What Does It Matter?

They called off schools here for the rest of the year. Youngest is a Senior this year. 

And despite the fact that he seems to know it all, he doesn't in fact know, what he doesn't know.  So he is not remiss that he will not have a signed yearbook, or a traditional graduation. Even if it is allowed, it will likely be delayed way off into the summer and have multiple layers of restrictions. His championship wrestling jacket, All Star Certificate and T-shirt, scholarships, and athletic awards will all be handed out in a big pile, at a set appointment, with no special recognition to it.  Just a big pile of stuff.  He will not see his name engraved on the Wrestling Wall Of Fame within the school. He will not be presented with his captain pin, his Eagle Cords, or his parade through his elementary school. Yet, none of that stuff matters to him.  

Online schooling has been an ongoing challenge.   Grades close on Friday for 3rd term. Hopefully they will be a combination of the grades already earned and the pass/fail of the last 3 weeks.  I suspect they will roll out how 4th term will be handled this week, as some local school have already called the Seniors done. We will have to wait and see. We fight a lot about his lack of ambition regarding high school. The Senior Slide is real here folks. I am fearful he will lose his merit based scholarships if he slacks too much.  He tells me not to worry about it, that none of the busy work they are assigning matters.

His time management skills are horrendous, and we fight about that too. He breaks curfew, which he still has at 18, because we have rules here. There are rules everywhere, he just has to live with that. He snuck out the other night. I caught him. He came right home. It's not what he's actually doing, but that he's being deceitful. And while this may be small stuff for some, it is big stuff for me. He insists that he wants to live here, but if his actions don't match his words, none of that matters.

He's started back on his medication so at least the fights have been more civil.  His anger is more rational, and the lows do not make me think we should check him into a hospital. His behavior, mannerisms, and words are reminiscent of his father which is hard for me, and I have to walk away. He works hard to not be like him, and yet before he decided to go back to his medication, he was more and more like him everyday. Like a biological trait that can't be suppressed. His choices concern me, and at times make me furious. But they are his choices to make not mine, and his consequences to endure. If he fails, he fails.  If he needs to live somewhere else, he will.  

Choices. Actions. Changes. Consequences. Matter.

And yet, deep down, he's still Youngest.  The kid that likes stuffed animals, weighted blankets, and Mom cooked dinner.  I stumbled on a clearance Easter llama for $1.24.  I brought it home after a particularly difficult span of days with him.  I wrote him a little note and left it on the tag. Last night as we were *discussing* his sneaking out I noticed something on his corkboard.  Among his awards, Spartan medals, and pictures of things he loves, was the blue sticky note. He had stuck it there, among the things he holds important.

"Sometimes you just need to be reminded that you matter. And you matter to all of us."

Because no matter how bad it's gotten, or how many questionable choices he makes.  We're still a family, and that still matters.

Today...

Today was a rough day. Nothing exceptional to speak of that made it that way, aside from waking up to three inches of slushy snow in mid April, but rough nonetheless.

Truth is, I'm tired.  I'm tired of hearing about how horrible it is for some to be stuck  in the house, when sometimes that's all I wish I could do.  I'm tired of feeling like I shouldn't go anywhere besides work, and yet grateful that I have a paycheck coming in when so many others do not.  I'm tired of fighting with my son to do the right thing, when truthfully all he's doing now a days it what I'm doing... going to work. I'm tired of seeing face book photos of people being applauded and supported for drinking wine at 9 am so they can make it through the day, and then not understanding when their kids just need a break from isolation.

I'm tired of following lines on the floor of the grocery store and having to apologize when I can't get it right.  My mind just doesn't work that way.  I hate wearing a mask 8 hours a day.  Wearing it in the office, out of the office, in the mail truck, alone, not alone, tight, not tight, fogging up the glasses, wearing contacts, not wearing contacts because I'm touching my eyes. Wear gloves, don't wear gloves, run out of gloves, can you get more of those black gloves? It's exhausting. I'm tired of having to accommodate everyone's fears, real or not, and listening and supporting everyone's political ideas, irrational or not. Open the country, don't open the states, flood the beaches with people, and fight for your second amendments.  What. The. Actual. Heck?

I'm tired of the judgement.

Did you sanitize?
Where are your gloves?
Did you wash that?
Who were you with?
Why are you talking?
Are you 6 feet apart?
Is that essential?
Are YOU essential?
Why the F is there no toilet paper?
Who possibly poops that much?
We need more toilet paper.
Who stole my Lysol wipes?
Did they sanitize it before they stole it?

