Surprise! Suprise!

To my Peanut, my Peet, on her 15^th Birthday:

Sometimes life gives us lemons. Sometimes we were the ones that went and picked them off the tree we weren’t supposed to touch. In either case, the opportunity to make lemonade is there.

I wanted to tell you the story of when I, and subsequently your Dad, found out we were going to have you. You know that we hadn’t planned on having kids, but I wonder if you know how head over heels in love we were with each other? How much time we spent together – laughing and arguing and debating and having fun? We had already decided we were going to spend our lives together before we found out about you. We hadn’t made anything official, and there was no wedding planned, or even an explicit conversation. But we knew.

The day I found out the flu I had was going to last another 8 months I experienced a wild ride of emotions. I told you how I took those pregnancy tests, all by myself at home, and watched incredulously as the two pink lines appeared. Was I scared? Yes. Was I prepared? No. Did I question my ability to be a good parent. Yes? Did I ever, for one single second, think of making a choice other than to have you? No. Not even once. Not a single solitary second did even one single thought go through my mind. I knew that this was a done deal. That I was going to be a Mom. So when I hear you talk about how you were an accident, well I guess that depends on how you define accident.

Accidents are simply an event that you didn’t expect, or plan, to occur. It was no secret. And I didn’t want it to be. I didn’t want to lie to you. To tell you that we were married before you came along, as though it was everything we expected and planned. I could only imagine what the impact on you would be if you had thought that, and found out later that things were different. The thing is, life is filled with accidents; some change your life for the better – like the universe giving you a gift that you never knew you wanted, and, of course, sometimes they aren’t so awesome.

But you, my girl, were the best surprise I’ve ever gotten. Nothing and no one could’ve prepared me for what I was to gain by that “accident” - which, if you don’t mind, I’d like to reclassify in your vocabulary as a surprise. Because that’s really what you were.

And as we've travelled down this path to your adulthood, we have faced challenges. And we will continue to face challenges. (Frankly, life would be pretty boring without its challenges.) But I need you to know this, and I need you to feel it deep in your gut, and I need you to understand that with all my being, with all my words, thoughts and feelings, there has never once, not one single tiny little microsecond, been a time when I have regretted the surprise that I got that day.

I knew from the second that I knew that you were a little tiny living peanut in me that I would somehow figure out to give you everything that I ever wanted; to give you all the support, and love, and caring that you would ever need to be happy and successful in this life.

And then, after four days of trying to get you out here to meet us, you finally joined our family in this world, and it only strengthened my conviction. I knew the second I saw that little bloody body held up over the tarp they draped between my face and my belly that there wouldn’t be ANYTHING that I wouldn’t do for you – to protect you, to keep you healthy, to keep you strong and able, to give you or to want for you.

So please, please understand that there is no word that can describe the love a mother has for their child – no matter the circumstances of how they got there. I love you more than you will ever be able to understand. Until maybe you become a mom yourself.

There is nothing else in the universe like it.

I love you and I can’t wait for our journey ahead.

Go Pick a Switch

I really hate disciplining my kids. I really don't like having to think about what the appropriate discipline is. I don't like to see them cry and be upset. I don't like having to deal with them during their grounded time. And I feel like I end up as much grounded as them, and maybe even more.

Growing up I didn't get disciplined much. But then I didn't really do a whole lot to be disciplined for. I remember my mom threatening sometimes. When I was little that meant pulling the string with the attached ball off of those cheap paddle ball toys. But I don't ever remember being spanked. The most clear recollections I have was when I was a teenager and I would lose phone privileges (that's landline phone, with a cord, for those of you who don't remember...). Oh, and that one time, when I was 11 and I shoplifted something from a store. I was grounded for a year. Yep, you read that right: a YEAR.

Now that I have kids of my own, I have expectations. And I think I clearly communicate those expectations. And I don't think they're unfair. And I do expect that they will be met. My wish, if I got those, would be that I would never have to discipline them at all. That they would understand why I set the expectations that I do, and that they would follow my rules.

