I stabbed her with a pencil, and she loved me anyways.

As I pulled the pencil from her leg, a million emotions flooded me.  I had hurt her badly and I could tell.  I was not selfless or sacrificing.  I felt so low, but it was mostly for myself, ‘What would Mom do?!’ I wanted to take it back, it all back but it was done.  I had stabbed her in the leg with my pencil in a fit of silly anger and she was tears.

“I’m sorry, Nicky! I’m so sorry!”  I grovelled to her.  I made up lies to cover my own hide. “Please! I didn’t mean to! It slipped!”  We both knew it was a lie.  “I’ll do anything! Please! Please, please don’t tell mom.”

I was desperate.  I felt terribly that I had hurt her. I felt worse for myself as to what my mother would do to me when she discovered what I had done. I had been angry at my sister.  She didn’t play the game I had wanted to play.  I don't believe I had truly meant to, but still I did it.  I took a pencil and drove it into her leg.  Thankfully only the tip went in; and to this day, there is a little blue mark to show the world I had purposely hurt her.  And no, she didn’t tell mom the truth.  I don't know why, but she didn’t.  She looked at my tears and my desperate apology and she just took them on faith.  We made up a story of how I accidentally hurt her, and it was over.  I think mom knows the truth by now, it's been talked about, even in laughter, years since.  But just in case….’Mom, I’m too old for spankings now!’

This scene plays out throughout our childhood.  A vengeful moment of anger and then pleads of apologies and cover ups.  We’d fight, we’d scream, we’d hurl objects at and through each other.  But for every tattle my mother heard, there were at least ten she never heard or saw the light of day.  We are close in age, close in trials and close in knowledge of each other.  We lived the same life and saw each other through the thin and thick of growing up.  We developed own sense of character, worth and attitude in the same household; and we play our parts in shaping each other.   No one knows the darkest and lightest side of a sister like the other sister.  

The days of childish cries of “I hate you!” have turned into adult moments of reality, clinging to each other saying, “I so love you!”  

I sit at home tonight, reminiscing in so much.  I think of myself and all that I have become and all that I have failed at, and I think of all that know me.  I think of those close to me that have me peg a bit, a lot and then I think of who knows my soul; and that is a very short list.  Each that does only knows it in a specific way.  My husband, a few close friends, my sister and my God.  God knows it all, without a shadow of doubt, he knows it better then myself.  And while Marc has me pegged pretty well, there’s only one that’s started this journey from the beginning and not only knows my stories, but lived them daily from the start with me.  When I tell my tales of whatever it is I might be laying out before me, the only person I can really included in each season is my sister.  

When I say something stupid, she knows I know better.  When I tell a memory, she’s the only one that can correct it fully.  When I’m in the midst of crowds and other women, smiling my smile. Only she can tell if I’m being genuine or can call my bluff.  She’s my level, my equal, my shadow, my mirror.

We’ve held each other’s children in our arms and have whispered our hopes they’ll love each other as we have loved one another.  I had two boys and she had two girls.  I have to wonder will my boys have what her girls will have?  I was only raised with a sister to know what that bond feels like, I don’t know how brothers share their bonds.  I see the same anger and love in her girls, and while they don’t believe me now, I tell them all the time- don’t worry about it, some day she’ll be your best friend.  And I recognize that scoff in their eyes, I hope some days they’ll have girls of their own to reassure of the future soul mate friend they’ll have.  I tell my boys, “He’ll be your best friend some day!”  And Zachie says, “Yeah, I know”, and he moves on with life. The chaotic, emotional tide that girls seem to ride, doesn’t seem to be as prevalent in boys.  Maybe that’s a blessing for me!  

But I am blessed I am a sister and I have sister.  I know we are train wrecks, emotional and fickle in nature.  I know we rage with all we have and we love with all we know.  We have been the best and worst of human nature and hurled towards each other.  I have said and done things to myself and my sister that has caused pain and utter love.  Most of the bad was when I didn’t know any better, but I am sure I have failed her in my adult walk.  I haven’t been the best version of an adult that God would’ve had me be!  But then, either has she! And without even a breath of worry, I’ve never doubted my sister, the girl with a blue mark in her leg, would be there to share a laugh, a cry, a shoulder, a dollar or even a voice of reason and truth.

She’s told lies for me, she’s told the truth for me, she’s exposed me at my worse and drudged out my best.  She’s taken a plane across the country to come retrieve me from my ridiculous decisions and driven day and night to help me find my way home.  She’s was there when I’ve poured too much and poured it with me.  She’s been there, when it poured out the last drop, helped me wipe up the mess and acknowledge  what was, was- and now, it's time for a new future.  She’s shared in the beauty of making life joyful, and finding the redemption of a merciful God.  She’s stood by me when I said ‘I do’.  She sat next to me in the hospital and when my little boy was too small to even hold, and I’m sure I whispered ‘I just can’t’; and she didn’t try to make it all better- she just did what she knew she could do to make it a little better.  In the darkest moments of my motherhood, she didn’t judge- instead, she gave me an answered prayer and saw me through the hardest nights.  And she has praised me at my best and made me feel I have strength to be a better mom because I have her to emulate.  

God gives us gifts and he gives these sometimes in the people he inserts into our lives.  We all have regrets, we all have moments we wish didn’t exist, we all have people that were nothing but a waste of time or space.  But we all should have the good things in life too, with the best people that God can provide us.  We should relish these gifts and humble ourselves to know we are so undeserving of them.  In this, we can appreciate them and we can treat them as God would have us; as something more precious than ourselves.  My sister is one of the many blessings I am so thankful God saw fit to give me.  

