A Parallel

My Jiminy Cricket

Hello ye neglected blog!

A million things and hours in traffic,

Halloween party planning and throwing,

tae kwon do belt testing,

Cub scout joining,

no internet having

and old laptop owning.

All that and more

and you'll understand

why it is I can't always get
to this spot right here.

This place to stop and collect my thoughts.

I live 27 years in 24 hours
and I make dinner and check homework
and read Harry Potter before bed
and kiss my boyfriend as we pass each other
in opposite directions
on the way in or out of the house.

I fill my mom role
and my employee role
and my girlfriend role
and sometimes it all just smears together
and I cross my fingers and hope for the best.

Sometimes who I am as Christina
crashes and burns
into who I am
as my boys' mommy.

Tonight Lucas looked me dead in the eye
and told me he was disappointed in me.

"I can't believe you're still smoking."

And I am.

I do.

After years and years of trying to stop
I haven't been able to stay stopped
and my kid is not ok with it.

Earlier this year I promised I would quit.

And I did.

And I had.

Until a few months ago when
I found myself back at the start.

I never smoke around my children
but he's on to me.

Looking in my hiding spots,
calling me out on what I thought were
"top secret, kids in bed, late night" smokes.

My son is learning about drugs at Red Ribbon Week
and he knows cigarettes cause cancer
and tonight he said,

"Mom...I don't want you to die."

And he meant it.

And it killed me.

And I told him what he said is important,
and that I'm not going anywhere,
and that I know smoking is terrible
and want to quit but it's not that easy.

That I'm not
not quitting
because I don't understand
or care about his feelings.

That I love him so much
and I'm sorry he feels this way
and I want to make it better.

And then...
I snuck my cigarettes out of my glove box when he wasn't looking.

Because
IT'S NOT THAT EASY.

Every so often I'll sense
an obvious collision between my identity as a mother
and that of my 29 year old self.

Tonight was one of them.

When it happens,
it leaves my stomach in flips.

Last month we finally
signed Lucas up for Cub Scouts,
and the night of his first den meeting
I read an article about a 16 year old boy
being denied his Eagle Scout award
because he's gay.

And boom...confliction.

I don't know the right or wrong of it.

Where I end and they begin.

The magical formula
of maintaining autonomy
whilst mothering two children.

The grace necessary
to endure my sons' faces
as their mother's veil of perfection
begins to shift.

Knowing it will eventually fall.

Admissions in Disheartening Decisions

I don't want to write about it because

I'm afraid to be judged.

I don't want to write about it because

I'm afraid you'll judge him.

I don't want to write about it because

it makes me feel sad.

And anxious.

And like we've failed in some way.

People have always had opinions

when it came to my children.

From the women sharing their

labor stories with me in an elevator,

to my well meaning mother

chasing after me with the boys' sweaters.

I still remember bursting into tears

when the daycare provider convinced me

that my then 2 year old Lucas was speech delayed.

No speech delay here...

the kid barely draws

a single silent breath.

Sometimes I take the advice

and sometimes I don't.

Sometimes it angers me

or leaves me feeling insecure;

and sometimes it doesn't.

My non-speech delayed son

walked at nine months

and was climbing trees

and playing in mud

and hanging upside

pretty quickly afterward.

Nimble fingers and quick-mind,

taking things apart

and putting them back together;

working to figure out

how this world worked.

His Pre-K teacher told us he had

problems focusing and staying on task;

we felt he was just bored.

How many worksheets can a 4 year old do?

His Kindergarten teacher said the same thing.

He's just a boy we thought.  Boys are hyper.

His first grade teacher said it again.

She doesn't like him. He's being bullied.

His second grade teachers (all 3 of them)

said it too.

We have to do something.  Third grade is hard.

It was at the end of last school year

that we decided to look further

into the causes and conditions

of ADHD.

We felt it was over-diagnosed.

We didn't want to medicate our son

(he's already on one for his epilepsy).

We didn't want him to feel different.

