I'm Finally Ready for a Weekend

It's Friday night and I've wrapped up another day, another week, with the girls with the same mix of elation, exhaustion and frustration that I feel I end almost every day.

I did manage to put a balanced meal on the table. Of course, that doesn't mean they ate it, but at least I tried. I can prove that by the piles of dirty pots and plates, the macaroni dropped on the stove top and squished into the edges of the high chair. That I'm hungry three hours later is as much a testament to the fact I can't even focus on a meal when I prepare one as it is to trying to fix what they will eat instead of what I might want.

In fact, the kitchen isn't the only disaster area. The playroom is wall to wall toys; the living room has caught the overflow, much of it towed by the baby as she wandered back and forth and shifted gears from one room to the next -- a slobbery Duplo block, an escapee from the Little People zoo, a bit of macaroni that was stuck to her pants; the new work table (handily crafted in Pinterest style from the old crib) has already been decorated with crayons and two kinds of glue.

The day has passed like most others. I spent the morning grooming and bathing dogs -- no walks today due to the weather -- writing my blog and trying in vain to find a web hosting site that works well so that I can create my own domain for it. That's followed by the girls' arrival and a brief flurry of early activity punctuated by lunch and on milder days some outdoor play. In the afternoon we have naps that may be ushered in quietly or by threats of bodily harm for E2 and the baby and on some days E1 as well. While they rest, I do kennel duty again, with E1's help on days she doesn't sleep. Sometime along the way I grab a necessary cup of coffee or two, then Papi's home, naps are over and it's time to fix dinner.

Three nights we leave before dinner for activities -- mine or the girls -- but the night's we're home we've started doing crafts after dinner. That's another challenge for me (coming up with something, I really enjoy the process) but a quiet activity that lets the working man of the house retire since his 10-hour workdays start early.

Regardless of the day, or the week, we never get done what I hope we'll get done. I'm always undone by the diverse needs of three very different little girls at very different points in their development. Whatever achievements I manage with one, I usually feel I've neglected the other two and just trying to keep all three safe, fed and suitably rested on some days is a balancing act I feel lucky to manage.

I'm frustrated not only by my inability to do what I would like to with them, but my inability to successfully meet their expectations. E1 tends to have high expectations of miracles from Ma -- and my successes, which this week included a weighted blanket that seems to help her sleep, are often dimmed by my shortcomings as she cannot understand why it takes more than one day to make the crocheted turtle pillow we've agreed on. I'm frustrated because even though we are learning tools to help E1 handle her SPD, I have trouble remembering to do them, or finding time, or convincing her to participate, and I don't feel like I know enough to be a real help sometimes. I'm frustrated by not being able to be perfect and create memories that are flawless in my mind, because I know that the moments and even life are so ephemeral.

I'm elated when I do manage to accomplish anything -- the blanket for example -- and that we did, in fact, construct a pompom caterpillar on Monday night and tonight we did cutouts of their hands with a heart in the center. They were quite nice when decorated with glitter glue. Then E2, practicing with scissors (another mess entirely) cut off one of her fingers -- not her own, but the construction paper hand. I'm elated that I fixed a meal and that E3, at least, was willing to try everything on her tray and ate well, a true accomplishment since at 11 months she refuses to eat from a spoon so only finger foods work for her, although her definition of a finger food is broader than most. I'm elated when I make it anywhere on time, most notably to my exercise class, Awana, and their gymnastics. I'm elated when we have a positive night at gymnastics, because sometimes dealing with a handful of little people through nearly two hours of classes stretches my last nerve.

I'm exhausted, not just by the energy demands of three little girls, but by tending to my kennel, which even when slow as it tends to be this time of year requires time and care to operate smoothly and when busy, well, that's another big demand entirely. I'm exhausted by the fact that sleep seldom comes before 11 p.m. and sometimes midnight and I'm awake and heating coffee before 7 a.m., although lately I've managed to not be up before 6 o'clock. I'm exhausted by the emotional toil the last month has taken on me and my family and my relationships and inner peace. Some days, I'm even exhausted by this blog, although most of the time I find it therapeutic to unload whatever is on my mind.

So it's Friday night and the house is quiet. My Lab is barking and howling at some sound apparently only he can hear in the front yard, but only the clicking of the keyboard breaks the silence inside. It's time to turn out the lights and turn down my brain, but I'm not yet ready to relinquish my hold on the day.

