How Could You Be So Careless?

I know we can't get back all we have lost. We can't get back all the time, all the people, all the money we've lost. It's difficult to replace something once it is gone, mostly because the thoughts of it linger in your head - sometimes forever.

The real challenge arises when something new presents itself. The opportunity to regain some of the parts of yourself that you never thought you would have again seems a lot like finding an old friend. Do memories replace each other? If I make new, will I slowly lose the tiny remainders I have been holding on to for so long?

How many things have I allowed to pass by out of fear of losing the few things I am certain of? How valuable is certainty when uncertainty holds so much potential?

...a rant, for clarity's sake:

It dawns on me, at the strangest of times, that I have all the responsibility and half the help. I look at Dylan, apologetic, and the words "I am doing the very best I can" escape every time. It's not a new thing, but the guilt gets unbearable at times.

Single moms have to start from scratch. We have to work through financial messes alone, figure it out and lose everything a few times before solidifying a mindset on the subject. We have to change a first diaper, learn how to get strained peas out of onesies, read instruction manuals on how to get the car seat facing the correct way so that every time we hit the brakes, our children don't vault into the driver's seat. Single moms have to know the names of Pokemon, and as soon as we do, we have to forget them and not confuse them with the names of Ben Ten characters. Some of us have to instruct a young boy on how to pee standing up or catch a football, or bait a hook, without ever having done those things ourselves.

Years of trial and error and decisions made out of pure fear and self-preservation have made balance priceless. A tiny baby boy had to pee in my mouth before I learned to cover it up while changing him. I had to be asked to leave apartments after being a month late for six months straight before I learned to budget for rent and pray for gas money. I had to learn what things I could leave to faith and hope and what things I had to make happen.

What a tremendous challenge for these two shoulders. What a load to carry on one hip, because the other one is occupied by a little boy. I think I have just recently reached the place where I acknowledge the enormity of this duty of mine and keep moving forward. It no longer stops me in my tracks and weighs me down. I feel like something inside has released, and all of the pain and struggling, all we have gone without is just a thing that once was.

What I am trying to say is this: we are better off now than we have ever been. It's not because there have been huge situational changes, either. It's because I am mentally stronger than I have ever been. I am more capable and I have all the tools I could gain by myself to be equipped for the task of raising my son. So, when I feel downtrodden and I look to my son for inspiration, and when the only words that come to mind -as they do so many times- are "I am doing the very best I can" it has started serving as a reminder to myself that I am. I really am.

I'm no longer pretending or making mistakes or wondering if I am doing the right thing. I'm not doing this because I have my heart where it belongs, in Dylan's pocket, wherever he may go. That is where it belongs.

This newfound peace of mind has opened me up to new things. I made it this far alone. I did this. He is seven. He is a huge kid, with broad shoulders, bright eyes, and an honest fervor for all things new. He is healthy and smart. Dylan is the best kid I know, and it is because I did that. I'm not disappointed in myself. I am proud. All the things I have screwed up throughout my life...they disappear when I see his face.

I've found that I am not as scared as I used to be. I feel ready today to let someone love us. I feel ready to grasp a healthy skepticism and know that I have made it this far alone, and it can only get better. I don't care about pace. I don't care about fear. Those are just words. Insincere words. I care about fulfillment and something to look forward to.

Maybe, just maybe, we can let go of the things we have lost without forgetting them entirely. Maybe we can do this for the sake of a more permanent experience. It seems to me that life is a lot like monkey bars, you have to let go to move forward. While I do believe that life is lived in moments, I cannot disregard the fact that forever is a long time to hold on.

Being a working, single mom is daunting. Sometimes I want to hide out, you all know that. Sometimes I would like a night-just one night-away. Something like that requires the planets to align just so. Most of the time, there is no escaping this responsibility and that is just how it is. Companionship is always an option. Up until now, it has not been one that I have taken very seriously for a million reasons. Here is to hoping I don't regret it. Another step in another direction I haven't really tread with my whole heart. And so, here we go...

A few photos for the sake of catching up:









This last one here was taken by Dylan. I appreciate his abstract take on depth-of-field.



"People have a hard time letting go of their suffering. Out of a fear of the unknown, they prefer suffering that is familiar." -Thich Nhat Hahn

girl with balloon.

f8 1.4

"Do the very best you can do. And then, be at peace with it." -My Mum...


So many thing happen at such a rapid rate, I couldn't possibly slow them down to a manageable pace, allowing me to accurately document them just they way they felt while they were occurring. This is the perpetual problem parents run into. This also explains the unmanageable amount of photos of every one of life's major events. Boxes upon boxes upon albums of weddings, first children, first kisses, first vacations, first.first.first. click.click.click.

Eventually, I think, we learn to sit back and live these moments. The sweet air cannot be bottled and the spot on my son's head where the sun hits it just so, the warmth won't be there much longer than a moment. The lucky snapshots are a one-in-a-million, but these moments that pass won't ever again.

It's frustrating how little justice a photograph can do. In the most ambient light, the shadows fall dramatically short of what I saw, what I felt when I pressed the shutter. What I read when I observed the light. Maybe this is why most parents have more photos of their first born than any that follow. They learn quickly how little justice the photos have done over the years.

I think that challenge - the triumph of capturing an image that grants a moment the credit it is due - is what has attracted me to photography. It's what keeps me from boxing up old photos and never looking at them again: the hope that I'll peer at an image and finally grasp what I was striving for when I took it. It's what keeps me from just living a moment. As precious as moments are, the sound of my beautiful son breathing, the all-encompassing peace when I lay my head down in a dim room with the smell of midsummer's night clinging gently to the walls, I can't help but think of the symbolism a photograph depicts.

Summer is over now and we are knee-deep in autumn. A blanket of strategically-fallen leaves has covered all the damage we've inflicted on the grassy parts and the whole world smells like anticipation.

I don't want to miss a minute of any of this. I don't want this time of year to pass me by. Living in the Chicago region, autumn is the momentary blur between summer and winter, the grey area that is so fleeting. If you blink you'll miss it. A pity for someone like me, who likes to rest her eyes...

We went to the Peggy Notebaert museum this weekend twice. Both times we learned something new. Both times we left with a greater understanding of things we take complete advantage of. Here are some photos...

