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.

Jen's Housewivery 101, "You're Welcome!"

Long ago and far away there once was a young girl (ok, not so young, but a little less bright).  She burned water and microwaved her hot dogs.  She found that cereal met all of her necessary dietary needs (and tequila too, but that’s a different type of story).  She dodged babysitting phone calls and when mommies offered their babies to hold, she stared at them blankly.  She cleaned, but not for the sake of creating an inviting home- but more with a glaring mantra ‘don’t touch my stuff’.  (but really...why are you in my house touching my stuff?)

She grew up! (kind of) She cleaned up her act and changed her ways.  She became me and I became a housewife! (kind of) Being good at being many things, I naturally excelled at this new found life experience, and often I hear ‘How do you do it?’ or ‘Wow! What’s your secret to making it all work?!’ (not really, no one has ever asked me this.)  

I could write a book on the theme of being the awesome housewife version of me, but for time sake and blog sake, I’ve condensed to 3 easy categories with each of their own 5 easy to follow steps. (it’s been said I tend to ramble, I’m not sure who said this or why they said this, it’s clearly inaccurate. They just don’t get me yet, next time I see them I’ll fill them in. I’m just not sure who they are, do you know? Can you let me know? I remember this time I once...wait, focus……)

Cooking -  (let’s say a chicken meal, but really any meat is fine; I’ve found its all the same deal.  just eat real meat- don’t be a vegetarian weirdo..yeah, you know who you are!)

1. Go to store and walk around for awhile. If you choose Walmart- get side tracked, pick up some really useless plastic stuff.  Be sure to tell husband of useless plastic purchase, he will enjoy this purchase.  Find chicken, I think you knock on it- if it knocks back- don’t buy it.
2. Go home and put in fridge, forget about it for about 4 days. Panic and remember it will turn and you need to cook it. Take out of frig.
3. Stare at it. I think you should wash it, you have to wash lettuce, so you should wash chicken too. Stare at it some more (this is when you realize you don’t like cooking and you don’t know how to cook chicken and you’re annoyed at the idea of having to turn the oven on.  You call your sister, her name is Nicole and you say, ‘I bought chicken, now what?’)
4. Put it in a pan, dump some BBQ sauce on it and stick it in the oven.  Go sit on couch. Get up from couch because you realize its been half an hour and you should check on chicken. Poke chicken with a fork. (you may have also realized by this time, you have not actually turned on the oven.  You turn on oven. You can’t remember what the temperature is suppose to be again or how long it should be in there. You call Nicole, she tells you again.  You hang up, instantly forget and figure, anything will work- just cook it til its brown.)
5. Husband comes home 2 hours later. Kids are running around, you’re running around behind them picking up. Husband says, ‘What is that stench I taste’? Check Isaac’s diaper. Not diaper.  Remember chicken.  Serve black chicken to grateful family.  

Cleaning - (actually, once upon a time I was kind of good at this, but then I had kids and realized- no, no I’m not good at this at all.)

