it wasn't supposed to be this way but...: Dad's Day

it wasn't supposed to be this way but...: Dad's Day: Two conversations lead me to this blog today.  The first conversation went like this, "seriously, you have got to let go of the pain......

Dad's Day

Two conversations lead me to this blog today.  The first conversation went like this, "seriously, you have got to let go of the pain...what else has gone on?" followed by "You never blog about Father's Day, can I expect one?"

And I began to think.  Cleaning, folding clothes and weeding does wonderful things for my mental state.

When I was a child, I had a dad.  He put me to bed at night, he rough housed with us, he played hide-n-seek with us, he was the master at dodge ball.  He also spent countless hours with me at the kitchen table helping me with math.  He was tall, lean and handsome.

He told me I had better chances getting a date if I knew what a balk in baseball was, what it meant when deer were in rut and the significance of turkey buzzards.  If the buzzards were on a deer or turkey or pheasant, it was a great hunting place.  He taught me how to cast a line and he said "you will impress a man if you know about football."  

He also taught me that "Once you commit, you cannot quit".  A rule he later and painfully broke.

And he taught me to laugh, agitate, torment and have a sense of humor and love my mountaineers (mostly because he called them pansies).

And two of the biggest lessons that he has taught me, he doesn't even know.  The importance of truth and the effects of alcohol.

My dad was adopted.  The big family secret.  Granted, it was a different time then.  Accidentally, I found his adoption decree on the Internet, he was a love child...his father was a married man.  The big family secret.  It was my grandmother's dying wish that he never find out and so they went with the secret.

An army of lies.

And then one day, it was reveled.  I was in college, a junior I think.  He was middle age. Bad timing.

I think it was that revelation that sent him into a downward spiral that he could and would never return from.  And, he chose a friend to help him get through it.  Pabst was the name of his friend.  Pabst Blue Ribbon.

I missed the worst of it.  I was away at school.  And then started my own life.

The worst fight my brother and I ever got into was the where abouts of my dad and who he was with.  My brother was right.  

My dad served my mom with divorce papers on their 26 wedding anniversary.  He found a woman, my brother's age to marry.

And their child was Pabst Blue Ribbon.

The last time I saw my dad, he was walking into the court house in Greensburg, Pa. He was wearing a white collared shirt, blue and white striped pants.  He didn't see me in the car.  It was my last memory of him.  He was tanned, lean and still handsome.  I was glad he was late to court that day and I didn't have to look at him in there.  Instead, I got to sit in the car and watch him walk in.

And while he was lean and tall and handsome, he was a mess.  A very troubled person.  And his counselor was Pabst Blue Ribbon.

He is still alive.  Where?  I have no idea.  His arrest records make me think he lives in upstate Pennsylvania.  Most likely in a cabin in the woods surrounded by deer and rabbits still with his friend, Pabst Blue Ribbon (that is if they still make the stuff).

A troubled soul who refused help and lost a wife, a son and a daughter.  Later, grandchildren.  My Walker would have loved him.

But, when the God closes a door, he opens a window.  And in walks Dale, Dad number two.

Somebody once said, "boy, he got lucky, all the tough stuff was over."  Oh, and they couldn't be more wrong.  Weddings, divorces, moves, more moves, marriages and grand kids.

He has been a saint.  And even though he has never bathed me or put me to bed or taught me about the red zone, he was there.  Sitting quietly on the sidelines.  He has contributed in a positive manner to every family member and certainly the grand kids.

Dale, Dad number two is my dad.

Irony will kick you in the ass when you never expect it to happen.

It was easy for me to adopt a child.  My dad was adopted.  Every child deserves a home, a chance and love.  Sign me up.  I was in.

There were no secrets in this house.  None, none whatsoever.  My husband was the birth uncle who became the adopted father.  The biological mother was my husband's sister.  Not a very uncommon situation these days.  Way different than years before, way different.

We never kept one truth regarding the circumstances of the "button's family".  I was never going to burden my son with the hidden truth.  It was his life, his right to know about it.  It wasn't my right to keep it from him.

When Franklin and I were researching wellness camps, we were startled at the the number of camps that touted, "specializing in adopted males."  Later, during a therapy session, I asked the therapist about this.  She confidently  said that males have a hard time dealing with the fact that there mother gave them up.

Makes sense to me.  

Franklin and I have been the people that have bathed, read, put to bed, taught the button to ride a bike, hit the ball, swim, eat sushi, rough house, you name it, we did it.  We are his parents.  Our commitment to that child will kick any body's DNA in the ass, any day, anytime. 

Weeks ago, under bizarre circumstances, the button reconnected with  his biological mother and siblings.  We were not aware of this plan or meeting.  Ironically, we discovered this through the Internet, a face book photo.  

