, China and the Middle East it is epidemic. Yet, the plight of women and girls as young as infants who are being sold and sexually assaulted has largely been ignored. Young girls, even infants are being raped. Sadly, the issue received little recognition until recently. Why? Because of their gender and egregious abuses of cultural power. Don't take my word for it. Watch and listen to these young women tell their brave and tragic stories.

For those people who say feminism and women's rights are old news, I dare you to watch this and utter those words again.

I've linked it below. It will be available online until at least October 8th. If you can't see the image...the video link may be off temporarily. Click on the above link or the print link below and it will bring you to the proper site where you can view the documentary in its entirety. Thanks for reading.

Watch Half the Sky: Turning Oppression Into Opportunity- EP 1 on PBS. See more from Independent

Lens.

Sorry if you can't see the image the video may be having problems...click the print link and it will bring you to the proper site.

xoHalf the Sky

Paris...A Picture is Worth A Thousand Words

2012-09-22T20:35:00.004-04:00

So maybe I can't let it go with just a picture...

Only weeks ago my daughter and I strolled along the Seine on a beautiful September afternoon. It was our first day. After a long walk from our hotel we found ourselves in Notre Dame. We quietly lit candles, said our prayers and left to sit at a nearby cafe. I don't know what she prayed for, but I do know we were both thankful to be there. We sat and people watched and marveled that we actually made the trip happen despite a myriad of obstacles. I had to pinch myself. "Are we actually here?" I asked myself silently more than once following an exhausting flight delay and some serious jet lag. Let's not even talk about the awful location of the hotel. I was tired, but none of those petty things mattered. I had made it to Paris with my eldest daughter who had just turned sixteen. Nothing on earth could have made me happier at that moment. Seriously, what's better than a cafe with a view, a croissant, espresso and a happy teenager sitting with you? I'll tell you. Nothing. Except all those things...in Paris. It may as well be Heaven.

It's not easy to have quality one on one time at home or even in the car when you have four children so for a while it seemed like this trip just couldn't happen. Somehow, this mother's intuition seemed to whisper this was an important trip far beyond the culture and the shopping (although the markets were pretty amazing). This was more than just a gift for her or a vacation for us. I pulled it together and found out it really does take a village sometimes. I listened carefully to my heart before I booked this trip and I swear I heard a clock ticking. I realized I had to bring her with me. If not now, then when? All these years while I've been driving, cooking and shlepping everyone to dance, music, karate and doctor visits and a myriad of other places I've been lamenting the loss of my quiet time only to find one by one, right before my eyes, my children started to grow up. The funny thing is, now I want to slow it all down.

When I look at my daughter these days I no longer see the little girl who once needed to hold my hand to cross a street or hugged me to hide from some costumed character that terrified her. She's also not the girl with the heavy black eyeliner and pink hair who needed to hide a bit of herself away from the world only a short time ago. Today, I see a beautiful, talented, independent young woman who is about to take the keys and hit the road to begin a life on her own, maybe not tomorrow, but someday very soon.

As a mother I know the time is near when I will have to set her free to soar much as I might not be ready yet. I know it's no longer about my timing. Our little trip let me hold her hand, if only symbolically, for just a little while longer and be there to see that despite her old age of sixteen she hasn't lost the wonder of life she had as a little girl. Her face lit up as we simply walked those fabled city's streets listening to all the unfamiliar voices and accents. I watched as a little shop window would draw her eye toward its wares. Slowly, she took the lead and proudly directed me around the metro station when I had us turned the wrong way. She tried on a beautiful vintage frock and chatted with the shopkeeper who carefully turned the dress inside out to show the artistry of the seams. She held her own, discussing the dress and its fit and enchanted the petite French shopkeeper who kept trying to find a belt for one dress and then took off her own just so my daughter could try it on. Now it was my turn to be filled with wonder. She really wasn't my little girl anymore and I couldn't be more proud of her.

Well, she may be almost all grown up and about to fly away, but we will always have Paris.

(and...I hope we keep a little bit of that wonder with us always).

She reminded me that wonder and magic shouldn't be left only for the young...

To Blog or Not to Blog?...Where Do You Draw the Line?

