Remember how I said I can't craft worth a snow dogs leap over the desert? Well, I can't, but sometimes I dabble. This is a picture of the two cakes I made for my son's birthday. My husband decorated the orange one, and I took over the green. It was so much fun. I will attempt to make a caslte for Abs's birthday. Wish me luck.
One of the things I rarely write about in my blogs is my weekly activities. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I'm a mommyblogger, but I'm not a mommyblogger. Maybe because I"m a midlife blogger, but I'm not a midlife blogger. My life kind of blends into both. I'm a midlife mommyblogger? No, that doesn't quite fit, although I swear, if chemo pushed me into pre mental pause, some heads are going to roll. I don't plan on going mental pausal until I"m at least eighty. I do often step back and wonder why, knowing that my girls were about to enter high school, having about ten years left to the wonder years with them, being in my late forties and having the house to ourselves, did I start having babies again ( Seph is 18 (almost), Cay is 16 (almost) big big big break Abi is 4 (almost) Gus is 3 (for real) and Ave is 1 (almost).
What the heck?
Oh yeah, we thought the well had gone dry.
Well, it didn't. Boo on You.
Anyway, that leaves me stuck in the middle of some sorts of being the mom getting her daughters ready for college (soon), and being the mom getting her daughter, and soon the sons, ready for pre school. It's a weird place to be. There are times I feel like I don't quite belong in the new mommy pool (boy I forgot how vicious those guys can be) and times I feel like I don't belong in the high school mommy bleachers (band moms, sport moms, cheerleader moms...I just don't fit). We've missed many a football game, band event, and otherwise this year. Sometimes it just isn't feasible bringing a two year old and an infant to a football game. One wants to play kamikaze pilot off of the bleachers while the other wants to nurse and watch the game...at the same time. My husband and I were able to attend some of the events solo, but it was a bit lacking with the family theme. Needless to say, when you have three three and under at home, it also makes it hard to volunteer for booster events (not that I'm Ms. Volunteer of the Month to begin with). And let me tell you this, no one is more judgmental than booster parents when it comes to non booster participators. Erg. On the flip side, there really aren't many women my age birthin babies. And although the birth rate at my workplace has skyrocketed, I don't quite fit in new mommy circle either. I already know what they are trying to learn and when I offer my "Words Of Wisdom," I'm often looked at the know it all hippy dippy chic that doesn't want to drag a three year old to Disney World because I already know that a three year old will only like the first 30 minutes of it and then will whine for the rest of the five hours you're there. Not to mention that, hey, I am the middle aged dippy hippy chic and not the in my twenties young mom that the rest of them are. It's not their fault, really, that I don't quite fit in. I'm not sure I really want to fit in.
Before I go on, let me stop you now! I'm not really complaining. And no, you won't read about me selling my younger children to the black market gypsies, nor will you see me running away in the middle of the night with Vin Disel. There are just some times when I get tired of flying solo (especially since my husband goes to work at 5 a.m. and when he gets off of work he's working on rebuilding our house and doesn't get home til rather late...really late...extremely late...late).
And, in defense of all the booster moms and new mommies, I am a bit of a hermit. I find myself feeling more comfortable wearing mismatched clothing and hair pulled up in a pony tail reading or blah blahing, than I do running off to the nearest craft show or Disney World events. That's just me.
Bored today. I don't feel like it. You know what I mean?
I've been teaching 5th grade for way too many years now...that explains the madness. Anyway, when you teach lower grades, you see the innocence, yes, still, even in the fifth grade, that children possess. It is their redemption ticket when I see them years later in high school (being that I have two high schoolers, I see them often enough), and they have grown out of that innocence and into adulthood. When meeting them, I cast back and grab a memory or two of their innocence and smile away...blissfully ignoring the fact that sweet Jane Doe is missing most of her dress during Ring Ceremony, and turning away from Dear Little Johnny gagging his newest squeeze with his tongue. This can be easily done at these functions due to the obvious rule of teenagers having never been fifth graders to begin with and tend to ignore the waddling former fifth grade teacher that has become a beaming bumpkin standing in the corner.
