I wonder if I’ll ever be able to use that word again without an overwhelming flood of emotions, not the least of which is guilt. And confusion. And just raw, raw, raw… emotion. My perception of home has changed dramatically in the last week.
It is a strange thing to stand in the rubble of the town that you fought so hard to leave. I remembered how defiant I had been, convinced that I was bigger than this place. More, somehow, than these people. It shames me even now to write those words. I left kicking and screaming, hell bent on proving myself.
I ran back desperate to connect with any part of it I could find.
I found it difficult to look them in the eyes, these people I’d abandoned. I’d been so maliciously proud when I’d finally stopped referring to them as Home. I’d moved on. Left them behind. And as they clung to one another I found I was ashamed that I was no longer one of them. How could I tell them now how wrong I’d been? How could I make them understand that this was my home too? How could they believe that my heart was just as broken and shattered and thrown about in the debris as their own?
What a hypocritical slap in the face. My home was not shattered. My house was not lost. It was standing with four walls and a roof, completely in tact 1400 miles away in Florida. My children’s beds would not be found in the trees. Our pictures are safely tucked away in boxes and photo albums. Without telling them when, they knew the moment I arrived that I would be leaving again… back to my life. Back to my home.
And they never will. They will pick through the piles and dust off what they can find, clinging to whatever trinkets of their lives they uncover. They will meet with insurance agents and fill out papers and deposit claim checks. Some will rebuild and some will move on. But all of it will take months, years maybe. And it will never be the same.
And yet in some way, I envied them.
That itty bitty town swelled with love and courage and compassion. They were in this together. Those who weren’t hit by the storm emptied out their souls to help their neighbors and friends. They planted flags amidst the destruction and scrawled “A-P Will Stand Strong” in spray paint against whatever walls they could find standing.
They’ve lost everything - and yet they know where they belong. They know who they are. Mixed among my own self absorbed guilt was tremendous pride. Through their fear, through their devastation, through their incomprehensible loss - they held each other together the best anyone could hope for.
You simply cannot deny or minimize the painful truth that our parents and friends are homeless. Their heartbreak is palpable in the air as you walk down what used to be streets and neighborhoods.
But so too is their spirit. Palpable, I mean. It is as much a living, breathing essence as the tornado itself was. It is impossible to stand in the path of destruction and not be overwhelmed by the fact that so, so many of them are alive. People would meet you in the street and habitually ask “how are you?” and the answer was just too damn big to verbalize.
You are broken. You are scared. You are heart sick. And you are grateful. You are clinging to your loved ones with a sense of joy that you could not have ever possibly understood before. You are crying and you are talking and you are laughing, because God damn it - you can.
And you are home.
Without walls, without rooftops, without furniture or clothing - you are home. Surrounded by those who you have now imagined life without - you are home.
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My son had just turned two when I realized that I had already failed him as a mother. I remember very clearly thinking “I can’t believe I’ve already screwed this up. What the hell do I do now?”
The daycare had called. Again. It seemed Devin was biting the other children in class. Again. Specifically, he was walking up to unsuspecting toddlers and removing large chunks of their face with his teeth. Just… because.
Now, I am not an idiot. Obviously I did not pronounce myself a failure and my son a lost cause over a little toddler biting. That would be ludicrous.
After all, I had read that children bit from time to time. I vaguely remembered something about a need to express one’s self or communicate aggression. Something like that. My point is that the first time I heard about what the daycare administrator referred to as a Biting Incident, I did not panic.
I sat my two year old down and we had a very rational conversation. I acknowledged his need to be heard and vent his frustration. We discussed that biting was not a socially acceptable form of communication because it infringed on the boundaries and rights of others. We explored alternative ways to express anger, such as alone time and using our words. I made sure to keep the lines of communication open and spoke in very soothing tones that said “I am not here to judge you”.
I can’t imagine for the life of me why that wasn’t more effective.
Two days after The Talk, I received a phone call about another Biting Incident. At this point, I started to get suspicious.
Perhaps the adults at the daycare facility were not properly in tune with his needs. Maybe Devin had tried to use his words and no one had validated his feelings. Whatever the reason, I had raised this child and I knew he was not capable of unprovoked violence.
