Good grades!

I may want to give some thought to writing here in the mornings. I find that my effervescent nature is most buoyant in the mornings. By evening, I am cynical and morose and not at all fit for public consumption.
My husband was off work today, so I spent every waking moment in his company. This allowed me to ignore my beloved children to a large degree. He and I did take the youngest two out to Marie Calendars for  celebratory pie because their semester grades warranted it. Both did very well. We are all about a dose of sugar for good grades.

Michael is pretty sure he got a good grade on a major math test he took today. He won't find out his actual grade for a couple of weeks, but he felt terrifically confident after finishing the exam. I assured him that we'll definitely take him for some pie, too, just as soon as he gets out.
Is it weird that I can be so very proud of my kids just where they are? Heck, Don is detoxing, which is why he's been pacing like a caged animal. I'm proud of him, too. I wouldn't want to deal with all these kids have on their plates. I'm proud of every step they take in a forward direction. It's the backwards steps that get me down. Or the forward ones that involve anguish. Who am I kidding? I'm proud of them and agonized all at the same time.

I know I complain. I air our dirty laundry. I tell you all the stuff we are dealing with. You hear much of the worst of it. But, I hope you know that I love my children. I adore them right down to my toes. I love them so much that it hurts to breathe, and I desire good things for them with all that is in my being. I pray, I cry, I write. And I keep on loving. That is what moms do.

Groaning too deep for words

Back in the early 1980s there was a movie made to combat abortion called "The Silent Scream." This post has nothing to do with that particular film, although I did actually see the film. In fact, I believe I used it as a resource for a speech I prepared for my seventh grade speech class. The name of the film is what I was thinking about today, just because it seemed to me that the silent screams may actually be the loudest in God's ears.

A couple weeks ago, Katrina got an app on her phone which is designed to prove the superiority of young people's hearing over those more mature among us. This particular app plays an ascending assortment of decibel ranges ( perhaps it was descending in order, it makes little difference to my story). The point is, one listens to the increasingly faint pitches until they become indecipherable. At this point, the young people in the room start exclaiming with incredulity "You Can't hear that?!" This is the point at which the young people become officially annoying, and the more mature are wishing they could hear even less than they do.

There is a point, be it somewhat circuitous.

I have been in a constant state of prayer. It's the sort of silent scream at a decibel that only God can hear, but it's intensity drains my very core. It's the sort of prayer that underpins the mundane tasks of my days, and even threads through my dreams. It's a prayer without words, because all the words have been said, and God already knows them, anyway.

How can a mother pray with greater effectiveness? Does fasting hold the key? Sheer numbers of prayer warriors...is that it? A greater sincerity? Impossible. I do not know the key. All I know is that God is Good, and Prayer is the means by which He moves.
Prayer is the only weapon I have to fight the Apollyon Addiction, and so I cannot set my weapon down.

And so, I silently scream until my head hurts. I do the laundry, entertain guests and grocery shop. I manufacture Christmas cheer and wonder at the beauty of the snow...all the while pleading that my beloved son should come to know Abundant Life. I check to see that he is breathing, as I did in his infancy. I calmly discuss the dizzying array of intoxicants pulsing through his system as I try to evaluate the immediate risks. I try to get food into his system before he leaves again. And I parent the other young people in the house...all the while praying that God would give me enough heart, and some to spare, so that none of them would go wanting because of my private ache.

I'm tired. I hate drugs. But I believe In God and I believe in prayer. Unfortunately, faith does not keep me from the very verge of panic. It does, however, keep me most assuredly on my metaphorical knees.

Swirling rumors and various distractions

A couple different people have asked me recently just what I've been up to. I always feel taken-a-back by this questions because I can't remember why I feel like I've been so busy. One outstanding factor in my days is the fact that there is literally ALWAYS someone home who wants my attention. I go into the bathroom and shut the door sometimes just so I can have a moment to myself. My family surely thinks I have vigorous bowels. What I really need is an office, with a lock on the door.

Don got out of jail last week and he is more or less staying with us. I think he's spent three nights here so far, maybe two. I am refusing to succumb to the temptation to worry. Either he will do well, or he will not...right? My responsibilities change very little regardless. Is it possible to love someone so much and yet remain emotionally distant? We'll see.

In other news, the rumor about town is that Michael's car was involved in a murder. Obviously, Michael is safely ensconced in Prison, a fact for which I am seldom thankful, but which seems a relief just now. The other day I was visiting at the prison when Michael told me that he had seen someone he knew on the local news. As he recounted the story, he mentioned that the car in the news story sure looked like his. I thought little of it until later when we heard that in fact his car had been impounded as evidence. Now, as I say, it's all rumor for the moment, but who knows? Again I am struck that we have dinner table conversations about drugs, prison, or murder. It's like the kids in certain circles think themselves play-actors in an episode of Sons Of Anarchy....only real people die. And once again I ask: how did this become my life....or the fringe of it, anyway?

