I'm SO NOT a doomsday prepper.
There's no more than 10 canned goods in the pantry at any time here. I have 3 gallon jugs of water in the freezer downstairs more to offset the cost of freezing the few things in it than to have in an emergency. I do however have a stockpile of the husband's medication, but that's has more to do with a miscommunication with CVS than our need to hoard it.
And yet, I have a pile in the basement of toilet paper, paper towels, Lysol wipes, hand soap, newly purchased cold medicines of our choice products, and 4 cases of water.
Damn that coronavirus.
This week they closed all 12 of our schools down to "properly clean and disinfect all facilities and school busses" because ten days ago 17 people came back from Italy from a foreign exchange program, and no one thought to preemptively keep them home for a bit just to be safe. Not to mention the 17 that went from the middle school as well. And yet, here they are spending god knows how much money cleaning, which, in fairness, should probably be done on a semi regular basis during flu season anyway. All of this, because one student from the trip is now sick with an undisclosed illness.
Here's the thing, we are not high risk for dying of this. It has a 97% survival rate. We are in relatively good health and are rational people. I also believe that this virus is already EVREYWHERE in the United States. Why? Because most people present as a cold. A COLD. How many people go to the doctor with a cold? None. The flu went around the wrestling room a while back, many of my coworkers came in over the last few months sounding like death, and none of them actually went to the doctors to get a diagnosis. I just wiped down the mail truck, like I do every Tuesday morning, with a Lysol wipe and carried on, just as Youngest dosed with Dayquil and cough drops and went to class. And even if anyone had gone to the doctor, they wouldn't have been tested properly because it wasn't on the radar to test for the coronavirus.
So yeah. All those idiots saying there's nothing to worry about, we don't have an issue here, are just stupid. It's here. It's been here. And the people buying masks, knock it off, you're diminishing the supply for the people who actually should be wearing them.
Which brings me back to my stockpile. I think it's ridiculous that I even have to do it but seriously the shelves are wiped clean already folks. Wiped. Clean. And while I don't clean all the time top to bottom, when we get the flu or a cold here, I wipe everything religiously. I change out toothbrushes, and in some nasty cases of the stomach bug, even change out the toothpaste. I wash the towels and sheets with Lysol laundry sanitizer and spray everything not washable with Odorban. I do this simply because I don't want it to go around the house over and over, because let me tell you, we are not good people when we are sick.
We all have a specific medicine that works best for us, so I just restocked that in case we get sick again. Not because I wanted to spend a small fortune in CVS but because the stores are being wiped clean by crazy people.
I also only stock the house for 3 people now, which means if Oldest has to come home early from College, or Bonus Son needs something, I need to have stock for five. And if the high school issues quarantines, Youngest will eat literally everything we have in the cabinets.
So here I sit, waiting for a virus that's likely laying in wait on the oranges I bought 4 weeks ago at the wholesale club, with 14 boxes of cereal, 17 canisters of Lysol wipes, and enough TP for the football team to go crazy all over town. At least it won't go bad, and if in 5 months I still have it all, these two will be the best stocked kids in college.
Friday, March 6, 2020
Monday, March 2, 2020
For The Love Of The Game
Last Sunday we went to Oldest's college to visit.
He was tutoring another student in Calculous II while working on his laundry when we got there so we told him to just meet us at the BBQ place down the street when he was done.
I swear to you I had to do a double take when he came in. I completely didn't recognize him despite the fact he'd been home 2 weeks before. Between his time spent in the gym and his freshly grown facial hair he looks like a grown man now. After dinner we headed back to the dorm so he could get ready for his basketball game, which is what we really had come to see.
When he was little he loved basketball. Being tall for his age, and also older in his class (he's got a November birthday so he was nearly six by the time he started kindergarten) he naturally excelled at it. The husband coached two years of recreational league when they were little, two teams, different nights, it was a LOT of basketball, but it was great for them.
He played in middle school, and also on a travel team for a bit. In high school he was on the Freshman JV team, and Sophomore year made the Varsity team, but that's where it stopped. The high school coach killed his love for the game. And it wasn't just him, it was nearly the entire team, every year. More and more kids dropped out until eventually, by his Senior year, there was not a single Senior on the Varsity team. For reference, the head coach is currently being disciplined for his comments about "being sick and tired of a certain player not being able to hear him". The player is deaf. How he's still employed is beyond most parents, but that's not what this is about.
Senior year Oldest played on the rec team again with nearly all of his friends. It was wild, sweaty, aggressive, and awesome. They had ridiculous amounts of fun, while the referees couldn't figure out why all these kids weren't on the High School team. They were all good players, and their love of the game was palpable. Over the summer he played a bit here and there on the courts around town. There's a court down the street from the dorm and he played there a bit. So when the intercollegiate teams were forming and the first team was full, he made his own team.
He. Made. His. Own. Team.
We sat and watched them play. We were the only parents there. Some clearly excelled, some clearly loved the comradery. They are Engineers, not ballers. They lose a lot, but Sunday they pulled out a win, no doubt from bringing in a ringer, a friend from Oldest's high school, who happened to be visiting unannounced from a nearby College. Apparently students from every College in the city can be part of the intercollegiate teams, so provided he brings his own shorts and sneakers, he can play for the rest of the season if he'd like.
They played like man sized versions of the little kids they once were. Bigger court, higher jump shots, and louder squeaky sneakers on the highly polished Maplewood floor, but with the same love of the game.
All it takes is one coach, one teacher, one adult to ruin a kid forever. To steal their passion, drive, love of anything and everything. OR, it can take one kid, who refuses to give up on something that makes him whole, to find ten other kids to share that drive with, that passion, that love of something, and everything.
He's done an amazing job at becoming an adult. He's actively searching for grants to pay for college, forwards me pertinent emails for scheduling trips to/from home, is looking into summer sessions abroad, and taking care of his basics like a pro. As proud as I am of him for the most of his adult choices, this, letting go like a kid again and leaving it on the court, is one of my favorite choices. Which is why we traveled 90 minutes to watch 30 minutes of missed free throws, traveling, bad foul calls, horrendous scorekeeping, and man-sized recreational league gaming.
And why I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
He was tutoring another student in Calculous II while working on his laundry when we got there so we told him to just meet us at the BBQ place down the street when he was done.
I swear to you I had to do a double take when he came in. I completely didn't recognize him despite the fact he'd been home 2 weeks before. Between his time spent in the gym and his freshly grown facial hair he looks like a grown man now. After dinner we headed back to the dorm so he could get ready for his basketball game, which is what we really had come to see.
When he was little he loved basketball. Being tall for his age, and also older in his class (he's got a November birthday so he was nearly six by the time he started kindergarten) he naturally excelled at it. The husband coached two years of recreational league when they were little, two teams, different nights, it was a LOT of basketball, but it was great for them.
He played in middle school, and also on a travel team for a bit. In high school he was on the Freshman JV team, and Sophomore year made the Varsity team, but that's where it stopped. The high school coach killed his love for the game. And it wasn't just him, it was nearly the entire team, every year. More and more kids dropped out until eventually, by his Senior year, there was not a single Senior on the Varsity team. For reference, the head coach is currently being disciplined for his comments about "being sick and tired of a certain player not being able to hear him". The player is deaf. How he's still employed is beyond most parents, but that's not what this is about.
Senior year Oldest played on the rec team again with nearly all of his friends. It was wild, sweaty, aggressive, and awesome. They had ridiculous amounts of fun, while the referees couldn't figure out why all these kids weren't on the High School team. They were all good players, and their love of the game was palpable. Over the summer he played a bit here and there on the courts around town. There's a court down the street from the dorm and he played there a bit. So when the intercollegiate teams were forming and the first team was full, he made his own team.
He. Made. His. Own. Team.
We sat and watched them play. We were the only parents there. Some clearly excelled, some clearly loved the comradery. They are Engineers, not ballers. They lose a lot, but Sunday they pulled out a win, no doubt from bringing in a ringer, a friend from Oldest's high school, who happened to be visiting unannounced from a nearby College. Apparently students from every College in the city can be part of the intercollegiate teams, so provided he brings his own shorts and sneakers, he can play for the rest of the season if he'd like.
They played like man sized versions of the little kids they once were. Bigger court, higher jump shots, and louder squeaky sneakers on the highly polished Maplewood floor, but with the same love of the game.
All it takes is one coach, one teacher, one adult to ruin a kid forever. To steal their passion, drive, love of anything and everything. OR, it can take one kid, who refuses to give up on something that makes him whole, to find ten other kids to share that drive with, that passion, that love of something, and everything.
