Christmas Nostalgia

I have made it this year all the way to Thanksgiving without having a Christmas tree up yet.  I vowed I would make it!  Although, I assure you, it goes up on Friday.  I know it’s ridiculous to attempt to fast forward through one holiday to get to the better one, but I think those of us who rush to hang our lights and stockings do so because of the way it makes us feel.  It’s the cozy comfort of twinkling lights, shimmering ribbons, fuzzy blankets, and crackling fires.  It’s the one time of year people are a little bit nicer, (for the most part).  I remember hearing on the radio a few years back that during the height of foreclosures, some banks were halting all seizures from Dec. 23^rd to the 25^th and thinking, “Well, isn’t that special?”  See, even banks can have heart that will automatically self-destruct in 3 days during this time of year! 

There’s just something special about it.  I don’t know if Christmas will ever feel like it did when I was a kid, but I still get the warm and fuzzies because of my kiddos and watching them have the same delight I once had.  I would get so excited on Christmas Eve, I drove my brother crazy.  He was always cool and never got too giddy about anything.  I, however, would lie there sleepless, flailing my feet under the covers and wondering what was in each box I had shaken and debated unwrapping and tapping back together for weeks.  My family wasn’t exactly “The Cleavers” but there were special Christmas traditions.  One Christmas Eve, I asked my mom if we could all dress up for dinner.  She humored me and I felt like we were a real live TV family.  In the 80’s, my mom looked and dressed like the mom from “Growing Pains”, so for that night, I had decided we were “The Seavers”. 

We always had a real tree.  I would go with my dad on the four-wheeler to ride around the woods until we found the perfect tree.  He wasn’t always willing to give me his time, but when he did, I took full advantage.  Even he softened on Christmas.  I would always pick the most massive tree I could find – a Griswold tree.  To his credit, he never told me it was too big.  He’d mostly just say, “Is that big enough for ya, Bub?”  Then he’d hack the top off because I had chosen one 13 ft. tall and shave off the branches beneath to expose the trunk.  I loved decorating it and the smell was the best part. We would play Christmas music, string lights, and hang ornaments.  We wore out that Brenda Lee Christmas album.  Yes, ALBUM.  Ryan and I had our favorite Christmas specials we would watch on TV.  I have tried to collect some of these old favorites on DVD for my kids to enjoy.  I can’t begin to tell you how disappointed I was when my children didn’t give a flying fart about the ultimate classic, “Emmet Otter’s Jug-Band Christmas”.  I almost got belligerent in my interrogation as to why they weren’t completely enthralled.  “What?  Not enough bright colors for you?  What’s the problem?  You’re too good for Emmet Otter’s Jug-Band Christmas??” 

I would spend weeks before Christmas in a fog of excitement not much different than Ralphie Parker’s.  White Christmases were common and I can remember the view out of every window -- that special rush of waking up to find everything blanketed in snow and knowing we’re getting closer.  Hopefully a school cancellation was to follow.  Ryan and I had some of our most fun and were at our most creative on snow days.  Our snowmen were elaborate and fashionable.  We even used pompoms to give them hair.  We would make recorded tapes and the best on record was our news station, W-VEG.  We created all kinds of characters.  We had the sports caster, Bubbles – the advice columnist, etc.  We played music in between and if I’m not mistaken, Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up” made it in there somewhere.  What I wouldn’t give to sit down and listen to that tape but it’s lost somewhere and that kills me.  I remember exactly what it looked like.  I remember it as being the funniest thing in the world.

Other funny memories around this time come up because obviously, it would be cold at this time of year and we didn’t have central heat and air.  For a long time we only had base board heaters until my parent’s put in a wood burning stove.  It sat on a brick pedestal that went up onto the wall.  Ryan was chasing me through the house once and broke his toe on that brick pedestal.  That stove was highly effective.  I stood in front of its door once to warm my backside and I must’ve stood a tad too close because it embossed the seal on the cast iron door to the butt of my pink bathrobe.  It would heat up the house so well that I can remember having to take breaks from watching “Dolly Parton’s Smoky Mountain Christmas” to go stand in the snow and cool off.

Eventually Christmas morning would come and we were up before dawn.  Mom was a step ahead of us because she was already in full makeup.  There were going to be photos taken and you weren’t catching her bare-faced, I can tell you that right now.  My mother is a lady – she smells nice, hair done, face on.  I would rip open my presents as fast as I could.  I had an ongoing love affair with Cabbage Patch dolls for many years.  I would rip open my new one and smell her.  They always smelled like vanilla.  I had several Cabbage Patch dolls over the years.  Some came after they had upgraded to synthetic hair instead of yarn.  The kind you could lengthen or shorten.  But I never loved any of them the way I loved my very 1^st, Cheryl Dawn.  She had yarn hair but she was still my favorite.  My Granny Faye restored her for me and I still have her.  She lives in my cedar chest.

I had 2 massive families.  We would visit both sets of grandparents, opening more presents, and eating till we’d bust.  There were cousins, aunts and uncles by the boat-load – food everywhere.  The Ott side of my family was a bit more subdued than the Rorie side.  There was laughter in both houses, but far more yelling and general loudness at the Rorie’s.  It’s just the way they are.  Every year my Papaw Henry would taste the turkey and say and I quote, “This turkey’s dry ain’t it?”  Then everyone would laugh because he said it every year.  My cousin Michael eventually began beating him to the punch which was even funnier.  Everyone would again laugh but it was a certain kind of laugh – a Rorie laugh I can’t describe, I can only duplicate in person.  Granny would follow up with, “I wish you’d shut up!”  He would never respond, really.  He’d just take his dry turkey and go back to his chair.  It’s one of those “it’s funny because it’s true” kind of things.  Yes they were characters, loud characters, who were rough around the edges, but they were my family and I remember feeling like it was special. 