A sister can take whatever pain you can hurl at her, and she can see the love you mean for her.  She can forgive you and she can lift you.  She can allow you to be her voice of reason and forgiveness in her hour of need.  She can allow you to share her soul as much as you have allowed her to share yours.  

Nicole, thank you, thank you for laughing at your chipped tooth and your blue scar.  Thank you for laughing at me when I talk too much, take on too much and get flaky too often.  And thank you for allowing me to be one of the only people to get away with calling you Nicky.

“My Teenager Mother: ...the beautiful.” (Part 4 Final)

The beautiful is so intrinsic between parent and child.  And that is the absolute beauty in the creation of this bond;  it can be tested and tried in so many ways.  Some are truly the beautiful and yet the challenges that tear along the seams, may scares us into thinking it will all unravel- but it never fully does.

Bonds that can be tested in things like bloodline or bad choices, show the stuff that it's made of.  Can a bond be created where the “blood” doesn’t carry the same DNA? Can it withstand the DNA ties that do exist? Can the bond withstand age, inexperience, substance abuse or dangerous choices?  Can the bond withstand hatred, confusion or anger?

All these things that bind us up, ties us up, rip at places we wish didn’t exist- but that is silly because they do!  And all the bad and ugly out there is but a speck of dust on that bond.  For the beauty for forgiveness and grace, have such power, to hear it utter as the power for freedom.

We all have a tale to tell, don’t we?  We all have our version of “my teenager mother…”, with its own flavor.  Some struggle to let go what they’ve clung to it as blame or fault or grudge.  Some desperately need the bad and ugly to justify exactly where they are and how then ended up there.  Each day ends and night begins, we can reflect on our choices, know ourselves precisely and responsibility falls nowhere but where you stand.

The beauty of looking at a life, such as mom’s, is you can compare it to your own.  How much have I screwed up these past thirty-six years and it's been all me.  How much have failed as a parent, and it was completely my own shortcomings?  When I was sixteen I was an egotistical brat; caught up in my icey, juvenile mind to see beyond the scope of my needs, my desires, my self-involved thought process.  What would I have done with a child? What good would I have served it? And do I dare believe I could’ve done it better than her?  I’ve earned enough humility these past few years in my sobriety, in my salvation and in the tears of my children to even believe I’d hold a candle to her.

For whatever her faults, I carry ten times more. Whatever stones I feel entitled to throw- many people I have wronged have their hands fall of the stones they may hurl towards me.  I have no stones to throws and the failings of my mother only made her love and devotion in the right moments a fortified bond, unbreakable and unstoppable.  

Mothers aren’t put on this earth to be their children’s friends.  And while maybe a few do, most mothers don’t owe their adult children anything (certainly not an explanation).  My mother was never my friend when I was a child.  She was my voice when I had none, she was my hug was I cried in fear or confusion, she was kiss when I needed assurance, she was my spank when I needed correction and she was my example when I needed a lesson.  She was my mother when I needed to know I belonged and always unconditionally loved.  The beauty is I am no longer a child, and growing up with a mother that grew up too, created a friendship into my adulthood. A friendship that can share the hard stuff and it be nothing but a silly memory that wisps into air and is no longer a concern.  A friendship that has stupid inside jokes, and the comfort-ability of being completely who I am because she instill such a sense of fun, strength and honesty into me.  

I hold my sons and I examine all the ways they’ll share their tale of me!  The bonds I am forging now.  How might this bond be so terribly tested?  How will I fail them? How many times? Daily? Weekly? Monthly? Yearly?  Will the DNA matter to Zach? Will my anger at times matter to Isaac?

Will they remember when I was weak and I let them down? Will they tell a tale of all the things that haunt me as a mother that doesn’t do it perfect? Do I let them down too much?  Oh, what will they say of me?

And I think of my mother and the stories I tell. They are warm memories wrapped in the craziness and intimacy of my bond with her.  They are lovely and they are beautiful, they are filled with forgiveness, laughter and pure friendship.  That is the beautiful.  I can accept that I will fail my boys and they will tell their story of home some day!  But I have no worries of what it will include.  For whatever story I may create for them in a day, that they will tuck inside of their memories, I know for sure it will include the necessary ingredients creating an unbreakable, unstoppable bond. I am the voice for them if they have none, the hugs I never stop supplying, the kisses that fill up their faces and make them squirm, the correction that may make them mad and I am their lesson in the right thing I’ll do and all the wrong things I’ll do.  I am their mother and they will know they belong and are unconditionally loved.  I am not their friend, I am their mother!

But the beautiful thing is, we are growing together.  And someday, sweet boys, someday I will be your friend.  And so will Grammy.

Grampy's Memorial.

He was tall and strong, methodical and infinitely patient. His eyes were always kind when gently instructing me and his words carried weight and sincerity as he spoke to me, and I listened carefully to learn what my grampy knew.  I wanted to create what he was creating.

I wasn’t in the way. I wasn’t too small or burdensome.  He’d cut carefully with precision, always thoughtful in his craftsmanship; caring that he’d create something beautiful, that it would serve a purpose.

