Saying Goodbye to Bella

My son's dog has passed away.

Bella was 15+, a basset mix rescued from a shelter in PA when my son was 9.

Hounds are outdoor dogs, not pets...
Or so this former country-girl thought. 

My old gal, Amanda, had passed in February. I'd been promising my son a dog for almost a year. In July I attended a writer's conference in the area and stopped in to the shelter where my friend had gotten her springer spaniel. I was hoping to find a similarly sweet and intelligent friend for my troubled son.
We'd already been on quite a journey. The tantrums started at about age 3. He was recently 9, and rather than diminishing with age, they'd grown worse. There was more to come, but we already knew something was wrong. We just didn't know what, or how far we'd have to go before the road would turn for him.

When I talked to the folks running the shelter, he asked me, "How do you feel about basset hounds?"

I rolled my eyes. I had hounds as a kid, and they were noisy, slobbery, boneheaded doofuses, better kept in outdoor kennels than in the house, due to the difficulty of housetraining. My experience with hounds told me they were hunting dogs, not pets. He told me that she'd been returned to the shelter by a family that didn't look after her properly, that she was shy and sweet. I relented and agreed to meet her, knowing I would be bringing my son back later to look at puppies. Smaller, fluffier, easier, trainable puppies.

She came into the visitor's room looking anxious. She went immediately to the windows, staring out as if looking for someone. Looking for her family to come back for her. The family that had returned her, bone thin and shaking. She still wanted them. And my heart melted a little.

I brought my son in, as planned, careful to explain that he was free to choose a PUPPY. That he should meet her, but he didn't have to choose her...
It was a lost cause. She was brought into the visitor's room and LAUNCHED herself at him. Wagging, wiggling, facelicking happiness embodied in a bony hound dog. "I want THIS one, Mom."

It took us SO long to get weight on her.

And so it began.
She came home, only to hide under the kitchen table and bark and growl at my husband. She managed, with her six-inch legs, to get on top of the kitchen table to raid the butter dish. She refused to eat at first, forcing us to get creative in concocting dishes she would nibble at, until she eventually decided to eat properly. She was so thin at first that the vet wouldn't spay her- and by the time we got enough weight on her, we discovered that my dog Charlie had been a bit frisky and there were pups on the way.

I was worried sick... She'd just gotten healthy, and the vet had revealed that her stated age of 3-4 years was inaccurate- by then she was close to 8.

She successfully delivered 11 pups, but 4 did not survive past the second day. Of the seven remaining, we were able to find homes for 5. Two of her girls remain with us to this day.

Bella with her girls.

In the past few months, I noticed a change. She was moving more slowly. Returning to her picky eating habits. Having more digestive upsets, which have been common with her, on and off, the entire time she's been with us. (We've consulted the vet before, and he told us there was nothing to be done; she simply had a sensitive digestive tract.)

A long story short... She was an old lady- past 15 now by our best guesstimate- and she was tired.

She loved the outdoors, even in winter, but summer sun on grass was her favorite.

She spent her last day lying in the sun in the grass. At some point she wandered out by the kennel to be near her girls, content to lie there. We brought her in that evening and she had cuddles on the porch and fell asleep in one of the recliners. Fearing the evening air would be too chilly for her old bones, I moved her inside that night, into her crate with a fresh blanket. When we got up in the morning, she was gone.

This has been a journey. She was with us when my son was expelled from school in the 5th grade. When he was throwing his tantrums (Which we know now were expressions of anxiety.) When he told me he never really wanted a dog anyway, but cried when, out of sheer frustration, I threatened to find her a new home.

She taught him that some tasks- like feeding the dog and taking her out- must be completed regardless of feelings or mood. That some things are more important than our own internal turmoil. That when someone, or something, is depending upon us, we must set aside our personal challenges and rise up.

She helped him grow, helped him mature, and helped teach him empathy. She was always there with her floppy, silky ears, and her sneaky way of climbing onto the couch when she knew she was supposed to go into her crate for the night.

She was slobbery and smelly and noisy and stubborn- everything a hound dog is. She was also, for 8 years of his life, my son's friend and companion. She was a good dog, and she will be missed.

Rest easy, old Girl. You've earned it. 

Building Together

Whirlwind... That's our lives recently.

We're settling in, adjusting to a new family dynamic. My kids have gained a sibling and a stepfather. Beloved and Doolittle have gained two more kids and siblings. We're just getting past the "stepping lightly" polite stage of people getting to know one another and afraid to offend, and hurling into the sibling-arguments stage of "I know we haven't lived together long, but I'm not putting up with your crap" stage of security, knowing that this is here to stay. 

We're doing our best to build a lasting foundation.

Some days, I get tired of the bickering and nonsense, but most days, I'm warmed by it- knowing that the kids are secure enough in their relationships to start being jerks to one another. They know that they can fight, knowing that the relationship can take the abuse. That they'll make up later. That it'll be ok- that this family isn't going anywhere, and we're in this for the long haul. 

In the midst of all this, we're planning a wedding. And doing life... We just replaced our beater van with another pair of beaters- a rusty, banger of a Cherokee, and an F150 that was thrown into the deal upon agreement to let the seller have our old van (he'll scrap it out.) And life goes on. 

Among all this is a sense of contentment. A sense of settling in. A sense of security in the future that we're building together. Of foundations being laid. 

I don't know where this will all go. I'd love to say that I see a rosy future with his kids and mine walking linked arm in arm off into the sunset of our elder years, and us secure in the knowledge that they'll always have each other. 

I hope they'll always be together. Even if they do drive one another nuts.

As the children of mixed families, Beloved and I both know that may not happen. When step parents pass away, many times the children drift apart. The family created by marriage splinters in the absence of the glue that held them together. I pray that will not be the case with our children, but I know there are no guarantees. So, I welcome these days, the bickering and making up, the laughing and the goofing off and the going off together to do who-knows-what without Mom and Dad, because they are knitting their own foundations. I just pray it will hold for the long haul... that what we are building together as a family will become a shelter for our children, and our grandchildren. 

Life, love, and family are precious. 

Her name was Rachel

I'm sharing this in honor of the brave folks of the Twitterverse, who participate each week in the #PTSDChat hashtag conversation on Wednesday nights.

Sometime I may tell more of her story, but for now, this is as far as I can go. 

The rain is falling outside and I’m not thinking of anything really. Just watching the drops come down, splattering on the grass and road and window, when you come to my mind, uninvited, rushing in as always all bright eyes and out of control curls, grabbing my hand and pulling me from my reverie.

Come dance! It’s raining! Come dance with me!

