Filling In

My husband (The Man- TM) brought me some of my old journals when he last visited, and along with a burning embarrassment about some things in my past, I had this realization that there were huge gaps in the story. Huge. There are bigger ones in between my blog posts, and this bothers me more often than not-- but apparently not enough for me to be more diligent.

However, I just have to fill in this one detail. You know a few months back, when the powers of Hades came swooping in and took away #1 Son? It just happened to be the 10-year anniversary of our losing our firstborn. Those two occasions are (I think) the only times I've ever known my husband to cry.

One other thing. After I talked to TM on the phone that morning, I flipped open the scriptures and this was the first verse my eyes lit on. It's an old trick I learned in seminary; looks like it still works.

Old Things Are New Again

Maybe it was out of new-in-town loneliness, maybe it was boredom, or maybe it was the spam I got, but whatever the reason, I recently popped on over to Classmates.com. Most people have done it at some point or other, but I, at least, used to get pretty disgusted and bored within the first 5 minutes because you couldn't actually communicate with your friends. I mean, what's the point of knowing they're out there somewhere if you have to pay $30 to just send an email to see if they remember you? Come on... Even the new Facebook is WAY better than that.

Well, they've changed some things, and I'm starting to feel a little better about Classmates. You can leave messages on your own page, though you still can't see your own guest book or tell anyone how to contact you... well, not openly. Not if they catch you. But I digress.

I've been spending some time on Facebook lately, too. And I've found a few of my old friends on both sites. Some people I barely remembered, but the names rang a bell or two. As I've looked at their photos and other things they've posted, the memories have begun trickling back to me. With some people more than others. And it's interesting to see what's happened in their lives over the (many, many) years. (The swaggering Casanova got his master's degree? The obsessive knitter became a computer programmer? Who'd'a thought?)

As I pondered all this, wondering at times why I even bothered, I started to smile. It occurred to me that I was refreshing myself in the spring of my creativity. Writers know what I mean: every person and place and thing that we've ever known is stored in memory, waiting to come out to populate and furnish our stories. I have plenty of material. And now I have the tools to reach it. Can hardly wait for November.

In Retrospect: One Year

One year ago this weekend, my beloved husband, the man of my dreams, the light of my life, broke my heart into bits and turned my life upside-down. Because I loved him so much and wanted so much for our family to stay together, I responded with compassion and forgiveness. I tried extra hard to be the best wife I could be; I obviously had plenty of flaws.

In response to my efforts, my husband closed himself off from me. I cried. A lot.

Weeks went by, and I started to wonder why I kept trying when he seemed so uninterested. I still wonder.

One night he slept in the basement and I found a note in a woman's handwriting giving directions to another woman's house. It could have been innocent. He says it might have been. He doesn't really know, though. Apparently, he's given up rational thought.

That was only the beginning of what I found. In the next 12 hours, I had enough to start divorce proceedings. But I didn't. I threw the bum out, and when he called later, I chewed him out, too.

And then I took him back. Well, he'd confessed and said sorry, he'd gotten medical and psychological treatment, and he'd actually taken some steps to return to being the man I loved. I thought he meant it. I really wanted it to work.

It's not that I don't know that wishing doesn't make it so. I do. But it was more than wishing, I thought.

We started marriage counseling in January, and he started experimenting with his meds. I could tell instantly when he wasn't taking them, but he didn't see the difference. Therapy went poorly as he remained uncommunicative and unapologetic. "It's in the past!" he'd say, "Can't we just move on?"

I hear that's a typical cry of unfaithful husbands. I hate that I had to hear it from mine.

But I kept trying. My beautiful little boys kept me trying to hold the marriage together, no matter what. Seeing what #1 Son has gone through with his divorced parents over the past 11 years kept me resolutely opposed to putting my babies in that position, ever. I'd suffer if I had to, but I couldn't let that happen to them.

Finally, I realized that I couldn't shield them anymore. For starters, I overheard Pirate Boy saying to his little brother, "Daddy's a little crazy." More than once. And my husband was neglecting not only his family, but his work and school. When he did work, half the time the money never saw our bank account. It was getting desperate.

But you know what? I could have dealt with all that if only...

...if only my husband still loved me.

But he doesn't, and I can't take it anymore. I just can't.

And yet... like a hopelessly romantic idiot, I'm giving him one last chance. He has one year. One year to become the man the children and I need him to be. One year to be a decent husband and father. One more year.

Think it'll happen?