And I had a small red hammer and a scrap wood pile.  I’d bang away my small hammer at my small creations too. Windmills! I made lots of windmills.  He was proud of me; he stopped often to help me or explain what he was doing when I’d have yet another question.  He loved me. I was his granddaughter.  And we would run inside the house to show Grammy all my small little masterpieces.

This world is all that I know, and yet I know it’s gone terribly wrong somewhere in my grandfather’s life span.  We all hear the rhetoric, the noise and excuses we all make when justifying ourselves and the choices we make without thoughtfulness.  It’s just said now, “Oh, they’ll be alright, they’ll be just fine. They can adapt, they can adjust.  They’re young and resilient. They’ll barely remember because they are just children along for the ride.” Our world is drench in acts of SELF. The love of self, the feelings of self- The cries of self rights and the me-ness of “my opportunity” “my desire” “living this life for me”.

In this, something so vital is being destroyed. Something so monumentally beautiful: The selfless man.  The man of strength, fortitude, commitment and sacrifice.  A good man, understanding his purpose.

I know what it is to be small and at times, in the way.  I know what it is to be burdensome me.   The world is addicted to fast, modern and contemporary; a fad, a style, an era or convenience and being served.   

But my grandfather never bent and never swayed to the nonsense such as this world and its plans for self.  This world made his ways old fashion and not up to par with new age reasoning. And I thank my God for this, that he put such a man in such an important place in my young life.  His simplicity and values understanding the purpose of a good man.

Because of my grandfather, I know that purpose: A man who wakes up with a purpose to provide.  A man who wakes up not thinking, “What can I do today?” but wakes saying, “What can I do for them today?”  Because of him, I know a good man provides more then wages, he provides time, his words, his morality and skills.  He provides all that he has of himself because what is vital to him is that those that depend on him know he is there and they are loved.

My grampy built himself into a rock and a place to call Home.

He loved a small little, talkative girl and called her Jenny.

He took her into his workshop and let her bang away.

He took time to talk with her.

He took her up north, camping and fishing, swimming and daydreaming.

He took time to show her nature and admire its solitude.

He took the time to open the door to his home a thousand times, to show her stability and commitment.

And he paid the bills and provided a roof, silently and graciously.

He showed her a good man, which would always answer his phone.

He sat in my vehicles to inspect the purchase.

He spoke to me about jobs and former boyfriends.

And choices in my life.

He loved my husband and hugged my children, making him Great-Grampy.

Maybe this world made him old fashion, a relic in his simple philosophies of being the Good Man.

But to me, he is Grampy and the world and its modern-ness and haste to declare SELF, lost a not just a good man, but one of the best, who declared not in his words but in his actions:

“I am selfless and humble.  I am strong and consistent.  I am here always, with nothing but all I can offer you.  I am here to simply be head of a family and say I love you with all that I’ll do for you.”

My grandfather created beauty in the art that he produced and the family he devoted himself to.  When I say that John Edward Connick was my grandfather, I don’t believe I could say it without tears and utter pride in my heart.

“My Teenager Mother: ...the bad, the ugly...” (Part 2&3 of 4)

I had planned on writing 4 pieces; however, I don't want to delve or dwell too far down any negative rabbit holes.  Frankly, everyone despite age, circumstance or life choices hits the bad and the ugly.  The point of this part of my series isn't the focus of the bad and the ugly, simmering in the 'if only this had been different', but to focus on the overcoming of such hardships.  As I said, it hits us all; none of us are immune from the "if only's".  I could share my mother's "Mommy Dearest" moment, but I have learned that has little to do with age and more to do with all of us falling prey to our weakened flesh and having our "Mommy Dearest" moments.  I have had them and I can see how they so easily overwhelm us.  So it isn't that the bad or the ugly happened, instead it is the experience of change, renewal and dedicated love that grew from such painful memories and left us with such beautiful lives.

I intermix the bad stuff with the ugly stuff.  I take hard memories of my mother's angry moments and discipline and muddle them in with her tremulous life at times overcoming alcohol and the men she loved.  Everything felt like an addictive need to find satisfaction. Trying to navigate life in an adult world with two small children in tow with a teenage mentality, may drive most of us to have our moments of weakness.  Searching out the escape in bottles or in men, and trying desperately to keep her daughters' shielded from the choices she made. I'm not sure if my mother remembers a night nearly 13 years ago, she was so overcome with her grief and regret at the life she provided us- she just wept and apologized for hours.  It was during a relapse time for her, when she had started to drink again.  I think she was in anguish because she knew better than to pick up that bottle; yet, she did.  I sat there heart broken for her, and I could only offer her my assurance of forgiveness and forgotten- but it didn't seem enough to quench the guilt.  So, I just sat and listen to her 'I'm sorry's' for hours.  We went to sleep, the night was over and we have never spoken of it since. Honestly, I assumed she had no real memory of it.

It's the only period of time my mom really relapsed.  She had sobered up when I was fairly young and had maintained her sobriety for well over a decade.  The struggles she went through in my late teens and early twenties, again, was a short lived relapse.  Truly, with my sister's first child and my mother's first grandchild, well over ten years ago, I have no memory of my mother ever picking up a drink again.  She has conquered that demon. I have fond memories of AA dances and sitting next to her when she'd pick up a chip for accomplishments of sobriety.  I know that addiction is always lingering at the back steps, it's a nasty snare full of lies of faded memories of fun or abandonment or even of joy; but its all superficial.  As soon as the pseudo-joy fades, the evil invades and does plenty of planting of destruction.  The word disease still irks me. I hate the invasion of that word into the world of addiction. Addiction is hard, it is a battle and it can grip you and take your life LIKE a disease- but it is no true disease.  Disease implies lack of accountability or responsibility; it implies the age old mantra each justifier seeks, "its not my fault!"  And simply put, it is- regardless of what got you there.  You can choose different. You can overcome. You do have a choice. My mother is living, walking proof of it.