Giggling, tugging, skipping, you lead and I follow, pulled by an unstoppable force, unadulterated joy in its purest form. We dance… You dance, and I watch as you spin and twirl and run and stumble and move through the rain, letting it splash over you, letting it wet your hair, which makes it even more unmanageable, letting it wet your face and your teeth as you smile into the sky, laughing all the time.

Dance safe my beautiful sweet girl. Let the rain fall and splatter on the grass under your brown bare feet. Let it soak into that wild hair and make it even more wild. Spin around and laugh and laugh. Let heaven ring with your laughter. Let it embrace that joy and keep it safe. Someday, maybe, I’ll be able to dance with you again. 

For the Sake of the Children

"For the sake of the children..."

How often do divorce parents hear that phrase? How often is it spoken by well meaning folks giving advice?

"Stay together if you can. You know, for the sake of the children."
"Surely it can be worked out. For the sake of the children."
"You really shouldn't speak badly of your spouse, for the sake of the children."

Although the first two did not pan out in my marriage- we were not able to stay together, nor were were able to work out a compromise that included him staying in contact with an old girlfriend, I have done my best to remember the third. My kids have big, absorbent hearts. They soak up everything that is thrown at them, whether it's love or judgement or dismay or dislike. They've grown stronger as they've gotten older, and gotten better at discerning between the opinions of others and their own realities. They're old enough, now, to understand the deviance between their father's protestations and arguments and his actions.

I rarely write about the failures of my marriage, not because there are any secrets, but because it's a cliche'd story of a foolish wife who was blind to her husband's wandering ways. I actually encouraged his online friendship with the old flame, secure in our 15 years of marriage, and in the thought that he'd long gotten over his high school sweetheart and moved on. I had a similar teenage flame, and while I retain friendly feelings, even affection, I recognize the folly in trying to go back and even since becoming single again have not sought to rekindle the old spark.

If left unattended, it can burn everything.

I thought we were happy. I thought he was content. I thought she was no danger to my marriage... And I was right. She wasn't. The danger to my marriage was not a woman willing to cheat with a married man, disregarding her own family and marriage in pursuit of a teenage fantasy. The danger was in trusting in our past to cement our future. Trusting in a man who had proven over time to have narcissistic tendencies, favoring his own desires and needs over those of his family. One of our most frequent arguments was over the fact that he resisted taking our daughter for an eye exam, insisting that she "could see just fine," yet had money for his yearly hunting trips out of state and didn't hesitate to spend freely when a new gun or tool caught his eye.

To be fair, we lived comfortably enough. We spent nearly 10 years renovating This Old Heap, as I have titled the 200 year old farmhouse we live in. He invested in our home. We went on an annual camping trip, which were some of our best times as a family. When he left, he readily agreed to my insistence upon retaining the house- where else would I go with our kids? Physical custody was never really a question- I'd been a stay at home mom for over 12 years.

This Old Heap, with siding added, doesn't look so bad.The upper half
and porch were the results of our hard work. My brother added the siding,
in order to make the house more economical to heat, so that the kids
and I could afford to continue living here.

What has made me sad, since the split, what has taken me through the stages of grief, from anger to bitterness, and finally to letting go and to peace, has been the abandonment.
When he left, I understood that our life together had come to an end. It had, in fact, come to an end months before. I hadn't allowed him to touch me since learning of his second round of cheating. I no longer trusted in the safety of monogamy. To be blunt, I didn't know what he might have picked up in his illicit travels and wasn't about to risk an STD. I knew, when he left, that "we" were over. And, although losing the love of 17 years was devastating, I was able to accept it.

What I couldn't, and can't accept, is his continuing disregard for his children.

A father should not have to be ordered by the court to support his kids.
A father should recognize that children have ongoing needs, and that the "gift" of a house to the spouse who spent over a decade forgoing an income in order to raise the children does not buy them clothes or shoes, or food once he has decided to move on.
A father, even if he is financially strained and/or unable to be with his kids physically, should make a consistent, on going effort to maintain communication and a relationship with his children.

As I sit here reading this over, considering the words I am dropping onto the waters, to allow to drift out into the world, I am considering whether it's right for me to share these thoughts, to express the hurt and the anger. I am considering whether it's the right thing to do. I'm wondering if I should simply delete the post for the sake of the children.

The year he left, they both returned to public school, in order
to allow me more time to build my business. Because they're amazing,
empathetic hearts. #SoBlessed 

But, I feel to do so would be disrespectful to my kids. Although I try to use my words carefully, they are not stupid. It is not my thoughts or experiences that have molded their opinions. It is their own.
My kids love their dad, but they understand his limitations. They have a realistic view of what they can expect from him, both physically and emotionally. They take whatever opportunities they have to talk and spend time with him, but don't actively seek him out in defense of their own hearts. In spite of his assurance that they can "call him any time," they know that he is simply not able to be there for them in the ways the need him to be.
I can not, and will not, pretend that our circumstances are otherwise, or that by not sharing this post, reality will somehow magically alter. It is what it is.

I will, however, share this post, in hopes of reassuring other moms and dads who are dealing with this kind of situation- with a spouse who is not abusive or addicted, but is simply uninterested in doing their part as a parent. While abuse and addiction are horrors I am grateful we have avoided, abandonment carries its own consequences, and the scars are deep and painful.

If you've been abandoned by a spouse or parent, my messages to you are:
You're not crazy. Even if he didn't hit or yell, it's not ok to abandon children who depend upon you for support and emotional connection.
You're not alone. There are many of us out there.
You don't have to let this make you bitter. Anger is justifiable, but dwelling on the unfairness isn't healthy. Seek out healthy relationships, for you and your kids. Build supports into your lives. Let the person go- there's no sense clinging to someone who doesn't want to be there.

If you've read this far, thank you, for listening. May God keep and bless you and your loved ones. If you're a parent, remember, please, that divorce is not about your kids. It's NEVER about your kids. You really are responsible to be a parent, even if you're divorced. Even if you don't like your spouse anymore. Even if he or she is a raving lunatic- you're still responsible to BE A PARENT.
Your kids need you, and that is all that matters.
All of it.
Your kids are ALL OF IT. Never forget that. For the sake of the children.

Godbless.
~*~*~*~*~

“To be in your children's memories tomorrow, you have to be in their lives today.” ― Barbara Johnson

Been a while...

Hasn't it? It's been a while since I've revisited this page. The reasons are many and mostly mundane.
Holidays. Thanksgiving, and Christmas, while lovely, did take up a lot of my time and attention. I'm happy to report they were among the best we've had in the past 3 years. The kids were happy. I was relaxed. We all just enjoyed one another's company.