It's easy for my to get distracted by the worry over what Don may or may not do. Or to reel from the horror of a young man dying with even the slightest connection to my family. The truth of the matter, though, is that the biggest problems I am dealing with directly are so much smaller. I have to worry about when I can build in quiet time for my own sanity, or figure out what to cook for dinner. The truth is that if I keep my thoughts on what is true, and what is in my immediate realm, then I find that there is so much less to cause me anxiety. Perhaps this is why God admonishes us to deliberately restrict our thoughts to what is strictly true and good and right and pure and excellent. None of the "What ifs" are mine to deal with, but the dinner dishes are.

Meanwhile, tomorrow is Halloween. Aaron has thriftily designed a minimalist costume for tomorrow's festivities. Faline has her own outfit put together as well, although I'll be surprised if either of them actually goes to trick-or-treat. How old is too old, anyway? Tim and I will hide in front of the TV with the lights out, and we'll hope the neighborhood children will leave us alone.

I'll keep you apprised. Posted. Abreast of the developments. Do stay tuned.

No need to Panic. Yet.

Why so downcast?
Not to worry! I'm quite resilient.
Truly, practice does ease one towards perfection. Not that I presume to claim perfection as of yet, but if my progeny continue to produce alarming tendencies towards catastrophic decisions, I shall get a good deal more practice than most loving parents ever have the opportunity to experience. Thus I shall trudge onwards towards some semblance of perfect toleration of unfathomable stresses.

Meanwhile, I am ardently clinging to that which is within my power to control: My waistline. My obsessive food intake is focused on a lot of Good Fats and protein, and also Dark Chocolate. The technique is working, as I continue to shrink. Shrinking is good.

I've no update at all on the condition of my eldest two, nor any certainty regarding their exact whereabouts. They are staying in touch, for which I am grateful. Any time young adults decide to go awry of their boundaries, I feel strongly that they should at least stay in close contact with their Mother Who Loves them. Fortunately, my boys agree, more or less. So, I get daily texts assuring me that they are, for the moment, still alive.

For the moment, that is enough.

I pray a lot. This is perhaps the very point of my ordeal.
It could be worse. Right? Heck, give it a minute and it probably will be.
Stay tuned.

Helpless

Over the past five years, as my eldest two darlings have embraced a life of crime, I expanded into emotional eating which elevated my expanse to a girth in competition with my full -term pregnancy weight. But, as things have settled down over the past year, why, I seized the reigns and began reclaiming my rightful size.

However, I can see that things are headed in a decidedly alarming, if familiar, direction. Not with my weight, yet, but with my oldest boys. Somehow, I have to keep control of this one thing which is entirely within my control. Heaven knows I have labored in vain to control these kids.

Since the first of July I have diligently monitored all that I eat, and stuck to a workout regimen. I have been focused and obsessive with measurable results. You have to hold me accountable to this! If my boys are going to spin into orbit again (and that appears to be the case) then I have to redouble my efforts to keep my self in check.

It's about more that my dress size, you know. It's got everything to do with my sanity. I drink less when I'm eating clean. I sleep great when I run miles. My aggressions are substantially subdued with heavy lifting. I am far less inclined to eat for anesthetizing if I am writing down every morsel. It also keeps me very occupied with the compulsive control, like a positive addiction. I kind of need that right now.

The boys are at it again. I have always thought that the day would come when this nightmare would all be behind us. We'd get on with life and joke about what rowdy youths they were.
"Glad we made it through those days!" we'd say.
...but it just doesn't come to an end. Things get somewhat better, and then they take a turn. I get enough of a reprieve so that I don't suffocate under the enormity, and then we re-submerge. It's like waterboarding torture.

And through it all, I could not possibly love them more. I love them so much that my heart literally constricts with such a powerful yearning for my sweet children. I love them, and I have a front row seat to watch them self destruct. Again.

This week

How has your week been?
Good?
No one on drugs, or in jail? Super.
My week has been a tad rocky. If this had not been Lent, why, I would likely have had an adult beverage to ease my suffering. As it was, I caved in and took a Benadryl to put me to sleep. Crazy, huh? I'm a wild girl under pressure.

Don is still living-the-dream, as a couch surfing dude. He seems to be quite happy with his life of leisure. I am unsure of his probation officer's perspective on the new arrangement, but it stressed me out. I would prefer that he be safe, stable, and sober, but who am I to judge?

Michael is not thriving just now, and that's about all I'm going to say on the topic. You'll know enough to realize that such a guarded statement is likely swirling with undercurrents capable of drowning me. I'm relentlessly optimistic when I'm not blubbering. It's the uncertainty that gets me. Will he get through this? Will he go back to prison? I can't figure out whether I should be mad, or sad, or helpful (enabling??). It's exhausting.

I got to speak to some lovely parents of errant youth the other night. No doubt they went home to whimper in the fetal position after hearing my story. I can not imagine how my blather was helpful in the slightest, but the organizers have graciously asked to have me come back and speak to another group. Perplexing, but gratifying, to know that some benefit is possible from this ordeal.

Plus, also, too:
My husband got a job.
I have lost a very persistent pound this week.
And I have every intention of lightening my hair.
So, see? It isn't all bad.

