I watch Tony.
Since 2000, I watched him be a father. I watched him give Devon bottles after carefully swaddling him. And I watched him clap at Devon's award ceremonies and laugh at Devon's silliness. It was just us three until 2004 and there were hundreds of times I watched him love his son.
In 2004, I watched him learn how to change a girl baby's diaper. I watched him watch her getting her ears pierced, and I watched him pick out outfits for her. I watched him encourage a relationship between Layla and Devon, and I watched him guarantee fun family vacations in Tennessee and Florida. And many times, I watched him gently kiss their ouchies and say "All better?"
In 2008, I watched him take in the news that Trent had Down syndrome and needed open heart surgery. I watched him take my hands as I cried. I watched him support me when I struggled with breastfeeding. I watched him take Trent to therapies and practice those skills. I watched him become an even more involved father.
These days, I watch him gently wipe Trent's hands and face after a greasy hamburger. I watch him gaze at Trent with fierce love and protection. I watch him listen to Layla when she talks about fights with her friends. He knows how to empathize with her instead of rushing in to fix it. I watch him joke with Devon, both of them laughing at the same things. I watch him cook for our children, and I watch him help me with difficult conversations with the kids.
Tomorrow, I will watch Tony celebrate another Father's Day with the crappy gifts I struggled to choose. He will cook his own steak and shrimp because I'm a horrible cook. He will thank the kids and I for our gifts and smile that handsome smile. The kids and I will smile as well. How could we not?
Saturday, June 15, 2019
Tuesday, October 23, 2018
The One Who Made Me a Mother
October 26th is Devon's 18th birthday. He took 25 hours to enter this world and would have taken longer if the doctor hadn't said "Time for a c-section." Devon made me a mother and Tony a father, and although we were both so young, we gave ourselves and each other grace while we learned how to be parents.
Devon is a remarkable young man. I'm sure there are things he has done that would make my hair even curlier, but I was once a teenager (and a wild one at that.) However, most of the things he has done have been confessed to me. He comes to me and feels comfortable telling me things, and that aspect of our relationship means more to me than any wild teenage thing he has ever done. He has a healthy respect for women, communication, and patience. His relationship with Trent is playful and loving. He and Layla may fight frequently, but that is normal, and I have no doubt he would be in her corner in a second if she needed him.
He has his father's work ethic and sense of responsibility. He also has his father's concern for my emotions. He does chores without being asked most of the time. He is true to his word. He is a good friend.
It hit me today that after the 26th, he could move out if he wanted to, and the tears came. I don't know how my first child will be 18 in three days. It is cliche to ask where the time has gone, but seriously, where has the time gone?
He must register for selective service. I will make sure he registers to vote.
We all know we love our kids, but there seems to be a switch for me at this time. I'm going from loving my kid to loving my adult son. He will leave the nest relatively soon. His room will become a catch-all room, and I will not hear his potty mouth while he plays video games. I will not hear his alarm going off for 20 minutes in the morning. I won't have to buy a gallon of milk every other day, and I won't get to say "You are having milk with that?" I won't have his friends around my table feeling comfortable talking to me about their own lives or pretending to like my jokes. He may still live here another two years, but I'm acutely aware of how fast time is passing.
This is not the hardest thing I've faced as a mother, but it is surely emotional. I contribute to the man he is becoming, and he contributes to the woman and mother I strive to be.
Devon is a remarkable young man. I'm sure there are things he has done that would make my hair even curlier, but I was once a teenager (and a wild one at that.) However, most of the things he has done have been confessed to me. He comes to me and feels comfortable telling me things, and that aspect of our relationship means more to me than any wild teenage thing he has ever done. He has a healthy respect for women, communication, and patience. His relationship with Trent is playful and loving. He and Layla may fight frequently, but that is normal, and I have no doubt he would be in her corner in a second if she needed him.
He has his father's work ethic and sense of responsibility. He also has his father's concern for my emotions. He does chores without being asked most of the time. He is true to his word. He is a good friend.
It hit me today that after the 26th, he could move out if he wanted to, and the tears came. I don't know how my first child will be 18 in three days. It is cliche to ask where the time has gone, but seriously, where has the time gone?
He must register for selective service. I will make sure he registers to vote.
We all know we love our kids, but there seems to be a switch for me at this time. I'm going from loving my kid to loving my adult son. He will leave the nest relatively soon. His room will become a catch-all room, and I will not hear his potty mouth while he plays video games. I will not hear his alarm going off for 20 minutes in the morning. I won't have to buy a gallon of milk every other day, and I won't get to say "You are having milk with that?" I won't have his friends around my table feeling comfortable talking to me about their own lives or pretending to like my jokes. He may still live here another two years, but I'm acutely aware of how fast time is passing.