She's So Darn Predictable

Well, Satan did exactly what I said she would, within a few hours of hearing about her boy flunking. Down to saying the school was too hard and rejecting the notion that it was just as possible for her boy to pass as it is for mine. (Well, you know, it's not as hard for second-graders as for seventh-graders! No, um, comparatively, it is. Exactly as hard.)

So she's got a lawyer on the case, and she's outlined her demands, which she (and probably everyone she knows, except us) thinks are completely reasonable. And she's reminded TM that he has no money to fight her on it. I hate that woman. She's completely predictable, like the vulture that came and ate Prometheus' liver every day. And there's just as little that we can do about her.

I asked TM what he thinks we can do. I'm all for putting our house up for sale, as-is, cheap, and getting what cash we can from it before the bank takes it away. The potential lawsuit is just another reason we need to. TM doesn't think so, so we're not. His plan is to get the transcript from our last court battle, which, as some people may remember, turned out so very well.


Then he asked me, "Do you remember what year that was?"


Ummm... yeah. Right down to the date and the hour. It was the turning point of my whole life, and you're asking me? Right.

Just don't ask me to do it again.

Tears Me Up

Heart breaking. But not in an entirely bad way.

Happy Anniversary to Me

Nine years, can you believe it? Nine years ago this afternoon (Hawaii time), TM and I were trailing behind a white-robed, hippy-ish island preacher across the grounds of the new "Fantasy Island" TV show, trying to get the workmen to get out of the way so we could go ahead with our wedding ceremony. Some highlights of the event (in case I haven't mentioned them too many times for you to forget), in no particular order:

• a large dog that knocked #1 Son (age 3) down and licked him all during the ceremony
• a manky but colorful parrot that sat on people's heads
• a long mournful blast on a conch shell to signify a long happy life together
• bridesmaids (and bride) in tropical print dresses
• a groom in a Hawaiian shirt and leafy lei
• the loud but gleeful statement, "I'm not wearing any underwear!"
• a preacherly monologue featuring the words "intimate relationships with animals"
• ocean breezes rustling the palm trees and tall grasses
• a massive mosquito attack on the legs of bride and bridesmaids
• wonderful family and friends, most of whom had made a long trip just for our special day (the chance to have a Hawaiian vacation wasn't a draw at all, I'm sure)

After cake, cookies, and socializing in the park, TM and I drove off into the be-rainbowed sunset for a relaxing wedding night at the Turtle Bay Hilton, with guava cake for breakfast. Not a bad start, really. Here's to the next nine years.

My World (If I Recall Correctly)

Hmm... I know I'm still alive, and even more, that I've had ideas about what to blog lately. (I even had a great idea for changing the tag for the comments, but heck if I can remember it now.) So I guess what we can say about this week is that my memory is still fading. But let's see what else I can remember.

I remember all too well that Pirate Boy had a concert last night and I missed it. I started feeling sick before dinner, and The Man (TM) asked if I thought I'd be going to the concert. "I'm going if it kills me," I replied. But then Punkin Boy fell asleep and late afternoon naps make him wake up screaming. In a nutshell, when it was nearly time to leave, he and I were both curled up on my bed in no condition to go anywhere. Heck, Pirate Boy was barely ready to go. Curses. But I got TM to take the digital camera and get some pictures for me, so that was a happy thing. They even turned out well. Now if Picasa would only work for me...

Let's see, what else? Oh yes, I remember that I was sick Wednesday morning, too. I know because it was the morning of my writers group, and I didn't go to that, either. I find myself not even caring anymore about it, which makes me feel kind of sad. I remember that TM was gone until after midnight a couple of nights this week, which makes me feel very tired. Easter turned out well for the kids, thanks to some kind presents and cards from other people, including my wonderful parents. This makes me feel grateful.

And on a lighter note, Punkin Boy is continuing his studies of animals in the insect kingdom. We recently found a website called "Pestworld for Kids," which has some really fun learning games and animations. The younger kids love it. So Punkin Boy has been playing "pest detective" and "pest ranger" a lot this week. One thing I want to remember happened yesterday. He came running up to me, panting with excitement and said, "Mama! Happy news! I get to see the spiders again!" Oh the thrill of it all. Oh to be 3 again.

Highway to Where?

This travel article is pretty good, but the headline is just wrong. I'm not saying anything against the town of Hana, because it's a lovely place. But the road that takes you up there... I would never ever call it a "Highway to Heaven." Quite the contrary. The result of a recent poll of people in this room (i.e., me and The Man) clearly shows the correct term would be something like "hellish." Granted, we experienced this road together, so we had the same trip to the Underworld, but think about this: other people who'd been there told us that driving a rental car up the road to Hana would void our rental agreement. That's not a good sign, in my book.

