Neither Great Nor Horrible

It's been a long day and I'm tired. We made it to Florida but not without major fireworks along the way.

Just normal teenager stuff, I guess.

It was hard to have my sister in law come up and nail Ben's outrageous sense of privilege. I mean, she had only spent a couple hours with him. But she's right. It does ooze out of his pores.

Because so much of the family is down here right now, we're actually staying at a hotel. It's a little odd to be here on the beach instead of our usual space. I'm sitting on a balcony, though, and listening to the waves crash.

It's a nice change of pace.

I had a terrible moment with Ben this morning. It made me feel like I was no better than my mother in the parenting world. Maybe worse because so many people think so highly of my thoughtfulness.

I was not thoughtful.

The irony? My mother would have cut me slack, soothed me, and said I did the best I could. She was generally very kind about my parenting.

It's not about me, though. an easy place to slink to for comfort- I'm a bad person- instead of realizing it's a hard moment in Ben's life. He's struggling, anxious and afraid.

And he's still a boy in so many ways.

Except when he uses the "f" word with me.

He's a good boy. I'm a good parent. Neither of us are great. Neither horrible. Just average and trying our best to figure out the world.

Tomorrow, we will hit the beach. The Floridians we are visiting rarely like the beach in "winter" but luckily there are many other folks here, all from cold climates and dying for the sea breeze and sunshine.

It'll be okay.

I hope.

A Deep, Man Voice

Every time I hear it, I look to see if Walter is here. If someone has come in the door I didn't know about.

A deep, man voice.

It's Ben's. His voice has almost completely changed into a deep baritone. I don't expect it in my house. I have little boys. Babies, really. Not almost grown men with hairy legs and voices with resonance.

The words that come out of the madly growing body don't quite match the maturity of the sound.

Jake! You smell like farts! Doesn't scream responsibility and social awareness. When those words come out, I'm never surprised, or caught off guard. It's the single words, or the chatting with the cats- to whom he is enormously polite- that I find jarring.

Who is that man?

My son is going to be thirteen this fall. Most of his friends will have bar or bats mitzvah's. They have studied long and hard a difficult language and how to read from the Torah. Even with candy studded events or sparkling disco balls twirling, there is a moment of being welcomed into the community as a man, or woman. A full member.

Of course these kids are still kids, by our American, modern standards, but there is something powerful about having to work for something that has a long tradition. The process does change them.

As an atheist, I'm not sure what makes the most sense for my boys. We attend the Unitarian Universalist church but have become lax in the last couple of years. But I'm not sure I want the passage to manhood be marked by some religious event.

I don't believe in religion as much as I don't believe in God. I think Karl Marx was right in that religion is the opiate for the masses. It sooths people into accepting plights they should never accept.

How does my son transition into being a man? The physical changes are clear. The emotional ones are harder to define. He has more responsibility now than before and more freedom.

And he still tells his brother he smells like farts.

It's going to be an interesting year, with this growing young man in my house. He will need to learn to be a part of a community, to be kind when it's hard to, to lose at times and graciously win, remembering the sting of being on the other side. He needs to do for others outside himself- more than buy a slice of pizza for a pal out of cash. He needs to start to understand there are great injustices in our world- and has been for centuries.

He will need to understand some people will hate him without even knowing his name.

At the same time, he is exploring a body full of new and amazing sensations. With all the tingles, excitement and joy comes responsibility. First loves. Heartbreaks.

He's not a baby anymore. All these years and you'd think I'd be prepared. I'm not. His deep voice, though, startles me back to reality.

I have a young man in my house.

With much to learn.

They All Have Names

I need some help with a problem I've had for the last couple months. I'm a little embarrassed to admit it but... I have a large trash bag (as in contractor size) of stuffed animals I cannot throw away.

I can't. They have names.

These are stuffed animals the boys have voluntarily decided to toss. When there were more animals per square inch of bed than boy, I suggested a thinning of the herd. Surprisingly, the boys were fine with it.

I'm not.

In my upstairs hallway, sits an enormous bag of no longer loved, plush, cute little- and some not so little- former friends. A friend of mine once told me a story about how he, in response to his son being afraid of the dark, had arranged his sons stuffed animals to be "on guard." I loved the idea and did the same with my boys.

Not only once loved, but also once fierce protectors of all that goes bump in the night.

I can't donate them. No one will take them because they pose a health risk.

What do I do? It's not as if the boys don't have plenty- and I mean plenty- of others they have decided to keep. You might think I'm kidding but I'm not. I honestly cannot throw these away.

Maybe I should have Jeanine do it when I'm not here. Oddly, the woman who cannot part with her band jacket from college or tee shirt from high school- neither of which have fit for years- chuckles at me when I describe my angst.

I keep coming back to the same thing. They have names. I can't tie the top and heave it on the sidewalk for the trash guys.

What to do?

Four More Days...