2012-09-15T15:08:00.002-04:00

Recently, it came to my attention that a little part of my life had been put out to the world in a blog other than my own. I received a phone call from a friend asking if someone's post was referring to me. While I wasn't named directly, it was pretty obvious to the people who know me that I was the subject of the post involved. Was it a mean or angry post? Hmmm. No, but the motivation behind the writing? There was definitely some emotion involved because it was about my personal life and it made me uncomfortable. I won't get into details because that would be engaging a never ending argument and nothing makes me more uncomfortable than that weird place people go when communication goes awry. It can get ugly fast these days. Technology, with all the amazing things it offers the world, leaves people to their own devices to filter their thoughts. That is one heck of a big responsibility that we often obsess over with our children. Countless articles, books and blogs offer advice on how to monitor your child's internet footprint. The problem is that it's not just the children and teens who need to reign in their online behavior. Remember the widely publicized statistic that 1 in 5 divorces involve Face Book? Grown ups need to exercise better social media etiquette and self control too. I know some adults who run amok with their tweet fights, Face Book wars of friending and unfriending, and yes, personal blogging that sometimes crosses the line.

Blogging and the freedom to write whatever you want without an editor and only your conscience to guide you is an amazingly free way to share your world view, politics, parenting style and humor. It gives writers an exceptionally wide berth to express and invent themselves. It's just my opinion, as a blogger, however, that a certain responsibility comes with that freedom to tread carefully when it becomes personal and other people are involved. As for me, when I realized I was recognizable in that post my first reaction was to take every social media related profile I have down for a little while to make some careful changes on my privacy settings. It made me think long and hard about what I've written on this blog and how some planned changes to its content can be modified.

As I try to teach my children, it's important to be mindful of what you put out into the world via technology because once it's out there you can't take it back. That text that upset you? Wait. The comment on your Tumblr you don't like? Maybe just delete it and move on. The fight you just had with your friend? Don't put it on FB, don't blog about it and stop before you send the angry email. Once you click on "publish" or "send" your words are out there, permanently. We've come to expect everyone and everything to move at the speed of light and often hit that button without thinking about the consequences or how the people on the receiving end will feel. When emotions run high children and adults often use these forums like weapons just waiting to be fired. Unlike the stun gun I joked about in my last post, a vitriolic, incendiary or overly personal blog reaches far more than one person. Having your words, pictures or video go viral is a very possibility and everyone should take at least a moment to imagine if they would really want that to happen.

As for this blog, well, let's just say it's evolved as a result of all those concerns. The initial premise was dedicated to single parenting and the complications of navigating that world. That's pretty personal territory. Just the name of this blog belies some content about some life changes. Yet, some very early blog posts I wrote on the topic remained unpublished. I knew all of my posts would need a waiting period before I could put myself out there. The fact that the topic of single parenting inherently involves my children stopped me in my tracks. I'm glad I waited and gave my words some time to sit. In the end, with second and third readings sharing that much personal information felt wrong and unfair to my family. People who know me would be reading between the lines and strangers would make their own judgements. In the end, it didn't feel right to share that part of my life with the world in great detail. I know lots of other bloggers feel very differently and enjoy igniting the spark of their readers imaginations about their lives. Me? Not so much. Okay, except maybe when it comes to my mother and her beloved dog. By the way, I've told my mother about the posts and she seemed to think they were funny and not over the line.

This blog now serves as one of my favorite writing exercises and the best remedy when words fail me. I'm working on a book and some other things and that blinking cursor and blank white page stop me in my tracks sometimes. A good friend once told me, just sit down and start typing. The words will come. She was right, but when the words do flow they are sometimes at the expense of a kooky neighbor or my mother who never seems to be at a loss for words or time to share her rather unique views on life. I've found blogging works well as a jumping off point and a place to vent a little about my crazy life in some very general terms. I try to be careful about how far I can go without crossing the line into blogging or ranting about friends, foes or anyone in between where feelings would get hurt or I'd fall squarely in the category of the dreaded "TMI".

Now that a piece of my life was put out there it's made me even more cautious. The last thing I would ever want to do is dissect my personal life here, Face Book or any place else and risk making someone else uncomfortable. I try to practice what I preach by asking myself how I would feel if someone wrote that about me. Hopefully, I can teach my children to use both caution and thoughtfulness in large measure as they navigate this brave new world of social media. As old fashioned as those ideas may seem in this high tech world, they may be the two things that save my kids from having some embarrassing, regrettable activity permanently etched upon their internet footprint. Funny, that's such a detached and abstract expression that might be better understood by people if we called it another old fashioned word: reputation. When I was growing up before the internet was around having a good one was pretty important. I'd like to think that some things haven't changed that much, but judging by reality television and some grown up social media behavior, I may be terribly wrong on that count.

