no matter how you slice it, a sandwich is as a sandwich does

this morning ...manure manicured finger sandwiches are being constructed as we speak in my kitchen.

can't hide and can't deodorize their stink.

gotta dig quickly and deeply into mommy-roots and pull up the strongest ones

and wrap those suckers around my head until the words of positivity and strength and self idealization emerge,

encrusted and slimy and damp and ugly

almost forgotten

almost buried treasure, unexplored.

family trees are the hardest to see through.

the forest may run for miles and be transparent as the lace worn on my wedding day

not THE tree

ghosts of unknown relatives line branches, adding weight

separated, thin saplings reach out for extra light and the girth widens

difficult to prune

impossibly unmanageable

connections and origins and budding confusion

dry and cracked, brittle by years of wind storms and lightening strikes, and fallen beneath the forest's canopy

 farther away from belonging and hope,

remembrance and pride,

respect and delight;

or hang precariously and alone 

awaiting the boy to visit and randomly choose his newest fishing implement.

Read below an earlier post, written years ago, when I opened my heart, opened my soul, and shit sandwiches were served on platters to the ones I loved.  I'm perfecting my recipe, just in case you want it...

can barely see through the tears

must write to feel

must write to sort and think and see through

reality tears

acceptance of what i declared

and what responses followed

will follow

more to come

sure thing

reality

admitting purpose has price

to pay

in real time

with real people

real feelings to hurt

real intentions make real consequences

rather throw this keyboard through that window

rather hide

i'm good at it

hiding from reality

and bites

incompatibility of self with you

fit into one and not the other

help and hurt together

wishing i learned this already

might be easier

might not

reality bites

hard

"my heart can't wait to meet you on the other side"~mmj

humpty dumpty sat on a wall...

Child molestation is not a happy topic, especially when an American college football coach is in the middle of the scandal. You've probably heard enough about the man they call Jo Pa, too much in fact. His kingdom is crumbling and he is partially to blame. I have no sympathy for him and the wall of lies built around his unhappy valley.  I want to know where are the stories about the traumatized children and their families?

  

I am enraged.  I am sickened.  I am embarrassed, once again, for our country.  We are socially inept.  We've proven this in several ways.  We claim to help the world, yet at home, our residents are flailing.  Morality and ethics are lost a midst team jerseys and statistical polls.  Blinders must have been on sale this past decade, on the shelf next to the foggy glasses and rosary beads. 

Yes, I'm referring to the Catholic mess.  The entity who raped my generation of dignity and trust.  The church I trusted to teach my children about honor, respect, loving one another, and helping those less fortunate.  My fault, I didn't read the disclaimer:  'priests may seem holier than they appear.'  The Vatican cover up and the Penn State cover up are huge.  Two powerful, public, influential groups who have been revered and praised for good deeds.  Two groups of human beings choosing to look the other way, brush under the rug, deny, create excuses, and harm.  Once wronged, shame on you.  Twice, shame on me.  Action is needed.  

My interest is twofold.  I am a mother.  I am a psychiatric nurse. Protective maternal instincts cannot be matched.  Like the wild animal charging the invader too close to her babies, this mom feels like kicking butt and taking names.  My patients have shared horror stories of child molestation and abuse, sometimes  at the hands of their loved ones, parents, siblings, aunts, uncles...stories that explain the psychosis, dissociation, self-hatred, and self-harm of adulthood.  Where does the cycle end?  How?  When?  

I promise each of you this:  if I see an adult sexually molesting a child, I will be talking to 911 dispatch sooner than that predator can pull up his pants.  Period.  No second thought.  I knew this 22 years ago when my daughter was gracefully growing inside of me.  I know this everyday and forevermore.  Help is my middle name, even when I may be requesting, I can feel others' pain.  Maybe there in lies the motive for my anger today.  Maybe my anger is ever present because I so strongly feel the hurt around me.  I hurt for the children unnecessarily put in contact with predators, unhealthy adults who were given multiple chances to prey, given permission from their bosses, their confidants, their elders, their bishops and cardinals.  I hurt for the children who lost their youth and live daily with doubt, and wonder why they deserve their horror.  I hurt for the students at Penn State who do not understand the severity of their university's indiscretions, their judgement clouded by the pedestal's shadow.  I hurt for the believers who follow doctrine, blindly and unquestionably, their muteness deafening.  