From early May to the last day of school in June, life in suburbia runs at a frantic pace. Between little league, class parties, final camp decisions on top of everyday life- dentist/orthodontist, laundry, groceries, school, house, cars- I don't know how I get anything done.

The weekend was Pride, Jake's final baseball game and picnic, a birthday invitation delivered at that game for later that day, an exploding bottle of Diet Coke, friends for dinner- and that was Saturday.

Sunday was Father's day- which meant getting the boys to actually make cards for Walter and Allan, let alone help with the 'brunch' they decided to have for them. When I told Zachary he had the fork on the wrong side of the plate, he started rolling on the floor, yelling that he couldn't do it! After brunch, Zachary's playoff baseball game, drop Ben off and pick him up from a friends house, take Jake to tryouts for fall soccer- yes, fall soccer.

And then the regular work of Sunday before the week- laundry, garbage out to the street, clean the refrigerator, cook dinner and discuss the playoff game loss with Zachary.

Don't forget the Celtics game that started at 9PM.

I'm whupped. I'm so tired. Four more days to go and a million more miles, it seems. Each day, except today, has a school event of some sort- or two. The kids are wired for sound, bouncing up and down at 7:50AM this morning begging to go to school- the doors don't open till 8:20AM.

I need a day without a schedule.

I need a day without dentists, or concerts, or baseball games.

I need a day without having to remember who belongs where and what time they have to get there, when they need to be picked up and what they have to have with them.

I need a day where we can all hang at the dinner table without somewhere to go.

I need a day where I don't have to get in my car. And not have to order pizza as a result.

I need a day without laundry or towels or sheets or something dirty that must be cleaned for a game or event or just because it's been so hot it smells bad.

I need a day.

And I'm almost there.

Middle School Picnic

I was allowed- and yes, I do mean allowed- to go to Ben's middle school picnic today for his "team" at school. The 6th grade is divided into three teams- Yellow, Orange and Red.

Ben is on Orange and today was a day at a park very close to our house for a BBQ and hanging out in the sun. Parents were asked to volunteer to bring some of the extras- sodas, chips, desserts- and come by if they wanted.

I signed up for sodas and stopping by. Ben looked at the slip and said, NO WAY.

Oh, come on, I won't talk to any of your friends.

Well...

ONLY if you bring soda and PROMISE not to talk to me at all.

Deal.

NOT AT ALL, Mom.

I know. Got it. I'll chat with the teachers.

He was a bundle of nerves last night but managed to not get in too serious of trouble. This morning, the soda list was given to me along with the reminder not to talk to him.

Got it.

After witnessing what felt like genetic-pituitary madness, I decided Middle School is the single most awkward time of your life. There was one boy who was over 6 feet tall and several of the girls who were barely over 4 feet tall. Boys who were all bones and limbs, and girls who were so filled out I wasn't sure if they were students or classroom aides.

Until they started to talk and then I knew the familiar lilt of sassy-knowitall- obnoxiousness that only comes from a 12 year old.

Not a single one of the 80 kids were even remotely comfortable with their bodies. They moved as if they were only half under control of the steaming pit of hormones inside them.

There were the quiet girls who brought books to read- they broke my heart. I remember being painfully shy. There were the table of mean girls- you knew they were tearing everyone apart, laughing at people and completely full of themselves. Tough boys, a few terribly shy boys who didn't even bring books to read but wandered around the edges watching.

The one new twist from when I was in middle school was the sports playing. It was completely co-ed, girls and boys playing basketball, baseball. In my day, I was almost always the only girl who played ball. It was great to see.

I helped set up the table for food. I chatted with teachers and other parents. Ben was not to be seen.

After lunch, he came up to me. Mom, bring Beanie.

Huh?

Bring Beanie over.

How would you ask that?

Please... please bring Beanie over.

Ok.

I was amazed he spoke to me so I went to get the dog. I did a few things around the house- dishes put away, folded a load of laundry- and Ben called me.

Mom... where are you?

On my way.

Recently, it's been clear that having parents- especially gay parents- is mortifying for Ben. He's uncomfortable with it and I'm guessing most of his new friends do not know. It's why he didn't want me to go in the first place.

It was nice to have him call and want me there.

Okay, he wanted the dog there, not me.

Beanie and I arrived. Ben ran over to get her leash and immediately became the center of attention. The shy girls put their books down and came and pet her. The awkward boys ran over to pet her. Ask her name. What kind of dog is she...

Mom... what kind of dog is she again?

He spoke to me in front of his friends. Whoa.

Golden mixed. She's a little of everything.

I was called into action when she did her business on the field- picking up poop seems to be one of my callings in life. Other than that, I went and sat on a shady bench.

Eventually, Ben tired of parading Beanie around and brought her over to me. The kids, however, didn't tire of petting the dog and asking questions. She is so demure and gentle even the most timid kids made it over at least once.