Times change and traditions fade.  As my cousins and I have aged into adulthood, married, moved away, and some grandparents have passed, the traditions have adapted but I’m glad I have those memories.  It has made Christmas always hold such a special place in my heart.  I hope the traditions I’m setting now will be something my children will always look back on with that good old warm and fuzzy feeling.  I don’t think a year goes by when I put up my tree that I don’t feel the same way I used to feel when I did it as a kid.  I’m still that same girl inside.  She’s just a bit older and maybe a hair more cynical.  But now I let my kids put the ornaments on.  I do my best to bite my tongue and not say a word if they put too many of the same kind of ornament in one spot.  My mom never knit-picked me for it so why be more worried about a picture-perfect tree than to marvel at something my children enjoyed doing?  I play music like my mom used to and hope it makes it as special for them as it did for me.

Like I said, it’s a special time.  I guess that’s why I feel nostalgic now and why this blog fell out.  My Christmases now are spent at my house with Jason and the kiddos.  Mom and JC come down and occasionally Ryan makes an appearance.  *Fingers crossed for this year*  I’m grateful for what is now and I’m grateful for what was.  Yes, I’m a bit more cynical these days but I still love lights that twinkle, ribbons that shimmer, and a fire that crackles.  I still want what I always wanted around this time of year; for everyone to just be grateful for one another, families to be families, to create memories that will last a lifetime, to slow down a little, and be a little kinder.  Tis the season…

See How They Grow.

It’s amazing to watch my children’s personalities develop.  It’s so fun to begin having insight as to who they might grow up to be.  Their interests, their passions, what makes them tick, what makes them laugh.  Each of my children is so individual, other than their shared appreciation for fart humor.  Although, I attribute this mostly to Drew convincing the other two from birth that this is a timeless classic.  He got them young and impressionable, so…  This wealth of knowledge really all leads back to Jason in the end.  I grew up in a household that had zero tolerance for fart humor.  Any type of tasteless humor downright infuriated my dainty, southern bell mother.  Farts weren’t funny.  She made that clear.  She particularly hated the word “poot”.  My friend Crysta once joked that we were “the fartless family” and we were.  Jason, however, grew up with two brothers and farts were a free and an endless source of laughs.  I’ve tolerated it being passed onto my children and even caught myself laughing at their disgusting antics once or twice but they didn’t get it from me.  (I seem to have gotten off track about farting here somewhere…..)

Back to their personalities:  It has always been assumed that since Drew physically resembles Jason in every conceivable way, his personality would be just like Jason’s also.  I admit, I just figured as much, as well.  Up until recently, it’s been a safe assumption because I hadn’t really been proven otherwise.  Jason wasn’t much of an outdoor kid.  He’s red headed and pale so sun is his enemy.  I was outdoorsy and would get frustrated when getting him outside was like pulling teeth.  I always thought he was being a bit dramatic when he acted like he would have some sort of vampire-like reaction to the sun.  That is, until I saw him get 2^nd degree burns through three applications of the highest SPF on the market.  Jason was a much more video game kind of kid and Drew seemed to have followed suit on this.  Drew switched from junior high to his new high school this year and we’re really starting to see him come alive.  Not that he’s been a hollow shell up until now, but he just hasn’t shown much interest in anything.  I would try to pry out of him how his day went after school and I was usually only given shrugs and “oh, ya know”.  This new school has sparked change and I’m thrilled.  Drew joined theater and in this particular school, groups other than sports are just as equally funded and appreciated.  Let the artsy fartsy kids rejoice and say AMEN! 
Drew comes home every day with detailed accounts of what happened in theater that day.  He tells me about the exercises they did and even how he felt while doing them.  It seems his greatest strength is improvisation.  Drew has always been a fan of “the zinger”, the final word, “the BA DUM TSS”.  His face lights up and I can see the passion budding there.  He comes by it honest, it’s in his blood.   I’ve just been taken aback to see my DNA in there.  I just assumed he was all Jason and I was nowhere to be found.
Jason has always shared his work with Drew and assumed he would be taken with it.  It is amazing and I think it would impress almost any kid.  What, with lasers shooting out of a box that can model anything into a 3D image.  Drew would feign interest but I could always see the faint *yawn* just below the surface.  Jason has accepted that Drew might not be our engineer, but instead might be our actor and he’s done it with grace.  He has even looked up which theater performances he thinks would be cool to take Drew to see.  I asked Jason if it bothered him that Drew wasn’t going to follow him into his field and he said, “No.  I’m just glad he’s into something.”  I can’t wait to watch Drew perform.  I will cry before he utters his first line.  I’m so elated to watch him flourishing.  He’s discovering who is and sometimes who you are isn’t who anyone expected.  But it’s who he is -- not me and not Jason.  HIM.  But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that seeing traces of myself in there haven’t pleased me to no end.  ‘Cause…  I think I’m cool and I think I brought a lot of good stuff to the table, too ;) 

Lily is my artist.  I’ve posted some of her work and it’s only getting better.  I haven’t had a dining room in years because it is now Lily’s studio.  She will sit for hours on end drawing and painting.  She discovered how to use YouTube a long time ago to perfect her craft.  There are videos available of people sketching and she would sit with a piece of paper and a drawing utensil and she would pause and rewind the video to perfect her image and learn techniques.  This would go on for a long time until she was satisfied.  My brother texted me to talk about Lily’s artistic skills and how this is something you are born with.  I agree 100%.  I don’t draw, I don’t paint and neither does Jason.  Jason’s sister has always been a talented artist so I assume this is where it came from.  Before Lily ever picked up a pencil, I had no idea this unique and precious gift was within her.  It is effortless for her.  I’ve been so impressed to watch her hone this skill and I can’t wait to see where it takes her.

