Oh, My!

So earlier this week I was reading through all the blogs I love to read and one of them stopped me in my tracks. Well, I was sitting at the computer, so technically I guess my tracks had stopped sometime before, but you know what I mean.

Glass-Eyed Grady’s posted a humorous story about a run-in with a future juvenile delinquent and it immediately brought to mind my own brief but memorable stay at Juvenile Hall. I know, I know, you are thinking, “What? But you sound so normal. So respectable even!” But yes! I spent half a night and a day in Juvie. In Downtown Dallas. It was so not fun.

I was 14 or so and had run away from home for the umpteenth time and had been gone for about four days. I was planning on catching a ride to California with these two guys I had just met when the police found me sleeping in a car and decided that California might not be such a great idea. But when they called my mom, guess what? She said that life was actually a whole lot easier without me around causing trouble and she did not, under any circumstances, want me to come home. Believe me, I was Trouble (That’s Trouble with a capital T – that’s me!).

I wasn’t always trouble. I was a quiet, shy, book-ish girl for most of my youth. You know the kind – honors classes, gifted program, no time for boys, etc… In other words, kind of boring. But then High School happened. I started getting mad crushes on boys with pink hair and tattoos and piercings. I hung out in the smoking area and started using curse words with emphasis. This is me at the beginning of 9th grade:

Shortly after this picture was taken, I decided to shave my head Cyndi Lauper style and consequently got kicked off the Pep Squad. Which was fine with me because who wants to be popular and cute and peppy anyway?

Then I started skipping classes and when I got detention, I skipped those too. I started putting vodka in a thermos and drinking it on the way to school. I flunked out of all those honors classes. In fact, I flunked 9th grade. At first I figured that was just fine since I started Kindergarten at age four. Just doin’ my part to even it all out. But then half-way through 10th grade I just gave up altogether and quit school.

I had turned into one of those lost kids and I felt like no one in the whole wide world could possibly understand what it was like to be me. So I ran away. Frequently. And, eventually, off to juvenile hall I went.

It was about three in the morning when the police dropped me off at Juvie - gray, cold, and institutional in every sense. By the time I was stripped searched (my stomach still turns at this memory), checked for lice, showered, and given too small clothes to change into, it was almost five in the morning. The attendant/warden walked me into a room lined on both sides with small beds. I found an empty one near the door. I was terrified, but exhaustion won out and I fell immediately to sleep. But guess what? Wake up call was at six freaking thirty – and trust me, they don’t believe in a snooze button.

This is when panic started setting in. Those girls in there were a whole different kind of tough. There were girls in there accused of murder. Kids that had done some seriously bad things. I realized just what a complete pansy I was when one of the girls, a very large Hispanic girl that looked like she could squash me like a bug, hit me with a volleyball in the gym – on purpose! - and then dared me to tell on her. It was at this point when I started begging to go home. By the end of the day my mother had made arrangements to have me released and sent to a special home for troubled kids. A few weeks after that she let me come home.

I wish I could say that the experience turned me around and I became a model teenager again. But hey, this ain’t Disney – right? I quit running away when my mom stopped giving me curfews and then I started going out with people that looked like this:

Yes, that is an actual picture of an actual boyfriend of mine. Just the kind of guy your parents want to see you date. Right? And I started hanging out in crowded smoky night clubs, empty alleys, and the dark streets of Deep Ellum. For those of you not familiar with the Deep Ellum part of downtown Dallas, in the late 80’s in was where the freaks came out at night. I fit right in.

Check out my spider web pantyhose:

Somewhere around age 19 or 20, I started getting my act together. I don’t know if all of my rage and confusion finally just burned itself out or what, but I decided to set a new goal – to be as NORMAL as possible. Really. I set my eyes on having a real grown-up life with a smart, sweet husband, darling children, a dog, and a white picket fence.

Here is me at age 20:

Pretty darn cute, huh?

It took a while, and I had to get my heart broken almost to the point of no repair, but finally finally finally I started making my way down a better path. And so far, I think I am doing pretty damn great. My “normal” checklist is almost complete:

4GED – check
4College degree – double check
4Married to the most incredible guy in the whole entire world AND who comes from a completely non-dysfunctional family – big giant check
4 A super smart and sweet son and a delightful drama queen daughter – check
4White picket fence – check
4Shiny new SUV – check
4A small, but oh so cute dog that only chews up stuffed animals occasionally - check
4A beach house where I can write away the hours while the surf crashes against the rocks and the warm breeze washes my tanned face – um, not yet. I guess I still have some work to do. ;-)

So, Melissa, there may be hope for that 10 year-old boy threatening to beat a grown man’s ass. Or maybe not. But the next time you meet a fellow mom that seems to have attained that perfect life, remember the other side of the coin – the path to “normal” is not always a straight one. Mine was filled with deep valleys, swamp pits, scary monsters, and long uphill battles.