Watching those kids today gave me a new sense of empathy for Ben. The girl he used to "date" hounded him relentlessly around the yard. His buddy he's known forever- a goofy boy whose body is being completely driven by sugar and impulse with no volume control- danced around him suggesting a million different things to do.

He kept it all together, remaining cool, aloof and annoyed by everything and everyone. I know his fears about being different, not fitting in, desperately wishing he was like everyone else. A storm of uncertainly brews inside him and he is only just beginning to learn how do deal with it.

On the outside, today? He pulled it off masterfully.

And if you're ever feeling old, fat, insecure, unsure, or generally pathetic? Go to a Middle School at the end of the day and watch the kids file out.

If nothing else, it'll give you a little perspective.

Day Of Silence

This morning, Jeanine and I were treated to a fourth grade presentation on the civil rights movement in the southeast region of the country. It was a timeline of PowerPoint presentations, from slavery to the civil rights movement.

Our son Zachary presented the book he read with a classmate. Excellent work.

What struck me though, was the two parents that came up to me and mentioned that Zachary had told their son that he was going to be silent one day at school. That is was a protest.

I was surprised. We had talked about the Day of Silence and what it was for over dinner the other night. Jeanine is organizing the students at Berklee who want to participate.

Zachary, obviously, soaked it in. He told his friend that it was about the violence against gays and lesbians- he didn't understand the bisexual or transgender piece- and it was about being silent in protest of that violence.

Then, I was proud. Yes, I explained. It is... and we talked about it as we walked out over the school yard.

I found this video on the http://www.dayofsilence.org/ site.




It is wrong. I've emailed Zachary's teachers and offered to go speak about why Zachary will be silent that day.

My son made me so proud today.

Tax Time Deliberation: Married or Not?

As married, heterosexual couples across America pull out their tax forms in the last minute rush to file by April 14th at seconds before midnight, same-sex couples are slapped in the face one more time with their second-class citizenship.

No one enjoys tax time in this country. We have a long, complicated and intricate tax code that requires a degree to fully understand. What form do you use? Which box do you check? What are legal deductions and can you count the gift to your mailman as a charitable contribution?

“Certainty? In this world nothing is certain but death and taxes,” Benjamin Franklin famously said.

For same-sex couples, however, there is an additional layer not only of confusion but also of denied rights. Are we married or aren’t we? I live in Massachusetts. I’m married but only in this state. I must file separately to the federal government. On the federal form, do we divide the dependants between us? Do I get two of the kids and my wife one? Or does it make sense for her to claim all three? Who gets the mortgage interest deduction?

It was easy for Franklin to be so certain. He wasn’t a gay man married in Massachusetts in the last four years.

HRC has launched a campaign, “7 Days to A Better Financial You,” to highlight the “significant financial burdens and legal hurdles” for same-sex couples and their families. Our social security benefits are not transferable. Life insurance must be carefully designed. Inheritance of any kind is out of the question without a significant tax burden.

The list goes on and on. Same-sex couples are urged to get sound tax and legal advice. Julie Goodridge, of NorthStar Asset Management, Inc. a firm that balances clients’ social and political concerns with their financial objectives, advises her same-sex clients to be prepared on as many levels as possible. “Gay and Lesbian couples need elaborate documentation around their relationships and children- health care proxies, powers of attorney- in order to ensure basic financial health. Even in Massachusetts.”

Heterosexuals get to say, “I do.” All done. No additional legal work required, if a spouse dies, everything is transferred without tax or question. You check the “married” box. The government definition of their marriage is powerful insurance.

How many people filing the basic 1040E tax form have the resources and financial ability to hire a LGBT issue savvy attorney, consult a tax accountant, and write up a series of documents? How many people understand the new provisions of the Pension Protection Act of 2006? Or how to offset the tax burden of domestic partner health insurance?

Goodridge adds, “There are significant additional costs in planning for estates and even then there are no guarantees their family of origin will not legally challenge their final wishes.”

Great. After spending a bunch of additional dollars, you still might end up buried next to Aunt Martha and your partner thrown out of the home you bought together.

I’m not talking about a revolution. I’m not trying to give reason for a swarm of locusts to descend. I’m married, I live in Massachusetts and I want to file my taxes.

Sometime before midnight on April 14th.

Did You Know...

You can pick your nose and still play the snare drum? I didn't but watching Jake practice in my office- where his snare drum is set up- for the last ten minutes, I found out you can.

And not miss a beat.

I think I am going to fire the babysitter. Okay, so she's sweet and not afraid of three boys. So they love her and think she's cool.

But she encouraged them to practice together.

That means Zachary on the saxophone playing "Amazing Grace" while Jake is playing single beat combinations on the snare drum.

In my office.

Here.

Right now.

Loud.

That reminds me... anyone interested in a sound podcast from the suburban lesbian household?

That's It

If I were Senator Clinton, I'd throw in the towel and tell everyone to go to hell. After years of being dogged by the media, criticized, humiliated, scored, and ripped to shreds, she has to have the thickest skin on the face of the earth.