We didn't even intend to go to Hana on that trip, but I got mixed up and turned east when I should have gone west. By the time I realized what I'd done, there was no place to turn the car around. We drove that whole 52 miles up the winding narrow cliff road as the sun went down and rude mainlanders whizzed back at us (in many cases, cursing loudly and shaking their fists). I'd say it was the most nerve-wracking couple of hours I'd ever had, but the trip up was nothing compared to the trip down.

I wished we'd had the time (or resources) to stay the night, but our stuff was waiting for us across the island at the Royal Lahaina. Night had fallen and boy, we city folk know nothing about how dark night can be until we experience it in someplace as remote as this. I was terrified to try to drive that same road in the dark; at least on the way up, you're on the inside lane. One wrong move on the trip down, and you won't be returning that rental car-- ever. So we decided to try the road that led out the opposite side of Hana town. The map didn't say exactly what kind of road it was or what exactly it passed through, but we could tell it wasn't on a cliff.

No, it wasn't on a cliff. It went right out through the middle of a never-ending sugar cane field. In the absolute pitch black. In a Dodge Neon. Now, lest you think that's not too bad, and maybe even a little romantic, let me describe sugar-cane roads for you. If I just mention that they're rutted dirt roads that pass right through the middle of vast fields of cane, nothing but tall stalks for miles and miles, you just won't get it. I asked The Man (TM) for his opinion on them, and he shuddered. "Don't drive on them!" was all he could muster. They don't look as evil as they really are, jolting (as it seems) your entire vehicle to pieces no matter how slow you go, and never ever ending...

That was bad enough. But then this enormous beast came roaring at us out of nowhere. After the first second of terror, I realized that it wasn't a gigantic dragon with glowing eyes. In fact, it probably had a name like "Chevrolet" printed somewhere on it, but compared to our tiny rental, this monster truck was enormous. And it was going fast. Our headlights were on, so I'm sure it could see us; nothing else was lit for miles around. The road was narrow, so I pulled the little Neon as close to the side as I could and slowed almost to a stop before the beast attacked-- it did! It lunged at our little car, scraping the paint and taking our side mirror with it as it fled into the night.

I was still shaking as I pulled our little car into a restaurant parking lot in Lahaina. I had never been so glad to see asphalt and artificial illumination. Of course, the restaurant by this time was about to close, along with all other eateries on Maui, so we crawled back to our hotel, battered and traumatized, and went to sleep hungry. Remind me sometime, and I'll write about the rest of our miserable trip. 'Cause it didn't get any better from there. No, I don't remember Maui with fondness at all, and The Man-- he hates it. Highway to heaven indeed.

Slow and Steady Wins the Race

I just have a few more thoughts about yesterday's post and life in general. So here I go, in case anyone's still out there. (I'd link to the people I mean, but they tend to have deleted or otherwise abandoned their blogs lately. That's a whole other post that will require a soapbox and a bit more energy than I've got today, so this is what you get for now.)

I tend to be pretty proud of myself for keeping at this whole "write a novel in a month" thing, you know, just a couple thousand words a day and eventually you're there. My progress bars show constant, unspectacular progress from day 1 to day 30 when I finally crossed the finish line with 12 whole hours to go. (Woohoo!)

On the other hand, The Man (TM) also signed up for NaNo this year. He sat at about 1500 words for half the month. Then he got up to a few thousand. Then he seemed to give up (well, OK, and had the flu for Thanksgiving break). But this week, he threw it into gear and was up to 22,000 words by Wednesday. So, only 28,000 more to go in 48 hours. Well, I'll tell you what: He put on a burst of speed and made up all that ground and an extra 2,000 to boot. (I have to say I am really proud of him.)

But all this reminded me of the year I was 11, when a kind, well-meaning teacher wrote a poem for all the girls in my church class. In it, she tried to emphasize the strengths of each girl with the intent, I'm sure, of helping us feel good about ourselves. Unfortunately, she had no tact. So, she described one girl as "the pretty one" and another as "the happy one" and so on. Guess what I was. That's right, "the steady one"; the one who always kept at a task until it was done but didn't (apparently) have much else to recommend her. I was an ugly, fat, bespectacled creature, it's true. And very shy, with untreated depression. But I did not feel flattered by this poetic description of my strong point, as you might guess.

But looking at myself now, I know that she was right. I would never be "the pretty one" or "the happy one" or even "the friendly one" but I've remained steady all these years. Yay me. It may be my saving grace during these lean times, though. Yay me.