Grandma, Grandpa and the Gun Shop...Good times.

2012-09-02T06:33:00.001-04:00

Just when I thought I had cornered the market on eccentric, elderly parents I received a phone call from a close friend who lives near her parents in Florida. The moment I heard Kim utter the words Stun Gun and "my parents" I realized with glee... I am not alone anymore. When Kim called one morning a couple of weeks ago I almost fell over with laughter. I truly thought she was joking. Ahem, she wasn't. Kim had received a very excited phone call from her parents while they were visiting a local gun shop. Her parents aren't really elderly, but clearly they must be watching Fox News a little too much because like my mom, they have now determined armageddon is on the way and it's time to weapon up. Kim, I feel your pain.

Yes, readers a certain set of grandparents who shall remain nameless wanted to buy something extra special for their eldest granddaughter. They had decided to peruse their local gun shop's wares in search of the right taser-like weapon for her. They wanted to know: "Would a set of brass knuckles do?" Seriously, there are stun guns in the form of brass knuckles and these grandparents were excited about them. They reasoned what better way to say Happy Graduation, I love you, and stay safe, than a weapon that also makes a nifty fashion statement on campus. Of course, Kim and I noted it also comes with and added bonus: Extreme embarrassment if you accidentally zap yourself after your handy, dandy stun gun gets incorporated into a fun drinking game we like to call, "Let's see if she pees."

According to Kim, the first visual that came to mind when her parents called excitedly from the gun shop with their sassy gift idea, was of her beautiful, but occasionally clutzy daughter lying in a pool of urine and PBR after getting shocked by her own gun. Apparently, the electric jolt is known to cause a loss of bladder control. Nice! Now there's a viral video for Youtube.

Now, just when Kim thought she had succeeded in her argument that brass knuckles just wasn't the right look for a college freshman, it turns out stun guns these days have transformer-like qualities. They can take the form of just about any household item and, according to her parents, you can even have your very own "stunning cell-phone" all ready for a bedazzling. Okay, maybe my apple didn't fall far from my mother's tree given my first visual was of the poor girl quickly grabbing the wrong phone out of her bag while balancing a cafeteria tray on the other hand and then before "Hello" could leave her lips there would be a mysterious crackle as she ZAP's her head. Seriously, that could happen. If it were me toting around a cell phone like that, rest assured I'd find myself waking up somewhere embarrassing.

Even after Kim protested, they pressed on with their plan to arm their beloved granddaughter and contacted the college to discuss stun gun usage on campus. Much to their disappointment, the school denied their request to allow their granddaughter the special privilege of packing heat or in this case electrical current on campus.

According the company's website...this model comes with a velvet pouch and gift box.

Kim and I laughed because clearly her parents gift idea wasn't so original after all, since the school already has a rule against stun guns in effect. Can you imagine what must have happened for that rule to be in effect already? Maybe, a frat house hazing ritual gone awry?

In the end, much to their disappointment they were forced to settle for some old-fashioned pepper spray in the guise of something like a lip stick case.

It's funny how times have changed. These Florida based grandparents were NYC born and raised. I wonder what they (and my own mother) were thinking years ago when Kim and I walked the halls of a quaint little New York City high school whose initials JFK came to mean "Jail for Kids" during our tenure there? Although, we had some good times and met some great people at our alma mater, this place was not Candy Land. It also wasn't little. Eight floors, elevators, escalators and around five thousand students made it a pretty massive urban microcosm. During our four years there were more than a few stabbings, fights and bomb threats. There was also the dreaded fourth floor entrance. Walking in those doors was not exactly the safest way to start the school day. Then there was the locker room issue. The words, "Be afraid, be very afraid" should be emblazoned above those doors in my opinion. I won't get into the fight that almost was, but I will tell you, I never stepped in there again. Like Chris Rock once joked that it's not worth going to jail because someone stepped on your Puma, at JFK, you didn't want to be the one taking that accidental step or using a locker that someone named Shorty Smurfette had already chosen. I was quickly schooled by my friend Monica and her brother that I needed to take Camping and Winter Sports.