Lily has a strong desire to be a wife and mother and she’s very vocal about it.  I guess that’s a good sign that I haven’t ruined it for her because she’s seen my job and would still like a part of that for herself someday.  I guess I’ve done something right there.  Most women have it engrained so deep in us to reproduce.  Its animal, I don’t know how else to put it.  Ladies, remember when you were little and an adult woman you knew would have a baby and all you wanted to do was hold it?  Remember how you would think about how you couldn’t wait to have one of your own?  Ahh…  To be grown, to be a mom, to be a wife – it’s instinctive and my how we romanticize it.  We just see soft baby features and squeezable little bodies.  The thought of a lifetime of bags under your eyes and Cherrios in your hair just doesn’t compute.

Lily starts a lot of her sentences with, “When I’m a mom”.  I don’t cringe when she says this.  I want her to have these experiences because, yes, I someday want grandbabies.  I also want her to approach it slowly and later.  I don’t want her to be in a rush for it.  I want her to live her life first.  I want her to go to college.  I want her to be independent.  I want her to travel.  I think she’s brilliant and I want her to use it and go where ever it takes her. The knowledge that this gift can take her places has set in for her and me, both.  She loves the beach and has made it clear to me, when she is grown, she will live by the beach.  I told her that’s wonderful and I would love to live by the beach, too.  She said, “Can I live anywhere I want?”  I told her she can go anywhere in the world she wants to go with the right education, dedication, and skillset.  She told me she will live by the beach and I can come live with her if I want.  I told her I can’t come live with her because I belong here with daddy.  I explained that when she’s old enough, it’s time to flee the nest.  It’s time to fly.  I love her enough to let her soar and I think she will.  She asked, “So it’s okay if I live far away from you and daddy?”  My answer is yes because I would never use fear or guilt to keep her under my thumb because I feel safer that way.  That’s selfish.  I fantasize about her living boho chic on the beach somewhere with a studio loft and a free spirit.  I told her that no matter where she goes, I will always visit and be there for every gallery exhibition.  She and her brother will be required to come home on holidays, no exceptions.  I look forward to seeing them grown and watching my family expand; to start a whole new set of traditions when I’m the matriarch.  I hope I can look across a crowded room at what Jason and I created and see a legacy I can feel proud to leave behind.  I hope I will have nurtured who THEY want to be, not who I wanted them to be.

Now onto my Reid.  My baby.  My “Pootie”.  What can I say?  The kid’s got panache.  He’s also the kid that is going to put me in an early grave.  He’s the child that causes everyone in the house to have to go bed an hour early some nights.  It’s like the Army when they punish the whole platoon for one soldier’s actions.  He has the face of an angel and it’s a good thing.  He has challenged me and tested me more than his brother and sister ever thought about.  What’s interesting is, he is also my most physically affectionate child.  He will make me as mad as a hornet and then come lay on me, kiss me, and say, “Mom, I love you so much”.  He makes me crazy but I’m also such a sucker for him that it’s embarrassing.  He is the kind of kid that will come downstairs and say, “You okay, mom?”  I’ll say, “Yes, why?”  He’ll respond with, “Just checking on you.”  That makes every fit he threw prior fade away.  His face and smile get into my soul.  He’s loud, he’s hysterical, he’s whiny, he’s demanding, he spoiled rotten, he’s stubborn, he’s the life of the party and I don’t think I truly earned my mom stripes until he came along.   I grew a 3^rd eye in the back of my head after he was born.  I’m a pro because Reid upped the stakes of the game.  Women adore him.  His flirty blue eyes have brought women across crowded stores to come acknowledge him.  He flirts.  He knows how to work people.  They will pet his cheeks and he just beams.  When Drew was young, he was secretive and embarrassed of his crushes on girls and didn’t want to talk about it.  Reid will tell me the girls he thinks are beautiful.  I think he will be a lady killer.  I’m not really sure what he’s “into” or what his talents are just yet.  It’s still too early to tell.  Maybe his talent will be that wherever he goes, the party is sure to follow.  People love him.  For some reason, I just don’t worry about him.  I think he’ll be fine in life because his personality just lends itself to that.  I think we’ll have a close relationship as he ages, if he doesn’t run me off into the trees to live as a bush woman first.  I wait with baited breath to watch him evolve.  I think he’s a character and I think the world will, too.

I foresee a lot of performing and visual arts school in our future.  I don’t think Jason ever saw that coming, lol.  I love it!  These three lives are all mine to nourish and grow.  I can’t control who they will grow into but I do my best to take their attributes and encourage and guide them.  They’re all so cool in their own little ways.  For now, they are all mine but the time will come when I will have to set all three of them free.  I hope they will always want to come back from time to time.  I hope they will always feel like I did my best.  I hope they will always feel like I loved, encouraged and supported them.  Also, I hope they appreciate that I put up with their farts.  Go well, my children.  Fly.

The Truth About Me

I’m pretty forthcoming with the details of my life.  I share openly.  Some might say I overshare and that’s okay.  I’ve been quite proud of the life Jason and I have shared since we married so what’s to hide?  However there is one grim, little detail that has haunted me for many years.  It’s been my dark, dirty little secret that I’ve done my best to dismiss.  If I never acknowledged it, I was certain I could make it go away.  It’s not something I’m proud of or like to talk about.  As much as this hurts, I’m going to just rip off the band-aid…  So here it is:  I never received my high school diploma.  There, I’ve said it.  Now that you know, I’d like to first tell you how it came to be and why it came to feel like a huge, embarrassing mountain I was sure I would struggle to move.  As of yesterday, I received notice that I’ve finally rectified that situation, but let’s start at the beginning…

