Our Son Is Quite a Character

First published in Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

Way back when we were going through our infertility journey, my mother-in-law sent me to her Reikki practitioner for a session. When we were through, the woman said to me, “This one who is coming next, it’s a real character. Will make you laugh and laugh. Great sense of humor.” Now, I knew this lady knew about our infertility, and I had pretty much given up on the hope of EVER getting pregnant, so I thought to myself, “Yeah, whatever.” A few years later, a miracle occurred while we were trying to adopt: Benjamin Cleveland was born. What’s interesting is, if Becca had come first, her ‘premonition’ would’ve been wrong. With Ben, it is spot on. The very best way to describe Ben is “quite a character”. He makes us laugh, makes us scream, makes us cry, and fills our hearts so full with love we swear they’re going to burst.

You see, Ben is passionate. About everything. If he’s mad, he’s passionately mad. He yells and throws stuff and has been known to hit or kick. If he’s excited, watch out. He yells and throws stuff and rolls on the floor. From Thanksgiving Day (the day the Christmas Elves arrive at our house) until Becca’s birthday (it goes Thanksgiving-Christmas-New Year’s-Ben’s birthday-Becca’s birthday), he is completely illogical. He’s so excited about getting presents, about using his own money to give presents (each year he goes with Eric to the dollar store and carefully selects his own gifts; my dad got an army helmet, my mother-in-law got a book, my father-in-law got a pancake flipper) that we cannot even TRY to reason with him. He hits the sheets every night exhausted from being so keyed up with joy. Ben gets so crazily “into” Christmas that we have to take breaks from opening presents. One of my favorite memories is of him at age four opening a present from my in-laws and yelling, “Pants-is! Grammie got me pants-is!” Who gets excited over pants at four? Benjamin Cleveland.

When he was three, it was Buzz and Woody. Everything in his world had a Toy Story theme. He had the sheet set and shirts and books and, of course, every single toy they made. We had the indescribable pleasure of taking Ben to Disney World that year, where he enthusiastically met every character, with a highlight of Buzz and Woody. His face was purple and his veins were bulging, he was so deliriously happy. It was honestly one of the highlights of my life.

On that trip, we also saw Playhouse Disney on stage, a bunch of puppets from the Disney Channel. Ben was also VERY into Mickey Mouse Clubhouse at the time, with Goofy as his very favorite (let’s be real; who DOESN’T love Goofy best?). One of the usherettes stood behind us during the entire show and watched Ben and laughed as he danced, sang, and yelled out to the characters. He got super rambunctious at one point, yelling, “Goof, it’s me, Ben-Ben! Goofy! I gotta tell ya somethin’!” I finally had to pull him into my lap and explain that Goofy was working, he was doing his stage show, and we couldn’t talk to him then. I told him we’d find Goofy later in the day and he could talk to him then. So, as promised, we looked all over and found a Goofy. We waited in line and Ben kept pulling on my arm, trying to rush up to the front, saying, “Mom, I gotta tell him somethin’!” When it was finally our turn, Ben rushed up ahead of me, poked Goofy in the leg, and said, “Goof! It’s me, Ben-Ben! I gotta tell ya somethin’!” like it was a line he’d been rehearsing all day. Goofy dutifully leaned over and lifted his ear. Ben stood on his tip-toes and whispered into the fuzzy ear. Then, he gave Goofy a hug, got his photo, and returned to me, a giant smile squeezing his chubby cheeks. “Well, what’d you say?” I asked as I took his hand. “Mom!” Ben retorted, “That’s between me and Goof!” To this day, we don’t know what he said.

Currently, he’s into the Golden State Warriors and, of course, the Detroit Tigers. Ask him anything, he can answer it. I love watching him shock men in their 60s and 70s with his player stats and trade agreement discussions after they make a comment about a jersey he’s wearing. The boy’s a nut, and he’s always right.

He’s a character, my boy, and, though he can push every single one of my buttons in six seconds flat, I couldn’t love him more.

