Honesty

I started this blog to remember how to laugh. To find the joy in my life after the death of my youngest son. For the most part, it worked. I've laughed a lot. I've met new friends and the boundaries of my life have opened up beyond anything I could ever imagined.

But in focusing on all the positive, funny little things over the last four years, I never fully worked through the heart ache of losing my Shale. I just kept pushing that pain away, telling myself time will take care of the wound. When grief would rear it's ugly head I'd write a post and then close my computer and myself from actually working through it.

These last few months all that time delayed grief has been wresting on my shoulders like an angry Silver Backed Gorilla, thumping the back of my head and yanking on my hair as though bananas would magically sprout of my ears. It's been hard to forget.

Bringing home Jumby has been a dream come true and a joy but also a constant reminder of who isn't here, the invisible brother who lives only in the shadows of our hearts and behind the glass of a dusty picture frame.

It's been tough. I more often than not find myself struggling with guilt because I can no longer remember Bug's scent or the sounds of his laughter and I worry he will wonder if I love him less because I have a new son. When I'm not plagued with guilty thoughts over Bug then I'm freaking out wondering if I'm loving Jumby and his siblings enough or if I'm being unfair to them when thoughts of Shale creep in and take the shine off a sunny moment.

Because I'm a little more self aware now than I was immediately after Shalebug's passing, I recognize I'm struggling. I've spent time with a therapist, I've dutifully swallowed the little pills guaranteed to balance out my brain and put a smile on my face and I've wrestled with my emotions the same way my eldest son wrestles with the boys on the playground.

So I have been taking time off from my writing to get my head on straight. And I've also been laying on my couch moaning to the baby Jeebus and every one who will listen about the evils of germ infested children who keep passing one nasty virus to me after another. I can barely see the floor around my couch as it's scattered with used tissues and my damn dog perches herself on my shoulder so her her tongue can dart out like a frog's after a fly to lick any tasty morsels of snot before I can even manage to reach for the tissue. It's been (sarcasm) fun. (/sarcasm)

I just wanted to explain my lack of regular posting here. I feel tremendously shitty about neglecting my blog but at this point it's all I can do to keep my head above water and breathe. Literally and figuratively.

I promise I'm doing my best to find my funny bone again.

And decongest and stay germ free for a period longer than a nanosecond.

You're patience is appreciated and to my long time readers, I thank you. To my new readers, um, I am emotionally tortured and one day I'll write great odes about finding my sanity but maybe in the meantime you should check out the Bloggess. Heh. And to those who abandoned me? Here, I've a used tissue I'd like you to have.

Thanks for your patience.

Motivational Mommy

As a child, I was the definition of geek a highly competitive little girl. Perhaps it was because I suffered from middle child syndrome, over shadowed by my big brother Stretch's fantastic farting skills or my little sister, Mouse's wholesome demeanor or perhaps it was because I didn't have much else going for me other than the knobby knees, flat chest and stringy blonde hair. I had to do something to stand out and be seen in my family.

Everything I did I turned into a competition. Whether it was just washing the dishes, doing my homework or participating in sports, I was out to kill it and do it the very best.

My mother often tried to remind me that it wasn't possible for me to be the very best in everything I did.

Horse shit, I'd think to myself as I rolled my eyes at her and strenghtened my resolve to be the world's greatest citizen ever.

Sadly, my mother apparently knew what she was talking about (oh how it still hurts to admit that) and time ended up bruising my ego over and over again as I learned the harsh reality of the world: There is always someone more talented in the world than you are.

(Except when it comes to talking about dead kids and dildos and the ability to put ones feet behind their ears and walk across the kitchen floor using only their arse cheeks. I still rock that one like no one's betch. Heh.)

I soon grew up and having swallowed my pride more times than a person can count, was delighted to realize that while I may have failed at being the best at everything, I could concentrate my laser beam like talents on honing the next generation into being a better version of myself.

I mean, as a parent, is there anything better than molding your child into the person you wanted to be but failed at miserably, therefore be able to capture and RELIVE your glory days through the accomplishments of your child?

I think not.

If ever there was a reason to breed this would be it, I thought to myself as I tossed caution to the wind and convinced my husband that contraception was for sissies.

(Okay, maybe I didn't think that at the exact moment of conception. I may have been too busy moaning and telling him to hurry up. Ahem.)

Still, ten months later I birthed Tanis 2.o. A daughter destined to be the best mini-me EVAH.

*Rubs hands with glee.*

With the luck of some mighty fine genetics and years of constant indoctrination, my daughter has quite literally not fallen far from this tree. She is, like her mother, a pitbull of determination and the consumate competitor.

Praise the lawd for screwing up the first born. Can we say Type A personality anyone?

Fric loves competition. She (and this is where I bust out my mad maternal pride skills and brag her up as though she will be soley responsible for world peace, global gay rights and the cure for cancer,) is at the top of her class scholastically and one of the best athletes of her generation, er class of thirty kids.

In other words, she is just like me.