But to go after her daughter?

That's it. I'd tell all my supporters thanks but no thanks. This is not worth it. I don't care that Chelsea is an adult. Asking her about how her mother handled her father's very public extra marital affair?



And it happened again today.

Meanwhile, the double edged sword of the media continues. Previous supporter Nora Ephron rips into Clinton's rendition of Bosnia but Obama continues to get to wane poetically about events without a fact checker.

From Politico:

"consider Obama's stirring tale for the Selma audience about how he had been conceived by his parents, Barack Obama Sr. and Ann Dunham, because they had been inspired by the fervor following the "Bloody Sunday" voting rights demonstration that was commemorated March 4. "There was something stirring across the country because of what happened in Selma, Ala.," he said, "because some folks are willing to march across a bridge. So they got together and Barack Obama Jr. was born. So don't tell me I don't have a claim on Selma, Ala. Don't tell me I'm not coming home to Selma, Ala." Obama was born in 1961, and the Selma march occurred four years later, in 1965. The New York Times reported that when the senator was asked about the discrepancy later that day, he clarified: "I meant the whole civil rights movement."

So when he does it, it's charming? And if you click through to the Politico article? There are countless more of these "slips."

If I were Senator Clinton, I'd throw my hands up and say, good luck to you. You have a newbie political creation from the powers that be. They better step up to the plate and keep delivering for him because he doesn't have a clue how to do it himself.

If he thinks I've been "dirty" and run a negative campaign?

Grow up. Wait till the Republicans get a hold of you.

Leave my kid alone. Leave my jerk of a husband alone. Like no one out there has taken back a spouse who cheated. Please. I'm done with the slings and arrows. I have enough money, friends and stories to tell my grandchildren.

I don't need this job. This job needs me.

And don't you dare come whining to me when Obama blows it in the first 100 days. And then the next 100 days. Because unlike all the restraint I've shown to date? I'm going to tell you I told you so.

Because you know what? When it comes to asking my kid about something private, personal and painful to play "gotcha" for the camera?

That's it.

Too Nice, Too Sunny

Today, I was in charge of lock down. That meant being the one at home to follow through with the punishment de jour.

Ben "lost" his clarinet book which meant he could not practice his clarinet. If Jeanine and I had been born, say, yesterday, we would have believed him.

But, alas, we were not.

So, until he "found" the clarinet book, he could not leave the house. That seemed to require his responding with some language not fit to reprint.

Next stop? His room.

Jeanine, Zachary and Jake went to the mall to spend some hard earned allowance dollars. The mall, if you couldn't guess, is Ben's favorite place in the world.

But they were there and he was not. That made my young charge even more unhappy.

I thought about taking out Zachary's saxophone and playing "Swing lo... Sweet Chariot..." mournfully.

Instead, I took take my jailer duty to the porch outside my office. Read the New York Times. Got some sun.

Hummed my song. Thought about buying the sheet music for clarinet so Ben could have something to play when he is in his cell.

Sorry. Room.

Yup. I've been in one of those really good, can't be beaten down kind of moods. It's too nice and too sunny.

Next time? I'm going to bet he doesn't ditch his music book.

Walking Home

Today, walking home from school, the kids and I were talking about Easter and the Easter Bunny.

It's you, Jake said. Did you get the peeps?

Excuse me? I asked.

Listen, Mom, Zachary patiently explained, When you had the "Easter Bunny" - and he does quotes with his fingers in the air- come to the condo in Florida and he came with one of the camp counselors and wore boxes on his feet? You really didn't expect us to believe after that, did you?

I looked at him. God that kid is smart. Hey, I said, Don't blame me. That was your grandmother's idea.

Yeah, and then we had to go to a mosquito infested swamp for the egg hunt, Zachary added.

It's true. He did.

Not my idea. Your grandmothers, I said, passing the buck to my dead mother.

They put the eggs in thistle bushes, Zachary said.

By then I was laughing because I do remember it well. There were swarms of mosquitoes and the eggs were in thick bramble. My mother's condo was part of a bigger resort, so they had all sorts of kid programs. She wasn't able, physically, to do very much with the kids so it pleased her that they could go do 'fun stuff' at the 'kid's camp.'

The only problem was the camp wasn't very good.

That wasn't Grandma's egg hunt, Zachary was quick to defend her. She had a great one the next year, around the condo. She always had cool stuff for us.

I know, I said to him. What I didn't say was Jeanine and I, along with the other neighbors, did the egg hunt around the condo. We filled eggs with candy and stickers and small plastic rings and stashed them outside.

My mother was delighted by the idea.

When all the other kids came running out Easter morning in fresh, new, pressed outfits ready for church, my mother frowned at my boys running around in bathing suits and rumpled tee shirts. That was my bad. I should have dressed them. Her grandsons? She waved happily from her balcony, clapping each time they held up an egg.