He's done an amazing job at becoming an adult. He's actively searching for grants to pay for college, forwards me pertinent emails for scheduling trips to/from home, is looking into summer sessions abroad, and taking care of his basics like a pro. As proud as I am of him for the most of his adult choices, this, letting go like a kid again and leaving it on the court, is one of my favorite choices. Which is why we traveled 90 minutes to watch 30 minutes of missed free throws, traveling, bad foul calls, horrendous scorekeeping, and man-sized recreational league gaming.
And why I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
Wednesday, February 26, 2020
Riding Shotgun...
I've delayed writing this for two weeks now, as it's hard to put it all into words and the details are still falling out around us. Saturday, February 15th, we watched Youngest celebrate a 2nd place win in the D3 South Section Regional wrestling tournament. We watched every second of his matches with extensive scrutiny making sure every nuisance was caught indicating something was going horribly wrong for reasons that NO PARENT EVER wants to.
Because 12 hours earlier, he had to cut his own seat belt and crawl out of this car.
"Mom, something's wrong with the car. I can't get it started."
I threw on my pants, and headed out to pick him up. Apparently a friend had called to see if he had wanted to grab dinner, so last minute, he changed his plans form being 5 miles away to meeting up at a restaurant 40 minutes from our house. Normally not a big deal, until this night. As the phone calls came in, the story got bigger and bigger. I arrived at the ER just in time to watch him be wheeled in front of me on a gurney in a cervical collar for extensive tests. The story that started out with being broken down on the highway got worse with every person that came in the room.
The whole story is this: He'd been sick all last week but was feeling better. He met up with a friend last minute to grab a burger and fries since he was underweight, and was coming home WAY before he needed to (8pm) because he was tired. He closed his eyes for a split second on the highway, a head bob if you will, and realized he had drifted into the other lane. He overcorrected, went off the side, hit the trees, and rolled the car onto the driver's side. The impact of the crash held him in his seatbelt so securely that the lumbar support in the seatback burst and blew out the side seams of the seat's upholstery. He couldn't start the car because it was wedged onto the driver's side between the embankment and the trees. He couldn't see anything through the windshield because the bumper, grill, and the rest of the front of the car was hanging in front of it. The side curtain air bags deployed, protecting his head from hitting the side window. The front airbags did not deploy so he was able to open the glovebox. As things fell everywhere, a butane lighter (always the Boy Scout) literally fell into his lap. He used it to cut through his seat belt. By the time the paramedics and police had arrived, they were able to smash the back window and he could crawl out unassisted.
Without. A. Single. Scratch.
He was not drunk or impaired. He was not speeding. It was not 2 am, and he was not on the phone. He was TIRED. How many times we go on auto pilot and have no idea how we've gotten to an exit or even all the way home? How often have we all just pushed through when deep down we know we shouldn't? I had no idea that when he walked out the door that I could have never heard his voice again. That I was so close to never hugging him again, or giving him crap about using the blender at 5 AM.
The hospital ran extensive tests, and we stayed for extra tests/ reassurance that at that point he was completely fine before we took him home. We arrived home around 1:30 in the morning. The bus was leaving the school at 6:45. He slept next to me, getting about 4 hours of sleep, interrupted after 2 hours to check on him. The decision to allow him on the mat to wrestle, while heavily weighed in on by us, was mostly made by him since he was one month from his 18th birthday. I had to trust that he could make this decision for himself, becasue in just a few short months he will be two hours from home having to make big decisions for himself when we are not there to weigh in. He had drilled with his team for an hour or so before and felt okay. He assured us he'd be fine.
His first match was much harder than it should have been., and thirty seconds in I had to walk away, leaving him under the scrutiny of the husband's watchful eyes. His second match was far less stressful as he pinned his opponent in 27 seconds. As the radioactive dye from the CT scan he'd had just hours earlier worked it's way through his system, I could see his color returning, his energy replenish, and he was a bit more like himself. His third match was over in the second period, technical, but safely wrestled. His last match of the day was hard fought, and lost by 2 points. He placed second overall, SECOND. On four hours of sleep, straight out of a car crash.
We continued to celebrate his win throughout the week by moving his bed upstairs, 15 feet from ours to check on him throughout the night. We ensured that his appetite continued to be strong, that he didn't spike a fever, and that he wasn't showing any signs of residual trauma. Throughout the week he had some ups and downs, and by Friday he was back on the mat wrestling for the State Championship. He won one, but lost two, and that was the end of it. As he left the mat for the last time you can tell he was heartbroken. Despite the comeback over the last month, he had wanted to go to All States again this year. To finish as stong on the mat as he felt on the inside.
But just like that, it was over. Like the bank of trees that abruptly stopped the car, the loss on the mat abruptly stopped the last four years of his training, routine, and dreams. The loss has obviously been magnified by not having a car and still being on concussion watch. It's been a bit bumpy to say the least. The girlfriend/not girlfriend from whom he was taking a break has circled back around having heard about his accident. We see her more now than when they were dating. He went to his Club wrestling coach to check in and say his goodbyes. He's upped his work schedule and is trying new gyms to find a new routine. And while he's agreed that now might not be the best time to be taking head shots in MMA or Boxing, he's been walking around of late like he's indestructible. Which, for his step father and I has been less than easy to swallow. Our trauma from the fall out of it all, coupled with his attitude of it being no big deal, has had us at each other's throats.
Last night the girlfriend/not girlfriend was over watching a movie. She left about 9:30, and I asked if she was okay to drive home. He said yes, she was fine, yawned and headed to bed. This morning I hear a weird noise from the other room, he's on the phone with her, woken her up in fact.
"Who is that?"
"I woke her up. She didn't text me when she got home. And I called her twice and she didn't answer."
"And now you, and everyone you know, is paranoid about driving tired."
"Yup."
It's sinking in, penetrating the indestructible shield that is the seventeen year old armor. Welcome kiddo to a fraction of how I feel every time you leave the house. Or, miss curfew by even 5 minutes. Or, get behind the wheel again to go to work just seven miles away.
And pray he has his angels riding shotgun.
Thursday, February 13, 2020
Crossroads...
It's 7:30 and you've already gone to bed.
Well, you went to bed with your headphones, phone, and a bowl of popcorn so it's unlikely you'll actually be sleeping for a bit. And why would you? Sleep, I mean? So many things weighing down on you like the heavens on Atlas. So many lasts, and firsts, crammed on a train heading straight for you on the tracks.
It's the end of wrestling season. Four years of training, drilling, routine is abruptly coming to an end. Coach handed out the new starter jackets today. Most would be thrilled to not have to wear the old ripped worn through ones, but not you. For you it's comfortable and familiar. I mended it for you from the brink of disaster with love so you could wear it with pride, hood down so you're a part of something, hood up for game on. And yet, as we approach sectionals and the biggest competition, the last competitions of your high school years, you're being told to turn it in and wear the new one. The new, crisp, cold one. You want to forget that one at home Saturday, and I understand your defiance and secretly, I celebrate it.
The school verdicts are in. Just to complicate things we asked for more money, and they both met the need. How can you compare two things that are not in any way the same? How do you chose when the level playing field is full of divots and sand traps?
The first is offering an undergrad degree, with a major leaving you fully qualified for your doctorate later in life, and also allows time and availability for your minor. They have an expansive gym. A D3 wrestling team that you can drill with at your leisure and watch compete if you ever miss it. They have an Olympic sized swimming pool for you to swim in all but 2 hours a day, and intermural and club sports in every area you've ever wanted to try. The food is phenomenal with nutritional labels on everything so you can calculate your intakes and gains. The laundry is free. And the cost makes it almost irresistible, with all four years coming in at roughly the cost of a brand new high end car. This was your choice two days ago. The money sealed it for you. Until the other school called with a counteroffer.
They offered you free housing for the first year in addition to double the aid package they originally offered. This school has the name, access to the best hospitals in the country for your clinicals, and offer a pathway with aid to your doctorate. The program eliminates the unnecessary classes and dives right into your field of study, getting you through your undergrad in 3 years. The draw of the city is mostly what you love and secretly, the closer proximity to home. I can see it in you that the two hour drive home weighs on you.