My grades from k-9^th weren’t great.  I did not excel in school throughout any of that time and I can honestly say it’s not because I lacked the ability.  I just really, really lacked interest.  It was a total case of pure apathy.  I didn’t care nor did I try but I got decent enough grades to get by.  I only cared enough to pass, as to not be left behind by my class – embarrassing, much?  Teachers, who had my brother prior to me, were not my biggest fans.  Ryan was a G.T. student who exceeded expectations.  I guess they figured I would follow suit.  I did not.  Once they saw my very blasé attitude about school, I could see the disappointment wash over them and then they would pretty much leave me for dead.  I don’t blame them.  I was useless and I wholeheartedly admit that.  I went to Flippin, AR elementary k-6 and then moved to Conway, AR for 2 years for mom to finish up college.  I was very happy in Conway.  We were poor as church mice but I didn’t care.  It was an entirely different experience and I started to participate in school activities.  Pep squad, etc.  My last name meant nothing there.  No one knew who I was so I could be anybody I wanted to be and I came alive.  I formed strong friendships that still exist to this day.  I was happy there.  After those 2 years, mom finished school and graduated with honors.  I guess I should have seen mom going back and striving for her dreams as motivation and used it as an example to apply myself now so that I don’t have to backtrack later in life.  But alas, I cared not. 

After those 2 years, we moved back to Flippin.  No offense to my fellow Flippin Highers, who may read this, but I wanted to die.  I will never forget how I felt on that first day back.  Same familiar people…  Same smells, same HALL, same tug in the pit of my gut.  I was never happy there.  I’ll avoid getting into why, but I’ll just use a few buzz words like, ‘politics’ and ‘favoritism’ and move on.  Yes I was miserable and my grades took an even further nose-dive than even I thought possible.  English was always my strongest subject and I could hold my own in most of the other subjects – all subjects, OTHER than math.  I went straight into Algebra 1.  Dr. Hurst might as well have been speaking Farsi for all the sense it made to me.  It didn’t help that while he was speaking in a monotone I just couldn’t tune into, I was off thinking about other things.  While his markers were squeaking and there was talk of simplifying fractions, I was in my own head.  I was thinking about boys, clothes, music and plotting the confrontation between me and my closest frenemy in 3^rd period.  Man…  What a bitch.  (Sorry had to get that one in there.)  I’m back now…  That year was brutal.  I was adjusting to being back at that school and I had begun dating.  I proceeded to get into the most highly volatile relationship of my life that year.  It was everything.  It was love, it was hate, and it consumed me and everyone around me.  Whoever thinks you can’t have real feelings at 14 is inaccurate.  The relationship became so out-of-control that my family had to step in.  Hell, the local police had to step in.  It was all I thought about.  It was all I cared about.  It became the stereotypical pull for male affection from the broken little girl with daddy issues.  If we were in a good place and he loved me, life was right.  If it felt like he didn’t want me that week, I was destroyed.  It was a constant game of push and pull and I became a willing participant.  There was no room for anything else.  In summation, I was an absolute fool.  The relationship ended by forces intervening; those forces being my mother and most of my family.  The damage however, had been done.  Needless to say, throughout all this, school was my very last concern.  I flunked a semester of Algebra as a result.  I gave no thought to my future whatsoever.  My only concern at that time was the here and now, my friends, my boyfriend, and my wardrobe.  I wish I had woken up and realized the here and now will later affect me then and there.

So the relationship ended and I get put in applied math.  I no longer had the distraction and my grades began to rise.  In fact, I went on to get A’s in math for the remainder of high school.  During this time I met Jason, who always did well in school.  He had a bright future ahead of him and I didn’t want to be the flunky girlfriend dragging him down.  I didn’t want to disappoint him and bad grades did.  He cared, would ask about my grades and he did scold me if they weren’t up to par.  I don’t think anyone realizes the profound affect Jason had on me.  When we got together, I went on to make honor roll in everything except gym.  Yes, gym.  (I’m not going to explain myself on that…)

By the end of senior year I knew Jason and I were getting married just weeks after graduation.  I had already mentally checked out of school and Flippin, AR.  But then it was brought to my attention a few weeks before graduation that I still lacked a half a credit from the semester of Algebra 1 I failed.  They ordered a correspondence course for me to try to make it up in time for graduation.  I don’t even know what to tell you about this part.  I tried to take those tests but I failed them – point blank.  My mom was convinced they had ordered a college algebra course but she may have just said that to make me feel better.  I suffer from pretty severe test anxiety and if I can’t solve something right off the bat my pulse races, my face flushes, I panic and things I know I KNOW just leave me.  All rational steps to solve a problem literally just vacate my head and I become a panic stricken mess.  I had made A’s in all my math classes but something happened here…  It was the pressure of this, do or die moment.  I flunked those tests and I received the call days before graduation that I would not walk.

I managed to somehow convince myself this was a minor fork in the road to be taken care of at a later date.  No big deal, right?  After all, I had a wedding to plan!  The wedding came and went and I honestly got pregnant immediately.  Married May 16, 1998 and Drew was born February 15, 1999.  We became a family almost instantly.  I stayed home with Drew and just focused on being a wife and mother for a long time.  No need for a diploma to do that!  After we moved to Dallas and Drew was a little older I decided I wanted to go to work.  I was intimidated by the area at first but I knew if I was ever going to get established here I would have to get out there and meet people.  I wasn’t qualified for much.  Up to that point I had worked at fast food chains and a little retail.  I started as a cocktail waitress at a seedy dive bar and later went on to bartend.  I eventually began waiting tables in fine dining establishments.  I can dish vichyssoise with the best of ‘em.  I made pretty decent money so I had managed to still be unscathed by the lack of a high school diploma.  I was still a server when I got pregnant with Lily.  I worked up until about a month before she was born.  After I had Lily, Jason and I agreed it was actually more cost effective for us if I stayed home.  The cost of childcare is outrageous and since I was never going to make what Jason did, I would almost just be working to afford the daycare.  I believe this is called redundancy.  I stayed home and not long after discovered Reid was on the way; all the more reason to continue staying home.  For the past 8 years I have put my heart and soul into this family.  I have been “Suzie Homemaker” and tried to give them a home-life they’ll always look back and feel good about.  I have been there for everything; every milestone, every school program, every sneeze, every step.  They can never look back and say I wasn’t there.  I have been and I have wanted to be.  I needed that time and I’ve been blessed to be able to have it.  However, I knew there would come a time when all the kids would be in school and I needed to regain some sense of myself.  There would be a time when I would need to go out there and find out who I am outside of this house.  I knew I didn’t want to go back to bartending or waiting tables.  I’ve worked with older people in the past, who have waited tables their entire lives and they weren’t what I would describe as content in life.  That field does something to you and it makes you an expert on human nature and not in a good way.  I have always felt that every person should have to work a stint in the public service industry and they would be forever changed and would eternally treat strangers differently.  So I knew I could veto that but what’s left?  Nothing I want to do, I’m qualified to do.  I’m not even qualified to go to any type of trade school or college yet.  Houston, we have a problem…