Instead, the musings of a former coworker and friend who blogs about her own small child, (Anarchy in the Sandbox) have reignited the pain I feel for a lost little boy, and her dreams for her daughter made me revisit the dreams I once had for him. Instead I sit at my computer, a mental picture of him hovering behind my eyes and tears on my cheeks, as thoughts of what I lost do battle with fresher memories of slender wrists and toothy grins, tearful entreaties and gleeful celebrations, and "Ma! I love you" shouted and whispered at random times through another simultaneously tiring and priceless day.

It's Friday, and for most of two days I'll be Angela or Sweetheart, friend or lover, dog sitter or classmate. But behind all of those identities, I'll still be Momma to my daughter and my lost boy and Ma to three little miracles, even if like a super hero, I'm not always dressed in my special snot and sticky-hand covered wardrobe.

Now enough of this. For the first time in four weeks I don't dread the weekend and the lack of distractions it brings. I've got a turtle to crochet and a house to clean before Monday arrives. I need to get some rest.

Angry at Life, Angry at Death, Angry at Myself, Too

Forty odd years ago, a look at the grieving process identified five stages of grief, beginning with denial and isolation, followed by anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance -- a generally accepted pathway for grief that of course, isn't a rulebook.

Yet I find that when I looked up the steps, they have indeed been the ones I've begun to stumble through, although I think bargaining will be more of a series of "what ifs," or perhaps a battle with the guilt I feel looming, as there is no negotiation with death.

A week ago, when I got the call, I sat alone and cried. I had stayed home sick from church after inheriting some upper sinus crap from the children, and when my husband called after service, I told him the news and sent him on to the the grocery store. I didn't want anyone to cry on. I didn't want to be comforted. I didn't want it to be made more real by existing in some space other than my telephone and the virtual world of my computer. I sat and spilled out my pain in the blog I sent out the next morning -- the blog I've shared repeatedly and begged people to share because it hurt, and I wanted it to mean something by helping someone.

For the last week I've done a fairly good job of hanging on to anger, but I know that will wear thin after a while.

It's easier to be angry at the young man who destroyed his life over and over again than it is to deal with all the other losses contained inside his death. Just like blowing up because his lousy father didn't even come to his funeral, I know I probably have to let this anger out to move on and really grieve.

So yes, I'm pissed at Ethan. I'm pissed at him for using drugs, for not calling except when he wanted something or was so messed up that he didn't make sense, for never seeming to care about anyone but himself.

I'm pissed at him for not going to the doctor because maybe, just maybe, there was something else going on that could have been treated.

I'm pissed at him for dying. At Christmas.

That's a lot of anger and it's not all purely true, but this last week it's been easier to hang onto those bits of anger because anger makes you stronger sometimes. When you're angry, you do things you wouldn't normally do. Like laugh at a funeral. Like let myself live because the depths of that the grief that consumes me might just drown me if I didn't have anger to hang onto right now.

But the facts about what I'm angry about will help me breathe a little easier, too.

I'm angry that Ethan decided, when just a little kid in middle school or maybe just as he was starting high school, that getting high might be cool. But I know that there was a time that he was very unhappy with the heavy boy who wore glasses and braces and that he couldn't see past that temporary reality to the man he would become. I know that his friends were doing it, and that he craved their approval more than I ever understood. I know that the DARE program that had warned Ethan about the dangers of alcohol and illegal drugs, hadn't caught up with the abuse of prescriptions and darn sure never touched on the dangers of dextromethorphan, which was so easy to get and deceptively safe.

I know that despite being so much alike in appearance and personality, Ethan wasn't a carbon copy of me. That loner streak that saw me through my middle and high school days didn't run through him. Unlike my first dog, the dog he loved wasn't the constant companion that got him out of the house and helped him find happiness in a world that didn't rely on friends (no fault of the dog's, mind you). He didn't develop the desire he had to create and do and accomplish things. I didn't have the addictive genetic makeup he apparently inherited.

I know it was an innocent choice at first, and that he was lonely and angry and confused and terribly young, and by the time he started sorting himself out of those feelings, he was addicted and it was really hard to fight. Addiction doesn't go away just because you aren't taking your drug of choice, it hangs around and whispers about the good times you had. It changes the way your mind works. It comes up in conversation with your friends to remind you how you miss it. When something goes wrong, it's there waiting to welcome you back. It takes over your brain so that other things that people think will bring you pleasure just aren't that great. It deceives you, like the Devil, promising only wonderful things while it wrecks your life and you cannot even see it happening.