Do I think that's realistic? No. But we're talking about wishes here people.

I think one of the parts of trying to create decent human beings that I struggle with the most is the appropriate punishment for the crime. I've known people who have gotten all kinds of different punishments. My dad would tell stories of he and his brothers lying over his parent's bed waiting for the belt. I had a friend that, when his kids would act up, he would recall his own childhood, "Go pick a switch. And it better be a good one or it will be worse," his Momma would say. And then I had friends that could get away with murder, and consequently let their children do the same.

So what punishment do you pick?

When the kids were little, Brandon and I would send them to their rooms so that we could calm down, and collectively decide on a punishment. We were die hard in our efforts to be consistent and to present a united front. Today is no different (well, sometimes we yell. Sometimes, when your kid has made such a stupid mistake that you are completely flabbergasted, you yell. You might yell something at her like, "What the fuck were you thinking!?!?!" And then walk to the other room to cry.) even though we are co-parenting in different households now.

Ultimately, even if there was some yelling, we try to sit down and have an honest dialogue. We try to help the kids see our point of view. To help them understand where we are coming from. Maybe why we were so mad. And we always, always tell them that we love them. And we care about them. And that we worry about them. And we just want the best for them.

Some people might be shocked to have witnessed our most recent conversations regarding discipline. Sitting at the dining room table are me, Brandon, Mike and Lilly. Because we are mature adults. And all of us have a stake in this. And all of us have an interest in seeing the kids succeed.

We turned it over to her. We asked her what she thought we needed to do to help her be successful in making good decisions, and improving her judgement. We brainstormed ideas of goals - each of our goals FOR her, and her goals for herself - over the next three years. We talked about how, if those goals are important, then every decision, no matter how critical or insignificant, should be run through a quick question: does the decision I think I'm going to make get me closer to my goals? If the answer is no, then it's not the right decision.

This isn't a concept reserved exclusively for kids. I don't know many adults that wouldn't benefit from applying this same process to their own lives - mine included.  The point is, discipline for the sake of discipline is rarely effective. I should know. A generous portion of my time is spent with "big" kids, who have found themselves in a situation as a result of poor decision making, where I am battling with their employer over the appropriate level of discipline. The thing is, when you simply punish a person (kid or adult), a smack on the ass or a couple days off work, won't fix the problem. It takes a comprehensive review of the root cause of the poor decision in the first place, and a discussion WITH the person's input, to develop a plan to grow and change so that they don't end up in the same position again.

There is no perfect disciplinary recipe book. If there is, I've never seen it. Like the rest of parenting, we'll just continue to stumble through, screwing them up in our own particular way.

What's in a Song?

Back in October I was listening to one of my favorite Podcasts, The Happiness Project, with Gretchen Rubin. The discussion on this day was picking your “Happiness 911” song. As I sat in the 3 hour commute to work, I listened to Gretchen and her sister, and fans, talk about their go-to song when they need a pick-me-up. A Happiness 911 song is a song that gives a little boost - a jumpstart to a better mood, a swing on the pendulum from negative to positive, a ditty that always brings a smile to your face, no matter the difficulties of the day.

I (illegally) started going through my Spotify saves and creating my Happiness 911 playlist. (It’s a 3 hour commute to go 65 miles – give me a break! I think my speedometer read 3mph!) The discussion resonated with me. Because, while I drive a lot, I usually listen to NPR. Or a podcast. Or I’m on the phone with members. Even when I work from home I often sit in silence all day long. No music, no background noise. I don’t know why. The silence just doesn’t bother me. 

Frankly I’m usually too busy to think about turning some music on. And in the car, which is sometimes the only time in my day I get to enjoy any entertainment, I feel like I should be using my time wisely; I should be listening to something to increases my knowledge base, keeps me up to date with what is going on with the world, etc. But music is inspiring. And can absolutely alter a mood. So I pledged to myself that I would spend the following day listening to the songs I chose to be on my Happiness 911 playlist.