Memories in my family are rarely about telling the truth. I was torn. My beautiful, blue eyed boy delights in his image of his grandmother. His grandmother was not the same person as my mother. She loved them unconditionally.

Your grandmother, I said carefully, loved you all very much.

Yeah, she'd let us have coke and ice cream for breakfast, but she didn't let you do that when you were a kid, Zachary said.

My mother was out the door to work before I ate breakfast, I thought. I rarely ate anything.

She did let you have whatever you wanted, I smiled. We were almost home.

So, when I have kids, you're gonna spoil them all the time, right?

Yup, I said.

I took a deep breath, and remembered today is the first day of spring. It's about renewal, and fresh, fragile starts. I don't need to be right. I don't need my kids to know all of who my mother was. Not now. Maybe not ever.

I want to move forward.

Zachary eyed me, gauging how far he could push the conversation. You won't be all mean like you are now, with all the rules, he asked.

I turned my head and raised an eyebrow.

Well, except on weekends. You rock on weekends, he hedged. Zachary will be a brilliant politician someday.

But you are kinda mean during the week, Jake piped in.

I'm gonna be mean to you now! I said and started to run after Jake who squealed and ran the rest of the way, with me chasing him.

The peeps are bought. The baskets, ready. There will be no excuses for waking up early in the morning because no one believes in the Easter Bunny, boxes or not on his feet.

For me? This time is about the small green outside, the little beginnings of possibilities.

And enjoying every walk home.

Sassy Meets Cell Phones

Oh my.

I was sitting reading the Wall Street Journal yesterday, and pondering the shovel/cash in the ground option, and my cell phone buzzed.

My son, the one in his room in time out? Text messaged me.

"Il text u wen i need 2 talk 2 u cus i am stil mad at u"

Excuse me?

Needless to say, his cell phone was removed. I mean... sassy talk through a cell phone?

I'm a little stunned at the regularity in which such statements come from my 12 year old, text or not.

What is the deal with that?

I never spoke to my mother that way until I was at least 18 years old. And bigger than her so when she tried to slap me across the face I could stop her.

I know if she were alive today she'd be enjoying the payback.

The conversation would go something like this...

Mom. You won't believe what Ben just did...

Mmm hmmm, she say, listening.

Kids today, jeez, I'd say.

Mmm hmmm, she'd say, still listening. Over the phone I would not see her amused face but she would be amused.

After listening to me rant for a while, she'd remind me of my sassy mouth.

(I know, it's hard to imagine I ever had a sassy mouth.)

She'd remind me of how her father said the same thing to her, once, long ago. Some things change, she'd say, and some things don't.

She tell me the story of how her father thought Frank Sinatra was walking sex and she should not be listening to such garbage.

I miss the parental reality check she always gave me and the long stories. She so enjoyed hearing about her "babies" giving me a hard time.

It was never completely clean, though.

It was one thing we did well together, being grandmother and mother of my boys. It wasn't about the years of disappointment or the pain, it was about loving these kids so much.

The anger and fury are gone. I will never paint a false picture of her but I'm no longer limited to the color red. She was as complicated as I am.

Ben gets his phone back today. I'm sure it will not be the last time he texts me something that makes me crazy.

And I miss my mother today.

Little by Little

Jake and I were sitting in the back room together. No TV, no video games, he was stuck talking to me.

So… when did you meet Momma Jeani?

In 1989.

How old were you?

I do the math. I can’t quite believe it.

26.

She was on the volleyball team?

Yes, we were both playing on teams that were going to the Gay Games in Vancouver.

Why weren’t you on the same team?

Because I was better.

No you weren’t! Jake yells.

Yes, I was, actually.

Don’t trash talk my birth mother!

I looked at him. Jake did come out of Jeanine. She is his birth mother and I am a better volleyball player.

Not trash talk. Just reality.

I wonder, though, how he holds that. They love to hear their birth stories, and I tell them over and over again. Ben came out early and no bag was packed. Zachary on time but there was a lot of swearing involved.

And no bag packed either.

Jake bungee jumped with the cord wrapped around him so many times he couldn’t make it out.

I love to tell the stories. Partly because I am adopted and I do not have those stories. My mother told me she picked me out, and I was the chosen one. How she loved me, how wonderful I was. Not too skinny, not too fat, just right.

Yeah, that landed me in a lotta years of therapy.

She was only doing what the social worker recommended. I still have the book she read to us, “The Chosen Baby” by Valentina P. Wasson. Originally published in 1939, it was at the time, “practically a classic in the child adoption field.”

I wonder, as I listen to Jake tell me not to trash talk his birthmother, how this all sits in his mind. How it sits in Ben’s and Zachary’s.

I know I felt special and totally returnable. I mean, if you pick one out, you can pick another. Someone already dropped me off in the reject bin once. Why not again?

