I wish he could see what I see when I look at him. His vision is much different from mine and sadly, not at all accurate.  This is how he used to look:

He looks up at the camera as he’s speaking and then he realizes he’s being filmed. His face lights up and he smiles big. He says, “Now I just need to do the eyes.”

The smile. Oh, God, help me. The smile.

Then he looks down at his palette and says, “But I have no idea what color to paint them.” He says this and his brow furrows and he seems so serious and eager. Like he has a real pickle on his hands. Then, he takes a step back and says, “Mommy, should I do the eyes orange?” and points at the eyes. He’s bouncing back and forth on his feet. He’s got a slight baby quality to his voice still. Orange comes out “or-yinge.”

Plus, he called me “mommy” — did you catch that?

I did.

I can give you the play by play because I’ve memorized it. Its image is seared into my brain. Forever and ever, Amen.

The video came from an old hard drive I had given up on. Matt managed to pull the files off through some sort of magic trickery and deals with the devil. It’s not that I’m not grateful. Eternally so. But seeing all those pictures and videos has finally done my head in. I’ve watched that particular video so many times I see it in my sleep.

All that gorgeous hair is gone now, by the way. He’s been growing it for almost four years now. I loved it. I thought it was beautiful and it just fit him. I got so used to seeing it. It seems like it was always there. Unless I watch that video.

But it had to go.

He started growing it on a lark. He just decided one day he was going to grow it out. Then, after it got to a pretty decent length he heard about the children’s charity called “Locks of Love.” He chose to keep growing and then donate his hair. I thought it was a nice thing for a kid to do. He never fails to surprise or impress me.

So, today he paid the piper. He had been saying all along he was going to cut it on his 15th birthday. At first I thought he wouldn’t make it that long. I thought it would drive him crazy and he would get tired of being teased by the ignorant redneck hicks in this small farming community. I thought it would get old, being confused for a girl by waitstaff and kindly old people. I thought he would get tired of washing it and combing it out and taking care of it. But he kept with it. He smiled politely and waved it off. He held in there a lot longer than I would have been able to.

Then, he liked it. It was unique. It brought attention, sometimes negative, sometimes positive. Then he bristled whenever I mentioned cutting it.

At first I didn’t like it either. It was troublesome and annoying. He wouldn’t take care of it sometimes and it would just be a tangled rat’s nest that I would have to spend hours combing out. I was forever pushing it out of his eyes. It was hot. It was a pain in the summer. I almost hated it.

And then over time it grew on me, so to speak. I was afraid he wouldn’t want to cut it when the time came, but I think I was more afraid that he would. I cried all week. I started dropping little hints and then I started dropping big hints and finally, out of desperation, I came right out and begged him not to cut it.

Lord, I have no shame. I’m so sorry.

But he stood his ground. He intended to do it and do it he would. On his fifteenth birthday, just like he said he would.

I’m glad he did. He looks handsome as ever and about 20 years older. Ugh. That’s what got to me. His age really started showing when all that hair he was hiding under disappeared. It makes it hard to pretend he’s still my baby. You know what I mean?

Anyway, we both survived it, though I had to leave the room more than once. The girls in the salon ooh’d and ahhh’d and he had them eating out of the palm of his hands. To me, they kept “awwwing” and “poor mom” and I wanted to beat them all to death with an oversized can of hairspray.