We didn't want the eternal thems and yous

to treat him differently,

but it was all becoming more and more

obvious.

And after conferencing with his

phenomenal teachers last year

and meeting with a great

behavioral science team,

we knew we had to do everything

we could to set him up for success.

Which is why last week

we started our son on medication.

And I felt like a failure.

I felt like I hadn't tried hard enough

to help him in other ways.

I felt terrible for putting a

chemical in my perfect son's body.

I cried because I gave myself

5 minutes to feel really fucking guilty

and really fucking sad

and even sort of angry.

I still don't know how I feel

other than ferociously protective

which is why I'm writing this

even though I don't want to.

It's a letter to the universe

asking Lucas' future self

for forgiveness.

We really are trying to do

what's best.

The medicine is not a cure all

and I refuse to believe it is

a forever thing.

I'm trying to do best by my kid,

but that can be so difficult

when the water seems so murky.

Be gentle with us

Ready or Not...Here I Come

Recently I heard about a couple
that decided to break up
over their mismatched views
on having children.

One wants them,
one doesn't.

They are lovely and awesome
and I hope they realize
they can't live
without each other
and decide to have
3456398465 babies.

Or at least one.

I also know of one couple "trying"
and one couple getting ready to "try".

All of this got me thinking about
my total non-choice in having children.

I think being a mother was something
I assumed I would do when I grew up.

After college and trips to Europe,
gin soaked vacations,
my own apartment,
and a decked out wedding
with the man of my dreams.

In my mind the idea of motherhood
lived in the land
of Far Far Away.

The last thing I did was plan it.

With Lucas,
I found out I was pregnant on a Sunday.

Labor Day weekend 2003.

It was the middle of the night
and I was high on a cocktail
of too many things

I am still too embarrassed to name.

I was living in a big house

full of drunken strangers.

I wasn't really speaking to my family,

my best friend had just moved away,

and the other half of the chromosomes

wasn't spending any time with me

in the daylight.

I've told this story dozens of times.

About how suddenly at 2am

I realized I hadn't had my period in awhile.

About how mysteriously there was a

pregnancy test under my bathroom sink.

About how when that faint pink line appeared

I blamed the drug haze
and my blurred vision.

About how the next morning

there were two more tests.

Brighter lines.

Clearer vision.

I know the first person I told
was my roommate.

And then maybe I told a few friends.

I know I went to Barnes & Noble
and died a thousand deaths
trying to find a manual
on how the fuck I was ever going to do this.

I settled on
"An Idiot's Guide to Pregnancy & Childbirth".

I know I called my mom
and tried to nonchalantly
request her presence
at an upcoming Dr.'s appointment.

And when she asked why,
my nonchalance crumbled into
whispers and sobs.

I know we were supposed
to meet for coffee that night
but we never made it out of the car.

And within weeks
I moved out of that crazy house
and back into the room I grew up in.

I gave up all of my bad habits.

It was less than ideal
and I have been so painfully imperfect,
but there was never a moment
when I doubted my choice.

Something in me just knew.

And when I started spotting
at 8 weeks,
I experienced that first
ferocious instinct
to protect my child.

My introduction
to the ever present parallel
of fragility
and tigerish indominability.

My pregnancy with James
was a surprise as well.

I do not know
what it is like
to plan for a baby.

Ovulation charts
and schedules,
financial and emotional preparedness
are foreign to this mama.

A part of me
still wishes I had had
that experience.

And another part of me
smiles knowingly
at the false sense of security
those things provide.

Because with all of the planning
no one is ever prepared
for a hurricane.

Friday Fotos 5/18

After Muffins with Mom

(really donuts and juice)

with the boys last Friday,

I dropped them off
(at school and daycare respectively)

and dragged my brother to Downtown

for Handsome coffee

and flower mart madness.

Mother's Day, graduations,

and weddings made for a shit show,

but it was worth it in the end.

Orchids for one and all!

Friday night

Lucas tested for his green belt.

The most nerve-wracking part

(for me)

is the breaking of the boards.

