Life is too busy for blogging.

I know it has been a while since I've blogged. I'm sorry. I know that my last post was depressing. I'm sorry for that, too. But it was well written, I think. So that's good.

My life has been busy. I have been adjusting along with everybody else to the new living arrangement. I think that's going well. We seem to have settled into a living each of our lives they way we choose, while remaining courteous of everyone else. While the holiday season was filled with family, and presents, and hub-bub, all my normal routines closed up for several weeks. Forcing me to find new ways to entertain my children. Not too many new ways, mind you. Lucian got a Leapster 2 for Christmas, and he has been perfectly content to play on it for hours when I let him. Valentino got a circus tent that was also a bounce house, and a ball pit. (it's 4x4x4 so it fits in the playroom) So he was mostly content to crawl in and out of there and throw balls all over the house. Did you know that even though there's a waist-high wall around the playroom, the balls can be found in the living room, the bathroom, and the bedrooms? I hadn't thought about that much when I chose the gift.

I've continued my search for girlfriends. I've hung out at the parks like a vagabond looking for well-behaved children who are similarly aged to my two. And then, when I find them, I look for the mom. Is she on the cell phone the whole time? I don't want to be her friend. Is she hovering over them so they couldn't possibly have the freedom to act up? I don't want to be her friend. Is she wearing heels and a skirt to the park? I don't want to be her friend. Maybe I'm too picky. BUT! A week or two ago, I found a mom who looked like she had a head on her shoulders, and she was letting her 3 year old daughter play at the park even though it was raining! And she was available to her daughter for swinging or catching, but mostly she just watched from the sidelines. My kind of woman!

Since she and I were the only two at the park in the rain, I was less nervous about talking to her as I would have been if she was one of twenty. I would have assumed that she was life-long friends with one of the other moms and wouldn't have time for me. But I approached her, and we talked. Our kids played together, and all was well. At the end of our time at the park I gave her my number, with the explanation that I'm awful at calling people. Even when I want to. Last week, she called me, and today we went to a different park, together, and we had a blast. We snacked together, and we had similar snacks! Our kids fought over a shovel, and we both sat and watched while they worked it out between them! We admitted to each other that our kids sometimes swear, just testing which words are OK, and that it's our own fault! And when I told her that Lucian's learning how to read by sounding out the letters, she told me her daughter is doing flash cards, and it's coming along well! YAY!!!!

I hope this turns to a real friendship. She seems down to earth with similar concerns where her children are involved, and even though she works and I don't, she seemed to have a pretty open schedule. And she has two children, 7 and 3, and they were both very well-behaved, and considerate of both of my boys, and I think this could be fun!

I think this week is my county fair, and next week we think we might go to the beach. So if all of that goes well... when do I start doing things like inviting them over for lunch? Is that next? Well, I guess I'll have to see.

Anyway, I've been busy. I plan to continue to be busy. But, I will try to update slightly more often.

Eight Years Ago, Yesterday...

I was taking a nap hoping that with some extra sleep I would be able to party the night away, and not have to suffer the consequences tomorrow. It was snowing, it was supposed to snow all night, and my mom had asked that I not leave the house, unless there was an emergency. I wasn't planning on listening. But I had decided that I would either abstain from intoxicating substances, or I would sleep wherever I wound up. I didn't want to take foolish chances, but I did want to ring in the new year in style. I was, after all, going to be 21 this year, and this would be my last opportunity to start the year off illegally drunk. I liked doing illegal things then. I felt like I was a rebel. My mom called me her "rebel without a cause." I had a cause, but it was a dumb one. I thought that society put unfair taboos in place, and it was my mission to break all of them. Multiple sex partners makes you a slut? I was nearing 100. Doing drugs made you a loser, I had several prepared for that night. You had to be 21 to drink? I had been drinking since I was 18. It seemed to me that everything that was fun was illegal, or morally wrong, or simply looked down upon. I smoked cigarettes, I danced for money, I took risks, and I lived my life uncaring what anyone thought of me. When my friends told me I was shallow, I told them they were too serious. When they told me I was too skinny, I told them they were fat and jealous.