It's a deep, dark, rabbit hole. And I am hanging on for dear life today half way down it.

Worst game of cooties ever.

April 13th

"I didn't see anyone today."

"Excellent.  You saved a life"

Of course, if I had to count how many days since this all started that Youngest didn't see anyone with exception of work, that one day would be it. The daily struggle is very real.  And while he slowly gets it, he is uneducated about things, in denial, fiercely fighting the man. Yet, everyday I chip away.  I throw in random facts. 

Only 4 deaths in our county today.  Yesterday we had 11.

The rate of cases is going up, down, etc. I am comparing us to this other county, they have roughly 30% more  people but are spread over nearly twice the land area.  But their demographics are the same. I've graphed our information against ours, look at what's happening.

I'm dropping 70 masks at your old therapist's office so they can be safe while seeing clients. They can't get masks because they've never needed them before.  So they have no resources at all.

The death rate is actually higher than 2%.  Italy only has a 55% recovery rate.

The young will be the next wave.  All the vaping, they will be the next demographic.  They are starting to link the damage to the lungs with excessive vulnerability.

Some of it sinks in.  Much of it doesn't.  He is still seeing an occasional friend, unable to sit bored in the house.  There have been many fights.  I have grounded him from the car again. His brother and I had to stage an intervention for his behavior a few nights ago.  He's agreed to be more truthful.  Get rid of some of the old demons he still has lurking in his bedroom as proof he's done with that.  Work on better communication with his family, to try and restore the damage that's been done. Did it help?  Time will tell. 

Until then he is working 40 hours a week.  He has picked up a job picking and delivering groceries for people too scared to leave the house. He wears the mask I made him at work, while shopping, and while delivering the groceries. I know, because I spy on him. He is researching and buying stocks while the market is down. Nearly all of the money, he has assured me, is being saved for college.  Again, only time will tell.

And then of course, there's his school work.  Not an online learner he is struggling.  New learning has started.  Classwork is mandatory.  He has logins and assignments for every class including gym. He is frustrated, but of course can't communicate that.  I get daily emails from his teachers, councilors, and vice principals.  Comments written in frustration that have gone askew provoking more emails. He is frustrated, hell, everyone is.  His brother has agreed to help him when he gets stuck in pre-calculous.  Details on the advanced placement tests are out, and they are only being help accountable for information taught until March.  His college plans were made long before this, so there are no virtual tours, no colleges to decide on sight unseen. And while he may miss out on incoming orientation traditions, that still is a long way off. A longer way off than graduation, which he claims not to care about, but I suspect, secretly does.

I go to work everyday, as does my husband.  Bonus brother does as well, and aside from our knock on his condo window as a well being check, we have not seen him. His brother struggles through remote learning 4-6 hours a day, playing video games loudly in the off hours. The husband complains about the lack of protection from work, the stupidity of people coming in for one stamp.

I make fabric masks,  350 to date.  I sit and sew when I am not working.  The boys see this. It's impossible to not hear the clickity clack of the machine chugging away. It keeps me busy, gives me something to control.  But even in that I feel the range of emotion.  Happy I can help.  Useful.  Angry that I have to do it in the first place. Fearful that we will need them for far longer than I can make them. 

It's all so,  Unprecedented. Uncertain. Unstable.  Unknowing.

And it's making raising my last teen, getting him ready for college, nearly impossible.

Today's Mood:

The emotions are certainly all over the place for most of us, and I am no different.

Grateful that we are "essential employees" and will have paychecks coming in.  Many, MANY aren't so lucky.

Fearful that we are "essential employees" because with 3 auto immune diseases and Hub's health also compromised, we are more susceptible.

Helpful because I can sew, and have sewn 104 masks for support staff at our local hospitals, and furious that I even have to do this because of the lack of supplies.

Proud that I can bring medication, food staples, paper products, etc. to those that truly need it, and frustrated that everyone still comes to the mail box to greet me and I have to remind them of the 6 feet rule.

Comforted that Oldest get it, is staying home, engrossed in 5 hours of school work a day, video conferences with friends and the occasional 15  minute outing to the grocery store or bank ATM.

