Thankful

Last Saturday I started moving into my new house and tonight I'm sitting in a beautiful cabin in Nemo, South Dakota in the gorgeous Black Hills with my brother, my kids and my best friend and her family.  To say I am thankful is an understatement.

I've been cooking since Tuesday, working on what is my first solo Thanksgiving dinner.  Look Mom....no hands.  Tuesday I made stuffing and mashed potatoes and yesterday I molested massaged a turkey and a turkey breast and I made an apple pie and then realized I forgot to put in anything to thicken it.  Oops.  This morning I stuffed flour in through the slits and baked it a little more; it was delicious but runny-things could be worse.  

Last Monday I went with Shawna, Erin, Aidan, Grace and Olivia to scatter some of my mom's ashes at Mt. Rushmore.  It was amazing and comical and heart breaking, everything I knew it would be but it was okay because I was with five of the people I love most in this world.

We each had a small container of Cheli's ashes to smuggle inside the national park and we each picked a place and had a private moment to ourselves to say what we wanted to say and scatter them how we wanted to.  Olivia stood facing into the wind in front of a split rail fence.  Let's just say Grandma will be with her for a long time but she isn't alone, yesterday morning I saw Grace carrying a small container of rocks....in the unwashed ash container; Grandma is with her too. 

The whole thing got Shawna and I to talking about that overwhelming love you feel for your mom when you're a little kid; that desire to launch yourself at your mom and hug her forever.  

I'm lucky, all three of my kids still have it; even the big one.  I didn't know a teenager existed that could like his mom so much, I'm so glad.  And the girls, when they hug me, I just remember how I felt about my mom and I try to take the time to just hug them back and be present.  Even Olivia who is my challenge child...when she is upset, even with me, she cannot be comforted by anyone but her mom.  I love that they need me, I need them too. 

I've been waiting over two years to do this; this trip has been cancelled again and again.  My hands shook as I poured my mom's ashes out of the urn into the six little containers in the back seat of a Cadillac.  Cheli would have totally have appreciated the Cadillac scenario; they have amazing suspension.  

It wasn't the first time I'd had my mom's ashes on my hands (you can read about the first time here). It was the first time however, I was handling her ashes and knowingly committing a crime, a crime that I insisted my kids participate in. And, I know, I write about my mom here a lot. The thing is; she is everywhere for me.  In some ways, it is easier to figure out my feelings for her with her gone.  And, yes, I know how that sounds.  I'd also joyfully trade all the knowledge and insight I've gained about our relationship since she died for one solid minute of face to face time with her.  

I am terrified that my girls won't remember her; Aidan and I spend a lot of time trying to keep her memory alive and vibrant for them. 

We each did our own thing; I sent my mom over a fence under George Washington's nose with a silent conversation (something that never would have happened were she alive) and some tears.  My kids and Erin picked their own spots and haven't shared much

about their experiences.  Shawna was the only one who used her hands, she said dumping seemed rude and she feels she has become closer to my mom than she ever intended.  My mom loved Shawna, I remember when it used to bug the crap out of me how much she loved her; I was certain it was way more than she loved me.  I was 15, I was an idiot.  What I know now is that she loved Shawna because of how tightly I held to her and how much I loved her.  She loved her because she loved me and Shawna was willing to have it, I usually threw it back in her face.  Shawna was to my mom what Nate is to me, her bonus child and you can never mother too many people.  My mom thought Shawna was the best thing that ever happened to me and even I wouldn't argue her that. 

Our Mt. Rushmore adventure ended in comedy as most things in my family do; my mom would have loved every second of it.  I wanted to take a picture of all six of us so I tried to climb over a split rail fence into a forbidden area to frame a photo and start the timer and take our picture.  I made it half way over the fence, one leg on either side and I twisted my ankle on a piece of granite...yes, I know, it's a granite mountain.  I fell down on the forbidden side of the fence in complete slow motion...ask anyone who was there.  I could feel the ridiculous slow motion faces I was making.  I could see both Shawna's and Erin's faces clearly, it was fantastic....I crumpled to the ground in grand theatric style.  By the time I landed ,which I'm pretty sure took 15 minutes, I was laughing so hard I couldn't stand up or I would wet my pants.  So I layed on the ground under the fence laughing so hard I couldn't breathe and the five people I love so much laughed at with me.  

Shawna was kind enough to capture it on film

Until my mom died Thanksgiving was my very favorite holiday, it was always filled with laughter and Hagan food drama; I truly dread it now.  Until she was gone it was the only holiday that made us feel like a big family, now it just makes Erin and I feel like orphans and that has been hard.  My husband's family always includes both of us, but it's not the same and sometimes being around someone else's entire family makes you feel more alone.  This year it's a little better, and being out of town is a welcome distraction, there are lots of kids and everyone is having a ball.  Erin is here and he is the only person left who remembers all of the same traditions and memories that I do, I couldn't do Thanksgiving without him.  Tomorrow he turns 40 and, as ever, I am incredibly grateful that he is my brother and my friend.  I remember my mom saying to me on my 40th birthday, "You can't imagine how strange it is to have a 40 year old child."  And I want so badly for her to be able to say that to Erin over his cake.  Tomorrow we will go out for dinner with Shawna and Chad and gamble in Deadwood, I hope I can distract him, birthdays without your mom are hard.  

