Low rumble. Longer, low rumble. LOUD rumble. THUD! Shatter, shatter, shatter! These are not noises one enjoys waking up to at any time of year, but especially in December.
I have to stop here and tell you, honestly, I pretty much hate December. Yes, there's Christmas. God took on human form in order to communicate His love to us. That was awesome, and I appreciate it, I really do. But do we have to get so CRAZY? The grocery store, the radio, and school, school, school, school. We're doing Christmas bulletin boards and Christmas Music Programs and making Christmas presents for our Parents and all the while telling kids to calm the heck down. Plus there's snow, then there's not snow, then there's snow again, and kids don't know if they need to wear shorts or a snowmobile suit out to recess. And we always get the flu at our house. Or strep. Or pneumonia. Somebody's always sick and Eric and I have to draw straws to see who's gonna try to get a substitute at 6:00am. Anyway, I digress. My point is, despite my birthday and Christmas both landing in this month, I hate December. And so, being rudely awakened by these sounds when it was ALREADY December was not a good thing.
So, the hubby and I were sleeping fitfully--dreaming of Christmas programs gone wrong and that one lady who called us on Christmas Eve morning to chew Eric out--when we heard the rumble, rumble, RUMBLE, THUD, SHATTER! We didn't move. We didn't "spring from our beds to see what was the matter". I sat up a bit, and Eric snarled, "What the hell was that?"
"I am assuming the tree, E."
"What tree??!"
Pause. "The Christmas tree?"
Bigger pause. "Shit."
Now I must stop and tell you a secret about my husband. During the day, he is incredibly thoughtful and generous. In fact, for Christmas, he gave me a jar filled with papers upon which he has written "Remember when...?" or "I love about you..." or "We're doing this!" and each morning of 2016 I get to choose one. He once bought a huge jar, filled it with jelly beans, and removed all the blacks, purples, and whites, because I hate those. He bakes cookies when he's alone with the kids and I have conferences. He looks up items and foods and people that no one even remembers me mentioning, and brings them to me. He is a fantastic, wonderful, superior human being. When he is awake. However, if you wake my husband up in the night, he is a completely different person. He's a real jackass; there's just no other way to put it. This is why I have always dealt with the kids getting up, etc, in the night, because, well, he'd just plain be mean. He really can't help it--think of it like bed wetting. My husband has night mood issues. We usually just work around it.
However, the night of the rumble, rumble, RUMBLE, THUD, SHATTER! we could not work around it. So, we both got out of bed and headed to the living room. Not good.
The tree, which we had artfully decorated that evening, had been carefully placed in the middle of the living room. We wanted it to be the focal point this year. We had put all the kids' wrapped presents all the way around the tree, put a rug over cord, and turned all the furniture so it was facing the center of the room. Somehow, this beautiful Frasier Fir had completely flipped out of the stand, and was now lying innocently on its side. Several ornaments had bit it when they hit the laminate floor, and were now shattered about the room. Presents' paper had been punctured, and water was pouring out of the stand all over the floor. It sucked.
This was not our first time to a tree tipping party. Way back in the '00s (like '06, '07...), we would get HUGE trees. Trees that we needed a step ladder to decorate. Trees that touched the top of our cathedral ceiling. They were beautiful. But they always tipped over. Yes, we tied them. They would just tilt on the axis of the fish line. Yes, we bought a better stand. They would just bring the tree stand over with them (which I'm not even sure is physically possible, but it happened). So, this is not our first horse and pony show with the tree being a disaster. We've threatened many a time to get the plug-it-in ready, artificial tree, but neither of us can seem to actually go through with it. We love the smell. We love the look. We love real trees. They just don't seem to love us.
Now, I did mention it was 2:00am, right? Well, I said it was night. I didn't say it was 2:00am. Let me tell you: it was 2:00. A freaking M. Eric began barking about getting towels, moving presents, sweeping up the glass. He started to untwist the bolts in the stand, attempting to free the tree stump. As we were righting the tree, he said, "How did this happen, anyway?"
Now, this may shock you, but I was not gallivanting around the living room at 2:00am, running circles around the tree, swiping at it with a bat or golf club. I was not jumping up and down next to the tree, seeing if I could get it to fall. I wasn't even near the tree. But, I know that Night Time Eric still blamed me, in that moment, for the tree being on its side.
Fortunately for me, as the words were still dripping from his mouth and landing in a pool of venom on the living room floor, the dog sauntered by. She was trying to be casual, gave a little wave of her giant, Golden Retriever tail, and kept her eyes specifically pointed away from our faces. Not a big gesture, just a little, "Hi guys, how's it going? I had nothing to do with this gigantic disaster. Nope. No, sir. I was sleeping with my head snugly under your bed. Yup. Minding my ooooown business.
Just wanted to see if I could help out in any way..."
Eric took one look at her submissive little face and growled, "Liiiilllllyyyy," deep and low. I haven't even seen the dog take off that quickly when FOOD is involved. So, now we knew our cause. We just had to figure out a solution.
Somehow, we were able to communicate to one another that we would upright the tree, I would hold it up, and Eric would screw the bolts back in. We did not, however, communicate to one another that A) Eric had to pee like nobody's business and B) I was feeling slightly lightheaded (if I get up, I have to eat. Doesn't matter what time it is.). So, we were surrounded by the tree, Eric was lying on the ground, snapping, "Hold it UP. No, UP. UP! Now move it this way. NO, UP!" To make matters worse, we had hidden those STUPID elves (we have THREE) in the tree. I popped one out and put it in the nearby poinsettia, where I would tell Ben it dove for cover the next morning. Eric said, "Seriously, that's your concern right now? The elves?"
I said, "Stop being so mean!" and he said, "Then hold the stupid thing up!" and I said, "I'm trying! I don't know what you want from me!" and he said, "It's two-freaking-twenty, Laura!" and I felt it. Do you know that feeling? It starts in my ears. They get fuzzy, almost like a bee is flapping its tiny wings against them. Then my cheeks feel hot, and slowly the feeling drains out of them. It was coming. I was going to have to say something.
"I'm going to faint."
"What? You're WHAT?"
"I'm going to faint. I am going to pass out. I don't have the tree. We're going to have to switch jobs."
"Seriously? Are you being completely serious with me right now? You're gonna FAINT? Good God. Fine. Fine. Let's switch, then!"
We switched. He held the tree. I put my head between my knees. It was ridiculous.
Then, I shimmied under the tree and screwed the bolts in. They did not seem tight, in fact they didn't even seem perpendicular to the tree, but it was standing, so I let it go. It was two-freaking-twenty, you know. We could fix it all the next day.
We filled up the stand with water, shoved the tree way over by the sliding door, scolded the dog, and went to bed. I'd like to say the next night's festivities were a simple fix, but they actually involved Eric making a SECOND drive to Cheboygan for the day, in order to purchase a new tree stand, and this was after two hours of me holding the tree-Eric screwing and unscrewing the bolts, Eric holding the tree-me screwing and unscrewing the bolts. At one point, I took the little plastic heads off the bolts, tightened them, then loosened them and put them back on. Dumb, dumb dumb, dumb. So Eric drove to Cheboygan and I slapped pajamas on the children, shoved them in their beds, and tried to clean up as much of the mess as possible before he got back.
When Eric returned with a seven-dollar tree stand, we did not have high hopes. There was talk of tossing the damn thing off the back porch. But, really it went up without a hitch. We redecorated, kept it by the window, blocked off the living room from Lily's tail by putting the ottomans (ottomen?) in her way. The tree still stands today. It is a Christmas miracle.
A week ago, I sat with Becca on the couch, we turned off the lights and set the tree aglow. I sang "Silent Night" and "Away in a Manger" and "We Three Kings" and "Once in Royal David's City". We cuddled and stared at the tree, and I looked at all the ornaments, each of which holds a memory for our family. It was so, so beautiful. I still hate December. I definitely still hate that tree. But tomorrow, as we take it down (so that Ben can return to a semblance of his pre-December self), a little piece of my heart will go with it. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
I am a wife, mother of three, elementary teacher, daughter, and friend. I have been a writer for a long time, now I'm just willing to let people be the readers!
Friday, December 25, 2015
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
One Lump Or Two?
"Hi, Laura? Yes, we're going to need to do a repeat of your mammogram and then maybe an ultrasound to really get a good look. Okay?"
Sure. Yes. It is okay. It's okay because you have no history of breast cancer in your family. It's okay because you've never smoked. It's okay because you nursed two babies and actually had a breast reduction, which is supposed to drop your chances of breast cancer by a whopping 50%. And you have a wonderful friend who had an actual lump found, after her reduction surgery, which turned out to be scar tissue. It's probably just scar tissue. So, yeah, no problem; it's okay.
You make the appointment, tell your husband, try to see if the two of you can figure out a way for him to go with you. You don't tell most people--it's just not that big of a deal--and when you can't figure out a plan you say it's not a problem. You'll just go yourself; you'll be back before anybody even realizes it.