I went over and hugged Jake, and playfully started to wrestle with him. Believe me, I said to him, I was there every step of the way.

He giggled, and tried to escape, but not too hard. Even when she was puking? He asked.

Yes, even then.

Did you puke?

Yes, I did. Most pregnant women do.

Can we play the witch game? He asked. Jake and I made up this game, where I pretend to be a mean, old witch sleeping and he sneaks up. I wake up, grab him and tickle him until he “gets away” only to repeat the process over and over.

I wonder if I take the time to talk more about the birth process, do I talk about the donor at this time and how we managed to have three boys because of the generosity of an anonymous man in Berkeley, California?

Does he feel less than? More than? I know he feels different. I know from my own experience the difference is good and bad. I know it must be talked about, to be held openly, never a secret, never taboo.

I know all three of my kids have very different feelings about having two moms, two dads, and an anonymous biological father. Each will need different pieces handed to them at different times. I am constantly mindful of when a moment comes up and it is ripe with possibility.

Today? It was time to play the witch game. Jake wanted to giggle and be tickled and wrestle. He’s still a little boy, grinning with his two front teeth missing. No long discussion.

But when is the right time, the right place, for each of them? I don’t know I’ll ever be sure about that.

I only know, little by little, I have to do it.

Sometimes, Tomorrow Doesn't Come

Ben is in the shower, while the other two boys are still sleeping. The coffee is perfect and I am thankful I never followed through with that insanity about giving it up. My dog is, as always, at my feet, and the sun is up already.

It is quiet. I love the morning quiet.

I do not believe in God, but I do believe in being blessed. I am blessed. Not only do I have healthy children, I have my family.

I came home the other night to Jake in the bathtub with a homemade bow and quiver full of arrows next to the tub, standing at the ready. It had been painted and adorned with a gold ribbon. Walter had helped him.

It was beautiful. The sweetness of it, the gold ribbon along with the fierce paint colors, reminded me again that Jake has a great dad.

Ben had put his artwork in my office. He no longer wants his work put on the side of the refrigerator but he still wants me to ooo and ahh over it.

I did.

Zachary ran and jumped into my arms. He’s getting a little big to do this. I’m catching 100 pounds coming fast but I still can. For now.

Coming home is always sweet.

As the morning goes on, Jake and Zachary will get up. They will come down and join the dog and I in front of the fireplace. We’ll all huddle for a moment before I shoo them to get breakfast.

My loyal dog will abandon me for hope something will fall from the table, as it often does.

Ben will emerge, freshly showered and sprayed with enough AXE cologne to choke a horse. He will be fashionable and ready for a day of attitude. I will have to remind him to eat before he leaves, something I rarely did as a kid his age.

He is too nervous, just like I was, too.

The brothers will all find at least one thing to argue about. Ben will check his hair at least five times. Zachary will gather chips, milk and juice boxes for me to pack with their lunches and snacks. Jake will slowly lace up his red Chucks without socks, until I insist he puts some on.

Some things are like the tide. I know they will happen. There is always some shifting, with the moon, with the season, with the amount of sleep each child has had.

Last night I heard about a young woman who died without warning, with her mother desperately trying to save her from a piece of food stuck in her throat. It happened in an instant.

I sat for a long time after hearing the news, stunned. I did not know the woman directly. I could only imagine the mother’s horror. And how quickly her life has changed.

By 8:10AM, all my boys will have left the house. Jeanine will be in the shower, getting ready for work. The dog will be back at my feet.

We make plans, dream of the future, and expect tomorrow to come. We know the tide will shift a little.

As I wait for the routine to begin, for the feet to come pounding down the stairs, my eyes are filling up with tears. I am so grateful for all that I have.

And I know, sometimes, tomorrow doesn’t come.

Dreams, Good and Bad

I find myself in a place that is almost beyond what I can hold.

I had a nightmare last night that a giant serpent came and ate my children, one by one. It was faster than me and I could not save my boys. I knew the were still alive inside the thing, and I frantically hunted it down.

The mouth and head were bigger than me, let alone the rest if it. It was dark green with scales and sharp teeth.

I finally found it and grabbed its ugly head, pulling with all my might to open the jaws.

I got them out, only to have them recaptured and to have to do it again and again.

Needless to say, I woke up exhausted.

The most curious part- or not curious at all- was my mother hounding me as I watched for the thing to show up again.

I was a bad mother. I let them in the water.

Now, truth be told, aside from my obvious flaw as a lesbian, my mother supported me as a parent.

Deeply. This isn't about her, but my own fear, doubt.

I am finding myself in places and corners of the world I only dreamed of achieving.

I'm terrified I will screw it up and lose the most important thing in the world to me.

My kids.

There is a balance I need to find- I won't give up the dream, the realization of what I thought was a fluttering hope of maybe some day might happen if I was a good girl.

I have to find a way to hold it without having my feet come off the ground.