This year I am incredibly grateful for my chosen family, I have had friends help me in ways that I can't even explain in words- and that is saying something.  Friends have moved me, they've kept and loved and entertained my kids, they've cooked.  They've gifted my children life-sized tiger stuffed animals.  They've held me up...even one I didn't get to meet in person until this very week.  They've kept my chickens and my dogs, they've given me and my kids a place to stay while all of our house drama was going on.  I am incredibly thankful.  I am grateful to my mom who taught me how to be a good friend; it pays off in my life over and over again.  So while I am missing her today a little more than usual, I am so thankful for so much of what she taught me, for the traditions she left in my care.  If you are my friend and I haven't told you lately how much I love you....I love you.  And I am incredibly thankful to have you.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Whereupon I Give Birth And Do Jello Shots At a Hotel Party

Again, it's 1997 (I seem to be in a time warp), I'm riding in a car with my mom on the back roads of southern Wisconsin.  It's late, maybe 11pm and we are racing to Vicki's house, my Wisconsin baby shower is tomorrow, I am around 6 months pregnant.  My mom is driving fast, my mom only drives fast; we come flying over a hill and a deer races out in front of us, rights itself and runs parallel to us.  It all happens in a split second and in slow motion.  My mom and I, who are not physically affectionate by any stretch of the imagination, both put our hands out to one another at the same time.  

So, when the deer turns on it's heel back towards our car and jumps the hood missing the windshield by centimeters, we are holding hands.  We are still holding hands an hour later when we pull into Hollandale.

Flash forward a month and a half.  It's 8pm and my mom and I are back in the car.  This time we are headed for Lake Geneva.  Her friends have a house there and it's a big party weekend.  You know, because when you're seven and a half months pregnant you're all about the partying.  I'm pretty sure I've been wrangled into coming as a babysitter.  My mom and her friends need babysitters.  

I've been having stomach pains since yesterday at the Cubs game.  They played the Cardinals, they won.  At a certain point in my whining my mom says, "It kind of seems like you're stomach pains are getting regularly spaced".  Strange.  So we start timing them.  They're 8 minutes apart when we start.  Do we keep going or do we turn around?  Am I in labor?  I'm only 7 1/2 months pregnant.  Last week I went to the hospital because I was dying having gas pains.  I don't want to go back for no reason.  It's the probably the last get away I will have before this kid is born (and yes, I'm still 100% certain it's a girl).  We go back and forth, we can't decide.  My mom says, "Let's call my sister, we will do what she says, she's smarter than us."  And, Donna is smarter than us, but only book smarter, we are waaaaaay street smarter.  Donna of course says, "Turn around and go back to the hospital.  What is wrong with you two?"  So we turn around.  

Several cell phone calls are made; her friends want her to drop me off at the hospital and come up there. Thanks people I've known my whole life, I see where I rank when it comes to choosing between giving birth and getting loaded!  I begin to fear that my mom will drop me off and go.  The doctor tells me I'm not going to be leaving the hospital without my daughter.  Fine, he said "baby", whatever.  

Of course, my mom didn't leave me to go party.  She stayed with me, she delivered my daugther son, she fell in love, the rest is history.  Oh wait, the Jello shots...

I work for a company that only employs women, except for the owner.  Do I have maternity insurance? Nope.  I didn't even know maternity insurance existed.  I was 26, I got pregnant on the pill and using condoms; there were other forces at work.  One of them was not Blue Cross/Blue Shield.  They kicked my ass out of that hospital faster than you could say "hey are you sure it's a boy? It could just be an 'outie.'"  I lost a lot of blood, I think I had 2 or three transfusions.  I gave birth on Saturday at 9:53am.  By Sunday at noon I was back in my hotel room.  I wouldn't finish paying off Aidan's birth until he was entering kindergarten   My mom was still getting phone calls begging her to come up to Lake Geneva.  In all fairness, my mom was a lot of fun at a party.  

Are you wondering why I'm in a hotel room yet?  Right.  My mom sold her house really quickly and the townhouse she was buying wasn't finished being built.  It was going to be finished August 15, Aidan was due August 20something...it was perfect.  Except Aidan's birthday is July 12.  So my baby went home to a hotel.  Fine, it wasn't even a hotel.  It was Motel 6.  The one on Roosevelt Road in Lombard.  It was the only place we could find that took dogs and it was walking distance to two steak houses.  So I brought my baby home to Motel 6 and I fit right in because I had lost so much blood that I seemed really drunk.  There were a lot of drunk people around that hotel.  At 6pm, the day after I had a traumatic birth experience in which the volume of blood I had become accustomed to halved, there was a knock on our door.  My mom's friends were there to get my mom to go drink  with them meet the baby (whom I had finally accepted as a stupid boy).  Among them was a woman who would someday become my mother in law!  They had come straight from Lake Geneva and while they didn't have time to stop for baby gifts, they were kind enough to bring an entire tray of Jello shots.  I swear to God.  It is, to this day, the best "push present" I've ever received and that's saying something because Dan bought me a real Prada back pack when I had the girls.  I was exhausted, I remember thinking they stayed too long.  Although, to be fair, five minutes is too long in a hotel room with two dogs, two beds, two regular adults,  one newly drained of blood and a jaundiced preemie.  I also remember being surprised that my mom didn't leave with them.  When they left Shawna, my mom and I did some Jello shots.

