She is the reason I decided to write this, because her strength amazes me.
...........
During his 30-year career in electrical engineering, my dad traveled often.
Europe. Tokyo. California. North Carolina.
He was often gone for months at a time, especially when I was young.
My memories of that time aren't of my father's absences. They're of my mother's reaction to them, the way she cried on the phone to him each night, the way she compulsively checked the locks on our doors and windows, the way she hovered over my younger sister and me.
She was immersed in fear of being alone.
Her anxiety carried over into other areas — the playground, state parks, the local pool. At the time, I didn't realize she fretted more than the other mothers. I thought all her panicking was the norm, that all moms hovered with outstretched arms.
As I got older, I attributed the constant worrying to her upbringing in an evangelical, fundamentalist, communal setting. My mother fled that place in her early 20s, but we visited my grandparents there twice a year. I hated it. We had to wear dresses all the time and people were always watching, evaluating your behavior and eager to chastise.
Everything, it seemed, was a sin.
For years, I blamed this watchful, judging environment for my mother's behavior.
And I blamed my grandmother, a cold and rigid woman who never hugged us or said, "I love you."
My grandmother was a small woman who pinned her hair up each day into a steel-wool bun. She wore dresses with three-quarter sleeves — because bare upper arms were believed to incite lust — and sensible shoes.
My grandfather was a quiet man. He didn't say much, but, in his own awkward way, sometimes tried to play with us. I have few memories of him.
My grandmother died suddenly when I was a college senior. My sisters and I flew to Kentucky.
I hadn't been there in years, having chosen to shun the place I hated as a child.
My grandparents lived on the campus of an evangelical boarding school for children -- kindergarten through high school. It was nestled deep in the mountains, in the midst of cabins belonging to coal miners and their families. My grandparents headed there in their early 20s, drawn by a firey woman who had founded the "Holiness Movement."
They were engaged to be married and hoped to spend their lives converting the mountains' unsaved souls.
My grandmother was assigned to teach school in an isolated outpost. She lived with a young woman, also a teacher, who had grown up in those mountains. Grandma was an outsider. She was from Pennsylvania.
Years passed. By the time I was born, my grandfather was running the school and a junior Bible college with Grandma as his assistant.
For decades they lived in an immaculate small house on campus.
In the years before her death, my grandmother began sorting and labeling things. It would make her passing more efficient, she told my mother and aunts.
When we arrived at the house after the funeral, we found stickers on every single piece of furniture. They indicated who was to receive each item. The only thing she hadn't marked was a box tucked away in a closet.
It was filled with cards and letters from my grandfather, written during their lengthy engagement.
And in those cards we learned my grandmother's secret, one she had kept ever since her early 20s, when she lived in that lonely outpost cabin.
One night, as she and her fellow teacher slept, two men broke a window and crawled into the cabin. They raped my grandmother and her friend.
She must have been badly injured. We pieced together a timeline from my grandfather's letters. She was hospitalized for several weeks.
Those letters revealed something else — the love my grandfather had for a woman I had always believed to be unloveable. He wrote lyrically, passionately, of the life they would share after their wedding. He filled each note with endearments, promising lifelong devotion.
He wrote all this while my grandmother recovered from being raped.
My mother, aunt and I read these letters and cried.
They had always suspected something bad had happened, but never knew the details.
The letters told us everything, how one of the rapists was the brother of my grandmother's teacher-friend. How her family, prominent and powerful within the small rural community, instructed her not to testify against either man. How my grandmother refused to be bullied and described, in painful, intimate detail the horror of that night.
I imagine the time in which this happened. I imagine my grandmother's prim nature. I imagine how difficult that must have been for her, to share something so graphic with strangers.
The men were acquitted. And for the rest of her life, my grandmother lived in the same county as the rapists.
This I cannot imagine.
As we sat there, on my grandmother's guest-room bed, my mom and aunt recalled how, every time my grandfather went out of town, Grandma nagged them to stay close to the house. After dinner, she flitted from room to room, doublechecking the locks on windows and doors.
Oh.
My mother made the connection at the same time I did.
"I think that's why I got so upset every time your dad left town," she said. "I never realized it, but we grew up sharing her fears, even though we didn't know what caused them."
We sat there silently, amidst all those cards and letters piled on the bed, and I remember thinking how sad it was that unrelenting, constant fear -- though no fault of her own -- was my grandmother's legacy to her daughters.
And the men responsible went unpunished.
At Julie's request, I've added this post to Hump Day Hmm. Go here to read other contributions.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Monday, January 07, 2008
Pshaw! Those silly, blushing menfolk
Today, a friend of mine told some co-workers about my blog.
Male co-workers.
Who, upon pulling up this here blog and reading my previous post, reportedly turned scarlet and said, "Oh, I can't read this."
Which brings us to this evening's topic:
What did these two men -- both married with children -- find so disturbing?
Is it that women have (*gasp*) periods and PMS? That women have sex with their significant others? (when they're not PMSing, that is)
Or could it be the fact that women openly discuss such things?
My bet's on No. 3.
Hubs says, "There's just some things you just don't want to know."
He says he's referring to sex and periods. I think, however, that what Hubs and these men don't want to know is that their wives and daughters are out there -- either IRL or the blogosphere -- having conversations about this stuff.
Because -- *evil cackle* -- that means we might also be talking about them.
Boys, boys, boys: It's time you learn. Women talk about everything -- and yes, sometimes you are part of the discussion. Our mothers talked. Our grandmothers talked. We accepted the torch long ago, back in 5th grade, when we started comparing bra sizes or worrying about periods that hadn't yet begun.
It's called the sisterhood, guys, and I'm not the only woman who's grateful for its existence. How liberating to know that you can look to other women -- in the coffee shop, at a book club, or on a blog -- for comfort, commiseration, or just a long hearty laugh -- when you most need that kind of support.
We sisters turn readily to one another in times of trouble. We confess our vulnerabilities, share our darkest fears and yeah, toss out a few ribald jokes. And then, eagerly, we scan our comments pages, where we know we'll find words of encouragement or a few LOLs.