I’m still afraid for him. I’m afraid he’s going to have trouble at school. Not because he doesn’t look good, but because he doesn’t think he looks good and those creeps feed on that shit. Sad, but true. I’m afraid people won’t look at him and think about this incredible thing he did for another human being who he will never even likely meet. He’ll never get a personal thank you from the person whose life he selflessly touched. I’m afraid they’ll cheapen it and take away, a little at a time, all the sweet things about my son that make him my son. I’m afraid he’ll have regrets. I don’t want him to have regret because he did this thing. This thing he did is not something to regret.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he’ll be left alone. Maybe they will either say nothing or only good things. It could happen. And even if he does get some grief, I think he’ll be okay. He’s been teased and tormented for the past four years and he’s taken it all in stride. Many times he could have lessened the degree of the torment, were he to toot his own horn. But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t go around telling people what he was doing and was forever embarrassed when people found out. He didn’t want any recognition. He just wanted to be left alone to do this thing he wanted to do for somebody. One of the many times he was called a “faggot”  by some knuckle dragging byproduct he could have defended his actions and turned the ridicule their way. But he didn’t. He just let it be and bided his time. So, no, I don’t think it will kill him if he isn’t met with open arms upon his return to school tomorrow.

And that’s why that video makes me want to scream and go right on screaming until I have to shove my fist in my throat to keep from coming apart at the hinges. It is because that video and today are stark reminders of where we’ve been and where we are going.  It is because time is slipping away and moments like the one in that video and the one today…they’re never coming again. They’re gone and I want them back. It is because I see it in the maturity he displays when dealing with adversity. I see it in the jawline and the eyes. It is because I hear it in his voice. It is because Time is marching on and it has swept my boys up with it as it goes. I fear I am being left behind. He can and will make his own decisions and all I can do is sit back, watch, and hope for the best. It is because he will never call me “mommy” again. He will never ask me what color the eyes should be.

It is because my boys are growing up and I have to deal with it.

God help me, I’m tryin’.

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

-  Mary Oliver

I sat on the back porch in a lawn chair and breathed deep the air while the rain fell all around me. The porch is covered. Lest you think I’m weird. Well, okay, I am a little weird. But not weird enough to sit in a lawn chair under the open sky in a thunderstorm.

It reminded me of home. The storm, not the chair.  Not home like where I live, but home where I come from. South Carolina home. The one and only home I’ll ever call home, no matter where I live.

First, it gets hot. So bloody hot. Lord have mercy, it was hot. The air gets so thick and heavy, it’s like being swaddled in a wet, heated blanket from head to toe and try as you might, you just can’t unravel yourself from it. It’s useless to even try. Making the attempt only serves to make you hotter.  The atmosphere has a pregnant quality to it. It’s uncomfortably thick and miserable and it’s going to burst any minute now. You can feel it. People actually look up at the sky in quiet expectation, waiting for it to drop whatever it is it’s carrying that’s making it so hot and angry. It’s a vengeful kind of hot.

That might go on for day, maybe two or three days. It might only last a few hours. It’s always just long enough that people start losing their minds a little. They cast about in the heat, bumping into one another and grumbling about how it’s too damn hot and get out from in front of the air conditioner so everyone can feel it, damn it. Only in the Pacific Northwest nobody has air conditioners. It rarely gets hot enough here to justify the expense carbon footprint.

Then comes the thunder and lightening. Yesterday’s thunder was particularly enjoyable and not just because we don’t get it that often. It was loud, angry thunder. It was a prolonged, grumbling thunder. I was taking a nap late in the afternoon, above the covers, trying to sleep through the heat. It’s unusual for me to nap. I try often, but rarely ever succeed. I’ve been sick though and stressed and not sleeping very well at night and then here is this damn, insufferable heat. It all caught up with me at once and I crashed beneath the sheet, deep in fitful sleep. The fan was in the window right beside my bed. There was precious little air being pulled through it. I tossed and turned. I think I was dreaming I was in Hell.

There was a crack so loud it sounded like a gun going off right next to my head. I know guns. This sounded like a gun. I sat straight up in bed, swung my legs over the bed and peered out the window, past the blades of the fan and up into the sky. It looked pissed. It was dark and still sunny at the same time. There was an epic battle going on overhead. Good vs. Evil. Sun vs. Rain. Light vs. Dark.