I refrained from saying all of this when I called the mother of his latest victim to apologize. I was determined that she would not think I was making excuses for my child. I was far too responsible a parent for anything that lazy. I stuck to assuring her that this would “never happen again. And again, Devin is very, very sorry.”
Because of course, he was. He must be.
A few weeks passed after The Phone Call and I was buoyed by the fact that we had been free from another Biting Incident. And honestly, I wasn’t surprised. The Talk: Part Two had obviously been more effective than the first. I had put a little more emphasis on alternative ways of expressing frustration the second time around – including time outs and spanking, should the need arise. I must admit, I was proud of my superior mothering. I had been proactive and involved and put an end to this little “issue” before it became a real “problem”.
Clearly, I had this parenting gig figured out.
In fact, all thoughts of the Biting Incidents had been nearly forgotten the day that we invited our friends and their daughter over for dinner. It didn’t even occur to me to bring it up as the other mother and I watched our husbands master the grill and our children run back and forth across the little wooden deck while we swapped accomplishments and anecdotes about them.
I think I was bragging about his uncanny ability to put together a jigsaw puzzle upside down when it happened.
Their little girl was beautiful. The very picture you call to mind when you think about a brown eyed girl. Her cheeks were full, her hair dark and springy as it curled from her ears to her shoulders. And those brown eyes – she could melt you into an appeasing puddle of good with one longing look from those perfectly round eyes.
Frankly, I’m not sure how Devin was able to deflect her charm. But he did. As she reached out a toy to him in a beautiful gesture of sharing, he seized the opportunity to attack. My son leaned in close, as if to hug her, wrapped his arms around her to hold her still, and proceed to rip the flesh from the side of her face.
She screamed. Oh my God did that child scream. And cried. Big, wet tears spilled all over her now lopsided face and on to her perfectly spotless sweater set.
I could have killed him. Right then and there. I’d have put us both out of our misery in one fell swoop if given the right tools and a few seconds of privacy. But of course I couldn’t do that because there was all that screaming and crying to attend to.
I don’t remember what happened immediately after that. It’s possible that I eventually saw through the blinding humiliation and packed my son up into his room for the night. It’s also possible that I sat whimpering in a corner for the rest of the evening while my husband took care of the discipline and apologies and whatever awkward small talk surely followed. The aftermath, for whatever reason, has not been etched into my memory as clearly as the attack itself.
And that God awful screaming.
What I do remember is the phone call with my mother the next day. She called to see how our much anticipated Date Night With The Other Parents had gone (because when you’re 21 and have a two year old, finding other parents who want to hang out with you is always a pretty big deal).
“So? How was it?” her voice bubbled over the line, so full of naive hope and optimism. “Did you have fun? What did you guys do? How were the kids?”
“He’s doomed, Mom! Doomed!” I was doing a pretty good imitation of The Scream myself.
“Um, hello? Honey, is that you?”
“Oh my God…” I sobbed, “I’ve ruined him. Ruined him! I don’t understand where it all went wrong! You should have seen him. He was so… so… wrong! It was so awful.”
“Baby? Honey?” I think my mother was still trying to confirm my identity in between my gulping for air.
“I don’t know what I did. But.. but… he’s ruined. Oh my God Mom, he’s going to be a serial killer. This is how it starts. We have to get rid of the dog before he starts torturing it. That’s what they do when they’re kids. Torture animals and children…”
“Britt? What in the hell…” at least she had figured out it was me.
“He tried to EAT HER! I’m going to be that woman on TV. That one that says she never saw it coming and she doesn’t know how her son ended up like this and she never saw the signs and OH MY GOD WHERE DID IT ALL GO WRONG?!?!”
I was too busy listening to the reporter in my head who was interviewing me twenty years in the future to hear my mom’s reaction. Plus, I was crying a lot. And sniffing and snorting from all of the crying. It was probably a solid two minutes before I recognized the sound coming from the phone.
I have three brothers. I share a mother with two of them and a father with the other.
To be fair, I share much more than a mother with Jay and Creed. We were raised together. We share a childhood, a family history, and memories that go far beyond genetics and blood relations.
And yet, it’s only Creed - the baby - that you’ve heard much about here. In fact, I can only recall one small mention of our other brother here. And even then, I didn’t elaborate much.
