I was that mom.

I didn't know what kind of mom I would be.  To be honest, I never had a plan for being a mother.  I never played "mom", I didn't dream about being a mother, I didn't have any desire until the day I found out I was going to be a mother at twenty years old.

So, there I was, alone, very young, in a huge city, baby in belly.  I didn't know how I got to where I was, but I did know that it was going to be hard and I would prevail.  The ultimate love, the unforgiving feeling that you have no control over the most precious being on earth.

You might be surprised at what this post is about.  It is not about how much I love Luke or how powerful our bond was and now, in his twenties, still is.  This post is about what I became when he left my arms from toddlerhood and straight into the waiting arms of his teachers for the next 13 years of his life in the public school system.

First of all, there is this possessive thing that happens when you become a parent.  These kids are created from your blood and bone, they are your DNA, your chromosomes, how could anyone not be completely devoted to their child?

That being said, I first started to see the signs of what was to come when Luke started pre-school at New Day Children's Center.  His teacher pulled me aside when I picked Luke up to tell me that he ran away from the group that day and into the church (which Luke thought was a castle).  I definitely understood why the teachers would have concern, they would have to chase him down and make him stay with the group.  He was a bit of a handful.  These types of interactions between Luke's teachers and I became the norm.  In kindergarten, he would have his card flipped on a daily basis.  First grade, Second grade, Sixth grade, his parent-teacher conferences would be something that I would dread.  I started to get angry.  Why couldn't they handle Luke?  What was it about my kid?  When we were home by ourselves, just him and I, he was perfect.  He behaved perfectly, was focused, helpful, had a huge heart.  I was getting so frustrated with the reports coming from Luke's school, every... single... day.

Now this is where I drop the revelation.  A.) Luke was gifted and bored, B.) Luke was dyslexic and acted out, C.)  Luke's teacher's didn't have enough patience, D.) Luke was bullied, E.) Luke was just being a boy (and boys will be boys right?), F.) Luke was, was, was....

You do realize that all of those revelations are not revelations, I wanted a revelation, I wanted a reason, any reason.  Any reason that would lift me off from this hook that I would dangle from anytime I was interacting with his teachers, reading a referral, getting the notes (written in vain) trying to get me on board.  The truth was... my kid was an asshole.  Seriously though, when my kid went to school, he did not act the way that he acted with me when I was home.  He was a smart ass, disrespectful, little asshole.  The shitty thing about this was, for years and years, I would walk into school to talk with his teachers and I would make excuses for him.  I would cover for him, yell at the teachers, go to the principal, complain about the teachers.  Lunch lady didn't like something Luke said, then she is a bitch.  Bus driver writes Luke a referral, well he is getting kind of old to be handling these kids, isn't he?  When I realized what my kid had become (sometime around the sixth grade), I was beyond horrified to look back and realize that all of those years I was standing in the way of the people who were trying to help my child be a productive member of his classroom, respected among his peers, and also impart to him that his actions had consequences.  Here I am thinking that I am being the best parent to my child when all along I was teaching him to never think he is wrong.  I taught him to victimize himself if he was called out for making poor decisions.

What happened in grade six did you say (or think)?  Well, at this point in my life, I had managed to put myself through school enough to obtain my initial teaching license, and became a teacher in a small k-12 school which I also enrolled Luke in.  I went from seeing my son only at home, to also being in the same building 24-7.  Those pesky teachers became my colleagues, and well, you now know the rest I suppose.  I learned the horrifying truth behind my child's behavior.  He wasn't bullied.  He wasn't dyslexic, gifted, bored,  and he definitely wasn't being a boy.  He was being an asshole and I enabled him.  I might even say that I made it much worse to the point where I could claim that I created this kid's behavior by taking away his consequences.

The next six years were not as easy as they could have been had I not been a wishy-washy mom-friend that I was at the beginning of all of this.  Luke was grounded a lot.  There was no grounding limit.  I recall having a conversation with my father-in-law at one point who told me that it is not abnormal for a kid to be grounded for their entire high school tenure.  "Do what it takes." he said.  Did I get tired of grounding him? yup.  Did it ruin some of the fun things that I wanted to do sometimes? yup.  Being a good parent required sacrifice.

Do I love my Luke more than life?  I do, so much.  I am so proud of Luke and what he has accomplished so far in his young life.  The sky is the limit for this beautiful child of mine.  He is so much like me, still has a great big heart, and is learning about life in leaps and bounds.  I still have to physically stop myself from hovering, even now, but I do and he is killing this whole 'adulting' thing.
Anyway.  I have wanted to write this post for a very long time.  Glad I got it out there.  Every time someone tells me that I did a great job raising Luke, I have to bite my tongue and spit something out like "oh, if you only knew....".