Butterflies are proof that God has a sense of irony. Like most things I love, they are elusive. And, like most things I love, my instinct is to hold them oh so tightly, to look at them closely, examine them, shudder at their perfection, and hold my breath the moment they come near. The irony in these creatures is that I cannot entirely do any of those things. Holding them tightly is out of the question. Their delicate wings would crumble. Looking at them closely and examining them isn't easy either. They seem to always be on their way somewhere else. Holding my breath when they come near isn't easy either, because while shuddering at their perfection, one is bound to let out a sigh...

I think they are nature's ballerinas. I am certain they hear symponies.

Of all the unplanned art I have stumbled across, butterflies are the most inspiring I've seen. They somehow manage to encompass architecture, stained glass, and grace in their brief existance.


Us with our things. Pitiful things. Butterflies emerge as works of art, with an evolving canvas. How we pale in comparison.




This is Crecent. She is two, and she came along with her mother and big sister. She likes to run. She likes to growl. Sometimes she gets tired and sits on the floor in a tiny ball. Crecent likes to twirl her hair in her fingers and tug on her eyelashes when she gets sleepy...


This is Elsa, Crecent's big sister. Elsa is four. She like a good knock-knock joke. Elsa likes to smell my hair. She has a remarkable attention span and vocabulary for her age. She likes to stare at things as closely as she can until she gets "wontie eyed" ... which is Elsanese for cross eyed.




Crecent gets frustrated when Elsa accomplishes the things she has yet to. It's an interesting process to watch as Crecent is always just beginning right as Elsa is finishing.










Days like this pass us by without warning. While sitting quietly one day, we might talk about it. Tomorrow, it will be yesterday and eventually, it will just be once upon a time. Today, we lived it, and I feel so blessed that we did. Today, I felt the leaves gather under my feet as I drug them across the grass, and I feel so lucky that they showed up. Autumn will pass just as quietly as it crept up on us, and I feel so complete knowing I didn't miss out on today.


"Maybe I need fantasy life of chasing butterfly " =W=

How I Wish You Were Here

Things are coming around.

I feel awful for not updating as I should, and I want everyone to know that I am getting their e-mails, and fully intend to get back on track here.

Thanks you all for your patience and understanding. Sometimes being me is like a slideshow. You never know what will come next.

Stay tuned.

Child Labor

"I worked my butt off today. Literally. Have you seen my butt, mum?"

A Compilation of Events

It might just be me, but the more time that passes between blogs, the more difficult it is for me to collect my thoughts.

I've been going through a hard time lately, the details of which I don't think are necessary to post on here. With the help of country music, Captain Morgan, and a certain blonde-haired blue-eyed somebody, it's all quite bearable.

We have started the second grade with a bang. I can't believe the e-mails I have been getting. Dylan has put a whole new spin on this parenting thing. Last week's e-mail contained the sentence "In closing, Dylan speaking like he is British is not only a distraction to the other children, but a concern for me, as it is difficult for him to concentrate on anything else." ...uhmmm...WHAT?!

Yeah, so, I have learned quickly that the kid I spend a majority of my time with is a totally different kid at school. This is a crying shame because he is such an awesome kid and that is a stupid way to behave.

My computer is still not where I need it to be. I am still missing a few important programs that I really need. It's difficult for me to function without a creative outlet, so I am trying my hardest to just relax and do without for now.

I wanted to mention something else that is hard for me to use words to make sense of. The last month or two has taught me something new that I was previously completely oblivious to, but I think needs a good, clear explanation.

I always put these big prefaces like what I'm about to say is going to change someone's perspective. I never expect that to happen. I just hope to clarify things as they become clear to me.

Anyway, the point I am trying to get to is that women are so fragile. It's interesting, because all this time I thought I was beyond a lot of the bullshit that generally hurts most women's feelings. I learned that sometimes, I am not. None of us are really exempt from being hurt. The difficult thing to decipher sometimes for us is that the other party sometimes doesn't mean it.

Think of all the times something has come out wrong, all the times you've realized your sense of humor doesn't match up with the person you're telling jokes to. For women, it almost never matches up. I can say that it doesn't matter whether it was intended to hurt my feelings, if it did, it did, and nothing can undo that.

When you combine a woman's fragility with her inability to forget things, if you've hurt her, you're better off giving up than trying to fix it. That's the truth.

I'm not at a place with anyone where repairing the hurt they have caused is worth fixing. Some women are. Sometimes when time is invested, when children's well-being is involved, when it is an unresolved family matter that lingers and aches daily, it is worth fixing. Most times, however, it's totally worth it to me to wash my hands of it all.

It is a fine balance for a woman to pick her battles and know when to quit. It's a difficult thing to compartmentalize the variety of pains we have experienced and to discuss the correct problem with the correct person. Sometimes things overlap. Sometimes our storage space overflows. Sometimes we just need to cry it out. But, sometimes, it's not worth the battle to begin with and the person who hurt us just needs to join the ranks with the others.

So, if you've hurt someone and you can't come up with a way to fix it, realize that it has to be worth it to the person you have hurt. Maybe it was worth it yesterday, but it isn't today. Maybe it will be worth it after a few months but not today. But, if it isn't now, there is a good chance it may never be, and maybe you should just apologize and be on your way.

In other news, today is September 11. It is the eight year anniversary of the twin towers attacks. Approximately one year after the attacks, I had Dylan. When I think of myself on the day of the attacks, I wonder what I would say if someone told me I would have a baby in a year. When I think of myself on the day of the attacks, I wonder how much it changed me. I don't know a scale of measurement for something like that, but I am not the same person I was that day.

It was a clear day. A crystal-clear day. After the news got through my skull, I remember looking in the sky, half expecting to see flames all the way in Chicago, because it felt as if the whole world was melting. Turns out, it wasn't, but something was taken from me that day, a degree of naivety and ignorance that I would have gladly held on to just a little longer.

I sat in my bedroom and listened to the president on the radio that night. I thought about joining the military. I wept a little out of confusion more than sadness. I was scared. I spent the next few days on edge. Airplanes didn't fly past unnoticed, and for a good amount of time, I wondered if I would ever feel safe again.