I saw you shut down today. I know it's overwhelming, scary, and hard. But I am confident you'll make the best choice for you. That the school that appeals to your heart, soul, and mind will ultimately win out. Deep down, you know what school it is, you're just not ready. I get it, and you should know you are not the only one who wants to slow time down and just get through one weekend at a time. You are not alone in this. I am overwhelmed too, just sitting here in power save mode for you to make your next move.
It all seems unfair to be at this crossroad just a month shy of your eighteenth birthday. Such a huge milestone burdened with letting go of the past, and stepping into the uncertainty of the rest of your life. While I'd like it to be more coherent, it's understandable why your thoughts and concerns come out in one big mumble, why you can't make small conversation in the car, won't sit still long enough for the anxiety to creep in, and take the BIG bowl of popcorn into your room. You are my son after all.
But you've got this.
I believe in you.
There is no wrong choice,
because it's your choice.
Well, you went to bed with your headphones, phone, and a bowl of popcorn so it's unlikely you'll actually be sleeping for a bit. And why would you? Sleep, I mean? So many things weighing down on you like the heavens on Atlas. So many lasts, and firsts, crammed on a train heading straight for you on the tracks.
It's the end of wrestling season. Four years of training, drilling, routine is abruptly coming to an end. Coach handed out the new starter jackets today. Most would be thrilled to not have to wear the old ripped worn through ones, but not you. For you it's comfortable and familiar. I mended it for you from the brink of disaster with love so you could wear it with pride, hood down so you're a part of something, hood up for game on. And yet, as we approach sectionals and the biggest competition, the last competitions of your high school years, you're being told to turn it in and wear the new one. The new, crisp, cold one. You want to forget that one at home Saturday, and I understand your defiance and secretly, I celebrate it.
The school verdicts are in. Just to complicate things we asked for more money, and they both met the need. How can you compare two things that are not in any way the same? How do you chose when the level playing field is full of divots and sand traps?
The first is offering an undergrad degree, with a major leaving you fully qualified for your doctorate later in life, and also allows time and availability for your minor. They have an expansive gym. A D3 wrestling team that you can drill with at your leisure and watch compete if you ever miss it. They have an Olympic sized swimming pool for you to swim in all but 2 hours a day, and intermural and club sports in every area you've ever wanted to try. The food is phenomenal with nutritional labels on everything so you can calculate your intakes and gains. The laundry is free. And the cost makes it almost irresistible, with all four years coming in at roughly the cost of a brand new high end car. This was your choice two days ago. The money sealed it for you. Until the other school called with a counteroffer.
They offered you free housing for the first year in addition to double the aid package they originally offered. This school has the name, access to the best hospitals in the country for your clinicals, and offer a pathway with aid to your doctorate. The program eliminates the unnecessary classes and dives right into your field of study, getting you through your undergrad in 3 years. The draw of the city is mostly what you love and secretly, the closer proximity to home. I can see it in you that the two hour drive home weighs on you.
I saw you shut down today. I know it's overwhelming, scary, and hard. But I am confident you'll make the best choice for you. That the school that appeals to your heart, soul, and mind will ultimately win out. Deep down, you know what school it is, you're just not ready. I get it, and you should know you are not the only one who wants to slow time down and just get through one weekend at a time. You are not alone in this. I am overwhelmed too, just sitting here in power save mode for you to make your next move.
It all seems unfair to be at this crossroad just a month shy of your eighteenth birthday. Such a huge milestone burdened with letting go of the past, and stepping into the uncertainty of the rest of your life. While I'd like it to be more coherent, it's understandable why your thoughts and concerns come out in one big mumble, why you can't make small conversation in the car, won't sit still long enough for the anxiety to creep in, and take the BIG bowl of popcorn into your room. You are my son after all.
But you've got this.
I believe in you.
There is no wrong choice,
because it's your choice.
Sunday, February 2, 2020
Youngest...
I was in labor with you for 2 weeks. Two weeks of contractions, 20 minutes apart, like clockwork. I was in labor for so long, that on the date you were supposed to be born, no one believed the contractions would get closer together. Your father went to work. Grammie came over to visit, never suspecting she'd have to stay with your brother overnight until you arrived.
Once labor really got going it took 27 hours. TWENTY. SEVEN. I started progressing along and to ease pain I tried the whirlpool tub which apparently you loved, because once in the tub everything all but stopped completely. They tried medication to get it going again to no avail, and eventually broke my water. Which of course, you wanted no part of, so you sat on your umbilical cord. They had to artificially pump water back in to float you back up. At one point they thought you were in distress so they wheeled me into the C-section room, only to have you rebound to a healthy stat. The suddenly you weren't. Then you were. Then you weren't. Then you were. By the third time they stopped wheeling me in and out of the room and just gave in. And in the twenty-seventh hour you were born in the operating room, naturally, on your own terms.
Not a minute before, exactly the way YOU wanted to come into the world.
I had no idea that this would be the dance we would do for the next eighteen years.
And oh, what a dance it has been.
I'm a terrible dancer by the way, but we have learned together the hard way. Sometimes we came together like a beautiful waltz, you give a bit, I give a bit, gliding our way into the next adventure. Other times it's resembled a perfectly choreographed Irish line dance, abrupt and sharp, but coming together in the end leaving everyone speechless. But most often it's been like a mash up of classical and slash metal head banging, with a bit of crowd surfing and Macarena.
I always said God makes the tough ones cute so you don't kill them. And Lord help me if you weren't the cutest toddler ever, like Gerber baby cute. You truly were, and are, the best combination of myself and your father. You have his Italian looks, charisma, and compassion for the most unique of people. I know you don't remember a lot about him, and sadly there are not many people who can tell you good things. Having self medicated his bipolar and manic depression with alcohol and drugs since he was 12, it had left him a vague resemblance of the boy I met at 15, much less the father he aspired to be. Much of this had to do with the environment he was raised in, a stark contrast to how you were raised.
Nature vs Nurture. We have academically argued this for years, you and I. And while I hear your general option on it, you will never understand my view, because YOU my son are all the proof I need. Biologically you are half of your father, and yet, you've learned coping skills to handle your anger. You have safe outlets for your frustration. You feed your body the healthiest choices to improve your mind and body. You push your limits and exceed expectations Every. Single. Time. Everything in your nature says you should be just like him, but you are not. You are so much better than he or I could have ever imagined.
You are like lightning in a bottle, mesmerizing and fragile. Determined. Loyal. Empathetic. Truthful. Loving. Protective. Your intellect is superior. Your ability to grasp concepts that elude most is sheer brilliance. When you live your truth you always find your way away from the dark side. And that buddy, is what I cling to when I see you struggle.
It's no secret that we've had a tough time lately. Senior year is full of all kinds of crazy. Your bonus brother moved in this year, and moved back out. Your brother started college, and while you'll never admit it, I know you saw his struggle. He was ready for school, ready to move out, and yet you saw the transition, the struggle of being away, and somewhere in you, you know you will have to go through that too. Your relationship of the last 4 months didn't work out, and yet you managed to not circle the drain like the last time. It's proof that you can heal yourself by yourself, no matter how deep the wound. You're a captain on the wrestling team this year, ranked 13th in the state, and are currently 26/6 for the season. That's a lot of pressure to preform and still be an example to a team of 80+ kids. You're tough on the team so they will get better, and you have done an amazing job at developing the thick skin that you need to survive it. And despite the fact that the paper never gets your name right, that you were recognized incorrectly at the All Star banquet, and still don't have your name on the wall from last year's success, you still show up, determined to not let anyone count you out. You've been accepted to both your top choices of colleges, and now decisions need to be made. And still, with all this going on, you made straight A's last term, only missing it again by 1.6 points in honors Calculus. Seriously kid, you amaze us all.
Tomorrow we are venturing 3 hours away to your top choice of colleges. We will sit with guidance and determine your best pathway towards the career you want. I truly believe that not getting into their direct program, while disappointing, was the best for you. You can attend college and experience it all without the pressure of preforming in the direct program, while still getting all the benefits of one of the top programs in the state in your field. It will leave you open to pursue your masters anywhere, not just there. And it will allow you to study in the minor you want, opening you to so many more possibilities for employment. Their school mantra embraces the whole person and I know you will excel there, and with a 50 acre wildlife preserve off campus to get away from everything, I know you will have access to everything you need.
Except us.
Being 3 hours away, with no quick way home leaves it all on you buddy. You will have to recognize when your anxiety spikes, when you need a break, when you want to punch the wall but can't. You will have to seek out peer groups, professional therapy if you need it, and work out a regimen that keeps you healthy, mind, body, and soul. This is where I know you will be most at home, if you follow your truth, and build wisely on the foundation we've built together.