Yes, to be human is to err.  I, of all humans, am a walking err.  I will not cast the first stone.  Too late for that pebble.  I'm looking for a rock to chuck, a boulder to roll, a stick of dynamite, anything I can use to awaken senses and knock heads.  Wanna' join me?

go green!

peace and love

~L

part of the story

(originally written to French class friend prior to the birth of this blog 10/2009)

Forty three years ago…my day is approaching. Unconscious reflection consistently appears this time of year. I remember some horrible horrible birthdays. Sad, cautious, mean birthdays. In my adulthood. The best b-days were the ones in Wheeling. Mom combined brother's with mine cause his is November, and we themed it Halloween. All the kids wearing costumes and bobbing for apples in our basement and a long picnic table inside with party hats, cake and balloons. A world ago. Another lifetime…my first lifetime.

My lifetime before the move and divorce a couple years later. Before I was forced to stand under dad’s umbrella of confusion and guilt. When Mom asked us who we wanted to live with and she gave us to Dad anyway.

…Before we visited Mom at her little condo apartment down the road and had sleep overs with the strange furniture and strange expectations. Before Mom moved in with that guy with a long ponytail, at his house. Where did he come from? And where’s Morton Grove? Too far apparently to see Mom often. Good thing I was almost outta there…5 hour drive away to the next lifetime.

1976: Step right up folks, see the brand new home built in the sticks, away from everything familiar and everyone I know in my whole life of ten years old. Bigger house, better home? Mom works sporadically, Dad develops his home office. Why is he staying overnight so often at his apartment in Chicago? Doesn’t he work here? Oh the weather and the games and the nightlife…disco lessons and foreign friends. Huh??

Then the long secret, closed-door discussions Mom and Dad would have in the basement office. We’d sit upstairs watching TV and listening for arguing…none heard. Don’t think it’s bad, cause they’re not hurting each other as far as we can tell. No explanation for a year or so. Then mom takes me into her room to fold laundry with her, one quiet evening. Dad’s in the city, bro and sis somewhere else in the house…The laundry folding talk will always be remembered.

The main points: Your Dad and I are divorcing. Who would you like to live with, if you could choose? Well, sorry, Dad said he would take us all to court and fight for custody so I’m letting him have you. I don’t want that court experience to hurt you. He’ll keep you here, same house, same routine, same friends. You can stay home from school tomorrow and Dad’s coming home so we can talk as a family.

My thoughts: Where did this come from? I didn’t even see you argue or hear yelling from the basement. Why would I want to live with Dad, he’s never around, he and I don’t do anything together, and he’s no fun. Are you joking? I need my mother. So dad’s got more money and knows people who can screw you? I get it, dad’s in the mafia or something and he wants our life to suck. See why I don’t want to live with him? Are you joking? When is this happening to me? What do I tell my friends? Nothing’s the same. Where’s my Mom gonna be when I need her? When will I wake up from this dream? What is happening????

The new lifetime begins. How many is that now?

And the journaling begins. And so does the lifetime of depression. The lifetime began is replaced with the unknown eggshell walk of teen angst and risky behavior and self disrespect and craving love and wishing for change and fighting the forces of unreasonable expectations. Bye bye childhood lifetime. I’ll remember you fondly and pretend I’m still there with you. You, me, child innocence, growth began, wonderment explored, hopes raised, comfort creepin in…I mourn you all. And never see you again.

Finality hurts, no matter the reason.

Loss is mourned, no matter the subject.

No matter who you are

Who you want to be

Losing lifetime is unfair…

For a child.

