Casual

One time I met this guy at Crazy Mama's, a post punk south campus bar back in the 80's, and somehow ended up back at his place having sex.  Since I had mostly been sleeping with women, I was always a bit surprised by how quickly men move.  (Same thing straight women, which I am guessing is because they are used to sleeping with the men who move too fast.)  Like suddenly we are getting it on and I am thinking, How did this happen?

He was pretty.  Usually when I am attracted to a boy, it is because he is pretty.  I like the long curly hair.  He was very skinny, slightly smaller than me. He stood out from the usual Mama's crowd, where everyone tried to out-punk each other, prove who could wear the most black, have the most piercings, have the most crazy mohawk or chopped up hair, and eye liner was big back then.  No, Mike was just wearing jeans and a long, faded flannel shirt. His ordinariness made him extraordinary to me.

I remember following him down the alley to his apartment.  I remember drinking beer out of his refrigerator.  I remember making out on his couch for awhile.  I remember he had a room mate.  Who suddenly came home.  I remember we had to move to the bedroom.  I remember the sex as that drunken sex that started quickly, over with quickly.

And I remember telling him I had to leave.

Go home.  Get some sleep.

It really freaked him out.  He tried to protest.  At the same time, I could tell he was sort of thrilled.  Wait, I get to fuck you and then we're done and I don't have to deal with cuddling or some girl waking up in my bed trying to have breakfast trying to become my girlfriend wondering when I'm going to call her again?  Wait. What?  He was saying, You really don't have to go.  All while he was walking me straight to the front door.  I shrugged, Look we're done here, I want to go home and sleep in my own bed.  I was pretty clear in my own head:  This is a one-night stand, we don't have to pretend to bond.

So of course I ran into him the next night and of course I ended up at his apartment again.

This time when I got up to leave, he protested bigger.  I finally told him, Um I have something to tell you I'm a lesbian, this is fun for me but I'm not making it a habit you're great and all but it's not going to turn into a regular thing.  (I mean, how could he think hooking up with a girl at a bar and immediately having sex with her was going to turn into a regular thing?  If he wanted a regular thing, I'm supposed to get a phone call for a date or something and he didn't even ask for my number. Isn't that the way straight people worked?)  He looked puzzled, trying to make sense of what I was saying, finally asking, Well, you mean you're....bisexual?

Me:  No.
Him:  But we just had sex.  A lot of sex.  Two nights.
Me:  Yeah, the best way to explain this to you is men are much easier to deal with than women so sometimes I fuck men.
Him:
Me:  I mean, with lesbians, you have to fucking take them out to coffee for three weeks and actually get to know them before they sleep with you.  With guys, I can just meet you in a bar that night.  Like we did.
Him:  So that makes you bisexual.
Me:  No.
Him:
Me:  It makes me a lesbian who fucks men.

This takes a while to sink in.  Finally,

Him:  But if I am a guy a lesbian is fucking, what does that make me?
Me:
Him:
Me:  Lucky.

We laughed.  What guy is going to argue with that logic?

So of course I ran into him the next night and of course I ended up at his apartment again.

This time he took me out to his balcony.  This time he brought out food.  This time there wasn't any cheap beer from the fridge.  This time he opened a bottle of wine.  This time he actually wanted to talk about himself.  He told me he was going to OSU studying to be a teacher and right now was doing the student teaching part, how working with the kids terrified him.  He told me he was from Lima or Findley or some other Ohio small town.  He told me his girlfriend had just broken up with him the week before.  He told me he hated his room mate and as soon as he got a job teaching, he was moving out.

After we were kissing, he started crying, asking, I'm never going to be able to satisfy you, am I?

No. No, Mike, you're not.

That third night, I spent the night.  Woke up and went to breakfast.  Walked up and down High Street together.  We exchanged numbers.  He was really beautiful.  He was really funny.  He was really nice.

I never used anyone for sex again.

Fire Fighter

Not many people know this about me, but I spent almost two years of my life training to be a firefighter. That it happened between the ages of four and six is beside the point. Firefighting training is like lifeguard training. I never stop scanning the horizon for emergency just as the teenage lifeguard never relaxes at the beach.

My dad was a volunteer firefighter at Greenwich Village Fire Department. We lived with this thing we called The Monitor and it would go off anytime and alert my dad and his buddies about some local fire. Back in the early seventies, if you called 911, you depended on these guys to roll out of bed, perhaps half drunk or exhausted from a double shift at the steel mill, to come save your house. I got to hang out with them.

When my dad worked midnight, he came home around 7am and went to bed. My mom went to work at the bank, my sister went to school, and when I didn't have to go to day-school, I watched PBS all morning. My dad got up around noon and we had lunch and we watched The Young and The Restless. (I was already in love with Ashley, the first Ashley who people later said was actually a man; this should have been an early warning.) When the sands finally fell through the hour glass, we got ready to walk over to the firehall.

For some reason, if we got in my dad's truck, all the back country roads, stop signs and red lights, twisting behind the mall and interstate, going to the firehall took twenty minutes, but if we cut across back yards, dashed through the farmer's fields (who didn't like trespassers; I lived my whole life in fear of The Farmer, who I never, ever saw) and ran across the interstate exit curve (twice), up a brush-covered embankment, we could get there in ten minutes. My dad entertained me along the way, playing step-on-your-shadow and teaching me S-T-O-P, my very first reading word.

We always approached from the back, reaching a newly-laid gravel parking lot. Crunch, crunch, crunch, we opened the back door into a hall used for wedding receptions, bingo, and saturday night dances with a local cover band my parents loved called Freedom Child. I liked to hold my daddy's hand at this point because I was (am) afraid of the dark, but after my eyes adjusted, I ran down a long side hallway to the old-fashioned coke machine, first checking for any coins in the change slot, then banging on all the wide buttons, hoping to make a coke fall on accident, finally turning around to my dad with pleading eyes. Sometimes I'd get a coke (the little green bottle kind (do they still make those?) and I struggled awkwardly with the bottle opener that was right there on the machine), but mostly not; my parents were quite frugal and considered coke from a machine a waste of money.

We made our way to the kitchen where a handful of guys hung out drinking coffee. I slinked over to the corner and waited until giant hands (not necessarily my dad's) scooped up my armpits and placed me on the countertop. Once on my perch, I disappeared; the men forgot about me. There was Don Baker and Bill Ilenfeld and a guy named Vern, who my sister always had a crush on. The men joked and cursed and eventually a woman, one of the wives who helped organize bingo night or family potluck, would stick her head in and remind them, gentlemen, yins are talkin' in front of a child, and their eyes fell on me while they sheepishly grinned at each other.

But then their talk turned into code, I got bored and flipped over onto my stomach, my legs dangling over the edge until I took a chance and dropped. I creeped over to my dad, pulled his pant leg and whisper-asked, could I go tinkle, and he whisper-asked, do you need any help. My answer was always no because I really didn't need to go. See, the hallway to the restrooms was also the hallway that led to the trucks.

After I finished, I tiptoed back to the door of the kitchen, making sure they returned to their no-child zone bantering and I knew my dad forgot about me. As silent as a four year old who wants to crawl on fire trucks, I opened the door to the garage, slipped in, and held onto the doorknob until it slowly closed behind me. Then I was free. To do whatever I wanted.

Have you ever been alone with three gorgeous firetrucks, able to do whatever you wanted? I imagined The Monitor going off and I jumped on the back to grab hold of the long chrome handle, leaning my body side to side as we raced to the scene, whirring my imitation siren. Then I ran to the front and hopped onto the passenger side runner, hanging on again, swinging my body wide as the truck made another turn. Next moving to the driver's seat, grabbing the over-sized steering wheel to take the truck on more wide turns. (There were always a lot of wide turns when we were racing to the scene.) Once we got there, I used my tree climbing ability to spider down the side of the truck to the spouts where the hoses attached. I fastened my hoses and turned to my burning house, wrestling my body with the violent sprayer to save the day, schprshhhhhhhh sound effects coming out of my mouth. When my pretend fire was out, I was spent and I loved to climb up the giant yellow truck (the newest, shiniest addition) and lay in the middle of the neatly folded hoses until my dad came looking for me. I wasn't supposed to be in the garage by myself (my mother's rule) but my dad never scolded when he found me.

My dad took me to a few real fires. I remember a grass fire emergency. And I remember he took me to an intentional burning, a great big house on the corner of Duffy Road and Newcastle ( it became a bank, now a gas station). Later, in third grade at Northwest Elementary, I remember once the volunteers dressed up in their firefighting clothes and brought the big yellow truck to show the kids. Everyone was all excited but I hung back, nonplussed. I already knew every inch of that truck. I always used to shake my head at the other kids who said, when I grow up I'm going to be a firefighter, and thought they were idiots. In my mind, you either are one or you're not.

As an adult, I fought my own house fire. The toaster oven went up in flames, scorching a taco shell. (Black and Decker later informed me, never put a taco shell in a toaster oven. um, Thanks). Grabbing baby Stella and running out the front door to call for help never once crossed my mind. I instructed Eva to do that and after I ensured their safety, I flew back to the kitchen (my body gracefully careening to take the pivot through the door, the wide turn I'd prepared for all those years ago) and grabbed the extinguisher out from under the sink and doused the miniture oven and the ominous flames creeping up the curtains. The fire did some smoke damage, but if we had waited for the professionals to show up, we may have lost the whole kitchen.

I know I missed my calling. Something happens in panic-inducing situations, a calmness comes over me and a clear action plan presents itself in my mind. Everything moves in slow motion.

A child pretending is a child practicing.

Wipe Out

I wiped out on my razor scooter a few weeks ago and it was the best feeling in the world.  I totally wish you could have seen it.  I stood up and laughed, jumped back on, and kept going.  Just to show everybody I was fine.  After a few blocks, I sat down on some steps and immediately Facebooked about it, telling my most amused and delighted friends:  It finally happened.  The fabric of my work pants torn at the knees.  The blood running down my shins.

I never felt more alive.

(Why can't I feel this way about heartbreak?)

I remember the fantabulous crashes from my youth.  And how we all celebrated when some kid made a most awesome Wipe Out.  I once catapulted over my bike handles and flew down the steepest hill in my neighborhood, dragging my face along the side of the road, coming up with gravel embedded in my cheek.  Admiration from one kid to another:  Cool wipe out.  We wore our skinned knees and elbows like badges of honor.

I've never gotten seriously hurt or broken any bones and I have a theory about this:  I don't try to stop myself when I fall.  I feel the Wipe Out coming and I go limp, letting my knees drag across the pavement, holding up my wrists.  The moment the skateboard or scooter jams, the split second I'm aware This Is Going To Hurt Like Hell, I let myself go with complete abandon.  I do not even think twice about jumping right back on my ride and pushing away as fast as I can.  I never shed a tear.

(Why can't I feel this way about heartbreak?)

The same week I so gloriously wiped out on my razor scooter, some girl took a wrecking ball to my heart.  I realize I write the action verbs like she caused all this, but I know I blew it.  In a colossal way.  She even warned me about what was going to happen but I proceeded as if I were somehow different.  My endless terminal uniqueness.

After everything explodes, I am reduced to sobbing and chanting through the tears, Never Again, Never Again, I am never ever ever telling anyone I like them, I am never even allowing myself to like anyone, fuck everything, fuck everyone.  Several minutes of this, I suddenly realize the energy and wish I am sending into the universe.  I drop to the floor, wince from the pain where my one knee is still raw from the crash, and insist on whispering a new prayer:  Soft heart, soft heart, soft heart, please divine source of all life, I take it all back, do not close my heart no matter how many times I trust it to the wrong person, soft heart, soft heart, soft heart, I must keep my soft open heart....

As I shift the weight off my sore knee, it hits me.  With my scooter, with my skateboard, I fall with abandon. I even EXPECT to get hurt.  And I LOVE it when I do.  Someone suggests that maybe a forty-five year old woman should not be buzzing through The Short North on a razor scooter, that maybe I should go ahead and pay for that parking pass.  There's NO Way I will ever even entertain the idea of quitting.

(What if I start thinking of falling with my heart the way I think of my body flying across the sidewalk?  Expect to get hurt and even love it when I do?)

I ride my razor scooter with no fear.  I mean, I'm not in the middle of the street or anything stupid.  But if I have fear, I lose balance and I especially lose the joy of gliding through the world.  When I have fear, when I hesitate, that's usually when I crash.  I ride both-footed and the crash happened when I was doing my stutter step full speed to switch feet.  I discovered this the very next day when I almost crash again.  I didn't remember what made me fall, but my body did.  My feet hesitate during the skip to the other foot and I laugh, realizing my mistake.  Now I have to take my brain out of thinking about it too much.  If I am full of fear, I cannot accomplish such a feat with the usual style and grace.

(Same thing Heart.  I know that fear got in my way, made me overreact, over correct.  Crash.)

I'm taking a break from FB interactions during the days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur because every year I use this time as a space to find mindfulness.  But the truth is I could no longer pretend I am OK.  I am not OK.  I am heartbroken.  I cried everyday for the last two weeks.  A few friends protest:  But you don't want a girlfriend anyways.  And they're right.  I don't.  But that doesn't change the facts on the ground.  I liked someone.  It didn't work out.  She's gone.

This happens repeatedly in my life and I always respond by immediately being with someone else.  I am seeking change in my life so I know the only way towards a different path is to change the pattern.  For the first time in my life, post-heartbreak, I insist on aloneness.

I choose to regard the heartbreak the same way I feel the skinned knee.  I'm holding it up for everyone to see.  If it's painful, I must become willing not just to endure it but also to let it awaken my heart and soften me.  Instead of running from the fall and the pain, I am going to embrace it.

The key is:  It's no big deal.  With my mind, I can make a big deal out of myself, out of my pain.  Or, just like the scooter crash, I get up and shrug.  It's even funny.  It's even something to share with the people who love me.

 I let my heart race. Fly across the universe. Cool Wipe Out.

Figuring out Queer

“Oh, you never want to go to a school like Vasser, or any of The Seven Sisters, because they’re all full of lesbians,” declared my best friend.  We were standing in the hallway of my high school sometime in 1984 and I remember a few other kids were there and even a guidance counselor, nodding his head in agreement.  It is my earliest memory of a consciousness of being gay, of actually identifying with that word:  Lesbian.  I remember thinking clearly: That’s where I MUST go, and, When I get to college, I can tell people, until then, I MUST keep it a secret. But college, college, college, I can finally be free in college.

I think about the thoughts that led up to this moment.  I have an early memory of being at Myrtle Beach, floating on a raft on my stomach with my head resting on my hands, looking at the people on the beach and thinking, I’m not like them, any of them, and I have to hide it, I have to keep myself a secret.  I was eight.   I remember in all my family’s travels across the country, when no one I knew was around, introducing myself to strangers as a boy.  I wanted so badly to be a boy.  First to have their freedom, next to have their girlfriends.   I remember watching soap operas and falling in love with Laura and thinking, I would be so much much better for her than Luke or Scotty.  I dreamed myself as the perfect boyfriend all through my childhood.  I remember how in all the childhood games, I insisted on being Chachi or Joe Hardy or Luke Skywalker.   All the sex education books told me having crushes on girls was entirely “normal” for the pre-teen and no indication of future aberrant behavior.  I don’t know at what point I realized I didn’t have to be a boy to have a girlfriend.  I could actually be a girl and have a girlfriend.

And how did I know “gay” even existed?  Again the early memories started with television.  The National Enquirer blowing up about Billie Jean King.  Rod Stewart having his stomach pumped.  A councilman shot in San Francisco.  My sister explaining the meaning of the lyrics of “Lola.”  The first time I heard the word “faggot” hurled at another kid was on the bus in fourth grade and my best friend had to explain all the words:  gay, faggot, dyke, lesbian, queer.  (My best friend did a lot of reading and had a way more worldly household.)  Martina Navratilova sent me to the tennis courts. Then Boy George appeared on MTV and when my father saw him, he muttered, What a fruit.  I looked at Culture Club and knew that was me; I didn’t have the hair or the make up and certainly not the style but I knew we were still the same.  

As I was entering my senior year, I was losing a different best friend to college. She left me with this parting advice:  Hey, there’s a girl I know from theater, you’ll probably meet her at the Thespian picnic, she’s had a really hard time because everyone is calling her a lesbian.  I don’t know if she actually IS a lesbian, well, yes, I do, she definitely is, but do you think you could try to be friends with her?   

Could I be friends with her?  Oh my god I was so excited to meet a real live lesbian who was actually my age.  This year I sent her a message on FB asking, I think you’re the first person I came out to, do you remember what I said?  She wrote back: You looked at me and told me that you were not gay and then you leaned over and kissed me. I don’t remember this, but I totally trust her version of events, especially since that sounds EXACTLY like something I would do.  

I regret  how after that kissing, I spiralled into a wave of self hatred which led me to reject my gay friends, hook up with a very sweet boy, and write suicide notes.  I was sure I was going to hell for being gay and the only thing that kept me from killing myself was that I also knew I would go to hell for killing myself.  

That time in my life completely informs my spirituality today:  

How we NEVER know how things are going to turn out. We know nothing.  I was seventeen and I was sure, absolutely certain, I was going to hell. A mere four years later, I was dancing with a hundred thousand queers in front of City Hall in San Francisco, thinking THANK GOD I AM GAY.  I imagine someone whispering to that 17 year old girl curled up, miserable on her bedroom floor:  You are perfect and soon you are going to be sooooo happy. If I find myself stuck in some kind of despair, I think of these mere four years and the distance traveled to get to such a place of acceptance and it doesn’t take four years anymore, thank goodness.

Somewhere Safe

I put my bank card somewhere safe so of course I can't find it now.  Does anyone else do this?  I put my wedding ring somewhere safe.  I put the gold necklace my mother-in-law gave me somewhere safe.  Somewhere safe in my house there is some wonderful stuff.  If only I could find somewhere safe.

When I was nineteen, I ran away from home with the woman I planned to marry and spend the rest of life. My first big grown up Love. We got an apartment together, opened joint bank accounts, and laid around talking about soul mates and forever.  In 1987, we were politically aware enough and madly in love enough to dream about Gay Marriage.  I remember insane passion when we were trying to avoid getting caught in college and at our summer job. Once we moved in together, the passion dissipates, the immature fighting starts.  She left me after a year and a half for our only other friend in Columbus, OH, a beautiful boy who worked with us.  I could hardly blame her; the heart wants what the heart wants. She told me we couldn't be friends, that she loved me too much, that she'd never move on if I stayed in her life.  I watched them pack up and leave together and when they left, I had no friends.

When I was 23, I tried the great big let's spend the rest of our lives together once more.  This time we lasted four years.  Again with the wild crazy passion for about a year, again with the boredom, again with the fighting.  About two years in, she started cheating on me and when I figured it out and all the crying subsided, we decided we really loved each other so we would try an Open Marriage.

(Here's the thing about growing up gay late 20th century:  As you are realizing you are gay, you are realizing everything you've ever been told is a lie.  Everything.  Everything about gender and the sexes and sex and love and marriage.  If something as big as the institution of heterosexuality is a complete lie, maybe every institution needs to come down with it.  I was ready to throw the baby out with the bathwater.  Plus, I didn't want to lose another girlfriend.  I am not a jealous person.  I have abandonment issues.  If you promise you're not going to leave me, I really don't care who you fuck.  Connection is so much more important to me than ownership.)

This story does not end well.  My partner wasn't just a cheater, she was mean and abusive.  Probably not the best person with whom to have an open marriage.  For example, I wasn't allowed to see anyone else.  While my understanding of non-monogamy was about openness, honesty, and the opportunity to widen the circle of love in our life.  Her understanding of having another girlfriend was because I wasn't enough.  She justified her extra girlfriend in all the ways I didn't meet her needs.  I also found myself helping the other two work out their problems.  I vividly remember the Steelers were in the play offs for the first time in years and I wanted to get home but they got into a big fight and I was trapped in the car counseling my partner and her other lover.  Blah. I promised myself:  Never Again.

As I exited this relationship, I thought - If I had asked her to marry me, if gay marriage was on the table, she would have said no and saved me a lot of trouble.  This is one of the reasons I started really pushing  marriage equality.  The gays should have the right to ask their lover, Will you marry me?  No?  Ok, next.  I decided then and there, no relationship without Marriage.

And then came marriage.  Again with the great big crazy passion at the beginning.  By the time we hit the boring part, we were planning a wedding to distract us.  And then it was always on to the next thing, Stella, three babies at once, car seats, family vacation, preschool, kindergarten.   I discovered marriage is a little like driving in the summer with the windows up and no air conditioning.  Just as we were about the cross the finish line of every kid in kindergarten, along came a carjacker.  This time I cheated.

I'm not sure where this all leaves me.  Go back a story, where I said yesterday I am fine being single forever. I am not, however, fine never having sex in my life so I am left sorting out what that kind of connection means to me and how to proceed.

I sure as fuck am never getting married again.   If given the opportunity to gay marry, I would have married three times so maybe driving that car does not suit me.  I mean, I had a great wife.  For all the things I tried to make wrong about her or wrong about us together, it really comes down to having nothing to do with her and everything to do with my own personal misery at being trapped in a relationship.  I make a list of everything I want in a spouse and then sit back and laugh at myself because guess what?  She fills it.

I never want to be dependent on anyone else again unless I am very old and it's one of my kids.

I believe our dreams and promises of forever are inevitably at odds with our sexual beings. Especially women.  Right now pharmaceutical companies are working on a pill which will increase a woman's desire for her husband.  Not that there's anything wrong with her actual libido.  A man needs Viagra because his body is failing.  A woman's biochemistry may be completely normal, but we are pathologizing the fact of women's natural sexuality.  A cure for the monotony of monogamy.   All the scientific research about women's desire shows how when we are in a state of safety, desire dissipates.  Disappears.  Completely.  And it happens much more quickly for women than men.  The main reason this happens is because people are trapped.  You don't have sex with me because you desire me, you have sex with me because I'm the only one you're allowed to have sex with and that really bores the shit out of us.  Within the bounds of great big committed relationship, the heat of being desired grows remote.  The choice of me is no longer being made.  Blah.

While the dream of "you complete me" sounds really compelling in the beginning, this isn't love.  This is an inner child seeking reassurance - tell me I'm special, tell me I'm perfect, tell me it's forever no matter what.  At this point, I believe crossing over to the space where I surrender safety, acknowledge that I am navigating my life alone, supported by the love of my family and friends, but inescapably alone, letting go of the longing to depend and be protected, is the only space where pure eros can thrive.

I can't find my bank card, my wedding band, the gold necklace my mother-in-law gave me.  I put them somewhere safe.  It's the things I love without possession that stay in my life.  On my wrist are bracelets I gathered over the years.  Eva made me a collection of the kids' names in Hebrew.  My sister gave me a leather charm bracelet for Christmas.  Gigi gave me three matching silver bracelets for my birthday several years ago.  I toss them onto the nightstand or in a desk drawer or on the bathroom sink or in the little notch of my car door.  I don't think twice about any of them.  I never try to put them anywhere safe.  I never lose
 them and they never leave me.

For the Sake of the Kids

I didn't expect it to happen. I have low expectations these days when it comes to anything having to do with my First Wife. I took the kids to Little Minyan for Kol Nidre. Bought them some new clothes and shoes. Warned Eva. Since this is usually her stomping grounds. Our daughter asked her once, Is is ok if Mama takes us to services at Little Minyan sometimes too? As if it's something I need permission for. Like I said, I went with low expectations. This was one of those times I had to put on Katie Perry's Firework for the car ride, just to give me a breath of self-confidence. 
Everyone recognizes my kids so I was forced to introduce myself: The Other Mom. Jessica, the sort of rabbi, who was once my friend but defriended me and was the "spiritual leader" of my First Wife's second wedding, gave me a half-hearted wave. Then services began. Luckily my son was tired because he stayed beside me the whole time and I really needed that. We discovered little pieces of paper (for notes?) in the pew in front of us and he spent the entire time doing origami. I showed him how to make a frog.  Eva and Amy appeared about five minutes after everything started. They sat behind me where Georgia and Scarlett had already established themselves, having checked with me that they could escape if they got bored. When Stella saw them, she left me to go curl up in her Ema's lap. I have to admit: I am petty. I decided right before services (and even made a point to TELL God) that even though I know I am supposed to pray for the ability to forgive Amy, forget it, I'm never forgiving her. Especially if she never acknowledges she did anything wrong to me. And Eva refuses to forgive me. And now I can't forgive her for not forgiving me and yes, it's an endless circle of rat poison. (Anne Lamott says Not Forgiving someone is like eating the rat poison and waiting for the rat to die.) That was my state of mind pre-Kol Nidre. Nope. No Way. Hardened Heart. Not Gonna Do It.  

In case you don't know, pretty much the whole point of this holiday is atonement and forgiveness. Jews don't go to confession year round; we starve ourselves and stand up in services for fifty hours in a row, praying for forgiveness and the ability to forgive others. I practiced the previous ten years but I knew this year was only a physical show. For the sake of the kids.  
There was this super long piano and cello solo. Beautiful and all. But c'mon. Really? And we had to stand for the whole thing. I was like, WHAT is the point of making us stand for twenty minutes? As soon as I asked the question, I quickly answered myself - I know, I know: To make us focus. And perhaps to make us sorry. Really Really Sorry. But sheesh. I finally gave Zeke permission to sit. With his origami frogs. I didn't realize it at the time, only made the connection later, but it was on the last note, the very last strung out cello note, the denouement, the final settling of the song that my heart softened the teensiest bit. A crack where the light came in. I thought, Well at least that last note made standing the whole time sort of worth it. Ok, we got to finally sit down for a minute. But then they had a kid open the Ark and stand with The Torah for the eternity of reading the community Kol Nidre. Back to more standing.

For most of this reading, I worried about the kid, standing there forever with the weight of The Torah. It was a back and forth, call and response thing. Sometimes readers happened in the congregation, quite spontaneously, but the last reading was done together. It built us up to forgiving "vows we could not keep." That's when I started to pay attention. Vows. We. Could. Not. Keep. And then the last paragraph, I suddenly became aware: We are standing only a few feet away from each other, reading aloud a prayer for forgiveness and for the ability to forgive. And I know Eva. Better than even The New Wife. We stood next to each other reciting these prayers for 12 years. I know she is reading out loud too. And together we are reading out loud in a sacred space with a Minyan of Jews. And perhaps even beginning a new set of vows. Of course I started to cry. Because I always fucking cry. When we sat down, I put my arm around my son and smiled through the tears at the plague of frogs littering the church pew. A friend tells me: Forgiveness isn't easy. Hearing people say things out loud in front of a congregation that they need forgiveness when I believe that YES..YOU NEED TO ASK FORGIVENESS FOR THIS YOU PRICK..is powerful. And the person saying it knows that I know that I need to forgive and be forgiven. And then, I start, a little, to forgive. Some things can never truly be forgiven, but like with all mitzvot, the more I practice the "easier" it becomes. A deep sigh. I realize forgiveness is more like acceptance. Never warm and fuzzy. It all started with my acceptance of my obligation (to take my kids to this service) and moved to ACCEPTANCE and then God nudges us in the right direction: Stop swallowing the rat poison.

We left not too long after. Stella complaining that she needed to go to bed. And I was a little less angry than when I arrived.

Ring the bell that still can ring.

There's a crack in everything.

That's how the light gets in......

I Love Being Not Right

So one of my big life lessons is all about how I know absolutely nothing.

A perfect example:  When I was 17, I wanted to kill myself because I was in the process of realizing I am gay.  Flash forward five years and I am dancing in the streets of San Francisco with my hands in the air, singing along with Crystal Waters (Live) at the end of the day of a giant gay pride march, thinking to myself:  THANK GOD I am gay because straight people never get to do this except maybe at weddings.

(side note to self:  maybe this is really why gay people want in on the whole wedding thing, more places to dance with our hands in the air.)

Anyways.  Now when I find myself super-depressed (like even this afternoon when I was crying at the end of The Iron Lady which is a movie not at all about England but more about having a great big true love in life who shares everything and realizing I totally fucked that up for myself and dammit I really hate Catherine and Heathcliff right now, and yes I'm probably going to bleed tomorrow morning), I remind myself how in the blink of an eye I went from suicidal depression with ABSOLUTE CERTAINTY my life was going to be so miserable and I was going straight to hell to a life where I celebrate myself and totally sing the body electric on most nights (and now days).

In this past week, I am confronted AGAIN with another way I was so wrong.

And it makes my heart sing.

Eva has this brother, my kids' uncle, who never really said much of anything to me throughout the beginnings of our marriage, mostly because I came along right about the time he developed complete teenage disdain for anything having to do with his family.  One time, we were at some great big function where he was sitting sullenly next to me on the couch in a room full of relatives when suddenly he was inspired to start telling me about his art and his whole rant eventually led to him insisting to Eva and me about what it's going to be like when his art is hanging in MOMA.  Yes, this idiot late teenager who grunted when his mother helped him set up an art show at the local JCC seemed to be having a manic breakdown right in front of me with what I interpreted as full blown delusions of grandeur.  Afterwards, Eva and I talked at length about our concern for his mental health.

I am very pleased to report ten years later - I was so wrong.  He's not in MOMA yet.  But it's surely not a dream I believe crazy.

Because there's THIS <<<<<click and make sure you scroll down and watch the video if you want your mind blown.  And after that video, find the other ones HERE.

It continues to be my life lesson:  I know nothing.  We never know what's coming.  Don't piss on someone else's dream, even if it's only in your mind.  We never know what people are going to do.  We think we know.  We think we can look at patterns of behavior and predict outcomes.  And it is SO HARD to believe that people can change.  But they do it all the time.  Sometimes they change back.  And forth.  And keep moving forth.  Which is sort of what Jake's art is doing - everything is in a state of constant change, how the story starts, you never know how it's going to end, the picture in flux.  We know nothing.


One of the promises of my recovery:  I will be amazed before I am half way through....and I am.

Achievement Test

My mother took every opportunity to tell my sister and me how we were really stupid.  “Dumb as a pissant” or “Lose your head if it wasn’t attached” and especially “never amount to anything.”  I remember in Third Grade we had to take an “Achievement” test and the teachers and the principal telling us over and over how these tests do not matter, we should just try our best but they will not affect our report card or go anywhere on our permanent record.  At some point during the test, my teacher announced we could go outside when we were finished.  So I ABBA CA DABBAed the rest of the scantron and headed for the playground.  It was about four years later when I found out they lied to us as they were dividing up every elementary kid to matriculate into junior high.  I really wish someone had told me: If you kick ass on that Third Grade “Achievement” test, you get to be called “gifted” or at least “advanced.”  Later, I found out how my fill-in-the-blanks fast track to recess returned my test back with an IQ of 72 and my parents were called into school where the principal said I belonged in the Special Ed class and my mom as all: Well, that explains everything.  The weird part of this story is how my mom was actually a teacher’s aid in the Special Ed room.  She worked with these kids everyday and somehow it made sense to her when some authority figure told her I belonged there.  My teacher spoke up: Janine is most certainly not Mentally Retarded (as we called it in those days), I have a pretty good idea of what happened here and it has more to do with Dodge Ball than intelligence.

By Junior High, we were divided into curriculum tracks labeled “Advanced, Average, and Below Average.”  The Below Average students eventually made their way to the Vo-Tech program by high school.  I had all “Average” classes except I am pretty sure I fell into “Below Average” math.  I was a trouble maker.  I started hanging out with “The Freaks.”  School was one big entertainment session:  How to cut class, how to convince the nurse I was sick, how to use a cheat sheet, how to copy off my neighbor’s work, how to steal hall passes, how to make out with boys on the condemned third floor.  One day at the beginning of 8th grade, Mrs. Corona, my English teacher, approached my mother in the Faculty Lounge.  (Now my mom was a teacher’s aid in remedial reading, following my sister and me from school to school.)  My mother waved her away, telling her: No, I only talk about Janine during conferences.  This was not the first time a teacher tried to ruin her cigarette break.  Mrs. Maffie once marched up to her and slammed my cheat sheet of all the Roman gods and goddesses onto her table, for example.  But Mrs. Corona persisted:  I think Janine belongs in Advanced English.  My mother burst out laughing: Oh no, surely you’re not talking about my daughter.  This experienced teacher saw something my mother refused to see.  Perhaps I was not dumb, perhaps I was bored, perhaps I needed something a little more challenging.  She asked my mother if we could try an experiment and have me sit in on her advanced class.  My mother was not proud or even excited for me.  When she told me about what Mrs. Corona said, she insisted it was all a big mistake and not to get my hopes up or anything.  I sat in that class for one week and then marched into the guidance counselor’s office by myself and demanded a schedule change from top to bottom.  

By the time I was 23, I had dropped out of three different colleges and now found myself trying one more time at a community college north of San Francisco.  Starting all over again, I landed in another freshman English course taught by an over-enthusiastic young man named Mr. Haskell.  (In my mind, I called him “Eddie.”) He was so thrilled to be teaching English at a community college.  He loved school.  He loved my writing.  He went on and on about my great writing.  I rolled my eyes.  I think at that point, I considered myself a History major or maybe I would just default into Nursing.  Or something.  But he kept telling me:  You. Are. A. Good. Writer.  I figured it was his  job to say all this.  Or something.  We were doing a close study of Tennessee Williams’ Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.  We were supposed to read the play and write all about the meanings and symbolism.  We had to watch the Elizabeth Taylor movie and write all about the ways Hollywood changed the story and why.  We watched the Jessica Lange version and at the end of the semester, we met in the city to watch a staged version.  Up until the night of the performance, school was always a total drag for me, some hoop you jumped through to move to the next stage of life.  I did the least to get by.  Standing in line, “Eddie” was waxing poetic about what an awesome opportunity to get to see this live performance in the great city of San Francisco and for just a moment, I tilted my head and he moved into a different prism in my mind.  I remember thinking: Oh my god, you actually like this shit.  And this young man, who worshipped at the Altar of Tennessee, also put a lot of effort into insisting I am a Good Writer. I decided to believe him.

Stolen Cell Phone, Part 3

The next morning I placed my cell phone in the middle of the dining room table where it was sure to be seen.

 My kids are pretty good about getting up in the morning and taking care of themselves.  I set up all of Zeke's clothes in the downstairs bathroom, pull him out of the bunk bed with his head covered in "Froggy," and carry him in total darkness.  He hates the light first thing in the morning.  After he's gone, the girls can turn on all the lights.  I want them completely dressed, including shoes, before they sit down to breakfast. And I MAKE breakfast.  Everyday.  Like real food.  Not some pop-tart either.  My kids are mostly vegetarian and I like to send them off with a belly full of protein because I know the rest of the day is nothing but carbs, carbs, carbs.  Once they are settled, I announce:

"You people owe me $50 dollars."

I like to say whacked out crazy things to my kids just to see how they're going to respond.  For some reason, this doesn't get much of a response, so I say it again.

"That's right.  You heard me.  You people owe me $50 dollars."

This time they are looking at me like I am out of my mind.  So I explain.

"Last night.  While you were all acting crazy right before bedtime and I had to spend an extra hour settling you down, someone stole my cell phone right out of the car."

This is why I left my cell phone where they can see it.  Right away, they want to hear the story.  This is what we do at my house.  Mama, tell us the story of how you got fired from that one job.  Mama, tell us the story of how you just filled in the blanks when you were tested in third grade and they tried to put you in the special ed class. (This is a popular story lately, as they are all about to embark on Iowa Exams.) Mama, tell us the story of your first boyfriend, you first girlfriend.  Mama, tell us the story of how you met Ema.  Mama, tell us the story of how you sold all of your belongings in a yard sale.  Tell the story of my birth.  Tell the story of how you ran away from home.

So I told them.  About how I discovered it missing.  How I posted on FB.  How everybody sent text messages to my phone.  They wanted me to read the messages.  This greatly impressed them.  How the thief called me.  How I drove away while they were sleeping and retrieved it.   But then we came back to the issue at hand; I told them I never would have had my cell phone stolen if they had all been behaving ergo they owe me $50.

This brought a howl of protest.  They wanted to know why I would pay such a high reward.  Their personalities show up in their defense.  The Oldest uses critical thinking skills to argue that I am the one who forgot the cell phone out in the car in the first place, so I should pay.  Practical Scarlett says I should never pay a reward to a thief.  Georgia, ever wanting to please each person, lobbies to pay only half.  And Zeke just shrugs, I don't have that kind of money.

"Of course I'm not going to make you pay me.  It's done.  Get your back packs and help me load the car."

For some reason, Scarlett and I ended up on the second floor together again.  I have a giant clear plastic box sitting on the floor below my linen closet.  It is full of everything that should be organized into a medicine cabinet and extra stuff that can probably take up a shelf of the closet too.  Band aids.  Kids' medicine. Make up.  Cotton balls.  Nail polish.  The list goes on.  I'm sitting at the top of the steps, in the same place from the night before when the madness peaked.  Scarlett comes around the same corner.  I stop her and say:

"Look at this box.  Do you know what all this stuff is and why it's still sitting here?"

She shakes her head, "Why don't you just put it away?"

"It's still sitting here because I don't care.  I don't mind it being there.  I step over it.  It's been there since we moved in and someday eventually I'll get around to putting it all away but for now it doesn't bother me.  Look around at the rest of this house.  Now, I want you to imagine Ema living with someone who doesn't care how long a box of junk sits in the middle of the hallway.  And I want you to imagine me living with someone who is always making a big deal about everything being all organized and put away.  I'm not saying this is the only reason we're not together anymore, but I want you to take a look at my house and take a look at her house and understand there were ways I was trying to be when I was with her that were not right for me and all of those problems were there way way way before Amy came along.  Come here."

She came over to me and sat on my lap at the top of the steps.  She leaned on me and sucked her finger.  She's eight years old and she still sucks her finger at my house.  I cannot get her to stop.  She does not suck her finger at Eva's house and I don't know if that means I'm a terrible mother or if it means she knows I don't judge her.  Whatever it is, she won't stop sucking for me.

I wonder:  If we were still together and all living under the same roof, would the finger sucking have stopped altogether a long time ago?  How has the divorce affected our daughter's palette?  In my head, I go on and on with every consequence and scenario.  I spent a lot of time with her parents.  If we were still together, would the kids be spending more time with their grandparents?  How do the kids feel about promises?  Is there ever any way they will ever believe anyone's promise?  I know I wouldn't.

"I want you to know I heard what you said last night and even though I had to send you to bed, I'm thinking about how to explain things to you.  I am the way I am and I am not better than Ema and she is not better than me.  But we're different and our differences made it difficult to stay together.  I'm the one who asked for a divorce first.  We tried for a little bit to work it out.  THEN Amy came along.  I know it seems like we told you about the divorce and Amy was there at the same time,  but stuff happened way before and we weren't telling any five year olds about it. I appreciate how Amy stuck around through what must have been a really hard time for Ema, and I appreciate how she helps us take care of you.  But I want you to know I am sorry that we didn't try harder. We owed it to you to try harder.  I really wish you didn't have to live in different houses but I will try to work as hard as I can to make things easier for you, OK?"

Nearly everyday my kids find a way to remind me how much divorce sucks.  Don't do it, people.  I mean it. Penelope Trunk explains how I view divorce today HERE.  It was really hard work to stay together, but I am here to report that the work grows exponentially once the parents are apart.  I grapple all the time with the long term sadness and trying to figure out if they're going to have a lingering inability to connect to other people.

I don't yet know how this story ends yet.  There isn't some uplifting spiritual message at the end of every blog.  I'm still in the thick of things so I can't yet see how all of my mistakes and regrets are somehow "meant to be" great learning experiences.  Tell it to the kids who live in two houses so therefore have no real home.

Stolen Cell Phone, Part 2

I searched the car.  I remembered it being in The Cell Phone Spot.  I remembered feeling for it in my coat pocket and realizing it wasn't there.  So it must still be in The Cell Phone Spot.  Maybe I dropped it.  Did I have it?  Did I maybe leave it at the restaurant?  Banging my head, trying to remember.  But I really wanted to remember that is was NOT in The Cell Phone Spot because if that's where it was, then it was definitely lost.  Stolen.

I went back inside to the one place where I find all my answers these days.  Facebook.  And I posted:  "Hey everybody this is my cell phone # Can you please take a moment to send a text to the thief who stole it out of my car in the last hour.  Be nice about it.  Offer a $50 reward.  I just want to get it back."

Right away the comments telling me what to do.  Go to iTunes and get the "lost cell phone" app and download. I remembered that I have a spare cell phone, a flip phone that I keep in the house for emergencies.  I am not at all technologically savvy and if I have to think about it too much, I'll curl up in a ball and just turn on the TV.  Deep breath.  One step at a time.  iTunes.  Search.  There it is.  Download.  Open it up.  Huh.  Did you know if you leave the "location services" on, your cell will show up on a little map?  You probably know this.  Everybody probably knows this.  I did not know this.  In fact, I could now see the location of all our devices.  Cool.  Oh look, there's my cell on Cleveland and Weber.  Although not too far from my house, not exactly the corner I want to go searching for anything.  What am I gonna do, look around on the ground?  Knock on doors?  Go up to hookers, Excuse me do you have my phone, I know you have my phone?

I call the police and sit on hold for about twenty minutes.  I'm still chatting with the Facebookers.  Who are all telling me to most certainly NOT go to any location.  And then the police transfer me to some recorded system where I can leave a report about my stolen merchandise. I'm doing this while commenting on a long FB thread where my friends are all reporting how they sent a text and filing them in on my plans, and I'm surfing around the whole "lost cell phone" app. I figure out how I can locate my phone and send it a message, offering a reward and the number of my spare cell phone.  And then I can lock it.  But once I lock it, I can't call it or text it.  I have to wait for it to text me.  I finally decide, What the heck?  I lock it and I put in my other number.

About five minutes later, my "emergency" cell phone starts to ring.  I'm like Who could be calling me?  Who even has that number?  I never imagined in a million billion years that the thief would actually call me but suddenly I find myself in conversation with him.  "Um, yeah, hey I just bought this cell phone on the street."  Sure you did.  "I mean, I paid $75 and I thought it was totally legit."  Right.  Because when you're buying a cell phone on the street for $75 at midnight the day after Christmas, it's always totally legit.  "And it suddenly locked up on me and I had no idea it was stolen."

I did not want him to hang up, so  I acted completely empathetic and understanding.  One drug addict lying to another.  I told him that I was sorry, I simply did not have the $75 to replace him being scammed by "someone" selling it to him but I would give him $50 for it.  (I don't know why the extra $25 pissed me off.)  I said something about only having that much cash at my house and I have kids here so I can't leave to get more.  And he said, I know.  (ok, remember that for later in the story.  I mentioned I had kids and he said.....I know.)  Then he told me how he was worried since he was in possession of stolen property even though "I swear I had no idea," and I might show up with the police.  I knew I had a narrow window to get this phone back.  I told him, Well, first of all you're going to change your story.  If we meet and the police are anywhere near us, you can also say that you "found" it and you immediately called me to help out.  Second, I'm going to let you know I did alert the police and they put me on hold for 30 minutes, so I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be able to get them involved in a sting operation in the next 5 minutes.  Let's meet at the gas station on Cleveland and Weber, you give me the cell, I'll give you the cash, ready set go.

I thought about leaving my children alone upstairs, sleeping.  I thought about all the people on FB ranting about Don't You Go Meet Him By Yourself.

But here's the thing.  I knew the boy who stole my cell phone.  Because I was him.  I heard his voice and I knew.  I stole from my own mother.  I stole from roommates.  I stole from employers.  I am a drug addict and a thief and a liar and I knew this boy's lies like the back of my hand.  I knew he wanted that $50 and he was willing to risk getting arrested for it.  I knew deep deep deep down, way in the back of his lost soul  he felt bad about what he did and the tiniest part of him wanted to make it right and I was giving him the chance to make it right AND get $50.

The gas station on Cleveland and Weber is actually pretty busy after midnight.  And brightly lit.  I felt sort of safe.  There were too many neighborhood people coming and going.  Even though the air was freezing, people were hanging outside.  I parked and stood waiting.  For awhile I wondered if maybe he wasn't going to show up when suddenly there was a scrawny white boy wearing a hoodie under a flannel jacket and smoking a cigarette a few feet away from me.  He could have been my son.  A twenty something grown up version of Zeke unshaven with meth burn marks.  He was very old and extremely young at the same time.  I shuffled over and shrugged, You got my phone?  He startled and then handed it over.  I palmed him the cash.  Went back to the car.  Tried not to make eye contact.  I didn't want him worried that I could identify him for the police.  But I watched him dart across the street and down the alley.  I could've followed him.  I could've run him over with my car.  What I wanted to do was pull up and tell him, You don't have to live like this, can I pick you up tomorrow morning and maybe take you to a meeting?

When I got home, I checked my text messages.  Here are some:

Please return this cell phone.  Single mom of 4 needs it.  Thanks.

Hey, can u do us all a favor & return this phone 2 where u got it.  The owners a single parent & truly can't afford 2 replace it.  Plz do the right thing.

Fifty dollar reward for the return of this cell phone to rightful owner, now questions asked.  do the right thing.

Hey! Plz return this phone. Plz.  She has 4 kids.  Great mom.  Happy New Year!

Hey, you know that phone is traceable via GPS.  Even when they're turned off.  Return it plz.

Please return this phone to the rightful owner.  She is awesome and needs her phone back.

During the holiday week, how about you do this one right thing.  One good thing.  Return this phone.



It went on and on like this.  A hundred text messages.  Telling him how great I am.  How hard I work to take care of my kids.  How much I needed my phone back.  Not a single person threatened him or called him names.  Reading them all, I felt so much love.

Then I opened up Safari and saw he left open a bunch of pages.  I thought, Oh this is gonna be good.  Braced myself for porn.  But it turns out he was looking up classes on the Columbus State website.  Checking on his status.  Trying to find his bill.  The young addict thinking about college at the end of December.   I imagined him surfing and how when you're on an iPhone, the texts pop up in the bar above your web page.  I know he called me once the phone was locked up, but I like to think my friends wore him down.

A lot of people have a lot of revenge fantasies when I tell them about my stolen cell phone.  They want to catch him.  They want to go after him.  They are bothered that I gave him money.  Which we all know is just going for drugs.  But I have done so many unforgiveable things in my life, I actually think of him and feel true gratitude.  For giving me the chance to feel stolen from.  For giving me my phone back. For reminding me who I am and from where I came.  For showing me how much sooooo many people love me.  For giving me the chance to forgive in the moment.  For giving me this story.


god walked down my street one quiet snowy night while I was inside yelling at my kids, stole my cell phone, and showed me how much love and forgiveness this world has.

Stolen Cell Phone, Part 1

I parked my car on the street that night because there was too much snow and ice in my driveway.  When I got inside, I tossed my keys into the key spot and felt for my cell but realized I must have left it in the little notch in my driver's side door.  The cell phone spot.  But the shenigans with my four kids started and I decided to get it after I put them to bed.

"It's time for Bedtime Business," I announced.  Right away the meltdown.  We had just ended a three hour drive from Pittsburgh where we spent three days at my sister's house for Christmas celebrations, several hours of Minecraft with cousin Tyler, no protein, lots of sugar, a snow storm, and No Ema.  Their Other Mom.  Who I divorced four years ago just as we were about to cross the finish line of raising triplets (who are not really triplets) heading into kindergarten.  We do a kind of Shared Parenting which involves the kids seeing both of us every day (their choice) and her doing Jewish High Holidays and me doing Christmas With Cousin Tyler.

Scarlett always gets right down to business.  Even though she's only 8, I'm pretty sure she could maintain her own apartment and find gainful employment.  I told Georgia ten times PLEASE get your pajamas on.  Zeke was figuring out how to hang from the inside of the stairwell.  Stella, the oldest who survived the onslaught of three babies ruining her perfect existence with Mama and Ema, decided to force me down on the floor at the top of the stairs, sat on my lap, and started wailing, "I MISS EMA!!!!!!" And more sobbing.

I'm holding her.  I'm consoling her.  "I know, honey, it's been four days since you last saw Ema" while "GEORGIA, why are you still wearing your clothes?" and "I get it, it's really hard to live without us I really wish you didn't have to" and "ZEKE, please get down from there you are not a cat" to "I miss her too" trying to make her laugh "Just imagine what it's like for me, you haven't talked to her for three days, I haven't really gotten to talk to her for three years" and Stella starts to giggle when Scarlett comes flying around the corner with "I bet we wouldn't have to live in different houses and you and Ema would still be together if Amy hadn't come along."

ok.  You know that moment in the movie when all the stuff is flying around in a hurricane or hail of bullets and action and everything feels like it comes to a complete stop but still goes in slow motion?  That.

Up until then I handled everything flying at me (except maybe the cell phone left out in the car) and just as we neared my breaking point, the exact moment when I needed to be my most grown up self, the mature and controlled one of the bunch came up with surest way to make me lose it.  They all stopped.  They all knew.  They all waited to see how I was going to react.

I held up my finger and said, "Scarlett, .....(and in my head a thousand voices roared forth with I TOLD YOU SO to Eva because I did tell her not to replace me so quickly and when Amy started spending the night a few weeks after we informed them of divorce, I TOLD YOU SO, and how hard is it for me to disabuse them of the notion that It's All Amy's Fault because oh my lord I don't want them to ever know how awful I behaved at the end of our marriage how I had another girlfriend too I just didn't bring her around but I can't hide the truth I can't lie even though sometimes I believe exactly what she just said I believe if only people had waited until we were really done and even though everything probably would have turned out divorce and broken we'll never know because we were both under duress and anyone who moves in on a marriage under duress is a selfish asshole in my book especially when I look into the eyes of our children and it's frustrating to accept that what happened is exactly what's supposed to happen but if only).....Scarlett, there is a lot more to this story you don't know, honey, and some day Ema and I will be able to explain everything to you but right now we have to get ready for bed."

From there everything went into a rush to bed.  I had the one eye brow permanently raised.  They knew not to mess around anymore.  Shove to bed.  No story.  Kiss.  Slam the door.  Repeat three times.  And then I stopped in the hallway.  Counted to ten.  Took a deep breath.  This is how you deal with having 4 children.  You have to get yourself alone, count to ten, take deep breaths.  And then.  Open the doors again, sit down in the hallway so they can all hear, and announce, "The Hobbit, Chapter Ten."

You may be exhausted.  You may be on your very last nerve.  It may be all their fault that things are such a mess.  But you are not allowed to stop parenting.

After another hour of story time, I finally closed each door.  I wanted to text Eva we made it home safely from Pittsburgh but when I got to the car, my cell was gone.  Stolen.

First Born

It all started on Monday I’m not sure what time.  I remember later calculating the entire labor took about 55 hours, so if I do the math backwards from Wednesday 3pm, we can figure it out.  Eva told me her contractions were a little stronger than her “fake” contractions from the week before.  Plus, I think we were at about week 42 and the doctor was planning on taking out the baby in a few days no matter what.  She announced, This is it. 

I promptly collapsed on the living room floor and had a panic attack. No joke. I knew this whole birthing thing was not supposed to be about me, but there I was, feeling like an elephant was sitting on my chest.  I've only had about three panic attacks in my life:  that one time my girlfriend (not Eva) and another person were discussing what I should go to school for (I was 26) and just a month earlier when Eva said,  Just think, when I’m done with school next week, I’ll be here every day, all day and we’ll get to be together all the time.  I think it always has to do with people expecting me to take responsibility or something.  The horror.

We were seeing a midwife in Yellow Springs.  Eva had worked with all the midwives in Columbus and did not want anyone she knew professionally at her birth.  For another part of our preparations, we had a giant water tub put together in the extra room that would eventually be Stella’s room.  Eva spent the day trying to get some sleep between contractions, which were still very far apart.  The midwife arrived close to 11pm, checked on Eva, set up in the other spare bedroom and then for some reason went to bed.  Maybe she figured this was going to be a long haul. She figured right.  But still.

I don’t remember much about the night.  It was long.  There was pain.  I stayed awake with her.  We were pissed at the useless midwife.  The useless midwife seemed to know this about us and so started to avoid us, becoming even more useless.  I read aloud to Eva while she sat in the birthing tub.

A few weeks earlier, once I got used to the fact she was home all day, I started checking out all the Atlantic Monthly’s from the library and reading her long articles while she knitted on the front porch.  It was the Most Favorite Time in my Life.  We whispered nasty judgments about the useless midwife.  (Eva and I were always good when we had a common enemy.)  By morning, she could not handle the pain so she called her doctor and told him that she was coming to the hospital for a shot of some pain killer. 

Up until this point in her pregnancy, we had prevented all forms of intervention.  Not even an ultra sound.  Nothing.  Completely natural.  That was our plan.  (Now I understand the saying, People make plans, God laughs.)  What’s so funny about Eva jumping in the minivan with the second child Scarlett pregnancy and demanding the hospital immediately was that it happened after this fifty five hour journey.  At this point, however, we were still True Believers in natural childbirth. 

The doctor was on board with our plan.  Get a little pain killer.  Check out the heart rates. And go home.  For those of you who birthed in a hospital, you know it’s virtually impossible to escape once you go in.  But somehow we did it.  By afternoon, we were back home.  I think we even were able to take a little one hour nap or something.  But then the pain started up.  Lots of pain.  With no progress.  I don’t remember anything about what the midwife was doing, probably because she was not doing anything.  But around 7pm, Eva realized things were not moving along.  We sent the midwife home, and we headed for the hospital. 

I’m going to fast forward now:  We checked in.  She struggled the night.  I realized I had not had any sleep since Sunday night and I was about to die but I really couldn’t say anything about my predicament because there she was - also without any sleep but pushing through contractions so who was I to complain, really.  But when her friend Jamie showed up at the hospital with support for Eva and Starbucks for me, I wanted to kiss her feet.  The epidural finally happened in the early morning of the next day.  The Pitocin kicked on.  A little after 3pm, I saw the crowning head of our baby and I wept. 

Now when I say I really did not know what love was until I met Stella, what I actually mean is that I did not know what love was until I met Stella.  Srsly.  Oh, I loved my family.  And I had plenty of Great True Love stories in my past, starting in second grade.  And, of course, I loved Eva.  In the best way I could.  But nothing like the tidal wave that was about to descend on me.  We had been reading all that Dr. Sears crap.  And before we turn this into a debate about Attachment Parenting, let me explain that we started out as True Believers and ended up thinking it was all bunk.  But we tried.  I tried.  To hold that baby All. The. Time.  And one day, maybe around six weeks, I could not tell if it was working for her (it wasn’t, eventually we had to put her down so she could get some sleep) but I could tell that is was working ON me.  See, I’m adopted.  And for awhile in my late teens, they made me see a therapist about how I did not seem “attached” to my adoptive family and they wanted to blame it all on that adoption thing. (it could have been, I don’t know, maybe also that I was queer but that’s a whole nother story.)  And then I had a string of serial monogamy. Followed by heart-smashing break ups. (that’s the serial part)  So I realized – as I was working to make sure Stella attach to me, her non biological mother, I had done something to myself, no, SHE had done something to me that had never been done before:  she made me attach.  And now I get it.  Or at least I think I do.  Someone breathing with you, someone puking down your back, someone screaming at you to hold them, someone pooping on you, and you keep going for them, you don't stop for any reason, nothing pushes you away, not the poop, not the sleeplessness, not the demands, you keep holding on.  

That’s Love.

We got through that first year together . We later survived the onslaught of three babies together.  We did endless library story times together.  We explored CJDS for the first time together.  We went to Israel together.  We discovered Harry Potter together.  We made it through the first few years of divorce together.  We love movies and Buckeyes and baseball and theater together.  I cannot wait to find out what we’re going to do together next.

Hubbard Beach

 in 1989 on my 21st birthday, I woke up face down in one of those lawn chairs, the kind with alternating blue and white rubber webbing which folded out completely flat and you had to wrestle with it a hundred different ways to finally get it right and even then it was never right.  I lived in the middle of a group of six row houses where each apartment had a tiny patch of grass in front.  I guess I didn't make it inside the night before.  My next door neighbor had set up matching chairs as if this patch of grass was floating on a luxury cruise ship .  We called it "Hubbard Beach," after the brick side street.  Anyways.  She came out mid morning in a bathing suit, nudged me awake and handed me a pair of sun glasses.  She proceeded to cover herself in oil and spritz all over with a spray bottle. I struggled to prop the chair in a bit of a sitting position, fully dressed from the night before; my face still streaked with imprints from the plastic, rubbery lawn chair.  The sun was very bright.  We laid there awhile.  In sunglasses.  No one said anything for a very long time.  I broke the silence when I said for the first time in my life:  I think might be an alcoholic.

 I didn't attempt to get sober for seven more years.

Living with ADHD #1

She accused me of laughing at her when she expressed her frustration at our school's ability to handle her son. It was a nervous laugh. It was an I see myself in this situation laugh. But she was right. I did laugh. She stomped away from me, not giving me any chance to explain. Most people who know me well know Humor is my only real defense mechanism. I laugh at the things that make me cry.

Driving home, I started crying about how difficult it is to live with ADHD. I know it looks like fun and games from the outside, really, I know. We look like we're having a party in our minds all the live long day. But if you pretend we don't have a very difficult existence, then we don't get the help we need. We are difficult to parent. We are difficult to educate. We are difficult to employ. We are difficult in relationships. And while there are many people like me, living with ADHD is a very lonely road.

I laugh. And I joke about this subject. A lot. But I am not laughing at ADHD or anyone living with it or anyone trying to love and take care of someone living with it. I'm 44 years old and I finally have a job that I'm probably not going to fired from - only because I am now aware how I am actually protected by The Americans With Disabilities Act. So when my boss sits me down and tells me it seems like I'm not very "focused" or I seem "distracted" (yes, those very words were used), I am protected from being fired for the same issues that got me fired from several jobs I loved. Several. I am half way through my life and I am pretty sure I've messed up every last relationship and friendship through the symptoms of ADHD - impulsively blurting out what I really think, behaving inappropriately, forgetting appointments, never showing up on time. All my girlfriends lasted about two years - because that's just about the time the CHARM wears off and the reality of living with me starts. I'm pretty sure the only person who was willing to keep me around for a decade did so because she hates herself. Stop and think about that for a second. Whether or not it's true doesn't matter because what matters is I believe it to be true. Living with the idea that the only person willing to marry me is someone with exceedingly low self esteem. Because everyone else was smart enough to run the other way. I am 44 years old and you tell me I am an extremely talented writer. I do magic tricks with writing. I have a zillion ideas for books and stories and all kinds of narrative experimentation that would have never even occurred to James Joyce. But what do I have to show for it? I am drowning under the weight of my mental flaw trying to keep up with 4 kids and the entire reason I am stupid enough to even have 4 kids is because my ADHD made me crazy stupid enough to have the doctors put 4 embryos into my body while we had a 2 year old at home and my wife was already 3 weeks pregnant. This house is a mess. That book will never get written and we all know it. I'm going to go watch ten hours of The Walking Dead now. When we got the diagnosis for one of our children, at first I was relieved. OH! it's going to be so much different for this child! Because I never got diagnosed. I never got treatment. I never got medicated. THIS child will be different.

But after a few days I started crying all the time. You don't know what it's like to be in our heads. You don't know what it's like to ALWAYS be fucking everything up. To always be yelled at, to always disappoint people. You can plug your fingers into your ears and sing la la la, Strengths Based, Strengths Based, and we do indeed present as totally charming and wonderful and creative and magical because WE ARE ALL THOSE THINGS but every day we fuck something up. Most days I don't even want to leave the house because that's the only way I know I won't fuck anything up. I know this will be the life for my child now.
We need more than understanding and acceptance (although that stuff is great too), we need HELP. Someone - a grown up, a parent, a boss, a teacher - to stop us from fucking everything up. And not everyone has the patience for it.

When our child started using medication, omg such a personality difference. It was one of the moments I am grateful I have what they have because I understood exactly what was happening. A friend of mine has a child who was diagnosed but she didn't "like" him on his meds, said he seemed like a zombie. Maybe. But watching my child organize their thoughts right in front of me for the first time in their lives, I've got news for parents who doubt medication: That's no zombie; that's the real kid. Because that's how I feel when I am medicated or properly exercised. Like my real self. Like the chaos in my head can settle down a bit. And I think before I speak. And I'm not so afraid to leave the house because I have a little bit of faith that maybe I'm not going to mess everything up.

A few weeks ago, a group of women came over to help me paint my house. (It's a new social group; we call ourselves "Homo Improvement" lol) We get together once a month and contribute work and food and help people do odd jobs around their houses. At one point, the leader of the group asked if we would be willing to go help a person who is differently abled and probably not able to contribute work in return and everyone was all, Of Course. After they left, I wanted a way to explain how you can't see my wheelchair. You can't see my disability. But what you did for me today is every bit as meaningful as what you plan to do for the woman in the wheelchair next month. My house will fall down around me and I either won't notice it or feel so overwhelmed that even the smallest task seems insurmountable (which leads to more Walking Dead). To have a team of women show up on a Saturday morning and make everything beautiful and put everything back together - I can't even put into words what this means to me. I watched a PBS special on ADHD and a doctor looked into the camera and said, Remember you have to live with ADHD but you have to ask for help so your family doesn't have to live IN your ADHD all the time. I felt like he was speaking only to me. The women who rescued me rescued my kids too.

As a person Living With ADHD, I'm telling you: Don't pretend this isn't extremely hard. This isn't about making excuses for our behavior, but it is about having an explanation for some of our behaviors. And having the acceptance and compassion for people living with this and understanding that sometimes some people (and schools) cannot handle or take care of someone with ADHD and that's OK too. I know that's a paradox. This is one of the beauties of ADHD: we are a seeming contradiction.