Claws At My Heart

This blog seems to have turned into a mommy blog, which was never really my intention. At first it was just a place where I could pour my heart out in badly written excruciating detail. Those first posts? Awful. Read further into my blog and you'll find a few years where I laugh at all my own jokes. (Full disclosure: I still do, I just refrain from adding the hahahas and LOLs now. Most of the time.)

One thing I have done well is compartmentalizing my life. Apparently that's a "guy thing." Spend your life growing up around a bunch of alpha male biker types and see if you don't pick up a few things along the way. Right?

Over the past several years I've switched from pouring my heart out to recording things. First it was for my kids and then it was for my girls. A lot of things involving Corey weren't good. And who wants to hear about the bad stuff? And why bother telling it when I can say things like, "And then I told her not to wipe her nose on the table"? (Twice, people. I had to tell her twice.)

It feels awkward and kind of scary to open this door, but I am going to anyway. It has become more than compartmentalizing lately. It's become avoidance. Some of the stories I have put in a box and set to the side? They are not funny. Unlike my last post, I sincerely doubt many people would find them moving. They are angry, confused, hurt stories that make me wonder what the hell happened and where do we go from here?

So this, I think, is the post where I let you into the biggest, darkest, saddest and hardest part of my life.

Let's talk about Corey.

There are several posts on this blog about my son. I came across a couple recently that surprised me with their candor until I realized I posted them when I had two followers and one regular reader, someone I never met in real life. So different than now, when I know a few of you and and feel like I know a few more.

There is a lot more to Corey than those posts and this one and any that come from here on out.

He is the first pure love I ever experienced.

I still love him just as much today as ever before. Please keep that in mind.

Two years ago I kicked him out of this house.

It had started as "I'm onto you. Get back on track with attending school and doing the work and stop spending so much of your time with a stream of people you hardly know. It's damaging the trust and respect within your family."

You know how people say, "It was like he flipped a switch"? It was like that. The tenor of the conversation was light but serious. And then...

And then, honestly, I don't even remember everything that happened.

But I know that I thought he was shooting into the front door from outside. (He wasn't.)

And I know that he shredded our Christmas lights with his bare hands.

Shredded. I still don't know how that is possible, except that he was so enraged.

Tom wasn't home. Fynnie was a wee baby; I don't really remember where she was, but she was most likely in my arms or a carrier because that is where she lived. Madelyn was about two and a half and clearly frightened.

I grew up in a home where explosions like Corey's were frequent and living in fear and walking on eggshells were not uncommon. I would never tolerate that for my kids... not even if it was my kid who was scaring the hell out of us. And the dog.

I told him to leave and not come back or I would call the police.

He called my mom and she drove up here, picked up his medicine and then went to find him.

She didn't plan to keep him long-term, but he has this way of explaining why things didn't pan out that can be very difficult to cut through until later, when you're looking back and asking yourself how the hell he managed to do it again.

He did not graduate from high school.

He did not finish enrollment into Job Corps.

He did not get a job.

He did take money from my mom. Cash and credit, thankyouverymuch.

He did spend a lot of time eating and sleeping and playing games and buying access to porn online.

He did gain a lot of weight.

He did not help around the house aside from taking out the trash occasionally. Because, you know, she asked too nicely about the other stuff.

He did, however, threaten to kill himself last year and landed in a mental hospital because she told him he had to start helping out around the house more. (His version is different than this, but not significantly.)

Staying with my mom was a blessing and a curse. I knew where he was. That he was safe and warm and obviously fed. He was with someone who loves him. But there was no accountability. No demands were made on him to do anything, especially after what happened last year. And my mom kept keeping cash around the house!

Seriously, if you know you have taken in someone whose parents have put locks on every door and window with access to electronics, jewelry and cash, then DO NOT LEAVE ANYTHING VALUABLE LAYING AROUND. And no, the fact that you put money in your bible is not going to make him not take it. It just isn't.

Sometime around the end of August or beginning of September, my mom told Corey he had until the middle of October to get a job and start contributing to the household or he would have to find somewhere else to live.

A couple weeks ago she got more specific and decided on October 15.

For some reason, even though I had long-standing plans for Tuesday the 16th, I kept thinking about how hard it was going to be on Tuesday (the 15th in my mind) when he had to leave. Because he was not getting a job.

A surface conversation would lead you to believe that he'd been doing everything to find work. Dig a little deeper and "everything" turned out to be "I bookmarked, like, three sites. But they're not hiring right now."