These reunions are quickly forgotten. However, all are not just ships going by in the night.
Yesterday evening, my loving nephew of almost 21 years stopped by for a visit (I still can't believe he's going to be 21...TWENTY-ONE?!!?). Tagging along with him was his girlfriend, his sister, and his sister's boyfriend. And although sister's boyfriend hadn't been a student of mine, he just couldn't stop himself from talking about how bad he was in the fifth grade, and how mean I was when he was placed on in-school suspension in my room. I went into teacher mode and smiled and beamed and nodded and wished they would just go on home so I could stop listening to what a mean witch I was way back then. To break the monotony of hearing of my bitchness, I told my nephew that Atticus was going to have a birthday this week.
"Whoa, what did you say his name was?" asked the former bad ass.
"Atticus." I replied.
"Atticus, you mean like Atticus Finch?" puzzled look crosses his face.
"Yes, that's him." I nodded.
"Wow, that's like my favorite book in the whole world." he amazingly responded.
And thus melted away the bad ass former student and Miss. Bitchface teacher to be replaced with two people discussing one of the best books ever written, "To Kill A Mockingbird," by Harper Lee. Of course, this could only happen after I wound my jaw back up to the rest of my face, being that my jaw had literally dropped to the ground. Here I was sitting with a kid that almost didn't get out of middle school because of his attitude, discussing Atticus Finch, Boo Radley, and Jean Louise. His favorite scene was at the end when Boo saved Scout. Mine too! He read the book five times! I did TOO! He was bummed out when his teacher assigned the book because he thought it was some stupid crime book. I WAS AND DID TOO!
Amazing, isn't it? What can happen when you take the blinders off.
Confession. I haven't been blogging long. Actually, I believe I started in mid February with my very first post, Twist Top. It is still a favorite of mine. Of course, being a new blogger, I did as all new bloggers and started trolling trawling looking for blogs to read as well. One of the first I found was Love Letters by Cora. Her true to life profile picture lured me in, but it was her bubbly personality and snip wit made me a follower.
Cora is in the process of building a budding, blooming, blossoming a forest fire of a relationship with a tree of a man named Scope. He's quite the gentleman. A real keeper. He's also like over a foot taller than she is and looms over her like a 100 year old oak tree. But get this. She met him here, on Blogger, over the internet.
Internet relationships don't work. You're taking a chance meeting someone you've never actually met. You'll end up with the uni-bomber.
Well, maybe not wrong for everyone. Internet hook-ups have a potential for danger danger danger. Yes, it's true. But if you are careful, do back ground checks, make your relationship known to the public, and learn karate...Tae Kwan Do...Pilates...it can also be just as fun, exciting, and rollar coastery as meeting someone the typical way. I met my husband of more years than I thought I would ever stay married over the internet.
Yes. You heard me. Over the internet.
We were both avid gamers. I'll admit, he was way more avid that I was, but I was in the avid field. My baby sister introduced me to this wonderfully medieval, fantasy world called (pause) Everquest. I loved it. Imagine a network where you can not only Instant Message people, but you do that WHILE you are hacking away at some burly monster, wearing fabulous science fantasy...FANTASY people...we're talking big boobs, small waist, and tight butt fantasy...clothing, casting magic spells, drinking mead, and eating bread all at the same time! My brother-in-law was easily annoyed by my ability to meet and greet. Even in the midst of battle, I would always be in the middle of pink conversation (otherwise known as tells or er...instant messaging). I played a healer. Her name was Polnedra (I miss her so so so much). Anyway, to make this book of a story short, one night my sister, who was a druid, was playing with her friend Keiser, who was a dwarf rogue. He invited his friend, Moloc, who was a half-elf ranger ::insert man find whistle::. They needed a healer. She called me. I came a-runnin.
