Follow Your Heart

I lost my dog, Monty, in May to lymphoma. It was a tough loss, so tough that I thought I’d never want another dog again. As they say, never say never.

After some time, I thought the phantom Monty pains would subside. Some of the pain was the lack of barking when I pulled in the driveway, the not needing to head out at 11pm for a water-the-old-Xmas-tree-that-was-still-in-the-backyard pee before bedtime, and walking past the box of peanut-shaped peanut butter bones in the pet aisle without tossing one into my carriage. Every day I wondered, “Will I ever forget what Monty felt like?”

Every time, I passed a dog, my heart beat Monty. It could be a pug, a breed I was never fond of, or it could be a mutt with one erect ear, one floppy ear, a curly tail, and a long lanky body with short legs that made it look like it was the dog owned exclusively by Mr. Potato Head. All dogs led to the fact that I no longer had one.

When I periodically needed a break at work from trunk groups and call detail records, I’d resort to surfing the Internet. If stressed, I’d go right for shoes at http://www.zappos.com/; uncontrary to popular opinion, I do have quite a few pairs of shoes. Contrary to popular opinion, I don’t really buy a lot; all of my shoes are what I like to call a “collection” that I’ve amassed over a period of years.

Usually, I spend 20 minutes perusing the shoes. I find a few pair of shoes I like, and then I put them in my “cart.” But, I usually never end up buying them; it’s a virtual shop that soothes the savage shoe shopping beast, because by the time I click “X” on my browser window, I realize that I want them more than I need them.

Last month, given a very canine state of mind, I passed www.zappos.com and hoped to scratch an itch (not caused by a flea bite) at http://www.petfinder.com/. Every day at lunch, I found myself typing “dog,” “Corgi,” and my zipcode in the Advanced Search box. Instead of adding the Corgi-Chihuahua or the Corgi-Jack Russell mix to my cart, I’d make the dog a “Favorite” via my web browser.

When someone would enter my office, I’d immediately click “X” on my browser window. I don’t know why, but part of me felt like I was looking at something I shouldn’t be. It wasn’t like I didn’t walk in on people all the time at work looking at golf clubs, used cars, or Facebook; it felt like I was cheating on Monty. This led me to start calling what I was viewing “dog porn.”

One day, one of my friends caught me by surprise when I was looking at a Corgi-Dachshund mix wearing a blue plaid sweater vest whose name happened to be Stewart. He asked, “Are you looking at dogs?” I said, “Shhh. It’s my dog porn!” He looked at me strangely and then laughed at me just like he always does.

He left and then I happened upon a Corgi-You’reGuessIsAsGoodAsMine mix named Spencer. I had looked at about as many dogs as I had shoes in that month. As Spencer sat there smiling at me, he said, “I’m Monty but without all that barking.”

I thought, “This is my dog!” I went home that night, and that’s when I made one of my biggest parenting mistakes. After a stressful day of work, I grabbed a glass of wine, parked myself in front of my desk, and began to look at dog porn, particularly Spencer.

I sat there totally enamored of this pooch. Deep in thought, I wondered what it would be like to have Spencer sitting next to me, to run my hand down his soft-looking coat, or to take him for a drive around the block. Suddenly, I heard a thud.

Iz had landed at the top of the stairs. I had to hide my dog porn, but there was no time! In under three seconds, Iz was staring at my laptop saying, “He’s so cute! Can we get him?”

If anyone knows my daughter, you know that she is my “mini me.” She likes everything I like, she likes to do everything I like to do, and we share a love of all creatures great and small.

I said to her, “Ahhhhhhhhh, well.” She said, “Oh, please, Mumma.” In my defense, she pulls out the “Mumma” card when she wants something.

I sat there and pondered it all. I had really missed having a dog, and I know she did, too. With a second glass of wine and Iz on my lap, it seemed like the right thing to do as we filled out the adoption application.

I hit “Send.” I said, “Well, we’ll have to wait and see.” Iz said, “I think he’s great. We’ll call him Spence!”

The next day, I received an email from Spence's dog rescue asking us if we’d like to come meet Spence. No longer an under-the-influence Mumma, I thought, “Okay, this is it. I am getting a dog.” We want a dog, so we’re going to get one.

I arranged a time that Iz and I could meet Spence, which was the next day. We had to drive all the way to Quincy, but Spence was worth it. Iz was all excited, but in the scheme of things, she and I were the only ones who were excited when we heard from friends and family things like “Life is easier without a dog.”

That morning, I felt a huge wave of emotions. Were the critics right? Or, was what I felt in my heart right? I hemmed and hawed over whether I should subject Iz to anymore “dog talk.” She sensed this that morning and said, “Mom, follow your heart. It’s okay if you say no.”Amazed by my 8-year-old’s wisdom, I chose to follow my heart and ignored everything my head was saying to me.