It hurts my heart that Jay’s story is not here.
It hurts me more that our story - his and mine - is not here, or anywhere, really.
Jay was my first sibling from either parent. When he came into the world six years after me, I went from an only child, shuffling back and forth between two parents, to the big sister in a family. He almost died that day, and I may not have ever known what it felt like to be part of something that gave you roots no matter where you roamed.
I’d like to tell you stories of him coming home from the hospital, small and precious as I imagine all newborns certainly are. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to bring that picture to mind.
I remember him as a toddler, with his thick curly hair and strong pointy chin, like mine. I remember him dancing around in his Bears’ jersey in front of the football game on TV. I remember him learning to ride his bike, absolutely terrified of my mom letting go of the seat - in much the same way my own son resisted his independence on two wheels. I remember when he got his feelings hurt in kindergarten because some big kid was bullying him, and how he would cling to the teacher’s side during recess. I remember him trailing along beside my best friend and I as he followed us home from school every day.
His eyes danced back then and in his toothy grin you could see glimpses of his soft heart.
And in his eyes you could also see the adoration he held for a man I would grow to hate, his father.
We do not share a father, although there was a time when we both called the same man “Dad”. The more vile my memories of that man grow, the more doting he appeared to become towards his first born son.
I remember Jay being very innocent, oblivious to the cruelty his father was capable of. As he got older, I could see the guilt line my brother’s face as he tried to reconcile the love he had for a man he heard such horrible stories about.
Maybe that’s where it comes from - the distance between us.
It’s hard to say, really, because it’s been there for so long. While Creed and I have always shared a remarkable closeness, there has been a wall between Jay and I for as long as I can remember. Neither of us can name it, although he jokes about Creed being my “favorite”.
“I love you Britter,” he’ll tell me. And when I smile and put my arm around him and assure him that “I love you too honey,” I think we both feel that there’s something missing in the exchange.
My history with him is blurred and bittersweet.
The memories of sitting beside a wrestling mat on Saturday mornings in high school gyms, pounding and screaming and praying for his safety, are mixed with the arguments and pain as I raged against his choices and he recoiled from my judgment. Over the years, it has been hard to ignore the worry and disappointment in my eyes as I watch him struggle through self destructive patterns and he avoids looking at me while he reassures me that everything will be fine from now on.
We’ve been stuck in this pattern for so long, he and I, trying to pretend that the distance isn’t there.
I love him, more than he knows. My worry and fear comes from that love. And I know he loves me too. No doubt his evasiveness and empty reassurances comes from his own love, at least in part. We look past the distance and play act at being as close as we wish we were, as if admitting we’re not would be a betrayal of the love we’re harboring for one another.
But it remains awkward and bumbling.
I long to explain to him how much I hope for his happiness. I fantasize about opening myself up fully to that hope again, abandoning my new found need to protect myself from disappointment. I envision the wall between us crumbling and the floodgates opening until the old facades have been washed away and we can finally be family. Really, truly, family - the way we each have known it with other people.
But for now, I just wait. I watch his life unfold and wait for an opening some day, when neither one of us will have a need for defenses and casual small talk.
Happy Birthday little brother. I love you. So, so very much.
Eight years ago today, two scared kids stood at the front of an overcrowded church and promised, before God and family and friends and their 3 month old baby in a swing in the back, to love, honor and cherish one another forever.
Five years later, those same two people stood at the front of a nearly empty church, in front of God and their parents and grandparents and a priest, and promised that they would continue keeping those vows.
But it is not either of those days that I am drawn to remember today, on my eighth wedding anniversary.
Today my thoughts are consumed with memories of my last anniversary and the stark contrast it is with this one.
Last year on March 11th, we were desperately trying to enjoy our Vegas vacation. I had just seen Prince for the first time and we were spending the evening together amidst a carefully concocted romantic environment.
We would have dinner at a small restaurant in the Paris hotel and ride to the top of the mock Eiffel Tower. As we gazed out over our own City of Lights, my husband would quickly bend down on one knee and present me with my anniversary present - an upgraded diamond set inside my original and newly repaired wedding band. At the end of the night, we would stroll hand in hand back to our suite at Bally’s and spend the night doing what couples do on their anniversary.