Find the cost of Freedom…CSNY sings to me now. The costs are high and I’m not done paying. Mother Earth will swallow you, lay your body down. Wish it was that simple. Not my choice to end God’s lifetime. Must live on until He says I’m done. My lifetimes may be molded though.

racing the battery

sitting at a local sports bar, just finished watching the Bears beat the Lions with the referee's help, drinking my 4th Oberon and playing beat the battery with my laptop.  I love Sundays in fall.  Chicago sports make all inconsistencies and frustrations seem doable.  Coach Lovie may not be loved by the best city in my world, but Brian Urlacher sure deserves my pedestal pushing today...can you say sack master?
Sitting by myself, but not alone, in a room filled with Detroit Lions fans, watching bad calls lead to a good start for the blue and orange.  Chicago rocks!  But I am researching a different city today: Seattle.  Jeff (husband) invited me to meet him in this northwest coast domain after his trip to China touches down in the US in a couple weeks.  Brother James lives in Seattle and he told me I could choose whatever I wanted to do or see or be while visiting.  Pikes Place Market.  Seattle Art Museum with Picasso's collection.  Alexander Calder's Eagle outdoor sculpture, to add photos to my chicago Calder flamingo visit.  I like collecting.  Local music and local coffee and local gay bars...yes my brother in law is gay.  All good choices.  All good reasons to live.

Battery lower, must finish beer and get outa' here before laptop explodes....

why do bartenders put an orange slice on the edge of a glass of Oberon?  The beer may look orange but it's not orange flavor.  doesn't stop me from drinking it, btw.

son is angry.  many loud complaints at our innocent dog.  audible and angry and unnecessary.  I try to talk to him...calmly, patiently.  I approach him with care and confidence....and I leave him with steam shooting outa' my ears and breathing expletives as I quickly walk toward the far end of our house.  What will kill this kid?  his anger.  what will cure my son?  peace.  He lives like I used to in my decade of depression.  Did I teach him how to negate?  Did I ignore him so much as a child that I branded his soul with doubt?  He's 18 years old and acts like he's 8.  He's a senior in high school and continues to tell himself that subjects don't matter...core classes are a waste of his time...he'll never use grammar or algebra or economics in his future.  This perspective does not originate with me.  I loved school, could be a career student.  I could also master a foreign language while high.  He is not me.  I am not my son.

battery dead...bye for now.

parents are people too

"PROMISE TO MY CHILDREN ....I WILL stalk you, freak out on you, lecture you, drive you crazy, be your nightmare, embarrass you in front of your friends, hunt you down like a bloodhound until the day you understand why I do it. Then I will know you are a responsible adult. All because I LOVE YOU! You will never find someone who loves you & cares about you more than I do!!"    (traveling facebook post)

 a parent's job is to parent

a child's job is to push limits

ours, yours, their own

that makes me the heavy

that makes me the bitch

I know

I'm not wearing an 'L' on my forehead

what about that scarlet letter?

do you enjoy the reputation you are creating

from your lack of indiscretion

and false sense of power?

entitled to live here

entitled to eat here

entitled to drive our vehicles,

to change house rules at your leisure...

think again kiddo.

house guest

roommate

sibling

spouse

whoever

wherever

exude dignity and behave respectfully

your parents taught you 

your conscious tells you

your peers influence you

remember who you are

who you are

you

peace for our son

Tonight he stormed and thrashed his way through the main floor.  My words biting through his brain like the concert music he just returned from.  A chore undone was repeated and requested.  The soft sounds of my parental voice threw him over his edge immediately.  I could feel his volatility rising, see his body tensing as he vomited disrespect and distrust.  Of his mother.  For his parent.  At this stoic human provider of warmth and comfort and all things Maslow.  Choking on tears and frustrating thoughts of incompetence, I forced myself to stand and look this beast in the eye.  This is not my son, what have you done with him?

For years Jeff and I have protected, guided, taught, allowed, modeled, provided, listened, comforted, praised, encouraged.  Two children born in two years.  Life's lessons learned on the job.  Our God given fallibility attached to our backs like super hero capes.  Nobody's perfect.  We are trying our best.  Learn from our mistakes and pray for forgiveness.  No manual, no instructions, no assembly diagram.  We received our kick in the ass and landed face first in family first.