She was hard on us. She was very hard on me. She was hard because she loved me, and she had no other method of recourse or discipline for me.  I was the first child being brought up by a 16 year old that didn't rationalize or have the maturity for handling impatience, sound judgement or temperament.  What 16 year old does possess these things?  Add on growing yourself up, with true lack of coping skills and a toddler as your teacher.  The hardness on me was a natural response, she was trying hard to parent effectively.  Every spank, every harsh word was meant out of pure instinctual love for me not to be her.   Maybe sometimes it was just pure exhaustion and lack of self-control, but that is long since forgiven. I can forgive an angry 20 year old girl that didn't know what to do with a toddler because I myself have been an angry 30-something year old woman that didn't know what to do with a toddler and anger ensued.  Mom taught me one vitally important lesson in this- big people can ask little people for forgiveness.  Little people need to see big people humbled.  My mother's love and apology always came with honest, humble words.  Once she even sent me a dozen red roses to my 3rd grade class, just to say sorry.  Those flowers have lived an eternity in the depth of my heart.  I carry them everywhere with me. They are a brave reminder to me- I can be wrong as a mother, and I can ask my child, no matter the age, for his forgiveness- and I have.

The men. The bad and the ugly.  She has loved some bad man, but they were bad for her. They were never bad to us.  She was careful as to who had access to us and who she allowed to love us.  She may not have made stellar choices for herself and it may have been hard at times to have these relationships come and go, but she fiercely protected her daughters. They were never in danger.  If the hint of danger existed, I'm quite sure the "problem" would be still missing currently at the bottom of the Penobscot River.  It was hard to attach to men. I saw them for much of my life as temporary and not useful.  It took me a long time to view a man as something stable, permanent or even useful to me. As I grew, I tended to be unkind towards men as I saw such little purpose of them in my life. I used them and threw them away.  I was always a "nice girl", I was never abusive or hateful, I just didn't grasp the longevity or necessity of partnership with a man.  I was selfish and immature with them and why Marc hung in there as I overcame this ego of mine, is nothing short of the goodness of God.  Mom's lack of permanency with a boyfriend or her dramatic relationships were like watching a movie.  I was there, but at times I didn't even feel as if I had a supporting role.  I don't know how else to describe it.  I was an extra, mostly that was fine by me.

I'll be honest, I've added in this section in after processing it with my sister. When she initially read this, she was shocked I left out a particular man that was pretty much a consumption of our childhood. His name was Neil and he was with my mother through much of our formative years. I think I left him out because I didn't actually know what to say. I'm trying to address the bad and the ugly with reflection of understanding of mom's age and struggles, and embrace it with the good that came from it. When I look back on our life with Neil, its hard not to dwell and delve into nothing but the bad and the ugly, and I embrace little good.   He was a man that was a heavy part of our life for nearly a decade and yet he is a the prime example of being the extra in a movie that was not my life.  Mom's battle with this man was, I believe, a combination of the the addictions she so struggled to overcome. He was bad for her, their relationship no matter the ups and good memories was terrible and reckless.  It was hard to attach to him, as it was such a contradiction and played constantly on our loyalty and sense of stability.  He was good to Nicole and I, I believe he tried to be a father figure to us; although, his bi-polar tendency, his substance abuse, and inability to be a stable man constantly drove Nicole and I to, at times, hate him, while in the same time love him.  We hated to see the way he ripped mom's heart up and yet she returned to him over and over again. He would try to love us and love mom, but at the core he was a troubled man and had no true way of loving beyond his own desires of addictions or impulsiveness.  Mom seemed addicted to the version of Neil that was good, addicted to the version of Neil that she could "fix him" and addicted to chaos that life with him guaranteed.  It didn't seem relevant that Nicole and I were part of their equation, we were simply the remainder and dragged from scene to scene.  When the credits rolled we were a the bottom of the cast role as Girl 1 and Girl 2.  This probably breaks mom's heart, and I hate that. She has long since left this man and ended the path of emptiness he brought.  He did have goodness in him, but his battles he needed to go off and conquer himself. We all needed out of that picture- desperately.  I hate sharing it, but how can I not. It was a 3rd of my life. I love Neil now and I hate what he did, but I forgive him.  If I ever see him again, I hope I can tell him.  And mom- as you read this- its long over and this is all that ever needs to be said of it.  The past is nothing but dead space, let's leave it there.

Most of the men mom dated were nothing but movie trailers.  I'd watched to see if it was worth the cost of admission or just move on to the next viewing; however, besides Neil, there are two other men in my mother's life (besides my father) that I allowed myself to attach too.    The first was eons ago, when mom first sober up.  His name was John, a very good man. He was kind, gentle, engaging and reached out for Nicole and I to be apart of his life too.  We allowed ourselves to become close to him, and then he was gone. And I was sad.  And that was that- life marches on.  Nearly fourteen years ago, my mother met a wonderful man named Garth, who is now her husband, our step father and the children's Papa. We have all matured and fought past our selfishness and temporariness of thinking men aren't around. There are plenty of good men in this world, We (my mother, my sister and myself) just needed to realize the problem wasn't always the men, much of the time it was us and our skewed understanding of how to fit them into our lives. God has blessed each of us with a good man.