Happy birthday, Mom.

My Dad

You don't hear me talk about my dad very often.  My maiden name is Harper but I started out life as Kristyn June Nussbaum.  My dad, Mike, and my mom split when I was  4.  I didn't see my dad from the time I was 6 until I was around 24.

 

My step-dad, Tom Harper, adopted me when I was 10 and Erin was 8.  That's when my last name changed; "Harper" gets blamed for a lot of things it isn't technically responsible for like flat asses and AD/HD.  He ditched us when we were 17 and 15 respectively.  I have so many, that my daddy issues have names, give me some vodka, I'll introduce you to some of them.

I actually have many memories of spending time with my dad when I was little.  What I remember most was that he was intense.  I actually remember that being around him could sometimes feel heavy; it's probably because it's a trait we shared.

There are so many things I know I have that are from my mom.  There are less from my dad.  There is a small list of things I get from both; my love of politics, my patriotism and the fact that I won't eat the whites on fried eggs (weird, right? Neither of them would eat a fried egg white).  I'm sure my intensity and my tendency towards being occasionally dark are from Mike.  So are my flat feet and bad back.  I think some of my powers of persuasion are from my dad as well.  Erin looks exactly like my dad.  My mom would always freak out a little when she would arrive some place not expecting to see Erin and wonder how Mike got there and how he looked so young!  Erin dances exactly like my dad (this is not necessarily a good thing for either of them), we never understood that either; how can you grow up without someone and do something as specific as dancing exactly the same?

My mom who raised us completely on her own without a cent of child support was always very good about not talking shit about our dad.  She always said that when we were ready she would help us find him and that he loved us very much and that his problems were with her and not us.  What she did by keeping quiet about their relationship was allow Erin and I to  someday have a relationship with Mike.  

Erin moved to Colorado at some point in his early twenties and that's where my dad lived.  He had moved back to Colorado after the divorce and he had remarried and had two children, my half-siblings Hunter and Alexandra.  I also have a step-mom, Terri.  They're all lovely people who I wish I got to spend more time with.

When I was around 24 I visited Erin and we decided to look our dad up.  We had dinner and it was nice.  There were a couple of awkward moments and to this day there are things I wonder that I will never get the chance to ask.  A relationship built from that dinner and eventually we met his family and my brother actually spent a lot of time with them when he was living there.  In 2003 my dad was diagnosed with kidney cancer and at a point I had to decide if I was going to visit him with Aidan and Dan while he was alive or if we would attend his funeral.  I missed his funeral but I will always be very grateful that he got to meet Aidan and Dan.  It was a beautiful trip with many wonderful memories.  

My dad died on November 14, 2003 the day before my mom's birthday.  We didn't have a father/daughter relationship but I miss him and I'm so glad I got the chance to re-connect.  My feelings for Mike are complicated and one of the reasons I try not to write about him publicly is because of the conflict I feel in regard to him and how our relationship makes me feel about myself; myself today and my six year old self.  In some regards it has become more complicated since I've become a parent; a force doesn't exist that would keep me from my kids.  At the same time, I also feel like getting to see that he was a really loving and present dad to Alex and Hunter has been very good for me emotionally, it feels like it somehow fixes old hurts.  In any case, I know he loved me and Erin the best that he could and that things happen for a reason.

Today I am thinking about my Colorado family; Terri, Alex, Hunter, Claire and my two nephews (one who is still cooking).  I know that the pain they feel at the loss of Mike is more like what I feel about my mom, I know that ten years is a long time and that it is nothing. I hope today they celebrate his life and remember the time they had him for; it was a gift.  

Rest in peace, Mike.

Mason Thomas Is The Bravest Boy I Know

It's 1997 and I'm pregnant with a baby girl.  Well, fine, I was pregnant with Aidan but at the time I was 100% certain it was a baby girl.  I was a swimwear buyer and manager for Liquid Assets, a swimwear retailer that has since gone out of business, and I was at Stratford Square mall scouting a new location for a store.  I was walking along the second floor balcony; it has a glass wall all the way around it, when.....BAM, I became afraid of heights.  It had never been a problem before that moment, it has remained a problem ever since that moment.  I'm fine in buildings, but not in places where I could accidentally die.

I had never been a huge danger junkie but I had always been okay with amusement park rides and occasional haunted houses.  When Aidan (who was blissfully not a girl and is by far the easiest of my children to parent from birth and the only one who is NOT a girl) was four his Uncle Erin and Dan dragged me on the Rock n' Roller coaster at Disney.  That was the first time I realized I could leave my body at will.  And I did.  Six seconds into that ride I left my body and I hovered over myself watching the entire time.  I don't go out of my way to re-live experiences like that but I guess it's good to know how to react in a traumatic situation.

Fast forward through years of taking my kids on cave explorations where the stairs are steep and made of metal and have no stair backs and I always think I'm about to die and when I get out of the cave I have to find a quiet spot to hide and put my head between my knees and regroup because I never want my kids to know that I'm afraid of heights.