It should have been the perfect anniversary.
This year, my little brother is staying with us. In two days, my dad and his wife will be starting their visit. We won’t be heading out for a weekend getaway, or even dinner alone for at least another month. He will be working, as will I, and we will spend the evening at home, laughing and talking and enjoying the time we have left with Creed. We’ll go to bed later than we should, kiss each other goodnight, and snuggle in close as we try to get as much sleep as possible before we both have to get up for work the next morning.
There will be no presents or cards, as we’re planning to gouge into our savings for a pool soon and the rest of our disposable income is being swallowed up by entertaining out of town visitors.
By all accounts, it should be a very unremarkable anniversary.
And yet, in every way that last year’s anniversary was an utter disaster, this year is a triumphant success.
Last year, we both had agreed to ignore the fact that I had pronounced my desire for a divorce less than a month earlier. We were determined to put our disappointment and uncertainty in a Box To Be Dealt With Later and celebrate that, at least, we had made it this far.
This year, there is a new sense of appreciation as we reminisce openly about what we almost lost. It’s impossible to keep the gratitude out of my voice as I replay for him what the last year has meant to me.
Last year, we avoided each other’s gaze over dinner and clumsily held hands across the table. Every time we touched it stung like an insult to past intimate moments. We struggled through the insincerity and pretended not to notice the confusion in one another’s eyes.
Now, I find strength in a quick peck on the top of my head. I close my eyes and soak up the warmth of resting, just for a moment, with my arms around his waist and my cheek against his back while he makes coffee at 6 in the morning. I get lost in the easy comfort of sitting beside him, his presence alone enough to make me feel safe.
There is no pretense needed between us now. When he’s been talking about work for far too long, I can tell him with the assurance that he is trying to hear me. When I remind him that I love him, there is no question in his eyes that he knows this to be true. When we catch each other’s eye across two blond heads that refuse to sit still, there is a shared understanding that we’re in this together. Forever.
Forever.
That word means more now than it did eight years ago. We know better the bitterness of “in good times and in bad”. We know too, our own strength. Our faith is no longer only in a promise made, but in the fight we’ve seen in one another since that vow was taken. Our gratitude has grown from the smugness of youth who have “found” the “right person” into the humble realization that you’ve been given, blessed, with a fortitude of grace and good fortune to survive.
This year we celebrate without candles or lights or jewels. And we remember that it is not the fancy dinners or the elaborate vacations… or anything externally that we carry from year to year with us.
But it is Us. It is the good times, and the bad. It is the ease and the struggle. It is the hope and the promise and the work and the conflict.
I have bins for shoes. Bins for pictures. Bins for receipts.
Bins for clothes that each child has outgrown long before I’d hoped they would. Bins for clothes that have not been outgrown but have been painfully outworn and must be hidden away to prevent further parental embarrassment.
There are bins for out of fashion decorations. Bins for winter clothes. Bins for old school memories and camping gear and painting supplies.
And on each plastic lid is a strip of masking tape carefully labeled with black Sharpie, clearly designating the contents. “Shoes”. “Camping Stuff”. “Girls 18-24 months”.
I was reminded of these bins as I read a recent post at Shelli’s Sentiments.
She talked about not fitting anywhere. About not really being perfectly a part of this group or that, but always sort of floating half way between belonging. As she said, “it’s just painful sometimes when you don’t feel like you fit anywhere.”
I know this pain. This floating. This feeling like you don’t exactly Go in a bin properly - like an outgrown garment that you’re not ready to give away but no longer want to hang in your closet.
I’ve spent a lot of my life feeling like I belong in the blue plastic Rubbermaid labeled “misc. shit”.
In high school I was a cheerleader, as you’ve seen. But I was never The Cheerleader. Or the Homecoming Queen. Maye because I was also the drama geek and the speech nerd and one of the smart kids.
I had boyfriends here and there, and a small handful of girlfriends. But I was never wildly popular or firmly cemented within any particular “clique”.