When you're young and you realize that nothing is inpentetrable, you begin to open your eyes a little wider than you did before. I began to see the evil in things I was too stupid to see before. I started seeking security and certainty. I changed that day, from a misled adolescent to a frightened adult. It wasn't a change I was willing to make, but felt like I had to for my own safety.

I haven't felt safe since. I have a question mark in my head. Following September 11, I exposed myself to all of the things I was always told I shouldn't. I realized the antithesis of fear was knowledge, and I learned about so many of the things I was always told to fear. It didn't always end well, but it made sense to someone on the cusp of the rest of her life.

I think the attacks struck the generations differently. I think my parents were disappointed more than scared. I think folks my age were changed and grew into a generation of cynics. I think the children were scared and will grow into a generation of skeptics.

Anyway, I'm glad we still take time out to remember September 11, 2001, because it gives us a chance to reflect on a lot of things, even if it's inward.


"All of a sudden there were people screaming. I saw people jumping out of the building. Their arms were flailing. I stopped taking pictures and started crying." -Michael Walters, a free-lance photo journalist in Manhattan.

Your Call Is Important To Us...

I know, I know....

Long time no see. My apologies. My computer contracted a virus somehow and had to go through some serious treatment, leaving it without any useful software and a complete clean slate of a hard drive.



And everything is gone. My photos, my music, all of my programs that I had (il)legally downloaded...all that. It's hard to get it all back together, and I have yet to start. Because of this, I have resorted to blogging from work, which would appal my mother...



Dylan turned seven two weeks ago. It was a momentous occasion for he and I. It was momentous for him, because he got to go to Six Flags, which he has bothered me about for the last year. It was momentous for me because I'm pretty damn proud I have kept him alive this long. He had an eventful weekend prior to his birthday, which fell on a Tuesday. We went to see Blue Man Group and The Cleveland Indians/Chicago White Sox Game with a dear friend.



On his birthday, I took the day off work (collective gasp) and took him to Six Flags. He was the happiest kid.



Dylan also started the second grade. He has a teacher I've never heard of but he seems to like. His school doesn't do a parent/teacher orientation for some reason (and if they do, I was never made aware of it. Considering they find it necessary to send a note home every time Dylan sharpens his pencil, I assume they would let me know about an opportunity to berate me in person) so I couldn't really tell you what she's like. Not quite yet, anyway.



He is happy because he has some of his old first grade friends in his class. I fear that without that level of familiarity, he would never go to school without kicking and screaming.

I read somewhere that Dylan is at the age where self-esteem really starts developing. This has recently become really important to me. You love your kids so much, you never think they would ever feel anything less than wonderful - because that's how you see them. But, I can see it in him when he starts to feel bad about himself or when he starts to question whether or not he is good enough and it breaks my heart.

Positive reinforcement has become such a big deal to me. Even when an ironic negative spin is put on something, like "psshht...watch us finish this block tower and a huge gust will come through the window!" it affects him. It's sad to watch sometimes, because, although it's not any one's intention, Dylan's feelings get hurt so easily. His self-esteem is so wavering. He is a good kid, a really well behaved kid, especially considering he doesn't have a father-figure. I wish I could sit him down and explain that to him.

Anyway, I have a ton of photos to post, and I will, as soon as I get my computer back in order. These long days are slowly wearing me down.

I always think that at a point things will get easier, they have to. I'm not really sure how, and at times I don't even believe that they will. It's an interesting thing to balance hope when you're a single mom. It's such a negotiation between relief and sacrifice. There are days I just assume it will be just this way forever and I really think I have finally just accepted it as such. There are moments that arise and remind me that there is more than this, that it can be easier.

Those are the days I like the best. The light-at-the-end-of-the-proverbial-tunnel days, where all the hours on my feet and leaned over the tub, and crawling across the living room picking up Lego remnants, and under tables fetching crayons, and at the park chasing footballs and in huge auditoriums echoing Christmas carols, only to go to bed and feel a light saber poke my ass, and wake up 5 hours later to action figure boxers and backpacks and lunch and keys and tied shoes...actually resembles a means to an end...



"If evolution really works, why do mothers only have two hands?" -Milton Berle

FYI

My stupid boss always sends me forwarded emails and just writes : "FYI" in her part and passes the info along.

...hm...

if the email wasn't sent to me, perhaps that means it doesn't pertain to me. Fancy that.

Anyway, I added a twitter widget over there ------>
so if ya'll start feeling ambitious you can follow me on there. I rarely update, but will start updating more frequently now.

It's a busy day. Just wanted to throw that out there.

Happy Birthday!

Happy 7th Birthday, Dylan!

I've been a mum for 7 years now, all on-the-job training with you as the boss. What a boss to have... Although parenthood isn't always necessarily what I expected, it's more amazing than I could ever put into words. (But here comes the part where I try...)

I remember being pregnant and having experienced parents look at me starry eyed and saying things like, “There's nothing like having a baby. The love you have for them--there's nothing like it,” At first my heart warmed at their nostalgia, but towards the end of pregnancy, I began to lose my patience with it. “Of course it's amazing, I'm growing my own person here. What kind of mom doesn't love their baby? I get it, I know.”


And then I had you, and realized there was no way to experience those depths of emotion without having been there yourself. The other day I was studying your profile as I snuggled you in my lap (which is increasingly awkward to do, with your ever-growing limbs seemingly all over the place) and reflected on my time as your mother and the spectrum of emotions that came with it.

As I studied the perfect swoop of your nose and the precious little bump on your ear and the tiny golden hairs that grow near your hairline, I felt euphoric with love for you, pride at having made you, panic that 7 years with you could have already gone so quickly, and fear and sadness for life's inevitable hardships that you'll be forced to suffer. My heart soars and sings and aches all at the same time with love for you. Contemplating your very existence fills me with excitement and anxiety over what the future may hold. You amaze me and amuse me and the responsibility and honor of raising you to fulfill your potential fills me with wonder and fear.

Even if I did the best job in the whole world of describing the emotions that make up the love that a mother feels for her child, it would still fall radically short of the true feelings in a mom's heart. There truly are no words to explain how much I love you and how glad I am to be your mum. I look forward to seeing what the future holds for you, but selfishly wish you could stay small forever. The last 7 years with you have been a joy, and I know the next 7 will be too (the 7 after that--I'm not so sure). I'm lucky to have a boss like you and I think you're teaching me well. I hope you can say the same for me.

