ANYWAY, when Matt and I were out for our walk tonight we passed this field where these two kids were playing. It was a girl of maybe 12 and a boy about a year younger. They were taking turns riding a motor bike that was clearly more bike than they could handle. She got off and he got on, but the whole time he jerked the bike across the field with uneven starts and stops and near-death misses, she was running along behind him, shouting instruction, showing him the “right” way.

It made me think of my brother. He’s eighteen months younger than I am and we used to get up to the dickens, let me tell ya. We rode bikes and built forts. We raced go-carts and made five star restaurants that specialized in mud-burgers and grass fries. Two rocks served quite well as the bun. We climbed trees and got in trouble one time for building a dam in the river that made a difference miles away. We covered for each other. We ratted each other out.

We saved a girl from drowning once. We were at the river and the little section we were swimming in was really the only safe place to swim. There was a rocky drop off not far downstream, but if you stayed well away from it you would be alright. We knew about these things. We spent long summer days learning them. It’s a wonder we made it to adulthood. We were blue and devoid of feeling in our limbs due to the icy mountain water that rushed through the river, but we had no intention of getting out of the water. Our family was back at the campsite, warm and cozy, probably sipping hot chocolate by the fire. They were smart. They were not insane. Because it was the only relatively safe spot to swim in the river for miles, people sort of flocked to it. This one family had two kids, I think. There were a lot of kids there, so I’m not sure how many were theirs. Anyway, that’s not important. We see this little girl is down at that dropoff, way away from the safety zone. She ends up literally clinging to a rock to keep from going over. The rapids are washing over her and she’s maybe 5 years old. People are just sort of standing around with their mouths wide open, looking stupid. Like maybe if they stood perfectly still, she wouldn’t go over. My brother and I ran over to her from the riverbank. Once we got there we scouted out the best position and then, using each other as support, we manuevered our way to the rock where she was stranded. We worked the same way getting her back to shore. Her parents were all grateful and stuff and we were all like, “aw shucks, it wasn’t even hard!” when all the while we were so close to peeing our pants we couldn’t stand it.

We used to hunt spiders. There were these giant, ugly — I mean UGLY assed spiders behind the old outbuilding on our property. We would go out there with big, long sticks and rub them up under the spider’s bellies. These spiders had weird markings and grotesquely long legs with fat, bulbous bodies. They would wrap those terrible legs around the stick we were holding. We would lower the tip of the stick with the spider dangling from it into a jar we would place on the ground before hand. Then we would put a couple dozen more in and watch them all fight. It was horrible and I can’t believe we did it. But we’re being punished now. We’re both horribly terrified of spiders.

We used to breakdance on slick plywood in the grass. My brother would wretch and convulse on the slick top of the wood, spinning on his back or flopping up and down on his belly, doing the worm. I got a big, fat honkin’ splinter in my foot one time from trying to do the moonwalk on that damn wood. Barefoot. What a maroon!

We also used to hold microphones and sing while choreographing dance moves to Michael Jackson’s “Dirty Diana” — we were SUCH dorks.

We used to take the tape recorder and do fake interviews with each other. One person would ask the questions as if they were Barbara Walters or James Lipton and the other would ramble off these ridiculous nonsense answers in absurd voices until we both fell on the floor laughing, completely unable to breathe. My mom found one of those tapes not long ago. It was hysterical to listen to all these years later.

We used to hold marathon sessions on the Nintendo. We couldn’t WAIT to get one and when we finally did we spent all our free time trying to beat Kid Icarus or Mario Brothers. We had spiral notebooks filled with memory codes because back then, in the dark ages, the games didn’t have no fancy hard drive like you whippersnappers today have what with your X-Cube 360 Stations. We would get in trouble for being too loud, sent to bed, and be up half an hour later sneaking in a few more levels. We blew in those damn games so much we shoulda been gettin’ paid. We didn’t have no fancy CDs back then either. It was all cartridges and you had to blow and blow and blow and blow in them to get them to work. Something about them being powered by juvenile saliva, so you had to refill it every once in a while.

Ah, well. That’s the good old days for ya, full of the good — and the bad. I was just thinking about my brother tonight is all. He’s all grown up now with a family of his own. He’s got four handsome boys and he’s teaching them to ride dirt bikes and light a firecracker. All the good and dangerous stuff, like we used to get up to. He’s doing the best he can and he loves them beyond compare. They’re lucky boys.