When I'm Sixty-Four

For a reason that eludes me at the moment, but may have existed at one time, the lyrics to the Beatles' song "When I'm 64" have been running through my head for a couple weeks now. The part that always gets my attention is this:

Every summer we can rent a cottage
In the Isle of Wight, if it's not too dear
We shall scrimp and save
Grandchildren on your knee
Vera, Chuck, and Dave

Yesterday I remembered that in the summer of '94, I stayed in a castle on the Isle of Wight. It was just perfect (aside from the jerk I was with). I'd settle for a cottage now. But honestly, even a movie about the Isle of Wight is too dear these days, even with scrimping and saving.




Maybe I can afford it again when I'm 64. But I'll drop-kick the kid who names his son Chuck, just so you know.

Everyone's a Critic

I happened across this travel article on CNN.com today and was browsing through it 'cause boy, I need a vacation. It's all about beach resorts, and just looking at the pictures (instead of the snow on the ground outside) was very relaxing. As I reached the end of the "Pacific Coast" section, a comment caught my eye. It was about the Turtle Bay Resort (which was a Hilton when I spent my wedding night there). In the very first sentence, the writer says, "Turtle Bay Resort may underwhelm you as you enter the... uninspired grounds." I'm sorry, things may have changed since I was there last, but HUH? Take a look at the photos and see whether you're inspired or underwhelmed. I fully plan to be inspired as I go to bed now and reflect on the memories of eating guava cake for breakfast on the lanai with my sweetheart as I watched the waves break and felt the soft ocean breeze. I didn't pay any $900 a night, either. Who writes this stuff?

All in the Family

Or maybe I should title this one "It's All About Me." As a spinoff of the trend of Googling oneself (and don't say you've never done it), I recently tried to "Wiki" myself-- that is, input my name into the Wikipedia search box to see what comes up. My name produces 17 hits, the first of which is Killer Klowns from Outer Space. (Second is Angie Dickinson, which is of course, not my name or anything like it. What the heck?)

This started because I discovered that my cousin has a Wikipedia entry. No, not Donovan, the cousin I usually brag about, but one I've been a lot closer to. Last I heard, Ryan was a ska promoter in Phoenix, but apparently he's moved up in the art scene in the past few years. It's his birthday this weekend and I was thinking of him, so I decided to finally dig up the New Times article his dad mentioned. Turns out he's got a much bigger Wiki entry than Donovan. Hmmm. On the other hand, Donovan's got an IMDB entry. Yes, there's some Wiki envy here.

You get the feeling I come from kind of an accomplished family. No joke. My little sisters form the backup group for a folk singer whose name is not on the tip of my tongue so I can't link to him. I'm not completely incompetent myself; the first Google hit you get when searching on my name is in fact a reference to me. As are 3 of the next 10 hits. Not too bad. Donovan became the host of a super-popular TV show at age 24. I really can't touch that. Then there's Ryan. In the last few years, he's become a punk/thrash frontman, a talk-show host, a comedian, a performance artist, and half a dozen other things. And just a few months ago, he put on a new suit, said goodbye to the scene, and headed off to be a missionary in Oregon. He was 19 years old.

Dudes. I am running so behind.

Maternity

Tonight I'm feeling motherly. The Man (TM) was gone most of the day on errands and things, taking one or the other of the little boys with him and leaving the other with me. (#1 Son is off with Mommy this weekend.) So I've had a lot of mom practice today. When TM came home at dinner time with Pirate Boy, the little guy went straight to his room to lie down, so I didn't see him for a while. Eventually, I heard him sniffling and went to check on him, though he was reportedly "taking a nap."

Ack! What is going on? My precious Pirate Boy looks like he's been beaten in the face repeatedly and is having a really hard time breathing. What the ----?! Poor little guy croaks out that he is probably allergic to cats and wonders aloud if we have any medicine. Poor little sweetie. Fortunately, we did have a couple of doses of children's Benadryl left, and I soaked a washcloth in cold water for him to put on his poor puffy purple eyes. He tells me that's what "the lady" did, too.

Oh yes, the lady friend of Daddy's that you guys spent 2-3 hours with this afternoon instead of coming home after your errand, or at least after you started getting sick. I'm not even going to mention "without calling home." I'm not. She's an old professional contact of Daddy's, after all. Shut up, I know it's Saturday and he's not working.

Anyway, Punkin Boy was also feeling a little needy today; he was up last night until nearly 11 and then up again by 7 a.m. with his brother. Dang, what do you eat, spark plugs? And he was up until after 9 again tonight, with no nap. But fussy and whiny and wanting Daddy when he wasn't home and wanting to be read the same book 100 times. Well, that's pretty standard, really.