Sometimes, we stumble across a blog whose aching, raw honesty humbles and touches us. We continue reading -- this blog and others -- following our sisters as their stories unfold, thinking of them, reaching out to them.
The ability to be open and honest with other women is empowering.
Too bad you menfolk are so afraid of it.
------------------------------------- moooooooving on ..............
Finally, some belated holiday photos.
Here's C., my stepdaughter...
... with little sis and bro.
And here's a hasty group shot taken just so I could prove to you that C. does indeed make me look short and stumpy. Please note: I am wearing heels.
Male co-workers.
Who, upon pulling up this here blog and reading my previous post, reportedly turned scarlet and said, "Oh, I can't read this."
Which brings us to this evening's topic:
What did these two men -- both married with children -- find so disturbing?
Is it that women have (*gasp*) periods and PMS? That women have sex with their significant others? (when they're not PMSing, that is)
Or could it be the fact that women openly discuss such things?
My bet's on No. 3.
Hubs says, "There's just some things you just don't want to know."
He says he's referring to sex and periods. I think, however, that what Hubs and these men don't want to know is that their wives and daughters are out there -- either IRL or the blogosphere -- having conversations about this stuff.
Because -- *evil cackle* -- that means we might also be talking about them.
Boys, boys, boys: It's time you learn. Women talk about everything -- and yes, sometimes you are part of the discussion. Our mothers talked. Our grandmothers talked. We accepted the torch long ago, back in 5th grade, when we started comparing bra sizes or worrying about periods that hadn't yet begun.
It's called the sisterhood, guys, and I'm not the only woman who's grateful for its existence. How liberating to know that you can look to other women -- in the coffee shop, at a book club, or on a blog -- for comfort, commiseration, or just a long hearty laugh -- when you most need that kind of support.
We sisters turn readily to one another in times of trouble. We confess our vulnerabilities, share our darkest fears and yeah, toss out a few ribald jokes. And then, eagerly, we scan our comments pages, where we know we'll find words of encouragement or a few LOLs.
Sometimes, we stumble across a blog whose aching, raw honesty humbles and touches us. We continue reading -- this blog and others -- following our sisters as their stories unfold, thinking of them, reaching out to them.
The ability to be open and honest with other women is empowering.
Too bad you menfolk are so afraid of it.
------------------------------------- moooooooving on ..............
Finally, some belated holiday photos.
Here's C., my stepdaughter...
... with little sis and bro.
And here's a hasty group shot taken just so I could prove to you that C. does indeed make me look short and stumpy. Please note: I am wearing heels.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Random thoughts of a PMSing woman
As many times as I've snapped at him tonight, how can he still think he's getting the bow-chicka-bow-wow treatment later? That portion of the male anatomy must zap millions of brain cells every time it goes on high alert.
Has my son always possessed such a piercing scream?
Why did Hubs think it was a good idea to let our daughter watch some History Channel dinosaur program in which a newly hatched baby dino is consumed by giant ants? And why is he surprised that she is now afraid to go sleep because she might dream about carnivorous insects?
Dear God: If Hubs' ex-wife is ever again going to ask us to help buy a car for my unemployed stepson, please let her call tonight. And please let me be the one to answer the phone.
P.S. If the firemen ever have to come back to our house, please let my bedroom be clean. Oh, and if I could be wearing something cute (like clothes) as opposed to my raggedy flannel PJs, that would be mighty nice too.
Do nipples get bigger in proportion to boob sag? Because something's gone wildly awry here? All I know is none of the parts are where I last saw 'em.
Has my son always possessed such a piercing scream?
Why did Hubs think it was a good idea to let our daughter watch some History Channel dinosaur program in which a newly hatched baby dino is consumed by giant ants? And why is he surprised that she is now afraid to go sleep because she might dream about carnivorous insects?
Dear God: If Hubs' ex-wife is ever again going to ask us to help buy a car for my unemployed stepson, please let her call tonight. And please let me be the one to answer the phone.
P.S. If the firemen ever have to come back to our house, please let my bedroom be clean. Oh, and if I could be wearing something cute (like clothes) as opposed to my raggedy flannel PJs, that would be mighty nice too.
Do nipples get bigger in proportion to boob sag? Because something's gone wildly awry here? All I know is none of the parts are where I last saw 'em.
Friday, January 04, 2008
A letter to my teenage self
OK, at Queeny's request, I'm writing a letter to my 13-year-old self to satisfy the meme currently circulating...
Dear Nerd Girl,
Don't worry about the bottle-thick glasses, the braces or the headgear. This summer you're getting contacts and a spiral perm. The braces are coming off. Also, you'll finally see a growth spurt in the boob department.
By the time you head back to school in the fall, people will think you're a new girl. For like a whole week!
A word of advice from someone who's been there: Don't use your dad's pliers to zip up those skintight jeans you just shimmied into. Because when the pliers slip off the zipper and you bonk yourself in the forehead with them, your mother will tell you that a purple goose egg is not a valid excuse for missing school.
Also, a cold spoon doesn't get rid of hickeys, just like makeup doesn't hide them.
Besides, your first kiss shouldn't be with a guy who just ate a moon pie. Eeeeeeeewwwwwwwww.
I think that about covers it.
Oops, forgot something.
That flashdance craze involving leg warmers and off-the-shoulder ripped shirts?
Watch the movie. Dance right along with Jennifer. But please, skip the compulsion to shop afterward. You won't understand now. But you WILL thank me later.
Ta-ta,
Cathy at 37
Dear Nerd Girl,
Don't worry about the bottle-thick glasses, the braces or the headgear. This summer you're getting contacts and a spiral perm. The braces are coming off. Also, you'll finally see a growth spurt in the boob department.
By the time you head back to school in the fall, people will think you're a new girl. For like a whole week!
A word of advice from someone who's been there: Don't use your dad's pliers to zip up those skintight jeans you just shimmied into. Because when the pliers slip off the zipper and you bonk yourself in the forehead with them, your mother will tell you that a purple goose egg is not a valid excuse for missing school.
Also, a cold spoon doesn't get rid of hickeys, just like makeup doesn't hide them.