The knowledge that I would always have to get my GED in order to move on with my life was always there.  It was always looming in the back of my mind.  As the years passed, with them grew the shame of not having it and the self-assurance that I hadn’t retained any knowledge from school for which to pass the test.  I would express my concern to those close to me, who knew my secret, and they would tell me I was being foolish and I was one of the smartest people they know.  But they didn’t know what it felt like inside me when test anxiety set in.  I am my own worst enemy and once that feeling sets in, I shut down and it’s just a downward spiral from there.  The more time passed, the larger I allowed this test to get in my head.  It had become my own personal shit demon.  I had managed to make it 15 years with no one being any the wiser.  I had fooled them all.  No one knew I was an undercover failure.  Jason’s success had been all the mask I needed but my time ran out.  I couldn’t hide forever, but believe me I put it off for as long as possible.

I went to lunch with Jennifer one day feeling incredibly low about myself.  I had a meltdown of sorts and spilled my guts over nachos about the changes I need to make and how I’m mostly just a big chicken shit.  After lunch, we went directly to Barnes and Noble where I bought a GED prep book.  I came home and began studying.  I went through each section with ease and thought, “Wow, this is going to be a piece of cake”.  I intentionally saved the math for last.  Math is my arch nemesis, or so I’ve told myself.  I went through each section of the math portion carefully.  I was impressed with some information that had stuck around and some that hadn’t.  I went through periods of feeling confident and some periods of slinging my book across the room and ranting about isosceles triangles and bullshit knowledge I’ve made it 15 years and never used.  I had a particularly bad episode one day and had a screaming fit.  I realized later our windows were open and our neighbors were outside.  Great, now I was without a diploma AND the trashy neighbor.  Not being trashy was the only thing I had to cancel out the first part and allow me to have some semblance of dignity.  I took practice tests and retested practice tests but could never convince myself I was ready.  Even after I felt like I’d brushed up on each subject enough I became consumed with the humiliation of actually having to go in and take the test.  I pictured sitting at a desk again.  I tried to picture who I would be among.  I wondered what the teacher would think of me.  Would she look down on me?  Would she think I was pathetic?  I had the dates of when the tests were given.  I let two pass me by out of fear.  I’m impulsive so one day I just made the call.  I needed to get some information on testing procedure, etc.  A woman answered the phone and I managed to get out, “I need to register to take the GED test”.  She began giving me details; so far so good.  At the end of the conversation I wanted to go over that I had everything I needed and began listing what was on the website.  She stopped me and began speaking very slowly.  “Yooou wiiiiill neeeed a vaaaaaalid TEXAS I.D. and YOUR sooooocial seeeeecurrritttty caaaaard”.  In that moment it became everything I feared.  She was speaking to me as though I was slow and I it felt just like I thought it would.  I literally hung up and said, “Great.  She thinks I’m uneducated trash.”  Granted, this was via phone so she probably thought I was an 18 year old burnout forced into taking the test as stipulated by my parole.  Usually this is the point when the humiliation takes over and I decide to bailout, but not this time.  I’ve run long enough.  If this is what I have to endure for a short while for a lifetime benefit then so be it. 

I had to go to the school the next day to register and I’m going to be brutally honest when I tell you I looked as nice as possible so the woman would know I wasn’t trash and treat me with any kind of respect.  I filled out my forms, paid my money and by the end she was calling me ‘ma’am’.  I went home to wait.  I was there to take my test at 7:00 A.M. sharp.  I was the 1^st one there and at one point a car pulls up.  It was a parent dropping off a kid and they rolled down their window to ask me if I was the one administering the test.  I wanted the earth and steps I was sitting on to open up and swallow me whole.  I simply said, “I’m not giving the test but this is where he needs to be”.  The first few arrivals where pretty much what I expected  --  juvenile delinquents huddled in a group talking about their probation officers with rampant ‘f’ bombs.  I had the pleasure of smelling their smoke stack aroma every time the wind picked up and wafted it over my direction.  I thought to myself, “God, I’m the only old person here.”  Then I look over at the baseball field and lodged in the wire fence were cups that spelled out “FHS” – (Frisco High School).  Oh, the effing irony….

As I sat waiting for those doors to open, I began questioning how in the hell I got here when a few adults began showing up.  They looked no different than me.  They didn’t have shirts on that said “failure”.  I wondered about what their stories were and how they came to be here just like me.  Everyone has their story.   Its funny how we all migrated to groups of our likeness; old with the old, kids with the kids.  I noticed the instructor treated us adults differently but through those 2 days, I realized why.  If those kids are our future, we should all be in a state of panic.  Those were the most disrespectful, whiniest, sleepiest kids I’ve ever seen.  They whined about everything from the temperature of the room to needing a cigarette.  They couldn’t or wouldn’t follow basic instructions and almost had to be spoken to like 3^rd graders.  That phone call I had to make came to mind and I immediately decided to dismiss it as her knee jerk reaction to what she typically experiences.  You couldn’t pay me enough money to be a teacher.  I wanted to beat the kid next to me on the teacher’s behalf.  All I could think was, “I’m old enough to be your mother you little twerp, which means I’m just the person to put my foot in your ass”.  The kid who sat behind me I nicknamed “Spicoli”.  He was very reminiscent of “Fast Times at Ridgemont High”.  He either had a serious case of narcolepsy or was just legitimately the most tired kid alive, (or kind of alive…)  He would finish his tests impossibly fast and then snore at his desk in an otherwise quiet room to the point I almost flung a #2 pencil at his head on several occasions.