I provided job leads and offered to help get him ready to interview... because getting people ready for a job is what I do. And if he wasn't comfortable with me helping him, there were other people he could talk to from my work.

I was pulling for him and hopeful that he would finally step up and meet his responsibilities head on.

And, frankly, full of bravado with Tom and my mom and Nance about how "he cannot come back here. It is not an option. He scared the crap out of Madelyn!" (And me. And the dog. And he still scares me now. He scares my mother sometimes, too.)

Monday afternoon I spent four hours on the phone with my son. We rehashed the hows and the whys of that night 22 months ago. I was pelted with his blame.

"If anyone else had been in our house, doing what you were doing with your sisters right there, what would you have me do?"

It was the first time I felt like he understood why I reacted like I did. He loves his sisters, especially Madelyn, more than anything.

In the midst of the conversation I had to get off the phone and get rid of pretty much everything I'd consumed in the past three weeks. And then I called Tom.

"I am not sure I can do this."

He brought up a few very salient points. I knew he was right, even though I cannot tell you now what those points were.

"I know. You're right. You're not going to get a rational argument from me. *sobbing* My son is about to be homeless."

Because he didn't really do anything to prepare. Not look for a job. Not look for a home.

The thought of leaving him out there was awful, repulsive. Terrible.

The thought of bringing him back into our home was frightening.

Do we have a bed for him? Yes. Not his old bed. He had pretty much destroyed that and it was thrown out not long after he was gone. But there's a sleeper sofa in the loft. Right outside of our room. Which would have to be kept unlocked in case the girls wanted to come to us in the middle of the night.

He would be between us and the girls.

Laying it all out there, I am afraid of my son. I love him. I don't trust him. I am not entirely alone.

A few weeks ago my mom and Corey came up to the desert so he could see a girl friend and then he and my mom would visit with us and the girls. My mom hung out with us until it was time to go pick him up.

An hour later he and his friend still weren't back at her house, so my mom came back and had dinner with us. Two hours later she went home. Alone.

Over five hours after he was supposed to be hanging out with his sisters, he called. Tom took him back to my mom's.

I would not have taken him and I didn't think Tom should go out of his way to drive 90 miles.

Tom's unassailable logic?

"I am doing this for your mom. She'll feel better knowing where he is and that he is home. And so will you. And I don't want him roaming around our neighborhood."

And so, on Monday, I did not ask him to come on home.

He did not ask to, either.

I did not ask where he was going.

I did ask if he packed ID (just in case) and a toothbrush.

I asked him to meet me every Tuesday afternoon. He chose the park with the cannon where we would go and eat on special occasions back in the days when it was just him and me.

Tuesday would mean that I would see him in less than 24 hours if he was willing.

This might be hard to understand, given all that I have said already, but part of me was hoping I could convince Tom to open our home to my son during those intervening hours. I am not expecting that to make sense, but it is true nonetheless. 

Corey told me how he didn't think it was possible to go up from here because he didn't have a high school education.

And then I told him a story about me he had never heard. About how my boyfriend, Travis, graduated at the end of my junior year, and then my mom got engaged to this man. The man had just bought a little house that had a room for them and a room for his daughter... no room for me. So I dropped out of school my senior year, took the equivalency exam (only good in California, damn it all) and went to work. (And then my mom realized that all of her friends and family thought the man was creepy and whatever hold he had on her was broken, but it was too late. My high school wouldn't take me back.)

I tried to pull from my own life to show him that there are always options if he will only work for them.

Somehow we made it through that conversation without him blowing up. We cleared up some misconceptions but we didn't exactly solve anything.

A little while later, I spoke to Tom. He had done a fairly speedy research into shelters and found a few that might take Corey.

Called my mom, but he was already gone.

I sobbed like a baby.

I can imagine how hard it is understand how I let my son go.

So many of my friends, both online and in real life are surrounded by toddlers and infants. Every single one of those children is a bundle of hope and expectations and wonderful possibilities.

So was Corey.

So he is.

The next morning during a field trip, Corey called.

He went to a friend's house and she directed him to some people who had taken her in when she ran away.

They have taken him in.

In order to stay he has to fill out seven job applications. A day. He is following through, but slowly.

He was calling to see if he could have Nance's information for a job reference.

It is short term, this help from nowhere. But it is here for now.

Corey went by my mom's place today to pick up a few things. He said the lady he's staying with is pretty upset that Corey was tossed out, "but she doesn't know all the stuff that went on before."