1. You have A baby. A baby doesn’t do anything. Clean all the time. Worry about dog hair hourly. Organize toys by colors. Get bored. Organize toys by size. Get Bored. Organize toys by theme. Get bored and creative. Organize toys by theme, size and color.
2. Have another baby.  And now you have a baby and toddler. 2nd baby is nothing like 1st baby. You are not bored. This baby is insane and your toddler has become a homicidal maniac bent on your destruction (Stewie..is that you?!). Do no cleaning for a year. Don’t invite anyone over. Tell your husband to hang on, everyone keeps saying crazy things like ‘it gets better.’ (haha, I’m totally kidding. No, not really. Of course I am! Total exaggeration. Run! Run like you’ve never ran before. KIDDING, haha! Your children are precious angels. Babies aren’t insane and toddler aren’t homicidal maniacs…………maybe sleep with one eye open, just sayin’............ pray a lot... because I had quit drinking by this point …you’ll get through it- it does get better!)
3. It does get better. Now you have a moody toddler and a big boy 4 year old.  Clean all the time. Like Thursday vacuum something. Maybe on Monday you do 50,000 loads of laundry. And say, by Saturday you fold some to most of it. Maybe on Fridays, you wash the floor- sure, why not- wash the floor on Friday. And maybe on Tuesday, you like take a towel and bang the dog hair off your kids.  (Maybe walk around with paper towels, because while your 2 year old kind of gets the concept of peeing on the potty, he also gets that peeing on the dog, on the rug, in corners and pooping on the table are concepts too!)
4. Find a project, like seasonal stuff. Box up all winter stuff and walk around finding all summer stuff. Find boxes and bags to organize. Make this fun! Take your time and do it ALL DAY.  Feel accomplished, maybe proud. Show your husband. Ignore his blank stare.  (by the way, take a picture, it will only look like this today, by tomorrow it will be destroyed and you alone will be the only one that cares.)
5. Vacuum the dog periodically.  Trust me, just do this.  If you’re feeling spunky, maybe try out that cat. (never mind, that was a terrible idea! never vacuum a cat!  anyone know where the heck I stuck the bandaids………….why are they in the frig?)

Child Rearing - (yeah...I’m wingin’ it...how about you?)

1. First, prior to having children think about how awesome you are. Think about how you’ll do it because you know! You know a lot of people raisin’ babies right now, and its pretty obvious- they are doin’ it all the wrong way. Don’t worry, you got this. Make a list of your awesomeness, your ideas and ideals, and be sure to detail how you’ll implement- this is important!!!!!
2. Have a few babies.  I decided to not be crazy and only have 2 (haha, just kidding I don’t think you’re crazy if you’ve had more than 2 babies………...yes, yes I do). Remember that super important list you worked so very hard on in Step 1?  Do something vital right now- crumple it up, stomp on it, tear it to shreds!  Then find some poor parent you horribly judged and give them hug (you owe them that much!)
3. Tell them you're the boss. Tell them this a lot! Make them say it to you. I say, ‘Who’s the boss?!’ And they so sweetly say, ‘Momma is the boss!’.  (did you hear that laughter?  hmm, weird...even as I typed this and they are conked out cold, I really swore I heard hysterical laughter….very weird indeed!)
4. You know what? There’s 50 billion books out there on how to raise your kid.  They all tell you something different.  And you know what? I ain’t gonna add to it!  You do what works for you and I’m gonna do what works for me.  Frankly, I got one book that does all the job I need, my Bible.  If that irks you, well, move on- I’ve never been one worried that I’ve irked someone- I highly doubt I’ll start with you.
5. Love them. Simply love them- no quips here. Just remember one thing I read and hold dearly on to- your kids will grow up and they will tell a story of their home. They will tell their memories.  Remember this, what would you like the story they tell to be?  If I only get a single word uttered from their mouths, I pray I hear, ‘happy’.

So, there it is. Like I said, I could write a book on the amazing examples of just being me daily. It’s not easy, but I try so hard to make it look so.  I think I’ve got the basics in here to get you started.  Any fool can be a housewife extraordinaire- I’m mean, come on! Look at me, I’m freakin’ nailin’ it!  I’m cooking (sure, its most likely microwave safe, but hey, its hot), I’m cleaning (don’t eat off my floors, ok?) and my kids are still alive and smooched daily (and they totally think I’m the boss. Really, they totally do...stop laughing at me! Or I’ll make you say ‘Jen’s the boss!’ I will. I will too. You better stop laughing.  I mean it! Don’t you make me say it again! If I put this laptop down and have to get up, you’re in for it!)

There’s a chance I skimmed over some useful tips or a topic or two you were hoping I’d touch base on.  I’m all for Q&A’s, let’s face it- there’s a good chance I got your answer.

This is proof that 50,000 loads of laundry is not an myth. This is taken in real time April 17th, 2015 10:25pm. Ok, it's actually, 49,997. I've got 3 more loads to finish tonight. I'm gonna fold it all tomorrow! I am! I think! Maybe! Maybe by Wednesday!