Besides, your first kiss shouldn't be with a guy who just ate a moon pie. Eeeeeeeewwwwwwwww.
I think that about covers it.
Oops, forgot something.
That flashdance craze involving leg warmers and off-the-shoulder ripped shirts?
Watch the movie. Dance right along with Jennifer. But please, skip the compulsion to shop afterward. You won't understand now. But you WILL thank me later.
Ta-ta,
Cathy at 37
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Goodbye 2007! Don't let the door hit you and all that ....
I can't say I'm sorry to see you go, really.
You brought me an injured shoulder, six freaking months of mono and a holiday season that will be remembered for my stepson's arrest and the three nights I spent in a doctor's office holding a sick child. Oh, yeah, and Hubs' Christmas Eve incapacitation, which involved more whining than my bout with mono. And, of course, the firefighters' special viewing of my maternity bra.
And the mutant rats. Can't forget those.
Or the hair-cutting incident, which occurred 24 hours after my husband shooed me from the house, saying, "You have to learn to trust me."
Even so...
... you also brought me many precious days with these precious little people.
So I suppose I can't complain.
(Much.)
I am grateful ...
... that I will be reunited with Hubs in the next hour after a six-day absence. I'm grateful for our life together. For my poised and gorgeous stepdaughter, even though she makes me look short and stumpy. And for my stepson, who is a good kid with a good heart, despite his efforts to convince us otherwise. (If you've found this blog, T., I mean what I said.)
Happy New Year, all!
(and yes, that is me in the background, in my usual sexy at-home attire)
You brought me an injured shoulder, six freaking months of mono and a holiday season that will be remembered for my stepson's arrest and the three nights I spent in a doctor's office holding a sick child. Oh, yeah, and Hubs' Christmas Eve incapacitation, which involved more whining than my bout with mono. And, of course, the firefighters' special viewing of my maternity bra.
And the mutant rats. Can't forget those.
Or the hair-cutting incident, which occurred 24 hours after my husband shooed me from the house, saying, "You have to learn to trust me."
Even so...
... you also brought me many precious days with these precious little people.
So I suppose I can't complain.
(Much.)
I am grateful ...
... that I will be reunited with Hubs in the next hour after a six-day absence. I'm grateful for our life together. For my poised and gorgeous stepdaughter, even though she makes me look short and stumpy. And for my stepson, who is a good kid with a good heart, despite his efforts to convince us otherwise. (If you've found this blog, T., I mean what I said.)
Happy New Year, all!
(and yes, that is me in the background, in my usual sexy at-home attire)
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Someone wake me when January's here, please
Still no power in the master bedroom. (Electricians? They vanish until after New Year's.)
Hubs left Dec. 26 to cover all the practices and events leading up to the Cotton Bowl. He's still sick, however, so I know he's not enjoying all those posh receptions or the free hockey admission tonight, right? Or those premium box seats.
Riiiiiiiiiight.
I do not begrudge him his hotel room. The hotel room with electricity.
My son is over his ear infection.
My daughter, however, caught Hubs' nasty virus and I've had no sleep for the past four nights.
OK, yeah, you got me. I do hate him for his hotel room and uninterrupted sleep.
Hate. Him.
I am coming down with something, likely the same horrible virus.
I watched something the other night -- maybe 48 Hours? -- and at some point people were saying that Christ's birth actually took place in April.
Are you fucking kidding me?
I've spent countless Christmas holidays either being ill or tending to other sick people and NOW they tell me that all these many years we could have been celebrating in the SPRING? When it's warm? When the mall isn't loaded with germs?
So who the hell picked gloomy December, better known as The Month of Colds and Flu?
That's just freaking cruel.
after re-reading this, i'm thinking perhaps my medication needs adjusting
Hubs left Dec. 26 to cover all the practices and events leading up to the Cotton Bowl. He's still sick, however, so I know he's not enjoying all those posh receptions or the free hockey admission tonight, right? Or those premium box seats.
Riiiiiiiiiight.
I do not begrudge him his hotel room. The hotel room with electricity.
My son is over his ear infection.
My daughter, however, caught Hubs' nasty virus and I've had no sleep for the past four nights.
OK, yeah, you got me. I do hate him for his hotel room and uninterrupted sleep.
Hate. Him.
I am coming down with something, likely the same horrible virus.
I watched something the other night -- maybe 48 Hours? -- and at some point people were saying that Christ's birth actually took place in April.
Are you fucking kidding me?
I've spent countless Christmas holidays either being ill or tending to other sick people and NOW they tell me that all these many years we could have been celebrating in the SPRING? When it's warm? When the mall isn't loaded with germs?
So who the hell picked gloomy December, better known as The Month of Colds and Flu?
That's just freaking cruel.
after re-reading this, i'm thinking perhaps my medication needs adjusting
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
A Christmas of Calamities
Desperate times.
I was actually eager to come to work this morning because – omg, two days without Internet access and my fingers had started to shrivel and fall off ... because, you know, I clearly didn't need them anymore.
On the Eve of Christmas Eve, the power in the master bedroom went off. Hubs fiddled with the fuse box and got part of the room powered up, and then there was this pop and a hideous burning smell.
"Fire in the attic!" Hubs yelled. "Call 911 and get the kids out of here!"
Tootie and my stepdaughter were already up, having smelled something strange in Tootie's room. I snatched a sleeping E-man out from his bed and we all headed outside.
Minutes later, the first fire engine pulled up. The E-man was agog.
So was his mommy, during the few seconds, that is, that she forgot the house might be on fire.
Firemen! Oh, goody! Merry Christmas to me!
Then all rationality returned when I remembered the state of our bedroom — which, given that we had just returned from a weekend away — looked as though 20 sugar-fueled toddlers had romped through it.
And yes, fleetingly, I did wonder: Could I maybe dash in and tidy up before they start, you know, putting out flames?
As it turns out, there was no fire. There is, obviously, a problem with our wiring. An electrician is coming tonight. Meanwhile, we have no power in that part of the house. And since the previous homeowner did terrible things with the phone lines underneath the house, the wireless unit thingy is operational only in our bedroom.