Your second choice of schools we will revisit in 2 weeks and meet with financial aid. They have given you double the aid they originally did when they accepted you in November, becasue they really want you there. You campus there is the city and all the adventure that it holds. The education is superior, your clinical classes can be done at the top hospitals, and the support that the school lacks can be compensated by the fact that several friends will be in the collegiate with you, including your brother. You are only 45 minutes away, easily accessible by train. This is what you're step dad wants for you. A support system in place, a quick trip home to see the dog, and a solid education with a direct pathway towards your career and Masters.
It's a lot for you, and in truth a lot for me. We have danced together for so long now it's hard to imagine that I'll have to find a new partner soon. But I have faith in you, and have to never count you down. And whatever choices you make, know that I will always be there in the back of the room, as you take the stage for the biggest and most amazing performance of your life. And if you ever forget the steps, or fall off the stage, know that I will be there ready to learn an entirely different dance for you.
XOXO
Mum
Once labor really got going it took 27 hours. TWENTY. SEVEN. I started progressing along and to ease pain I tried the whirlpool tub which apparently you loved, because once in the tub everything all but stopped completely. They tried medication to get it going again to no avail, and eventually broke my water. Which of course, you wanted no part of, so you sat on your umbilical cord. They had to artificially pump water back in to float you back up. At one point they thought you were in distress so they wheeled me into the C-section room, only to have you rebound to a healthy stat. The suddenly you weren't. Then you were. Then you weren't. Then you were. By the third time they stopped wheeling me in and out of the room and just gave in. And in the twenty-seventh hour you were born in the operating room, naturally, on your own terms.
Not a minute before, exactly the way YOU wanted to come into the world.
I had no idea that this would be the dance we would do for the next eighteen years.
And oh, what a dance it has been.
I'm a terrible dancer by the way, but we have learned together the hard way. Sometimes we came together like a beautiful waltz, you give a bit, I give a bit, gliding our way into the next adventure. Other times it's resembled a perfectly choreographed Irish line dance, abrupt and sharp, but coming together in the end leaving everyone speechless. But most often it's been like a mash up of classical and slash metal head banging, with a bit of crowd surfing and Macarena.
I always said God makes the tough ones cute so you don't kill them. And Lord help me if you weren't the cutest toddler ever, like Gerber baby cute. You truly were, and are, the best combination of myself and your father. You have his Italian looks, charisma, and compassion for the most unique of people. I know you don't remember a lot about him, and sadly there are not many people who can tell you good things. Having self medicated his bipolar and manic depression with alcohol and drugs since he was 12, it had left him a vague resemblance of the boy I met at 15, much less the father he aspired to be. Much of this had to do with the environment he was raised in, a stark contrast to how you were raised.
Nature vs Nurture. We have academically argued this for years, you and I. And while I hear your general option on it, you will never understand my view, because YOU my son are all the proof I need. Biologically you are half of your father, and yet, you've learned coping skills to handle your anger. You have safe outlets for your frustration. You feed your body the healthiest choices to improve your mind and body. You push your limits and exceed expectations Every. Single. Time. Everything in your nature says you should be just like him, but you are not. You are so much better than he or I could have ever imagined.
You are like lightning in a bottle, mesmerizing and fragile. Determined. Loyal. Empathetic. Truthful. Loving. Protective. Your intellect is superior. Your ability to grasp concepts that elude most is sheer brilliance. When you live your truth you always find your way away from the dark side. And that buddy, is what I cling to when I see you struggle.
It's no secret that we've had a tough time lately. Senior year is full of all kinds of crazy. Your bonus brother moved in this year, and moved back out. Your brother started college, and while you'll never admit it, I know you saw his struggle. He was ready for school, ready to move out, and yet you saw the transition, the struggle of being away, and somewhere in you, you know you will have to go through that too. Your relationship of the last 4 months didn't work out, and yet you managed to not circle the drain like the last time. It's proof that you can heal yourself by yourself, no matter how deep the wound. You're a captain on the wrestling team this year, ranked 13th in the state, and are currently 26/6 for the season. That's a lot of pressure to preform and still be an example to a team of 80+ kids. You're tough on the team so they will get better, and you have done an amazing job at developing the thick skin that you need to survive it. And despite the fact that the paper never gets your name right, that you were recognized incorrectly at the All Star banquet, and still don't have your name on the wall from last year's success, you still show up, determined to not let anyone count you out. You've been accepted to both your top choices of colleges, and now decisions need to be made. And still, with all this going on, you made straight A's last term, only missing it again by 1.6 points in honors Calculus. Seriously kid, you amaze us all.
Tomorrow we are venturing 3 hours away to your top choice of colleges. We will sit with guidance and determine your best pathway towards the career you want. I truly believe that not getting into their direct program, while disappointing, was the best for you. You can attend college and experience it all without the pressure of preforming in the direct program, while still getting all the benefits of one of the top programs in the state in your field. It will leave you open to pursue your masters anywhere, not just there. And it will allow you to study in the minor you want, opening you to so many more possibilities for employment. Their school mantra embraces the whole person and I know you will excel there, and with a 50 acre wildlife preserve off campus to get away from everything, I know you will have access to everything you need.
Except us.
Being 3 hours away, with no quick way home leaves it all on you buddy. You will have to recognize when your anxiety spikes, when you need a break, when you want to punch the wall but can't. You will have to seek out peer groups, professional therapy if you need it, and work out a regimen that keeps you healthy, mind, body, and soul. This is where I know you will be most at home, if you follow your truth, and build wisely on the foundation we've built together.
Your second choice of schools we will revisit in 2 weeks and meet with financial aid. They have given you double the aid they originally did when they accepted you in November, becasue they really want you there. You campus there is the city and all the adventure that it holds. The education is superior, your clinical classes can be done at the top hospitals, and the support that the school lacks can be compensated by the fact that several friends will be in the collegiate with you, including your brother. You are only 45 minutes away, easily accessible by train. This is what you're step dad wants for you. A support system in place, a quick trip home to see the dog, and a solid education with a direct pathway towards your career and Masters.
It's a lot for you, and in truth a lot for me. We have danced together for so long now it's hard to imagine that I'll have to find a new partner soon. But I have faith in you, and have to never count you down. And whatever choices you make, know that I will always be there in the back of the room, as you take the stage for the biggest and most amazing performance of your life. And if you ever forget the steps, or fall off the stage, know that I will be there ready to learn an entirely different dance for you.
XOXO
Mum
Friday, January 31, 2020
Call Me Ishmael...
Life's been heavy lately. A lot of things going on, many changes, lots of settling in. The weather has been that of early Spring, high 30's to low 50's, unheard of in January. So when it all gets to be too much, we've been walking.
Sunday we started the searching for a whale.
Literally.
One washed up on the beach months ago. Now more or less completely decomposed, it lays on the beach, a massive reminder of how small we really are on the food chain. The trick would be finding it. Ironic that something so huge could be hard to find.
And no matter the outcome, the day was perfect for it.
Vaguely remembering where it had been sighted last, we ventured about 15 minutes away down the path through the woods to this beach first. We headed right, because New England girls don't go north or south, we just take lefts at McDonald's and rights at Dunkin Donuts. The old girl is doing great off leash, and being a quiet Sunday morning, she had full run of the coastline.
She searched the beach, but the only interesting things to sniff were piles of swampy seaweed washed up from the prior night's storm. The trail was cold here, clearly, so I resorted to social media before venturing to the next location.
The next beach is part of a state park. There are clearly cut nature trails leading toward it, still easily navigated despite being overgrown from winter neglect. This beach was also devoid of people and dogs alike which made for more running and some great sniffing.
Sunday we started the searching for a whale.
Literally.
One washed up on the beach months ago. Now more or less completely decomposed, it lays on the beach, a massive reminder of how small we really are on the food chain. The trick would be finding it. Ironic that something so huge could be hard to find.
And no matter the outcome, the day was perfect for it.
And then we saw something way off in the distance...
A giant circle of oddly placed seaweed. Closer inspection found a giant pile of whale guts, nearly being washed out by the incoming tide, which the old girl deemed too smelly to investigate, but sadly no bones. The search would continue to another day when I was told of another sighting, even closer to the house. It seems the bones had been moved weeks earlier, taken to be cleaned so they could be displayed at some point in yet another location.