I'm going to switch tracks on you for a moment.  If you have kids, you know how you feel about them.  You know that you would willingly lay down your life to save them, that your one true job is to make sure that they grow up okay and that however they are screwed up it will all be your fault.  You hover between saving for college and saving for a therapist.  There are other kids that come into your life; some through your friends, some through your kids, every once in a while there are those that just creep in and are there to stay forever.  I am very blessed to have several of those kids in my life.  Chief among them are Mason and Logan.  In the simplest terms they are my old neighbors' kids except that isn't what they are at all.  Their parents started out as my neighbors in Batavia, what they are now feels much more like family.  In fact, I love their families too, and Cathi's mom is one of my favorite people on the planet.  I think I became friends with Cathi when she was pregnant with Mason and our kids have literally been friends since birth.  Until we moved last year every first those kids had was together with Mason  sandwiched between his two giant best friends, Grace and Olivia.  A couple of years later we added Logan and they've been inseparable.  And here is the thing; I love those boys.  I don't like them because they're my friends kids, I love them.  If you told me I wasn't going to get to watch every moment of their evolution into well-adjusted, romantic, house-cleaning, garden growing, funny, feminist, kind, handsome men who make their parents and their old neighbor proud I wouldn't even believe you.  I'd bet money that I will be dancing at their weddings and making baby blankets for their children; I am keeping them, forever.  I would happily throw myself in front of a train to save either of them, and if asked, I would keep them in the event that their parents were lost at sea (now if they go missing  suspicion will definitely be cast on me not to mention their Aunt Michelle would probably make me disappear to get her hands on them).

Every year since they were two we've gone to Swedish Days.  We started out on the itty bitty baby rides.  This summer was going to be the great equalizer.  Mason is still waaaay shorter than the girls but this summer they were all going to meet the minimum height requirement on all the rides at Swedish Days. Height has been an issue.  My girls can always go on rides that Mason can't because they are some sort of genetic anomaly or perhaps they are part Amazon, I'm not sure, I know they don't get their height from their parents.  So we're at our annual Swedish Days outing with my children and Cathi and her boys and Tricia and Boston.  Mason, Grace and Olivia are seven.  For the first hour or two they went on all the rides they wanted over and over. Then with forty-five minutes and one scary ride to go the workers changed shifts and decided that Mason was too short.  Which was total bullshit.  They had two measuring sticks on each ride, one up by the entrances which was professionally made and one down on the ground which was a piece of red duct tape stuck to a fence.  So with forty five minutes to go Mason is told he can't go on any of the big rides with his three best friends, rides he's been going on all damn day.  

It's important to note here that A) I'm still really afraid of heights and don't go on tall rides, and B) I have no problem saying "no" to my own kids, and C) I, apparently, have a problem saying "no" to Cathi's kids and perhaps a lack of common sense that I did not previously acknowledge as such.

I tell Cathi that Mason and I are going to find a ride to go on and we leave them.  We go from ride to ride; all of which he'd been on several times that day, only to be turned away every time.  There was one ride we hadn't tried.  The Zipper.  For the sake of the story, my girls weigh nearly 70lbs; they are solid, I can barely pick them up.  I think Mason weighs about 45lbs; what he lacks in heft he more than makes up for in charm.  He looks up at me and says, "What about that one Kris?" and motions towards The Zipper.  I feel my insides curl into a small tight ball.  "Mason, that one is really scary." I say using his past against him; there was a time that Mason was scared to try things the girls did with no problem.  Those times....they are over.  "I'm not scared, I'll go on it."  He says.  "Okay," I say, "but I'm sure they'll say 'no'.  Okay?  Be prepared for no."  He nods solemnly up at me and we get in the line.  My heart rate increases the closer we get to the front of the line.  The man checks Mason's height and opens the CAGE for us...because that's what it is.   My brain is screaming at the man....can't you see this child is too short, what is wrong with you????? The Zipper is a death cage that hurls you over and over while taking you up and down...it is a nightmare for me to watch and I am stepping foot into it with a child that I love.  

My heart is in my throat and not because I'm worried for Mason.  That.....that will come when the ride starts moving and I become certain that I am about to be the instrument of Mason's death.  Four seconds into movement I realize I've made a grave error and we're both going to die.  Six seconds in Mason has the same realization and goes into panic mode.  I can't even pretend to know what I would have done with my own kids in the situation but I'm pretty sure I would have been scream-ier. There is a bar that comes down over your hips which means the bar only comes down as far as the biggest person.  I am substantially bigger than Mason so I'm going to guess there was a good six inches between his lap and the bar that was supposed to hold him in place.  On second eight (it's possible I was counting) he flew up and nearly out of the bar and I pinned him by the chest with my elbow to the back of the seat and just thought, if I let him go for even one second he is going to be killed.  Also on second 8 I slammed my head into the cage so hard I thought I was going to pass out, I feel certain that I maintained consciousness so that Mason wouldn't be flung to his death.  On second nine is when he closed his eyes and started screaming my name.  Which I could totally relate to because I wanted to scream his name too.  I had to pause on second ten when my $500 prescription sunglasses fell off of my head and bounced around the cage like popcorn.  On second eleven I said "Mason, I need you to open your eyes and look at me right now."  He said, "I can't Kris, I can't open my eyes.  Make it stop."  So second eleven is also where I became scarred for life, I had done this to him.