*Holds hand up for the high fives that are sure to follow.*

However, unlike myself at that age, Fric has something I never did. (Besides actual talent. Heh.) She has a mother who is has too much time on her hands and can thereby make sure she is at every basketball, volleyball and soccer game cheering her on to higher success.

Loosely translated: I pretend I'm her and drive her crazy while shaking my pompoms and acting like a possessed woman.

I had the opportunity to attend young Fric's first junior high track competition recently. Even better, I was elevated from the spectator's bench when one of the volunteers neglected to show up and the organizers needed someone to step up and grab a stop watch.

(Picture me jumping up and down, waving my hand while shouting, "Pick MEEEE!")

The day was fantastic, the weather perfect and my mind filled with long lost memories of my own track and field glory days. Visions of medals and ribbons danced through my mind as I held the coveted stop watch and puffed my chest with the power of one who timed the winner of all the field races.

Then, with little pomp and circumstance, it was my daughter's turn to chase her tail in circles all over the field. While she lined up quietly at the start line, concentrating on the task before her, I stood beside her with pride shooting out of every pore for I was sure, like me, my child would rock this 1500 meter race.

"Mom, stop, you are embarrassing me," she whined when I shouted "TEAM FRIC!!!" as the other runners lined up and waited for the gun to crack.

"Tough nuts, sugar bear, MOMMY LOVES YOU," I heckled as a group of thirteen year old boys sniggered behind my back.

Then it was business time, and hush fell over the runners and spectators, everyone braced for the starter pistol to shoot it's blank.

And with  a loud crack, they were off and my thumb eagerly pressed the start button to time what was sure to be my daughter's victory.

It was a 400 meter race track which meant almost four rotations for the runners. My daughter was in third position as they rounded the first lap.

"Smile for the camera honey," I cheered as she huffed and puffed past me, concentrating on both ignoring her mother and putting one foot in front of the other.

She smiled and then rolled her eyes at me as I looked at the stop watch in my hands and yelled at her as she passed, "HURRY UP KIDDO! CLOCK'S A-RACING."

As the other girls raced around the track, I cheered them on, each by name, offering encouragement and snapping pictures of their red faces as they passed me. I am nothing if not an equal opportunity cheerer.

One of the the boys behind me, waiting for his race to start after the girls were done, whispered to his friend, "Sheesh. That lady is LOUD."

(Oh, you little runt. Your turn is a coming, I thought to myself as I yelled even louder.)

Before I knew it, Fric was finishing up her second lap and she was now in second place and holding steady. Grabbing my camera I yelled, "Smile for your MOMMA!"

She didn't smile.

In fact, she kinda snarled as she went past.

I attributed it to her losing steam. I mean, it couldn't have anything to do with me shouting, "HURRY UP HONEY! TAKE HER! WHAT IS THERE A PIANO TIED TO YOUR ARSE???"

(I'm available for motivational speaking anytime, anywhere. Just email your requests.)

As she rounded the far corner on her third lap I glanced at the stop watch that was bouncing around my neck.

"Come on HURRICANE! YOU CAN DO THIS. SMILE FOR THE CAMERA!!!"

I am nothing if not supportive.

As she huffed and puffed past me, her face getting redder with every lap, my vision blurred and for a moment I relived every track meet I ever raced in. I no longer saw Fric, but the fragile competitive little blonde I once was.

"SMILE FOR MOMMY!" I cried as I tried to get an action shot to put in her scrap book.

"Shut UP MOM!" she hissed at me, out of breath.

"Go FRIC! GO! YOU CAN RUN FASTER THAN THIS! JUST PRETEND THERE IS AN ARMY OF ANGRY ZOMBIES ON YOUR HEELS," I yelled as she passed me.

She gave me the stink eye.

"GO FRIC GO!" I cried loudly as my daughter sprung into high gear and went for the kill.

I all but exploded with glee as she over took the lead rounding the final corner of the track and charged toward the finish line.

"GO DOODLEBUG GOOOO! THAT'S MY BABY! FASTER FASTER! DON'T MAKE ME CHASE YOU UP TO THE FINISH LINE! PUT SOME PEP IN THAT STEP! DON'T SLOW DOWN! GO! GO! YOU'RE ALMOST DONE!!!!"

With the stop watch in hand I watched as my daughter crossed the finish line first and ran straight into next week's regional competition.

"You did it!" I jumped with joy as I ran to record the winning time, abandoning my post, not caring about any of the other competitors who were still running their little preteen legs off.

"I'm so proud of you honey pie!" I said as I patted her on her sweaty back and leaned down to kiss the top of her sweat soaked hair.

She slowly looked up at me, shielding her hand from the bright summer sun.

"I kinda hate you right now."

"Ah honey. Those are words every mother loves to hear when her daughter is the WINNER," I smiled down and ignored the boys totally laughing at Fric and me.

"You are never coming to another track meet again."

"Face it Fric, I'm the wind beneath your wings. I inspired you," I laughed.

She may or may not have muttered 'Bite me,' under her breath.

"I can't wait till next week. I'm gonna lead you to victory. I'm gonna be the cattle prod that you never knew you needed. I'm gonna-"

She interrupted and said, "I'm getting some water. Don't follow me. I don't know you." And she stalked off with her friends while totally bragging about how awesome her mother was.