It was lean, as always. Their gifts required careful planning and saving, but the looks on their faces when they opened them, and the use they've put them to in the weeks following, have made it all worth the effort. I rarely see Babygirl without her phone (an unlocked, off-brand that works with our text-and-talk plan, with which she can pick up wifi when she wants "data.) Thing1 carries his camera- a beginner's DSLR with more knobs and twiddly bits than I could navigate- with him nearly everywhere.

And me? I got the precious hours spent with my kiddos. I got to welcome Thing1's girlfriend to spend time with us. She's got a very special place in his heart, and I'm dreading the day they split, and hope it won't be too high a drop from the clouds he's riding right now. Ah, young love... So precious, so poignant... and so fleeting. They've been friends for years. Dating for weeks. I don't know how long it will last, and, like, I'm sure, the adults in my life when I was young and in love, I'm not telling him that the ending will be inevitable and bitter-sweet.

The goofy pair at Halloween. 

They are too young, their lives yet unripe for the stresses of marriage and babies and commitments. (and yes, we've talked, extensively, and continue to talk about the more serious side of this floating infatuation he's in now. About respect. About care. About safety and using the upper brain to control the lower one.) Let's let it suffice to say that he knows, at the very least, to keep it covered or keep it zipped. I hope that, when they part, they will retain the depth of friendship they've enjoyed since he crushed on her in the second grade.

On a lighter note, I also got a gift from my kiddos, unexpected and beautiful. I had shown Babygirl a pattern online for an apron made of an old pair of jeans, and she tried her hand at sewing, with a little help and encouragement from her brother. The result was that I now have a beautiful apron, which I love. It has pockets. I love pockets. I also hate having flour all over my clothes when I'm done baking, and this is not only a beautiful gift, it's also functional. It's easily the favorite thing I've received for Christmas since I was 13 and got a Brooke Shields doll. (Hey, don't laugh! I'd just seen The Blue Lagoon, and Brooke was my heroine.)

You'll have to excuse the mess. It was the end of Christmas Day's
dinner and we were still cleaning up when Babygirl insisted on snapping this photo. :)

Life, especially life with the challenges of mental illness, is no easy task. I could say the same, of course, of life with Crohn's, or diabetes, or lupus. I don't think I have some special burden; just the same burdens that many carry, in different forms. Some days it's not easy to get up and get out of bed and keep moving forward, especially with the uncertainties of freelancing for a living. The income is sporadic, and a client's disappointment may mean the loss of a job. I have to strive, with everything I write, to stay on point, to stay relevant, to stay connected and to express the client's expectations and desires. That sort of constant effort can be exhausting, but it's also what keeps me moving forward. It gives me purpose.

Parenting is, in many ways, the same. We all carry our personal burdens, but the children we're responsible for must be shepherded, fed, clothed, sheltered, and led. Their disappointment doesn't lead to the mere loss of a job; it can leave lasting scars that destroy lives and carry forward into new generations. The time I've put in these past few months, the efforts to put together a simple holiday celebration and to invite in those who are connected to our family by the unfamiliar strands of teenage ardor, seem to me to be the most important job I could've been doing. I may be putting things too high, thinking that these  hours will have a stronger impact on my growing young adults' lives than they will. I could be wrong about Thing1 and his lovely young partner. They could go on to marry and have children of their own, as my own in-laws did, marrying when she was just 17 and he was 19. Fifty years and counting, they're a walking love story.

But for now, all I have is experience to go by. All I have is my own memories of young love, and memories of the hours contentedly dressing up a Brooke Shields doll while Mom prepared the meal and Dad smoked his pipe in his chair while watching the Macy's Parade. Those are the memories that reassure me that my son will come out of this relationship changed, with new experiences and a new perspective. Perhaps with new scars, but ones that will heal and that will shape him, and make him, in the end, a better man. Those are the memories that assure me that my own kids will look back, one day, and remember the holidays as a happy time with their family and loved ones, something that they will want to recreate for their own children.

All we can do is keep moving forward, and doing our best.
I hope, if you're reading this, that you had a beautiful ending to 2015 and that 2016 brings you new joys, new experiences, and new hope.

God bless, Friends.
A belated, but sincere, Merry Christmas to you and yours.

~Mary

“There is no such thing as a "broken family." Family is family, and is not determined by marriage certificates, divorce papers, and adoption documents. Families are made in the heart."-C. Joy Bell

1 in 3

When I was 2, according to a faint whisper amongst the cacophony of family stories, a member of my family had an abortion.

I won't say which member or how she's related. Her story is not mine to tell, nor am I clear enough on the details to write about it with confidence. The story was told in a dark moment of desperation, and today I am telling it for one reason only: to explain the impact it has had on me. Because, that's MY story, and the only one I can tell.

My first response was a lightbulb. Oh. That's why she hates me. My very existence created a difficult and painful situation. And so many things fell into place.

I've begun to write this entry half a dozen times, but I am realizing that I can't tell the full story, even my part in it, without revealing more than I have a right to share. So, I will stick to the point- what the story is meant to illustrate:

When we talk about abortion, we often talk about choice, rights, and morals. We talk about the right to choose. We talk about a woman's right to control her own fate, her own destiny. Many on the other side dismiss those "rights" as invalid- saying that the woman had the "right" to choose to have sex, to live a lifestyle which might lead to pregnancy. And both sides have a point.

A woman does have the right to choose whether she will engage in, or abstain from, sexual activity. But, pointing that out too often dismisses the responsibility that is carried, not only by the woman, but by the men with whom she partners. When abortion comes up, the moral responsibility is always on the woman, but we rarely hear about the boyfriend or husband who got her pregnant. It's HER choice, after all. And, shouldn't it be? If she's being called upon to risk her health, and to take ultimate responsibility for a child, shouldn't she have the right to choose?

Some will say an unqualified absolutely yes, and some will say no. I am not here to debate those answers. I am only here to talk about my experience, and maybe, to explain why I feel the way I do.

The fact is, abortion is not a cut-and-dried "yes" or "no" answer. It is not something upon which we can stamp a label, it is not something that fits neatly into a box of morality or feminism or rights. If you think there are pat, cut-and-dried answers, you lack the emotional and intellectual maturity to enter into the discussion.

Medical science and many on the pro-choice side will tell women that they have absolute autonomy over their own bodies. Except when they don't. Pregnancy is not the only choice over which we lack complete control. Cancer, for example, takes away our "right" to choose our life path. As does, more relevantly, infertility. The bottom line is, we don't always have a choice in how our lives will play out.