But today, it's depression.  Because despite the warnings, gentle nudging, the yelling, Youngest isn't getting it.  He's been grounded from the car because we can't trust where he's going. We've been to family therapy, it's not helping.  And while he's not as stupid as to be hanging out in large groups, he's still hanging out with his girlfriend and one or two friends. His friend that comes over to work out lives a street over.  They wash down the equipment and wear gloves. He doesn't come in the house. His girlfriend was in Florida for a bit, I'm sure NOT practicing social distancing, and came back.  She was at the house hours later, and of course I had no idea she was here until I got home from work.  At that point whatever cooties she was carting were all over the house. It's been nearly a week since he saw his other friend, which is great because if either of them were sick we'd know by now, but no... he had to make plans to see her today, spreading his cooties as well as the cooties of his girlfriend along with him. He's 18 and I'm out of ideas on how to handle this. He goes to work and argues his points of contact there are way worse than one or two friends. It's like we're all in kindergarten and lost ten minutes of recess, but there's that one kid that keeps acting like a little sh!t and extending the penalty time.

My kid is that kid.

I feel like I've failed as a mother.  I KNOW I raised him better than this. He used to care about others, but now I wonder.  "I think you're overthinking this" is all I get.  I'm not overthinking, it's math.  Basic MATH. It's one thing for us to go to work, where we can calculate the risks, mitigate the hazards as best we can.  But adding extra factors in, that's just stupid.

We are all bored.  (Well, not me, home is my favorite place to be, I can always find a project) We ALL want to hang out. But we CAN'T.  We. Just. Can't.

I ran basic numbers, compared our state to Italy based off population percentages.  Folks, we are 1,600 confirmed cases OVER where Italy was when they did their mandated stay in place. And we are still at a soft lock down here. And this is just our state.  Our state that has hundreds of people coming into it to "vacation" in their summer homes while they quarantine. Our state that can barely handle the residents we have here full time, let alone vacationers.

The feeling that we are doomed is overwhelming today.

And yet, our house has to carry on as if nothing's happening. 

And even worse, our house is carrying on with one person doesn't think anything's happening.

To Quarentine Or Not, That Is The Question...

The thing about the Coronavirus is that we will never know if we overreacted, but if we stand by and do nothing we will know immediately how bad it could be. They closed all of the Colleges here so of course, Oldest is home.  His school will go to remote learning on Wednesday for the remaining 3 weeks of classes.  He learns best in a classroom so it will be a learning curve for sure.

The public schools also closed here, which means Youngest will also be home for at least 2 weeks. I suspect it will be longer.  He will also have to log into his Google classroom account to finish his assignments, which truthfully will take him all of an hour to blow through. He has picked up hours at work as many of the daytime staff can't work now because they have small children home. It works for him, and it keeps him busy which works for me.  It doesn't however, allow him social distancing, which is what everyone is debating on social media now.

When the State declares the shutdown of schools to stop the spread of the virus the idea is that those kids will stay home and ideally their parents as well. Which, to be honest, just won't happen unless you close down everything else.  Being Saturday, technically we aren't even a day into this yet, and already kids are being dropped at the mall to wander for hours. Parents are scheduling sleepovers.  Kids are getting together to hang out in parks, playgrounds, or despite the chilliness, the beach.  And everyone is chiming in about what we should do and what we shouldn't. Do we treat it like a vacation or do we force them into a homeschooling program that the students nor the parents are remotely equipped to deal with? Do we hold up in the house or send them out with a bottle of Lysol and a fishing pole? The scenarios are endless and everyone has an opinion.

As I mentioned two posts before, I am stocked well.  I went out as soon as I knew Oldest was going to be home until August as he'd already eaten though the house.  With a bit of hunting I was able to find everything we needed to feed us for about 10 days.  I've also mentioned, with Youngest working at a grocery, Bonus Son working at a specialty grocery, and the husband and I both working for the Post Office we will all be heading to work regardless, leaving us all in contact with the general public.

So in a family like ours, how does this social distancing thing work exactly?  I am in an office of roughly 60 people, have a route of 650 homes (so around 1,200-2,000 people?), go to the grocery every day and run errands (maybe an additional 50 people) and so, on a good day I there's a high probability that I come in contact with 200 people a day.

Today though, as I said, I've already stocked the house so my daily grocery trips won't happen for a few weeks.  Today's errands were the vet and a drive through oil change so I contacted 4 people total there. I picked up Youngest, but only talked to him, got gas for the car, but wiped the handle before and after pumping. And I had the day off.  So aside from my family I have talked to 4 people today. FOUR.  I did not hide in my house, or go without, but I cut down my number of contact considerably.

Tomorrow is Youngest's birthday and we will be going out to dinner.  We are going early to limit the number of people around us, and taking 3 of his friends. Yes, our contact number will be higher, but again, no where near our 200 average per day.

If I'm speaking honestly, I don't even feel bad about still going out and about. Because I am doing my part in cutting down my contact, without going insane.  Our lives are still going on, and I still want to feel as if I am living it, while making conscious choices to be safer.