I became a young mother. But I refused to fall into “that” bin, instead working hard to build a career and a respectable presence within the community. Of course, I still liked to laugh and smoke and drink too much on occasion. All of that led to me never really being at home with the other CCD teachers or PTA parents, no matter how many committees I served on. And the committees themselves I suppose prevented me feeling like I was ever really “like” the people I would drink and sing too loudly with on the weekends.
I’ve always been ridiculously younger than the other parents among my son’s classrooms. And now I find that while I am closer in age to the parents of my daughter’s set, I am one of very few with more than one child.
I wholeheartedly enjoy my play dates with Mom Groups. But I also find myself a little bored with conversations about potty training and scrapbooking and hoping in vain that someone will start bitching about the stress of working full time.
Shelli mentioned that, even in blogging, she hasn’t quite found her niche. And again, I read her words while nodding emphatically along side her. Every time I have to fill out one of those damned “what kind of blogger are you?” forms, I furiously wish I could check “mommy blogger” in good conscience.
I’m not a humor blog - I think the detailed saga of my depression discounts me for that. The fact that I’m being blocked by more and more IT departments I’m certain automatically discounts me from any sort of “parenting” genre. And I’ve yet to find the drop down menu that includes the category “I randomly blog about all kinds of shit.”
Misc. Shit.
That’s me.
And sometimes - admittedly more often than I used to be - I am at peace with that “uniqueness”. Most days I don’t give a second thought to my own masking tape label and I have no desire to be stuck into a box.
But sometimes, on some days, I long for the comfort that comes from conformity. Anthropologists and Sociologists will tell you it is human nature to seek out your group, your herd, so to speak. And there are days when I’m drifting when I wonder what the hell is wrong with me that I can’t fulfill this basic human need.
Why am I so different?
Why can’t I just be like everyone else? Or at least a large chunk of someone elses.
Truth be told, I suppose (like Shelli) I do have my own herd. It’s small, like one of those cloth baskets meant to hold little more than a set of fabric napkins - but it’s mine just the same.
It’s my husband and my children - in many ways anyway.
And it is my mother and my father and my aunt and my cousins and my grandparents - who share my traditions and inside jokes that span decades.
And it is, most definitely, my baby brother. Who is cut so exactly from the same cloth as me that it is almost frightening while at the same time, comforting on a cellular level.
This is why I have opened up my home to guests for the next solid month. Because while it will be expensive and stressful and I’m sure at times intrusive to be sharing my house for well over 30 days with various people… they are my bins. They are my herd. They are the familiarity that allows me to breathe with the ease that can only come from knowing…
Quick reminder! The Worst Contest Ever ends tonight at 12pm EST. Get your entries in so I can give away some prizes!
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I hate the zoo.
Hate, hate, hate, hate, haaaaate. The zoo.
My hatred of the zoo is so vehement that it has become one of those things that family legends and long running jokes are made of.
I blame my mother.
When I was very young, my mother and I lived in Chicago with my Nana and Poppi. And there are lots and lots of wonderful things you can do with a small child in Chicago. There are even lots of free things you can do with a small child in Chicago.
But do you know what that woman made me do the most?
Wander around the fucking zoo.
I think it was probably around the 136th time I heard “oh, look, it’s a zebra” that I decided zoos suck big monkey ass.
This has not changed simply because I now have children. Or because I have a zoo ten minutes from my house. Or because it was 80 degrees this weekend and a trip to the zoo sounded like something the kids would enjoy. I may have suggested we go, but not at all as a sign that my hatred for zoos is waning!!
There is still absolutely nothing fun about standing around and staring at animals while they eat.
“Mom, look, it licks me…”
I mean seriously. They are just freaking animals. Sitting there.
“Mama, can I touch it?”
I have never understood why that is so fascinating to people.
“Mommy, I touch a turtle too…”
Maybe it’s because I’ve never been enthralled with the idea of just watching anything. I like to be doing, rather than sitting and looking. Whether it’s nature walks or OMG THE LEAVES ARE CHANGING drives or… zoos. There are very few things in this world that are interesting enough to just fucking LOOK at.
“Do you see it Mom? Do you see it?”
Some people actually get excited about going to the zoo. I imagine these are people who do not know what they are in for. Who the hell gets excited about animals that just lay there??
Yeah. Zoos are stupid. Boring. Hot. Wandering around just… looking.
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