The woman made Corey ask if he could come back if he did get a job. He asked after my mom had spent several hours cleaning up the grossness of a teenage boy's room, so he probably didn't get the most positive response.

He has put my mom through the wringer. I feel for her.

But, because we are crazy and because he is my son and the first pure love I have ever known, I am pulling for Corey. So is Tom. If Corey gets a job, we will probably offer to bring him home. He may or may not accept.

I suspect we'll feel conflicted either way.

Dear Jason,

You are the cutest six year old boy in our neighborhood.  Your sister, whose name I never really caught?  Equally adorable.  Maybe more so with those shoes and that hair.

Jason, there are some things we need to clear up.  This is serious.

Okay, yes, I do laugh every time you and your sister manage to weasel your way into our house while Tom is standing at the door trying to block you.  We both know he's just trying to put off being direct when he gives you a time to check back, especially since you can't quite tell time just yet.  (Between you and me, he does the same thing with the dog.  I hope you catch on quicker!)

The way you just pushed in so you could check out our clock and made Tom hold up his hands out to show you what 5:00 looks like?  That was five minutes ago and I'm still laughing.

But the way you're ringing our doorbell every 10 minutes or so because you don't know what time it is?  Annoying!

And the way you're hanging out in our front yard, climbing on the window ledge and peering in our windows?  Creepy.  You may want to get that under control before you hit middle school, little dude.

Jerk

Tom became an uncle today.  His sister-in-law delivered a baby after five hours of pushing, and with forceps assistance.  My heart went out to her.

It happened that my mother-in-law was able to reach me and give me the news.  When Tom and I met back at home, I told him what I'd heard.  His remark?

"Well, she is so... you know, little."

"What does that have to do with it?"

"You know.  She's so petite."

Giving him the look that should clearly express, "I pushed both of your daughters out in a combined total of about 15 minutes.  Tread carefully."

Tom either did not read me correctly, or he is a complete and utter jackass.

Make Way For Ducklings

On our first full day in Boshum, Tom's mom and dad took us to Boston Common.

Fynnie thinks Gramma Judy is pretty smart.

Our girls are young and relatively inexperienced in the pleasures of the park.  They've been to playgrounds, something that our desert community has in abundance.  But a place like Boston Common?  Not going to be found in the HD.

Boston Common has a merry-go-round.  Madelyn and Dadelyn went around and around.  Daddy gets dizzy and queasy on spinny rides, but making this memory with his daughter was worth it.

Gramma and Grampy have been to Boston Common before, and knew all the best places to go.  Grampy isn't able to walk much, so he parked himself under various trees throughout the day.    Apparently the frog pond we walked next to is often open for splashing.  We're guessing the recent (non-flooding!) storms made it too dirty; no kids or dogs were allowed to splash around that day. 

Fynnie and I did not get the memo about the day's color scheme.

Remember how much Mad loves frogs and ducks?  Despite our attempts to encourage Fynnie's love for elephants, she is all about the fwogs, too.

That play area in the background?  Tadpole Playground, of course.

See a frog, be a frog!  

See a fish, be a fish!

See a turtle... ah, c'mon Mama!

I love this photo for the look in her eyes.  And for the fact that her hair isn't a crazy mess.

If Madelyn could sum up her greatest disappointment about our trip, it's that we only went to Boston Common once.

Did you ever read Make Way for Ducklings?  This is that place.  That is the island.  

Gramma made sure to give the girls their own copy of the book when we returned to the hotel that night.  I attempted to read it over the exhausted screaming, but we only got so far.

"Yes, Mama made me quack like a duck while she took my picture."

"She made Fynnie do it, too, bahaha!"

"I yike to quack like a duck!  Cack cack cack!"

"Somebody, put me out of my misery!"

"I put you out mizzy!  Cack cack cack!"

Just Tonight I Have...

... said, "Madelyn, do not lap up the dog's water."

... heard, "Dad, I think I want to blow something up."*

... had a phone to each ear, a breast fully exposed with a small kidlet attached to it, two timers ringing and a partridge in a freaking pear tree.

*Okay, so she was talking about the bag of balloons Tom bought for Mad's birthday party.  You know, the ones where I told him, "Hey, we didn't remember to get balloons.  Can you grab a few while you're out?"  In my mind, "helium-filled" and "tied with a pretty ribbon" were unnecessary descriptors based on the last four birthday parties held around here.

And Then I Had To Do the Creepy Dance

My birthday was a week ago Friday.  Get this:  Tom realized ahead of time that my birthday was going to be on March 23 this year.  (And you go, "Whaaat?!?" and I go, "I know, right!?!")