I would like to say that when we met our eyes locked across a room of dead frog people...the world stopped spinning...sappy music filled the air...time stopped. But the truth was, I had never healed a ranger before, so in the beginning my ineptitude annoyed him, and he kinda just ignored me. Keiser, on the other hand, was easily swayed by my elfin big boobs and blonde wit. So, I was invited back. Eventually, I was able to hook my claws...er...get my hands on...shove my way in...um...got to know Moloc. We started out as casual chatters:
Obviously, we extended our conversations to include more than one syllable words.
As time went by, we went from casual gamer conversations in guild chat, to talking in tells (I.M.'s), to yahoo instant messaging. Then one night...while lightening crashed and thunder rolled...while the wind shook my window panes like a thirsty vampire struggling to break in...I asked Moloc for his phone number. Believe it or not, HE WAS THE LEARY ONE! He almost didn't give it. I can't say I blame him. I was the freaking older woman that played online fantasy based games. But he gave in, and I not only got his number, but he gave me his real name as well. I guess it would have been kind of awkward calling him by his gaming name. Ta ha. We talked from 9 to 5. Seriously. 9 p.m. to 5 a.m. I had work in the morning. It was crazy insane. I'll be honest, by the time 5 a.m. rolled around, I was crushing hard. Real Hard.
After a month or two of phone chatting (keep it clean, girls), he decided we needed to meet. I freaked. Honestly, I didn't know if I was ready to meet him. My butt was too big, I didn't have boobs like Polnedra, and the hair on my legs have a tendency to grow inches the minute I shave. It was a scary decision to make, but I said, after about a week of pondering, yes. Yes, I said yes. He made plans, let people know he was flying off to meet a mad woman so that if he didn't return, they could inform the FBI, and flew down here. We decided to try it out, just for the weekend. I was so freaking nervous walking to his terminal.
He was just as nervous, sitting there with his suitcase between his knees, although you won't get him to admit it. He said I was hiding behind the pillar (I wasn't...I was trying to figure out which one was him), too shy to walk up to him. He stood up. He smiled. He said, "Hey, you. Come here." and gave me a huge hug...no kisses...no stress...no expectation...just a huge, glorious, hug (the rest came later).
Ten years ago, give or take a few months, I made one of the hardest decisions in my life. It was even harder than taking that first bite of broccoli. And we ALL know how hard that can be (except for Savant, but she's weird like that).
It was early in the morning when Mr. Stainrejecting Whitecoat Oncologist came into my room. At least I think it was early morning, it's hard to tell when the only window you have around you is the one to your soul (insert a bit of drama here). He delivered my diagnosis with empathy and sympathy, more empathy than you'd expect from a whitecoat which is why I stuck with him through thick needles and thin. His deliverance of my death sentence was Leukemia. It came with all the lifetime movie network drama one liners in existence. Very surreal. Very chemical. Very dramatized. I felt distanced from the entire thing; almost like having an outer body experience. But one thought did surface from this mess of jangled information floating through my mind.
Who is going to take care of my children when I'm gone.
That was the only fear I had when it came to dying. Who. Who was going to love them like I do. Who was going to take them to church. Who was going to teach them about love. Life. Teen pregnancy and how to avoid it. How to say no to drugs. Keep bad boys from them. Make them stay in school. Teach them how to treat people right. Love them like I do. ::aside:: Wow, I'm having a hard time writing this one. Bear with me.
The mind works quickly when presented with this situation, believe it or not, and brick wall after brick wall I hit trying to find someone to fit the bill. I shouldn't have tried so hard. My little sister did all the work for me. Although I shouldn't say little, she's only 18 months younger than me.
Tut and I grew up like twins. What she had I had, and what I had she tore from my unprying hands. It was love hate. Sometimes we loved each other, most of the time we hated each other. You know, like sisters do. We grew up, grew apart, grew back together once we reached our late twenties and entered our thirties. She never teased me about my age because she knew that she wasn't that far behind. Before the doctors could even find out what was trying to kill me, she drove over 1,000 miles to be with me. She sat her LeBeouf Butt on a very small step stool and read Anne McCafferty's "All the Weyrs of Pern," every single night that I was in ICU. And when it looked like I was going to live long enough to attempt chemo, she stepped up to a bigger plate.