It's fine. It's fine. It's fine, until the actual morning of the procedure. You drive from the house to school and hear, "Fight Song" on the radio and the crying begins. You can't make it stop. The flashes of your children--as high schoolers, graduating, adults, parents--won't stop blinking before your eyes. You pull yourself together, your work day starts, your husband figures out a way to come with you. It's fine again, fine. No problem. It's just scar tissue, it's fiiiiiine.
On the drive, your brain explodes. Remember all the years of birth control? Does that increase your risk or decrease? You can't remember. And FERTILITY drugs. Good Lord, all the fertility drugs you took. Your crazy brain decides you want to be cremated. You definitely want an immediate mastectomy. You don't want to spend the last months of your life trying to fix something unworkable. You'll pull the kids out of school and travel and go do all the things you want to make sure they do. You'll eat octopus and sleep in a tent in the desert and run up the Rocky steps in Philly.
When you get in the room, your first scan is there and you see it. About the size of the dime, clearly standing white against the dark background. Even YOU can see it. You are numb. So, as the woman straps and squeezes and pushes and pulls you in the vice, you cannot stop thinking of your family. Of your oldest, in a suit, giving a presentation for her doctorate. Of your son, playing basketball in high school, raising his arm after an unintentional foul. Of your baby, ponytail swinging, trotting arm-in-arm with her BFF down the hallways of her school. Of your husband, the trip you plan for your first fall of retirement, going to Vermont to see the leaves. You hope he remarries. You also hope he doesn't. You think of your grandchildren, your kids' weddings, your husband's "old man laugh". You'll miss it all.
You wait in the chair, when she's finally done, and hold your breath. Never, not one single time, do you think of work. You had grown up telling your father "No man ever says on his death bed, 'Gee, I wish I'd spent more time at work,'" and it's true. You don't worry about what the students will do or the teachers or the programs... Your family is all.
"Okay, Laura. You did great. You're all set to go home! You won't need that ultrasound afterall!"
The chair drops from under you. The earth shakes. You head sings. "I, I'm okay?"
"Yup. You did great."
You can't wait to get home. To your kids, your dogs, your husband, your heart. Your story is there.
Sure. Yes. It is okay. It's okay because you have no history of breast cancer in your family. It's okay because you've never smoked. It's okay because you nursed two babies and actually had a breast reduction, which is supposed to drop your chances of breast cancer by a whopping 50%. And you have a wonderful friend who had an actual lump found, after her reduction surgery, which turned out to be scar tissue. It's probably just scar tissue. So, yeah, no problem; it's okay.
You make the appointment, tell your husband, try to see if the two of you can figure out a way for him to go with you. You don't tell most people--it's just not that big of a deal--and when you can't figure out a plan you say it's not a problem. You'll just go yourself; you'll be back before anybody even realizes it.
It's fine. It's fine. It's fine, until the actual morning of the procedure. You drive from the house to school and hear, "Fight Song" on the radio and the crying begins. You can't make it stop. The flashes of your children--as high schoolers, graduating, adults, parents--won't stop blinking before your eyes. You pull yourself together, your work day starts, your husband figures out a way to come with you. It's fine again, fine. No problem. It's just scar tissue, it's fiiiiiine.
On the drive, your brain explodes. Remember all the years of birth control? Does that increase your risk or decrease? You can't remember. And FERTILITY drugs. Good Lord, all the fertility drugs you took. Your crazy brain decides you want to be cremated. You definitely want an immediate mastectomy. You don't want to spend the last months of your life trying to fix something unworkable. You'll pull the kids out of school and travel and go do all the things you want to make sure they do. You'll eat octopus and sleep in a tent in the desert and run up the Rocky steps in Philly.
When you get in the room, your first scan is there and you see it. About the size of the dime, clearly standing white against the dark background. Even YOU can see it. You are numb. So, as the woman straps and squeezes and pushes and pulls you in the vice, you cannot stop thinking of your family. Of your oldest, in a suit, giving a presentation for her doctorate. Of your son, playing basketball in high school, raising his arm after an unintentional foul. Of your baby, ponytail swinging, trotting arm-in-arm with her BFF down the hallways of her school. Of your husband, the trip you plan for your first fall of retirement, going to Vermont to see the leaves. You hope he remarries. You also hope he doesn't. You think of your grandchildren, your kids' weddings, your husband's "old man laugh". You'll miss it all.
You wait in the chair, when she's finally done, and hold your breath. Never, not one single time, do you think of work. You had grown up telling your father "No man ever says on his death bed, 'Gee, I wish I'd spent more time at work,'" and it's true. You don't worry about what the students will do or the teachers or the programs... Your family is all.
"Okay, Laura. You did great. You're all set to go home! You won't need that ultrasound afterall!"
The chair drops from under you. The earth shakes. You head sings. "I, I'm okay?"
"Yup. You did great."
You can't wait to get home. To your kids, your dogs, your husband, your heart. Your story is there.
Sunday, October 4, 2015
A Tootsie Roll Pop
A Tootsie Roll Pop. Just one. A single, solitary, Tootsie Roll Pop. I know what you're thinking. Aren't you the lady who preaches to parents about how putting your son on an all natural diet changed his life? Don't you tell everybody how hard it is, but how it's so worth it? Yes. Yes I am that lady.
Yes, I am the lady who writes down a website address and hands it out to parents all the time. I say, "Make sure you look into your child getting quality sleep and healthy foods before you start even thinking about medications." Yes, I am the lady who started making her own granola bars and reads the labels on everything. I have two different apps on my phone to see ingredients in foods and to see the "grade" a particular food gets. I know the definition of GMO--I have it tattooed on my inner wrist (okay, that was sarcasm). I once diligently rubbed essential oils on my son's ridiculously stinky feet and soaked him in Epsom Salts. I am that lady. I acted "holier than thou" when my husband gave my son a glazed doughnut (oh, the corn starch!). Man, karma really is a bitch.
Because, see, I am that lady. Very much. I firmly, firmly believe that Ben's behavior is directly related to what goes in his mouth. There are things he says, movements he makes, actions he does that I just know HE HAS EATEN SOMETHING. It seems crazy. I know it does. Six-years-ago-me thought it was nuts. Now-me knows it is true.
But, what you may not know, is I am secretly another lady. That lady is a Mommy who loves her son "all the way to God and back a million, gazillion times." That Mommy took her son to the Homecoming parade Friday night and promised her son if he was good at the football game he could have a sucker the next day. Now, she wasn't thinking "Tootsie Roll Pop," but she wasn't necessarily thinking organic Yummy Earth sucker, either.
So, that Mommy got up Saturday morning and ruined her weekend. Ruined her son's weekend. Made a critical error. When her son looked at her with his beautiful blue eyes and batted his mile-long lashes, she gave in. She said, "Sure. Why not? Have a Tootsie Roll Pop." That Mommy looked at the ingredients on the side of the wrapper, made sure it never specifically said "corn starch" and handed her son a sucker. Because, you know what? That lady, that Mommy? She's sick of the Healthy Soapbox Lady. She's sick of checking every damn label and telling her son at a birthday party, "No, honey, remember? You can't eat that." The Mommy in me wants to tell the Healthy Lady to go to hell. She wants to say, "Listen, he's SIX. Can you let him have a little fun? How much can it hurt? Live a little!"
Fortunately, our son does not have the kind of "allergy" that can kill him. Fortunately, I can make mistakes like this once in a while; I HAVE the luxury of making a choice and Ben will not die. Believe me, that fact is certainly not lost on me.
But, damn it, I hate it. I have celiac disease. Or leaky gut. Or something. And I know that I can't eat gluten or dairy or carrageenan. But I am almost FORTY-TWO years old. I have had my fun at birthday parties and summer fireworks and parades. My son is SIX. When is his turn? When can he just willy-nilly eat what he wants and not worry? It's not fair. I know everybody has their own shit hid in a closet, and lots of people have worse shit than this. But, still, it's not fair. He's SIX. He's a little boy.
So, I gave him the Tootsie Roll Pop. And now he's been a heathen all weekend and I'm back and forth between crying for him and wanting to run him over with the car. And I just thought you should know, people out there that I give advice to. It is hard. I get it. Even the Healthy Lady makes mistakes.
Yes, I am the lady who writes down a website address and hands it out to parents all the time. I say, "Make sure you look into your child getting quality sleep and healthy foods before you start even thinking about medications." Yes, I am the lady who started making her own granola bars and reads the labels on everything. I have two different apps on my phone to see ingredients in foods and to see the "grade" a particular food gets. I know the definition of GMO--I have it tattooed on my inner wrist (okay, that was sarcasm). I once diligently rubbed essential oils on my son's ridiculously stinky feet and soaked him in Epsom Salts. I am that lady. I acted "holier than thou" when my husband gave my son a glazed doughnut (oh, the corn starch!). Man, karma really is a bitch.