I had no intentions of staying home, just because my mother had told me that this was a dangerous night. But, I was taking whatever precautions I could think of. So, I slept. The phone rang. It half woke me out of my slumber, but my boyfriend and I were the social coordinators of our group, so I dismissed this phone call as probably one of my circle calling to find out when exactly we were meeting, and other such details.

When Carl came in the bedroom, I was prepared to yell at him, and tell him that he would just have to coordinate without me, I needed my sleep. I'll never forget how unsure he sounded when he told me my dad was on the phone. He sounded scared of being in the same room with me, and prepared to hug me at the same time. I couldn't figure out why. Despite my rebellious nature, I had a great relationship with my parents, and I was sure this was just my father's attempt at telling me what my mother had already sent in an email. "Stay home. The roads are icy, and they're just going to get worse. Celebrate next year." She had written in bold at the bottom, reiterating her entire email in one sentence, "Please do not drive unless it is an emergency. I don't want you to spend New Year's Eve at the hospital."

I got on the phone with my dad prepared to blow him off. To tell him it was OK, the party I was going to was only a few streets away, and they were my friends. I'd be able to crash there until morning, but I wasn't going to miss my favorite party night. When I heard his voice, it was obvious he'd been crying. "Baby," he said and I panicked. " I'm at the hospital. Your mom, she collapsed. They think she's had an aneurysm. She's being air lifted to [my mind goes blank here. I can't remember if I had to go to Cooper, or Jefferson] Hospital. Can you meet us there? I don't know what's happening, but I need everybody there." The fear was clear. I could hear how his voice shook, and how he didn't sound hopeful, even as he tried to reassure me while giving me directions.

I told Carl he had to drive. He didn't really like driving further than the 7-11, but I was in no condition. I cried and screamed all the way to the hospital. Carl kept asking me to tell him happy stories about her, and I tried. I can't really remember what I talked about. I just babbled and cried and screamed. And navigated.

I was the first one to the hospital. I went to the counter to tell them who I was looking for and they asked if I was eighteen. I told them no, I was twenty. They smiled gently, and told me that was good enough. They needed me to check her in to the hospital. No one had arrived yet to do it. They led me into a small conference room, and a doctor sat across the table from me asking questions about about her name, age, birth date, medical history, and such. He asked me if I knew why she was there, and I told them I only knew she had collapsed. He explained to me what an aneurysm is and that since she had survived the initial burst, there was a chance she would recover, but it was a small chance. Then he asked me if it was OK to give her a blood transfusion if she needed it. My mother was a Jehovah's Witness. I had been raised in her cult, but I never really understood their viewpoints on blood transfusions. They don't allow them. That's all I really know. And that it was important to her that she follow her beliefs. I told him as much, and then I told him that he should come back and ask me specifically again if it came to her needing one. I would deal with her being mad at me if she survived. I would explain to her how I couldn't have let her go, based on what I, by then, considered to be fairy tales.

When I walked out of the intake room, my whole family was there. I collapsed into tears the minute someones arms were around me. My grandmother's. She was the reason we were all Jehovah's Witnesses. She had converted when my dad was young, my dad brought my mom in while my older brother was young, and my mom kept us all going until we were old enough to decide on our own what we believed. I told my grandmother that I had respected my mother's wishes, even though I didn't want to. I asked her why she would make me do that, but she had no answer, except to say thanks.

I looked around and noticed my little brother. He was seven. I tried to pull my tears back into my eyes, then. I didn't want him to see how serious this all was. I wanted him to cling to hope for as long as he could. The doctor had made it sound as though with some surgery, and time, my mother would at least be home soon. She may not have all her faculties, but she should come home. I was prepared to move home and take care of her, since I knew it would be too much for my father to have to take care of a son, a wife, and the house. My little brother looked like he was shaken, but he wasn't crying. I was thankful for that. I tried to just remain quiet for as long as I could, staring out at the fireworks exploding over Philadelphia. I remember thinking that it was too bad she was unconscious, my mom loved fireworks, and she wouldn't want to miss this display. I also remember being angry that they would dare to use smiley face fireworks, while my mom's life hung in the balance. Like they knew. Or cared.