And that's the best we can do right now, right?

Well, that, and spare a square if need be.

Baggage...

I supposed most of us start collecting our proverbial luggage somewhere in our teens.

Self esteem issues go in the carry on.
Insecurities? Front pocket with the double zipper for expansion.
Bad relationships? Main compartment, preferably with the plastic insert incase of spills.

By the time I reached my mid twenties I had a full set of hodgepodge mismatched luggage that I carried around, plus the diaper bag for the two toddlers I had in tow. Truth is, I had more than my share of emotional baggage. Way more.

Over the years I have unpacked some, given some away, and repacked.  By the time I had reached thirty five I upgraded to matching emotional baggage so while I was still carrying it around, I at least looked like I had it all together. Which of course, I didn't.

And like most, I have to carry this baggage everywhere, weighing me down. Truth is, I've carried this emotional baggage so long, most days I don't even know I have it until I get stuck in the doorway. Like three years ago when I was called for jury duty.

We have several court houses, and I always get called for the furthest away.  It's hard to get to, in a super sketchy area, with one way roads and loop de-loops that confuse the heck out of me, and to top it off,  you have to pay for parking.  I know because my ex dragged me into that particular courtroom twice a month for years.  Years folks. YEARS. Now, for those who don't remember, my ex-husband has been dead now for nearly 9 years. One would think I'd have unpacked that baggage long ago, burned the contents, and sent it off to sea.  But alas, on that day of Jury Service, I sat in the parking lot emerged in a full on panic attack over just the thought of going into the building.  I eventually worked my way through it, walked in, and realized I needed to be in the building across the street, which while a welcome distraction, still left me scrambled, attempting to pick up all the contents of my emotional mess, resembling the busted open bag on the airline turn style sloppily held together with security tape, grannie panties hanging out for the world to see.

That was three years ago and yet, when I got the notice to serve in the mail it all came right back to me. With a bit of embarrassment, I called and had it switched to a more local courthouse.  I was actually looking forward to my day in court. He's been gone for nearly nine years and we'd only been in this courthouse a handful of times.  Clearly I had moved past it all, unpacked that bag and left it unattended in some random lobby, right? Nope.  I found myself catching my breath as I just passed by the probate door. My chest was heavy, but I pushed through, waiting it out in the jury pool, making small talk with a kindergarten teacher seated next to me. This would be fine, right?  I could do this.

They called us up to the superior court room and informed us that it was a criminal case, expected to last 5 days or so, involving domestic violence. Which was fine, I could be impartial, right? It wasn't until the judge called me to side bar when it happened.

The zipper on the emotional bag I carry let go and my whole past spilled out all over the podium.  I had to be asked several times to speak loud enough so the mic, not 12 inches in front of me, could pick up what I was saying. The judge asked about my restraining order, and  I unraveled.  At the mention of my kids being kidnapped for a time by him I heard the DA audibly catch her breath. I also noted that just to serve jury duty I had to switch court houses. Inevitably, the question had to be asked, "Do you think, that despite the abuse by your ex-husband after your divorce, you can be impartial in this case?"

And in that moment, I honestly didn't know. I really wanted to be, but I can't guarantee my emotional baggage wouldn't explode on the turn style for all the world to see.

I was excused by the judge immediately.  No side bar, no wait over there, no additional questions. And while some would see this as a win, I felt pathetic. Like I had somewhat failed the system, like I had failed myself.  It was only after I was home and had thrown myself into a right brained project (finishing up a communion gown for a 9 year old) that I was finally able to let go of the tightness in my chest. It makes me mad though that I can't seem to unpack this part of my life. I want to serve as a juror, to do my part.  I love the process of our justice system despite the fact that it failed me so, so many times in the past. And yet, the sight of the stand, officialness of the officers, the smell of the wood, triggers me right back to those days.

My past is part of what makes me, me. I accept this, embrace it (mostly), and draw strength from it when I need it most. But I can't help but wonder what I'm missing out on by carrying this particular piece of luggage around.  Because I have to tell you, it's exhausting being subject to an unexpected surcharge.

It's An EPIDEMIC!!!

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.

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.

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.

He had been home, had a bit to eat, and had fianally decided on a College. We discussed his decision a bit, and agreed it was the best place for him regardless of it being 2 hours away.  He was headed out back to the high school to watch the basketball game and would be home early as he knew he had an early bus for wrestling in the morning.  He left, we went to our Valentine's dinner, and promptly after I settled in at home in my jammies, I got a phone call.  

"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.

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.

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

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