Last Fall

when he tested for the first time,

the Master had a parent hold the board

while the student broke it.

Which... 

knowing my own mental weakness,

I volunteered to take pictures

while Paul did the holding.

Lucas couldn't break it.

He tried over and over

as his hand reddened

and tears started to fall

(his and mine).

I had to walk out because

it was just too much.

But he eventually did break it.

He's had to break boards for each belt testing

and every time it takes him more than one attempt.

I tell you this because Friday night he broke it

ON THE FIRST TRY!

He was the only orange belt to do that

and the shock on his own face was priceless.

PRICELESS!

Saturday was one of those Saturdays

where I planned nothing,

was not on any sort of schedule,

and yet managed to clean my house,

grocery shop, cook, and relax.

Lucas tackled Legos.

I spent the afternoon working

in the backyard with my mom.

Trimming this and re-planting that.

Felt good to have my hands in the dirt.

It was sunny and soothing

and the absolute best way

to spend a Saturday afternoon.

The boys and I spent the night at my parents'

so as to wake up with my mama

on Mother's Day.

We piled into bed for a dose of "Willy Wonka" (Gene Wilder edition)

Sunday morning

my fantastic brother

helped the boys make me breakfast in bed.

Waffles AND roses?!?!? Hooray!

Later...

we spent the day at Nana's.

My sweet guy gifted me with

tickets to Fiona

and registration for the both of us

to do a 5K called "Run for Your Lives".

There are zombies involved.

I prepped dinner and he BBQ'd it.

Then the boys made us moms

hot fudge brownie sundaes.

It was a banner day.

The week went a little something like this...

Monday was for continuing 

my ongoing obsession with brussel sprouts:

Roasted with olive oil and salt and pepper.  Just do it.

Tuesday was for practicing:

First Communion on Saturday.

Wednesday was for vampy lips:

MAC Rebel lipstick for the win!

Having my favorite lunch spot invaded my a film crew:

M&M commercial starring the Brown M&M.  Swear.

And blooming jasmine:

Divine!

Thursday was for discovering 

KCRW has a new channel called Eclectic 24

And true to its name,

it's pretty much "Morning Becomes Eclectic" 24 hours a day.

The office life just got an upgrade.

It was also for fancy hair:

I can't master the sock trick, so this is au natural.

Location scouting for work:

My job is dreamy.

And post-fancy hair Dolly Parton hair:

You can tell I was impressed.

Today is my mama's birthday

so the boys and I will be into some cupcakes soon.

We are looking forward to a

jam-packed love fest 

for the next few days.

Happy weekend. xo.

Gracias Madre

My mom...the total babe.

I look down at my hands and I see her hands.

Long fingers with big knuckles and red nails.

Before they were her hands,

they were my Grandma's hands

and now they are mine.

We are the red lip/nails crew.  My dad and Gregory are not members.

They are strong hands.

For raising babies and cleaning houses.

For holding on and fighting back.

For doing the "Sign of the Cross"

before 1st days of school,

important job interviews,

and saying goodbye.

Sometimes I let the boys sneak from their bunks

and take refuge in my bed.

I wrap myself around them like a capital "C",

bring them into my nook

and take in their smallness.

Every single time I do that,

I remember what it was like to be the little "C".

To sneak from my bed into hers,

to be wrapped in her,

to take in the smell of her Crest toothpaste.

We're wearing matching pants.

She is the kind of woman

who picks up the pieces when

her 26 year old husband dies.

The one who works 2 jobs

so her little girl can have everything

and a private school education to boot.

When she remarried and had my brother,

we hardly missed a beat,

like my dad and brother

had been waiting in the wings all along.

The Cesena's were written in the stars,

it just took awhile to get there.

She's super pregnant here. And still a babe.

Always my friend

but first my mom,

she is the one who took me to the Clinique counter

for my first make-up lesson

and tried to school me on birth control.

(Sorry mom!)

She grounded me for

a zillion years

and I broke her heart

a thousand times.

