defeated

...at least that's how I feel. In so many ways. About the most important things.

I know that I am not able to be the hard-ass, consistent, rational person that Gabi needs me to be. I hate her hating me, if only for a moment.

I've always told my girls that my job is to be their mom, not their friend. And I still believe that. But when the 'not their friend' feels like enemy, it's really hard to persist.

Especially when you're trying to be yourself at the same time.

It seems like there comes a time when a parent feels like they've denied their own 'whatever' long enough and they want to embrace it with a vengance. My mother did it when she remarried, and I, as a teenage girl, felt rebuffed.

I have tried not to make my girls feel the same way, but at the same time I recognize ways in which I grasp at some separate identity and feel like I somewhow 'deserve' it and; therefore, give myself permission to indulge myself. Which, in the moment, makes my life easier, but ultimately feels like a disservice to my daughter, which is a horrible offense that I will flaggelate myself for again and again.

I am so lost for an answer, that I am ready to -seriously- try to bring in her dad. As Terri says, what's the worst that could happen? I already feel completely alone (except for my amazing friends and family) and couldn't end up any worse off. The question I have to ask myself is if I truly have no attachment to an outcome with her dad. My inability to write her off is akin to inability to write him off (once upon a time). Although, I would never reach my end with her. The concern is, have I definitively reached my end with him in respect to Gabi--so that I have no expectation whatsoever of his response, help, denial, etc.?

Terri has initiated "Operation Graduation." An intervention to try to get Gabi on track to be able to graduate on time. She is almost half-way through to graduation, which requires 27 credits. She has 5.5. She should at least be close to half of the requirement, but isn't even one quarter of the way there.

And she doesn't care.

It doesn't matter to her. She doesn't see any impact to her life if she doesn't have a high school diploma or doesn't learn to do things that may not seem fun or be her first choice, just because it's what needs to be done...to get a paycheck, to pay the bills, to have a fucking roof over your head and food on the table--let alone a night out or a vacation.

I have utterly failed to create in her a sense of responsibility or accountability or even the idea of consequences that are real enough that doing the minimum required is worth it.

My friends are on board to help fill in the gaps I leave. To remind me of what I need to do. To take on doing some of that on their own to support this awesome girl that we love and, I know, to support me (whom they love, awesome or not).

I am so grateful for that.

And I feel so inadequate that I am obviously incapable of doing this on my own.

And the truth remians that it will, most likely, turn out ok. And she will be fine and possibly amazing--with or without my inadequacy.

But as a parent that's not enough to make you relax. Or sleep well at night.

And, as Terri keeps telling me, "There is no way to fix this."

There is no magical solution. There is nothing I can do--no matter how awesome I might suddenly become--to really make any of this different. And I have to find a way to live with that--without copping out or giving up hope--no matter how tempting that momentarily feels. I will, regardless, go into battle again tomorrow. And I might do okay or I might get my ass kicked. So it fucking goes.

Baggage Claim: You Spin Me Round

There's some baggage you never want to claim as your own. And it's not just that nasty-ass carry-on you inherited from your great-aunt. All too often it's the knock-off Louis Vuitton that, although you knew it wasn't the real thing, still made you feel special until some snotty bitch with a "real" bag came along and burst your delicate bubble.

It started with an Easter basket. For him. Not from me.

He was lucky enough to have a son who was named after him--and his tactic was to play the whole thing off as a case of mistaken identity. Of course the gift was meant for his son, not him!

This, compounded with one hinky thing after another (my robe, night gown, and other miscellaneous clothing usually left hanging in the closet was mysteriously hidden; my drawer in the bathroom was moved; he was "too tired" to have sex and "just wanted to snuggle"), led me to become highly suspicious.

Unfortunately, I was the one to discover the basket and I--despite whatever 'cool girlfriend' cred I try to have--opened the card and read it. It said, "You spin me right round baby, right round."

Really?

I think one of the handles just broke on my knock-off Vuitton.

To be completely honest, this guy was too old to know that song. He was about a decade-and-a-half older than me and not cool enough to know Dead or Alive. I had only tried out the Vuitton for fun--but after a while I truly loved it and didn't even see a knock-off when I looked into its eyes.

So, despite all the warning bells, he just had a way of talking me out of leaving him. I taped that broken handle back on and kept trying to pass my bag off as genuine (or at least passable).

***To read the rest of this story, go to this link: http://convozine.com/conversations/11127

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This Mortal Coil

Whether we are shuffling off or shuffling through...the mortal in this coil reaches moments of acute intensity.