Anxiety Sucks

In case you’re unaware… Anxiety sucks. I mean it. Like, really, really sucks.

I’ve had anxiety all my life. When I was a kid, I freaked out when my dad took me out in a boat (which I begged him to rent), when I was supposed to go down a sledding hill (it was pretty steep), and when my parents left my cousin to babysit me. Not little, quiet freak outs, but gigantic, screeching, “Help me, help me, they’re trying to kill me!” kind of fits. I chewed my nails, had to get an A on every assignment I was ever given, listened to my brain go through millions of horrid scenarios each night as I tried to sleep, and started having migraines when I was eleven. At about age 26, I started taking anti-anxiety medication, which has helped, but it’s a battle that’s always there, ready for a fight, ready to take over.

What is actually worse than having anxiety? Watching your children experience it. You feel powerless and sad and even more anxious than you were earlier that day. Did my anxiety somehow cause their anxiety? Do I bring this out in my kids? Those old “what-ifs” running through my brain again.

My youngest daughter is the screamer. When she gets frustrated, or angry, or feels powerless, or her feelings are hurt, or maybe even if the wind just blows the wrong way, she screams. Blood-curdling, limb-has-been-severed screams. When we go to investigate, the problem is generally that she can’t zip her zipper, or she’s too short to reach the shirts in her closet, or she can’t fit something into her backpack. I know what you’re thinking, “Well, don’t give in to her. You’re just spoiling her.” The thing is, we don’t. We haven’t. Ever. We talk to her about calming breaths and using her smart brain to solve problems and asking for help with “a big girl voice.” But I’ve experienced the tornado that breaks out in her brain. We go from fine to exploding in seconds. There isn’t time for your brain to think, “Calming breaths. Ask for help. What could I do differently?” My mom has a master’s degree in counseling and she gave me talk after talk after talk when I was growing up. She’d talk to me when I was calm, she’d talk to me when I was in a fit. Still, the tornados would come, and I couldn’t stop them until I was a puddle of tears on the floor, waiting for her to sop me up with her hugging arms.

My son--the middle child--lacks confidence. If you meet him, you won’t believe this. If you know him well, you probably still don’t believe it. He seems cool and confident and friendly and helpful. But, if you look closely, you’ll see him showing off, just a bit. He really wants you to like him, and he doesn’t think he’s quite good enough. He wants to make you laugh and keep your attention any way he can. At swim lessons, he tries really hard--he CAN swim really well--but he grabs the side after two strokes in the deep end. He’s afraid he’s going to sink in the deep end and never come up. If they asked him to do the same strokes in the shallow end, he could swim all day. But, my dream of him beating Michael Phelps’ records are being held back by the same fears that kept me off the diving board, kept me out of the deep water at camp where all my friends were swimming, and have never let me learn to scuba dive.

So if you see us Halls and we look confident and courageous, just know: we put on a good show. We’re battling more than you can see.

Wake Up Call

Snow days. Huh. I know, you think that, as a teacher, I am SO LUCKY to get snow days. And I am. But, imagine you’re trying to build a skyscraper with bricks that melt quickly (think-- teach seven-year-old forgetful people) and you get about one-third of the way up, then a day or two off. You rebuild, it melts. Rebuild. Melt. Repeat. Annoying. We get started writing a unit and then they completely forget about what a transitional word is or remembering to check their ‘dictionaries’ for the book spelling of words or what they were even writing about. So, as much as I do love the occasional 5:00am call saying, “Go back to bed,” I’m not a HUGE fan of snow days.

I’m especially not a fan of snow days when it’s close to report card time. Okay, so it really has nothing to do with the snow day part and more to do with the report card part. I teach reading and writing, which means I have to grade 52 kids’ writing with a 10-grade rubric and put it into my computer. And I can’t do it until the end of the marking period, because it’s their “project” they work on through the marking period. It’s exhausting.

