As for the ‘me’ in that drawing…let’s just say I had an extremely dark tan and my breasts are apparently in my armpits. No wonder I have such problems finding a good bra.

If I remember to bring the picture home tomorrow, I’ll try to put it up here. I rather like it.

And now…an example of how strong and beautiful a mother’s love can be, what it should be:

God bless you, Lacey Buchanan, and your son, Christian.  You are God’s love made manifest.

Won’t cost much but a little time…But I probably won’t get it. Didn’t get it for Christmas, either.

Oh, never mind. Flowers and jewelry and chocolate will do just as well. Or nothing at all. Just don’t expect me to cook.

(Schlepping on the guilt a little, am I not?  )

Head, meet wall.

I know how to fuck things up. Yep. Yep I do.

But thank you for your words of support in the previous post.  Let go.  Let God.  And listen to some really good music.  After Glukosa, I’m off to listen to some Engel.  Oh, hell, I’ll post it here also.  It’s foreign language music day at the HoZ.

Earlier this week, he left a whole bag’s worth of clothes, sheets, shoes, and DVDs on the living room floor (along with a spoon stuck to the carpet).  I simply bagged it all up and waited to see what he would do about the missing items.  He never looked for his shoes (the two pairs he had left and I had bagged).  Instead he just got pissed, and when I got up this morning, I found him angrily tearing long strips of scotch tape to ‘fix’ an old pair of shoes so he could get to school.  Seriously…scotch tape? So…of course I didn’t expect he would actually pick up all his clothes this week…I just started the clean-up when I got home today.   Bagged all the clothes that were on the floor and put them in the back of the Suburban where he can’t get them.  Bagged up all the trash.  Steam cleaned his foul mattress.  Steam-cleaned the carpet.

He came home from his awards banquet in the middle of my doing this.  Questioned him about the college cup of my daughter’s that I found in his room (he needed it for tea and couldn’t find another cup…he needed it so he took it…just the latest reason why the other people in this house have to have locks on their bedroom doors).   I presented him with a very baggy old pair of BR’s sweat pants and a two-sizes too small t-shirt to wear for night clothes.  Too bad so sad that other sleepwear is in a bag somewhere.  Gave him a sleeping bag to sleep on the couch or floor in the living room (his choice) since I wasn’t done cleaning his room.  And too bad so sad that running the vacuum cleaner and steamer made so much noise he couldn’t get to sleep.  He can get his clothes back.   Only one bag at a time.  And the items of each bag must be hung up, put on the shelf, put away properly, or thrown away.  When all the items are put in their proper places, then he can get the next bag.

I was actually crying earlier tonight after he told me about what I ‘always’ did to him.  I really was the one who got him to his extra-curricular activities, got him to doctors’ and counselors’ appointments, gave him haircuts, begged and pleaded with the parochial school principal when he was talking about sexual situations (we eventually had to withdraw him).  And sometime over the past two years, he and I have hit an emotional roadblock.  He takes no responsibility for anything, lies about anything  we catch him doing, and doesn’t appear to care.  He disdainfully pulls his earphones out of his ear if he MUST listen to anything.  All that sets me off, and we have a screaming match.   I’m trying really, really hard not to do that.  To be the adult.  To know that he has been abused, that he’s locked away so far that neither the family nor counselors can reach him.  That he may be on a path of destruction that can’t be stopped.  That I am only stressing myself and my husband over things that cannot the fuck be changed.

It makes me so, so terribly sad.  I have to let go.  He’s 17, and is hell-bent and determined to show that he doesn’t need anyone.  He has no care or respect for others, only using them for his own ego-stroking and self-gratification.  He has to learn remorse and sorrow, but shows no signs of those traits at all.    I have to give up, or else we’re both going down in flames.  I don’t want to give up, but there are some emotional problems that cannot be ‘cured’ unless and until the person wants to ‘fix’ them. 

Please pray for us.  I’ve about given up on that, too.

The class had to find five vocabulary words in the dictionary.  The students were working in partners, and doing very well.  For the most part.  Except for two kids.  They worked hard, but just couldn’t find the word ‘future’.  They come up to me, lugging their dictionary, with very serious expressions on their faces.

Cute kids:  “Mrs. Who, we can’t find future.  There’s no ‘eff you’ in the dictionary.

Mrs. Who:  *giggle*  *snort*  *snarfle*  *big breath*  Let me help you.  I think we can find ‘f-u’ in there.  (in my brain:  Right between ‘Barack’ and ‘Obama’.)

I don’t think President Bush ever had to worry about that.