The test began and first up was math.  The very first question stumped me.  The panic began.  I could feel the heat in my face, parts of my body went numb and my lips began to vibrate.  I had to take a few minutes to talk myself off a ledge.  I could feel myself scrambling and second guessing every single answer.  Some of the questions were nothing I reviewed.  I suddenly couldn’t remember how to find the slope of a line or much of anything else.  I did my best to calm down and tried to rationally answer each question.  Before I knew it, time was up.  That was it.  I just knew I had failed day one, test one.  I had English up after that.  English isn’t a problem.  In fact all the following subjects the next day, I knew I passed with flying colors.  That math portion, though...  I really didn’t feel good about it.  I had a feeling, I failed it.  There was nothing to do now but wait.  The results could take up to 6 weeks to come in.  I had never planned for this.  I was hoping to enroll at Paul Mitchell by mid-October but my results wouldn’t be back in time, especially if I had to retest the math portion.  Not a big deal, just a bump in the road.  I’d resigned myself to the fact that I would take it until I passed it.  I would get this done one way or another.  Classes at Paul Mitchell start every six weeks so it will happen soon, just maybe not this month. 

Yesterday I checked the mail expecting nothing other than bills.  I pulled out an envelope from the Texas Education Center.  My heart sank.  I sat it on the counter for a few minutes while I paced and chewed my face.  Finally, I ripped it open.  It was my certificate.  I passed.  I gasped and teared up.  Something that had been 15 years in the making had just been laid to rest.  It felt like a cinder block had been taken off my shoulders.  Drew was standing in the kitchen and wanted to know what all the fuss was about.  My initial reaction was to hide it from him.  I didn’t want him to know I had first, never graduated and second, that I was just doing something about it.  But then I thought better of it.  I decided to use this to show him how the choices he makes now can absolutely affect him later in life.  I told him my story and that I’m 33 and had to backtrack 15 years to move forward.  “Don’t be me and care about your future”.  He hugged me, told me he was proud of me and I believe he is.  To be honest, I’m proud of me.  He and his brother and sister are the biggest reasons I did this.

So that’s the tale…  My tale of failure, my tale of triumph and my tale of the beautiful life that happened in between.  My tale will continue but it’s going to be a whole new world from here on out.  I leaped a hurdle and it feels fantastic.  I feel like I can do anything, even math.  I did this for me, I did this for my kids and I did this for the weak girl who lives inside me who tells me I can’t.  I’m really sick of her and I hope this finally shuts her up.

 

 

 

 

 

Paint Splatters

My walls are currently covered with chocolate finger smears about 3 feet high.  If you’ve ever watched the Bill Cosby comedy special “Himself”, you’ve seen his funny bit about how if you only have one child and something gets broken or damaged, you know who did it.  More than one child leads to wide-eyed, oblivious, finger-pointing children yet there’s never a guilty one among them.  I can relate to that frustration on so many levels.  Luckily, I’ve developed ways of gauging who did what by keen knowledge of my suspects and often the height requirements for each offense helps tremendously.  I’m not the first parent to use these techniques…  Growing up, my dad was a musician and I had a bevy of amps, microphones and guitars to play with.  After one spirited session being Patty Loveless on my dad’s mic, I carefully put everything back where I found it and went about my business.  A few days later, my dad called me into the bedroom to ask if I’d been messing with his equipment.  I vehemently denied it.  My dad turned, grabbed the mic – still nestled in its stand – and placed it directly in front of me.  The microphone couldn’t have been any more level with my mouth had I used a measuring tape.  The jig was up.  I guess the completely defeated look on my face that read of “whoopsie?” amused my dad enough to let me go unscathed.  If memory serves, I think he even cracked a grin.

It’s a process of elimination, really.  For example, someone was too lazy to take their glass back downstairs so it was stuffed in the back of the TOP shelf of a closet.  I know this was Drew based on height.  I don’t even have to delve into the other clues that it was him.  Other clues being that this offense is about level of laziness.  Drew isn’t my most active child…  He would rather stay in his room, on his laptop than go anywhere.  I occasionally go in and put a mirror under his nose to check for signs of breath and encourage him to roll over to prevent bed sores.  Getting up to go downstairs and put the glass in the dishwasher really isn’t going to take precedence over scratching and video games…

I know the chocolate finger smears are Reid’s based on height and who’s been on the chocolate bender.  Reid is just my dirty little boy.  He wipes his hands on the walls, wipes snot on his arm and has no reservations about farting in quiet waiting rooms.  I love that he loves the goodies I make for him so I follow him around with a wash cloth and dust pan.  The chocolate finger stains were everywhere.  I love magic erasers but they don’t work well on painted walls.  Particularly painted and textured walls.  It just takes off the paint and shreds the magic eraser.  I like to keep around back-up paint for nicks and digs and once I have a certain amount of scuffs, I break out my paint.  I put on my ancient painting/hair dying t-shirt I’ve had since Jason and I were first married.  After I covered up all of Reid’s handy work I sat down and looked down at my old paint/hair dye-covered polo shirt.  I noticed all the different colors it’s collected over the years.  The first color I noticed that made me smile was a bright yellow color.  Our apartment in Dallas, when we first moved here, I painted bright yellow.  I think its hideous now, but I’m sure it made sense in my mind at the time.  I was going through a very minimalistic, art deco stage.  I had a pretty active social life at that time and everyone I still keep in contact with today remembers the yellow apartment.  If those walls could talk…  I’d cut their tongues out.  I did a lot of evolving in that yellow apartment.  I don’t look back at everything in that yellow apartment with positive memories but it was part of the process of becoming who I am now.