All my kids at dinner

I had a most unexpected surprise this evening. Don came by for dinner. This is surprising because he has sort of run away again. I don't think it's technically called "runaway" when it's an adult who no longer lives at home. It sure doesn't feel the same as it did when he was younger and, you know, my responsibility.
He sort of vanished, as he does, on Saturday night. His landlord called me and told me about it, also mentioning that I should come by and pick up Don's various and sundry. Who moves out without packing? This is why it's more of a runaway thing.
He's been in touch, which is nice. This way I know that he is alive, even if I dont know where he is. At least I'm not running around town in disguise, trying to find him. I don't know where he's staying, but I'm more or less certain that he isn't harming himself with more than green flora which may or may not be legal. Tonight, he and a friend just showed up as I was pulling dinner out of the oven, so I set some extra plates and we made do.
Laying eyes on him was very comforting.
I'll tell you what, though: I never can seem to wrap my mind around these sorts of realities. It does get easier to bear, though.
I am really hoping that there will be spouses for them, and grandbabies for me, one of these days. Do you think that normalcy is in my future....anywhere?

What makes for a good parent? Is there such a thing? Maybe the better question is : What makes for good children? I'm sure I have no idea. By some standards, I have failed miserably. If the goal is to keep your kids out of prison and off the streets and maybe off drugs, then I am an abismal failure. Which is too bad, really, because I put a lot of effort into that parenting stuff. But, I like my kids. They keep coming home, and they are super confident that they are loved. They keep me involved in their lives, to varying degrees. They talk to me about what they are dealing with. That has to count for something, right?

Heck, God Himself has so many errant children. He seems to be primarily concerned with keeping a vibrant relationship with His children. They can sin and fail and make a right mess of things, but as long as they keep coming back to Him...keep talking to Him and seeking Him out, then He seems to be pleased. In fact, the relationship always seems to be the point, if I'm understanding my bible correctly. God allows His children to make their own decisions and learn things the hard way, but He's always nearby to offer redemption and unconditional love.
If that's the model for an ideal parent, then I'm on the right track.

My Estate

 

I'm finding myself a little pensive this evening. I was sitting at the dinner table looking at the overflowing china hutch and wondering if any of my children will ever be interested in the fragile treasures that are so dear to my heart.

 

Many of these things belonged to my grandmother, or were actually painted by her. These dainties have tremendous sentimental value. I'm very protective of this collection. I'm wondering if there is a lick of sense in that.

 

I have no problem imagining my daughter with dollies and teacups in her home, although the potential of said home being remotely tidy is a daydream for sure. Aaron is still young enough that I can imagine his future just about any way I want it to be. It's a funny thing with kids, how we create them in our imagination. I have had a grieving process of sorts over each of my children as they grow because they cease to be what I imagined, and they materialize into something real. Not that that's necessarily bad. I think it's natural. It's certainly more difficult when they serve prison time instead of becoming a politician, but the principle is the same, I think.

 

When they were little, I envisioned, somehow, that I'd chose well-suited spouses and settle them in nearby cottages where I could bounce all those grandbabies on my knee. Because I'm nothing if not controlling and creepy.

 

They are nothing like I thought they would be. Aaron has ginormous feet and wears shorts in the dead of winter. He is analytical and quirky. Michael tucks his sweat pants into his cowboy boots, and flexes his biceps. He can make everyone laugh, and genuinely cares about people. Don is lanky and handsome, but listens to Rap. He is insightful and creative. Faline alternates between scowls and smiles and doesn't eat enough, but she's artistic and wise beyond her years. They are each so unique, and so different than I could ever have imagined.

 

I'm glad that they are each their own person. I get to study them and learn from them. The process also stresses me out, but whatever.

 

2008

2015

When the day comes for these four to sort through the loads of nonsense that I value, I wonder which things will matter to them. Will they argue over who gets the tea set painted by their Great Granny, or will that go to the Goodwill? Will they treasure my valuables, or will they treasure the values they grew up with?
Will they know, beyond a doubt, that they are loved... Just as they are? Will they know that their mother is so very proud of them? That she is deeply grateful to God for giving them to her? I hope that is what they see in the teacups and doilies... in the boxes of books and the knickknacks.

That's the sort of thought that makes my porcelain and crystal so precious. It's a reminder of the love of my family; of my heritage, and my Grandparent's legacy. That's what I want to leave to my children.

To snatch them from the fires of Hell

I'm putting together a little talk to present here in a couple of weeks. It's for a program for families whose children have had their first run-in with the law. I've been thinking about what might possibly be helpful under the circumstances. Mostly what I am thinking is:
"Heck, the road only gets tougher from here. My kids started with the odd herb smoking, too! Now they are certified Felons. Welcome to the dark side!"
Somehow I don't think that is likely to strengthen the fainthearted. Do I really want to scare them?