Because, see, I am that lady. Very much. I firmly, firmly believe that Ben's behavior is directly related to what goes in his mouth. There are things he says, movements he makes, actions he does that I just know HE HAS EATEN SOMETHING. It seems crazy. I know it does. Six-years-ago-me thought it was nuts. Now-me knows it is true.
But, what you may not know, is I am secretly another lady. That lady is a Mommy who loves her son "all the way to God and back a million, gazillion times." That Mommy took her son to the Homecoming parade Friday night and promised her son if he was good at the football game he could have a sucker the next day. Now, she wasn't thinking "Tootsie Roll Pop," but she wasn't necessarily thinking organic Yummy Earth sucker, either.
So, that Mommy got up Saturday morning and ruined her weekend. Ruined her son's weekend. Made a critical error. When her son looked at her with his beautiful blue eyes and batted his mile-long lashes, she gave in. She said, "Sure. Why not? Have a Tootsie Roll Pop." That Mommy looked at the ingredients on the side of the wrapper, made sure it never specifically said "corn starch" and handed her son a sucker. Because, you know what? That lady, that Mommy? She's sick of the Healthy Soapbox Lady. She's sick of checking every damn label and telling her son at a birthday party, "No, honey, remember? You can't eat that." The Mommy in me wants to tell the Healthy Lady to go to hell. She wants to say, "Listen, he's SIX. Can you let him have a little fun? How much can it hurt? Live a little!"
Fortunately, our son does not have the kind of "allergy" that can kill him. Fortunately, I can make mistakes like this once in a while; I HAVE the luxury of making a choice and Ben will not die. Believe me, that fact is certainly not lost on me.
But, damn it, I hate it. I have celiac disease. Or leaky gut. Or something. And I know that I can't eat gluten or dairy or carrageenan. But I am almost FORTY-TWO years old. I have had my fun at birthday parties and summer fireworks and parades. My son is SIX. When is his turn? When can he just willy-nilly eat what he wants and not worry? It's not fair. I know everybody has their own shit hid in a closet, and lots of people have worse shit than this. But, still, it's not fair. He's SIX. He's a little boy.
So, I gave him the Tootsie Roll Pop. And now he's been a heathen all weekend and I'm back and forth between crying for him and wanting to run him over with the car. And I just thought you should know, people out there that I give advice to. It is hard. I get it. Even the Healthy Lady makes mistakes.
Monday, September 7, 2015
The Last Night of Summer
T'was the last night of summer
And all through the house
ALL the creatures were stirring
Even the mouse (okay, so it's actually a gerbil, and there are two of them, but you get the point).
See, at my house, my husband and I are both teachers. And Emma is going into 10th grade (did I mention I'm old?). And Ben is going to be a FIRST grader. And Becca, well, Becca is spending her very last year at "Sherrie's school." So this night, this fragile night, I don't think any of us will sleep.
When I was young, I never thought about my teachers stressing about the first day of school. Honestly, I didn't much think about my teachers as actual people, even in high school. But, we do freak out. We really do. I knew a woman who told me that her father, a retired teacher in his nineties, still had first day of school nightmares. I hope I won't ALWAYS have them, but I bet I will. I still have nightmares about college--that I didn't attend a class or I can't find my classes--so I bet I'll still have the "I showed up late wearing flipflops and a ratty T-shirt on the first day of school" nightmare well into my elder years.
This year, I have the pleasure of a brand-new teaching partner. Not just new to me, but new to the profession. Remember that? Remember going to college, studying, doing all your projects, dreaming about your future job? Remember putting together a resume (sorry, I don't know how to type that funky little thing above the letter e in that word), a cover letter, sending out your wishes to prospective employers? Remember going to interviews and answering theoretical questions and hoping you didn't say something stupid? Remember finally, finally getting the phone call that you got the job?? I'm so excited for Erika. I'm so excited for her young, fresh enthusiasm to rub off on me. I'm hopeful that none of my old, dried up, tri-focal crabbiness wears off on her. Although, I've heard from former students that I have more of a reputation as being the kind of teacher who uses a pink cow potholder as a puppet and dances on tables when you get compliments from teachers. I guess it'll be okay if some of that rubs off on her.
So, this last night of summer, we are all pretty excited and antsy. We're looking forward to this year--to me working with Erika, to Eric working with two new partners, to Ben learning to read and add and subtract, to Emma getting college credit from a dual enrollment class, to Becca starting to speak clearly enough that we can understand her. I have to admit, though, that in all this excitement, I do have some sadness at seeing this summer come to a close.
Yes, the kids have been driving me RIGHT UP A WALL. I was an only child, so I had no idea how many topics two people could find to fight about. Wow. It's just amazing.
But, this was THE summer. The one that healed our family. The one that crushed us, then folded its arms around us and held us closer together. This summer, I stepped out of myself and looked at our dinner table and thought, "Yes, yes. This is what we've always wanted." This summer I laughed with my oldest and braided her hair and watched her true self emerge from the shadows. This summer Ben's top teeth began to grow in, and he began asking questions that let you know his brain has really started thinking about the world ("Mom, why do ladies shave their legs?" "I dunno, Bud. They're kind of not supposed to have hair on their legs." "Says who, Mom?" "Good question. Some GUY decided a long time ago. Definitely wouldn't have been a girl." "What guy, Mom? Jesus?" "No, Bud, definitely not Jesus. He wouldn't have cared about leg hair. Just that we love God and love other people." "Then I don't know why you care about leg hair, Mom.") This summer, Becca started riding her little bike with training wheels and running, running, running everywhere, and kissing her babies goodnight like a good little Mommy should. They all grew YEARS this summer, years I'll never get back. It's like washing the sand out from between my toes. I wanted it gone, but, once it is, I know the beach is really over. They were all in these places in their lives that were so frustrating, so annoying, so painful to live with... But now they're really gone, and we can't go back in time. They're not babies anymore. I love and hate that. I really do.
So, if you see me in the morning, I'll have that big, crazy smile on my face. I'll be excited about the new school year, about working with Erika, about my kids moving on. But, I may be walking a little weird. I'm going to try to hang on to one last grain of sand as long as I can.
And all through the house
ALL the creatures were stirring
Even the mouse (okay, so it's actually a gerbil, and there are two of them, but you get the point).
See, at my house, my husband and I are both teachers. And Emma is going into 10th grade (did I mention I'm old?). And Ben is going to be a FIRST grader. And Becca, well, Becca is spending her very last year at "Sherrie's school." So this night, this fragile night, I don't think any of us will sleep.
When I was young, I never thought about my teachers stressing about the first day of school. Honestly, I didn't much think about my teachers as actual people, even in high school. But, we do freak out. We really do. I knew a woman who told me that her father, a retired teacher in his nineties, still had first day of school nightmares. I hope I won't ALWAYS have them, but I bet I will. I still have nightmares about college--that I didn't attend a class or I can't find my classes--so I bet I'll still have the "I showed up late wearing flipflops and a ratty T-shirt on the first day of school" nightmare well into my elder years.
This year, I have the pleasure of a brand-new teaching partner. Not just new to me, but new to the profession. Remember that? Remember going to college, studying, doing all your projects, dreaming about your future job? Remember putting together a resume (sorry, I don't know how to type that funky little thing above the letter e in that word), a cover letter, sending out your wishes to prospective employers? Remember going to interviews and answering theoretical questions and hoping you didn't say something stupid? Remember finally, finally getting the phone call that you got the job?? I'm so excited for Erika. I'm so excited for her young, fresh enthusiasm to rub off on me. I'm hopeful that none of my old, dried up, tri-focal crabbiness wears off on her. Although, I've heard from former students that I have more of a reputation as being the kind of teacher who uses a pink cow potholder as a puppet and dances on tables when you get compliments from teachers. I guess it'll be okay if some of that rubs off on her.
So, this last night of summer, we are all pretty excited and antsy. We're looking forward to this year--to me working with Erika, to Eric working with two new partners, to Ben learning to read and add and subtract, to Emma getting college credit from a dual enrollment class, to Becca starting to speak clearly enough that we can understand her. I have to admit, though, that in all this excitement, I do have some sadness at seeing this summer come to a close.
Yes, the kids have been driving me RIGHT UP A WALL. I was an only child, so I had no idea how many topics two people could find to fight about. Wow. It's just amazing.
But, this was THE summer. The one that healed our family. The one that crushed us, then folded its arms around us and held us closer together. This summer, I stepped out of myself and looked at our dinner table and thought, "Yes, yes. This is what we've always wanted." This summer I laughed with my oldest and braided her hair and watched her true self emerge from the shadows. This summer Ben's top teeth began to grow in, and he began asking questions that let you know his brain has really started thinking about the world ("Mom, why do ladies shave their legs?" "I dunno, Bud. They're kind of not supposed to have hair on their legs." "Says who, Mom?" "Good question. Some GUY decided a long time ago. Definitely wouldn't have been a girl." "What guy, Mom? Jesus?" "No, Bud, definitely not Jesus. He wouldn't have cared about leg hair. Just that we love God and love other people." "Then I don't know why you care about leg hair, Mom.") This summer, Becca started riding her little bike with training wheels and running, running, running everywhere, and kissing her babies goodnight like a good little Mommy should. They all grew YEARS this summer, years I'll never get back. It's like washing the sand out from between my toes. I wanted it gone, but, once it is, I know the beach is really over. They were all in these places in their lives that were so frustrating, so annoying, so painful to live with... But now they're really gone, and we can't go back in time. They're not babies anymore. I love and hate that. I really do.