I'm not sure who was more horrified by the realization that we would be without the Internet — me or my stepson.
"You mean I can't get online?" he asked over and over. "At all?"
Hey, buddy, you're supposedly grounded from MySpace. I'm the one who's going to be suffering here.
By Christmas Eve, Hubs was curled up on the couch, hacking and whimpering under an afghan, while I hurriedly assembled and wrapped toys.
"I think I hab a feber," he sniffled. "Can you beel my borehead?"
It's been joy, joy, joy around these parts, let me tell you.
So. Hubs remains ill. We still have no power. No Internet. *sob*
But hey, I can now say I've had firemen in my bedroom.
If only they hadn't been greeted by the sight of my old, stretched-out maternity bra dangling from the closet door, which, of course, is conveniently located next to the fuse box.
*blush*
I was actually eager to come to work this morning because – omg, two days without Internet access and my fingers had started to shrivel and fall off ... because, you know, I clearly didn't need them anymore.
On the Eve of Christmas Eve, the power in the master bedroom went off. Hubs fiddled with the fuse box and got part of the room powered up, and then there was this pop and a hideous burning smell.
"Fire in the attic!" Hubs yelled. "Call 911 and get the kids out of here!"
Tootie and my stepdaughter were already up, having smelled something strange in Tootie's room. I snatched a sleeping E-man out from his bed and we all headed outside.
Minutes later, the first fire engine pulled up. The E-man was agog.
So was his mommy, during the few seconds, that is, that she forgot the house might be on fire.
Firemen! Oh, goody! Merry Christmas to me!
Then all rationality returned when I remembered the state of our bedroom — which, given that we had just returned from a weekend away — looked as though 20 sugar-fueled toddlers had romped through it.
And yes, fleetingly, I did wonder: Could I maybe dash in and tidy up before they start, you know, putting out flames?
As it turns out, there was no fire. There is, obviously, a problem with our wiring. An electrician is coming tonight. Meanwhile, we have no power in that part of the house. And since the previous homeowner did terrible things with the phone lines underneath the house, the wireless unit thingy is operational only in our bedroom.
I'm not sure who was more horrified by the realization that we would be without the Internet — me or my stepson.
"You mean I can't get online?" he asked over and over. "At all?"
Hey, buddy, you're supposedly grounded from MySpace. I'm the one who's going to be suffering here.
By Christmas Eve, Hubs was curled up on the couch, hacking and whimpering under an afghan, while I hurriedly assembled and wrapped toys.
"I think I hab a feber," he sniffled. "Can you beel my borehead?"
It's been joy, joy, joy around these parts, let me tell you.
So. Hubs remains ill. We still have no power. No Internet. *sob*
But hey, I can now say I've had firemen in my bedroom.
If only they hadn't been greeted by the sight of my old, stretched-out maternity bra dangling from the closet door, which, of course, is conveniently located next to the fuse box.
*blush*
Friday, December 21, 2007
Shut up, ovaries!
Let this be a warning: Do not drink and Flickr. Especially when experiencing holiday-induced nostalgia.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
O Holy Night ... with a little Barbie on the side
This was written last night, but I couldn't get Blogger to cooperate with posting photos.
So there I was, wallowing in all my holiday misery — sick child, arrested stepson, impending visit to the in-laws, blah, blah, blah...
And then B.A., that self-proclaimed Godless Heathen, just had to go and post this, thereby crashing my pity party.
So I listened to my favorite carol of all time.
Then I peeked in on the now-sleeping sick toddler, who, curled up in his favorite position, suddenly looked all babylike (*sigh*) and pffft ...
... there went tonight's intended bitchy post.
Ah, well.
Lest you think I'm getting too gushy, let me direct you to these here Barbie pics.
For context, go here.
*Note: I think perhaps I embarrassed B., as he has NOT sent me the really hardcore ones. But you'll get the general idea from these. Just take things one step further in your imagination. Oh, and pretend that one pic isn't cropped.
So there I was, wallowing in all my holiday misery — sick child, arrested stepson, impending visit to the in-laws, blah, blah, blah...
And then B.A., that self-proclaimed Godless Heathen, just had to go and post this, thereby crashing my pity party.
So I listened to my favorite carol of all time.
Then I peeked in on the now-sleeping sick toddler, who, curled up in his favorite position, suddenly looked all babylike (*sigh*) and pffft ...
... there went tonight's intended bitchy post.
Ah, well.
Lest you think I'm getting too gushy, let me direct you to these here Barbie pics.
For context, go here.
*Note: I think perhaps I embarrassed B., as he has NOT sent me the really hardcore ones. But you'll get the general idea from these. Just take things one step further in your imagination. Oh, and pretend that one pic isn't cropped.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
'Tis the season of plague...
... or, as one friend and fellow mama put it:
"I am just one virus away from my goal weight."
"I am just one virus away from my goal weight."
Sunday, December 16, 2007
How do we make him see?
Update to previous post:
My stepson will face a felony charge if the police/prosecutor decide to pursue this. And despite our explanations as to why this would be very bad, T. doesn't seem to be sufficiently concerned.
I am at a loss.
He's spending the weekend at our house. Initial plans were that he would stay the week and his mom (who's retired) would take him from our house to school and back again each day. (He goes to school in another district, 30 minutes away from us.) I thought it was a brilliant plan. Here at our house, we have one television, one computer and one phone, which is not a cordless. (Oh, and it's located in our bedroom, so there's no privacy for a teen who's trying to sneak a call to his girlfriend because he's been grounded from his cell phone.) And of course, there's a very lively toddler and chatty preschooler, who don't understand a teenager's love of sleeping in on weekend mornings, particularly after a late night at the police station.
Already, T. has been subjected to endless Wiggles dancing and episodes of Little Bear. Here at Chez Arkie Mama we don't scare 'em straight -- we Noggin 'em back onto the path of righteousness.
Now, however, his mom says she wants to take him home tomorrow.
Honestly, I'm not optimistic about the next few months. For one, there's no telling what will result from this incident. Even if he emerges unscathed (legally), he doesn't appear to have learned anything from it.
So.
