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Multigenerational Mom Muses on Twin Toddlers & Twenty-Something Daughters

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Three-Ring, Four-Quarter Circus

So we all know that popular phrase, not my circus, not my monkeys? Yeah, well, I can’t say that. As a mother of toddler twin boys, I have my own little Barnum and Bailey reality show right under my feet – literally right under my feet – every single day.  So step right up! (But watch your step, please.) Come on in! I’ll give you a grand tour of our crazy, snack-filled, action-packed circus under the glaring lights and the colorful crowds of our Friday nights.

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And by the way, tonight may bear witness to one of the most exciting, most daring, most challenging of all Friday nights. The Canes are on the road for Round Three of our bid for the State Title!

So, nope, our circus won’t happen out there on the football field. Our circus takes place up there in the stands. Up in one tiny, little corner of the stands. Where — if you zoom in tight — you’ll see the disheveled circus trainer as her two little, manic monkeys jump – no, rephrase — pound on her one and only final surviving nerve…

But before the show begins… a little backstory. The Cartersville Purple Hurricanes are travelling to Woodward Academy. It’ll be a tough match up – one that experts claim is worthy of a final match up, rather than the quarterfinal game that it actually is. Both teams have skills for days and Division 1 prospects coming out the wazoo.  Both programs have coaching staffs who know the science of  football, who have solid schemes, firm discipline, and good, old-fashioned love of the game and love for their boys.  This game’s going to be one for the history books, folks.

Which means this sideshow ringleader is already in the process of packing up Mike’s truck like a travelling circus on a long-distance tour.  I’ve got the Radio Flyer wagon loaded up in the bed already – there’s no telling how far we’ll have to navigate from visitor’s parking to stadium steps and walking in crowds with my boys – well, I’d rather swallow flames or lie on a bed of nails. It is a hazardous, torturous affair. They shuffle and shy away from each “Hello” or welcoming smile they receive. And, as twins, they get lots of them. They’re like my own little private set of circus freaks. Folks gather ‘round them and stare and point and wait for a sideshow. But the boys don’t oblige. No tricks, no performance, not even a wave. All they want to do is hide behind their mama’s legs and contort themselves in unlikely angles to avoid detection. So, I pile them in their little red wagon, and away we go, bags and blankets and snack packs galore.

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Now the snacks are the most important ingredient in our little circus.  My sideshow freaks need lots and lots of snacks to keep them in prime condition. Their diets are quite precise, and packed oh-so-carefully according dietary needs. And by needs, I mean cravings – primarily sweet tooth cravings, but we’ve got carbs covered, too. There are teddy grahams, and cereal bars, cookies and muffins, goldfish and cheerios, raisins and juice boxes — the only two semi-healthy items in the whole horde. The suckers on the other hand (oops, let me be clear, by suckers, I’m referring to the dum-dums… um, again, let me clarify — the round, candy-flavored confections on a stick, NOT my boys), but the suckers… the dozens and dozens and dozens of suckers I bring, those ensure that I see at least one of every four downs in a series. Because my boys LOVE suckers. And by suckers, this time I’m pretty sure I mean me…

Because no one but a sucker would willingly give two rowdy, sloppy, drooly, toddler boys an unlimited supply of syrup on a stick, knowing full well that her little twin acrobats keep their favorite climbing apparatus with them at all times – namely their MOTHER.  On any given Friday night, one can find them climbing up and over and under and (I’m fairly certain) through my body for the entire duration of a sixty minute football game.  And tonight – with both teams being spread teams, there’s gonna to be a heckuva a lot of passes thrown, and a heckuva a lot of first downs made, and a heckuva lot of stopped clocks, and a heckuva lot of chains moved, and a heckuva lot of kickoffs received, and a heckuva lot longer football game played than the traditional sixty minutes allotted. This sucker’s gonna go on for a good, long while. Einstein’s theory — it’s all relative. So relatively speaking, here, I’m the sucker.

Now every circus comes with music, usually involving some type of prancing, staccato-beat, calliope tune. But not this circus. This one plays Cartersville’s fight song after every touchdown, which is a spot-on rendition of “On Wisconsin,” and which I’m assuming somehow translates into “Purple Hurricanes, Purple Hurricanes something, something, something, something something … “  Maybe?   Feels like there would be a dropped syllable in there somewhere. I’m not quite sure… Anyway, that fight song plays often – seeing as how we’ve averaged forty points a game this year – and then, in between the fight song, Tate belts out his ubiquitous “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” complete with jazz hands. We are truly an eclectic show.

So we’ve got the sideshow freaks, contortionists, circus monkeys, acrobats — all of whom are the same principal characters in our diversely talented ensemble. But of course, there’s one key member I haven’t truly addressed yet.  The Ring Leader.

Every circus has one. At least, that’s what I’ve always observed.  But I must confess that this particular circus ring leader is not necessarily cut out for her job. She seems to have zero control of her monkeys, the staff appears to run over the top of her quite regularly, and I’m not sure, but I’m fairly certain that if you look closely, you’ll find traces of sucker stains on her clothes and in her hair. Which, I guess is better than the muffin that the day care found buried in in one of her little monkey’s heads this week. The director kindly extracted the said blueberry treat, but not before sending a picture and some thinly-veiled laughter in a private message. I am enclosing the picture as evidentiary proof that this ring leader is definitely not up to the challenge of such a daunting and daring occupation.

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Be that as it may… she is still an exuberant supporter of her crazy, careening circus and of her talented, ravishingly handsome coaching husband, as well as an enthusiastic and loud-mouthed Purple Hurricanes fan. Therefore, she’s readied her caravan and she’s geared up for her three-ring, four-quarter circus.

Oh, but she has one sweet feather in her big top hat, her best, bestie is riding shotgun tonight, offering moral support and monkey-training skills. She’s a pro. She teaches sophomores non stop daily. So there’s that.

So I’m the Ring Leader and these ARE my monkeys and this IS my circus. Step right up and come on in! For the greatest show on earth — the Georgia High School 4-A football quarterfinals — oh, and my little, three-ring sideshow.

 

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The Physiological Effects of Football on a Coach’s Wife

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Football gives me chills. And chest tightness. And tachycardia. And tremors. And hypotension. And breathlessness. And Fatigue. But it’s all good. I promise.

Let me explain…

Yesterday, just after 1:00 PM, I kissed my husband goodbye and watched him head off to the football war room, a scenario we’ve repeated every Sunday afternoon since early August. He strolled purposely down our sidewalk, his bag full of notes on this week’s opposing team’s tendencies slung over his shoulder.As I watched him leave, my chest tightened with pride. It’s Week Two of Georgia High School playoffs. The competition is getting fiercer, so Mike and his fellow defensive coaches burned the midnight oil preparing their game plan.

It’s a mysterious process to me, the deconstruction of an offense. In my fiercely romantic brain, I imagine it’s an exposition closely akin to the annotation and explication of metaphysical poetry. I picture the guys huddled around their Hudl screens, marking up schemes with dexterity and determination, scrutinizing pistol formations and pondering triple options with the same respect and gritty fortitude that I scrutinize syntax and ponder paradox, searching for the key to decipher the cryptic code and whittle it down into chewable chunks.

I’m sure it’s a formidable feat, arduous and time-consuming; always open to interpretation; and painfully exquisite– if that’s your thing. And it is absolutely, positively my guy’s thing. For the past decade, I’ve watched him light up like a Hurricane scoreboard when he talks shop with fellow coaches. Football powwows with people in the know is one of his most intense pleasures.  And I love that he’s found his niche within this fine group of coaching fellows. Perhaps I’m biased, but I truly believe they may be the most amazingly gifted and gracious crew ever to be assembled in the history of high school football.

Watching them from the stands as they interact with their players on Friday nights, tremors of excitement run up and down my spine.  It starts with pregame. I love seeing the boys clustered around their position coaches, going through their drills. The bursts of whistle and muscle; the blur of footballs and footwork; the thud of shoulder pads and practice punts. Pregame gives me shivers.

And then there is the moment at the beginning of every game, just prior to kick off, when the boys and their coaches march evenly out across half the field and kneel. One-hundred-twenty-plus boys of one-hundred-fifty-plus pounds – they all take a knee and give the Lord a moment of silence and respect.