The Moth.

I have been a fan of the Moth Podcast for the past five years or so.  It started when my sister called me one day after listening to an episode of the moth on NPR.  I was an instant fan!  I combed the internet looking for episodes of the Moth to listen to.

Podcasts are great, they are modern day radio shows, all about the audio.  Even better, I have always loved stories and story telling.  In the sixth grade at Wiley Intermediate School (Watertown, NY), I won a trophy and honorable mention for story telling and forgot how much I loved it.  I want to say that there is some potential in me when it comes to being a professional story teller.

To my surprise and pleasure, my son Alex (9 years old), also loves the Moth.  They developed an app that gets updated weekly with new stories, every time that Alex and I go for a drive anywhere in the car, he ALWAYS asks to listen to the Moth.  I am not sure who loves the podcast more, Alex or myself.

One funny thing that happened a few years back one night, while I was making dinner and listening to the moth podcast on my headphones.  Usually, at the end of an episode, they announce that they will be coming to this town or that town in the near future..  Well.. by some crazy happinstance, they announced that they were coming to Clayton, NY!!!  Also, it was that night!!!  In like one hour!!!  I had partaken in a glass of wine (or two) while cooking so I called my friend Brandy and asked her to come get me.  I went online and bought us tickets.  Being the amazing friend that she is, Brandy showed up immediately and we headed over to Clayton to find out that I was off... by a week!  The following week I was there with friends and bells on!  I love the Moth.

This brings me to now, a few weeks back when I knew that I had a commitment in Plattsburgh, NY and also found that the Moth was going to be having a story slam nearby in Burlington, VT.  Always looking for ways to bring pleasure to my beautiful Alex's face, I bought us tickets.  Alex was beside himself with happiness the morning that I told him (the same day that the show was happening), and we just kept getting luckier and luckier as the day went on.  Parking spot right in front of the New Moon Cafe... we were accidentally an hour early... (so we WERE able to eat dinner before).. and then, the producers gave us to reserved seats in the second row!!?  I had some ideas floating around in my head, so, I figure I might go for broke and put my name in the hat.

I have to say this one more time, everything in life is sweeter through my son's eyes.  His excitement and happiness makes everything brighter and so much more beautiful.  Every time someone pulled a name from the hat, he would just... tense up.  There are ten slots for story tellers for the evening and five have told their stories, short intermission, then it is time to announce #6.  The hostess spills my name from her mouth and Alex just bounces up in his chair, you can tell... he cannot wait.  Later on when Alex and I discussed his feelings at this moment, he described it like this "well, I was thinking in my head "oh my god, oh my god, oh my god...." and was very nervous".  I swallowed, stood up, and stepped up to the microphone and this is what came out.... (on a side note, at the end of this recording, listen for the second round of clapping to hear Alex let out a couple of whoops for his mom).

a self reliant idiot.

I have been reflecting on myself and a slight flaw of my character that has been pointed out more than usual lately.  That is... my lack of ability to trust people to do things for me, or on my behalf, or just... delegation in general.

I hate asking anyone to do anything for me.  I pretty much keep finding myself at the door step of a mental breakdown from pure exhaustion rather than ask for help.

I have realized that this is a learned behavior beginning with the first job I was let go of because my son's father did not show up to pick him up and "babysit" him, from my place of employment so I could work that day.  For obvious reasons, I stopped asking him to help me.

I don't like owing people.  I don't like relying on anyone.  I just do not feel comfortable asking anyone to do things a majority of the time.  Most of all, I hate the feelings that I get that make my blood run cold, when on the rare occasion that I ask someone for help, they act put out by it.  Especially when they have found themselves on the receiving end of favors/help that I have offered to give and followed through with on more occasions that can be counted.

I don't really know how to get past this issue, I don't see myself changing.  For some reason, I could allow myself to ask for help and dig deep to find the trust that I won't be turned down or allow what I am asking to fall through, and it would be a success a thousand times.  But then there is the one time that I am let down, I beat myself up over and over for allowing myself to trust that person.

I fancy myself a pretty happy person a majority of the time, wanting to spread the love, spread the peace.  Lately, I have been feeling very let down, by myself and other people.  I hope I can find my way out of this hole sooner rather than later.

the era of judgment.