How do you get a 16-year-old to understand the seriousness of the trouble he's in? And how do you prevent him from getting into more when the parents live in two different households 30 minutes apart and have differing ideas as to how this latest mess should be addressed?
I, of course, am a snooping, meddling stepmother (god bless mysp*ce and the arrogance of teenagers who don't realize that we "stupid parents" actually know how to find them on it) who has to walk a fine line so as not to anger or undercut the bioparents.
It's frustrating. It's depressing. Because even if he gets out of this one, he lives in a small town and will get busted again, probably quite soon given what happened last night.
My stepson is such a bright kid with so much potential.
There's got to be a way to pull him (even if he's kicking and screaming) through this. I hope.
My stepson will face a felony charge if the police/prosecutor decide to pursue this. And despite our explanations as to why this would be very bad, T. doesn't seem to be sufficiently concerned.
I am at a loss.
He's spending the weekend at our house. Initial plans were that he would stay the week and his mom (who's retired) would take him from our house to school and back again each day. (He goes to school in another district, 30 minutes away from us.) I thought it was a brilliant plan. Here at our house, we have one television, one computer and one phone, which is not a cordless. (Oh, and it's located in our bedroom, so there's no privacy for a teen who's trying to sneak a call to his girlfriend because he's been grounded from his cell phone.) And of course, there's a very lively toddler and chatty preschooler, who don't understand a teenager's love of sleeping in on weekend mornings, particularly after a late night at the police station.
Already, T. has been subjected to endless Wiggles dancing and episodes of Little Bear. Here at Chez Arkie Mama we don't scare 'em straight -- we Noggin 'em back onto the path of righteousness.
Now, however, his mom says she wants to take him home tomorrow.
Honestly, I'm not optimistic about the next few months. For one, there's no telling what will result from this incident. Even if he emerges unscathed (legally), he doesn't appear to have learned anything from it.
So.
How do you get a 16-year-old to understand the seriousness of the trouble he's in? And how do you prevent him from getting into more when the parents live in two different households 30 minutes apart and have differing ideas as to how this latest mess should be addressed?
I, of course, am a snooping, meddling stepmother (god bless mysp*ce and the arrogance of teenagers who don't realize that we "stupid parents" actually know how to find them on it) who has to walk a fine line so as not to anger or undercut the bioparents.
It's frustrating. It's depressing. Because even if he gets out of this one, he lives in a small town and will get busted again, probably quite soon given what happened last night.
My stepson is such a bright kid with so much potential.
There's got to be a way to pull him (even if he's kicking and screaming) through this. I hope.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Bad night
Those issues I mentioned my stepson having? During the debate over whether he should have a car?
They just got infinitely worse. We were summoned from a Christmas party tonight by Hubs' ex. My stepson was at the police department. I'm waiting for Hubs to get home. He's bringing T. with him. I'd say at this point there's a fairly decent chance we're about to have a teenage boy living with us.
I'm worried about my stepson. He's 16, too young to be screwing up his life.
And I feel horrible for Hubs. His face, when he took that call...
Awful.
They just got infinitely worse. We were summoned from a Christmas party tonight by Hubs' ex. My stepson was at the police department. I'm waiting for Hubs to get home. He's bringing T. with him. I'd say at this point there's a fairly decent chance we're about to have a teenage boy living with us.
I'm worried about my stepson. He's 16, too young to be screwing up his life.
And I feel horrible for Hubs. His face, when he took that call...
Awful.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Green goo and Barbies -- you know you want to read this one
Last night, while Hubs was reading the kids their second bedtime story, I decided to throw in a load of laundry.
The new bottle of detergent, however, refused to open.
I ran it under hot water, banged it against the kitchen counter a few times, hoping to loosen it up, but no luck.
And thus began this conversation with myself:
I'll just go get Hubs to open it.
Why? Used to be a time when you dealt with this sort of thing on your own. Because, you know, you were an independent woman who didn't have to run to Hubs with a detergent bottle or a jar of spaghetti sauce or ...
OK, OK, I get the point. But the damn thing won't OPEN.
Well bang it against the counter again. You've got to regain your self-sufficiency. No need to depend on the Man of the House. So show me you've still got it. Open the detergent.
At this point, Hubs is interrupted in his reading by all the clamoring in the kitchen.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
And then ...
"Oh, shit!"
"What happened?" he asked dashing into the kitchen, where he immediately hydroplaned across the tile floor.
"What the hell?" he gasped, looking at the neon-green goo that covered the floor and cabinets.
"This looks like a scene out of Ghostbusters."
"Well, I was trying to open this detergent, and it ... well, it broke."
Hubs rolled his eyes.
It took several rounds of vinegar and towels before we concluded that our floor no longer had the surface of an ice rink.
As we sprawled on the couches with our glasses of wine, he asked, "Why didn't you bring that to me? I would have opened it for you."
And Premenstrual Cathy snarled, "Why should I be forced to go to a MAN to do something I should be able to do myself?! Grrr."
Hubs, focusing immediately on the telltale snarl, wisely dropped the subject.
---------------------------------------------------
In other news, I am now in possession of the slutty Barbie pics. I'm thinking about posting them elsewhere so that you won't open up this here Site of Maternal Serenity and get blasted by pictures of Barbie romping with various partners on the couch. First, however, I have a technical glitch that will require B.'s assistance. (having trouble opening most of the photos -- B., if you're reading this - help!)
Ooh, and maybe just for fun, I'll set up a little Q&A with B. and you guys can hear for yourselves how all this came to pass.
(He is not, however, allowed to describe how I tripped and fell on my face for no apparent reason in downtown Memphis.)
All right, I'm up way past my already-late bedtime.
Photos tomorrow. Somewhere.
The new bottle of detergent, however, refused to open.
I ran it under hot water, banged it against the kitchen counter a few times, hoping to loosen it up, but no luck.
And thus began this conversation with myself:
I'll just go get Hubs to open it.
Why? Used to be a time when you dealt with this sort of thing on your own. Because, you know, you were an independent woman who didn't have to run to Hubs with a detergent bottle or a jar of spaghetti sauce or ...
OK, OK, I get the point. But the damn thing won't OPEN.