Unlike previous years that have included the well thought out last minute trip to Target for a greeting card and some Tic Tacs, he began plotting and scheming and, you know, being aware well in advance.

He took the day off from work, so I did, too.  We took the girls to IHOP for breakfast and then spent the morning shopping.  Okay, sure, it was for sheets and frames for Madelyn's room.  Ask me how much I care?  I don't.  Then we drove down the hill.

We took the train road.  We stopped for sunflowers.  I tried to snap a few photos, but it was too windy in the pass.  After wrangling a few sunflowers off their bushes, I headed toward the car.

I noticed a little green bug on one of the flowers.  Brushed it off and searched for others before taking the flower into our car and giving it to one of the girls.

Got 'em all!  Whew!

Turned to the second flower and saw this:

What's the big deal?!  Allow me to magnify for you.

What the hell is that?!?!

Which of my daughters did I almost give that to?

Gah!

So, yeah.  I set the flower on the hood of my car, snapped a couple photos, flung that flower off the car and proceeded to do the creepy dance.

Did you do it, too?

Hope We'll Be Ready for Our Do-Over

Family photo shoot scheduled for last Friday morning got derailed by two of us projectile vomiting.

And do you know why I am sort of grateful for all of that yuck and goo?  (Well, not for Mad's.  That's just sad.)  Because my eyebrows started growing long.

Not just long.  Curly and long.

And I, style maven that I am (not), decided to trim them myself.

Pawing my way through the beauty supply drawer in my lair bedroom that is pretty much all hair bands of varying sizes, a face file, the crappy nail clippers (what happened to the good ones?!) and a few brushes and combs.

Eyebrow brush?  Not on your life.

Special clippers or scissors or whatever the hell people use to accomplish this task?  Bah.  Ha.  Ha.

Just me, the scissors that Tom recently used for some nefarious purpose that apparently dulled the blades (a fact I didn't realize until trying to trim Mad's bangs last night), my eyebrows-gone-wild and a lot of tension.

What could go wrong?

Yeah, no.  I'm not including any photos.  I suck.  Whatever.

I will say that there are no unruly or long hairs on my face at this moment.

Okay, yes, there might be a shocking lack of hair in the middle of my right brow.  I'm telling myself that people will think I have a cool scar.

It's hard to maintain the delusion, though, when my Nancy saw it and laughed out loud this morning.  She tried to hold it in.  Couldn't.  Kind of loud.  May have created a different type of scar.

Translation, Please!

We have been enjoying the company of two very lovely young ladies from China for the past few days.  They arrived Tuesday evening.  It has been fun, and kind of nerve-wracking, to watch them experience our foods for the first time (nerve-wracking because of the vastly different cultural approaches to eating and to being a guest or host.  I want them to like everything or feel free to say they don't.).  It's not often someone will say to you, "I have never seen anything like this" and be talking about cheddar cheese. 

Wednesday night was their welcome party.  Our girls, as I've taken to calling them, were surprised to find that the party was going to be at a park.  The evening was full of cooler weather and minimal wind (double hooray!), good food and fun games.  During a rare quiet moment, Katrina smiled at me and said words no one wants to hear.  Ever.

"Your husband must have been very handsome when he was much younger."

Okay, I might have giggled a little when I agreed that he was very handsome when he was much younger, but she continued.

"You too. I saw pictures of you on the wall and you were very beautiful when you were younger."

*sigh*
 
At least she recognized that it's me in those photos.  When we pulled them out, Mad looked at them and pointed out her daddy.  I pointed at my own picture and asked her, "Who's that?"
 
"Um, a friend."

Stupid Things I Say

This could probably be the running gag of my blog if I let it, but I try to keep the public acknowledgement of my lameness to a minimum.  Of course, if you've been hanging around a while, you'll know I'm not exactly successful.

Me to Tom:  You suck the joy out of everything.

And what is this everything from which Tom sucked the joy?

Steam cleaning the carpet.

I Guess It's Been a While

Last week I finally decided to stop in at my gym.  I figure I pay someone to work there a few hours a month, maybe I should check the place out.  Plus, it's been a while since I've seen my gym ID card.  Not, like, decades... I definitely recall seeing it on the nightstand upstairs. 

I walked in to the place and read perused the sign on the door about the "no copies of IDs" rule.  Made sense to me.  Imagine my surprise when I learned that the rule only applies to parents who are dropping off children in the kids' club.  No, the rest of us don't need to bring any ID.  Why not?