I come from a lot of things.  I have felt what it is like to be that family with a beautiful home, olympic sized in ground pool, pizza every Friday, and a butt load of presents under the tree.   I have also experienced being the family that uses a cooler as a refrigerator and watching my mother painstakingly sell off our beds to keep food on the table and the power on.  As a child, I felt what my parents wanted me to feel, loved.  I was not embarrassed about our situation, and because of that I think that a lot of people were unaware of how bad it was at times.

When I grew older and learned a few life lessons (good, tough, lessons), I found myself at a crossroads.  I was at a point where I needed to change my life and attempt to maximize my potential as a mother who provided in all ways to my son whom only had me.  I birthed a fully new appreciation for parents who have nothing but can make their children feel like they have everything.  We truly had very little, Luke and I.  We had each other and spent very little time dwelling on what we didn't have.  I never even considered public assistance in any way as a college student.  I literally let the power get shut off.  I did not even know where the office was or how it worked but with a little guidance, figured it out.  I was on assistance for almost the entire time I went to school for my undergrad degree, about six years.  This was from 2001 til 2007.  Right before the age of facebook and social ignorance.

I love facebook for the possibilities that it offers for people who don't have a lot of alternatives for socialization.  I love facebook for globalization, the world marketplace at your fingertips!?   Oh how far have we come?!  At this point, there might be more users that don't know a life without facebook and will never know the struggle!  Or maybe they will never know the feelings of not being judged unceremoniously, countless times, every day.

Maybe, possibly, I am walking around with rose-colored glasses, but, I don't recall ever hearing people in the 70s - 90s walk around openly judging other people if they were paying for food with food stamps.  Furthermore, I would not refer to them as "insert-your-town-name-here's finest".  Do you think they want to be on assistance?  Back then, food stamps were paper!?  Much more noticeable than a small piece of plastic that looks like a quick swiping credit card.  You weren't judged for being on medicaid, it just didn't happen.

People helped each other, it was a community where people cared more.  Now, I cannot scroll through my newsfeed, not one day without someone posting and complaining about how their "hard earned money is going to someone else"... I honestly, just don't get it.  If you are one of these people, someone who hasn't thought long and hard about who is on the receiving end of your post (whether they know it or not),  how would you feel if someone was saying this about your mother?  your daughter?  your grandson??  You can't say that they will never experience hardship in their lives, how would you know for certain?  Anything can happen and god forbid someone treats them or talks about them they way that some people so haphazardly deem themselves worthy enough to trash talk/treat others.  Get off your pedestal and go volunteer.  See what it is like to live the 'easy' life.

peace.  love.  and quit judging people.
 

the oil tank is full.

The oil tank got filled today.  Filled.  It is metaphorical really because the state of the oil tank mirrors the state of my life a lot of the time.  I think about a time where the thermostat was set to 55F because it had to be or else we wouldn't make it through the winter.  Tracy and I rented a farmhouse in Burrville and raised our children in the country like we always wanted to.  In the summer it was peaceful, starry nights, swingsets, big dinners, room to run, pet the cows.  In the winters it was cold and we were reminded that we could be doing better or at least if we could walk around our house without a blanket then we would be doing well.

I did not grow up in poverty.  I grew up more in the realm of latch key, salvation army, stand up for yourself or get walked on, and how to make something out of nothing.

It is funny how certain perspectives take place given some situations.  After having Luke and raising him by myself, we scrapped by most of the time with not a lot.  I was worried that Luke would know how broke we were, it was bad enough that he was a boy with only a mom, but add in poor and I would just feel down right guilty.  This all changed one day when he brought home a boy from school for a sleepover.  He was showing this boy our house and I overheard him saying "yeah, we are rich.".  I did a double take in my head and kept listening, Luke was telling the boy that we had a large house and I made good dinners.  It was the first time I was clued in to what Luke thought about our life and I was kind of shocked.  My view was half empty, his was half full, or, all the way full...

So, fast forward back to now, the oil tank is full.  It is cold out and we are no longer scrapping.  I think Luke still believes we are rich, at least that is what I assume from how many times he asks for money every week.  I am just going to bath myself in the words that bring me great comfort and satisfaction in this life...the oil tank is full.

the stylist.

I used to think that no matter what, there was no such thing as a bad haircut.

I had never seen one, so it just didn't exist.  Remember, this is the 80s and early 90s, so mullets were commonly accepted as a decent (business in the front, party in the rear) haircut.