Closing up this, I pray I did a good job in not insulting or hurting my mother, but simply revisiting the trials and showing that through hardship lessons, experience and forgiveness can produce such love and hope for a good future.  Because that is what it produced. It's not without its regrets or grimaced memories, but that is the past.  So many want to hold on to it, I have struggled with that myself.  We don't need to say trite things like 'have no regrets', its ok to have regrets.  You lying to yourself, if you say you have none- so don't bother. The past is nothing but the mixture of regret, lessons and joy.  You can't pretend one doesn't exist without the other.  You have to acknowledge it, seek forgiveness in it and cherish what needs to be cherished.  The past is long over, the future is a fraction in front of us- and nothing but the beautiful remains.

“My Teenager Mother: The good...” (Part 1 of 4)

If I had been older, I would've noticed the sly smile sneaking up on my young mom's face. Her eyes probably even glinted a bit. There's something to be said about having a young mom; she could be a bit brazen, a bit immature and sometimes even a bit naughty. And I loved her for it. She took chances with us. She told us things other mothers wouldn't have dare. She was brave with us. She told us how it was, she expected us to handle stuff and she had no problem goofin' on us at all.

And there she was now, slyly about to tell her naive, doe eyed daughter an on the spot tall tale.

I had been down stairs in the house that we rented from my aunt and uncle. They lived next door to us with my cousins. As I played, most likely one of my older cousins walked by and slammed his hand on the window, probably with hopes to spook me. It worked! I couldn't have more then eight or nine years old, and I couldn't have ran my little legs any faster up that stairwell to my mother and her comfort. Or so I thought.......

"Mommy! I just saw a hand hit window!"

The sly smile, without missing a beat...

"Oh! It was probably just the little boy in the well." Oh, yeah, you know just him. She says this all nonchalantly. She says this to her skittish, naive and easily duped daughter. Her daughter that can't even watch Scooby without hiding under a blanket. Her daughter who's known for chronic nightmares and sleeping in her bed. Yep, that's mom, gettin' her kicks out of telling me a spooky story. Nicole comes in and she sees she's got a hooked audience.

"The little boy in the well?"

"Yeah, you know, this house is really old. This all used to be farm land and this was the farm house. There used to be an old well out back. Long, long, long time ago a little boy lived here. He was playing outback with his ball, it went into the well and he fell in trying to get it out. Years later another little boy was living in this house and the little boy that fell in the well knocked on his window and got the new little boy to go outside and play with him. While they played the ball went into the well, the little boy in the well pushed the other boy into the well and took his place. So, that's what the little boy in the well does! He knocks on the window and tries to get you to come out in play with him, and if you do (pause for effect), he'll make the ball go in the well and when you look- he'll push you in and take your place!"

Yeah, so how do you think that story went over? I'm nearly thirty-seven years old and I'm still scared of windows and the little boy in the well trying to steal my place! I'm sure this contributed to why I always slept in her bed, she didn't seem to mind.  But! All these years later, even this evening, I was talking to my sister and we were laughing about that story and mom telling it to us. It was just mom! She sang crazy, inappropriate songs with us. She'd race her car around town, probably blaring Aerosmith or Deep Purple, and pretend to be a race car driver honking her horn and screeching the tires. She'd let us stay up late sometimes and watch special movies.

And I have this memory of dancing with her. She taught me this "1, 2, 3" "1, 2, 3" waltz step.  She take me by my hands and as fast as we could go, we would step to the side of each counting "1,2, 3".  She have me go once to the left of her, once to the right her and I knew it was coming. She'd twirl me! Fast! She have the music loud, the windows down and we chase around the house. She jump out and scare us and grab one of us and dance. "1, 2, 3", "1, 2, 3" "TWIRL!" 

I remember once telling her the boy in the well story and she stared at me like I was crazy. She exclaimed quite convincingly, "I never said that to you, I'd never tell you a story like that. I don't think so, I don't remember that!"

I have a collaborating witness to my memory. Sorry, Mom! You're out numbered, ain't sisters swell.

And when it wasn't about dancing, race car driving or even silly scary stories. She could turn off inappropriate mom and turn on raw mom.  Because as every good mother knows, she was there to be mom not our friend. And no matter how anyone may have disagreed with her method or choice of delivery, she knew this was part of the job. She answered the hard, uncomfortable life questions direct, honest and with no fluff. If I wanted to know where babies came from- well! I got the full on answer and she didn't blush about it. Nicole and I ate it up, we loved this mom. We loved her stories and songs. We loved her inappropriateness. We depended on her honesty; whether we knew it or not, she was shaping strong willed, determined girls.

I've got one of those inappropriate song stuck in my head now...
hmm, hmm, hmmm....a mouse ran up my nightie...bit my hmmm hmm...made me.....hmmm hmm.......OH! Mom!
Her braveness to tell us how it was, how it is and how it will be kept myself and Nicole from taking too many wrong turns. She didn't lie about sex, she didn't lie about alcohol and drugs and she didn't hide the good side or the ugly side from us. She talked to us, she let us question the world around us and she gave us the only real, raw answers she had. She had first hand experience what sex was and what it wasn't. She knew the love it could create and she knew the hell it could infect into our live and shred us up. She was blunt when she said to me, what sex and alcohol could do to me if I took it on to young. She was the walking poster child to that choice.