"Mason, I need you to look at me and I need you to bring your fingers back in here, I need you to take both of your arms and hold onto my arm as tight as you can."  Second twenty, my purse flies off my lap, and also flies around the cage like popcorn.  Popcorn that hurts as it repeatedly hits you and the the tiny person next to you in the face.  To his credit, he looked at me and he grabbed my arm and I'm pretty sure I still have marks.  I looked that kid right in the eyes and I said, "Mason, I promise you we are going to be okay.  I can't promise you you'll ever be able to go on a carnival ride again because I'm pretty sure this is going to have some lasting effects, but I can promise you that I'm going to keep you safe and that we are not going to die on this ride.  Not today.  Okay?  You keep looking at me and we are going to be okay."  And that kid...who used to be pretty scared of bounce houses, maintained eye contact with me for the entirety of that ride.  That ride was 72 hours long I swear to God, it was the longest ride I've been on in my life.  At a point I lost feeling in the elbow that had him pinned to the back of his seat.  And then suddenly we were on the top and we were still and I accidentally lied to him.

"Is it over Kris?"  He asked, both of us were visibly shaking.  "I think sooooooooooooo..." I said as the ride began again only backwards!  We were only at the half way mark.  It didn't get better.  We were tossed and slammed and flung around that cage like pin balls.  It was terrifying but more so because I willingly brought someone else's kid on the death ride.  

When we finally got off Mason looked up at me and said, "I want to find my Mom."  and I said "Mason, I can't look at your mom for a while, okay?"  He threw himself around my waist and we sat down right where we were standing in the blazing sun to regroup.  People had to wallk around us sitting in the middle of the asphalt.  He put his head on my shoulder and I put my head between my legs and I think we sat there for fifteen minutes.  I said, "Mason Thomas, you are seriously the bravest kid I've ever met."  It's true, I was horrified and I was sure Cathi was going to be mad at me.  Eventually he said, "Kris, can you look at my mom yet?"  and I told him, "I don't know Mason, but let's go find her."  So we got up on our shaky adrenaline legs and went and found his mom, by then he had regrouped completely, he didn't even cry, he just hugged her for a second.  I burst into tears when I saw her.  Seriously, I just had a complete breakdown.  She was absolutely gracious about it and totally calm, she ended up reassuring me.  On a personal note, she made me incredibly proud of her-let's say she was a little tightly wound when we met, possibly a smidge over protective and holy crap how she has flourished as a mom, her boys are incredibly blessed in both of their parents.  

I did not recover that day and honestly, when I think of it I'm sick to my stomach.  It is nearly November, it's taken me nearly five months just to screw up the courage to write about it.  Now that I think about it, maybe this will be part of the toast I give at Mason's wedding....if his therapist lets him invite me.

Whereupon Your Heart Moves Out Of Your Body

I'm not sure why, but I've been thinking about broken hearts, specifically in regard to my kids.  I remember my mom telling me (as I lay disintegrating in her lap over what was, to date, the only real broken heart I've ever had) that I can't even imagine how much worse it is to watch your child's heart break than it is to manage your own broken heart.  Even as her own tears fell on my face for those many days that I lay there paralyzed and broken, I didn't believe her.  I do now.  

My heart lives firmly outside of my body.  On an early summer morning, waaaaaaay back in July of 1997 she knocked out my brain during an epic love triangle, packed up her stuff and she moved out when I wasn't looking, although, to be fair I was busy trying not to bleed to death.  We see one another all the time, but she never moved back in, I'm not expecting her to be sleeping in my basement any time soon, she is all grown up.

"I can't believe I did all this work and I got a boy." Said my brain.

"Bitch....suck it."  Said my heart right before she blasted my brain with a nasty left hook, packed up her toys and was gone forever.

For eight years she lived alone in a tiny rent-controlled, under-sized boy, barely enough room for all of her furniture.  But she made it work, the three of us worked out a routine.  She stayed with him, kept her eyes open and reported back routinely.  He was eating, but barely. He was reading, no worries there, four and reading like a champ!  He was growing, slowly (sometimes, when they're all sleeping and it's safe for her to come home, the two of us have a drink and laugh about that worry; he's practically a giant).    

On a winter's morning in 2005 I was at Delnor Hospital for a daily appointment.  I was on bed rest, I couldn't cook or walk or have sex or disco but I could drag me, my two broken ribs and two in-utero babies to Delnor every single day for heart monitoring.  Anyway, they weren't due until the end of January, and I wasn't feeling any more tired or sore than I had nearly every day of my third trimester, but my blood pressure was crazy and they wanted me at CDH immediately.  My heart was in Miss Erickson's second grade class back in Batavia but she was on alert, I sent her a text; you watch that one, I've got these two.

My mom came and got me (because, apparently, NOW it mattered if I drove) and we met Dan and Patti at the CDH and we kicked ass, took some names and had some babies.  Go big or go home.  My mom even managed to get kicked out of the delivery room for being a badass and my equally badass husband got her brought back in because even though he thought it was crazy for my mom to be with me he knew it was what I wanted. 