But what about when they imitate your alarm clock…every morning.  Sitting in the azalea bushes right outside your bedroom window. About 15 to 30 minutes BEFORE your alarm goes off.

There is a mockingbird that has fallen in love with my alarm clock.  So much so, that he/she comes to visit it.  Every. damn. morning.  To sing the alarm clock awake through the window and join in the trilling. It chirps out the same pattern as the alarm clock.     And there’s no effin snooze on the mockingbird, although I would take great, great satisfaction in smacking it on its little birdy head.  Repeatedly.

It might be a sin, but it’s still going to be dead.

But given that title, let me attempt a new post.

I love my husband. I love my kids. I love my folks.

I love being the only one up in the morning, munching on a chocolate chip muffin, warm from the oven.

I love teaching. I love that both my husband and I have jobs in this crazy economy. I love that even though money is tight these days, we’re going to see a play as a family tonight.

I love snuggling with my husband in the early hours of the morning. I love walking down the hallway knowing my children are snug in their beds.

I love living near the water. Even though I rarely go to the beach these days, I love knowing the water is there, waiting for me to answer its siren call to commune with its timeless voice.

I love that I go to a beautiful Church. Yeah, it’s supposed to be the message there, not the building…but when I go in and see the velvety stained-glass windows with their stories of Christ’s life, I am reminded why I am there.

I love that we have a Mustang. I love the feeling of driving with the windows down, music blasting, shifting away the stress and worries of the day.

I love reading. I have a library book that I just picked up this weekend…been on the waiting list for two years for it. Could have bought it during that time, but sometimes…I love the anticipation. Reading is the world…

I love writing here on my tiny piece of the internet. It has become a way to connect with others, and have a record of things I have done or hope to do. I love reading posts from the past, even when they make me cry, because it lifts me beyond a day-to-day struggle. I can read back and *know* that I’m getting through life.

I love complaining. I do it a lot. And yes, I know other folks don’t love it…so I’ll try not to.

I love watching funny videos and sharing funny jokes.

I love being an American…I love that when the school counselor was in my room the other morning and the Pledge and National Anthem came on, she was impressed that all the kids stopped what they were doing to stand up and put their hands on their heart, even if they didn’t say the words.

And yes, my Dad taught me that one should only ‘love’ people, and ‘like’ things. But I feel more than ‘like’ for these things…and love is the best adventure of all.

So I’m at the doctor. First thing the nurse wants me to do is get on the scale.

Me: Not today, thank you.

Nurse: *blink, blink* Okay, then, just take off everything from the waist up and put on the gown.

Me: Not today, thank you. The doctor can just put the stethoscope under my t-shirt.

Nurse: *blink, blink*

Then the doctor comes in.

Me: Oh, doc, I saw you in the obituaries the other day.

Doc: *blink, blink* I didn’t realize I had died. I guess I’ll go home.

Actually, he was in the obituaries last week. My seventh-grade teacher had passed away at age 89, and he was mentioned by the grateful family for the wonderful care he had given her.

Heh. ‘Saw you in the obituaries’. Not too often you get to say that. I just hope the nurse doesn’t give me a shot the next time I go. I was just warming up for when I’m the cantankerous old lady patient. Old folks do it because they can.

As bad as the financial cost will be, the emotional cost will be higher. 20 hours one way in a pick-up truck? Granted, it’s crew cab, but five people in there for a 10 hour day? (Or more, if we decide to push it.)

We may not be coming back with the same amount of people who left. Just sayin’.

Then I heard a sound that chilled my blood and made me miss a step. I had a flashback to a time when I was 12 years old…a cool spring night, wrapped in a sleeping bag in flimsy, lake-side tent. Shivering in fear, desperately wishing for daylight. The sound causing me to tremble in the darkness back then was the mating call of an alligator. Yeah, it scared me then, and it unnerved me as an adult walking across a parking lot. Didn’t even have a tent wall between me and the horny beast.

After dinner, BR and I walked sort-of kind-of near the waterway, which was about 10 feet down. We could still hear the bellowing sound, echoing across the water. BR thought he could see some movement on the opposite bank, and that was good enough.

So we came home and I started writing this post. I tried to find a Youtube clip to relay the sound…but none of the clips had the same sound. I listened to several, but no luck. The gators did have a bellowing, ugly sound…but it wasn’t the same.

Then, I started thinking. It was my mean ol’ stepbrothers (my mom and their dad were newly married at the time), were the ones that told me about the gators. Then it clicked. I searched for a clip for a bullfrog mating call. Those bastards. For over 30 years, they’ve had me scared of a friggin’ bullfrog!!!!!

