Detroit Crazy Eyes or the D. C. E

     Tonight I would like to introduce you to the concept of crazy eyes. Many times in my young(ahem!) life, I have encountered someone who is not quite sane. Yes, some of you might remember my old neighbor Mary who would water my plants until they drowned to death every summer, who collected cats, and shopped HSN all day long. Mary had eyes that were the size of saucers and she believed everything she said so intensely that she would never blink. Mary had all kinds of crazy...but this eventide's story is not about her. Tonight's story is about the Motor City. That's right. I'm talking Detroit, baby.
    Sometimes, when you head downtown and park away from Jefferson, you pass people. Folks will be siting on a wall, the ledge of a building or parked in a folding chair right next to a parking lot. Some people will be sitting with friends, talking and laughing...others will be sitting by themselves...talking and laughing or (worse) arguing and gesturing angrily...still sitting by themselves.
     When I pass a group I might say a polite hello or excuse me...when I pass the  lone chatter, I will usually steer a kid by the shoulder to the far side of the walkway. Generally , I will try to NOT make eye contact with the lone stranger--not because I am trying to be polite and ignore the personal conversation he  is having with himself, and not because of a misguided sense of superiority. The main reason I won't make eye contact with a lone stranger downtown, talking to himself is because of his eyes.  The twitchy one on the right, that narrows to give you the "what are you looking at?"look...or the one that is all bloodshot and angry widening to stare you down for walking on his side of the street.
     Yep, we know that look. Normally we just hustle by as quickly as possible, but every once in a while one of us catches the eye. By one of us, I am referencing my husband and our sons. The one best able to shrug off and move on after an experience with the Detroit Crazy Eye is my husband, Todd. I think this is because he was born and raised in the city. He doesn't talk about it too much, but I am starting to think that the D. C. E. was an every day experience for him.
     Well, I  surely never thought to see it on our side of town. But I did. Tonight the D C E invaded my home.  Tonight the D C E was almost responsible for my sweet husband losing his mind. Tonight I watched him silently struggle and overcome a personal bout with D C E. How does this happen you ask? Well, the easy answer is "teenagers." The complicated part of the story includes one phone call home in the middle of the day while my son was in English. And then another one while he was at his after school club...and one frustrated momma passing the buck. But I wouldn't have if I had known what it would drive my husband to do. (BTW: no children or animals were harmed in the writing or experiencing of this story)

     This is the story of  what happened when the Father had to deal with the boy. Simply put, he ranted and raved. He talked himself silly with his calmness. He questioned the boys sanity ( while clearly struggling with his own) and then he got very very quiet. He crossed his arms in front of himself and then his eyes got really big.  They were as wide as I have ever seen them, and his blue irises were almost silver in their radiance. I do not say radiance lightly. There was a fever in my husbands eyes tonight that I have never seen before...they glowed with a silent fury that heated the room. If our son was a ball of snow, he would have been melted by the intensity of silence.  It was that moment when I realized the crazies I have seen before are pretty normal. I will no longer shudder in fear when I walk by...because I have truly met the Detroit Crazy Eye...and he lives with me.