I sat there a few minutes more and counted off three more resounding cracks across the sky, coupled with brilliant flashes of light. By the time I padded down the hall into the living room the sky had opened up and rain was pouring. The wind was blowing fiercely in a million different directions at once. That baby was done stewing and had finally decided to drop.  I scurried around the house removing fans and closing windows and then ran to sit on the back porch — the better to enjoy the show.

The Native Americans associate thunderstorms with the Thunderbirds, servants of the Great Spirit. The Romans thought they were planetary battles  — wars waged by Jupiter who would toss lightening bolts around like confetti. There is a Nordic tale called “The Theft of Freyia’s Necklace” in which a thunderstorm becomes a contest between Fire and Water. Freyia becomes the sun, her necklace a rainbow. And of course there is Thor. And Zeus. Stories abound. Thunderstorms fascinate and spark the imagination. They terrify and lend themselves to speculation, fables, myth, legend.

For me, it was bliss. Pure bliss. It was like a fever breaking and all the relief just poured out across the land. It was like a damn bursting and the water just washed everything squeaky clean.

It was like being home again.

The problem is that I think I may have outgrown this. But I’m not sure. It could be that I’m just going through a phase. It could be that I will find the interest in it again. It could be that I just need an extended break.  Or, it could be that I actually have outgrown it. Perhaps the magic of self delusion has been the only thing keeping it going for so long. Maybe I’m just too lazy to give it up. Not doing anything about it, just letting it sit here unattended, that’s easier than thinking about it. Making a decision. Doing something.

I don’t know. I think about not renewing the site and it kills me. I don’t want to think about someone else getting my domain name. I don’t want to watch all those years of posts and pictures and comments to just disappear as if they were never even here. I don’t want to think about all the work — all those hours and hours spent tweaking the look just so. All that time adding features I want and removing stuff that didn’t fit. The phases. The fads. I don’t want to think about it all going away forever. It’s like losing a friend. That’s a hard pill to swallow.

I’ve never done this for the page views or the comments. Those are nice, of course. But if I’m honest about it, I would have to admit that comments and and page views also made me a little nervous. I liked getting comments from my friends, the people I know and love. But that was it. I would frankly freak out when someone new came here and commented. It felt like pressure then. Like I had to perform. Like work.  Be witty. Be interesting. Say something worth saying.

Thing is, I don’t want to say something other people think is worth saying. I want to say what’s in my head. I want to say what I feel like saying. And sometimes those things just aren’t witty. Or interesting. They’re just things in my head and they are looking for a place to come out. This was it. This was that place.  So when strangers stopped by I would censor myself and rein it in, afraid of their judgment. Who wants to write under those circumstances?

So I was okay without the crowds. I just don’t know if I’m okay with it all disappearing for good though. I don’t know if I can do that. I think I’ll percolate on it for a while. I’ll just leave it alone. For now. We’ll see where we go from here.

That was it. Just that one, lonely, solitary little thought. It was gone as quickly as it came, but the memory of it lingered on. It knocked around in my head like a ghost haunting my thoughts. It bothered me. Instead of filling me with the logical warmth and happy remembrance, it brought me low. Not because it wasn’t a happy moment.

It was.

There were so many.

There will be many more. But it’s not the same. That moment, that one, unique moment is now gone. It will never come again. I will never again see my boy that way. Only in my head. Only in my memories.

Did I appreciate it when I had it, that moment? I hope I did. I hope I smiled and cherished it. I hope I gave him as many good memories. I hope I was really in the moment, at that moment. I hope I was feeling it, instead of just witnessing it. But now it’s gone. Just another moment of millions of other moments that passed by too soon. I can’t ever have it back. I can’t pay enough money. I can’t beg enough. I’m helpless against the passage of time and nothing I do will change the fact that that moment will  never be again. It’s gone. Do you hear me? Gone.

It made my eyes leak a little. I’m not going to lie.

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.

If you doubt me, just go to your local airport, hop on a plane and go somewhere. Anywhere. The destination isn’t the point. It’s getting there. It used to be half the fun. Remember that?

