So To Speak

I haven't written in a while because my life has been generally uneventful, yet absolutely chaotic at the same time, but today, I need to pour out my heart.  Overwhelmed does not begin to cover it.

Today was Nutt's one year pre-evaluation for speech therapy.  He has been working with an amazing woman named Angela since we realized last October that he was behind on his verbal skills.  No mama, no dada...he wasn't even saying 'no' (which was the first word spoken by my oldest, and is still his favorite). Our rep from Early Intervention helped us find Angela and she has really helped to pluck little tiny words out of the brain and mouth of our little guy.  I thought he was coming along great.

After asking me every question on a three page (front and back) questionnaire, Angela determined that Zayden is running about the same as an 18-month-old would be with his speech.  He turned two in August.  I was shocked.  The reasoning is that other than me, no one has a clue what this little jabber-jaw is saying.  I hear "drawing" while Angela hears "fowin."  I hear "brush" while Angela hears "buh" (which is apparently the same thing she hears when he says "bye," "book," and "ball").

Even with all of the progress I thought we had made, Nutt is still almost a year behind other kids his age.  I see my BFF's son (who is about 3 months younger than Nutt), and it is glaringly obvious that he is more verbally advanced than our little guy.  I watch him repeat new words on command, while Nutt just stares at us when we try.  I watch him tell his family "I love you" while Nutt just demands that we change the "buh" channel ("buh" apparently means TV, too).  I've even come to realize that Nutt is further behind with his speech than Evel was at his age, which led to speech therapy later and a hellish stutter that he still has to consciously control whenever he is nervous or upset.

But Angela is confident that we will get him talking (in a language that all can understand) in no time.  She said that delays are common in kids that have been diagnosed with facial palsy, and that there are techniques we can use once he gets a little older to get him talking.  There is also a plateau between 24-30 months, which is where he is right now.  She gave me a list of things to try with him this week, and went on her way to help other kids like Nutt. 

This gave me time to think.  Couple that with PMS, and it's a very slippery slope right into me becoming a basket case about my child's inability to pick up on the cuss words that I use on a daily basis (which Evel also had no problem doing).  Are my genes defective and that's why both of my kids didn't talk until well after two years old?  Is he just being stubborn or is it something physical that is preventing him from talking?  There were tons of questions that swirled around in my head.

But the one that kept nagging at me, the one that I push away every time I think about it, kept coming back to me.  What if he wouldn't have been diagnosed with Moebius Syndrome when he was born?  What if he would have been "perfect?"

The day we left the NICU.  I don't even recognize this baby anymore.

Even typing that rips a flood of tears out of my eyes.  Of course, I think that my son is perfect and no, I would never trade him for a kid that closes both of his eyes when he cries.  I just wonder if we would be going through speech therapy.  I can't imagine that we would have ever visited a pediatric neurologist or learned how to get fluorescein out of clothing.  We wouldn't have spent hours doing research about how to protect a baby's eyes from wind and I know for damn sure I would have chosen a vehicle based on factors other than Pennsylvania's window tint law.

We also wouldn't have to worry about our son being picked on by kids that don't understand his diagnosis, and that don't see what an awesome, funny, adorable little cheeseball he really is once you get to know him.  And am I supposed to send a note on picture day asking that the school photographer turn him the opposite direction from how they usually photograph the kids so we can get his "good side," or would that just single him out even more?  Will the school allow him to carry his eye drops with him or we he have to go to the nurse's office every time his eye gets dried out?  What if he still can't talk "right" by the time he starts school AND half of his face doesn't move?  What if the school doesn't help if he gets bullied?  How will Big Daddy afford my bail money if I have to pay the principal a visit?

Big Daddy and his Xerox copy

All of this stuff lurks in my mind at all times.  My biggest fear is that these bullies that don't even exist yet will steal the little half a smile that we are lucky enough to have.  I worry that he'll find it easier to just stop laughing in the hopes that people might not notice that he doesn't smile the same way as everyone else.  Nutt is such a fun-loving kid, and to think that someone might snuff out that happy little spirit makes my stomach do flips.  He deserves his carefree childhood.  Every kid does.

Sometimes I feel guilty worrying so much about Nutt because of all of the kids out there that have serious health complications.  I fee like my worries pale in comparison to that of a mother who has to constantly monitor her child to make sure their trach tube doesn't come out while he or she is sleeping or a dad that has to make sure his child gets her epilepsy meds so she doesn't have a seizure.  My worries seem like the end of the world to me sometimes, but what about the people that are begging our creator to keep their child alive for just one more day?  They deserve to give me a kick in the ass and tell me that I should appreciate everything that is right with my son, and to stop dwelling on everything that is wrong.  And they are right.

18-month-old picture of our little future Nittany Lion

So yes, I wonder how would life be different if everything was perfect.  I honestly don't know.  But I do know that this is the life I have been given, and I also know that I am thankful for it.  I am thankful for my kids and my husband and every minute that I get to spend worrying about them.  I am thankful for the people that I have met through Nutt's Moebius Syndrome diagnosis, and I am thankful to be able to call these people my friends.  I am thankful for the strength that I didn't know I had until a little baby peered at me with an eye that didn't close.  I am also thankful that just two short years after the day that we all realized something wasn't right, we now have a bubbly, rambunctious toddler that couldn't be more perfect.

So I will try to take deep breaths, let everything come naturally and try to remember that if it wasn't for the rain, we would never be able to follow the rainbows that lead us to our pots of gold.

The doctor made a huge deal about this because you can see Nutt smiling...on his paralyzed side, which would have never been able to move because of the missing nerve.  Irony at its best.

The first smile. October 16, 2010.  Funny the things people take for granted.

The first Moebius Syndrome Awareness Day (1/14/11)

Cheesers!

Head to the Moebius Syndrome conference!

Merry Christmas from a little Nutt!

Two years old already.  Where did the time go?

We Do Things A Little Differently In PECO

So the Clouse family funerals will be held on Tuesday in Elliotsburg, Perry County, Pennsylvania. For those of you that missed it, this is the family that lost 7 of their 8 children to a house fire last week. Devastating.

The grief this family must be feeling is unimaginable. And to make it worse, the Westboro Baptist Church is now planning to picket the funeral. Absolutely flipping disgusting.

When I heard this, I was outraged. I cannot believe that these people exist in this world. They basically exploit their "Christian" faith to gain media attention and financial security in the forms of lawsuits. The carry around signs (usually at military funerals) that read "God Hates Fags" and "Thank God For IEDs" and spew their venomous blasphemy to get someone to react. When they are assaulted, they sue...anyone and everyone. This time they've threatened to picket the funeral of seven children siting that God killed these children as punishment to the state of Pennsylvania because the church was sued (successfully) by a York man whose son's funeral the church picketed.

A word to WBC, this funeral is in Perry County. Obviously, you've never been to good ol' PeCo if you are planning on coming here and expecting to walk around with your signs held high. I would advise you to go elsewhere. The people that live in this great county (the county where I was born and raised) have a reputation. And they like it that way.