This is not the hardest thing I've faced as a mother, but it is surely emotional. I contribute to the man he is becoming, and he contributes to the woman and mother I strive to be.
Sunday, April 8, 2018
My Side of the Bed and Its Nightstand
In four days, it will be a year since my brother's suicide. I feel as though I've written every drop of grief out of it, but there is always more. As the day approaches, my mood has understandably fallen. I'm staying in bed during the weekends and crying more. I torture myself with songs that will be forever associated with a year ago.
I once wrote a blog about The Babadook movie, in which grief takes the form of a monster and stalks a mother and child. My own babadook haunted one section of my couch and my side of the bed. The monster has thankfully left my couch but returns to my bed often. Yesterday, I noticed something else about my side of the bed. The nightstand is overflowing with stuff - books, a lamp, my eye glasses, a bowl of nail polishes, a canvas basket of junk with no other place, and two other items that are perpetual concrete representations of my life as it is now.
The first item is a large plastic mixing bowl, which has been there for a few years now. It is Trent's vomit bowl. He sleeps with me every night, and I never know when he will vomit. It is reflux, post nasal drip, and the weird predisposition to get an upset stomach in the middle of the night. So I keep a bowl nearby and when I awaken from the sound of him swallowing hard, I turn on the lamp and grab the bowl. Making it to the toilet will likely never happen.
The second item is a box of kleenex. Before Chad, I did not keep kleenex next to my bed unless I had a cold. Even during depressive episodes, I made do without it, instead just bringing a few pieces of toilet paper with me to bed. Chad's suicide, however, has made it a permanent fixture. Poetically, it sits in Trent's vomit bowl, which sits on top of the canvas basket full of junk. I have to replace the box every other month. This is more poignant in my head than I can put into words. While the babadook is a figurative representation of my grief, the kleenex is a physical one. That it needs to be replaced is an analogy of the cycle of grief. Even as others feel it is past time for me to stop needing the kleenex, it is not that simple. Time does lessen the acuteness, and maybe the box will need replacing less often, but for now, it is necessary.
I am going to try to stop writing about Chad. I feel myself becoming stuck and writing about it seems to no longer provide catharsis. These things are always so hard to end when hope is running low.
I once wrote a blog about The Babadook movie, in which grief takes the form of a monster and stalks a mother and child. My own babadook haunted one section of my couch and my side of the bed. The monster has thankfully left my couch but returns to my bed often. Yesterday, I noticed something else about my side of the bed. The nightstand is overflowing with stuff - books, a lamp, my eye glasses, a bowl of nail polishes, a canvas basket of junk with no other place, and two other items that are perpetual concrete representations of my life as it is now.
The first item is a large plastic mixing bowl, which has been there for a few years now. It is Trent's vomit bowl. He sleeps with me every night, and I never know when he will vomit. It is reflux, post nasal drip, and the weird predisposition to get an upset stomach in the middle of the night. So I keep a bowl nearby and when I awaken from the sound of him swallowing hard, I turn on the lamp and grab the bowl. Making it to the toilet will likely never happen.
The second item is a box of kleenex. Before Chad, I did not keep kleenex next to my bed unless I had a cold. Even during depressive episodes, I made do without it, instead just bringing a few pieces of toilet paper with me to bed. Chad's suicide, however, has made it a permanent fixture. Poetically, it sits in Trent's vomit bowl, which sits on top of the canvas basket full of junk. I have to replace the box every other month. This is more poignant in my head than I can put into words. While the babadook is a figurative representation of my grief, the kleenex is a physical one. That it needs to be replaced is an analogy of the cycle of grief. Even as others feel it is past time for me to stop needing the kleenex, it is not that simple. Time does lessen the acuteness, and maybe the box will need replacing less often, but for now, it is necessary.
I am going to try to stop writing about Chad. I feel myself becoming stuck and writing about it seems to no longer provide catharsis. These things are always so hard to end when hope is running low.
Saturday, January 27, 2018
Last Words
"Well, text or call if you need anything."
He replied with a thumb up.
The next morning, I messaged, "How are you today?" but he never saw it. His last words were in a handwritten note of which I keep a photo in my phone, which is not at all smart as I forget it is there. Whenever I spend time clearing excess photos, it jumps out at me like a monster, frightening me and bringing darkness. Also, my phone could break.
I have already written a blog about the things I would have said if I had known, but today I became fixated on the last words we say to people at the end of conversations. We fight with our spouse and passive aggressively text "ttyl" or say "whatever" and walk away. Or we say even worse things with no passivity, only aggression. We get so frustrated with our children that we yell "go to your room!" then marinate in our anger for hours. We have coworkers that we like tremendously but treat badly because we are so stressed with work and deadlines. We forget to say "I forgive you", "Hey, you did a good job today", or a simple "thank you."