Mother/daughter relationships are hard.

Complicated.

For so long I wanted her to leave me to my mistakes

but to pick up the pieces when I was hurting.

It was an awkward dance and it lasted

 a very long time.

But we never stopped talking.

Even when it was through clenched teeth.

We no longer speak rough words

through tight mouths.

Thank you for never giving up on me Mom.

Even when I was heinous

 and selfish

and the bad decisions

just kept on comin'.

Thank you

for teaching me how to be a lioness.

For making birthdays and holidays

 a big deal.

I believe loving Halloween is genetic.

For being a fantastic

wife,

mom,

daughter,

sister,

worker,

friend,

cook,

housekeeper,

team mom,

room mom,

and

(your favorite title)

Grandma.

She started smiling like this the day Lucas was born and hasn't stopped since.

 Thank you for making our house a home

and for loving me in spite of myself.

I still want to be like you when I grow up.

 

B-U-L-L-Y

Last week I said I might not ever go into detail
about why 15 days before the onset of summer
we pulled Lucas out of 1st grade.

And then I saw this
and I (a believer in the Universe talking to me)
knew that I must.

Firstly and most importantly let me say that this is not
an anti-Catholic school rant.

This is a stay informed and advocate for your child
even when standing your ground means becoming Public Enemy #1
at your son's school non-rant.

The thing about being young (we were 21),
unprepared,
and broken up parents,
is that try as we might,
sometimes decision making was tedious.
And heated.

And as I have a history of being an emotional tyrant,
(not anymore...I've been reformed. Mostly.)
I think sometimes Paul (knowing that my intentions are basically good)
has conceded to me just to shut me the hell up.

That is how we
(both products of Catholic school)
decided to continue the tradition with our son.

Originally we settled on my elementary school alma mater.

First day of Kindergarten aka the picture that KILLS me every time.

But we left after 2 years.

We had had some criticisms and concerns

but mostly we left because Lucas' Nana

taught at a school with a bigger, grassier school yard.

So our boy started 1st grade at a new school.

Get in line ladies.

The principal was happy to have us,
the priest was a joy,
and I recognized his new teacher as someone that had taught my brother and I 10 years prior.

All signs pointed to success.

I'd say the grace period ended after Christmas break.

The teacher used a behavior chart rating the kids' days
as green, yellow, and red.
You can guess which was the bad one.

I will preface this by saying that our child is a ball of energy.
He talks a lot (so do I), is impulsive,
and shouts out answers without raising his hand.

He's really smart
(this has been independantly verified...and not just by me)
and must be actively engaged.

We knew these things about him then and we know these things about him now.

We also know what techniques and tools work with and for him,
so when the "red" days started to outnumber the "greens",
and notes were being sent home on the regular,
we met with the teacher on numerous occasions to find a solution.

We told her that Lucas responded best to positive reinforcement
and Paul offered to provide any and all supplies
to re-create the sticker chart he used at home.

She said no.

We asked her not to single him out for his behavior
as it seemed that the kids in his class were turning against him.
Kids were tattling on him for things he hadn't done,
and when he tried to defend himself, he wasn't heard.

I watched her sit him apart from the rest of his class at an awards ceremony.

He started to have physical confrontations with other kids.
Pushing, punching, and shoving.
And I knew in my heart something was wrong.

We went to her time and again requesting that she modify her methods ever so slightly.
That she help Lucas to build a repore with the kids.

Time and again she met our suggestions and requests with a blank stare.
Basically she didn't like our kid and there was nothing we could do to change her mind.

I was a room mom that year and I watched the other kids mistreat him.
He would sit down and they would get up.
Pull books away and not let him see.
Gang up on him on the playground or ignore him completely.

This is how they behaved with me STANDING RIGHT THERE.
I can't imagine what it was like when I wasn't there.

Everything came to a head in late May when Lucas got in a fight at the school's field day.
According to the aide she had come upon Lucas choking one of the boys.

Choking.

We know our son.
He is not violent.
He had never exhibited that sort of aggression with his little brother or cousin.

