Melodramatic Monkey

It arrived without much fanfare - with a flip of her hair and a pop of her hip my Mini-Monkey turned into a Tween.  Musicallys, makeup and everything melodrama.

The first sign was the retreat to her room. Initially to avoid the male monkeys who torture her mercilessly- making fun of everything she dares to do but eventually we stopped seeing her altogether. She emerges only to inquire about food or present the latest video edits upon which she spends all of her time.

She casually requests expensive calligraphy pen purchases and expresses a desire to make "snow cream" with the last of the milk. Disgruntled about being denied she delivers an eye roll so hard my grandchildren will feel it. "Fine," she replies flatly, "I'll be on the trampoline." and she's gone again.

We drive to gymnastics and the silence in the car is deafening. She doesn’t even notice. She is seated inches from me but the space between feels immense. Face buried in her phone, lost in a world of Tik-Toks and texting - I stab at the buttons on the radio randomly to convey my displeasure at the lack of conversation. She is unfazed while I silently stew, anger boiling inside.

Our relationship is complicated. Always has been. Right from birth. She does things on her terms, on her time. She arrived a week early and still begrudges ever being late. I am mid-musing when suddenly she begins to speak.

She talks at great length about her disappointment in her teacher for her abject failure to discipline the rowdy students. She shares her disapproval of the chatty kids in the hallway that make her job as safety patrol So Much Harder. She relates to me on an adult level, teacher to teacher. "Kids these days..." 

My mind races for the right response.  What should I say and how should I say it?  I search for the right words when I realize  that I am simply along for the ride. 

Feedback is not required, not desired. She is not interested in my opinions, simply demands my audience and I oblige. I don't need to and will never really understand this new creature who has taken Mini-Monkey's place I just have to bridge the gap between and hope for the best.

All the while my father’s famous words echo in my head, “You’ll get yours kid, just you wait.”

Damn, did I ever.

Semi-Charmed Kind of Life

It’s 3 am on a Friday morning do you know where your husband Is? I do- mine is on the side of route 83 in a precarious position while a tow truck hauls away the piece of shit that has left him stranded yet again. He dials and by some miracle I feel the silent vibrations and wake to answer his call.

My heart drops as it always does when I hear the phone in the middle of the night
"You gotta come pick me up - my truck died and the trailer (holding thousands of dollars of bread) is dropped and jutting out into the lane of 83 south." One of the most dangerous highways in PA, he begins firing off instructions like bullets from a gun..."you have to bring the red truck," "you will need the pliers to turn the lights on," "the gear shift indicator is broken so you have to count it down from park"...

Still stunned from the first sentence I struggle to fully understand—

And I thought shit in the basement was a big deal.

I am terrified to drive the truck but I sick up my guts and get it done.

The streets are dead quiet at this hour of night save for a random car and tractor trailer or two. Negative thoughts scroll through my brain like the ticker at the bottom of ESPN playing all the old favorites - what if the truck can’t be repaired...what if he gets hit by a tractor trailer on 83... what if....

But I stop myself - I remember my own words and I put anxiety on the bench.  

No better time than the present to start finding the blessings in the mess...

You see we have been blessed with an amazing neighbor who has allowed us to use his old pick up truck to haul the trailer while our truck was in the shop.  This act of kindness enabled my love to run his route and bring home the proverbial bacon. This saintly neighbor said, "keep the keys and use it whenever you need it."  Who does that? This guy. God bless him. God blessed us.

And further favors abound.  

The fact that the breakdown happened in the wee hours meant that my love was safe from the crazy morning rush hour traffic that could have caused a major accident. Blessing 1. 

The fact that the tow driver was kind enough to use his truck to block the lane to keep him safe from the tractor trailers that rounded the bend at 80 miles per hour.  Blessing 2.

The fact that the breakdown occurred 20 minutes from our house instead of an hour.  Blessing 3. 

The fact that I heard my phone in the first place. Blessing 4.

 I could go on and on...

We count these blessings as I drive him home. Trailer in tow. The clock reads 4:15 am He’ll drop me off to our cozy little house with our safely sleeping kids and with a quick kiss he’ll be gone again. Back to deliver the bread and bring home the bacon to our somewhat shitty, superbly blessed, semi-charmed kind of life.

Things could be better but they could surely be worse...