Despite our efforts to help him negotiate being clean and learn to function without his old friend, Ethan just couldn't. I know he did his best, and while I'm angry, it's beginning to be the at the drug and its availability, not at the boy/man who couldn't escape it.

And no, he really didn't just call when he needed something. Sometimes I know he called just to hear my voice and that he missed me as badly as I missed him. But our connection was damaged and neither of us could fix it or say the right words. The love that pulled us so close meant we hurt each other, that I was the one he lashed out at in his pain. It was probably easier to ask for money than to ask for some less tangible thing he couldn't identify. It was probably easier to lean on the friend he could find at the Dollar store than confront the tangled emotions we had toward each other. And of course, we both thought we had time, a lot of it.

I know that he cared. Sometimes he would tell me I worked too hard. Sometimes he would admit he was glad I had a husband that took care of me. Sometimes his conversation was mostly about how things were here because he didn't have a life he could share, and sometimes a rambling, adolescent tale about what he wanted to do with his life. He still dreamed of doing things, but like a kid, not a young man, because the drug had stunted his emotional and mental growth. And how many kids actually remember a parent's birthday? But just this year, when he'd been clean for ages, he skipped a Mother's Day get together when I was so looking forward to seeing him. The little cards and gifts that other moms can count on never came from him. He was a tornado, taking everything in his path and needing more and that hurt and still hurts. Those moments of compassion were so consumed by his needs, by the fact that the drugs made him focus on himself because nothing else could bring him pleasure.

I wonder why we could not persuade him to see a doctor when he was in so much pain the last couple of weeks -- not just the emotional and mental pain that I think he dealt with almost constantly (and which he also refused to accept help for), but the physical pain. He'd never resisted seeing a doctor before when he felt bad. Had he done something he didn't want to deal with in a doctor's office? Was he afraid he knew what was wrong?

I'm angry that he died, not at him. I'm angry that whatever demons drove him were too much. That God decided he'd had his share of pain (how selfish is that?) and let him finally escape. I'm angry at God, and He knows it.

I'm angry at the people who went with him down the path of addiction, not so much the kids that he stumbled into it with, but the men who were still involved in it with him and eager to help him return whenever he got clean. I'm angry at everyone that failed him in any way, because it's almost impossible to accept that something could not have changed him.

To be honest, I'm angry at me. I'm angry that I couldn't force him to be different, better, happy, clean. That I couldn't find the words that would make him change. I'm angry because there is a part of me that no matter how many times I tell myself I did the absolute best that I knew how, that I prayed and wept and talked and gave and gave and tried to practice tough love too, feels like I failed.

I'm angry at me because no matter how much I love him, I couldn't save him.

We Never Get Anywhere On Time

Three out of five nights nowadays, the girls and I are off and running. But no matter where we are running to -- my exercise classes on Monday, Awana on the other side of town on Wednesday, or gymnastics on Thursday -- we're never on time.

I'm delighted if I get to class on Monday in time for the warm-up routine. If we make it to Awana early enough to eat with the other children, it's a bonus. On Thursday, E1 usually gets to enjoy most of her class, even if the smaller ones and I have to make a run to the store for snack food because I didn't have time to pack it.

Prompt was never my middle name, but I once managed to get where I needed to go when I needed to get there.

It was an illusion of self-control washed away on the tide of last minute potty trips, lost shoes, and cranky toddlers who weren't ready to get up and get going.

When E1 came along, we didn't have a lot of motivation to go anywhere. If I wanted to take her out, it wasn't a big deal. But I'd only been out of work eight months when she was born and for a while I was still enjoying not having to go anywhere. It was great to schlep around in old clothes and no makeup. There was so much I could get done around the house because, after all, she napped.

The arrival of E2 complicated things and for a long time I just gave up on going anywhere. Part of it, no doubt, was the fact that I was still driving the convertible and putting the babies in the back was a literal pain. I hated to drive it in nice weather with the top up, and they complained about the wind.

But Mommy had the idea that her wide open toddler would like gymnastics, so after she turned 2, we began a weekly trip to Flyers where I helped E1 while trying to keep tabs on E2. E2 did a lot of early crawling and toddling on the cushioned floor of the gymnastics studio. We were almost always on time for class.

Last year with the knowledge that E3 was en route, I traded my convertible in for an SUV with enough back seat room for three safety seats. As our fun time summer faded to fall, I also realized that two bigger girls, not to mention their grandma, would enjoy getting out and doing something just for fun once a week. Our Friday adventures were born.