But it is mine.

[Note: My husband was absolutely against me posting this particular blog. He said something about it falling under the category of way too much information. And then he said something about me still being a little bit of a freak. And then something about the PTA revoking my membership. hmmm....]

Just a Couple of Quickies...

I thought I should probably come up with some very good reason for not posting in a while, but, um, I'm drawing a blank. Franky, I have just been on the lazy side of life. Oh well. It happens.



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Driving back from lunch this past weekend, my husband and I were having a conversation about various errands we needed to run. The kids were in the back seat (not arguing with each other for once) and really, I thought that they both might take a quick snooze. But Sabrina (6), who always needs to be a part of our every conversation, piped in with, "Huh? What are ya'll talking about? What do you need to do to the car? Or is this one of those A B conversations and I need to C my way out?" My husband responded (with only a trace of aggravation I thought), "Nothing you need to worry about - just grown up stuff."



A good four seconds of silence.



"Mom? What does 'a**hole' mean?"



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Remember that post I did about the ever-growing mountain of laundry at my house? No? Okay then - click here.

Well, last week the Town of Framingham confirmed my gripe about doing too much laundry. They actually sent me a very official letter saying that I needed to take a break, kick my feet up, and read a good book.

Well...

Actually they sent me a letter saying that our water consumption has sky rocketed these past few months and we should check for water leaks and running toilets. Oh, and to expect a much higher bill. No water leaks or cranky toilets here, so I can only assume it is the laundry. So, yeah, I'm parking my butt on the couch for a while. And just in case anyone complains about not having clean socks, I've placed that thoughtful letter from the Town right on top of the washing machine as a gentle reminder that we all need to do our part to conserve and preserve (my sanity, that is).

Piano Problems

This post is pure venting for me, because, see, I am in something of a dilemma. I am one of those people that absolutely hates to be the bad guy. And last night, I had to be the bad guy. I had to let Dalton’s piano teacher know that after the end of this month, we would not be continuing lessons with her. Ugh. It was terrible.

The Christmas night when Dalton was 4, he told me through deep, heavy sobs that Santa did not bring him the one thing he really wanted more than anything, more than chocolate, and more than a new bike – he had asked Santa for a piano. This was certainly news to me, and it sure would have been nice if Santa had shared Dalton’s secret wish with me – so that, you know, we could make room for something like a piano. I should say right here and now that I am not anywhere close to being musically inclined. In all my fantasies about who and what my children would grow up to be, a pianist was never in there. Rocket scientist – yes. Peace Corps volunteer – you betcha. Soap opera star – why not? But musical genius – nope, had not occurred to me.

Well, as luck would have it, my father had a piano gathering dust at his house and he gave it to us. The only string attached was that we put Dalton in lessons – the piano was not to be used as a toy. We quickly found out that it can be difficult to find a teacher willing to give lessons to a four year old. But finally, finally, finally we found an absolute angel of a teacher. She was kind, encouraging, compassionate, flexible, and perfect in every way. She told my son that his music was his special gift from God, and he believed her with every ounce of his being. It was a really wonderful three year relationship.

Here is Dalton at his recital last year (age 7). I realize he completely chokes towards the end. He told me later that he all the sudden remembered where he was and he got freaked out.

But then. We moved. To Massachusetts. In September. And there was this mad dash to find a school, find a piano teacher, find the grocery store, find my sanity (this one is still on the “to-do” list - maybe it’s packed in that small purple box that I shoved into the back corner of the attic). As soon as we got here, I typed in “Piano Framingham” into Google and started making phone calls.

Well, the teacher we ended up with seems sincere and dedicated to her craft. She has lots of experience. But after that first lesson? I walked into the studio and Dalton’s cheeks were flushed the color of ripe strawberries. His eyes were just on the brink of dripping. I stood there and listened while the teacher told me how terrible he was! That there was soooo much work to do. His finger position was lazy. The staccato notes needed more sharpness. He is too used to playing from memory instead of reading the music. On and on. I could tell that Dalton felt that his special gift from God had somehow abandoned him. He was devastated and in the car ride home, he quietly said he wanted to quit. But I talked him into giving it more time.

And so we have given it more time. And it did get better. The teacher started commenting on how much improvement she has seen in such a short time. But guys. He has gone from practicing every chance he finds, to practicing maybe two nights a week. And that is only with the promise of 10 M&Ms for every 30 minutes.