A Visit With My Dad

     Yesterday, while I was sleeping I tried to find my father. When he first died, I was fifteen and in the ninth grade. At that time, I would often dream of him...finding him deep in a forest, somewhere in time standing along a riverbank having a picnic. Those dreams were rich in flavors. I could smell the grass and his cologne and best of all--I could hold his hand and breathe in the aroma of a fathers love.
     Yesterday, I tried to find him. In my dream I knew he was alive, but he was hiding from me. I became frantic, desperate to find him. My heart was pounding and I broke into a sweat and anxiety was crawling over me. Until I remembered he was gone. Then, I knew why I couldn't find him. But it isn't because he is dead, deceased, singing with angels...it is because he is ashamed of me.
      My father always warned us girls to stick together. Often when we would fight he would tell us that we were going to need each other. That one day he and my mom would be gone and we(Kelly and I ) were going to be all that was left of our family. My dad knew this from bitter experience. He hadn't spoken to one of his brothers for 45 years and didn't ever reconcile before his death. His oldest brother came in and out of his life...maybe once every 10 years or so...until my dad got sick. Then his brother was there for him every day...
     My dad treated his girls like princesses. I was the high maintenance one, and my sister was more like a tomboy...but we were both his Pumpkins...and he was our Daddy.  The loss of my dad in hindsight, seems to be the beginning of the end for our family. For a few years we stuck together, but then puberty and boys and money problems and anger and shame started to trickle into our lives and tear us apart.
     At this time, I am not speaking to my sister.  Can I tell you why? I wish I knew.  What do I think happened? Well, a few years ago, I had the worst year of my life since 1990 when I lost my dad. I lost my father in law, and a few other pretty scary...I don't want to repeat the details...things happened, my husband left the state for work...and I felt alone...well...these were the times I was supposed to rely on my sister...the only connection I had left with my dad. Sadly, she wasn't there for me. I don't know ...I have spent years trying to rebuild a connection with her...I think I just gave up trying to make do with the paltry relationship she was willing to give. See...the truth of the matter is , she replaced me...and I haven't been able to forgive her. Family is supposed to be there for you forever and no matter what...that was the lesson my dad tried to tell...that is what our entire extended family always spouted. But we grow up and we all grow away and stay busy with our own lives and those of our children. I seem to be able to forgive anyone for anything...except for her and except for myself. I truly believe that if my sisters replacement for me had a child any time over the last 20 years, she would have no need for my children...and absolutely none for me.
     This is why I couldn't find my father. He shames me in my dreams for not being bigger than my emotions. He reminds me with his  silence that I am older and should set a good example and make the first move...regardless of age and pride.
    When I was small, my dad would play this silly game with me. I would walk past him and he would grab my hand. I would try to pull away, but he was so strong...and I would jump into his lap and bury my head into his shoulder  laughing while he  would wrap his arms around me.  That is how love feels to me. One of my last memories of my dad was when he was hospitalized with the cancer that claimed him. My big 250 pound dad was reduced to a skeleton under a sheet when my sister and I walked in to say our goodbyes. When I leaned over to kiss his emaciated cheek, he reached out to hold my hand and squeezed it with the little strength he had left...that was love...it was goodbye and it was the last time I saw him alive..
    Love no matter what, no matter when...that is supposed to be the message of family...it should be our family motto...maybe then...I would have  a family again.

10 Most Recent Blogs That Should Have Been Written But Weren't

I would like to offer an apology to my readers(all 4 of you). I am sorry that I haven't made time to write. I would like to reassure you that even when my page is silent, my mind is writing pages and storing them for later use. As an apology and an expression to my democratic commitment, I would like to offer you my 10 Most Recent Blogs That Should Have Been Written But Weren't. If you care to spend a moment perusing my ideas and comment on the ONE that you would most like to read...I will write the one that majority rules dictate.
And So....
                    10 Most Recent Blogs That Should Have Been Written But Weren't

1. Where have all the flowers gone...or..He Farts A Lot...aka...The Flowers are dead because he farts a lot

2 .The Series' I Obsess About

3. Why Babies are Better than Big Kids

4. Reason's Why No One Likes a Teenager

5. If I want you to get all A's, I guess I better start doing your homework

6. The Reason God Makes Kids Cute

7. The Things That Lift Me Up

8. Letting Go

9. The Best Man I Know(Also ties in to item #1)

10. Things I love

(Extra's)

11. The Best Advice is Usually the Stuff You Always Refused to Try

12.Why Living on a Budget is Fun! (please don't pick this one)!