Well bang it against the counter again. You've got to regain your self-sufficiency. No need to depend on the Man of the House. So show me you've still got it. Open the detergent.
At this point, Hubs is interrupted in his reading by all the clamoring in the kitchen.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
And then ...
"Oh, shit!"
"What happened?" he asked dashing into the kitchen, where he immediately hydroplaned across the tile floor.
"What the hell?" he gasped, looking at the neon-green goo that covered the floor and cabinets.
"This looks like a scene out of Ghostbusters."
"Well, I was trying to open this detergent, and it ... well, it broke."
Hubs rolled his eyes.
It took several rounds of vinegar and towels before we concluded that our floor no longer had the surface of an ice rink.
As we sprawled on the couches with our glasses of wine, he asked, "Why didn't you bring that to me? I would have opened it for you."
And Premenstrual Cathy snarled, "Why should I be forced to go to a MAN to do something I should be able to do myself?! Grrr."
Hubs, focusing immediately on the telltale snarl, wisely dropped the subject.
---------------------------------------------------
In other news, I am now in possession of the slutty Barbie pics. I'm thinking about posting them elsewhere so that you won't open up this here Site of Maternal Serenity and get blasted by pictures of Barbie romping with various partners on the couch. First, however, I have a technical glitch that will require B.'s assistance. (having trouble opening most of the photos -- B., if you're reading this - help!)
Ooh, and maybe just for fun, I'll set up a little Q&A with B. and you guys can hear for yourselves how all this came to pass.
(He is not, however, allowed to describe how I tripped and fell on my face for no apparent reason in downtown Memphis.)
All right, I'm up way past my already-late bedtime.
Photos tomorrow. Somewhere.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Stop the holiday whirl -- I want off!
OK, I'm actually a little calmer than I was a few days ago, but that could be the Benedryl I'm taking for this cold my daughter so generously passed on to me.
Anyway, I've been a bad bloggy friend. I'm going to begin catching up on my blog-reading tonight.
Thanks to all of you, dear readers, for your support and insight during my days-long panic attack. Your comments made me feel less crazy and evil.
So. Stepson is not getting a car and -- gasp! -- despite my fears, the matter was settled amicably.
And Hubs told my brother-in-law that we couldn't continue to buy all these of holiday presents for people we don't know. AND HE STOOD HIS GROUND. This is progress, people, real progress.
Actually, I think my PMS (combined with holiday stress) was scaring him. Perhaps now is the time to tell him that I still don't want to go to my in-laws, even though we'll be back before Christmas Eve?
Oh, I dread this. More later as to why I got off on the wrong foot with these people.
For now, I'll end with this exchange between Stepdaughter and myself during a shopping trip Sunday.
Scene: We are in the car, headed to the next store.
CATHY: [squeals!] Hey, that's Bon Jovi! I used to love them! [turns up radio until "Bad Medicine" is blaring.]
STEPDAUGHTER: You mean this isn't a new band? I thought they just came out.
CATHY: Oh dear child, this band was HUGE when I was in junior high and high school. You've heard "You Give Love a Bad Name" or "Livin on a Prayer" haven't you?
Stepdaughter shakes her head.
CATHY: No way! What about "Wanted, dead or alive" -- you've heard that one, surely.
STEPDAUGHTER: [shaking head again] No. I've only heard that song that just came out, you know, the one they play on the country music or easy listening stations.
omigod, one of my big-hair bands is now considered "easy-listening"
oh, my aching ego
Anyway, I've been a bad bloggy friend. I'm going to begin catching up on my blog-reading tonight.
Thanks to all of you, dear readers, for your support and insight during my days-long panic attack. Your comments made me feel less crazy and evil.
So. Stepson is not getting a car and -- gasp! -- despite my fears, the matter was settled amicably.
And Hubs told my brother-in-law that we couldn't continue to buy all these of holiday presents for people we don't know. AND HE STOOD HIS GROUND. This is progress, people, real progress.
Actually, I think my PMS (combined with holiday stress) was scaring him. Perhaps now is the time to tell him that I still don't want to go to my in-laws, even though we'll be back before Christmas Eve?
Oh, I dread this. More later as to why I got off on the wrong foot with these people.
For now, I'll end with this exchange between Stepdaughter and myself during a shopping trip Sunday.
Scene: We are in the car, headed to the next store.
CATHY: [squeals!] Hey, that's Bon Jovi! I used to love them! [turns up radio until "Bad Medicine" is blaring.]
STEPDAUGHTER: You mean this isn't a new band? I thought they just came out.
CATHY: Oh dear child, this band was HUGE when I was in junior high and high school. You've heard "You Give Love a Bad Name" or "Livin on a Prayer" haven't you?
Stepdaughter shakes her head.
CATHY: No way! What about "Wanted, dead or alive" -- you've heard that one, surely.
STEPDAUGHTER: [shaking head again] No. I've only heard that song that just came out, you know, the one they play on the country music or easy listening stations.
omigod, one of my big-hair bands is now considered "easy-listening"
oh, my aching ego
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Why Christmas makes me effing crazy
On my side, the Christmas name-drawing means our family has to shop for two people. We'll also get a present for my nephew. So that's three.
On Hubs' side, we've been given a list of eight.
Tonight, as I stressed over finances and a Christmas budget, I scanned Hubs' list of this year's names.
Brandon.
Brandon?
Who the hell is Brandon?
I've heard the name ... think, Cathy, think ...
Oh, yeah.
Brandon is my brother-in-law's wife's son-in-law.
We've never met this Brandon person. He's never been at any family gatherings. Neither has his wife. We've never met her either.
But we're supposed to buy Christmas presents for these people, including my brother-in-law's grandkids.
We cannot afford it.
Hubs has asked his brother -- who organizes the drawing each year -- to either abandon the practice or at least pare it down a little. After all, we don't even know some of these people we're buying gifts for year after year.
But oh no, it's family tradition and blah, blah, blah...
Even at a $20 minimum per person, we easily spend $200 a year on this one name-drawing, due to the number of names we're given.