Today I accompanied Savannah to a funeral. It was for the father of her best friend. I had never met the man, although I had heard his son speak of him on more than one occasion.

We got the news on Saturday morning. That the world of someone we all cared about so deeply had been altered forever.

It breaks my heart. The funeral broke my heart. I cried and I felt emptied out and spent after.

This was my I-don't-know-what-number funeral. I've been to a few dozen, I'm sure. But this one I found quite heart-wrenching.

Maybe it's a mom thing.

I love this kid. I love him almost like he was one of my own and it kills me that he has to deal with this heavy burden and turmoil.

And it destroys me that his little brother (Gabi's age) was at the podium pouring his heart out when we entered (late--after a 30+ minute delay on the freeway to allow lifeflight to land for a horrible accident that occurred just moments ahead of us on the road) after the loudest, creakiest door in the world.

And this boy wasn't answering his phone when they tried to contact him Saturday morning with the news. While Savannah and Gabi and I were driving to Subway to get her friend a dose of his favorite comfort food, Savannah confessed to me one of her greatest fears: that something would happen and she wouldn't have her phone or wouldn't hear it and she wouldn't know.

It bowled me over to hear her so emotionally exposed. She is usually so outwardly stalwart. Part of me melted.

One of the last things the younger brother said before returning to his seat was that he'll never forget how--the night before he died--his dad called him for no reason. His dad asked how he was, who he was with and told him that he loved him.

He seemed so comforted that the last things he and his father had said to one another was that they loved each other.

After the funeral, Savannah and I revealed to one another that--no matter how unlikely it is that something unspeakable may happen--one reason we always tell/text each other (and Gabi) I love you (even unnecessarily and somewhat stalkerishly) is just-in-case. We would know that our last conversation left no doubt as to how much we loved the other.

I heard a program on NPR on Saturday (as I was driving to pick up Savannah so she could comfort her friend) about grief. The woman speaking gave one of the truest descriptions of the mourning process. She said that grief comes in waves. It doesn't come in order or stages or neatly-defined steps that end in acceptance.

Grief is as wild and awesome and overwhelming and unpredictable as the ocean. It overcomes us in waves--sometimes we see them coming and sometimes we are caught by surprise. But the comfort is that the wave always subsides and we can catch our breath.

There is no right way to grieve. And those waves come at us days or months or years after our loss--and the pain can be as acute as in those first moments that changed our world forever.

While it tears me up that I can't protect my children (or their friends) from facing the depths of loss and learning how to live with the life that follows in its wake, I am encouraged that before we drove away today they were laughing (literally) and holding on (figuratively) to one another in friendship and strength--and that is the love and acceptance that keeps us afloat in the midst of life's most overwhelming waves.

teenage dream?

I don't care what Katy Perry wails about on her multi-whatever album...the teenage dream I'm living in is much more challenging than letting some guy put his hands on me in my skintight jeans.

I am the mom.

I am wrong.

End of story.

As a kid--from my earliest memories--I was waiting.

Waiting for one of my parents to throw in the towel and either a) take us to a motel or grandma's to spend the night or b) get sick enough from the drink to cease all aggression toward the other in the face of their own self-destructive rage.

Waiting outside the bathroom door while my mom took a bath. Talking to her the whole time, keeping her engaged, making sure she didn't off herself between turning on the water and the water losing enough heat to make her uncomfortable--at which point she would get out, towel off, and resume being my mom.

Waiting for news that my dad had taken his own life. He threatened to do so often enough that part of me had to accept the possibility in order to protect the part of me that would have to bolster up my brothers when and if this ever actually happened.

Waiting for the Utopian un-reality of The Brady Bunch or Family Ties to show up in my life--establishing once and for all the glossy, Hollywood natural order.

Waiting to grow up and move out and have my own kids and make their childhood completely different from mine.

Waiting (so to speak) for the other shoe to drop.

The wait is over--and I wonder, sometimes, if anything is really different--let alone better.

Despite the lack of (comparative) drama, unrest, fear and insecurity in the day-to-day life I tried to create for my spawn, there has still been ample drama, unrest, fear and insecurity.

Some generated by yours truly. Some not.

All of it landing squarely in my lap--where I, upon feeling its ever-present weight, instantly deploy my own special (if somewhat schizophrenic) combination of defensive AND offensive tactics. The whole while breathing (with every breath) a prayer for peace, love, safety, comfort and grace to explode in the hearts and lives of my girls.

Caught up in the very real struggles of their lives, I tend to forget that my darling offspring could have it so much worse. After all, wasn't that one of my prime objectives--to make the childhood they experienced as soft and safe and nurturing as the womb they each burst from before wailing their first and most primal wail?