So here are a few things that you should know about Peco before you march in here to disrupt this funeral:

1. The good people of Perry County have been labeled rednecks, hicks, hillbillies, white trash and many other things. Please know that they have earned this and they wear this label like a badge of honor. They will fight you to defend it.

2. The good people of Perry County take their faith seriously. They go to church on Sundays and they are not offended by the words "One nation, under God." They do not use their faith for shock value or financial gain. They use it as a way to get into Heaven...as it should be. Anyone that undermines this faith will no doubt face the equivalent to the wrath of God.

3. The good people of Perry County also take their second amendment rights seriously. Most homes have more shotguns than they do hound dogs and they will not hesitate to use them, especially when it comes to taking care of a neighbor or friend that they feel needs protected. Do yourselves a favor and do not give them a reason to use you as target practice for next years buck season.

4. Most of the good people of Perry County have a neighbor or cousin or some other kin in jail. I believe that they have no fear of going there for a reunion after they beat you into unrecognizable unconsciousness. You have never had a beating until you've had a Perry County beating.

5. Finally, the good people of Perry County stick together. Many of them have multiple acres of wooded land and everyone has shovels. It would take a group of neighbors about an hour to cover up any evidence of you and your hatred ever setting foot in their county.

So please, WBC, read this and take it to heart. You don't know what kind of hornet's nest you will be kicking if you disturb a funeral (especially one as devastating as this) in the County. I would advise you to take your hateful message elsewhere and leave the good people of Perry County to themselves to lay these babies to rest.

Prayers to the Clouse family. May this give you some form of closure.

11:11

I had never heard the superstition that you should make a wish if you see a clock turn to 11:11 until I had my first job out of college. Needless to say, I was uber excited at this new tidbit of knowledge. I've always been the dreamer of my family and I've never, ever missed an opportunity to make a wish. Birthday candles, wishing wells, shooting stars, grabbing buttons and lifting feet over (or under) railroad tracks...you name it and I have wished upon it. I always figured that I would at least give it a shot on the off chance that it MIGHT actually happen. So a whole new opportunity had presented itself and I began taking full advantage of it.

In reality, I knew that none of these things were actually talismans or lucky charms that would magically grant me a wish (that's what leprechauns are for), but I've never been able to help myself. I just HAD to make a wish on the off chance that it might turn out in my favor someday. But alas, I am my father's child and I've also been blessed with his luck which translates to a snowballs chance in Hell of me ever getting fairy wings or the Prince Charming that I had my eye on at the moment.

I look back at some of my wishes and wonder what the hell I was thinking. Most of them never came true (okay, NONE of them came true), so I see no harm in sharing a few of the doozies that I can actually remember:

* For my sixth birthday, I blew out my candles and wished as hard as I possibly could that I would wake up and be She-Ra, the Princess of Power. I remember being pretty pissed when I got up in the morning.
* I remember blowing the fuzzy seeds off of a dandelion and wishing to be a blond. The next summer I found Sun-In hair lightener and didn't have to waste those precious wishes on hair color anymore.
* I once wished upon a star that a vampire would come into my room in the middle of the night, bite me and turn me into a vampire. I was about 8 at the time and this was back before the beautiful, sparkly Twilight vampires of today. I'm talking the Lost Boys type vampires. My parents should have had me psychologically profiled.
* I asked Santa for another little sister when I was ten. If only I knew what I was getting myself into when Trid was born...
* About every other wish I ever used was spent on either lottery winnings, more well-behaved children or a smaller ass.

So after I took my nightly dosage of Alka Seltzer PM and I was passing out in bed last night, I looked up and saw the clock. 11:11. Hmm, what to wish for?

I wished for a Merry Christmas. I know I'm not supposed to tell you that because it might ruin the juju but this year I have my family, my friends and my health so it looks like my wish has already come true.

Empty Spaces and Better Places

Nana Singer died. Saturday, December 10, 2011 is the day that she left the living world to make her grand entrance into eternity. I'm sure wherever she is, she is keeping the keeper on their toes. I haven't been able to write or to talk about anything because I am trying to hold it together for my Mama and for my children when all this time I feel like I'm just floating through my days. I know I was at Walmart today but if you ask me what I bought, I really couldn't tell you. Hell, I probably won't remember writing this blog. Everything is a blur of sad and empty that I can't shake no matter how hard I try. I thank my lucky stars for the amazing husband that I have found that has been here for me as I sobbed and snotted and fell to pieces right in front of him. I don't know how much of me would have made it through this without him here to hold me up. Thank you babe, I love you more than I can ever put into words.

But as I've come to see as I've been somewhat involved in Nana's final arrangements, I am not the only person in my family that uses humor to deal with uncomfortable situations. Throughout all of the funerals that I have helped plan, I've never seen people laugh so much. Maybe it is because we have Aunt Sis for some kind of comic relief ("Well, Nanny wanted to be buried with the cat, looks like we'll have to kill him now, too. Guess we're gonna need a bigger box for the both of them." -- if you don't know her, you'll never understand) or the fact that we all know that Nana wasn't really Nana at the end and we're all feeling some sort of morbid relief. I don't know but I have never been more thankful than I have been in the past few days to have these people in my life.

Nana took care of a lot of things that she needed to do before she passed away, including leaving a booklet on dealing with grief in with all of her important "afterlife" paperwork so my mom and uncle would have something to know that she was thinking about them. That's who she was. She worried so much about everyone else and how they would deal with things before she worried about herself. The day that we met to discuss final arrangements, my cousin came out of her bedroom holding a copy of my senior yearbook that I had given to my Nana the year of my graduation. She said that she had read it to her a few days before Nana passed away and Nana cried and said how much she missed me since she hadn't seen me in years. She had seen me on Thanksgiving while she was in the hospital but didn't remember it. But she did have enough sense to write in the back of the book that if anything were to happen to her, that it would go to me or my Aunt Sis. I didn't even remember giving her the yearbook and even in her last few days, she was thinking of me.

My God, I miss her so much.

I didn't get to see her before they took her from home but I don't know if I really would have wanted to see her like that. Once her spirit left her body, she was no longer the Nana that I knew. Her spirit is what made her what she was. She was opinionated and mouthy and outspoken and she never feared taking a risk. This is the woman that taught me how to chop off snakes heads with a garden hoe when I was all but 10 years old. She was also the one that used to yell at me for putting my elbows on the table. She always said that there were things that I needed to know to get by on my own but I also needed to know how to ask for help if I couldn't do something by myself.