So, if you see me in the morning, I'll have that big, crazy smile on my face. I'll be excited about the new school year, about working with Erika, about my kids moving on. But, I may be walking a little weird. I'm going to try to hang on to one last grain of sand as long as I can.
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
The Novel
Today I actually had a few hours to myself (I know, what??? CRAZY!) and I promised Eric I would blog. Instead I worked on the novel. For those of you who don't know, I've been working on a novel about Lucy for about, oh, six years. Anyway, Lucy's mom experienced infertility when Lucy was a kid, and then Lucy and her husband go through infertility. That's the premise. So, anyway, I'm working on it, trying to find an agent, working on it, ignoring it, trying to find an agent, working on it. You get the picture. Thus, today's blog is the first ten pages of the novel. That's what most literary agents ask to see. That, therefore, is the MOST IMPORTANT part of the novel. Plus, let's be real, if I don't like a novel in the first ten pages, I'm not reading the rest. So, looking for some good criticism here, people. Thanks for reading.
Your Little Hand in Mine
Laura Hall
Implantation: The Beginning
January, 1990
Dear Samuel,
I remember every detail of your room. Sunlight streamed in the windows, filling the air, setting the white walls aglow. I remember your pine changing table with stacks of tiny diapers, blankets, and t-shirts so small it would seem no real person could fit in them. The scent of baby powder filled my nose as a breeze blew against the sheer curtains, ripples like the ocean on a clear, blue morning. I remember peeling back your chenille quilt, picking you up from the crib grandpa made you, carrying you to the center of your room. A white rocking chair waited for us, the focal point, all eyes on stage. I remember finally rocking you, my baby brother, and singing you your first lullabies. “Your sissy loves you,” I remember singing as I stroked your arms, skin like silk, and kissed your miniature feet. The whole earth was still, sunlight upon us, as we kept the beat back-and-forth, back-and-forth...
All of this I remember, though it never happened. It never will, because you were never born. It is this I must accept.
Your loving sister,
Lucy
The First Trimester: Infertility
1.
I’m four when Mommy and Daddy get home from their trip, and lots of things change. We all move to Daddy’s house in Massillon, where he was living with his State Trooper buddies. I get to call Daddy “Daddy” ‘cause now they’re married. And, Mommy is gonna have a baby.
When their car comes, I don’t know who to run to. It’s always been just me and Mommy, and I didn’t sleep good at Aunt Mollie’s ‘cause I missed Mommy at night. But, now Daddy will be around to play with all the time and I like that. When Daddy gets out of the car, I jump into his arms first. “Daddy!” I yell, as I squeeze his face and he looks happy like Christmas. Mommy comes around the car to hug us both–-and pukes in the bushes.
“Mommy,” I say. I get down and put my arm around her back, “You okay?”
Mom looks at me and smiles so big, I back up a little. “I’m great, Lucy. I’m wonderful. I’m pregnant. I’m going to have a baaaaabbbbyyyy.” Mommy sings the last word and we all scream and jump up and down.
Mommy says you lived in her belly that first time for seven weeks.
2.
When I first started dating my husband, I told him that I wanted to have kids. I probably should have been honest. I was--am--obsessed with having kids. I wanted to have kids more than I wanted to get married. If he’d said, “We could start tonight,” I would have been on board.
I know, I know, other people want to have kids, too. Maybe somebody and her husband tried for a few months and it was hard. I get it; I do. But, seriously, you have no idea. I have wanted a baby since I was FOUR. I faked being pregnant in second grade for a whole week--wearing rolled up towels under my T-shirt--until my teacher called me in at recess and told me to knock it off. For several months in fourth grade, I would awaken early to feed and change my “Real Life Baby” who pooped and peed. I would rock her to sleep and check on her throughout each night. I started babysitting at 12, and didn’t stop until… well, I still watch friends’ babies for them. I talk to babies in restaurants, creep out their parents in the grocery store, and hog them at family reunions. Some people have passions like golf, painting, quilting. I have babies.
Being a smart, sensible, reasonable guy, my hubby wanted to wait a year before we started trying. I didn’t want to scare him off, so I agreed. It was a looooong year.
But now, finally, the school year is coming to an end, and so is my first year of marriage. I glance at my desk calendar, see the little heart I’ve written and think, “Today is when we agreed to start trying.” We’re trying. We’re trying. It’s the strangest phrase, but it sends off little fireworks in my brain. I try to finish all of my end-of-the-year paperwork, but my brain keeps jumbling. What will it be like to be pregnant? Will I have cravings? Will I get sick? What will the baby feel like inside me? I touch my belly over and over again and think, “Get ready!”
I rub my stomach and say aloud, “Yeah, he’s a kicker,” “We just want a healthy baby,” and, in my Dad’s voice, “Huh, huh. Can’t believe my little Lucy’s gonna be a mom!” I look around my office, make sure nobody’s listening, and tell myself to get back on track.
Nothing goes right. I put all my files in the drawer backwards alphabetically, then have to fix it. I write the wrong names on five files and have to start over. I drop a stack of the files as I’m lining them up and all the papers mix. Finally, I’m finished, and I head home.
Phil has gotten home early and made dinner. He has a single, yellow daisy in a vase on our kitchen peninsula. Our framed wedding photo--my auburn mane somehow convinced to lie beautifully in ringlets, Phil’s gorgeous smile a blaze of white teeth, Silver Lake in the background--is the centerpiece of our refinished oak table. He’s made my favorite dinner–spaghetti and meatballs–and has baby shower decorations up in every available space in the house. Above the mantel to our gas fireplace, he’s hung a sign that says, “CONGRATULATIONS!” I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I do both.
“You know,” I say, “if you didn’t want to do this, you could have just said something.”
We decide to skip dinner and start “trying” on the living room couch.
3.
I’m four, and Daddy is out raking. He keeps raking the same piece of grass, over and over. I ride my bike down the driveway, go down the block, turn around and come back. Still, Daddy is raking that same grass. I ride down the street the other way, get to the house with the scary dog, turn around, and come back. Still raking, same spot. Now it’s starting to just look like dirt, with not much grass in it.
I get off my bike and walk slowly over. “Daddy?” the word feels new in my mouth, like fresh bubblegum. “You want help rakin’?”
Daddy looks down, sees the dirt, says something real quiet. “Um, no, sweetie. I was just...” He doesn’t say anything else. He stands there for a minute and his face gets really tight. We don’t talk, we don’t move. The wind ruffles the pile of leaves.
Suddenly, I hear Mom. She’s in the house, but I can hear her through the living room windows. Her noise makes my belly feel like it’s got bugs in it. I look at Daddy, but he’s still looking at the ground, not at Mommy, not at me. Don’t you hear her crying? I’m just sure Mommy’s hurt.
I start running for the house, but Daddy calls me. “Lucy, why--why don’t you help me with the yard, okay? Let’s get these leaves all taken care of.”
But, Mommy is crying, and I don’t care about leaves if she’s sad. I shake my head and keep going for the front door.
When my feet are on the porch, Daddy calls one more time, “I could really use your help, Lucy. Just come on down here, would you, please?” His voice sounds funny and I just don’t know him that well yet. I have to help Mom.
I open the storm door and it slams behind me. Mommy looks up. She’s on the couch with her arms around her knees and there are mushed up kleenexes all over the floor. When she sees it’s me, she says, “Oh, my baby, oh, Lucy, come here, come to Mommy. Will you, please, Lucy?”
Her crying is so loud and screechy, I can’t make my feet move to go to her. I just look and look, like I don’t know who she is.
“Oh, baby, please come here, please, won’t you, Lu?”
My feet finally decide to go. I stand in front of her and Mom opens up her arms, pulls me into her lap. She’s hugging my head so tight, I feel my eyes bulging, like my new black fishie. Mom keeps hugging and rocking and crying, stopping to wipe her nose and eyes with a kleenex and toss it on the floor. I am stone still. Mommy has cried before, but only soft, quiet tears from a movie or a letter from a friend. With each big sob, her whole body shakes and with her, my head and neck. I wanna run, to push away from her and find my real Mommy, the one who always makes everything better for me. Instead I sit and wait, listen to her crying, and let her rock me.
“Oh, Lucy, I have you,” she says, over and over, “I have you. I have you, Lucy, I have you.”
4.