So, recently, we had a snow day and, luckily, I had ALL THESE PAPERS to grade. As I was trudging through the stories about going to Avalanche Bay and going to a friend’s house, I started thinking I should have picked a different job. I seriously should have picked a different job. Like driving a truck. Or taking photos at the DMV. I’m not saying either of those jobs are EASIER, they just don’t involve reading 52 kids’ stories.

As I was mumbling under my breath about how this is stupid and kids should just be allowed to learn to WRITE and not have to show growth or be graded and when are they going to use these ridiculous skills in their real life later anyway and they’re only 7 and 8 years old and should be taught to write about what they care about and who stops their writing to make sure they’re using strong verbs… I saw it. There, on the side of the paper, in a little cloud bubble, was a love note. “Mrs. Hall you are an awesome teacher. I love you so much.”

The girl’s cherubic face, adorable dimples and bright blue eyes popped into my head and I thought about all the times she’d laughed when I’d said stupid jokes, or hung on the edge of her seat as I read The Littles, or threaded her mittened hand through mine as we stomped through the snow at recess. She loved ME? I should be writing on HER paper that she was an awesome kid!

So, I did. I wrote that she was an awesome kid and I loved her, too. And then I whistled my way through the rest of my papers. Sometimes I need a snow day to remind me this is the perfect job for me.

People Always Say It Flies By; They're Not Kidding

When I was growing up, I had many different career plans: doctor, veterinarian, author, hamburger stand owner… But I always knew one thing for sure: I wanted to be a mom. So, when I was 26, I adopted a baby. By myself. It was wild and crazy and the most wonderful moment of my young life. Emma filled every hole in my heart and more, and I never once thought she hadn’t been destined to be my daughter from the beginning of time.

The other night, my dad and I went to watch Emma cheer at a Lady Bulldogs Inland Lakes Basketball game. She’s a fantastic cheerleader: put anything to a beat and she remembers the moves and words instantly. This night, though, I saw something I hadn’t seen before when I’d watched her cheer. I saw joy. I saw her do silly dances to the pep band music, I saw her call out to the players, and I saw an expression in her eyes I hadn’t seen since she was three years old.

She’s had a rough go of it, my baby girl. Her genetics have held her down, given her some really big obstacles. Through the years, I’ve thought, “Oh my god, she is never going to leave this house! None of us are going to survive this!” She’s been through a lot of sadness, depression, complexity that I really believe most 16-year-old girls haven’t had to--and maybe won’t ever have to-experience.

But she is strong! She’s fought through it all, and come out on the golden side of the rainbow. Now, yes, she still drives me crazy with every inch of her stubborn, teenage, I-know-it-all-already-and-you-don’t-have-to-explain-it-to-me attitude. Her room’s a pit, we have to beg her to do the dishes, and she’ll get in that “dig” on her little brother whenever she can. But, really, didn’t I just describe all sixteen-year-old girls? And so, it amazes me:  her determination, her will, and this joy. This joy she’s finally found.

When Emma was young--a small toddler through probably age 4--she was a whirlwind of joy. She would enter a room of strangers, like at my grandma’s church nursery, and say, “Hi, Friends!” Her face would say, “I’m here! The party may begin!” She giggled and sang “The Aristocats,” and weaved her little fingers between mine everywhere we’d go. Before bed, we would “cuddle two songs” and I would wrap myself around her as she fell asleep. Her hair was thin, so I kept it short in a pixie, and she had these round, rosy cheeks and huge, deep blue eyes. She was like a living Precious Moments doll.

I had forgotten it all. I have spent these years since age five trying so hard to pull her out of this cloud, to prepare her for what’s coming up, that I have forgotten to prepare myself. I saw her on the court and thought, “Wait, now, just wait a second. Just hang on one minute. When did this happen?” She’s grown so much. She’s almost an adult. Like, a doesn’t-live-in-our-house-anymore adult! How did it go so fast? I didn’t savor it. I was trying so hard to get her to THIS PLACE, this prepared for happy adulthood place, that I didn’t give myself time to sit and listen to her sleepy breathing, to watch her learn new things and develop parts of her own personality, to freeze moments in my mind as she came out of her cocoon and transformed.