They way to avoid a potential locker room beating was to avoid traditional gym altogether and thanks to a couple of amazing teachers we had some very creative ways to do that. Camp Counseling training and Camping and Winter Sports. Fun and life saving all at the same time! All the girls who took Body Building, I admire your spunk, but that locker room scared the hell out of most of us. I won't even get into the security guards, escalator etiquette and the paddy wagons that would pick you up if the police found you cut class. Yes, I became familiar with that police van on more than one occasion. Super fun when the police think your doctor's note is a forgery. There were definitely some days when Kim and I could have used a stun gun for sure, but old fashioned quick thinking, avoidance and hiding out at the local diner were our only options. Yes, put a bunch of Kennedy graduates together and there are some stories to be shared indeed. Good times.

As for Kim's daughter, I hope she never has occasion to use that pepper spray. God help us, if she does I pray there are no "accidents" or a video camera nearby.

The Diabolical Poodle Strikes Again...

2012-08-14T15:38:00.003-04:00

False Pregnancy. Two words I never thought I would utter in relation to anyone let alone a dog. Of course, it has to do with my mother's lovely poodle so I shouldn't be shocked. I couldn't have made this up if I tried.

Yes, indeed it can and did happen to my mother's freak of nature poodle named Casey, or as I like to call her, Spawn of Satan. After weeks of guilt for losing her, then worrying my mother's prized possession would die during puppy-birth (following copulation with a randy beagle down the road) we have now discovered the truth. According to a reputable town vet, she actually FEIGNED ALL THE SYMPTOMS! That crazy ball of fur imagined it all and let me tell you the symptoms were significant. If dogs could order pickles and ice cream I'm sure I would have received a midnight call from my mother. When I visited to check on the dog before calling the vet, Casey was busy nesting in her dog bed surrounded by her toys looking especially plump, engorged teats and all.

via Flickr

Alas, it was all a ruse. According to our vet this isn't an uncommon occurrence. He mentioned something about a hormone flare up following going into "heat". Sure, yadda, yadda. Maybe this is a random experience for some dogs, but I don't believe for a second this was accidental for Casey. When my mother looked away the dog gave me a wise-ass toothless grin. The little faker yelped making my mother inquire what I did to her. I swear her eyes may have even glowed a disturbing shade of red as this transpired. I've convinced myself the whisper of "Gotcha!" was only a figment of my imagination.

The other day when I gazed, okay, glared down at her sad, teary-eyed countenance sitting on my mother's lap, I was reminded of those underestimated characters on daytime television. You know, the one's whose down trodden appearance and advanced age give a false impression of benign sweetness all the while hiding their more sadistic motives. On second thought, daytime wouldn't do her any justice. This dog could be the inspiration for a Chuckie-like horror movie, just canine style. Really, what's more terrifying than a diabolical, toothless poodle? If you disagree, I would argue that's only because you haven't met my mother's dog.

In any event, Casey should be careful these days since Grandma has floated the idea of spending more time at my house, perhaps even moving near by.

Casey, my canine sister, the jig is up and I have a lovely crate with your name on it. Payback is what's the word...I believe it begins with a B?

Grandma Kay's Poodle is Potentially Preggers...Good Times.

2012-07-11T16:58:00.002-04:00

So, Grandma Kay's beloved poodle might have actually gotten herself pregnant. Of course, her immoral behavior is all my fault. So, what else is new?

If you've read my last post you know I recently committed the egregious act of putting my mother's hot- to-trot poodle, Casey, out onto the mean streets of Pound Ridge where she spent the night, before getting picked up at 6:30am by the local police. The incident has now been declared a summer miracle. St. Anthony, Patron Saint of Desperate Causes is credited with the rescue. The fact that I called the police and found Casey is inconsequential. According to my mother, the idea entered my mind through the divine intervention of the saint himself. I can't win.

Just when I thought it couldn't get worse. Now, I'm in some seriously deep dung.

Speculation about a potential pregnancy began immediately upon Casey's return from the police station. My mother picked her up to have a little "talk" about her behavior and then began examining her for signs of randy activity. I'm not sure what my mother was looking for given her limited ability to see, but I think she was trying to detect some shroud of sexual guilt following a ride of shame the night before.

The really weird part was the sense I got from my mother that she was kind of impressed by Casey's fired up hormones at the ripe old age of fourteen. Seriously, Grandma Kay was cackling in an unusually festive manner as she spoke candidly to her seventh child in my kitchen. Though her exact words were something like, "Casey, you bad girl!" I detected a tone that was more awe and encouragement than admonishment. It was more akin to, "Atta Girl!" I can't tell you the rest of their exchange because the urge to dry heave was so strong I had to leave the room.