And as luck would have it, another gorgeous day of 40 degree temps coincided with a ridiculously early day at work, so the girl and I headed back out. This time to an old overgrown cranberry bog. With the industry failing, many of them have been turned into walking paths, allowing them to grow back into their natural state. Had we stayed on the paths we'd likely have missed it. But my girl is too adventurous for that...
From across the bog we could see an oddly shaped large pile of something. Whatever it was, it was big. That storage building is a massive a 2 story outbuilding for farm equiptemnet. The pile to the right clearly would need further investogation.
And we found them! We found our white whale (bones). Randomly stacked off to the side of the barn, they still had some of the carcass hanging from them, which when the wind caught it, made them exessively smelly. Too smelly for the princess who was more interested in running through the tall grass again. The head was massive, easily 15 feet long. The other bones are likely backbone or rib, I'm really not sure.
I hope to get back to writing soon, with fair warning that it could be heavy and vague, it needs to flow from my fingertips if I'm ever going to work through it. But for now, I'll take my breaks when I can get them, even if it means I have to hunt down my own whale.
Until then,
Ishmael
Sunday, January 19, 2020
And Then There Were Three...
I was in my car at 7 am this morning, loaded down with stuff, driving the main drag just as I have for the last three days, thinking for a kid that prides himself on his small footprint this is taking forever. A mile into the ride the radio breaks from commercial into Billy Joel's classic "Moving Out".
So ridiculously appropriate.
Well played universe. Well played.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Bonus Son told us he was moving into an apartment 2 years ago with some friends we were elated. It was time for him to be out on his own. A gigantic step long overdue.
I think it was about 3 months in when I had a feeling it wasn't going to end well. Just something about the whole situation, living with roommates that were engaged, just screamed instability to me. We decided to discuss options for when the lease was up. Renting even a one bedroom anywhere within a hour drive was way out of his price point. Sometimes you could find an in-law or a converted cottage on a month to month lease, but even that was risky and again, way out of his price point. The more we looked at the options, the more buying became the most solid option.
So last year in January, we started looking. We looked a A LOT of places. So many we had to name them all to keep them all straight. While many were simply named "Nope", others included:
The Christmas House.
The Gut Job
The Chickadee House
The Swan Pond Condo
The Neighborhood House
The Beach Cottages
(and everyone's favorite)
The Crime Scene Condo
And after each possibility we were out bid, late to the game, or it was just a few thousand out of reach. It began to feel like it may never happen. Over the months he continued to come back to one complex in town, which happens to be a few miles down the street. After looking at 7 units and making offers on three, it finally came down to one.
A small one bedroom apartment on the ground floor with lots of light (much to my intoverted vampire of a bonus son's dismay) in a quiet back building, that had been completely redone. New paint, new floors, new carpet. New sink and vanity in the bathroom, and appliancesso new in the kitchen, the cords and handles weren't even attached yet. It had been on the market 2 days.
He made an offer, they countered, and he took it. The offer included the seller paying closing costs, so it allowed him to put all of his money down on the purchase price, making his payment (including his HOA fee) about $400 less than the current market for one bedrooms. His HOA, we would later find out, covered trash, snow removal, landscaping, a fully comprehensive insurance policy of in and outside the unit, and heat and hot water which is unheard of around here. His only untility bills would be electric and internet.
The last 6 weeks have been a blur of finances, scanning documents, phone calls, late night emails, writing checks, and waiting. We had a plan for closing which of course all went out the window when he closed two days late. The storage unit was emptied on his original closing date and we had to drive around with his stuff in our cars for two extra days until the deal was done. The rest was packed into the garage. Because of the delay, he and I couldn't get the time off so moving has been done hours at a time, as productively as possible. The husband was able to get the unit painted. We talked him out of black walls and into a nice gray in the living room and a navy for the bedroom. Today was the last of it, all the furniture was moved in, placed generally where it was going, before bonus son headed off to work. We stayed behind and hung pictures, put away pots and pans, threw out trash. I stocked the kitchen with some staples so when he gets home tonight he can have a bowl of cereal or a PB &J.
The boxes are all still stacked in his closet. They contain stuff from every room in each box, (because how else would a 25 year old pack) so he really is the only one who can do it anyways. He's making progress in getting rid of things he has no use for as well, which is key for living in 800 square feet. But he's got to take his time with it and process it as he goes. Tonight he will sleep in his new "big boy bed" as we call it (seriouosly, you can't buy a condo and sleep in a twin size bed), and start his new life on his own.
The dog's a mess. Everyone's been in and out, stuff moving all around. Anxiety levels have been at an all time hight for weeks. In just 14 days we've gone from a house busting at the seams, full of activity, and people to sniff and get belly rubs from, to just the three of us now. He walk options are limited now, poor thing.
Just Me, Hubs, and Youngest.
And yet somehow, I still managed to spend $211 on groceries.
Sunday, January 5, 2020
It's All Coming To An End...
It was a weird weekend.
January, of course, is a full stop for me. The insanity of the 11 hour workdays with only 3 days off the whole month of December comes to a full stop, and suddenly I have time to breathe. So of course, when they were looking for a volunteer to train someone new, I raised my hand. It was somewhat selfish, really. January also found me at the doctor's office having my ribs x-rayed for fractures. I fell 2 weeks earlier delivering a package. Stupid really, I was on dry pavement but some ice was in the path and my boot hit it like a marble. As I laid there on the ground, like a turtle on it's back, wind knocked out of me, I thought "This is it. This is how it ends." But no, I assessed the damage, and continued to work for two more weeks straight. The good news, no fractures. Bad news is they are severely bruised, and they ordered me a 40 pound weight restriction for the next 2 weeks. Training someone means they can do the heavy lifting. It also means they are completely prepared for the job that lies ahead of them. And in an office with a 75% turn over rate, that's important. Because every person that stays means I am one more person closer to getting my days off.
Because my trainee was moving right along, I was able to leave the office at 2 on Saturday. I took Oldest to dinner and brought home take out for Hubs and Youngest who were returning home from another wrestling tournament. Youngest went 3-1. One of his wins was up a weight class, which is impressive since he's already a light 152. A rare night when everyone was in (except for Bonus who was working), we binged season 2 of YOU. So dark, creepy, and ridiculously good. Mid binge Youngest came upstairs and announced he had cleaned his room. Which meant we were three for three on the rooms getting cleaned this weekend. Don't be impressed. I think it had less to do with cleanliness and more to do with my threating note left on the bathroom mirror 3 days prior, saying if it wasn't done, I'd be doing it Sunday and no one wanted that. Stellar parenting, I know. I'll be accepting my award any day now.
Sunday we all went to breakfast. All five of us. It was yummy, the conversation involved multiple aspects of political views, completely inappropriate bathroom talk, and it was also the last time we'd all be around a table for a very long time. Bittersweet, yes, but it's for good things to come.
Once home I started slowly getting things out of the attic. An ongoing process of letting things go, I bagged up 3 bags for the thrift store. The attic, by the end of the month, will finally be empty. It's getting harder for me to navigate with the low eves, and the husband with all his 6'2" frame has never been able to get up there. What I do decide to keep is moving to the basement. In between bagging things up and the basics of the day we watched the final episodes of Game Of Thrones. Yes, the ending was spoiled for us a long time ago. It didn't matter. Another thing from the last decade had come to an end, just a bit later than we had planned.
I also fixed the paper towel holder that's been broken for most of December. The willy nilly-ness of the paper towel roll had been driving me crazy all month, but since I live in a house full of muscle heads who clearly feel the need to take out their aggression on the Bounty, it was not a simple fix. Two trips to the Depot found me finally with the right bolts and it's now affixed directly to the underside of the cabinet in the reverse direction. Fingers crossed.
Tomorrow morning I will head into work after squaring away some paperwork for Bonus, and the Husband will be bringing Oldest back to school to start his second semester. He's strategically scheduled his classes this term to incorporate more work study hours, sleeping in a bit, and (most important to him) better access to the gym. This semester he will likely not resurface here until February which is also bittersweet. I love the normalcy his return has brought. His brother, not that he'll ever admit it, has missed him. He has brought an evenness to the chaos. His absence, although wonderful for him, will be felt everyday here.
Monday will also be Youngest's first day back from vacation. Back to the grind of classes, practice, and wrestling both on the mat and with the drama plaguing him currently. He's struggling with his girlfriend of 4 months, which is never easy. Not that he says much, but when he does, all I can do is sympathize and tell him he'll know when he's invested more than he should. I am cautiously hoping he'll work through this in a healthier manner than he did his last serious girlfriend, and bracing for the storm if does hit home. It's a process we all have to learn. After all, all but one relationship ends, right? Breaking up is 99% inevitable.