This Old House.

I wonder if I will ever be able to talk about the old house without the catch in my throat.  My feelings are still so raw.

I rarely speak about it for this reason.  I don't even make reference to it.  It's as if we just materialized here from thin air - no background...

But the kids tell their story.  Our old house was huge.  Our old house was awesome.  Our old house had everything.

Our house was amazing.  It was everything I never knew I wanted...I romanticize it now. But it was pretty spectacular.  Things we took for granted...double vanities - two walk in closets - high ceilings and wide doorways - 6 panel doors with knobs that don't stick and it never smelled like old musty nonsense.  The furnace was new and and our house was warm - the fireplace came on with the flip of a switch.  A large open kitchen that felt like home from the first day we walked in.

I can't help but feel like we let them down - like we traded it all away for a fresh start.  Could we have stayed?  Could we have remained buried with bills?  Could we have made it work?

But here we are.  Wedged in a tiny house, bursting at the seams.

I sound bitter.  I feel bitter.  I feel angry.

I used to feel so relieved and authentic but something changed.  Now I am envious of others.  I drive around and stare at giant houses and silently hate even those whom I know are suffering much greater pains than me.  I feel so sorry for myself and I hate myself for it.  I should have control over this but it consumes me.

I say the right things out loud more to convince myself than anyone else.  I talk about how blessed we are for our four healthy children.  And we are blessed.  So very blessed.  But also we are shit on...or shit out of luck...something involving shit - and not the kind where you step in it and come out smelling like a rose.  Just plain old stinky shit.

So at 11:30 PM last night when the sewer drain backed up and we were literally standing in shit I decided now would be a good time for a major attitude adjustment.  My love, unfazed by this latest development shrugged his shoulders and said, "It'll be fine.  It could be worse."

"How could it be worse?"I cried hysterically.   "I'm shop-vac-ing shitty toilet paper off the basement floor.  How could this possibly be worse?!?!"

But somehow he was right.  And there was nothing I that my panic was going to do to make it stop.  So I pulled up my big girl pants and cleaned the mess.  I popped two melatonins, hopped into bed and fell sound asleep.

My house might be shitty but my attitude doesn't have to be. 

Seven Times Four

This baby tooth did not make it under the pillow.  Such is the life of the fourth kid in our family. Too busy running to wrestling practice.  He is unfazed and a beautiful new "pernament" tooth will grow in its place and he'll be no worse for the wear.

"Can I have a Popsicle?" he asks to no one in particular.  And no one answers.  Too busy painting the front door.  So he helps himself.  A short time later he walks by with what is probably his 10th sugary snack.  "Who said you could have that?"  I inquire.  "I asked and nobody said I couldn't have one."  Simple and brilliant. Just like him.   

"Mommy, I know you will probably say no but can I please play X-box."  This is the way he asks all of his questions.  Crafted to prevent disappointment on his part.  Front loaded to maximize the chance I'll say yes out of guilt.

"Mommy, can I go outside and run around?"  The requests are rarely ridiculous.  Most often they involve simple things like appropriately timed meals and opportunities to freely play.  Too often nobody answers.

takka takka ratta-tat-tat takka pew pew pew - soft noises spew from his little bow shaped mouth as his finger guns pick off imaginary foes in the backyard.  He literally runs wind-sprints around the perimeter of the small fenced lot, deeply embedded in his pretend world of army guys and zombies.

His most often asked question lately is "Mommy, do we have wrestling practice?" He asks this with great trepidation and when the answer is yes his eyes fill with fear.  He hates wrestling.  He hates practice.  He is gentle and sweet.  He has no killer instinct on the mat.   No interest in anything more than his imaginary world.

I have made him soft.  My parenting has changed so much since the other Monkey's were seven.  My sharp edges and high expectations have eroded away like rocks pounded by waves.  With his siblings I was demanding in all areas, schools, sports, and acts of service.  For better or for worse.

To fully understand you would have to have known me then.

He goes to wrestling because that is what we do, but he is only expected to show up.  I spend my time there reminding him to breath and calmly talking him off of his anxious ledge.  I do not call out from the sidelines for him to be more offensive, more aggressive.  I simply let him be.

The other Monkey's are appalled.   They tell him stories of their crazy mother ranting on the way home from practices about lost opportunities to improve and the dangers of not giving 100% effort in all things.   He'll never know that woman. 