One thing was clear, I needed them both out of my house ASAP, so within a couple of hours they were happily ensconced at the retirement home. Soon after I was uncorking a bottle of wine to celebrate. Not for one moment did I really think that fourteen year old, unkempt, toothless, cranky poodle could give her body away even if wild dogs roamed freely in town. Apparently, I was very wrong.

If Grandma Kay's suspicions prove true, there is hope for everyone out there in need of a one night stand. I received an early morning phone call last week and should have know better than to pick up the phone. Guilt made me do it. The sound of my brother's laughter on the other end and his inability to speak clued me in that I was in some more trouble. He finds it hilarious that after all these years of playing the role of tortured daughter, our mother actually has something on me. He put my mother on the phone and she instantly regaled me with an all too graphic list of physical changes that had manifested themselves since Casey's night out.

I won't get into the gritty details, but hearing my elderly mother utter the words "enlarged", "engorged" and "erect" about canine mammary glands so early in the morning completely ruined my breakfast plans - for days. Honestly, I still didn't believe the dog was capable of anything more than incessant barking let alone canine copulation and god forbid, pregnancy. I decided to end the insanity and confirm her health myself. A side benefit would be satisfaction after turning the tables on my mother. Truth be told, we all thought Grandma was just enjoying making me squirm, after all, it is one of her favorite past times.

So, before running off on vacation last week we stopped in at Grandma's to take a gander ourselves. Only minutes into our visit it was apparent I wasn't turning any tables. Casey definitely had something going on. I grabbed her front paws and begged everyone to look and see if there were signs. Well, after some loud protests we all peered through squinting eyes and suffered possible retinal damage. There were some "changes" alright. We swiftly broke out the IPhones and searched "Poodle pregnancy signs." Though we are all hoping it's some weird false pregnancy condition we aren't holding our breath. If those websites are accurate, Casey is in need of some prenatal vitamins.

More importantly, I am in need of some really good wine. Casey might be due in a few weeks, apparently the gestation period is only 60 days...

Good times.

Dog Gone Lost...

2012-06-08T18:05:00.003-04:00

Could have used this the other day....

Word of advice: Never lose your sight impaired, elderly, angry, staunch republican mother's dog. Even if the dog is so disheveled, elderly and mean spirited it terrorizes your own elderly, mean spirited cat into unceremoniously urinating in your towel basket.

I committed this crime earlier this week and fortunately, lived to tell about it. I do not recommend following my lead on this - ever. Respect mother's orders with her dog even if you're own common sense tells you otherwise. It's not worth the headache. If your parent is anything like mine your guilt will threaten like a tsunami and it will give credence to her growing suspicion that even in the fourth decade of your life you still aren't all that responsible a human being. In other words, if you had listened to her, the dog situation and many other decisions in life would have turned out much better. She will invoke the name of God and several saints with whom she seems to have fast-track access. The shopping cart turned walker will get some major all night mileage while it rolls up to the front windows over and over searching for a sign of life only to turn for the next lap around the kitchen with dashed hopes. Profanity will be involved. It might be my imagination, but I'm pretty sure I heard my name uttered after a few unmentionable words and then "Damn it. Christine." A clenched fist may even have been raised in the air. I didn't witness it, I'm just saying it's very possible. Much of this was relayed to me by my daughters as I was too afraid to face her.

Really, good for you if you were blessed with a more sane, nurturing, and democratic parent. I'm not jealous. Okay, maybe a little. My mother and I are a strangely matched pair for sure. On more than one occasion I have envisioned some heavenly mishap where the angel in charge of soul distribution tripped and I ended up down the wrong chute. Our relationship has often seemed to be one big celestial joke as we look at each other exasperated and wonder, "Who ARE you?" For a while things were calmer between us as we sidestepped conversation about her fondness for Fox News, but losing Casey sent her over the edge. In the first place she's not particularly tolerant of my exotic world view of most things and when said world view doesn't tolerate an obnoxious, toothless, cranky poodle named Casey who my mother affectionately refers to as my "sister." well things get especially dicey.

Sister, my a**. Sorry, that was a Tourette's moment.

Anyway, despite the deep seeded sibling rivalry I have with this dog, I didn't put it outside to get lost on purpose. I put Casey outside because she was terrorizing my cat and barking incessantly. The fact that Casey was never spayed and as luck would have it in the full throes of a "heat" just added to the craziness. Honestly, at 15 years old I would have thought the sexual urgency would have died down by now. I don't know if its something she's eating, but we should all get in on that secret if the end result is this level of randy behavior at a ripe old age. Still, I figured my golden retrievers would keep her busy trying to figure out how to get past the seemingly impossible match up.