I made chili for dinner tonight. We set the proverbial table for five for the last night in a while. Bonus of course, had Pop Tarts and root beer, because well, he's 25 and thinks he can eat like that forever. The rest of us ate at our respective spots on the couches and chairs, Youngest joining us in our Netflix binge when he got home from work.
It was a weird weekend of ends. The end of Holiday Season. The end of 2 binge worthy Netflix shows. The end of smelly bedrooms and attic messiness. The end of Oldest being home, of arguing of who needed to fill the car with gas, of relationships, of vacation, of willy-nilly-ness of Bounty paper towels. The end of our table for five.
And with every end, there will be beginnings, both large and small.
Its just going to take a bit to get used to our table for four.
January, of course, is a full stop for me. The insanity of the 11 hour workdays with only 3 days off the whole month of December comes to a full stop, and suddenly I have time to breathe. So of course, when they were looking for a volunteer to train someone new, I raised my hand. It was somewhat selfish, really. January also found me at the doctor's office having my ribs x-rayed for fractures. I fell 2 weeks earlier delivering a package. Stupid really, I was on dry pavement but some ice was in the path and my boot hit it like a marble. As I laid there on the ground, like a turtle on it's back, wind knocked out of me, I thought "This is it. This is how it ends." But no, I assessed the damage, and continued to work for two more weeks straight. The good news, no fractures. Bad news is they are severely bruised, and they ordered me a 40 pound weight restriction for the next 2 weeks. Training someone means they can do the heavy lifting. It also means they are completely prepared for the job that lies ahead of them. And in an office with a 75% turn over rate, that's important. Because every person that stays means I am one more person closer to getting my days off.
Because my trainee was moving right along, I was able to leave the office at 2 on Saturday. I took Oldest to dinner and brought home take out for Hubs and Youngest who were returning home from another wrestling tournament. Youngest went 3-1. One of his wins was up a weight class, which is impressive since he's already a light 152. A rare night when everyone was in (except for Bonus who was working), we binged season 2 of YOU. So dark, creepy, and ridiculously good. Mid binge Youngest came upstairs and announced he had cleaned his room. Which meant we were three for three on the rooms getting cleaned this weekend. Don't be impressed. I think it had less to do with cleanliness and more to do with my threating note left on the bathroom mirror 3 days prior, saying if it wasn't done, I'd be doing it Sunday and no one wanted that. Stellar parenting, I know. I'll be accepting my award any day now.
Sunday we all went to breakfast. All five of us. It was yummy, the conversation involved multiple aspects of political views, completely inappropriate bathroom talk, and it was also the last time we'd all be around a table for a very long time. Bittersweet, yes, but it's for good things to come.
Once home I started slowly getting things out of the attic. An ongoing process of letting things go, I bagged up 3 bags for the thrift store. The attic, by the end of the month, will finally be empty. It's getting harder for me to navigate with the low eves, and the husband with all his 6'2" frame has never been able to get up there. What I do decide to keep is moving to the basement. In between bagging things up and the basics of the day we watched the final episodes of Game Of Thrones. Yes, the ending was spoiled for us a long time ago. It didn't matter. Another thing from the last decade had come to an end, just a bit later than we had planned.
I also fixed the paper towel holder that's been broken for most of December. The willy nilly-ness of the paper towel roll had been driving me crazy all month, but since I live in a house full of muscle heads who clearly feel the need to take out their aggression on the Bounty, it was not a simple fix. Two trips to the Depot found me finally with the right bolts and it's now affixed directly to the underside of the cabinet in the reverse direction. Fingers crossed.
Tomorrow morning I will head into work after squaring away some paperwork for Bonus, and the Husband will be bringing Oldest back to school to start his second semester. He's strategically scheduled his classes this term to incorporate more work study hours, sleeping in a bit, and (most important to him) better access to the gym. This semester he will likely not resurface here until February which is also bittersweet. I love the normalcy his return has brought. His brother, not that he'll ever admit it, has missed him. He has brought an evenness to the chaos. His absence, although wonderful for him, will be felt everyday here.
Monday will also be Youngest's first day back from vacation. Back to the grind of classes, practice, and wrestling both on the mat and with the drama plaguing him currently. He's struggling with his girlfriend of 4 months, which is never easy. Not that he says much, but when he does, all I can do is sympathize and tell him he'll know when he's invested more than he should. I am cautiously hoping he'll work through this in a healthier manner than he did his last serious girlfriend, and bracing for the storm if does hit home. It's a process we all have to learn. After all, all but one relationship ends, right? Breaking up is 99% inevitable.
I made chili for dinner tonight. We set the proverbial table for five for the last night in a while. Bonus of course, had Pop Tarts and root beer, because well, he's 25 and thinks he can eat like that forever. The rest of us ate at our respective spots on the couches and chairs, Youngest joining us in our Netflix binge when he got home from work.
It was a weird weekend of ends. The end of Holiday Season. The end of 2 binge worthy Netflix shows. The end of smelly bedrooms and attic messiness. The end of Oldest being home, of arguing of who needed to fill the car with gas, of relationships, of vacation, of willy-nilly-ness of Bounty paper towels. The end of our table for five.
And with every end, there will be beginnings, both large and small.
Its just going to take a bit to get used to our table for four.
Wednesday, January 1, 2020
Resolutions...
New year, new decade. *Eh*
I'm not one for resolutions. I am of the mind that if you don't like something you change it. If you can't change it, you change your attitude about it. I am not as fit as I'd like to be, but I've learned to accept that I have lived my life, and that comes with stretch marks, squishiness, and huggabilty. I could go to the gym, the boys use our memberships regularly, but they are packed full right now and I hate sit ups. By accepting that I don't want to put in the work, I can therefore embrace the jiggle. Sure I could eat healthier, but cutting carbs and sugar usually makes me crazy and I can't be starting the decade out stabbing someone with a fork.
"Accept The Things You Can Not Change" -Neibuhr
I'm not one for resolutions. I am of the mind that if you don't like something you change it. If you can't change it, you change your attitude about it. I am not as fit as I'd like to be, but I've learned to accept that I have lived my life, and that comes with stretch marks, squishiness, and huggabilty. I could go to the gym, the boys use our memberships regularly, but they are packed full right now and I hate sit ups. By accepting that I don't want to put in the work, I can therefore embrace the jiggle. Sure I could eat healthier, but cutting carbs and sugar usually makes me crazy and I can't be starting the decade out stabbing someone with a fork.
"Let go or be dragged" -K. McCreight
I am not however immune to analyzing my life like we all do this time of year. Last year it became apparent that unlike the rest of the middle aged world, my diverticulitis was triggered not by food, but by stress. I laughed at the doctor when he said "You are going to have to eliminate the stress in your life." Seriously. What kind of medical advice is that? Stress for anyone is inevitable. Stress, in a house full of boys, is as unavoidable as fart jokes. Nevertheless, I took a hard line on many things this past year. I let go and trusted Oldest to do the right things with his free time. After a small (mostly) private breakdown, I held Bonus Son more accountable for his 6 month *rent-a-room* in the basement of the house, and let go of my pipe dream expectations of how it would be when he came to live with us. And, I all but ignored Youngest's antics until it became HUGELY apparent he still needed a mother to guide him through this section of his life, or threaten to take him out if it. Whatever. In the end, I have only had a few flairs, none of which I needed to be hospitalized for.
"The house won't fall when the bones are good"-Marin Morris
There was a moment last month that while making dinner, we realized the house was empty except for the husband, myself, and the dog. Funny how that happens. You wait years for some peace and quiet, maybe even lock yourself in the bathroom for it, and when it comes it's, for lack of a better word, uncomfortable. While not exactly empty nesting, because they will be back and forth for the next 5 years or so, things will be very different. We have never been a married couple without kids. We never had a honey moon phase, or had a story of just us. And while our foundation is good, it goes without saying that when you've spent the last 16 years of your lives with the distraction of kids staring at each other day in and day out can be, well, daunting. So of course, we got a dog.
Need a break? Walk the dog.
Want a distraction? Pat the dog.
Arguing over the kids a wee bit too loud? Dog will interrupt like an obnoxious toddler.
The dog, friends, single handedly saved out marriage over the last year. She offerd us a distraction, a reason to communicate that didn't involve crtitical analyzis of parenting skills, and a reason to get out into the fresh air, sometimes together, sometimes alone.