When she was a baby, one of my favorite things she’d do was reach her arm around my back as we rocked for her night feeding. At about 6 months, she began patting my back, just like I’d pat hers after her bottle as she was falling asleep. It was so sweet, this mimicking of my loving gesture. I saw her face at cheer and I ached so much for one last chance at that moment, feeling that tiny arm reach around me, holding all of her tight against me.

As I was growing up, I always knew I wanted to be a mom. I just didn’t know how much it would hurt.

Momma Never Told Me There'd Be Days Like This

My husband and I have three kids. I don’t recommend it. I actually wanted FOUR KIDS my whole life. I can’t really recommend or not recommend that, since I only have three, but I can’t imagine it’s easier. But that’s what I always wanted, four kids. Craziness.

You see, I was an only child. My parents couldn’t have more kids. So there was just me. And I love kids, absolutely love them. Well, unless they live in my actual house.

When we go to stores or restaurants or Disney or the library, I am always making “friends” with little kids. I wave at them, say hi, talk to them, give encouraging nods at their pictures or toys or finished plates, whatever they show me. Other moms will approach me to “hold him for a second” or “clip this stupid carrier” or “wipe the face of the baby in my backpack”. We moms know who to seek assistance from when we’re trapped somewhere alone with our little ones. Many times, small children will come up to me to chat, even if I haven’t initiated the contact; I must give off that “nice lady” aura. At family events--weddings, graduations, funerals, holiday parties--I’m the one holding someone else’s baby until my arm falls asleep. I love, love, love kids, like I said, unless they belong to me.

Because here is the thing my mother never told me (and she KNEW, because she was the oldest of eight kids): parenting is like being slowly pecked to death by a hummingbird. No, seriously. If you don’t have kids, or you only have one or two, or you have some of those irritatingly wonderful Brady Bunch Sunshine Day kids, you probably don’t believe me. But I am quite sure the rest of the population just said, “Yes, that’s it! Pecked to death by hummingbirds! Perfect!”

These people, these children I longed for, will never leave us alone. I haven’t gone to the bathroom without someone beating at the door, screaming for something, in sixteen years. The second my heiny hits the chair at the dinner table, somebody needs a drink, or more ketchup, or cheese on the side, or another carrot peeled and cut. Sleep? Ha! I took my two youngest to a Sleep Doctor and they’re both on CPAPs. The doctor suggested I get a sleep study and my response was, “It’ll only be accurate if I bring my kids and the 16-year-old dog who wakes me up to go out.” Countless nights of sleep are interrupted by “I can’t sleep,” “I had a bad dream,” “I didn’t make it to the potty,” or “I don’t feel good.” (That last one will get me out of bed in a split second. You don’t want to lie in bed for a minute while the face of a person who “doesn’t feel good” is aimed right at you, believe me.) Work? I love to write and would love to finish my novel, work on another one, maybe stick my foot into this pool of publication, but that’s not going to happen for 13 more years. Every time I enter my writing room (my delightful husband even made me my own WRITING ROOM), there’s an eruption of screams and thuds that can only be explained by Genghis Khan-like torture of limbs being separated from bodies (usually it’s that someone is sitting too close to someone else’s side of the couch). Ever tried to cook or do dishes or fold laundry while a small person is wrapped around your leg or--even better--shoving his/her head into your, um, private areas? Hard to accomplish anything that way. And why--someone please tell me--why do they love to do the one exact thing that really gets under the other one’s skin? That’s constant. Daily. Minute to minute. He took my __. She said __. She’s __ again. He won’t stop __. It’s like a Groundhog Day of irritation in my house. Just because.

