2 1/2 Dads

A couple of nights ago my son and I were out talking in the courtyard. It was really late, about 2 am, when he said something I thought was at first odd and then I thought it was about the nicest thing he had ever said. We were talking about how he has the best of both of his dad’s personality traits. I refer to him as our Sheldon, referring to the character on “The Big Bang Theory”. Sheldon is unrelenting in his need to be right, his need to keep certain things his and his alone, like his spot. That describes my eldest son perfectly. A geek in every way, he is acutely aware of if anyone touches any of his belongings, will fight to the death over his usual seat and is certain when he is right. Our Sheldon got so much of his anal retentive personality from his father. His father had certain things that if not done correctly drove him nuts. Fold his socks the wrong way and you ended up getting a 35 minute tutorial. Trust me when I say it was easier to do those wacky, seemingly nothing things his way. For me being married to him, it all seemed as if it were in the roommate agreement. If you watch the show you will understand. I see Dan in our son every day. Mike is in there too. My son has acquired all kinds of traits from Mike, some which drive me batty, others I just smile, knowing he is the perfect combination of the two men. What my son said was, “I am so lucky, I had 2 ½ fathers.” I stared at him for minute completely confused. I kept doing what I was sure the most basic math and always came out with the answer of two. “Where do you get the ½?” I asked puzzled. “Well, I started out with Dad, and then got Mike and in the mean time I had you. You are the half.” My eyes rolled up inside my head searching for the meaning when he said, “Look, you are kind of a dude. Every one of my friends knows what a beast you are.” It was then I smiled, building to a laugh. I have been referred to as a beast, thug, and a dude. It is not the impression I had hoped would be my legacy, but I had to admit that I knew where it came from. I have stood nose to chest with my sons stating with great conviction, “Brought ya in, take your ass out.” I meant it, too.

I have been pressed at times from outsiders to show my worth as a mother, father and a fighter. I didn’t understand until after Dan had died how not having a father figure made kids vulnerable to outsiders, especially other adults. I had been shocked by how adults would bully my kids and me if I didn’t stand as tall as I could, as puffy as I could, defending all of us. I learned that lesson the hard way and never forgot. I had witnessed people who should have behaved better, push their way into our lives and trying to do emotional harm to my kids, for no other reason then there was no big, strong man to defend them. I always knew how important dads were, but this made it crystal clear to me that kids without dads had a much harder time in social circumstances. What ended up happening to me was I morphed into a hybrid of both father and mother. When needed I could stand up to the biggest coach, tallest teacher, scariest priest, most condescending principal and kick verbal ass if I had to, but I never had to get physical. Had I been pushed further to defend my kids, I probably would have gone the distance. Once during an altercation with a neighbor it nearly came to blows. Win, lose or draw, I was ready to be the man of the house. It was one of the few times my kids were absolutely speechless. I charged like a wild bull and the neighbor fled, sputtering profanities from a safe distance. It was after that my reputation of being the hybrid started to grow. My kids knew I was no push over and if you dared to try and do any kind of damage in any way shape or form to my kids, you had better be prepared for the dad in me. When those few moments happened, I surprised myself at my own strength. The really fascinating part was my voice dropped a solid octave when I was really pissed. My boy was right, I guess, he had 2 ½ fathers. I, being the half, evidently made me full of tiger blood. I looked at my man/child. He is becoming so much more than I could have hoped. My mind rifles through memories as I gaze at his chiseled features, remembering him as a very small boy, so sweet, so innocent, when no one had died, or moved, or changed. He is a good man, a man with shared traits of all who came before him. Although, I only got credit for a half, I am in very good company with Mike and his dad. It is probably the best compliment he could have given me. It is certainly one I will always remember.