I know ...wildly inappropriate, yet it fits. No pun intended.

Apparently, when I left for the evening I neglected to tell my daughters I had put Casey outside. When it began to rain they brought our dogs inside and forgot about Casey. By the time my mother started looking for her Casey had already run off. I'm pretty sure her hormones were raging and the little harlot was on the make for someone more her size.

In my defense I didn't know I was the reason the dog went lost until I was exiting the train in New York City for a night out with a friend. Suddenly, frantic texts came through my phone and the worst one of all - "Mom G'ma K says its all your fault." Perfect way to begin a night out, don't you think?

You might be thinking, wow, she must have hopped on the next train home. Well, not exactly. First off, let me assure you I did feel bad about the fact that Casey ran away, but the fifteen year old buried deep inside me reared her terrified head and said, "Are you nuts? Don't go home. Pray she's found."

Countless phone checks and some ruined plans later I ended up getting home later than any mother of four in their right mind should ever attempt hoping to avoid a meet up with mom. Like a teenager, I figured I was in some deep trouble already so why not make it a thousand times worse by appearing not to care... Idiotic move even as an adult, maybe even more so.

I was prepared for screaming, ranting words of "I told you not to let her out!!! You never listen to me!!!!" yadda, yadda. What did I get? Silence. Silence when I finally arrived home and silence in the morning except some muffled, whispered profanity and the squeak of her cart's wheels as she continued her vigil the next day.

Silence is the weapon of destruction for most parents isn't it? It signals the most serious of moods and repercussions in most homes I know. There I was lying in my bed after my own children had been picked up for school and I was terrified. I knew she had envisioned a coyote or worse snacking on Casey that night. The same place in my mother's psyche that draws her to the O'Reilly Factor and the tragedies of late night news were helping her conjure up some graphic imagery. In truth all manner of ugly things could have happened to that tiny dog in the middle of the woods and the thought of it made me ill.

I knew I had to face the music and get out of bed at some point, but in one last act of desperation, I picked up the phone and called the local police. I took a deep breath and asked simply if anyone had called about a dog. I nearly had a heart attack when the clerk answered, "Why yes. There is a very wet, beige poodle right outside. She was brought in around 6:30 this morning." I'm pretty sure I sounded deranged as I spoke and scrambled to my feet to get dressed. I've never been so thrilled to visit a police station and bail out a derelict, white as the driven snow, hirsute family member in my life. For one small moment I actually loved that oversexed ball of fur. I practically yelled into the phone, "I'll be right there!!!"

Did I rush in to my mom with the wonderful news? Uh, no. I nonchalantly walked in the kitchen and announced the dog was found and I was going to get her. My mother sitting at the kitchen table sipping her tea stated simply, "Oh, thank god. I hope she didn't have any sex last night. Not at her age for god's sake." I can't say she laughed because the familiar sound would be more accurately described as a cackle. Upon hearing it I said a silent thank you to the heavens and the angels who likely find my life hilarious, because it signaled all was right in her world once again. For that I am very grateful, she is my mother after all, and love does seem to work in very mysterious ways sometimes.

xo

Ignorance Is Not Bliss...

2012-05-15T22:01:00.001-04:00

On occasion while traveling I've come across some individuals who fit the much reviled, rude and ignorant American stereotype and have been tempted to declare my Canadian citizenship. The truth is, however, you don't really have to go very far to encounter those obnoxious stereotypes. Plenty of them live and walk among us right here at home. I'm beginning to wonder if some people, despite seemingly normal outward appearances were actually raised by wolves or perhaps in a barn somewhere. My apologies to the wolves.

Recently, one of my daughters came home upset after spending a day with a classmate and their family. I knew from a few texts that the day hadn't gone well. She was visibly upset as she exited their car while a smiling, clueless woman waved to me from the driver's seat. The moment my daughter pulled our car door closed the gory details of the day came pouring out. It disturbed her that her friend's mother and cousin expressed some ignorant opinions about living in New York City, subways, where to eat and even what kind of people drink tap water (only low class people). My daughter ticked off a laundry list of statements that had made her cringe. "Tap water is low class? Mom, who says something like that?" My daughter didn't know how to respond since she wanted to be respectful to her friend's mother, but she couldn't believe an adult could truly believe such things. To my daughter the day's long commentary about the ills of New York City and its inhabitants was a personal affront.