Last word of advise- don't sweat it. It all gets worn and dirtied again.

Isaac has a juicy butt? I didn't ask, either should you.....

“Isaac has a juicy butt, Isaac has a juicy butt!” Zach streaks past in nothing but what God gave him on the day he was born.

Isaac is streakin’ right behind, laughing in hilarity!  He has no idea what a juicy butt is, but Zachie is running and yelling out his name- so, that’s fun!

Zach, exasperated, collapses to the laminate floor with a thud. “Ouch!”

Yeah, learning that floors hurts isn’t just a lesson we’re learning- it’s literally a brand new lesson every day.

Everyday we discover, things that were hot yesterday are still hot today. Everyday we discover jumping from the couch, to the ottoman, to the floor and misjudging our landing hurts.  Everyday we discover, throwing toys will get mommy just has mad as yesterday and cleaning up, and depending on the veracity and target- a red bum may follow.  Everyday we re-learn all the sames of the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that.  And today it’s just as surprising as the first time we learned that lesson.

However, what is retained and forever proclaimed, are butts.  Zachie and Isaac have discovered their butts and the lovely things that these funny parts produce.

No one ever tells you the things that kids not only will say, but to the extent that you literally live it everyday.

Oh, sure- you know kids say the darndest things! And you know they have antics and manipulations with those sweet face, those big eyes and the sweetest words, motivated by their little desires.  And you know they can be goofy and silly and giddy with a never ending supply of energy. This is strange, because as you raise these children, you also discover, they don’t eat! So where the heck does this energy come from?!

But what you don’t know is how weird and bizarre your world is going to get.

“I win! I beat you!  Hahahahaha!”

Oh, a game! Yes. A game. My boys play games. Do your young children play games? Like, oh, Chutes and Ladders? Hungry Hippo?  Maybe some version of Jenga? 

They do?! That’s nice.

My boys play bath games. Like who can pee first. Who can pee the most. Who can pee on the other.  And no one warned me how to address these moments. 

“Stop peeing on your brother!”

“Get out of the trash and stop eating the paper!”

“Who put all the hot wheels in the fish tank?!”

“Who pooped on the kitchen table!?”  (Yes, this is what happens when you are trying to do dishes for a second and suddenly everyone is screaming and there’s poop on the table.)

The culprit was Isaac. For some reason, in 5 seconds flat, he climbed on the table. With sheer glee, I can only imagine, he ripped free from his diaper and did what only comes natural to Isaac.

I know it was him, because his little naked butt went haulin’ down the hallway.  All the while, Zachie screamed, “Poop! Poop! Poop!”  He’s very helpful.

I see families out and about, walking all Brady like around town. Their sweet children dressed to the nine.  Obedient, pious and calm.  I’m ashamed to say, I may have asked these people what their secret is.  

“Benadryl?” I inquire.  They stare at me, I can tell they are eager to get away from me and my feral children.

“I a race car!”  “Zoom, zoom like Bolt”  And off he goes! I take them to a Children’s Christmas party.

Zachie spends the entirety of it racing laps around the facility.  Literally, this is all he does.  Santa gives out a surprise arm in one instance, swooping up Zachie.  Briefly, he is stunned into some sort of shocked adrenaline letdown; however this is brief, his eyes shine bright, he let’s out a loud,

“AHHHHHHHHHHH!” 

And he is released, he sprints away.  Isaac desperately tries to keep up, his little legs scrambling in futile effort and spends much of the time slamming into the hard cement floor.

I hear the “Ohh, noo!” “Oh, dear!”  And I see there’s an expectation for me to dramatically kneel to my child’s side and whisk him up with kisses and “Poor baby!”

Isaac falls 15,000 times a day. He falls into the floor, the wall, the couch, the bed, the toilet, the tub, off the bench, into the frig, against the rails, off of the choo-choo.  So when Isaac falls on the hard cement floor, I fail to impress the other parents. I just sit and watch if he cries. If he cries, I’ll get up.