Hell on Earth

So the idea was to write about our trip to New Orleans, and one day I will, but for now all hell broke loose and I am trying to get it back in its pen. My last couple of weeks, since the day after we got back from New Orleans, to be precise, life got hard. It got the kind of hard that breaks hearts and causes throbbing headaches. The very day Michael went back to his other home in Chicago, the air conditioner broke. It was a balmy 105 degrees. Having pets that are heat sensitive, I spent the day passing out ice packs and running fans in every corner of the room. Yes, I had to go out and buy fans, an expense that although was not an account drainer, was still unexpected and a pain. The next evening, more than 24 hours later it was fixed. Luckily, it was a simple thing that needed nothing further for now. The next travesty to come was the fender bender in my own driveway. One child hit another child's car and then proceeded to have a complete breakdown at midnight on July 4th. We had fireworks of a completely different kind. After making a loud and out of control scene, we all went to our respective corners. My cat, my lion king, suddenly had out of control diarrhea, leaving him and my bathroom a smelly, disgusting mess. At first, we all thought it was a stomach virus, a small and inconvenient thing. "Stinkopotamus better not come in my room," called my eldest daughter. She made many jokes with me making me laugh as we surveyed our very sick cat. We both knew he was in trouble. Had she not made me laugh, I would have probably cried for a week. Four days later I had to call the hospital to take him in to put him down. At twenty, he didn't owe anyone a damn thing. As I sat outside getting myself together enough to make the trip, my youngest son informed me that he was moving out, quite suddenly, and with what I thought was a ludicrous plan. Stunned, I sat staring at him trying to comprehend what he had just said. He had been making plans to move out and had failed to let me in on any of it. I had been blindsided. Thoroughly pissed, I got up from my seat and said, "I have to go kill my cat now," and left with Matches wrapped in a towel. In retrospect, after many conversations with his siblings, who I must say, had a very reasonable tone and demeanor, I decided to stop being angry and let go. I do not understand why things had to come down the way they did, like he was escaping from Alcatraz, but they did and now he is off in the world either going to make it, or not. At 21 years old, a man, he is on his own to figure out what he wants for himself. It is not the way I would have done it, or even understand why it went this way, but it did, and I found myself nursing another wound to my heart. He does not see why I am a little brokenhearted about how it all came down. He thinks I am controlling, while I think he is being thoughtless. He thinks I want to stifle him, while I think he doesn't plan enough. We are at an impasse for now. Michael talks to him, calmly, I might add, while I cannot. For now, I just can't. I don't think it is for lack of love, but rather lack of understanding of the others viewpoint. As his mother there will never be a day when I am completely objective. Where he sees adventure, I see danger. Where he sees possibility, I see homelessness and despair. I will grant you this makes me sound like a giant piss pot, and to that point I will concede. I have always looked very far down the road and pointed out hidden dangers to my children, terrified they might not recover from a devastating misstep. But as a human, I know how unhappy he has been, how lost he has felt, uncomfortable in his skin. This may be the very thing he needs to start doing for him in ways unexpected and happy. My toilet leaked and then proceeded to flood. At first it only flooded at night, and then it began to flood in earnest all day long. I would have to turn off the water every time I had to pee. I had tried to find where the leak was coming from, to no avail. Mike fixed it in about 20 minutes yesterday, when it had taken me all week to putter, being completely unable to diagnose the problem. With all this going on, Michael had been away. I was on my own to do what I had not done for 11 years, run my household alone. I was sitting outside with Michael talking quietly about how I had gotten my ass kicked at every turn for two weeks, now. Tears fell down my sagging face, past the large bags that hung under my weary eyes. 'I remember now what being on my own felt like and why I hated it so much. You would think I would be better at with all that practice." Michael hugged me, "It's a lot for anyone to handle, too much in fact." Yep, it was all too much to deal with at once. I have slept more the last two days than I have in weeks. At one point, I had not slept more than eight hours in three days. I will write about my trip to New Orleans and all the newly formed perspective I garnered from that trip, I will. But for now, with embers still glowing from previous fires that had to be extinguished by me while I was alone, I am going to take full advantage of Michael being home and rest. I want to stock pile all the sleep and comfort I can just in case, Hell decides to escape, break loose, causing more chaos and wreaking havoc. I looked at my Michael darling, "Never leave me again." He said soft in my ear, "I never really do."