I hate it. It makes me bitter and resentful. I'm pissed off every second that we're shopping and buying stupid alarm clocks for young adult people we never see or hear from.
This year, after my latest panic attack, Hubs put a call into his brother's house to tell him we just can't keep doing this.
If I hear Hubs caving, you will hear my shrieking from here to Canada.
And now I'm going to go refill my wineglass.
On Hubs' side, we've been given a list of eight.
Tonight, as I stressed over finances and a Christmas budget, I scanned Hubs' list of this year's names.
Brandon.
Brandon?
Who the hell is Brandon?
I've heard the name ... think, Cathy, think ...
Oh, yeah.
Brandon is my brother-in-law's wife's son-in-law.
We've never met this Brandon person. He's never been at any family gatherings. Neither has his wife. We've never met her either.
But we're supposed to buy Christmas presents for these people, including my brother-in-law's grandkids.
We cannot afford it.
Hubs has asked his brother -- who organizes the drawing each year -- to either abandon the practice or at least pare it down a little. After all, we don't even know some of these people we're buying gifts for year after year.
But oh no, it's family tradition and blah, blah, blah...
Even at a $20 minimum per person, we easily spend $200 a year on this one name-drawing, due to the number of names we're given.
I hate it. It makes me bitter and resentful. I'm pissed off every second that we're shopping and buying stupid alarm clocks for young adult people we never see or hear from.
This year, after my latest panic attack, Hubs put a call into his brother's house to tell him we just can't keep doing this.
If I hear Hubs caving, you will hear my shrieking from here to Canada.
And now I'm going to go refill my wineglass.
Friday, December 07, 2007
She looked for us...
... as she stood on the stage, preparing to sing the first carol.
Pensive. Searching.
And then she spotted her mama and brother, off to the side.
Hubs captured her image, just as she waved.
To be sought after, needed. It makes my heart hurt. In a good way.
Pensive. Searching.
And then she spotted her mama and brother, off to the side.
Hubs captured her image, just as she waved.
To be sought after, needed. It makes my heart hurt. In a good way.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Your opinions, please?
With her usual impeccable timing, Hubs' ex called at the height of the holiday season to enlist Hubs' financial aid in buying my stepson a car. And to help pay for insurance. For a TEENAGE BOY. Gah!
After my head popped off and exploded into itty bits, I ticked off a list of reasons to Hubs that I'm not inclined to pitch in at this stage.
A.) Stepson turned 16 in June. Enough said.
B.) Stepson chose not to work this summer. He partied. And partied. And partied. There also were some serious Stepson-related issues this summer that I have promised not to disclose on this here blog, but let's just say there's a lack of trust (on my part, if not his *ahem* naive parents) that he is ready for a car. He keeps saying he'll get a job and contribute to any future vehicles/insurance, but thus far there's been no indication this will happen. I say if he wants his own car at age 16, he can damn well get a part-time or weekend job and contribute.
C.) We just scrape by financially. Our "savings?" A joke. We just paid off one of our cars this summer. We're in no position to help buy a car or *shudder* contribute to a teenage boy's insurance. We. Just. Don't. Have. The. Money.
D.) I'm annoyed that Hubs is carrying on about how a teenage boys needs a car...blah, blah, blah. Again, given what went on this summer, I wouldn't have even let him get his license.
E.) We. Don't. Have. The. Money.
So, before I plunge too deeply into my role as evil Stepmother who deprives children of their grownup toys, what are your thoughts, please?
Are we "obligated" to do this, as the ex implies?
I don't come from a world where kids were entitled to or guaranteed a car when they turned 16. So I can't get my head around this one.
I drove my dad's Dodge Omni during my senior year in high school. When I graduated, he let me take it to college. I didn't get my first car until a year before I graduated -- from college. When I did, I drove it for 10 years. Also, I started working when I turned 16. And my opinion is that if he's "old enough" to have his own car, he's old enough to get a job, even if it's only a weekend one.
My upbringing and personal feelings aside, however, there's no freaking way we could afford it.
After my head popped off and exploded into itty bits, I ticked off a list of reasons to Hubs that I'm not inclined to pitch in at this stage.
A.) Stepson turned 16 in June. Enough said.
B.) Stepson chose not to work this summer. He partied. And partied. And partied. There also were some serious Stepson-related issues this summer that I have promised not to disclose on this here blog, but let's just say there's a lack of trust (on my part, if not his *ahem* naive parents) that he is ready for a car. He keeps saying he'll get a job and contribute to any future vehicles/insurance, but thus far there's been no indication this will happen. I say if he wants his own car at age 16, he can damn well get a part-time or weekend job and contribute.
C.) We just scrape by financially. Our "savings?" A joke. We just paid off one of our cars this summer. We're in no position to help buy a car or *shudder* contribute to a teenage boy's insurance. We. Just. Don't. Have. The. Money.
D.) I'm annoyed that Hubs is carrying on about how a teenage boys needs a car...blah, blah, blah. Again, given what went on this summer, I wouldn't have even let him get his license.
E.) We. Don't. Have. The. Money.
So, before I plunge too deeply into my role as evil Stepmother who deprives children of their grownup toys, what are your thoughts, please?
Are we "obligated" to do this, as the ex implies?
I don't come from a world where kids were entitled to or guaranteed a car when they turned 16. So I can't get my head around this one.
I drove my dad's Dodge Omni during my senior year in high school. When I graduated, he let me take it to college. I didn't get my first car until a year before I graduated -- from college. When I did, I drove it for 10 years. Also, I started working when I turned 16. And my opinion is that if he's "old enough" to have his own car, he's old enough to get a job, even if it's only a weekend one.
My upbringing and personal feelings aside, however, there's no freaking way we could afford it.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
"OK, we're ready for you guys!"
HUBS & CATHY, talking over one another: Alrighty, Stepdaughter, just sit here on the piano bench in front of the Christmas tree. Stepson, sit next to her. Tootie, stand in front them. OK, let's put E-man in Stepson's lap.
E-MAN: Waaaaah! Waaaaah! Waaaaaaah!
HUBS: What's wrong with him? Hey, buddy! Look at Daddy! Give Daddy a big smile.