"Don't do it. Don't ruin your life. Sex can feel good, it can. But you can ruin your life in fifteen minutes. Don't come home pregnant, Jen, or I'll kick your &#%!@?."

And she meant it. And I knew it. And because of her I didn't. I care about my body and what happened to it. I cared about the choices I made with it because of her bluntness, because of her willingness to sacrifices herself to us as a symbol of what sex at a young age looks like, what alcohol and drugs can do to set your course drastically off course. She was willing to be our guide book of the wrong turns to vehemently protect us from making the same mistakes.

She'd kick our butts, she'd yell at us, she'd sing crazy songs to us, tell us wild tales, she'd curse, she'd answer anything and she'd love us as fiercely as the wildness she'd dish out. She'd invade our space and stick rules a mile long on the frig. She'd make motherhood in teens sound like a burden to heavy to carry, sometimes it felt like we'd shoulder the load with her. Bordering on apologizing that we gave her a life she never thought she'd have to live. But she didn't do because of a lack of loving us, she did it due to her love of us. She wanted more for us and she'd fight everyone, heck she'd fight us, to nail it in to us. Not only did she know we could do better for ourselves, she darn well expected us too.

Somehow, I still managed to make some pretty poor life choices as I grew up and struck out on my own; however, when I was under her roof- she fought with all she had with every lesson she had experienced to keep us from wandering down her teenage path. And I say she was pretty successful. We were good kids. We did well in school and I even graduated among the top of my class and got state recognition for my scores. We strove to excel and contribute to the lives we made with mom. We helped around the house, had manners and treated people respectfully. We both survived our teenage mom with a great sense of humor with too many hilarious stories to share and with a strong sense of self preservation and self determination (maybe too much, it took me long time to humble this ego of mine).

Nicole and I did struggle as we ventured out into our twenties. Life growing up wasn't perfect and mom didn't make perfect choices. No one makes perfect choices. I don't pin my wrong turns on her. But my wrong turns always led back to her and her embrace. She understood that path and she understood how to get off of it. Her realness and rawness were always available to me. The door would never shut in my face, with unemphatic mother on the other side. And I did avoid major disastrous decisions because of the strength she had instilled in me do better. There are things I never involved myself in and I never mixed myself up with because of her guidance.

I never got knocked up at sixteen.
I never got into drugs, never smoked cigarettes (trying doesn't count! I hated it).
I always held a job and paved my own way.
I've never had a man get the better of me in any bad ways.
I've never, ever been afraid to speak my mind or let anything hold me back from truth.
I've never been afraid to love someone not despite their flaws, but because of their flaws.

This is all mom.

I can compare myself to her in all these wonderful respects and realize when my boys are in front of me looking for silly, looking for playful and immaturity, looking for realness and rawness and just looking for the honest answers, I know exactly how to be what they need. I was taught a long time ago by a young sixteen old girl, who was just winging it the best she could, how to be all these good things to my children.

Intro to “My Teenager Mother: The good, the bad, the ugly and the beautiful” (4 part series)

I’ve written about the ins and outs of my parenting and the antics of my children. I have shared some raw stuff and some funny stuff, but it's my daily grind of my parenting experience.  I was having a time tonight with Isaac getting him down. I was thinking of his energy and his restlessness, he is a constant source mischief and mayhem.  And I thought it!

“Man, was I like this for my mom?” And I remember all the stories she told me!

“Jenny, you were always into trouble!” As far as my memory serves me, she shared her version of my terrible two’s:

“You broke down the screen door and ran off at nap time. The neighbor found and brought you back. I was so embarrassed I almost didn’t want to admit you were my child.”

“We were laying down for a nap, you got up and got into red paint. Ran all over the house and little red foot prints were everywhere”

“You got out on the balcony and got your head stuck in the rails. We had to call the fire department to get you out!”

“You sat in a fire ant pile, I had to hose you down!”

“You threw the worst tantrums, you’d carry on forever. We’d just stick you in the other room and let you have it out by yourself.”

I chuckled to myself at the stories and thought of Isaac, and how I could see him so easily doing all the same. And then a thought just crept in, “If I were the 16 year old mother my mom was, probably all this would’ve happened to Isaac too!”

And I stopped. I kind of thought about what I just thought.  I hadn’t meant it, but indirectly I presume I was a better mom than my mother.  And I really had a moment of hardness on myself. How dare I?!  I am nearly 37 years old. I do live in and have made entirely different life choices then my mother, but as I look back at the chaos of my mother raising us and the life we led. I don’t look back at a mother that made poor choices. I look back at mother that loved us and literally did the best she knew how.  She was sixteen years old when she had me, how dare I compare myself to her.  

I don’t share much of how I grew up with many people, but those that know me well know enough. Overall it was very happy and my sister and I were extraordinarily well loved.  But I want to reflect now on my hard days of parenting and just look at what my mom took on and conquered.

She was fifteen years old and my father had recently turned eighteen, fresh out of boot camp, when they married. He was a marine stationed at Cherry Point, North Carolina and that is where I was born. They were married in October of 1977 and I came along August of 1978.  Nicole, my little sister, popped on the scene April of 1980.  My mother had two small children a year and half apart before she was even 18 years old.