Eventually, my grandparents took my little brother for a walk, and my dad, my older brother, and Carl and I went tot he cafeteria. WE talked about mom, and how strong she was. WE talked about hospitals and how awful they were. We made inappropriate jokes like only people who were terrified and sad could. We even laughed at how people must have been thinking we were there for a birth instead of tragedy. I felt guilty for laughing. I think we all did. I know Carl was appalled. He was an outsider. We couldn't stop, though. If we stopped laughing, it would've meant we had given up hope. And we weren't prepared to do that.

I don't remember how long we stayed. I know that eventually we left. My mom was in a coma and we wouldn't know if she would make it for a while, yet. The sun was up, and we needed sleep. I couldn't keep Carl there. This wasn't his tragedy, and he needed to get back to his life.

My mom stayed in the coma for ten days. People took turns sitting with her. Everybody who knew what had happened had written her letters to tell her how important and loved she was. Her co-workers, fellow cultists, friends far and near. My dad and the others who visited read them to her all day. I didn't visit her. I went to the hospital to visit the visitors, but I couldn't go into her room. She didn't look right in that bed, and I didn't want too many chances to burn that image on my mind. My mom never liked having the camera pointed at her, so my memories were the only pictures I had. She seemed to get better for a while, but never better enough for the the doctors to be optimistic. I had been in my own sort of coma. I felt like I couldn't hear when people talked to me. I felt like time wasn't real. I didn't sleep much, I ate when I was forced to. I didn't talk on the phone afraid that I would tie up the line, and I wouldn't get the call. I tried not to hope that when the call came it would be to tell me she had opened her eyes. I tried not to hope that I would drive her to rehab soon. I tried not to imagine her arms around me while she told me she forgave me for wanting to give permission for a blood transfusion. I tried not to think of how empty the mother of the bride chair would be if I ever convinced someone I was worth marrying.

I failed miserably. These were the thoughts that followed me everywhere I went. I walked around in a daze of self-pity. I don't think I even worried about my dad, or my brothers. They were stronger than me. They didn't need her as much as I did.

Eventually, though, I did sleep. I laid down to take a nap. Carl was home from work, and I felt safe that someone was there to answer the phone if the call came. And come it did. It was about an hour into my nap that Carl came in sounding every bit like he did on New Year's Eve. I knew this was not good news. My dad was on the phone saying that the doctors wanted a decision from him. They could keep my mother alive on machines and hope that someone discovered technology that could save her, but as of now there was nothing that could be done. It was my dad's decision, they said, since she had no living will. Fortunately for my dad, my mom had been adamant about not wanting to be kept alive by machines. She had told us all several times. And we knew what she would want. I told my dad with all the calm I could muster that if I were in his shoes, I would do what mom wanted. That, as his daughter, I supported the decision we both knew he had to make. He thanked me for not making it more difficult on him. I guess we all knew that I was the most selfish of us, because he said he'd waited to call me last. I still feel bad about that.


It's been eight years, now. I have two children of my own. Not a single day goes by that I don't wonder if I will put my boys through this someday. I worry constantly that my boys will look to the mother of the groom chair, and see a picture of me taped to the back. I try to make sure I get as many pictures of me as I can so they have one to tape there, just in case. Today, at the beginning of another new year, I can't stop myself from crying. Crying over the loss I've suffered. Crying over the fear that lays inside me. Crying over how selfish I am that I am locked here inside my bedroom blogging instead of out there enjoying my family as best as I can while I have them.

That having been said, I'm going to go share a sandwich with Pete, take a percocet to kill the pain, and do the mummer strut with my children in the street.

And now, a fluff piece.

Ok, I don't like to have stuff that's too heavy up for long. And I don't get to blog very often. So, I'm just going to tell a story or two that doesn't mean anything, but hopefully will be entertaining.

Story one: As you may know, Pete and I have entered a new living arrangement that doesn't really allow for financial freedom. What you may not know, is that Pete and I often role-play in the bedroom. When one or the other of us is having a bad day, Pete will often send me out to the local exotic clothing store to pick out an outfit or toy. Sometimes, he sees an outfit or toy on the Internet, and buys it, hoping I will be up for wearing it on the day it arrives. There are a few in my closet I still haven't worn.

So the other day when he told me that he bought me a present, I was surprised. I couldn't imagine what he thought we could afford, or when he thought I would be able to put it to any use since we now live with his parents. I don't usually try to guess about surprises or gifts. You'll never find me under the Christmas tree shaking boxes. I do, however like to what day it will arrive. So I said,

"How soon will it arrive?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure we'll even get it. The website seemed a little shady."