I’ve still got seniority though. Always had it, always will.

We didn’t even know he was sick. One day he was fine. Just his normal, fluffy self. The next he was hanging on for dear life, ill, with a mysterious ailment, defying diagnosis. Not knowing what was wrong, we didn’t know how to fix it. We tried. We really did. We put everything into it. We devoted time, money, hours of conversation, and more than a few tears to the cause. We fought the good fight. We did the best we could.

But in the end, it wasn’t enough. Tonight, — ah, God, tonight he went into respiratory failure and his little heart stopped beating. He just gave up and went on to the next phase. Whatever that might be. Rufus was never one to obsess. He was tenacious and loyal to the core, but he was never that big into prolonging the inevitable. “Fuck it, I’ll move on.” That about sums up Rufus and how he went through life.

We all went to see him, visit him in the E.R. We took turns petting and talking and giving him scratches. I kissed his little forehead. Told him I loved him. I turned and walked away. We didn’t know it would be the last time. We didn’t know!

He wasn’t supposed to die. He wasn’t supposed to! He was just going to be transferred to a place with all night care and — and that’s it. Then he was supposed to keep getting better and then come home. Instead, this crazy doctor called me and said he just died. Died! As in, he’s not around anymore. As in, I’m never, ever going to see him again. WTF is up with that?

Rufus- you had to know Rufus, to get Rufus. My sister, upon meeting him, dubbed him the marshmallow man. She said he looked like a big, fat marshmallow with four toothpicks for legs. And I suppose he did. He was actually deceptively deft for his big size. He could run. He could throw down.

But he just didn’t see the need in doing it all the time, just because it could be done. He didn’t have to prove anything to anyone, is the point. He would take all-comers, and usually, he would win. He basically just did as he pleased.

Which isn’t to say that he was hard-headed. Oh, no. He was so smart. He was this little genius with a personality bigger than life. He was very well-behaved. Trustworthy. Fiercely, fiercely loyal.

Sometimes we called him gramps, or grampa. It was all because of the little spots of white that flecked his black chin. And his curmudgeonly attitude. He was kind and sweet and gentle. But he was no pushover. If you pushed him too far he would snarl a nasty warning at you, bare his teeth a little. And you would deserve it too. He doesn’t go around tugging on your fur or trying to ride you. Have some respect for the elderly. And get off his lawn. He didn’t like people he didn’t recognize anywhere near his lawn.

Knocks on the door would drive him into a frenzy. Not a crazy-making frenzy, just a “look at me! i’m making noise! warning! warning! danger!” kind of frenzy. He would bark and snarl and run back and forth across the house — and then suddenly stop. There was no method really, to his madness. He just wanted it to be known that someone approaches! Here they are! They’re at the door! Do something! and then he would stop. Go about his business. It was only worth wasting his time as long as he thought there was a threat. If no one else was freaking out, he certainly wasn’t going to go through the trouble. Walls, too. you could fall against a wall, put your hand out to steady yourself, and in the process, make the slightest little noise with your hand making contact with the wall and Rufus would be off with his little script. “look at me! i’m making noise! warning! warning! danger!” annnnd SCENE! Take five!

Which isn’t to say that Rufus wasn’t also brave. Because he was. Comically so. If he perceived any danger to any of us, he was instantly the Chuck Norris of the canine world. If Matt was rough housing with the boys, Rufus would drive himself mad trying to figure out whose side he was on. His loyalty ran so damn deep.

He was so patient and long suffering. He would tolerate Poe jumping around like a banshee fleabag – trying to get him to play. Rufus would throw him a bone, wrestle and thrash about for a few minutes, and then revert to sentinel-like stillness. Poe would nip at his ears and wonder how it was a dog could manage to actually sit still for a minute. Poe’s energy and hyper-doofiness never seemed to bother him. He just took it in good stride and protected him like Poe was his giant little brother.