Our intentions were always positive, however negatively we rated our performance.  We should of, could of, would of.  We have to, must do, plan to.  Our children became our purpose.  From this day forward, or forever hold your piece.  Today they are almost adults.  And soon we'll wave proudly as they march in their determined direction.  We poured their foundations and watch as they build up their future frame.  We have amassed hammers and nails and power tools to lend.  Our work gloves are nearby in case they request our input.  Rehearsed nods of approval are ready.  Wait!  The wind has picked up and that delicate two by four has collapsed.  One support stud is missing and has left a gaping hole for cold rain to fall through.  Step back before it falls on you.  This mess needs fixin...Super Parents to the rescue!

We have the professionals in place.  This is not our first trip to this rodeo.  We have our confidence in tact.  Took a couple decades to arouse.  Husband and wife are on the same page, the page we've been reading for 18 years.  Our hearts are locked and loaded, our words shelved methodically by circumstance.  The song remains the same: point him toward success.  We have taught ourselves the ins and outs of our son.  We know what ticks him off and turns him on.  We recognize his faces, smirks, gestures, tones of voice.  We can feel his mood before both of his feet cross the threshold.  We realize his fears and we have expressed our understanding of his anxieties.  Life is one scary four letter word, yes it is.  We are here to coach you to the first down.  We have the resources, the materials, the safety net.  Please let us.  We may be your last lifeline before the real world rears its ugly face.  We will not give up.  You are stuck with us and we pray for your heart to find peace.

God, please allow our son the strength and confidence in his abilities so that he can begin his life walk.  Lord, please bless the community with empathy, compassion, and patience as we journey with our son.  Thank you for providing our family with another day together.  We promise to care for one another as Jesus taught us.  Amen.

searching...

sun has appeared

finally

I was feeling kinda' blue

really a grey shade

hostile comments left floating in the room

unhappy child left the room

better to clear everyone's mind

he acts sad and feigns control

what is a parent to do for you?

say the word and we jump higher

leave your fear at our door 

only compassionate empathy lives here

in our hearts

in our concerned glances

after tantrums and telling-off

getting more difficult to see the bright light inside you

we miss your light

your sweet smile and sweet sound

 your laughter

relaxation rote

reap the benefits of our experience please

only you can choose

and we wish you would

sooner than later

later we can't catch you in our double strength net

don't you want to learn the ropes

of life

of the road

of the street smarts you desire?

you have the freedom to refuse and rebut

we accept your independence

your fresh perspective

sense not sensation

logic and love and more logic

 our job from God

your job from God

just do it...or die trying

response to HOPE

First of all, thanks for sharing our story. You do a very nice job putting your thoughts down to words. I honestly think you give us, Andrew's parents, way to much credit. I believe we're only doing what any "certified" parent would do. Is it easy, hell no, but being a parent is and always will be about teaching your child to get the most out of life and if you can laugh along the way ... even better. Thanks for thinking about us and once again, nice job. Steve

The best compliment a writer can receive is one from the subject of her creation.  The above comment is from Steve Bos, Andrew's father.  You know Andrew if you read my post HOPE.  I emailed the Bos' with a request for their permission to publish my experience with their family, and they responded with,  "We would be honored to have you share our story with anyone you know."  Then today I check my comments and I am blown away by the above note from Mr Bos.  

Doesn't he sound humble?  Doesn't he seem like a wonderful parent?  Don't you parents out there wish you had as much positive attitude that Steve describes?  I say yes, yes, and yes!  Beware, more credit ahead...

Andrew, Myke, and Steve model for our community the reason of our existence on earth:  to serve other human beings.  Their message is heard in the routine.  Their examples are seen in the simple.  Their agenda is "about teaching your child to get the most out of life and if you can laugh along the way ... even better."  Andrew's influenced me in ways I never imagined.  Can you imagine how he's influencing his God given parents and siblings everyday?  Andrew's agenda.  Believe. Hope. Love one another. Laugh.

Andrew says: "peace out homie!"