Now, I like things I can control. I like to know there’s something I can do to make my dreams come true. This is why I drove to 50 different school districts to apply for social worker positions, why I went on every blind date anyone ever tried to set me up on, why I brush and floss every day. So, when Phil and I start trying, I get prepared. I get a basal thermometer. I wake myself up at 5:00 every morning, lie there for a few minutes taking my temperature and then record it on a chart. My best friend, Meredith, tells me about a website you can use to track your cycle, and I check it out. The website is right up my alley. You can enter your temperature, and a whole lot more: mood swings, headaches, cervical fluid, height of your cervix (whatever that means), softness of your cervix (I don’t want to know what that means), medications you take, when you have intercourse, etc. This is a control-freak’s dream–you can do everything except demand the egg come out. I print out some charts, join the website, and get all geared up.
The website recommends books to read, and I particularly like one called Controlling Your Own Fertility. It reads like a textbook, explaining all the steps of your cycle from developing bud to fertilization. I learn about all the nuances of how your temperature should change, the curves and peaks to watch for in my chart.
The book also has advice for how to really make the most of your fertility. It discusses foods to eat, drinks to drink, foods and drinks to avoid, herbs you can take, fertility oils to rub on your belly. I go for all of it. I drink raspberry tea, rub oil clockwise on my belly (definitely NOT counterclockwise), take expectorant to make my cervical fluid nice and slippery. I get a little crazy. Seriously, a little bit nuts. I train for trying like people train for a marathon, but I don’t realize what a long trek it will be.
In the midst of the training, I get a period. Sweet. I mark it on a new chart, excited to have “Cycle Day 1" to write in the title area. Let’s get this party started, I think. I track my temperature each morning, monitor fluid, moods, the whole gamut. Phil is eager to help, so we have sex every other day, and I mark it with a capital I with a circle on my chart. Phil is very proud. I await the blessed day--maybe even cycle day 14--when the egg will arrive. I’ll throw a little “egg party” and we’ll be on our way.
Two weeks later, right when our little egg friend should show, I go pee in the morning, and there’s a toilet bowl full of blood. I look down, confused. That shouldn’t happen. I call Phil in.
“What’s that look like to you?” I say, and point into the bowl. Phil looks in, then jumps away, like there’s a baby alligator in there.
“What the hell’s wrong with you? What’re you showing me blood for? Geez, Lulu, I don’t show you my dumps; don’t show me your periods.” He walks out.
But that’s just it. It shouldn’t be a period; it should be ovulation. I decide to shake it off. We’re new at this, my body and I. We haven’t had periods in years, since I started taking Depo-Provera in college. I flush, and try to make any doubt or worry go with it. I go to my bedside table, pull out a new chart, and write “Cycle Day 1" at the top.
Again, in two weeks, I see the bowlful of blood. Phil is brushing his teeth at the sink this time. I decide he doesn’t need to see the evidence, but maybe I should tell him what’s going on.
“So, I think I, like, am having another period.” I wash my hands in my sink and meet his eye in the oval mirror above his side of the vanity.
“Wha?” he says, spits. “Didn’t you just have one?”
“Yeah. The thing is, that doesn’t even really give me time to ovulate or anything. I think I should go see a doctor.”
Phil rolls his eyes, bumps my hip with his. “Lu-cy. Not everything in the world is going to go your way the first time. You don’t need a doctor to tell you that. Let’s just keep going at it,” here Phil tweaks my buttcheek, “and see what happens, okay? Don’t get your panties in a bunch. It’s going to be fine.”
But I just know it won’t.
My doctor, the doctor I had gone to since high school, had retired from his practice the year before. So, I knew that, when I did get pregnant, I was going to have to doctor shop. I’d asked all my girlfriends, but no one really had someone she loved in the gynecology department. Of course, none of my girlfriends had really needed someone wonderful, either.
I sit down at the kitchen table, eat my cereal, and look over the list of doctors. Maybe Phil is right. So I had two weird periods. That’s not a big deal, right?
When I awake in the night, two weeks later, my cramps are like a snake writhing in my stomach. I go to the bathroom, expecting diarrhea, but instead get a bloody mess. I really, honestly, would have preferred diarrhea. At least that I know how to treat.
“So, I really do think I’m going to go see that doctor Amy has been going to,” I say to Phil as he is pouring coffee into his travel cup that morning. I make my eyes wide and look at the dog, hoping to hold in any tears.
“You want me to go?” Phil asks, and I know some tears must’ve spilled. He grabs my shoulders and makes me face him, looks intently into my eyes.
I nod. I’ve watched my mother–this is not a boat ride I want to do solo.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
Her Genetic Code
Genetic Code. Sounds like a scientific thingamajig that would be featured in one of Emma's sci-fy fantasy novels. I have always firmly believed in one's genetic code affecting his or her eye color, propensity for athletic talent, predisposition to certain diseases. What I guess I never considered much was how it may affect what a person likes, how he or she feels about things, his or her hobbies. I have always believed you could nurture the nature right out of a person. I regret that now.
I regret that because, in trying to nurture the nature out of a person, I believe I've also been communicating to her--however subliminally and unconsciously--that my way is right and her way is wrong. That she is, in fact, wrong and NOT GOOD ENOUGH. That kills me to write. What kind of horrible parents have we been, making our daughter suppress her feelings all these years?
Well, honestly, we've been the kind of horrible parents who have always wanted the best for our daughter, and tried to give it to her. We've given her opportunities and encouragement and experiences, just like we should. But, it wasn't until a conversation with a friend of mine that I realized, maybe these weren't the right opportunities, encouragement, experiences--for Emma. Not because we were bad parents, not because she was a bad kid, but because we're different. We have different genetic codes.
Years ago, my cousin, who had been adopted at birth, gave me a book entitled, The Primal Wound (author Nancy Verrier). I read a bit of it, flipped through chapter titles and, honestly, thought it was a bunch of hooey. The parts I read were about how adopted children, even those who were directly placed with their adoptive parents, felt a sense of abandonment deep down. Well. I reasoned, there was no way that was a problem for Emma. First of all, her birth mother had played a cassette tape of my voice to Emma in the womb (I know, amazing lady). I had been in the delivery room and had been the very first person to hold Emma: skin-to-skin. I had used this crazy tube contraption to "nurse" Emma for the first six days of her life. No, this kid had no abandonment issues. Give me a break.
Well... Here's the thing. We had super special circumstances, I know that. But, recently, a friend of mine who had also been adopted at birth (now in her thirties) referred me back to this Primal Wound business. And I cannot deny the similarities between some of Emma's troubles and what this woman was saying. So, if you're an adoptive parent, I'm just saying, read the book or watch the lady's videos on YouTube. You may find good advice. I do, unfortunately, think there may be some truth to this wound for Emma. For other adopted children, even at birth, I definitely see now what the lady was getting at. Just good information to pack in your parenting bag of tricks. But I digress. (I know, you're shocked. Try to stick with me.)
So, the other part of The Primal Wound, the part I never even bothered to read, was genetic code. It is about how you are genetically wired to like certain types of foods, or hobbies, or vacation spots, or careers, or communication styles... So many things. I read this and just wanted to smack myself across the face. Let me give you an example.
When Em was six, we took her to Disney World. Every little girl's dream, right? We visited Ariel and Belle and had breakfast with the princesses. The whole time, Emma had this pained, rectangled-mouth, smile-attempt look on her face. The only things she seemed to enjoy were the safari (got to see a real, alive giraffe--her favorite animal), The Flying Carpet Ride (Eric drew the short straw because we both hate rides), and she LOVED "Soarin'" (a movie/ride that made you feel like you were flying over mountain tops and forests--I had to close my eyes so I wouldn't puke). Do you see a theme there? She liked the rides, we didn't? Yeah, we did not see the theme. We thought--to be real with you--that she should have been more grateful that she got to go to Disney. We know TONS of kids who would have wanted to go. To further cement that in our minds, we took Ben to Disney when he was three. We visited every character he loved and rode two rides (Toy Story and Buzz Lightyear). He loved every single minute of it. "SEE?" We said to our haughty selves. "That's appreciation!"
No, that's genetic code. Eric and I like the same things because we CHOSE one another. We knew going in that we both hate roller coasters, love sitting up late reading at the cabin, want to meet the "friends" we watch on TV. Ben liked the Disney trip we planned for him because his genetic code has channeled him to like the same things we like, and we encourage that. He felt RIGHT liking the characters. Poor Emma not only probably hated the trip, but also felt WRONG for enjoying the rides and not wanting to chat with the princesses.
I told my mom it would be like me being adopted by a family of daredevils. Every year we would go to Cedar Point on vacation. I would hate the roller coasters, The Demon Drop, and whatever else they have there. I would act miserable and scared and sullen. My family would say to me, "What is wrong with you? You never appreciate anything we do for you! There are tons of kids who would want to come here and you're pouting in line, saying you don't even want to go!" Worst of all, I would feel WRONG about hating roller coasters. I would be angry at myself and think, "What IS wrong with me? My brother and sister love it, why don't I? I really must be a rotten kid."
I cannot tell you how many times in her life Emma has said to me, "I'm just mad and I don't know why." Or "I try so hard, but I'm never right." Unfortunately, I have to own up to my part in those feelings, to communicating to her that "The Hall Way" was the only way.