13. Why Don't More Kids Ride Bikes?

14. Tour De Troit

15. My Anniversary(Ties into #1 & 9)

Little Shoes

     Today is the day I have been waiting 13 years for.  A day which signifies the passing of a generational shoe...err...torch....err...maybe I should start wtih the beginning.  One day while I was in the early stages of my first pregnancy I heard this crazy rumor about the Shrine of the Little Flower in Royal Oak. The rumor was concerning Italian leather shoes...for kids. Those of you who know me, know about my passion for shoes. I will buy two Pair of the same shoe if I think they are really cute.
     The rumor about the Shrine of the Little Flower was true. Twice a year someone donates brand new Italian leather shoes to raise money for the church. Each pair is  $5 regardless of size. Twice a year the SOTLF holds a Mom to Mom sale.
     This lover of  all things soley woke at an ungodly hour to get in the front of the line for this, her very first Mom to Mom sale. As early as I was, I wasn't early enough(I arrived at 7 and doors didn't open til 8) to be first in line. Upon reaching the room holding the array of super cute awesome Italian leather shoes for my unborn child, I was in a quandary. My child who would wear these shoes was still in utero. Completely undetected by the human eye unless  revealed by word of mouth.
     This shoe loving mother had no idea of the sex of her unborn shoe user and  still no idea what size shoe to buy. I remember the scent of leather and how the background noise was nothing more than the eery buzzing of a bee as my hand reached out and unconcsiously selected a pair of  shoes, The shoes are a dark mauve, almost  a dusky rose,one shade on the toe and a deeper glossy shade on the heel., they are a boot shoe and completely gorgeous...and utterly wasted on me because a few weeks later I discovered my son would not be wearing this infant shoe. Nether of my sons have worn this one pair of Italian leather shoes that have traveled from baby's room to baby's room in our various homes.
     This gorgeous pair of leather shoes have finally reached the end of their journey.  My babies are all grown and my baby making days are over. It is time to pull this gorgeous pair of shoes out of the closet and hand them over to the next generation of shoe lovers. Today, I dedicate my heart and my love of shoes to my beautiful new cousin Roan.  I think Roan's momma is a bit of a tomboy and sweet Roan might learn how to swing a hammer before she learns to play with dolls...but maybe if she starts  life out with the right pair of shoes...she will be heading in the right direction.

Let's talk about Girls...

     This post is about my darling Alfreddy. For the first 12 years of his life, my boy child was a child. The last few months have been a huge challenge for me personally.  My sweet son is finally 13 and he is surrounded by girls, all the time. Mostly he is surrounded by the teens on our block. Or at his tennis class, or the pool.  I should add that my bff has stated her opinion that I will make the absolute worst mother-in-law. This opinion is probably due to my inability to not micromanage. Her opinion was stated when Fred was 3. I always hoped she would be mistaken, but I am starting to think she is RIGHT!

    So, there is a problem on my block. Simply stated...I don't like teenage girls. They walk past my house a hundred times a day. They are constantly instant messaging him. They travel in packs. They don't seem to have a curfew(I didn't either, but I'm going to  hold it against them even though I turned out alright.).Worst of all, is that although they are the same age as my son, these girls look OLD and act it. I'm not talking cougar old,but  definitely more senior high than middle school.

     OK, there is another problem on my block. Alfred isn't ever home. He is hanging out with his friends at other houses (houses where the parent's don't seem to see the dangerous glint in those lady tiger cubs eyes). I think the true reason that Fred isn't home is because he is (oh-horror-of-all-horrors!) embarrassed by his mother(ME!).

    I would like to be different. I would like to be ok with these little (hussies)girls coming over, offering glasses of lemonade or plates of cookies.  I sometimes think to myself that I would behave well if Fred just introduced me to the young(harlots) ladies. Maybe I could share the gems of wisdom that I gleaned over the years.

     The truth of the matter is, these girls don't stand a chance with me. I see them walking around after dark, with their loud voices and their cell phones and I recognize them. I know who they are without having a single conversation. I know them because I was them. My girls and I made almost every wrong choice to be made at the same age those girls are...and we loved it. Just like them. 

    Although I would love to envision a time when Fred and his friends will come hang out at our house again, I won't hold my breath.

My question for all of you parents of sons(sorry to the moms and dads of daughters), how do you talk with your boys about girls? How do you start that conversation about making good choices and how not to be influenced by kids with different values than your parents? How do you know when there has been enough said? 