I'm not saying every conversation has to end with "I love you" and this echoes a Garth Brooks song, but what if there isn't a tomorrow? What would you want your last words to be, either spoken by you or spoken to you?
Although "I love you" would have been better, I am thankful the last words I sent to him were to reach out to me.
He replied with a thumb up.
The next morning, I messaged, "How are you today?" but he never saw it. His last words were in a handwritten note of which I keep a photo in my phone, which is not at all smart as I forget it is there. Whenever I spend time clearing excess photos, it jumps out at me like a monster, frightening me and bringing darkness. Also, my phone could break.
I have already written a blog about the things I would have said if I had known, but today I became fixated on the last words we say to people at the end of conversations. We fight with our spouse and passive aggressively text "ttyl" or say "whatever" and walk away. Or we say even worse things with no passivity, only aggression. We get so frustrated with our children that we yell "go to your room!" then marinate in our anger for hours. We have coworkers that we like tremendously but treat badly because we are so stressed with work and deadlines. We forget to say "I forgive you", "Hey, you did a good job today", or a simple "thank you."
I'm not saying every conversation has to end with "I love you" and this echoes a Garth Brooks song, but what if there isn't a tomorrow? What would you want your last words to be, either spoken by you or spoken to you?
Although "I love you" would have been better, I am thankful the last words I sent to him were to reach out to me.
Saturday, January 20, 2018
Down syndome and Moving Forward
I got the trend Ds tattoo of the three arrows facing forward symbolizing the three chromosomes and progress. It means something great to me, but it also brought pain.
I admitted to my husband today that although I would never take Down syndrome from Trent, I would be lying if said I am not exhausted. The polite words of "How sweet, you will have a baby forever" when he was born are starting to feel like a curse. He isn't a baby; he is a 9 year old boy, but in so many ways, he is like a toddler. And no one, no matter how awesome the toddler years are, wants a toddler for 9 years. I.AM.EXHAUSTED.
And I will be judged for being exhausted. We are not supposed to hate any part of this journey. We are supposed to be the chosen few mothers. Most days, I love the club I'm in, but some days, especially lately, I'm ready to have a child instead of a toddler. I won't even hope for the 9 year old child.
Currently, I'm trying to teach him how to work the controller of the playstation to watch Netflix or his DVDs. No matter how much many ways I try to teach it, it just isn't sinking in. This is a first world problem for sure, but it still hurts in ways I can't explain.
I am exhausted with diapers, with temper tantrums, with not knowing if he has outgrown his shoes because he doesn't tell me, with not understanding much of what he says.
He is an amazing kid so full of love; I shouldn't be feeling this way. As the tattoo symbolizes, I should just keep moving forward, maybe silently. But really, I'm exhausted.
I admitted to my husband today that although I would never take Down syndrome from Trent, I would be lying if said I am not exhausted. The polite words of "How sweet, you will have a baby forever" when he was born are starting to feel like a curse. He isn't a baby; he is a 9 year old boy, but in so many ways, he is like a toddler. And no one, no matter how awesome the toddler years are, wants a toddler for 9 years. I.AM.EXHAUSTED.
And I will be judged for being exhausted. We are not supposed to hate any part of this journey. We are supposed to be the chosen few mothers. Most days, I love the club I'm in, but some days, especially lately, I'm ready to have a child instead of a toddler. I won't even hope for the 9 year old child.
Currently, I'm trying to teach him how to work the controller of the playstation to watch Netflix or his DVDs. No matter how much many ways I try to teach it, it just isn't sinking in. This is a first world problem for sure, but it still hurts in ways I can't explain.
I am exhausted with diapers, with temper tantrums, with not knowing if he has outgrown his shoes because he doesn't tell me, with not understanding much of what he says.
He is an amazing kid so full of love; I shouldn't be feeling this way. As the tattoo symbolizes, I should just keep moving forward, maybe silently. But really, I'm exhausted.
Saturday, December 30, 2017
The Earth Circling the Sun
I keep thinking 2018 will magically make my life better. I feel as though the 8 replacing the 7 will change everything. This isn't a new thought, is it? Lots of people make resolutions and wax poetic about the new year. I know, however, that tomorrow night will not erase my grief, guilt, or mental illness. Nothing but the date will change. Still, the earth did circle the sun and that must mean something.
2017 started off well. I entered into my last semester of grad school, and I felt proud of what I had accomplished up until that point. I won an academic award for having a 4.0 each semester, which was a specific goal I had and reaching a goal is always worthy of celebration.
Early 2017 was also a great time of stability in my life. My medications were working, and my moods were mostly healthy.