When I asked him what had happened, he burst into tears.

"Mom they were laughing and making fun of me and I looked around.
I looked for help.
And no one was there.
No one would help me."

(Typing that makes tears shoot out of my eyes.)

Paul and I decided that I would sit in on the remainder of the school year.
Take a book and sit in the back.

Our reasoning was that it would prohibit any more kid bullying
and also,
Lucas would be more likely to behave
thus limiting his getting in trouble with the teacher.

My truth:
I wanted to watch that g** d*** teacher (and her aide)
and those other g** d*** kids like a hawk.

We showed up that day and met with the principal and the teacher.

The latter was not happy to see us.
Nor was she supportive of our request.
She felt "threatened" and when the principal sided with me
she walked out on her class.

I was not the most popular person that day.

Teachers and parents followed me with sideways glances.
They didn't even bother to whisper their disdain.
Tsk tsks and
Who does she think she is?
followed me as I walked at the end of the 1st grade line.

At the end of the day
the principal asked me not to come back
(poor lady...we shaved about 10 years off of that nun's life).

I said I would be back in the morning.

That night we scoured the internet and parent handbook for our rights
but unfortunately we found that as far as the Archdiocese was concerned,
we didn't really have any.

Each school is their own island
and there were no standard policies on bullying.

We arrived the next day and stated our decision.
Either I be allowed to sit in or we pull Lucas out.

I was allowed to sit in,
 however the teacher refused to come back unless I was gone

At the end of the second day I impulsively cut our losses.

There were 10 days of school left,
and students were allowed 15 absences.

I requested his final transcripts immediately,
scooped up my kid and headed home for good.

Thankfully Paul was understanding when I told him what I'd done,
and that night we told Lucas we'd forgotten to let him know
that summer had already started.

Woohoo!  No more homework! I HATE homework!

He was in swim class by the following Monday.

Someday we'll tell him what really happened.

A year later,

here are the positives:

We found a terrific new school (public)

with fantastic teachers

and a wonderful culture.

And he has flourished.

He still talks too much.

And for the first time in a long time (maybe ever),

Paul and I were (are) on the same team.

Thanks shitty teacher...you ended up being a blessing in disguise.

Dear Lucas...

Eight years ago today I had no idea you were on your way.

10 days before your due date and new to the baby game, I had attributed the day's laziness to having to carry around 75 extra pounds on my 21 year old person.

75 pounds I attributed to your baby body (all 7 pounds 6 ounces of it).

And a lot of orange juice. And ice cream. And McDonald's.

My water broke at 11pm on April 17th and you were here 12 hours later.

My first thought upon setting eyes on you...WHAT NOW?!?!?!

And then my second...I am devastatingly in love.

I can't remember what you sounded like. Or your smell. Or the weight of you in my arms.

Those are details that slipped away when I wasn't looking. Memories that evaporated as you grew and grew. Moments I lost as we made new ones.

I don't remember either of us looking like this.

What I have now is your sleepy-eyed smile this morning. The sight of you sitting up in your bed, book in hand, silently lost in the world of Big Nate while I help your little brother with his pajamas.

I have a pre-pre-teen who has a little 'tude but still finds his way to my bed in the middle of the night.

I have the pleasure of knowing one of the kindest most resilient humans I've ever met.

Boundless energy.

Nimbleness of mind and fingers.


Pirate of my heart.

Someday I will tell you the story of how you saved my life. Of how when I met you, it was like I had already known you.

Our love story. You and me.

And you may or may not ever understand its magnitude for I am your mother after all. Prone to puddling at your feet from the sheer magnitude of how much I love you.

Someday you will find your tribe my love. I hope I'm in it.

But on the eve of your 8th birthday I say to you Lucas Andrew, my Lu, my Bub, my love note muse:

You are an amazing boy with a good heart.

Be gentle with yourself and with others.

Try and find joy in every day and have at least one friend who will make you laugh on the days when the joy is elusive.

You are loved.

Love, Mom