But still…imagine hearing this sound in the darkened woods…when you’ve never, ever been camping before in your life…it is easy to think it comes from a mean ol’ gator. Keep in mind, the rumbling gets amplified travelling across the water.

It’s about time for some payback…

Like I said, on Saturday my brother would have been 32.  Since it was also Easter weekend, I knew my folks would want to visit the gravesite.  My stepdad can’t drive anymore, and my mom doesn’t like going great distances, so I offered to drive them there (the cemetery is over in the next county).  The day before, I picked up a garden shepherd’s crook and a windchime to place at my brother’s grave.   I was fine until the lady in front of me at the check-out lane admired the windchime, asking if I was going to put it in my yard.  I burst into tears.  Poor lady…I’m sure she didn’t know what to think.

Then I worried about going to the cemetery with my mom and stepdad.  You see, since the burial 27 years ago, I don’t think I’ve ever been with just my folks.  So…I worried about my mom and stepdad having an emotional reaction, and then I would, because I always do whenever I visit my brother.   And somebody would need to drive home, and that would be me.    

So we pull up…I place the shepherd’s hook into the ground and hang the windchime (which made a beautiful sound in the soft bay breeze) and my folks placed some flowers in the area above the marker.  I pulled my self together, not wanting to lose it.  Oh, I know it would be okay, but I don’t like losing it in front of my family. Total strangers in Wal-Mart, yes, but not in front of my family.  Yeah, I’m weird.

So I draw in my breath to steady my rise of emotions, and my mother starts talking.  And talking.  And talking.   She talked about the people as if this is a Church picnic and all the old Church ladies are gathered at the dessert table talking about everyone.  She talked about the graves. She made observations about whose grave has flowers or not, or if there are more decorations on a particular grave.  She starts talking about the names on the headstones, commenting if she might have known their second cousin thrice removed, or if if her cousin from Alaska might have known another’s brother.  My mom started wandering among the graves, going towards some other family members buried there, but she’s keeping a running commentary on all the headstones and/or people buried there.  It was actually very funny in a way.  My mother loves to talk…oh, okay, she loves to gossip.  And here is a virtual captive audience about whom she can comment and never get interrupted!

So I didn’t have the tears I expected.  And my mother, bless her, doesn’t get all emotional much anyway.  She knows her son is in heaven, waiting for her.  So no need for tears.  Just a little bit of gossip.  It’s all good.

We at last returned to my brother’s grave before we left.  We stood and listened to the tinkling of the dragonfly windchimes floating in the air.  Watched the shadows of the dangling dragonflies dance across my brother’s name on the marker. 

I came across this story while looking for a title for this post.   I think it’s a lesson my mother already knows:

Down below the surface of a quiet pond lived a little colony of water bugs. They were a happy colony, living far away from the sun. For many months they were very busy, scurrying over the soft muck on the bottom of the pond. They did notice that every once in a while one of their colony seemed to lose interest in going about with its friends. Clinging to the stem of a pond lily, it gradually moved out of sight and was seen no more.

“Look!” said one of the water bugs to another. “One of our colony is climbing up the lily stalk. Where do you suppose she is going?” Up, up, up it went slowly. Even as they watched, the water bug disappeared from sight. Its friends waited and waited but it didn’t return. “That’s funny!” said one water bug to another. “Wasn’t she happy here?” asked a second water bug. “Where do you suppose she went?” wondered a third. No one had the answer. They were greatly puzzled.

Finally one of the water bugs, a leader in the colony, gathered its friends together. “I have an idea. The next one of us who climbs up the lily stalk must promise to come back and tell us where he or she went and why.” “We promise,” they said solemnly.

One spring day, not long after, the very water bug who had suggested the plan found himself climbing up the lily stalk. Up, up, up, he went. Before he knew what was happening, he had broken through the surface of the water, and fallen onto the broad, green pad above.

When he awoke, he looked about with surprise. He couldn’t believe what he saw. A startling change had come to his old body. His movement revealed four silver wings and a long tail. Even as he struggled, he felt an impulse to move his wings. The warmth of the sun soon dried the moisture from the new body. He moved his wings again and suddenly found himself up above the water. He had become a dragonfly.

Swooping and dipping in great curves, he flew through the air. He felt exhilarated in the new atmosphere. By and by, the new dragonfly lighted happily on a lily pad to rest. Then it was that he chanced to look below to the bottom of the pond. Why, he was right above his old friends, the water bugs! There they were, scurrying about, just as he had been doing some time before. Then the dragonfly remembered the promise: “The next one of us who climbs up the lily stalk will come back and tell where he or she went and why.”