On the pro-life side, many will tell women they are "murdering a baby," a phrase which is repugnant in its accusatory, hateful tone. It dismisses the mother as a "murderer," tossing her aside in favor of a mythical child which is not even yet a fully realized human being. It dismisses the many, MANY stories of women who are in abusive situations, who are faced with the very real choice of living a life of poverty if they carry a child to term. Who have no supports to carry them as they raise a child. The village becomes very silent when a single mom steps forward. The very people who would strip a woman of her right to choose post memes degrading foodstamps and other welfare programs- vital programs that, if more generously funded and administered, might make it possible for a woman to both become a mother and to have a career which will support herself and a child.

The hypocrisy on both sides is sickening.

I support a woman's right to choose- not because I believe that abortion is ever the right answer- but because I believe in respecting a woman's intellectual ability to make choices for herself, and yes for her unborn child. I believe in a woman's right to choose, the same way I believe in parents' rights to raise their children. Yes, some parents will abuse their children, and that is tragic. And some women will choose abortion. Also tragic. But the way to prevent it is not to remove parental rights and put children in the charge of the State, nor is it to remove women's legal rights.

If we want abortion to end, we must work harder at education. At providing options. At making having a family an affordable, viable way of life. Affordable daycare. Reasonable concessions for working parents- many countries offer a YEAR of paid leave to new parents. A year. Not six weeks. Many countries actually value children and families, and show it in ways that put America to shame. Affordable, accessible adoption. Better options for women who want to bring a child to term but don't feel able to raise one. Better education for families and for individuals about the entire process.

If we want abortion to end, we must teach our young men respect for their partners, and responsibility. We must teach our young women the TRUTH about birth control (it fails at least 1% of the time, some methods more often,) and the truth about the risks they take when engaging in sexual activity, without telling them that sex is ever a shameful thing. It is an expression of love, but it also comes with a commitment to the other partner. It's not just about selfish pleasure. It's something that is exchanged, not something that is simply gained, and it is a precious transaction.

How dare we call sex shameful? How dare we shame a woman's choice to share herself with a fellow human being? How dare we call an act which results in the conception of a child evil (except when it is the result of a selfish and violent choice, and not a partnering between two willing adults.)

And there ends my carefully controlled rein on my emotions.


HOW DARE YOU call a woman in MY family a murderer? HOW DARE YOU?

Who do you think you are, to make a judgement like that? Who do you think you are, to look at this person, whom you know NOTHING about, and judge her?

You want to talk about rights? You have none in this place. Not without knowing her. Not without hearing her story, and the stories of all the women who have made this very personal choice. Even hearing the story, you have no place. You have not stood in her shoes. You have not lived her experience. You have not faced her demons. It is not your choice to make.

Learn to love. Learn to LISTEN to the stories. Read the #ShoutYourAbortion stories. Read these women's experiences. Understand what led them to make the most painful and personal decision of their lives. Until you can weep for these women, for all that they face, and all that they suffer, until you acknowledge and recognize the women who are ALSO SOMEONE'S BABY, someone's mother, someone's sister, someone's cousin, someone's niece, you have no right to talk about abortion. None.

So, unless you can speak with empathy, and support the policies that will make families strong in America again, kindly shut up. That's someone I love that you're talking about.

I will not "shout" her abortion, but you can be very sure that I will shout in her defense, and you may not like what I have to say, but until you can hear the words, until you can understand the grief and the loss, and the hope that comes after the trauma, until you can begin to contribute to the healing, you will have no place here in this sacred space surrounding my family.

What if Josh Duggar were my son?

I remember most clearly that he was not circumcised.

When I had my first adult encounters with men, I was shocked to realize there was a physical difference. In a way, it made it easier for me. My partners were not him. They were different. It was such a small thing (no pun intended,) but it helped me differentiate in my mind the man who abused me from the men, later, who became lovers.

I went to his funeral when I was 15 years old. When I heard he'd passed away, I needed to see for myself. I needed to know, for sure. It brought me no closure. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to hate him. I wanted to imagine him burning in hell, because that's what the very few people who knew what he'd done, told me I was "supposed" to feel. I felt nothing. Knowing he was facing the finality of God's justice did nothing to fill the emptiness. It wasn't until many years later, with good counseling that addressed the incidents within the larger context of my childhood, that I was able to, finally, lay him to rest in my heart, to bury him in a place where he has no effect upon my thoughts or feelings any longer. If anything, I feel pity for the man who was so lost, damaged, and selfish that he had to seek out a four year old for what he couldn't get from a woman his own age.

There's been a lot of social media outrage over the news that Josh Duggar has admitted to molesting several girls as a teenager, including his own sisters. There are sarcastic posts, laughing and jeering at this self-appointed paragon of family values. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

I've been fairly quiet about the whole thing, mostly because I've never seen 19 Kids and Counting. The entire "quiver full" concept is ridiculous, (not to mention Biblically unfounded,) and putting it on public display is even more so. I rarely watch television at all, and couldn't be bothered with TLC's "reality television." (I use the word "reality" very loosely here.)

It feels as if, as a Christian and having recently joined the ranks of the other Mommy Bloggers, carving my own little niche in our rich and varied world, that I should say something about this whole scandal. Something in defense of my faith. In defense of my religion, which is under subtle attack by those who "don't understand organized religion" (a direct quote from another blogger,) and who blame Christianity and churches for the closeted, backward lifestyle the Duggars promote. It makes me want to cry, "Not all Christians!" Maybe we need a new #hashtag for the occasion?

But how can we defend Christianity without seeming to defend the Duggars and their abysmal handling of their son's behavior?

Having grown up in a similar culture, thankfully minus the "quiver full" philosophy, which is fairly new to Christianity, I can see how this story unfolded, through the eyes of parents who were faced with the devastating knowledge that their son had done the unthinkable.

I can understand how they must have felt. Shocked. Horrified. Angry. Grieved. How they must have prayed. Where could they turn? Who could they trust? Even modern psychology is silent on the idea of treating juvenile sex offenders. Incarceration seems to be the only answer society has. Lock them up! Throw away the key. Never let them see the light of day again.

It's easy, as a mom, to embrace the idea of punitive justice. It's easy to be angry on the behalf of those girls, (as we should be.) It's to point the finger at the homophobic hate merchants who claim to speak the Word of God. It's easy to think LOOK! Look what happens when you let your kids get religion! They get all weird and then they COVER UP THINGS LIKE THIS! This is what God brings you! Weirdness and perversion!

