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:

Hi Tom,
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.

 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.

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.

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.

Roller Coaster Ride

I hate roller coasters. You know, mostly because they do all those things of which I'm terrified, like going super fast, going too high, whipping around curves, and flopping you upside down. The other thing I don't like, though, is you are completely out of control. You're strapped into this little car with a bunch of other idiots who have decided to place their fate in the hands of a complete stranger. As you zoom and thrash and flip, you can't make it stop, or even slow down. You can ask nicely, you can yell at the top of your lungs, it doesn't matter. That coaster is going on its course no matter what you do.

Lately, "raising" Emma can be described as a roller coaster, even more than raising the other two, even more than raising HER a few years back. I feel that tightening in my stomach, I get slammed as we whip around. I'm terrified, and I don't know how to make it stop. I can't control it.

I feel like every decision Eric and I have made--all the counseling and psychiatrists and books we've read and plans we've tried, all of it--are mere side shows. They haven't made an impact. They haven't slowed things down or changed the course. This roller coaster of Emma's life is still swirling and thrashing out of our control, and we can't stop it.

Last weekend, we went to my parents' cabin, and we were going to take The Kids (our three, plus our nephew and nieces) rafting down the river. Emma was staying home from church so she could clean her room.  So, Eric and I drove to my parents' house to pick her up. She hadn't started cleaning the room--she was sleeping on the couch. When I walked into their house, I realized how much she was resembling her birth mother, not in physical features, but in her behaviors. She was sleeping all the time. When she wasn't sleeping, she was lying on the couch watching TV. She had little motivation to get off the couch to get a job, to help around the house, to even hang out with her cousins. We were streaking down the hill at breakneck speed, and I couldn't slow us down. When we woke her up, saying we were disappointed she hadn't started the job, there wasn't even much of a fuss from her. She had given in to the ride, too.

As I have felt a million times before, I wanted to grab her and shake her. I wanted to scream, "Snap out of it!" But, honestly, I'm not sure she's ever been "out" of it. She's always had trouble with getting motivated, staying focused, maintaining the energy to see a plan through. Is this her destiny? Is her DNA so strong that we won't ever be able to change her course?

I want to maintain hope. I want to believe in nurture over nature, as I so thoroughly did fifteen years ago. But it seems the closer we get to the adulthood I am afraid of, the more she resembles the person I'm terrified she'll be. She says she wants to work for NASA as an astrophysicist and, oh, she's so stinking smart I know she could. But will she make it through college? Will she graduate from high school? Will she have her own place? Or will she be moving from the couch of one friend to another? How do we get her off this terrible ride? How do we get HER to see the value in reading the assigned book, putting away her clean clothes, setting a goal for herself and accomplishing it?

This past week was the crèche of the mountain and, without violating Emma's privacy, I'll tell you that she is receiving some intensive help right now. All we can do is pray it is effective. Pray she gets it. Pray that she can see to exit the coaster, with a calmer ride in her view.

"Your Kids Could Be Normal!"

It seems fitting that the expression "I wear my heart on my sleeve" comes from my beloved William Shakespeare (Othello). I not only wear my heart on my sleeve, but I also generally bring along a large neon sign that points, "Hey, heart here. Feel free to break." It's a good and a bad thing.

It means that, if you are someone I care about, I will love you deeply. I will stick up for you, defend you, listen to you, love you--sometimes to an excruciating degree. When I watched Father of the Bride with Steve Martin, I felt like someone actually understood me. There's a part where the daughter, Annie, has fought with her intended, and her dad, George, goes to talk to him.

"You know, Bryan...Annie is a very passionate person and passionate people tend to overreact at times. Annie comes from a long line of major overreactors. Me. I can definitely lose it. My mother...a nut. My grandfather...stories about him are legendary. The good news, however, is that this overreacting tends to get proportionately less by generation, so your kids could be normal." 
"But on the upside, with this passion comes great spirit and individuality, which is probably one of the reasons you love Annie." (https://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Father_of_the_Bride_(1991_film)

Exactly! So, yes, you may have to put up with some craziness from me from time to time (or, a lot of the time...), but you'll always know where you stand with me. My family, my friends, my students, my pets, my co-workers... These are people I care deeply about. I invest myself in my relationships. I take them all personally.

And while that is a good thing for others--meaning they will get all of my devotion and advocacy--it's not always the best thing for me.

I remember sitting at Baccalaureate next to my best friend in high school, bawling my eyes out as two girls sang "Friends Are Friends Forever" by Michael W. Smith (I know that dates me. That's okay.) Sheri turned to me and said (a phrase I've heard many times over the years), "Are you crying?"

Of course I was crying! We were going to different colleges! She was going to St. Louis for the summer! We hadn't gone more than two days without speaking for four years, we could finish each other's sentences, we were unbeatable at Pictionary... We were inseparable!

She calmly explained that we would write each other and visit each other's colleges. We would be fine. But I knew the truth then. I loved her more. She was ready to move on, for a myriad of reasons that had nothing to do with me, but she was ready. It was going to be okay for her, but I would be devastated.

This same type of scenario happened to me when I graduated from college, when my teaching partner of 11 years moved to a new grade level, when various friends have moved away. It's not that people are leaving me that hurts so much as the way they leave. It's okay for them. It usually takes a long time to be okay for me.

This week, it was work. What happened isn't relative, but the fact that it hurt my feelings. I could feel Eric itching to ask, "Are you crying?" I know he couldn't understand why something that should just make me angry could make me feel hurt. But it's that heart on my sleeve. I will give you all of me. I will protect you and listen to you and support you, even if that's not my role. Unfortunately, when I don't get that sort of treatment back, it feels. It hurts. 

Part of me wants to say, "That's it! I'm done!" I will wear a patch over my heart, keep it hidden, keep it all business. As Lloyd Dobbler said, "The rain on my car is a baptism. The new me, Ice Man, Power Lloyd! My assault on the world begins now." (Say Anything)

But, like Lloyd, I can't. This is me. My students will continue to go to high school and forget all about me, and I shall watch them lovingly from afar, remembering when they'd write me notes that said, "Best Teacher Ever!" I will smother my friends and nephew and nieces and co-workers with a ridiculous amount of cherishing affection while they develop and grow away from me. I will burn my teaching candle from THREE ends, because I fall for all those kids. I will give my all, and then cry in Eric's arms when I don't get it back. I'll be confused--where did I go wrong?--but I won't change. What I will need to hear is that I'm not wrong, but that doesn't mean other people are either. Not everyone operates the way I do. We can't all be labeled "a nut".

The good news is, I've watched Ben Hall. He's just as bad. Nope, no chance that my kids will be "normal."