But the most important tidbit of knowledge that she gave me was that she always told me to "walk tall" and "don't slouch." She would explain that this showed people that I was confident, even if I didn't feel confident that day. People would believe in me because this made me look confident, even if I wasn't and when people believed in me, I would believe in myself. I have always held this closer to my heart than anything that anyone else has ever said to me. She was the biggest influence on the person that I am today and for that I am eternally grateful. I feel more sorry for the people that didn't get to meet her and have no idea what an amazing woman she really was. I have always been a neigh sayer to the expression that it is "better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all" but I now see why that isn't true. I will gladly take the 30 years of love that Nana selflessly gave me over never knowing someone so extraordinary. I am thankful that Evel at least go to know her for 12 years, most of which while she was at her best. I am also sad that Nutt will never get to know her like Evel did but I will make damn sure that I will carry on the legacy of love that she left. There is a reason that everyone speaks so highly of her. She is irreplaceable. She is on a pedestal that can never be shaken. She was, is and always will be my definition of LOVE. <3

I miss you, I love you and I will always be your little Jenny. Goodbye Nana.

Another Letter to You on Your Birthday

Micheal,

Yet another year and another letter that I'm writing to you on the anniversary of a birthday that we'll never get to celebrate. Some of the sting has dissolved but the wound has not yet healed. I still miss you like it was yesterday. I still dream of you and I having conversations as if nothing has changed and until you tell me that it's time for you to go. Then the dream will vanish and I'm left with the harsh reality that you are truly gone. I think it's harder this year because my safe haven is gone. I always took comfort in knowing that with the cafe, a little bit of your legacy remained and I could go there to celebrate your life and your accomplishments. This year we do not have that. Everyone that I thought of as family in that restaurant have scattered like leaves in the wind. I understand that it had to close and everyone had to move on but it doesn't mean that it hurt any less. It felt like I lost that last little bit of you. I watched them slowly tear down all of the memories that I had made with not only you, but with everyone else that I met through Micheal's Cafe. What other people thought was just a restaurant was like a family home to me. To see that be torn to the ground was hell. I sometimes sit and wonder if things would have been different if you were still around. If we would still be as close as we were when you died or would we have moved on after a while and I wouldn't sit here every year writing letters like this to your ghost. I guess I'll never really know. Maybe the next time you visit my dreams I will remember to ask. But until then, please know that none of us have forgotten you and we all still love you and we will hold your memory in our hearts until the day that we join you. I'm sure you've found Eli and you guys are celebrating like fools wherever you both are. Until then, know that I miss you old friend. Happy Birthday.

Jenn

Memory Collector or Hoarder?

Over the weekend Matt and I went to my Grandma Singer's house to get a bedroom set. Here's a bit of knowledge for those of you that don't know Grandma Singer.

One, I feel sorry for you that you didn't have the opportunity to meet her before she got sick. She was a great woman. Very strong and opinionated and she is the reason that I have the self-confidence that I do today.

Two, she has lived in her house for over 50 years. That's a long time.

In that 50 years, she has aquired stuff. Lots and lots of stuff. And a lot of that stuff is apparently mine. 

So Matt and I started loading up the bedroom set when Aunt Sissy starts dragging out the bags and boxes of treasures from years gone by. We wound up leaving with a bed, two dressers, a night stand and every childhood memory that my Nana hoarded in the 13 years that I lived with her (and quite a few of my sisters). I was kind of annoyed because I didn't really want the stuff. I'm not a "saver" of things like this. I tell my friends not to even bother buying a card because I'm not going to keep it and with the exception of a few really awesome art projects and little things that Tyler has made for me, I don't really save anything like that for my kids. I can't imagine Tyler caring about any of his kindergarten report cards so what's the point? I think the reason for this is because my Nana's house is PACKED full of things like this. So much that it has filled my Pappy's old room and my Aunt Sissy's old room (which is why she was insisting that I come and get my bedroom set, so she could take over the spare room). I like my space and I don't want it jammed full of things that I'm not going to use. 

Well last night after dinner, the kids and I sat down at the table and I started going through everything. We found little construction paper tooths with my name on them that my kindergarten teacher would stick on the closet door everytime one of us lost a tooth, my Little Brown Bear 1987 yearbook (which will make for some wonderful blackmail pictures once I get my scanner hooked up again) and a broken leg from one of my She-Ra horses that Nana found and kept just in case I still had the horse.

There was a pile of every single birthday card that I received on my first birthday and another stack of cards containing two dollar bills that my Great Aunt Elenor gave me every year for Easter, Christmas and my birthday. There was my collection of change purses (the purple hippo, the plastic heart and a few others) that I used every day to carry my lunch money and that have now been passed on to Ashley.

We found Barbie stickers, pretty rocks that I found on nature walks that I would take with Pappy Singer, my watch collection, a letter that I received from Smoky Bear (complete with my Junior Forest Ranger badge) and all the letters that I received from Mrs. Mettler (the elementary school principal when I attended) congratulating me on all of my great report cards. There we name tags, bus passes and birthday party invitations. Anything and everything that you can think of that a girl might accrue in her childhood was in there. And this is only the first box.

After going through all of this stuff that I thought was just junk, I had relived a good bit of my childhood. I couldn't believe that Nana kept ALL OF THIS STUFF and now I was left with the task of sorting through it and getting rid of it. 

I figured I would just pitch most of it but then there were the things that I found that I didn't want to lose, like my Nana Gram's (my Great Great Grandmother that passed when I was seven) obituary and the turn signal switch from the Escort that my dad was driving when he was hit by a drunk driver and almost killed. This stuff was pretty important so the sorting started.

After about an hour of going through everything, separating it into piles and giving away a few things to the 7 and 12 year-old vultures that were circling, I was ready to pitch a lot of the stuff. But then I started to see Nana sitting in her chair and looking at this stuff when I would bring it home. She would look over EVERYTHING and what I thought she got rid of, she had actually kept. How in the hell was I supposed to get rid of it now?

Through the clouds of guilt that were forming over me, an epiphany struck me. I have a computer, I have a scanner and I have piles of papers that I don't have room to keep. I can scan it onto a computer and get rid of it. Hell, I can even have it printed into a book so I can stroll down memory lane any time I like. I can even print one for Nana. Perfect!

So now I'm just waiting to get back into our house so I can start the scanning process and possibly get a book printed before Nana is too far gone to enjoy it. And thanks to my genious husband who suggested scanning the stacks and mounds of Ashley's artwork, we've freed up a significant portion of the area under her bed so we can use it to store other stuff she won't want in a few years. 

I look at my Nana's house that's filled with tons of stuff that she consider's treasures and I wonder if it might have looked different scanners would have been around back when I was a kid. Would she have the piles and bags and boxes of every paper that we ever gave her or would she have a neat little collection of books to document everything great that we ever accomplished? I don't know. But I do know that I can now save all of the memories that she thought were important and get rid of the clutter (with the exception of one turn signal switch).

One of my dreams has always been to write a book of memoirs. It turns out Nana Singer had been writing the first chapter for me all along. 

Time To Pay the Toll To the Emotional Pied Piper

I like to think of myself as a hard ass. I usually don't let things get to me and this keeps me at an even keel in life. It has helped me avoid the emotional lash outs that I was prone to having a few years ago.

All of that goes out the window when it comes to my kids (biological or otherwise).

I had my court appointed custody psychological evaluation today. I started stressing about it yesterday since I do not do well with authority figures asking me questions and I slept roughly between 3 and 4 hours last night. I get upset and it usually comes out as tears (better than yelling, I guess). Today was no different.