But aside from the subtle, and not-so-subtle blanket condemnation of my religion, which is no surprise to me- it's been going on since the Romans used Christians dipped in tar to light their garden pathways- What went wrong in the Duggar's handling of their son's transgressions? We all know what they did wrong in seeming to gloss over their girls' experiences, but what about how they handled their son's actions? That is, after all, the focus of most of the blogs I've seen- condemning how the parents handled the revelation that their son was a pedophile.

What, precisely, should the parents have done? Should they have turned him in to the local police, so that he could be arrested, finger printed, and put in Juvenile hall? Should he have had a permanent record filed, marking him as a "sex offender?" Perhaps he should have. Justice, in these cases, is important for the victims. It is necessary to acknowledge the horror they suffered. It is necessary to hold the offender responsible for his actions.

In the long term though, what do we do with teen like Josh Duggar? What would you have done if it was your son? How would you handle the news? How would you try to get to the root of what has gone wrong in his psyche? Current treatment programs are limited in their scope, and have a varying rate of success.

It appears that the Duggars sought out what, for them, passed as "counseling". They went to the church elders. They turned to a family friend who was a police officer (who was later found to be as guilty as Josh himself, with files of child pornography populating his computer.) They put him in a work-straight program of some kind.

In the Duggar's eyes, they gave their son a chance to recognize the horror of what he'd done, and to redeem himself, a chance that most writers seem to think he didn't deserve. As a mother of a teenage son, that cuts at my heart. What if it were MY son who was caught doing what Josh did? Wouldn't I do anything to "fix" him? What would I have done? While my church does offer lay counseling, and my relationships would lead me to go to the elders for advice if I faced something like this, their answer would be "go to the police." And then what? Once justice is served, what do you do with the boy who is still there, who still has to live the rest of his life with what he's done?

In my family, it's more likely that one of my kids would be a victim than a perpetrator. Both my kids are empathetic to a fault, and both have been raised with a strong knowledge of boundaries, because of my own experiences. Both understand the concepts of body safety, respect, and consent.

I know what I would do if my daughter were a victim. I'd seek out counseling for her. I'd ensure that she never felt as if she were "broken" or damaged by what had been done to her. I'd make certain the perpetrator was called out for his actions. I'd seek justice.

But what would I do if things were different? What if my son were accused? What if he confessed? Is it possible that, with proper counseling and redirection, a young sex offender can change? Can be healed, so that he knows and respects proper boundaries? Can empathy be learned? Can he be redeemed?

In all this furor, I wonder, will anyone ever give Joshua Duggar a chance to prove that he has learned from his incredibly bad choices, and that he has the ability to develop empathy and remorse? Or will we burn him at the pyre, dancing with glee over the fall of a conservative family who have a lot to learn about forgiveness, tolerance and compassion?

I know what could, and should, have been done differently for the victims. I grieve for them. I hope that they get the help they need to move on, and to move out from under the cloud of  the idea of a permanently damaged "victim" that society puts on young girls who've experienced sexual abuse.

I wonder what more should have been done for Josh Duggar, the teenage boy who committed a horrific act, for which he will pay for the rest of his life.

Life is Wild. Try to Keep Up

So, this morning I got into a minor commenting skirmish. Shots were fired, but it was more along the lines of children exchanging taunts on the playground than snipers slipping through the brush. A minor scuffle, with both parties leaving the field intact, the only injuries being to pride and tempers, and even those were slight. Embedded in the snarkfest (which I fully admit to engaging in- not trying to sling the blame elsewhere here!), was a jab at my blog's name.

Hmm... doesn't seem to capture my better side, does it?

"Life with Teens & Other Wild Things" apparently implies that my children are "wild". Out of control. Undisciplined. Disrespectful. Bad Kids. Therefore, by default, I must be a prime example of that internet pariah; a Bad Parent. I should totally think about changing my blog's name, so people don't get the impression that my kids are wild. Wouldn't want anyone thinking I'm a Bad Parent, now would I?

Well, the truth is, I am a Bad Parent. My kids are Wild. And you know what? I wouldn't change it, even if I could.

My kids are two of the most empathetic, kindest hearted people I've ever met. Despite being mercilessly harassed for several years by her own bullies, the one and only time Babygirl fought another kid in school was when she belted a boy because he punched her friend, Sarah, in the arm. Babygirl returned the favor, and bopped him a good one. Normally, I discourage fighting. I've told my kids that the only acceptable time to hit someone is if they hit you first. No exceptions. Except... Sarah has autism. She's high enough functioning that she's in regular classes, but limited in her ability to understand and take part in social interactions. So yeah.

Thing1 isn't always as quick as his sister to see the softer side of things, but go ahead and attack someone's religious, political, or personal beliefs in front of him. Not necessarily beliefs he agrees with, or holds himself, mind you, but anyone's right to believe and worship as they see fit. I dare you. This dog will fight if you rattle his cage, and he will defend your right to disagree with him as strongly as he'll defend his own opinions.

Are my kids perfect? HA!
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
When I stop laughing... I'll have to say... no. But then, how could they be? They sprang forth from imperfect parents, after all. (And, I will add that any parent who believes their little  princess-angel-cupcakes-sparkle-glitter-cannons are perfect is either delusional or lying through their professionally-whitened, impossibly-straight teeth.)

Oh, you have a perfect kid?
Let me introduce you to my unicorn. Watch out. He farts. 

I have good kids. Imperfect kids. Yes, they are wild. And that's ok with me, because their wild sides come out in good ways.

My parenting style has been haphazard at best. I've read so many books on parenting I could start a library... and I have a hash-mixture of different philosophies, advice, styles, and techniques. A few of them worked for us. A few were complete disasters. None were a perfect fit, but from the patchwork, I've pieced together a garment that at least covers the worst of our indecencies. Together, my kids and I have survived thus far. Not just survived. We've thrived.

We've been strong enough to face diagnoses of depression and anxiety. Rebuilding after a tornado that dropped a tree on our home and caused extensive destruction to our property. An expulsion from a school that was not prepared to deal with unique needs associated with the diagnoses. Homeschooling. The breakdown of a marriage and the loss associated with divorce. The loss of close friends and family members through death. Losses when friends moved away. A return to public school. Graduation from high school. The beginning of college.

"All the adversity I've had in my life, all my troubles and obstacles, have strengthened me... You may not realize it when it happens, but a kick in the teeth may be the best thing in the world for you."
~Walt Disney

We've been on this Wild Ride together, and as long as we cling tight to one another, we've made it through everything life has thrown at us. Together, we ARE Wild Things, and I am proud to carry that title, along with all the scars that go along with it.