What I really want to say would be far more personal, though along the same lines. I want to tell them that if their children are bent on self-destruction, there is very little that they can actually do to stop it. They can cry and pray and scream, but they cannot make a child chose wisely. I would tell them that these little beautiful blessings are capable of catastrophic decisions way,way,way before we are ready to face it; certainly before they turn 18. I would tell them to discipline, set boundaries, and parent with determination, but to understand that at the end of the day these children are responsible for the blessing or the curse they bring into their own lives. It seems cruel and unfair that a 13-year-old can use drugs, run away, or get pregnant. But the simple truth is that they can, and they sometimes do.

I want to tell those kids to listen to their parents so they can stay safe. Most of them won't listen. They need to know that there is an invisible line, and once they cross it, not even their parents can help them. That is when the State takes custody, or commits them to incarceration, or they do permanent physical damage. They should fear that.

Those parents need to know that the proverbial advice to put on one's own oxygen mask first applies here. Keep yourself healthy, and relatively sane, so you can navigate the nightmare. Make your marriage a priority. Enjoy a hobby. Find Jesus. Do something frivolous and fun. Force normalcy where you can. Protect the sanctuary that is your home. That means making excruciatingly hard choices, and living with them.

....But these are families whose kids got in trouble for smoking pot. Or maybe shoplifting. I think I'm maybe over-reacting.
Or maybe not.
The first time my child got caught shoplifting felt earth-shattering... until the first time my child got committed to State Custody... which shook me to my core...or the first time I called the police on my son...or the first time I saw my boy in shackles... or the Drug Overdose. It's all a horror, every step. When a child gets busted for the first time, it's just the worst thing a parent can imagine. Perhaps it is unkind to tell them that this may be the first rung on the ladder. Things might get much, much worse.

These kids have a chance to stop. Today's crisis could be the worst they ever bring upon themselves, if only they will listen. Perhaps it is kind for me to scare them, after all.

Ah, and those poor parents. They have no control.
My heart aches for them.

Hilary For the President

I meant "Hilarity for the Present."
Which is ironic, considering that I have not encountered a great lot of hilarity all day. Neither have I encountered Hilary....and I truly hope she doesn't become president, because she seems more dishonest than a Monday in January.
Today was every inch a Monday in January. My day went something like the following:

I began the day with a Retinol eye mask, guaranteed to reduce the appearance of fine lines and wrinkles....but it was no match for the age on my face. I applied a lovely shade of blonde to my persistently dark, and increasingly grey, roots. Mercifully,it helped. A vigorous workout, a lunch date with my oldest two and a pate of sushi, and then the downward spiral began.

"Is that a flat tire?"
"You could be a grandmother"
"I'm going to jail tomorrow, can you give me a ride?"
"Your Grandmother may only have months to live."
"Your hip will never allow you to run again."
"You may want to consider drinking. Heavily."

- Some of those things were actually said to me, and some were things I basically said to myself. You'll have to use your imagination, because I'm not going to clarify. The effect was about the same, though, as if Hilary had called Herself to report on doomsday. The onset of an aggressive bout of PMS may have tainted my perspective somewhat, but it's hard to say to what extent. Needless to say, I really need a mulligan. Or a stiff drink. Or a more aggressive eye cream. Heaven knows we need a new president.

All I hear, for the moment, are the soothing strains of an old Norah Jones track. My head is eager to cling to familiar lyrics and calming instrumentals. Or wine. My head would be eager to cling to wine. Unfortunately, as the years have gone by, my tolerance for alcohol has morphed in a most unpleasant way. These days, if I have more than a teaspoonful, I am unable to sleep. Everything is morphing, truth be told. Do you know, I looked in the mirror, not one week ago, to see that wrinkles had taken up residence beneath my eyes? This happened to me. I raced to the mall, naturally. There I accosted the first saleswoman I could tackle at Sephora and demanded an immediate solution. She was most accommodating. With the aide of my credit card, she was able to provide me with a Miracle Balm guaranteed to make me 20. It might be working, too. If you kind of squint, while on your second glass of wine, I look much younger.

In other news, I have developed an obsession worthy of reality TV. Surprising, I know. It's FitBit. It's insane. It's super motivating. I have lost 19 pounds. That is a huge number, 19. Unless we' are talking years, in which case, it's the age of a child. But in girth of oneself, it's an alarmingly large number. I had kind of gotten fat, there for a bit. I didn't much care for it. Which is fine, because I'm done being fat. If another one of my kids goes to jail, prison, or rehab, I may reconsider. For the moment, though, I am quite committed to a fit physique.

Speaking of my progeny: The two eldest have moved out. They are roommates with several other men, just across town. They visit often...when it's dinnertime, or breakfast time, or their laundry needs attention. I have discovered that adult children are delightful when they do not live at home. It frees a mother up to love them while keeping a healthy distance. Not that they think I am nearly distant enough, but, whatever. The youngest two are still lurking about here, somewhere. Mostly, they are in dark rooms with the blinds drawn, being inert. I don't even know how to parent inertness. How does one steer a ship in the doldrums? Chores! I've assigned chores to the resident sloths. Aaron knows that his must be completed before he can launch into video games at 5 pm. At 4:30, the child becomes the very model of industry. Never mind that his posterior is permanently imprinted on the couch! As the desired hour approaches, he springs into action and accomplishes all with alacrity. Faline, on the other hand, can only be motivated to action by...wait....this remains a riddle. The older two weren't inactive. Now, I grant you that their actions were less than ideal, but they were pretty consistently in motion.