Iz and I pressed on and drove to Quincy to meet Spence as planned. We found our way to his house, knocked on the door, and he came bounding out knocking Iz flat on her back, and licked her into a giggling frenzy. Spence’s foster Mom told us she had to run an errand and handed us and leash. She asked, “Would you like to take him for a walk?”

Iz and I left with Spence in hand. I finally knew how it felt to drive him. He handled pretty smoothly though was a bit jerky in places due to still being a wild and crazy pup.

When we arrived back at Spence’s house, we entered the backyard. Spence’s foster Mom showed us how he like to jump at the water coming out the garden hose. Spence was clearly a lovely and talented guy, and then I suddenly realized something was terribly wrong when Iz hugged him.

Spence had so much energy and love; so did Iz. I had a lot of love, but at this point in my life, did I have enough energy and, most importantly, the time for Spence.

Standing there wanting so much to make him ours yet wanting so much to make a good decision, I had no idea what to do. I asked, “You still need to get his health certificate, right?” She said, “No. I have it. You can take him home with you now.”

I said, “Oh. I’m unprepared,” because I knew that the fact that Iz and I loved him was good, but it wasn’t everything. She said, “Go home and think about it.” I said, “We will. I’ll e-mail you tomorrow.”

When Iz and I got into the car, she said, “Mom, he’s great.” I said, “Yes, He is wonderful.” He hadn’t barked once the whole time we were there, he loved to be touched (Monty didn’t like to be picked up or have his hindquarters touched), and he just seemed to be the “woof” to our “meow.”

As we drove home, I recalled how I acquired Monty. It’s was 2000, I was terribly lonely yet in a relationship, and my father was a few short weeks away from dying of colon cancer. I was at the mall one night, and I thought right before I was about to leave, “I need to go to the pet store. If they have a Corgi, I’m getting it.” And, that’s how Monty came into my life.

Distressed at not knowing what to do and more so for having drawn Iz into my web of emotional dysfunction, I said to Iz, “Let’s go see my Mom and Dad.” We ended up in my hometown, went to Duck Soup to buy coffee, and then went to the cemetery to visit with my Mom and Dad. Finally, we headed to the street I grew up on so Iz could play at my elementary school playground and see the house I lived in.

It’s true. Kids do see dead people; okay, well, most kids don’t see dead people, but they see things that most of us don’t. Every 30 minutes or so, Iz asked, “So, have you decided about Spence?”

It was so hard to keep putting her off. And, I felt so guilty for not being able to give her an answer. I, being the parent, should have a well-thought out answer to her question. But, I didn’t.

As the time passed, I felt more confused and more guilty that I had brought Iz along for this ride. My intentions has been good, but I was constantly questioning my intentions. When I put Iz to bed that night she asked, “Have you decided?” I said, “No.” She kissed me good night, and I knew I had to make a decision.

After she fell asleep, I pondered the pros and the cons. Unfortunately, there were more cons than pros, not because of the dog, but because of my life. I knew I couldn’t give such a vibrant guy the vibrant existence he deserved; Monty should have had far more outdoor time than he did. And, ultimately, I knew Spence was a furry band-aid for the extreme loneliness I had felt every day for many years.

I sat down at my laptop. I’m sure a sighed a million sighs. And, I wrote the following note to Spence’s foster Mom:

It with a very heavy heart that I write this, but I think I'm doing the right thing for primarily Spencer and then for myself. I *love* Spencer, though the more and more I played with him today, the more and more I realized how much attention he needed. We have no "dog parks" nearby, and I work full-time.

As I drove home, I realized I loved Spencer so much that I didn't want such a vibrant dog to be stuck snoozing inside the house by the backdoor every day. Monty had a good life with us, but I think he snoozed more by the back door than was out playing and romping. I also realized that I was getting a dog because I was lonely, and I had to address that issue first rather than apply a lovely furry band-aid.

I hope that's all not too much emotional information, but I wanted you not to think me crazy for not taking such a WONDERFUL dog, and I wanted to make the best decision. I wish I had worked out these issues before I went to see Spencer for Spencer's sake and my daughter's, but *alas much of wisdom is gained in retrospect.

*That was something my Mom had actually written in a letter to my cousin, Laura, who became a Mom at 18, about parenting; fortunately, it came back to haunt me, not making me feel as badly as I might have for bringing Iz along on my emotional canine ride.

Spence’s foster Mom wrote me back saying that she had wished all people made such informed decisions when it came to pets. While that was nice to hear, it didn’t make me feel any better. I wanted Spence, and I knew Iz did, too; it felt like a lose-lose situation.

Though in retrospect, as my Mom had said, seeing Spence was the right thing to do, but letting him go was the right thing to do, too. I had to go through the emotional motions; that was a win-win, though I still wished I hadn’t involved Iz. I knew the most important thing for me, and eventually for Iz too, was to get unlonely instead of applying a furry band-aid to a gaping heart wound.

The next morning, Iz asked me about Spence again. I looked at her and before I said anything, she began to cry, because she could see a person who had loved and had already felt that loss. We both cried together; I told her how sorry I was, and that we’d get a dog when the time was right, though I knew I still had a lot to go through to make the time right.

I think you realize you’re a good parent when you know that you’re not a perfect parent. I also think a pinnacle point in any parent-child relationship is when a child realizes that the parent is not perfect either. Iz didn’t understand my reluctance about Spence, but she understood that I wasn’t perfect, and she still loved me anyway even when I had followed my heart. ♥

(A few days later, I checked Spencer's page on www.petfinder.com. He was still smiling at me; good doggie! He was now titled "Spencer, a newly adopted dog." He found a home; good doggie! ♥)

Ouija Phone

I’ve had a particularly stressful last few weeks at work. Given that I work in high technology, I should expect it. But after all these years, it still makes me want to stamp my feet when things go awry at the last minute.

In high technology, we like to think we are playing 18 holes. More often than not, we were only playing 13. Unfortunately, I was never good at golf; thus, it is all usually Parcheesi, Cricket, and horse shoes to me.

At 5:45pm tonight, I received an e-mail. There was yet another change when I had to meet a deadline on August 2nd. I shrieked, “Aaaaahhhhhhhh.”

Earlier in the week, I wrote the engineering manager of the next release. I gave him my demands, among them champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries delivered daily to my cube. He replied, “You’re very demanding, Jean!”

The funny thing is I had never ever been very demanding in my life. Actually, that was probably my biggest problem in life, especially where it concerned my relationships. I told him that I had a new attitude recently; it was “Ask for everything in hopes that you get at least one thing.”

Anyway, my co-worker, who had been most helpful today, asked, “What, Jean?” when he heard my shriek. He then came over to my cube. I said, “Have you ever had one of those days when you just want to phone home?”

Puzzled, he just looked at me strangely. I decided to help him out by telling him a story. I told him about a particularly bad day I had at the same company a few years ago when I said out loud while in my cube, “I want my mother.”

When I came in the next morning, I had a voice mail message. I began to listen to it. When I heard a person speaking like Mrs. Doubtfire, I thought, “Surely, this must be a joke.”

When I then heard, “I’m Esme, Sarah’s mother,” I knew it wasn’t a joke. My co-worker, Sarah, who was in the cube next to me, had gone home, told her Mom that I had a bad day, and her Mom had called me. Esme said, “So, feel free to call me whenever you have a bad day.”

Today, I don’t think my co-worker knew what to make of my story. I let him off easy by saying “Thanks for all of your help.” I then glanced at my phone thinking, “I still really want to call my mother.”

While I knew I had many wonderful girlfriends to call in this moment, somehow I just wanted my Mom, which seems really odd to say given that I'm in my 40s. While I knew my Mom wouldn't say anything different than any of my friends, DNA made me desire family. It wasn’t about the consolation; it was about the connection.

Whenever I have a really bad day, I go visit my parents in the cemetery. I know they’re not there. But, it’s the only place I have them now, and more often than not, I still find myself standing there and needing them more than ever.

After my co-worker left my cube, I felt slightly silly for my “phone home” babbling. But I knew, some day, he’d understand. I didn’t want it to happen to him anytime soon, but some day, he’d understand more of what I meant when he couldn’t phone home anymore.

I sat there in my office and thought if Maxwell Smart had a phone in his shoe, then why can’t Verizon offer the Ouija phone? “Great Great Great Great Great Grandma, can you hear me now?” At least, everyone should get a gift card card that gave them 10 after-life phone calls, I thought.

When I left work tonight, I knew that card would never be a reality. I phoned home, and Iz answered. When I heard her voice, I knew that home was definitely where the beating heart was and that via DNA, it would always contain the hearts of those that beat no longer. ♥

Cougar Camp

I never went to camp when I was little. Well, I did go to a camp for one Summer as the camp nurse’s daughter. I spent a Summer in Saco, Maine with my Mom and my two siblings.

My brother, Jack, was old enough to be a camper; however, Julie and I were only old enough to be the “nurse’s daughters.” When I got older, I wondered why on Earth my mother packed us all up for a Summer and left my Dad at home. So, one day I was bold, and I had asked my Mom about “that Summer.”

She simply said, “That was the Summer I thought about leaving your father.” I said nothing. In her response, enough was said.

If truth be told, it wasn’t a bad Summer at all. I liked eating in the dining hall, drinking “bug juice,” (a dumbed down name for Kool-Aid), and buying candy with a punch card at the camp store. It was also the Summer I learned about the monthly curse when a young girl came into the infirmary yelling in pain.

I said to my Mom, “Oh, no. She’s going to die!” My Mom said, “Oh, no. She just has cramps!” Being a nurse and one not to shy away from anything medical, my Mom whipped out a book on menstruation the next day holding Julie and I as her captive audience for an hour or so as she flipped through the pages and asked every two pages or so, “Do you have any questions?”

I was a bit horrified by the whole puberty thing I have to say. Julie and I had no questions. But, in hindsight, I’m glad my Mom was who she was especially in that regard; kids need to know these things, and, in a perfect world, their parents need to be the ones to tell them these things and be there for them when they do have questions.

Anyway, I sit next to a lovely young man at work; he’s only 22 years old, yet he’s smart, polite, self-confident, family-oriented, compassionate, and I think he’s going to be a Vice President in the corporate world by the time he's 26. Sometimes I want to say to him, “Your parents have done so well!” but I restrain myself, because like with Nathan on Facebook, I don't want to be deleted via the Internet or via cube space. The other day, he muttered to himself, “If it keeps raining, maybe the running camp I coach will be cancelled.”

Being an avid runner, I asked, “You coach a running camp?” He said, “Yeah,” and then he popped into my office and then told me to Google the camp. He then said, “Here’s what we do,” and handed me a sheet that broke down two hours worth of camp by minute intervals during which all sorts of sprints and drills would occur.

When I saw the word “suicide” next to one drill, I laughed. If there was ultimate fighting, then this must be ultimate running. I then said to myself, “Two hours of running around like this? That sounds like fun.”

I asked, “Is this just for kids?” He said, “Well, it’s for ages 10 to about 20.” I said, “Oh.” He then hesitated for at least 5 seconds, and it was not like him to have immediate words, and said, “Well, when we had our meeting the other night, we were thinking of starting a cougar camp.”

I laughed out loud. I said not knowing what to say, “I thought cougar camp was sitting by the pool drinking Cosmopolitans! Err, well, when you do that, let me know.” He looked outside (the storm had passed) and said, “Well, I’ve got to get going.”

I sat there still laughing. Then I thought, “Does he think I’m old?” And then I thought, “Does he think I’m a cougar?”

Up until then, I always thought a cougar was an older woman who looked like a younger woman. I googled “cougar.” Apparently, I was wrong.

I told a friend about the fact that someone had suggested I attend a Cougar Camp. He said I should knee this young man in the groin for such an insult. It was funny, but I wanted to hug the young man for thinking I was an older woman who looked like a younger woman.

My friend was adamant about the fact that I was insulted. But, I knew this young man well, and I knew he’d never insult me. As I read the definitions in context of young men, I knew the only young man I was ever after was the one I was related to, who was my son; and, I was only after him to save more money, clean his room, cut his hair at least every three months, and get the oil changed in his (MY) car every three months.

I read further and wanted to think I was someone who had her “shit together,” but, alas, I wasn’t. I had actually been trying to get my shit together for the last seven years. Obviously, I was only a very slow “shit together” cougar. Perhaps I was not even a cougar but a tortoise!

If truth be told, my friend’s reaction made me feel a bit badly but only according to definition. In my heart, I knew my cube neighbor meant no harm. I would strongly consider attending cougar camp if it ever was open to enrollment, because I had already taken my definition of "cougar" and who I really was to heart. ♥

Bring In 'Da Noise, Bring In 'Da Funk

Blog soundtrack (not for the faint of auditory heart!)

Noise. You can love it like the sound of Billie Holiday singing “Crazy He Calls Me” or you can hate it like when your neighbor is having gravel dumped into his yard at 7:30am on a Saturday morning complete with the beeping backing up truck. One of the most interesting experiences I had last night was when dumping gravel became as pleasing as Billie Holiday singing.

A week or so ago, I saw my brother, Jack, for a Fourth of July celebration. He casually mentioned that he was going to playing at some venue with his friend, Steve. Jack had recently begun to learn how to play the drums, so I thought, “He’s playing in a band. ”

I said to him, “Oh!” thinking that it would be really nice to watch my brother play. I asked for the details, and he mentioned an event notice on Facebook. I told him I’d think about attending; however, when he said, “Well, I might be banging on a coffee can,” I only thought, “Oh, he’s a little doubtful there will be a drum kit there for him.”

During the middle of the week, I e-mailed him to tell him that I’d be attending after saying “Yes” to the event invitation on Facebook. He then replied, “I think it is funny that you are going to a noise fest.” I read his sentence again trying to read, “I think it’s nice that you’re are going to a jam fest.” But, when I read it again, I knew I was going to a noise fest, and I thought it was pretty funny, too.

If I didn’t know it then, I did after I read Jack’s, “You might want to bring ear plugs. I hear the shows are loud.” Ear plugs? I only thought the Rolling Stone roadies who stood next to those huge speakers needed ear plugs. The last time I wore ear plugs was, well, I had never worn ear plugs; and, as far as I knew, ear plugs went with no outfit that I owned!

In preparation, Jack told me to go to http://www.youtube/ and search for +DOG+. I did, and I watched the first video shown. At first, I looked high and low for audio subtitles, but when I saw one of the guys slam down a metal sheet, I thought, “This is something I could totally get into after a
l-o-n-g and frustrating day of documenting custom destination and subdestination mappings for Call Detail Records!”

One of the best things I like about music is sharing it with people. Actually, I’m open to most things, and I especially like when people open me up to things I never would have heard of had it not been for them sharing it with me. After absorbing +DOG+’s noise, it reminded me of some other noise that I really loved.

I e-mailed Jack back and asked him if he had ever heard of beatboxing. When I saw Imogen Heap (electronic) a few years ago at the Paradise, a musician named Kid Beyond opened for her. I loved Imogen’s show, but Kid Beyond mesmerized me with his ability to produce all these sounds sans instruments and, in the link I sent to Jack, be a drum set.

Jack then told me that he thought it was going to be “fun to beat on something.” After watching +DOG+’s video another time, I had to agree. Jack then said, “I think I will be beating on something and was thinking of bringing a saw.” The more I read, the more intrigued I became.

When I was driving home from work yesterday (big deadline), I was trying to think about all the things I had to do to get out of the house to make it to Jack’s gig. I needed to shower. I needed to bring my camera, and I needed –crap– ear plugs.

At 4:54pm, I pulled into the Aubuchon store in my town. I walked in and was greeted by a teen employee who looked very happy that I walked in only so he would have something to do. I asked, “Where are the ear plugs?”

I thought he might look at me funny, but he jumped off of the large cardboard box containing a table saw and said, “Follow me!” I followed him for about 100 feet, he stopped, and then he pointed to Aubuchon’s ear plug section. They had the single serving, the party pack (a set of 6 ear plugs), and the single serving with the head band.

What to choose? What to choose? Having never had to accessorize with ear plugs, I chose the party pack, thinking that any noise fest newbies, like me, might need a helping plug. Fortunately, Jack had warned me, but others might not have had such pre-fest brotherly love imparted upon them.

I went to the register with my party pack. It reminded me of buying condoms but in a totally different way. I expected to feel somewhat guilty thinking that this young man is wondering what a person like me is doing with 6 sets of ear plugs.

Instead, he punched a few buttons on the register, said “$3.69,” and then said “Have a nice evening!” If I had perhaps bought the party pack of condoms, I knew I’d be having a nice evening. But, with the party pack of ear plugs safely tucked away in my purse, I wondered what the hell my evening was going to be like!

At 7pm, I got into my car, and courtesy of my Droid found my way to the venue. I was somewhat irritated that the GPS, who I named Gertrude on the way there, had a tendency to repeat herself over and over again. After I heard “Take Exit 35A toward Nashua, NH” about five times, I said out loud, “Chill, Gerty. I know!”

When Gerty made sure, after 5 times, that I was in the right place, I pulled over and parked on the road across from the venue. I was in a sketchy section of Lowell, and I seriously wondered if my car would be outside when I came outside after the gig. But, I threw caution to the wind and said, “Hey, I have insurance, and if it gets stolen, perhaps I can get at 2008 instead of this used 2007!”

I locked my car and crossed the street. I didn’t know exactly where the venue was, as Gerty only told me I was near it. As I walked down the sidewalk, I looked in an open door, and I saw my brother, Jack.

Yeah, it was definitely a 1+1=Jack’s gig equation. I walked in, and I looked around. There were about 10 people scattered across two rooms, and I walked back to greet Jack, who greeted me with a big hug.

I had no idea what to expect of the night, and despite any expectations, it was really good to get a hug from my brother who had expected to see me. He and Steve had set up their table of noise tricks; Jack showed me a miniature drum set and a small piece of metal that he was going to whale on with his drum sticks.

I went to stake out my space and parked myself on a folding chair. As time passed, the room became more crowded, and not too long before show time, Jack came over to sit with me. He said that he had never had to be in front of this many people before.

I was a bit surprised by his admission, though, like my profession (technical writer), he largely dealt with people one-on-one being a goldsmith. I told him that he’d do fine. And, then I shared my only public speaking experience with him; I had to explain the new documentation strategy to 75 HP people who were fed up with our archaic one.

I said that I was scared to death; however, unlike Jack, I had baked two batches of my butterscotch sprinkle cookies the night before to sooth the savage audience. I told him that while I shook in my chinos, I knew that half their attention was directed toward their coffee and my great cookies. I’m sure this was no consolation to Jack, because he had no cookies and, unlike me, he had no great plan to improve noise (or in my case, documentation).

I said, “You’ll do a great job!” It was all I had, and I knew he would. Did I really know that? No, but I knew he would, because after so many years, you don’t know these things, you feel them.

The first noise-icians came on. The leader of the Noise Pack described what they were going to do by saying, “When I was little, I heard this sound. I got out of bed and my brother asked me if I had heard it, too. I went downstairs to ask my Dad about it. He had had a drink or two and was half asleep on the sofa and told me that it was only an airplane. I thought it was aliens, and so here are the sounds that I thought I heard that night.” Fifteen minutes later, I felt as if several times in my young life that aliens had indeed landed at 188 Haynes Road in Sudbury!

Three guys stood there and banged on things, hit buttons, and made noises. I was tapping my foot as they did. When they finished, I clapped my hands together hard, because their noises were indeed what an alien invasion would have been in my head.

Steve and Jack went on after them. As Steve wrapped something around his mouth with tape, I had visions of Hannibal Lector. When they started, I had no idea what to expect, but that’s what I liked about these noises. Like life, did you ever know what to expect?

Steve began. Jack improvised with his drum set and a small piece of metal. I sat there watching, listening, and thinking, “This is not odd. This is the sound of life when you’re trying not to listen.”

When they finished, I clapped. No, I didn’t because I had to hit the “Stop” button on my camera. The audience went wild, and then I heard a “Fuck yeah,” and I thought that’s the ultimate compliment that any artist can receive.

After they dismantled their stuff, Jack and Steve sat down with me. Steve gave me the thumbs up. While I was a Mom to much younger children, I wanted to hug them both and say, “OMG! You were so good!” but I just smiled instead.

The next noise-icians came on. While they were warming up, I thought, “Ear plugs now!” When they began, I let the ear plug party pack invade my ear space. While they were “playing,” I closed my eyes a few times, and I thought, “Wow, this is what it’s like to be on the Amtrak Northeast Regional train…but louder.”

This group was the loudest by far; however, when I closed my eyes, I was with them. I was sleeping and hearing gravel dumped, I was on the train when it was going 70 mph down the tracks, and then I was dying thinking this is what the white light sounds like but only that much louder. And, I loved it.

Jack and I weren't that close when we were growing up. Last night, I realized that perhaps my brother and I were closer than life would have us believe. Neither of us was good at public speaking, yet we both loved music, were laid back, and we appreciated noise, in whatever form in came in, even after all these years. I love you, Jack. ♥

The Tooth Fairy Chronicles

As I mentioned last night, Iz now has a on-going letter correspondence with the Tooth Fairy. I don't remember writing this many letters to the Tooth Fairy when I was her age. (Of course, Iz has her Dad's "go get 'em" attitude instead of my "okay, whatever" attitude, which is a very good thing indeed.) In hindsight, I think that if I had written as much to the Tooth Fairy as Iz, my already frazzled-with-three-kids parents might have told me the Tooth Fairy didn't exist sooner rather than later!

So, now in addition to trying to get my creative writing going here again on my blog, I am also trying to sustain a hard copy blog with my daughter. In a way, the hard copy blog is a bit more fun. It's interactive with daily comments from my only little "follower."

In another way, it gives me a chance to pretend. I haven't pretended in a long time, well, except for those times when I pretend that George Clooney gets stranded in Ayer due to a huge snow storm and has to come home with me. Finally, in a guilty parent way, it made me wonder if I was perhaps making Iz more fond of the Tooth Fairy and inviting a total crash-and-burn emotional situation when Iz eventually realized or was told that the Tooth Fairy was non-existent or only existed in me.

Well, surprise, surprise. My creative and pretend side won out over sensible parenting. And, I wouldn't have it any other way.

After Iz lost her tooth, she wrote a letter to the Tooth Fairy. She'd written a letter a few weeks ago, but the Tooth Fairy was too frazzled to write back. Anyway, since she had lost yet another tooth, the Tooth Fairy got her stuff together and replied Tuesday morning with:

Dear Iz,

I'm sorry I didn't write back sooner. I have been so busy!

Congratulations on losing another tooth. Take this money and buy something special with it.

You are a very smart and beautiful girl. I love you.

After reading the Tooth Fairy's response and pondering all 54 things she could do with $10, Iz said, "I'll have to write back." I grimaced a tad. Iz could not let the Tooth Fairy get the last word in nor would she accept that there wasn't more to glean from this correspondence.

On Tuesday night, Iz replied with:

Dear Tooth Fairy,

Thanks. I was wondering if you have anything special you wanted. Also, please make Monty back to life. I will do anything to make him back to life. Please write back.

P.S. Here is something. It's okay to take the stuff.

[ed. Iz left a random assortment of small toys with the note -- a Polly Pocket doll, a few clothes for Polly, and a few small plastic animals.]

On Wednesday morning, the Tooth Fairy replied with:

Dear Izzy,

You do not need to give me anything. I will always be here for you. No matter how much I would like to bring Monty back to you, I don't have the powers to do so.

I did talk to him the other day. He's in Heaven and has a wonderful girlfriend named Zelda. He is very happy, but he told me to tell you that he misses you a lot.

I love you.

Last night, Iz replied with:

Dear Tooth Fairy,

Wake me up please and show me where you work and can I have some powers? I'm begging you. How about you and the fairies put their magic together to make Monty back.

[ed. There's a heart here, and in it, it says, "You Rock."
P.S. You can really have these. [ed. She left the same toys again and this time included a $1 bill. I think she was testing the theory that "money talks even with the Tooth Fairy!"]

This morning, the Tooth Fairy responded with:

Dear Izzy,

No matter how much power we Fairies put together, we cannot bring someone like Monty or your Mom’s Mom (because I know she misses her terribly) back. It just cannot happen even with fairy dust.

I cannot take your things. You keep them. I cannot show you where I work either; magic is only magic because you have to believe in something you don't know.

You don’t need my powers, because you have powers of your own. What are those powers?

You are smart. You are kind. And, you are beautiful. Those are the only powers you need.

I love you.

When I got out of the shower this morning, Iz greeted me at the door. She said excitedly, "The Tooth Fairy wrote back to me!" I asked, "Oh, really?" By the way, can you get a Best Supporting Actress award for your life, which sometimes seems like a movie? If so, I deserve one.

I said, "Read me the letter!" She began to read. Then she stopped when I knew there was more.

She looked up at me and smiled. I asked, "Is there more?" and then I took the letter out of her hands; I began to read, "You don't need my powers...."

She had stopped at the part where the Tooth Fairy had lauded her. She was embarrassed to read about how wonderful she was, which made me happy that she was modest, but it also made me more determined to read to her how wonderful she was. As I read my own words to her, I realized that there was not just one smart, kind, and beautiful girl standing there.

I knew, like Iz's toothless smile, that I was not perfect. None of us are. But in that moment, I realized how important the Tooth Fairy blog had become to Iz and to me.

I had always told Iz what a great girl she was. But as I stood there reading, I also realized how important it is that I tell her that often. And being the Tooth Fairy not only made me feel special to Iz, it made me realize that I was special, too, and that the greatest power was the power to love yourself, especially when you didn't have a Mom or a Tooth Fairy to do so.

After I finished reading the letter, Iz blushed. She asked me, "Does she love me the best, Mom?" I laughed on the inside and on the outside I said quite seriously, "Yes, she does." Iz then said, "Oh, I'll have to write her back now!" and off she went. ♥

Am I Living It Right?

Blog soundtrack:



It’s been a while since there has been a blog soundtrack, so go forth and listen to the music.

The last few months of my life have been trying. I have not lost a job (been there and done that), I have not lost a loved one (been there and done that too much and in huge ways), and I have not lost my mind (well, been there and done that maybe once a month when stress rhymes with PMS!); however, I did lose a tooth last night. Okay, at 40-something, I way beyond the baby teeth and cavity prone years.

Iz, my 8-year-old daughter, lost another front tooth last night, leaving her with virtually no front teeth and making an even more blinding glare (sometimes she reminds me of Jaws, not the movie, but of the James Bond henchman!) from the palate expander that currently occupies her whole mouth. Currently, Iz has an open dialogue (that is, exchanging letters back and forth) with the Tooth Fairy, which I encouraged. I had to put on my Tooth Fairy wings last night; if truth be told, I so love those wings and the words that I get to say as her.

For example, last night, Iz wrote the Tooth Fairy in regard to her lost tooth and because she also wanted to give the Tooth Fairy all her Polly Pocket paraphernalia in exchange for getting Monty, our dearly departed Corgi back. The Tooth Fairy wrote back that she could not accept Iz’s toys. She told Iz that she could also not bring Monty back.

She did tell Iz that Monty was very happy in Heaven with his girlfriend, Zelda. (I always thought if I ever acquired a female Corgi that her name would be Zelda.) The Tooth Fairy also told her how much Monty missed her, and Iz seemed very happy to know all of this.

Anyway, despite being a part-time Tooth Fairy, I have been trying to navigate the waters of my life in a very small boat for the last several months. Sometimes these waters seem like the Bermuda Triangle. I’m lost, confused, alone, and I wonder if I’ll end up as an episode on Unsolved Mysteries.

There have been many diversions along the way. “Come stay on my island for a while.” But, none of them have seemed quite right. In fact, most of them involve spending life on a deserted island, a place in which I can live but can never be seen or heard from. (Some of you will “get” that. Some of you won’t, but I don’t care, because it’s my blog!)

Recently, I stopped and thought long and hard about being stuck in the Triangle that seems to be my life now. Oddly, when I think about my life right now, I hear two songs. They are the Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” and John Mayer’s “Why Georgia.”

I did say once that my life has soundtracks, right? Okay, if I didn’t, I’m saying it now. My life is an endless soundtrack, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

After assessing all my choices, I said, “I should go.” And then when I reassessed all the ways I could divert myself from concentrating on going, I said, “Am I living it right?” I decided that I wasn’t.

Typically, I’m a very impulsive person. I’m the very impulsive person who usually makes the wrong decisions when being impulsive. VHS or Beta? Beta. Microsoft stock or Flowbee stock? Flowbee. Chicken or egg? PedEgg. I am always wrong on impulse!

So, I took a deep breath, and I asked myself the question in "Why Georgia Why?" which is “Am I living it right?” It wasn’t that I started living wrong; it was that I was thinking about living wrong. For the first time in my life, beta, flowbee, and pedegg went out the window.

I decided that the most important thing I owed myself was myself. My children, Nate and Iz, always came first; however, I owed it to myself to make it all about me and where I wanted to go and where I was not about to stay. I was not going to stay on someone’s island, a captive; I would venture unknown waters and discover a new land, my land.

At the end of the day, I really have no one to be proud of me in the traditional sense. My parents are long gone. But, in the moment that I decided that I would live my life right and think about me and me alone, I was so proud of myself.

I hate to say it, but that was a first for me in my lifetime. I think I felt inklings, but what I felt in that moment was defining; old Jeans can be patched! And, life is so very good when you let yourself be who you were meant to be without any deserted islands, pirates who want to steal from you, or planks some might want you to walk. ♥

P.S. And, thanks Brenda for (paraphrasing here) "A blog no matter how small is always appreciated." ♥

Let Your Troubles Roll By

As some of you know, my son, Nathan, and I have had a friend-unfriend you relationship on Facebook. Some people tell me it’s stellar that Nate and I are friends at all. In the last two years, I have been added by Nate, deleted by Nate, added by Nate again, deleted myself, and then added by Nate again.

Today, I’m officially his “Mother” on his page. Of course, one of his friends, Matt, is listed as his father. So, I might be kidding myself by thinking that I’m special given Nate’s Facebook “Father” status.

Though, if truth be told, I’m the only biological parent that is Nathan’s friend. He deleted his Dad, Quinn, the bad cop. For some reason, and I’m still trying to figure out why it is, I’ve survived all these months despite my inquisitive presence in his life, which has occurred periodically and with issue.

I was deleted for stalking initially, but it’s so not stalking when he’s my friend. Legally and friend-wise, I am entitled to see his friend updates. So, when I read a post, I’m not a stalker, I’m a friend and a mother; though, so often, the mother part outweighs the friend part in the level of concern that occurs when reading a post.

Anyway, I saw last night’s post which was “F*ck,” and then he posted Carbon Leaf’s “Let Your Troubles Roll By.” So, I texted as nonchalantly as I could today and asked, “So, is everything okay?”

He said, “Meh. It’s okay.” Okay, what the hell does “Meh” mean?! My new Droid phone had an annoying spell checker; sometimes when Nathan texted me I felt that I needed a just as annoying Babelfish translator when it came to interpretting Nathan.

So, I went to Babelfish. There was an every-language-known-in-the-universe-to-English translation option. I tell you, Babelfish could make millions if there was an 18-year-old to English translator.

I said, “Okay, just checking.” I let an hour go by and then I called. I asked, “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

He responded, “Yeah.” Then I pushed it and I asked, “Are you sure?” If that question were in a comic book, it would have been bold, italicized, and underlined.

He said, “Yes.” I said, “Okay, well, as long as you know, that I’m here for you and you can talk to me whenever….” Suddenly, a ring back tone started playing on Nathan’s end of the line.

I knew I was about to get shut down and pretended not to interpret Nathan’s tone; thus, I threw out the desperation question, which was, “Is it about a girl?” The ring back tone became louder.

Oh, no, wait, it wasn’t a ring back tone! It was Nathan saying, “La-la, la-la-la, Mom, you’re overstepping boundaries, la-la-la, la-la!” Obviously, he knew I had read his FB posts.

In my defense, it is there out in the open for me to read. Yeah, well, in hindsight, maybe I should have let the conversation end after he said, “Yes,” but call me a mother 24/7. I said, “Okay, I get it.”

I then asked when he was working next; he told me Tuesday and Wednesday nights. After five seconds of silence, I did what I knew I had to and said, “Okay, so see you Tuesday. I love you.” And, I hung up before he could even respond.

As I sat there on the couch, I realized something for the very first time. Parenting was difficult, and it never became any easier. As Nate got older, it would only become more difficult, because then I really had no control over his body (tattoos, piercings, and anything else), the car he might drive, the person he dated, or how often he visited me.

Though, Nate might think it was, parenting was never a meh. I would love him always, yet, as time went on, I knew I'd have him in my life less and love him even more. Being a parent was anything but meh.

Parenting was really a hem (that's "meh" backwards) and a haw. I would hesitate and sometimes falter. Or I would falter and sometimes hesitate, but no matter, I would always love him and never ever let my haw and hem resolve to meh where it concerned him. ♥