As I looked deeper and deeper on my shirt, I found the hair dye from the time I thought I thought I’d look great as a sparkplug redhead.  I found the paint from the haunted house we lived at in Hot Springs.  It brought back the memories from that house.  The strange whispers in my ears, the fact that “it” knew my name and liked to tap on glass.  Jason never believed me.  I also found several layers from the intense sea foam green phase I went through in the late 90's.  Then under all that, I found the paint from Drew’s first nursery….  Wow.  I had no idea this shirt represented the many colors and phases of my life; different locations, different stages, different tastes, different emotions.  I’m no longer the girl who liked sea foam green but I remember her.  I think she was naïve and innocent.  I think she he had really bad taste, too.  I don’t dislike her, but I think she had a lot of learning to do and she and I probably wouldn't "get" each other today.  I had no clue who or where I would be when a lot of these splatters made it onto this shirt.  I wonder if there are any traces of the girl who liked sea foam green so much still in here. 

Maybe I'll look back at the paint on my shirt from today's task in a few years and won't recognize the me I am right now.  The me before having started school and still being a stay-at-home mom covering up Reid's little hand prints.  I’m really glad this shirt got me thinking about all this because I don’t think the paint I just used to cover up Reid’s chocolate smears is an exact match.  Had this not taken a deeper turn I could potentially be in panic mode right now.  Oh’well, it’s just paint, right?  It’s not like it means anything.  Or so I thought… 

Mommy & Me

 

This could very well be one of the more controversial and/or ill received blogs I’ve ever written down, (assuming anyone reads it), but it’s an issue I’ve always wanted to talk about but I’ve struggled on how to get it out without it being misinterpreted.  So here’s me taking my best shot to put it out there and see if I’m the only one that feels this way.  It’s simply an occurrence I’ve noticed wherever a circle of mothers gather.  It’s less common among a group of close women friends but it’s particularly prevalent at children’s birthday parties, school functions, play dates and among playground mom gangs.  There seems to be some unwritten rule or general belief that once you’ve reached the party and loosened your death grip on your kid enough to allow him/her to take off to play with the other children, it’s then we mothers are left alone to force small talk.  It will always be a safe bet to assume the subject matter we immediately go to is our children and the rearing of.  I’ve never been sure if it’s the inevitable “go to” topic because it’s clear it’s the one thing we all have in common or if it’s a deeper pressure that in some bizarre way, we believe if we don’t talk about our children with someone who also has children, this in some way makes us bad mothers.  What makes this particularly intriguing to me is, once you let your kid loose to join the gaggle of other kids, they don’t waste another minute worried about you.  In fact they hate to see you coming.  They will never pause on the waterslide to ask whether you want a snack or need to poop.  Yes they are children, but sometimes I think we could all take a cue from them and lighten up a little.  I’m often tempted to ditch the clucking chickens and their stuffy banter to take my own turn on the waterslide.

I’m always mentally prepared for the obligatory mom chatter.  All my stock conversation is accounted for and notecards in order upon arrival.  “Yes, Lily was so slow to talk and regressed a bit when I had Reid.”  “No we don’t attend Mommy & Me Yoga.”  “Yes, I allow them to have gluten.”  Speaking of gluten, I’m also well-versed in how to deal with the “Perfect Mother” and the dietary interrogation to follow. As sure as the sun will rise, “Perfect Mother” will monopolize the conversation and will brag for hours on end about her child’s macrobiotic, vegan non-dairy diet and how it keeps their behavior in check.  Meanwhile I’ve seen this same kid’s head submerged, ear deep, in a bowl of starbursts while her back was turned only after taking breaks from beating other children over the head with water noodles.  This is where I simply smile and nod, smile and nod.  This is where I’m going to stress how I don’t want to be misread; I think parenting is different for everyone.  Every mother and father make choices they feel are best suited for their children and it’s really no one’s business but their own.  My problem is when their theories and practices are shoved onto others.  At these functions, I think it should be clear that every mom obviously took time out of their day to take their kid to socialize.  If the kid came clothed and doesn’t look emaciated, then I’m going to assume they’re doing a good job until proven otherwise.  But at gatherings such as these, it feels as though it becomes a “who’s the best mom” competition.  There’s always one weaker mom you can see slowly getting taken over by the more outspoken, overbearing mother.   I can see her slowly crumble as judgmental and unsolicited advice gets crammed down her throat.  She begins to look helpless; as though she’s questioning every choice she’s ever made.  I’m not her…  “Perfect Mother” doesn’t get far with me because I’ve mastered how to say “step off” with little more than a look -- (it’s a finely honed skill….)  My way of dealing with “Perfect Mother” may get me written off as nothing more than a stuck up snot but I was thinking the same about her.  Why should her feelings about me be any more substantial than mine about her? 

Whether you work or not, motherhood is still a 24/7 job.  It’s something we do day in, day out.  If you’ve ever noticed, sometimes people with high stress jobs don’t want to discuss their work because it’s all they do and sometimes they’re tired of talking about it and would like to let the subject rest so they have the strength to go back.  What’s more, no one ever questions their desire NOT to discuss it!  I feel the same way about mom chatter.  Just once I’d love for someone to ask if anyone’s tried the new restaurant that just went in or is anyone going to see the new production going on at the Performing Arts Center.  Maybe I’m an oddball...  Maybe I’m the one that should be ashamed that I welcome talk of anything other than tantrums and grade level reading comprehension.  I’m not in competition with other mothers.  I don’t do everything perfectly and I make mistakes every day but I don’t need to justify myself.  It’s okay for me to have an existence and sense of self outside of my children and that DOES NOT make me a bad mother.  I guess I also don’t mean to imply I don’t like discussing my or other people’s children…  I’m just saying that I don’t think it should be a requirement to be seen as accepted or “fit”.  I wouldn’t even be thinking about it if it wasn’t something that happens over and over and over.  It’s almost like a script that is to be closely followed.