Things started off normally enough with the questions and I answered them easily. Then came the kicker:

What would you do if the court allowed Tink to switch schools and attend the district where her mother resides?

I thought for a second and then I started crying. I felt like an ass.

In that split second I thought about how bad it would suck if that happened. There is no way we would have any kind of normal family relationship. Big Daddy would have to drive a half hour to pick her up after he got off work at 4:30. By the time she got to our house it would be between 5:30 and 6:00 so she couldn't help me make dinner anymore. That would mean we had enough time to eat, for her and Evel to do the dishes and then she could have a snack. After that, it would be time for showers and bed. Maybe we could squeeze in an episode of Spongebob if we were lucky. Then in the morning, Big Daddy would have to take her to her daycare and drop her off at 7:00 in the morning in order to get back to work by 7:30. Or we could go with BFBF's alternative option and lose our Wednesday and Sunday overnights all together.

I don't think so. I don't even see why this is being called into question because a judge made a decision that said BFBF could move if she wanted to but Tink remained in this district. She made her fucking choice and went ahead and moved. I don't know if she thought it might give her more leverage if she decided to take us back to court or what, but now she's not happy with her decision and Tink is the one paying the price. She's even (yet again) told Tink that she was switching schools next year, which means if she doesn't move, we'll be the bad guys...again.

And Tink was told that she can play soccer if she moves, but not if she stays. Why not? Why can't I pick Tink up from school and take her to soccer practice where her mom can pick her up on her way home from work? Because then Tink would be spending more time with Big Daddy and this side of her family. And we would be doing something great for her. We would be able to BE INVOLVED in her life. God forbid that were to happen. It makes me so upset sometimes.

So I cried. And I told her why I thought it would be a bad idea for her to switch districts. And I told her everything that BFBF had done or said to us (or didn't do or say to us) in the past 2 1/2 years. I told her about being told to butt out of Tink's life because I wasn't one of Tink's parents. I told her about the things that BFBF failed to tell us about (parent/teacher conferences, the Halloween parade). I told her about not even getting to see her school pictures and having the option to buy them because BFBF couldn't afford them. I told her about how Nutt lights up when his little sister walks into the room.

And I told her all about how great of a dad Big Daddy is. If anyone in this entire world deserves to spend more time with their child, it is Big Daddy. He took over the parenting of Evel when we moved in together, He loves Nutt with all of his heart and a little girl needs her father. There is no reason why Big Daddy doesn't deserve to see Tink at least half the time. It's absurd.

So now I guess we just wait. I have to go in for the testing portion of the evaluation on Monday and then we go back as a family on June 17. Hopefully after that she'll get her report together and we'll get some good news. Until then, I will continue parenting as I have been. I love Tink but if my parenting isn't fit enough to raise her, then so be it but I believe that the truth will come out in the end.

Thank you everyone for your prayers.

Prayers To The Clouse Family

Usually I try to keep my blogs semi-lighthearted with a splash of sarcasm, a twist of morals and then I top it off with a dash of lesson learned. Not tonight.

I am blogging to express my sorrow, sympathy and prayers to the Clouse family of Blaine, PA who lost seven of their eight children to a house fire this morning. This is an unimaginable tragedy that I cannot even begin to wrap my head around.

I always said that I didn't want to have kids. Then came Evel. He has been the motivation behind everything that has kept me out of trouble since I was 17 years old. And then I met Big Daddy and Tink and my family grew. And finally, we welcomed Nutt. Our family is now complete (minus the numerous stray animals that I want to adopt).

I could not fathom losing a single person from my family (imaginary dogs included), especially one of my children. I have found the people that I intend on spending the rest of my life with and I don't want that to change. Hell, I get butterflies at the thought of getting MORE time with Tink!

But to lose all but one of your children at one time? The thought alone makes me sick. Nutt was particularly obnoxious today but all I could think of is that in Blaine, a mother will never get to see SEVEN of her children again. Ever. They are gone. And my heart broke every single time.

So I hope that you all kiss your kids goodnight and hug them a little tighter when you lay them down to sleep tonight. Be thankful that you have them. Yes, they drive you crazy and get detention because they get caught with iPod touches in school or insist that you watch them do cartwheels (for an hour straight) or they cry because you leave the room (and leave them with that evil man that you call "Daddy")...but if you didn't sigh and roll your eyes (but watch them or pick them up) or ground them for a week, you wouldn't be a parent.

I doubt that Mrs. Clouse ever expected to go out to the barn and milk her cows and never see seven of her eight children again. I bet she was thinking about everything she had to do that night and I wonder if she thought about what to make for dinner the next day (like I often do). I don't think the thought of her house catching on fire ever crossed her mind (and I read that there were no smoke detectors. A complete OCD checkpoint for me). And then to not be able to get into your house to save your kids? I could not imagine. That poor mother. My heart breaks for her because I can only imagine what thoughts would be going through my head.

So the moral of this blog is that children are not something to be taken for granted. Any fool can make a baby, but it takes someone special to really be a parent. Be thankful for every second that you have with them. You never know when they'll be gone.

School Daze

In an attempt (a very vain attempt) to eliminate some clutter from my life, I started cleaning out my closet today. I made it though one box. This particular box just so happened to be a box that contained my entire high school life - notes that my BFF's had passed each other, old yearbooks and believe it or not, old report cards (that will be burned before Evel has the opportunity to see them and hold them over my head).

I looked through the stuff and thought back to how much I absolutely hated high school. There were very few things about it that I liked. I was just biding my time until I could graduate and become a grown up. If I knew then what I know now...

Surprisingly enough, when I think back to school, one of the only things that I liked were the teachers. And the teachers that really stick out in my memory were not the teachers that may have won the popularity vote. The teachers that I remember and that I am thankful that I had were the teachers that didn't just let kids slide by for the sake of passing them. They demanded more and they made me flex my brain for a change.

Mr. Kestner, for example. I remember him hovering over me in middle school keyboarding class, reminding me to keep my fingers on the home keys because it was far easier to type that way than to "hunt and peck." And I had his 9th grade Business Principles class with my little sister (three years my junior) because I wouldn't do my homework and instead of just passing me after the first two times I failed, he made me retake it until I finally did enough work to earn my grade.

And Mrs. Hagenbuch. I know there were a lot of kids that DID NOT like her. I know I got booted out of her classroom my fair share of times. But I also know that I can tell you the difference between Quartz and Calcite. And I can properly instruct my son on how to build a working model of our solar system out of paper mache, coat hangers and an old record player (okay, so it doesn't revolve QUITE like the real planets, but I got an A- on it).

Why do I look back and remember these teachers? Because they demanded that I give a damn about something other than myself. They held me accountable for not doing my best. I'm not saying the rest of my teachers were "bad" teachers, but these two are the teachers that I remember making me work for what I wanted and what I wanted was to get the hell out of school. When a lot of other teachers just seemed like they had given up and they didn't care about the students anymore (which is one of the reasons my children will never attend that school, along with the HORRIBLE administration turning a blind eye to the bullying that happens rampantly), these two teachers still had enough fight left in them to get mad. And that, they often did.