I am entering a new stage of my life. My mothers voice rings true- there are some things you cannot lose track of.

And I am becoming aware of the fact that love and happiness are not distributed in finite quantities.

Silence is Not Always Golden

Two days of laryngitis made me recognize a couple things. One, I need to talk. Not want but need to talk.

A lot.

Two, I should never sign up for a silent retreat. Don't laugh, the idea appealed to me. I have so much noise in my life, between three kids, dog and spending time in the city, the idea of silence seemed nurturing.

Not enforced silence. Not being able to talk is borderline torture.

I spent the day on Saturday whispering, which I found later that night made it much worse. It was strange to otherwise feel totally fine except for my throat. The last time I had laryngitis, Zachary was about two months old and Ben almost three. I remember sitting nursing Zachary and Ben running around wildly, knowing I could not say a thing.

Nor move. I learned the POINT and STARE parental move.

That time, though, I was sick with a horrible cold. This time, it was only my throat that felt like it was in a vice grip, making squeezing any sound out almost impossible.

Mostly, though, I was reminded of a family routine we started a while back, something lost with Jeanine and my struggle to stay married. We all- with Walter and Allan- had dinner once a week.

Family dinner.

And at the dinner, we took the time to learn sign language. One sign a week, sometimes two. Allan is the only one who knows a lot of sign, so he was the instructor. It was fun.

Last night, as I was tucking Jake in for bed, he got very excited.

Wait, wait... he whispered- because if I couldn't talk then neither could he- and he started to sign.

"I" pinky extended up on right hand, otherwise closed fist and starts out away from chest and pulled in.

"want" both hands open pulling towards your chest.

"beer" right hand held up to cheek, thumb tucked in, palm facing out.

Excellent.

My voice is back today, although it still feels tight. The morning routine has left it ragged. Where are you socks? Did you brush your teeth? What do you want for lunch? Has anyone fed the dog?

Asking is much easier- and faster- than pantomime accentuated with finger snaps and hand claps.

Silence is not always golden but I did learn a few things.

Parental Pride

I have told many stories about my kids. Some funny, some sad, and always, I am proud of them.

But this letter Jake wrote, still has me beaming.

Last weekend, Jake and Allan were watching "Storm Chasers" on the weather channel. They were doing a segment on the tornado that hit Greensburg, Kansas. Immediately upon seeing the devastation, he turned to Allan and said, I want to give them money.

We have a 'swear jar' filled with the dollars collected mostly from my swearing. Anyone caught saying a swear word owes a dollar. The boys have also done lemonade stands from time to time, to collect money to give away.

Allan, moved by Jake's strong reaction, emailed the school superintendent for Greensburg, KS. Allan is a professor in the field of education, so it wasn't hard to find. The next morning, there was an email from the superintendent with a grateful acceptance for any and all help.

This is the letter Jake wrote to send in with the money. Allan helped with the spelling but the words and the sentiment are all Jake's.




The Superintendent promised to buy things for a second grade class with the $120.31 Jake sent in.

I am so proud of my son.

Storm Ahead...

I was talking to a friend last night that said she had started a new job 9 days ago and immediately her two young kids got sick and she’s been home with them.

Ah, I remember the days.

My kids don’t get sick very often anymore.

They were so sweet when they were little with a fever. You just wanted to hold them the whole time. You feel so bad for them, their listlessness.

Then they get older.

Case in point, last night.

You see, I know my friend with the two sick little ones who can only promise her new employer really, really, she’s a good worker and will do the great job she was hired to do, that someday, it’ll all be different.

It will be different, Susan. How? Well…

Jeanine and I went out last night. Had some lovely oysters down at B&G’s, the single best place in Boston to have a few shucked for you. We met up with Walter and another friend, ordered plates and plates of oysters from Prince Edward Island, New Brunswick, Washington State. We topped it off with crab beignets with a light mustard sauce, slice of orange, fennel and olive. Add a couple glasses of a great Gruner Veltliner- crisp, bright, a hint of citrus to match the oyster’s perfectly- and we were in heaven.

Walking back to the car, hand in hand, feeling the love, things were looking good.

Guess who is up at 11PM when we walk in the door.

Ben.

Now, I know I’ve been picking on Ben lately. I love my son. I do. He is a good kid, with a big heart and can be the kindest soul at times.

And then there was last night.

Who hasn't finished his homework?

Ben.

His half hour on the computer had finished (then it locks him out) because he used it to listen to iTunes, and then when he needed to type his paper, no luck. The baby sitter suggests he writes it up by hand, so he can type it in the morning- oh no. That won't do.

Zachary- ever the middle child- offers his time (they all get 1/2 hour). Ben said, NOOOOOOOOOO.

11PM, there he sits, on his bed, screaming at Jeanine that it is HER fault because SHE locks the computer...

I honestly think I am going to need a Valium drip to get through the teen years. What the hell am I going to do when Zachary starts acting this way?