Their birth was easy, I am built for birthing babies (Read about their birth here) and upon seeing their little faces across the room a couple of things happened.  First, I counted my own fingers and toes because, I am nothing if not Cheli's daughter.  Second, I felt it happen; even though my heart was in Miss Erickson's second grade class back in Batavia, I felt her divide.  Not really divide....more photo copy.  It was kind of a grinch thing, she just grew and grew and split into three.  My heart went from living in the under-sized 8 year old to living in an 8 year old and two tiny, naked mole rats (and God bless them they are beautiful now but they totally looked like naked mole rats). She bought a lot of real estate that day.  The bitch likes living large. 

And then the birth was over, they seemed okay, me....not so much.  My mom was still alive then, I didn't know that there was a solid back up plan in case the host body tries to leave the children....I don't think I'd really ever thought about it; my kids living in a world without me.  I did that day.  I was certain I was going to die.  There was a moment, a very short moment, when Aidan was born and there was so much blood, when I had a passing thought that I might not make it but I was young and had total confidence that the doctors would make it stop and they did.  With the girls I was older and wiser and knew the risks to myself going into the pregnancy.  I didn't get to hold the girls or really even look at them and then they sent Dan and my mom away and I saw my doctor's face and I knew I was in serious trouble.  It was a very long night, I had a lot of time to think, I was, unfortunately or fortunately depending on your viewpoint, awake for everything they had to do, nothing to do but lie there and think.  And... story for another day...it turns out I have very few regrets.  Given the chance to do it over, I would do it largely the same, there are a couple of times maybe I would have spoken up when I kept quiet.  A couple of truths I wouldn't have messed with...but that is a different post.  What I mostly thought about was my kids, the one I already knew and loved beyond what I had ever believed myself capable and the two I already worshiped but hadn't even met yet.  I thought about what it would be like for them to grow up without me.  The girls never knowing me, Aidan always missing me....I thought about shallow things like how the girls would never have long hair or braids because I wouldn't be around to over-see it.  I thought about Aidan growing up and falling in love without his mom there to watch, basically I felt sorry for myself and sorry for them...and I thought a lot about my heart.  As the night wore on and I became exhausted I called my heart back, we needed to talk, I asked her to hang out and keep watch over my kids, to make sure they always remembered me, to make sure they would be okay.

"I will" she said, "but they need you."

"I don't know if I can."  I said.

"That's why I'm here.  I know you can, you aren't going to stop fighting now, it's what we do"  she said, "tonight, I'm with you.  The kids are fine.  The kids don't need me tonight....you do."

And to her credit, she stayed.  She stayed until I was safe and out of danger and then she went back to her spacious 16 year rent-control boy and her two tiny efficiency apartment preemies and she's been there every day since.  Her digs get bigger, her worries get bigger, but the space within her grows as well, she's like a real estate mogul at this point.  

What I know now, because my mom did die, is that I've been carrying around her heart for 42 years.  It didn't leave when she died, it's with me....always, it will stay with me as long as I live.   And while I am in no hurry to leave my children for any circumstance, I take comfort in the fact that even when gone I will continue to be a real, actual presence in each of their lives.  My heart lives outside of my body today, it will live outside of my body as long as one of my children is alive.  That isn't nothing. 

I never wanted three kids, I wanted two.  But life works in mysterious ways and I will tell you that my lucky number is three and good things really do come in threes, I wouldn't trade one minute of their lives for anything-not even the horrible ones and there have been many, many horrible ones.

I am not a helicopter mom.  It goes against my common sense.  I think you learn to walk by falling on your ass, the sooner you master falling on your ass the sooner you can run.  On the outside, I may be one of those moms that seems unconcerned or perhaps even neglectful.  I'm not.  What I am is dedicated to making sure that my kids get a childhood similar to the one I had (mom, wherever you are, you heard it here first), it comes at personal expense.  I look up, I see my tiny daughters 50 feet in a blue spruce barefoot in January, I take a breath- I take 27 deep, terrifying breaths, and I re-group.  I want my kids to wander the neighborhood until they hear me scream for them at dinner.  I want them to make new friends and talk to strangers...for what are new friends if not former strangers?  I wasn't as good at it with Aidan; me and the heart?  We are learning as we go.  We're so good at it now that my girls wander the neighborhood for hours at a time (if they don't stay together I tell them I will beat their asses-feel free to call DCFS, I could use a night off) .  They can't go in anyone's house unless they come check in, they can't leave one another alone.  They don't leave with anyone and if you ask them what not to do they will say in unison "don't get in anyone's van but ours."  We talk about it, I think they get it.

"What if one of us is dead?" Liv asks

"Then you better pick her up, throw her over your shoulder and bring her to me." I say.

"What if she's being mean and won't come?"  Grace asks (the reasonable kid asks the most likely to happen question).

"Well then you have a decision to make, give it up, work it out or take her down; you're the exact same size, you can totally take her.  Throw her over your shoulder and bring her to me."  I say.

"What if someone is bleeding?"  They ask.

"Figure it out; we are like the marines here....NO ONE GETS LEFT BEHIND.  NO EXCEPTIONS.  GOT IT????" I say.

"GOT IT."  They say in unison.