You knew when he was happy to see you. He was always happy to see you. His eyes would light up and that tail would start wagging like a propeller jet, taking off. I read a quote recently. I don’t remember who said it. “A Dog is the only creature who has already seen his God.” That’s how you felt when you looked at Rufus in the eyes. He was just so honored to be a part of it, just so pleased you had chosen him. There was real, naked honesty and devotion in those eyes. He loved Matt. God, that dog loved him so much. He was his morning star and his evening moon. He was first a bachelor’s dog and he carried that badge proudly. And Matt loved him. Rufus got him through some dark times in his life. He was his best friend. He was so proud of him. Proud of how smart he was. How well-behaved. He was proud of his personality, his ability to win anyone over. I grieve for him, too. I know this is so hard on him.

He cleaned out his dog dish. Put his bed out in the garage. He mourned the loss. Mourns it still. I can’t believe he’s gone. I can’t get it to sink in.

Rufus would put out all four paws when Matt tried to put him in water. He loathed it. It was like watching a cartoon, Matt gallantly pushing Rufus towards the water and Rufus frantically clawing for purchase at the walls, trying to stop himself going in. Water was for drinking, not frolicking. Tongues were for cleaning, not tubs.

He loved food. He stayed under my feet in the kitchen, despite my repeated pleas to have him “go lay down” or “go play in traffic”. He paid me no never mind and assumed I was only joking. Which I was. Because the next meal he would be right back, tripping me and my pan full of dinner, hoping for a morsel. If I so much as said the word “treat” in, any context, his tail would wag and his mouth would open in stark anticipation.

Matt’s family loved him to pieces. My family fell in love with him, too. He was a hard dog not to love.

He had the memory of an elephant and a heart as big as this whole damn world. He was, at his worst, better than most humans at their best. He was sweet and thoughtful, laying at your side in silent vigil when you felt ill or down. He was kind and gentle. He was brave and proud. He was as sober as a judge and as goofy as they come. He had black specks on his pink tongue and a million dollar smile.

The crying hasn’t stopped. It still goes on. Will go on for quite sometime, I imagine. I go to feed Poe and notice the empty spot where his dish used to be, and it hits me all over again. Matt goes into the laundry room and sees all his things, his immunization record, his leashes, his shampoo and brush – all things he would no longer need- in a box in the cupboard. He’s speechless and his eyes are the saddest things I have ever seen. The boys are walking around with tear-stained eyes – not too common a sight when they hit thirteen and fourteen. They are shell shocked and devastated.

People will say, “he was just a dog.” They don’t understand. He was our dog. He was a member of our family. He was one of us. And now he’s gone forever. We’re grateful he’s not suffering anymore, but we are so, so sorry he had to go.

Rest in peace, Roofie Doo. We love you and miss you.

What we know for sure is we don’t want another Republican. Not even a semblance. Apparently, we can’t separate the party from the people. Which is a crying shame. I think.

So much energy. So much energy to sink the other ship. We’re a great big hillbilly with only one tooth among us, depending on other people to show us the way. We’re so unpolished. So unrefined. Mere babes in the woods. We need the compartmentalization.

My son is almost 13. He has loved stuffed animals from the day he was born. Not just any stuffed animal, though. That was a trick. I bought him countless plush toys over the years. Only a few remain. Fewer now. It had to have a certain look. A particular feel. A distinct “huggability”. Not all of them have that. An enormous duck he got one Easter was one of the few. It was big and soft and utterly adorable. It was bright orange-yellow and it flopped just so. There were others. A tiny kitten. A tinier mouse. A beanbag butt bear. These things were given names and dragged from place to place in the house, they trailed from his grasp in the grass and mud. They accompanied him to many events, monumental and insignificant. They were a part of him like a freckle to the flesh.

Not just animals, though. That wasn’t the criteria. My old quilt, hand stitched for me by my grandma when I turned 16, became his legacy when my bed outgrew it. He didn’t sleep with it so much as he tied it around his neck and turned into a high-flying, day-saving, Superman. It was more a companion than a source of warmth. He had pillows that his head didn’t rest on at night. They lay beside him, named buddies, sleeping over for the night.

Ducky
Katie
Pilly-Billie
Blankie

More names I can’t remember. I think there was one called Harry in there. I can’t keep them straight. He was infinitely patient with me when I couldn’t remember the name of the frog who was joining us for dinner.