Why? Because their students didn't respect them (and I'm guilty of it, too). These kids talked back, threatened them and pushed them to their breaking points. You think you have a thankless job? Try being a teacher at my alma mater. What wasn't understood way back in 9th grade is that the only way you will get respect is if you give it. Yes, all of your teachers are making assumptions about you because you have never shown them otherwise. Only you can change someone's opinion about you.

I believe that is why our public school systems are failing our children. After you get treated badly for so long, you wind up broken. You lose your will to fight. And when teachers give up, the students eat them alive. And if they resist and try to demand respect and demand that kids do their best, the kids label them as a "mean" teacher and resolve to make their life a living hell. It's a vicious cycle. Maybe it's time to bring back the original "Board of Education" (a paddle for those that didn't get the pun) to get some kids in line.

And maybe it's time to cut the salaries of investment bankers that are ripping off their investors for millions and give some of that money to our teachers (rather than trying to bully through laws to take away their collective bargaining powers that will eventually screw them out of benefits and pay raises). Maybe then there would be some incentive for them to remain motivated on educating the future of our country.

Or maybe it's simpler than that. Maybe parents should teach their children respect. The reason that schools are no longer allowed to paddle your children is because the parents are the ones that complained and wanted to be the only people that disciplined their kids. Maybe your discipline isn't working. For your child to go to school and cuss out a teacher is unacceptable I myself am guilty of that also (not proud, but guilty) and if any of my children ever do it, they will not know what the word "ungrounded" means until they reach legal adulthood.

Maybe, just maybe, we need to look at the big picture before we point fingers at the teachers and blame them for failing our children. Just remember, every time you point a finger, you have 3 pointing right back at you.

The House That Built Me. (I Love You Nana S.)

"I bet you didn't know, under that live Cosmo, my favorite cat is buried in the flower bed?" Maybe it will be a hit.

Probably not but I am really trying to cope with losing my Nana S. Oh she's not gone yet, but we're slowly losing her. I feel like someone is reaching into my chest and slowly squeezing my heart until I can't breathe anymore. She was so much like a mom to me for so many years. And she kept Evel for so long that he didn't want to leave when it was time to go home (which was a repeat of my childhood). It's not that I wanted to leave him there....it's that she DIDN'T WANT TO GIVE HIM BACK!

But now I have to go to a nursing home and see Nana. And she calls me Sheryl. Every time she speaks to me, I am Sheryl (*my mom, btw). She knows Evel and she remembers sending him to get snacks out of the vending machine at the local apartment complex, but she associates me with my mother (yeah, freaking scary on so many levels) and yells at me for dying my hair dark (my natural color). She is currently living my nightmare.

Nana has Alzheimer's. This is my nightmare because I watched Pappy S lose every bit of remembrance he had of everything that he held dear (and he called me Sheryl EVERY TIME he saw me). The man that was there for me just as much as my dad was (I had a very screwed up childhood, don't ask) just kind of faded into that old guy in the chair in the corner. He was there, but he wasn't. No one really paid attention to him (without my Aunt's occasional accusation of him smelling like Limburger cheese because he didn't bathe properly). I tried to see him, but it was easier just to ignore everything that was happening. I am still angry with myself for it.

So Pappy went into a "home" because Nana couldn't take care of him (and she really couldn't. She's the most stubborn woman that I've ever met and she just couldn't do it at her age). And we went to see Pappy on holidays. And birthdays. The times that we had to see him. And I wish that I would have seen him more but I didn't. He died a few days before my sister's birthday and we went through the funeral, which tore the family that I knew into pieces. It's hard to watch a Nana that you love argue with an Aunt (K) that you love and not be able to do anything but witness the demise of a step-mother/daughter relationship go to shit because Pappy didn't know any better while he was alive.

So now we're on the same frontier. Nana is half batty. She knows but she doesn't. There's a slight recollection of the people that are around but she really doesn't know the extent of why she is where she is and that she will never go home (which is not my doing and I believe that she should be told this fact. Anyone ever seen Fried Green Tomatoes??). She has a house but Crazy Aunt Sis is in no shape to keep her there safely and prevent any kind of accidents that may happen. So what does that mean for Nana?

That means that Medicare will only cover 100 days in the nursing home where she is currently shacking up. So her 100 days are almost up. That means that Uncle B and my Mama are going to have to start selling off Nana's assets to keep her in this place (I would call it a hellhole, but it's really not that bad, even though her roommate plays with dolls). This is what is really ripping my heart out.

For whatever reason, I've always pictured myself living in my Nana's house. I hate the school district and I would never subject any of my children to that hell, but I just thought that we would have a happy little family in the house that I grew up in and my kids would love everything that I loved as a kid.

I remember when Nana and Pappy added the addition onto the house. I slid down a hundred rock piles and helped haul stone in my little, red wheel-barrow while everyone built up the dreams of my grandparents. I wanted to join in everything that helped to create the life that they were building for all of us. And I did...

But now, I feel like it's all slipping away. And it fucking hurts. A lot.

I love my parents, but Nana was there for me through everything. She is my rock. She's the one that has always given me advice when I needed it and now she has no idea who I am. I am my mother according to her. I think not.

And I know what "starting to sell her assets" means. It means that the home that I loved and wanted to raised my children is will be gone soon. I'll have to sit and watch someone auction it off or watch people vie for the best price when they have no idea about the sentimental value that is attached to that house.

To whoever gets the house, Christie (the cat) is buried in the flower bed in the front yard. I would like to transport her before you buy the house, just so I know he remains will be taken care of in the future. There is a Paw-Paw tree somewhere in the backyard. I don't know exactly where that is either (or what the hell a Paw-Paw is), but Nana did. It's worth asking her about if she still remembers. She also cut down 2 cherry trees, a pear tree and an apple tree. I'm sorry that you missed out on the wonderful pies that were made from the fruit of those trees.

Basically what I am saying to whoever buys the "house that built me" is that you should be thankful. Thank your lucky fucking stars that you are buying a house that has given me all of the happiness that I can remember when I was a child. Yes, I was divided between my parent's house and my Nana's house, but Nana's always won. I would see Mama or Poppi and I was ready to stay with Nana for another week or two. I always came back. I would cry NOT TO leave. This house was my life.

So all I am asking is that you love it the same as I did. Love the awful mint green walls in the living room because my Nana wanted it and she never knew the word "compromise" (not sure where I get that from...). Love the fact that Nana never hooked up the water in the tub in the "master bathroom" because it was unnecessary because there was running water in the other bathroom. Love the fact that you will have feral cats skanking around your house because my Nana used to feed them. She cared for all of God's creatures (including the possum and the skunk that I used to pet as a child) and so should you.

If you can't do these few little things, then you don't deserve her home. It's not a HOUSE that, it's a friggin HOME. And it was our home. And about 80% of the happiness that I remember as a child was experienced in this HOME. It's hard to fathom losing the love that I experienced from Nana and Pappy and the house being sold will be the final nail in my coffin. The thought makes me sick.