That is me being a helicopter parent.  The result? They are confident, they are fun, they are well behaved they are an absolute honor to parent (please, God, let them not read this for a long, long time).  And my heart?  It is in constant danger, it lives on a precipice, ready to go over an abyss at any moment. Sometimes she thrives on the danger, sometimes she gets in bed and pulls the blankets up over her head, I can't really blame her. 

So back to the rent controlled apartments...parenting is all about learning to live with your heart outside your body.  My kids are still young.  I have three children and I've never been more than 7 and a half months pregnant, I have been extremely blessed in the health of my children all of whom were born prematurely.  Between all three of them I have one set of stitches and one broken finger; all same incident, same kid.  By the girls age I had had stitches at least 5 times and my mother had been questioned by the police thanks to the frequency of my ER visits.  I am very, very lucky.  

Aidan had a rough time in middle school, he suffered at the hands of bullies, fought depression and was diagnosed with inattentive AD/HD.  It was the first concrete evidence I had in regard to what my mother had told me.  Watching him go through that was much harder for me than it was for him, I will never tell him that, someday he will be a dad and he will know.  My heart was in constant unexplainable, overwhelming pain.  But watching him navigate it?  Watching him overcome and grow beyond?  It was amazing and eventually he figured it out and my heart calmed down...a little.

At this point the girls are more of a cardiac issue for my heart than a structural one.  They are outgoing and crave danger, the stress they've put on my heart to date is more of the "oh my God, there are two three year olds on my roof" variety and less of the "let me find the people who broke them and kill them slowly with malign intent" variety.  Given the choice I'd pick kids on the roof any day.

When my mom died....obviously, she's my mom, after two years, I still struggle daily to figure out how to exist in a world without her, but Aidan, Olivia and Grace?  That was harder.  Watching them, particularly Aidan who was older and so intensely close with her, was devastating to me.  There is a reason you are born with your organs inside your body; a reason you have a rib cage to protect your heart.  If you ever want to live dangerously?  Don't skydive, give birth, everything that matters will now live outside your body, outside your control.

So all of this good luck and joy in parenting (oh my God did I just say that out loud?) got me thinking about how I will react when someone breaks one of my kid's hearts.  For some reason I imagine Aidan skirting broken hearts for a good long while; he's not in any hurry to get involved with the opposite sex at this point, I couldn't be more excited about that!  But the girls?  Oh boy.  Me and my heart?  We recognize boy crazy when we see it.  Both of us remember what it looks like.  We try to roll our eyes and laugh it off but we worry.  We remember when we got in trouble because Jim R. showed us his underwear in first grade (how I got in trouble for that can only be explained by the fact that it was the seventies), we remember how we felt when Matt L. liked our friend better than us, we remember what it felt like when our first love left us for another girl, we remember crying in my mom's lap when the other one married someone else and we remember all too well how a too-drunk evening can go horribly, horribly wrong and change everything forever...neither of us wants that for any of our kids but specifically our girls.  So we do what we can.  We let them know they can talk to us...or not.  We show them how we handle difficult situations.  We talk with them about making tough decisions and as they grow so will the depths of our conversations.  We live outside our body; both of us on guard, both of us waiting knowing the broken hearts will come no matter what we do to try and mitigate them.

Parenting is not for the faint of heart.  I am very, very glad that mine is not faint; and while she is occasionally a bitch, it is only because she has to be; she's got some very important property to oversee and she's kicking ass and taking names, I defy you to get in her way.

Story Teller

It occurred to me today that all of the things I do well are all versions of the same thing; they are each a form of story telling.  The bad news here is that I thought I was good at a lot of things and it turns out I'm really just good at the one.  The good news is, if I'm not wrong, you may enjoy yourself, here where I'm in my element.

The sobriety of the both photographer
and the subjects is in question, I have no idea
how that happened.  

I write; which is story telling at it's most obvious.  It has always been a part of who I am.  It's how I filter through the things going on in my life and figure out how to apply them to my daily life and relationships.  It's how I've been coping with my mom's death and the upheaval in my family life that has been going on recently.  It's how I sort through joy, pain, heartbreak, chaos, love, hate, friendships, confusion, instinct, happiness, hopelessness, despair....you name it, I've written myself through it.  I'm pretty sure it's what keeps me off of the evening news and out of jail; which, let's face it, is good for all of us.  Not writing has never been an option available to me.

I decorate things; mostly cakes and rooms and gardens and water color paper.  

Painting, cake decorating and gardening are really just another form of story telling.  It's sharing stories on a visual scale.  You formulate a plan, decide on a shape, a character, a color, a texture, a feeling....you add to it in layers, eventually you've given your audience a piece of yourself....a story.

I cook;  cooking and baking are simply layering ingredients with flavors and melding them together to create a story with food.  There is a message for the receiver in anything I cook, if you are paying any attention at all you will hear it.

I talk; and that is no joke, while I may be quiet at first, if you get to know me in any sort of intimate capacity you will be amazed by how much I do not shut up.  I like to think I can tell a pretty good story.  It is a genetic gift bestowed upon myself and most of the people I'm related to; it makes family parties absolutely excellent.  While I can't actually read any of your minds, I would venture a guess that one of the things you may like about me is the way I can tell a story; especially if I am the object of humor in said story.  I cannot stand the thought of public embarrassment  I spend a good amount of time planning how not to embarrass myself on a daily basis, unless it will make for a good story.  In my book, the telling of a good story trumps nearly everything.  I happily embarrass the crap out of myself for a story.  I will  totally embarrass myself to get a good laugh, which you already know if you read my blog, have followed my skirt stuck in the van door status updates on facebook or have ever spoken to me at all.  Ever.