"Well, yeah..."

"It's not what you think. It's just that I can't imagine that this product would have a whole website dedicated to just it."

"Is it toe socks*? Because I could totally imagine a whole website dedicated to toe socks. different lengths, colors, themes, specialties like having a name or phrase embroidered on..."

"What would make you say toe socks?"

"I don't know, I was just thinking of things that might be silly to dedicate a website to."

"..."

"Why? Is it..."

"It's freaking TOE SOCKS! How could you guess toe socks? Did you read my email?"

That was when he started to get mad. I'm thrilled. I know that winter in Florida is kind of mild, but toe socks would be just the thing to keep me warm. I still don't know how I guessed, and neither does he. I don't check his email, I don't remember the password to our bank account, and he didn't tell anyone that he had bought them. I guess we're just actually perfect for each other, reading each other's minds and all.

*toe socks are socks that fit like gloves encasing each toe.

Story Two: So, I spent my life from the age of 12 to 27 living in South Jersey. For those of you not familiar with that area, it's in New Jersey, and it starts when you think of Philadelphia as the closest City, rather than New York. I moved around a lot, but the culture doesn't change too drastically from town to town. We're all trying to be Philly folk. A lot of boisterous attitude, a desire to "take care of our own, first," and no problems making our opinions known.

The other day, I was at a park with my two kids. Valentino, my 1 year old, mostly stays near me at the toddler jungle gym, climbing the steps, and falling down the slide. Lucian, the 3 year old, on the other hand, runs all over the park making friends, begging for food, and trying to join in everybody's fun. Often the other mom's at the park remember me from the week before as the mom standing atop the jungle gym yelling across the park at Lucian. It often sounds like this,

"LUCIAN! NO YOU CANNOT RIDE THAT BOYS BIKE! PLAY ON THE SLIDES!"

"LUCIAN! LEAVE THOSE PEOPLE ALONE! I HAVE SNACKS FOR YOU IN THE STROLLER!"

"LUCIAN! TAKE TURNS!"

I'm not proud. I'm not ashamed, either. It's just who I am.

So this time, I'm doing my normal routine, and in runs a little brown curly haired boy. He's cute, and out of breath, and I can't help but talk to the other kids on the playground. I also encourage Lucian to do the same. So I say something or other to the boy, when Lucian cuts in; "Excuse me boy, but my name's Lucian. What's yours?"

The boy says nothing, makes his hands like Spiderman about to sling some web, and makes a "FSSSSTT" sound, and runs away. I smile at Lucian, and said, "He must be Spiderman, why don't you go tell him you're Superman." And off my child runs.

Now, I had brought cups of water for the boys, and since Val's been sick, I was careful of his cup and whose little hands it might be in. In walks Spiderman, who grabs Val's cup, and his mother is... elsewhere.

Me: "Oh, no,no,no we don't share cups."

Spiderman: *Throws sippy cup at me* "Fucking Bitch!" *runs away*

Spiderman's Mom: *walks over* "No, no. We don't throw things." "..." "Oh, we don't say those things, either." *walks away*


I was flabbergasted! I was speechless! I was unable to comprehend what had happened, or my role in it. I went back to playing with Val.

The longer I played, the more I was getting angrier and angrier. How dare this punk kid say something like that to me! What kind of mother would just calmly wave that behaviour off? Why didn't she at least apologize to me that her kid just cussed me out?

Eventually, the boy was on the swings. These swings are the Special Needs swings. They're made for kids who have CP or some other condition that would make it difficult for them to ride the regular swings. But when there are no special needs children about, they are the kids' favorite swings, because they're different, you understand? Lucian sees the boy and asks if he can ride the swings with Spiderman.

I told him no. I told him in front of the boy's mother that because he used words that in our family only grown-ups use, I didn't think it was appropriate for him to play with him. (Yes, I use big words with my son. He seems to understand them) I told him he could take a turn on the swings when the boy was done. When it finally was his turn on the swings, Valentino joined us and as I pushed both of my boys on swings, I told Lucian to not play with Spiderman, and that if Spiderman said or did anything that made him feel uncomfortable, he should hit him as hard as he can. I don't know if you agree with what I told my child. But the fact of the matter is, my boy is kinda... um... weak. He melts down if a kid doesn't want to play with him, or says something mean to him. And I don't want him to be that way. I also don't want him to grow up to be a bully, but he should feel he has a right to defend himself if someone makes him feel uncomfortable.