I had been trying to grow my bangs out forever.  I basically wanted hair that resembled the girl on "Fast Times at Ridgemont High"

For the record, this hairstyle still appeals to me, braid and all.  

So it goes that I am trying to grow my bangs out so my hair is all one length and I share this with my younger sister, Jaime (11 years old at the time).  Jaime confesses that she too, would like to have hair that is all one length.  At this time, she has a longer style hair with bangs that reach the middle of her cheek.  I convince her that if she allows me, I could take matters into my own hands and give her the hairstyle that she desires.

I get the scissors, she sits.  I cut.  I cut more... I cut a lot more.  I do, eventually, create a hair-due that is all one length.  I stop and look at my handy work and cannot prevent my body from reacting with spasms of laughter that cannot be contained.  She hasn't noticed, the spasms are getting stronger...then laughter erupts from my mouth.  Jaime immediately reacts with a look of horror because she knows... I have created a haircut that would be categorized as bad.  I am not sure that I could have made Jaime look anymore unattractive.  

Now, this is where I attach a picture of Jaime from that time, but alas, you will be disappointed.  I am convinced beyond certainty that Jaime and my mother have a pact to destroy all evidence of that time in Jaime's life.  I know, for sure, that there exists somewhere, a school picture with Jaime and...the haircut.  I have searched high and low through my mother's boxes of pictures to no avail.  It is like the holy grail of old pictures.  Let's all say it together..."release the picture.....".

Anywho...Jaime obviously never let me cut her hair again and that was that.

Seasoned Travelers.

Alex and I decided to get out of town today, destination Canada.  Although the plan was to go around 11am, we didn't get out of town till around 2pm (booster seat issues).  One tension bridge and a smooth customs experience and we found ourselves cruising down the Canadian highway.  Kingston, Ontario was the plan.

I love Canada for dumb reasons.  A few being:

• When an ambulance has its lights and sirens on, everyone takes pulling over very seriously, no one seemed to capitalize on the fact that the person in front of them was slow reacting and used that to gain a few car lengths by speeding around them before they decided to resume their journey (which drives me crazy).
• McDonald's happy meals have really cute little tiny yogurts in them.  We discovered this when Alex dipped his hand into his happy meal box and came up with a spoon, to which he proclaimed "uh oh, I think I got the wrong order".
• Can we say no litter?
• In Kingston there are more sailboats in the water than there are cars on the road.  On a beautiful day like today, it is a super duper sight!
• Wolfe Island (which is rather close) has a gazillion windmills, no one seemed to mind what they look like, and there was not one sign that demonized harnessing the wind. (I, personally, love the look of windmills)
• The parking meters didn't seize up when I put American change in them, even better they registered as money and gave us time on the meter.
• Guess what?  My awesome sauce little prius has a button that you can push that changes the speedometer to kph in mere seconds :)

Alex and I had five possible places in mind that we could visit depending on how interesting they looked.  The most interesting (surprisingly to me) was the Canadian Penitentiary Museum.  I could see how this would appeal to Alex.  He loves Army things, guns, bad guys, good guys...the whole idea of being a policeman.  So, after lunch we head to the Canadian Penitentiary Museum.  This place is huge and on the water, there are look out towers at every corner, barbed wired fencing, and free parking (wooot!).  Alex and I are getting excited about how much there could possibly be to explore (I am thinking about all the steps I am going to fit in on my fitbit, he is probably fantasizing about locking his mom in a cell).  We pull in the parking lot and it strikes me how they are going all out to make this look real.  There is a sign that says they can search your car at any given moment...and a sign that says 'authorized personnel only'.  The only thing I cannot find is the freakin' entrance.  Alex and I are walking around the structure looking for an in.  We start trying handles and knockin' on doors, pretty much nothing.  I am kind of getting irritated at the lack of guidance (clearly poor customer service here).  We have one more door to knock on when I nab a grandpa looking passerby to ask for his assistance finding the entrance.  He just looks at me and starts laughing.  He says "Lady...this is a maximum security prison.  The museum is across the street.".  ooooops.

We high tail it back to our vehicle (parked in the prison parking lot), drive across the street to the REAL museum only to find that it closed 45 minutes before.  At this point I say to Alex, "honey, maybe we should head home and come back next week....", his reply was "ooooh mom, I'm not ready to go back to America.".  We drive around a bit more and then head to Gananoque.  In Gananoque, we buy Chinese food and books, by this time Alex was ready to go back to his home land.  We are trying for the Penitentiary Museum next week :)  wish us luck.