It leaves me breathless.

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Then the world speeds back up again. The crowds gather; the cheerleaders chant; the bands play; the lights hum; and the stadium pulses. But just before it all goes down, just before the band plays Amazing Grace and The Star-Spangled Banner, just before the team runs through the tunnel of swirling white smoke and takes the field, just before the scoreboard sounds off and the place kicker blasts off, Mike climbs the stadium steps on his way to the box. And he always stops off to deliver a kiss to me and our boys. Seeing him approach, his chocolate eyes smiling, his caramel skin glowing, his wide, warm shoulders swaying, my heart swells and my knees go weak. I am truly a blessed woman.

Yes, Friday nights give me goosebumps. Good old-fashioned, puckered-up chicken skin. And not because I’m lucky enough to get a pre-game kiss from a tall mug of coaching caramel macchiato. (Although that helps, too.) But because boy, can our boys play some ball. And man, can our men coach ‘em up. There is nothing like a good, crisp, spiral-sliced Friday night.

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And now we’ve been blessed with a second week in our playoff run. And I’m praying for another three after this. Another three-and-a-half weeks of single parenthood and lonely bedtimes. The boys and I have this routine down pat. It’s old hat. And we’re in it for the long haul.

So here’s hoping and praying for another four weeks of Sunday War Rooms, Chili Night Wednesday Nights, Friday Night Lights and everything in between. I’m ready for the run. My heart can take it. My body is addicted to the thrilling, physiological effects of really good football. And it’s all good.

 

 

 

 

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Belching out Injustices from the Bottom of the Turtle Stack…

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This may not be my most well-crafted of blogs, and I apologize if I’m off my game. I’m currently in mourning for the state of our not-so-fair country. And I believe the first stage of grief is anger. And boy, am I.

This morning, like every morning, our school day began with the Pledge of Allegiance. But will there ever be liberty and justice for all — as our Pledge of Allegiance claims? There hasn’t been yet, and my fears are that we are simply “Making America Racist Again” – as if we ever left it behind in the first place…

I’ve never put so much of myself into an election. Ever. And now that it’s over, I’m a sore loser, metaphorically speaking. Today finds me bruised and battered and feeling broken. But feeling broken and being broken are not the same thing.

I feel like I’ve never had so much to lose in an election before. And those I love have never had so much to lose. And now that it’s over, I’m expected to be a gracious loser? Nope. Not happening.

I can accept the results of the election. I won’t be like Trump and throw “rigged” into the equation (although it’s flawed, that’s for damned sure), and I won’t demand a gazillion recounts. So, yes, I will accept the presidential results. But I will not accept the resulting racial and social intolerance that is sure to grow ever-stronger now that there’s a bigot at the helm.  Something’s rotten in the state of the nation – and I will fight like hell against the injustice. I will make my voice heard – because that is one inalienable right all of us have been given. But right now, so many voices are muffled and muted and ignored. Right now, not all voices are truly heard.

The popular vote was won by Hillary, but (just like sixteen years ago) with the electoral college comes the spoils. And by spoils, I mean spoiled. As in, we are rank with injustice up in these parts. But I will rail against the machine. I will demand change. I will shout it to the rooftops until my voice, and ALL voices, are heard. Because, Good Lord willing (yes, I will pray for change, too) maybe in my lifetime, all voices will finally matter.

So whose voices don’t matter and whose voices do? Well, I’ll start with the man (woman, actually) in the mirror. Mine doesn’t matter. Nor, apparently, do millions of other women’s voices. Our votes meant nothing. And while I know we live in a democracy, where majority supposedly rules… majority does not rule.  Money rules. And ignorance rules. Those two things rule.

How do I know? Because those were two of the primary motivating forces behind the majority of Trump votes.

Trump got the uneducated white man’s vote – big time. And with that vote came the uneducated white man’s wife.  Middle-class, suburban, high-school-educated (or less), small-town, white folks voted for Trump.(Others, too. I know that. But I’m looking at demographics, here.) So those people have a voice. Their votes count. But then, white voices always matter, so no surprise there.

Trump also got the vote of the energy states: Texas, Oklahoma, Wyoming, North Dakota, Ohio, Louisiana, Arkansas, West Virginia… So Big Oil votes count. And so does Coal. And manufacturing states, too, like Wisconsin and Indiana and Iowa and Michigan — they went to Trump. So, in other words, money talks. It’s a voice that is heard… Money is really persuasive, really good at tempting souls toward damnation. It’s the root of all evil, if I recall correctly.

So let’s look at the other side. Who voted for Hillary, demographically speaking? Well, she got the minority vote, which ironically makes up the democratic majority these days: she got the African American vote; the LGBT vote; the Latino vote; the college-educated white female vote.

The common denominator, when you line all of these votes up in a pretty row, is that as the paradoxical minority majority, none of these voices were heard. But then, nothing new there. These groups are traditionally silenced. And while yes, I know that college-educated white women absolutely benefit from white privilege, and we often have a much stronger voice than the others in this list – we are also not treated the same as our white male counterparts. (i.e., the glass ceiling phenomena… the gender pay gap… the more qualified, better educated, more temperately-suited candidate did not get the presidency last night…)

As I ponder the pandemonium of our situation, I’m reminded of a favorite Dr. Seuss book: “Yertle the Turtle.” Like most of his books, it’s a satire about a megalomaniac who gains power and control over hopeful, obedient masses blinded by the glitter and promise of his reign. This book and the Trump campaign merge into one big cautionary tale to me. Yertle knows business. He knows money. He is successful and powerful. He can move and shake and control and corral. Wall Street is his mistress. She bends over at his command. And she puts out. So THIS is leadership. THIS is what the country needs. Therefore, millions voluntarily step up so the Turtle King can climb atop their backs and build his throne. And boy, do they come — “swimming by dozens… whole families of turtles, with uncles and cousins.” Surely, as he’s raking in the coin, as he’s building his wealth and his power and might, some of those riches will trickle down to help alleviate the drought at the bottom of the pond. But the only thing that trickles down that “great heavy stack” is pain and misery and the impending doom of cracked shells and broken hearts.

Why would these turtles have done such a thing? Why have WE done such a thing? I ask myself this continuously. The only answer I can come up with is that we have become an unbelievably materialistic society that believes implicitly in instant gratification. Not content with our recovering economy, our gradual, yet markedly-improved quality of life, we are driven by dreams of easy money. The American Dream has become a crude wet dream, and Trump is our golden boy. He’s all that glitters. He is the poster boy of reality television: selfish and prideful and controlling and manipulative, and he gets what he wants by stepping on the shells of those around him. And, apparently, American citizens believe that all of those qualities are perfectly okay. Why? Because he’s a star. He’s a razzle, dazzle, reality super star. And he’s turned reality television into the new reality. Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you, if you’re cruel at heart. You, too, can have whatever you want, as long as you’re willing to play dirty – to behave horribly, to degrade others, to threaten violence, to COMMIT violence, to assault women, to refuse to pay your fair share… Basically, as long as you’re willing to railroad anyone and everyone in your path to get there (a fitting metaphor, since I have heard “Trump Train!” at least a dozen times today in the halls of my blue-collar, white suburban, middle class high school campus), you can have it all.  I am horrified and I am ashamed

Yes, America showed last night that it is far more concerned with its back pocket and its purse strings – than its humanity. And that is not okay with me.

And, yes, I am a bleeding-heart liberal. I admit it. Hell, I embrace it.  My heart weeps and bleeds for those who are targeted and treated unfairly. I’ve been there, remember? I know what it means to not have a voice. And I’m right back there again. This time, with a voice I’m not afraid to use, but one that remains unheard. And there are so many of us in these United States who are in this sad situation.

So, as a bleeding-heart liberal, my heart weeps for my Muslim friends and students. To be despised because of your faith – to be racially and religiously profiled because of your love for God – it is reprehensible. I will fight with you for your voice to be heard.

My heart weeps for my gay and lesbian friends and family and students. To have your love judged, to have your personal happiness threatened by a resurgence of bigotry and blind dogma — it is unforgivable. I will fight with you for your voice to be heard.