Of course, I would rather it didn't come to that at all, so I steered my children over to play with a set of twins that we sort of know from play groups and playgrounds. I was enjoying the type of conversation you have with a stranger you have only one thing in common with. Polite, with some humor, and some comiserating. I look up to check on the kids, and Spiderman has filled his mouth with water from the drinking fountain and is spitting on the twins. The twins start to melt down because they were told to play carefully as they were going to Grandma's afterwards, and Mommy didn't want them to be a mess.

And Spiderman's mom?

Is sitting quietly off to one side, and practically whispering, "...that's not nice..."

I had had it. I don't have a long fuse. I marched over to that woman and told her that I felt it was time she take her kid elsewhere. At this point I think I should tell you, this woman, and her son were brown. I don't know what shade of brown. I wouldn't be able to guess at whether hispanic, or middle-eastern, or some other cukture I'm unaware of. I hadn't spent a lot of time trying to figure it out, and it was irrelevant to me until the next thing she said to me*:

"No. No. This is a free country, and my people have been discriminated against long enough. I have a right to be here, and so does my son."

"What? Yes it's a free country, yes you have a right to be here, but I have a right to have a place where my kids can play without fear of being bullied by other kids! I think, after seeing his behaviour that yor kid maybe needs a time out. Tell him that if he can't play nice, he isn't going to be able to find kids to play with!"

"Well, he needs time to run it out and get his energy out."

"Maybe. But not at the expense of my kids' safety. You should know that I told my son that if your son makes him uncomfortable, he should hit him as hard as he can."

"Good. I hope he does. He needs to learn he cannot treat people that way. Hopefully your son straightens him out. (I just gave her a blank look of surprise) You can hit him too. He deserves it. He needs it."

"What?! I would never hit someone else's child! I'll tell you what, though. Your kid does anything to me or my kids, I'll march over here and punch you in the eye! I can't even believe that you would suggest to someone that they should hit your child! Maybe, instead of hitting, a simple time out. Something more than a weak 'No, no,' is in order here. Surely you see that?"

*These are not verbatim, it has been too many days for me to remember the actual words said, and in fact somewhere in here I did say something about it not being right that her kid be allowed to "terrorize the other children at the park."

While I was doing all this, her kid was sneaking up on my one year old. Just as I was about to give her discipline tactics from my parenting classes, he pushed Val off a ledge and into the mulch. I can't say how high the ledge is, but it's marginally higher than a curb on the street. I ran to pick up my crying baby, and contimplated how well I'd do in a fight with a baby in my arms, but decided it was time to leave.

As I walked out of the park, calmly telling Lucian that no, we were not leaving because of the "bad Spiderman," but because Valentino needed a nap, the other mom's in the park were saying, "Shame on you, calling that woman a terrorist."

Spiderman and his mother hurt my sense of decency, because I could never imagine letting my kids get away with that kind of poor behaviour, nor would I feel comfortable in public if they did. The other mom's who assumed I was upset at the mom because she was brown hurt my pride. I know that as a Republican, many people view me as a close-minded, puritan, conformist who wants to rid the world of the not-white people. But it's not true. On most, if not all, social issues, I fall pretty far left. And I have never been labeled a racist or a biggot (well, one time when I was 12, but it was a misunderstanding). Honestly, I think those other moms were the biggots to assume that it was her skin color that was the problem. Or that simply because of her skin color she was incapable of raising her son to be a decent person. I'm still distressed about that. It bothers me when I run into people like that. I feel like I'm living in times before Civil Rights, when people thought, and said aloud that they felt sorry for the blacks because they were too stupid to find real jobs.

It's just crazy. And, as always, feel free to tell me I'm dead wrong. Tell me I shouldn't yell at other moms about how their children behave, or that by using the word "terrorize" I'm making this world worse, or whatever. I never said I'm perfect.

P.S. I wrote this post for like 3 days, so if it sucks, I blame my famdamnily for asking me to eat meals, sleep, and go play.