I look at him and my heart melts.  His giant blue eyes fringed with white blonde lashes stare up at me as he climbs into my lap to snuggle.  I feel how big he is getting, now more than half my length. My baby. 

I could never He goes with the flow better than anyone in our family.  In order to not be forgotten he takes residence in someone's pocket (mostly mine)

Just like this post...his life is segmented, disjointed and chaotic.

Wrap it Up

Wrapped up with a bow.  That's how I like things.  Finished.  but that ain't life...at least not one worth living.

I am stuck again trying to write things that don't connect.  Trying to create something beautiful out of the chaos.  But I fail.  Again and again.  Post after post.

I want to write for eyes that will read much later.  This blog is a trip down memory lane and I'm so thankful for the many posts I have written but there is so much left unsaid.

Mini-Monkey and I sat down and did a little light reading.  She was crying about the fact that I was trying to write about her brother.  The last one, the forgotten son...The one who barely has a blog name...

She was lamenting that "nobody cared about her and nobody loved her and she should just stop existing"...something like that, I wasn't really listening...(JK)

Anyway - I showed her post after post where she was the topic, the center of my world.  She was the point of my whole day.  She read and tears streamed down her face.   I cried watching her cry.  I am crying right now thinking about the magnitude of the moment.  My daughter reading my words written about her.  It was so brief but left a lasting impact.  It inspired me again to write.  And then it was gone.

Suit up, Hope

I haven't written because I have been in the trenches living my life.  Turns out I may have been on the sidelines of a carefully crafted lie.  A beautiful sand castle that was slowly washing away despite our frantic efforts to save it.

Our big beautiful house.  Our seemingly charmed life.  All made of sand.  Falling away.

I am now trapped in the place between owning all that has happened and hiding from it.  On one hand I feel so much pride in knowing how far we have come and the other hand is so ashamed of where we had been.

I haven't posted since we moved and I wonder why. I dream about writing.  I start posts (literally dozens of them) but can't bring myself to publish.  Finally after three solid snow days of musing I think I know why.

I can only write with confidence about the past.  About the has been.  I can only write with confidence about the present, "the now" when I can be certain of the outcome.  I can only write with confidence when I can edit and carve and carefully craft the story I want to tell.  The clean version, the PhotoShopped beauty shot. 

In this new life there is no edited version.  I am certain of nothing.  The unknowns that I kept at a great distance before have found me and overwhelmed me. 

Will he have a job?  Will we get a paycheck?  Will the truck start?  Will we keep the house?  Scary answers to scary questions. 

There was no job for 6 months.  There was no paycheck for much longer.  The truck didn't start and the bills are looming.  Past financial demons still haunt us and the nest egg is dwindled down to nothing. 

He lost his job in May.  We lived on my salary until Thanksgiving when he purchased a new business that did not produce a paycheck until the New Year.  It's been hard.  We are not out of the woods by a long shot.

For me, the fear of the unknown is so much scarier when it catches you off guard.

When the terrifying things that wake you in the middle of the night have already happened, the fall to rock bottom's basement isn't nearly as scary.  This notion is my motivation for keeping all of my worries close at hand.  I lay awake at night and panic silently, running through various scenarios of terror until I succumb to exhaustion and fall into a fitful sleep.

There is no rest for the weary, I understand now.

My love dares to hope.  He dreams and wishes and makes plans for sunnier days.  I lack the ability to join him.  I am tied to fear.

I lay under my 25lb. weighted anxiety blanket and plan for the worst.  He sleeps deeply under lighter covers and dreams of days in Disney World.  I can't join him there.  Hope is scary to me because it lifts you up.  The fall is farther from high up in the dreamers realm.  More dangerous, more frightening. 

If I dare not to worry, if I dare to hope for better days what will happen if they don't come. 

What I am learning is that all the fear and anxiety in the world can't stop the bad stuff from happening.  It happens.  The only thing the fear and anxiety do is rob you of the moments between.

So suit up, Hope.  Anxiety, I'm putting you on the bench. 

(Published, only partially edited.  I pray for limited readership...maybe my mom, sister, an aunt or two, a handful of cousins and me...I pray that I'll read this and be certain that hope wasn't so scary after all.)