My heart weeps for my black friends and my black students.  To be held suspect – or ignored – or targeted — or unfairly tried — or injured — or killed, all because of the hoodie on your back, or the plaits in your hair, or the pigment in your skin… it is an absolute abomination. I will fight with you for your voice to be heard.

My heart bleeds for my fellow-females. To have our autonomy threatened, our merits and strengths and choices and progress potentially peeled away… it is inadmissible. I will fight for our voices to be heard.

My heart is bruised and bloody this morning, but my shell is not broken. Like Mack, Seuss’s “plain little turtle” at the bottom of the stack, I will not give up. I will not give in. My voice will be heard. I will hold strong and I will belch out the injustices, over and over and over. Until that xenophobic, racist, sexist throne topples. And all voices are finally heard.

 

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A Woman More Precious than Pearls

I’ve told y’all before how my grandmother saved me.  She pulled me from the belly of the whale and brought me into light and love.  Well, today I’m here to tell you that Parker and Tate’s grandmother has saved me, too.  I’m starting to think that when a woman becomes a grandmother, some sort of transformative power – some mysterious, ministering pearl — gets planted into the center of her soul and settles, multiplies. And waits.

From the instant that the boys were pulled from my ginormous belly, my mother Rosalee, (hereafter, GiGi), has been a Godsend — an absolute blessing in grandmotherly garb. (Well, not really. She hardly owns anything grandmotherly. She is quite fond of leopard prints, fast cars, and shoe sales.) But she is a Godsend. That much is true.

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The one thing that all twin parents told us from the get go – and that we, as twin parents, tell all new twin parents we know – is that you can never have enough help.  (Remember my favorite proverb, one is one and two is ten?)

And my mom, without fail, has always been willing to lend a hand with our proverbial ten. She has driven one hour, one way, every single week for the last two-and-a-half years.  (Math’s not my strong suit, but that translates to a helluva lot of travel time, people.)

In the beginning, during the insane sixteen months of scant sleep and even scanter sanity, she arrived at our doorstep twice a week, often bringing food and always staying overnight.

I recall a couple of critical nights when she and my sweet Bestie came and took the night shift so that Mike and I could get a little shut-eye. Now that the boys are a little more self-reliant (and finally sound sleepers), she’s weaned it down to once a week — though she always still stays the night. And the boys and I adore her for it. Especially during football season. She brings calm and conversation and highly capable assistance to our lonely nights without Daddy. Her sacrifices do not go unnoticed.

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So let me tell you a little about our GiGi. She has a blonde bob that she sweeps to the side, a speedy, sleek convertible for country roads, and — at last count — eleven themed Christmas trees. She’s quite the eclectic personality.

She hails from the backwoods South of cotton and coal mines, loves Broadway musicals, and interior design.  She drinks sprite mimosas (who needs champagne?) and can move massive furniture single-handed up flights of staircases where most men would require assistance.

It is from GiGi that I get my cooking skills, my temperament (easy-going, most days), and my fight (we can smolder, unchecked, for days until something sparks us and then we can burn down a whole forest).

And if I’m tossing around tree metaphors here, then she’s bound to be a bonsai – well-coiffed and quite compact. That’s one thing I don’t get from my mama…

The boys ADORE their GiGi. She makes their toast with honey, she gives great snuggles and second helpings, and, in keeping with Parker’s obsession over motorized vehicles, she has gadgets and gizmos aplenty. She’s got go karts and golf carts galore. You want automobiles? She’s got twenty (no, not really, but she does have a few in her stable). She’s our pint-sized GiGi in leopard print and convertible ride.

Sadly, during football season, we don’t make it to her place often.  The only day we have with Daddy is Saturday, so we tend to stick close to home and him.  But that doesn’t stop GiGi from coming to us.

This week she arrived for Trick or Treating – and we absolutely couldn’t have done it without her.  And that’s no lie – that’s not even an exaggeration. Daddy had football, and Mommy had a strict moral code.  You simply do not go door to door and collect candy if you don’t also hand out candy at your own front door. It’s a weird little ethical idiosyncrasy of mine. There are too many takers in this world, and a definite shortage of givers. So, as for me and mine, we will do our best to balance out the universe, one snack-size Snickers at a time.

So GiGi gave out candy, while the boys and I traipsed our street… eventually. But first we had to get the boys to wear their costumes — and we had a slight problem. Parker was supposed to be a firetruck, and Tate was supposed to be an Itsy Bitsy Spider (handpicked by them, mind you, from the Pottery Barn catalogue). But apparently it’s not just communism that only works on paper. Add costumes to that list.  Tate had a meltdown – a full-blown, chubby-cheeked, toddler Chernobyl. He wanted to wear the firetruck, too.

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Now I blame myself. I really should’ve known better. Truly. No matter what we do, Mike and I always, always, always buy two of the same thing, which doesn’t stop the boys from fighting, but still… But this time, just this once, I thought it would be different.

Which was simply stupid of me because I also should’ve known that when it comes to any sort of “different” duds the boys don’t adjust well — Tate in particular.  He has a hint of his father’s OCD in him.

For instance, during Cartersville’s Homecoming week about a month ago, the boys’ day care mapped out a fun-filled week of spirit days. Monday brought us silly sock day – so seemingly fun and harmless, yes?

“That’s a negative, ghost rider. The pattern [was too] full.”

Because, apparently in my obsessively compulsive Tate Bug’s mind, funky, mismatched, divergently-patterned socks is just way too excessive for his sensibilities. There was absolutely no way he was wearing one olive green dinosaur sock and one bright orange monster sock. Not with a sweet plaid button up and khaki shorts, thank you very much.

It took chocolate chip cookies for breakfast and a subtle sleight of feet to get them on unnoticed.  Then came Hat Day, not nearly as psychologically damaging as silly socks, but again, not well received.  And then came total anarchy with Pajama Day. It nearly did us all in – and not for the reason you’re thinking. This time, they both EMBRACED the concept. Like totally and completely. Because Minion PJs should be worn to school each and every day. Forever and Ever. Amen.

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So our recent track record with strange and unusual attire has not been stellar. And to be perfectly honest, this time I don’t think it was that Tate necessarily wanted to wear the firetruck so much as he didn’t want to slip the spider’s large, dark, fuzzy cephalothorax over his head. I think he’s a wee bit claustrophobic. Convinced that fear was the problem, GiGi and I tried getting Tate to step into his costume… and it was still a no-go.

But then I got to thinking – the boys probably didn’t understand what Halloween really involves — the seemingly endless supply of sweets, as well as the sweet freedom of walking smack down the center of the street.  I mean, when does a toddler ever get that privilege?

Therefore, GiGi and I, along with the ready and willing assistance of brother Parker, modeled some serious Trick or Treating skills, complete with ringing of doorbell and distribution of suckers. It took no time at all before Tate was fully ensconced in spider finery and ready for the open road — which in all honestly, probably held greater sway than the candy treats in the whole scenario…

So that makes TWO ways the boys and I couldn’t have done Halloween without GiGi. She distributed candy to the masses – and I mean MASSES of little ghouls and goblins– AND she helped us navigate the treacherous landscape of weird wardrobe angst.

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My little costumed adventurers only trekked to eight neighbor’s houses before we set our sights toward home. The houses are far apart on our street, and the boys had plodded purposefully to each one with confidence, only to find themselves speechless and shy at the doorway. I had managed to coax a fist-muffled “Trick or Treat” out of both boys every time, but still, eight was plenty.

As we made our way through the hordes, Parker and Tate spied GiGi distributing treats amidst a crowd of kiddos in costume. They instantly picked up speed, their plastic pumpkins practically careening off felted kneecaps and showering the street with treats.

“I found you, GiGi! I found you, GiGi!” — as if she were a long lost treasure, and they alone understood her import. But that is not true.

I, too, understand her import.  I truly, truly do. For she is far more precious than pearls. And boy does she have them — pearls of wisdom and truth and love and hope and energy and time and joy and peace… they pour out of her. She has shared those pearls with us so very generously and so very faithfully for the past two-and-a-half years. GiGi’s worth simply cannot be measured. And my humble thanks can never be payment enough. But still, I offer them up in this month of Thanksgiving.