He is grown man.  Or so he thinks.  We would have encouraged him to make this connection later in life, when he was in a better place, when all of them were in a better place.  And, I don't really know where he is or the people that he is with. But I do know, he too has a constant companion, pot and booze.  

Just like my dad, dad number one, I know very little about my son anymore.  I learn the where abouts of my sperm donor via the Internet and I learn the where abouts of my son via the Internet.  I know nothing about the people they surround themselves with or what they do.  I just know that alcohol and demons and torment haunt them during their sleep.  

And I see posts where others tout, "my brother, my uncle button" and I want to throw up in my mouth.  They have no idea what his favorite color is, favorite food, movie, the importance of only one sheet on the bed, the fan direction, nothing, just that they might share a little DNA.

  Someday, maybe love and hope will conquer the pain of addiction. 

These are the dads that have cleaned up Big messes, not little bike wreck scrapes, Big messes.  These are the dads who could have walked away but really knew what it meant to "commit and not quit", these are the dads who earn love and respect and just don't expect it because of matching blood types. 

So ironic that if was my adopted dad who made me want to adopt a child.  I have no idea where either are and both are filled with torment.  And both couldn't cope so they bolted away from the people who loved them.  Unreal.  

Today, I told myself to get back and think of five happy memories of all these men in my life,  I did.

Sometimes I feel like my husband got so screwed over.  He rescued his sister's child because she couldn't cope, and while she too chose alcohol to be her friend, in the end, my son was angry at Franklin because Franklin was not her.

Our story is very common today.  Alcoholism, substance abuse and just not being able to cope is an epidemic.

But love and hope and not giving up on a commitment is also an epidemic.  A stronger epidemic, one that has been around since the beginning of time.  

This father's day, for all the dad's out there, here's to hope and love.  And regardless of the convention of your family, may hope and love preside.  And may all of you have peace in your heart.

it wasn't supposed to be this way but...: One Year Later

it wasn't supposed to be this way but...: One Year Later: Today is the one year anniversary of my nephew's untimely passing.   It is also the one year anniversary of my son's return hom...

One Year Later

Today is the one year anniversary of my nephew's untimely passing.  

It is also the one year anniversary of my son's return home and the end of summer camp.

My sister-in-law has become my mentor for pillar of strength and wisdom.

My son has continued to  find his path and his direction in life.

I have thought of my sister-in-law all day.  I know what has been going through her mind all day.

My friends are also celebrating their mom's birthday....the first one since she passed.

Ugh.

Why do we have to celebrate these milestones?  Why do we recognize them?

Do I really think that my sister-in-law is thinking more about her son today than yesterday?

And yet I know that she is spending her day thinking only the happiest of memories. 

And while my son breathes, I struggle to find those happy memories.  Don't get me wrong, there are happy memories, sometimes it is just a struggle to find them.  So much has happened, it is hard.

I spoke to my sister in law yesterday and she said, "your son is breathing."  

Don't we all take that for granted?

When you bitch your husband didn't change the roll of toilet paper, there are women out there who wish there husband was still around to infuriate them.  Just a weird twist.

I had hoped that my "button" would be on a path to success.  I am quite sure that he is not on it.  But who am I?  I am not a fortune teller.  He has his whole life to find the path to success but, again, there are the milestones.  According to his graduating class, he should be a senior this year...starting his senior year in college.

He is just on a different schedule than most, I guess.  

I laugh now at the posts of new babies with the one month shot, two month shot, etc.  I feel badly I never did that for my kids.  Pintrest just added a whole new group of milestones to stress out moms.

I think about my son when I see those photos.  If you continued  to take those pictures, at 21, there would 252 pictures to post.  What would this look like if we measured our lives on a monthly basis, forever?

When my great grandmother died at 104, she died on December 27, 1999 and missed two centuries by four days.  My brother and I wanted them to lie on the headstone.  WTH?  You live for 104 years, and miss two centuries by four days...you deserve the white lie on your headstone.  When people were hanging out at the cemetery, I wanted the observant folks to really celebrate..."Damn, this lady made it to two centuries" instead of "she died."  It would have been so much better.  A much better milestone.

Shouldn't we list the days alive and the greatest moments on a headstone?  Isn't that more telling?

Instead, I sit today with a very soft heart.  I have a sad and out of shape heart.  I hurt for my sister-in-law, I hurt for my son that I barely even know anymore and I hurt for my niece.  One year, or 365 days of hurt and sorrow.  

Tomorrow starts a new journey, the year of Happiness. I am not sure how I am going to do it, but I have a compass.  My heart, my gut and my brain and I am going to get there.  

See you in a year.  We will celebrate.

it wasn't supposed to be this way but...: Proctors, Graduations and a test

it wasn't supposed to be this way but...: Proctors, Graduations and a test: After seventeen years, I got snagged.  They called and asked me to help proctor the End of Grade testing.  I had no idea what to expect but ...