Without thinking, the dragonfly darted down. Suddenly he hit the surface of the water and bounced away. Now that he was a dragonfly, he could no longer go into the water. “I can’t return!” he said in dismay. “At least I tried, but I can’t keep my promise. Even if I could go back, not one of the water bugs would know me in my new body. I guess I’ll just have to wait until they become dragonflies, too. Then they’ll understand what happened to me, and where I went.”

And the dragonfly winged off happily into its wonderful world of sun and air!

The students were divided in small groups, each group chaperoned by a parent.  Each group had a scavenger hunt of information to find about the various planes and other displays.   The tour would take about two hours.  We made arrangements to meet back at the front lobby by noon, when we would go to the beach to eat lunch. 

My group, of course, was the more challenging students.  Of the ADD/ADHD variety.   We made it through the museum in less than an hour and a-half.   The other groups took over two hours, and some had to be contacted on cell phones to tell them to come to the bus.

How was my group able to get through so quickly?  Remember what I said about the ADD/ADHD group???  We’re in a museum filled with all kinds of aircraft…it was like: 

“Oh, look, a plane!!!!”  runrundashdashtotheplane  “Oh, look, a plane!!!!!! runrundashdashtotheplane “Oh, look, a plane!!!!”  runrundashdashtotheplane  “Oh, look, a plane!!!!!! runrundashdashtotheplane  “Oh, look, a plane!!!!”  runrundashdashtotheplane  “Oh, look, a plane!!!!!! runrundashdashtotheplane  “Oh, look, a plane!!!!”  runrundashdashtotheplane  “Oh, look, a plane!!!!!! runrundashdashtotheplane  “Oh, look, a plane!!!!”  runrundashdashtotheplane  “Oh, look, a plane!!!!!! runrundashdashtotheplane  “Oh, look, a plane!!!!”  runrundashdashtotheplane  “Oh, look, a bathroom”  runrundashdashtothebathroom”  “Oh, look, a waterfountain!!!!”  runrundashdashtothewaterfountain “Oh, look, a plane!!!!!! runrundashdashtotheplane “Oh, look, a plane!!!!!! runrundashdashtotheplane  “Oh, look, a plane!!!!”  runrundashdashtotheplane  “Oh, look, a plane!!!!!! runrundashdashtotheplane  “Oh, look, a plane!!!!”  runrundashdashtotheplane  “Oh, look, a plane!!!!!! runrundashdashtotheplane  “Oh, look, a plane!!!!”  runrundashdashtotheplane  “Oh, look, a plane!!!!!! runrundashdashtotheplane  “Oh, look, a plane!!!!”  runrundashdashtotheplane  “Oh, look, a plane!!!!!! runrundashdashtotheplane

Yeah…it was that kind of day. 

One of the parent chaperones is an active duty Marine, a very fit, very muscled Marine who met us at the Museum to tour with his son.  He was one of the ones late to the bus.  He looked at me and asked, “How do you do this EVERY DAY????!!!!”

And then there were a group of very young sailors who were near our bus waiting for their transportation.  I asked them if they wanted a ride.  (Hey, they were cute.)  Their eyes got big as they surveyed all the little hooligans.   And they all took a step back.  I laughed and said, “Yeah, it makes for great birth control, doesn’t it?”  One looked at me and said, “This needs to be a course in high school!”

Oh, it was a good day.  We managed to come home with all the kids, and with a minimum of bloodshed.  And I brought bandaids for that, so it was good.

Thank God for Southern Comfort.  And the taffy puller.  ‘Cause there are still three more days of Spring Break, and I’m trying to hold on.

Miss you baby.  Tell your boss you need to come home.  Now.

My mother received copies of four letters from a cousin. Four letters that her mother (my grandmother) had written in early 1946 from Pensacola, Florida. She was writing to her mother and two sisters, who were living in Iowa and Washington State. My grandmother typed all the letters, using carbon paper to write to three relatives at once.

It was an interesting glimpse into the post-WWII era. The letters were about my godparents’ wedding. My godmother was 17, and needed my grandmother’s permission to marry (my godmother was her niece, but Grandmommie was her guardian). My godfather, who was not yet 21, also needed his parents’ permission to marry. The guy had just come back from fighting in WWII, but still needed written permission!!!

My grandmother also wrote of getting two ‘C’ stamps from neighbors for sugar to make the punch. The photographer also only had three flashbulbs to use, since they were still in short supply due to wartime-demands.