I have to pause in my story here to add her partner, T. T not only gave up being with my sister for the months she was here with me, she didn't hesitate in stepping up to the plate with my sister. From that day on, she stopped being my sister's partner and became my sister.
Back at the ranch.
Tut and T decided to take my girls home with them. We drew up papers. Fixed my will. Had Power of Attorney given to them. They took them away from the chemo, the illness, the on again off again hospital stays. They took them away from seeing their mother fade away and touch the brink of death. They took them to school. They fed them. They played with them. They did homework with them. They took them to church (trust me, they did). Most importantly, they loved them. I still don't think they understand what gift they gave me. They allowed me to do what I had to do to get better. They allowed me the comfort of knowing my girls would have decent, loving parents for the rest of their lives if I didn't get better. That, in itself, is priceless.
Tut and T were down for a visit this past week. They left yesterday, headed back to home, a really big dog, and work. It's always hard saying goodbye to them. It tugs my heart strings to no end. They took Teen Two with them this time. She's going to work for them this summer. Erg!
Imagine my delight, while listening to free radio (yes, I still haven't jumped on the Sirrus Satellite bandwagon), in discovering that Fleetwood Mac is touring this summer. Not only that, they would be in my area after Father's Day. Not only that, I still haven't found that perfect Father's Day present for dear old husband. Not only that, we BOTH enjoyed Fleetwood Mac (yes, I still have a huge crush on Mick Fleetwood). Woo! I'm excited Now (too bad you can't year the tone in my voice...I do cajun really well when I say "Woo! I'm excited Now). The last time I saw Fleetwood Mac was near about 19 years ago in Saint Louis, Missouri. They put on a spectacular show, and Mick Fleetwood flew through his drum solo like a hummingbird on steroids. It was truly incredible. Stevie Nicks, Lindsey Buckingham, Christine McVie (Okay, so when I was young I use to imagine all three of them in some bizarre love triangle and blamed Christine Mcvie for breaking up Stevie and Lindsay (I'm spelling Lindsey's name both ways since I can't remember how to spell it)), and the rest of the crew. They didn't even have a headlining band because of their super uberness. Ticket price? Beats the hell out of me because I got in free ala boss lady bought mine.
Well, upon getting home, I hurriedly (gracefully) dashed into the house and did the PC scene. I suffer from short term memory loss (what was I saying? What is this post about? What bills honey, the money you gave me this morning is gone), I had to rush in and do this before the ice cream melted. Typed in tickets "Fleetwood Mac Concert Tickets." Mockingly I laughed at the price people would pay to meet and greet the band. Skimmed over the price people would pay to stand up the entire concert right by the stage. Sighed over the price people would pay to stand up in the back of the people who would pay to stand up in the back of the people who would pay to stand up near the stage. Okay, so I scrolled over to the nose bleed section.
Stupendously Pregnant Pause.
The want me to pay what for seats that have me stuffing my nose with my Aunt Mathida's brand of tampons because the modern tampons don't have enough stuffing to do the job right???
I didn't even pay that much for Eric Clapton and he's the GOD OF ROOOOCCCCKKK. Oh, and he puts on a good show. Even sitting in the getting hit by the nosebleed section. He's good. He's real good. He's the GOOODDDDDDD OOOOFFFFF ROOOOOCCCCKKK.
Okay, so before I go any further, I'm not a cheapskate. Hell, I don't even own a pair of skates. But seriously? 130 dollars for tickets in the upper level? The economy can't be that bad, can it? I mean, they are getting $1400 from the meet and greeters alone. What has the concert world come to? I mean, a few years ago, the closest Daughtry came to my area was in Biloxi Miss. Did I go see him? No, I didn't. The tickets were like $150 something a piece. I don't like him that much.