So last night, I told the teacher we had made the decision to retreat. My plan is to find music he enjoys playing (think Taylor Swift, the Eagles) and try to teach him here at home as best I can until we find another teacher. I just can’t stand watching his love for music fade away. But did I do the right thing? Should I make him tough it out? Should learning the form and function of music count more than the passion for it? I am so afraid that what I do here will be inadequate or just wrong. The teacher made her opinion clear – that I am doing the absolute wrong thing by pulling him out. And she is the professional – right?

It feels as though our family mantra has gone from “Live, Laugh, Love” to “Change is Hard” and there is something so defeating in that for me.

Education is Everywhere

Do you remember sleep-overs? I used to love spending the night at a friend's house. For all of my middle-school years, I was at Christy's house at least one weekend night every single week (well, except for the weekends I went to see my father, and that in itself was a whole different kind of adventure). But I loved staying at Christy's house because 1) she had cable - including HBO, 2) she knew how to make macaroni and cheese all by herself and it was so much better than the crap at my house, and 3) we were allowed to stay up as late as we wanted, and then, we could sleep in as late as we wanted too. I believed all the way to my core that Christy had the coolest parents ever.

So Dalton (8) was invited to spend the night at a friend's house this past Friday. This was a big deal because it would be his first sleep-over since moving to Massachusetts. AND the first time I let him sleep over with a family that I just barely know. I packed his bag with pjs, snow clothes, and toiletries. I was under strict instructions by my husband to not pack Deeogee, the little stuffed dog Dalton has slept with every night since he was 9 months.

We picked Dalton up after lunch on Saturday and I could tell by the serious dark circles under his eyes that either he was up half the night or that he had eaten way too much dairy. I could not wait to get home to get the scoop on his night. But my husband said not to pry - boys need their secrets - but as soon as we got in the door, he started telling Sabrina (6) about the night. The conversation went something like this (very slightly edited so that I don't get nasty emails about using profanity in a family bog):

Dalton: And then he told his mom that his f**king game wouldn't charge up and then she told him to shut his f**king mouth.

Sabrina: (GASP!!)

Dalton: THEN, then he called his mom a, well, you know that word for a girl dog? That rhymes with itch? Well, he called his mom that word.

Sabrina: A witch? He called his mom a witch? Ooh - that's bad.

Dalton: No! You know that word I showed you in Old Yeller? (whispers) B**ch!

Sabrina: (DOUBLE-GASP!!) What did the mom say after that?

Dalton: Oh, well, she said that she was going to kick his f**king a** as soon as I went home.

At this point I could just no longer pretend to be busy in the kitchen and I had to join the conversation.

Me: Dalton, is all that stuff true or are you just trying out new words?

Dalton: I swear. It really happened. Just like I told Sabrina.

So then we had a brief conversation about how words are just words, it is the meaning behind the words that make them hurtful or taboo. I even said the words damn and Hell several times to show how the words themselves did not have power - but what you mean when you say them counts for a whole lot. I think about a million years ago I read about this approach to kids using bad words in some parenting book (or maybe it was Oprah - I just can't remember). I liked the idea of demystifying bad words, and I was sooo proud of myself for being able to recall this morsel of wisdom at just the right time. Oh - and then for good measure I threw in the lecture about how different houses have different rules. Who says this parenting thing is hard?

Of course, Sabrina had to have the last word on the whole business.

Sabrina: And at school and at home we can not point with our middle fingers.

Guilty Pleasure

"Hi honey. I'm home for a quick lunch."

"Cool - let he heat ya up some corn dogs."

"Um, sweetie? Why is there three coffee cups here in the sink? Did the neighbor lady come over for coffee?"

"Oh, uh, no - no one came over."

"So why is there three coffee cups? I see the ones we used this morning and then the chipped one with the silly ghost is in here too. No big deal, just wondering why there is an extra."

"Ok! Ok! You got me! As soon as the kids got on the bus this morning I came back and put two scoops of Friendly's French Vanilla ice cream in that cup. And then I poured chocolate syrup all over it and I even put some crunched up pecans on it and I almost put one of those sweet maraschino cherries on it too, but I resisted the urge. And then I sat on the couch and watched Ellen and ate my ice cream at nine in the freakin' morning. Are you happy now?"

"You ate ice cream at nine in the morning? And since when do you watch Ellen?"

"Yes and I'm sorry but we are all out of Grape-Nuts and I needed breakfast."

"But ice cream?"

"Yes. Please don't tell the kids."

"Oh, I'm gonna tell them and just so you know, you have officially lost your Good Mommy status and all related privileges. For the whole weekend."

Well, the above conversation didn't actually happen, but I did eat ice cream for breakfast, and then I imagined the above and I felt so guilty that I washed and dried and put away all the evidence . Don't tell!!