I wouldn't change a thing about this Life with Teens, and other Wild Things. Our story might not be white picket fences and June Cleaver aprons, but nobody watches those outdated, white-washed shows anymore, anyway. Long live the Wild Things. We're here to stay.

And, if you'd like to check out another Wild Parent, swing on over to KzooDad's blog, where he shares his adventures with his own Wild Things, and I occasionally trade snipes with other commenters. :)
http://www.kzoodad.com/

Perspectives (Reprinted from Life, Dreams & a Turtle)

This blog post first appeared on my now-defunct blog, Life, Dreams, & a Turtle. Kame (pronounced kah-may), is my Eastern box turtle, and he was a regularly featured part of my old blog.

Today, I read "His Name Was Tom", on Scary Mommy. It reminded me of this old post, and made me wish I'd gotten my "Tom"s name.

Kame's favorite time of the day is meal time. 

Once upon a time, Kame was homeless... By our standards. He lived wild, in the freedom that comes of having all of creation for a home. When I think of him... and all the others who live in the often harsh conditions of nature, I am filled with a mix of pity and envy. Freedom has dangers, but it is glorious. I live captive to all I own, and to my family and my marriage. I do not know, if I had a real choice, if my kids weren't so dependent on me at this vulnerable age, if I would choose freedom, or remain in captivity.

Last night, I took my kids to the roller rink. It was closed, even though the website had clearly stated hours. Turns out a private party had taken over the place for the evening. I drove away grumbling. I had four kids in the car and had planned on leaving them there while I went shopping for a few glorious child-free hours.

A mother is nothing without a back-up plan, so I had one of the teenagers with a smart-phone check movie times, and detoured to the theater instead. The change meant taking four kids with me to the grocery store (we had over an hour before the movie started), but I was able to drop them off and run the groceries home while they took in the show. I'd get my kid-free time after all.

Heading into the theater, I was approached by an older man. His beard was trimmed and his clothes clean, but an odor hung around him, stale and slightly sour. He approached, holding out his hands as if to prove himself unarmed, mumbling. When he drew closer, I could understand.

"Help a Vietnam vet get a chicken dinner, ma'am? I's hungry. Ain't ate for 2 days. I can get a chicken dinner over there, right behind ya, ma'am. Chicken dinner sure sounds good. I'm hungry, ma'am."

My first response... I am ashamed to admit... was fear. I didn't know what was wrong with him, what he would do. I was herding four kids into the theater, and my first thought was to defend them.

"Just a minute, hon, I've got to take my kids in to the movie," I replied, trying to control the shiver in my voice.

I hurried the kids inside, and lingered long enough to be sure they'd gone in to their show. I went back outside reluctantly, uncertain if he'd still be there, but he was, hopeful but keeping a respectful distance.

He saw me heading for my car, and called "Have a good evenin', ma'am," giving me a friendly wave.

I'm sure he's had many people simply hop in their car and drive away, ignoring his existence. For a brief moment, I considered it, but there was something in that friendly, sad little wave, that compelled me. I know what rejection feels like and I couldn't bear to inflict it upon someone who has grown so used to it he accepts it as his due.

"Wait a minute," I said, as if I'd planned all along to help him.

He came hesitantly but with a sort of repressed, shamed eagerness, still keeping his distance. He's learned this dance well. Never get too close, don't crowd people. It makes them uncomfortable. Always be ready to run. I remember, too well, living by those rules and my heart hurt for him.

I gave him the little cash I had, and a Twix bar I'd bought in a moment of weakness. Dieting has never been easy for me, and the allure of chocolate, caramel and cookies had proven too much for my weak will. When I'd stood in line at the grocery store, that Twix bar had whispered my name, alluring, calling, pulling me in like a lover to a secret tryst. Now, I handed it over without a second thought, at once ashamed that I'd been so greedy and thankful that I had something to share.

"Oh!" he exclaimed with a smile. "I like them! They're chocolatey. Thank you, ma'am."

And with that, he was gone.

I have no grand illusions that my clumsy kindness last night will make a lasting change in that man's life. I'm certain that I'm simply one more in a long line of soft hearted saps who've handed over a few dollars and supplied him with another evening's beer. I caught the sharp scent of alcohol when he stood close, and I know the statistics of alcoholism among the homeless as well as anyone. I'd like to hope he got that chicken dinner, but I have my doubts.

He did mention that his check would come "tomorrow" and he'd be able to buy food again. His running ramble seemed designed to reassure, to communicate that he's not that bad off.

"Stayin' at the motel, here," he assured me. "Check'll come tomorrow, my food stamps. Then I can eat. Money ran out though, and I ain't ate in two days. Chicken dinner sure sounds good."

Suddenly, my efforts at dieting seem... almost ridiculous. Want to be thin? Try not eating for two days. For over a month, I've been complaining bitterly over a $900 repair bill for my car. I have a car. And my family had the $900 to pay the bill. It was a bitter blow, but we managed.

On the way to the theater, I was mentally grumbling over the high-spirited hijinx of my kids and their friends. The day before yesterday, another friend's little niece was diagnosed with Leukemia. (And if you are moved to pray for this little angel, her name is Brianna.)

I'm not trying to pretend that we're lavish in our lifestyle, or that by enjoying the gifts God has graced us with- good mental and physical health, the ability to work and support ourselves, and our healthy children, that I am somehow sinning, or adding to the burden of my brother who asked for a few dollars to buy himself a chicken dinner.

The money I gave him was the last of my cash for the week, and I will have to make due with a quarter tank of gas until my next check comes. Somehow, my sacrifices seem miniscule, in the bigger picture. A Twix bar and a few dollars... they seemed so important to me, until I met him... And now, I will never forget a ragged old man whose eyes lit up, who really appreciated a candy bar and a few dollars to buy a chicken dinner... More than I did, until I gave them away.

"Oh, I like them! They're chocolatey!"

May you enjoy it in peace, my friend. You'll be in my prayers.

Rejoicing in the day,
-Mary

~*~*~

There is a lot that happens around the world we cannot control. We cannot stop earthquakes, we cannot prevent droughts, and we cannot prevent all conflict, but when we know where the hungry, the homeless and the sick exist, then we can help.
Jan Schakowsky

"The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.'
-Matthew 25:40
New International Version (©1984)

"Let's make a small room on the roof and put in it a bed and a table, a chair and a lamp for him. Then he can stay there whenever he comes to us."
2 Kings 4:10

Resolved

As hard as it is to believe, 2015 is almost here. The year is drawing to a close, and ready or not, a new one is upon us.