So, Happy Birthday, my little prince.


I like you, I love you, and I'll always protect you.

Always,
Mum

The Importance of Being Earnest

Part of being a single mom includes relying on other people. I have spent a lot of time looking into babysitters this past weekend and have come to the conclusion that no one is normal anymore.

I came across a local girl, from the same town as us, who was 18 and looking for a good babysitting job. She and I exchanged emails twice, and it seemed as if I had finally, finally found someone worth looking into. She was responsible, interested in going to school full time for "either nursing or child development" and just needed money for books and such. I explained what kind of kid Dylan is and what he liked, how he behaved, and told her what I could afford.

We agreed on a price and days. I felt optimistic and called a girlfriend of mine. She googled this young ladies e-mail address. We found her myspace, where she stated she was "high a5 fuk" and how she "~~**mi55e5 her baybie**~~" and invited her friends to join in on the countdown until her 'baybie' gets out of jail. Also on her myspace was a long blog about her recent abortion and how it was a "spiritual moment" for her.

After a shocking few minutes, I thanked God Almighty for not allowing my son to wait in line behind this young lady in line at Walgreens, let alone all day, one-on-one.

So I called a few numbers I had written down.

One woman had a dog barking so loudly in the backgroud, I thought she may have been standing on his tail while holding a megaphone right against his snout.

Another had a smoker's cough that made it hard for me to decipher if she was continuously yelling "AT!" over and over at me, or if she was hacking up phlegm. She was also watching "Wheel of Fortune" at an atrocious volume.

And finally, I called a mousy woman who calls herself "Aunt Fanny." Honest. I can't make this stuff up. She spoke painfully slow about her son and his "tramp of a wife" and how she watches his kids sometimes. They like to do "crafts and such" and sometimes she'll take them for a walk "outdoors" for a "bit of nature".

Um, excuse me, Aunt Fanny. He is seven. His idea of "a bit of nature" involves peeing on your newly-planted rosebush while you aren't looking and while you are bent down marveling at how quickly each rose has withered and died in a matter of minutes, (everyone knows it's the acidic kool-aid piss of children) using a plank from the neighbor's fence as a light saber to swat your adorable little terrirer three yards away...accidentally, of course.

Needless to say, I have reached that hopeless slump where I sort of sit and wonder if there is a way I can somehow be at work and with Dylan at the same time. I start to think of various stories I've read about these remarkable single parents who quit there jobs because they are tired of being disappointed by other people and open a cupcake boutique in a deteriorating neighborhood and how one simple cupcake boutique transformed an entire neighborhood. A real rags to riches story.

...and I realize I want so much less than the average person these days. I would just like someone I can count on.

Obviously, that is too much to ask.

I feel awful that all of this is happening and that Dylan is aware of it. I hate that I have to go through this still, six years into this, you would think it would be clear who we could and couldn't count on. It's not.

I know things will one day be easier for us. Perhaps I will get married or Dylan will be old enough that he can spend a bit of time alone, but all of this is a long road away, and I am so blessed to have such a good kid. (He really is a good kid, despite my tremendous amount of complaining). For example, while typing this, he yelled "AW MUM! I WAS JUST EATING A VANILLA WAFER...UHM...IT'S REDUCED FAT! AND...UM...I SMOOSHED IT ON MY LOOSE TOOTH! AW MAN. THAT WAS AWFUL!" how cute is he?

so cute is the correct answer.
he is so .
cute.

Anyway, tomorrow morning, I am due back at work and my babysitting search has not progressed.

The reason I am on this sitter search is not as simple as it sounds. My mom watches Dylan during the day. I think this is a safe topic, as she has stopped mentioning the blog, and I am led to believe she no longer reads it.

My mom, who was a foster parent for years, watches him during the days and early evening while I work. Since I work two jobs, she usually has him into the evening. She and my dad keep Dylan overnight one night a week. When school starts back up, she will only have him after school for a few hours.

My mom is also home with my 15 year old little sister during this time. She is a handful, truly. But she is the closest thing Dylan has to a sibling, arguments and all. She is the closest thing he has to that kind of companionship and underlying love for someone. Right now, it is hidden under layers and layers of contempt for one another and it drives my parents absolutely nuts. Honestly, though, I think it's a good relationship for both of them to have.



Occasionally, she'll also have my neice, who is my sister's shadow.


Sometimes, life gets in the way. Sometimes my parents get tired. Sometimes the weekend can't come soon enough, sometimes my sister and Dylan are at each other's throats. My work schedule gets cram-packed, Dylan has a bad week where he just drives everyone nuts, Jaclyn gets restless, Mom wants a bath but Dylan keeps talking...

But, in general, this is the way it has been. This is what Dylan depends on. One of my biggest fears was that he would lack consistency, that we wouldn't know what the next day would bring. My parents have provided us with a solution to that problem with love.

I want to say, before I go into too many details, that I understand that things go on within the four walls of a home that don't ever get out. I know there are things that outsiders aren't aware of, yet it still affects them somehow.

Anyway, enough bush beating, yesterday afternoon, while I was vaccuuming my mom left me a voicemail in her crazed, panicked voice where you can tell she wants to yell, and does, but only every few syllables. And she says, in her tiny, frantic tone "Sarah! It's your mom. You need to call me. You need to give me a call."

And there is distance in her voice and I know what is happening and I drop my face in my hands and with nothing, nothing other than dread, I dial the telephone.

My dad answers abruptly, and I wish I could be the first to speak. And I wish I could just slow down what I know is happening. This godawful lump in my throat and all the twisting you could imagine in my stomach and it is as if every ounce of insecurity I hold just below the surface comes out like a typhoon. He is cold and so far away and I wish he weren't.

I have a very difficult time thinking of the way this makes me feel. It's the utmost feeling of abandonment and discouragement of self to be dismissed by your parents. truly. And no other feeling made sense when this conversation was taking place, for the millionth time.