The extent of his involvement with them diminished as the years passed. They mostly stayed in his room as he went about the world, patiently awaiting his return. He handled them with care, in the sense that he held tight their names in his mind and just wanted them within his sight, a source of comfort in his expanding world, fraught with peril and occasional sadness. They didn’t sit up on a shelf in untouched reverence. They just existed around him. They were frequently caught up in the avalanche of his room. On the floor they sat, helpless to evade when stomping feet, giddy with a sugar high came barreling in, frantically searching for a glove or a trading card. They were tossed aside and buried beneath mounds of dirty jeans and muddy tennis shoes. They served as soccer balls when a sleepover got out of hand. Such sports were they when the bear was made a soldier and ducky became a mountain. They were just happy to be played with again.

This is the reason then, and this is by no means a stab at an excuse, I threw them away.

I didn’t know. The years pass quickly and I wasn’t paying attention. It never occurred to me, the depth of their relationship. I witnessed their presence in passing and gave it no second thought. I endured the requests for an extra cookie for his ducky, thinking it only a ploy to con me out of more sugar. I didn’t know.

It wasn’t a forethought. It wasn’t premeditated. I swear. On my life I swear I didn’t plan to break my son’s heart. It was all Spring’s fault. I was cleaning the house. Well, I wasn’t so much cleaning the house as I was attacking the house. I had a fit of hysteria over the walls that were steadily closing in on me and I could take no more. I scrubbed and disinfected and mopped and swept. I gathered boxes of clutter from every room in the house. I cleaned the blinds and the curtains. I ran myself out of laundry soap. I was like a woman fixated, to the point of borderline insanity. As if I could cheat the quick passage of time by giving myself more space. Fools are we, ever after eternity.

Ducky had a hole in his ass. A big, gaping hole I kept promising to sew up. He had a small head, but a big, fat tush. He looked like a duck who had slipped on the ice, his ass comically up in the air. I don’t know how the hole got there. It was business as usual when I heard the news. Things tend to fall apart in the hands of boys. My job though was to heal the wounded. I was the company nurse with all the right bandaids. Just — this one patient slipped through the cracks.

During my cleaning frenzy I came across him by the back door. He was muddy and crumpled. He had lost most of his stuffing long ago and his rump just sagged on the floor. Not looking on him with the eyes of a child whose whole life was spent sharing secret moments with him, I swooped him up and into the trash. The bag I was carrying was on its way out to the curb. I thoughtlessly added it to the pile and in doing so, devastated my child who loved him so.

And then, worse, I lied. I lied to his face when he asked me had I seen Ducky. I hadn’t planned to. Honestly, it only just then occurred to me what I had done. I tossed it with such ease into the bin, thinking only of my next task and then it immediately left my mind. Until the question. Then it sprang out and surprised me, gleeful in its vengeance. I stuttered and stammered and blinked a million times before blurting out, “Grandma took him! She, uh, she’s sewing him for you! I just haven’t had the time.”

Ugh, may I never have to see that face again, so long as I shall live. That face smiled and beamed up at me as though he had just found out his best friend was coming over and I was a goddess among women. He ran on outside, content in the knowledge that all was right in the world. I felt so horrible. I felt like slime. Like sewage. I felt like one of those things beneath your shoe that you just want to wipe away and be shut of. I was wrecked.

But I didn’t know! I didn’t realize how close they still were. I only noticed that I was seeing them less and less. I figured they were on the outs. He had satiated that need. They, like the roller skates and Pokemon before them, were now out of favor. When I saw the look of fear and desperation on his face when he couldn’t find him, I understood how wrong I was. They were still very much in favor. That need had NOT been met, thank you very much. I reasoned with myself. How could you have known? He’s getting bigger and bigger every day. Every day he is growing older, wiser, more mature. Every day he sets aside a different habit of youth and grows into a young man. Though my heart rails against it, my mind understands it. I further reasoned with myself that he needn’t ever know. I envisioned a future where he was 30 years old and well past the memory of it, asking me, “Whatever happened to that old duck I used to have?” I figured if I could hold him off long enough, he would grow too old to be angry about it. He wouldn’t be sad. He would think back on it with fondness and shrug it all off. It’s very easy to reason with oneself, when one’s ego is on the line.

Could there be a more horrible mother than me?

The problem is though, that didn’t happen. Maybe in some parallel universe, but in mine, the walls came crashing down. In my arrogance in rejoicing at my logic, I failed to provide an alibi for my lie. In speaking with my mom some time later, my curious and devoted son asked her how his friend was doing. My mom, being ignorant of my horrendous lie, told him she didn’t know what in blazes he was talking about. In those words.