E-MAN: No! Waaaah! I no like this shirt. Waaaah!
CATHY: As soon as we're done, you can take it off.
E-MAN: Waaaaaah! I NO LIKE IT! I NO LIKE THIS SHIRT!
HUBS to CATHY: What's up with the shirt?
CATHY: He recently decided that he hates button-downs.
HUBS: Hey, E! Just a few pictures and you can take it off, OK?
CATHY: Tootie, quit looking at E-man. Look at Daddy. Look at him! Daddy! OK, now smile at Daddy!
E-MAN: Waaah! Waaaah!
Behold, this year's photo for the Christmas cards:
E-MAN: Waaaaah! Waaaaah! Waaaaaaah!
HUBS: What's wrong with him? Hey, buddy! Look at Daddy! Give Daddy a big smile.
E-MAN: No! Waaaah! I no like this shirt. Waaaah!
CATHY: As soon as we're done, you can take it off.
E-MAN: Waaaaaah! I NO LIKE IT! I NO LIKE THIS SHIRT!
HUBS to CATHY: What's up with the shirt?
CATHY: He recently decided that he hates button-downs.
HUBS: Hey, E! Just a few pictures and you can take it off, OK?
CATHY: Tootie, quit looking at E-man. Look at Daddy. Look at him! Daddy! OK, now smile at Daddy!
E-MAN: Waaah! Waaaah!
Behold, this year's photo for the Christmas cards:
Saturday, December 01, 2007
My husband really knows how to woo a woman
Hubs and Cathy have just returned from a friend's birthday party. Kids are in bed, and our amorous couple is planning a night of passion. (OK, maybe 30 minutes of passion. We're old, easily exhausted and not so limber these days. But I digress.)
HUBS: [waggling eyebrows] I'll be waiting in the bedroom.
CATHY: I'm just going to brush my teeth, wash my face and take out my contacts.
Five minutes pass. Hubs knocks on the bathroom door.
CATHY: [seductively] Yes....?
HUBS: Uh. The dog just threw up in the kitchen.
CATHY: What did she get into?
HUBS: Possibly some Saltines.
CATHY: OK, hang on a sec.
Five minutes pass. Hubs knocks again.
CATHY: [not so seductively as she is now facing dog-vomit cleanup] Yes...?
HUBS: Hey, just leave the throw-up and we can clean it up after ... you know.
CATHY: I can't have s-e-x knowing that there's dog puke on the floor.
HUBS: Well, we'll clean up right after.
CATHY: By "we" you mean "me." Because you always retch.
HUBS: Well...
CATHY: I cannot stay in the mood knowing that the dog has yakked on the kitchen floor. Sorry. Just can't.
HUBS: Oh. OK.
CATHY: ???????????????????
..................................................
OK, so back to Barbie's foray into porn...
Thursday afternoon, I left for Memphis with a photographer to follow up on the I-40 bus crash. The photographer was B., who, as we now know, decided to pimp out Barbie to GI Joe and take pictures.
Five minutes after I heaved myself into B.'s Tahoe (again, not so limber these days), he handed me his iPhone.
"Check these out," he said.
I turned the phone round and round before realizing I was staring at Barbie's ass. On top of ... ohhhhhhh....
Being the dainty type *snort* I blushed.
B. laughed. "I read your blog," he said.
"Oh. Yeah. Heh. I couldn't resist after Hubs told me about the -- ohmigod, you've got Barbie straddling some brunette chick! And here she is with Joe again. Wow, she's really limber for someone who can't bend her knees more than two clicks. Hey, how does Ken feel about this betrayal?"
B. laughed, and explained how he'd gotten the idea after shooting his son's action figures with some new photo technique.
"So what did your wife say about these? Because if I walked in on Hubs taking pictures of Barbie doing the dirty ... well, we'd be having some discussion about that."
"Uh...she doesn't know. I mean, I haven't told her yet. But I don't think she'll think of them as highly as she does my other work."
HUBS: [waggling eyebrows] I'll be waiting in the bedroom.
CATHY: I'm just going to brush my teeth, wash my face and take out my contacts.
Five minutes pass. Hubs knocks on the bathroom door.
CATHY: [seductively] Yes....?
HUBS: Uh. The dog just threw up in the kitchen.
CATHY: What did she get into?
HUBS: Possibly some Saltines.
CATHY: OK, hang on a sec.
Five minutes pass. Hubs knocks again.
CATHY: [not so seductively as she is now facing dog-vomit cleanup] Yes...?
HUBS: Hey, just leave the throw-up and we can clean it up after ... you know.
CATHY: I can't have s-e-x knowing that there's dog puke on the floor.
HUBS: Well, we'll clean up right after.
CATHY: By "we" you mean "me." Because you always retch.
HUBS: Well...
CATHY: I cannot stay in the mood knowing that the dog has yakked on the kitchen floor. Sorry. Just can't.
HUBS: Oh. OK.
CATHY: ???????????????????
..................................................
OK, so back to Barbie's foray into porn...
Thursday afternoon, I left for Memphis with a photographer to follow up on the I-40 bus crash. The photographer was B., who, as we now know, decided to pimp out Barbie to GI Joe and take pictures.
Five minutes after I heaved myself into B.'s Tahoe (again, not so limber these days), he handed me his iPhone.
"Check these out," he said.
I turned the phone round and round before realizing I was staring at Barbie's ass. On top of ... ohhhhhhh....
Being the dainty type *snort* I blushed.
B. laughed. "I read your blog," he said.
"Oh. Yeah. Heh. I couldn't resist after Hubs told me about the -- ohmigod, you've got Barbie straddling some brunette chick! And here she is with Joe again. Wow, she's really limber for someone who can't bend her knees more than two clicks. Hey, how does Ken feel about this betrayal?"
B. laughed, and explained how he'd gotten the idea after shooting his son's action figures with some new photo technique.
"So what did your wife say about these? Because if I walked in on Hubs taking pictures of Barbie doing the dirty ... well, we'd be having some discussion about that."
"Uh...she doesn't know. I mean, I haven't told her yet. But I don't think she'll think of them as highly as she does my other work."
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