Proctors, Graduations and a test

After seventeen years, I got snagged.  They called and asked me to help proctor the End of Grade testing.  I had no idea what to expect but seriously, how hard could it be?  I said yes.

On the way to the middle school that day, Walker warned me.  "Mom, you cannot play with your phone (WHAT?), you cannot talk, you cannot give the answers and I am warning you now, there will be snot sniffers.  You cannot tell a kid to blow his nose."

"Mom, this is very serious, you could go to jail."

OMG, what had I signed up for and why?

I get into the classroom and assess the situation.  

First of all, it was 100 degrees of the driest heat ever.  I felt like an adobe brick.  I  was not going to make it.  I knew for sure this menopausal body would have a serious hot flash and that would be the end.

There was about 20 minutes before the test actually started and I was able to observe.  I was the kid in the dentist office watching the fish in the fishbowl.


They say "things have changed, kids are not the same, things are different."  I am here to tell you, I really felt like I was 13 again.  There was one girl, physically advanced, long legs and dressed a little provocative for a testing day and she held court.  The guys could not get enough of her.  There was a nerdy girl who sat quietly at her desk and read and occasionally looked up and smiled.  There was a very young looking boy, seriously, he looked seven, who sat at his desk and drew dinosaurs. Shrek,  one giant boy who sat at his desk and only talked about sports.

There was the goddess who was covered up, seriously, one of the prettiest girls ever, just quietly sitting at her desk smiling.  The boys didn't pay much attention to her.  What a shame, gorgeous girl but because her boobies were not hanging out and covered, she was ignored. Those boys are going to look back at her and will be filled with regret.  She was a catch.


Then there was the class clown.  Hilarious.  Skinny, wiry and a hot mess.  Funny though.

 The small, tiny, fairy like girl who also looked like she was seven, except for her boobies.  She was an attention hog and got it.  She was like a Russian gymnast.

  My favorite was the handsome boy with the devilish grin who kept shooting it at me.  I felt like Mrs. Robinson.  He was suave and he knew it.

The script was read, the tests passed out and it began...my three hours of torture.  I sat for three hours and did NOTHING.  Not one thing, nada.

I could not help but think of my "button".  Not because I was at his old school but because I sat there for three hours. Three hours with nothing to do.  I guess that is what summer camp is all about.  I would never make it.

So I watched the test takers.  The "soon to be noticed girl" took her time, crossed off what she knew wasn't the answer.  She had a system.  The tall manly/boy rushed.  He rushed and did not go back and check his answers.  The Don Juan was methodical.  He answered, went back to the reading essay part, re read and then answered.  The little guy who looked like he was seven, was all over the place.  He was a messy test taker.

For three hours I sat there trying to stretch my neck and  read a passage about a tiger on the pretty girl's desk.  It was hell.

The one thing that did seem different to me, were the signs in the room.  "BE POLITE, BE KIND, SPEAK SOFTLY FROM YOUR HEART".  I was taken back by these signs.  I remember signs that said "Please is the Bee's Knees".  "Thank you gets you in the Grove."  It was just shocking to me that those kinds of signs were in the classroom.

And across the room, there was the snot sniffer.  He was not a middle school snot sniffer.  No, he was varsity.  I was about to lose it.  It was horrible. And he wanted a Kleenex, I could not offer.  For three hours this went on.  It was worse than being in  prison for me.  It was the worst.  Seriously, don't people teach their kids to blow their noses anymore?  I felt success because I didn't kill him.

After all the test taking was finished, the kids had to sit in their seats and not talk.  Horrible for them.  But, they started doing sign language. I felt so stupid.  I don't know sign language.  How did they learn it?  I want to know sign language.

I also noticed their clothes.  Seriously, I need stock in NIKE, Under Armor and Rainbows.  

The end of grade tests are over. 

 Today, Adeline graduated from elementary school.  After seventeen years, I will no longer have a child at the elementary school.

Before the program, Franklin and I went back in time.  It did seem like yesterday that the "button" was leaving elementary school and Walker was moving to the "big class" at pre school.  Where has the time gone?

And again, we sat in the gym and there they were, the brains, the jocks, the robotics kids, the boys with bow ties, the clumsy girls who opted for high heels for the first time, babies growing up.

Soon, I will be at the high school.  Ugh.  After Addie's high school graduation, I am going straight to the assisted living home.  I will be about 61.  OMG.  That statement looks much worse when you see it in writing.

After reading the above passage, you can deduct from the author:
a.  The author is old to have a child leaving elementary school.
b.  The author most likely blows their nose when necessary and detests the sound of snot sniffing.
c.  The author is not someone who could take a bus ride across the United States of America with nothing to do.
d. All of the above.