So again to the person that buys this home, if one day I show up on the front porch in tears, please mind me (sorry, no sarcasm on this post, just complete realization and absolute shock since I've recovered from the denial). I am simply there for a memory. I want to collect as many as possible before it becomes a foreign territory. Sometimes I think that I can just wrap myself up in the horrid green carpet and be safe forever. But I'm not stupid. The only thing that would do is suffocate me. I need to gasp for air and try to get on with my life.

Easier said than done. Whoever said "It is better to have loved than lost than to never have love at all" should be punched in the throat. That really do not know what love is.

Priority Faultlines That Cause the Earthquakes of Life

Think back to when you were younger. What did you want to be? Why did you want to be that particular thing? Did you succeed in your goals or did you change your mind? What made you change your mind?

When I was 13, I wanted to be a mortician. Yep, I wanted to drain the blood from dead people and fill them with embalming fluid then fix them up and make them look pretty for their funerals. This was my long term goal that started way back in 6th grade (thanks to my school career day sending me to work with a funeral home director since I was out sick on the day that we picked our careers). It makes perfect sense since I was an odd little kid. I was the one that dug up my hamsters and gold fish months after they died just so I could see what they looked like. I used to sit awake and night and wait for a vampire to come and bite me because I thought it would be romantic (and this was before the Twilight wimps showed up and made people think that vampires were sweet. I was waiting on one of the Lost Boys to tap on my window). Yeah, I was "that kid."

So the other day, imagine my surprise when I found myself texting the Mama to share my happiness at the fact that my constipated 6 month-old baby FINALLY pooped. It made me do a double take at my life and the twisting, rocky road that got me to this point.

I had Evel when I was a senior in high school. All plans that I had of attending the Pittsburgh Institute of Mortuary Science ended with that last push that brought a screaming, pooping child that resembled Elmer Fudd into my life. My world and my priorities shifted in an instant to accommodate the new responsibility that I had created. I am still thankful for parents that helped me to support my son and gave me the opportunity to finish high school and go to tech school (even though tech school did little more than give me a 4.0 GPA to put on my resume).

I didn't have the whole college experience of joining a sorority or making the Dean's list. But I did have the experience of molding and shaping this little life so that my son could become a sarcastic, smart-ass fine, upstanding citizen. If I would have gone to college, I would have had a job that paid well. But having my son made me rich in other ways. I learned patience and how to care about someone other than myself. I learned what unconditional love is. And I also learned that when a child is being loud and obnoxious, all is well. It's when they get quiet that you should worry.

So this pointed me in the direction of working full time to support my son since D-Bag Baby Daddy wasn't in the picture. I continued this way, perfectly content in our happy life until the next (and biggest) earthquake hit my life on Mother's Day of 2007 when one of my best friends died unexpectedly.

This damned near shook the core of me to the breaking point. After he died, the recovery was like learning to breathe again. It hurt. A lot. It still does. I stumbled, I fell and I really thought about not getting back up more than once. I look back and the only thing that kept me going was Evel. I coped enough to get myself through the day so that Evel didn't lose both parents. I know there were times that I failed him and those times are forever burned into my brain as a reminder that my children are my number one priority. I can't give up because it's not just me that will be losing out. I had lost sight of my priorities and I had to figure out how to get them back.

This is another reason that I am thankful for Big Daddy. He lost his best friend in roughly the same way that I lost my best friend. It finally felt like I found someone that knew what I was going through. After two years, it felt like I was finally done gasping for air. I didn't just lean on him...he practically had to drag me along until I could walk by myself. He picked me up and dusted me off more than his fair share of times until I could see clearly again.

So in the way that history repeats itself, I found myself getting ready to have another baby. I love Evel and Tink, but I didn't plan on having anymore kids. Evel was over halfway to being legally responsible for himself and Tink was finally able to independently do most things (even though she thoroughly still enjoys the damsel in distress role). This whole pregnancy thing had me walking on shaky ground again but Big Daddy was right there with me every step of the way and I slowly relaxed into the idea of being a parent again. The earthquake stopped and (with the exception of morning sickness and my achy "pushin' muscles" that made it almost impossible to walk) my priorities came back into focus. I was almost excited.

And then came Nutt. And with Nutt came Moebius Syndrome. And down came my world. Again. I had this little, tiny baby that screamed and pooped and looked like Popeye, with his one eye wide open and the other squeezed tightly shut. And there were neurologists and opthamologists and advocates from the March of Dimes and people throwing around the word "disability." And they were there because of my son. And they poked and prodded for answers but they gave us none. They gave us a diagnosis and they gave us a prognosis but they couldn't give us much else. I was terrified.

So again my priorities shifted from raising a baby to raising a baby with a disability. A baby that requires eye drops at least once and hour. A baby that could not nurse properly because he couldn't form a seal with his mouth because the right side of his face didn't move. A baby that had to have his formula switched 5 times before he quick throwing up everything he ate. And a baby that would not, could not poop.

This brought me to the text that I sent my mom. "Yay! Nutt FINALLY pooped!" Four little words that still make me smile because it shows me how far I have come as a person. From weird kid, to angry teen, to super mom, to workaholic, to depressed drunk, to the good wife, to a stay-at-home mom that would brave an earthquake to do what she feels is best for her kids.

And now, a soon to be Adult Student. I will be applying on Monday to the local community college so that I can finally return to school to get a degree and actually have a career that will help to support my family. Sure, it's not mortuary school, but returning to school is something that I've always wanted to do. At least with nursing, if someone pisses me off, I'll have the satisfaction of giving them a shot in the ass cheek. And I will also be around doctors that I can question and probe about Moebius Syndrome until they tell me to get out of their faces. Everything seems like it has finally come full circle. I go from having a child and missing out on school to having a child and finally figuring out what I want to do with my life because of the missing answers that I got when that child was born. PEDS, here I come!

I guess good things do come to those who wait.

For the Love of Dog!

My family and I are renters. I never really minded renting before because if something breaks, I don't have to freaking fix it. I make a phone call and it's taken care of for me. It's a perfect situation for someone as lazy as I can be sometimes. I was content renting for the rest of my life until I found this:

This is Sahara. She's a Yellow Lab Retriever Mix that is available for adoption at the Lycoming County SPCA in Williamsport, PA. (<----the link to her profile. Someone please go adopt her NOW). I saw this picture and my entire bubble of irresponsible living happiness came crashing down around me.

I found this picture on Sahara's profile on Petfinder.com a few weeks ago and I've been going back to check on it every few days. I've also been riding Big Daddy like a racehorse to call our landlord and threaten beg ask him if we can get a dog. Pretty, pretty freakin please!

This is the first time that I have lived anywhere longer than a few months without a dog and at first I was hugely somewhat relieved after living with the Terrible Twosome at the Mama's house. I didn't get out of bed and step in poop or have to worry about my underwear being eaten and it was a relief. But the longer I've gone without a furry companion, the more I miss it (not the poop and underwear eating, just the companionship).