Thank you.

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The Velveteen Woman: Aren’t I Real Enough Already?

I’m a Velveteen Woman on an authentic journey to become Real.( If you know the story — Oh, my gosh, it makes me cry!!! Like Ugly Cry, complete with quivering lip and all sorts of snot cry!!! — then you know what I mean. And if you don’t — go read it. Like yesterday.) Anyways… I’m a Velveteen Woman on a journey to become Real. And some days I just feel way too torn and tattered to keep going. No, let me clarify. Some WEEKS I just feel way too torn and tattered — and just plain broken– to keep going.  And this past week has been that sort of week.

I feel like I’ve been steamrolled by the planet. My bones are weary and my mind is pressed flat. Why, you ask?

Well, maybe it’s because I’m fifty. And the mother of four children — two of whom are twins… boys… who are toddlers. Add to that two girls who are twenty something and on their own authentic journeys to become Real (and I feel every knock and nick that they get along the way — maybe even more-so. Because when your baby hurts, you hurt, no matter how old they get). Then there’s the fact that I’m an English teacher drowning in essays, and that I’m a football widow in the tenth week of football season –and we’re still gunning for another six (Good Lord willing…) Oh, and don’t forget the piece de resistance — my State Health Benefit Plan decided to drop kick our boys’ coverage this week.

So this week, my journey has rubbed off a lot of my edges and stolen some of my shine. Let’s start with the fact that I’m fifty. I am nowhere near as bright and shiny as I was thirty years ago. Back then I had glossy hair and firm skin and stuffing in most of the right places. I had muscles and stamina for days. There was lightning harnessed to my giddy-up. I could run 5Ks, host block parties, create four-course dinners and chop an acre of firewood and still snap, crackle and pop at the end of the day. Now, I’m lucky to have snap, crackle and pop at the breakfast table — unless it’s a chorus from my joints and a bowl of Rice Krispies.

And being the mother of four has done some work on my lovely lady lumps. I wouldn’t go so far as the Bob Segar song and claim my “points were way up firm and high” back then, but they definitely weren’t stretched and deflated to the point of flapping in a brisk wind if they aren’t strapped in properly.  Four babies and four years of breastfeeding takes its toll on your breasteses.

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And so do three pregnancies – especially one with twins.  My skin is puckered and striped and dimpled.  I’ve been pulled and torn and redistributed.  And stitched back together. My belly bears a nice, six-inch seam where the good doctors scooped out two darling little melon balls in my first and only C-section at age forty-seven. At that age, the elastin in the skin isn’t quite what it once was. Needless to say, my stuffing has fallen and nestled into soft, comfy pooches in inconvenient and unattractive places. Add to that, my saggy hindquarters, and I’m just a soft, comfy lap of lady lumps.

34weeks

Along with my belly seam, I also bear a dog-legged scar across my right paw, which I earned, of all things, by doing laundry. Two-and-a-half-year-old twins come with not just double the laundry –because, as my friend once said, “one is one and two is ten” – but with exponentially multiplying mountains of laundry. Every day brings ground-in clay and spattered curry, skid marks and grass stains, ripped seams and snotted sleeves… Last December, while putting away the endless backlog of socks and underwear I broke my distal radius. As I stepped to the side to pull open a drawer, Tate at my side, my ankle slid out of joint – yet another weakness from my years of service on this earth – and I had to make a quick choice: sacrifice my wrist or sacrifice my youngest. Since Tate is a relatively important component of our family unit and my right hand is my dominant and most-used portion of my body, it was quite the quandary.  In the split second decision, Tate won and my wrist lost. Badly. Between fracture and surgery, it was a five-month loss. If I’d chosen Tate, I bet he would’ve bounced back in two, tops.

dogearedscar

So my body has often been sacrificed upon the alter of motherhood.  But it’s not been simply limited to my body. My mind has paid a tremendous price, too.  I’m not nearly as quick-witted as I once was. It’s a spongey mass of mire, sucking and slurping and slowing me down. I think the majority of decay occurred during the sixteen months of sleeplessness that Mike and I endured after the boys’ birth. Regardless, my electrodes just don’t fire as fast as they once did. Perhaps the biggest impact has been on my teaching load. I feel like I still do a decent job of instructing my students – of leading them through the mazes of symbolism and themes, interpretations and analyses. Where I’ve taken the hardest hits is the grading. Piles of essays grow even faster than my mountains of laundry. My desk looks like the Manhattan skyline. This week, alone, Hamlet and Ophelia have taken up residence in a couple of high-rise stacks already occupied by the Lady of Shallot and a serial killer named Arnold Friend. My gorged and glutted in-box creates strange bedfellows, indeed.

desk

But if my teacher’s inbox is a sprawling, metropolis of gangly skyscrapers, my personal email is an un-weeded garden, where things rank and gross in nature secretly sprout. It is here that the emails regarding our insurance travesty sat like poisonous mushrooms multiplying in the darkness. You see, like Hamlet, my wit’s diseased, and I don’t have good sense enough to regularly monitor my g-mail.

But then again, who would think an insurance company would just drop babies midyear for no clear reason? And send letters about their intentions to old addresses? And not email your work address, where you get all other correspondence, to let you know? And not telephone you at all to inform you you’re under the gun? Apparently, it happens. We were audited. Someone somewhere pointed a mean, nasty middle finger at our family, and BANG.

The State Health Benefit Plan gave us four months to comply with the audit’s demands (so incredibly generous, no?). Unfortunately, for the entire four months we remained blissfully ignorant, thinking we were following the rules of the universe and enjoying our life, liberties and pursuits of happiness. All the while, our insurance providers were tunneling under our best-laid precautions preparing to blow them to smithereens. Two-and-a-half year old twins with no health insurance at the very cusp of cold weather and The Creepy Crud?  FML.

Now the boys seem to have taken the news of no insurance in stride, maintaining their status quo of textbook twin toddlers, boisterously brawling and loving in equal measure. They’ve wrangled over bar stools, bloodied their kneecaps, chanted nursery rhymes, fought for control of the cayenne pepper, had meltdowns over melting ice, locked themselves in our van along with my keys, chunked dried apricots at the cat, giggled contagiously in the tub, and hugged one another to the point of unquenchable rage. And that was just yesterday.

Upon the news, Mike continued on the way that he always does, leaping tall buildings and intercepting all the wicked slings and arrows that outrageous fortune has lobbed our way — including the discovery he unearthed yesterday while working his magic and getting our boys back on an insurance policy: Mike himself has had no insurance since October 1st! Yep. Big, fat middle finger pointed our way. But the point is, my man mountain is way-beyond-textbook husband and father. He stands strong in the storm. Every time. I don’t know what I would do without him. He picks up my stuffing. He tucks it back in. He shoulders my shortcomings and he shelters my babes — all four of them. It’s fitting that he’s a Purple Hurricane coach. He knows the ins and outs of life’s storms and he weathers them with grace.

And he is the calm in the storm of my crazy because, Lord, have I been a textbook basket case this week. I’ve been falling apart at my already weakened seams – so much so that I’m shedding hair and tears and sleep and health and sanity until I’m as limp and floppy as the Velveteen Rabbit.

And according to the Skin Horse in the classic tale, “It takes a long time to become real… it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

So, I think this week finally did it. I think I’m finally Real. Maybe a long time is fifty years. I know I don’t break too easily – only one bone so far (knock on wood). Most of my hair has been loved off and my joints are definitely loose and my appearance is shabby – especially if you catch me on the weekends where I choose to never get out of my pjs unless I am absolutely forced to do so. Now my eyes haven’t dropped out yet, but they’re most definitely drooping… And I’m pretty certain this week knocked off any sharp edges I still managed to have left.

So, yeah, I feel like I should finally be Real… But I know it’s never that simple.  Because I am on an authentic journey. And it’s never over until it’s over. But as I’ve said in past blogs, I can do this hard thing.