"Stick with me kid," I yelled. "I'll have you in the Olympics before you know it," I called after her.

Funny, she acted like she couldn't hear me.

That's okay though.

I'm totally planning on buying a bull horn for next weeks meet.

This reliving my youth bit is da bomb.

Electric Moment

When I was eighteen years old I went to a book signing with my close friend Sam. We stood in line for what seemed like forever to have Anne Rice scribble on our tattered soft cover books and we squealed like stereotypical school girls after Ms. Rice displayed a modicum of interest in the two of us asking about our lives and inquiring about our dreams for the future.

After that brief moment of time when the air crackled with excitement for Sam and myself, the two of us walked out of the trendy small book store, arm and arm and wandered into a nearby coffee shop so we could dissect our experience and relive each moment over and over again through our conversation.

Samantha, very much a poet, looked straight into my eyes and told me, "That was an electric moment in my life. A slice of life so vivid and outstanding I will cherish it until the day I die."

Her words echoed in my head and long after Samantha died and Anne Rice stopped writing about vampires, the phrase 'electric moment' lives on.

Wednesday morning, I relived that bookstore signing over and over in my head. I thought about all the electric moments I have had in my life and wondered, no, worried, that meeting my new son wouldn't be one of them.

What if he didn't like us? What if we didn't like him? What if he smelled?

I was bouncing around with nervous energy, trapped in a small vehicle hurling down a high way, annoying my darling husband with every worried glance I shot at him. The two hour car trip to meet our son seemed to take forever.

Even live tweeting didn't make the time go any faster.

Who may have forgotten to fill up her gas tank so that her husband is very annoyed with her? Oh ya. Me.

(It was an honest oversight. I swear I just forgot and didn't drive past the gas station the night before thinking I was too tired to bother and my husband could do it the next day. Really. Scouts honour.)

Who is fighting with her husband over what type of music to listen to? Oh ya, Me. I want Bach he wants something annoying.

(How can a man listen to brash rock and roll when his life is on the brink of a reality-changing precipice? Seriously dude. I don't get you.)

Have found a way to distract my grumpy nervous husband. I have him counting cows. If he finds 200 he gets a treat.

(Funny, Boo was unamused by this offer and my tweet. Hmmm.)

My husband is now telling me I am not allowed to listen to Dr. Horrible's Singalong blog. Fucking fuddy duddy.

(I'm about to be a new mommy. There should be a law stating it's mandatory to sing with Captain Hammer.)

Who should not be allowed to twitter while bouncing around in a small vehicle? Hubs is ready to kill me.

(It was getting hard to twitter with his fingers wrapped around my neck. Road trips with me are FUN. I swear.)

Minutes away from meeting my kid for the first time. Nervous? Check. Excited? Check. Fucking lost in weird city? Check.

(I don't care what you say dear hubs. If you don't know where you are or how to get where you need to be you are lost. Not directionally challenged. Full fledged LOST.)

Ever hear the saying "Don't poke the bear?" My husband is the bear and I am the sharp pointy stick. It's getting ugly over here.

(When one is ten minutes late to meet one's new son and emotionally charged, one should not politely insist freak out demanding one pull over to ask for directions. Unless one would like one's head bitten off by an annoyed spouse. Just so y'all know.)

Thankfully Boo and I finally got to be where we were suppose to be.

There are no adequate words to explain how one feels knowing her son is just on the other side of the door.

I can't even begin to explain how my heart burst into a million tiny pieces when my son was wheeled out to greet his father and I, smiling from ear to ear and asking for his first high-five.

Or how the ocean of grief I have been treading time in for the past three years suddenly parted like the Red Sea when my new son laughed so hard with me he all but wiggled out of his wheel chair and peed through his pants.

That morning was filled with one electric moment after another.

There will always be a cloud in my skies, a scar on my heart and a tear on my cheek for the little boy I loved and lost. But life hasn't seemed this vibrant for all of us in a very long time.

I've never been more delighted to squint at the blinding brightness of happiness.

Thanks for sharing this long road with my family and myself. If you hadn't been here to hold my hand along the way I can't guarantee I'd be wearing this silly mommy grin and wondering if it's wrong to use my son as a lint collector as he crawls on the floor.

It's with great pleasure I introduce you to my son. (Feel free to leave a blog pseudonym suggestion in the comment box. I'm stumped.)

One of our very first cuddles. He is fascinated with the size of my nose. Apparently, it's highly honkable.

My boy has tight fists. He's going to be a great boxer.

I could pose for pictures with him all day long. My son, however, has other ideas and is bored of this game.

Getting ready for his first sleep in his brand new forever bed. The puppy was eager to join him.

And finally, I'd like to thank Kristen, Catherine and Katie for throwing together a Redneck Shower for the kid and I. There are no adequate words to express our gratitude and affection for all of you.

Plus, I'm dying laughing at the prizes available and I can't wait to read how I'm not the only redneck mommy in the world. I can't be the only gal who has accidentally spray painted her son's penis with bright red paint. Can I?