Half of the Terrible Twosome, Mr. Ears. The other half is in the background, trying to keep her face hidden so as not to be recognized in a police line up.

 I miss coming home and no matter how crappy my day was, a dog will be there to just be my friend. They're a good source of exercise, they help lower stress levels and pet owners are clinically shown to have lower blood pressure and cholesterol than non-pet owners. It's a win/win situation!

Plus I think about the kids. Evel has ALWAYS had a dog around. I never heard him complain that he was bored and he never really asked to go to his friends houses because he had a source of entertainment at home (a very tiny, evil source of entertainment that seemed to love him and only him). Tink had a dog for the first half of her life. I wasn't around for that part but she still asks if Riley (a small, male Pitt Bull Terrier) is going to ever come to live with us again. And then we have Nutt. Nutt was terrified of the Terrible Twosome (maybe justifiably) the first time he saw them. I don't want him to grow up without the experiences that he would have if we were to have a dog and I don't want him to be nervous around them because he doesn't know how they will react.

But the thing that gets me the most about this dog is that it's a Yellow Lab. I am the worlds BIGGEST sucker for Yellow Labs because for 14 years, my family had Makita.

Makita came to us on a fluke after my Brittney Spaniel (Ginger) died a day after my 12th birthday. The neighbors had this misfit rebel of a dog that they were trying to get rid of so being the sucker that Poppi is (at least where his kids are concerned), we adopted Makita.

This dog was absolute hell on paws when we first got her. She wasn't housebroken (and really had no desire to be), you couldn't open the door without her bolting outside and terrorizing the neighborhood and she chewed almost everything in our home to bits (dining room chairs, the arms to the couch, the legs on the coffee table, one of every single shoe in the house, Poppi's game football that was signed by each of his pony football players the year that he coached them to the playoffs, just to name a few things). We tried muzzling her but if the muzzle was left within her reach while it was off, she would chew that up (we went through three of them). She was hopeless.

Except this dog had Poppi in her corner. He worked and worked with her until he transformed this wild animal into a cherished, docile family companion. Trid and Evel would sit on her back and pretend they were riding a motorcycle, using her ears as handle bars and she never once showed a tooth to them. If she wanted them off, she would just kind of roll over and dump them on the floor. She was by far one of the greatest dogs that I have ever known.

But all great things must come to an end. Makita passed away in 2007 from cancer. I was thankful that I was there with her at the end but I still bawl like a baby mist up when I think about it. And that's another reason that I want my kids to know the experience of sharing their lives a pet. It will teach them about unconditional love and it will eventually teach them about loss and how to cope with it. I always said that I would never have another dog after Makita, but Evel (and his big, brown eyes and knack for begging) prevailed and we got Mr. Ears. That's his little buddy, even if he doesn't see him that often.

And I know that someday the Mama will call and tell us that Mr. Ears has passed away and Evel will find his own way to cope. Just like I did with Makita and Ginger. Just like Poppi did with Rex (the greatest German Shepherd to ever live). And just like Trid did with Buster (the spunky little Border Collie that we adopted when my parents separated temporarily that became Trid's companion). It's the downfall to pet companionship but it's a small price to pay for all of those years of happiness. And all of the wet kisses and wagging tails that make having a doggy companion TOTALLY worth it.

And since I love showing off, here are some photos of the greatest furry friends that I've ever had the pleasure of knowing:

 

The lady of the hour, Makita (AKA Mosquito). As you can see, she's a party animal. Sadly, this is the only picture that I still have of her. It's in a frame on our mantle.

The Rex-meister. This guy was Poppi's buddy. We had him for 15 great years. Such a sweet dog.

Here is Peanut (and her floppy ear). I have no idea why the Mama decided to get this spawn of Satan after Buster died. And I have no idea why she agreed to let me get a second one so they could form a pack of evil.

Mr. Ears (and I'm sure you can tell where he got the name) came to us after Makita died. He was the runt of the neighbors litter and Evel slowly wore me down until we took his hypoglycemic, scrawny butt in.

 

Here's Buster. He was an odd dog that wagged his tail up and down, couldn't run in a straight line and "smiled" when he was nervous. Go figure he wound up being Trid's buddy.

Sadly, I no longer have any pictures of Ginger after all of my moves.

I would say that is it but I have 2 more pictures. They weren't dogs, but they're sure cool enough to qualify in my book.

Yoda (AKA Fat Ass Cat Ass). This guy's been around since 1998. He's 23 lbs. of mellow and sweet and love and everything that you wish when you buy a cat.

And this is Kitty Kruger. She is everything that is opposite of Yoda. She is the devil in cat form. We keep her around just for the funny photo opps that she gives us. We rescued her after her mother abandoned her and how does she thank us? Pulls everything out of my purse and uses it for a bed. And she would eat my cigarettes when I was a smoker. And she would claw my feet while I was sleeping. Man, maybe the photo opps aren't really worth it...

Pick On Someone Your Own Size...Or Better Yet, No One At All

I love movies. I especially love the movies where the nerdy boy/girl overcomes great odds to show up the popular kids that have been making them feel like crap. Such a great concept...too bad stuff like that never usually happens here in the real world.

My little sister, Trid, is dealing with a few bullies. The worst thing about this bully is that sometimes she is a friend to Trid, then they have an argument and this girl and her posse harass my little sister constantly. It is called relational aggression and it has gotten to the point where my little sister does not like leaving the house for fear that she may run into this girl or one of her cronies. They harass her on Facebook, at school while no one is watching...any chance that they get. My little sister even sent me a text last night asking me to please tell this girl to stop.

It took me back to when I was younger and got picked on. A lot. I was teased because I was tall ("Hey look, it's the Jolly Green Giant!"), because I was fat ("Oh no, it's an earthquake! Nope, it's just Jenn.") and because I was poor ("Where do your parents shop for you? The city dump?"). I was picked on because my best friends (the Gettelbugs) were my friends and THEY were poor. I couldn't escape it. It seemed like any reason that I should be picked on was tattooed across my forehead with a big bulls eye beneath it.

(it's a long story but the follow up is after it)

I told my parents. Their advice? "Just ignore it." Really? Okay. So I became a complete recluse. I became a reader, hung out with the Gettelbugs and a handful of other kids, played with my dog. Still the bullying continued (being a reader gave them even more reasons to pick on me). Thankfully we didn't have the internet so this was confined to school and a few mean girls in my neighborhood.

I also told school administrators. I remember my first grade teacher telling me to "stop being a tattletale and figure out what I'M doing that is causing them to pick on me." Great advice to give a little kid. I had no idea what I was doing. I wracked my brain to figure it out. All that did was make me question the things about myself that I thought were okay and it completely crushed my self-esteem. Obviously if they were picking on me because of my physical self, that needed to change.