All of the kids are really doing well, so far as I can tell. Christmas this year was so far superior to last year's holiday that I can scarcely communicate the difference. All four of the children were here, with presents and laughter and cinnamon rolls. There's been quite a lot of laughter around here, in fact. The older boys really have been around a lot, and not just at mealtime. We've taken to playing games (Exploding Kittens, anyone?) and even my little introverts come out of their shells to join in the hilarity caused by the family extroverts. I feel happier than I have in a while. It's the absence of chronic stress, coupled with a genuine gratitude for what God has given us Today.

It's good.

With all my heart

I purchased a new phone yesterday, which was a long-over-due upgrade. This miraculous piece of technological advancement has a heart rate sensor on it, which can be used to track various aspects of one's health. One of the promised assessments on the included app, is a Stress Meter. I thought that this particular measurement could prove to be a fascinating diversion, so I've taken to measuring my stress via the heart rate monitor at various times throughout my day. According to this remarkable gadget, I am operating at a very low stress level, indeed. Can you imagine my surprise and delight to be informed that I am apparently blithely wafting through the turbulence that is my life, with nary a spike in my pulse?
Or, perhaps you are unaware of the pressure cooker in which I live and move and have my being. The suggestion that I am, in fact, not under stress is a laughable consideration.

My eldest is freshly out of prison. Praise the Lord for small mercies! In truth, we can't afford to finance another child through a stint in any level of incarceration. Prison is less costly than the county jail, though. If your son or daughter must do time, pray that it's a felony, and not a misdemeanor. Not that either is as expensive as an old fashioned college education, but higher learning does seem to offer a favorable return on one's investment. I can't complain too much, as we've seen good result. Our boy had a wake-up-call of the highest order, and is now embracing life with a gratitude and gusto which warms the cockles of my heart. But, the stress meter is not reading this reality in the pitter-pater of my cardiac rhythms.

The normal stressors of parenting three teens and a 20 are mundane for the most part. Threat of probation, relapse, and emotional instability just don't usually factor in to such a scenario.Nor can I detail for you the most interesting and varied of my daily confrontations. I'm most interested to see how the new phone app rates me as the days go by. I shall try to pop in from time to time so as to keep your curiosity satisfied. No doubt you are already feeling the strain of anticipation.

It's all about me

It is just possible that I am getting a life outside of Profound Stress/Teenagers/Correctional Systems. I hardly know how to conduct myself. Actually, my life still involves daily doses of the above mentioned high-points, it's more that I'm kind of over all the drama associated with it. I've decided to move on. It's like a mid-life crisis in reverse. I've decided to carpe a bit of diem, and possibly lose some weight. Really. It's self-centered in a very healthy way.

On of the most cumbersome effects of Profound Stress in my life is a double digit dress size, which I have spent the past three years ignoring. No more. I have acquired one of those step counter things which I delight to obsess over. I'm eating nuts and fruit and egg whites. I'm lifting weights and seriously dating my treadmill. I'm annoying myself with my single-mindedness. It is, however, bearing fruit. I no longer have time to think about my parenting failures, and I'm back into single digits.

The teenagers remain in a constant state of impending rebellion. To cope, I just clean up after them, tell them not to smoke in the house, and shut down WiFi from time to time to send them into confusion. It's very diverting. I was about to begin this sentence by assuring you that it's not really that bad, but then you would know I was lying.
My oldest should be out of prison soon. Gosh, I hope so. He's doing great, as a matter of fact. This year in the slammer has been a Come-To-Jesus in every sense, and he's grown up a lot. Growing up in prison is not ideal, but I suspect his life there is not any more difficult than life will be fore him once he gets out.
Don is home and working; managing to stay sober. One day at a time, baby. He's got a heart of gold, and struggles that are bigger than anything I've ever had to contend with. All I can really do is cheer him on and hope he makes the right choices going forward.
Faline is a senior in high school, and I really can't complain too much there. She has a whole teenage-girl-thing going on, and she is kind of a messy pig, but she hasn't been arrested or done anything particularly egregious yet. I'm pretty excited about that.
Aaron was my favorite all day today, though I remind him that the position is constantly shifting. He'll have to strive to maintain it. He's motivated by that kind of thing.

Tim and I took off for an over night trip to the beautiful and exotic town of Grangeville, Idaho, last weekend. I should have taken pictures. It's a small town: picture Mayberry, but with more Camo. We planned this romantic get-a-way as a byproduct of a visit to Michael in his mountaintop prison. Lovely visit with him, by-the-way. So, Tim and I stayed in a tiny hotel which I really expected to have coin operated beds (remember those?) They must have been removed when the hotel was updated sometime in the late 70's. It really wasn't so bad, just very very basic as romantic weekends go. We went out to dinner at the local Fine Dining Establishment, where everything on the menu was breaded, fried, or swimming in sauce. I ate most of a salad. One of my favorite things about Tim, though, is that he is game for an adventure. Now, I'm not saying that we would dash off there again without such provocation as a child in prison, but if we have to go back, we know how to have a good time.