I will never forget his eyes when he questioned me later. The desperation and pleading and fear all mingled together to form the most awful gray clouds in his gaze. I’m certain that a part of him knew the truth, but the other part refused to accept it. Everything in his body was begging me not to betray his trust. I failed so miserably. I had to come clean. I had to pull off the band aid. I blurted it out in a rush and then misdirected the anger I had with myself at him. I yelled at him for not taking care of his things. I nagged at him about how often I had told him to keep them put up if he didn’t want to lose them. I pointed out the endless struggle to get him to pick them up, put them away.

I made it his fault.

I made him feel as though it never would have happened if he hadn’t screwed up. I am blameless. I am without sin.

Only, it didn’t last. The guilt consumed me and in the wake of his grief I melted and came clean. I told him that adults make mistakes and we don’t have an instruction manual. I said, “I’m sorry” and took him in my arms.

As important as it is to teach our children to let go, it is as important to teach them humility. I humbled myself before him and swallowed my pride. I admitted that I am not perfect, despite his fantasy fable world in which I am. I forced myself to accept the fact that his view of me would change forevermore. I let him cry. He cried 10 year old tears, those of a boy who knows he’s too old to cry, but he hurts real bad all the same. I felt the struggle within him as he raged and sobbed in my arms. The voices saying, “let go, you’re too old” and “they were my friends. I loved them.” They waged a war in his body and flooded his tear ducts with confusion. The night passed slowly. He alternately carried on as usual and then flew in tears to his room at the slightest reminder. He grieved. He revealed that kitty was hiding in ducky’s stomach when I threw him away. So he lost two now. I tried not to throw up and then I tried not to fuck it up anymore than I already had.

The years have passed. He mentions it less and less with every passing day. We went the next day and took pictures of his friends, so he would have mementos of them in the event of their loss. He mourned the fact that he couldn’t find Ducky in even one of the fifteen million pictures I have taken over the years. I scoured through pictures on my external hard drive for hours and hours at a time, in an attempt to find one picture, just one that held an image of Ducky. He carefully put the others away, out of sight and safe from muddy feet, dirty laundry bombs and careless, stupid mothers. In a feeble attempt to undo what I had done, I continued to pore through pictures on my external hard drive for hours and hours at a time. If I could find one picture, just one, that might make a difference. Occasionally he would mention them again. He would be just as sad as the day he found the truth, but with more constraint. A few times it overcame him; he cried and thrashed and lashed out at me in anger. I accepted the brunt of it in my guilt and shame, but I wouldn’t let him punish me forever. After it got long in the tooth I put a stop to it by reminding him of his own culpability and my subsequent remorse. I wanted him to understand it wasn’t right to hold a grudge, to take advantage of one’s guilt. I wanted him to stop reminding me of my shortcomings.

Now, when he speaks of Ducky, he does so with the corner of his eyes pointed downward in shame. He talks about his old friend with a mixed sense of duty to grow up and a sad regret at the loss. He wants to mourn, but he doesn’t want to disappoint me in his ability to grow up and let go, nor does he want to incur my anger at his failure.

Again, name a more horrible mother.

Children must grow up. They have to turn away from the things of the past. Calling a pillow by name and sleeping side by side with it like a dear friend, is looked down upon in “normal” society. What a pity. Still, we do our best. We try to do what’s right and when we don’t, we say the only thing we can, “I’m sorry”. You try to teach them humility and responsibility. You do your best to teach them it’s okay to mourn and feel. You attempt, in earnest, to educate them about growing up and what it means to be a man. You help them let go.

It’s a bitch, though. And it’s far from an exact science.

How can I possibly be expected to keep up with which candidate is best to run this country when I am dealing with such monumental, life altering events? I’ll tell you what. Show me a candidate who understands what I said. Find me one who can read this and “get it” and I’ll give my vote. I’ll gladly endorse that candidate. He’s the one I want at the wheel.

I won’t hold my breath while you look.

What, then, can the matter be?

I just got home from Tulsa. Riveting though it was, it was also a long and arduous journey. There were 2 little girls on the plane, probably 1 and almost 3. I wish they would have shut up. Not because they were loud and obnoxious, although that did come later.