I’ve taken a notion to go buy those little “getting to know you” cards you can buy at novelty stores for the next party that spark conversation among new friends – (obviously not the naughty ones).  I may be ostracized and run out of town on a rail but at least I will have tried.  I can hear the whispers at PTA now…  “There’s that mom that brought those cards that lets her kids have pop tarts!  Where does she get off?”  But maybe… just maybe, the frail mom that gets overpowered is secretly thinking what I’m thinking but never had the strength to speak up.  Maybe I’ll crack the door and let a little light in.  Maybe we’ll become friends and maybe I’ll have someone new to go to the new production at the Performing Arts Center with.  Stay tuned – it’s birthday season. *blows party horn*

"The Vagina Monologues" -- My Experience

As of 8:30 last night I knew that there would be a blog to come of my experience.  I felt inspired and I also felt the buzz of the other women around me feeling inspired, excited and proud to be women and I tend to want to write things like that down.  I was first surprised to learn that McKinney was hosting “The Vagina Monologues”.  Albeit, surprised and utterly thrilled.  I must fully admit to my cynical nature here, because I automatically started tearing the production to shreds in my head.  I naturally assumed they would tone it down for the sake of “the area” and the thought of them taking it to PG13 wasn’t authentic therefore was going to be a “wah wah waaah” in my opinion.  I’m a strong believer in “go big or go home”.  But I knew how pleased I was that it was being performed at all, that I knew I was going regardless.  I am pleased to report they edited nothing.  The lady to kick-off the show came dancing out and was so amazed that she had to address the turnout.  She told of making the notion of actually hosting “The Vagina Monologues” in McKinney, TX a reality.  She said the response she got was:  “You want to do ‘The Vagina Monologues’ in McKinney?  ………………………MCKINNEY?”  The way she approached the subject garnered a united and knowing laugh throughout the audience.  She joked of McKinney being very khaki and suburban but she knew we could handle it.  Last night proved that.

It was as true, real, raw, raunchy, funny, gut-wrenching, shocking, beautiful, informative and as uniting as I remember.  I read the book the first time circa 2001, lounging poolside, and I read it in one setting.  Once the 2^nd degree burns healed, I had an amazing tan and a major appreciation for what I’d just read.  I also watched it multiple times when HBO made the monologues into a special.  I was pleasantly surprised by the crowd.  It was far more diverse in age and ethnicity than I’d expected and it did have the occasional man.  I specifically use the term “man” because only a true man could be brave enough to attend, appreciate it for what it is, laugh more than expected and cringe along with us in the intense moments.  It is a room of people slowly uniting and letting walls down and insecurities and fears go.  I was upset to hear after I’d invited a friend to this, that someone without real knowledge of what it is, nor had read the book, told her it was a “feminist” thing in a derogatory connotation.  I highly disagree…  It’s not about man-hating -- let me make that clear.  It is a portrayal of women, interviewed from very young ages all the way to women in their 80’s about things we don’t typically talk about; things we’ve been told we’re not supposed to talk about.  Things like sex, vaginas, sexual abuse, knowledge of one’s own body, etc.  The answers and the reasons behind those answers were compelling…  There are equal stories of good experiences and bad experience; it is merely accounts.  Some are hilarious and painful in one fell swoop. 

The women were all dressed stunningly in red evening dresses and dripping in sparkly jewelry.  They kept the rollercoaster of emotions in full-swing and seamlessly lead you from tears back into laughter.  Then there are the funny gestures between friends in the audience.  Between women who know each other’s secrets and enjoyed a good giggle and nudge at a friend that’s obviously experienced what’s being discussed.  I saw women of all ages doing it and they ALL looked happy and girlish.  I was most pleased at the ages I noted in the audience.  There were two lovely ladies seated in front of me, I would guess to be in their 70’s.  They were your typical dainty older women; hair coiffed, jewels on, smelling of powder.  I made sure to watch their reactions throughout the show.  I wanted to see what moved them, what horrified them, what embarrassed them, what offended them.  You know something?  They laughed when I laughed and they cried when I cried.  I felt a very strong desire to have particular women in my life sitting right alongside me.  I wanted them to see this, experience this and be proud of being a woman.  I’m not sure I could’ve kept my granny around for the whole thing or from the occasional seizure but I’d sure love to try.  I think most of all I’d want them to see that we can experience it without shame.  That it’s okay.  I’m certain they would laugh in between clutching their purses.

After the show the women descended on downtown feeling very stimulated.  It seemed most all the ladies had agreed to a post-show cocktail.  Our gift bags were bright red Raising Cane’s bags.  When we arrived at the pub, my friend threw her bag on the bar and the guy next to her started innocent conversation and asked:  “Oh you went to Cane’s?  What did you get?”  My friend responds very casually:  “Oh no, we just got back from the ‘Vagina Monologues’!”  It was a very loud pub so you could see his eyes widen and begin searching his brain to see if he’d heard the word the word “vagina” for sure.  If you spotted a group next to you toting their bright red gift bags, you knew they’d seen the show, too.  All the ladies were abuzz and seeking out and embracing other ladies toting little red bags and random conversations blossomed.  It seemed all the guys enjoying a calm pint at the pub were startled by the sudden swarm of proud, chatty women.  It was an uprising of women suddenly very comfortable talking about vaginas and had no intentions of shutting up about them for the rest of the evening.  It seemed like the testosterone quietly excused itself because estrogen had taken over, was running rampant and a veil had been taken down.  It was awesome and an experience I recommend to all women and their vaginas.  Oh and men, too, of course.