See, I'm coping! I'm making sleep a priority, exercising my sense of humor, and eliminating unwanted girth. My husband and I are having fun, the kids are having independence, and Fall is in the air. I may survive this.

The effects of good parenting

I have no children this week. For the first time in 20 years, I have an entire week of no children. My youngest two are in California to visit family, and my oldest two are locked up. The first thing I did after taking the kids to the airport was to come home and clean the house. Then, I sat very still and observed as it stayed clean. Did you know that a house could do that? I previously had no idea such a phenomenon was actually possible.

I'm glad to have some time to think, God knows I need it right now. I'm struggling to be an effective human being in the midst of overwhelming circumstances, and I've not got the hang of it yet. Having time without the kids should allow me a bit of adjustment time before they return and I have to think on my feet again.

Michael was sent to prison last week. This is not a sentence any mother is prepared to voice. Just saying that in the privacy of my thoughts is about enough to spider-leg my lashes. I kept thinking that once he got to sentencing, the judge would see how unjust this whole thing was. That the judge would send Michael home. He might be on probation, sure, but he could get back to the business of living. But, the judge didn't see things my way at all. The powers that be have determined that society is best served by keeping my eldest son out of circulation for the time being. The reality of this enrages and frightens me. How do I live with it? How will he?

Don't you dare spout platitudes about how God is Good, and it'll all work out for the best. Those sorts of things are not at all in question. The day-to-day horror of living in the trenches is what makes those truths so remarkable. Once I get my feet under me, I'll be able to say that "God is Good" with something like credibility. It's hearing it from people who have never had a problem that really sounds useless and hollow.

As if having a beautiful son in prison weren't quite enough to grapple with, why, God has seen fit to grant me three other teenagers as well. I say "other teenagers" because Michael won't yet be 20 until a week from tomorrow. This means that I am the proud mother of 4 teenagers. Stressful much?

Don is locked away in a town some distance from us. Tim and I drive the 5 hours to visit as often as we can. It isn't enough. I've been waiting for Don to put this all behind him since he was 14. Every time he got thrown back in treatment, I waited for him to get clean and come home, just so eager to have my son back. I'm finally, barely, starting to understand that he is never going to come home and be my little boy again. Part of this is due to his age. Now that he's 18, he doesn't actually have to come home at all. Part of this is due to the fact that he was 13 when he became an addict, and so even if he does kick his addiction, he's changed so much that I don't even recognize parts of him.

It is a wonder to me that my heart continues to beat when it is so crushed.

There are still two children at home (or rather, there will be after Spring break) who need me to faithfully parent with all my heart. I am grappling with the very real need to pour myself out unconditionally in mothering these two, knowing that it's not actually guaranteed to do any good. That's the thing. Parenting means that I will give all that I am to loving  and teaching these persons, who then go off and do whatever they want when their brains aren't even fully developed.One only hopes that they don't do irreparable damage before they figure out that Mom and Dad were right all along.

Patti told me to quit feeling sorry for myself. She may be right. It's a bit more than that, though. It's grief. I miss my kids so much. I grieve my dreams for them. I miss being a perfect, self-righteous, judgemental mom who had it all figured out. Gosh, those were the days!

I'm going to relish the quiet of Spring break. I fully intend to keep watching the house stay clean, and to sit in the silence to think. Hopefully, by the time the kids get off the plane, I'll have wrapped my head around the current state of things.

Have you met Aaron?

What sort of morbid maniac thinks about hellfire and damnation all the time? I've been writing a lot about judgment of late for the obvious reason that I've been thinking about it a lot. There is so much of Christianity that I struggle to wrap my mind around. How do these concepts fit in with my understanding of a loving God and a goal of unity within the church? The exercise of trying to understand is wearying, but perhaps it will build some sort of spiritual muscle. Or, perhaps it will absent the general public from my blog. Either way.

In other news, I really have way more going on within my life than I've told you about here. Daily life has maintained a fast pace for the past couple of weeks. I had a variety of houseguests, which provided for much enjoyable leisure, and rather too much excellent food. I may never need to eat again.

Besides all the company, I have been homeschooling Aaron. This is a significant chunk of my day, and requires a fount of energy. Aaron is in the 6th grade, and is a very intelligent airhead. This means that I must sit next to him while he works for the sole purpose of keeping his head out of the clouds and on to the work before him.
He is more distractible than any other person on the planet.
He's so caught-up in his own head that he lives with a blissful smile on his face and an easy giggle. His limbs flail and sway as though unrestricted by confines of gravity and decorum. He walks like a merry imbecilic in public. You think I'm being poetic, but alas, I am not.
Just yesterday, Aaron and I were at the local grocery store. I was hunting and gathering, aided by my careful list. Aaron was humming to himself while flailing about as I already described, thus heedlessly obstructing the entire aisle as he trailed behind my cart. I finally stopped (and he ran into me) so that I could tell him to walk like an adult.