“Hehehehe,” He giggles, and flies towards the bathrooms. 

Ok, I get up and dash towards him.  He beats me in.  Luckily before he can crash land, he stretches out his little hands and uses the toilet to keep himself upright. Nice.

And Zachie is still racing laps.

And we go home.

Sometimes I bring them to McDonald’s. Really, not to eat; more to exert energy in a town there are few places for little busy bodies to be cured of Cabin Fever.

We race laps there too. Well, Zachie does. And as he often does, he misjudges the height of the climbing platforms and rams into one.

“MOOOOOOM!”

I come to investigate the results, “Are you okay?”

“My bones are dizzy”

I have no idea how to heal or confirm the validity of dizzy bones.  So I give the only advice I can really only give, “Oh, baby, I’m sorry. Shake it off.”

And he does! And he’s off again!  As it turns out shaking it off cures a number of Zachie only ailments; blood that hurts, arms that feel bad, eyes that are sad and of course, dizzy bones.

Meanwhile, Isaac is not interested in McDonald’s play place, nor is he interested in a toy or anything else kid designed. Isaac is interested in the trash receptacle and the fact that there’s a door that opens. This is worthy of much time and tantrums to get to. 

Luckily, I've got my handy back up plan! “Isaac, look! Chickens!”

Have I mentioned that Isaac loves chickens?  He LOVES chickens. “CHICKENS!”  Isaac also thinks all birds, including Seagulls, are chickens.

There are “chickens” flying around McDonald’s parking lot.  He runs to window to watch them, he scrunches up in sheer joy and signs contently, “Chickens.”

A lady smiles at him and says, “You all have chickens?”

I say, “No, he just really like chickens for some reason.”

“Oh.”

And of course, since we’re out at McDonald’s and it’s usually chaotic on some level, someone must poop. There’s always gotta be poop, otherwise, you’re not going out in public properly with my boys.

And then, we go home.

At home, I am learning what I sound like.

“You check your attitude!”

“You being rude!”

“I gonna spank your butt!”

'Relax, Jen!' You may be thinking. But this isn’t me. This my Zachie.  Lately, he has taken the roll of disciplinarian of Isaac. 

I remind Zach that I am in charge of the discipline around here and that he should have patience with his brother, “He’s still learning, Zachie, You need to be big helper, his teacher.”

“Humph,” Zachie hates that idea.” I NEVER play with you again, Igee (family pet name for Isaac).” And he storms off.  Never is about 5 minutes in this house.

Isaac, in a fit of smiles and anticipated tickles, charges down the hallway.  He’s pretty sure someone is chasing him. No one is chasing him.  He squeals anyways, and of course, who can resist, we all chase him.  Zachie is playing with his brother again.

They have retreated down the hall to play in their room. 

They emerge after a few minutes racing their trucks, barreling full force toward the kitchen.  They have for reasons unexplained, stripped.

“Isaac has a juicy butt! Isaac has a juicy butt!”

I look up at Marc as they circle and I wanna ask, but I’ve learned- asking isn’t always a good idea.  Isaac doesn't mind being accused of having one, who am I to question what it is?

“Ok, boys! Calm down time, time for movie!” I round them up.

“Thomas, Thomas, Thomas,” Isaac has decided.

“I hate Thomas! NO!” Zachie has decided.

Oh no! They've developed ….. personal taste!  

Hangin' out with Trouble Makers!