Think about it. Do you go to concerts alone? No, the bigger the crowd the crazier it is. That's what concerts are all about. Being crazy. Having fun. Listening to a great band. Being deaf for hours on end after the show is over. I remember paying $18.00 to see Motley Crue open for Ozzy Osborne in 1980 something. It was freaking awesome. We were deaf for ages. We were a whole lot of other things as well. Arghh. $130 a piece? Then gas money? Then food? Then concert tee shirts? Then beer (even though I hate beer...it goes with the show)?
I don't think I like Fleetwood Mac all that much.
Now if Roger Waters would be touring with Pink Floyd again...that's a whole nother ball game.
I just wanted to say thank you to all of you that stopped by and gave me your condolences. Those of you that joined me, and those of you who shared your own grief as well, thank you. Those of you who stopped by silently, thank you. Even though I may never see more than this flat screen posing as your faces, your empathy and sympathy has reached me.
This past week was one filled with tragedy. Friday night, one of the eight graders that attend the school where I work was killed. While attending a party of a friend, he jumped into a swimming pool. No one is sure as to what caused him to become unconcious. CPR was unsuccessful, and he was pronounced dead on arrival at a nearby hospital. Sunday morning at two a.m., my sister-in-law was killed, and I will use the word killed, by cancer. The cancer had spread from her lungs, to her brain, and then to her heart. So much sadness in just one week.
How do you get over that kind of grief?
As a mother, I can not even imagine. It would be akin to drowning, but instead of dying, you kept conciousness while struggling to reach the top and break through to the surface. With eyes open, you can see life passing by, but there is nothing you can do to be part of it. I can not imagine what the boy's mother is experiencing. She lost her husband five years ago, and now, her son. How do you find the courage to go on and be a mother to her surviving children? How can your heart keep beating when it is in so much pain? How do you go on?
My brother met Vicky while working at a friend's restraunt. He had been divorced for several years, and was definately not much of a success in entering the free world. Crazy insane, opinionated, woman hating, God dissin man that he was, Vicky seemed perfect for him. She calmed his stormy sea, righted his wrong, and turned a blind eye to his rants and raves. She, in all clicheness, completed him, even saved him from his own self destruction. Dramatic, I know, but true. They were together for nearly a decade when Vicky was diagnosed with Lung Cancer. It was only a small spot, and they were sure they had gotten it all with radiation and chemo. Both of them were positive. However, it came back, and this time it spread throughout, and with speed. Vicky died within two weeks of being admitted into the hospital. My brothe...my brother is only going through the motions. Their children are all adults with lives of their own. He goes home to an empty house. The lights are off when he drives up. His bed is empty and cold. No one joins him on the porch for coffee. No one listens to his cornball jokes. He is alone. And no matter what kind of support we give him, we can't make his heart whole. Without the responsibility of taking care of his children, how will he go on? How can he get past this pain, and he is in pain. This woman saved him from himself, but he couldn't do anything to save her. And trust me, he will see it like that. That is how he is. Such enormous pain.
One of my favorite lines in poetry is "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may." I know that is reference to deflowering as many nubile virgins as possible, but to me it also means to get as much from life before death comes knocking at your door.
To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time, by Robert Herrick
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting.
That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry: For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.
Before I start, I will answer the question swimming on the surface of your subconscious mind. No, I am not obsessing about death this week, I just happened to be playing around with a few what ifs on this bright, way too bright, sun shiny day, so bear, or bare, with me, it won't take long.
::aside:: Neil, from "The Young Ones," was my favorite favorite.
Death movies, you know, the ones where Character X finds out he is dying, only has a few weeks to live, health waning, spends last few weeks of life cramming everything he wants to do before dying. You know, movies like "The Bucket List." Great movie, awesome actors, same plot.
Doctor: "You're dying."
Patient: "Penelope, my love, let's get married, go bungee jumping over a crocodile infested river, sell all of my properties, and give the money to some undisclosed charity before I pass from this world."