My Happy Songs

And then, the next day, work sucked and I was really upset. Really pissed. Really angry. Really incredulous. And I turned on my Happiness 911 playlist. Except I did NOT want to listen to that. No, I wanted to completely surround myself in that anger – just wallow in it. So I picked a different song. And I rocked the fuck out to it. And then I came across another. And then another.

Finally it occurred to me: while a Happiness 911 playlist is an awesome idea (and I listen to mine often. IT WORKS!) Sometimes, just sometimes, you need angry music. I had an innate NEED to lash out, yell a bit, and get some things off my chest (even if it was just to Siri). Sometimes you’ve got to get the aggression out. And music can do that for you too. So I created a new playlist: “Illegitimi non carborundum.”

This phrase came to me by my mentor, my Mr. Miagi, my Dumbledore. He sent it to me that day (after I was whining at him about my experience). Loosely translated it means, “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.” It was prophetic. And perfectly timed. And I love it so much it will be my next tattoo.

Don't Let the Bastards Grind You Down

The value of that podcast has been immeasurable for me. It reminds me to enjoy myself every now and then. It’s great to learn new things – and to listen to the news – but it is equally important to just emote sometimes. And music is the perfect vessel for that. 

A Letter to a Fellow Mother

To the Mother of the boy who jumped out of my daughter’s window last night:

Last night, I searched the internet looking to find the full name of your son. Lucky for me, I used to skip trace at my previous job, and so did Mike. I happen to know some cops and other people who can get information. So now I know who he is. And I know who you are. (The internet is the damnedest thing. You can find ANYTHING on it…IF you know where to look.)

I wanted to come to your house last night. Not because I think that you knew what your son was up to…No, I wanted to come to your house last night to ask you that you kindly tell your son that he is not welcome at my house. Or my daughter’s dad’s house. Or anywhere near my daughter, regardless of her location.

I was angry. REALLY angry. I considered calling the cops. I even asked some of my friends who are cops if I could have your son arrested for trespassing. In retrospect, that was hasty. And my anger took over my rational thought process. While this may have been your son’s idea (according to my daughter, who is prone to lying and whose credibility and integrity is completely shot), I realize that your son may also just be an immature child struggling with boundaries and the way of the world.

And so I found you, and through the miracle of the internet, I have the opportunity to send you a message. And I was going to...Except I couldn’t figure out what I really wanted to say to you. Because you, like me, probably didn’t have any idea that your son was at my daughter’s house. Because you, like me, probably didn’t have any idea that your son and my daughter had devised this secret plot to “hang out”. Because you undoubtedly didn’t know that my daughter was already grounded for “hanging out” with your son on a clandestine meeting at 1am a month ago.

But I wonder: do you, like me, want to know that this is what your son was doing? Because if the situation were flip-flopped, I WOULD want to know.

So I’m going to tell you what happened:

Yesterday I went to the bus stop to pick my daughter up to take her grocery shopping with me (2:30pm). She refused. She didn't want to come. Weird. Because she ALWAYS wants to come. So I drove her and her brother to their dad's house. I dropped them off and drove two doors down and I got a funny feeling. I even sat there for 10 minutes trying to figure out if I should just make her come with me. I was in a bad mood, and figured that was the reason for the hairs standing up on the back of my neck. So I left and went to the grocery store.

About an hour later (3:30pm) I got a text from my son asking if he could go to his friend's house to stay the night. He's been really good, doing very well in school and I had no reason to say no. I just forgot that he had been the only barrier between Lilly and her being left to her own devices. I said ok, we cleared it with his dad, and his friend's dad came to pick him up. Which, because I wasn't even thinking, left Lilly alone.

When my ex-husband, Brandon, got home yesterday evening (approx 5:30pm) there was a strange car parked just past his house. He went to it. There was a boy inside. He knocked on the window and asked if he could help him. The boy lied, "I'm just waiting here for my mom who's in that house right there." Brandon left it alone but apparently it still had his hairs standing on end because he took a picture of the license plate.