Because what keeps me going is that I KNOW I’m truly loved. By five of the most amazing humans this world has ever cradled: Caitlin, Bethany, Parker, Tate, and Mike. I don’t deserve their love, but I am so eternally grateful for it.  And they make me FEEL Real — whether I’m actually there or not. (And I’m sure I’m not.) And I’m loved by the Creator of our Universe. I am snuggled and sheltered, and sometimes weathered and wizened — all in the name wisdom and growth. I have been blessed in so many ways and with so many wonderful experiences.  And those experiences sometimes knock me about a bit. But they just add to the love.

So all of you struggling women out there doing the hard thing and getting your edges knocked off and your stuffing pulled out. Keep on keeping on. You’re exhausted. I know. I get it. But we’re all Velveteen Women on our authentic journey to become Real. And the closer we get to Real, the harder it gets and the more knocked-about we feel. But we can do this hard thing. And we are getting there. Every nick, chip, and bruise along the way, we are getting there. We can do this hard thing.

allofus

 

4

I’ve Lived Through That Hell, and I’m Not Going Back Again.

I’m just going to put this out there again.  So many of us are strong. Are resilient. Have overcome so much and will continue on in our quest for equality…

me

Frailty, thy name is NOT woman… even though I was programmed to believe so.  And so have, apparently, a whole lot of other people.

Y’all, I’m about to get political here, and please know that it is not because I want to pick fights or force my will upon any of you. I know and understand that I am passionate in my beliefs, just as you are passionate in yours. I know we all have our stories and we all have our convictions, and I know that our experiences make up what we ourselves hold to be true. Faith guides the majority of us. Faith points us in the direction of what we deem right and what we deem wrong.  Our personal histories dictate our faiths.  Often, we either reject the teachings of our childhoods or we embrace them.

Me, I believe in God — but not the God I was raised on. Not the God that was thrust down my throat and battered about my heart and head, yoking me to servitude and self-loathing. That was my reality. A God of the Old Testament. A God of Wrath and Condemnation and Plagues and Pestilence. A God I was raised to fear. A God who condones men who would proclaim me a weak, worthless and wanton woman.

I have lived through that Hell, and I’m not going back again.

I choose to believe in a loving and benevolent God. This is my reality. The God of the New Testament. A God who appreciates and cherishes me, who values my contributions and celebrates my achievements. Who does not love me less because I am Woman. A God who does not fault my mind and shame my body.

Today, I am speaking out because there was once a time, not that long ago, when I could not speak out. There was a time when I found myself and others of my gender, silenced and powerless. I’ve explained before that I was raised in a cult. It was a cult led by men who took pleasure in their ability to objectify and subjugate women. It was a cult led by men who refused to see value in womanhood beyond their ability to serve men’s needs and take care of their households. It was a cult led by men full of ego and blasphemy, self-righteousness and self-flattery. They didn’t appreciate women – although they did “delight”—I remember that word – they did delight in a good woman. And what exactly made up a good woman? Her abilities to serve, to be silent, to satisfy and to look pleasing while doing it all.

I still struggle with recovery from that early indoctrination and conditioning. Every day I remind myself that I have a mind and a voice that are vital, that are important – that I am worth listening to. It is classic battered women’s syndrome, to believe that you are unworthy. To feel fearful and weak and apologetic. And though I was never physically abused, I was emotionally abused — programed from a very young age to believe that women are nothing more than silent helpmates for their husbands, in the primordial form and fashion of the Old Testament Eve. I struggle every day to remember I am so much more than that.

I also struggle every day not to grow angry and resentful towards those who have never had to experience misogyny or prejudice, who could never understand what it feels like.  But who are ever ready to denounce the fears and concerns of those who have.  Who try to calm us, to placate us when we grow upset at old, familiar injustices we see rising once again to the surface. Or who argue our claims of injustice are unfounded or are blatant exaggerations. Who suggest that if we would just shut up and not stir the pot, things would be fine.

Well, I won’t shut up. I won’t sit and wait for the pot to boil over and burn us all. I’ve lived through that Hell, and I’m not going back again.

I’m kicking, I’m screaming —  I’m asking other women out there to do the same. We CANNOT ignore this call to action and we CANNOT fail. If we do, all hell will break loose – again. I’ve lived there. Some of you haven’t – but your mothers or their mothers or their mother’s mothers have. Because I see the Handwriting on the Wall – I’ve seen it before. And I BEG you all to take a look around you and recognize it, too.

Let me explain…

I’m terrified of the mentality that Donald Trump has toward and against women — because I have seen it before. Sadly, he spouts the same fundamentally-flawed attitudes toward our sex as the cult I was raised in, and while the language he uses is far more vulgar (it was a church, after all), the philosophies are the same. He is a man eager to insult and belittle women, a man ready to condemn all women for being the genetic dispensation of Eve. He has fat-shamed us, he has slut-shamed us, he has fluid-shamed us — yes, he even went there — publicly ridiculing a female reporter for “blood coming out of her wherever” and humiliating a lactating female attorney by calling her “disgusting.” Trump is cut from the same cloth as those church elders I left behind, that I escaped from, so many moons and so many progressions ago. Men who feel we are less than them because we have different parts than them. I refuse to go back to that dark, silent Hell.

Just as The Fellowship – for that was the pet name of the cult in which I was raised (ominously patriarchal, I know…) – refused to acknowledge that women have brains and purpose beyond that Old Testament job of helpmate to our husbands… Trump has refused as well: “You know, I don’t want to sound too much like a chauvinist, but when I come home and dinner’s not ready, I’ll go through the roof, okay?”  He also once implied on a radio interview that it is a woman’s job to care for the children and he holds disdain for any man who has ever diapered an infant because that’s the wife’s job.

Yeah, well I’ve lived through that Hell, and I’m not going back again.

When I was young and fully submerged in the confines of the cult, I knew I had no chance of becoming anything other than a wife and homemaker. College was never to be an option for me. In Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible, an antagonist has a theory closely akin to how I was raised: “Sending a girl to college is like pouring water in your shoes. It’s hard to say which is worse, seeing it run out and waste the water, or seeing it hold in and wreck the shoes.” An expensive university education would never have been an option for me, had it not been for my grandmother. My post-secondary destiny was apprenticeship under an elder’s wife. I would be closely tutored and monitored in the ways and wonders of domesticity. I would become an indentured servant, working for my room and board and learning to be a skillful homemaker from some of the best. These women put Martha Stewart to shame: perfectly pressed and pleated trousers for husbands, hospital corners on all of the beds, crown roasts of pork at Christmas and braised racks of lamb at Easter. And I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with wanting to be proficient, masterful even, at domesticity. I love a beautifully appointed table to this day, and I do value the domestic education I received before I made my escape. One of the things that makes me happiest in life is to make my family happy. My problem here is that it should be by CHOICE.  A woman should always have a choice, with regard to ANYTHING – job, husband, family, all of it.

Wait, you argue. Trump has never said women shouldn’t be allowed to work outside the home.  Ok. I give you that. At least he hasn’t said it publicly… However, he avoids discussing women’s strengths and abilities, unless they involve her sexuality.  It’s far easier to objectify women if their brains are ignored completely. If he does happen to comment on women’s minds, often it is to call them “neurotic” – one of his favorite female insults. Normally, though, he focuses on women’s physical appearances, particularly in relation to conquest: “It’s all about the hunt and once you get it, it loses some of its energy. I think competitive, successful men feel that way about women.” And with regard to female writers: “it really doesn’t matter what they write as long as you’ve got a young and beautiful piece of ass. But she’s got to be young and beautiful.” In other words, my words mean nothing – not only because I’m not young and beautiful, but also because it doesn’t matter what I write. According to Trump, as a woman, my words – and by reflection, I, myself – don’t matter. I mean nothing.

I’ve lived through that Hell, and I’m not going back again.