Penelope: "Yes, lets!"
While there is nothing wrong with this theme, and it has generated lots of Hollywood Bucks, I think I'd rather be in the process of doing instead of having done when my time has come.
So, without further ado (loving the cliche' statements today), my hole in the bucket list otherwise known as "things I'd love to be doing when I kick it, not before I kick it, but as I kick it, you know, like being in the process of breathing my last breath, blinking my last blink, beating my last beat, burping."
1. Eating a 4 pound Godiva chocolate covered strawberry. I don't want to reach the stem, because then I'd be done. I want to be in the middle, or just beyond the middle, of the strawberry. You know, where the juice of the berry starts to dribble down your fingers making trails across your hand. Who cares if they will find my cold, lifeless corpse next to a half eaten 4 pound Godiva chocolate covered strawberry. Who cares about the snickers made by the all knowing paramedics that try to cram life back into me. It was well worth it. Trust me.
2. Listening to Vin Disel read "Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire," or any 1000 page plus book. I absolutely love Vin Disel's voice. Have you ever seen "The Chronicles of Riddick?" There is one line he says, corny, yes, I know, but oh my swooness, anyway, he says "It's been a long time since I've smelled beautiful." Ah, yes, it would probably be my own drool that would have done me in. Paramedics would have to get out their hip boots and wade in.
3. Smoking a cigarette. I quit years ago, but...but...but...but...but. The cool, sweet draw of a menthol cig filling my lungs with its intoxicating, delightful, swirls would be just divine.
4. Drinking a cosmopolitan. Pretending to be Carrie Bradshaw with big laughing teeth, and flirting with my gay waiter is a rare indulgence, but one I enjoy tremendously. My sisters and sisters-in-law would have to all be there. What's the point of drinking cosmos if no one else is there doing it with you?
5. Doing the nevermind. Yeah, right. Like none of you wouldn't put that down as an answer.
My husband is a history channel nut. He loves it. I like it. When we're eating dinner, usually hours after everyone else has downed theirs, I don't mind sitting with him and watching World War II documentaries, Vietnam Documentaries, and Younameit Documentaries. Honestly, I don't. History was, and still is, one of my favorite subjects. However, if you've watched the History Channel, you already know that it doesn't just focus on history. It tends to go on tangents that include what ifs and what nots like, oh, I don't know, SEVEN WAYS THE EARTH WILL COME TO ITS END.
Seriously, I hate doomsday programs. They always spook me out. I can remember being seven years old and hanging out in my granny's back yard with my older cousins. They loved spooking me out by telling me that God was going to end the world in the year 2000. That he was going to burn us all out, and that no one would survive. No one. Not even me or my mom and dad. Then they would chase me around the yard chanting: Burn! Burn! Burn! Yes, I was freaked out. I was so freaked out that when my school went to the planetarium for a field trip, I couldn't watch the ceiling show. It was about the big bang theory, something this little Catholic (at the time) girl was not educated on, something that my little pea-brain connected with, yes you guessed it, the end of the world. I freaked out so much that the teacher had to remove me from the room. Serious trauma.
Anyway, back to dinner and a movie. Let me provide a brief summary of this torturous affair.
Scene one: a solar boom, bloom, flower, flare? I don't remember. (scream! panic! run!) Solar flares happen all the time. The good news is that the nearest star letting out these solar farts is too far away to damage us. All but one, no, not our beloved Sol, but a star that is like a billion or so light years away. Apparently, if this guy lets one out, it will reach us, take out our protective atmospheric layers, and then radiate us to death. TO DEATH!
Scene two: A Black Hole: Well, Asimov and the rest of the Sci Fi gang have it all wrong. These things don't provide gates to some amazingly sophisticated universe, they just muck you up. The start sucking everything in. One scientist described it as conflicting gravitational forces. The earth is trying to hold on to you while the Black Hole is sucking you up. First your head goes, then your hands, your arms, your torso...you get the picture. He thinks that would be the coolest way to go. Uh Huh. Cool. Right.