He went inside and was promptly greeted by a cheery and chatty daughter (which was weird in and of itself). Something still seemed off and he went into her room, where the window was wide open. He asked her why the window was open and she lied (it's 25 degrees at this point). He walked away, and was still bothered. He took a flashlight outside and there were footprints in the snow out of her window to where the car had been. BUSTED!

At first, she lied about anyone being there, but finally fessed up. It was your son, the same boy that she snuck out to see a month prior with her friend. The boy that my daughter was no longer allowed to see or talk to had been IN HER DAD'S HOUSE!

She doesn't even know your son. She says she had only met him that one other time. She didn’t even know his last name or really anything about him and now they are exchanging bodily fluids with one another.

So I got a phone call. “Can you come over here RIGHT NOW. I think someone has been in my house (this was before she confessed) and I need you to calm me down and keep me away from our daughter.” So I went over to his house. On a Friday evening. Right when I was making my dinner. When I should’ve been relaxing.

That’s what happened first. Here’s what happened next…

I wanted to find out who you are and where you live and pay you a visit. So that you could potentially help me to keep your son from contacting my daughter ever again. And, in fact, when I thought I found out who you were, we DID drive there to confront your son. But we had the wrong name. And the wrong address.

So I had my daughter call your son. I wanted to ask her to set your son up. To tell him that she had gotten out of the house and to meet her somewhere. But I thought better of that. I had her call him and tell him that we were sitting in a car, in Lake Stevens, and that her parents wanted to know his last name and his address. Because we were on our way to his house.

Like any typical teenager he refused. (To be honest, I probably would have, too.) He said he wasn’t home. He begged us not to go to your house because you were at work and your husband was sleeping and had to get up very early. He again refused to give up the information we were seeking. So Brandon took the phone.

Your son confirmed that the car parked at his house, the car we have a picture of the license plate, was YOUR car. A car registered in YOUR name. Brandon told your son that we will find out the information we want, the easy way or the hard way. At that point your son gave up his last name. But would not divulge your address. (He said he didn’t know it – “it’s on 56th St I think?”) He again begged Brandon not to show up at his house. Armed with your last name, and my connections, I found out who your son was. And I found out who you are.

But I was still angry.

And not thinking rationally.

So I haven’t contacted you. And I don’t know if I will.

Brandon and I did, unconditionally, unwelcome your son from either of our houses. We also asked that he stay as far away from our daughter as possible. I hope that he will heed our warning. Frankly, we’d rather never have to deal with him, or you, ever. We’d like you to be able to live a long, healthy, happy and prosperous life without ever having to meet us; to deal with this shit.

Only time will tell how that will end.

Here’s what I wonder about your son:

(I apologize in advance if I seem crass, or uncaring. I’m still pretty angry. Mostly at my daughter – but anger doesn't often accompany rational thought - so I'm mad at your son too.)

First, how desperate is he? He’s a senior in high school. At a big school. With nearly 2000 students. Roughly half of them are girls. Seems like he’s a loser if he can’t find anyone interested in him there. Why is he interested in my 14-year-old, freshman daughter? I can only think of one reason. I mean she’s pretty, and a pretty dynamic human being, but I doubt that is what has him so captivated.

Second, what gives your son the right to come into someone’s house without permission? This, on top of the fact that he knows that my daughter is grounded, in part, because of him! And, for all he knows, the father of this teen-aged girl is armed and dangerous; a man likely to shoot people he finds sneaking in or out of windows in order to protect his family.

Third, does your son lie like my daughter does? Is he a natural manipulator? Does he know that my daughter battles depression and anxiety? Does he know that she struggles very much with acceptance and craves affection? Does he know that she is very gullible with the prospect that someone “actually likes her”? Because if he knows any of those things, and is still manipulating her into “hanging out” with him, then he’s a total piece of shit. And you should be ashamed. (There’s that crass, unfiltered anger I was talking about.)