Dad tells me that he and mom never have any free time to do anything and that they know it is because of the kids. He tells me "we're done".
"So, it's mine and Dylan's fault that you don't get to go out?"
"yes, we're done."
"I'll let Dylan know you guys don't want to help with him anymore because you can't go out and have fun."
"I don't really care what you tell him, but the bottom line is that we're done. Effective immediately, we're done."

...and just like that, every weight ever in the whole world topples on me and I feel insane with panic and fear and every other emotion that juts through your heart and renders you helpless.

I would like it if I could say this is the first time he has ever said these same words to me. It's not. This kind of thing happens regularly, in fact, just that morning I was telling a friend that it had been awhile since they sent me into this panic. Anyway, it leaves me in a place of utter distress, where I cannot see straight and am so on edge my chest feels wound with rubber bands.

The reason I mentioned not knowing what goes on in the four walls of a house, is that I never know what brings this on. I never see this coming, and it is always effective immediately. I never know when it will happen. I never know what anyone did to piss them off to the point of not caring about anyone else.

I don't know what brought it on. I am sure it seemed like an effective solution to whatever problem had risen at the moment.

I hadn't said anything to Dylan about any of it until this afternoon, because a day or so had passed and now they aren't answering my calls and I am worried. He overheard me calling Aunt Fanny and asked why.

"because I don't know that Grandma and Papa are going to be able to watch you anymore and I just want to be prepared."
"why can't they watch me?"
"I'm not really sure. I think Grandma is just stressed out."
"are they mad and you're just not tellin' me?"
"No...why?"
"Cause I can be better."

The reality of the situation is that right when I think nothing else can go wrong, it does. The people we rely on can fail us with no reason at all. The way things are never stays that way for long.

I have spent the last two days frantic, trying to find someone competent to watch him. Imagining my boss's response when I call to explain that I suddenly have no babysitter, and so I can't come in to work. . . Yes, I'll say, I know the economy is awful and I should value my job, but ya know, they're done, so I have to figure something out.

Meanwhile, people are interviewing every day for just the position I happen to have called off on for a bullshit reason...You do the math.

Regardless, Dylan is an amazing kid. Anyone who doesn't want a part in his life is just missing out. Their loss. We'll learn to get by.





A child needs a grandparent, anybody's grandparent, to grow a little more securely into an unfamiliar world. -Charles Morse

To Whom It May Concern...

Dear Children's Book Publishers,

Who's idea was it to have a book that makes noise? Because...that was the stupidest effing idea ever. I have been listening to sporadic dog barks and doorbells and swooshing sounds for the last ten or fifteen minutes and decided to investigate. Turns out, Dylan is playing
with
a
book.

It's a book with buttons that make obnoxious noises.

This is wrong. Books shouldn't annoy me. Books should be quiet. Books don't need noises, flashing lights, or batteries.

I know everyone is in a race to improve upon everything, but the only improvement books need is better writing. It would also be great if they fit nicely on a shelf.

I know you think your unreasonably large book is eye-catching, and it is, every time I see it, it catches my eye and I think "oh...there's that huge-ass book I am never sure what to do with," and I secretly hate it for messing up the continuity of my shelves.

Lets just have normal sized, quiet books with good stories inside. No batteries required.

Thanks,

Mum

Mindless Drivel

Today

was one of those days that wears you down relentlessly.

It was one of those days where I decide I should take up some sort of bad habit.

...in excess...

But am too damn tired to determine which habit and so I just sit on the edge of the bed and stare.

...blankly...

I'm pretty sure it's o.k. for me to feel like this from time to time. I think everyone gets this way. We all just handle it different. I think that regardless of my circumstances - if I had a husband I came home to, if I had all the money I ever needed, if I had the worlds most balanced chi - I would still have these days.

I couldn't say what exactly pushed my day to this point, as there was no specific incident. I think it is a combination of factors, the most obvious being work and my conscience.

Dylan and I haven't spent much time out and about. This is because I have been working an obscene amount and don't have the time/money/resources to come up with anything in our feeble hours of free time.

School will be starting again soon and my precious son will be in the second grade. I remember second grade and am entering into this with him with the full realization that he will come home one day aware of several new things. One of which will be the nurse's office and all it has to offer, as I can recall spending a majority of my days in the second grade in that very location. Another of which will most likely be a few new curse words. I can handle that. (I mean, have you read how I think?) Who the hell knows what else he'll acquire? I just hope it's something that can be either a) killed with anti-bacterial soap or b) explained in great detail without having to say "I'll tell you when you're older."

Here is something a little off subject that I want to say...

If you are a heterosexual man and you are attracted to women, I understand there is a wide range of emotions and a variety of ways of dealing with whatever life throws your way.

One of which is to look at a problem and want to fix it. I understand men want to be fixers, and, for the most part this is great for things like a clogged drain or dead car battery. . . it is not great if your partner needs you to help her by listening...

Sometimes, men, you should stop yourself and let it go. You should tell yourself that you need to listen and also to shut up. This is doubly important when someone is anxious and needs to get it out. I have only met a few men who are great listeners, and those were professionals I was paying to listen.

So. Listen.

That was not so much for myself as it was for a dear girlfriend of mine's husband, both of which are GIAPH readers. When she called to talk, it hit home with me because I can remember feeling precisely that at times when I was dating...so...there it is.

Dylan has these two plastic light saber knock offs that we got in the city one weekend. One glows red and the other glows green and I have tried - unsuccessfully- about 18 times to get rid of them. The reason is that he whacks the shit out of the back of my legs every single time he plays with them. Sometimes I hide them under the couch or in drawers or in the trunk of the car. I won't see them for a few days, and then they suddenly appear. It is starting to baffle me, but I refuse to comment because then he'll be aware of my grand scheme to spare my calves from any more bludgeonings.

I found the mother-of-all-hiding-places about two days ago, and put them in the top of my closet behind some boxes. Sure as shit, this morning he walks into the kitchen with them shoved down the sides of his shorts (like a holster kind of. that's how he wears them) just minding his own business. I almost dropped my coffee.

...yeah...still haven't figured that one out yet.

one hundred thirty three dollars and fifty two cents.

How to spend one hundred dollars in less than one hour.