So let’s talk a little bit about the historical precedence of equating women with nothing… During the Renaissance, the Elizabethan euphemism for female genitalia was “Nothing”– seemingly apropos, I suppose, since no thing hangs between our legs, but also extremely demeaning and disparaging. Trump over and over again diminishes us to our genitalia, objectifying us – robbing us of subjectivity. Making us little more than toys for his tool.   Trump considers us powerless because we have No Thing between our legs.  For Trump to respect you, you must have Some Thing hanging between your legs. And then, only if it’s a white thing.. and even then, only if it has some wealth attached to it. Because that makes you a star. You can do anything when you’re a star “Grab ‘em by the pussy,” if you want. He sees women as objects to be demoralize, to grope, to molest, to rape, to control. Any which way you look at it, women get the shaft when Trump is in charge

Trump’s words have the power to transform women’s lives as we know it. A president’s words set the tone and the climate of our nation. His (or her) words carry weight. They are powerful and they are absorbed. They can teach a child she is worthy or they can teach a child that she is unworthy. Girls and young women maturing in our society do not need to hear their president slut-shaming and fat-shaming their sex. As women, we have come such a long way from the double standards of our father’s and fathers’ fathers’ eras. For centuries a woman’s value was tied to the tiniest sliver of a membrane and whether or not it was still intact. Men were celebrated for their sexuality. Women were shamed for theirs. That’s bullshit.

I have lived through that Hell, and I’m not going back again.

Thankfully, our potential and value is no longer intertwined with the state of our hymen or the price of our dowry. We have not yet reached the place where double standards are obsolete though (obviously – otherwise the fat-shaming and slut-shaming wouldn’t still be happening) –  but I fear that with Trump and his misogynistic attitudes we will slide backward far faster than we’ve managed to climb forward.

Women have worked hard to get where we are today… and we still aren’t where we need to be. Women still make significantly less than men in comparable jobs – statistics claim between 22% and 27%, depending. And if the job has shifted over the years to predominantly female-owned, statistics show that wages fell, in some instances, up to 57 percentage points. For whatever reason, throughout history, women have been undervalued. In Judeo-Christian society, I think it all heralds back to that despised darling, the apple-eating Eve.  We women are way too wily and wicked, and we simply cannot be trusted. So don’t you dare give us power.

Now people would argue that Trump’s words are just that – words. But words are never simply words. Take the Bible – the Word of God – for example. If you are Christian, you build your entire faith, your entire world and mindset and principles and actions, around those words. If you are not Christian, then they are simply words.  The same may be said of the Koran. Or the Bhagavad Gita. Or the Tripitaka… And if we segue away from faith into the secular, the same may be said of the United States’ Declaration of Independence and Bill of Rights. They are simply words. But they are so much more than that, as well. They bear weight. We have built our government, our lives, our principles and actions around those words.

The same may be said of Hitler and his government, a dictatorship built off of the power of his words -– he started slowly and gathered steam (unlike Trump, who has been ballsy from the start and will surely only get more daring), creating a mindset and manipulating millions and slowly eliminating the freedoms of the Jews and others. Trump is openly xenophobic toward several groups, Muslims in particular. He would like to see all Muslims carry religious IDs, a frightening flashback to the labeling of the Jews, initially by IDs and later by insignia. Trump has also threatened the first amendment – freedom of speech – by declaring he would shut down Saturday Night Live because of their “unfair” depictions of him. If he could shut down satiric entertainment like SNL, what might he do to print and network journalism? And like Hitler, Trump isn’t above inciting violence, He has encouraged his minions to punch protestors, proclaiming he would take care of their legal bills. His campaign suggested Hillary Clinton would likely be shot if Trump lost the election – a thinly veiled threat. And he, himself bragged that he could literally shoot someone on the streets and not lose voters– and the sad part is, he probably could. Because he is the epitome of a cult leader – and I know cult leaders. I’m a recovering member.

I have lived through that Hell, and I’m not going back again.

It is obvious that Trump’s legions are following a controlling, narcissistic bully. He convinces seemingly rational and intelligent human beings to latch onto his every whim with wild abandon. Hell, some supporters even likened him to the Biblical Samson, a sinner and womanizer, but one who, they argue, was still called by God.  I’m not kidding here. Supporters declare, “God’s hand is upon Trump and the forces of evil have been trying to stop him.”

Wait, what?  Trump?!?

It is obvious that some followers are ready to sacrifice life as they know it, to take up Trump’s cross, and to follow him blindly. Hitler is famous for saying, “If you tell a big enough lie and tell it frequently enough, it will be believed.”  Trump doesn’t even lie about the audacious things he would do. And people are absorbing every outlandish, sexist, racist, violent, vitriolic word of it.

This presidency terrifies me.  I know that our nation is drastically divided for a variety of reasons. I know that. I get that. We all are equally passionate about why.  I just wanted to share a few of my reasons why.

I have lived through that Hell, and I am not going back there.

0

My Baby Girl: a Golden, Gleaming Mommy Goddess

This weekend, we celebrated my grandson Bentley’s first birthday. I can’t really believe it’s already been a year since I spent three days in labor and delivery helping Boop stay as calm and as comfortable as possible after eight, yes EIGHT, epidurals failed to give her an iota of relief. There is nothing that can knock a mother’s heart around her chest like a rickety roller coaster ride more than seeing her own child struggling through the frighteningly fragile, yet tenacious and powerful process of giving birth. Bethany is a true warrior, and so is her little lad, Bentley — otherwise known as Nana’s Little Acorn.  They weathered an incredibly long and arduous journey.

I got the call on a Thursday night. I was just sitting down to dinner with the boys and Mike’s parents when Boop explained that she was going to be admitted for preeclampsia and that the docs would be inducing labor in the next day or so.  As you can imagine, there were several incredible stressors within this single phone call.

#1: Boop had preeclampsia.  I had just gone through it myself the year before. I knew how very dangerous the condition can be to both mother and baby. Bethany was having extreme headaches and swelling. Her blood pressure was up and her urine was throwing protein. Bentley would need to be delivered no later than the weekend.

#2: Nana’s little acorn was to arrive nearly six weeks early. Again, I had just been through that scenario a little over a year before. Luckily, Boop and Bentley had reached the 34-week gestation marker, so we knew he likely wouldn’t need any oxygen, but he would need practice eating (preemie boys are notoriously lazy feeders) and maintain his body temp. I knew there was a probable two week stay in the NICU in store for my Bentley and an unavoidable hornet’s nest of raw, stinging emotions ready to take up residence in Boop’s chest – a chest that would already be crowded with the honeycombed sweetness of milk from her mammary glands. There was an emotional perfect storm circulating just off the horizon.

And #3: The call was on Thursday night – in football season. That meant the next night was a Friday. Friday Night Lights Frenzy.  And no mama. Shit. What would I do with the boys? Double shit. But as fortune would have it, my in-laws were here when I got the call so I had extra hands on deck. Friday night would’ve been a near-impossibility if not for his mom and for my ever-dedicated and most beauteous best friend. Of all the besties in the world, my Queenie is nonpareil.  There’s a vocab word for ya. I would say look it up, but there’s no need because I’m telling you that the definition is: Tammy Bramblett Queen, the incomparable, generous-hearted best friend of Heather Peters Candela. Between my mother-in-law and my bestie my boys were fed and nurtured and entertained on a very busy and very stressful Friday night. So that was one less thing I had to worry about.

And finally #4: Weaning the boys. Not only has it been a year since my sweet little Acorn came into this world, it has also been a year since I last breastfed the boys.  I pumped until February of this year, but it was a year ago in October that I physically nursed them for the very last time — in the English department storage closet on Friday afternoon before I headed up to Knoxville.  Mike had brought them by for that express purpose. He knew how hard it was going to be on me. I wasn’t ready, but I knew that being gone for at least three days would as good as wean them, and it would be downright cruel to start them back up again, only to wean them all over again later.  So there, surrounded by a bevy of beloved classic literature, I breastfed them one final time. One final time, I felt the tingly, pinching ants of letdown. One final time I felt the sweet pull of milk filling their bellies. One final time I felt the flush and bloom of sweat on their necks as they grew warm and content. It’s funny, but just before they emptied my breasts entirely, they began to play patty cake — something they’d never done before. They clapped and clapped, Parker’s right hand pressing Tate’s left, a nipple clenched in each of their smiles, as if applauding this passing of a milestone — this one step closer to being grown. I won’t say I didn’t cry.