She’s told me so many times when she first brought me home, she’d just stare at me.  She was home alone with me all day when my father was on base and she’d didn’t know what to do with me.  Both my father and my mother have shared many stories with me about what life in North Carolina in the late 70s looked like in the Cohen home.  To spare them some judgement, I’ll keep those family stories. Some of the alarming; although, quite frankly, super hilarious. Some of them are not funny and those are their memories, not mine- and I have no right to share them.  They were teenagers, trying to play adult.  They both made critically wrong decisions that involved substance abuse and wrong paths, but they loved us. And they truly did what they thought was best.  And I have no memory of ever feeling unloved.

I won’t write much beyond that of my mother and father’s marriage, as I have nothing to tell. I can’t describe something that is completely unnatural to me. My mother left my father when Nicole was a baby and headed home back to Maine and our family.  I have no memory of my parents being together. I never perceived our family as broken and I never thought of divorce as bad. I used to think kids (child or adult) were behaving absurdly or attention seeking when they’d emotionally act out about divorcing parents. I just saw it as normal, and frankly, my parents were completely cool, decent and I’d say friends with each other.  My father was a marine and stationed in a few different states as a young man. He was in the prime of his life, it was the 80s and he was immature; fathering wasn’t a real priority.  He came around, he loved us, but he didn’t truly grasp his role as dad until I was probably eight or nine.  He just wasn’t around much when I was young. I have harbor no resentment on this, its not really worth talking about. Dad and I have talked about it numerous times and I’m not dredging any of it up here.  Besides, this is about mom. And how an teenager beat the odds to be a good mom.

I don’t want to share things that hurt her.  I just want to illustrate a life that was filled with chaos, alcohol, men, love, structure, perseverance and ultimately friendship.  Being raised by a teenage drunk with terrible taste in men, but with a strong maternal instinct and surprising strict structure is hard!  How to I wrap up all the good, bad, ugly and beautiful to paint a picture of a mother that overcame and taught her daughters strength.  I can do it carefully, I can talk about pain without assaulting her motherhood or my love for her.  I can reveal cherished memories I bet she doesn’t even know I still remember and cling to.  I can show the hard stuff that doesn’t call her out, but instead show that her daughter at thirty-six years of age can embrace the child that was her mother trying to raise little girls. She was just a child trying and I am now an adult, that can look back with an empathetic heart at her battle.  

So, this is how I plan to unfold this.  This was just the intro into my blog series “My Teenager Mother: The good, the bad, the ugly and the beautiful” I will write 4 different stories of specific memories and time.  I pray at the end of it, God can use this as a tool to humble with my thoughts and my mother can walk away never feeling like a failure at motherhood, but a true woman of character who raised a daughter that loves and honors her deeply.

Redeemed!

There’s been an odd build up for about a month now.  It comes in all the vast directions. Its an entity, like its got this life of its own, but then it scatters and is everywhere.

I’ve had something to write for awhile, but then I sit down. I look at my blank and ready screen. And nothing. Nothing comes. How can nothing come? Its all here.

It’s here when I wash the dishes.

It’s here when I drive.

It’s here as I work on project after project after project.

My thoughts, my conversation, my God. It’s all here. This in-motion, verbal brain of mine. It literally screams sometimes, ‘SIT DOWN! WRITE!’

And there it was, all ready for me to blast out each time. And nothing! Writer’s block? I don’t know, but nothing came. I gave it to God and said, I hear it in my head day in and day out. Its got different variations and changing themes.  The story starts and another and another and another and God, help me write this!

So this isn’t a blog, it isn’t a story, it’s probably not even a good rant.  It’s just something I gotta purge out of me.  And it may come out hodgepodge, jumbled and all over the place. I can promise you this, I’m just gonna talk to my God and you all can listen in, if you so desire.

God,

Thank you.

Thank you.

No, I don’t know think you heard me (I know you did).  THANK YOU.

I was mess 5 years ago, I was a mess 5 months ago.  When do I get to not be a mess anymore?

I am a much better mess now though!  I had sin in me I couldn’t scrub it off quick enough for so long, so when I sat in that church and everyone around me was saying all these things that sounded like sound bites, I wanted to chuck them back in their faces.  But in each bite, was a hard truth.  It’s not my version of truth, it’s not that guy right there in corner version of truth.  It was simple, it was easy. It was truth.  But I didn’t like it at first, but I craved it! Odd huh?

When you sin at first, you crave it.  I mean, you CRAVE it!  Then, sin starts its dirty work and you start to really dislike it; however, you keep doing it, cause you have the memory of craving it.  And that was the thing that held me.  What strange, self depraved creatures we can be.

I have atheist friends, I have agnostic friends, I have friends in low places and friends in high places. I have friends that hate my faith, I have friends that H.A.T.E. my Christ.  I have friends that tell me I hate because I love my Christ.  But it's all noise to me, and I literally hear none of it. I can’t solve their lack of faith, it's not my job and I’m not here to cure them. You are. I’m here to work on my faith, be the light and love You asked me to be and if You happen to use me somewhere to shine down on someone, it’s simply a humble privilege.  Nothing I can remotely stake my grubby claws into and claim, “THIS IS MINE, I DID THIS!”  I know what I am not, and I am no savior.