But my thoughts keep straying to my good friend Kory O, who was supposed to have her baby this week, or that was the intent of scheduling labor induction on Thursday afternoon. She's my age, having her first baby, and he's a whopper (not unlike my Punkin Boy, whom I had by c-section thank-you-very-much). Now, I've had a couple of inductions myself, so I know that they take a good long time, even when they go well. But dangit, it's Saturday night, and I still haven't heard anything. I'm worried.

OK, let's think about what we know about having labor induced. First, when you show up at the hospital at the time they scheduled you for, they inevitably send you home because somebody else is already in labor and after all, you can wait. Even if you can't, you can. Go home and wait another day or two. (With my first, I had to wait from Friday until Monday. Those punks.) Eventually, though, they will let you in and the real fun begins.

So let's see, maybe she didn't get in until Friday afternoon... OK, then they take a year putting in all the IV needles because at 9 months along, you're swollen like a beach ball and you have no veins near the surface. The ones they do find either roll over or burst, turning you a lovely shade of black in no time. That kills a couple hours. Then they start the pitocin drip.

For a while it seems nothing is happening, but you start to get a little irritable. More irritable. If you're me, your husband develops a nasty case of the hiccups that nothing-- including a trip to the emergency room-- will cure. This will make you homicidal within another two hours. You will banish him for a while, then get lonely and scared and call him back. Then the cycle will repeat. Occasionally, a nurse will appear to check your vital signs. This will irritate you more.

You may try to listen to music, do crosswords, or read. Everything will irritate you in short order, and you will fling it aside and pace around the room, if there's space. You will start feeling like you're having menstrual cramps and think "Now we're getting somewhere." But you're not. Trust me; you'll be able to sleep through these, no problem. And you do.

No, it's not until about 1 p.m. of the second day that things get interesting-- again, if you're me, but I hear this isn't uncommon. At some point, you enter what my childbirth-class teacher called "the speeding car." Suddenly, there it is, full-blown labor, and it takes your breath away. Things after that get a little blurry, but you will start crying out for the drugs. If you're me, you do the tame stuff, the analgesics that last for a couple hours maybe. They might even knock you out. If you're Kory, you're wily enough to have asked for an epidural right up front. No messing around, just make the pain stop. I am a little leery about epidurals, but I won't tell the horror stories here.

The rest depends a lot on mother and baby and a little on the doctor and hospital. I never did dilate enough to deliver a full-size baby, and finally, about 28 hours into the process, the doc suggested maybe I might consider a c-section. Yay. That would be about... now, if Kory had to start a day later than she was scheduled. So I guess I don't have to worry too much unless I don't hear from them tomorrow. I'm sure they'll call. Or email. Or something.

I worry. They have no relatives in the area, and nobody will be arriving to help, even if things go awry-- his family lives half a world away, her parents are in the next world. Her brother and his wife just had a baby a week or two ago-- with Downs Syndrome and a heart defect. They have enough to deal with. So I worry. Ten years ago, I'd have been there for her, with her. But now all I can do is worry and pray and write about it. Did I mention worry? Aye.

On the up side, Pirate Boy is feeling better and can actually breathe enough to sleep tonight. Well, that's a relief.

Dilemma

So in a fit of curiosity a while back, I signed up for one of those "find your old school friends" services online-- just the free kind, 'cause I'm not that crazy. But of course most of the people I care about talking to again aren't listed on those things, or I already know how to get in touch with them, so I'd kind of forgotten about it.

However... this evening I got a notice that someone from my past was interested in getting in touch with me. This is a girl I hung out with in my old neighborhood (4th-8th grade), which I have to tell you, wasn't a very nice one. The neighborhood, I meant, but it's true of the girl too. There are those who would have called her family "white trash"; I didn't know what the term meant.

I could mention that she's now a single mom of teenagers and living in North Carolina, cleaning stuff for a living. So probably she hasn't really changed much, although I'm admittedly biased. I remember her laughing uproariously at her older brother's fart jokes. I remember the plaid shirts she used to wear before grunge had made them cool. I remember her stringy red hair and freckles, sometimes under a cowboy hat. Her wide grin, her brassy voice-- usually making a rude comment disguised as humor.

My mixed feelings about whether to reply to her note are curious to me. The years I spent in that place were not mostly happy ones, and the fact that I hung out with people I didn't like or respect embarrasses me. The fact that they feel good about having had me for a friend is nice, and I really want to be a friend to people... love thy neighbor and all that. So I guess I'm having a hard time accepting that I don't love my neighbor when she makes my skin crawl. Must work on that.