The Long Life of the Lion King

I had bought a house after my divorce. I had promised the kids a puppy, and the weekend we moved in I adopted a rescue and named her Asti. The kids were unsure of her at first but came to love her. She was our "Nanny". Betty being tiny, only 4 years old asked me for a kitten. It was about the time I was thinking about it, my neighbor came over upset because her husband had threatened to put one of their cats down. "Why?" I asked, "is he sick?" She looked distraught and said, "No, he just doesn't want him anymore. He's 4 years old. Please take him for Betty." Not one to tolerate animal cruelty on any level, I took Matches in. Betty being of the mind she would have a tiny kitten was less than thrilled. "He's too big and he won't let me pick him up," she whined one day. "Just give him time to adjust,he has been through a lot." I found out within months after adopting Matches that he had fathered his own sibling, Hercules. Since Hercules was kitten I took him in too, and the cats became a fixture in our house. Matches was the voice of Hercules. He talked more than meowed. He could really only say one word that was recognizable, but we always knew when something was on his mind. When he or Hercules needed anything he would call out through the house, "Hello?" He had perfect inflection. It was remarkable the way he knew how to get our attention. He guarded me, much like a dog. He was our patriarch, the man of the family. He would survey his kingdom, taking in a any change, keeping a watchful eye on me. When Danny died, I was unable to sleep, and would wander the house, as if I were a ghost, myself. I would not be able to sit down. I was wracked with fear, and Matches would slowly follow behind me until my legs would ache so much I would finally end up on the couch. He would gracefully climb to the back of the couch and stroke my hair, combing through the long strands. He would comb my hair for hours as I lay, eyes open wondering how in the hell we would all survive. When my emotions would bubble up on me, Matches would lay next to my face, nose to nose as I cried. He did the only thing he knew how and the only thing I really needed; he loved me. With Asti as the animal matriarch, and Matches as the reigning king, our family felt whole in ways I would have never expected. My lion king has stood watch over me and my family for many, many years. I have never owned pets this long. One of my "adopted" kids said I was running a nursing home for elderly pets. It made me laugh, because it had so much truth to it. It never occurred to me that Matches or Asti or Hercules would live this long. Back when I took them in I figured we would love them for as long as we could without having any idea how long that would be. They got us through the most difficult thing we would face. Even as Matches became weaker, he remained my lion king, showing strength, helping me through his passing. I had thought I would try and keep him home to pass here, but as he faded I realized I had to make the decision I dreaded the most. He never showed pain, but he wasn't eating, or drinking. I knew what I had to do as my heart was breaking. I bundled up my king and took him to a nearby hospital. I knew in my heart there would be no miracles to save him. He never resisted me picking him up, though he hated being carried. He had always stood on his own four paws, fiercely independent and strong. Cats normally hide when they are ill, but Matches stayed out in the hall, letting us know he still kept watch. He never once stopped being king, even in the final moments of his life. I had said my goodbyes at home, nose to nose with my king as I gave him a list of those who would be waiting for him. I asked him if he were loved enough, and he did something so unusual for him, he licked my hand. My king had my devotion and respect. He had altered me forever, reminding me daily why life is a wonderful, delicate thing. I had to make the decision to put him "to sleep", but he never closed his eyes. With wise, old eyes, he stayed locked on our faces until his last breath. Before I let him go, I told him what a remarkable cat he has been, and that I would love him forever. It is a promise I will keep, because my king deserves nothing less. This morning, before the break of dawn I was up preparing for my king's burial. I picked out his spot where he would be laid to rest. I dug feet into the ground tears mixing with drops of sweat until my head was throbbing. I placed my beloved king in his final resting spot and covered my friend until the ground was solid beneath my feet. Two large stepping stones have been placed on top of his grave marking the place where the king now resides. My lion king was a regal, majestic animal with human qualities. He was compassionate, fair, and strong. My lion king was beautiful to all eyes lucky enough to behold him. He held his place in our family as one who observed and protected. I will never know another cat like my lion king. He was rare and wonderful and singular in his kind. It was my privilege to live with the lion king. He was gracious in his love, and his ability to expand our hearts and minds. Rest in peace, my king. Hearing you purr in your last moments was my own personal heaven right here on earth.