Here’s the most incomprehensible part: I have a wonderful husband. He does the laundry. He pays the bills. He makes dinner. He does kid stuff. He would never, ever say he was “babysitting the kids” or that something was “the woman’s job” (except opening those pop-open cans of Pillsbury rolls; but that’s only because he’s terrified of them!). So, life should be easy, right? Wrong. If they can’t get a rise out of me, they all run over to him and start pecking at him. Dad, Dad, Dad, Daaaaaaad. Holy moly. I will say this--we are raising some tenacious people.

So, listen, if you’re considering having kids, all I can say is, DON’T. Play with somebody else’s. Save yourself. It’s too late for me.

** Note: Please take this blog in the satirical voice in which in was written. I obviously love my children more than anything (except my husband).

A New Year's Resolution For the Dogs

Ahh, the new year. Everybody is busy coming up with how they will better themselves. I'm going to eat better! No more junk food for me! I'm going to exercise every day! I'm going to meditate so that I can be more at peace with myself! I'm going to spend more time with the kids doing fun things! I'm going to be more efficient at work! I'm going to have a cleaner house!

Okay, so every single one of those statements has gone through my mind. And, yes, it would be great if I could do all those things. Heck, it'd be great if I could do ONE of those things! But I have made a decision. I'm going to make ONE resolution, and hopefully all else will fall into place.

My New Year's Resolution? Be Astro. In all things, ask myself, what would Astro do?

Don't worry, my dear readers, I have not joined some crazy cult or begun to worship a Cosmic God I found on the internet. No. Astro is my friend's dog. However, he's not just any dog. Astro is a therapy dog who works with victims of sexual molestation and assault. Pretty impressive, right? And, he is often featured on my friend's FB page, so--though he lives many states away--I feel as though I know him well. I definitely feel like I get his life philosophies. And that's what I'm after. So, what does Astro think?

If yoga's not your thing, don't do it.

Find an exercise you love, and do it well.
(For Astro, this happens to be digging a hole
on the beach, just because.)

Nature is always good for you.

When a nap calls, answer it affirmatively.

Sometimes you have to look goofy for the kids. It's worth it.

Spread the joy!

Haters gonna hate. Who cares?

When at work, give it your all.

When work is done, PLAY!

Surround yourself with good friends.

Astro's philosophy: live life to its fullest in any moment, and don't let stuff get you down. I've been down a lot in 2016. Who hasn't (well, besides Astro)? Reviewing all these photos of Astro makes me feel like, honestly, I just take myself waaaaaay too seriously. Not when I'm dancing on tables or making a "Phillip Johnny Bob the Elephant" voice when I read, but pretty much the rest of the time. I know I'm making a difference with kids at work, I know I'm raising my kids right, I know I'm married to the greatest man in the world, I know I'm pretty much eating okay. I just need to accept that I'm doing those things as well as I can, and run down the figurative beach of life. My friend hasn't posted ANY pictures of Astro regretting that he didn't comfort someone the right way, or put his toys aways properly, or tone his glutes. He's just always... being Astro.

And so, my kids are calling me. They're watching Elf for the 7,000th time, and I have to join them. The Astrofication process has begun.

I Believe in Santa Claus

Ever since I started teaching "second graders" years ago, someone comes into the classroom around mid-December and announces, "You know, Santa's not real, right?" Gone are the good old days of teaching first graders, who whole-heartedly believe and wait with bated breath while I recite T'was the Night Before Christmas. In fact, one year my school secretary (the world's BEST school secretary, but that's another story) busted into my first grade classroom wearing oven mitts and bearing an ice-encrusted scroll tied with a red ribbon. "It's from SANTA!" one kid exclaimed, and they all jumped into my lap (smaller class sizes back then) as I unrolled it and read the curly red words to them about how they'd done a wonderful job on their Christmas program the night before. "I KNEW it was the real Santa!" they all chimed. Awww... I miss those days.