I only know girls. That’s not true. I used to only know girls. It’s all that had been around me. I grew up with my mother, my sister and myself, the house of gals!  I grew up with girl cousins.  I had boy cousins too and played with them, but I gravitated towards my girl cousins. There are a lot of girls in my family. My grandparents had 3 girls, mom and my aunts.  My grandfather’s brother had four girls, my second cousins.  My cousins started having babies, more girls.  OK, they had boys too, but at first, it was the girls. And now the cousins’ babies are growing up having babies, and yep! Girls!  My best friend had two girls. Then my sister had two girls.  I know a lot of girls that like to go on and on about how they only had guy friends not girl friends, cause some how that made them cooler and more down to earth or blah, blah, blah, something, something. But I had a ton of girl friends and I’m still pretty sure I’m as cool as I think I am in my own head.  I had some guy friends, but again, I gravitated to my girl friendships. I got girls, girls made sense to me.  The world of boys was foreign to me and I just steered clear of getting messy.

I didn’t want to have children, forever! But sort of always knew, if I did, I’d have a boy. But I didn’t have to worry about it, forever! Because I wasn't going to have children.  This is why you should never depend upon yourself and your own knowledge. You know nothing, least of all the future- and God loves to prove that! 

When we first decided to foster, with the hope we may adopt our own (yeah, I’m skipping the whole how I came to want kids bit), I just knew it would be a boy and that petrified me. I knew dolls, I knew Barbie and My Little Pony and I knew Jem and The Holograms.  I knew how to play house and even though I bit mine, I know about painting nails. I’m not all girly and frilly (clearly, if you've met me) and know little about pretty hairdos or make-up, but I get that girls dig that stuff and can support it.  I get the emotional breakdowns over things that will pass quickly (like sixth grade and boys at the dances), I get having crushes you’d just die for that don’t know your first name and I know secrets between best friends are precious gifts (Just ask mine –we know too much about each other and I think its an unsaid agreement, what we know, we take to the grave).  And I know the, you know, physiological stuff.  The boy “stuff’, was a different world that I didn’t want to delve into!  What did I know about boys?

Boys were loud! They were disobedient and challenging! Boys destroyed stuff! They ran around and yelled! Boys were violent and mean and bullied!  Boys played rough and fought, wrestled and completed. Boys fart and laugh, Boys burp and laugh, Boys tell rude jokes and laugh.  Boys didn’t listen or follow routines or instructions. Boys were trouble! No! Boys were Trouble, capital ‘T’!  Raising a boy! That was terrifying.

I think I've mentioned a time or two, I’m hard headed and don’t take in learnin’ the easy way.  God always has to give it to me the hard way to teach me right!  God gave me boys.  Boys! And how fast does a girl knowing momma fall in love with a trouble makin’ boy? 

Oh, instantly!

They called us and told us they had a trouble maker in the hospital! He was sick and cried a lot. He was in pain and struggle to cope with what his little body had been dealt. He wasn't doing so swell and lots of tummy trouble. He’d be a challenge and we’d have hard work with this one.  He’d come with medication, he’d come with charts to fill out and scores to keep up with.  He’d come with tremors, sensitivities to noise and lights, vomit and wailing.  He’d come sleepless and uncomfortable. It wouldn't be an easy road, do we want in?  Psht! Bring it! We were there that night.  We walked in and there he was! Screaming in his bathtub- just awesome! Just perfect! Just what God had order- a beautiful boy for us, Zachie.

Oh, then trouble maker number two blew on to the scene.  Willful and loud and demanding! He decided he had enough of a small little space and wanted out in the worst way, but a little too soon.  But he wasn't scared; he knew he was strong and ready for the world.  9 weeks early, he had us around his teeny, tiny pinkie- Special rooms, special beds, special meds, special food, special tubes, and special large medical bills.  My favorite answer to give when a doctor asks, ‘How long has he been sick like this?’ is “Well, he was born two years ago, so let’s see…yeah, two years.” And they look at me like I said at punch line and I say, ‘That’s my final answer.”  But he came on the scene with the strength of prayers on his side- just awesome! Just perfect! Just what God had order- a beautiful boy for us, Hurricane Isaac.