They scan your index fingers. 

That's right.  I've been away from the gym long enough for Star Trek to have landed.

Oh, you were wondering how my trip to the gym went?  Totally successful.  Did what I set out to accomplish.  When I'm ready I'll go back and, you know... exercise.  I've even got appropriate exercise type socks in my car as we speak. 

No, I do not think I'll be using the high heels that are also in my car.  I plan to put some tennies and exercise clothes in there, too.  I just can't find the right outfit.

Anyway, Tom just came back from a run.  I feel worn out just thinking about it.

Awesome Hair Theory

Tom had jury duty yesterday.  He was supposed to be at work 70 miles away at 4:00 in the morning, but instead he had to be at court five or so miles away by 12:00.  Noon.  Poor guy. 

He spent a few hours in the jury box yesterday and had to return for continued jury selection today.  At 10:30.

I was pulling for him to get selected.  I've sat on a couple of juries, and have found the whole process fascinating.  Okay, there was that awkward moment with my last service, when asked if I had any knowledge of anybody in the court, I admitted that I'd met the judge before.  When he was in family court about two years earlier.  The judge handled a situation with my ex-husband.  Peering over his glasses at me, the judge said, "Wait.  I remember you!  Wasn't your husband, The Lurker?"  *sigh*  Yes, yes he was.  Can we move along?

When Tom went back today, he spent roughly two minutes seated in the jury box before being summarily dismissed by the prosecution.

I said it's probably because Tom's been growing out his hair and it's just too awesome for them.  I'm probably right, too.  Tom said the next person to come out of the court room was another man, somewhat older, but with equally awesome hair.

Thankful

About a week ago I decided that the dining table Corey and I have struggled to complete for 20 long months is as done as it's going to get. We removed the leaf from our old table and put it in the front room for games. Then we schlepped this giant "new" table in from the garage and tried to put it together. Apparently, sitting in the garage in a climate where the average temperatures range from 25-120 degrees each year can wreak a little havoc on wood. Stupid mofo wouldn't close. We could see some fairly easy remedies, but when those problems were resolved it still wouldn't close. There was about 1/4 of an inch between the ends. Tom came home that night knowing I was frustrated and that we'd need his help. Instead, he jumped into the douche canoe.


"I think I have an idea about how to fix it. If that doesn't work I'll talk with Tomas (a furniture repairman Tom works with) and see what he says. But that stain job is crap!"


Once I was able to pull my jaw off the floor and restrain myself from saying every very nasty thing that came to mind I said, "That was kind of a jackass move, don't you think?"


Shrugging, "It's true. It's awful."


"Coming from someone who hasn't helped aside from sanding the top of each piece last year, and knowing all the trouble we've had but still not helping, don't you think you sound like a jackass?"


"I have been taking care of Madelyn!"


"Uh, Fynn was born in August. Remember how you said you were going to make sure the table got done by my birthday? That was in March."


What really sucks is that he's right. I hate the staining job, too. But I stand by my point. It's like voting. If you're going to sit around and not help, then you just have to shut up while those of us who did what we could try our damnedest to enjoy the outcome.


The good news is that Tom was able to get the table pieces together, but the leaves and main pieces are slightly warped. It's just enough to mess with putting the pieces all together, not visible if you're looking at the table, even if you weren't distracted by the crap staining job.


We're leaving the leaves in until it's adjusted to indoor living. That is one massive table.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

We had a mostly lovely Thanksgiving at one of my sister types. My favorite things at her annual dinner are the canned cranberry sauce with the indentations from the can and the Stove Top stuffing. That is some over-processed crap that I look forward to every freaking year. And Dad's mashed potatoes. The downside was that Corey seemed to have caught a 24-hour bug so we left early.


We also held our own Thanksgiving dinner with my mom on Sunday. I do everything from scratch.  Tom, who seems to help out more and more each year, pointed out that I did not make the graham crackers in my graham cracker pie crust. True. Full disclosure: I also did not condense the milk. Bite me.


Dinner was served on our new table. Our old table could only hold most of the food and we sat in the living room. Imagine this: All the food fit and we were able to use it to eat, too.

Skipping Around

Despite a backlog of partially written posts, I'm going straight to this past Friday. Cuz I'm wild and crazy like that, that's why.