I was saved 5 years ago, maybe it was 6...my math, its not so hot the older I get. I was a hot mess; behaving foolishly and probably eventually killing my marriage.  Would you know it? I had a decent job, I had a decent enough house, I drove a decent enough car and I had a decent enough husband; oh, and I had pets.  Things looked swell.  But ah, that’s the problem isn’t it?  I was good at being sin.  I was clever.  I was justifying my sin like the Queen of Hearts.  I painted my deck pretty, stacked it nicely to portray the image I wanted. I was good at being me.  I was funny, I was loud, I was brash, I was smooth, I could charm and smile.  I was good at sin.

But saying you're good at sin is like saying you’re really good at suicide.  I didn’t want to be good at going to hell.  I wanted off.  I wanted done. I wanted out.

I got invited to a church, I was hung over as...well, I was hung over. I heard him talk. I remember something about being molded. I remember hearing something about God reshaping me, turning me in the fires to make me refined.  It made no sense, but there was a small part of me that was willing to hear more.  And I believe deep inside of me, there was hope- and it was taking control, ready to grow.

I recited a prayer with my father because he asked me to.  So I did. So that took care of my salvation.  I thought.  We did some studies together, all of us, as a family.  I started to going to church. I kept a journal of everything! Oh, and not the sweet, ‘Oh, what he just said really hit home’. Nope, I kept a journal of doubts, questions and disbelief. Yep. And I kept going to church, it was ripping me apart. Piece by piece, hated moment by hated moment (it kills me people saying they go to church “for an entertaining feel good reason”...yeah, sometimes it does feel good...but the hard stuff doesn’t feel good, but that’s when you really need to sit there and pay attention...by the way, if your church is concerned with entertaining you and making you feel good...yeah, go find a new church...).  God, You shredded me, You tore me up.  Finally bravely one night, You showed me what I truly was. Oh, I saw the hideous corpse, there I was dead. I mean a dead body, nasty sin bursting from the seems.  And I heard it in my heart, it hurt to hear it. I cried so hard that night, “This isn’t who I wanted you to be.”

I laid on my living room floor, bowed to the only God that could save my hope and make my faith be me.  I confessed it all. Every single freakin’ sin I could think of, I blurted it out. I owned it and showed it to God.  I don’t think I forgot a sin, but maybe….didn’t matter. I poured it on the ground before him, and begged his forgiveness.  I begged for Him.  And he saved me.  God handed me truth, and I clung so hard and tight and passionately. I’ll never let it go, and my journal of doubts-  I threw it in the trash!  If I have doubts, that’s OK.  I give my doubts to God, He always answers them.

But it took up to recently to actually bury the dead girl.  I cringed a lot people’s proclamations of living without regret, of the “you are worth it”, live like nobody's watching. My dead body became my ridiculous testimony of how regretless living really looks, I was so willing to hang on to infested body of sin- just to prove how unworthy I was. I lived like everyone was watching, because my dead body soon had a name. Guilt. I couldn’t shake my unworthiness, I couldn’t comprehend Your love.  Everything You did for me these last 5 or 6 years.  I felt like every time I looked in the mirror, I only saw her- Guilt. I didn’t see what God saw, Redeemed.  I’d hear people talk these silly talks of forgiving oneself, ‘just gotta forgive yourself and move on!’  Well, I’m sorry, but that’s plain stupid.  'Hey, I did all this sinning, but it's all good- I've gone ahead and forgiven myself for it'.  Some may call this closure, but I have my own name: I call it narcissistic, self righteous deception. Oh, go ahead, you go forgive yourself right straight to hell. Have fun with that. But there is an opportunity in asking for forgiveness. In being honest, about pulling out the root of yourself and finally sincerely stepping out in total faith and asking God for forgiveness.  You can call it closure I guess. I call it salvation and I’m finally calling it His grace.  It literally took me all these years.  I thought I got it, but I guess I didn’t actually “get it”.

I heard it at a concert, ha! God, you know that? You do have a sense of humor.  I was sitting there, you know. My dead body and I chillin’ at concert and the singer of Mercy Me, started to touch on this subject of his guilt and feeling of worthlessness, and then he said it, “Wasn’t Christ enough?” This God you love, you proclaim, that you don’t care one iota if the atheist laugh at you. Isn’t He enough? Wasn’t the work on the cross enough?!

OH. MY. GOD.  I got it, yes! My savior! My Christ! My God! I GOT IT.  Finally, grace.  Finally, I understood it.  I am holy, righteous and redeemed! REDEEMED!  And I didn’t even have to do something as stupid as forgive myself to close that case. Christ is enough. The cross is enough.  It took me 5 years, and I looked over at my dead corpse, Guilt, and dump her dead, useless body off at the graveyard. See ya!

Guilt, no you are not worthy.  You didn’t deserve the cross.   You were dead, sinful and righteously hell bound.  You were unworthy, but He died for you anyways.

And now...

Redeemed, yes, you are worthy! You are His. He has made you holy, righteous and REDEEMED!

I am at his loving mercy.

I am forever His.

I am forever in love.

Christ is enough.

So, heavenly Father, yes. Thank you.  Thank you. Thank you.

Come on! BRING OUT YOUR HAPPY!

If you’re my atheist friend, eye rolling me now.  That’s OK.  I’m not here to debate my faith, I never will. (No, really I won’t...I won’t even respond if you try).  Same reason, I don’t respond to your atheist rants and postings- I literally don’t care that you don’t accept my faith, but I am here to proclaim it.  And maybe someday, God will give me an opportunity to not debate my faith with you, my dear friend, but simply talk about my faith with you. I’m always willing to talk about it.