My heart was splintered. I watched them across the aisle and felt something inside of me sink and writhe. Twisted and brutal, something within me started screaming for its life. I watched them play and I watched their mother say all the right things and I hated them all. I’ve been blocking out memories of the boys at that age, lest they knock me out for the count. And now here they were, right here in front of me. It was one thing to shut out images of my babies playing and laughing together, innocent and carefree; and quite another to have to witness it being played out again, but in someone else’s world. A strange and wonderful world we’re no longer living in. We’ve left that one behind.

I turned my head to the window and I cried.

I couldn’t tell you the exact reason. It was just a darkness. A terrible sadness that enveloped me like — well, like a mother’s arms. I closed my eyes to the clouds beyond and saw visions of them still in diapers. They were fighting over a toy one minute and hugging and laughing the next. Winnie-the-Pooh was the height of entertainment and my lap was their favorite refuge in a storm.

Tonight we watched Dawn of the Dead. Their tastes in entertainment are shifting. If you had said to me 3 weeks ago, “They’ll be watching hardcore horror soon.” I would have scoffed at the notion. They like Pokemon! They love Goofy! If it’s not animated, don’t even bring it up to those two. Really, you’ll be wasting your time.

But then reality sets in and we’re in Blockbuster when Jacob asks, “Mom, can we watch Dawn of the Dead instead?” Instead of what? Instead of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? Dawn of the Dead isn’t animated! It doesn’t even have a wacky sidekick! They’re Mutant Turtles! And they’re Ninjas! Doesn’t that mean anything to you? I don’t even know you anymore.

They grew up like twins, those two. The way those girls were going to do. They would fight and they would bicker and each thought (and still thinks) the world was theirs. They were only letting us live in it. But they grew up close and they grew up sturdy, but mostly, they grew up fast. So fast. I felt an audible ache for the ability to go back in time, just for a minute. To go back and pick them up with a skinned knee and a tear-streaked face. To kiss an owie, to sing a lullaby. I want to go back to hear those voices, so much deeper now. I want to caress that soft, soft skin and hold those tiny, dirty hands.

I want the memories to come. Painful though it is. I want to feel those things and cherish them. Through the pain and tears, I want to look back. It’s a heartbreaking train wreck, but I can’t look away.

We just don’t know what we got, etc. I made a million wishes on that plane. I wish I had done some things differently. I wish I had made better decisions. I wish I had paid better attention, taken more care. I wish for it to not be too late.

We have so little time and we just piss it away.

They aren’t gone now. They’re still here. I’m making the most of what’s left of my time with them. I know they’re coming into their own. I’m just having a hard time with the coming.

This is, perhaps, the reason I wanted to rush home to Matt, to beg him to knock me up. Everything in me is screaming, “Your time is running out! You must hurry! They’re going to grow up and you won’t be able to replace them later. You’re certainly not getting any younger, you must supplement!” And maybe this is true. It sounds about right.

But I didn’t. I kept it to myself and pushed those memories far, far away for awhile. I let them go dormant again, only to inconveniently reappear at some other unexpected moment. I set it down as it was a heavy load, too heavy for me to drag around. My shoulders are aching and I am so weary. I put aside such silly thoughts and remembered all the good things about where I am now: No more babysitters. No more diapers. No more late-night feedings. No more carseats and strollers. No, I’m better off letting go.

But I can still hear the ticking. It’s so, so loud. Deafening. Formidable. Each strike brings panic and worry. I hate that clock. Listen. Do you hear it too?

It was different this time though because last year the boys were but a wee 11 and 12 years old. This meant we shadowed them on all the rides, waited with them in ridiculously long lines for those rides and just generally never let them out of our sight — so great is my fear of the general public, especially the general public when whipped into a frenzy by adrenaline producing thrill rides and pure sugar fair food favorites like funnel cake and elephant ears.

This year was different than last because they’re in their early twenties now and perfectly capable of going off on their own. Or so Matt told me anyway. He doesn’t know about the perverts and the drugs and the werewolves though. Obviously. As a result, I didn’t get many pictures of the boys on rides…or, you know, doing much of anything. I hope Matt is happy now. I hope he’s satisfied. I hope werewolves eat his independence-promoting heart out.

Anyway! The fair is a good place for watching people, in lieu of, you know, being able to watch your own children that is. (Werewolves. Heart. Out.)

You never know what you’ll see.

Plus, where else can you get this?