Friday was our fifth wedding anniversary, or what I consider our five year + five and a half anniversary. Just think, next year the number of years we'll be married will exceed the number of years we were together before all hell broke loose and he had to snap me up! Unlike previous years, when getting ready for our date or weekend away was fun and relaxing, this day was chaotic.

I got in the shower about 45 minutes before we were supposed to leave. As I was shaving up to there (okay, my knees, but let's just be glad I got to shave at all, 'kay?), I could hear the kids over the monitor in Madelyn's room. Specifically I could hear Fynn crying, Mad fussing and Corey, after 35 seconds of dealing with it, saying, "Mom, I know you're busy but I need you."

Sometimes I wish we had a 2-way speaker system. Sometimes it's good we do not.

Getting dressed, the girls ready and the car loaded with people and things took about an hour.  The good news? I was able to wear pants I have only dared to try on since getting pregnant with Mad. And they have these stupid obnoxious "cute" little button details on the waist that I was finally able to tighten back up. My ass may still be fat and jiggly, but I'm making headway.

The major delay at the end was Mad's repeated refusal to use the potty even though she was doing the pee pee dance and didn't want a diaper for the long car ride down to Grandma's. After she finally went and tried to get away with three M & M's for her success, we got out of the house. It was a few minutes after we were supposed to be at my dad's.

I dropped Corey at Mom's and headed to Dad's ("Grandma's house," according to Mad). While carrying Fynn in the carrier, the diaper bag and Mad's jacket, and helping Mad, who had tripped, I managed to tweak my shoulder. The only thing that could have made things worse by then would have been hot, humid weather. Thankfully it was low 50's and I wasn't starting to glisten or smell like a rhino.

My dad and Margaret gave us our anniversary present. It was a card with a note saying that the gift for five years is wood, and wood comes from trees and paper is also made from trees, so it's wood. And they gave us an amount of money that was suspiciously similar to the loan they'd offered two nights before so we could be sure to buy Christmas presents for the kids. (What's that? I didn't tell you how my employer has now decided that they aren't paying half of my pay for the time I'm taking after my maternity leave ended? Or how they decided to take it all out of the only check I'll get between now and Christmas? Reader's Digest version is that, after I expressed to them quite clearly that they put the original plan in writing and that I've been having stress-induced palpitations as we try to prepare for the next in a series of financial hits because of their antics, they compromised, so we will not be destitute for Christmas. Angry and bitter with them, yes, but there will be presents and love amongst mi familia.)

Tom and I went to a Peruvian restaurant we haven't been to since Mad arrived. Dinner was fabulous. We started and finished with beef empanadas and the best chimichurri sauce. Seriously. There's one left over in my fridge right now and my mouth is watering just thinking about it. I'd eat it, but I'm pretty sure Tom wants it. Although, he did eat most of the other one... hmm...

Anyway, the food was excellent, wine was just as good as I remembered and the conversation never lagged. Considering Tom and I were wiped out before leaving on our date, that's impressive. Or maybe it was the wine.

From what I can tell, Peruvian time moves much more slowly. So dinner was nearly a two hour affair. It's always like that at this place, but the food is definitely worth it. However, it meant that our second plan for the night, seeing a current movie in an actual theater, was no longer an option. It was, like, 8:35 people! And the next time our movie started was over an hour later. Add in the time for the movie, getting the girls, nursing Fynn before leaving, getting Corey and the schlep home and that was not happening.

We headed to a bookstore with a coffee shop, where we bought a few books for the kids and some hot drinks. As we sipped our drinks I gazed lovingly into Tom's bleary red eyes. No, it wasn't too much wine. It was 10:00 at night. Almost. I suggested we call it a night. Tom resisted until I mentioned we still had to get the girls and Corey and drive an hour home. We dashed to the car.

While I was nursing Fynn before leaving, my dad gave me one more present that night. He told me he'd had a dream about my biological father, Russ, someone I haven't spoken with in seven or eight years now. In his dream Dad asked him what he was thinking with the choices he'd made and did he have any idea what he was giving up? Most people only get one father, and a lot of people get mediocre to crappy to absentee fathers. I don't even know how I got so lucky.

By the time we got home last night it was about 12:30. Fynn wanted to nurse again, so I sat here and cuddled her in the dark. Tom crawled into bed. We talked for a minute and he told me I looked nice tonight. And then he fell asleep. Forty-five minutes later I joined him. It's not exactly the big shebang I think we'd envisioned for our fifth anniversary even as recently as last year. But it was fun and loving. Last year we made a baby and this year I got to eat a meal with two hands and without someone standing over me holding the baby while they "wait for me to finish." I'll take it.