I looked over as we drove home and felt sad for her. She's growing up and unravelling the last of her childhood's fairytales. The one where grown ups have some universal wisdom. Unfortunately, adulthood, wisdom, and simple good manners don't always go together.

When she finished speaking she closed her eyes signaling the end of the talk. I didn't utter a word. As we drove home in silence I wished I could tell her that those people are few and far between. I wished I could tell her it gets better and that most adults do know better than to judge others based on some meaningless external criteria. If only adulthood came with an automatic sensitivity chip that would minimize all the foot-in-mouth commentary and encourage keeping one's thoughts and opinions to themselves. Instead, I thought, "Welcome to my world."

My daughter's experience made me think of a few encounters of my own ranging from the ridiculous to the shockingly bitchy in recent months.

I was reminded of a close friend of mine who had recently shared a story about a mother-in-law who remarked, "I'll never understand that blue-collar mentality of theirs." This woman was referencing her own daughter-in-law's family, right in front of her, as if she wasn't being insulting. The fact her own family is a mixed bag of professions ranging from police officers to real estate sales was completely lost on this woman. I'm sure she doesn't "get" the mentality of Asians, Muslims, gays or pretty much anyone else either.

On one occasion, I was speaking with a casual acquaintance who referred to a town where a friend grew up in a disdainful tone. She noted, "Oh yeah, that's where the rednecks are from." Mind you, this woman grew up about two towns away from the redneckville she was referring to. I'm not even sure what she meant by redneck. If her unique definition includes middle class Italian and Jewish families on Long Island then I guess redneck applies. If it's the Jeff Foxworthy definition of poor white people then I'm pretty sure she's way off the mark or she was just bitchy. I'm leaning toward the latter assessment. For the record, I'm not okay with making derogatory statements about any group and that includes poor white people. Really, how does one respond to such obnoxiousness? I decided radio silence from me would suffice. Avoiding her like the plague seems to help too.

Another time at a child's birthday party a parent doled out some unsolicited advice regarding my youngest daughter's small stature. She remarked, "Don't you think you should get her on some growth hormones? My god she's tiny." I felt like saying, "Don't you think you should get yourself to a gym soon? That ass of yours is getting wider by the second." Instead I calmly replied, "Thank you, she's fine the way she is."

The worst moment of all in recent days happened at a gathering of local women. One woman had an unusually strong interest in my life. I have to admit she had more cojones than her classically attired Westchester Housewife appearance belied. After circling like a hawk with commentary about another family's marital situation she boldly went for the jugular and chuckled before asking, "So, (pregnant pause inserted here) did you find your housekeeper naked in YOUR bed?" I wondered for a moment if I had heard her correctly. I should have responded, "No, is that where you found YOURS?" Instead, I looked around the dining room for hidden cameras. For a fleeting moment, I imagined I might have inadvertantly stumbled on the set of one of the Housewife franchises. Seriously, this is where some full on New Jersey Housewife crazy would have served me well. While a good table flip might have been fun, I took solace in the fact that at the very least a woman this obnoxious must be one unhappy and unfulfilled housewife underneath it all. I don't think my silent, but unruffled response was appropriately satisfying to her because the conversation finally moved on. No, my sixty plus year old housekeeper was never found frolicking in my bed in case you're wondering. Though that lovely imaginative housewife might have a future writing for Late Night Cinemax for seniors...

If you're wondering how I could meet so many "interesting" people, let's do the math: four kids bring a whole lot of people into your life, both invited and otherwise.

As we pulled into the driveway, I debated whether I should share any of these "tales from the trenches." I decided against it. Sometimes misery doesn't need company. Instead, I told her how proud I was of the person she's become. If this is any indication of the future, I'm pretty confident she's going to be okay.

There's A Dumpster In My Driveway and I'm Not Afraid to Fill it.

2012-04-25T11:42:00.001-04:00

life, a photo by alshepmcr on Flickr.

Such a beautiful truth, but so difficult to practice.

As a woman who was once told her middle name should be "I Want", it took me some time to learn that lesson. Once I moved beyond my vast collection Barbie dolls and their four story townhouses the lesson slowly made its way into my psyche. By the time I reached college I had no interest in acquiring too many things. Anything I couldn't carry along seemed a burden to me. I'm sure you're shocked to hear I loved the idea of being able to pack and run.