Ode to Lewie

     Today I would like to share a day from my past..  When my boys were little, summer was (and still is) my favorite time to spend with them.  Back when Lewis was a toddler, I worked nights and mornings were an awful chore. The South Lake school district can verify this if you would like me to pull up some tardy/truancy/lady-why-can't -you-get-this-kid-to-school-on-time letters...poor Fred. Anyway, the point is mornings were never my strong suit. But our summer mornings were glorious.
     Our day would always start with our dog King. He is a big boned hairy beast of a gentle giant mutt. Our days usually began by letting the doggy out in our pajamas-with Lewis riding piggy back on me and Freddy holding the door. Our back yard is tiny, I mean small, I mean almost so small we are sitting in our neighbors yard when we barbecue. When my boys were small though, my yard was just the right size.
     While the dog was relieving himself, the boys and I would forage from our garden pieces of broccoli, string beans, snap peas and if we were lucky-very tiny strawberries. This would be our breakfast. Under the sun, with the dog--every day.
     OH--and of course, at a certain point before, after, or during our meal there was usually bubbles.  Both my boys loved to chase bubbles.Heck I still love bubbles. But when they were smaller we would find the biggest bubble wand and bowl  and have bubble extravaganza's. At a certain point during our morning, my little piece of green would be a frothing mess of bubbles and a medley assortment of giggles and barks and crashes as tables and people would topple over and bubbles would spill and vegetables would have to be re-picked.
     I miss those beautiful mornings. Obviously I am feeling a little melancholia today. My baby is 9 and my biggest is 13 (holy crap!) and our mornings have definitely changed. I ran across a poem I wrote for Lewis one  summer when he was about 2. He was super opinionated even then. I  think I wrote this for my benefit, to try and understand him a little better. It is short and sweet, I hope you like it.

Morning shimmers with delight of summer
Feather-like winds blow laughter
Sparkling dew glistens from shining eyes
Baby browns reminiscent of trees
Open defiance stout like pine
Love in skin like spring
Lewie

Why I dance

Welcome to day 2 of  Whine & Cheese. For those of you know me well you know that these are my vices. I love to complain, drink wine, eat  cheese and make schmaltzy jokes. For those of you who don''t know me, the secret is out..
     What can I share with you that you havent' heard before? I haven't a clue. I don't know who is reading this or what you have experienced today.  However, I have  had a moment of clarity. An epiphany and , if you will indulge me, I will  reveal the moment. ..
     I dance. Sometimes I dance 4-5 times a week.  I escape the mild chaos that is my home, lace up my huaraches, grab the biggest bottle of water I can find, my favorite cd, and a towel---and I drive with my windows down, singing loudly and smiling at strangers until  I get to my class. My class has helped me rediscover myself.   While moving to the latin beats, I feel young again.   The turmoil of my life seems to fall off my shoulders like sweat and melt into the floor  to be  pounded into nothing by my dancing feet.

     During my day I can't help but think about the people who have let me down.  The ones I was raised to believe would always be there for me and hold me up when I really want to crawl away and hide. The last few years have been very difficult for me emotionally as well as physically.  The loss of  my best friend and father in law was a heavy blow. The loss of my sister and brother is challenging in another way. How strange to miss people who aren't gone.  The whole year- 2009-wrapped me in an ugly bubble of discontent and almost stole my smile and my hope.
     I won't even mention the people I spent the last five years of my life sharing time with.  That is an ache I am going to ignore for as long as possible. Except for one. She brought me to my first dance class. She was my dancing buddy for almost a year.She and I have known each other for a long time. I am so very tired of losing people who matter. I am exhausted holding onto petty grudges and the principles I espouse are hanging on by a thread. Tonight I shared a moment with someone who hurt me( Probably she didn't mean to, possibly I deserved it).My moment:  a simple greeting, a conversation and of course a hug.
     My epiphany happened as I drove away. I felt  as if a tiny crack in my heart was healed. Now I know that when I dance, my heartache disappears and I have peace. 

. 

Why am I blogging?

     To blog or not to blog has been the question in my head these last few months. Blogging seems like a wonderful way to share feelings and emotions . It seems like a fun way to keep in touch. It seems like a gesture of good faith, a way to share your life and truths with friends and strangers. Unless, like me, you are afraid of letting the true "you" shine. In that case, starting a blog is a terrifying venture.
    
     So the truth for me  is going to sometimes be ugly. Quite possibly, it won't be funny. It might even make you feel a little dirty.  I am tired of analyzing each word and gesture. I am exhausted from living in this vacuum of what people will think.   I would like to apologize before I even get started because I am really too tired to apologize after this.