No, now I always have one little stinker who just really insists that we're all idiots and we need to come over to the dark side. I have come up with an excellent response, I think, which is that I believe, and, well, if Santa hears you saying that, he just doesn't bother coming to your house. Other kids say, "You believe in Santa, Mrs. Hall," and I always reply, "Of course I do. Don't you? I certainly wouldn't want word getting back to the big guy that I didn't!"

The thing is, I always actually have believed. When we put our tree up, in my own adult house, with my own children, and we hang our stockings, and we lay out little messages for Santa, I really do wait up to hear the sounds of hooves on the roof. I feel that magic. I was so completely sold as a kid, I don't think it's something I've ever let go. And, really, when you look around, when you see people who are stingy being generous, when you see adults who are naughty being nice, don't you believe, too?

My son, Ben, is almost 8 and, eventually, we're probably going to have to have a conversation. If you follow my posts, you know he is CRAZY about Christmas and Santa and the Elves. Yes, for those of you wondering, he STILL gets me up each night to search for the elves. Ahhh... it brings me such hope for the world he'll create some day. But, sometime, someone is going to REALLY get to him, and he's probably going to ask. He'll sit next to me on the couch, he'll put his not-so-little-anymore hand inside mine, and he'll say, "Mom, is Santa real?" and I've got just the response for him.

Yes, Benjamin, there is a Santa Claus. I've met him, in fact. His name was Farris Howrani and he was my middle and high school Sunday School teacher. He told us he prayed in the shower every day to wash away his guilt. He told beautiful stories of his four children, and sometimes even cried because he was so proud of them. One time, my dad complimented his tie, and he gave it to him, because that's the custom in his native culture. (My dad said, "Then I really like your wife!" Ha.) He oozed kindness and generosity and with all of our eye-rolling teenageness, we loved the man dearly.

You've met him, too, Ben. His name is JB, and he's our adopted grandfather/neighbor to the cabin. He is quiet and calm and kindhearted. He does things for us before we even think to need them done. He gives away everything he has, and says things like, "Take it; take it!" when your Poppy is pondering the last beer. When I'm with him, I feel safe and calm, too, and I know that, somehow, everything will work out, just because JB's there. And he calls Becca "Rebecca", like he's known her since before even we did.

Sissy and I knew him, his name was Tim Vigneau, but he liked to be called "Da" or "Doodah". Five minutes after you met him, you felt like he'd known you your whole life. He would do anything for anybody, and often did. He was my friends' dad, but he seemed ageless to me; maybe it was the Hawaiian shirts and the Jimmy Buffet and the way his laugh would fill a whole room. Maybe it was the crinkle of his eyes when he smiled. I always felt like one of HIS kids, which is how Santa would make everyone feel, don't you think?

I've met Mrs. Claus, too, Ben-Ben. She was my Grandma Hendricks, in fact! She was feisty and funny and full of passion for everyone she loved. And she loved just about everybody! Especially kids, Benny. She only had two sons, and just a few grandkids, but she would gather kids to her and take care of them like they were her family. She would laugh until she cried and play cards all night long. And she made books for us out of magazine clippings that made her think of us. Just another way she let us know she was thinking of us. I think Mrs. Claus thinks about the kids all year, just like Santa.

Then there was the Mrs. Claus whose name was Marion and she was the sister of some friends. She was funny and sweet and laughed a laugh that filled the room. Her smile took up her whole face, and made you feel like you'd just had a big, long drink of hot cocoa. She's gone to heaven, now, and I suppose they had to post for her position, but the good news is that our cousin Jackie is still available, and she fits the bill, too. She works with people who are sick, and makes them feel cared for and safe and happy. She loves babies and children and buys too many presents and gives hugs that you feel all the way down to your toes. Her eyes twinkle like starlight, and you know she's just got joy in her heart that's so full, it has to shine out through her eyes. 

As long as there were and are and continue to be people like this, Benjamin--and we both know there always will be--then, yes, there is a Santa Claus. His magic lives on in all the people around us, and, maybe, if we're lucky, someday through us, too.