The good news is, I read the stuff. I read it, I opened my mind, and I realized what had been happening for years. Then, Eric and I apologized. We said, "You need to figure out what's right for you. What DO you like?"
You know what we've learned? She doesn't like the cabins. She likes "stuff to do." She wants to live in a big city with tons of people around (my worst nightmare). She isn't even sure she wants to get a driver's license, because she has no plans to own a car. She doesn't like spicy food. She loves raw vegetables. She was crushed when, at age 5, she realized her big Christmas present was a giant dollhouse (the present of MY five-year-old dreams) and not a shelf on which to keep her Nutcracker collection. She's not sure she wants to go to college right after high school. She loves cheerleading and wants to focus all her energy on that in high school.
Just asking her, talking to her, letting her know that HER genetic code was just as valuable and "right" as Ben or Becca's... I really think this has made a huge impact on our relationship the past two weeks. I know it has completely changed some of my thinking.
I feel like I am finally getting to know my daughter, the REAL her, for the first time. And now, I not only love her all the way to God and back. I also really like her.
I regret that because, in trying to nurture the nature out of a person, I believe I've also been communicating to her--however subliminally and unconsciously--that my way is right and her way is wrong. That she is, in fact, wrong and NOT GOOD ENOUGH. That kills me to write. What kind of horrible parents have we been, making our daughter suppress her feelings all these years?
Well, honestly, we've been the kind of horrible parents who have always wanted the best for our daughter, and tried to give it to her. We've given her opportunities and encouragement and experiences, just like we should. But, it wasn't until a conversation with a friend of mine that I realized, maybe these weren't the right opportunities, encouragement, experiences--for Emma. Not because we were bad parents, not because she was a bad kid, but because we're different. We have different genetic codes.
Years ago, my cousin, who had been adopted at birth, gave me a book entitled, The Primal Wound (author Nancy Verrier). I read a bit of it, flipped through chapter titles and, honestly, thought it was a bunch of hooey. The parts I read were about how adopted children, even those who were directly placed with their adoptive parents, felt a sense of abandonment deep down. Well. I reasoned, there was no way that was a problem for Emma. First of all, her birth mother had played a cassette tape of my voice to Emma in the womb (I know, amazing lady). I had been in the delivery room and had been the very first person to hold Emma: skin-to-skin. I had used this crazy tube contraption to "nurse" Emma for the first six days of her life. No, this kid had no abandonment issues. Give me a break.
Well... Here's the thing. We had super special circumstances, I know that. But, recently, a friend of mine who had also been adopted at birth (now in her thirties) referred me back to this Primal Wound business. And I cannot deny the similarities between some of Emma's troubles and what this woman was saying. So, if you're an adoptive parent, I'm just saying, read the book or watch the lady's videos on YouTube. You may find good advice. I do, unfortunately, think there may be some truth to this wound for Emma. For other adopted children, even at birth, I definitely see now what the lady was getting at. Just good information to pack in your parenting bag of tricks. But I digress. (I know, you're shocked. Try to stick with me.)
So, the other part of The Primal Wound, the part I never even bothered to read, was genetic code. It is about how you are genetically wired to like certain types of foods, or hobbies, or vacation spots, or careers, or communication styles... So many things. I read this and just wanted to smack myself across the face. Let me give you an example.
When Em was six, we took her to Disney World. Every little girl's dream, right? We visited Ariel and Belle and had breakfast with the princesses. The whole time, Emma had this pained, rectangled-mouth, smile-attempt look on her face. The only things she seemed to enjoy were the safari (got to see a real, alive giraffe--her favorite animal), The Flying Carpet Ride (Eric drew the short straw because we both hate rides), and she LOVED "Soarin'" (a movie/ride that made you feel like you were flying over mountain tops and forests--I had to close my eyes so I wouldn't puke). Do you see a theme there? She liked the rides, we didn't? Yeah, we did not see the theme. We thought--to be real with you--that she should have been more grateful that she got to go to Disney. We know TONS of kids who would have wanted to go. To further cement that in our minds, we took Ben to Disney when he was three. We visited every character he loved and rode two rides (Toy Story and Buzz Lightyear). He loved every single minute of it. "SEE?" We said to our haughty selves. "That's appreciation!"
No, that's genetic code. Eric and I like the same things because we CHOSE one another. We knew going in that we both hate roller coasters, love sitting up late reading at the cabin, want to meet the "friends" we watch on TV. Ben liked the Disney trip we planned for him because his genetic code has channeled him to like the same things we like, and we encourage that. He felt RIGHT liking the characters. Poor Emma not only probably hated the trip, but also felt WRONG for enjoying the rides and not wanting to chat with the princesses.
I told my mom it would be like me being adopted by a family of daredevils. Every year we would go to Cedar Point on vacation. I would hate the roller coasters, The Demon Drop, and whatever else they have there. I would act miserable and scared and sullen. My family would say to me, "What is wrong with you? You never appreciate anything we do for you! There are tons of kids who would want to come here and you're pouting in line, saying you don't even want to go!" Worst of all, I would feel WRONG about hating roller coasters. I would be angry at myself and think, "What IS wrong with me? My brother and sister love it, why don't I? I really must be a rotten kid."
I cannot tell you how many times in her life Emma has said to me, "I'm just mad and I don't know why." Or "I try so hard, but I'm never right." Unfortunately, I have to own up to my part in those feelings, to communicating to her that "The Hall Way" was the only way.
The good news is, I read the stuff. I read it, I opened my mind, and I realized what had been happening for years. Then, Eric and I apologized. We said, "You need to figure out what's right for you. What DO you like?"
You know what we've learned? She doesn't like the cabins. She likes "stuff to do." She wants to live in a big city with tons of people around (my worst nightmare). She isn't even sure she wants to get a driver's license, because she has no plans to own a car. She doesn't like spicy food. She loves raw vegetables. She was crushed when, at age 5, she realized her big Christmas present was a giant dollhouse (the present of MY five-year-old dreams) and not a shelf on which to keep her Nutcracker collection. She's not sure she wants to go to college right after high school. She loves cheerleading and wants to focus all her energy on that in high school.
Just asking her, talking to her, letting her know that HER genetic code was just as valuable and "right" as Ben or Becca's... I really think this has made a huge impact on our relationship the past two weeks. I know it has completely changed some of my thinking.
I feel like I am finally getting to know my daughter, the REAL her, for the first time. And now, I not only love her all the way to God and back. I also really like her.
Tuesday, July 21, 2015
Thanks, Tom Stafford, I Needed That
It was 1986. Picture the poof-in-the-front hairdo with a poodle perm. Peg-rolled jeans. Bright yellow or hot pink T-shirts pulled off to the side, one tank top strap showing. Blue eye shadow. Oh yeah, LOTS of blue eye shadow. In 1986, I was 12 years old and in the 6th grade. I went to a 6th and 7th grade middle school in a suburb of Lansing. The point of each day was to get by without getting mortified.
I would have said the point of each day was to go by unnoticed, but that would have been untrue. Because, in sixth grade, I had a horrid crush. I was madly "in love" with Tom Stafford.
We had several classes together, but I was pretty sure he didn't know I existed. He had chocolate brown eyes that sparkled, the grin of a super star, and could make EVERYONE laugh. I had notes I'd written to friends, homemade posters in my locker, scribblings on my journal cover: I Love Tom, Tom+ Laura = Forever, Mrs. Tom Stafford. Not that I had ever even gotten up the nerve to SPEAK to Tom Stafford. I just knew, somehow, that one day we'd bump into each other, he'd look into my eyes, and that would be the beginning of a beautiful love story.
So, 1986. April 1st. Yup, you know where this story is headed. On this particular day, one of Tom's friends came up to me--TO ME-- in the hallway and said, "Hey, you know, Tom really likes you."
"Whatever," I said, my heart so loud I was sure he could hear it.
"No, seriously. He wants to know if you'll go with him." (For those of you out there who are NOT in your 40s, "go with" was the term for dating way back then. My dad would always say, "Where are you going?" So funny, Dad. So funny.)
I could barely breathe. THE Tom Stafford had finally noticed me? He wanted to go with me? I thought I might pass out. "Um, okay," was all I could muster.
Tom's friend smiled, nodded, said he'd go tell Tom. All that day, I got little notes and messages from Tom. He may have even smiled and waved at me during class, although now I think that if that HAD happened, I would have required CPR, so I probably would have remembered it.
Near the end of the school day, the same friend approached me at my locker. "So, Tom wants you to meet him outside after school."
My brain went fuzzy. What would Tom Stafford want? I had to ride the bus, I couldn't meet him after school! "Um..."
"He said he wants to kiss you. C'mon, you'll meet him won't you?"
I had never kissed anyone. Kiss TOM STAFFORD ? What if I did it wrong? My brain was in overdrive, but I was able to nod. I didn't care if I had to walk home. If Tom Stafford wanted to kiss me, I would BE THERE.