Property ownership was not something I relished. I vividly remember feeling a heavy weight of responsibility when I bought my first piece of furniture. It was a futon for my apartment in college. It was a big lumpy reminder I couldn't just pack my bag and leave at a moments notice. Suddenly, I had my own "stuff". Of course, college furniture isn't exactly going to require an estate auction to dispose of it, but unlike the old dorm room and crates I couldn't just leave it behind. Well, not without an angry landlord to take my security deposit.

I laugh now at that futon and my naivete. That was just was the tip of the iceberg. Bookcases, books, chairs and lamps along with proper clothes, and accoutrements for my first proper job and new grown up life joined the futon in weighing me down. Yes, "things" have a way of taking over. They seem to be an inescapable badge of adulthood and especially marriage. How about that bridal registry? I ended up with water goblets rimmed in gold because, well, what table isn't complete without ornate water goblets?

Many years, children and animals later I have a house full of things that somehow came to define me as an adult and proper family in the suburbs. Minimalism lost out to the vast array of child development toys that every magazine seemed to tout as integral to the success the children. In the early days, throw pillows overtook the couch in my desperate attempt to detract from the primary color scheme Playschool and Fisher Price inflicted on my home. Despite my trepidation about the art of acquisition it happened to me anyway. Every apartment and house seemed to scream, "Fill this space." So I did.

Now that I'm thinking about selling my house I've realized I can count on one hand the "things" that I want to come with me - a few paintings, photo albums and a framed photograph I bought in Santa Fe. Of course, the new place would need some things too, but I'm not sure I want much of the old stuff to come along. I kind of like the idea of a clean slate or a least an uncluttered one. Okay, I admit, my shoes have to come. There are a lot of memories to go with those shoes. So, I guess I'd need a few more hands...

Starting over does have a way of making you think about what really matters. To me, they are the memories, the people and the experiences we've had in our old place that are easily transported inside each of us. The mix of the past laughs, tears and the promise of what the future holds is more dear than any table, china plate, or water goblet that has never graced my table. Can you say Ebay?

Maybe, we can't avoid "things", but we can be more discerning about that those items are and the motivation behind acquiring them. I don't know, but maybe it's worth asking what it's real purpose is in your life and if it brings joy or happiness. I admit I don't want to part with the paintings. They have a lot of meaning for me. Throw pillows and my excessive collection of flower vases accumulated over the years? Not so much.

Now, if only I can convince my children of this and start over with a Build-A-Bear free home...

Well, I can dream can't I?
xo

Ruminations and Birthdays.

2012-03-25T09:11:00.014-04:00

I watched as the two, waxy candles released tiny droplets on the red velvet cupcake my children placed on the kitchen table before me. Immediately, I recognized the crooked, slightly worn-out white and blue "four. It was from my son's birthday the previous year. We have a drawer where candles from birthdays past. They wait to be recycled and remembered. A sad little graveyard it is. It occurred to me that things could be worse. That drawer has some digits that are far less attractive. An eight or a nine could have been sitting up there along side the four or I shuddered to think...in front.

Secretly, I was relieved the kids didn't get mischievous and play with the numbers too much. I'll take the 24 and my daughters silent wink. Okay, they played with the numbers a lot, but when it involves a birthday and subtraction - I plead ignorance. It seems like yesterday I just started this decade and I'm not quite ready for another one. "Make a wish Mom! It's melting! Come on!" Their voices were brimming with excitement. Oh, to be filled with that magical sense of immortality again. Remember when time was an endless list of "When" and "What if's..."? The words, "I wish I had..." or "Oh crap, I just threw out my back." weren't yet part of your vernacular. You weren't yet on a first name basis with the pharmacist and fluent in antibiotics, ear infections or the benefits of Valtrex for that attractive cold sore that adds insult to injury when the stress makes you, well, a mess.

I smiled. I stalled. We took a photo with my daughter's phone. I turned the words over in my head. My mind was blank. A little crater of clear melted wax had formed at the top of each candle and threatened to overflow. Just as the flames were about to flicker out and give up, I closed my eyes and blew them out with only a single thought, "Let something good happen."

I have no idea what that something is. I just hope that I'll recognize it when it comes my way.

Dwell in Possibility

I dwell in Possibility--
A fairer House than Prose--
More numerous of Windows--
Superior--for Doors--
Of Chambers as the Cedars--
Impregnable of Eye--
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky--
Of Visitors--the fairest--
For Occupation--This--
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise--

-Emily Dickinson

I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.