Hiking Hell

My boyfriend, son and I recently decided to enjoy a trail hike at Mt. Baldy that has been recommended by a few of my friends. One couple, Tami and Jeff, even did what they called "extreme hiking" -- that is, they went up as quickly as they could and raced down. Now, I already knew that they were nuts and that pushing themselves physically had become something of a goal, rather than the byproduct of a hobby. Still, Tami has a knack for drawing others into her manias and somehow making them like what they're doing. This is how I ended up with various pieces of body art and is also the main reason I ran a marathon. 

One blazing hot Sunday afternoon, Tom, Corey and I headed up to Mt. Baldy for a hike. We were heading for the Ice House Canyon trail, which is a shady dirt path that slopes gently in most places. The three of us had been hiking together before, and Corey and I had been up there quite a few times over the years. Corey brought walking sticks, a butterfly net and the carrier his fire belly frog came home in. As we approached the short turnoff for the Ice House, Tom and I decided to head up to the trail our friends had recommended. We didn't find out until later that it was called the Devil's Backbone.

We parked and headed to the bottom of the ski lifts, where the trail begins. A group of sweaty men were laughing and having a really good time -- they had just come down. I thought about how much fun they were having. I thought about the fun we could have on our hike. I thought about the fact that my thighs were already feeling the effects of the slanted road.

At the ski lifts we had to make a decision: Ride or hike? Anybody who knows me well knows I'm terrified of heights, especially if my feet are not set on terra firma or something attached to it. I love beautiful views overlooking valleys and cities, I just want to be on the side of a hill or in a tall building to see them. Add to that the fact that Tom and I hadn't brought much money and our decision was made: Hike.

So we started up the mountainside by staying underneath the ski lift. The conditions were less than ideal, but we wanted a workout as much as time spent with nature. Sure it was rocky, but big rocks were usually pushed into the earth far enough that we could propel ourselves forward. No, it wasn't the gently sloping shaded hike we had expected, but the most important thing was that we were out and we were moving.

After about twenty minutes I started getting out of breath. Thankfully, we'd all brought water to drink. Tom agreed to carry mine in addition to his, probably to stem the heavy breathing and grunting I'd been doing. Newly freed of the 32 ounces of water, I scrambled up the side of the mountain quickly, leaving Tom and Corey to stare in amazement from far below.

Hmm, it occurs to me that Tom may actually read this, so I'll try to stick to the facts.

I slowly made my way to a large rock and sat down to survey our progress. Tom and Corey came back down to me and we had a small snack of water and granola bars. We looked down the hill and tried to estimate how far we'd gone. I guessed 100 feet, but Tom thought at least 100 yards. In any case, we could clearly see the ski lift shack and, beyond that, the parking lot with our truck. Overhead people who had the sense and the funds to ride in reasonable comfort waved or said hello. They couldn't believe we were walking up. One guy, whose dirt bike was on the lift behind him, pulled out a gallon jug of water and poured it on our heads. We were grateful for his generosity and good aim. We hoped for more people like him along the way. Energized, we turned back toward the trail.

Then we looked up.

Looking up is always bad. When I have run up long hills without looking, it may have been hard, but it happened reasonably quickly. If I looked up at any point before the summit (yep, even from mere feet away), I felt discouraged and wanted to walk. It was no different with hiking. I looked skeptically toward the top of the hill and announced that I didn't have it in me to complete this particular trail today. In my head I was calculating the precise distance that would save me from looking like a wimp without straining my weak muscles.

Taking the two or three minute break was good for me and I was able to briefly move ahead of Corey and Tom. Of course they passed me by pretty quickly, but I was on my way. The terrain changed from a rock-filled sandy path to one covered in tiny shale rocks. We were trying to walk up a dusty gravel hill in ninety degree weather. Even the few big rocks were not pressed into the ground and did not offer traction or a suitable place to stand and catch one's breath. Trying to stand still meant sliding down hill backwards. Up ahead I spied a tree root that was protruding from the ground. My goal of reaching the tree was slowly realized.

Another short break (that left a permanent thumbprint of sap right on my rear end), another glimpse to the base of the hill and toward the top of the trail, another bout of self-doubt and we were on our way. Corey had found a long stick to aid his hiking. He offered it to me, but I couldn't justify taking on the extra weight since Tom was still carrying my water bottle. Corey offered it to Tom, who looked offended that someone might think he'd need a walking stick.