Oh boy, I do. Seriously. I remember long road trips and sticky car seats. I remember no air conditioning. I remember resting my head on the open window, the air rushing through my hair. The heat of the sun beating down on my forehead. I remember watching the world rush past my eyes. Trees and cars. Mountains and rivers. Cheap and tacky tourist traps. Beautiful spectacles of nature. I remember the thrill of a flight. The romantic notions I had. The exotic feel of it all. The luxury! I remember feeling so privileged. I remember reading books and stretching the limits of my imagination inventing new license plate games. I remember actual conversations with my family. Discussions. Debates. Arguments. Jokes. Silent Treatments — without the aid of a game boy or an iPod.

And that’s the thing. I saw this comedy thing with Bill Maher. He made some joke about minivans now, how they all come with a dvd player standard in the headrests of the front seats. His punchline was something like, “Because, I shouldn’t have to be forced to talk to YOU, dad.” and isn’t that just a little bit like the truth? Not that we’re so innocent. Dad could spend a little less time on his cell phone and a little more time talking to Junior. But who am I to preach?

There’s all this stuff, it insulates us. It keeps us separate from everyone else. What do we care that what we say or what we do that might be rude or even downright hurtful to someone else? How does that negatively impact us?If the answer is not at all, then what are you all up in our grill for? This is me having a stern argument with myself. I don’t expect it to make any sense to you.

The point is this, I went to Santa Fe this weekend. It’s nice and all, but I expected it to be….uh, I don’t know. Nicer? It was sort of a bleak place is all. There was this weird division of classes there. There was outer Santa Fe which was pretty rundown and ugly. There were a LOT of homeless people and just a very general air of desperation.

By the time we got to our hotel however, the scenery had changed. The buildings were nicer and the streets were clean. I saw only a couple homeless people and instead there were throngs of disgusting rich old fucks walking around in their stupid hippie outfits. They wore their turquoise jewelry and over-tan skin and shopped in the trendy art boutiques to support the “local” heritage. Holy hell, I’m telling you. You could choke on the hypocrisy in this place.

It was like this place, the part of Santa Fe they call the “Historic District”, was this capitol of a poor, third world country and they were the benevolent (yet secretly evil and exploitive) dictators to the poor masses who resided beyond its walls. Beyond its walls being the rest of Santa Fe, of course.

So take that for what it’s worth. But Santa Fe isn’t the point either.

Look, I realize this post is already three days long, but whose session is this? Yours or mine?

The point is, I went to Santa Fe and I had to travel by plane to get there. As I have well learned, travel by plane should be avoided at all costs. Let me just sum up for you how horrible an experience this one turned out to be:

1.) Up at 5 a.m. to catch first leg of flight. Out the door. Everything is going fine.

2.) Horrible rain.

3.) Horrible traffic.

4.) Construction.

5.) Am now worrying about missing my flight.

6.) Finally arrive at airport.

7.) Construction at airport.

8.) Short line at ticket counter. (very rude agent)

9.) Long line through security. (very rude agents. plural.)

10.) Finally make it to gate.

11.) Flight is delayed due to heavy winds.

12.) Flight is still delayed. I am now worried about connections.

13.) Flight arrives, we pile in.

14.) HORRIBLE turbulence.

15.) Pilot tries to land, but can’t. HORRIBLE turbulence.

16.) Pilot tries again to land, but can’t. HORRIBLE turbulence.

17.) Pilot tries a third time to land, but can’t. HORRIBLE turbulence.

18.) Pilot announces after flying around in the air in the HORRIBLE turbulence for twenty minutes that he will have to contact air traffic control for alternate flight path as this one has some HORRIBLE turbulence.

19.) Fly around another twenty minutes until Pilot announces that he has to fly around the airport again and then we can land. Am now DEFINITELY concerned about connections.

20.) We finally land, but I come shockingly close to losing my lunch from the last 3 weeks.