He said, "Here we go again."

"What is that supposed to mean?" I demanded. I was feeling a little cranky, probably due to all of my morbid musings on judgement.

"You're going to tell me to stop walking like that."

"Um, yeah. Look around! Do you see any other shoppers dancing and singing through the store? What would you think if you did?"

He began his cheerful chuckle as he pictured this. "I'd think there was something weird about them."

"What do you suppose they think," I asked, "when they are confronted with you?"
He straightened up, but he keep giggling about it all the way to the car.

He's the happiest child you ever met, but clueless and carefree to the fullest extent of those words. I told you about this particular way he has once before. It was over a year ago, when he was still in school. Read about it Here

Comfort of quiet reflection

I'm very excited to report that this blog now has a reader. Meichelle, from down-the-street, reads my blog and posts about it on facebook. Does writing make one a writer? Or does having a reader make a writer? One wonders.

I am blogging from the comfort of my propped-up pillows in bed, as is my wont. It's deliriously self indulgent to sit abed and read, drink my decaff, and blog before rising to face the day. Such pampering is the first of many little treats I have given myself this summer. In fact, I really am going to need to evaluate my long list of hobbies, as they seem to be crowding out the space for mundane matters like responsibilities.

School starts soon, which is likely to make short work of prioritizing my day.

It's been a hard couple of years, as I believe I've mentioned, so the peace and serenity of an indulgent summer has been soothing to my weary soul. There is room to simply Be.

I've found myself saying that the past couple years have been the hardest of my life, but I'm not sure that is strictly true. It seems to me that whichever crisis is coiled around my neck is the hardest ever, simply because the current crisis always demands every ounce of strength to survive. In this way, then, everyone's immediate difficulty really is the worst ever. There is no baseline economy for an accurate comparison of crisis.

The past couple of years have challenged me to my core. The external elements have been devastating, but they only last so long as does the situation. It is the internal combustion which echoes into my tomorrows. That is where I have really been upended.

My baby, who is now halfway through 16, is an addict. In his 14th year he embraced this devastating identity with an iron grip. His insanity caused a lightning storm within our home. Fingers of brilliant destruction randomly seared everything. You can not live within an electric storm and escape unscathed.
My dear boy was more shattered than the rest of us, hard as that is to fathom. He was carried into darkness he could never have imagined.
He is safe now. He is in the midst of a long-term residential drug treatment program where he is thriving. He is learning to know himself, and to forgive himself. He has a long road ahead, no doubt about it. But right now is peaceful.

Hindsight being what it is, I can now condense this into a tidy paragraph, but it didn't unfold that way. Day after day of watching him unravel before my eyes challenged everything I had ever known about being a mom. I couldn't protect him. There were great spans of time when I couldn't even find him. I, Benedict Arnold, conspired with the police on numerous occasions just to pluck him from quite literal jaws of death. Parenting is supposed to be teaching, guiding, disciplining...isn't it?

I home schooled my boys because I believed that it was God's best for them. We didn't have a TV for most of their youth. They had a full-time, very committed mother. These kids are loved! And yet...

So much of my personal identity is wrapped up in who I am to these kids. I thought that parenting with all my heart would produce young people who are solid. The very force of my love should have been enough. But enough for what?
I thought the results of my careful parenting would be evident to all, but that was never guaranteed. In fact, I don't think that was ever the point. I am responsible to do what is right,but the results are out of my hands. If I have done what I have been called to do, then that is enough. Neither my successes, nor my failures, are equal to the sun total before me.
My children will make their own choices, and I will pray. A lot.

Back to the future

Since I grew up in Boise, the very town in which I currently reside,  I frequently run into people that I knew as a child. Tim shakes his head in wonder when I point out people that I went to elementary school with. Apparently folks in Boise don't like to go far. Today, I ran into someone I knew 25 years ago.

In 1988, I moved into a little duplex down by the college with a girl I'd met, named Teresa. "Ressa" was a cowgirl, and I was Over-The-Top-Punk-Rock. Our friends did not blend easily; perhaps you can imagine. My memories of those days are sketchy, at best, due in large part to a willful suppression of memories. I've not been an 18-year-old Punk party-girl in some time, and the reminder of my former self is an occasion to both avoid, and to hide from my children.

But, today I met a few memories. So did Tim.

Tim and I arrived at the checkout counter in J.C.Penny this afternoon with a stack of loot from the clearance racks. The cashier bound to serve us was talkative, adorable, and ringing bells of recognition somewhere in the depths of my 40-something mind. I stole a glance at her nametag, which confirmed her first name. I still wasn't sure, so I boldly asked her last name....this was a stupid move, since I didn't remember her last name, anyway. I told her my various names, which got a quizzical look.
She said, "Help me out." Clearly, I am not all that recognizable.
I said, "Um, I think we used to be roommates."
This earned a squeal and a hug, then a flood of stories which my husband found quite enlightening. How embarrassing is that?
"You turned out ok," she said, "I wasn't at all sure you would."
She told several stories as she recalled them, and I was prompted to recollections of my own. Nothing like a few prompts to pry open Pandora's Box.
I am certain that I gave adequate cause for concern to all who knew me in 1988. I was 18 and on my own for the first time in my life. I was rebellious and creative about it. I smoked, and drank, and behaved in every way contrary to the values with which I was so carefully raised. (I am so sorry Mother. Really.)