Exit to Knoxville: The next three days were a wild and whirling pain-fest of Pitocin and pointless epidurals. Poor Bethany! She’s just one of those individuals whose body just doesn’t chemically interact an epidural. In eight attempts, the block was never more than patchy and poor, at best, so my poor baby girl felt a whole lot of agony (remind me to tell you a little story about Bethany and the “agony” in a bit) for a whole lot of hours. As in, thirty-two. Active labor hours. With no epidural. That’s super very much a lot, thank you very much.

Boop progressed super slowly, stalling out at 4 centimeters dilation and staying there for over 24 hours. The Pitocin pumped and pressured and prodded and her uterus clenched and cranked and contracted, but her cervix was noncompliant. The nurses and docs tried some tricks to help her along, from a foley bulb catheter to a birthing ball. Neither contraption worked. She lived in raw, primal, animal pain for well over a day. I used to boast that I was in labor with Caitlin for twenty-six hours with no epidural, but those bragging days are gone. Boop’s got me beat, let me tell ya. She is the grand champion of marathon labor. My baby girl is one tough mother.

But tough as she is, Sunday afternoon around 4:00 found Boop begging for a c section. Hell, we were all begging for a c section — her best friend Maggie, her cousin Lauren, her man Bradley, even her big sis the surgeon (who felt helpless and far-far away — 843 miles away, to be exact) — we were all begging for a c section. Boop was writhing in pain and wrung the F out. Her energy was gone. Her enthusiasm was gone. Her patience was gone. There’s only so much that ice chips, cheerleading, small talk and back rubs can do to keep you going when it’s day three and you haven’t eaten or slept and the waves of pain are smashing your body like a… like a… like a squirrel in agony.

hatboop

So now for that “agony” story I promised you… Bethany was around four and the cutest, wide-eyed, hat-wearing, little fart blossom (my Grandmother’s favorite term of endearment) on the planet.  We were a block or so away from picking up Caitlin from school when we rounded a curve and came upon a squirrel that had just been hit by a car. It was thrashing around in the throes of anguish when Bethany saw it and gasped, “Oh, no!”

“Bless its little heart,” I said. “The poor thing is in agony.”

“What’s ‘n agony?” she asked.

So I explained to my precocious girl that it was in extreme pain and suffering. As we pulled up to the pickup line at the school, I finished with…  “so that little squirrel was in agony.”

“Oh, it WAS a squirrel?” she squawked in confusion, “I thought you said it was an agony!”

Fast forward to twenty some odd years later, and I’m at Bethany’s bedside as she writhes around in an agony that I’m fairly certain was closely akin to that of the pitiful little squirrel back on Mission Road so many years ago.  I wanted her out of her misery, and I was steeling myself to do battle with her obstetrician when the charge nurse offered to do one last check…

And… a 6! She’d progressed to a 6! Finally her cervix and her uterus started working together! An hour after that, she was an 8  — and within thirty minutes after that, it was time to push.  Hallelujah and cut the cord! Well, we delivered the baby first, of course…

Somehow Boop mustered the energy to push and push hard.  I took one of her shoulders and Bradley took the other. We counted off each push – cheering her on toward that bloody, brazen end zone. The little guy came out like all babies do, covered in birth juice and clotted cream and truly, truly scrumptious.  He bore one battle wound from his epic birth journey: a tiny cut on his nose from the monitor leads.

Bentley carries that hairline scar across his nose to this day… along with all of our hearts (from mine, to his Aunt Cay Cay’s in the Big D, to his little uncles Parker and Tate, eighteen months his seniors), he carries all of our hearts wrapped tight around his little finger. Because he is the most beautifully perfect little Acorn you ever did see.  He has green glass eyes and an open, hearty smile. He’s his mama’s perfect clone. Her spittin’ image; her carbon copy.

And Bethany is the most beautiful mama I ever did see.  She was born for motherhood. She is breathlessly incandescent. She is luminous. She glows. She has always been a bright and beautiful light in this world, but now her light is softer, warmer, deeper, more soulful. She radiates maternal perfection.  I’d like to say she’s the spittin’ image of me as a mother, but that would be a lie.  She’s got me beat. She is a master of maternal prowess. My baby girl is one tough mother.

0

My Man Mountain

I’m pretty sure I’ve celebrated everybody in our patchwork of a postcolonial family in my blog now except for one key and vitally important piece. Without him, we wouldn’t be postcolonial at all. Without him, our family quilt would be fairly uniform in color and personality (though far from dull because it would be all Southern and Southerners are anything but dull.  We keep a lot of crazy in our closet and we take it out and parade it around with pride on special occasions, like trips to Kroger or booster club meetings, but still…) Without him, we wouldn’t have our usually sweet and sometimes sour toddler twin dumplings. So today, I’m turning the spotlight on the one person who gives our family the diversity and exoticism of the far East and the Up North. The person who gives me, personally, the courage and the determination to keep travelling along this steep and thorny path through life and twindom: my husband, Mike. He is my inspiration, my strength, my champion, my love. He has no idea how many times his random texts, his smile and his sweet notes in my lunch bag keep me going on a daily basis.

manmountain

Mike is a giant of a man. He is what the Lilliputians would call a Man Mountain; a Colossus.  He is a mountainous, six foot, three-hundred-pound colossus of an Asian man. Now I know the juxtaposition of giant and Asian may seem like an oxymoron — face it, when you think Asian, you think smart and small, maybe with black-rimmed glasses and awesome, enviable hair. And I’m not saying Mike’s not smart (because he is – wickedly so), but he’s definitely not small (he gets that from his Italian side), he doesn’t wear glasses, and his hair is shaved off weekly until he’s totally and completely bald.  So he’s my favorite paradox — my bald, giant Asian man.  And he is a giant in so many ways beyond just his size – from his generosity to his sense of humor, from his drive and dedication, to his capacity for love.

I’ll start with Mike’s generosity – which is ginormous. He’s like a bald, slant-eyed Santa Claus. He showers me with the sweetest of surprises — little things that mean so much, like buckets of real movie theater popcorn, Reese’s Pieces, and bottles of wine because he knows they’re my favorite combos or big surprises that are just the epitome of perfect, like the flock of flamingos on my fiftieth because he knows I have an unhealthy obsession with pink plastic yard art. And the presents don’t stop with me.  The boys get little special somethings for no particular reason quite often too. Most recently, Tate got a B-I-N-G-O book (his new favorite nursery rhyme) and for Parker, a monster truck school bus (his new favorite vehicle).

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Mike’s sense of humor is boundless – and I do mean boundless.  As in, there are no boundaries.  His languages are English, sarcasm and sexual innuendo. His wit is quick and acerbic and his wordplay is bawdy. He’s a veritable Italian-Korean Chaucer – able to twist innocent statements into double entendre in seconds flat. “That’s what she said,” is still his favorite go-to phrase and he’s always willing to throw in a couple of “deez nuts” for good measure, but he’s definitely not limited to the tried and true. And he picks on anyone and everyone equally, himself included — particularly when it comes to Asian stereotypes. (Just take a look at his celebrity look-alike facebook profile) And the boys don’t escape his jokes either —  as is evidenced in THEIR celebrity look-alikes…

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Now as far as his drive and dedication, it is unmatched — whether it’s in marriage, football, or fatherhood. Mike juggles more than his fair share in all three of these roles trying to be a successful and dutiful husband, coach, and dad. And he succeeds at all three.  On any given day during the season he makes lunches, does laundry, teaches six classes, studies film, grades players, runs schemes, attends practice, washes dishes, and finally, loves on the boys and then me – even if it’s just for a few quick minutes (That’s what she said….) I am truly in awe of his drive, his dedication, and his dexterity (TWSS).

Now if I’m to paint an accurate picture here, Mike’s enormous characteristics are not necessarily limited to merely the positive. He has other larger than life traits, too, like an iron will and a stubborn streak rivaled only by my own. At times, the two of us can reach stalemates that dynamite could scarcely rattle. Usually they’re over dumb shit — like who picks dinner (we both tend to defer to the other – over and over and over) or most recently, over who actually despises Trump more. Oh, and Mike has a super sharp temper that flashes in thunderous rages. It is very rarely seen and never shown toward me or the boys. It usually involves DIY home projects. (If he’s wielding a hammer or a saw, I’m leaving before he finds his frustration threshold. He’s been known to punch walls and put holes in sheetrock.) The only other occasions (besides football) where I’ve seen his fiery temper unleashed is when someone threatens his loved ones. Then, as Mr. T used to say, “I pity the fool…

Which brings me to his enormous capacity for love. Mike is fueled by a love more intense, more protective, more genuine, more burning than any love I’ve ever known. He has taught me what love truly is and what love really means. I believe it now when I see that familiar Corinthians’ passage: love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It always protects, always, trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Because Mike is all of these things for me and for mine.  He is my three-hundred-pound Asian teddy bear. And he’s also my giant, three-hundred-pound Asian enigma — a puzzle of mammoth proportions…

Because he picked me. Me.