This was about the time that I hit sixth grade and went "grunge." I started listening to the Seattle bands, wearing ripped up clothes, not washing my hair...all of this in an effort to make these kids think that I was so weird that they would just leave me alone. That all backfired on me. I was tortured relentlessly because of the way that I dressed, my greasy hair (personally, I will never let any of my kids leave the house looking like I did) and my taste in music. There really was no relief. I hated everything about myself.

This is when I started cutting, way back before they even had a name for it. My 6th grade student teacher noticed it and made me go talk to the guidance counselor. The guidance counselor looked at me like I was insane. Teachers weren't trained on how to deal with stuff like that (looking back, I'm glad they didn't commit me) back then so he sent me to the nurse (who also looked at me like I was insane). She cleaned me up, told me that I'll get ugly scars if I continued and sent me back to class. Problem solved. Except that now everyone thought that I was a weirdo (well, even more of a weirdo than they did before). A girl that cuts herself? Freak! Add another reason to the list.

I just kind of floated with a few select friends throughout my days. I was missing school a lot because I didn't want to deal with the constant harassment. My mom let me stay home one day after I claimed that I was "sick" and I don't remember much about the day except crying a lot. This was the day of my suicide attempt.

I'm not going to get into all of the details because it's a time in my life that I really don't care to remember. But I think that's what it took to finally shock my parents into realizing that I was not okay. Things were more serious than I let on and I was not able to ignore the bullying. It was a very, very dark time in my life. I did not want to get out of bed, eat, shower...nothing. I really didn't care anymore.

Enter Mr. Thompson, a (different) guidance counselor at my school. I began going to talk to him during study hall and he helped me realize that I had to get through this. I talked to him the rest of my 6th grade year and slowly started to feel better about myself. When summer break hit, I was free from the threat of bullies and I was able to slowly repair my self-confidence over the next three months.

You see, something changed inside of me over those three months. I resolved that I would no longer give a damn what anyone thought about me. These kids obviously didn't care that their bullying had almost pushed me into a coffin, why in the hell should I care about them? This probably wasn't the best mentality because after the first girl called me Jolly Green Giant, I knocked her on her ass without blinking an eye. So began my life AS the bully.

I was mean, I was intolerant...I was a fucking nightmare. I would have beaten myself and locked me in my room until I was an adult if I were my parents. I was in fights all the time. I smoked, I drank. I didn't care.

I also got pregnant when I was 17. The wheels on the bus came to a screeching halt that day. I was no longer just protecting myself...I was now responsible for this little life that I was carrying around. It was like someone flipped a switch in my head and kicked me in the ass at the same time. I could spend my life letting this hatred for everything that happened to me eat away at my mind and teach my unborn child that it's okay to be a bully and that it's okay to hate...

Or I could get over myself. The choice for me was simple. I had spent entirely too much time and energy (and money to pay the fines that came along with it) being angry. I was done. I could care less about what people thought of me without punching them in the face. And that's what I did.

The whole point to that long winded story is that I look at Trid and I see her walking down the exact same path that I took. She changed suddenly last year and started wearing black eye liner and trashy clothes and hanging out with girls that did the same. She's now getting into trouble in school and fighting with my parents. I really worry that she will follow the same path that I did because of people making her feel bad about herself.

So I have been printing everything that has been said about my little sister on Facebook and keeping it, just in case we need it. I've also had Trid and my dad log all of the incidents that have happened with this group of girls to prepare for a legal battle if anything arises.

I also found out that the school district that my sister attends has a Zero Tolerance policy on bullying and I'm hoping that I can persuade my parents into taking this a little more seriously than they took my situation since the complaint to the district must be lodged by a parent or guardian (yeah, I've already tried). If the school treats it the way that they treated me when they knew something was going on, I hope that my parents get her out of there. Switch districts. I've already offered to take custody of her (even though she would HATE the way Big Daddy runs this house. No pink hair dye and black eyeliner on middle schoolers here!) just to get her away from all of it. It was one of the best decisions that I have ever made regarding Evel. He's a different kid now that he isn't being picked on every day on his 45 minute bus ride home. But something has got to give with her before it's too late. She can't do this alone.

No kid should have to go through this. I have been on both sides of the bully/victim line and I can't imagine going through it again. I just hope that Trid is stronger than I was and makes it through this unharmed. She's such a beautiful person and for me to have to sit by and watch this happen absolutely kills me. I know how I felt every single day. I just wanted to disappear into my books where everyone lived happily ever after or crawl under my desk and hide until the last bell rang. I just remember the feeling of relief that would was over me when I got off of that bus at night. Now she doesn't even have that because these girls harass her via the internet. I couldn't imagine.

And the real kicker in all of this is that the girls that are putting her through all of this are girls that call themselves her "friends." I don't know about you, but none of my friends make me feel bad about myself. If they do, then they lose the title of "friend" in my book. They become nothing to me. But to be in middle school and have these "friends" call you ugly and tell you that you're a whore and make you feel like shit every other day (and night) is a whole different ballgame. Friends are supposed to help you through stuff like this and help you nurture and grow your self-worth, not tear it to pieces. These girls are toxic and she needs to get the hell away from them before it's too late.

So I am asking you to please listen to your children. Watch for signs of depression since it's never too young for someone to make them feel bad about themselves. In the wake of all of suicides of people that have not even begun their life lately, there are places to turns. Speak to your kids teachers, administrators and even the school Superintendent if it doesn't let up. Keep logs of harassment and document anything from the internet. Please take your children seriously because it could be a matter of life or death.

Links:
For more info on bullying prevention, signs that your child may suffer from depression and other useful resources, please visit the links below:

Stop Bullying Now! (a government sponsored website)
Bullying Prevention - National Crime Prevention Council (with tips from McGruff the Crime Dog)
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline - 1-800-273-TALK (general info on suicide with signs to watch for)
Child and Adolescent Mental Health Resources (from the National Institute on Mental Health)
Ellen DeGeneres' Campaign To End Bullying (various links to organizations devoted to ending bullying)
It Gets Better Project (videos from Lesbian, Gay, Bi and Transgendered people to let youth know that it does get better)
To Write Love On Her Arms (a non-profit group dedicated to helping people that are at risk for various reasons. A personal fave of mine)
The Trevor Project (created to also support LGBTQ youth that are being bullied due to their sexual orientation)
The Ophelia Project (focuses on relational aggression and how to stop it. EXACTLY what is happening to my little sister)
Relational Aggression Links (when cliques exclude a person to exert power. EXACTLY what is happening to my sister. provided by Hope House. scroll down the page and many links are listed.)

The Realization, Denial and Acceptance (via Facebook)

So with MSAD coming up in January, I decided to go back and look at my old status updates on Facebook. I started with the day that Nutt was born. It was bizarre to say the least. If you follow them, you can see the different emotions that I went through from the initial shock of Nutt's facial paralysis to holding out hope that it would go away to finally accepting that he was going to have to live with this permanently. That's when the resolve (and obsession) with educating myself and everyone around me came in. Even though they drive me to drink sometimes (okay, a lot of times), my kids are my life and I will do everything in my power to give them the best possible life that I can. So here's a testament to that. My life since Nutt was born, via Facebook: