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.

*hugs*

Friday night I was standing at the service well waiting for my drinks when the bartender aimlessly asked me What's New? and I was all, Well, I started writing and posting to a blog this week.  We usually talk writing stuff because he also fancies himself a writer.  I thought he might be interested.  I also knew he had no way of knowing I started a blog because he's one of those alien creatures who doesn't believe in Facebook or any kind of social media.

He asked, What's it about?  I told him, I've been sitting on this for awhile and thinking about how to organize it and everything until finally I was like, Just start posting stories it will organize itself whatever I've been putting this off for far too long I'll try it and keep doing it and see what happens.

As I loaded up the last of my drinks onto my tray, I casually mentioned, It's had about 500 hits since Tuesday night and I have no idea what that means but it sounds good to me.  He sputtered, What?....why....do you have a lot of family...I mean, who would.....?  I walked away.  I had to get the drinks to my table.

But I smiled for the next few minutes, finishing his sentence in my head:  Who would want to read stories I write about myself?  Indeed.

When I returned to the bar, I spit out his question and he tried to back track but I told him I completely agreed and it baffles me too.  My only explanation:  I tell the truth.  And people like it.

Look, it's a mystery to me but over the past few years I've discovered the only thing people want to read are stories about our greatest fears, biggest messes, most outrageous embarrassments.  If I ever am invited to teach a writing class, I only have one piece of advice - you have to be totally willing to bend all the way over, spread your butt cheeks, and let everyone examine.  Then, and only then, will people be willing to read you.

Like this:

About a month ago, my ex wife's biological mother held her hand up in my face when I leaned in for a hug and told me, Oh I am not hugging you. 

Right in front of my son.

Now there's a few things you need to know about this situation.  Starting with how I've accepted a zillion creepy hugs from her that I never wanted in the first place.  I am not at all a hugger.  It's called Being Polite.  Second, this woman would not even be standing anywhere near me, my ex wife, or our children if it wasn't for me.  Period.  She would not be invited to see our kids perform in Fiddler on the Roof.  She would not have a place to stay in Columbus.  She would not even KNOW her own grandchildren.  If not for me.  My First Wife completely rejected her and kicked her out of her life for over 13 years.  I was the one who was all, Maybe we should try Forgiveness.  Third, this is made all the more outrageous when you consider how she actually follows some Hugging Guru around the country and hugging is some significant piece of her spirituality so I know when she says I'm not hugging you what she really means is Go to Hell.  Fourth, the reason she hates me now is because of the things I write on FB.  At the beginning of our divorce, she didn't do the normal thing of cutting me out of her life the way the other mother-in-law (the cool one, the step mother, the one who actually parented children well) who knows how to set normal boundaries did.  And even though I was always suspicious the only reason Bio Mom came into my house was to report back to Eva about me, I had nothing to hide.  Bio mom was all, I deeply love each and every one of you, you are all in my prayers blah blah blah.  Then one day she told me I needed to stop writing stuff on FB (but not the political stuff, she likes the political stuff) and I shrugged and said, If you don't like me on FB then you don't like me and I"m ok with that.  Not everybody has to like me.

Wait.  Did I mention she did this in front of my son.  Who was playing Temple Run and probably didn't even notice but I always think that and then he recites back everything that happened nine days ago while he was playing Temple Run so yes he probably did see his grandmother (who he worships) hold her hand up in his mother's face (who he loves) and deem her not worthy of hugging.

I can't even tell you how much my head has exploded all over the place since that day.  And just this morning she tried to call me.

I know what this is.  I've talked to god about it a lot.  The Mother Of All Life Lessons for me.

Resentment.

  I examine my motives and I think I have none or I think they are Good Motives and then something like this happens and my head explodes.  Like I had very loving, good reasons for talking Eva into meeting her mother for coffee after 13 years but now I'm like Woman, Have You No Gratitude?  I know, I know.  This is what passive/aggressive looks like up close and personal.  And when I'm sitting still and being rational, I get it.  You want to be loyal to your daughter.  Finally.  And since you were such an unbelievably shitty mother the whole time she was a child, I'm trying to dig deep and rescue my empathy and understanding while my head is exploding at how you're being such a shitty grandparent.

I have a difficult time comprehending how some people can so absolutely cut a person out of their lives.  If I have any connection whatsoever, even some ten minute conversation, I feel a profound attachment and will jump through any amount of hoops to keep the connection going.  It's just the way I am made.  I feel a profound attachment to that Twitter follower I got last week.  But I am starting to practice Blocking.  Is it spiritual growth?  Is it being mature?  Am I growing up?  Is it finally ok to say:  OMG, you are not a good person, you are Blocked.  From everything?  I don't know.  That feels so foreign to me because The Beatles sing We Can Work It Out on an endless loop in my brain.

One of my best friends is amused by my exploding head.  "You get upset about the weirdest things."  She's right.  Someone could steal all of my money and fuck my wife and I'd be all, I totally get why you did that.  But refuse to hug me when I didn't even want to hug you in the first place? and IT'S OVER.

Losing It

"Are you sure you're not going to lose it?" she said with the tone of someone who has it all together.  I hesitate as I reached for the piece of paper, thinking, Why, yes, of course I'm going to lose it and when I do, I can simply call the doctor and explain that I lost it.  I have complete faith in these plans because that’s how I roll:   Losing Things.  Most especially, important pieces of paper.  She hands over our son’s prescription to have his heart checked. Since I am adopted, my son and I have no real medical history, no parents or grandparents to give us clues about how strong our hearts are.  The doctor insists on extra testing to make sure the medication is not hurting his heart. I fold it and carefully place it in my brown leather wallet. Her brown leather wallet. The one she gave me as a hand-me-down in 1998. For the rest of the week, I replay the scene over in my mind except this time I actually say my sassy comeback: Let me just put it in this wallet that I haven't lost in the last FOURTEEN YEARS. *sticks out tongue*

However, a few weeks later, I am really glad I didn't have my sassy retort in the moment. Because my wallet is gone. I was couch shopping and I'm pretty sure it fell out of my pocket. (I have to LAY on the couches to decide if they will really work for me in the middle of the night.) I've made all the phone calls and now I'm going through a few stages of grief. Everything is, of course, replaceable, except the $50 Lowes card I bought on the last day Giant Eagle was giving .20 fuel perks on gift cards. But at least I used most of that to paint Georgia's room. Everything is replaceable except, of course, the wallet she gave me when she was still optimistic enough to try to help me get organized.

"Are you sure you're not going to lose it?" is a funny question for my First Wife to ask me.  Are we ever sure? And considering the history of my mental health and my super-cliched midlife crisis at the end of our marriage, there is a subtle play on the words "lose it." I didn't lose the prescription. I lost the wallet. I lost the girl.

Sometimes you don't realize how gutted you've been until you are in the clear.

Never make the same mistake twice.  Make it three times.  Be sure.--Josh Hara

On love at first sight #1

So THIS happened to me today.

The other day I fell in love at first sight.  It's happened a few times in my life.  And I know the feeling is so specific and so profound.  Like suddenly this person's face and presence magnifies above the entire room.  Like the way a movie camera spins around the couple.  And you know the only way this ends is heartbreak and devastation.

I used to think I knew what it meant:  I must pursue them and make them MINE.  But lately I'm trying to just notice feelings.  Just pay attention to them.  Let them be.  Part of the "wisdom to know the difference" (between changing the things I can or accepting the things I can't), part of that wisdom is knowing I don't have to act on each and every feeling.

God, that's so hard.

I fell in love with Bobby McCafferty on the first day of 2nd grade.  What did I, as a 7 year old, know about love?  Well, I watched a TON of General Hospital.  I had been watching since Bobbie Spencer was a hooker.  I knew Luke and Laura love.  If the person didn't love you, you MADE them love you.  And my big sister pursued boys with a fierceness of a toddler laying claim to her toys.  I picked up the other phone line to listen in on her (5th grade) talking to Jay Richardson (6th grade).  He was a cousin by marriage so this caused a minor soap opera scandal in our family.  I was a spy and voyeur at an early age.  So, I knew Love.

I think about that first day of 2nd grade and what I remember is how no one wanted to sit next to me.  We only had two classes in each grade which meant 50% of the kids from last year remembered I was a trouble maker at my desk so stay away.  The other 50% had been warned.  But he came running in last and took the only available seat.  Beside me. The obsession did not let up until he left for some Christian private school in junior high.

Poor Bobby McCafferty.  He had no idea what force of nature entered his life that day.  I fine-tuned my stalking abilities over the next 5 years.  How to arrange myself in the countdown in gym so we were on the same team.  How to keep other kids away from my bus seat so by the time he got on, his only option was beside me.  How I threatened to destroy any girl who casually mentioned they thought he was cute.  I called him relentlessly.  Just to talk.  In third grade.  I am a prolific writer today because I HAD to write about my feelings for him and pass him notes all day.  I am a fantastic roller skater because he was a great roller skater and I had to keep up.  My relationship with him mostly existed in my mind but sometimes we were "going together" and then summer would come.  I planned our first kiss at the skating rink in 6th grade and when he didn't show up that night (his mom couldn't drive him), I kissed Greg Ireland instead.  Out of spite.  When Bobby found out the next day, it was OVER.  For real this time. Heartbreak and devastation.

The 2nd time I fell in love at first sight, I was 21.  Again with the room spinning.  I even remember thinking, THIS is just how I felt on the first day of 2nd grade.  Lynette Molnar.  Someone introduced us very quickly in a dance club.  I shrugged.  I was an addict at this point and really good at stuffing my feelings down.  I walked away.  To another club.  But something compelled me back to look for her.  To TALK to her at least one more time.  I had been telling all my friends about how "I really don't want a relationship right now" and by the next day she was all I was talking about.  For the next six months, everywhere I went, I was looking for her until I finally ran into her.  I willed our affair.  It did not turn out the way I planned.  It was over quickly.  My will got in my way.  I never stopped thinking about her though.  More heartbreak and devastation.

That moment when every song lyric on the radio suddenly makes sense.  Especially:  If I can't have you, I don't want nobody, baby.

What is the love at first sight feeling?  Some people believe it's soul mate stuff.  Past life recognition.  When I saw her today, everything stopped.  I have big plans for the day:  feeding, driving, meeting, listening, writing, cleaning, playing outside.  This is not on my agenda.  But everything stopped.  All I needed was her profile and I knew.  And as soon as I knew, I took a deep breath and tried to do that Pema Chodra thing of noticing my feelings, paying attention, learning.  What happened to me on the first day of 2nd grade?

I looked around the room.  There were about 50 other people, what was it about this one person?  I considered mere physical attraction and started sizing up the others in the room and who I also found attractive but they were NOT making me feel this.  I noticed the pattern from Bobby to Lynette to the few others:  curly hair.  Is that really all it takes?  No, there are so many people in this world with curly hair.  Style.  There is a definite style about each person.  It's never the same, but they all have style.   And their style always belongs to them, never pretentious or planned. Which is weird because I have no style.  Are we just looking in the other person for something we don't have in ourselves?  But want?

I would like to tell you that I didn't act.  That I decided to sit still with my feelings.  But I am not there yet.  I just couldn't stay in my chair.  I became a third grader, angling my position in the room to be closer.  Judging by the room, I'm 75% certain she is crazy (like me).  From her perfectly painted toenails on this first day of warm, I'm 85% sure she is straight.  And I am 100% sure I do not need a girlfriend in my life right now.

"But I won't lose no sleep on that
'Cause I've got a plan"

Even though I already know how this story ends.

God I love FB #1

I am fascinated with how FB changes the nature of relationships, the definition of friendship, and how we create new pathways to create community.  Or family.  

Recently I had something strange happen: I got a “notification” for my Timeline that “needs review.”  A relative of my First Wife sent me a "request" to "add" myself to their "list of family members" on their FB page.  Like, last week. 2.5 years after divorce settlement.   I have to "approve this post" for my Timeline. Or I can click “dismiss” and it will go away.   And if I click "approve," then I have to choose from a list of titles for this relative.  

When the notification first appeared, I thought: Surely this is a glitch in The Matrix; the request MUST have been sent three years ago and only now somehow made it through.  

My next thought was more optimistic:  Maybe this person has been reading my writings about Loss and Regret and now wants to send me a message that I am still loved and accepted.  

This is Very Optimistic.  

I immediately called a friend, What the heck am I supposed to do?  Approve? Click Whatever-in-law? Send them a message asking WTH? Ignore it? Pretend I never saw it?  She told me before I do anything, I might want to write about it.

In Law.  I was once at a party at my inlaw’s house and there was this rabbi-type friend of the family who kept telling me I should call Sam and Gigi my Not-In-Laws.  Because my marriage is not recognized within the confines of the actual law.  He repeated his “joke.”  I guess since I didn't display the proper amount of amusement, he thought I didn’t get it.  I got it.  I was not amused.  I still fail to see how existing outside the boundaries of societal law is amusing in any context.  

Mother-in-law.  Father-in-law.  Sister-in-law.  Brother-in-law. Their love and their demonstrations of love for our little gay family made it easy to simply let go of the “in-law” part anyways. They were my mother, father, sister, brother. Does the distance in time and space during two point five years negate the relationship of family of eleven years?

When I was eleven, a wonderful, loving aunt divorced my father's brother.  Her departure and their custody battle erased her from my family.  She was ripped from the photo albums.  My mother instructed me to pretend I did not know her if I ran into her at the mall. (Shunning at the mall = worst revenge ever)  But FB brought her back to me and I don’t care what anyone says, she will always be my Aunt Patty.  The fact that I walked directly in her shoes as an adult magnifies my loss as a child.  Why did I have to let her go?  Why did I have to lose out on an extremely meaningful relationship throughout my teens?  I spent a lot of time so worried over my uncle and my cousin, I did not even recognize my own loss.  I bet I really could have leaned on my Aunt Patty during the years when I struggled with my self-acceptance.  She was a hippie who made a lot of mistakes and I don’t care what anybody says - we need those people in our lives.  But, “everything happens for a reason,” so I am grateful she is here today, inspiring me to (self) forgiveness and understanding. Still. I hate that separation rips everyone apart and not just the two stupid people getting the divorce.

Needs Review.  FB reminds me. I find I am just leaving the request there.  So I can visit it from time to time.  Keep it for myself.  I am an adopted child and people always ask me, Why don’t you try to find your biological mother, aren’t you curious?  The answer is obvious to me:  I cannot handle being rejected a second time.  If I click “approve” and the person on the other side of FB Land realizes their error and then erases the post, I’m pretty sure it will trigger all those adopted child, rejected child feelings.  So I keep it.  I know it’s not the real world but at least in some alternative, parallel Facebook Universe, she is still my Aunt Patty and I am still her niece.  And he is still my Father (not-in-law).

Fired #1

I got fired from my first job. Dairy Queen. It was the year the daughter-in-law took over. My next door neighbor. A former stay-at-home mom. She invited me to work weekends during the day. She said I could ride with her. We set up together and then she left for a few hours. I don't know where she went. Occasionally some guy waited for her on the bench in the back. They sat together outside for a few hours while I ran the place. Sometimes they left. She told me I could eat whatever I wanted. At first, it was exciting to eat my favorite items: The Peanut Buster Parfait or a vanilla chocolate twist covered with crunchies. But that got boring. I tried some of the stuff I never bought at Dairy Queen. Like the Dilly Bars or the malts. I had never in my life had malt. It was weird. By the middle of the summer, I moved onto serious experimentation. What happens when you make a chocolate milkshake but use half soda water? (Not good) And more experimentation with malt. (More not good) This was the year they introduced The Blizzard, so you can imagine my free-for-all. It rained a lot that summer so I had plenty of quiet moments to have fun with ice cream and candy. Then one day the mother-in-law showed up. Told me my services were no longer needed. Told me every time she dropped by, she noticed I was always eating something. This was true. I had no defense. I literally got fired from Dairy Queen for eating too much. A few days later, the daughter-in-law called me and said I could have my job back. When we drove in together, she explained that SHE was supposed to be in charge this summer and the-mother-in-law had no right to fire me, that they discussed it, and that part of the agreement of her taking over the family business was she got to have some free time for herself. (I don't remember who was taking care of the baby at this point.) She asked me to keep a look out for the mother-in-law and call her if she appeared. Oh, and maybe try not eating anything when I saw her pull up. It quit raining all the time so I got really busy and didn't have so much time to experiment anymore. A few years later, when I was at college, my mom called to tell me the next door neighbors are getting a divorce and that the wife just up and left for another man and what a huge surprise it was to everyone. I wasn't surprised.