This reminder was very timely.

The first of my children has reached that milestone age of 18. I have three more to follow him. For me to be confronted with this reflection on my own life at that age is good. I need the compassion that comes with remembering what it was like. I need the humility of facing down the heinous choices I made. I need the wisdom that comes with perspective. Mostly, I need to remember that 18 is a step in the road, and not the end of it.

Don't get me wrong, my son is doing great. He is, I think, a bit ahead of where I was at his age. He is clearer than I was about what he wants. He knows himself better than I did. He's doing great.

No, the reason I needed this reminder, is really for me. I'm a little too freaked out by letting go of my baby. I'm way too hesitant to think of him as a separate entity. I'm too quick to panic when I think his decisions ought to be different than they are. I'm rather a typical mom, I suspect. I needed to think what it's like to be 18.
Thanks for the reminder, Ressa.

I am Gulliver, and tied down by little people

I think I'll take up fishing.
One thing I've learned about myself, since being married, is that I really really need alone time. I am never alone. Sometimes I go into the little toilet closet thing and close the door and turn on the fan, just so that no one will bother me. Sometimes I go sit on a pool lounge behind the hot tub after dark so no one can find me. I get annoyed because people come looking for me anyway. Fishing sounds like a very solitary endeavor. I could learn to like that.
Yesterday Kara and I hung out for a couple hours over a plate of salt-encrusted french fries. Today I am swelled up with water retention. Kara's a good friend. One of the first things she said to me was, "You're Gorgeous!" Good friends say things like that. I never want to be alone when Kara is telling me I'm gorgeous.
I never want to be alone when I'm with Tim, either. Although, Tim's lots of fun to be alone with.
It's those dang kids. They are everywhere.
How can I love them so very much
and also want to have an hour
uninterrupted
and silent
with no one but Tim in my personal space?

I love being a mom. My kids are so fantastic. Really. I wouldn't have thought I'd be the type who needs alone time, on account of being a super-extrovert. But, geez, I get grumpy.
Tim takes his fishing pole and a cold drink, and heads for the river, a couple afternoons every week. He stands on the bank and watches the water go by. I could do that. Except, the moment I decided to go, all the kids would want to come too. It always works that way.
Maybe skydiving....

Vacation

I am of two minds when it comes to traveling.
I love to go.
I love to come home.
The sheer amount of time we'll be zipping hither and thither this Summer is, quite frankly, making me a tad weak in the knees. Or making my knees knock. I'll have to research appropriate idioms.
Yesterday we received the happy news that Michael made it onto the team that will go to Denver to show off for college coaches. He is bursting with pride, as only a teenage boy can. Our consideration now is whether we ship him off with near-strangers for a long weekend with other Ego-ridden young lacrosse players, or do we go along ourselves. Personally, I think we should go for the fun of it. If we leave the other munchkins home with my sister, perhaps we could even enjoy some quiet couple time. Maybe. Michael is working to earn the money he needs to finance his rather expensive LaX habit.
The trip to Hawaii is really standing as the axis of our Summer. Everything else is spinning around that. My shopping, for instance. Gone are the trips to TJ Maxx for home decorating. Now I sit enthralled before the computer virtually shopping for swimwear, and merrily filling my "shopping cart." As If. Swimwear shopping should only be done virtually, in my opinion. Especially when you are knocking on the door of your 40th birthday.
Which reminds me...My Birthday Month is June. You'll want to plan ahead.

Leaping into Summer

Raise your hand if you missed me.....
There is no guarantee that I will ever blog again, but today I felt like posting a little howdy-hello.

Facebook was an addiction for approximately a day and a half. Who has time to maintain that? I kept hearing from people I used to know. These are folks I'd love to chat with. The reality is, though, that I hardly have time to chat with my own family, so Facebook really doesn't work for me.

Lacrosse is over for the regular season. This frees me up a bit. However, now it's time for travel season. SO far, we have California, Yelowstone, Maui, Camping, and possibly Denver on the list. It's going to be one of those Summers that flies by.
Remember how I was going to run a half marathon? Well, I did it. It took me 2 hours, 35 minutes, and 6 seconds. 13.1 miles is a long way to run. It was fun, I'm glad I did it...now I'm looking for the next thing to do. Maybe I'll learn fencing.
Tim's into fly fishing and Guitar right now. I need a new hobbie.

The kids are loud and busy. This is a product of their ages. They prefer action to stillness and activity to rest. They'll grow out of that, I suppose. Meanwhile, they are wearing me out.

That's your update de jour. We'll see if I manage to post again in the near future.