Gaining Perspective Part 1

I was sitting at work thinking about how Mike and I were unable to get a real vacation in again this year. I felt a bitter about it, initially. But then I had this crazy idea of controlling our life rather than allowing it to control us. It seemed almost as if I was having an epiphany. I grant you that it was more like a good idea, but just pondering the idea of how we were so mired down with all of our stuff, jobs, kids, broken cars, house repair, living across the country from each other, that the very notion of taking time away to just be together seemed unfathomable. I quickly threw an email out to my boss requesting a day off. Immediately I got his response giving me the go ahead. I called Mike and informed him we were taking a trip, by car to keep it simple, to New Orleans. I keep a list of all the cities I want to see, spend time in, filled people with their stories I am dying to hear. That is how I do vacation; I plan trips to places where I ask complete strangers personal details about their lives. I am really not trying to be invasive with any negative intent. I am trying to be invasive, though. I want to know where they live, what they eat, how they got through tragedy, what makes them laugh, what music turns their heart. I want to know in such an imperative way; with a kind of urgency that one might think I was gulping it in like air. It is the way I connect to the human race, by asking about people and the lives they have been living. In some very childlike way, I know I am not asking to hear some horror story that might make me feel better about my own life. In all innocence, the little of that I have left, I just want to celebrate having witnessed a human being. Whenever I talk to someone, I bring up my own stories in order to relate better to what they have to say. I do it because I don't want that person to feel so vulnerable they think my intent is anything but fascination, and usually in the end, some kind of respect. We only live a few hours away from New Orleans. It takes less than a day’s travel to be in the heart of the French Quarter, but up until this year, there never seemed to be the time. Truth be told, we probably didn't have the time this year either, but I stole it, held it to my chest and forced us to go in spite of everything we needed to do at home. The easy thing to do would have been was to make the same old excuses we have always made. We had reason in the world not to go, but the reasons we had for bearing witness to these strangers seemed so much bigger than our old excuses. In a twenty four hour period we planned, packed and headed out to the Big Easy. Our goal in our trip was simple; we needed to get away, meet people, and remember why we think people are still interesting, mystical and wonderful. We wanted to eat different food, listen to some really great music, hold hands and remember why we are so happy when we are together. This trip, this spur of the moment, poorly planned, but expertly executed trip was exactly what we needed to replenish our souls. It was exactly what we needed to help mend our broken hearts. New Orleans would be the place where we would feel more like ourselves than we had in many, many months. We knew that New Orleans, and the people who live there, would remind us how as human beings we are not just resilient, but happy just being at all. Michael and I packed a few things, a cooler with some snacks and headed out for our getaway. Several hours into the trip we were frozen in our tracks in standstill traffic. I-10 was under construction and we were stuck. It seemed the perfect metaphor for how we were living the rest of our lives, stuck and frozen to the same spot until we thought we would scream. We entertained each other, talked about home and bitched about traffic. We would crawl out of one traffic jam to find ourselves stuck just miles down the road in another one. The sun was brutally hot. Our black car seemed to absorb every ounce of heat in the atmosphere. Sweating, with the air conditioner blasting in our faces we continued our crawl to New Orleans. What should have been a straight shot, took hours longer than the map would show. Eventually, with our energy and patience spent we arrived in the city that had only a few years ago been deserted and under water by hurricane Katrina. What we saw was nothing short of breath taking. The architecture, the brick streets, Lake Pontchartrain, it all added up to a magical place where I, much like the tin man, would once again find my heart. I sat in the car soaking up every bit of the scenery of the place I had heard about for years from the people I had met who had fled for their lives. So many of those who left during the hurricane had found themselves homeless, jobless and starting over in Houston. A great number of them would never return. As I sat wide eyed winding through the narrower streets, I remembered meeting people we had donated clothes, food, and other necessities to. I thought about a young mother with a very tiny baby who had literally only the clothes on their backs. They had sat in their car for 20 hours, desperately seeking shelter from the storm. They had been right to leave; their house and everything they owned, every picture they had ever taken, every dish they had eaten from had been washed away when the levies gave way. When I met the young mother, she was exhausted, grimy, sweating in the heat, clutching her baby to her chest, as her husband sat in a chair with his head in his hands. They both shook, eyes brimming with tears; they looked as though they might collapse. I touched the baby’s head, running my fingers through her dark curly locks. She squirmed and smiled, having no idea that her parents had just saved her life and forever altered their own. I sat in my own car during our trip and tried imagine the panic, the horror of what went on in the city. I never want to forget how much pain came out of that storm. To forget seems disrespectful to those who lost everything. More important than that, I wanted to be reminded of those who have never given up even after they lost loved ones, were displaced for years, and eventually made their way home.