Then I got that call in April. "Your brother took his life this morning." I actually challenged her and said, "No he didn't." The tears came. From that moment, my life halved itself. I still attended school, and I still tried my best, and while part of me was excited about graduation, most of me was numb and simply surviving. I graduated in May, and my family took a trip to Universal Studios. It was a sweet distraction that lasted only as long as it could. During that time, I recognized that some people are true friends, through any and everything, and some people are there for the good times only.
The summer came, and I found other distractions, some healthy and some not, but all welcomed. I rediscovered the way writing helps me. In a short few months, I made and lost a friend who had a deep impact on me. My marriage fell into a black abyss, and the last vestiges of my stability fell away. The help I sought was barely enough.
The summer ended, and I began searching for a job, which came quickly. Working again has been a positive experience. I have supportive co-workers and supervisors, and I enjoy the job.
These last few months, stability has been returning, somewhat too rapidly to be believed. The help I have sought is beneficial, and my coping skills are mostly healthy now. My marriage is floating back to the surface.
I find myself saying "2018 will be better." Truthfully though, there is no way of knowing, and it is wishful thinking to claim it. It isn't pessimism exactly, just the knowledge that I have no control over what happens in a year. All I have control over are my thoughts, behaviors, and feelings in response to what happens, whether good or bad.
I do wish everyone a Happy New Year, especially when it personally means beginnings and a sense of second, third, or fourth chances. I'm still making three resolutions: To cope better, to read more, and to write more.
The earth circling the sun must mean something.
2017 started off well. I entered into my last semester of grad school, and I felt proud of what I had accomplished up until that point. I won an academic award for having a 4.0 each semester, which was a specific goal I had and reaching a goal is always worthy of celebration.
Early 2017 was also a great time of stability in my life. My medications were working, and my moods were mostly healthy.
Then I got that call in April. "Your brother took his life this morning." I actually challenged her and said, "No he didn't." The tears came. From that moment, my life halved itself. I still attended school, and I still tried my best, and while part of me was excited about graduation, most of me was numb and simply surviving. I graduated in May, and my family took a trip to Universal Studios. It was a sweet distraction that lasted only as long as it could. During that time, I recognized that some people are true friends, through any and everything, and some people are there for the good times only.
The summer came, and I found other distractions, some healthy and some not, but all welcomed. I rediscovered the way writing helps me. In a short few months, I made and lost a friend who had a deep impact on me. My marriage fell into a black abyss, and the last vestiges of my stability fell away. The help I sought was barely enough.
The summer ended, and I began searching for a job, which came quickly. Working again has been a positive experience. I have supportive co-workers and supervisors, and I enjoy the job.
These last few months, stability has been returning, somewhat too rapidly to be believed. The help I have sought is beneficial, and my coping skills are mostly healthy now. My marriage is floating back to the surface.
I find myself saying "2018 will be better." Truthfully though, there is no way of knowing, and it is wishful thinking to claim it. It isn't pessimism exactly, just the knowledge that I have no control over what happens in a year. All I have control over are my thoughts, behaviors, and feelings in response to what happens, whether good or bad.
I do wish everyone a Happy New Year, especially when it personally means beginnings and a sense of second, third, or fourth chances. I'm still making three resolutions: To cope better, to read more, and to write more.
The earth circling the sun must mean something.
Tuesday, November 7, 2017
Poetry Passing Time
Seeing the Alliterative Psychiatrist
A cedar ceiling and
Color of walnut shell walls
Secrets, hallucinations, horrors are
Told within these neutral nodes
As pitiful people tap their
Fingers, feet flutter
A fox betrays a bull pin
On a box betraying brevity.
Currently, guns gargantuan
Too soon or not soon enough
To talk tactics
Anxiety, like aromatic bread,
Warm raisin, rises.
Some stare, cramped neck at
a smaller box, cartoon caricatures
fake feelings real faces
can't contract.
Dignify my designation so
I can take my turn.
Tell my tale
Land Latuda
Verify Viibryd.
Manage monthly.
Fucking fuck.
A cedar ceiling and
Color of walnut shell walls
Secrets, hallucinations, horrors are
Told within these neutral nodes
As pitiful people tap their
Fingers, feet flutter
A fox betrays a bull pin
On a box betraying brevity.
Currently, guns gargantuan
Too soon or not soon enough
To talk tactics
Anxiety, like aromatic bread,
Warm raisin, rises.
Some stare, cramped neck at
a smaller box, cartoon caricatures
fake feelings real faces
can't contract.
Dignify my designation so
I can take my turn.
Tell my tale
Land Latuda
Verify Viibryd.
Manage monthly.
Fucking fuck.
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