And now I know boys.  I know boys are loud! But it’s giddy, fun and wonderfully infectious! And full of adventure!  They are oriented to try hard and please, and so anything that challenges them they’ll proudly proclaim, “I win, I the best!” And they’ll fall into your arms for a big hug and kiss.  They destroy everything in their path because it’s what it was created for! Block towers raise high over heads, train tracks weave in and out of furniture! Piles of blanket forts and trucks lined up as long as rugs!  It’s all for the sole purpose for the ‘bad guy” to destroy! But not to worry! Spider-man will come along soon and avenge them all!!!!!  Boys are sweet, helpful and so large in their loving!  They say I love you with grins of ketchup.  They kiss you all over your face with the peanut butter lips.  They hug you with a wind up run across the kitchen floor.  And yes- boys fart and laugh, boys burp and laugh, boys tell silly jokes and laugh.  And you know what, momma’s laugh at it too!  Boys are smart and learn so quickly, just give them the energy to do so!  Don’t make a boy sit! Don’t make him confided and still!  He’s a boy, let him move! Boys want to please you and say sorry so fast when they know they've wronged you.  Boys are awesome. No! Boys are Awesome, with a capital ‘A’! 

And all the hard stuff, the disobedience, the learning of lessons by all parties and trouble times where it gets a little tough.  Well, that’s all kids, boy or girl.  They love me not because I’m perfect at being a mom of boys, but because I’m their mom and they never have to doubt my love.  And I’ve got a super hero to back me; Christ is there with every painful prayer.  And the physiological stuff, well…we’ll figure it as we go, besides I’m pretty sure Marc’s got it covered.  Besides, I have more pee stories in this head of mine then I ever thought possible.  

My boys have given me my awesome new life. Every day they give me a new story to tell!  And I think that will be a focus for a while of this blog.  Their joyful, often hilarious stories these boys write on my heart.

I am a momma of boys and it’s all I know! Girls are scary! What the heck would I do with a girl!? How terrifying!

And before you ask, yes, we are done! Two boys are good for me!  Really, I’m done.  I know this! We’ve decided this!  You hear that God, don’t go provin’ any points, ok?

Please?

I feel like I just invited a new kind of trouble…………………………………………....

Anyways, enjoy the stories to come!  Zachie and Isaac are about to make you laugh a lot.  I know, I live with them!

Why?

“Why?”

I look at her hard.  She know my answer; she just won’t give to me!

She watching that road again, back and forth, back and forth.

She looks at me, “What, baby?”

I soooo exasperated with her lately!  But, I was feeling gracious.  “Ugg, I said why?”

“Oh, well, I don’t know. I really don’t know him.”

That making no sense and that not real answer.  I gotta come from a different angle to get somewhere on this situation.

Momma driving me to school.  Such a loooong drive, but I pretty good about it. I help her out to make the time past.  Tell her funny stories, yell out once in awhile make sure she still there and occasionally I get hungry and feed me a nose goodie.  But come on!  Momma! Pouring rain and once again you all crazy and silly goosey rushing to get some gas in this big truck.  But look, a man! He walking in rain! Look! Why? 

So, again, I say,

“Momma, why?”

I can see she decided too, I old enough to know now. I four, after all. 

“Well, baby.  He probably had to get something at the store and doesn’t have car.”

Ok! What?  She holding back and really, this is getting crazy- just explain to me already.  I sweating to death back here, because Momma always turns the hot air on and forgets how high it is blowing on me. I been in the car for ever, ever and ever. So long waiting! I hungry! And now there’s a guy in the rain! And what did he buy? Why he not have a car? Why? 

“Why?!”

“I don’t know”

“But why he walking? Why he buy? Why is him car gone?”  Come on, Mom! Work with me.

“Baby, I just don’t know, I don’t know him.”

Really?  Again, with the irrelevant and not useful information. She always doing this, you know. I see this world, I see how old she is, I look around and see a lot happening here. And that a problem, I don’t get it.  She gets it.  She has what I need; The story!

“But him car is gone. Him wet.  Him sister died?”  I grasping here, Lady. I trying to work out the details, problem solve this one. This just not clicking here. Why there be  man in rain. What he buyed at store? Chocolate? May he likes plane and bought plane? I like planes. I have black ones. Sometimes they zoom fast and sometimes they crash.