2014, undeniably, was rough. I lost a sister, very unexpectedly in August. Dropped out of college in the Spring semester. Had kids flounder in school.

Theresa never missed a moment of life. She was always
up for new adventures. She was my hero. 

There were also flashes of sun from between the clouds. I restarted college this fall. Thing1 finished middle school successfully in June and started high school in September. Babygirl entered a program that will let her graduate from high school early and she's looking forward to starting college in January 2015.

I'm not a big fan of resolutions, because they seem like a flash in the pan, something you declare with a lot of bravado in January, and fizzle out by March.

This year, however, I'm making one for myself: This year, I resolve to be more positive. To appreciate the incredible blessings we enjoy and to stay focused on the goals for the future. Since my marriage fell apart, I've been determined not to become "that person"; the woman who obsesses over her ex and his new life and hates him, using him as a scapegoat for everything bad that happens to her post-divorce.

In ancient times, a goat was symbolically burdened with the sins of the people,
and driven off into the wilderness, to cleanse the tribe of its guilt. 

I don't want to carry this anger anymore. I'm tired of being angry. Tired of his name bringing a flare of pain and disgust. I am angry, and have every right to be, about the way he handled our ending. His deception made the parting much more painful than it needed to be. His behavior since leaving hasn't helped. He's hurt my kids, and for a Mama Bear, that can be an unforgivable sin.

There comes a time, though, when you have to let go of old disappointments. Holding a grudge is like holding a hot coal and expecting it to burn the other person... you're only hurting yourself. What harm does my anger do him? None, of course. He's off living his life. Staying angry is only letting him still have a say in my feelings, whether he even knows it or not. I'm SO ready to cut those strings. My ex is no saint, but I've moved on and my life is no longer bound to his choices. It's time to embrace freedom, and like Elsa, "let it go". 

Do you have any resolutions for 2015?

I am so ready to see what a new year will bring. 

Five Reasons I Don't Want My Son to have Sex

There are so many blogs out there about why we don't want our daughters having sex. Many of the lists contain similar themes, many of which also apply to our sons: Because they're not ready. Because there are emotional connections that come with physical intimacy, that can really screw you up later. Because disease. And babies. And because they're not ready.

Can we stop this madness? Please?
What's wrong with our teens being allowed to be kids? 

We don't have as many conversations about, or with, our boys. And those moms who do say they don't want their boys having sex too young are often seen as women-hating slut shamers, who are trying to raise Mama's boys, forever tied to the apron strings.

In fact, anyone who calls for balance in this discussion with our teens about having sex is likely to be attacked by one of two sides: Those who believe teens should have lots of wild, crazy sex as soon as possible, with no regrets, because YOLO!, or those who think you shouldn't ever have sex until you're married, preferably in your 40s, with the lights off and as many clothes as possible still on. And don't enjoy it. It's for procreation, not for pleasure, you sick pervert.

You Only Live Once.
So... do it right the first time. 

What ever happened to middle ground? What ever happened to personal responsibility? What has happened to make our sons believe that they are less of a man if their belts aren't notched by the time they escape the confines of high school? Why do we make teenage sexuality so damn complicated?

I've been thinking about this since before my son decided that girls don't have cooties. I've been through this stage with Babygirl. My reasons, with both my kids, are pretty much the same. This isn't a gender thing. This isn't about slut shaming, or about not raising a rapist. This is not about trying to control my kids. This is about empowering them to make good and healthy decisions for their own lives.

My reasons for not wanting my son (or, for that matter, my daughter) to engage too early in the mattress mamba:

1) Babies are expensive. Duh. Yes, birth control is cheaper. A LOT cheaper. But. The failure rate for a male condom? 18%. EIGHTEEN PERCENT. That's very close to 1 in 5. Yikes.

Let's break this down, shall we?
There are somewhere around 400 teens in my son's high school. According to the CDC, about 35% of those kids are having sex at any given time. So, if the math plays out, that's about 140 kids. 18% of 140? Twenty-five. Mathematically, about 4 of those kids will be gay. (3.6% of the population identifies as something other than "straight".)

Assuming that the rest are boy/girl couples, that's an average of 10.5 girls. Let's round down to 10- that's ten girls per year having babies. That's about right, from my personal knowledge of my kids' friends and what's going on in the school in general.

I'd rather my son was not one of those ten baby-daddies who find themselves, at fifteen, in sudden need of a job to keep their new offspring in diapers.

He can't even drive a car yet.
Can you imagine this kid with a baby?? 

2) Romance and relationships. I love my son. I think he's just about the peachiest little dimpled bundle of giggles to ever have graced the world with a goofy grin. He's a great kid. A seriously great kid. I get compliments from other parents about how polite and kind-hearted my kids are. But. He can also be a bit of a douchebag. Hey, he's almost 15. His social skills, along with his brain, are not fully developed. His emotional stability is on-par with a lemur on crack.

So, entering into a relationship that includes the emotional fall out that comes with sex? Not the best thing for my handsome little bundle of hormones. He's still learning to navigate friendships. Romance is far more complicated, and that's an arena he's not ready for. The kid can barely keep a lizard alive. He's so not ready to make a serious emotional investment into a relationship with a girlfriend.


3)  Disease. Ok, so only 35% of kids are having sex. Chances of my teen catching a STD from his first partner might seem slim, but... 1 in 4 sexually active teens have an STD. Those aren't odds I want him to chance. If that makes me an over protective mom, so be it.

Incidentally, 1 in 4 girls, and 1 in 6 boys, will be a victim of a sexual predator before they are 18. A whole other conversation, but important for parents to know, so that they can take steps to protect their children.


4)  Brain development. I won't pretend that I begin to understand the complicated processes that happen behind my kids' skulls. I can't even tell you why they don't pick up after themselves or why they can't retain instructions I've given them for more than 3.4 seconds, but can recite the entire list of their favorite video game stars. And their birthdays.

The bottom line is that, though I don't understand much about the teenage brain, the experts at the American College of Pediatricians say that engaging in behaviors like sex before the brain is fully developed can change the way the neural hookups get established, creating addictive behaviors and tricking the brain into needing more stimulation to achieve an appropriate response to the release of dopamine and other "feel good" hormones.

Seriously. His brain is amazing, but... yeah. Not developed. 

5)  I want him to have a fulfilling sex life. A recent study showed that there are long-term consequences in marriage associated with behaviors that go along with teenage sex:

"Rhoades and Stanley hypothesize in the report that "more experience may increase one’s awareness of alternative partners." In other words, people who have a number of prior relationships may become dissatisfied more easily."