He never should have. I am his exact opposite. I’m an eighties girl; he’s a nineties guy. I’m laidback; he’s got OCD.  I played piano. He played football. I was a book nerd. He was a meathead. His family is quiet and reserved. Mine is loud and ballsy. But we did have one thing going for us: some lyrics from a Journey song. Ten years ago, I was just a small town girl livin’ in a lonely world and he was a city boy, born and raised in South Detroit.  And the two of us refused to stop believing.

Just yesterday, I discovered a new song with new lyrics that express exactly how I have felt about my mountainous, six foot, three-hundred-pound colossus of an Asian man from the first kiss, Christmas break ten years ago, to right now, this very second:

You still make me nervous when you walk in the room
Them butterflies they come alive when I’m next to you
Over and over the only truth
Everything comes back to you

I love you, Mike Candela.

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Slimes and Smells and Streptococcus

Never leave a hot dog on the stovetop to ferment in its own juices for three days. Never. The scum that accumulates on the surface of the water is nothing compared with the slime that surrounds its circumference upon extracting it. Not kidding, here. I made the mistake of taking it out of the pot with my bare hand and the slime slipped over it like a mucous-y, amorphous blob. It just kept sliding and slipping until it nearly covered my  wrist. So much slime for such a small, seemingly innocuous hot dog. Mike almost threw up. It was like something out of Ghostbusters or Nickelodeon. But it was nothing — I say nothing — compared with the slime that has sluiced from the boys’ noses this week. I wish I’d thought of bottling it up and sending it to Universal Studios to lend some authenticity to the Kids’ Choice Awards this spring.

It all began on Monday — doesn’t it always? The boys had slept terribly, if you could even call it sleep. There’d been multiple coughing fits and periodic wailing virtually all night long. There’s this feeling I get deep in my mommy marrow when I hear my babies – any of them, whether it’s my girls in their twenties or the boys in their twos — cough that raw, rattily cough. It’s a maternal, visceral reflex – like someone has taken a potato peeler to my womb and is shaving off slender curls of it while I’m simultaneously plunging from a tremendous height. That’s what it feels like — except worse. Because I would rather have someone scrape my uterus with a peeler while simultaneously freefalling than to hear that cough coming from any one of my babies’ chests. Needless to say, Monday morning, even before my alarm went off at 5:30, I decided that I was taking the day off and taking them to the doctor. I figured it would be ear infections – our old, familiar foe.

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Now taking a day as a teacher – particularly a teacher in Bartow County – is no easy feat. The first order of business is finding a sub, and finding a sub in our district is akin to unearthing the Holy Grail in the kitchens of Hell. The task has not always been so daunting… Our county used to subscribe to a computerized system that allowed teacher to post their needs online and allow open and able substitute teachers to log in and select a job at will. That was long before systematic budget cuts and various and dubious central office expenditures. Now, we must call subs ourselves – from an alphabetical sub list that also includes interspersed but clearly-marked food nutrition subs in the mix… and let’s just say, woe to the unwitting teacher who accidently calls and wakes a food nutrition individual at 5:30 in the morning for a CLASSROOM position… Now procuring a sub wouldn’t nearly be as Sisyphean a task if the subs were allowed to work more than three days a week in our county. You see, if a sub works more than three days a week, our school system would then be required to provide benefits. (Heaven forbid! and Thanks, Obama.) So the subs naturally work for other systems when they can, and only take Bartow jobs when the pickin’ is slim. And apparently the pickin’s were bountiful this past Monday morning because I called close to forty phone numbers before I found a taker – almost an hour later. But at least I had a sub – and a work comrade, who just so happens to be my best friend and department chair, willing to leap tall buildings and run copies and keep an eye on my classes. So I had that going for me…

Now chalk it up to Monday morning and being sleep deprived, or to just plain old twinility (the disease I contracted immediately upon turning fifty with twin toddlers), but when Mike asked if he should call in late and give me some help getting the boys to the doc’s I said, “Honey, they’re two-and-a-half now. Surely they will walk themselves into the doctor’s office these days. It’s no big deal. We’ll be fine.”

I should’ve just said, “I can do this hard thing…”

Because hard it was. And do it, I did — extricating screaming twin toddlers, terrified of getting yet more shots from that pesky pediatrician, out of car seats and into the office building, all the while avoiding giant SUVs and juniper hedgerows. Each boy was saddled up on a love handle, and the diaper bag and my handbag were slung across my back. I looked like a pack mule from Nepal. Parker managed to stay in place as I trudged to the entrance, but Tate slid ever-so-slowly down my thigh until I barely had him off the ground, his arms straight above him, his legs kicking wildly as he shrieked like a child sacrifice. I’m sure the white-haired octogenarian who held the door for us thanked her lucky stars right then and there that she was past childbearing days as I bore my children past…

Once we were actually in the office, the clinginess ended (for a little while, anyway) once they spied the vast row of empty waiting room chairs lining the back wall. There must’ve been fifteen of the vinyl-clad things, just waiting for some lads like them. Like American Ninja Warrior wannabes, they promptly began inch-worming up and over one chair arm and under and through the next, giggling like the healthiest, happiest toddlers alive. Nary a cough could be heard. “Can’t you at least LOOK sick while you’re cavorting?” I pleaded.

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Now I’ve known our pediatrician since Caitlin was not even a year old. He treated both my girls until they were out of high school and well into college because they refused to see anyone else. He is a longtime friend and trusted advisor, and I prayed he would remember that I’m generally a smart and intuitive mother. That I’m not the mom who brings her utterly healthy and hyperactive tots to the doc for no good reason and who, therefore, in the most ultimate of ironies, exposes them to some serious seasonal scourge. Every mother’s maternal marrow is bound to be wrong every now and then, right? I just prayed he would remember that while examining my apparently healthy and histrionic twins.

We were only in the waiting room for a few minutes before we were called back. It’s amazing how quickly a toddler twosome can go from charged electrical currents to fixed static cling. They glued themselves to my calves tighter than the compression hose I’d worn while pregnant with them.

Dr. Payne smiled his hellos as he readied his stethoscope for the first squirming, screaming son in my arms. Between the two of us, we managed to pin him to the table so he could get a good listen and look. It was at that instant that not just one, but both boys decided to make the smelliest of deposits. The sound was raucous; the stench was hellacious. It was like I’d fed them both radioactive waste — radioactive waste simmered in cesspool broth. The whole room reeked of it. I swear, I could see the stench shimmering off their shorts. Dr. Payne just laughed it off and pressed on. I did notice he didn’t do any genitalia checks, this time around…

My fears and misgivings proved warranted. My maternal marrow rang true, once again. The boys’ strep tests (which I think they now hate more than the dreaded vaccination needle) came back positive. My diagnosis had been wrong, but my instincts were on point. Their diapers (which I was able to change between the actual swabbing for strep and the final results), came back to haunt me a few days later when I unearthed them from the diaper bag where they’d been festering and fermenting, forgotten, in the back of my van.

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As I pen this post, my hair is greasy, my shirt is caked in snot smears and curry stains, and I’m in dire need of a shower. It’s been a long and exhausting week of sleepless nights, antibiotic-filled syringes, nebulizer treatments and forgotten hot dogs. But I learned two things about myself this week. Ok, maybe three. One: trust my instincts, no matter how hard my children try to prove me crazy. (I should never have doubted myself… I’ve already raised two girls who are quite skilled in coercion and diversionary tactics, after all.) And Two (and Three): hot dogs and dirty diapers do not resurrect well after three days and three nights of sitting in their own juices.

 

 

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