“Why him crash his black plane?”

“What?”

Wait. “What?”

“No, Zach. You said something, what?”

“What, mom?  Silly goose.”

She smiles at me. She is a silly goose.  “Ok, Zachie. We’re almost to school, ok, Baby?”

NO! The man in the rain. He walking. What happened to him car?

“But mommy, car all gone. He go in store? Why? Why he in the rain? Did his sister die?”  Maybe she did.

Nothing.

“Why?”

“Did his sister die? I don’t know, hun, I don’t know if he had a sister.  Sometimes people walk in the rain and not everyone has a car.  Cars are special gifts.”

I have idea! “You give him your car?”

“No, hunny, we need our car.”

“Why?”

“Ok, Zachie.”

I can tell! This is it! Finally the answer!

“You see that man. His name is Bob. He was living with his sister, Jane. But she got sick and died. He didn’t have a lot of money and needed money, so he sold the car for money.  So, now he had money but no car and he needs food. So he was going to walk to get food. On the way to get food it started to rain. So that’s why Bob’s in the rain.”

“Ohhhhh! Ok, mommy.” She such a silly goose, why not just tell me to begin with.  She makes so hard on herself sometimes, she knows I four and I can know things now!  His name Bob.

“Why?”

“What, huh?”

“Why he name Bob?”

“I don’t know, Zach.”

Really, Momma.  Here we go again.

A Cold November Night, perfect for burying the dead.

There is something haunting about winter nights, isn’t there? Driving home on a November night, just winding quietly and silently by myself, noticing the whiteness of the world glowing all around me in my little Maine haven of wilderness.  I see nothing but endless memories, and the odd feeling I just want to pull of this road.  I want to step into the cool night, have that crisp wintry, residual autumn air fill my lung. I see the fresh, hard snow leading brightly in the night into untouched fields of where my mind wants desperately to roam. But why?

Do you know this feeling? Have you travel down that back road? Have you seen how gorgeously lit the world is in the stillness of a winter night with a large moon?  Haven’t you just wanted to walk into the void of it, hearing your foot steps be the only sound crunching heavily across this sea of frozen-ness and just lose yourself in it- this world, this life, this place where time has seized?

I sink back down in my thoughts and all the silly fears I have piled up, year after year after year.  I can climb the greatest heights and peer over without a gasp.  I see whatever little uninvited creature scurry petrified across my path and my only response is a vague annoyance that I have to deal with it.  I go through trauma that punches my guts and you won’t see me shed a tear.  I can speak to crowds of endless rows, hear my voice boom across the plateau of faces and it doesn’t unnerve me. 

But if you shut the lights out in my world, I shut down.

I’ve stood in a stairwell when a blackout came unexpectedly, and screamed until my husband came to help me down.  I’ve spent nearly my entire adult and mostly married life alone at night.  I keep blinds closed, I keep lights on. I sleep with the soft glow of television reminding me, there is light and I am not alone. I just don’t do dark; dark has always gripped me in ridiculous ways. I am the grown girl that will trample paths to the light switch. I am the grown girl that thinks bad things of only imagination lurk right behind me, ready to pounce.  I am the grown girl that’s always letting everyone know how brave I am about everything, that is so afraid of the dark.

So, who do I think I am? Where do I get the nerve to this impulse?  Just what do I think I’d do? Pulling over in the dead of night, crunching my path through this cold night and just sit all by myself in a white field, with the only company a big moon a zillion miles away from me.  What bravery do I possess for such craziness!?

Oh, but these memories! These memories drive me to such places. Often times, I don’t wanna remember me. But these nights, I can’t let them go. I hold fast to them, allow their force to push forward. Sometimes, I’ve forgotten how much I’ve aged in 15 years. I look into a mirror and I’m thrown off.  Where is twenty-one? Where is she deep inside there? The youth, the strength, the brashness, the sexuality, the crazy, the drunk, the angst, the loud, the beauty, the deceit, the pride, the contempt, the hell, the out of control, the endless?  Where did she go, cause this girl standing here now, who is she?  When did she age? When did she transform? When did she wage a war? She clearly won, cause holy, the scars are everywhere.