In some ways, I hope you see this. It’s embarrassing. To me. To my daughter. To our family. But I wonder if it will help even one person. Perhaps a parent, so that they know they are not alone in feeling like a failure (like I do). Or maybe a kid, who might accidentally bump into this post and have an ah-ha moment of clarity and make some adjustment in their life. Or maybe it will help no one but me – because it is cathartic for me to feel like I got to tell you this, even if it never reaches you. (Which, in other ways, I hope it doesn’t.)

Funny, my friend posted a link to this blog post this morning, and part of it said this:

“I think parenting young children (and old ones, I’ve heard) is a little like climbing Mount Everest. Brave, adventurous souls try it because they’ve heard there’s magic in the climb. They try because they believe that finishing, or even attempting the climb are impressive accomplishments. They try because during the climb, if they allow themselves to pause and lift their eyes and minds from the pain and drudgery, the views are breathtaking. They try because even though it hurts and it’s hard, there are moments that make it worth the hard. These moments are so intense and unique that many people who reach the top start planning, almost immediately, to climb again. Even though any climber will tell you that most of the climb is treacherous, exhausting, killer. That they literally cried most of the way up.

And so I think that if there were people stationed, say, every thirty feet along Mount Everest yelling to the climbers – “ARE YOU ENJOYING YOURSELF!? IF NOT, YOU SHOULD BE! ONE DAY YOU’LL BE SORRY YOU DIDN’T!” TRUST US!! IT’LL BE OVER TOO SOON! CARPE DIEM!” – those well-meaning, nostalgic cheerleaders might be physically thrown from the mountain.” (Click here for the link to the full article)

This couldn’t have come at a more apropos time. As I sit at my computer crying, I think this author nailed it. Right now I’m only half way up the mountain. And I want to quit. I want to be warm and comfortable and not struggling to move forward. But I am not a quitter. And I will not quit the hardest, most challenging job I’ve ever been awarded.

And I don’t expect that you will either. We can’t. It’s built into us as mother's to continue to help our kids be successful, decent human beings. But it’s harder to do that when you don’t know what they’re up to.

THIS is the letter I would send, IF I was going to send it. Would you?

Try, Try Again

The other day my daughter asked me why I don’t blog anymore. I guess it’s because life is so busy. And sometimes even the things we really enjoy can become a chore. I am resistant to tell even myself that I am going to start doing something regularly for fear that I won’t follow through. The impending failure is too much. I have so much self doubt, my ability to cope with failure is all taken up by my job. I don’t have room to disappoint myself too.

I enjoy writing; I always have. I’ve always wanted to write a book. I still have a promise lingering out there in the universe to my 9th grade English teacher, Mr. Hamel, to dedicate my first book to him. But I write a lot for work – nothing therapeutic or funny (ok, maybe sometimes my sarcastic brand of humor works its way in), or in any way documents my life experiences, but the need to put words on a page is fulfilled.

 I didn’t really ask Lil about why she was asking; I seem to recall we were laughing at something that her brother said. I suppose it’s because even though she finds it embarrassing at times, she likes that I write about her and her brother. When she was younger I wouldn’t let her read what I wrote. It wasn’t for them. It was for me, and for those of my friends who felt like connecting with me, sharing in my joys, and in my frustrations. Now, I would let her read it, but she’s no longer got any access to the internet (that’s a story for another day). Reading back on a few of the posts, I’m glad I wrote them. They provide a memory, more accurately told because of the timeliness of capturing the moment. When that moment may otherwise fade – the details evaporating as new memories fill their space – it’s here in black and white to look back at and laugh about.

 Now I’m encouraging her to write her own blog. I don’t have any expectation that she will become the next blogger phenom. Like me, English and writing come naturally to her. Written words on the page help her to clear her head, organize her thoughts, and express her feelings in a way that she can’t express otherwise. Her unique perspective could also help others (something I hope for in my musings here).

 With 2 other bloggers in the house, I want to renew my intention to capture moments in writing. I’m not a resolution kind of girl. But I do reflect – on what I’ve accomplished, where I could’ve done better, on the goals I have, and on how I wish to spend my time. Intention in my line of work means everything. And while the road to hell may be paved with them, I’m headed there anyway so why not intend to write again?