Yes, I admit it, this one has a selfish component.  I want my son to get married, 
and, hopefully, give me grand-babies someday.
He might not. I accept that too, and I'll love him, no matter what his choices are.
Bottom line? I want him to be happy. 

Does that mean that having sex as a teenager will mean that my son is more likely to be unhappy in his marriage? Not necessarily. And having partners before marriage isn't always a negative or traumatic experience, for men or women. For some, it's a learning experience. 

But... you never forget your first. Sometimes relationships, especially when teens and their emotions are involved, are complicated. Throw in some typical teenage lack of judgement, and there's a pretty good chance things could go south in a drastic way.  

Why would I want him to risk that, while he's young and impressionable and his hormones are raging like an off-shore storm? Why would I want him to dive head-first into such a momentous first, when the benefits of waiting are so well documented? 

I don't, of course. And, I say that with a caveat- I recognize that he's not my little toddler any longer, and I can't redirect or distract him, or simply tell him "No!" and put him in time out. This is not a choice I can make for him. This will be his decision, and, ultimately, he will make it without my input, and perhaps hopefully(!) without my knowledge. All I can do is talk to him, give him the information, assurance of support, and guidance he needs, and hope he makes the right choice for himself when the time comes. 

How about you? Have you talked to your son about sex?

Is Your Teen a Mean Girl?

Not long ago, a friend of mine from high school posted a Facebook status asking if anyone remembered who the "mean people" were back in high school, and names immediately came to mind. Twenty years later, I can't tell you the names of most of my teachers, but I can remember with painful clarity the girls who gave me sidelong looks and asked "innocent" questions like, "Why do you dress like that?" in a tone of amused disbelief. The adult knowledge that Mean Girl behavior is born of insecurity doesn't change the fact that the scars run deep.

 As much as I want to emulate Elsa, I can't just Let it Go.

Image courtesy of Wikipedia Commons.

I drove several of Babygirl's friends home from a concert the same week, and listened in on their conversation. To be perfectly fair, Babygirl didn't, herself, say anything "mean". She's usually the first to jump in and defend anyone who comes under attack. She is the champion of the underdog, the hero to the downtrodden. Normally, an unkind word spoken in her presence is shot down quickly, with grace and style.

Remember those days?
I do.

Image courtesy of Wikipedia Commons.

This talk felt different... It wasn't the kind of full-on cut down I normally associate with bullying. I wouldn't even go so far as to call what went on "bullying" behavior. The conversation was a critique of a peer's singing performance, and the comments wouldn't have been unkind, if not for the tone and very-public setting. If the same conversation had taken place with the girl, it might have been constructive criticism. I've often heard the same girls speak with each other with sympathy and empathy, offering support and advice. Not this time. I actually winced at hearing that the singer had a "Disney voice," especially when the disclaimer was added that,

"You can only do so much with a Disney voice."
"This song is too high for her. She's actually a Soprano 2."
*snort* "More like an alto."
"She's straining." 

The talk wasn't kind or helpful. It was born of a competitive spirit, and it happened behind her back, which made it gossip. Worse, the conversation was carried on at full volume, in a public place, where it was sure to be overheard, and possibly probably repeated to the singer.

If I tried singing Let it Go, the audience would be straining... to be first out the door.

Image courtesy of Wikipedia Commons

I heard the conversation through the hyper-alert ears of a Mom who was also once a teenager, who couldn't have imagined singing in front of a crowd on my best days. My heart hurt for the singer, imagining how she would've felt, overhearing her classmates' rather unkind critique of her efforts.

These kids are being taught by a world-class singer, Mr. G. He's traveled around the world, appearing in operas and stage shows professionally for years before settling down to raise his family and teach high school. I am grateful that my Babygirl has had an opportunity to study with this man. Even if she doesn't go on to become a professional singer herself, she has certainly absorbed the urbane quality of his confidence, and has learned to take pride in hard work and self-improvement through his lessons. Unfortunately, she also seems to have become familiar with the diva cattiness that is sometimes associated with the profession. When I mentioned later, how mean the conversation had been, she said

"It's just something that happens with musical people, Mom. We talk like that all the time."

We talk like that all the time.

Mr. G has taught Babygirl to sing... to soar with her voice, above her insecurities and self-doubt. He's taught her to work hard, to practice, and that applause only comes with hours of practice and dedication. It's not his job to talk to her about always being kind and mindful of her conversations; that task is left to me... And, it seems, I still have talking to do.

Am I being too sensitive? Maybe. But my friend's question, which generated a conversation some 200 responses long, and the memory of my own Mean Girl ghosts from the past, seem to say not. The entire incident has left me wondering, if I could be a fly on the wall to conversations I had as a teen, if my words were ever unkind enough to stay in someone's memory. I wonder if I have former classmates who would remember me as one of the "Mean Girls", and if I've done enough to teach my daughter not to be.

How about you? Have you spoken to your kids about how their conversations affect others? Have you talked to your child about bullying, not just from a victim's point of view, but about how easy it is to speak unkind words that might have lasting ramifications? Are we doing enough to teach our kids what kindness and empathy mean?

Photo courtesy of LittleHeartsBooks.

Christmas Chaos With the Wild Things

So, last evening, we decided to put up our tree. It's a tradition for the teens to do most of it themselves.

We got the tree- And Thing1 did the manly job of trimming the base and putting it up. He did great, as always!

It's a beautiful example of symmetry and life. 

It didn't take long for the cat to take up her place under the tree. She's saving the spot where her presents belong, of course. 

The Pumpkinater has staked her claim. 

The kids had the lights and tinsel on in no time. 

Fabulous Decorating Services at work.

I love this angel. She's graced our tree through a lot of years. The bird was one of the kids' yearly ornaments. They each get one every year, so that when they have their own homes and trees, they'll have a start on their decorations. 

Apparently the Angel will be guarding last year's leftover candy cane.

The tree was finished. All was well. The kids went to take the dogs out while I sat, admiring the tree. It looked great... for about four minutes, before it came toppling down. Turns out we were missing one of the four bolts that goes with the tree stand.

Annnnnnnnd then the tree tipped over. This is me holding it up while Thing1 adjusts the stand. 

We got it back up... and it fell again. So now it's leaning up against the wall, until I can crawl under the tree and adjust the stand again. Just another typical Christmas with the Wild Things!

No matter what happens... I believe in the holidays. I believe in family. I believe in us. 

HAPPY 18th BIRTHDAY TO BABYGIRL!!