Scene three: A volcanic eruption of cataclysmic sized proportion. Translation: A really big freakin volcano. Apparently, the volcanic ash produced by this here volcanic eruption would be large enough, and long enough to block out those warm, life bringing rays of the sun. Eventually, everything on earth would freeze. To Death. To Death. To Death. STOP. Somebody slap me!
Scene four: Machines will reach the point where their AI will reach the point that they will indeed become senient beings. And of course, machines, in their perfection, will take over the world. Ever watch terminator? The Matrix? I-ROBOT??? Nuff said.
I will stop now. For one, I can't remember enough on the others, World War III, the dying sun, who knows what else, because the panic I was experiencing at the time took over any rational brain processing I may have had at that time. Another reason is that I love you all, and wouldn't want to inflict any emotional pain on anyone I could call friend. No, I wouldn't do that.
Anyway, back to the future. So, here I was sitting in the living room, with the love of my life not one foot away from me, panicked, screaming silently, freaking out, shedding nervously, watching this program with feigned calm and serenity.
When the girls were younger, I remember watching a movie that sent chills down my spine. The mere memory of the plot behind the movie induced painful nausea, cold sweats, and small fits of panic each time it resurfaced from the hidden depths of the "in denial" files located in my brain. In the movie, Thirteen, a young girl, Tracy, "A" student, fairly well-behaved, living with her single mom, meets another young girl, Evie, popular, social butterfly, and not so well-behaved. They meet, become friends, and thus enters the down cycle of girl number one; a down cycle that takes her into the world of shop lifting, drugs, sex, and rock and roll. The movie takes on that air of predictability; fighting with mom, doing lots of drugs, having fight with new best friend, so on, and so on until she wakes up and sees the light, but it left me, mother of an about to be thirteen year old girl, in a cold sweat.
Growing up, I was a dabbler of sorts into the world that Tracy played with, although I never reached such high proportions. My mom and I had the typical "ergh, I hate her," kind of relationship, however, never to the point of hitting her, running away, the kind of relationship that went from your mom being the one you went to for everything to being the one person in the world that you hated the most. For one thing, my mom and I were never that close. I imagine having eight children to rear (yes, you rear children, raise corn) kind of stood in the way. But my girls and I had a closer relationship, especially with my oldest (the younger was and is too independent, but we have our own type of closeness). I truly believe the two of them saved me from my trip into cancer hell. They were the anchor I would cling to when night came and the deepest, darkest, depression hovered over me taunting me with death. Because of our fight, I truly believe our mother-daughter bond grew into something more. Not to mention, our single status selves took on the "us against the world" type of mentality giving us a common foe to fight against.
Now do you see why this movie did cast a mighty blow of fear into my trembling heart? Teen One was just entering that leery age of thirteen. We had just married my husband. They had a new dad for the very first time in their lives. We had just moved into a new house, although thankfully, in the same school district. So like Tracy, Teen One was experiencing tumultuous change in her life. Change that made her perfect for the "Evie" invasion. Stop. No. Don't even go there. Fortunately, there was no Evie that entered her life. No Evie for Teen Two either. And although the freshman years were hard for me to endure, my "thirteen" fears didn't come to light. Yes, they both went through the "freshman" year where mom was no longer cool, and bitch (I hate that word, but it seems the best way to describe this time) fights became the everyday norm. Teen One's escape into the freshman world was the hardest thing I've had to endure. It was the year she broke away and became someone new. Fortunately, part of her came back once she was done with her freshman year. It's amazing how different they are when they do come back, though. And then this pass year when Teen Two went through the same experience. They came back from it changed, older, none-the-wiser (do we ever?), but back. I miss them, the old Sephie and the old Cay. They were my bestest friends. Now, they are bestest friends to someone else. Girlfriend to some guy. High school senior. College Graduate. Work force member. Wife. Mother
Growing up is what other people call it. Waiting is what I call it.