After that, a few of these:

Then, you’ll surely need this:

Good thing they sell it at the fair, huh?

Jacob, coming off the Gravitron:

And then, of course, Matt, on his favorite ride of all:

the Republican Party booth! Hooray…..!

and then I headed back to the motion sickness booth again. Fucking useless werewolves.

This is when it’s nice to have a warm body to turn to. Someone who will wrap you in their arms and assure you that you’re doing the right things and it’s all going to be right. Or, you know, Matt.

Me[a sniveling, tearful, mascara-covered mess]: I hate everything! This sucks.
Matt: You know, Kim, I just want you to know that no matter what happens you’re beautiful on the outside and that’s all that counts. Now take off your shirt.

—

I’m telling you, if I didn’t have him to help me through last night, I might not be here typing this today. I’m ever the lucky girl!

Not to say they’re all bad and you dread every minute of every day, but mostly?

It’s devastating and exhausting. It’s a constant struggle, day after day, just to keep some sanity. Yours and theirs. Know what it feels like? I’ll tell you, in case you’re not there yet or have never been there or have no intentions of ever going there or whatever. It feels like an epic struggle between good and evil. Seriously. I’m not even exaggerating a little bit.

Look, you’re there with this kid, right? You’ve raised him since he was what? Oh yeah, born. Because he’s yours. From your loins he did spring, etc, etc. Now he’s a teen. He’s at a critical time in his life. Yes, I know. It’s all critical. Cradle to the grave and all that rot. Play Beethoven when they’re in the womb. Baby Einstein videos in the crib. Never too early to start programming teaching those precious jewels! But this is value time. This is the last hurrah. This is when they start stretching those legs, branching out, discovering there’s a whole big world out there with a lot to say and not all of it is in full agreement with what you have said — so, who do you want them to believe? It’s a crucial time. So, so important for so, so many reasons.

Will he heed the lessons you’ve tried to instill in him about the importance of a good education now that he’s too old for you to check his backpack every day when he comes home from school?

Will he have taken anything away from your lessons on the importance of personal cleanliness, organization and responsibility, now that he’s too old for you to bathe, clean his room and pack his lunches, backpack, school supplies?

Will he be a bully? Will he have friends? Will he have girlfriends? This is the boy you’ve been raising all these years, coming to pass. What will you do with him now?

It feels epic.

Better think carefully before you act. If you have the wrong reaction to any of the behaviors of your teen, you risk sending him to the darkside. This could result in a long and arduous path down a grim road to an even darker adult hood.

Do you see where I’m going with this?

What we do NOW impacts what happens later. Of course, yes, what we do always impacts what happens later. In all things. It’s true of parenting from birth on and hell, it’s true for all things. But nowhere is it more evident than when you’re the parent of a teenager. You can feel it in your bones. In every word you say to him there’s an unspoken …what? What is it? Vibe? You could call it a vibe, I guess. There’s this vibe in the air that whispers, ominously, “Life or Death. Success or Failure. His Soul or Mine.”

I can’t help but feel that, in addition to the pressure of whatever drama of the week we’re going through currently, there’s also a battle for his soul happening under the surface that hinges on the outcome of this week’s drama as well as last week’s, next week’s, every week that came before and every week that will ever come again. It’s exhausting!

Ultimately, at the end of the day, all you can do is the best you can do and hope that what you did, what you said, was the right thing to do and say. You do it, you say it and you hope with every part of you that you picked the right door. Still, you might have to endure the shouts and hard stares. Hearing, “I hate you” and “You’re a horrible mother” are no picnic. There’s no guarantee that you won’t have to live through the heart shattering rendition of those songs, even if you do make the right choice, say and do all the right things. Sometimes, making the right and best choice is often met with the most resistance; even from those we love the most. Especially from those we love the most. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t still the right choice.

I wish I could say I met those words with the right reaction. I wish I could say that I didn’t let them hurt me. I didn’t retaliate with guilt or pain. I wish I could say that, but I can’t. Instead I put him to bed, out of my sight and reminded him before bed that he had a bed to sleep in because of his horrible mother. That one’s on me. I’m human, too. My heart bleeds blue.