1. Fill your gas tank while you still are at half-full. - 26.54

2. Take your six year old son to the local fair.

3. Take one look at the local fair and the fair-goers and get back in car. Drive to nearest drug store and purchase hand sanitizer - 6.98

4. Return to fair and purchase 25 tickets - 25.00

5. Ignore that you just purchased said tickets and, instead opt to throw a super ball into a bucket repeatedly until you win a 7" tall stuffed Spiderman. - 5.00 x 8 = 40.00

6. Run - full speed - toward the elephant ears. Indulge - 6.00

7. Run - full speed - to the "Spider". Ride it. Twice.

8. Climb up the moonwalk slide. Roll down on your side.

9. Ride the "Spider" again.

10. Vomit said elephant ear into nearest trash can.

11. Purchase another elephant ear - 6.00

12. Decide to stop riding rides despite still having 15 tickets.

13. Throw darts at 4" diameter balloons until you win an inflatable hammer. WITH A SQUEAKER. - 3.00 x 6 = 18.00

14. Ear of Corn - 2.50

15. Drop ear of corn. Purchase another - 2.50

16. Drag feet to car, whilst screaming inconsolably. Drive home with pockets full of tickets, a 7" vomit-covered stuffed Spiderman, and an inflatable hammer WITH A SQUEAKER.

Total of endeavor: 133.52
Lesson learned: priceless


"It's good to have money and the things that money can buy, but it's good, too, to make sure you haven't lost the things that money can't buy." - George Horace Lorimer

When He Was Two

Me - "WH-WH-WHAT'S ON MY SHOWER CURTAIN, DYLAN?

Dylan - "little bit of poop, maybe."

Me - "Maybe? MAYBE? ...it looks like poop, Dylan."

Dylan - "It's poop mum."

Me - "Did you use the shower curtain to wipe your butt?"

Dylan - "um.uh.no"

Me - "Then why is there poop on the shower curtain?"

Dylan - "um. a bad guy? a bad guy did it..."

Me - "You did it. You wiped your butt on the shower curtain, didn't you? I can tell that's what happened."

Dylan - "maybe dest a little bit. a little bit of poop."

New Photography

New Photography

Dating and The Single Mom

It was bound to happen eventually...this topic would come up.

I guess it's hard to know where to start on this topic...the first word that comes to mind is "insurmountable." Christ, that's such a poor word choice, but it is what I thought of. So. I'll start there.

I wish I had the time and insight to write some sort of how-to book on dating single moms. I wish I could put some stereotypes to rest, and others on a pedestal for their degree of truth...but I don't want to address stereotypes. I want to explain this "insurmountable" business that is at the forefront of my head.

First of all, the love I have for my son. That is insurmountable. I don't suspect anyone who isn't in my position would ever understand how deeply this love runs. It is in my blood. It's in my fibers. It is on a cellular level. Anyone who dates a single mom, myself included (but don't count on it.) should know that this love is insurmountable.

You will never conquer it.
You will never be able to hold a really long stick and touch it.
You'll never come before it.
You'll never hop the fence around it, you'll never walk up it's driveway even.

So don't fucken try.

My level of tolerance with the opposite sex has grown so slim that sometimes I forget that handsome men exist. Sometimes I forget to be attracted to anyone. Sometimes I feel asexual, as if my entire self is on the planet to work and poop. I forget that I am entitled to companionship outside of a 6 year old little boy.

I can only speak for myself, but I think all single moms get this way at times. We forget men are there for...whatever their function is.

I think I have been alone with Dylan so long that if I were to ever be in a committed relationship, I would be clueless as to what the other person's role would be in his life. I fear I would stand between them in order to be that much closer to Dylan.

I fear my life will always encircle Dylan, making it impossible for me to foster any other type of relationship.

I fear I am so hellbent on surviving that sometimes I forget to thrive.

And I think this fear is
insurmountable.

As a single mom, I don't always know what I want. I don't like dating. I don't like putting on makeup. I don't like all of the hoops and loopholes. In fact, I prefer being alone to all that dating entails...if I do all this...you'd better be worth it. Don't waste my/our time.

We all have a story about how we got to where we are. If you don't know that story, then there is a good chance you really don't know us. While I can only, once again, speak for myself, getting to where I am has been a life-changing and painful journey. Most single moms have fought harder than hell to get where they are. Most of us have experienced pain, abandonment, and utter confusion more times than one can imagine, all while holding a child on our hip.

We have fought tremendous battles with a child.
sucking.
on.
our.
breasts.

Dating a woman like that takes a lot of strength. It takes a lot of patience. I, like all women, can be insecure. I break down, I don't really ask for help and usually laugh when a man offers. I don't usually open up the way anyone wants me to. I can be nasty. I can be obnoxious. I am over-protective of every single thing that means anything to me.

Because I fought the insurmountable to get it.
And I will be damned if anyone takes it away.
Ever.

I will turn my back on you and never look again if you complicate my life, if you hurt my son, if you insult me, question me, or make me ever feel like less of a person.

Because I didn't start this journey the way I am now.
And a lot of destroying took place for me to rebuild.
And unless you are some amazing architect, which you aren't, I will never let any more destroying take place.
Ever.

There is a good chance it will be just Dylan and I for the rest of our lives. I may never get married and he may never have a father figure, but he will have so much more because I never sold us short. It's my responsibility to choose someone that will compliment us, respect what Dylan and I have together, and never stand in the way of our connection with one another. It is my responsibility to show Dylan how strong women behave. To show him what kind of people we need around and who to disregard.

It is my responsibility to remember where we came from and to recognize all of our blessings.

I would like to think that we are survivors, we are warriors, and we are worthy of someone who respects that and wants to join the fight.

I would like to think all single moms recognize this in themselves. Companionship is just a detail. Parenthood is what really matters.

In closing, I would like to say that, when dating single moms, you are either with us or against us. You will either enrich ours and our children's lives, or you will bring us down. It takes a special breed of man to love a woman and her child the way they deserve, and if you aren't that kind of man, it's ok. If you are a single mom and you don't feel you deserve someone like this... (which so many of us do)...you SO DO. Everyone is entitled to unconditional and true love. Some of us just have a tough road finding it.