Another friend said to me today, You know, we’re all working on time management skills. He’s only 12. Take it easy. Work with him and remember some of this is his way of getting attention from you. It’s that push pull of adolescence.

When I calm, like after running three miles or swimming a mile, I get it. I do. I know he’s trying to figure out how to be popular, how to keep acne away and how to do his homework.

Homework is definitely last on the list.

I was 12 once.

I’m trying to find ways to help him negotiate his new, unfolding world of responsibility and to let him have enough freedom to make his own mistakes. I can’t save him from teen angst nor do I particularly want to. I think it’s healthy to struggle. I think we learn frustration tolerance through not having everything go smoothly.

He’s 12. I can’t keep holding his hand. It scares me when parents don’t let kids fail or try to mend every hurt feeling. Sometimes, things suck. They hurt.

And, eventually, it gets better.

I know he’s trying to figure it all out. So am I. I have never had a 12-year-old child before. I certainly don’t know how to do the math they do now. I’m not always the best at time management either.

But when it’s 11PM at night and I’m full of romantic notions of getting to spend some time with my wife, it’s really hard to be calm, even and know the right thing to say.

Jeanine told him to go to bed; we were not having one more moment of discussion. She told him she would set her alarm for 5:30AM- and did- so he could finish in the morning.

Tears streaming down his face, she shut the door. He loudly proclaimed, from behind the door, how much he hated the two of us.

I miss the times when their struggle was simple. They had a fever, or a cold, and snuggled up next to you on the couch, just wanting to be held.

I could make the world better with some Advil, a blanket, and the comforting sound of my heart beating, their head resting on my chest.

I’m clueless as to what I can do to help my son grow into a healthy young man. I’m navigating my own stormy waters of unknown, just as he is. When do I let go? When do I hold tight?

And when do I need to realize it is completely out of my hands…

Bad Dogs

My dog has been hanging around with a bad influence. Her name is Hannah.

She's a bad dog. Bad bad bad.

Beanie loves Hannah. Reminds me of my first girlfriend. Beautiful, smart and deeply troubled. Whenever Hannah's owner pulls up, Beanie is beside herself, wagging all over, whimpering at the door to get out.

Hannah is a gorgeous pure black German Shepard. She's a decedent of Rin Tin Tin. She's the dog of the carpenter who has been working on my house. Her coat is shiny and thick, she has eyes that sparkle with intelligence.

And she's naughty.

My dog is the epitome of a good dog. She listens to commands. She doesn't need repeated training sessions or alpha rolls. I don't even have a fence around the yard because she knows where the lines are and says in them.

Good dog. Smart dog.

I went to leave yesterday morning, and as I turned onto the next street- not my street, but the next one- there were Hannah and Beanie. Beanie was on the sidewalk and Hannah was swaggering down the middle of the road.

Bad dogs.

Very bad dogs.

Funny, it made me think of my boys. Which one will be in the middle of the street? Which one will be on the sidewalk? Will any of them know not to leave the yard?

I yelled both their names. Beanie turned around and ran towards my car with the hopeful look, Are we going for a walk in the woods? To which I simply extended my arm and pointed towards the house.

She put her head down and went straight back toward the yard. Not another word was needed for her.

Hannah... well, Hannah looked at me like she had no idea who the heck I was and kept going in the opposite direction until she saw Beanie. Then she went up and tackled my dog, playfully, as if to say,

Don't listen to that bitch.

Beanie kept going, Hannah kept dancing around her.

Bad dog. Bad influence.

What will be next? They're both out in the front yard smoking pot, chasing cars?

Failing Sixth Grade English

Um... I write for a living.

But I can't pass sixth grade English. I'm trying to help Ben with his similes homework.

She's as clumsy as a:
pig
dog
cow
ox

Ben circled pig.

I said, no it's ox.

Pigs are uglier.

It's not about ugly. It's about clumsy. And it's as much a figure of speech as it is a comparison.

No it's not.

Then you do the homework.

No, I need help.

He's as gentle as a:
lamb
kitten
mouse
dove

Dove, Ben circles confidently.

No, it's lamb.

Doves are more gentle... peace and all. It's dove.

Okay.

He looks at me. It's lamb? Really?

Really.

Finally, we finished the similes, some of which he refused to change because after all, what do I know?

I mean, Mom, you went to 6th grade a long time ago.

It's true.

Onto the Martin Luther King Crossword puzzle. I love crossword puzzles.

How do you spell "assassin?"

Ass,
ass,
in.

This leaves him howling in laughter. Too stupid for 6th grade similes but I am funny. of course, I typed it in Word first and spell checked it.

My confidence is shot.

"An organization of whites that sought to control blacks and keep them from gaining political power." 10 letters. second to last is the letter A.

Klu Klux Klan.

Mom, that's eleven letters.

Any ideas, folks?

I'm going to go dig out my diploma from college and kiss it. I'm so glad I'm done.