21.) We rush off the plane but some freaked out woman goes rushing out to the terminal and trips an alarm. The door closes shut and we are now locked in the long walkway from the plane to the terminal. Whatever that thing is called.

22.) I don’t want to name any airline names so I’ll just say a Schmelta Airlines Agent OPENS THE DOOR to tell us that she’s getting someone who can COME OPEN THE DOOR. Seriously. Then she closed the door again and left us standing in there. Good old Schmelta Airlines. They LOVE to fly. And it shows!

23.) I run at breakneck speeds to catch my plane. They are holding the plane for me. Thank god.
24.) Okay they weren’t actually holding the plane for me. They can’t take off because of the wind.

25.) I sit on the plane for 35 minutes with no explanation or announcement.

26.) Someone finally complains.

27.) We get an announcement.

28.) They announce that it’s windy.

29.) We leave nearly an hour late.

30.) We make up time because of the tailwinds.

31.) I arrive in New Mexico and I turn on my cell phone. It rings.

32.) It’s Matt telling me the house we really,really,really,really wanted was sold. To someone else. Not us. We weren’t the ones who would be living in it.

33.) I said some very un-christian things in a very loud volume in a very crowded place.

34.) I cried for five minutes at the baggage claim.

the weekend happened.

35.) Back at the airport there was a lady in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank. I watched an agent wheel her to my gate.

36.) And leave her there.

37.) The plane was boarding and no one helped her.

38.) No one.

39.) She tried pushing the wheelchair and the oxygen tank.

40.) I grabbed my bags and put her tank in her lap and pushed her to the agent at the front desk. She looked perturbed when I insisted on her attention.

41.) The flight was long and boring.

42.) I was all the way at the back and I waited until the plane was almost empty to get off. I was too tired to fight a crowd.

43.) The 91 year old oxygen tank lady was back there too.

44.) They effing FORGOT HER. AGAIN.

45.) I asked her if someone was coming for her. She was scared.

46.) I went up front and got an attendant.

47.) They came rushing back and I went to get my stuff.

48) They pushed me out of the way. I forgot my ipod on the seat.

49.) I didn’t discover this until the next flight. Asked the flight attendant about it. She said, “Oh yeah. If they find it they’ll turn it over.”

50.) The guy next to me laughed and remarked that I would never see it again. He looked at me as though I were crazy. I asked him if he thought I should have just left her there. His response to me was, “They would have found her eventually.”

Eventually? Like when? When they were sweeping up napkins and tossing the half-read issue of USA Today left in the seatback? SHE’S A PERSON. Not leftover refuse.

51.) When we landed I had to fill out a lost item report. If I understand this correctly, I’m supposed to trust that Schmelta Airlines will return to me the iPod if they find it — but they couldn’t even keep track of a living, breathing person?

52.) When I got my bag and headed home I couldn’t find my parking ticket.

53.) When you can’t find your parking ticket, you don’t leave the garage. Unless you pay them an amount equal to one year’s salary.

54.) Although it was now well after midnight at the end of the best weekend of my life and I had been looking for a half hour, I still can’t find the ticket.

55.) I found the ticket.

56.) I paid the ticket, left the airport and drove home in the rain to fall into bed exhausted just after 2 a.m.

I wish I could say this is an anamoly. I wish I could say nothing like that has every happened to me before. But sadly, this is becoming more and more common in all my travels. What the hell ever happened to that half of the fun? Who took it, what did they do with it and what do we have to do to get it back? Come on, cut me some slack here. Enough is enough.

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?

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?

i had those things stuck on every available surface and some surfaces that weren’t really available but i made it work anyway. don’t pretend you didn’t smell them every chance you got, even skunk, because you were just curious. don’t pretend! why don’t they make these things anymore? why don’t they make anything sweet and wholesome and fun for the sake of fun and so what if it might give you cancer of the nose, it’s fun right now? it all has to plug in to count as fun now. boo! BOO!