"We're not broken, just bent, and can learn to love again" -Pink
But if I look at that moment, and the moments in between, it has come to light this year that I do need to make a change. We have fallen into the routines, the doldrum of everyday life, sometimes passing the leash off as our ships pass in the night. So this year I've decided that before the scilence and monotony breaks us, I will work a little each day on writing my side of the story of us.
I will hold his hand.
Kiss him at least once a day.
Ask for help instead of being resentful.
Hold him accountable for his part on this team.
Maybe, listen to his incessant political rambling, maybe.
This year I will resolve to be more.
More of a wife.
More of a partner.
More of US.
More of myself.
Saturday, December 28, 2019
Wrestling Saved Him...
Long before my kids were born, I worked part time at a facility for kids, ages 6-11. It was, for lack of better terms, the last stop for them. The histories of these kids were horrific, The physical and psychological abuse they sustained was unimaginable. The good news was that this center had a 90% rehabilitation rate, their success was the combination of caring invested professionals and their ability to get the kids care before the critical ages when the damage becomes completely irreversible.
Just part time, I aided the kids in basic day to day activities, provided a watchful eye, and hung out with them. Along with the federal CORI checks and such, I was also trained in CPR and restraints. Thankfully I never had to use any of it, but I felt confident I could if I had to, to keep myself, the child, and the other children safe.
Fast forward 8 years or so and I found myself using that training on a nearly daily basis. Youngest's anxiety spiked so often and uncontrollably that I often had to restrain him and I was thankful that I knew how to properly hold him until the situation would diffuse. Over the years we tried many, many ways of snuffing his fuse.
Quiet spaces.
Hoodies.
Talking.
Medications.
Safe destructible rooms.
Reading.
Behavioral therapy.
Rewards.
Consequences.
Karate.
Multiple Therapists.
Scouts.
Psychological testing.
Running.
The list is endless really. As the years when on we figured out what worked, and what didn't. Most importantly, he figured out what worked, and the switch that was the uncontrollable aggression, was able to be switched off. He was making progress, slow and steady progress.
It wasn't long into his freshman year when he came home and announced he was joining the wrestling team. Seriously, of all the sports on the planet, he picked the one sport my husband knew virtually nothing about. He would be one of 80 kids on the team, with only 14 spots available for regular wrestling, and honestly I figured it wouldn't last. He'd go for the work out, but likely never wrestle. And I'd not have to worry that the switch we worked so hard to keep off would flip back on.
I. Was. Wrong.
Turns out, the coach saw potential in him. He put him on the back up starter line. He wrestled JV. And when he took the mat the first time, literally blind from the head gear getting pulled over his face, my stomach sank as I sat and waited. I waited for the anger, the blind rage, the blood and bones to fly. Instead, he flipped and pinned his opponent, literally blindfolded. Then, he got up, shook his hand, and he walked off the mat.
I was so proud of him then. I was even prouder when the season pressed on when he didn't win, and still, no tinge of anger. He continued to train in the off season. It wasn't always easy but it kept him focused and gave him a goal to work towards.
As the years have gone on I have watched him grow as a wrestler and as a person. During Sophomore year I was watching him goof around with some of his friends after school. Aggressively joking as bratty boys do, one of them decided to get physical and throw a punch to his lower regions. As if on instinct, he grabbed his fist before it made contact, twisted his arm and took him to the floor without hitting his head. He neutralized the situation and turned the tables on his friend without anyone getting hurt or embarrassed. It was a work of art actually.
Junior year he began focusing on the nutritional part of making weight. He got very interested in how the muscles worked in conjunction with food, and suddenly he knew what he wanted to do with his life. Senior year has been spent heavy into the academic sciences, and he's applied to his top 2 colleges for PT with a minor in nutrition, one of which he's already been accepted to. He told me then that "Wrestling saved him". Upon pressing further he felt it was wrestling that gave him the confidence to believe in himself, to push himself, and to be himself, regardless of the end result. Win or lose, he had only himself to hold accountable.
The end of Junior year was difficult. He had been working through multiple injuries, milking them along to make it to the end of season and because he kept qualifying, his season seemed to drag out forever. He pushed through and finished 2nd place in the regional division, and 6th place in the State Division. Shortly after season ended he went through a very messy break up with his first real girlfriend. There were many ups and downs, poor choices, and heightened anxiety. He continued to train, but the call of teenage social demands dragged him in and he got way off course. Injuries became worse and he had to stop training for 6 weeks right before season ended to rehab. As season approached, anxiety ran high, and for the first time I started to see traces of that little boy I used to basket hold on the floor.
Today marks roughly the fourth week into his Senior season. He's a starter. A captain. And most important, is back on track. The first tournament of the year he placed 2nd in the 152. While his record isn't perfect, he's wrestling strong. Today he finished 7th at two day tournament that last year he washed out in the first two matches.
Seventh out of 32 teams. Each match was challenging in it's own right. He was focused, strong, and confident. His current girlfriend only attends after his matches or quietly in the back so as not to distract him. Win or lose, he is often found after a match sitting with his opponent, having a snack, discussing the match and techniques. He leads by example with his nutrition, training, and sportsmanship. He offers no sympathy to those who don't want to work, and props to those willing to work hard and try even when they are defeated.
After four years I can tell you wrestling is the most disgusting sport there is. It's full contact, sweaty, and physical. He has dislocated fingers, popped shoulders, an elbow and ankles. He has possibly broken his nose. We are pretty sure he's been concussed. There's permanent scars from mat burn. He's had ring worm so many times the oral script is on stand by at the doctor's office. We disinfect everything in the house with laundry sanitizer and stock Hibiclens year round. Our ENT is on standby for cauliflower drainage.
And yet, it saved him.
Wrestling gives him the confidence to stand alone, at the center of everyone's attention, IN. HIS. UNDERWEAR, and have his every move dissected and analyzed until the 6 minutes are up.
Every time he takes the mat it makes me believe that if he can do that, he will be able to do anything.
It saved him.
And the confidence and lessons it has given him, will undoubtedly save him for life.
Just part time, I aided the kids in basic day to day activities, provided a watchful eye, and hung out with them. Along with the federal CORI checks and such, I was also trained in CPR and restraints. Thankfully I never had to use any of it, but I felt confident I could if I had to, to keep myself, the child, and the other children safe.
Fast forward 8 years or so and I found myself using that training on a nearly daily basis. Youngest's anxiety spiked so often and uncontrollably that I often had to restrain him and I was thankful that I knew how to properly hold him until the situation would diffuse. Over the years we tried many, many ways of snuffing his fuse.
Quiet spaces.
Hoodies.
Talking.
Medications.
Safe destructible rooms.
Reading.
Behavioral therapy.
Rewards.
Consequences.
Karate.
Multiple Therapists.
Scouts.
Psychological testing.
Running.
The list is endless really. As the years when on we figured out what worked, and what didn't. Most importantly, he figured out what worked, and the switch that was the uncontrollable aggression, was able to be switched off. He was making progress, slow and steady progress.
It wasn't long into his freshman year when he came home and announced he was joining the wrestling team. Seriously, of all the sports on the planet, he picked the one sport my husband knew virtually nothing about. He would be one of 80 kids on the team, with only 14 spots available for regular wrestling, and honestly I figured it wouldn't last. He'd go for the work out, but likely never wrestle. And I'd not have to worry that the switch we worked so hard to keep off would flip back on.
I. Was. Wrong.
Turns out, the coach saw potential in him. He put him on the back up starter line. He wrestled JV. And when he took the mat the first time, literally blind from the head gear getting pulled over his face, my stomach sank as I sat and waited. I waited for the anger, the blind rage, the blood and bones to fly. Instead, he flipped and pinned his opponent, literally blindfolded. Then, he got up, shook his hand, and he walked off the mat.
I was so proud of him then. I was even prouder when the season pressed on when he didn't win, and still, no tinge of anger. He continued to train in the off season. It wasn't always easy but it kept him focused and gave him a goal to work towards.
As the years have gone on I have watched him grow as a wrestler and as a person. During Sophomore year I was watching him goof around with some of his friends after school. Aggressively joking as bratty boys do, one of them decided to get physical and throw a punch to his lower regions. As if on instinct, he grabbed his fist before it made contact, twisted his arm and took him to the floor without hitting his head. He neutralized the situation and turned the tables on his friend without anyone getting hurt or embarrassed. It was a work of art actually.