"Those who escape hell never talk about it...and nothing much bothers them after that." - Charles Bukowski

Don't Tread On Me

Today is July 4th.

It is difficult to maintain train of thought with the crackle of bottle rockets as background music, but I'll try. This year, Independence Day has been exceptionally disappointing, as the weather is just terrible, 70ish and rainy. Dylan fell asleep around 10 and I'm not far behind him.

Yesterday, we attempted the Taste of Chicago, but it ended up a disaster. We took the train because Dylan has never been on it. Our train was about 40 minutes late leaving the station.
Dylan was occupied for about 11 minutes total, after which he decided to play I spy, which is an impossible game on a train as the scenery is obviously ever-changing. Once we got there, and after a long, tiring walk through a sea of people, we found ourselves in line for food tickets at about 8:23 p.m.
...not knowing that ticket sales end at 8:30 p.m., we watched as they flipped the "Open" sign to "Closed" in front of our very faces. Slowly, I exhaled, looked at Dylan's panicked eyes, and realized that this was not something worth mourning - not even for a minute - and explained to him what a non-big deal this was. We headed through another endless crowd of people and found ourselves at a chain-restaraunt, eating potato soup and drinking tea. We missed the fireworks.

En route to the train station to head home, we stopped here, where Dylan insisted on playing in the water and my ever-present momguilt allowed him to.

While the experience left him wet and shivering, he got a few minute's thrill out of it. Who am I to take that away?

Things have been hectic lately, leaving me without much time to blog. I'm sorry to those of you who read this for that. I'll try harder. In the time that has passed, Dylan has cut his own hair:
Received a stern talking-to about making better choices, and learned to laugh at his own ridiculous-ness. I didn't make a huge fuss about the hair incident. At first, I think the shock of it infuriated me more than anything. I really thought he knew better and wouldn't pull something like that. I was proven so wrong when I stepped out of the bathroom and saw him looking like a little dutch boy who got his head stuck in a weed-eater. Needless to say, we headed straight for a haircut joint and discussed the situation on the way. He was ashamed, knew he knew better, and promised to never take such things into his own hands again. I, in response, hid all of the scissors I could find within a five mile radius in a very high location that I will never disclose.
Yes, the photo is funny. I must have laughed for 20 minutes when he came up to me to show me what he'd found. But, damn...that hair is something else.

T-ball has ended. Dylan played a good season that I, regrettably, was not always able to attend. I look forward to baseball, as I know he will do well. He seems like a natural talent. He just needs to work on his attention span. Here is a photo of the new haircut on the day of his last game:

What a big kid. How did that happen? I could pour out some 'it seemed like just yesterday's', but I'll spare everyone.

I am so proud of who Dylan is turning into. He is so rambunctious, overjoyed at the thought of doing anything new and bringing along anyone who will come. He is easy to be around, generally honest as long as his ass isn't on the line, and one of the funniest people I know. The best thing about being us is that we never have to do anything alone. I never feel lonely and neither does he. He is my comrade, hands-down the very best friend I have ever had. I don't like to go many places without him and when I do, I spend a good chunk of the first hour there wondering what he is doing and if I have forgotten to tell him anything important, like how much I love him.

Dylan seems to understand me better than anyone else in my life. He knows what I mean before I have to explain. We generally want the same things at the same times. We agree on what days would be good lazy days and what days would be good galavanting days (Sunday Funday, obviously.) We can share our dinners, share a beach towel, share a seat, share a spoon, share a tee-shirt, and neither of us complains. We can sleep in the same bed rhythmically and without disturbing each other, yet somehow wake up at congruent 45 degree angles.

And, this child, he can make me laugh harder than anyone I know, and I, him. We can lay in an empty room and remain entertained for as long as necessary. We rarely mind waiting when the situation calls for it and our humor compliments the other's just perfectly.

I'm lucky to have someone who gets me, and not because of any extranneous effort. It's just the way things are after spending almost 7 years together. Who would have thought such a perfect thing existed?

Not me, no way, not if I wasn't living it every day of my life.

It's an interesting thing, raising a child. Despite all the uncertainties in life, you are the one they look to for just that - to be the certain one. I try hard not to look Dylan in the eye and tell him "I don't know." I am constantly looking for solutions to problems, answers to questions, explanations for the way things are - in an effort to keep him from worry. Lord knows there have been times I have held desperately on to him because he was the only certain thing in my whole life, but God bless us, he has never known that was the situation at any given time.

There are these silent moments that generally occur while he is sleeping or sitting quietly in the car looking out the window that I notice that he hasn't a care in the world. I realize this human has the utmost level of trust in me...and it baffles me because I am always so unsure of myself. But I believe there is a layer of confidence that one only obtains in parenthood.

It is not the confidence that I know what I am doing - because I rarely do.
It is not the confidence that every thing will work out - because it rarely does.
It's not even the confidence that we will figure every little thing out - because it's never that easy.

It is the confidence that my heart is in the right place, that I am putting forth all the effort one human can. It is a confidence in hope. A belief in grace. I have a quiet, unspoken, undetectable confidence that I will overcome any obstacle that detours me -regardless of scale- and that he will be there with me.


"To bring up a child in the way he should go, travel that way yourself once in a while." ~Josh Billings

We.Can't.Afford.It.

Today is my parent's 26th wedding anniversary.

26 years.

twenty.
six.
years.

...is longer than my whole life at this point.

When my parents met, my mom had two daughters. We don't generally talk about that stuff, but I am because it's a beautiful thing. It is a fact that has, many times, reminded me that people are genuinely good somewhere inside. It grants me hope that being a single mom doesn't mean I am unworthy of unconditional love. Dad was younger than mom when they met working at a drugstore together. (Who says workplace romance is dead?) And he proposed to her at a pizza place where we still eat occasionally.

Together, there are five of us kids. I am in the middle, with two older and two younger. We are a normal family by any American standards.


My parents came from humble beginnings and have worked their asses off to get where they are now. For as long as I can remember, my Dad has worked multiple jobs, both in and out of the home. For as long as I can remember, he has never uttered a complaint about this. Throughout my childhood, he has come home from work, ate dinner with our family, taken a shower, went to his office, shut the door, smoked Kool Filter Kings in a soft pack, drank Old Style or Icehouse, and worked. . . and worked. I would hide under his desk, examine his feet, click his pencils, chew his erasers, examine blueprints, hand him highlighters, and watch - in sheer amazement- as he worked his way from the first to the last page of a blueprint. Quietly, calmly, collected, my dad would instill a diligent work ethic and family structure in me, one page at a time.