Then I noticed something; first, each of these things are gifts from Cheli.  My mom was not much of a hugger, she didn't suffocate me and Erin with "I love you."  She showed us her love with her food, her magic, her Halloween costume sewing skills, her amazing budget room makeovers that were better than anything I ever saw on HGTV and her stories.  Sometimes when people compare me to Cheli I cringe a little, although, to be fair, no one wants to be compared to their mother, except maybe the children of Madonna and Angelina Jolie.  Other times, I have to say, it makes me feel like a bad ass. My mom was a total bad ass. I think I have moments of bad ass.  I aspire one day to be the complete bad ass package, we'll have to wait and see.

Second, each of these things is how I show people I love them.  I'm better than my mom was at telling people how I feel about them; I always have been but her death, specifically, was a turning point.  Life is short, if I love you I will tell you and I will probably tell you a story illustrating why I love you and what that love means to me and in it I will try to illustrate in some intimate way that you are important to me and that the place you fill in my life is valuable.  And that story?  It could be a painting, a batch of cookies, a poem, a plant, a gallon of paint painted, a chapter written in your honor, a character that wears your smile or speaks in your voice, or perhaps a pan of what appears to be horribly mismatched vegetables but what is really the only three individual vegetable types that each of my three individual children is eating that week....they are in some form, my love letter to you.  I hope you read it, I hope you hear my voice, I hope you understand...I love you.

And here is where we come around to what got me thinking on this subject to begin with....(I love this part).  I have spent a lot of time trying to get my kids to see me as a person.  I don't know how my mom did it, but she did.  It happens to be of incredible importance to me.  I want my kids to know I love them (they do), I want them to know that being a mom is intensely important to me (it is).  BUT!!!!!! I want my kids to know other things  about me too.  I want them to know that there is a really, really important message that the flight attendants give you every time you step foot onto an airplane.  IN THE EVENT OF AN EMERGENCY, PUT YOUR OWN OXYGEN MASK ON BEFORE YOU HELP YOUR CHILDREN. This one sentence should be tattooed on every mother leaving the hospital with a new child, right on the inside of your wrist where you can see it all the time.  I want my kids to understand this because I want them to know I value myself and my needs.  I want them to know that what I want and feel and think is important because when they grow up and navigate the treacherous waters of parenting and marriage and....whatever they decide to navigate, I want them to know that their wants and needs and feelings are important.  

I want them to put their oxygen masks on first because if they don't take good care of themselves they won't be able to take good care of the people they love.  My kids get a better mom because I take painting lessons twice a month.  I want my kids to know that I am a writer, that I am a sister, a wife, a reader, a gardener, an explorer, a creator, a student, an artist, a poet, a friend.  That last one?  Super important.  I am blessed beyond measure in my friendships.  Look at my life at this moment.  My kids and I are living with my friends, Melissa and Paul.  One of my dogs and my TWELVE EFFING CHICKENS are living with Thia and her family.  My husband and my other dog are staying with my mother in law (who was my friend before Dan was my husband).  I am certainly gifted with friends and I want my kids to know that friendships are important and they require some work occasionally and that they are entirely worth it.  

We're getting closer to the message here, I promise.  

So the girls spent the weekend at my mother in law's with Dan and Aidan was off with friends and I had a lot of time (too much) on my own.  Things are a little stressful right now, I have lots of stuff on my mind and I needed to stay occupied.  Enter....the lesson, I spent most of the weekend with my friends Donna and Rob who are in the process of moving into a new house  (Side bar; they bought a house two doors down from the one they live in.  It's my new policy; I'm instituting a strict one block rule, no moving trucks, no meeting new people, no new schools....it's epic-ally genius).

 They think I'm helping them paint their new house.  And, I am but that's not all I'm doing.  First off; the two of them together should have a reality show, they're completely entertaining not to mention that they are warm and welcoming and they let my kids jump on their furniture and call them Uncle Shrek and Auntie Fiona.  

Second; what I'm really doing is mitigating stress through painting and helping friends.  Crossing my fingers, in thirty days I will have a house to paint, but right now I don't, they do; it's win win.  So today I painted a little bit of trim and then left to go get the kids from Dan and stopped back  with  Grace and Olivia who seem to think they belong quite comfortably at both of Donna & Rob's houses .  I painted some more, the girls ran around like crazies and Donna fed us.  

We get in the van to go home and Olivia says, "Mom, I really like all of your friends a lot."  I do too, Liv, I do too.

And....wait for it, an honest to God full circle moment....

Gracie says, "Mom, I think you're a really good friend."  I hope so, Gracie, I hope so. Win, win.

P.S. Donna and Rob? There's a chance that when you get home from work today that some OCD painter may have sneaked in and finished the trim in your master bedroom because she's literally writing this late at night in part because she can't sleep because the trim didn't get finished. XOXO, Kris