Junior year he began focusing on the nutritional part of making weight. He got very interested in how the muscles worked in conjunction with food, and suddenly he knew what he wanted to do with his life. Senior year has been spent heavy into the academic sciences, and he's applied to his top 2 colleges for PT with a minor in nutrition, one of which he's already been accepted to. He told me then that "Wrestling saved him". Upon pressing further he felt it was wrestling that gave him the confidence to believe in himself, to push himself, and to be himself, regardless of the end result. Win or lose, he had only himself to hold accountable.
The end of Junior year was difficult. He had been working through multiple injuries, milking them along to make it to the end of season and because he kept qualifying, his season seemed to drag out forever. He pushed through and finished 2nd place in the regional division, and 6th place in the State Division. Shortly after season ended he went through a very messy break up with his first real girlfriend. There were many ups and downs, poor choices, and heightened anxiety. He continued to train, but the call of teenage social demands dragged him in and he got way off course. Injuries became worse and he had to stop training for 6 weeks right before season ended to rehab. As season approached, anxiety ran high, and for the first time I started to see traces of that little boy I used to basket hold on the floor.
Today marks roughly the fourth week into his Senior season. He's a starter. A captain. And most important, is back on track. The first tournament of the year he placed 2nd in the 152. While his record isn't perfect, he's wrestling strong. Today he finished 7th at two day tournament that last year he washed out in the first two matches.
Seventh out of 32 teams. Each match was challenging in it's own right. He was focused, strong, and confident. His current girlfriend only attends after his matches or quietly in the back so as not to distract him. Win or lose, he is often found after a match sitting with his opponent, having a snack, discussing the match and techniques. He leads by example with his nutrition, training, and sportsmanship. He offers no sympathy to those who don't want to work, and props to those willing to work hard and try even when they are defeated.
After four years I can tell you wrestling is the most disgusting sport there is. It's full contact, sweaty, and physical. He has dislocated fingers, popped shoulders, an elbow and ankles. He has possibly broken his nose. We are pretty sure he's been concussed. There's permanent scars from mat burn. He's had ring worm so many times the oral script is on stand by at the doctor's office. We disinfect everything in the house with laundry sanitizer and stock Hibiclens year round. Our ENT is on standby for cauliflower drainage.
And yet, it saved him.
Wrestling gives him the confidence to stand alone, at the center of everyone's attention, IN. HIS. UNDERWEAR, and have his every move dissected and analyzed until the 6 minutes are up.
Every time he takes the mat it makes me believe that if he can do that, he will be able to do anything.
It saved him.
And the confidence and lessons it has given him, will undoubtedly save him for life.
Thursday, December 5, 2019
Boys Matter Too...
The relationship between a mother and her sons are different than a mother and her daughters.
They just are.
Just like each relationship with each son or daughter is different.
I have all sons. Each relationship is different, special, and complicated in it's own way.
I'm a crafty person. I am also a dork. At times, I am the queen of dorky and it overlaps with my creative craftiness, which sometimes overflows into my Mom-ish-ness. The end result is usually a crafty gift of uniqueness that the boys either embrace fully, or accept and then promptly put it in the back of a closet where it will never be seen again.
It's no secret that Oldest's being away at college has left it's mark. When he was returning to school from Thanksgiving break he said "You know it's weird. When I left school on Wednesday I was sad to go home. And now that I'm headed back, I'm sad to leave home." Which, of course, is the perfect balance, right? He's doing well at school, and has made a home there for himself. But he still likes coming back to his big bed and handknitted blanket I made him during one of my hospital stays. The only thing he likes better than asking me if we have a dinner plan, is when I make him angel hair pasta, lightly buttered, and he can eat it in front of the TV.
Over the months I have sent him a few packages. Some have held necessities like his ADHD meds and his SS card so he could square away his work study job, and other times it's just for fun. I've sent random snacks and dollar store toys. For Halloween I sent crime scene tape along with a plastic pumpkin full of his favorite candy. For his birthday I sent him an Office themed birthday party in a box. Every time I've visited I'm amazed that none of the other parents seem to send anything to their sons. Regardless, I have continued to send him things so he knows we are thinking of him. So, for the holidays, while it seems fun to set up a Christmas tree in the dorm, the reality is that there isn't a ton of space and he has NINE other roommates which makes it less than practical for the 12 whole days he's there before he'd be coming back home. So I made him an advent calendar instead from the grapevine out back. A 20 inch wreath with ribbons and ornaments, and a chalkboard hand written sign that states "I'll Be Home For Christmas".
Is it dorky? Yes. My husband looked at me as he was packing the truck to bring him back and said "He's not taking that. It's ridiculous." Oldest looked right at him and said "But she made it for me."
And so it went back to the dorm with him.
I have no idea if it was hung up.
I do know that everyday I have gotten a text of what was in each ornament.
Day one he got excited about the Target gift card he discovered. Then he sent me a picture of ornament #2 where he could barely make out the Kit Kat logo behind the tissue paper.
I told him not to cheat.
Day 3... a shareable size M&Ms.
Today he told me he had played with Day 5's yo-yo for over 30 minutes already. I told him it was good for stress relief. He laughed.
My relationship with him is different than that of his brother. Youngest will not embrace my dorkiness as readily as Oldest. He's more of the shove it in back of the closet kid.
But I know, deep down, when he goes off in September, he'll be waiting for his packages in the mail too. And secretly loving the surprise behind each door as he counts down when he'll be home for Christmas.
Because deep down, even the manly, macho, too cool for feelings, boys need to know that they are missed. No matter how much they brush it off, and say they don't care, they need to feel like they matter.
Seven days and counting...
They just are.
Just like each relationship with each son or daughter is different.
I have all sons. Each relationship is different, special, and complicated in it's own way.
I'm a crafty person. I am also a dork. At times, I am the queen of dorky and it overlaps with my creative craftiness, which sometimes overflows into my Mom-ish-ness. The end result is usually a crafty gift of uniqueness that the boys either embrace fully, or accept and then promptly put it in the back of a closet where it will never be seen again.
It's no secret that Oldest's being away at college has left it's mark. When he was returning to school from Thanksgiving break he said "You know it's weird. When I left school on Wednesday I was sad to go home. And now that I'm headed back, I'm sad to leave home." Which, of course, is the perfect balance, right? He's doing well at school, and has made a home there for himself. But he still likes coming back to his big bed and handknitted blanket I made him during one of my hospital stays. The only thing he likes better than asking me if we have a dinner plan, is when I make him angel hair pasta, lightly buttered, and he can eat it in front of the TV.
Over the months I have sent him a few packages. Some have held necessities like his ADHD meds and his SS card so he could square away his work study job, and other times it's just for fun. I've sent random snacks and dollar store toys. For Halloween I sent crime scene tape along with a plastic pumpkin full of his favorite candy. For his birthday I sent him an Office themed birthday party in a box. Every time I've visited I'm amazed that none of the other parents seem to send anything to their sons. Regardless, I have continued to send him things so he knows we are thinking of him. So, for the holidays, while it seems fun to set up a Christmas tree in the dorm, the reality is that there isn't a ton of space and he has NINE other roommates which makes it less than practical for the 12 whole days he's there before he'd be coming back home. So I made him an advent calendar instead from the grapevine out back. A 20 inch wreath with ribbons and ornaments, and a chalkboard hand written sign that states "I'll Be Home For Christmas".
Is it dorky? Yes. My husband looked at me as he was packing the truck to bring him back and said "He's not taking that. It's ridiculous." Oldest looked right at him and said "But she made it for me."
And so it went back to the dorm with him.
I have no idea if it was hung up.
I do know that everyday I have gotten a text of what was in each ornament.
Day one he got excited about the Target gift card he discovered. Then he sent me a picture of ornament #2 where he could barely make out the Kit Kat logo behind the tissue paper.
I told him not to cheat.
Day 3... a shareable size M&Ms.
Today he told me he had played with Day 5's yo-yo for over 30 minutes already. I told him it was good for stress relief. He laughed.
My relationship with him is different than that of his brother. Youngest will not embrace my dorkiness as readily as Oldest. He's more of the shove it in back of the closet kid.
But I know, deep down, when he goes off in September, he'll be waiting for his packages in the mail too. And secretly loving the surprise behind each door as he counts down when he'll be home for Christmas.
Because deep down, even the manly, macho, too cool for feelings, boys need to know that they are missed. No matter how much they brush it off, and say they don't care, they need to feel like they matter.
Seven days and counting...
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