The funniest part of the letters was my grandmother’s fussing about a bridal shower. Oh, the shower was fine. It was a ‘lingerie and linen’ shower’. And you can be sure the lingerie wasn’t from Frederick’s, lol. Grandmommie wrote of two nice slips that my godmother received. But during the shower, apparently somebody’s kids PLAYED with my grandmother’s typewriter!!! Why can’t people keep their children under control! (I can picture my grandmother’s face as she wrote about those naughty children. Her lips would be in a straight line and her eyelids would be half-closed. I saw that look whenever I had misbehaved. Shortly before I was told to go get a switch from the bush.) But I guess the typewriter was her link to the outside world, at a time when letter-writing was sometimes all that kept families connected and informed. One thing she kept repeating was that she wished her mother could be there to help her with the wedding. We’d always thought my great-grandmother had continuously lived with my grandmother…but apparently not then.

There was also a glimpse of my mother as a child…my grandmother mentions her frequently. A sweet 1 1/2 year-old, quietly playing with dolls at my grandmother’s feet as she typed. A ‘little angel’, arrayed in a pink frilly dress for the wedding.

My grandmother also mentioned the embroidery she did, probably to earn some money. Grandmommie had tried to teach me when I was a child, and I had neither the patience nor inclination to learn. Could never quite get a handle on French knots. Oh, how I regret that now.

But it was very moving to read the letters, hearing my Grandmommie’s voice saying those words in her precise but definite Southern voice. Sad and sweet at the same time.

Somebody’s time of the month, somebody’s UTI, and vehicle trouble that was quoted at $2500!!!!!! One college skipped because of said vehicle trouble.

The good:

The truck made it home, my daughter and I didn’t kill each other, and we went to Harry Potter World! (Say the last part in a Dobby-like voice to set the mood!)

Okay, okay, so it’s not really Hogwarts. But doesn’t it look like that???? Absolutely gorgeous campus at Rhodes College in Tennessee. ALL the buildings look like that…all made of stonework, even the power plant building.

And right after PN and I arrived at the campu, I was on the phone telling BR about the Hogwarts-esque-like view…and the PN yells out, “There’s Dumbledore!” Sure enough, a worker driving a small crane had a long, flowing white beard. We also saw the Weasleys…several scholarship applicants with various shades of red hair. And there’s even a building named the ‘Burrow Center’.

Okay, okay, I know you don’t choose a college simply based on its looks. Rhodes is a college of high-standards (during the question-and-answer session for parents, when one parent asked if the school had an honors program, the answer was, Rhodes IS the Honor Program!). But lordy was the campus gorgeous. Fingers crossed for further scholarships for PN!

And oh, yeah: Tennessee, you are one beautiful state!!! Mississippi…your roads SUCK!!!!! And Vanderbilt…we’ll try to catch you next time.

A whirlwind 3-day tour, a 1,200 mile mad dash.

We will be visiting two colleges…one for a scholarship interview and one for a tour. While I’m on Spring Break, Princess No isn’t. So we have to rush the trip so she doesn’t miss much school.

I look forward to the time with my daughter. And I’m hoping she’ll get into one of these colleges, since they’re both only a day’s drive away. Her first choice is very, very far away. In the great frozen wastelands of the north.

I’m also looking forward to getting away from Buck, God forgive me. I have such a mix of anger and sadness and resentment whenever I look at him. He was making cookies tonight, and he started to put the mixer up without wiping it off. I told him to wipe it off, and handed him a dishrag. He said, “I didn’t do all that.”

“No, but your stuff is on it, too. Now wipe it off.”

“But I didn’t do all that,” he repeated.

“Your stuff is still on it, so wipe it off.”

“But I didn’t do that!!!”

So I just snatched it away and did it myself. Then we’re pissed at each other. As long as there’s a chance that someone, somewhere, did the same ‘wrong’ thing as he did, then he won’t admit to doing it.

I can’t take it anymore. In our ‘tête-à-tête’ tonight, I told him I was upset because he hasn’t shown any remorse. He said, “How can I do that?” He wants a step-by-step plan…give me a list of things to do to show how sorry I am, and then it will be over. He just got his 100-yard stare when I told him it was about showing constant responsibility and respectfulness. Buck just can’t conceive of ‘always’ having to be responsible. He wants responsibility to be a set of things he can do to ‘earn’ privileges, then go back to doing nothing when there is nothing he wants to do.

So I will be away from that for three days. I will be spending time with my daughter on a tour of some pretty scenery in the South. I will focus on enjoying that, and hopefully not getting lost.

God be with us.