The last bell rang, My wobbly legs carried me to my locker. I got my jean jacket (Oh, yeah, I had style!) and walked out the back door of the school.
There was a huge crowd. The popular kids. Kids who never talked to me. Kids who maybe brushed against me and said, "Move!" if I was lucky. I should have known. I should have figured out what was going to happen. For the last 29 years I have thought that. I should have known.
Tom Stafford was standing in front of the crowd of people, collar up, hair perfect. He was beautiful. As I walked toward him, he grinned that grin. At ME. It was all true. I was going to have my first kiss, and it was going to be with the guy I'd "secretly" adored all year. I walked all the way up to him, completely unsuspecting.
"Oh my God," Tom yelled and laughed. "You're serious! April Fools! I can't believe you honestly thought I liked you! You're such a nerd!" The crowd laughed, yelled things I don't remember. Time stood completely still.
I don't remember much else about the story. I know I cried. Did I walk the miles home, sobbing, or did I make it on the bus? Did I tell my parents? Did people tease me about it for days, weeks, or years later? I honestly don't know. I only remember walking up to him, seeing his face, watching the smile begin... and then hearing those words.
As an adult, I have told that story countless times. I've told it to friends, as a "I can beat your horrid April Fool's Day joke" story (I always win). Many, many times, I've told it to kids, as a reminder that words can hurt so very much. That middle school and high schoolers can be so cruel, just for the pure enjoyment of the power in that moment. But that these times, these moments, will pass. You will be stronger for having endured them. Those moments can be a reminder to you of how YOU want to treat others. You don't want to be the bully in that story. I tell the story both so kids will be kinder, and so they realize, hey, one day it won't matter what Tom Stafford thinks of me. I'll be happily married to a wonderful man with three great kids, a gorgeous house, and a job I love. Middle school is temporary. This adult life, it's what really counts.
So, today, 2015, my nephew and nieces are at our dinner table, and my nephew doesn't want to tell us "The Billy Story." Apparently Billy has hurt Gary enough that Gary doesn't even want to relive it in words. "Nope, I'm good," he tells his sisters, when they try to get Gary to tell us. My heart aches for him. He's twelve. We'd all just been dancing to a song in the kitchen and the lyrics hit me. For Gary, it's goin' down for real. So, I tell them the April Fool's story. I want Gary to know I've been there, Uncle Eric's been there. It's tough, but, in the end, it will be good.
And here's where my story gets crazy. If you've been following the blog, you know that 2015 hasn't been our best year. This summer goes in the books as our worst as a family (except our fantastically awesome trip to NYC). We've struggled with Emma, I've been hurt by people through work, I've been hurt by family members, Emma's psychiatrist berated me in front of her, and one crazy Jersey Shore chick tried to kick my ass at a Billy Joel concert. Basically, my faith in the human race has kind of gone downhill this summer. My old love, depression, has been pulling on my heartstrings, trying to lure me into bed, pushing my head under the water so I can't breathe.
After I tell the story tonight, Eric says, "What's Tom's last name? I'm looking him up." Gary, Emma (my niece), Gracie and I all laugh, hoot, make jokes. Suddenly, Eric turns his phone around and there's that smile, facing me again. My heart plops into my stomach.
"Yup," I say incredulously, "that's totally him. That's his smile."
Eric has found Tom on a website through his employer, and there's a link to "email me." So, being the man he is (found my favorite teacher and had him write me a letter for Christmas; got me on the pitcher's mound of Comerica Park; made me a fabulous 'writing shack' with inspiring posters and memorabilia, ETC), Eric writes this strange, grown-up version of Tom Stafford an email:
Later, we're watching America's Got Talent and the phone rings. Eric runs into the study, answers, then says, "Laura Hall, get in here."
Me, "Oooh, 'get in here.' What'd I do now?"
Eric shuts the door. He's holding his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. "It's Tom Stafford."
Me, "It is not. It is NOT! Shut up, you're making that UP!"
We go back and forth for about a minute, whereupon I finally take the phone from Eric. When I answer, it is, in fact, TOM STAFFORD. He called to apologize. Who does that?
So, the story has this new, awesome ending. An ending where Tom Stafford the grown-up husband, dad-of-three, nice guy calls to apologize for hurting me way back in 1986. I, of course, accept his apology, and am basically flabbergasted. We chit chat for a little bit, him apologizing profusely and thanking me for being so gracious, me shaking my head and saying, "We were little kids." It is incredible. The kids had said at dinner that the story sounded like a movie and I told them, yes, like a John Hughes movie. Now, like most John Hughes movie endings, the story's ending restores my faith in decent, kind, honorable people. Apologizing sincerely for something you did nearly 30 years ago? That takes guts.
To the real Mrs. Tom Stafford, you're a lucky woman.
I would have said the point of each day was to go by unnoticed, but that would have been untrue. Because, in sixth grade, I had a horrid crush. I was madly "in love" with Tom Stafford.
We had several classes together, but I was pretty sure he didn't know I existed. He had chocolate brown eyes that sparkled, the grin of a super star, and could make EVERYONE laugh. I had notes I'd written to friends, homemade posters in my locker, scribblings on my journal cover: I Love Tom, Tom+ Laura = Forever, Mrs. Tom Stafford. Not that I had ever even gotten up the nerve to SPEAK to Tom Stafford. I just knew, somehow, that one day we'd bump into each other, he'd look into my eyes, and that would be the beginning of a beautiful love story.
So, 1986. April 1st. Yup, you know where this story is headed. On this particular day, one of Tom's friends came up to me--TO ME-- in the hallway and said, "Hey, you know, Tom really likes you."
"Whatever," I said, my heart so loud I was sure he could hear it.
"No, seriously. He wants to know if you'll go with him." (For those of you out there who are NOT in your 40s, "go with" was the term for dating way back then. My dad would always say, "Where are you going?" So funny, Dad. So funny.)
I could barely breathe. THE Tom Stafford had finally noticed me? He wanted to go with me? I thought I might pass out. "Um, okay," was all I could muster.
Tom's friend smiled, nodded, said he'd go tell Tom. All that day, I got little notes and messages from Tom. He may have even smiled and waved at me during class, although now I think that if that HAD happened, I would have required CPR, so I probably would have remembered it.
Near the end of the school day, the same friend approached me at my locker. "So, Tom wants you to meet him outside after school."
My brain went fuzzy. What would Tom Stafford want? I had to ride the bus, I couldn't meet him after school! "Um..."
"He said he wants to kiss you. C'mon, you'll meet him won't you?"
I had never kissed anyone. Kiss TOM STAFFORD ? What if I did it wrong? My brain was in overdrive, but I was able to nod. I didn't care if I had to walk home. If Tom Stafford wanted to kiss me, I would BE THERE.
The last bell rang, My wobbly legs carried me to my locker. I got my jean jacket (Oh, yeah, I had style!) and walked out the back door of the school.
There was a huge crowd. The popular kids. Kids who never talked to me. Kids who maybe brushed against me and said, "Move!" if I was lucky. I should have known. I should have figured out what was going to happen. For the last 29 years I have thought that. I should have known.
Tom Stafford was standing in front of the crowd of people, collar up, hair perfect. He was beautiful. As I walked toward him, he grinned that grin. At ME. It was all true. I was going to have my first kiss, and it was going to be with the guy I'd "secretly" adored all year. I walked all the way up to him, completely unsuspecting.
"Oh my God," Tom yelled and laughed. "You're serious! April Fools! I can't believe you honestly thought I liked you! You're such a nerd!" The crowd laughed, yelled things I don't remember. Time stood completely still.
I don't remember much else about the story. I know I cried. Did I walk the miles home, sobbing, or did I make it on the bus? Did I tell my parents? Did people tease me about it for days, weeks, or years later? I honestly don't know. I only remember walking up to him, seeing his face, watching the smile begin... and then hearing those words.
As an adult, I have told that story countless times. I've told it to friends, as a "I can beat your horrid April Fool's Day joke" story (I always win). Many, many times, I've told it to kids, as a reminder that words can hurt so very much. That middle school and high schoolers can be so cruel, just for the pure enjoyment of the power in that moment. But that these times, these moments, will pass. You will be stronger for having endured them. Those moments can be a reminder to you of how YOU want to treat others. You don't want to be the bully in that story. I tell the story both so kids will be kinder, and so they realize, hey, one day it won't matter what Tom Stafford thinks of me. I'll be happily married to a wonderful man with three great kids, a gorgeous house, and a job I love. Middle school is temporary. This adult life, it's what really counts.
So, today, 2015, my nephew and nieces are at our dinner table, and my nephew doesn't want to tell us "The Billy Story." Apparently Billy has hurt Gary enough that Gary doesn't even want to relive it in words. "Nope, I'm good," he tells his sisters, when they try to get Gary to tell us. My heart aches for him. He's twelve. We'd all just been dancing to a song in the kitchen and the lyrics hit me. For Gary, it's goin' down for real. So, I tell them the April Fool's story. I want Gary to know I've been there, Uncle Eric's been there. It's tough, but, in the end, it will be good.
And here's where my story gets crazy. If you've been following the blog, you know that 2015 hasn't been our best year. This summer goes in the books as our worst as a family (except our fantastically awesome trip to NYC). We've struggled with Emma, I've been hurt by people through work, I've been hurt by family members, Emma's psychiatrist berated me in front of her, and one crazy Jersey Shore chick tried to kick my ass at a Billy Joel concert. Basically, my faith in the human race has kind of gone downhill this summer. My old love, depression, has been pulling on my heartstrings, trying to lure me into bed, pushing my head under the water so I can't breathe.
After I tell the story tonight, Eric says, "What's Tom's last name? I'm looking him up." Gary, Emma (my niece), Gracie and I all laugh, hoot, make jokes. Suddenly, Eric turns his phone around and there's that smile, facing me again. My heart plops into my stomach.
"Yup," I say incredulously, "that's totally him. That's his smile."
Eric has found Tom on a website through his employer, and there's a link to "email me." So, being the man he is (found my favorite teacher and had him write me a letter for Christmas; got me on the pitcher's mound of Comerica Park; made me a fabulous 'writing shack' with inspiring posters and memorabilia, ETC), Eric writes this strange, grown-up version of Tom Stafford an email:
Hi Tom,I know, crazy, right? That's my man. He sticks up for me. Said he couldn't stand to hear the story one more time without doing something about it. I love him more and more every day. But here's the thing--there's more.
My name is Eric. You don't know me but you know my wife - Laura Hendricks.
I wanted to send this email to you to thank you. You may not know this, but through your actions, you defined my wife as a person, a teacher, and a mother.
You may not remember this, but when you and Laura were in 6th grade, you made a decision. You made a decision to embarrass and publicly humiliate her. If you forgot, it happened on April 1st. You convinced her that you liked her, told her to meet you after school for a kiss, and then, when that time came, called her a nerd and laughed at her in front of your friends.
Now this may be something you don't even remember, but it is something she will never forget.
So why am I thanking you? Well, we have three kids and she teaches second grade. Whenever a student bullies another or when someone says or does something mean, she tells that story to illustrate that bullying hurts and people can be mean.
Your profile states that you have three kids. I hope they never experience the humiliation that you put my wife through. However if they do experience that pain, please know that it is a great life lesson about how some people feel it is necessary to bring another person down.
Congrats on your success.
Later, we're watching America's Got Talent and the phone rings. Eric runs into the study, answers, then says, "Laura Hall, get in here."
Me, "Oooh, 'get in here.' What'd I do now?"
Eric shuts the door. He's holding his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. "It's Tom Stafford."
Me, "It is not. It is NOT! Shut up, you're making that UP!"
We go back and forth for about a minute, whereupon I finally take the phone from Eric. When I answer, it is, in fact, TOM STAFFORD. He called to apologize. Who does that?
So, the story has this new, awesome ending. An ending where Tom Stafford the grown-up husband, dad-of-three, nice guy calls to apologize for hurting me way back in 1986. I, of course, accept his apology, and am basically flabbergasted. We chit chat for a little bit, him apologizing profusely and thanking me for being so gracious, me shaking my head and saying, "We were little kids." It is incredible. The kids had said at dinner that the story sounded like a movie and I told them, yes, like a John Hughes movie. Now, like most John Hughes movie endings, the story's ending restores my faith in decent, kind, honorable people. Apologizing sincerely for something you did nearly 30 years ago? That takes guts.
To the real Mrs. Tom Stafford, you're a lucky woman.
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
Really, God? Really?
My friend, I'll call her Katie, isn't pregnant. Lots of people aren't pregnant, and that's okay. But, Katie isn't pregnant, and that is FAR from okay. It is horrible.
It's not okay, because she and her husband have been trying to get pregnant on and off for twelve years. TWELVE YEARS. You can raise an almost-teenager in that time.
It's not okay, because they saved up all their money and made a GoFundMe account and went through invitro. She took a bunch of medications and had to have her pumped-up eggs EXTRACTED (and I know most of us have no idea what that feels like). Then they had to wait and see how many would fertilize. Waiting is impossible, if you don't know this already. Waiting, when there is not one damn thing you can do.
So, six fertilized. SIX!! And for a brief, beautiful, sunshiney moment, Katie could imagine having a baby, maybe having two babies, had the potential for SIX babies. She even posted a microscopic picture of them, her beautiful, fertilized embryos.
Then--yes there's more--she had to have two embryos implanted in her womb. Again, not many of us know the pleasure of this procedure. I'm sure it's uncomfortable, if not painful, and filled with both jubilation and terror.
A few days later, Katie found out that the rest of her embryos could not be saved. So, we all know what this means, right? Better work this time. No second chances.
Then more waiting. Sitting, trying to keep her womb still, eating healthy foods, trying not to "stress" over the what-ifs. Waiting.
So, I now have a bone to pick with God. Because, honestly, I just don't get it. Katie is a wonderful person, she works with kids with special needs, she is the friendliest, most spunky person you'll ever meet. Her husband is one of those quiet, slow speaking, kind, southern gentlemen. These people can't have a baby because...why??
It didn't work. Just like all of the other medications and procedures Katie has put herself through, this DIDN'T WORK.
I am so mad. And so hurt for them. And so irate. And beaten down by the futility of it all. I have been through this same junk, though not nearly to the extent they have. But just the few years, the minimal procedures we went through? Nearly killed me. Nearly killed our marriage.
As I am working on my novel, coincidentally about a couple's journey through infertility, I think about all the people I know, all the wonderful couples who go through this same nightmare. Let me say to all of you--we're here for you. There are more of you out there than you know. I don't know why people don't talk about infertility, why they keep their "trying" and miscarriages and negative pregnancy tests month-after-month a secret. Keeping quiet just makes us feel more responsible, like somehow one of us in the relationship is failing the other.
Those of you who've never been down this road: we don't hate you. Sure, we're a little jealous when you get "accidentally" pregnant on your honeymoon, but we don't wish you any of this mess. We don't curse you. Maybe we curse God a little bit; but we don't curse you. However, please, please, think before you speak. All you need to say, just like any other kind of senseless death or tragedy in someone's life, is "I'm so sorry." No pep talks, no advice. Just a hug, prayers, and heartfelt sympathy.
Katie, I'm so sorry, sweetie. I'm so very, very sorry.
It's not okay, because she and her husband have been trying to get pregnant on and off for twelve years. TWELVE YEARS. You can raise an almost-teenager in that time.
It's not okay, because they saved up all their money and made a GoFundMe account and went through invitro. She took a bunch of medications and had to have her pumped-up eggs EXTRACTED (and I know most of us have no idea what that feels like). Then they had to wait and see how many would fertilize. Waiting is impossible, if you don't know this already. Waiting, when there is not one damn thing you can do.
So, six fertilized. SIX!! And for a brief, beautiful, sunshiney moment, Katie could imagine having a baby, maybe having two babies, had the potential for SIX babies. She even posted a microscopic picture of them, her beautiful, fertilized embryos.
Then--yes there's more--she had to have two embryos implanted in her womb. Again, not many of us know the pleasure of this procedure. I'm sure it's uncomfortable, if not painful, and filled with both jubilation and terror.
A few days later, Katie found out that the rest of her embryos could not be saved. So, we all know what this means, right? Better work this time. No second chances.
Then more waiting. Sitting, trying to keep her womb still, eating healthy foods, trying not to "stress" over the what-ifs. Waiting.
So, I now have a bone to pick with God. Because, honestly, I just don't get it. Katie is a wonderful person, she works with kids with special needs, she is the friendliest, most spunky person you'll ever meet. Her husband is one of those quiet, slow speaking, kind, southern gentlemen. These people can't have a baby because...why??
It didn't work. Just like all of the other medications and procedures Katie has put herself through, this DIDN'T WORK.
I am so mad. And so hurt for them. And so irate. And beaten down by the futility of it all. I have been through this same junk, though not nearly to the extent they have. But just the few years, the minimal procedures we went through? Nearly killed me. Nearly killed our marriage.
As I am working on my novel, coincidentally about a couple's journey through infertility, I think about all the people I know, all the wonderful couples who go through this same nightmare. Let me say to all of you--we're here for you. There are more of you out there than you know. I don't know why people don't talk about infertility, why they keep their "trying" and miscarriages and negative pregnancy tests month-after-month a secret. Keeping quiet just makes us feel more responsible, like somehow one of us in the relationship is failing the other.
Those of you who've never been down this road: we don't hate you. Sure, we're a little jealous when you get "accidentally" pregnant on your honeymoon, but we don't wish you any of this mess. We don't curse you. Maybe we curse God a little bit; but we don't curse you. However, please, please, think before you speak. All you need to say, just like any other kind of senseless death or tragedy in someone's life, is "I'm so sorry." No pep talks, no advice. Just a hug, prayers, and heartfelt sympathy.
Katie, I'm so sorry, sweetie. I'm so very, very sorry.
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