Around this time we had a choice of paths. One was steep, narrow and made of the loose gravel. The other was less steep and appeared to have more dirt than shale. I chose the steep shale path simply because I already knew what to expect there. Tom and Corey took the path that turned out to be shale over loose sand. Moments later Corey was climbing up to the trail I was using. Tom, however, was determined to use his route despite the obviously tough time he was having. When I looked over and saw him successfully using a walking stick that was about eighteen inches long (his trail was a lot steeper than we had realized), I was struck by two things: His amazing will to stick to something even if it's difficult; and that he could be a freaky new character in Heidi. I pictured him climbing the Alps in lederhosen and the hat with the feather. I would have laughed, but I didn't have that sort of energy.

After about ninety minutes of hiking that really looked like a Sumo wrestler's intimidating walk into the ring, we reached a short, but very steep hill -- the sort of hill that you just have to mount in order to maintain a shred of self-respect. When I reached the top I looked down, the parking lot was no longer visible, but the mountain valley below was, and it was stunning. Dark green trees, light blue skies, a few small white clouds in the distance.

Then I looked over to the right and saw -- to my utter dismay -- a dirt road, wide enough for two small vehicles to pass one another. My jaw dropped so hard my eyes watered. A sprightly, stout older man was marching quickly down. This road, I later found out, was the 'trail' my friends had raced up and run down. Having the road as an option made me want to finish the course we'd started. By this time, there was no more trail, there was just a Little House on the Prairie type hill that had a mix of pre-tumble weed bushes, wildflowers, and more of the shale and sand. This last rise was only about one hundred feet away, but rose up approximately sixty or seventy vertical feet, so it was pretty steep.

While Tom and I rested before the final push, Corey (who had alternately complained about being tired and then raced off ahead of us) found an almost vertical wall of dirt. He backed up, ran up as far as he could, slid a little, climbed a little, slipped some, and climbed some more. We all had goals that day, and his was to get as far up that dirt wall as possible. We watched him for a few minutes while wondering if he had somehow managed to take the road while we struggled up the gravel pit. A few minutes later, Tom and I were ready to move on.

I admit that I took advantage of some of those pretty plants on the hill. I stepped on them, hoping their roots went deep enough to hold them and allow me some traction to move upward. Tom was the first person to get to the top, followed a few minutes later by me. Corey took the longest time because he'd found a length of rope and a block of cement with metal rods protruding (about five feet below the top of the hill). Trash, you say, but to Corey it was his only opportunity that day to be a rock climber. He first tried to tie the rope to the rods or the cement, but had no luck. In the end, Tom offered to hold an end of the rope and let Corey pull himself up that way.

We went into the lodge, split a soda and debated whether to hike or to ride down. Initially, I didn't care which we did, as long as we got on our way. It was already 4:00, and the lifts were closing in half an hour. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to hike. Or take that road that (I found out later) my friends had traveled. Or wait until some new, non-ski lift sort of way was invented to get down the mountain. I'd ridden both up and down them once before and had no interest in doing it again, especially not down, as that meant looking down -- down to the ground, down into the valley that had once seemed so beautiful.

I was outvoted.

We headed over to the ski lifts (when you're going down, does it become a ski drop?) and Tom got onto his. Corey was very disappointed that he was going with me instead of Tom, but that would have meant that I'd be alone, and probably in a chair that was lopsided from just one person, so I'd be drooping, sagging toward the ground. That could not be.

Although I didn't want to, I told the attendant that I was afraid. He looked at me like I was an idiot and told me where to stand. I stood bouncing with knees bent and rear end pointing out in anticipation of the chair. I probably looked like Goofy getting ready to ski, but the hyuk-hyuk's came from the attendant.

For the first thirty seconds of the ride, I obsessed over how far forward Corey was sitting, and then I spent some time worrying about his being too far back in the seat. After that, I tried to be cool. I called to Tom, who turned around and waved at us. I wiggled the three fingers on my right hand that would be pried from the chair lift pole. Most of the way down, Corey and I enjoyed the view. Then Corey noticed the way the chair bounced as we went past a lift tower. He wanted to know if the chair could fall off. He wanted to know if we were going to hit that rock below. If we were going to crash on the other side of that cliff. How much longer it would be until it was over. Sometimes I think my son reads my mind.

When we reached the bottom and exited safely, the second attendant told Corey to come back in the winter and he'd teach Corey to snowboard. From the look in Corey's eyes, he will be waiting for first snow to have that man keep his word. My only hope is that he suffers selective amnesia when winter hits.