I should have told him he’s allowed to be angry. I should have made him understand that I understand how it feels to be so pissed off that you want to tell the whole world to fuck off and never fucking look back but life and the whole wide world is still out there regardless and it’s not always nice or fair so you just got to deal and roll with the punches sometimes so that’s what we’re doing. But tomorrow will be better. We always get another chance to start all over tomorrow. And I still love you and it’s all good so goodnight, you demon child from hell.

That’s what I should have said. If I weren’t a horrible mother that he has every right to hate.

Coulda. Woulda. Shoulda. That’s pretty much the mantra of every mother raising a teenager. There are no do-overs. You don’t get to go back and try that one again, coming at it from another angle. There’s only one take. Every time. You better get it right the first time because if you don’t, you’re going to be paying for a long time to come and the really, really unfortunate thing is, you’re not the only one. Not to put any added pressure on you or anything.

11. Hollow out a melon. Make a small hole in the side. Suspend it from the ceiling and swing it from side to side. Now get a bowl of soggy Cheerios and attempt to spoon them into the swaying melon by pretending to be an airplane. Continue until half the Cheerios are gone. Tip the rest into your lap, making sure a lot of it falls on the floor. You are now ready to feed a 12-month-old baby.

brilliant! you can rest assured that the author most certainly has had children. or at the very least a very unhealthy relationship with fruit.

there was a big, open space with cars everywhere and a big screen and a concession stand and the voices came out of our car radio. well, the van radio. we borrowed my parent’s minivan and backed it in. we opened the back door and spread out a sleeping bag, blankets, pillows and snacks and cuddled up to watch the transformers movie and shrek the third. not bad. the boys didn’t have to whisper, which they liked. they were visibly excited about this new way to watch first-run movies and the bugs didn’t come in. it got a little chilly as the night wore on, but only if you got too close to the doorway. overall we were pretty comfy and content.

what i didn’t remember were the teenagers with their loud, annoying cars. the screaming bass that shook the ground and my nerves. the punk-ass nogoodniks who threw empty beer bottles in the road to listen to them shatter. humongous trucks with diesel engines idling during key parts of the movie, horns blaring unnecessarily and lights blinking on and off for no apparent reason.

plus, i don’t remember getting home at three in the morning just from a double feature.

was it always this way? was it that way when i was a teenager going to the drive-in myself? really? was it three in the morning? i don’t remember staying out that late. but it must have been. the movie can’t start until dusk and dusk isn’t until after nine in the summer. so. there you go. probably. plus a few other things. the unmistakable smell of pot wafting through the night air. hot and heavy make out sessions. steamy windows. very little movie watching actually going on.

plus, i don’t recall being charged per person. as i remember, we paid 8$ for a carload, no matter how many bodies we crammed in the car. and brother, let me tell you, we crammed some bodies in the car.

so, i guess not all change is good and not all change is bad and not all change is even change. you’re just looking at it through older, more cynical eyes.

when i was growing up there were always enough bowls of just the right size for whatever it was we needed. popcorn. cereal. ice cream. soup. just the perfect size for that exact amount. today? i scrounge through the cupboards for fifteen minutes before giving up in frustration and eating cereal from a measuring cup. seriously. it happened.

i have plenty of saucers. and coffee cups. all the forks you’ll ever need. only just — not at the same time. when i’ve got all the forks i need i find i’m suddenly short on saucers. when i have plenty of cups i discover there’s a shortage of spoons. i don’t know what happens to them, but if i weren’t dead inside i would wager a guess that there might be gnomes or little pixies under the floorboards, stealing them away.

the other thing she did was, she never made us feel like it was our fault if we weren’t good at something. i feel like the biggest horse’s ass if i have to look at a drawing or a k’nex creation of the boys’. not because they’re not good. most often they are. but i feel like i’m stumblng and bumbling my way through the praise. in my desire to do it right, it seems to require an effort almost greater than i can muster. but not her. i remember how she just flowed through it like a warm knife through butter. it seemed to come so naturally to her, so easily. so genuinely. and we basked in the glow of her approval.

she made it look so easy.

when i thought about growing up and being a mom and having a house all my own, i thought about being able to stay up as late as i wanted, drinking wine and engaging my peers in intellectual debates. i thought about letting my kids have green hair if they wanted. i thought i would be a hip, cool mom and there would be nothing my own mom could pass along to me that would be of any value.

the thing i didn’t realize is that one day i would struggle with bowl sizes and the paralyzing fear that i might be fucking my kids up for eternity. who knew?