Granted that first Friday was an "Oh, my gosh! It's freaking RAINING AGAIN! What am I gonna do?" What I did was take the kids to McDonald's, feed them an unhealthy lunch and join them for 45 minutes of playland. Yes, that's me, the crazy adult in the kids' playground coming down the sled with two curly haired curls in my lap and scolding your little boy for pushing one high up in the top where you can't see what's going on. (Oh, wait, that's a different story.)

But we did other things as well. We went to the Blue Ridge Music Center and listened to an old-time music jam session and hiked the trail toward Fisher Peak. Another trip took us to Rockford General Store where we had a diner style lunch and the girls drooled over the old-time candy bins and explored the remains of a historic hotel. And many weeks, when the weather took a nasty turn, we went back to McDonald's where we traded nutrition for a lot of healthy exercise.

I guess it was those weekly adventures that once again created the idea that I could do more.

This summer we took on Vacation Bible School at the Salem Fork Baptist Church where a friend of mine goes. The girls, who go with the rest of the family to Fellowship Baptist on Sundays, enjoyed it so much that when they introduced Awana (a youth program) on Wednesdays, preceded by a meal, I decided we would do that as well. I thought exposure to a different group of kids and teachers would be good for them. Socializing, learning and craft time are a blast for them and I manage to control E3 most of the time. Luckily, their nursery teachers are very patient and don't mind if they miss the opening program or most night's we'd be missing the meal.

And Mommy decided E2, who already had learned a lot following her sister through nearly two years of gymnastics class, would like to try the program as well. E1 had moved up to the preschool class, so E2 and I are now in the mom and tot class with E3 in the role of baby crawling behind us on the floor. That means nearly two hours of gymnastics, if we get there on time.

Finally, I decided I had to have a little me time in the week and fell in love with a couple of Monday night workouts at Move2Melt. It was a chance to be around other adult women and let go of some of the tension of the week.

That seems like a lot of explanation for why we never get anywhere on time, but the fact of the matter is that these are things that are worthwhile for the girls and I or otherwise we'd simply throw up our hands.

There are, in fact, many evenings when I'd like to do just that. When I'm dragging the baby directly from crib to car seat and she's protesting the change in environment, or I'm having to wake E2 and heaven knows that I treasure every minute of her nap. When two out of three children are crying, and E1 is declaring that she can't put on her leotard. When I cannot think what to pack for snack. When I'm beginning the first of two or three trips to the car to get everyone and everything loaded. When I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realize that I look tired and should probably stay home and not subject the rest of humanity to me, and by the way have I done anything with my hair today.

Besides, we need to be at Awana in five minutes, or gymnastics in 10, or my class in 30 and there is no way I can do the amount of driving required in time to get there.

The alternative, however, is staying home with all of us (well, except E3) having a bad attitude because the plan for the day was disrupted and that means the evening will be long and not get any better. The fact that I wind up a bit flustered and maybe more tired is really nothing compared to the payoff most days.

So we load up and drag in at whatever time we get there and make the most of the outing, however it goes. E1 frequently takes a power nap in the car and the other two are usually blissfully quiet. I sing along with KLOVE or whatever CD I have playing and do an emotional reset for the rest of the evening. And whatever time we get there, whatever we learn while we're there, we've had time to catch our collective breaths and I know that it will be time better spent than it would have been had we just stayed home.

So if you have young moms in your life, or old moms with young kids, I know that the joy of traveling with car seats and diaper bags and stuffed animals and lost shoes and sticky hands and emergency potty breaks is one we all like to forget, but don't. Remember when they come to your get together, show up for your class, make it to church, or even are wandering the aisles at Walmart with a child screaming for some treat they've been denied, that they've all been through a lot just to get there. Don't get aggravated because they're late or because they've disrupted your schedule or because their child is annoying you. Try to remember how hard it is to try to do it all and make it look easy and that sometimes it just doesn't work out. Smile and let it go, because you won't remember it nearly as much that way. And if you manage to make someone's day a little better by being compassionate instead of judgmental, you'll be remembered for it in a thankful way.

Friday Adventures have been off the table since there have been three at the house, but maybe, just maybe, remembering how much fun we had will be enough to get me going again as we say a fond farewell to summer. There are still places nearby that we haven't seen and the McDonald's playground is always available when the weather turns foul this winter.

But either way, you can count on it, we won't be on time, for anything, any time soon.

If we are, well, we'll just count that as our special blessing for the day.