At the end of the night, he would go upstairs.
Kiss my mom. Watch the news.
And go to bed.


I would be the luckiest woman I know if I could marry a man with half of what my dad has. I would be the most blessed person I can think of if I could share my life with a person who prioritizes and works like him. . .

Throughout my entire childhood, my mother never sat down. I am certain that she did not take a seat until I was about 19 years old. My mom was a foster mom. My family also belonged to approximately 5 other kids at a time throughout somewhere upwards of ten years. My mom tirelessly corralled children of all ages, races, and degrees of neglect. She fed children whose mothers could not. She clothed kids in clean clothes, gave babies baths in the kitchen sink. My mom held crack babies as they wailed relentlessly for hours on end at two in the morning. She shuffled, barefoot, down the hall and peeked in bedrooms as we slept. My mother opened the front door at midnight to welcome a tiny baby with no name. She went to doctor's appointments with a van full of a variety of children.
My mother
walked
through KMart
with a cart full of brown, black, pink, bruised children.
And my mother loved each of these kids for who they were. She loved them fully. She loved them properly. She provided to them all the things I am still ashamed to take advantage of sometimes. She served us spaghetti in punch bowls, and peeled potatoes, three pounds at a time.

To this day, I still am not certain how to cook for just two people.
I still cannot see a baby anywhere and not want to smell it's head.
I can't babysit a friends child without wanting to give them a long, warm bath.
To this day, I know I am a better woman and mother because my mom was. She was to any child that would accept it.


I try my hardest to be as tough as my mother. I work every day at being the kind of person who exudes heartfelt sincerity as touchingly as she does....

My parents used to take us cruising. They took us riding through town to look at Christmas lights. They laid on the living room floor and played Carrom with us. My parents got us Dairy Queen. They let us sleep over at Grandma Pat's house. My parents got us - every year - somehow - the very thing we wanted for Christmas.

To this day, I cannot tell you if we went without. I don't believe I did. If we were struggling, I never knew it and still don't.

Growing up, I watched as my friend's families crumbled into a collection of scattered people. Almost everyone I knew had parents getting divorced. Growing up, that word was never uttered. I didn't think it would happen to us. I knew it wouldn't. I never wondered...and it didn't.

I am so proud of my parents, of who they are, of what they have taught me. I am proud of who they have made me - even when they aren't of me. I value them and love them immensly. They are two very, very different people who somehow co-exist in a beautiful, harmonious balance.

My parents are a solid unit. They are loving people with charitable hearts. They are each other's best friend. They are the backbone of our family. My parents have instilled a sense of values in me that never really occured to me until the last few years.

Anyway, thanks, mom and dad. For making it through these 26 years without killing each other because I need you both and one of you dead and the other in prison makes for a tough babysitter search.

For making it through these 26 years because if you hadn't, I fear I would never know what family really means.

For making it through these 26 years because loyalty is taught best through actions.

For making it through these 26 years because my life has been so much better and enriched because of it.

I love you both.


Love,

Number Three

Everything About Friendship I Learned From A Dog

So much has been going on lately, and only a small percentage of it is good.

We have finished the moving ordeal, and the new place is tiny, but fine enough for us. It's interesting how detached I am from the moving process. I filled boxes, I moved boxes, I emptied boxes, I threw away boxes. Done and done.

On Sunday, my car died. Officially. I will be going this weekend to get a new car. No biggie. I am just glad I'm in a position and mindset that this isn't terribly overwhelming.

In other news, I have recently reached the conclusion that the world is an ugly, ugly place. Every time I turn around, it seems something tragic is happening. I don't remember things being this way when I was younger. Were they and I just wasn't aware of it? Was I too young to recognize it?

Locally, a three year old girl was kidnapped, killed, burned, cast in concrete, and disposed of in shallow waters a county away.

Nationally, the governor of South Carolina has been having a yearlong affair with his wife with a woman in Argentina. Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, and Ed McMahon have all died within a week. Fox news was granted permission to report whateverthehell they want. John and Kate Gosslin are divorcing.

Never mind the blatant disappointment factor here, what about the overwhelming mayhem of things? I fear it's only going to get worse from here. Sometimes it's like walking down a narrowing hallway, and all of the mess is closing in.

I know people think these things don't affect them daily. I know a lot of this is just stuff I should absorb and move on from. I have just been frustrated lately. Irritated with the lack of quality people in positions of great attention or power. Irritated with how half-assed everyone is these days.

And THAT is something that affects me daily.

Why is it that people cannot be counted on? Don't you want to be able to be counted on? I have some pretty awesome people in my life, good friends who would lay it on the line for us. I have people I would take a bullet for in my life. They are loyal, respectful, and the kind of people I want my son to look up to.

To me, they are the only ones who really matter. They are set apart from everyone else.

There are so many disposable people, people who come and go as they please, when things are easy. I have learned to keep them at arm's length.

Loyalty is a dying art. I hope and pray Dylan masters this art before he gets much older. I hope he picks up on what makes some people worth fighting for and what makes others a waste of effort. I hope he values people the way they deserve, because he holds them in a place where they should be valued and not because he feels obligated.

I hope Dylan respects the people who are worth it. I know it's my job to teach him this, but at a point, he will make up his mind for himself.

If I could teach him anything on the subject, it would be this: hold on to the people who would hold on to you. Don't get jaded, keep relationships strong. When all of your surroundings become mundane and you feel the spark and the need for change - change things...but keep these people consistently close. Keep them as near to your heart as you possibly can and remind them-often-that they are there. If people are in and out, cut them loose, they will weigh you down when things get hard. Your heart is a delicate place and it should be a blessing to be allowed in. If someone takes advantage of it, don't ever let them back in. The two most important things in friendship are tolerance and loyalty. We only get one shot at living a life surrounded by people we trust. Do it right.



"Lack of loyalty is one of the major causes of failure in every walk of life." - Napoleon Hill