So, sometimes, yeah. I wanna stop my car and run fast as I can down to that lonely, frosty field.  I want the haunted night of cold whipping wind to just consume me. I want to remember. Everything. The hell, the fun, the dizzy, the insane.  I have memories that would make you choke back your distaste for me.  And it’s hard to say that out loud. You might even hate me, if you knew me then. You wouldn't recognize me, and you’d leave me in that field with my empty pursuits and bruised ego.  If you knew me and didn't leave a bad taste in your mouth; well, then you must've loved me for a long time and must’ve wished at some point I had done some things with myself that was a little more worthy.

I waged a war and the thing about wars. Wars have story. I share my stories cause at some time, you might be ready for war and you might think you can’t survive it, but you can- just don’t expect it to always look pretty on the other side. Just worth it.  My war is something I pushed deep inside and I spill out little antidotes here and there about what it was like to be me then and be me now.  And there’s a very few minority that know me on either side of the battle.  I have no idea what they must think now, other then when I see them- they still hug me and tell me they love me- and I know I love them with my whole heart too.  My war resulted in throwing out the sins I committed and facing them head on. Not with a twenty-year old heart of hell to give and pride to prove. It was facing sins and admitting I committed them. It was saying out loud I did bad things. A lot. I hid behind my youth, my beautiful, naive smile that could fool a shrewd judge of character, I hid behind the right words and the all consuming alcohol that I voiced like it was gospel, truth that you must hear- never hearing the fool spew senselessness.  Alcohol.  Someday, I really wanna talk about alcohol and really explain how evil it is. Because it is.  And don’t throw that stupid word disease at me.  I’ll spit back at you.  I’d never say I was an alcoholic, I won’t ever say it.  I just say, there were points in my life. I was a pretty crafty, functioning drunk. I have too much experience on too many sides to fall victim to handing over their choices, my choices, living through their hells and my hells to the likes of eliminating my free will or my responsibility.  God knows better and so do I.  Nearly every evil deed I readily and knowingly committed was drowned purposefully down with some vile bottle.  Sins that weaved wrenching, claw scratching memories.  War is not an easy thing, physically or spiritually.  My war left me collapsed and weeping for what I had been and done, not standing prideful, tall to exclaim, “Hey, live and let live.” What a stupid, destructively damning saying that is.

Oh, these dark nights! Memories of wars, waging through me!  I am battered and worn down by who I was and how much I’ve worked to never see her horrid face in the mirror again. Maybe that’s my urge to purge it all into that field. This dark, frigid night illuminating its truth on everything, urging me to run out into the field.  Escape mirrors of looking for her and the legacy she carries deep inside of me. I want to bury her dead. She is useless! She served nothing but to torment me with the memories of the sins I committed. And boy did I commit some sins.  It’s easy to say, we’re all sinners and be done with it. Like we wiped a little dirt off our hands and cleaned up some. It’s another thing to face your fear of darkness- you! You, Jen. What dark thing you were, what you did and the wretchedness you can’t shake off.  Yes, I am forgiven. I can’t bleed enough emotion to make it worth His blood.  And that is the exact point.

But I need that field tonight. I need no mirrors. I need not my warm house or this oversized car. I need my lonely, November field. I drive now, hard and purposefully. I need to pull this truck off the road. I need to get a little brave again with Him at my side. Cause the war is won, not by my strength, but His endless mercy. She is dead, Jen. Take the shovel- bury her and let it go.  You keep saying to yourself, claw out the memories. Claw them out, so you don’t have to remember who she is anymore, what she did, how she did it. So you don’t have to look into that bathroom mirror, shock that she’s not standing there anymore. For dead girls don’t reflect images.