But yet, they disdain. They are vexed. They are tormented--with tears choking their words and thoughts and vision and hope. Today is as bad as it can get for them in their personal prison--and they will not be consoled.

They can (and they do) languish; comfortable (I tell myself) in the safety net that is me.

Maybe non-catastrophic-consequences kids are the product of:
The fear of creating a catastrophic-consequences kid who feels the world rests
on her shoulders and is constantly gasping for air as she suffocates under a
scratchy wool blanket of anxiety
+
A family environment where the world actually rests on the parent's shoulders
and kids are free to fuck up all they want without the world ending--leaving
the parent(s) gasping for air as they suffocate under not only anxiety but
guilt compounded by depleting bank accounts.

Does part of my inability to do anything right in they eyes on my second-born come from the cocoon of relative normalcy I tried to spin around her since the doctor slapped her adorable, newborn ass?

Like many a case that has gone cold, I know deep in my bones that the riddle of this current struggle may never be solved.

But that's not to say we won't find a sense of peace. A way to live with it. A loyalty and bond usually only known by those who have been in the trenches together--clinging to one another, crying, shaking and seeing in the other's eyes the truths that only the two of you will ever truly know.

Resting my eyes

This morning as I drove to work I couldn't help but be struck by the gorgeous sight of our snow-kissed mountains against the ice-blue winter sky. I pulled out my sunglasses to stave off the brilliance of the sun, and as they settled into their comfortable perch on my squinting face, I wanted to be putting those sunglasses on somewhere else.

Preferably poolside.

Oceanside would be even better.

With hot, shirtless cocktail waiters and complicated drinks with umbrellas.

I could just keep driving and end up in Vegas--or LA. I could drive toward the airport instead of downtown and end up...anywhere.

"I feel like Ashley Judd's character in The Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood," my darling girlfriend shared the other day, "Like running away to a hotel and just disappearing for a while."

I've felt like that many times. I felt like that today.

Driving away from everyone I answer to. Everything I'm responsible for. Everything I see every day.

Smelling the salt in the air--seeing that first glimmer of sunlight dance on the water as the ocean comes into view on the horizon--is like a shot of adrenaline to my faltering heart. I want to be on a beach or in a room or on a road where no one knows me and I can pretend to be whomever I feel like for a little while.

I just want to rest my eyes for a little bit. Just a minute.

To order room service and take too many baths and prance about in my fluffy, complimentary robe before I jump on the bed. To make a mess that someone else will clean up.

I've often fantasized about going 'round the bend and winning a stay at a sanatorium. To be clear, my fantasy doesn't take place in a psych ward--it's more like Canyon Ranch for tired moms who want to do simple things, like pee in private. (To be fair, in the past couple years I have enjoyed more bathroom privacy than I've had in almost two decades, but the sentiment still rings true.)And the people in white coats pour wine and offer massages instead of serving jello and offering shock therapy. Although it's hard to know off-hand which course of treatment would best serve the likes of me.

Super What?!?

The Oscars aren't until the end of the month!

Priorities, people!

...to be continued (when I don't have to be at church at the crack of dawn...)

Self-medicating PMS Nite In

I was a raging bitch all week. And now, on Friday nite, I am giving myself the medicine I need.

I started peeling off my coat, scarf, gloves, blazer, t-shirt, boots, tight (a little PMS-too-tight, to be honest!) jeans, and lacy underthings as soon as I walked in the door. The trail of clothes led straight to the tub. After pulling back my hair, I started for the water and realized something was missing. I nakedly sneaked down the hall into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of magical fermented elixir.

Finally, in the extremely hot tub with my chilled vino, I turned up my iPod and settled into my soak. After replenishing the hot twice, I was sufficiently puckered and decided to get out.

I traded in the tub for sweats and a tank top (AH!) and got ready for a nite of pre-menstrual comforting indulgence. In addition to the requisite bath, wine and sweats, here are the other ingredients I find crucial for a (hopefully) successful PMS bitch exorcism:

-Reese's peanut butter cups

-Ibuprofen

-E! (y'know...the news!)

-Spider Solitaire (I'm an addict!)

-A heating pad

-No kids

-Pasta (or sometimes, sushi)

-Scented candles (you know what you can do with your smart comments!)

-A new episode of "Supernatural"

-Diet Coke

-Feather pillows and soft blankies

-Miraculous (inexplicable) quiet from the neighbors

So, here's hoping I greet the 'morrow with slightly less edge and a smile!